The Best of Both

The first half of my trip to Southeast Asia was spent with six curious, intelligent, adventurous friends.   Initially we had to get used to the lack of wireless devices for communication, but within a few days we adjusted to showing up in the lobby at a designated time.  I benefited from the groups exponential exploration and enjoyed the inquisitive conversation that ensued at our lively meals.  We laughed as we walked the steamy streets shaking our heads, sharing many "we're not in Kansas" moments.  I delighted in going with the flow of decision making, and letting others try to explain to the tuk tuk driver where we were trying to go.

An added bonus was sharing this experience with my cousin LN, and getting to know her as an adult.  We come from a small east coast Italian family and share a deep familial connection, but have not spent a lot of time together.  In January, over dinner in Hoboken I told her about the trip my brother and I were taking, her eyes lit up, and within days she had purchased a round trip ticket to Bangkok.  Although just beginning to explore the world beyond her backyard, LN was a fearless, easy going, competent traveler.   Her sense of adventure enhanced the group dynamic, as did her ability to divide the dinner bill each evening.  And her adeptness at taming wild curls in high humidity, invaluable!  While we were at the genocide museum in Cambodia I split my big toenail on a metal divider.  I completed the exhibit, but knew I needed some first aid.  On our way back to the hotel LN said she wanted to stay with Mr. Jed, our tuk tuk driver, and go to the firing range outside of town.  "Have fun",  I said only later contemplating what I would tell her parents if something went awry.  A few hours later LN came back, lit up like a Christmas tree, sharing video of her and Mr. Jed shooting AK47s.  Mr. Jed, whom she treated to the experience, said it was the best day of his life.

The second half of my trip was spent alone, traveling the length of Vietnam from the Mekong to the mountains of Sapa.   Being solo made it easier to engage with others, and my trip was greatly enhanced by the conversations I had with locals and foreigners.  At the temple My Son outside of Hoi An, I met an Israeli couple.  The woman, whose name currently escapes me, and I were living parallel lives.  We were both a year and half into a hiatus from the corporate world.  Our desire for something different and our philosophical outlook were so similar it was eerie.  In airport lounges, on buses, and in restaurants I never longed for companionship.  It was always there if I wanted it.  I value my independence, and my ability to navigate foreign lands with comfort and proficiency.   This experience gives me more conviction and strength to stay on the path when I return home.

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.

Apsaras

The sweltering 95 degree heat didn't deter me from biking almost 30 miles in and around Angkor Wat.  Dusty back streets spotted with Khmer Restaurants and Electric Bike Stations for motorcycle repair were frequently seen on the journey.  Dead pigs strapped to the back of the motorcycles, legs flailing in the air, is not a sight I will soon forget.  The temples off the beaten path were less crowded and in states of greater disrepair.  Heavenly creatures graced the walls and  paths.  Children ran to us the second we dismounted our bikes selling postcards, bracelets, instruments and trinkets.  "For you madam, 10 postcards for a dollar."  Another girl, not older than 8, offered to tell me the president of my country, as well as the population and capital of my state.  Only if she answered these questions correctly would I have to buy her book.  As a flock of girls followed me through the ruins I asked a women selling shirts and clothes if these were her daughters.  "Yes."  "They're beautiful," I responded.  "Would you like to take one home with you?"  My friend and I both looked at each other, confirming what the other heard, an oddly sincere offer.