Thanksgiving in the Sahara

We´ve been using Marrakech as a home base. Upon arriving back in town from Essouaira at around 7 in the evening, we had many errands to run before our early morning start for our 3 day expedition south and east of Marrakech through Ouarzazate (the desert film capital of Morocco where movies like Gladiator were filmed), traversing the Atlas mountains through the Draa Valley and onto Merzouga, ending with a camel trek to our overnight camp in the Sahara Desert.

Our most important errand was to find some warm clothes for the sure to be freezing night in bivuoac tents in the desert. By sheer coincidence we happend to walk past a camping store near the Jmaa El Fnaa about 15 minutes before it was going to close. What luck! Until we realized it wasn´t a camping store, it was a uniform store, with thick wool sweaters for traffic cops, customs officials, border patrol and the like. Mike ended up with a Customs sweater and Val ended up with Den Mother. Apparently, customs guys have really wide shoulders and short arms. And den mothers have really thin necks, super long arms and need a lot of room in the chest. Ridiculously ill-fitting, yes. Perfectly warm, yes. Absolutely desperate, yes. Cheap, yes. We bought them.

There were 17 in our group, 4 lovely Aussies all except one who live in Europe, a handful of Brits, a loopy Scot and an antisocial German. The rest were shy single travelers who barely uttered a word the entire trip: a surly French woman who was buying tons of necklaces from anyone who was selling necklaces, a friendly but quiet Moroccan who´s lived most his life in France, a Belgian kid who never said anything to anyone, and a guy and gal who sat up front with the driver most of the trip whom we started calling Shaggy and Thelma cuz they really did look like them.
For the most part, we stuck to our own microgroups for the entire trip, Los Dos Chamorros with the Aussies, Ruth, Marianne, Jana and Kriss and one Brit, Ian.



Most of the time we drove and had quick stops in places to pee or take photographs or buy things. Not ideal, but we were trying to cover a lot of ground in just a few days. Outside the city, life is a lot simpler. Lots of donkeys and men riding them side saddle, occasionally reminding them to keep moving with the whack of a stick. Women flog their laundry clean in rivers, children play contentedly with rocks and used plastic bottles in between trying to get a few coins off tourists. Desert communities are pretty monochromatic. Buildings rise up from the earth in varying shades of terra cotta, cumin, ovaltine, cosmetic bronzer, graham cracker, and drug store pantyhose. To make up for this, their interiors are where the Moroccans splurge on their color. Between the intricate mosaic tilework and the hypnotic upholstery, they´ve got the entire spectrum covered. The landscape varies greatly as we proceed on our journey. From arid Arizona-like plains to snow capped mountains to fertile river valleys lush with date palms (a surprisingly Biblical touch) and birch trees in full autumn regalia.

The Draa Valley with its immense gorges was beautiful. Ouarzarzate was boring. Somewhere along the way, we bought two rugs from a guy named Mohamed. Don´t quite know how it happened but we were in a kasbah, in this room where everyone was served tea, shown a bunch of really beautiful rugs, given an expert sales pitch and before we knew it, we were doing a credit card transaction on the curb, with two beautiful new rugs snuggled under our arms. It happened so fast but no regrets. They were beautiful and a bargain.

The highlight was our camel ride to our tents in the Sahara. Unfortunatly we arrived close to sunset and by the time everyone was situated on their camels, we´d missed the magic hour. We reached our camp in the dark and spent the rest of the night exploring in the dark, in awe of the multitude of stars in the black sky (the milky way even) and drinking the bottles of wine we had comandeered off two Muslim gentlemen at lunchtime in a hushed transaction.

Completely exhausted by what, 9pm? we retired into our tents, froze our butts off despite our uniforms and heavy wool blankets, and had to wake up by 6 for our sunrise camel ride back to the oasis. The sunrise was absolutely beautiful. We calculated that around that time, Barbara was sauteeing the turkey dressing, Al was stealing bits of sausage from the pan, Lynn was wrapping up a freshly baked pie and getting together some appetizers and Alan and Kristie were juggling kids and green beans. We were loping the uncomfortable lope on our camels towards the sunrise to say hello to another amazing day. We hope everyone, friends and family alike, ate lots of stuff and put on a bunch of weight like they should.




For photos of the Sahara, go to:
http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423422139/

Jemaa El Fna and the Souks

In Marrakesh, we'd spent the first day or two wandering the Jemaa Al Fna square, true sensory overload with snake charmers, henna ladies wanting to adorn your limbs with intricate designs, medicine men usually encased in a tight capsule of curious onlookers and remedy seekers, the ubiquitous fresh orange juice stalls - all exactly the same but numbered differently in lieu of a name, all vying for your patronage, selling THE BEST, SWEETEST orange juice we have ever tasted. Restaurants and cafes line the perimeter of the square offering terrace views of of the activity and a relatively invisible perch from which to snap some photos.

Wandering into the crowds are the souks, with stall after stall of exotic colors, amazingly beautiful things: carpets, scarves, lamps, mirrors, tagines, pottery, rose water and olive oils, bedspreads, jewelry and the traditional babouche slippers that almost every Moroccan owns. Turn the corner and you will find a row of apocatharies offering fragrant mounds of mint tea for digestion, black cumin seeds for snoring, chameleons in cages for...not sure what, frankensence, crystals, amber, vats of soft taffee like olive soap, traditional Berber lipstick , a little clay vessel that releases a red pigment when you put a wet finger to it. It's a carnival of colors and sounds and smells. You half hope to have a magic cave door open before you and a genie inviting you inside to live the rest of your life in shameless luxury. Bargaining is expected but Mike and Val, seasoned bargainers from South East Asia have no problems here. The typical lure of a shop vendor goes something like this:

Hello where you from? Come in just for looking, not for buying.

And you can never get a straight answer on a price. When you ask how much something costs, they will first pull you into their shop, maybe to be out of earshot of the other shop vendors? They will show you everything else they´ve got, then try to tell you everything you need to know about them. If you are truly interesting in buying, then they will begin to talk price. Sometimes a little backward because often our decision to buy something really only hinges on the price.



Around the next bend a completely different experience, one man emerging from the middle of a patchwork skirt of colorful spices, nuts and all manner of dried fruit. Stall after stall of these fruit and nut whirling dervishes frozen in time. By lunch time on the first day, we were lightheaded and almost nauseaus from our morning in the souks and wondered if someone had slipped us a mickey somewhere along the way.


At night, the center of square transforms completely. Smoke rises from the countless food stalls that materialize here at around sundown. Locals and tourists are out and about, eager to partake in anything and everything. As exotic and exciting as Marrakesh is, it takes out of you as much as it stimulates. A couple days were enough and we started to make exit plans.

For photos of Marrakech, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594381039013/
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Essouaira

On our second day in Marrakech, we met a Dutch/American couple, Katja and Jason, on the roofdeck of our riad. It was Michael's Cambodian T-shirt that sparked a conversation between us. We ended up yapping it up, going to dinner, sharing countless bottles of wine...one thing led to another and bam we're sharing a cab to Essouaira on the coast and an apartment once we get there. We've met many people since arriving in Africa, it's good to have some company, exchange stories, make promises to meet up again some day. We also met an older couple at the riad, Mary and Dig, who operate a treeking company in Jordan. Dig showed us tons of photos on his laptop and perked our interest in Jordan and of course, Petra. We threatened to visit next year (who wants in?).

The little town of Essouaira is charming beyond belief - it was what we'd hoped Marrakesh would be. But after a couple of days, Marrakesh began to feel like a big congested city and Essouaira was exactly what we were looking for. Its signature color is a cobalt blue — every door, window frame, balcony and trim is painted blue. It has the laid back feel of any beach town, a nice change from Marrakech. Our apartment was inside the walls of the medina, far less ancient in feel than the one in Marrakech. We had an amazing roofdeck that overlooked practically half the medina and the tumultuous ocean, a great (but often windy) place to glaze over with a bottle of wine. Still rather in love with the tagines (a conical cookware made of clay used to make the traditional Moroccan stews like Chicken with preserved lemons and olives for example - our favorite) , we ate those nearly every meal until we were quite sick of it by the time we left Morocco. The only time we didn't have a tagine was when we found a charming little curio shop and cafe in the Mellah (the Jewsih Quarter) owned by a jovial, overly tanned Southern French gentlemen who offered us the most delectible morsels.

The highlights of our 2 day visit to Essouaira were for Mike a meticulous and incredibly close shave
and for Katja and Val, a visit to a traditional Hammam, a local bathhouse. Hammams are still a common practice, strictly separated by gender, it's a place where Mohameds and Fatimahs go to bathe, exchange the latest gossip, and make use of the plentiful scalding hot water. Khadijah, an employee of the owner of the apartment we had rented was appointed to show us to the hammam. We didn't understand at first that she wasn't just going to show us, she was also going to bathe us. We followed Khadijah like obedient sheep down the narrow alleyway and through a small unmarked doorway not far from the apartment. We would have never found this place by ourselves, let alone what to do once we go there. We were really glad to have Khadijah there! The inside was rather simple and unattractive, one giant tiled bathroom. One OLD giant tiled bathroom. The next hour and a half was a truly divine experience. Will spare you the details here but will gladly share in person over some vino, but Katja and Val were given the scrubdown of their lives. Katja's tatoo managed to stay on but Val's henna one was completely obliterated. Aside from the sandpaper rubdown, the bath itself was heavenly. It was almost ritualistic, the systematic filling of hot and cold water in precisely seven buckets. We recognized the emollient olive soap we´d seen in the souks that melted into a deliciously fresh lather on the skin. We were like two giggling four year olds sitting on the floor being bathed by their nanny. Highly recommended!

For photos of Essouaira, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Marrakech

It took about 30 hours to get from Singapore to Morocco. We flew from Singapore to Istanbul, then over Bulgarian, Serbian and Croatian airspace to Milan, flying westward against the passage of time til we finally reached Casablanca. In Casablanca, we caught two trains to Marrakech, another 4 hours in total. Almost completely shattered and strung to our limits by then, but graced by the more than perfect timetable of planes, trains and automobiles, we ran from plane to ticket booth to train to ticket booth to train with ease, catching trains just as they were arriving into the station.

It´s an entirely different landscape. Different faces. Different smells. We welcome all of it but initially we tread lightly, keeping our voices down, our cameras off and a firm clutch on all of our things. The train to Marrakech was very crowded -- travel wary people pushing out as eager passengers hussle to get on. We´ve seen a few other backpackers but climbed onto a compartment where we are the only foreigners. A man motions to us to say that he has two seats available next to him. Indeed he did but one of them was occupied at the moment by his friend in the middle of a series of deep bows. He was situated at an odd angle in the seat, facing Mecca. We waited paitently until he was finished and took our seats, thankful to have them.

The view out the window is rather drab at first. Much of the land is barren as far as the eye can see, sometimes we´d come across a small town of boxy cinderblock homes that look unfinished and uninhabited. Well, except for the many satelite dishes on top of the houses faithfully pointed towards TV Mecca.

Hungry and exhausted, and getting impatient to get to our riad already. In the fading light, the landscape is brown brown brown except for some small patches of green who didn´t get the memo. Then in the setting sunlight, brown gives way to lilac, orange and khaki. It´s a strange limbo we´re in, hurtling through unfamiliar landscape with still at least an hour to go, unable to imagine what Marrakech is like except for the vague memory of a few internet photos of our accomodations. We´ve had many insanely long journeys and the feeling is similar: a displaced sensation of not knowing where we are, what day or time it is, being thrust through the windows of a parallel universe.

At the station, we negotiated a fair price for the ride to our riad (which we later found out was more than half what it should have cost). Val´s rusty high school French is really coming in handy since we set foot in Morocco. it´s either French or Arabic. Very little English is spoken here. Our taxi driver took us to the walls of the medina and stopped as the alleyways are too narrow for cars to enter. He got on the phone to someone, then pointed into the medina and said our riad was in there. We were sure we were about to be scammed. We´d just paid $5 for a pretty short cab ride and not even to the door of our riad. How were we supposed to find it inside the medina? There are no maps, or street signs. Just then, an old man in the traditional djellaba (a hooded cape-like garment that almost everyone wears) with a ferocious beard started circling the cab, summing us up through the windows. The cab driver was beginning to unload our things out of the trunk against our protests. The old man asked where we needed to go and we showed him the address of the riad. Silently, he began to lead the way into the centuries old medina, walls on either side so high you can´t see over them; alleys so narrow you can hold out both arms and touch the walls on either side. Some alleys were so dark and quiet we were a little concerned he wasn´t really leading us to our riad. And then, there it was. Riad Numero 10. A solid black wood door promising an exotic oasis within.

Janice, the French woman I´d spoken with to book the room opened the door and her big smile instantly melted away all our hesitations. Janice speaks no English but seems to understand Val´s French, so it´s all good. The inside of this riad is so so so amazing. Warm reds, pinks, oranges and yellows greet us, colors that have been missing from our color palette for the last couple days. We couldn´t wait to put our things down and snuggle into this place.



A sumptious meal had already been prepared for us by the gentle cook Raffida: a delicious pea soup, pastilla (a flaky pastry filled with chicken, ground almonds and showered with powdered sugar), a tomato and onion salad and for dessert, caramelized bananas. A bottle of wine and we felt so pampered, we sat there, catatonic from our journey, but eagerly soaking up the reality that we were finally in Morocco.

The next morning we are awakened at 5 am by the morning prayers. Hm, no one told us the speaker from the mosque was IN our bedroom. (It wasn´t but it sure sounded like it was.) These prayers sounded almost angry, with a terrible singing voice.

For photos of Marrakech, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594381039013/
and
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594423286524/

Out of Africa

Hello! Sorry for the long silence! We're alive and well in South America. We had very limited time for internet in Morocco and when we got to Tanzania, internet cafes were plentiful but completely useless. So I´ll do my best to catch up on the last 3 weeks. Please stay tuned!

Goodbye Asia

It's 10pm November 15th, and in a few hours we start our more than 24 hour journey to Marrakech.

From Singapore we fly to Istanbul (12 hrs), then to Milan (3 hrs), then to Casablanca (3 hrs), then, with luck, we'll get ourselves on a train (3hrs) to Marrakesh, just in time for dinner at the riad we found and booked just last night.

Whooo! After a good few weeks of R&R we are back in the game. Michael is 100% and we're ready for a whole new continent, culture, and cuisine.

We spent the last two days being pamperd by Val's family in Singapore, seeing aunts and uncles and granparents and cousins for the last time, running errands and checking in with doctors (Uncle Sal seems to have packed up and gone). It's Christmas is Singapore! Since Singaporeans do not celebrate Thanksgiving, all the Christmas decorations are already up. Orchard Road is swaddled in gold and red decorations and Christmas marketing is in full swing. And it's 80 degrees out. Still, it feels no less festive than if it were snowing.

Los Dos Chamorros have been fattened up by stubborn aunts who refuse to let us pay for anything. The after-meal-fight-for-the-check is a time worn Chinese custom. We are so grateful, as much as we doth protest. Good food, great company, lots of love and attention. We already miss all of them dearly.

Goodbye South East Asia.

A Day in the Life

Eight something a.m. The streets are fairly quiet except for the occasional, "Yes boss, transport? Where you going?" from the many freelance drivers in a holding pattern outside of hotels, and the honks from passing taxis that let you know that they are there in case you might want a ride. The temperature is already somewhere in the eighties. The oppresive humidity is like a heavy wet towel over your head all day long until about five in the evening when any stretch of sand on the beach is a potential soccer field for a sunset match.

Guests at beachfront hotels are having breakfast on white tablecloths. A few early bird touts are out, black vinyl cases clamped under their arms encasing cheap watches rings, or sunglasses. Their languid steps across the wet sand of low tide and their lack of eye contact signal that perhaps it is a little early yet for an agressive sale.

Nearly translucent sand crabs zip across the sand at breakneck speed, darting into holes at our approach. On closer inspection, the surface of the sand is mottled with an intricate and complex schematic of concentric circles of tiny orbs rippling outwards in perfect mathematical precision. Tireless sandcrabs building and rebuilding their sand fortresses between the daily tides.

The beach chair guys are setting up their chairs and umbrellas, ready for sun worshipping foreigners to rent them for about a dollar. More beach vendors show up: the hat man with hats stacked on top of his head as well as a tower of them cradled in his arms, the women covered head to toe to protect them from the sun wanting to sell you a pedicure and if you don't want that, maybe a massage, hair braiding? or how about a scarf? A sarong? A sheer sun moo-moo? A necklace? If you want any of the above, remember to ask for Maria/Sonia/Anni. The kite man with his kites that look like ships, sailing over sunburned tourists and mangy beach dogs, the guy with carved komodo dragons, the guy with the unwieldy bow and arrows. Oh and there is our 'friend' Kethut, he sells carved wooden picture frames and he also carries around a plastic folder of xeroxed henna tattoo designs. When the surf is good, he puts his bag of wares next to the guy selling cold drinks out of a cooler, changes into his trunks and rash guard that are stashed in the underside of the lifeguard's umbrella and runs into the water with his beat up board.

It's particularly difficult to get used to the constant soliciting. Westerners are protective of their personal space and their privacy. A simple and polite "no" sometimes does not suffice and it quickly turns into a more frustrated sounding "no," impolite body language and eventual and blatant ignoring. We have to remind ourselves that everyone is trying their hardest to eek out a living, even if they can get 50 cents from you for some small service, like clipping your toenails, they will do it. In their minds, what's a few dollars to you? You should just buy something to help them out and so they are always willing to give you a "good price."

Mike surfs when he gets a chance, usually every day. At lunchtime, we go in search of something fast, easy and cheap, usually local food from a nearby 'warung' (like cafe's). Our favorite thing is Nasi Campur (Nah-see Cham-pour) which is Rice on a banana leaf with any number of sides that you point to and they heap on top of your rice. Mouth watering curry chicken, fish in coconut, simple but tasty vegetables, satay, sambal chilli sauce.Then, it's back to the pool or ducking out of the heat to check email and what's going on in the world. Earlier this week, we were glued to CNN and the BBC, waiting for the results of the elections.

In the late afternoon, it's another surf check. The sun is low in the sky. Scores of scooters are now at the beach and the locals are cooling their feet off in the water. The evening soccer games are starting up, makeshift goalposts are driven into the sand. Lazy sunbathers are contemplating cocktails and dinner. The popular beach bars are in full swing for magic hour. The hat man, the ship kite man, the necklace/pedicure/massage ladies, still making their rounds. All in a day's work.

For additional photos of Bali, go to http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594365893323/

Goa to Bali

2 months
6 countries
13 guesthouses
4 hotels
3 homes
8 home cooked meals
26++ bug bites
1 haircut
2.5 bottles bug spray
3 times Mike's been sick
1 serious argument

Not a bad start. We're still trying to find the perfect On-The-Move to Time Out ratio. If we are to survive the next 4 months we need to move a little slower.

So the latest news is we are not in India, we are in Bali. A day before we were to leave for India, Michael got sick for the 3rd time. I suppose we consider ourselves lucky that it happened in Singapore and not in India. Similar symptoms but thankfully not as rough as the last time. We cancelled the entire India leg and made appointments to see a specialist since Singapore is our last chance for quality medical attention, the comfort of home and support of family.

2 blood tests, 2 stool samples, 1 EKG, 1 sonagram later, we've ruled out Malaria, Dengue Fever, bacterial infection of the heart valves, and confirmed that Mike's previously diagnosed heart murmur is non-existent. We did find out that it was Salmonella, which can stay in one's system for a while.

Mike says that as far as stool sample kits go, he prefers the Singapore kind to the Thailand kind. More like a prescription bottle than a fast food condiment cup, it makes for a more hassle-free stool harvest.

After 4 days of solid bedrest, healthy food, and TLC, we decided to join the rest of the family who were already in Bali to celebrate Val's grandfather's 89th birthday. Not a bad place to recuperate. The family stayed until last Sunday. We've decided to stay on for longer, until we leave for Casablanca on Nov 15th.

There are around 33,160 islands in Indonesia, 3000 of which are inhabited. Bali alone has about 3.5 million people, most of whom are Hindu. Two bombings here in recent years have taken a serious toll on the tourist industry here, a lifeline of the Balinese. Nearly 90% of the people here are directly or indirectly affected by the tourist trade. US and Australian travel advisories are still in effect and tourism is at about 50% of where it ought to be. Regardless, all the flight here from Singapore were full and it doesn't feel all that deserted here. Security guards are posted at the entrances of major hotels and bars, metals detectors in hotel lobbies, guards checking in trunks and cameras embedded in driveways to check the underbellies of cars.

The people are superstitious here. Sometimes when you pay for something you've bought, they will take your money and brush it against all the other merchandise, blessing the stock with good juju. Everywhere you go, you'll see colorful offerings, square boxes constructed of palm fronds, cradling a rainbow salad of any or all of the following:
flowers and flower petals
cooked rice dyed different colors
leaves
lime zests
fruit
a cracker
small change
candy
Then garnished with a few drops of holy water and a stick of incense.

We're on a sick spot in Seminyak, a nice surf spot where Val can spend all day in a cabana while Mike surfs right out front. He seems lonely, no one else it out in the water. Outside the hotel are streets of lovely shops and restaurants, boutiques, spas and temples. The people here are warm and outgoing, super friendly. Well, not all of them.

The other day we were pulled over by a cap, He just materialized in the middle of the street and waved us over.
Is this your first time to Bali?
Yes.
Do you have an International Driver's License?
No. But our hotel didn't say we needed one.
(Dismissal) I am the law. I will write you a fine, you have to go to court tomorrow, do you have time? If not, you can just pay me now.
Val dislodges a spew of ugly words.
Ok, give us the ticket.
Also, I keep your bike.
I'm calling the hotel.
What hotel you stay?
Val tells him, finger poised over the button with the green phone icon on the cell phone.
OK, this time I give warning, because your first time Bali.

And we got back on our bike and took off. If he had been scarier or better at this extortionist thing, we might have buckled. In any case, having a cell phone and a place to call really did save us.

For photos of Bali, go to http://flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594365893323/

Food and Singaporeans

The Chinese equivalent of "hello" is literally "have you eaten yet?"

This is the nucleus around which the entire culture revolves. Food. It's not uncommon in many other cultures, food is the magnet that brings family and friends together. But for Singaporeans, it's a topic that needs no rest, it fuels itself, it's a monster.

It's like this: you live to eat. While you're eating, you're discussing your next meal, you're comparing these noodles to the same noodles at that other place, they're not as good as that other place, how you can make it better by dipping the chicken in this sauce, how you can make it at home, why don't we try the other noodles next time?, what should we have for dinner?, what time should we meet for breakfast?, have you tried (insert food name here)?, you should, Michael you should try that it's something special, it's something different, it's out of this world, oh we should go to that store on Holland Road for it, it's better there, in fact let's have that for dinner, do you want dessert?, you should try our local desserts, never mind - just try you don't have to like it, oh you like it? take more, finish it, don't be shy, try this other kind, it's even better, take the last piece, c'mon don't waste it.

Our loveable little monster.

For photos from Singapore, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594349223995

Ipoh and Singapore

Dad and Jessie were incredibly hospitable with Los Dos Chamorros. Dad chauffered us around and took us to try all the local food that Ipoh is so proud of. This is where the eating marathon warms up for Singapore. Mike, the Minister of Security, has never been anywhere with such a heavy Muslim presence and got ready his stink eye in case he needed to use it. We got to see dad's orchid farm and lab where he crosses orchid species and replants hundreds and hundreds of plants. Both Val and Mike have orchids officially registered under their names with the Royal Orchid Society: Valerie Ang, aka RA0 (RA-Zero) and Michael Chamorro, or R14, are good money makers. :) Dad intends to cross the two...we shall see what that produces.

One day we visited an aboriginal tribe on the way to Cameron Highlands. Dad buys orchids from them sometimes because they get unusual species from the jungle. They were neither aboriginal nor tribal looking, everyone wore T-shirts. There were a ton of kids in the village when we arrived, all were somewhat suspicious of us. But after dad chatted everyone up and we started showing them the digital photos we were taking, all the kids wanted to do was pose for photos and then mob the camera to have a look at the picture. They were so curious of us, asking us how old we were, where Mike was from, if we spoke their language. Some were able to ask "what's your name?" but not much else in English.

We arrived in Malaysia to a string of Indian and Muslim public holidays, so lots of stuff was either closed or packed with people. It was also impossible to find bus tickets down to Singapore. Dad decided to drive instead.

We spend our entire last day in Ipoh at an internet cafe planning our upcoming trip to India, realizing that we've left too much to the last minute and worrying that the train tickets we want are long sold out. Like cramming for an exam, we tackle our Indian research in tandem on two computers, emailing accomodations, researching distances/hours/trains, calling India, speed reading Lonely Planet India. We didn't want to leave much to chance, it will not be a good place to wing anything. We are anticipating utter chaos, and for our patience and street smarts to be pushed to the limit.

On Wednesday (10.25.06) we woke at 4am to make the 6 hour drive from Ipoh to Singapore. The drive went relatively quickly and comfortably. We had anticipated traffic but there was none. We are staying at my grandfather's house in Singapore. Mom and stepdad are also here, everyone is flying into town for my grandfather's 91 birthday in Bali. We will miss it as we are leaving on Sunday for India.

The Eating Marathon ramps into high gear.


For photos of Malaysia, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594348004516/

Planes, Trains and Automobiles and Tuk Tuks and Ferries

October 21, 2006

7:15am Pick up truck takes us from hotel to ferry.

8:00am Ferry to Ko Phi Phi. Transfer to ferry to Phuket island.

9:30am Ferry transfer in middle of ocean. Our bags are passed over the rails, we are hurried onto the waiting second ferry. Odd, but very efficent.

11:00am Arrive in Phuket, take a pre paid van into town where we were planning on killing some time before our 4pm flight to Malaysia. The van couldn't find where we wanted to go and so they dropped us off on the street (Val cursing and protesting), we walk aimlessly with our heavy packs in 90 degree heat in search on somewhere to have lunch.

11:05am Tuk Tuk driver stalks us, asking where we'd like to go. We blow him off.

11:09am Same tuk tuk driver, still stalking us, says he'll take us where we want to go and the airport afterwards for an agreeable price. We get in.

11:15am Uncle Stalky stops as at some random restaurant. Then tells us we should just take a cab to the airport because 1) he can't wait for us to eat lunch 2) a cab is better 3) the cab has a/c 4) the cab will cost more.

11:16am We feel the last week's bliss bleeding out of our pores.

11:18am We decide to just eat and find a way to the airport.

12:07pm Find out that there is an airport shuttle (for a fraction of the cab price) that leaves in 23 minutes at the Bus Terminal and that we will miss it.

12:15 Find out that all cabs are in cahoots and do not like to bargain.

12:30 Worn down, we take a cab to the airport. Wait for 3.5 hours.

4:15pm Fly to Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia

6:40pm (one hour time change) Arrive in KL, bags take forever to arrive. Meet Val's Dad and Jessie at airport. Happy to see familiar faces.

8:00pm Have great dinner at a hawker stand/rest stop at the side of the highway.

9:00pm Start the 2.5 hour drive to Ipoh where dad lives. Heavy heavy downpour most of the way.

11:30pm Arrive in Ipoh.


And just like that our fragile week of island yum was shattered by a gruelling 15 hour travel day.

Island Recap

What a luxury to have 7 whole days without moving. Our much needed vacation within the vacation. Not having to find accomodations or plan our next steps or having anything on the agenda was what we really needed. If we wanted to stay in and watch the All-Day-Movie-Ticket channel, we could, and we did. By the end of the week, we had our favorite hangouts and we had befriended a few of the townies. It's a good feeling, when you're a nomad, to have a small piece of familiarity even if it is only for a week. Island life is a slippery slope. Los dos Chamorros are a deeper shade of brown and our happy-place equilibrium was re-calibrated.



Highlites
* discovering places on the scooter.
* sleeping in.
* playing cards at the Nice Beach Resort for hours.
* Val's mysterious all day stomach cramps which led to movie marathon day.
* giant spider in bathroom one night (see photo in flickr) that valiant Mike drowned with a relentless water spraying.
* the chill beach platforms along the beach with Thai mats and pillows and shell curtains and vodka pineapples.
* the god aweful party at the Reggae House that was the butt of our jokes all week. It was a like a bad house party where you worry that no one is going to show up. The dj sucks because he's mixing tunes like a Greek plate thrower, the tempo-impaired host thinks he can play the drums. And all the dorky kids from school are the only ones showing up.
* waiting out the 3 hour island-wide black out on the porch with our emergency candle and cold Singhas.
* The Flip Flop Cafe, our favorite dinner spot. A Dive school/restaurant/wireless internet cafe run by a couple of Danish guys. They showed movies every night at 7:30. So we'd watch movies over meatballs and boiled potatoes and chicken breast and salad, a nice change from Thai food, and lots of wine (something we've really been missing.)

Lo-lights
* non-stop construction by the pool area.
* mosquitoes.
* having to leave.

For photos of Ko Lanta, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594348005998/

For photos of Ko Phi Phi, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594346939747/

Jus' Chillin'

Finally, a place to rest our bones. No rain. No pesky vendors trying to sell us stuff we don't want. Loads of time to kill. Here's a sample daily itinerary:

slather on SPF 30
rent scooter
get breakfast and check email
tool around island
pineapple juice
play cards
eat some chicken thing
where does that dirt road go?
pool time?
read book
fall asleep
pee in ocean
oh my it's happy hour
bug spray
dinner time
fall asleep by 9:53pm
repeat

Paradise Lost. Paradise Found.

Sunday, Oct 15, 2006, Ko Lanta.
Eager to see the much acclaimed Thai islands with our own eyes, we left Bangkok for Krabi about 5 days ago. Krabi is a coastal town on the West coast of southern Thailand and a good jumping off point for the many island destinations in the Andaman Sea. When we arrived in Krabi, we took a taxi, then a sawngteaow (like a covered pick up truck with bench seats in the back, then a longtail boat to Railay island (famous for rock climbing). It was pouring. For days, the rainstorms persisted, dampening our spirits and slowly sapping our enthusiasm. On Railay, we spent about an hour walking around with our big packs, looking for a suitable hotel.
We quickly realized that the islands are not as affordable as other parts of Thailand. There was so much constuction on that tiny island it was a little of a buzzkill. (to be fair, this coast was hit pretty hard by the Tsunami.) Fatigued from the constant moving, our overwhelming desire was to find the perfect spot and stay there until we leave for Malaysia. Railay was not it so we took the ferry to Ko Phi Phi (Ko-Pee-Pee)the following morning. This is the island made famous from its cameo in that DeCaprio move, The Beach. We had not given up hope and were excited to see our next destination.
We arrived into a zoo of tour operators touting accomodations on the island. We settled on a place based mainly on price. The room itself was not bad, per se, but it wasn't worth the price. It was also probably the farthest possible spot from the pier, through construction sites, scores of massage shops, internet cafes, restaurants, bars and tour agencies. The island does not have a good drainage system so with the constant rains, muddy ankle deep, sometimes foul smelling rivulets dominate the streets. Water was coming out of pipes that spilled into the street and we weren't sure if it was pure rainwater or rainwater mixed in with a little sewage we were trudging through. Really glad for our Hep shots. Ko Phi Phi was turning out to be more like Ko Poo Poo.
The islands are breathtakingly beautiful but the unfortunate thing is that beauty is being trampled on and eaten alive by the greed and inconsideration of a booming tourist industry. Paradise Lost.

We are now on Ko Lanta. Paradise Found. This is exactly what we were looking for. A fairly large island, entirely undeveloped. There is a law here that forbids any building to be taller than the palm trees. We are staying at a great place and have rented a scooter to explore the island. Speaking of which, the sun is calling and we must go....until next time!


(Sorry, photos coming soon, it takes forever to load them, promise to do so soon.)

And They Drop Like Flies

Jenna was the first. Fever, headache, frequent trips to the bathroom. Then on the morning we were to fly to Bangkok, Michael wakes up with a high fever. We postpone our flight, Capos leave without us. Later that day, Angelo succumbs to same debilitating illness. We are stumped. What did it? The fruit plate at the temples? The supposedly safe bottled water? The 45 cent beers? Perhaps we were cocky, thinking ourselves impervious to a little bacteria in this not-third-world-anymore little oasis. But no, whatever it was beat the living crap out of these three. Val escapes narrowly with merely a bee sting on her cheek and a nasty fire ant bite on her foot. I'd take those any day over what these guys had. The night we spent alone in Cambodia was rough. Michael got better then were reminded that we'd picked the absolute noisiest place to stay, right under a rooftop bar and next to another one. When you're trying to sleep off a fever and relentless "angry ass" as Jenna calls it, the last thing you want it the relentless bass of one track pounding over the screaming melody of another. At least two sources of music barged into our room, mocking our walls and tightly closed windows, defying their existence. A rough night ensued but Mike's fever finally broke at around 4 in the morning. And by 8:30 we were at the airport waiting for our flight out of there to Bangkok.

We limped into Bangkok, Mike barely making the trip. Checked into our guesthouse and another full day of rest for the man, who was much much better but not entirely out of the woods. (Hooray, Cipro!) After a much needed nap, Val leaves him to the BBC and After School Specials while she takes her one and only chance to visit Chatuchak weekend market, the largest market in the world. You can buy ANYTHING you want there. And for cheap. Exhausted, Val makes it there 2 hours before the market closes.

Today, Oct 9, we take Michael to the hospital, just to see if he is alright. He claims it was the best hospital experience he's ever had. It was like a hotel when we entered, staff greeting us with their usual Thai hospitality. We were signed in and waiting to see a doctor within 5 minutes. A sign at the nurse's desk read. "If you have been waiting for longer than 15 minutes, please contact a nurse at the counter." Love this hospital. Blood tests were done while we waited and within an hour, we were on our way, with a diagnosis and more medication. Mike is back on his feet, ready to be on our way tomorrow morning to Krabi, our jumping off point to the islands.

Cambodia Rules

Where to begin? Cambodia has been both nostalgic and surprising. Off the bat, we wish we could have had more time here. Michael had few to no expectations of the country, probably figuring it would be pretty third world from Val's account of it, having been here five years ago. That, mixed in with the horrific things we've read about Pol Pot, the Khmer Rouge regime and the genocide that wiped out 2 out of 7 million Cambodians as recently as 1975-78. Everyone here has lost someone to the genocide, an uncle, a parent, an entire family. The country didn't really open up to tourists until probably 10 years ago when there were still traces of Khmer Rouge in outlying areas of Siem Reap, when taxi drivers were still afraid to take people to the more remote temples.

Five years ago, Cambodia was only a shadow of what it has become now. Kudos to them. All the roads are paved now, including what used to be a pothole ridden dirt road that connects Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia, with Siem Reap where Angkor Wat is. New bars and restaurants and nice stores and hotels have popped up all over, making it an accesible and ideal place for a getaway. So ideal that there are a thousand times more tourists now than there were five years ago. Busloads of Japanese tourists can easily ruin a good photo op.

Landmine victims are an atrocious reminder of worse times, they are a common sight here along with the many shoeless street children who wander about begging late into the night, miniscule 5 year olds with their one year old brother or sister clinging to their sides in a ghetto baby bjorn. Instead of giving them money, we've been buying racks of bananas and doling those out one by one.


Phnom Penh
We flew out of Ho Chi Minh City last Monday, eager to explore a whole new country. With Val teetering on the edge of falling ill, we opted for a half hour flight instead of the 8 hour bus ride. The bus would have costed $6, one dollar less than our cab ride from the Phnom Penh airport into the city. Oh well.

We were to meet our much missed travel buddies, Jenna and Angelo, at the Foreign Correspondents' Club that evening for drinks. Set in a colonial building with wide airy verandas overlooking the peaceful Mekong River, the boulevard teeming with waiting tuk tuk drivers, street vendors, and all walks of life out for an evening stroll. Inside the FCC, geckos roamed the faint yellow walls, occasionally ducking behind the many frames documenting decades of photojournalism. We sampled every spot in the house, from the mosaic tiled table tops and wrought iron chairs where we started with a snack, to the bar stools at the balcony where a careless wave of one's hand could send a glass of delicious pinot gris plummeting onto an unsuspecting pedestrian below, to politely stuffed Craftsman leather club chairs and matching dark wood coffee tables in the lounge area where we finally met our friends. How quickly we were seduced by the glamor of it all (Happy Hour specials did not help) and 6 carafs of wine later, we emerged, enebriated from our most excellent first four hours in Cambodia.

Tuol Sleng
Or S 21, was the only sight we had the time and energy for in Phnom Penh. Tuol Sleng was a secondary school used by Pol Pot as an interrogation, torture and detention center during the Cambodian genocide. Hundreds and thousands of men, women and children were held captive here under the strictest and most unreasonable of rules, cruelly tortured, chained to the floors and walls, burned in their beds. Most of them were eventually taken to the Killing Fields and bludgeoned to death. We spent a few hours at Tuol Sleng, wandering down its silent corridors with the unforgettable checkered tile pattern on the floors, observing walls that look like they have not been wiped down since its last occupants. Thousands of black and white photographs of every single person who came here is housed in room after room in one of the buildings, mute epitaphs of the unfortunate souls who passed through here.

Our faithful driver, Mr. Penh whom we'd met the night before at Jenna and Angelo's guesthouse drove us around on his scooter, waiting for us whenever we went inside. After Tuol Sleng, he took us to the Russian Market while we waited out a short drizzle, then we took him to lunch (the poor guy looked like he never eats)and called it a day, deciding against the 30km potholey ride out to the Killing Fields. After lunch, our hangovers got the better of us and we promptly returned to our guesthouse for much needed naps.

In the morning, we boarded a sweet bus to Siem Reap. Big roomy seats, a bathroom on board, cold towels, bottled water, and a box of pastries for our 6 hour journey.

Siem Reap
When we arrived at the bus station, scores of tuk tuk drivers crowded around the bus, some holding up signs with peoples' names on them, some offering dirt cheap rides into town "just to take a look" at where you want to stay. Our names were in the mix (guesthouses in Phnom Penh arrange these pickups so that the drivers can take you to guesthouses of their friends. The tuk tuk drivers don't care where you stay, they just want the chance to talk you into a 3 day commitment for them to be your sole driver to all the temples, a lucrative daily rate for them at $6 a day.) Since we had not arranged any accomodations, we decided to drive around and take a look at what was available. We usually have had no problem since we have never been in a place in high season. But Siem Reap being still quite a small town, and since most people are getting their guesthouse recommendations out of the same Bible (the Lonely Planet, we had trouble finding a place with any room. Getting desperate and tired, we settled on a place in a very central part of town. The rooms were simple but the location was perfect.

This lovely little town is almost unrecognizable from what it was 5 years ago. Everything seems to have gotten a face lift or grown in size. Beautifully designed restaurants, cafes and bars, a real pharmacy, spas and so many new hotels and guesthouses. It's difficult to put it in the "third world" category any longer. We spent our sunset at one of the more popular sunset destinations, on top of Phnom Bakheng temple. It was less than underwhelming, no sun was to be seen through the heavy clouds. It was very crowded and at the end, it started to pour. We hiked back down the dirt path in the dark, happy to find our faithful tuk tuk driver waiting for us. Home Charles! (Actually, Home Mr. Sopthep!)

The next day we rented bikes and rode out to Angkor Wat, the Bayon, and Ta Phrom, all temples in the Angkor compound. Little did we realize, we had ventured quite far out by the time we'd gotten to Ta Phrom and we were not happy campers on the one and a half hour ride back home. Short of suffering from heat stroke, and exhaustion (I guess I only speak for Jenna and I)Jenna and Val suffered from a heat rash, a stinging combo of sun, pollution, bug spray and sunblock. But it was a great day.

The next day Jenna was ill and did not join us on Temple day number 2. Angelo, Michael and Val hired a tuk tuk to take us to Bantei Srey, a remote temple about an hour drive away. It was smaller than we expected, but worth the jouney. On the way back we deliberated on whether to risk impending rain and darkness to visit a temple even farther away (it would have been a 4-6 hour roundtrip) that exists in the middle of the jungle, supposedly a true Indiana Jones adventure. It was already 1:30 in the afternoon and embarking on that trip so late would not have been smart. So after much gnashing of teeth and kicking ourselves for not starting out earlier, we decided to head back towards the Angkor compound and explore some other temples we still hadn't seen. We had a great time and at our last temple, where it was about to rain, the place got kind of eerie (in a cool way). The wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves through the stone corridors of the temple. As the skies darkened and crushed the shadows into a deeper shade of black, the juxtoposition of the green moss against the dark grey stone of the temple walls really enhanced the mystery of the place. Who would have expected that a world consisting of just three colors would be so intoxicating? We happened to be walking though a series of doors, all aligned perfectly, the last one like a window opening into the green trees outside the temple. Looking down that long hallway of doors gave the illusion of facing mirrors, when you are able to see your reflection into infinity.

Another fantastic day. We were sad to have to leave so soon. In the morning we would all fly tp Bangkok where we would finally part ways: Capobiancos to India, Chamorros to the southern Thai islands.

Beach Patrol

We continued our way down south via the coast. From Danang, the closest big city to Hoi An, we took a 9 hour train to Nha Trang, a popular beach resort right on the South China Sea. Nha Trang may be the ideal spot for some people, but it was not the charming beach town we'd expected, so we only spent one day there and decided to continue south to another town called Mui Ne (pronounced "Mooy Nay") since it was on the way to Ho Chi Minh City, our final destination in Vietnam.

The day we took the train was Jenna's birthday. What better way to celebrate than be forced to sit upright for 9 straight hours, with Vietnamese soap operas, Vietnamese Star Search and B movies dubbed in Vietnamese blaring at levels that would make your ears bleed? It was such a treat. We reasoned that since we're really a day ahead in Asia, it wasn't technically her birthday and that we would properly celebrate it in Nha Trang when she can actually eat something other than morsels of bread and La Vache Qui Rit (Laughing Cow No-Need-To-Refrigerate-Cheese) and stale Oreos left over from the Shawshank. So we called off the surprise birthday cake from the restuarant car and spared her the embarrassment of us singing Happy Birthday in a compartment full of strangers.

Mike and Val ate same bread and cheese, waved away the free trays of train food but sprang for train chicken that you had to pay for. And train ramen which was not bad, considering.

We rented beach chairs on the beach in Nha Trang and tried to ignore the persistent beach vendors selling more postcards, cooked crabs, T-shirts, massages, necklaces, drinks, snacks, tours, and other crap we didn't want. That night we celebrated and splurged on an excellent dinner and drinks at the Nha Trang Sailing Club. The comfort barometer was measuring high that night.

The next morning, we resumed our backpacker ways and boarded a 6 hour honking bus to Mui Ne. Not all of us could sit together. 2 passengers in the back of the bus vomited. Good times.

We found our charming beach town in Mui Ne, thank god. All we wanted was a place we could stay in for more than one night, and preferably three. The boys did an excellent recon job of finding a great hotel for us. Beach front, pool, breakfast included, and for Michael, a convenient little swell we could see from our balcony.
Mike got to surf, Angelo got his pizza fix, Jenna indulged in a spa treatment, Val got devoured my mosquitoes but worked on her tan and everyone got some R&R and spent some quality time together.

We spent 3 days in Mui Ne, then took another four and a half hour bus ride south to Saigon (we stopped saying "Ho Chi Minh City"...too many syllables.)where the Capobiancos parted ways with the Chamorros. A short, dry-eyed goodbye with promises to meet up in Cambodia after a few days. Val and Michael were picked up by Val's aunt and uncle who recently moved here and whisked off to District 7, where for a few days, life does not resemble backpacking in the least.

As suspected, the food here is much better than in the North. The farther south we've traveled, the more relaxed the country and the people have become. Saigon is all capitalist, all big city, ten times more chaotic. We spent our first day here running errands, missing our travel buddies (so much so we went in search of them, found them and managed to squeeze in some more time togather.) We're grateful to have a few days to spend with Val's family, eat home cooked food, regroup, and make plans for our next stop, Cambodia.

For most recent photos, go to:


Map of Vietnam:
http://www.lib.utexas.edu/maps/middle_east_and_asia/vietnam_pol92.jpg

From the Observation Deck

Vietnamese Road Rules
(also applicable to Cambodia)

1) Small yields to big. And so pedestrians and animals are lowest on the totem pole.

2) Walk, don't run when crossing the street. That way motorists have a better chance of avoiding you.

3) Disregard all traffic lights.

4) Pass on the left. Or on the right.

5) When your side of the street isn't moving due to traffic, proceed into oncoming traffic.

6) If you missed your turn, turn anyway, into oncoming traffic, or down a one way street.

7) Honk when behind someone.

8) Honk when passing someone.

9) Especially on long bus journeys, honk 90% of the time.

10) When in doubt, honk.

There is order in this chaos. It actually works. And it's absolutely thrilling to be caught up in the middle of it.

Hoi An

From Hanoi, we boarded the night train on September 18, down south to Danang, where we'd planned to take a one hour bus to Hoi An, in total a 13 hour trip. Well, the train we were supposed to be on was sold out so our travel agent put us on the next train but failed to tell us that it was not the Express. The bucket of bolts we boarded was noisy and stopped in every station for the remainder of the journey. At the time, however, we were not aware that we were not on the train we thought we'd paid for, commenting on how surprised we were that it was not as nice as we'd expected and wondering why there wasn't a restaurant car.

After a satisfying dinner aboard of baguettes and Laughing Cow cheese that we hurriedly bought from the vendors in the station, we settled into our narrow bunks and had a great night's sleep, thanks to ear plugs and Jenna's magic sleeping pills, excited to wake up to only a few hours of travel time before arriving in Danang. Oh little did we know.

Refreshed from our uninterrupted sleep and eager to arrive already, imagine our shock when we found out that we were still many many many hours from our destination. 13 hours turned to 14 then 16. The words "Gulag" and "Shawshank" were thrown around in fits of laughter as we had to start rationing the food we had left for the longer than expected journey. A strict limit was placed on water consumption for those who refused to use the not-so-clean train toilets. We did an emergency food run at one stop, where the only edible things you can buy at a train station besides dried squid and candy were crackers and thank god, more laughing cow cheese, which coincidentally needs no refrigeration. In desperation, Val starts to squirrel away more food by buying a fish cake patty from the food cart on board. Fish cake patties, already a sketchy item here in Vietnam, let alone one bought from a train cart is a sure sign of dire straits. To our surprise (not the good kind), the conductor came by with free trays of food: kind of like airplane trays of food, only more like it came from a prison cafeteria. More fits of laughter as some of us sampled the food, Val being the only person able to identify anything in any of the trays besides the rice. Jenna, the resident vegetarian was mortified, and actually so was Val, but in times of famine, one has to remain strong. Good times, good times.

We pressed our sad litle faces up against the metal bars of our train windows, patience wearing quite thin at almost 20 hours, when our train finally pulled into the Danang station at 3:30 in the afternoon on the next day. Unable to tolerate another hour of public transportation, we sprang for cabs(the gypsy kind)into town, a nice perk of what Jenna calls "executive backpacking."

The small charming town of Hoi An is set on the banks of a brown river, and lives up to our very first expectations of the romantic Vietnam: colonial architecture, balconies, lanterns, ceiling fans and surprisingly good food. We were especially pleased to finally be somewhere. Lots of tourists here, but oddly comforting because it means creature comforts are more readily accessible. Our hotel has a pool and free worthless internet access. Which should explain our long blog silence.

Hoi An is known for their custom tailors - you can't miss them, every other storefront is a tailor, promising to make a suit or anything you want in as quickly as five hours. After conferring with a French couple we'd met in Halong Bay who were there at the same time (they had about 30 pieces made between them) we succumed to peer pressure and had to see what the hoo-ha was all about.

Michael had one pin stripe suit, a pair of pants, pin stripe shorts and two shirts made. Val had a heavy winter coat made, all for around $200. They look beautiful. Tomorrow we leave for the beach town, Nha Trang, a 9 hour train ride south. Good times.

For photos of our miserable train journey, go here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594301499699/
For photos of Hoi An, go here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594301513226/
For photos of the My Son Ruins, go here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594301485988/

Halong Bay

According to legend, when the Chinese tried to invade Vietnam, a great dragon ("long") descended from the heavens and into the bay ("ha") to help the Vietnamese people. As the dragon ran into the ocean, its thrashing tail carved out all the islands and rock formations that make up Halong Bay today. The many islands helped the Vietnamese to hide from and sabotage the Chinese.

It is truly a beautiful place. The four of us spent the night on a boat with 14 other people around our age, cruising the islands, eating well, sunbathing, swimming and kayaking.

The jagged peaks that rise out of the water are magnificent. Through the mist, the hills farthest away look like two dimensional ink stains, dripping skyward in an upside down world.

For photos of Halong Bay, go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/31967627@N00/sets/72157594299039521/