tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82532253121142831732024-03-12T20:47:36.151-04:00Crawl, Walk, Travel...Literary diversion for the highly evolved.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-48163668175460866632010-02-24T15:38:00.002-05:002010-02-24T15:40:50.746-05:00Scenes from Nicaragua: Volcan Masaya<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S4VnfvHpGbI/AAAAAAAAAYw/kiqzkBPpBXk/s1600-h/Masaya+1+resize+crop.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="cssfloat: left; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" kt="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S4VnfvHpGbI/AAAAAAAAAYw/kiqzkBPpBXk/s640/Masaya+1+resize+crop.JPG" width="466" /></a></div><br />
Standing at the edge of the active Masaya volcano crater, it's easy to see why it was once thought to be the gateway to hell.<br />
<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2010/02/scenes-from-nicaragua-volcan-masaya.html">(view more)</a><br />
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<a name='more'></a><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S4VsF1pxr6I/AAAAAAAAAY4/Kp7Tl6Xga4k/s1600-h/Masaya+3+resize.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="374" kt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S4VsF1pxr6I/AAAAAAAAAY4/Kp7Tl6Xga4k/s640/Masaya+3+resize.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The sulphurous gasses spilling from within stain the sky red in the fading light of day. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">A park ranger stands sentinel over the rolling hills and jagged volcanic rock.</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">A cross built of telephone poles atop the peak is dwarfed by the massive crater.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S4WNgEUwWrI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/su98YVRomE4/s1600-h/Masaya+5+resize.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" kt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S4WNgEUwWrI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/su98YVRomE4/s640/Masaya+5+resize.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-44949416271737184982010-02-05T13:45:00.001-05:002010-03-05T13:25:04.028-05:00Scenes from Vietnam: Ha Long Bay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2euw88s1BI/AAAAAAAAAYI/44eUPNHwPcQ/s1600-h/Ha+Long+1+Series25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="284" kt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2euw88s1BI/AAAAAAAAAYI/44eUPNHwPcQ/s640/Ha+Long+1+Series25.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>The following are images from a three day boat excursion through Ha Long Bay in Northern Vietnam.<br />
<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2010/02/scenes-from-ha-long-bay-vietnam.html">(view more)</a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2erHx_A8_I/AAAAAAAAAXg/rFIQvJTfHJ4/s1600-h/Ha+Long+2+Series+25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" kt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2erHx_A8_I/AAAAAAAAAXg/rFIQvJTfHJ4/s640/Ha+Long+2+Series+25.JPG" width="428" /></a> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">To drift through Ha Long Bay is to navigate mountain tops, a radical departure from the chaos of Hanoi and the ubiquitous rice paddies of the countryside.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">The jagged landscape of the islands is less hospitable than the sheltered water of the bay. When you encounter locals here, they are generally afloat.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Depending on the time of visit you might catch a few glipses of blue sky, but the rainy season here keeps the island wrapped in an ethereal aura of fog for most of our stay.</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2erAio4eCI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/F8zIY2bM6lM/s1600-h/Ha+Long+9+25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" kt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2erAio4eCI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/F8zIY2bM6lM/s640/Ha+Long+9+25.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>The mist lends an air of the surreal, to the already unfamiliar landscape.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2euZlVZUhI/AAAAAAAAAYA/X6BnY0osRbA/s1600-h/Ha+Long+7+Series.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" kt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2euZlVZUhI/AAAAAAAAAYA/X6BnY0osRbA/s640/Ha+Long+7+Series.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-76549174240228591332010-02-02T11:23:00.003-05:002010-02-16T15:18:05.121-05:00The Great Airline Conspiracy<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2hDWKfnKfI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/J5lxnxpB4Q8/s1600-h/North+America.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" kt="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2hDWKfnKfI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/J5lxnxpB4Q8/s640/North+America.jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S2IlXnZdG_I/AAAAAAAAAXA/knwXxIENwao/s1600-h/North+America.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><strong>Quadrilateral: The New Straight Line</strong> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>In two weeks I'll depart from Norfolk International on my next adventure, this time to Nicaragua. I will do so with great excitement and a moderate degree of confusion as to why I'm actually flying towards Chicago instead...<br />
<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2010/02/airline-conspiracy.html">(read more)</a><br />
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A bargain conscious traveler, I always prefer to find a cost effective way to fly. Every penny counts when considering that at my typical destination I can find a three course meal and a nights accomodation for less than a set of those obnoxious two-pronged in-flight headphones. And far be it from me to criticize an entity that has been been so financially successful (ahem) as the flight industry, but why flying for less always involves several more flights than necessary has always eluded me.<br />
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I've often heard that the airline is, "just trying to fill seats", which I had always passively accepted, though it is, of course, an insanely stupid concept. Planes with fewer passengers are lighter, therefore cheaper to fly, as well as more comfortable and easier to manage logistically, ipso ergo the less money they take from me the less beneficial it is for them to spend more time, money and energy putting me on a plane to Chicago when they don't have to.<br />
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The next logical explanation is that there are only flights to Managua from Houston, to Houston from Chicago, and to Chicago from Norfolk. Not the case. In an uncharacteristic burst of investigative journalism I discovered that not only should I be able to fly from Norfolk direct to Houston, but I could also fly to Managua via Miami, or just direct from Norfolk to Managua for that matter, and furthermore that all of these flights have available seats, which they are<em> not,</em> presumably, trying to fill.<br />
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So why do I need to tour the half the airport terminals in the nation prior to leaving it? I have a theory. Sure, you could blame it on incompetence and outdated scheduling algorithms, but why rely solely on rational thought? I believe that airlines aren't financially feasible without the concessions. <br />
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Every passenger that walks through the terminal is a potential consumer of, at the very least, a 12oz. bottle of water for $4 or a $6 Snickers. It's all a plan to keep you detached from the outside world as long as possible only to alternately starve you then deliver you to overpriced concession stands. I've seen it many times in the developing world wherein a bus driver will stop at a roadside restaurant for a half hour lunch even though we're a mere fifteen minutes from our destination.<br />
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Now surely, you may suggest, the tremendous waste in jet fuel alone would render insignificant even the 6000% mark up on tap water. You might be correct if not for all of the government subsidies flowing into the airline industry. Short of executing pensioners, there was no way for the flagship airlines to once again become feasible financial institutions. Not willing to allow the flight industry to implode, we gave billions of tax-payer's money to the airlines.<br />
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Yes, I'm suggesting that the entire flight industry is an elaborate ruse to funnel public funds into failing private industry while simultaneously stripping you of your vacation spending money by forcing you to buy Wolfgang Puck's soggy prepackaged sandwiches. What's worse, is that in the process of doing so I may have convinced myself that it's actually true.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-83941808528629168762010-01-23T13:31:00.014-05:002010-03-05T13:24:21.000-05:00Scenes from Vietnam: Mui Ne<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1s0DdWOxaI/AAAAAAAAAVI/eUWCm7VuFLU/s1600-h/Red+Desert+resize25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1s0DdWOxaI/AAAAAAAAAVI/eUWCm7VuFLU/s640/Red+Desert+resize25.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">At first glance Mui Ne appeared a bland ocean-side retreat for ex-pats with suitcases. The surf was non-existent at this time of year and kite boarding, another popular pass-time here, was not in my trip budget.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But with the haunting beauty and wildly varied terrain of the surrounding countryside, I discovered quickly, that all I was going to need to stay occupied here was my camera and a motor bike.<br />
<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2010/01/scenes-from-vietnam-mui-ne.html">(view more)</a></div><a name='more'></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1s8UfY9g2I/AAAAAAAAAVQ/on08lXQi4Lo/s1600-h/Mui+Ne+Fishing+Village+resize25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="368" mt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1s8UfY9g2I/AAAAAAAAAVQ/on08lXQi4Lo/s640/Mui+Ne+Fishing+Village+resize25.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Fishing Village</strong></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">North of the hotel strip the town of Mui Ne begins to show it's true colors.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1zIa8TeAtI/AAAAAAAAAVo/KVq-zCbCYBE/s1600-h/lilypads25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="418" mt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1zIa8TeAtI/AAAAAAAAAVo/KVq-zCbCYBE/s640/lilypads25.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>Lily Pads</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Just inland the landscape is transformed, first to red clay then pristine white sand dunes.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1s_-3ZmeBI/AAAAAAAAAVY/0ijHwTzCg7s/s1600-h/White+Dune+resize25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" mt="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1s_-3ZmeBI/AAAAAAAAAVY/0ijHwTzCg7s/s640/White+Dune+resize25.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>White Dunes</strong></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">A common passtime here, so I'm told, is dune sledding. I procured a plastic mat and proceeded to hurl my self gracelessly off the crest of the dune. After repeated failure to slide anywhere other than deeper into the bomb holes created with each landing, I can attest that dune sledding does not actually exist.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1tMnvDlA9I/AAAAAAAAAVg/MRbuuxa0uJM/s1600-h/Fairy+Stream+resize25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1tMnvDlA9I/AAAAAAAAAVg/MRbuuxa0uJM/s640/Fairy+Stream+resize25.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>The Fairy Stream</strong></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Named for it's ethereal landscape, this shallow stream winds down towards the ocean through a red and white clay canyon.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: white;">lonely planet, travel, backpacking, adventure travel, flights, Vietnam</span> </strong></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-55122743435462154532010-01-22T18:23:00.005-05:002010-01-26T09:44:02.092-05:00Curious Culinary Encounters<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1ozb93x_gI/AAAAAAAAASc/ulTghzEKzes/s1600-h/DSC_0293.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1ozb93x_gI/AAAAAAAAASc/ulTghzEKzes/s640/DSC_0293.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">With all the pitfalls of adventure travel, sometime the most harrowing of experiences involve simply securing an identifiable meal. Trying new things is the name of the game, but through a combination of bad menu translation and radical culture gaps, the cuisine I've encountered abroad has often left me speechless. Thus I'll let these <em>actual</em> menu items speak for themselves...<br />
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<strong>At a street cafe in Hanoi:</strong><br />
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"Roasted Bird with onion and flagrant knotweed"<br />
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"Tryonychid Turtle cook with banana and soya cord"<br />
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"Stomach fried with water, dropwort and garlic"<br />
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"Snakehead fish steamed with beer"<br />
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"Innards Steamboat"<br />
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<strong>On a restaurant billboard in Mui Ne, Vietnam:</strong><br />
<strong><br />
</strong>"Baked Goat Udders"<br />
<br />
Just like mom used to make.<br />
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<strong>At a small restaurant in Sihanoukville, Cambodia:<br />
</strong><br />
<br />
"Cause shrimp to puff with butter 8,000 Riel"<br />
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"Fish burned 5,000 Riel"<br />
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<strong>On the menu at a street side cafe in Vang Vieng, Laos:</strong><br />
</div>(and my personal favorite)<br />
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"Traditional American Freakfest 30,000 Kip"<br />
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Ironically the dish of hotdogs, greenbeans, fried eggs and a baguette that arrived actually seemed appropriately named.<br />
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</div><strong>A mysterious shellfish found near Puerto Lopez, Ecuador.</strong><br />
</div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-71914978338598237552010-01-22T14:50:00.006-05:002010-01-25T18:23:05.786-05:00Scenes from the Amazon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1oA-W8PMnI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/YfesYZpOpbU/s1600-h/DSC_0410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1oA-W8PMnI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/YfesYZpOpbU/s640/DSC_0410.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Scenes from my excursion into <em>El Oriente</em>, the Ecuadorian Amazon...<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2010/01/scenes-from-amazon.html">(view more)</a><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>The local fauna</strong><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong>A village girl guts a freshly caught fish with her thumb</strong><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><strong><em>El Oriente</em> under a hazy evening sky</strong><br />
</div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-91044478153092674792009-11-04T12:13:00.008-05:002010-03-02T18:32:02.489-05:00Dear Jess,<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1o5W2v4EZI/AAAAAAAAASs/WeXcN6PA1ok/s1600-h/DSC_1928.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" mt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1o5W2v4EZI/AAAAAAAAASs/WeXcN6PA1ok/s200/DSC_1928.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>This email correspondence with my sister is a fascinating bit of history from my trip to South East Asia that begged to see the light of day. A typical family conversation in which we touch on subjects such as hostile Canadian takeover, mass grave excavation and the legalities behind dismembering interns. Enjoy... <br />
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Dear Jess,<br />
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Happy Birthday. Sorry I'm a few hours late, but the internet is a fickle entity here on the beach in Cambodia. I'm in Sihanoukville on the south coast and it's Chinese New Year. The place is totally packed and the power supply can't keep up so there are outages about five times a day. Aside from the loss of the fan the outages are quite welcome as they put an end to the endless stream of the strange Asian version of Happy Birthday (or Happy Bird Day) that they seem to play on an endless loop at New Year. Yes, I know, I'm really roughing it. I think I'll go have another cocktail to ease the pain.<br />
<br />
How are things back on the home front? Has your corporation achieved world domination? Did Dennis Kucinach get the democratic nomination like I knew he would?<br />
Hope all is well, sis. Talk to you soon.<br />
<br />
Dan<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Hey Dano!<br />
<br />
I was just home last weekend, and we were speculating whether or not you were still alive. I’m glad to see that (1) you are and (2) you’re even lucid enough to remember my b-day. Awww, shucks.<br />
<br />
While you were away, Canada invaded the US, defeated us over a long weekend, and declared us the “great southern province”. (Apparently they were pissed that we could never remember their Prime Minister’s name – who knew?) But it saves us the trouble of voting in the US elections this year, so that’s nice.<br />
<br />
Carbonite is now a Fortune 500 company with 10,000 employees, and I have been promoted to VP of Everything. We’re thinking of buying a small country to host company retreats; have you seen any worth purchasing in your travels? Happy Chinese New Year, and have another cocktail for me, would ya?<br />
<br />
Your Loving Sister<br />
<br />
***<br />
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Dear Jess,<br />
<br />
Cambodia is for sale but, regrettably, covered in land mines and unexcavated mass graves. What is your company policy on unexploded ordinance and genocide anyway? I've been meaning to ask.<br />
<br />
But while your very pc approach of purchasing a nation is quaint, I think that your best bet is to develop a small naval military force and simply acquire an archipelago in the South Pacific. It's a time tested method and chances are that their current European occupation has been rendered fairly complacent by large quantities of sunshine and coconut flavored cuisine. Besides, with our impending withdrawal from the middle east privately contracted military muscle is about to become very affordable. I've heard good things about a small company called Blackwater, you should check it out.<br />
<br />
As for the Canadian takeover, while I'm excited about the prospect of socialized health care, I fear it will be short lived. Under Canadian law all we need is a simple majority to secede again. Hence the Cannucks' lack of success with imperialism. It's a shame too, because if anybody could use a getaway archipelago in the South Pacific it's those pasty Canadians, eh?<br />
<br />
Love,<br />
<br />
Dan<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Hmmmm, Blackwater you say? I’ll have to check them out. The name’s got such a nice ring to it – and it would sound so great with “gate” on the end. How could we *not* select them to help us with our international acquisitions – I mean, “humanitarian peacekeeping operations”? (I can tell you one thing; I know what our first company team-building event will be at our lavish new Cambodian corporate hideaway! But shhhh – it’s a surprise! NB: You did say those mass graves were un-excavated, right? Know where I can get 10,000 shovels on short notice?)<br />
<br />
Re: our extremely polite Canadian overlords, don’t worry: we’ll be living the high life with socialized medicine for many years to come. In order for the US to get a majority and secede, us former-Americans would have to register to vote and then show up on election day. And you know *that’s* never going to happen. ;-) I hope you’re enjoying your coconut-flavored life in Cambodia… but when are you coming back to the NASC? (That’s the North American Socialist Collective. We’ve done some rebranding since the Canada merger.)<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Sounds like you've got one hell of a scavenger hunt sceduled for the next company picnic. Just make sure to send in a team of interns first to clear the mines. And a little advice: land mines are designed to be non-lethal based on the theory that a wounded soldier exhausts more resources than a dead one. This is also true with interns, so you may want to revise the dismemberment clause in your health plan before sending them into the field (or be prepared to get your hands dirty, if you know what I'm saying).<br />
<br />
I'll be headed back to mother Canamerica on April 22nd. I'll be expecting a sixer of Molson in the fridge, a plate of french fries and gravy on the table and a good curling match on the television when I get there, eh? That's assuming I don't have any trouble repatriating with my obsolete American passport. Do you think that I'll need to memorize the prime minister's name to be granted temporary refugee status? I hope not. It took me years to remember Chretien's name and then they just went and got some new guy. Well, whatever happens I just hope they don't try to bring rollerblading back into style, because that was really lame.<br />
<br />
Cheers eh?,<br />
<br />
Dan<br />
<br />
P.S. Given your new found Canadianhood maybe you can help me decipher this Canadianism that I heard the other day after a brief conversation with one of our new compatriots:<br />
<br />
"Ok, hey, we're gonna boogie and try to spin up a number before the nights festivities . . . see ya out there, eh?"<br />
<br />
If we're going to peacefully coexist with them we should make an effort to learn their language.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-78683422727686854222009-01-09T19:36:00.016-05:002010-01-25T17:59:31.573-05:00Machalilla Bay, Ecuador<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S14iDleB0VI/AAAAAAAAAV4/gHFepG2tk8g/s1600-h/Machalilla25.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" mt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S14iDleB0VI/AAAAAAAAAV4/gHFepG2tk8g/s400/Machalilla25.JPG" width="400" /></a>The crescent bay of Los Frailes beach, in the Machalilla National Park of Ecuador, is a beautiful place. Straddled by sunbaked cliffs, lapped by turquoise breakers, dotted with small craggy islands, it contains all the qualities that one would want to exploit with say, a large all-inclusive resort done in tasteless carribean colors, but with the added benefit of being immune to such exploitation as it is on protected land. <a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2009/01/if-you-needed-another-reason-not-to.html">(read more)</a><br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1ns5SVqlwI/AAAAAAAAAQs/Cfc9MoljXM8/s1600-h/P4240761.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" mt="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1ns5SVqlwI/AAAAAAAAAQs/Cfc9MoljXM8/s400/P4240761.JPG" width="400" /></a>Imagine my delight then, when I stumbled upon an adorable sea turtle swimming out through the small breaking waves and grabbed my underwater camera to get a closer look. This place was just so darn neat. <br />
</div>The turtle however, was moving erratically and having some difficulty swimming to deeper water. A closer look at the pictures revealed an amorphous blob trailing below it. A bag woven of plastic fiber had become entangled around it´s neck and front legs.<br />
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I informed the ranger at the park entrance who assured me that he would then call another available ranger to attend to the turtle. Not knowing whether to expect help or indifference, I was impressed by his efficiency. <br />
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The ranger, of course, did not show up so fifteen minutes later I found my self walking into the surf with a borrowed pocket knife, wondering whether a three foot sea turtle can bite off finger as a small crowd began to gather on shore.<br />
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The bag was a tangled mess and there was nothing to be done in chest deep water, so I grabbed the sides of it´s shell and led the turtle towards the shore until I could carry it over the cresting shorebreak and onto the beach. Luckily the turtle seemed to oblige, and showed little interest in nipping off my extremities.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SWf6mphKKII/AAAAAAAAAPQ/PlYydfKhkw8/s1600-h/P4240767.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289471829256841346" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SWf6mphKKII/AAAAAAAAAPQ/PlYydfKhkw8/s400/P4240767.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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As the bag was freed by an onlooking taxi driver, the owner of the knife, I noticed two more bags entangled in the turtles back legs. Lifting the back of his shell I realized that they were not entangled, but had been eaten and now were being passed. The sight was heart wrenching, this majestic and gentle animal was being ravaged inside and out by simple, stupid carelessness.<br />
I removed as much of the plastic as possible and carried the turtle back into the water.<br />
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The turtle seemed to have more energy and flapped it´s flippers in anticipation of diving back into the water. <br />
I set it loose past the breakers and it disappeared under the surface.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-62202396709816404212009-01-04T12:51:00.006-05:002010-01-22T16:55:11.135-05:00Cuenca, Ecuador<div style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</div><strong>Feliz Año Viejo</strong><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SWVY98b_87I/AAAAAAAAAOw/4hNyz3hpX2k/s1600/P4150550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5288731158635344818" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SWVY98b_87I/AAAAAAAAAOw/4hNyz3hpX2k/s400/P4150550.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Or, "Happy Old Year" as you´ll hear in the streets of Cuenca on New Year´s Eve. Here in Ecuador the celebrations of December 31st are not so much about ringing in the new as burning out the old. Thousands of paper mache masks representing everything from hated political figures to cartoon characters are constructed and placed on dummies in front of homes and business only to be ritually torched in the street later in the evening. <br />
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</div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This handsome couple said that they searched desperately for a George W. Bush mask but, go figure, they were sold out at every place in the city. They ended up settling for Cheney and the next best likeness they could find.<br />
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<div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Different organizations around the city create these elaborate larger-than-life diaramas in the blocked off streets of the city center representing various evils, like Ecuador´s most hated politicians burning in a firy hell, or a meeting of the mistrusted Ecudorian Congress. The real show happens at midnight when the effigies are dragged into the closest intersection where they are set alight and burn in towering streetwide infernos.<br />
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</div></div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Just add the requisite New Year´s binge alcohol consumption and pepper the streets with young children shooting fireworks at eachother and the ensuing atmosphere is a bit like something out of Vietnam War flick. As bad an idea as this all may seem, it certainly beats champagne and conical paper hats.<br />
</div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-18221182942964406672009-01-04T12:48:00.003-05:002010-01-22T15:24:03.421-05:00Montanita, Ecuador<div></div><strong>No Hay</strong><br />
<br />
Spanish for "there isn´t any," this is a popular phrase in Montañita, Ecuador around the holidays. Whether it be at a hotel- ¨no hay habitacion¨ (no rooms), at any of the restaurants- ¨no hay comida¨ (no food) or at the money changer- ¨no hay dinero¨ (no money), you begin to repeat the phrase in chorus along with whomever you´ve just asked about anything.<br />
<div><br />
There was simply nothing left in Montañita. The culprit? Thursday. A generally pleasant and much anticipated day of the week, Thursday can take the blame for this one. This year both Christmas and New Year´s Day fell on a Thursday allowing the entire population of Ecuador to take Friday off for the most glorious four day grouping known to man, the long weekend, and descend upon the unexpecting bohemian fishing and surfing town of Monañita.<br />
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The result, of course, is that unfortunate travelers like myself end up spending exorbitant amounts of money to stay on a broken bed in somebody´s grandparent´s bedroom. At least they were nice enough to move the grandparents first.<br />
</div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-46684341475688183022008-12-26T18:59:00.002-05:002010-01-22T15:53:00.599-05:00The Suicide Simulator<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SVVzIarVTkI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/H1dNB6zfT5M/s1600/DSC_0806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="428" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284256326226366018" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SVVzIarVTkI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/H1dNB6zfT5M/s640/DSC_0806.JPG" style="display: block; height: 268px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" width="640" /></a> <div>Nothing particularly interesting about this 300 ft. bridge over Bascun Cayon... that is, until you strap yourself to the railing and leap from it. For a nominal fee of $20 you can don a harness and find out what it´s like to hurdle yourself into the gaping crevase below without the messy clean-up...<br />
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<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2008/12/suicide-simulator.html">(read more)</a><br />
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<div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SVaeHCFBLQI/AAAAAAAAAOY/J_1C-0NgYX4/s1600/DSC_0847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="428" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284585056420048130" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SVaeHCFBLQI/AAAAAAAAAOY/J_1C-0NgYX4/s640/DSC_0847.JPG" style="display: block; height: 268px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" width="640" /></a>This is not a bungy jump, but a ¨swing jump,¨ the primary difference being that with a bungy jump whiplash is a strong potential whereas with a swing jump it´s included free of charge. The line clipped to your back doesn´t stretch like bungee, the idea being that with a hearty forward thrust the line will reach it´s apex while still at an angle and refrain from snapping your spine like dried spaghetti.<br />
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</div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This works well in theory and moderately ok in practice. While the experience went by in the blink of an eye, it was well worth it to feel what it's like to take that suicidal step and rocket head first into the ravine below.<br />
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<div style="text-align: right;"><strong>Above: A rare photo of the brave author</strong><br />
</div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-67612763923763193382008-12-22T21:24:00.001-05:002010-01-22T15:21:53.162-05:00Destination, Shmestination.After four days in Quito, in an unprecedented bout of foresight, I actually made reservations for a hostel at my next destination. Following an awkward phone call to the Spanish speaking hostelier I even got to bed at a reasonable hour and set an alarm to catch the early bus. <br />
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I was on my way to the reportedly beautiful town of Baños. I bought the ticket and was informed that my bus was leaving from gate 21 at 9:15. I found gate 21 and the bus parked there with the name Baños in two foot letters on the side. <br />
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At 9:10 the conductor began to shout "Baños, Baños, Baños" and I boarded the bus, which, I was impressed to note, actually left at 9:15. Just not, of course, to Baños. <br />
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Three hours into the three and a half hour ride to Baños the conductor came to collect my ticket and informed me that I was, in fact, on the "Baños" Bus Lines five and a half hour bus ride to Tena. A town about four hours away from Baños.<br />
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Never one to contend with the will of the fates while traveling I paid for my ticket to Tena, got off the bus and took advantage of the towns close proximity to the rainforest to embark the following morning on a jungle trek through the Amazon. Why not?Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-61451384975001845032008-12-16T19:40:00.002-05:002010-01-22T15:28:53.505-05:00Bienvenidos a Ecuador<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SUrlYFZfu5I/AAAAAAAAANw/PY9E3RVK7H8/s1600-h/DSC_0346.JPG" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="428" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281285714974063506" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SUrlYFZfu5I/AAAAAAAAANw/PY9E3RVK7H8/s640/DSC_0346.JPG" style="display: block; height: 268px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" width="640" /></a> <br />
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</div>Two weeks ago I sat down to find a ticket somewhere-I was thinking South America, maybe Peru. Ecuador was the cheapest and so here I am. Two nights ago I arrived in the city of Quito just south of the equator.<br />
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Nestled in the Andes mountains at 9300 ft. even the equator gets a bit chilly at this elevation so I'm not quite laughing yet at all the Norte Americanos that I left behind in the cold, but I'll soon be on the beaches of Canoa for a white sand Christmas and paddling into the waves of reputedly epic length-if I don't get lost in the Amazon rainforest first.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SUrun2qgp-I/AAAAAAAAAOA/uSlBkKgTEGw/s1600/DSC_0232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281295881501452258" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/SUrun2qgp-I/AAAAAAAAAOA/uSlBkKgTEGw/s640/DSC_0232.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center; width: 268px;" width="428" /></a>I spent the last two days exploring the sites of the city, highlighted by the majestic Basilica of Old Town, a behemoth vestige of Spanish colonialism. If you had told me yesterday morning that I was going to spend two hours in church I would have laughed, but you don't have to be Catholic to have a religious experience atop the towering spires, and the precarious climb to get there is prayer inspiring. <br />
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</div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So begins the latest adventure and, I might add, the least planned yet so stay tuned for the misadventures to come...<br />
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</div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-59581662697708858402008-10-22T18:19:00.004-04:002010-01-25T16:56:45.185-05:00Stay at Home: A Guide to Safe and Healthy Travel in Guatemala<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S14Tc-11BlI/AAAAAAAAAVw/MESWfenR5wc/s1600-h/stamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S14Tc-11BlI/AAAAAAAAAVw/MESWfenR5wc/s320/stamp.jpg" width="228" /></a><br />
</div>Congratulations, you’ve decided to travel to Guatemala! You have an adventurous spirit unparalleled by that of your peers and, with any luck, the intestinal fortitude of an alley cat. You’ve come a long way and after a few months of acclimation you’re considering exploration outside the four block radius around your hostel or Spanish school. But how do you travel safely amidst the hidden dangers in this foreign land and where do you turn to for reliable health and safety information? Relax. Here at CrawlWalkTravel we’ve got your back. We’ve compiled all of the relevant tips and warnings from various real, reliable sources* and brought them together in one easy-to-read guide. So be safe and enjoy! <a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2008/10/stay-at-home-guide-to-safe-and-healthy.html">(read more)</a><br />
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A developing nation with a tumultuous history, Guatemala is vulnerable to natural disaster as well as prone to crime. The traveler is most susceptible during transit, so remember that travel by car, by bus, after dark, in or near the capital, south of the capital, on foot, by taxi, alone, by plane, in crowds, with valuables, in rural areas, in cities or by boat is not advisable. Here’s a few tips for securely negotiating the vibrant cities and beautiful countryside:<br />
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<ul><li>Traveling between cities and towns by second-class or "chicken" bus, although less comfortable, is a terrific way to experience the authentic local flavor and a virtually guaranteed way to get pick-pocketed or maimed in a traffic accident.<br />
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<li>Many travelers and locals alike recommend travel by first class or "Pullman" buses which are more comfortable though frequently targeted for highway robbery and do not travel between most cities or adhere to any realistic schedule.<br />
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<li>There are several other available methods of transportation including shuttles, taxis and even privately owned pick-up trucks which run regular routes. All of these options are, of course, extremely unsafe.<br />
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<li>While it is unwise to travel anywhere at night, be aware that armed robbers emboldened by a weak and inefficient justice system now frequently attack in broad daylight.<br />
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</ul><strong>Eat, drink and be merry<br />
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Among the most enjoyable ways to familiarize yourself with a new culture are to sample the cuisine and explore the nightlife. Featuring everything from trova music to salsa dancing and even the occasional fire show, the exotic nightlife of Guatemala is highly dangerous and should be avoided.<br />
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Instead try sampling the local fare, but remember that sub-standard sanitation practices run rampant here. Travelers should never drink the water, eat fresh fruit, fresh vegetables or from street vendors and should be wary of the food served in restaurants and cafes.<br />
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<strong>See the sites<br />
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As we’ve seen, the rich culture of Guatemala centers predominantly around a dynamic blend of violent crime, parasitic infections and various forms of dysentery. However there are also Mayan temples! If you do find yourself in the great outdoors, heed the following warnings:<br />
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<ul><li>Remember that lakes and rivers are a hotbed for bacteria and parasites. It is best to reserve swimming for the coastline which is characterized by a blend of garbage, mosquitoes and dangerous undertow.<br />
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<li>A quality insect repellent containing DEET is essential to deter bites from disease hosting mosquitoes in rural areas and cities. According to Travax, The Rough Guide, and the US Center for Disease Control, for safe and effective treatment choose a brand that contains less than 30%, at least 90%, and no more than 50% DEET concentration.<br />
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<li>When traveling to popular tourist destinations it is advisable to hire a guide, but be aware that many guides work hand in hand with local bandits and may potentially increase the likelihood of robbery, or merely flee at the first sign of danger.<br />
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<li>Never swim, hike, camp, touch plants or animals.<br />
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</ul><strong>Exercise caution when . . .<br />
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This favorite phrase among the health and safety set is reserved for those dangers that you will be unable to identify or prevent and are inherently involved in unavoidable activities. It is wise to exercise caution when using restrooms, choosing accommodations, interacting with locals and other travelers, taking photographs and otherwise engaging in any of the activities that have not been explicitly prohibited herein.<br />
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<strong>In case of emergency<br />
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To the well-read health and safety conscious traveler, Guatemala may seem inhospitable, but in reality this charming nation has so much more to offer than disease and violent crime. Much of the crime, for example, is non-violent. A skillful pickpocket may simply slash your pockets or a talented con artist may feign illness and surreptitiously loot whoever comes to their aid. It’s inevitable, even the most savvy of travelers will eventually let their guard down at the wrong time. Be prepared in the event of an emergency by keeping these tips in mind:<br />
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<ul><li>Never travel with anything of the slightest use or value on your person and refrain from leaving belongings in your hotel or hostel.<br />
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<li>If you do fall victim to theft, it is important to report the crime immediately to the local police, who are typically young, inexperienced, under-funded, incompetent, corrupt or indifferent.<br />
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<li>If you or a fellow traveler become ill or injured during your stay, there is likely to be a doctor’s office or hospital nearby. Visiting such doctors and hospitals is not advised.</li>
</ul><strong>Safe travels!</strong><br />
There you have it! Armed with these suggestions, a liberal application of insect repellent and a pleasant disposition, you too can partially reduce the likelihood of getting mugged or pick-pocketed, dengue or yellow fever, malaria, typhoid, cholera or hepatitis, rabies, parasites, head and body lice, intestinal worms, killed, drowned or crushed by landslide. Yes, it’s just that easy, so get out there and see the world!<br />
Oh, did I mention that there are also scorpions, fire coral and active volcanoes?<br />
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*Real, reliable sources include:<br />
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The Travax travel health report for Guatemala, The US Government travel website (travel.state.gov), The Rough Guide to Guatemala, Lonely Planet Guide to Guatemala, LonelyPlanet.com, The US Environmental Protection Agency website (www.epa.gov) and the US Center for Disease Control and Prevention website (www.cdc.gov/travel). And, no, I'm not joking.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-29768558623540924952008-04-14T02:06:00.003-04:002010-01-22T18:34:48.837-05:00Where in the World?<strong>Today's location: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kuta</span>, Indonesia</strong><br />
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After five days in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Pinang</span>, Malaysia I booked a cheap flight to Jakarta and then to Bali where I'll spend the last few weeks of my trip surfing and diving, if I don't get mauled by the hordes of hawkers, shopkeepers and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">moto</span> drivers first.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-76492666626925949162008-04-05T18:21:00.011-04:002010-01-24T11:31:02.646-05:00Travel-o-pedia: Useful travel adjectives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1pV07CNeGI/AAAAAAAAAS8/yqajUTtIyLw/s1600-h/DSC_1259.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1pV07CNeGI/AAAAAAAAAS8/yqajUTtIyLw/s320/DSC_1259.JPG" /></a><br />
</div>Travel writers are liars. They get their cut, not for honesty, but for irresistibility and between the airbrushed photos and sickly sweet prose, a decent travel writer will have us salivating over Bayonne, New Jersey by the end of the opening paragraph.<br />
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But there is a darker side of traveling of which we are inevitibly reminded when at long last we embark on that much-anticipated and well-earned vacation. Whether it's the ubiquitous hotel room that smells like urine or the stark realization that you can't actually stand to be around your loved ones, traveling can be tricky business. <br />
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The truth is that with every picturesque white sand beach comes giant tropical mosquitos carrying deadly pathogens and to reach that gorgeous vista of verdent green there is a twelve hour bus ride complete with flatulent farm animals and upon arrival there's a man with a gun who's decided to charge admission...<br />
<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2008/03/crawl-walk-travel-opedia-second-edition.html">(read more)</a><br />
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Well, lucky for you, dear reader, nobody has threatened Crawl Walk Travel with so much as a dime and therefore we remain unfettered by the shackles of corporate sponsorship and free to expose the seedy underbelly and dirty little secrets of the travel writing business. <br />
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Today we tackle the ever-present descriptive euphemism. This is the trick of the trade that allows us to take the most abhorrent quality of a particular locale and describe it in such a way as to make it quaint or intriguing. A city that is lively, frenetic or exciting, for example, is crowded and dangerous but offers cheap drinks whereas if we call a place "dynamic" it's because we couldn't think of anything else to say.<br />
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So next time you flip through a resort brochure, peruse a vacation magazine or study a travel guide, keep these handy definitions in mind.<br />
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<strong>Spartan-</strong> A term descriptive of any facility that is so utterly ill-equipped that it lacks the very basic necessities required to fulfill it's intended purpose. For example, a bathroom without a toilet like this one in Saigon, Vietnam:<br />
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Or, for that matter, a toilet without bathroom like this pair of Asian style squat toilets roadside in Don Det, Laos:<br />
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<strong>Exotic-</strong> Characterized by unbearably hot, pestilent, mosquito-ridden climate and the inevitability of stomach illness. If you are planning on visiting any location described as exotic be sure to bring DEET by the gallon and refrain from drinking the water or eating the food for the duration of your stay.<br />
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<strong>Idyllic-</strong> Requisite adjective for describing all areas containing a waterfall and/or hot spring. Publishers meet the defiance of this unwritten code with swift and vicious retribution whereby the writer is forceably detained and subjected to Danielle Steele's entire body of work on audio tape.<br />
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<strong>Atmospheric-</strong> A descriptive term used for inexpensive accomodation usually meaning "old" and "made of wood". Take for example this lovely accomodation in Northwest Thailand:<br />
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<strong>Bohemian-</strong> A delightful term designed to make a destination sound artistic and pleasantly unconventional which in actuality denotes simply that it's a good spot to score some weed.<br />
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<strong>Cultural, Historic-</strong> Of and/or pertaining to boring museums, monuments and places of worship. Whereas visiting every temple in Thailand may seem like an enriching and educational passtime on your trip, in actuality it's the cultural equivalent of touring every Baptist church in Georgia. Cultural and historic destinations have been used by parents to torture their children into submission for centuries, and, more recently, by backpackers in an attempt to distract attention from their true interest in traveling: excessive drinking.<br />
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<strong>Colorful-</strong> Dirty.<br />
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<strong>Bustling-</strong> Typically refers to a large town or city whose severe traffic problem makes leaving your hotel unadvisable at best, impossible or deadly at worst. This daunting four-way intersection in Hanoi is a perfect illustration.<br />
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<strong>Rustic- </strong>An adjective for any facility so dated, so filthy, so completely intolerable or unliveable that it defies all but the most mercifully euphemistic description. Avoid any destination described as such at all costs.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-89859193931178094682008-04-04T19:15:00.002-04:002010-01-22T15:47:13.578-05:00Where in the World?<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R_XjElDnW5I/AAAAAAAAAJM/L_Fz7JRvGuA/s1600-h/SoutheastAsia2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5185300213793250194" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R_XjElDnW5I/AAAAAAAAAJM/L_Fz7JRvGuA/s400/SoutheastAsia2.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br />
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<div><div><strong>Stop Pretending you actually know where any of these places are and follow my progress Indiana Jones style.</strong><br />
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After four and a half months and almost three hundred hours of bussing I've covered most of Thailand, Indochina and the north of Malaysia via a bizantine conduit of bad roads and beautiful landscapes.<br />
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Starting In Bangkok and heading north to Sukothai, Chiang Mai, Pai and Mae Hong Song I crossed the Border at Chiang Kong and traversed the land locked country of Laos from north to south, trekking, rockclimbing, white water kaying and tubing my way down to the northern border of Cambodia. <br />
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</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>After an Exhaustive tour of Angkor Wat, Phnom Penh and relaxing in Sihanoukville on the Gulf of Thailand it was east to Saigon, Vietnam where I followed the coast of the South China Sea and the Gulf of Tonkin to Hanoi. <br />
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</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Daunted by 48 consecutive hours of bus travel I opted for a cheap flight back to Bangkok before heading down the Thai coast to the island of Ko Chang and then via Bangkok down to Koh Tao on the east coast for some scuba diving. <br />
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</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>An overnight boatride and about seven mini buses later, I crossed the border into Malaysia and bussed down to Georgetown on the island of Penang.<br />
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</div></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-55242270590027444612008-02-10T03:53:00.005-05:002010-01-25T18:57:13.073-05:00Scenes from Cambodia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S14t2F_7oQI/AAAAAAAAAWY/AQR2zuFE5I8/s1600-h/DSC_1866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" mt="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S14t2F_7oQI/AAAAAAAAAWY/AQR2zuFE5I8/s640/DSC_1866.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
</div><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Laos to Ban Lung</span><br />
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After about a week my travel companions, Lynette from Canada, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Sanna</span> from Sweden and I reluctantly pry ourselves away from the hammocks and dollar liters of whiskey on the idyllic island of Don <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Det</span> and take a small wooden boat to the southern border where we will cross to Cambodia.<br />
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After the boat, a bus brings us south on a wide dirt track cut through the trees. The crossing is new and I'm uncertain of what to expect. We arrive at a small wooden shed with a large open window and official sign in white spray paint. This is the Thai customs office where I pay $1 for an exit Visa. <br />
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Not for the first time, I feel that strange emotion that I've come to associate with the state of limbo between borders. I've agreed to leave Thailand before securing a spot in Cambodia and until I receive a visa and four or five official stamps I am without country. To amplify the feeling, the Cambodian border is nowhere in sight and it is with a shaky faith and no other options that we begin on foot to traverse the red dirt track south and climb down a large embankment of loose dirt from some abandoned construction project toward the horizon in search of Cambodia. Eventually we reach the border station and enter to secure our visas. <br />
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I don't have much cash and I'm lucky that the border officials are not feeling particularly greedy today. I'm told that the so-called "stamp fees", which do nothing but pad the pockets of their official border guard trousers, can run as high as ten or twenty dollars. Today I pay only two dollars and then give the last of my Lao Kip to a girl who hadn't been clued in on the extra charge and came up short.<br />
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From the border we bus south to Stung <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Treng</span>, little more than a truck stop, to change money and catch a ride to Ban Lung in the north east, lured by the promise of waterfalls hidden in the jungle and a pristine volcanic crater lake. Though we have only traveled about 50k from Laos the environment is totally alien. East of Stung <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Treng</span> the dense palms and full green of the Mekong have given away to a sparse and rocky Martian terrain. <br />
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Ban Lung itself is a dust bowl. A sprawling town atop a volcanic plateau with wide and straight roads of red clay reminiscent of Hollywood visions of the old American west. It is not the jungle paradise I had expected, but I'm here and I'm hungry, so I take the advice of the guest house manager and we set off into town for our first taste of authentic Cambodian cuisine. The recommended restaurant is not unlike a barn. In fact, it is a barn, complete with a vaulted cathedral ceiling, dirt floor, rough shod plank walls and large open barn doors at the front. I am certain that tonight's dinner was feeding here only hours ago.<br />
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Like many Southeast Asian restaurants the kitchen is not hidden in back but displayed proudly at the front of the restaurant and our table must be cleared of some chopped green herbs and a large bowl of what appears to be chicken intestines before we could sit down. I managed to communicate an order and we sat drinking Cambodian beer and hoping that chickens innards would not find their way back to our table in a stir fry. They did not. However its neck and hairy little feet did among various other unidentifiable bits. I ate around the feet, but wasn't half bad.<br />
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The following day we rent motorbikes and brave the rocky country roads to hunt for waterfalls. Just minutes outside the tumbleweed town of Ban Lung we are engulfed in the shade of the rubber trees planted in orderly rows for miles on either side of the road. We periodically pass small roadside shops selling bottled water and gasoline out of old glass bottles of Johnny Walker Red and Coca-Cola. After an exhaustive tour of the waterfall circuit we drive to the crater lake to rinse off the layer red dust from the dusty roads.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="428" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5179723014075800338" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R-ISo1DnWxI/AAAAAAAAAIM/-oQe18wbEfw/s640/DSC_1591.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" width="640" /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunset on crater lake in Ban Lung<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kratie</span><br />
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</span>The city of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Kratie</span> appears a bit worse for wear but the white sandy banks of the blue Mekong are powerfully redeeming. A dirty central market sells gray market electronics and vegetables and a few western style cafes around the edges sell real espresso- a welcome taste of home after months of the sweet syrupy coffee of Laos and Cambodia.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">We rent <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">motos</span> to drive south to the One Hundred Columns Temple and the real heart of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Kratie</span> reveals itself along the way. A rustic village road straddled by bamboo huts with palm thatched <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">rooves</span> follows the Mekong periodically bridging green valleys bearing tributaries to the wide river to the east. An endless supply of smiling children run toward the road to greet us and shout "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Hellowhatisyourname</span>?" and the chickens and water <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">bufalow</span> clear the road (sometimes) as we pass. The old women wear traditional garb beneath a shaved head and a stern countenance and they examine us with scorn. The men wear thin white and red checked towels and wash in well spouts by the roadside.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">The One Hundred Columns Temple itself is a moderately impressive edifice on it's second rebuild (third times a charm) with, as you may expect, ninety-six columns(?) and elaborately <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">muraled</span> walls and ceilings telling the story of the crocodile princess. The story was relayed to us at length by a friendly resident monk in a garbled and utterly incomprehensible accent while we nodded and smiled in feigned comprehension. Something about a monk who turned into a crocodile to avenge the death of a king and subsequently won the heart of a beautiful maiden- a story that the monk, with level gaze, assured me to be true.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Siem</span> Reap </span><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Siem</span> Reap is a medium sized city of commerce with a <span style="color: yellow;"><span style="color: black;">vivid</span> </span>night life, it's streets decorated with food stalls and street kids who never seem to sleep. The bustling modern metropolis is nestled amidst the ancient ruins of the Angkor civilization, a splayed city of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">monuments</span> and temples displaying a pinnacle of human achievement, which surrounds the contemporary city for miles. Buildings of every size and shape, some towering, some squat and maze-like, all with elaborately carved sculpture and relief and a breathtaking complexity. <br />
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<div align="left" style="text-align: left;">We tour the sites by tuk-tuk and at every stop we wrestle with the hordes of vendors who swarm quickly in to peddle books, t-shirts, beer, post cards and other cheap trinkets. The children are particularly persistent, some promising us peace and quiet only if we agree to make a purchase. <br />
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<div align="left" style="text-align: left;">Nearly 1,000 years old these temples vary in their state of ruin, some restored nearly completely, and some in shambles as they succumb to integration with the surrounding jungle. A three day tour of the archaic constructions drains us of any remaining awe.<br />
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<div align="left" style="text-align: left;">To break from the temple circuit we ride west to the lake to tour the floating village off the east bank, a watery ghetto of beauty and tragedy, an entire city precariously afloat replete with restaurants, shops, a school and shanty shack homes. Our boat pulls out from a crowded and dirty fishing port and we cringe as we pass some showy children yelling to us as they launch themselves from the railing of the school building into the slate gray stew of sewage and fuel and god knows what else, through which we are motoring. A Christian church is afloat on the outskirts of the town, far from the other dwellings and I find myself wondering if it was placed there by choice. <br />
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</div>We tour the village via wooden longboat with a make-shift engine, mildly embarassed at the spectacle we are creating of the Vietnamese and Cambodian villagers who make their lives here. As if to emphasize my guilt, a boy with one arm paddles toward us in a small round aluminum wash basin and demands money. He is most likely a victim of one of the residual landmines or unexploded ordinance left over from the Vietnam war. I can't help but think with a twinge of irony of the stark contrast between this place and the leisure, luxury and status denoted by boating and waterfront property in most of the western world.<br />
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</div></div></div><strong>Phnom Penh</strong><br />
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The road to Phnom Penh reveals the characteristic Cambodian lanscape of geometrical rice paddy plains of verdant green scattered sporadically with tall palms stretching to the rocky horizon. The city itself is an an enigma of a modern metropolitan life that reveals the traces of the agrarian roots of it's inhabitants as protesting pigs and chickens cruise the avenues strapped to the back of motor bikes amidst high rises, department stores and gourmet international restaurants.<br />
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The cruel mark of the Khmer Rouge, the radical communist regime of Pol Pot is most readily seen in the capital through it's historical sites, S-21 prison and the killing fields. A drastic and ruthless transition to communism claimed the lives of as many as two million innocent Cambodians in a four year period from 1975-1979, many were tortured and murdered while others succumbed to starvation, lack of sanitation and health care, disease and over work. <br />
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The killing fields, a former extermination camp and partially excavated series of mass graves, lies just outside the city and bears a multi-story monument filled with the skulls of victims. S-21, a former school in the heart of the city was converted into a center for torture and imprisonment of Cambodians and foreigners alike.<br />
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<div align="center"><strong>Classroom turned torture cell at S-21 in Phnom Penh</strong><br />
</div></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-35195253580749493332008-02-09T00:51:00.004-05:002010-01-25T18:23:40.652-05:00The 4,000 Islands, Laos<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R66ytgrucfI/AAAAAAAAAGo/oX3A0KO_ZvU/s1600-h/DSC_1386.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="428" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165262317577728498" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R66ytgrucfI/AAAAAAAAAGo/oX3A0KO_ZvU/s640/DSC_1386.JPG" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" width="640" /></a><br />
<div align="center"><strong>The view from my bungalow just after sunset. Not bad for two dollars a night.</strong><br />
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There is a pleasant tranquility on Don Det, an island on the Mekong in the south of Laos, that challenges even my delightfully cheeky brand of satire. No hassles and plenty of hammocks, you'd be hard pressed to get stressed out here. <br />
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Electricity and running water are scarce luxuries on this tiny island so we eat dinner by candle light and bathe in the blue Mekong and we wouldn't have it any other way.<br />
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I spend my days wrapped in a hammock and strumming a guitar, wondering how I might turn hammocking into a viable form of transportation. Traffic jams would be blissfully relaxing.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-37070788280340464932008-01-20T04:12:00.031-05:002010-12-16T14:09:03.894-05:00Crawl Walk Travel-opedia: Are you a Backpacker?<div><strong></strong><br />
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S37T9z1YPBI/AAAAAAAAAYg/peRYowu4z8A/s1600-h/backpacker+resize.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" height="428" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S37T9z1YPBI/AAAAAAAAAYg/peRYowu4z8A/s640/backpacker+resize.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><strong>A dormant backpacker in his natural habit, the shared hostel dormitory</strong> </div><br />
It may come as a surprise that despite a long history of spreading freedom through surgical military strikes and the surreptitious incitement of civil war, outside of the United States there are still some people that don't speak American.<br />
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While shouting loudly and slowly in a poor approximation of the accent of those you are speaking to is the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">preferred</span> method <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">to permeate</span> any language barrier, even those of us who are fortunate enough to speak the correct language, the revered language of such important figures as Rush Limbaugh and God, sometimes need a little guidance regarding the peculiar vocabulary that has sprung up among the travel set. Thus I have created an enclyclopedia installment as a reference for my fellow travelers and those wishing to live vicariously through them. Read on for todays definition and interactive traveler's quiz.<br />
<div><a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2008/01/crawl-walk-travel-opedia.html">(read more)</a><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Today's Word: Backpacker</span></strong><br />
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Named for the large sacks carried aloft their backs even when wheeled luggage would be infinitely more practical, these individuals are too restless and lack the personal hygiene to act as productive members of contemporary western society. Thus they beg, borrow and steal to gather enough currency to spend on large quantities of hemp jewelry and toe rings for months at a stretch in exotic lands abroad.<br />
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The backpacker can be identified by their greasy or dreadlocked hair, strong odor and typical wardrobe which includes a a tasteless combination of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">misappropriated</span> fashions from each country to which they have traveled (e.g. kilts, saris, turbans, mukluks, etc.) as well as the ubiquitous t-shirt bearing the logo of the favorite national beer or communist revolutionary. <br />
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Typically hailing from countries with strong currency and traveling to developing nations with favorable exchange rates, groups of backpackers can be found in $1-3 guesthouses around the globe where they congregate to drink in excess and complain about the service while carefully making sure to avoid any real cultural or educational experience.<br />
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Notice the specimen displayed above engaged in alcohol-induced nude afternoon hibernation. A typical example of the backpacker, we can see his tasteless tatoos, devil sticks, cheap cigarettes and the essential paisley Converse Allstars, though he is likely barefoot whenever possible. </div><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Are you a Backpacker?</span></span><br />
This quick Q and A session will help you to determine if you are among the tried and true travel set or just a mere vacationer.<br />
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1) Have you had conversations about your bowel movements in at least three different languages and/or do you consider the topic of diarrhea within the realm of polite dinner conversation?<br />
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2) Have you ever scoffed at the idea of paying more than 1USD for a taxi, beer and/or prostitute?<br />
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3) Have you ever knowingly eaten spider, rat, cockroach or dog and, if so, did you go back for seconds?<br />
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4) Have you vomitted in five or more countries?<br />
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5)Are you currently carrying toilet paper on your person, or conversely have you given up on toilet paper all together?<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">If you answered yes to at least 1-2</span> of the preceding questions</span> you are well on your way to breaking into the ranks of the authentic backpacker. You carry hand sanitizer and get excited at the prospect of a western toilet. When you eat chicken you do it with the sadistic hope that it's the one that kept you up all night. Keep up the good work. For continued success try making your next destination a country whose name you cannot pronounce or that has yet to widely accept indoor plumbing.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">3-4 affirmitive answers</span>, congratulations, you're officially in the club. You've long since given up on taking malaria pills and showers. If at all, you bathe exclusively in rivers or waterfalls and consistently carry at least four separate currencies. Reward yourself by taking a first class rickshaw to the next city on your list and strongly consider ingesting a course of broad-spectrum antibiotics.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes responses to all 5</span> and you are a hardened backpacker. You've narrowly escaped incarceration on at least three continents and you could teach a doctorate level course on parasitic infections. It's probably time to settle down for a bit, and while you're most likely not welcome back in your home country, find yourself an inexpensive spouse in a place with cheap cocktails, loose morals and no extradition treaties to live out the rest of your days boring children with your myriad stories and photographs.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Don't forget to share your scores (and any related stories) below!</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-29815504143078495212008-01-12T20:16:00.008-05:002010-01-25T18:57:38.246-05:00The Mighty Spider Battler<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1o_fW5DgqI/AAAAAAAAAS0/EFKK3q7qv9Y/s1600-h/DSC_1230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1o_fW5DgqI/AAAAAAAAAS0/EFKK3q7qv9Y/s640/DSC_1230.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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The town of Vang <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Vieng</span>, Laos is rapidly developing into a beloved backpacker stop on the Southeast A<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">sia</span> circuit. A haven for outdoor sports enthusiasts, Vang <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Vieng</span> is a perfect place to pretend that that you will eventually get off your hammock and go biking, rock climbing or hiking. But in reality all that anyone can really muster up the energy for here is tubing. The pristine blue green river that runs through town is lined with sandy beaches and surrounded by intimidating crags and cliffs. <br />
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The natural beauty of the place has only been enhanced by the arrival of the myriad riverside bars each sporting a stack of 3000 watt speakers, blaring everything from metal to Marley, and Lao bartenders pushing free shots of Lao Lao, the local rice whiskey. Visitors rent tubes and a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">tuk</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">tuk</span> in town to haul them up river and spend the day drifting and drinking their way back towards town. For those who drink up the courage, each bar has a rope swing or zip line to launch themselves gracelessly into the water from rickety wooden platforms built to absurd heights. Clearly this place was totally awesome. <br />
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Arriving in town in the early afternoon I find myself a charming little bungalow by the river. The behemoth speakers on either side of my room are pumping out bad <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Asian</span> pop, bad <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">European</span> dance music and, mysteriously, bad Christmas tunes, but at least it masks the inescapable clamor of construction. All in all, a lovely place to base my adventures in Vang <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Vieng</span> considering the price of five dollars a night. Or so I thought. Then I discovered Vang Vieng's dark secret...<br />
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<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2008/01/dan-mighty-spider-battler.html">(read more)</a><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Coming home late one afternoon to freshen up after tubing I enter the bathroom of my bungalow. I notice something moving on the wall by the ceiling and look up to see a spider the size of a small bear looking down at me with eight beady little eyes and salivating. Seeing me, he sprints down the wall and across the bathroom floor in my direction. He's fast as a cheetah. I begin evasive <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">maneuvers</span> immediately and recite something along the lines of "holy %@#& *$%# that spider is the %$@ing %$@ing size of a small %$# &@*$ bear." He charges from the bathroom into the bedroom. I leap out of the way and hope that he will circumnavigate the mattress on the floor and continue towards the open door, but <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">presumably</span> I look too delicious to pass up. He climbs onto the mattress and hides inside pair of my shorts strewn across the middle of the bed. <br />
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Normally maintaining a Buddha-like peace with all living creatures, there are two places that I am not willing to tolerate giant deadly insects and those are, A) in my bed and, B) in my pants. This massive man-eating monster of an arachnid was currently disregarding both stipulations. This was war. A swift kick sends my shorts sailing towards the door, but the spider manages to shed them in mid air and he flies into the wall, cracking the plaster and landing on the floor by the foot of the bed with a loud thud. He is stunned momentarily and seeing my opportunity I toss a towel over top of him and begin expertly to smash at it with my guitar, making sure to mash every inch. <br />
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<div>But as I walk triumphantly out onto the porch to cast his remains to the ground below, his corpse is nowhere to be found in the folds of the towel. Panic stricken I turn back to the bedroom where I scan the length of the wall incredulous at his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Houdinian</span> escape, but he has disappeared. Astonished that he could have survived this brutal onslaught, there was nothing left to do now but burn the bungalow and all my possessions with it. This spider clearly has a super-human cunning and I should be content to flee with my life. <br />
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But as I turn to locate gasoline and a pack of matches, I see my clever enemy perched over the bed atop the crest of the crumpled blanket like a mighty lion surveying his lands from the mountainside. He is completely unharmed and sports a wide hungry grin. But I'm in luck. While he is crafty he is too proud to conceal himself. He has lost the element of surprise and his hubris will surely be his undoing. Our eyes meet. The potential energy hangs in the air, palpable, as we remain frozen, staring. <br />
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<div>Then the charge. As he sprints down the blanket ridge with his mandibles poised for attack I quickly crouch and fold the corner of the blanket over top of him. I deal a mighty blow and then throw the blanket through the door. His writhing body flies free from the shroud onto the porch and I boot him down the stairs, his remains tumble to the earth below where he dies a twitching and writhing death.<br />
</div><div></div><div>I return to my room a conquering hero to enjoy a well deserved shower.<br />
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</div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R4HWrqc9e4I/AAAAAAAAAGA/-8EeCFQ-I9o/s1600-h/spider+bear.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="247" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5152635494307036034" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R4HWrqc9e4I/AAAAAAAAAGA/-8EeCFQ-I9o/s400/spider+bear.JPG" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="495" /></a><br />
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<strong>My slain foe next to a small bear for the purpose of comparison.</strong>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-34290471821200320292008-01-07T04:04:00.005-05:002010-01-25T18:24:18.412-05:00Buddha of the Cave<div align="center"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1n_lj4jtvI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/D_wYgz_pKTQ/s1600-h/DSC_1174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" mt="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/S1n_lj4jtvI/AAAAAAAAAQ0/D_wYgz_pKTQ/s640/DSC_1174.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
</div>Reclining buddha in a cavern near Vang Vieng<br />
</div></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-55362740595739061432008-01-03T01:43:00.004-05:002010-01-25T19:01:08.880-05:00Travel Day: An Epic Tale of Adventure<div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R3yW8qc9e0I/AAAAAAAAAFg/FoGlvwTBAOw/s1600-h/DSC_1011.JPG" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="268" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151158042737081154" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R3yW8qc9e0I/AAAAAAAAAFg/FoGlvwTBAOw/s400/DSC_1011.JPG" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px;" width="400" /></a>A familiar shiver of panic forces me upright in bed and I turn on the tv to check the time. It's 8:04. I was supposed to meet Hannah downstairs at eight and most of my stuff is still decorating the floor of my hotel room. The plan was to catch a tuk-tuk, two buses and a boat to Mong Ngoi Neua today and the first bus leaves the Luang Nam Tha station at eight thirty. The station is fifteen minutes away. She knocks on my door as I begin to toss everything in sight haphazardly into my pack and I tell her not to bother waiting. She tells me she'll wait downstairs anyway. Five minutes later I'm on the sidewalk and she's nowhere in sight. As I scan the street for her I see a full tuk-tuk pull away in the direction of the station and I know that was my last chance to make the bus. It's just as well. Hannah wears her Canadian accent like a skintight neon jumpsuit and I wasn't sure that I could have maintained my composure as she recited "hey?" after every sentence over the next ten hours...<br />
<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2008/01/travel-day-epic-tale-of-adventure.html">(read more)</a><br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I go to the office where I booked the jungle trek three days ago and they tell me the next bus leaves at nine thirty. Perfect. A quick breakfast and I'm off to to the station with time to spare. Here's the first bus to Udom Xai. It's a twenty seat van that, from the looks of things, has never been new. The driver places my bag on the roof and I manage to convince him with a series of hand signals that the guitar stays with me. He directs me into a seat in back. A number of Lao men eye me suspiciously as they chat and smoke. Their conversation is peppered with <em>farang </em>(gringo) and <em>geetah </em>(guitar) the only two Lao words that I recognize besides hello and thank you. A young woman in front noisily gathers the contents of her neck and her lips send it sailing across the isle and through the open door.<br />
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</div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Nine thirty comes and goes. Ten thirty comes and goes. At eleven o'clock there begins a heartening flurry of activity as several more passengers board and the driver repeatedly climbs in and out of the driver's seat. False alarm. The activity dies down and the waiting continues. But the bus is now full so I feel that we must be getting close. At eleven thirty the driver starts the bus. This is very exciting.<br />
</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">As I glance around the van searching for more potential signs of an impending departure, I suddenly begin to see other passengers producing small white slips of paper. Very official looking white slips of paper with some Lao script and multicolored stamps. They love to stamp things here in Laos--everything always has to be stamped in triplicate, even bus tickets. <br />
</div></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Shit, bus ticket! The driver had directed me toward the bus not the ticket window and I had assumed we were to pay later. I squeeze myself from the back seat and climb the other passengers toward the door, rush to the window and buy the last ticket for the bus on which I have been sitting passively for the past two and a half hours. The woman stamps the ticket in triplicate and hands it to me through the window. She then follows me back to the bus where I hand the ticket back to her, she scans her clipboard for the corresponding number to determine it's authenticity and then we're off creeping slowly up and down the mountain pass as the transmission groans in protest.<br />
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<div>We pitstop at a roadside market where table after table seem to specialize in dead rat and some kind of fat white root. The stop is welcome as the metal bar in the seat has begun to call unwanted attention to bones in my backside that I had previously not known to exist. As I disembark to find a private bush an elderly woman thrusts a handful of the roots towards me entusiastically, but my attention is drawn rather to the strikingly vivid greens and blues of the parrots to her right. A half dozen of them hang limp from the neck by a collective noose.<br />
</div><br />
<div>At three o'clock we arrive at Udom Xai. I need to catch a bus east to Nong Khiaw where I can stay the night and hop a boat north to Mong Ngoi Neua first thing tomorrow. Mong Ngoi is a small town in the North East accessible only by boat about which I have heard nothing but good things. Juri from Holland who I hung out with in Pai gave me the name of some guitar playing locals there who had taken good care of him and it sounded like a nice change from the socially sterile town of Luang Nam Tha that I had recently fled.<br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div>The woman at the ticket window informs me that the next bus to Nong Khiaw does not depart until nine o'clock the following morning. I buy a ticket on the four o'clock South to Luang Prabang. Oh well. <br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div>Four o'clock comes and goes. Five o'clock comes and goes. I gradually gather from the body language of the driver that we are waiting for someone and I remember a girl who had appeared hours ago to dump a bag in the front seat and then vanished. The girl reappears at five thirty laughing and holding a large coffee pot and we are on the road by quarter to six.<br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div>This time I managed to score a front seat in the van. Though there are four of us wedged into the three seats across there is extra legroom in front and things are looking up for the second part of the journey until an unexpected pothole sends my head hard into the ceiling and the young guy to my right in the red t-shirt bursts into a fit of laughter. I smile at him begrudgingly.<br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div>Apparently we bonded over this interaction because suddenly his legs and arms began to make imposing trips into the restricted airspace in front of my torso. Clearly this gentleman is not savvy to international unspoken personal bubble laws delineating the invisble social and physical barrier extending forward from the junction of the hip and shoulder between two unaquainted individuals in any given crowded public transportation scenario. Mildly annoyed at his intrusion I continue to follow protocol I remain silent and restlessly lean away from his flailing limbs. But he is only emboldened by my response and in and unprecedented manuever he leans forward and actually begins to rest his elbow across my knee applying a substantial portion of his upper body weight. Shocked by this aggregious breach of ettiquette I prepare to engage in the requisite non-verbal passive-aggressive resistence. I begin to deploy a series of slight elbows and hip checks masked as abrupt position shifts and accompanied by disgruntled sighs. This eventually stems his attack.<br />
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<div></div><div>Or so I thought. Without warning his left hand is suddenly across my leg and cupped ever so gently around the inside of my right knee. Before I can react his right hand has crept over and the fingers of his left and right hand interlace, holding my bare patella in a loving embrace. The nails of his little fingers, yellowed and dirty, protrude a full inch passed his fingertips in typical Lao fashion. As I scoff audibly and shake him loose he lets out a chuckle. I don't know what in the name of all that is holy has just transpired, but it occurs to me that I'll have at least three more hours nestled next to this gratuitous knee-hugger to contemplate it.<br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div>When I finally escape the bus in Luang Prabang it is ten thirty p.m. and there is nobody to greet me at the bus station save for a lonely moto driver and two very small Lao men with very large guns. As I gather my belongings from the top of the bus the moto driver starts to give me a sales pitch but my my attention is currently divided between my pack and the two little gun wielders who are wearing matching shirts in olive drab. The shirts read "U.S. Army" on the left breast pocket. Not entirely sure of their role I begin to hope that they don't ask me for anything knowing that I will not have any choice but to hand it over. <br />
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<div></div><div>Luckily their interest in the situation is only as well-armed on-lookers and I enter negotiations with the moto driver for a ride to a guest house as they stand uncomfortably close. The price is finally agreed upon at half his initial offer, after I begin to walk away in digust. This is lucky because I have no idea where I'm going or how long it will take to get there. I climb into the cart that's welded to his motor bike. After another several minutes of failed attempts to start his bike we set off for a hotel that I've chosen at random from the guide book.<br />
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<div></div><div>He takes me down a darkened dirt road to a large empty gated and locked building with no sign or lights which he assures me is the guest house I've named and begins running around shouting over the gate as a pack of wild dogs gather to protest my arrival. I manage to convince him that this is not, in fact, the place and we navigate back towards town. Wary of another wild goose chase which will result in the driver demanding more money I tell him to stop on the first lighted street that I see. I get out in front of Mano Guest house which is incidently the one I had initially requested. The driver sees this and smiles pointing at the sign. "This Mano one . . . that Mano two," he says gesturing back in the direction of the empty dirt road. Mano, however, is full and I set out on foot to find an available bed.<br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div>But there are none. It is the night before New Year's Eve and the entire town is full of Thai and Chinese tourists, although you wouldn't know it as the streets are completely deserted. Hotel after hotel, they are all full and noone knows where I might find an available room.<br />
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<div></div><div>I wander for an hour and begin to resign myself to the probability of having to find a warm spot of pavement to curl up on when I meet Dith, a friendly Lao air traffic controller with a motor bike and a good buzz on. After a few minutes of conversation he offers to drive me around until I find a room. He seems trustworthy and, having no other options, I graciously accept. <br />
</div><div></div><div>The first stop results in a long conversation between Dith and the night clerk in the driveway at the completion of which he takes the hotel business card from the clerk and informs me that there are no rooms. I wonder why this has taken so long to establish, but happy to have a seemingly motivated and friendly local guide I hop back on the bike at his prompting.<br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div>It's the same story everywhere. Eventually Dith informs me that his brothers have a snooker bar and should we fail to find a room he assures me, "We go there and I sleep with you". I optimistically accept this as an unfortunate mistranslation as he has already informed me that his girlfriend is waiting for him at home. After several more strikes we head to the snooker bar where I meet five of his brothers and he gives me a beer. But before we snuggle up together on a snooker table, he pulls out the card from the first hotel. After a lengthy conversation on his cell phone he informs me that I can have a room there for 100,000 Kip. As we ride back I inquire why the situation has changed in the last hour and he explains that this hotel gets 50,000 kip an hour from prostitutes. Presumably accepting my 100,000 so early in the night would simply have been bad business. After sixteen hours of travel and not terribly interested in splitting hairs I thanked Dith profusely and paid the pimping clerk. I politely waved off the clerk's curious late night invitation to a nearby bakery, and repeatedly told him that I did not know how many nights I'd be staying and I'd tell him tomorrow, and no, I'd rather he not keep my passport until I leave. Not entirely content with my response he tells me he will knock on my door at eight o'clock in the morning. Fine. I take the key, lock the door and, eager to complete the day, I climb under the mosquito net and into bed.<br />
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<div></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-42109710001598874532007-12-15T01:34:00.005-05:002010-01-22T20:35:26.833-05:00An Impromptu Lesson in Muay Thai Boxing<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2z67Kc9exI/AAAAAAAAAFI/3n-iMGK7ySo/s1600-h/DSC_0526.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="242" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146764368502684434" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2z67Kc9exI/AAAAAAAAAFI/3n-iMGK7ySo/s400/DSC_0526.JPG" style="float: right; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px;" width="400" /></a><br />
<div>It's a quiet night in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Chiang</span> Mai, a picturesque city in the north of Thailand. Usually home to a bustling nightlife, today is Friday of election weekend and the sale of alcohol is strictly prohibited during the three day compulsory polling. A number of restaurants were surreptitiously serving mixed cocktails in tea cups early in the evening but by eleven the police have visited most of the rule benders and closed them for the night. Not quite ready to cash it in my fellow traveler Mike and I head for a fairly unexciting late night snack of pizza and bottled water and begin the stroll back our guest house along the glassy east moat...<br />
<a href="http://crawlwalktravel.blogspot.com/2007/12/impromptu-lesson-in-muay-thai-boxing.html">(read more)</a><br />
<a name='more'></a>It's a cold night and as we walk briskly back we approach another group walking just ahead. There are three girls, clearly travelers as well, looking mildly pestered by two young Thai men who appear to have attached themselves to the trio uninvited. As we near I slow my pace. One of the men grabs a girl by the arm. She tolerates it briefly but when he attempts to draw her close she jerks away. Seeing that the advances are clearly unwelcome I offer a friendly hello and then quietly inquire if they would prefer an escort until things are sorted with their unwanted suitors. My offer is graciously accepted, introductions are made and we spend the next couple minutes engaging in the typical "where are you from" and "how long are you traveling" obligatory among meeting backpackers. The three girls are Aussies on a fifteen day tour through Northern Thailand and the two guys are actually two of their trekking guides who just can't seem to take a hint. They told the girls to follow them to a bar that now doesn't seem to exist and they're becoming increasingly physical. <br />
</div><br />
<div>Mike and I stop in front of 7-11 convenience store and two of the girls stop as well. Not noticing that we had paused, the third walks ahead sandwiched by the two Thai guides until her friends call her back, hoping again that the guys will get the message. They do not. One of the guides, in a jean jacket and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tank top</span> with a scraggly beard and pony tail, walks back and wedges himself strategically between us and the girls with his back towards me, putting an end to our pleasant conversation as the girls edge nervously away from him. He begins to tell them something that I can't hear and then swiftly wheels around on me planting a punch in in my stomach with all the momentum of his unexpected spin. <br />
</div><div></div><div>I tense my stomach in time and the punch does little to phase me. He's quick but small and his punch lacks power. As he draws back for a second blow aimed at my face I see a gleam of metal in his hand. I dodge to the right and his fist glances off my neck. I feel a scrape but the pain is dull and I know that he has not drawn a knife. As he draws back again I see what looks like keys, maybe a knuckle duster jutting from his fist. I dodge the next swing completely before he launches a jump kick to my chest. I step back and the sole of his shoe grazes my shirt. The girls scream at him as they frantically flag down a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tuk</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">tuk</span> to flee the scene. Apparently seeing that there is little damage he can inflict on me himself he backs away and pulls out his cell phone. He warns me in broken English that he is calling his friends. I take advantage of the opportunity to duck into 7-11 and tell the clerk to call the police and then step back outside to ensure that the girls have gotten away safely. <br />
</div><div></div><div>As I step back onto the curb the other guide is either trying to fight his way on to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">tuk</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">tuk</span> that they have hailed or pull the girls back off but they fend him off and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">tuk</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">tuk</span> speeds off. Seeing the girls flee inspires a new bout of fury in my assailant and he sprints towards me from the street leaping into an aerial kick. I block his kick then another punch and infuriated he lets loose a flailing barrage of punches and kicks. Some make contact with my legs and shoulders but he is out of control and there is no force behind his attack. While his blows are ineffective he clearly does not intend to stop until he has hurt me and I realize that I must do more than simply block his attack. <br />
</div><div></div><div>As I plant my hands on his chest possible scenarios begin to flash through my mind. At fifty pounds heavier I could subdue him, but how close are his friends and will they be carrying weapons? The police are en route, but if they spot me holding him to the ground they may confuse me for the attacker and haul me off instead. No, I have to get him away from me and get inside in the hope that he will not be so stupid as to continue his ridiculous assault in front of the security cameras in 7-11. I shove him back towards the street, graciously stopping just short of oncoming traffic, and turn to reenter the store behind me. Mike, already inside, pushes aside the shopkeeper who is trying to block the door for fear that if I enter the psychotic attacker will follow. <br />
</div><div></div><div>He gets the door open but a moment too late. As I turn to cross the threshold he has regained his balance and runs toward me. With my back to him as I enter the door he winds up and brings his fist crashing down just below my right ear before I make it through the door. For the first time he has made solid contact and through the adrenaline my jaw begins to ache. Meanwhile his companion, who had not contributed to or attempted to stem the irrational behavior of his colleague must have convinced him to flee before the police arrive. The two took off down the road.<br />
<br />
Momentarily the two police officers arrive on mopeds. Fortunately the shopkeeper of the neighboring store has witnessed the whole event and quickly gives descriptions of the men to the police who motor off after them. She enters the 7-11 and tells us in fairly clear English that we should wait there until the police return. I wait nervously inside. There are many witnesses, but I am a stranger here to whom they have no allegiance. When the police return the barrier in communication may allow the attacker to sway their opinions. In the end it's the kind face and calm demeanor of the shopkeeper that encourage me to await their return. <br />
</div><div><br />
The officers, now there are six, return with the two guides and to my surprise it is the guide in the jean jacket who comes to the door and beckons me out of the 7-11. I walk out and the officers stand and observe as he begins to apologize and explain himself. However the apology turns quickly into a sort of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">bizarre</span> lecture on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">etiquette</span>. I can <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">scarcely</span> believe my ears as he instructs me that these were <em>his</em> women and I should not have spoken to them without first introducing myself to him. I stop him and mid-sentence with a lucid counter argument of unprintable <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">expletives</span>. While I managed to keep my cool during his physical onslaught I was not about to endure the feeble pedantry of a misogynistic psychopath. Surprisingly the foul <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">toung-lashing</span> seemed to inspire in him the desire to apologize again and he mumbles, "I sorry, sometime I do bad, I sorry." <br />
</div><br />
<div>Suddenly he has become a sniveling mess. The six police officers stand by smirking as he attempts several times to shake my hand and mutters apologies. Soon I realize why, when the other guide explains to me that the city police are merely waiting for me to decide if I would like to bring him to the tourist police to file a complaint. This would surely cause him to lose his job and put an end to his carreer in the tourism industry. But looking at this groveling little guy all I can think is that I want him to stop the pathetic stream of apologies and I inform him in no uncertain terms that he should just leave. The police take his info and send him off down the street. <br />
</div><br />
<div></div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R20BD6c9eyI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/dCxmV0ucdbM/s1600-h/DSC_0508.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" height="175" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146771115896306466" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R20BD6c9eyI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/dCxmV0ucdbM/s400/DSC_0508.JPG" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 187px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 269px;" width="219" /></a>I thank the shopkeeper and the police officers for their assistance, one of whom says enthusiasticly, "you Thai kick box!" seeming to imply that he thinks I have a future in Thai boxing and then Mike and I hop on the back of two police bikes and ride back to our guest house along the once-again serene Chiang Mai streets.<br />
</div><br />
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<div></div>Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8253225312114283173.post-39469223916288830442007-12-13T07:01:00.001-05:002010-01-21T23:00:31.065-05:00Banglamphu to SukothaiDespite the lip service paid by travelers to the pursuit of authentic experiences and tourism geared only at what are ironically <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">referred</span> to as "non-touristic" destinations, there is an uncanny draw to the ever present tourist ghetto. Inevitably when the breathtaking beauty and mind-expanding culture of an exotic destination have taken their toll the backpacker begins to long for the comfort of overpriced beer and knock-off designer sunglasses. They long for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Khao</span></span> San Road in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Banglamphu</span></span>.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2jZhac9erI/AAAAAAAAAEY/JcuGudv-vcc/s1600-h/DSC_0220.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145601742330493618" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2jZhac9erI/AAAAAAAAAEY/JcuGudv-vcc/s200/DSC_0220.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px;" /></a><br />
<div>Leaving <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Sukhumvit</span></span> I bus slowly through the chaotic Bangkok traffic to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Khao</span></span> San. Like residents of L.A., tourists in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Khao</span></span> San are defined by their disdain for the place. But whether because the hangovers last well past the checkout time at your guesthouse or the fact that the fifteen minute <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">tuk</span></span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">tuk</span></span> ride to the bus station is likely to kill your whole travel budget, they simply can't seem to escape.<br />
My initial objective was to set up camp for a few days and figure out the first leg of my journey, which had been shamelessly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">under researched</span>, and possibly meet a few fellow travelers along the way. After two days in a pleasant yet astonishingly boring hotel and countless lonely treks up and down <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Khao</span></span> San and nearby <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Rambu</span></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">ttri</span></span> Road waving off an endless stream of touts and would-be masseurs I craved a change of scenery so I said goodbye to my A/C and roof top pool and moved to the impressively smelly and appropriately inexpensive Bamboo Guest House on the less maddening east side of town. The bed was rock hard, the bathroom shared, finally I felt like a traveler again.<br />
Immediately things took a turn for the better. Soon enough I had a grassroots backpacker posse to call my own and even a hip hangout just off the main drag to while away the afternoon hours between sleeping and drinking--the only two viable <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">pastimes</span> in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Banglamphu</span>. I became a fixture at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Sawasdee</span>, a roadside quadruple threat (cafe, restaurant, bar and guest house) on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Rambuttri</span>, along with my new Irish pals Niall and David where we would sit chatting and drinking N<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">escafe</span>, bottled water and, eventually, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Singha</span> and picking up the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">occasional</span> straggler to join us for a<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2jhRKc9etI/AAAAAAAAAEo/-veZSFzjKzM/s1600-h/DSC_0245.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145610259250641618" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2jhRKc9etI/AAAAAAAAAEo/-veZSFzjKzM/s200/DSC_0245.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 121px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 182px;" /></a> round.<br />
But it's not just the tourists partying this week. It's the week of the beloved Thai King's birthday and the local festivities are running full force. Most of the Thais in the city not to mention a few bandwagon <em>farangs</em> (Thai for gringo) don yellow t-shirts with the royal crest to honor their demigod, King Bhumibol Adulyadej, universally adored as a model of compassion and wisdom. Thousands of loyal subject pack the streets for hours in anticipation of the King's procession replete with Royal Rolls Royce to roll on by. I make a pilgrimage to his Grand Royal Palace to pay my respects and witness the awe inspiring temples and intricate mosaic work firsthand.<br />
Gleaning information from my backpacking brethren the first part of my journey began to take shape and it was soon time to pry myself from Bangkok. After the obligatory perusal of the Palace and a few long nights of carousing with the boys, highlighted by our participation in an exhilarating twilight hour <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">tuk</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">tuk</span> race it was time to leave the hemp jewelry and hangovers of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Banglamphu</span> behind me for the culture road North.<br />
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I hop a taxi to the Northern bus station to catch a seven hour bus to Sukothai. The ancient Thai capital of Sukothai thrived in the 13th and 14th centuries before it's destruction and replacement by Ayuthaya, the predecessor to Bangkok. The new city, less than spectacular, has a few guest houses and restaurants and acts mainly as a jumping off point to explore the old city ruins about 14km west. I rent a bike and spend the morning touring around the red brick temple and giant Buddhas of the old city before the crowds begin to filter in.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2jkAqc9euI/AAAAAAAAAEw/NJkWQ5SRpMQ/s1600-h/DSC_0287.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145613274317683426" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CT-SsiCbSBo/R2jkAqc9euI/AAAAAAAAAEw/NJkWQ5SRpMQ/s320/DSC_0287.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 218px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 327px;" /></a>But one day in New Sukothai is plenty so it's right back on the bus, this time for a six hour ride to my next destination: the moated Northern city of Chiang Mai.Daniel S. McIsaachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966819773760644884noreply@blogger.com0