Senses

I documented my thirty days on the road, traveling to three distinctive countries in Southeast Asia, with my camera.  But there were experiences, excursions for the other senses which photos could not transmit, like being greeted in Bangkok by familiar acrid fumes and sticky morning heat.  Noise was everywhere, and difficult to escape, especially in the cities where the cacophony from the traffic became a soundtrack.  Popular modes of transportation varied -- bicycles and tuk tuks common in Cambodia, whereas Vietnam was all about the motorcycle and cyclo -- as did the sound of their tooting bells.  I was partial to the echoing horns in Hanoi, a much more pleasant, less abrasive sound.  I loved the deafening buzz of cicadas on the roads of Angkor Wat, monks chanting in Cambodia, gongs ringing in Vietnam.  Although I preferred to travel in silence with a good book, bus drivers in Vietnam liked to play indistinguishable pop ballads.  In Cambodia, the streets were fragrant from freshly cut pineapples at vendors' stalls, bouquets of plumeria and frangipani, and burning incense honoring Buddha and Vishna in makeshift wire holders hugging tree trunks.  One turn down a street with dried, salted fish for sale and the perfumed scent was replaced with a repugnant odor.  In Vietnam, the aroma from cauldrons of pho and pots of deep fried dough tricked my stomach into thinking it was lunchtime, 24/7.  Laws containing smokers to designated areas have not yet reached this part of the globe, thus cigarette fumes were everywhere -- expensive restaurants, buses, trains, hotel corridors, bars. Mixed with the traffic pollution the air often burned my lungs.  Prior to this trip I thought face masks were an accessory in Asia. I now comprehend they're a necessity.  I couldn't shake the minor cold I caught in Cambodia until I escaped to the clean mountains in Vietnam.  This region is plagued with respiratory disorders evident from the prevalent sound of bronchial coughs, sneezing and phlegm spitting.   I did my best to ignore the filth on the street -- a combination of daily life mixed with scraps from a food stall, hair trimmings from a barber, piss from grown men and little boys, sludge from greasy dishes, and bones from a devoured pig.  As the days from my trip recede I will always remember the Thais for their massages and tom yum goong, the Cambodians for their smiles and generosity, and the Vietnamese for their glorious fields and coastline.