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JFK Airport, 5am, 8/10/11

How to Nurse a 7-Hour Layover

Tokyo, 8/10/11

A quick primer for when one is stuck in Tokyo's Narita airport for seven hours beginning at 10pm.

Vegetable tempura soba

Do:

• Eat a piping hot bowl of soba, with thick, al dente buckwheat noodles, shredded scallions, and tempura vegetables. The dish will be exorbitantly expensive compared to every other noodle soup you have consumed in Southeast Asia (at $10, roughly 10x), but it will help melt away the loneliness of the cold, sterile, empty airport
• Try (futilely) to sneak into the various airport lounges by pretending to be a frequent traveler, explaining you have lost your frequent flier card, attempting to persuade them that you are a lost child, telling that of course you have applied for that gold card that grants you acceptance it just hasn't arrived in the mail yet.
• Occupy your time by perusing all the luxury retailers including Tiffany's, Cartier, Louis Vuitton, Coach, and Gucci, pretending to be an infinitely discerning patron, despite being quite aromatic with an unshowered chic appearance
• Constantly use the bathroom. As mentioned in one of my original posts, the toilets are so futuristic, you will feel like you're aboard the Starship Enterprise. Bring a book or a magazine and hang out for a couple hours playing with the multitude of heat settings, massages, flushes and bidets. Potentially sing a little jig. Rinse and repeat.
• Visit all the Japanese souvenir shops multiple times, trying to get as many free samples of sake, banana cakes, dried fruit, and candies as possible. If necessary, put on sunglasses or a hat so they don't recognize you during your seventh trip to the sake sample table.

Takoyaki

Do NOT:

• Eat the airport cafeteria's "Takoyaki" -- octopus balls. They will appear very tempting as octopi are quite delicious as far as Cephalopoda go, and fritters are typically fantastic. So how could the combination be bad? Plus, a large advertisement explains, "if you've never tried Takoyaki, you must! It's Japan's must-have snack," and then goes on to describe the balls' provenance. I understand that it may be hard to resist. But hold steady, my friends. The Takoyaki are small bready fritters, roughly the size of golf balls. Eight of them come in a small cardboard box, appearing almost like eggs in a carton. They have the consistency of fresh Pillsbury dinner rolls and are covered in shaved bonito flakes and herbs. The octopus inside is chewy and barely distinguishable and seems to be mixed with some sort of off-tasting, alien creamy mayonnaise substance. They're topped with a salty, sticky sauce tastes like an extremely reduced stock that certainly does little to help the dish. Have a second soba instead.
• Try to go in to Tokyo's center. You are about 45 minutes away, the trains are no longer running, and cabs will be north of $200 one way.
• Attempt to get any sleep. There are no comfortable benches and all the seating has metal armrests which makes lying down impossible. The only sleep option is to curl up in the fetal position on the grey carpeted floor, which feels like abrasive coarse hair. Or pay $15 to rent a bed for a couple hours.
• Attempt to discern anything from the Japanese newspapers and magazines scattered throughout the airport
• Try to listen to your iPod which after being engulfed in sand, mud, salt water, and rain has the battery life that barely makes it through "November Rain"

Drug Abuse Resistance Education

Thailand Border Crossing, 8/8/11

Suddenly that grandiose plan to traffic heroin over the Thai border doesn't seem like such a good idea any more?

See also:
Damage Done
Brokedown Palace
No More Tomorrows
4,000 Days
Send them to Hell
Forget You Had a Daughter

Don't Stop Me Now

Siem Reap, Cambodia -> Bangkok, Thailand, 8/7/11 - 8/8/11

I've only spent four days in Cambodia and the country is refusing to let me leave. Maybe it's because Cambdoia doesn't want me to share the secrets of its potent Amok curry with the rest of the world. Maybe the gregarious locals have so much more of their country they still have yet to share. Many the mythological faces of Banyon have cast a spell over me, turning me into immobile stone as they have been for centuries. Whatever the reason, I can't seem to break free.

Earlier in the day, I spoke to my hotel concierge and booked the 2am overnight bus from Siem Reap, Cambodia to Bangkok, Thailand. The plan was to arrive in the Thai capital by early the following morning. And since the OK Villas Hotel is among the nicest establishments I've stayed in to date, I'm confident that the staff will arrange everything without a hitch.

After saying a final goodbye to Amit, Louise, Elaine, Jen, and Chris (collectively my travel partners for nearly all of Vietnam and Laos), I arrive back at the hotel around 1:15am. I quickly strike up a rapport with three Irish lasses who will be joining me on the long journey. As usual, the transportation arrives significantly late, slightly past 3am. I guess I should've known better and stayed at the bar longer. The girls are quickly ushered onto a minivan for transport to the coach, but my ticket has not been confirmed and the driver refuses my entrance. "And your ticket is not even the correct one," the driver says, odd considering all four of us booked the identical bus at the same hotel concierge. Maybe it's the fact that we're all tired and somewhat inebriated, but I swear the three Irish ladies keep looking back at me as they get loaded into the minivan, eyes longing for our reunion, which may never come. Sunday, bloody Sunday, indeed.

Despite the fact that I urged the hotel staff multiple times to make sure my arrangements were set, they never bothered to call to confirm my ticket. And they somehow managed to give me the wrong ticket to boot. I've seen better, more intelligent service at an ATM. As it's the middle of the night, the entire hotel staff is sleeping and after the minivan shuttle takes off, I quickly sprint around the grounds, searching for staff to wake up. I find one lone yawning security guard and frantically explain my problem, flashing the incorrect and unconfirmed ticket. His job profile is not typically dealing with frantic tourist emergencies and he shrugs his shoulders, his expression telecasting, "I wish this small, high-pitched, nasal, bearded fellow had not found me." I am now causing a scene, but I have no qualms, as if I need to wait to take a typical morning bus (around 10am), my whole final day in Southeast Asia will be bust. Several tuk-tuk drivers fly by, noticing my hysterics, and get out to offer assistance. Eventually a motley crew of two tuk-tuk drivers and the security guard reach hold of the bus company and explain the dilemma. Even though half an hour has passed, the actual bus still hasn't left yet, so I guess I need to be grateful that I'm on Southeast Asian time. Once the issue is resolved, I get picked up by the same minivan shuttle and brought to the bus station. As I have the incorrect, unconfirmed ticket, the station manager informs me I will be sitting adjacent to the driver, essentially on the steps of the coach bus, for ten hours. Luckily, when the bus finally arrives at 4am, only two hours late, it is underbooked and I have a proper seat to myself with a blanket and pillow. Or maybe it seems undersold because I rush on ahead the group and grab hold of the first seat I can find.

I know breaking up is hard to do, Cambodia. I didn't want it to end so soon, either. I want to eat more of your delectable fish Amok, walk through more of the ruins of your ancient empires, learn about your staggering resilience from recent atrocities, and enjoy more pilsners with your friendly locals. I love you too, but don't stop me now.

Heart of Darkness

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam -> Phnom Pehn, Cambodia, 8/3/11 - 8/4/11

Upon walking over the border into Cambodia, I get pulled aside by two customs guards wearing official uniforms and white latex gloves. They pull me over to a long table under an ominous sign reading, "Quarantine." The female customs official tells me to open my mouth and she proceeds to hold up a device that looks like a lit-up ear thermometer. "To check for disease" she says, "go ahhhh." I'm slightly scared and not sure what she is testing. After shining the device into my mouth for a few beats, she quickly pulls it away, slaps me on the shoulder, and with a big smile says, "just kidding!" She and her male customs official partner proceed to laugh at me. After the prank is over and the laughing has settled, she introduces herself and comments that we are the same height. "I like you. You my height. So small, like me," she says. I tell her it's so I can more easily look deeply into her beautiful eyes. She laughs again, gives me a hug, and then escorts me through the customs gate.

This quite bizarre experience foreshadows my experience in Cambodia, which is the final stop on my circle of Southeast Asia. The Cambodian people are genial, humorous, helpful, and speak the best English of all the countries I've visited to date. They go out of their way to accommodate foreigners, marking a stark contrast with the harshness of Vietnam. This will certainly be a great grand finale to my trip.

The sun starts to fall as we cross into Cambodia and the streets change from paved roads to rocky dirty paths. Around 9pm, after the sun has completely fallen, our bus passes by around two dozen gated trucks bringing workers back home after the day's labor. Except someone didn't organize the carpool properly. Each truck bed carries about forty men and women cramped shoulder-to-shoulder covering every single inch of space in the vehicle. Others hang off the sides and bumper. They are packed like sardines between large metal gates, while the cabin accommodates six passengers. The men and women stare at our VIP bus with solemn expressions, faces covered in dirt and grime from the day's chores. As it's pitch dark I couldn't get a proper picture, but it's something like this:

Somewhat like this

And this

But not this bad

Around an hour outside Phnom Pehn our bus boards a ferry to wade the Tonle Sap River. The boat is so small our group is certain the bus won't fit on. Even when it manages to our worries turn to whether or not we will be able to float as the boat looks like its been in use since the 1920s and the bus has around sixty people on it.

Once we depart into the water, we all unload to enjoy the view and take in some fresh air. Almost the second we step off the bus we are inundated by packs of small children, attacking us like ravenous hyenas. Some sell souvenirs and postcards while others beg for cigarettes despite not being much older than eight. I'm guessing they're nicotine habits have already started, potentially at birth, as these Cambodian children are so hungry for their fix that many try to rip cigarettes out of tourists' mouths. Other frantically search recently finish butts to ensure there is not an ounce of tobacco left intact. The non-addicted, non-selling children pull at our clothes and simply ask for money. Between the mosquitoes and equally leeching youth, suddenly the stuffiness of the bus is becoming a great deal more appealing.

We arrive in Phnom Penh around 10pm and I immediately meet Amit, Elaine, and Louise at Hostel 88. The hotel is infinitely more luxurious than I'm used to -- swimming pool, billiards table, full bar and restaurant. The establishment has a distinctly European feel, maybe Moroccan actually, with ornate white columns decorating an illuminated blue outdoor pool. The hotel's entrance is a large open-air foyer with dark wood tables and stools, teak fans, and a convivial bar. Patrons eat satays, toast pints of beer, and check their email while the resident kittens and puppies scamper about. Hostel 88 is really a misnomer; it really deserves the name "hotel." With an attentive staff, large private rooms with hot showers and en suite bathrooms, and a surprising level of cleanliness, "hostel" is really an insult.

From Google

From Google

From Google

As Elaine has passed out in the bed, Louise, Amit and I go for a quick stroll throughout town. Although its 11pm on a Thursday night, the Cambodian capital seems positively empty. The only sounds coming from the recommended live music bars are crickets. We're the only patrons at most of the bars, but we still enjoy a few rounds of refreshing draft Angkor Beer and roasted peanuts. We find more revelers at Heart of Darkness a short tuk-tuk ride away, on a busy street lined with night clubs and street vendors. Heart of Darkness is a bordello-esque bi-level club adorned in shades of black and red. The lower level is a giant dance floor with thumping house beats where hundreds of revelers gyrate under a giant chandelier and shimmering disco balls. For a club with flashing strobe lights, terrible loud music, and overactive smoke machines, the decor at Heart of Darkness is surprisingly impressive. Due to all the impressive relics found throughout the club, it could almost act as an art gallery of Khmer history. There are Angkor-inspired statues of Buddhas and carvings of famous warriors sealed in glass boxes. The second floor of the bar is an intimate lounge with long leather sofas and walls of exposed brick. Several sections of the brick have been carved away and surrounded by lavish gold frames, creating an ad-hoc exhibition area for sculptures of ancient Khmer queens, illuminated due to candles.

Joseph Conrad's novel of the same name describes the horror found during the Belgian colonization of the Congo, including brutality towards the natives and the darkness within all human beings. As such, Heart of Darkness night club's name could not be more apropos as the venue is a breeding ground for people's darkest depravities. The venue has a long history of gang violence, including a fatal shooting in August 2005. Weapons have become such a problem at the bar that huge signs anoint the entrance prohibiting guns, knives, and grenades. But rumor has it that high-ranking Cambodian youth and their bodyguards easily float pass the security points, unchecked. Lonely Planet warns of rampant pickpocketing and "large gangs of rich young Khmers […] some are children of the elite and rely on their bodyguards to do their dirty work."

Although fatalities are infrequent, the colonization that Conrad alludes to is out in the open on a nightly basis. Like Ho Chi Minh City's nightclubs, Heart of Darkness is overrun with prostitutes, most not even two decades in age. Many are my height, yet due to enormous heels, tower over me and are able to look the much taller patrons directly in the eyes. The ladies float throughout the second floor lounge among the neon lights and warrior statues, searching for customers. Many stand at the edge of the mezannine, looking down at the dance floor below for those who are ready to make poor decisions. The black leather sofas are filled with middle-aged Westerners groping teenage Cambodian prostitutes old enough to be their daughters. With some couples, the men are probably more than triple the girls' age. Some stories paint even more grotesque pictures of teenage women being sold off to child abusing ex-pats for ~$150 in order to pay off family debts. Although Heart of Darkness was written at the turn of the twentieth century, and about an entirely different continent, one look at the modern Cambodian bar that shares its name proves that only so much progress has been made in the third world. The same darkness that Conrad described in 1902 certainly prevails today.

***

The night ends with some post-midnight "chicken wings" from a street vendor outside the club. As we open the styrofoam container, eager for a crunchy, greasy, meaty snack, our expression quickly changes. They're as fake as the masquerading laughter that emanated from the young prostitutes at the Heart of Darkness, as they effortlessly tried to please their elder Western colonists. But we're hungry and drunk. So chicken feet will have to do.


Note: Images from Google, Heart of Darkness' FB page

Hoi An

Hoi An, Vietnam, 7/27/11

Upon returning to Hanoi, our group has expanded, but I'm still the only yank in the ranks of Brits. The blond Three Amigos and I are now joined by Louise and Elaine, two Irish nurses from Cork. They're old friends and just beginning their global journey which includes a six-month nursing stint in Cairns, Australia. Louise is tall and lanky, soft-spoken and introverted, endlessly smiling. Elaine is more brash and outgoing and is an endlessly persistent shutterbug. Somehow the night before, these two Irish lasses believed me when I informed them that my name was "Francisco Ferdinand III", a thirty-seven year old whose recently had major work done to my eyes, jawline, and neck. Come on ladies, I don't look anything like a Francisco. "I can total see where you had the work done," they say. Thanks.

We're joined by Amit and Jeremy, two more Brits from Liverpool who are in the final months of a half-year round-the-world trip, whose North American leg inexplicably included Miami but not New York.

I grab a quick snack of a Bahn Mi burger at Hanoi Backpacker's bar. It's stuffed with onions, carrots, cilantro, and topped with caramelized onions, lettuce, and tomato. The sandwich is delicious and filling, albeit overcooked. Someone should really tell the chef that pressing down on burger patties mid-grill is a crime analogous to manslaughter.

Together, our new-and-improved group jumps on the overnight bus to Hoi An, on the central coast of Vietnam. I'm wearing my third pair of flip flops at this point, previous two stolen in the endless musical chairs game that is maintaining one's footwear in Southeast Asia. They had no stores on Castaway Island in Halong Bay, so I stole a pair of distressed navy blue rubber slippers that all the Vietnamese wear. They're hideous and incredibly uncomfortable. I can feel every pebble plus the aesthetic is straight out of One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. Especially when paired with my beard which resembles the love child of Wolverine and a neanderthal. Watch out ladies.

The coach bus has bi-level sleeper beds for the eighteen-hour journey. It's one of the rare times when my height comes in handy as I stretch out to sleep while my travel mates contort into various fetal positions.

***

From Google

From Google

From Google

From Google

Hoi An is a spectacular breath of fresh air compared to Hanoi's chaos. The town is set right on the Thu Bon River and is only 5km away from the beautiful Cua Bai Beach. Hoi An was originally a trading post in the 1600s and combines Chinese, Japanese, and French influences. The city barely has any traffic and is replete with small, charming buildings and quaint riverfront restaurants bedecked in spherical paper lanterns. We're staying at Greenfield Hotel, a ten minute walk from the town center. The accommodations are a bit luxurious for my tastes due to the mini-fridge, TV, AC, bathtub, and pool. And at $40/night for our four-person room it is ungodly expensive for Southeast Asia. I think I could hold a royal wedding in Thailand for that same tariff. I'm sharing the room with the 3 stooges which, due to the girls' excessive shedding of fake and real hair, reminds me of visiting my uncle's house as a kid when he had two enormous basset hounds. After two days, I'm convinced I've swallowed at least two pounds worth as has the shower drain.

A friend helps himself to a sip of my cocktail

Lunch is at Green Moss, an airy restaurant and cooking school. After the long journey, I immediately grab hold of a Vietnamese coffee, dark and potent like espresso, with a pouring of condensed milk. Lauren, Harriet, Becky, and I share Hoi An's specialties which help make the coastal town one of Vietnam's premiere culinary destinations. Banh Xeo is a savory omelet of herbs, sprouts, pork, and shrimp that is placed in fresh rice paper with herbs, folded like a spring roll, and dipped in a curry sauce. Even better is the White Rose, a local delicacy of small, transparent shrimp dumplings shaped like roses, with the filling forming the bud and the excess wrapper forming the leaves. The flowers are topped with fried onions which I would gladly put on ice cream.

Continuing our food binge, we have dinner at Cargo, right on the river. Like our hotel, the restaurant is incredibly lavish compared to the rest of my trip. What's this cloth fabric I'm supposed to put on my lap? This is quite confusing as I'm used to breaking off bits of toilet paper from the rolls that decorate typical Southeast Asian restaurants I frequent. Plus this restaurant serves wine! -- a foreign liquid that I have not consumed since leaving the states. As the oldest, and only American, I choose and we get a bone dry Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc with hints of pineapple and passionfruit. It's the perfect choice to wash down the fresh spring rolls stuffed with poached shrimp, crisp-skinned barbecued pork, basil, mint, and rice noodles. Kashrut, eat your heart out. Other appetizers include Hoi An's signature Cao Lau, a stir fry of thick fettuccine-like noodles with bean sprouts, croutons, herbs, lettuces, barbecued pork, in a savory broth. I sample a decadent tomato soup, odd for Vietnam and the season, but it's perfectly balanced, fresh, and only lightly sweet. The New Zealand wine also pairs well with my main of Mackerel smoked in banana leaf. It's Vietnam by way of the Upper West Side. Although Cargo is highly regarded in Hoi An for its local Vietnamese fare, Louise orders pepperoni pizza. She has immediately become my new project. And with that move, she's starting way in the hole. Harriet also orders Western food (lasagna), but she has delusionally picky eating habits, being able to count on both hands everything she enjoys eating. Her favorite food as pasta covered in baked beans and cheese. So in other words, she's beyond hope. Taste preferences aside, we all dig into the desserts of creme brulee, ten-layer chocolate cake, and passionfruit cheesecake.

Pork and shrimp summer rolls

Shrimp with garlic, pepper, noodles

Smoked mackerel in banana leaf

Stuffed squid

Shedding

A blond, a brunette, and a red head are trespassing on a farm late one evening when the farmer returns home. They all quickly disperse, finding different hiding places throughout the grounds. The brunette hides behind a large group of cows; the redhead kneels behind a gathering of pigs; the blond ducks behind a large pile of potato sacks. Hearing noises, the farmer grabs his rifle and begins searching for farm for intruders. He first enters the cow stable, shouting out "is anyone in here?", to which the brunette replies "moo". Convinced it's just cows, he moved on to the pig pen. "Is anyone in here?" he shouts, to which the redhead replies, "oink, oink". No worries, the farmer thinks, just my pigs. He finally moves to the vegetable room, where sacks of potatoes are piled high. "Is anyone in here?" the farmer calls out, to which the blond replies, "potatoes."

Hanoi, Vietnam, 7/22/11

There is more stray fake hair lying around our hotel room than a salon floor. It's all platinum blond, like gold leaf decorating the linoleum tile underneath. It's on the counters, in the bathroom, hidden throughout my bed, clogging the drain. It looks like Cousin It's whole family went on vacation and went Charlie Sheen on the room. There is so much faux hair in the brushes lying around that it wouldn't be a stretch to think of the room as a special facility for grooming purebred golden retrievers.


We've been following the same route for weeks -- shimmied down the Vang Vieng slide together, cruised down the Mekong River for two days on the same slowboat, and partied together like felons in Chiang Mai. However, we had never officially met until I introduce myself when we land in Vientiane's airport.

Harriet, Lauren, and Becky are three early twentysomethings from Hallifax, England. They are all quite beautiful with long, striking radiant blond hair. Although it's absurd that they've brought duffel bags on a backpacking trip that requires endless ascents up stairs, buses, and ferries, it's even more ridiculous that they've brought enough fake hair extensions between them to clog an Olympic-sized pool.

Harriet is the tallest of the three and, despite being Caucasian, is actively trying to make a transformation. Currently, she has reached Native American classification. Part of Harriet's height is due to her enormous Snookie-like poof, which towers a foot over her head like a golden chinchilla. It's easily viewable above chairbacks and can even be seen from Google Earth. Becky is my height and possesses Harriet's same affinity for fake hair. She has a bubbly personality and the ability to drink vodka like water. Becky insists on arching her back, bending her knees, and contorting her arm into some uncomfortable position in each and every photo, no matter how candid. Her Facebook profile page looks like one image was cropped and photoshopped over 1,000 different backgrounds. She really should lay off those Britain's Top Model marathons. Lauren is the only naturally-coiffed of the trifecta, with strawberry blond hair and limitless freckles like stars at night. She speaks in a long, slow drawl and I have decided that her family must have migrated to England from rural Mississippi. Her drawl makes trivial sentences like, "I'm allergic to vodka yet still drink it" seem of the utmost importance.

Together, Lauren, Harriet, and Becky are like a hilarious untaped sitcom. Nearly everything they utter is pure comic gold. Some gems:
-"Other than the Indian and Pacific Ocean, are there any others? Are they all connected?"
-"How can anyone not like summer? It's the best season. [What's the best part?] I mean, you don't even need to pick out a matching jacket to wear with your outfit!"
-[Upon learning one of the rides at the water park is named "The Tsunami"]: "That ride must be new as the tsunami just happened in Japan"

The four of us are fast friends by the time the plane lands in Hanoi and journey into Vietnam together.

Highway to Hell

Vientiane, Laos -> Hanoi, Vietnam, 7/21/11

My friends Ashley, from the UK, and her boyfriend Yom, from France, took the cheap way out.

It wasn't the duration of the thirty hour bus trip from Central Laos to Northern Vietnam that was necessarily painful. But rather, the endless fighting with the Vietnamese bus staff, who were rude, angry, and intentionally separated the European couple from adjacent seats for no apparent reason while laughing amongst themselves. Or maybe it was the fact that all the pillows and blankets went to the local Vietnamese, many of whom had two or three, while travelers got bubkis. Or maybe it was the unplanned five-hour detour in the middle of the night at a brothel, during which all of the Vietnamese men departed for a midnight snack, while the bus was turned off and sat dormant, sans-AC in 100-degree heat. Or maybe it was the fact that when people departed the bus to catch some fresh air during this nookie stop, they had the pleasure of shaking hands Vietnamese-style with several of the lovely young women of the house. I wouldn't call the handshakes typical, as the Vietnamese ladies used their hands, but instead of reaching for another palm, they went straight for the groin. I guess that's just the custom of Northern Vietnam. Fine by me, I guess, but not so much for 6-year old Johnny, who left the bus with his father and now needs to be taught a more traditional greeting.

Ashley and Yom arrive in Hanoi after 1.5 days -- bodies sores, reeking of cheap 7-Eleven perfume from the handshakes, and fully exhausted. It's really too bad they didn't join me on my flight. It was actually quite pleasant, only $100 more than the bus ($140 vs. $40) and just over an hour-and-a-half. So I arrive in Vietnam in style, nearly two days early, new friends in tow.

Bus to Vang Vieng

Luang Prabang -> Vang Vieng, 7/17/11

The VIP bus is sold out as is the minibus. This is going to be a fun night.

My local bus from Luang Prabang to Vang Vieng takes 3.5 hours longer than planned. It's packed to the brim -- tourists in the uncomfortable seats, locals in the aisles and packed next to the driver. I'm in the aisle seat, but it may as well be the middle seat as I have two aisle neighbors, one in front and one in back. Both are conveniently using me as a footrest for their knees. I mean, they could have bought me a drink first. My window seat third neighbor falls asleep and proceeds to spend the whole trip bobbing back and forth towards my crotch and drooling excessively.

Bathroom breaks on the local bus consist of pulling over to the side of the road and getting out. Sorry ladies. The bathroom breaks are so short and the bus is so cramped that I'm convinced we leave people behind at each rest stop.

We arrive into Vang Vieng at 3:30am. I share a tuk-tuk into town with several Brits who keep bemoaning the fact that they're pre-booked and not staying in Spicy Laos hostel. Well, they should know I never book accommodation prior to arrival. And their glowing review is enough for me. Plus its located next door to their hotel. It gets even better when I enter the hostel and find a dozen travelers still up drinking and exchanging stories.

I'm on a Boat

Banana chips that look like bacon but taste better?

Check. 42 cans of Beer Laos' in giant Styrofoam coolers? Check. Chicken sandwiches on freshly baked baguettes hinting to Laos' French colonial past? Topped with cucumber, carrots, tomato, onion, and chili aoli? Bought from a smiley local women whose sign reads, "cheap, cheap for you, thank you."?

Check.
Playing cards?
Check.
Teddy bear and flower-covered pillows for uncomfortable seats?
Check.
Sunglasses?
Check.
The Magnificent Seven still intact and kicking?
Check.

Huay Xai -> Pa Bang -> Luang Prabang, 7/12/11 - 7/14/11

After the grueling hikes, thrills, and near death snake encounters of the Gibbon Experience, all seven of us (sometimes the "Magnificent Seven" other times the "Treehouse Seven") are practically family. We're gathered together taking a two-day slow boat trip from Huay Xai in Northern Laos to Luang Prabang in the center. The wooden boat has about eighty other passengers, gray comfy seats lifted out of old minivans, and its roof is doubling as storage for motorcycles and bikes. Tourists sit in the auto seats while locals sit on the floor and bow.

After last night's meal, we're quite full. We sat riverside in Huay Xai and consumed a seven-person feast the center of which were two large Laos barbeques (sindaths). The sindaths are large metal barbeques, the bottom of which is a moat filled with broth, the top is thin pyramid-shaped dome with small slits to let in the heat. You put vegetables, egg, herbs, and noodles in the broth and raw meat on the dome. Combine everything together and you have a heady Laotian soup. We also pass around green curry, fried beef strips which taste like jerky, steamed calamari with wasabi dipping sauce, shrimp and garlic toast, fresh limeade, and Beer Laos'.

The boat ride is the perfect way to take in Laos. It's a breezy, lazy tour with stunning views of limestone cliffs, fjords, rice paddies, and fisherman. We pass by many gold panners, bending down right at the Mekong's edge, performing the back breaking sifting work for hours for what amounts to a meager amount of gold flake, netting roughly $100/month grand total. The tour is down the Mekong River, Southeast Asia's version of the Mississippi, which runs through Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia.

The river is home to the world's largest catfish, some stretching up to 20 feet and weighing up to 600lbs, with whiskers the size of forearms. Every April, fisherman gather on this section of the river to try to catch the famed beasts. Sadly, we don't spot any, which is unfortunate since riding a giant catfish to Luang Prabang would be more scenic and eco-friendly than the boat. Plus I would be happy to share my beer with Mr. Whiskers. [images from Google]






Our boat stops for the evening in Pa Bang, a sleepy commuter town. Although dinner takes an hour to arrive, when it does, it is quite worth the wait. I have the Lao national dish of Laap, a salad of minced fish/chicken/pork/beef/duck, with fish sauce, lime juice, mint, coriander, chilis, basil, scallions, and shallots. It's refreshing, spicy, and light, perfect for the humid evening. Especially when spooned onto lettuce leaves and rolled up. Breakfast the next morning is a crisp crepe-like pancake stuffed with bananas and covered in condensed milk. It resembles the surface of the moon, except light yellow and more delicious.

***

Forty-two beers down, the Treehouse Seven arrives in Luang Prabang the following day. The small city is a beautiful UNESCO World Heritage site, positioning right on the Mekong River. We're staying in the old quarter, a small peninsula in the north of town replete with classy guesthouses, riverfront restaurants, outdoor bars, a terrific hill tribe craft market, and dozens of temples on hill tops. The architecture is distinctly French colonial, showing the city's roots. Every morning, dozens of orange silk-clad monks line up at sunrise to accept their alms, or daily food donations from the town locals, as they are not allowed to exchange money. (I try to get up and watch one morning, but quickly fall back asleep).

With the local street vendors

Like most of Laos, the town has a calm, slow pace, with locals leisurely walking the streets or taking time to read the newspaper while savoring a coffee. Speaking of, Jen and I immediately drop our bags and head off to nearby Saffron Cafe for a superstrong hilltribe coffee. Jen runs into a Danish friend who she studied abroad with in Scandanavia. It's quite unfortunate she's not single, but no worries, as I'll probably see her in Sports Illustrated in a couple years.

Our clothes smell like gibbon droppings which, though a potent aphrodisiac, has become mundane after five days. So they get tossed in the laundry and we make our way over to Utopia, a large river-adjacent bar and restaurant owned by a friendly Aussie. There's a big pavilion with low tables surrounded by pillows, volleyball, board games, hookah pipes, a grotto, and colorful lanterns. We listen to a terrific request-taking guitar player who breezes through Wonderwall, Satisfaction, Summer of '69, and Mary Jane's Last Dance.


We share an appetizer Mekong River Weed (crispy like fried seaweed) with a fiery and smoky maroon-colored water buffalo chili dip. I share Teresa's umami-rich mushroom melt. After the owner and menu keep hailing Utopia's burger as "the best in Laos", I finally cave and owner my first Western food of the trip. The gamble pays off -- it's a big, beefy patty on a soft homemade bun with onion, tomato, lettuce, bacon, and wasabi aoli. Perfectly medium rare, it's a delicious taste of home, while the wasabi still keeps my mind in Asia. The best burger in Laos? Hell, as it's the only one I've tried, I will gladly proclaim it the best one in Southeast Asia.

Amen.

The bars in Luang Prabang close at 11pm, which means it's time for late night bowling, oddly staying open well past the curfew. Someone should really tell the two Jens they're supposed to hit the pins, not the sides, as neither of them break double digits in ten frames. I shockingly have a really great game and should really bowl in Laos more often.

***

The next morning, I grab a quick breakfast at the local Scandinavian Bakery: Pineapple shake, strong hilltribe coffee with warm milk (nice touch), and a toasted twisted cheese croissant, layered like lasagna and flaky like Kate Hudson. Chris, Jen, and I rent mountain bikes and spend the afternoon hiking waterfalls and trying not to pass out due to the heat, mud, and rain. When we make it back in the evening, I look like I spent all day in the sauna.

 

Note: Some photos from Jen and Teresa