The Klaudrey Index

As promised, here is a final wrap-up of our travels, represented through some fun statistics and factoids.

--Kyle and Audrey


** All statistics refer to things experienced during our time abroad, unless otherwise noted. **




FINANCES

Amount Spent on Airfare (each):
$2,854.10
Amount Spent on Other Expenses (jointly):
$4,707.64
Amount Spent on Internet Access (jointly):
$56.89
Amount Spent on Coffee (Audrey):
$31.40

Currencies Used:
Thai baht
Cambodian Riehl
Kenyan Shilling
Turkish Lira
Bulgarian Lev
Czech Koruna (Crown)
Euro
US Dollar

Approximate To-Dollar Exchange Rates for These, Respectively:
1:35
1:4000
1:80
1:1.6
1:1.5
1:20
1:0.75
1:1

In Bank Transactions, Largest Numerical Cash Amount Received:
334,900 Cambodian Riehl ($84)
Smallest Numerical Amount:
80 Bulgarian Lev ($53)




HEALTH

Diseases Other White People Caught in Kisui, Kenya:
amoebic dysentery, e. coli, miscellaneous bacterial infections (resulting in intestinal bleeding)
Diseases We Caught:
minor one-day fever (Audrey)

On a Clinic's Worm Infestation Severity Scale of 1-4,
Kyle's Score: 2
Audrey's Score: 3

Number of Ambiguously Dead Green Mamba Snakes Sighted:
3
Number of Such Snakes We Picked Up:
0
Number of Such Snakes Picked Up by a Member of our Party:
3
Likelihood of Death from a Green Mamba Bite without Anti-Venom:
100%

Approximate Weight Gain/Loss (Kyle):
- 12 lbs
Approximate Weight Gain/Loss (Audrey):
-10 lbs

Doxycycline (Anti-Malarial) Pills Taken (jointly, as of May 1):
164
Doxycycline Pills yet to be Taken (jointly, as of May 1):
36
Bouts with Diarrhea:
1 (each, concurrently, in Cambodia)

Significant Injuries:
Audrey -- sprained ankle; various skin rashes; towel-whipping welt
Kyle -- unexplained foot rash; vomit intrusion into sinus cavity; giant thorn in heel




TRAVEL

Hours Spent Traveling by Boat:
17
Minutes Spent on Compulsory Boat Ride with Mr. Steve:
15
Number of "I'm On a Boat!" Jokes Made:
0 (we hadn't seen that skit until last night)
Hours Spent Traveling by Bus:
54
Hours Spent Traveling by Plane:
57
Hours Spent Traveling by Train:
69
Hours Spent on Layover in Airports:
30

Number of Foreign Countries Entered (i.e. physically):
8
Number of Visa Stamps/Stickers Acquired (each):
18




SOCIAL INTERACTIONS

Number of Times "Mzungu!" was Yelled at Us:
Lim x -> ∞
Alternative Versions of Kyle's Name Encountered:
Kyer, Keith, Carl, Carlos, Kayas, Mr. Cavyas
Gender Ascribed to Audrey by Most Students at King Solomon Junior School:
man

Number of Pomona Sightings in Foreign Countries:
0
Number of Near-Pomona Sightings (False Positives):
more than two dozen
Number of Unexpected Pomona Sightings in US:
1

Fellow Travelers we Befriended, By Nationality:
Australians (3)
Germans (3)
South Africans (2)
Cote d'Voire(ans?) (1)
French (1)





OTHER

Movies Seen:
"Notorious," "The Wrestler," "Slumdog Millionaire"
Number of Pictures Taken:
1,567 (figure includes re-takes, etc)

US President Upon our Departure:
George W. Bush
US President Upon our Return:
Barack Obama
Number of Times we were Informed that Barack Obama is Kenyan:
Lim x -> ∞

Wildlife Observed Within Kenya's Ruma National Game Park:
Springbuck, Roan, Dik-Diks?, Giraffe, African Peacock, Owl, Fish Eagle, various birds
Wildlife Observed Outside Ruma:
various birds (Egyptian Ibis, Masked Weaver, vultures...), Zebras, Baboons, Elephant

Angkor Temples Visited:
~19
Ruins in Angkor Archaeological Park:
more than 100

Significant Fails:
1) paid 500 baht for a taxi ride from the airport upon arriving in Bangkok
2) fell for various scams in Cambodian border crossing debacle
3) bought tickets for and boarded train bound for domestic (i.e., rather than international) airport, hours before our departure from Thailand to Kenya
4) spending an agonizing week pinching every penny during our 'beach vacation" while under the assumption that the exchange rate for Kenyan shillings was 50:1 rather than 80:1
5) purchasing a flight into Istanbul and out of Prague, operating on the assumption that all of Eastern Europe is one big, happy transit corridor the size of Pennsylvania

4/30 -- Homeward Bound

We are headed home! Sort of...The itinerary from here is as follows:

> 10 PM flight from Prague to Dublin
> stay in Dublin airport (dinner plz?) We are definitely stealing pillows from the plane.
> 11:30 AM May 1--short flight to Shannon, Ireland, then on to Boston
> long weekend in Boston
> 5/5 head to SF
> get Papalote burritos
> tool around in Livermore
> BBQ Sunday 5/10


We hope to update the blog at least once more with a "Harper's Index" full of trip stats. Here's a taste:

Number of days of constant contact we thought it would take for one of us to injure the other: it depends on whom you ask, but something like 13 (14 is our all-time record, pre-trip, for days spent in the same city since college)

Number of (medically actionable) inter-party injuries: 0


Looking forward to seeing all of you, boring you with pictures, and alienating you with inside jokes,

Kyle and Audrey

4/27 -- Ah, Luxury!

Hi Friends,

Our days of persistent body odor and frustratingly slow Internet connections are over, at least for now. Even while Kenya is fresh in our minds, we find ourselves adjusting quite readily to our current conditions: freshly showered, email inboxes near empty, and luxuriating in our Bulgarian classmate Maria's apartment in Sofia. Audrey may even get a haircut!

But fear not--we will not be selfish with the dividends of these pleasures. While you cannot smell our freshness from afar, rest assured that we have something for you. Throughout the blog (but mostly from Kenya onward) we've posted new pictures. I don't know what kind of obnoxious updates Google gives you (does it email you every time I correct a spelling mistake?), but perhaps that will provide some clue to where we've changed things.

Actually...to make this easier, here's a list of photo-updated posts:

"and also, I have ringworm"
"kenyou believe it?"
"mzunguhowareyou!?!"
"3/24 -- The Food"
"3/10 - 4/7 -- Catch-up"
"Hakuna Matatu"
"4/19 -- Where the Hell is Qatar?"


Also, for our nerdiest followers, I've prepared a Google Map of our travels. It is here:

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&msid=103895095176064955611.0004638dcac2fde3e417b&ll=36.597889,153.28125&spn=106.068209,316.40625&z=2

We leave for Prague Tuesday morning (local time) and head to Boston on April 30. We're almost home!

<3
Kyle

4/19 -- Where the Hell is Qatar?

If you can't answer this question with even some precision, don't feel bad. For most people in the US (and probably much of the world), the small, 850,000-person country of Qatar is as mysterious as other unknowns like Latvia, the Gambia, and Micronesia. Protruding out into the Persian Gulf on a small abutment from Saudi Arabia, Qatar is a socially stratified, Muslim oil monarchy (if I can use those descriptors without unfair labeling.) As I write this, I know no more about the country than what I've just described, but I know that I like traveling there.

We are currently [well, we were when I drafted this...now I'm at a ten-minute-a-go free Internet station] aboard Qatar Airways flight 533, as "economy class" flight to Doha (the capital) from Nairobi. Next [soon, now that we've passed nearly all of our twelve-hour layover] we connect to Istanbul, Turkey for a couple of days before going on to Bulgaria and Prague. Anyway, I think QA didn't get the "budget travel" memo, because the meal we just ate was a strong candidate for registration at that most exclusive of URLs: TheBomb.com. We're talking lamb and eggplant curry over rice with a lox-and-potato salad (strange, but G-rate) and a slice of tiramisu floating in a tangy passion-fruit jelly. Oh, and deese (decent) red wine. Damn, girl.

Of course, beyond the food, this has all the trappings of a low-cost flight: cramped seats, lame TV entertainment, and a guiltily silent guy sitting next to me who I suspect is the source of all the farts I've been inhaling. But it's still a sweet ride relative to recent travel options we've availed ourselves of.

When we staggered out of Kisui before dawn on Thursday, the plan was to take a ferry across a portion of the lake, a bus by paved road (what a luxury!) to Kisumu, and a train to Nairobi. The ferry leg unfolded nicely, but the matatu (which waited, engine running, while we filled up on a breakfast of mandazi and tea) was forced to drive in roadside ditches for about 45 minutes as we looked on enviously at the road as it was smoothed and manicured in anticipation of its imminent paving. I slept fine (and comically, apparently, my face squished against my backpack) until we hit the pavement and suffered no greater discomfort than mutinous kneecaps.

We arrived in Kisumu before noon, and Mina took charge directing the group and telling taxi touts to take a hike in her nearly fluent Swahili. After some diversions and group strategizing, we arrived at the railway station and were told that the overnight train would not be running. Residents of the infamous Kibera slum (PC term is 'people's settlement') removed one kilometer of railroad track that passes through their area to protest a webbed variety of government policies. Much as we admired their activism, we were not pleased by the prospect of spending 1500 shillings more than we'd planned to take an overnight bus instead of what we hoped would be a restful, booze-washed train ride to Nairobi.

Somewhat seasoned bus riders, Aud and I slept well on the bus eve as our fellows languished sleepless. At one point--you'd have to ask one of hte waking for details--we were held up for a time by a jackknifed diesel tanker. Apparently the people of the surrounding village materialized at 2 AM to collect the spilt fuel by the bucketful, soaking their clothes and soiling their water buckets to get a share of the valuable spoils.

Once we arrived in Nairobi we headed (after another round of mandazi and tea) to the Rudolf Steiner School in a suburb of Nairobi called Mbghati. From what I gather, Steiner is a dead but much venerated German Renaissance man from some time in the early 20th century who had a lot of ideas about a variety of subjects. His ideas about education and child development are the basis for Waldorf education (of which our YIP fellows are devotees). It seems that other ideas of his (the color blue stimulates creativity, right angles in architecture harbor dark spirits) have also been adopted as part of the package called anthroposophy. Long story short, staying at the (out of session) Steiner school was a low-cost, wonderful respite and a peaceful way to end our stay in Kenya. I'll leave it to Aud to describe our excursions from that sanctuary of Steinerist devotion...

-Kyle

Clarissa, Audrey, and Mina, all pretty at a bar on the eve of Aud and my departure for Turkey:

Hakuna Matatu

This phrase would translate, we think, to "no matatu," which, though a cute play on the famous "no worries" slogan popular in East Africa, would have made for a boring time in Kenya. Maybe a safer, less stressful trip, but certainly a more boring one. Matatus are the engmatic, omnipresent public transport in Kenya, whisking passengers to virtually any imaginable destination in a blur of unfiltered exhaust and garish paint.

A matatu is a fourteen-passenger, sliding-door van that occupies a strange semi-public role in providing transport. The crew consists of a tout and a driver. The tout's job is to collect fares from passengers, make change, and hang precariously out of the open sliding door to aggressively usher new passengers aboard...even if the van is already full. (The volume of the vehicle, rather than its allocation of seats, is the relevant constraint on its capacity. Touts often install riders in the aisles, each buttcheek hugging a different seat edge, while the touts themselves take to hanging by their fingertips onto the van by the sliding door track. Even the volume of the vehicle is fluid: just open a couple of windows.) The driver's job is to emulate a massless, frictionless sphere moving in ideal space; that is, to drive in a way that conserves as much inertia as possible (and wastes as much fuel as possible) while still accomodating the ambulatory needs of passengers. Also, he gets bonus points based on the aggregate amount of shit he is able to scare out of passengers and the number of lanes he is able to imagine on a narrow, crowded road. Overtaking other vehicles on hills is also desirable.

The speed of a matatu is strictly governed by the federal government's mandate that all public vehicles install a mechanical speed governor that limits vehicle speed to 80 kilometers per hour. This means that matatus travel at 80 kph...always.
Matatus are specially outfitted for their unique transport role. Most have two different horns: a low-pitched, rapid-fire sound used to convey sentiments like, "I'm passing you," and "get out of the way"; and another, a normal horn primarily used to attract the attention of would-be passengers. lnside, many have taken the precaution of padding the ceiling to account for cramped conditions and bumpy rides. But you won't be likely to find a functioning seat belt anywhere in the van.

Don't get us wrong: matatus are not all business. To keep the regular passengers entertained, many matatus have fluorescent night-lighting, and most have high-performance speaker systems that blast a delightfully groovy and recognizable plethora of R&B Top 40 and mid-90s pop music. One recent ride began with a trifecta of "What is Love?" continued with some song about how love is a rocket, and wrapped up with Rick Astley's hit "Never Gonna Give You Up." [Yes, we got Rick-Rolled in a matatu. For real.]

In addition to the music, many matatus are themed. Sometimes this involves glitter paint and custom upholstery, but at a minimum 9it means decals all over the exterior of the vehicle and the windows. The best ones have a consistent theme throughout, like some of these winners:

The Britney Spears Matatu
The UB-40 Matatu
The T-Pain Matatu
The Lil' Bow Wow Matatu

The Prison Break the TV Show Matatu
The Numb3rs the TV Show Matatu

The Al Pacino Matatu
The Vin Diesel Matatu

The Arch Nemesis Matatu
The Nice Guy Matatu
The Safe Journey Matatu (good joke!)
The Zion Destiny Matatu
The Black Sugar Matatu

The Barack Obama / Yes We Can Matatu (x6+)
The Michelle Obama Matatu
The Sasha Obama Matatu (there are at least two of these...)


It's hard to believe we're going to miss traveling this way, but BART just seems mundane now.


<3 Kyle and Audrey

A matatu's slogan, painted on the rear glass. Seems morbidly optimistic.


View from the back of a matatu:

bbq rescheduled for may 10 to accommodate kaboom-goers. evite imminent.

<3 audrey

3/10 - 4/7 -- Catch-up

Hi All,

Sorry for another extended radio silence...Internet access here is really unreliable, even worse than in Homa Bay. We are at this moment in the town of Mbita, but we stay about 4 km away in a village called Kisui. I can't say this with any authority, but Kisui might be one of the poorest, most disease-stricken places in Kenya. The Suba District (in which Kisui and Mbita are) has the highest HIV rate in Kenya-- one in three adults is HIV positive. There is no electricity in our village, and power comes only from big 12 V (a la car battery) units that people keep charged for some electric lighting at night.

We are working at the Mina Academy, the two-year-old project of a German woman named Mina who visited Kisui doing some volunteer work. Moved by the poverty and need here, she decided to do some fundraising in Europe to build this school and try to begin a community development project. The school provides pre-schoolers with pre-education, breakfast, lunch, health checks, twice-weekly baths, and perhaps most importantly something do to five days a week. Like many community-based projects, Mina struggles to get the community to invest as much as she has, but there are some very dedicated members of the school's executive committee. We have spent the last week and a half turning unused land into a more verdant and hospitable place: we've dug a garden and are building a fence for it, we've cleaned up the yard substantially and built swings for the children, and just yesterday we built the mud walls of a (mostly) natural-construction house for future visitors.

Like we've said, Internet access here is a bit of a chore, so I hope you'll be satisfied with this brief post. FYI, our plans are as follows: leave Kenya 4/19, fly to Istanbul, spend a couple of days before taking a train to visit our beloved friend Maria in Bulgaria, then head to Prague for a couple of days before heading to Boston on May 1. Then to San Fran sometime the week of the 4th, at the end of which will be the Welcome Back Audrey and Kyle BBQ Bash and B'nai Mitvah, a celebration of our triumphal return to the US. This is slated for the 9th of May, to take place in Livermore. Aud will send out a suitably enthusiastic and ludicrous e-vite ASAP. All our blog readers are invited, except for Willow. And Will...but he probably can't read anyway.

OK, lots of hugs, love, and probable intestinal worms,

Kyle and Aud

The whole crew enjoying dinner:


Mina, giving M'zee and Mike an impromptu yoga lesson:


A strikingly colorful day at the house:

3/24 -- The Food

I just received an email from a friend back home who wondered what the food is like. Well, it just so happens that I've been compiling a list of Kenyan dishes we've encountered. So here it is:

Ugali (ooh-gall-ee) AKA Sima (see-muh) -- A maize-meal and water, stewed beyond polenta consistency to something more like a mass. Hot, bland, a member of the "sauce vehicle" food group

Uji (ooh-gee) -- Maize flour with boiled water to form a wet porridge. A light breakfast option, but sadly sometimes the only thing available to poor children to start the day. (UPDATE) Also can be a porridge mixture of crushed nuts, spices, etc. Provides some basic nutrition very cheaply, and according to Mina it "feeds the nation." As such, it is at once the least that one can offer to a guest and at the same time an offer of uji is a great honor not to be turned down...even if your mug of bitter, lukewarm porridge isn't exactly causing you to salivate profusely.

Chapati -- Same as you're used to from Indian food, often served with meals.

Githeri (gui [like guillotine]- teh-ree) -- A stew (of various liquidity) of maize and beans, sometimes served with nyama

Mataha (mah-tah-ha) -- Githeri mashed up with mashed potatoes, plantains, or other tubers.

Matumbo (mah-tomb-oh) -- Stewed goat intestines and sundry digestive organs in an oily, stewy broth. Amazing when cooked tenderly.


White Tea/Coffee -- Instead of boiled water, (instant) milk is used. Try it if you haven't already! (NB: Kenyans take their tea like Indians, or chai-style with lots of milk and sugar.)

(M)andazi ([m]an-dah-zee) -- (Not everyone pronounces the 'M'. Fried dough, formed into either a large triangle or a solid, multi-folded mass.

Pojo (poh-joh) -- Mung bean stew

Nyama (ny-ah-mah) -- Goat meat, the most popular (and maybe available?) kind of meat here. Avoid when roof-dried.

Mboga (m-bow-gah) -- Boiled vegetables, especially shredded sukuma wiki, which is a close relative to collard greens.

Pilau (peel-ow) -- Fried meat with gently spiced rice

Amena (ah-may-nah) -- Tiny dried fish whose eyeballs are about 25% of their volume, rehydrated in salty, fishy stew with vegetables. A Lake Victoria specialty, and quite delicious when done right.

Bon Apetit!

-K

mzunguhowareyou!?!

every time we venture out of our three-room, tin-roofed apartment, we are faced with the time-honored question, put to us by the children of homa bay, "mzungu, how ARE you??" mzungu being the local term for pasty white person, and the appropriate response being "we are fine, how are you?" (as if they couldn't tell we were foxy-fine just by looking). "mzungu how are you!!" they shout it from roads, trees, and rooftops, more exclamatory than questioning. "MZUNGU!" - usually we hear it before we can identify the shouter/culprit. what a joy to have entered a country where every child below the age of twelve is consistently and fiercely concerned with your well-being, or general fine-ness.

other than the obligation to repeatedly defend our state of being as fine, or adequate, meeting the children here and working with them on a daily basis has been incredibly positive. we have been volunteering for the past two weeks at the king solomon school. they serve about 400 students, 80% of whom are orphans or partial orphans (mostly from HIV/AIDS). they hold classes for children ranging in age from 2-14 years. students attend school from 7am to 6pm, with review classes on sundays and sometimes saturdays. the fourth graders have a maturity level and willingness to learn such that they can be left entirely alone for half hour study periods. i can only imagine what would have happened if my fourth grade classroom had been left along for five minutes...

we teach 4-6 half-hour classes a day. in the younger age-groups, i'm pretty sure our presence is mostly distracting/frightening (depending on how young they are). however, it has been really interesting to meet the older children. they have so many questions for us. some highlights:
- How many wives can you have?
- When do you get married? Have children?
- Anything Obama-related.
- Climate and food questions. Many of the students and teachers were under the unnerving impression that Americans eat dogs, rats, and snakes on a regular basis.
- Questions about American students, i.e. do they wear uniforms, pay fees, ride busses?
- Do you have witchcraft? (they do, according to the 7th grade class)

one issue we've struggled with is the consistent use of corporal punishment. i'm not sure if it's just this school or a kenyan thing, but i'm inclined to think it's the latter. there are print-outs all over the walls of the teacher's lounge with bible proverbs and inspirational quotes advocating strict discipline. usually, the cane is brought out for behavioral offenses (for example, when the 7th grade class locked a boy in the toilets), but one day at lunch we watched as one teacher had a group of children line up while he corrected their assignments. he read through their lessons, tallied up any mistakes, and delivered a number of blows corresponding to the total number of errors.

while i find this sort of physical punishment distasteful, i'm hesitant to pass judgment. on the one hand, it does seem to maintain a high level of order and attention (and fear). also, the stakes are much higher at king solomon than at your typical american primary school. there is a test that all students must take at the completion of their 8th grade year. because many of these students are very poor, if they do not do well enough on this exam to earn scholarship, they will have no possibility of continuing their education through high school. king solomon has only been open for three years, and this is their first class of graduating 8th-graders. the tension is palpable.

besides the behavioral strategy cues taken from a 1950s catholic school, king solomon's curriculum has impressed us by being surprisingly progressive and student-empowering. Every morning the preschool students recite a mantra. “I am a child! Give me my rights!” it begins, and goes on to list a number of things to which children are entitled, including food, clothes, education, and freedom. I believe this is meant primarily as a message for parents. You can see a progressive curriculum in the upper classes as well, where they talk candidly about issues such as domestic violence and HIV/AIDS.

We plan to stay here another few days, teaching and visiting other schools in the town, before heading to the Mina Academy in Mbita. Internet is unreliable at best, but we’ll try to update soon.

<3 audrey




We were thankful for this assurance that our train ride to Nairobi from Mombasa would be without corruption:



Somewhere in the Kenyan highlands en route to Nairobi:



A view of Homa Bay and its landmark hill, from a boat in Lake Victoria. Mr. Steve insisted that we take (him on) a short boat ride.



A morning assembly at KSJS, emceed by the One and Only Mr. Steve:



A candid of eager students:



Third-grade students. Usually the squirreliest ones at KSJS (which isn't saying much), here they appear engaged.



Little ones with their morning uji. We later learned that uji is sometimes a more complex mixture than just maize flour (sometimes containing mealed nuts and spices), and that it is a culturally significant offering of hospitality to make. Here, the recipe is just maize flour + hot water.



Reality check..KSJS houses 8th grade students if their families choose, since these students are candidates for the KCSE placement test to get into secondary school and need to focus on school. While this devotion is admirable, the school is only able to offer accommodations like these, where girls sleep two-to-a-bed (bed=flimsy foam slab, often laying on the floor, and sans mosquito net) in this tiny iron-sheeted room.

kenyou believe it?

i'm going to start this blog post with the disclaimer that i am generally/always lazier than kyle, and haven't prepared anything. suffice it to say, we are now in kenya! here are some thoughts i have had/am having right now. all aboard the train of thought!

we left thailand on the third (one day after our visa had expired), snuck through customs without paying our $15 dollar fine (probably stupid, considering this could have landed us in thai prison, which seb assures us gets old after a few months) and hopped on a kenya airways flight to mombasa through nairobi.

kyle and i actually got our first taste of kenya before we even stepped foot in the country. we had done our best to book our tickets ahead of time, but kenya airways doesn't accept online payment, so we assumed we'd pay on arrival at the airport. upon arrival (9:30 on a tuesday), the ticket counter was closed, without any way of telling when it would open for us to say, pay for our tickets before boarding the plane. we waited for a half hour or so, before relenting and purchasing entirely new tickets through a travel agency. so much for planning ahead!

brief aside: due to the prevalence of peanut allergies among its clientele, kenya airways has the best snacks - instead of the typical honey-roasted baggie, we munched on macadamia nuts. 10 points.

kenya itself has been a bit of a mind trip. we are both trying to keep an open mind, carting as little cultural baggage/fear as possible, but it's difficult when such premonitions are constantly reinforced by the local people. i don't mean that people are scary, but that they tell us we should be scared. come to think of it, i'm not sure which is worse. for instance, the lady at the information desk at the airport advised us against taking a matatu (van/bus thingy) from the airport into downtown mombasa, because it might not be safe for us at night. ten minutes later, our taxi driver refused to drop us at a cheap hotel, because our things might not be safe. when we assured him we had no good things to steal, he paused, and warned "well, maybe they take your bodies then."

now, i would expect all this from our fear-based culture in the states, but i was actually kind of surprised to encounter it here. i sincerely doubt that we have as much to be frightened of as our taxi driver would lead us to believe. i wonder then, what creates that perception on his part. certainly, we are visible targets for crime here (much fewer tourists than in thailand). perhaps fear itself is not such a scary thing in this country, and his comments carry much more weight with us than they do with him.

in any case, besides these warnings, we've seen nothing to indicate that we are in any sort of real danger here. the people have been consistently friendly (calls of "jambo" - hello in swahili - as we walk down the street). occasionally we can sense a slight mocking tone when we are forced to ask stupid questions. this rankles kyle, but i can't help but see it, once again, as an inevitable result of our visibility.

today we head by train from mombasa to nairobi, and then to homo bay where we begin our first homestay. we will be working for a few weeks at the king solomon school, doing some agricultural work and volunteering in classrooms. we are both excited to interact with children in a meaningful way. more reports soon.

<3 audrey

> A view from a beach in Watamu:










low tide <












Watamu, though poor by American standards, is still quite comfortable for Africa.

Seb

Seb was arguably the best part of our stay chez Willow, or at Buti's Farm, or whatever. While we can't hope to bring the man to life with mere words, here are some images that will be with us in our hearts for a long time:

<> A brief biography, as much as we can figure: Sometime in the 1960s-70s (?) Seb is born. He spends his early childhood in an alternative hippie community in the French wilderness, where his teacher consistently leads the class into the wilderness with the intention of getting them lost so they can get to know nature and find their way out. Seb is three years old at this time. At age 17, Seb joins the French Foreign Legion and serves for five years in East Africa. Time passes...In the early 1990s or so, he begins fighting professionally as a Muay Thai kickboxer. His career lasts roughly twelve years. He used to make about $3000 to $10,000 per fight.

<> Seb insists that his diet was finicky while growing up--the only foods he would eat being goat's milk yogurt and fresh ox blood. He also enjoyed horse blood. Today his ideal diet would probably consist wholly of locally distilled rice whiskey and...goat's milk yogurt, both purchased in and consumed directly out of 2-liter bags.

<> Most of Seb's clothing was inherited from a dead man. For this reason, he is constantly cinching up pants that are 5 sizes too big with a disintegrating leather belt. When asked about an outfit he was wearing on a particular day, he responded "No, I got these in... oh no. These were a dead man's too."

<> On his first training session with the Malaysian prince: "He came on very strong...he hit me in the head. So I kneed him...in ze plexus..."

<> One day, the Prince showed up (early and loudly, as per the usual) to train with Seb after a day's respite. The two broke into an argument because the Prince was supposed to have spent the previous day securing a good pair of running shoes, even traveling to Chiang Mai if necessary; he had nothing other than his usual slip-on Keds. ... Seb made him go running anyway, barefoot, on the rocky dirt road that leads to the farm. Seb returned after maybe an hour, glistening with sweat and his muscles bulging impossibly from his sleek frame (kyle's imagery) (it's true...total man-crush). Another 45 minutes passed before the Prince returned, boastful and loud to mask his humiliation. Seb helped him nurse his wounds, but neglected to tell the Prince that the healing balm Seb had cooked up was still boiling hot.

<> After the jogging incident, the Prince asked if he could switch to half-day sessions with Seb. Seb grinned and replied, "half day is fine...but whole-day price." A sample half-day session: pummel the Prince for an hour or so, and then send him, on foot, on a four-mile round-trip journey to buy two grocery bags full of drinking water.

<> Seb served some time in Thai prison due to his predilection for cannabis. But many people in Thailand smoke and don't get hauled off to jail. Why the sour luck? Well, Seb refused to sleep with the lady boy (this is a recognized third gender in Thai culture) who managed the guest house at which Seb was employed. Hell hath no fury like a lady boy scorned, apparently. She tried half a dozen times to get the Pai police to bust Seb, but failed. Finally she called in a favor to some Bangkok cops, and one of Seb's chill-out sessions was truncated when his friend pointed out the two police officers standing overhead.

<> Seb has been retired from fighting for about six years, but he has fought more recently. On his last birthday, he was spun around and punched in the face by a large Israeli man who "thought [he] was just a little French man." Seb responded by hurling the larger man to the ground, curling his fingers around the man's trachea, and riding him down a steep embankment. When this human-sled came to a stop, Seb placed one neat punch on the man's temple. Then, just for good measure, he socked him again. And then once or twice more, maybe...Seb was mostly blacked out at this point.

<> At another point, Seb was attacked in the night by three Thai men with bamboo sticks, allegedly because the leader was jealous that Seb's Muay Thai training camp was taking too much of the local market. Seb, drunk though he was, defended himself against the three assailants, chased them off, and screamed himself hoarse calling them cowards and hurtling every Thai insult he could at them. He couldn't talk for a week.

<> Appropos Thai insults, Seb is fluent (at least to our deaf ears) in Thai language and culture. He jokes in Thai and adores the poetic constructions the language uses. He is also a de facto son of a local hill tribe, ostensibly fully integrated therein.

<> Unlike most people in Thailand, Seb neither owns a motorcycle nor can he drive one. While he often finds rides from friends, if he ever finds himself in town without one he is not concerned. He simply orders three shots of rum and an espresso, and shuffles the 8 km home

<> Seb is not a materialistic person. He does not even have an email account, and he only scarcely understands how to use his cell phone. He might have two possessions in the world that he closely guards: his bamboo bong (obvi), and his 16" (or so) utility blade, which is mounted on a smoothed piece of bamboo and which he uses for everything from cutting firewood and slicing papaya to meticulously mincing his weed-and-tobacco bong mixes* and shaving his face.

* Don't EVER interrupt Seb when he is preparing "ze mix."

<> Seb eats one meal a day, roughly.

<> One of the few other French men in Pai, a man named Jean-Luc, put a lot of his own money into an performance/installation art piece called "Cryogenic." We'll have to tell you about it in person, but basically it involved a lot of narration in English, Thai, and French about a futuristic cryogenic preservation process aimed, as most human effort is, at chasing immortality. It mostly sucked, except for when the giggling heroine put glitter on our eyelids. Audrey and Seb were among those who asked not to be included, but she just giggled and told them to close their eyes and tilt up their chins. Audrey removed her glitter that very night, rubbing her face raw with a towel; Seb wore his for a week. Seb did some of the French-Thai translation for Jean-Luc, until he decided that he liked him. "I don't work with him," Seb explained, "because I like him, and I want to stay his friend. It is like zis with French people."

<> After a family altercation in France, Seb spent a long and cold winter chopping wood and smoking weed in the French Alps, alone, brooding. "I was so angry!"

<> At various points in his life, Seb has had opportunities to reintegrate into mainstream society (i.e. not living out in the boonies, etc). He doesn't really care for mainstream society, but the real obstacle to wider social integration is the various constraints that would place on his marijuana consumption.

<> Before leaving, we asked Seb for a mailing address. His reply, deadpan and apparently serious, was, "PO Box 'Seb', Pai, Thailand."


This may have painted a shocking and comical image of Seb, which was kind of our intention. But Seb isn't just a joke to us, no matter how colorful his personality. In addition to being tough, wily, adept, and intelligent, he has an unbelievable capacity for patience, compassion, and love. He made this part of the trip what it was, and we remember him very fondly.

<3 Kyle and Audrey

2/27-3/1 -- G'Bye, Pai

As we're beginning to understand, expectations are for suckers. Or, as Willow likes to put it, "the best way to make the Goddess laugh is to tell Her your plans." Our week in Pai was nearly a complete departure from what we'd anticipated, and it was better for it.

Our interactions with Willow and Buti after Day One were limited to brief exchanges every couple of days when we stopped by Buti's store to grab something from our bags (stored there) and to charge the batteries to our trusty Steri-Pen, an item of much fascination for Seb and others who depend on store-bought water for drinking and cooking rather than the Pai River.

The farm is basically an oversized garden at this time of the year, so beyond pulling some weeds and chopping some firewood there wasn't much to do. (By all accounts there are literally thousands of coffee and banana trees, as well as pineapples, passion fruit, and a host of other edibles; the dry season just isn't as verdant.) One day we visited a small waterfall and played cards with an impish, outgoing Australian named Shane; another day we paid $3 to spash around in a health resort's hot-spring pool. Some days we played Scrabble in town (Aud's streak as of 2/27 was 10-0*), and other days we did chores and read**.

The Aussies turned out to be great co-visitors, and we passed a lot of time talking and feeding hardened wax from spent candles like fodder to burning ones, fending off the boredom of dark nights. While we were initially put off by the prospect of fending for ourselves food-wise (Chabaa spoiled us, and these WWOOF opportunities are, in part, meant as a way to extend our finances through the trip), we both had a blast learning to replicate Thai cooking over a wood fire. Tentative fried rice evolved into stir fries that grew bolder each night as we experimented with turmeric, ginger, and the essential-but-finicky fish sauce. We even made some scrumptious desserts with banana flower (only I could stomach the texture) and pumpkin (damn, girl). The watershed moment came when Seb had some Thai friends over one night when we were finishing a stir fry. Aud and I served ourselves, and invited others to try some. The two Thai women had heaping plates and exclaimed "arroy mah!" ('Delicious!'); Audrey blushed a little bit. We had mixed (but mostly positive)feelings about the unavailability of second helpings.

[Oh, and remember that post in which I explained how motorcycles are off-limits in my family? Well...I kinda poked that one in the eyes by driving one around Pai for a week. It was the best way to get from town to the farm 8 km away, and it was way to much fun. This could become a problem when I get back stateside...]

On Saturday we got on a bus to Chiang Mai. Pai is quite high up, maybe at an altitude comparable to Reno's. Highway 107 from Chiang Mai is mostly a slow, spiraling climb up toward Pai at the summit. (Imagine the road up to Mount Rose, but 150 miles long, and surrounded by dense, verdant jungle.) The top of the hill, where Pai sits, is more akin to Vacaville's rolling hills fused with Western Massachusetts' dense, twiggy forest of decidiuous trees. The ride up was as slow and soothing as the ride was speedy and gut-wrenching going down. Neither of us is especially prone to car sickness, but we both had to do some yoga breathing and stare out the window part of the time. I regained my stomach when we stopped halfway down the mountain and Aud and I shared some bland noodle soup and rice. But then I nearly lost it again talking to Will.

Will was a guy I'd "your-team"-ed to Audrey back at the Pai bus station because his copper non-butt was hanging substantially and grotesquely out of his pants. He was silent with a row to himself on the bus, but once he decided to cross the aisle and strike up a conversation there was no stopping him. It soon became clear that Will was a special person, perhaps the dimmest conversationalist I've ever met. A sample exchange:

WILL: What state are you guys from?
[We reply. Time passes in silence. Will turns around again...]
WILL: Guns N' Roses just came out with a new album.
KYLE: "Chinese Democracy?"
WILL: Yeah... ... ... I like two songs on it.
KYLE: [expectant pause]
WILL: One is called "Prostitute"...
[Time passes. More time passes...]
WILL: When's your birthday, Kyle?
KYLE: February 8.
[Time passes.]
WILL: Bob Marley's birthday is February 6.

And so on, and so on. We learned that Will is 38 years old and had a son at age 20; his son is now 16 (we don't follow the math on that, either). He dislikes AC/DC but likes GNR because "they have talent." He left one Thai woman he was dating for another because the latter "was prettier...maybe that was a bad choice." Also, he was hit in the stomach in the 4th Grade. It hurt.

The whole exchange reminded Audrey of this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuFEssDBBQY

In Will's defense, he did have a sliver of the Shakespearian Fool to him. Amidst all his mindless babble and stilted conversation, he had one little nug of insight that I rather appreciated. He said that he eats a lot of fruit, and he always saves the seeds. That way, when he is 'out in nature' (like, for instance, at a guest house in Pai) he can plant the seeds in hopes of nurturing new trees and new life. Now, that's kind of a silly idea, but here's how he put it: "If everyone would do that...ya know...'create abundance,' then there'd be no shortage of anything."

[DISJOINTED BREAK]

OK, this is the last forseeable opportunity we'll have to tell this tale (from mid-February), and even though the transition is poor it is still workable. (Think, bus=>bus)

You recall what a chore it was to find transport from the Cambodian border to Siem Reap. On the way back, our only task was to decide which bus to take back to Bangkok: the $12/person bus, or the $11. Ah, what a dollar can do!

Everything seemed normal--a small bus arrived at our guest house at 7:30 AM. It was small and cramped, and people were sitting side-by-side with their luggage, so I was certain that this was a kind of shuttle to the larger, more comfortable bus. Nope--this is ElevenDollar Land. As we drove around Siem Reap, picking up other passengers, it became clear that this was THE bus. As another load of passengers climbed aboard, our luggage was wrested from us and crammed into the rear of the bus. Luggage began to fill the aisles in the rear, and already my knees were starting to ache from the pressure of the seat 12" ahead of me. Just when Aud and I were starting to curse our decision to go as cheap as possible, the other passengers' antics made it all worthwhile...

The bus began to fill up and when the last seat was filled, the large American man waiting to board blocked up the stairs. He was thick in a former-high-school-linebacker way, and he had the same caustic swagger. With his stylish Oakley sunglasses perched atop his spikes of gelled hair, he began explaining proudly that he had purchased TWO seats and was excited to claim both of them. He insisted that the driver empty the front seat of the luggage it had been storing so he would have his seatS. The driver, obviously stressed and getting sick of Two Seats' verbal abuse, hefted the luggage angrily into the aisle between me and an Irish woman who squawked as if he'd just called her an "old bag."

Two Seats began loudly bemoaning the conditions and, relishing the captive audience of sympathetic white folks, began making loud phone calls to some kind of business associate to complain. Even when it became apparent that half a dozen other passengers would have to take expensive taxis to Bangkok, Two Seats held fast to his rightful allocation of seatage. The frustration was contagious. An Eastern European couple in front of us began to voice variations of, "Zis is not OK!" Meanwhile, Two Seats turned up the rhetoric: "me no Asian, me no sit on floor." At this point the bus company brought in the enforcer, a diminutive Thai man in his mid-20s whose job was apparently to yell as much as possible.

TWO SEATS to ENFORCER: You need to get another bus!|
ENFORCER: You don't tell me what to do!
TS: Someone should be recording this customer service for YouTube...
EASTERN EURO WOMAN with camera phone in hand: Zis is going on the Internet! You vill be famous!
ENF to EEW: You shut up!
TS: You don't need to yell!
ENF, yelling: I'm not yelling!
[silence]
IRISH WOMAN: I'm terrified...How do we get off?!

As Audrey pointed out, no one felt a need to point out to the terrified, pink woman the obvious doors, windows, and emergency exits located over the wings.

We finally got moving again, and as we moved through town Two Seats got comfy on his bench and announced to any sympathetic white ears that were listening his theory: "This wouldn't be a problem if we were Asians...they'd just stack us up clear to the ceiling."

No one found his quip clever, so he shut up (for the most part). People calmed down as they realized that the bus wasn't as cramped as it had seemed, and we moved swiftly toward the border. The Eastern Europeans complained when we stopped for lunch halfway there ("Zis is unnecessary! We're late enuff!"), but they ended up being the last to re-board, having decided to make hot tea with their electric tea kettle for the second leg of the trip.

It's not that we were entirely comfortable, and we felt our own share of the frustration. But as with people who verbally assault ticketing agents at cheap airlines and who get froth-mouthed over bargain transportation in the States, I'm endlessly amazed by the indignation of white budget travelers.


*As of 3/8 the count is 12-2, my two victories coming when she was 1) jet-lagged and 2) a bit drunk, and when I played 1) QUIRK on a double-letter (Q) and a double-word score to begin the game, and 2) MESSIAH as a clutch [and probably invalid] bingo.

**(For those who are interested, I finished Numbers in the Bible...rather than plugging through more of the Old Testament [so much begatting!], I've changed gears, ignored chronology, and jumped ship to reading the Koran.)

<3
Kyle

3/8 -- Truants, See?

Hi All,

Sorry for the extended radio silence. We've had a hard time finding Internet access since we left Thailand. We're gonna try to pound out a few posts today to update those interested.

XOXO,

Kyle and Aud

and also, i have ringworm.

after 2+ weeks of travelling, kyle and i finally arrived in the little town of pai to begin our second home stay on a small farm growing coffee beans and fruit. we took a 4 hour bus ride from chiang mai and telephoned our host named...

wait for it...

willow ironhorse.

we probably should have taken this as an early warning sign, but we didn't.

upon meeting willow, he immediately launched into a detailed analysis of our chinese zodiac signs. he would refer back to peoples' signs later in conversation, which was sometimes disorienting. ie "you'll have to meet my wife. she's such a pig."

willow believes that the us government engineered every major domestic disaster over the past 200 years, including pearl harbor and 9/11. he cannot justify living in the states for this reason. somehow, he still manages to justify living off a government check. go figure.

willow is (literally) twice as old as his akha wife, buti, who gives him sponge baths and cuts his fungal-infested toenails.

willow did way too much lsd in the sixties, seventies, and probably eighties.

to top it off, this didn't turn out to be a homestay, so much as a "you can camp on my land if you want while i live in town and occasionally treat you to my crazy lectures." this is fine, but it isn't what we were expecting. luckily, there is a healthy cast of characters also crashing on willow's farm, which is making for an interesting experience.

1. australian couple. normal, smart, funny, similarly disillusioned as to the homestay/labor exchange aspect of this opportunity. we get along.

2. ceb, the french expert in thai boxing. extreme alpha male, but friendly so long as you don't piss him off. when he isn't hauling tree-sized logs and tilling the garden, he's packing a bowl (i've never seen anyone smoke this frequently - he seems to have an inexhaustible supply and tolerance).

3. mike. we think he's thai. mostly what he does is come over during the day and smoke ceb's weed.

4. the malaysian prince (we're pretty sure). he has come to the farm to study thai boxing with ceb, which is unfortunate, because ceb can't stand the sight of him. occasionally, ceb will lose it and confront him verbally in front of everyone ("you need to shut your mouth!") which is pretty unconfortable, but mostly he just gets the poor guy drunk and then beats the shit out of him during "training."

there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of work to do on the farm, so i'm not sure if we'll stay a full week. perhaps we'll move on early or explore chiang mai a little more thoroughly. for now, we're still collecting stories, so we'll stick around. :)

hope all is well back home (in babylon, as willow would say, frequently).

<3 audrey

2/17 -- Night Train North

We got to the train station at a little after 9:30 AM. The 2 PM train to Chiang Mai would have gotten us there at the early hour of 5 AM the next day, but the only seats available were 1st Class sleeper cars with AC. We’re not First Class Cats, Aud and me; the 2:30 train still had regular 2nd class, fan-cooled seats.

We’ve generally found bus travel to be cheaper and sometimes faster than trains, but the comfort and antics of trains are superior. This trip was no disappointment.

We ate at the train station cafeteria, which uses a somewhat convoluted coupon system in place of a cash-for-food exchange. Aud had a tasty noodle dish in a beef broth, and I went out on a limb at the “Islamic Food” Station. (I’ve put that between quotation marks because ‘Islamic Food’ seems to connote something very specific, perhaps religious, and possibly inaccurate.) Despite the admonitions of the young man serving the food, I tried what he said was his favorite dish: spiced chicken stomach with vegetables. The texture was poppy and exciting, the taste a bit chalky but pleasant like processed meat sometimes is, and the spice left a glorious ribbon of dew on my brow.

Onto the train, where legroom was generous and the seats were pen-cap-blue pleather. Caramel wood paneling framed the large, operable windows, and every two rows was an 18” oscillating fan bolted to the ceiling. These fans were basically useless, as every window was open shortly after departing.

Unlike the other trains we’ve been on, this one did not serve meals, those microwaved entrees of savory sauce and mystery meat over rice that Aud scarcely finishes inspecting by the time I finish mine and begin leaning over asking if I can have a bite of hers. Instead, men and women pace the aisles bearing boxes and baskets of goodies, calling out their descriptions in melodious Thai that is utterly unrecognizable to my tone-deaf ear. There is a range in both value and deliciousness among these: a fresh coconut icee for 5B is a steal; 50B for a can of Chang (i.e. Thai Coors) beer is not; sticky rice with fat-moistened beef jerky is scrumptious; processed, foot-colored pork rinds are not appealing.

As we cruised along, I’d been working my way slowly but attentively through the Bible. I had just finished the book of Exodus when…Ack! A plague of locusts! A plague of gnats and gadflies and mosquitoes! As night fell, buggies of every size and predilection began flying through our open windows and crashing into us, dazed. In the dark, the train is nothing so much as a giant bug lamp, a four-car tube of seductive fluorescent allure churning through the countryside. We made sure to sleep with our mouths closed…

Between sections of reading I looked out at our changing surroundings. Going north and east to Cambodia took us to a depressingly dry and harsh area compared to the greenness of the Southern Peninsula. But up here the land seems fertile and kind. Huge tracts of land devoted to rice cover the flatlands, geometric carpets of brazen, electric green and hues borrowed from pond scum. As we rumbled by a fallow field I could faintly smell the earthy scent of the freshly tilled soil, but it was mostly overpowered by the persistent, heavy sweetness of last season’s crop as it burned in preparation for the next cycle. Bits of ash floated in through our windows and threatened to recolor our clothing. The first twenty minutes of evening glowed lavender and raspberry with the burn’s light.

But some things are universal in the rural world, it seems. Rising out of the monotony of the fields is the biggest structure for miles: the grain elevator. I don’t presume to know about how agriculture is organized here in Thailand, but in most of the world the grain elevator is global capitalism’s sacred mark, not merely a structure but an institution in itself signifying monopsony and depressed food prices. It is all very nice if you buy your food, but selling food to such a machine is nicht good.

Aud turned to me and remarked that now that we’re back in Thailand it’s obvious how much wealthier it is here than in Cambodia. And she’s right. But Thailand hasn’t changed, even if our perspective has. On the banks of the turbid streams, on the margins of the rice fields, are the homes of Thailand’s rural poor. The contrast between the radiance of the fields in which they toil and the apparent dimness of their prospects is striking. Four moldering support beams and some corrugated tin panels—is that a home? A rusting lean-to, sagging like playing cards atop a drinking game glass. How much longer can it be supported? A sinking foundation, a home just trying to hold together and hope for better things tomorrow. Maybe people inside, doing the same.

2/17 -- Tit-For-TAT

Two things are sure to happen to you if you dare to amble down the streets of Bangkok saddled with baggage of any sort, no matter your outward confidence or air of purpose: you will get 1) an offer for a tuk-tuk/taxi, and 2) an emphatic recommendation that you secure transit for the next leg of your trip through the TAT.

The illustrious Tourism Authority of Thailand is at once a mysterious and an omnipresent institution. On our first visit to Bangkok (this is our third of the trip), the advice of three separate onlookers and our own reluctance to schlep ourselves 10 km roundtrip to the train station for tickets combined to justify our visit to “the” TAT office. In the air-conditioned foyer, a set of six cubicles awaited us, each bedecked with its own share of tropical-scene calendars and large travel posters advertising lush islands and elephant treks. In the end, we were convinced that 100 baht per ticket was a reasonable surcharge to pay to have the tickets brought to us, even though we did not believe the agent’s claims that same-day purchases are impossible and that, with his help and deft cell-phone jockeying, we’d secured the last two tickets on the train we wanted.

So here we find ourselves again: in Bangkok, up early to find transport to another region of the country to meet another host and continue our journey. We braced ourselves for the onslaught and stepped down the stairs of our guest house and onto the street. Khao San Road is ground-zero for Bangkok tourism, and as we walked toward a larger avenue the vendors were in the early-morning limbo of assembling their stalls for today and cleaning up after the chaos of the day (and night…) before. We’d gotten maybe 10 m before a man asked if we’d gotten our tickets yet—we walked away when he whipped out a map and began pointing excitedly to “the” TAT office.

(I say, “the” office because whatever strange governmental status the TAT actually does rightfully have is endlessly parroted by every sort of travel agency. EVERYone has a TAT license, which makes each travel agent’s flimsy laminated badge seem all the less compelling. At right, see (if you can) this snapshot of the upper gallery of the Bangkok train station, where three “Tourism Information” stalls sand side-by-side, each ostensibly “licensed.”)

Another man offered Audrey a taxi ride to the train station for only 10 baht, but we instantly recognized that as a scam. 10 baht is enough for a ride to one of two places: a) a ride around the block, or b) a trip to a TAT office. Another offer of 50B was a little more credible, but it soon became clear that they were more interested in helping us get our train tickets than taking us to the train station itself (note the disconnect there…)

We finally found a metered taxi and got to the train station for 70B including a tip. Our tickets: same-day, no problem. We win…for today.

1/30 - 2/10 -- FlashBack/-Forward

So, we've been a bit MIA since leaving Wat's. Since we know that dozens upon dozens of you read this blog daily, waiting with, as they say, 'bated breath for our sporadic missives, I present to you the following summary of the week and and a half since we left Wat's:

Jan 30-- We left Wat's in the morning, taking the mini-bus to Hua Hin. Wat was quite nonchalant about the bus schedule, even though there are only two city-bound buses a day, at 8:00 and 8:30 AM. We had missed the 8:00 AM bus, and were in the middle of a breakfast of Thai tea with milk and coconut-fried bananas when I asked what if the gaily colored truck heading for us was the second bus. He looked at it lazily and then suddenly perked up, and Aud and I dashed to stop it, catch it, and say goodbye hurriedly.

After spending an evening with Nikki, a rambunctious, off-color, and very drunk Canadian ex-pat who dragged us out (with her indifferent husband and his buddies) for a dinner of "the best fish and chips in Hua Hin" for the "dirt-cheap" price of 510 baht (like, $15, or roughly 5 times our normal food budget for a meal), we apologized for being too tired to party all night and headed to bed.

Jan 31-- We lazed around Hua Hin. Our guest house had a serene courtyard conducive to reading quietly, and we each plowed through a book. A trip to the beach was a treat, though it resulted in my getting an odd rash covering a large amount of my feet and ankles (which has since been defeated with some knock-off Claritin).

Feb 1-- We finally figured out that touristy restaurants were not the way to go, and we subsisted solely fruit and various fried goodies (banana & egg crepes, squid-on-a-stick, and Thai mini-waffles) from street vendors. Steamed bean paste buns were also a favorite. Yum! We basically entertained ourselves the same way: some beach, some reading, wandering the large night market but finding most of the stuff undesirable. That said, they have Louis Vuitton and Dolce and Gabbana coming out of their ears here! Who'da thunk it? [Wink]

Feb 2-- We caught a mid-day train from Hua Hin to Chumphon, two hours south and on the east coast of Thailand. A travel agency secured us tickets on the night boat to the island of Koh Tao and also drove us to the fishy pier out in the boondocks, which was worth the $1.50 surcharge. We even got to shower at their place, which was a godsend. The nightboat was pretty sketch...The air was thick with the aromas of stagnant water, rotting fish, and sea-rusted metal. We followed a path of low doorways and steep stairs to a large bunk room lit by fluorescent lights and furnished with bunks lining the walls. The engine roared once we took off on the six-hour trip, but I'm a deep sleeper and Aud had her earplugs so we slept OK.

Feb 3-- We saved $10 the hard way by refusing all offers for taxi service on our trek across the 3 km by 7 km island of Koh Tao, headed for the eastern shore of Aow Tanote. With the precision guidance of a tourist map of the island, we found a path that took us from west to east over the second highest point on the island; we ended up climbing 1,000 vertical feet over 1.5 km. Aud's ankle was still a little on the weak side, but you wouldn't have known it. At one point we had to crawl on all fours to get up a steep, sandy hill where the road had been scarred by deep washouts that would have made vehicle access impossible. We finally came down, luxuriated in some cold water and iced mint tea at a man's tea shop, and perused the lodging situation. We ended up finding a bungalow at the Poseidon resort for 300 baht a night, which we snapped up.

Feb 4-7 -- This was a really sweet time. Aud used the word 'romantic,' which actually nails it pretty well. Less in the chocolate and flowers and Macy's jewelry kind of way, but like this: four days of cheap lodging, tasty food, fantastic snorkeling, reading in the sun, Scrabble in the shade, gin rummy with dinner, and not a worry in sight.

Feb 8 -- My 23rd birthday! We celebrated by heading back to the pier via an easier path: a longer but much flatter, mostly paved road that delivered us to Freedom Beach, which is the compromise between Aow Tanote's serenity and Hat Sairee's party-all-night scene. We gnoshed on some fruit smoothies (their tangerines here are great!) and did some book trading at a European ex-pat's shop. We sold some books we'd both read: "Same Kind of Different as Me," a book about a couple of born-again Christians in Texas whose lives intersect with that of a man who grew up in modern-day slavery in Louisiana (it was not what I'd expected when I bought it on a recommendation, but it is worth a read if for no other reason than to see how some people find glorious ways to act out their faith); "Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha," a fun memoir of growing up in 1960s Ireland in which the author (Roddy Doyle) nails the voice and perspective of a young boy; and "Three Cups of Tea," the improbable story about Greg Mortensen, who is singlehandedly doing more to prevent terror by building schools at $12,000 a pop than the US government has managed with some trillions of dollars. We got some cash for these and Aud picked up a copy of Thomas Hardy's "Tess of the D'Ubervilles," which is a period piece whose dramatization she'd only seen part of. I'm simultaneously reading Steven Millhauser's collection of short stories called "Dangerous Laughter" and the Old Testament of the Bible. (We also gave my copy [actually, John Carrico's...] of Paulo Coehlo's "The Alchemist" to Wat when we left. It is a beautiful read about chasing one's dreams.)

Anywho...we had a nice dinner and played cards for several hours before catching another night boat that proved to be cleaner and better equipped.

Feb 9-- We got in to Chumphon before dawn, when a pallid moon still fought inky clouds for control of the blank, starless sky. The mini-bus we all piled into was full, so I had the thrill of hanging off the back on a wooden runner while Audrey watched me, concerned. Some German women were dropped off at a bus station, and we decided to follow them, which ended up being a good call. For half the price of train tickets, we got a bus direct from Chumphon north seven hours to Bangkok. Once we got to Bangkok, we had to get to another bus station to get to the Cambodian border, so we spent a night in Bangkok in a cheap guest house. Again, the luxury of a private bathroom and a shower is never so evident until you've been traveling all day.

Feb 10--We trekked up to the northern Bangkok bus station to catch the 10:30 bus to Aranya Prathet, on the border of Cambodia. Or should I say Scam-Bodia? We knew things were going to be dicey, so we did our best to be vigilant about getting tricked. A tuk-tuk driver took us from the bus stop to near the border, but he pulled off onto a street a mile or so from the border market, which is where we wanted to go. When we stopped at a small storefront, a tout approached us and welcomed us to the Cambodian Consulate, where for only 1200 baht we could get our visas in five minutes. Audrey, whose research had shown that we could get visas at the border market for about $20-$25, insisted that they were full of it, but they kept insisting that visas at that price were only available in Bangkok with three days' notice. I noticed that we were 20 meters from the street corner, while the sign the tout had pointed out (as proof of his station) said that the Cambodian Consulate was 100 meters away. I walked down the street a bit and saw the embassy, tucked behind some trees.

We still got had there, a little. At the Consulate they charged us 1000 baht a piece; we believe the trick there was to not offer us the chance to pay in US currency ($20) so that we would necessarily pay the baht-conversion fee, bringing the total to 1000 baht. Nice, guys.

Our tuk-tuk driver took us to the border market, where a man showed us his lame ID badge, explained that we could trust him because he is "Cambodian people," and began escorting us around to show us the ropes. We walked right by several "Visa Express US$20" stands. This "guide" insisted that we take out baht at the ATM, saying something illogical about ATMs in Cambodia only spitting out US dollars, though it was not clear what that had to do with Thai baht. We were suspicious but didn't quite connect the dots, so we complied. He shepherded us through customs, and then told us about the free shuttle bus to the bus station where we could get buses to Siem Reap. The immediate area showed no promise for finding a bus station, and the shuttle came in about 90 seconds, so we went for it. I asked the guide if we could really catch a bus to Siem Reap for $10, and he answered enthusiastically in the affirmative.

Next thing we know, we are dropped off at the "bus terminal," an empty, high-ceilinged room with no ticket counter but only a restroom and some cheap tables and chairs on the perimeter. The guide then insisted that we turn our baht into riel, and we complied. (We didn't get ripped off bad, but the trick is obvious now--85 riel equals 1 baht, and the money changer gave us about 84.8:1. So they get to make a small profit from misleading us, but they are not guilty of any egregious wrongdoing.) We now had 334,900 riel in paper notes...one US dollar is worth 4000 riel.

Then our guide informed us that, oops, we'd JUST missed the last bus of the day. What a shame! But his friend was happy to take us to Siem Reap by taxi for only $50. At this point I dug in my heels and began to harangue our smug, khaki-clad, pock-marked "guide." I expressed my deep surprise to find that at the young hour of only 4 PM the last bus to the biggest city in the region had already left. I asked when the buses ran, and he sputtered for a while before explaining that there were two per day, one at 2 PM and one at, um, 3...no, 3:30 PM. Ah, now I understood! It must have just slipped his mind when, at the border, I'd asked if we could take a bus and he said that we could. It was after 3:30 then, but he must have just forgotten the bus schedule.

Meanwhile, Aud went out one side entrance to buy a beer from a cooler that the taxi drivers all shared. (Really.) She came back in and told me that our taxi fare was now down to $33. Still pissed, I explained to the driver and our guide that I was quite content to sit in the cool, clean "bus terminal" until some other foolish tourists showed up to share a cab. Audrey said that she, too, was quite comfortable, and dug around for her book.

Within a couple of minutes the price had fallen to US$30, on the condition the the driver pick up some passengers en route. The ride was uneventful: the road is infamous for its poor condition, and we had to drive down into ditches to get around several bridges. The poverty of the countryside was evident, and Audrey made the observation that Cambodia simply has a drier climate than, say, Thailand, which explains the less lush farmland, and some of the poverty. (Of course, Pol Pot and the landmine problem are other culprits among many.)

Finally, at something like 9 PM, we got into Siem Reap. Another tout hopped in our tuk-tuk and recommended a cheap guest house that we've enjoyed. He was very charismatic and wanted us to hire him as a guide for the temples at Angkor Wat. We struggled over that for a couple of days, but ultimately decided to follow our original plan and see the temples by bike. I'm still trying to decide if that was the Right Thing to do...

--OK. That was exciting, yes? We'll give some more updates soon. Tomorrow we head back to Thailand, but it should be less scammy as we've found a direct bus.

XOXO,

Kyle

breaking it down

sorry for the radio silence! that last two weeks have taken us from the countryside at pala-u, to the bustling city of hua-hin (same-same bangkok, according to locals), to a tiny seaside guesthouse on the island of koh tao, and finally to cambodia for a few days at angkor wat. we have had limited/very slow internet. we'll be getting back to volunteering soon, but the vacation has been fun and liberating.

since we've been doing the tourist thing for the last week or so, i've made an effort to be aware of how we (both kyle and i and rich white tourists in general) interact with the local community. it's difficult to really understand, because most of the places we've visited are popular destinations, and so the tourist experience is somewhat inevitable, but we've had glimpses of something more, and it has been extremely rewarding.

hua-hin was a depressing place to start. the city is a hot spot for puffy, older white people to lounge under umbrellas at the beach and be waited on hand and foot. they sip pina coladas while brown hands massage their fleshy, sun-seared bodies. at night, the streets are overrun by a number of white-haired, pot-bellied men parading around with disturbingly mis-matched and likely under-aged "thai girlfriends." it was a good place for cheap internet, but the city catered so overwhelmingly to a different set of tourists, that we didn't end up having anything you could describe as a genuine interaction with a thai person. two days was more than enough.

koh tao, located off the eastern coast of the thai peninsula, caters to a different brand of traveller. don't get me wrong - this was still tourist central, as most of the island's economy seems to revolve around the scuba diving/snorkeling industry (again, rich tourists), but we didn't notice the same conscious and self-conscious divide between the haves and the have nots. i don't know if it was the attitude of the more adventurous, outdoorsey group of foreigners who ventured out to the island, or the idyllic atmosphere once you arrive, but something seemed to create a more peaceful and respectful coexistence. when the workers at our guest house tried to launch the refurbished iron boat they'd been working on all afternoon, several tourists who'd been relaxing on their beach mats didn't hesitate to jump up and help them push it down to the water for a test drive. all the thai people we met on the island seemed to be involved in the tourist industry in some capacity, but when they smiled at you, it didn't feel polite. that may have been the biggest difference.






after five days at koh tao, it was off to cambodia and the ancient temples of angkor wat. this was the one landmark in southeast asia that i absolutely insisted we visit, and so we braved the five-hour bus ride, visa scams at the border market, and a 2 hour taxi drive from the border to siem reap. as the home base for anyone who wants to visit the temples, siem reap is full of a variety of tourist accommodations, ranging from our $4 a night bamboo hut, complete with mattress, mosquito net, and shared bathroom, to the ultra-luxury spa resort. as soon as we exit our guest house in the morning, we are harangued by a chorus of idle taxi drivers. "hello! tuk tuk!" at the temples themselves, it is literally impossible to park your bike and enter the stone walls without multiple adorable children approaching you with offers of cool drinks, t shirts, and wooden flutes. when we decline, they try to wring promises and allegiance for any future purchases. "ok, maybe later," they say, "you come back, you buy from me - i remember you." most of the salespeople are under the age of ten, but this always ends up sounding vaguely threatening. it's a must-see sort of place, but for kyle and i this is like the 4th or 5th level of dante's tourist hell.




on our third day at the temples, kyle and i were trying to bide some time during the hot part of the afternoon. we took shelter under a tree and brought out the playing cards for a game of gin rummy. a young cambodian man approached and asked if we were playing a game. i stiffened involuntarily. this had already happened a few times - someone would approach and ask questions (mostly where are you from, followed by a recitation of state capitals and a shout-out to obama) as a pretext for the inevitable sales pitch. we gave a vague but polite answer, secretly hoping that he would leave us alone, but he stayed and observed with what we began to realize was genuine interest. he was joined shortly by a gaggle of young kids, mostly girls, ranging in age from maybe 5 to 12 years.

once we realized that we'd inspired some actual curiosity, i started to get excited. i gave a brief explanation of the rules, and almost everyone picked it up within a round. by the next hand, kyle and i had each earned a set of fans, who would help us by pointing to what they thought we should discard, and sit patiently with clasped hands while the opponent made his move, praying earnestly for that 5 of hearts, or whatever we needed to complete our final set of three.

back at our guest house, games seemed once again to be the medium of cross-cultural interaction. we were both sitting quietly and reading, when one of the other hotel guests approached us with an invitation to play volleyball. he had been challenged by the hotel manager to a game - cambodians vs tourists. it was on. we were screwed.

for the first game we were given an extra team-mate on our side and still managed to lose 15 to 4. the second round was more respectable, with our side breaking double digits with the help of some british guys from the neighboring hotel. the highlight of the afternoon took place when, during a beer break, a local decided to lead his cow through the volleyball court. everyone was laughing, until the animal caught sight of the red shirt on one of the british tourists, lowered its head, and started to charge. i'm pretty sure that if that dude could have harnessed the adrenaline he used running away from the angry bovine, we might have tied the cambodians.

i leave cambodia tomorrow with mixed emotions. on the whole, this is a pretty unpleasant place. it is unbelievably poor and war-ravaged. as a westerner, you can't walk around without feeling alternately bombarded and guilt-stricken. on the other hand, for the individuals who let down their barriers (and with whom i was able to cautiously remove my own), i will hold the fondest regard. if there is hope for real, healthy recovery from the internal wounds of recent history, it certainly lies in the optimism, intelligence, and resilience of the cambodian people.

2/7 -- Passport

I got a new passport this week, issued to me in the clear, serene expanse of the Gulf of Thailand, on the shores of the small island of Koh Tao. Now, this passport is not a proper document--it lacks pages, a government seal, and even goofy, semi-serious headshots--but it has the same power to offer mobility. Passage to new places. Liberation.

[If that sounds overblown...well, it probably is. But I'm a windbag, so you shouldn't be surprised.]

As most of our readers know, I am not a great swimmer. After bullying my parents into letting me avoid swimming lessons for most of my childhood, at adolescence I suddenly found myself floundering amidst an increasing burden of aquatic social events: pool parties, trips to Lake Tahoe, etc.

Fast forward ten years: nearly 23-year-old Kyle stands waist-deep in the ocean at the peaceful getaway he and Audrey have discovered in Koh Tao. The gentle mid-morning waves lap against his belly and chest as he fidgets nervously with a snorkeling mask; Audrey has already been exploring for half an hour and is ecstatic. Shackled variously by claustrophobia, hydrophobia, anger, and frustration, he wills himself to escape, to be a fugitive from fears left behind on the beach.

Well, it wasn't quite that easy. After half an hour of false starts, panicked breathing, and copious thrashing in the shallow water, I finally trusted the strange plastic apparatus with my breath--and my life. My dogpaddle evolved into a rhythmic (if not graceful, or even efficient) frog-stroke, and the shroud of disturbed sand receded and the ocean appeared before me.

The life I encountered was spectacular in every way--scale, hue, variety. Trying to describe everything I saw is futile, but some cannot go unremarked: long, narrow silvery creatures with comically protruding needle-noses; living mounds with waving, pillowy maws that glisten in effeminate hues like an O'Keefe painting; one type of fish is nearly 2' in length and details itself in colors I've only seen previously inside Crayola boxes, with fluorescent turquoise eyelashes painted in trios on its face and a neon rainbow of other bold, improbable accents. Passing over blankets of coral like a reconnaissance plane, I greedily spied on a world that had been closed to me for most of my life.

I drank it all in--steering around bulbous, purple heads of coral that jutted out from the ocean floor like buttes; chasing glowing schools of radiant fish; peering into the cobalt depths of water too deep for today's outing, but that is suddenly visible and approachable, for the first time in my life.

Don't get me wrong--I'm not suddenly Michael Phelps, and I still panic if even a little water violates the sanctified breathing space of my mask. But I also want to honor what is really a profound moment in my life. The boy who feared the deep end kept his face underwater for an hour at a time; the boy who always hugged the shoreline finally felt the chill embrace of open water. I WANTED to be in the water; I WANTED to swim. That's really, really big for me, I'm ashamed to admit.

My point in all this clumsy blathering is to say thanks. Thank you, Aud, for being exactly the guide I needed to discover this new realm: an impetus and a partner, but not a bully or a taunter. Thanks for knowing I could do it before I myself knew. It's a better, more enduring birthday gift than I ever could have asked for.

-Kyle