April 30, 2015: Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros

On a curvaceous gravel road in the heart of Bali--surrounded by vibrant rice fields that stripe the valley floor and climb steeply up the mountain side, pooling into ingeniously designed tiered terraces--rides a small gang of scooters. Four helmet-clad, backpack-toting Americans with a thirst for adventure. A dapper, Matthew McConaughey-looking man with a quick wit; an allusive running back with a muscular derrière that challenges the purity of the most pious; a young scholar yielding a blond mustache of legendary proportion; and a woman, whose patience and poise rivals that of saints. They fly on two wheels like young demigods born from the blood of Hermes. They are Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros.

Upon Josh's arrival in Kuta, engines revved as we rented scooters and tore off west at an incredibly slow and cautious pace. Bali is a war zone of pot holes, rogue animals, and darting lawless vehicles; not the place to learn how to ride an engined-powered machine of any design. Images from the past poured into my mind and mingled with the present as we navigated our way through controlled chaos. All that was missing from the memory of my first time on a motor bike was a heavy rain. 

Led to salvation by GPS-equipped devices, we escaped the congested web of city streets and transitioned into more open and slightly less scary country roads. Dave and I wagged our fingers like a couple of old curmudgeons. Back in the day when we were here (2012) we didn't have devices. We had to navigate the old fashion way, like our parents! Our slow, tedious system involved halting at every intersection, making eye contact with the locals, followed by the question: Balian? Or Amed, or Padingbai, or any other town we aimed our sites. A host of fingers would simultaneously spring up, rigidly fixed in one direction, and off we went. We were never lost.

Consulting the GPS

It took us a few days to gain confidence on our bikes. Ryan was the exception. His motorcycle days of being too fast and too furious were in the past, but his mustache visibly bristled with the thrill of being on two wheels again. Once out of Kuta we let out a collective sigh of relief. The country side bloomed before us--beauty thriving between the thorns of cities. Crowded buildings slowly tapered and eventually gave way to thick patches of jungle and virgin coastline. Tamed stretches of earth--seeded patiently by tanned hands--sprouted with rows of crops. Sky and clouds rippled within the watery lines of uniformly planted rice. The lively colors clashed defiantly against the military-greens of the plants refusing to conform.

Despite the beauty and the temptation we had to remain focused on the road. There was always a potential hazard to avoid: a monstrous truck forging down the wrong lane, a patch of tire-swiping gravel, or an absent-minded dog trotting towards disaster--unaware of the white-knuckled westerner and the knee-jerk maneuvering that spared them both. The first few days I rode my bike like a spooked cat--muscles rigid, hair raised, eyes wide in surprised terror.

He does wheelies too!

North we went, up the lovely western coastline to the black sand beaches of Balian. Dave and I reminisced about our first visit to this quiet town which had grown exponentially in size in such a short time. A few peacock resorts vied for our business with offers of wifi, a pool, and yoga classes--they go straight for the westerner's heart--but we abstained and chose a minimalist accommodation with a view worth a thousand buffet breakfasts. 

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Upon returning to a place it is natural to perceive its changes. Every time I travel to Ohio I have to squint my eyes to recognize the land where I grew up. Over there is a Super Walmart and over here, where a field of corn once grew, is a shiny new suburb. Progress in some people's eyes, digression reflected in my own. A few weeks ago I met an older couple from the Netherlands who shared their story of change. They had come to Bali in 1997 as travel writers and had returned eighteen years later as tourists. Their eyes widened as they described the differences between the past and the present. 

"Only one paved road circled the island" the old man said, "and each village had three scooters. Three!" They shook their gray heads in amazement. "Now there are thousands zooming around and pavement everywhere."

Three years is not a considerable amount of time, but a lot can happen for better or for worse in the wake of progress. Bali's beauty has not diminished, it is as lovely as ever, but the culmination of publicity and the onslaught of tourists--influenced by travel television, magazines, and books--have made their mark on this small island. Nat Geo Traveler says, "Go to Bali! It's the new, cheaper Hawaii!"

It would be pretentious and hypocritical of me to stand behind my podium and point a condemning finger at tourism, myself being a tourist. Dave and I like to refer to ourselves as "travelers" and we try our best to separate ourselves from that disturbing scene. We cringe when herds of people spill out the doors of behemoth busses, swamping the sites with their numbers and chasing away the peace; we wince when we witness the harassment of a devout Hindu praying in a temple, a private moment between an old woman and her deities stolen by a swarm of iPhones; and we shake our heads in disappointment when a wild stretch of beach is encroached by foreign-owned resorts tailored to maintain a certain level of comfort for a certain type of people--not for the locals. I mock these impacts--a failing attempt at separation--pretending to know what's right for this country and others. My selfish desire to keep these places to myself has manifested into a resentment of my own kind. At the end of the day tourism brings in money and money buys food. Who am I to judge? But I can't help but wonder if that old Dutch couple felt any regrets about what they put in print so many years ago.

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As terrestrial creatures drawn to water, especially water with surf potential, our first order of business in Balian was to rent boards. We highstepped barefoot across the sizzling black sand and paddled out to join the bobbing crowd of surfers. Word had traveled. This once abandoned break was now teeming with Europeans. We found the task of navigating around bodies and avoiding collisions to be frustrating and mostly unrewarding. Dave, however, caught the wave of the day: a long beautiful right, a birthday gift from the sea. That night we ate locally caught fish, and drank cocktails made from cans of tonic, fresh limes, and a bottle of Kettle One--bought in secrecy while in Kuta and saved for the occasion. 

Two days later we remounted our bikes and turned inland towards the mountainous interior. Up we went, throttles revved to their full capacity and engines whining in protest. We leaned forward across the handlebars, willing our bikes up the steep, inclining roads. Eventually we crested the top of each monstrous hill, gaining speed as the road evened out before us. Bali took on a new shape and dimension as we looked down on the curving coastline and the patterned green valleys. Neighboring islands sprouting huge volcanos loomed in the distance--a reminder of how much there was to see in this massive archipelago.   

Some where along the curvaceous, flower-rimmed road Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros were born. It seemed only natural that our little gang should have a name. Dos Equis--Spanish for two x's and the name of a cheap Mexican beer--refers to my female chromosomes. Bintang is the Indonesian-produced beer, and the guys' beverage of choice. A silly joke that managed to stick around like many others on this trip including, but not limited to, Dave having an Academy Award-winning Hollywood doppelgänger; Josh's muscular hind quarters being an object of lust and envy; and Ryan's ever-growing mustache possessing a personality of its own.

Matthew, I mean David

This thing would make Tom Selleck's stash hide in shame

Stand down, ladies

It has been interesting traveling with three XY's dynamically comprised of my boyfriend, brother, and a friend. There has been excessive flatulence, man-talk, and beer drinking on this trip; but despite being viewed as 'just one of the guys,' there is a collective sensitivity towards me that is unmistakeable. Dave has always been subtly protective, trying his best to remain 'cool' and not interfere with my independent nature; but add an older brother to the equation and voila! You get Jenna's not-so-secret service.

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Ten minutes into our flight from San Francisco to Bali a man sitting behind us had a bag dropped on his head by a little old lady trying to get to her luggage. The man threw a fit! He tore into the woman--animately berating and spitting swearwords at her while ignoring her gentle, embarrassed apologies. Disgusted by the scene I turned around and told the man to calm down and have a seat--he was throwing his tantrum in the middle of the aisle. The expression on his face was murderous! He sat down, but as I turned away I could feel his hate-filled gaze searing the back of my head. With an emotionally unstable man sitting directly behind me I felt uneasy and exposed. 

"Take your eyes off my sister!" 

Ryan had turned around in his seat and was fiercely staring down the scowling man. At that same moment Dave returned from the bathroom. Confused by the sudden tension, he looked from me, to Ryan, to the furious face sitting behind us. With eyes still locked on the man, Ryan unfurled the story, ending with the evil look that had been directed towards me. Dave immediately whipped around pointing a finger. 

"Who? This guy?" 

With two sizable men staring him down, the defiance fled from the man's eyes and he looked away, pacified. With a slightly discernible nod of their heads, Ryan and Dave untwisted back into their seats as if nothing had happened. Ryan opened his book, Dave reached for his headphones, and I closed my mouth--which had become unhinged during the scene.

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It didn't take us long to establish a natural order. Ryan and Dave took turns between leading the group and bringing up the rear while Josh rode in front of me, casting a warning finger at patches of gravel and deep crevice-like potholes. I accepted my role as position number three; but every once in a while, feeling defiant, I'd throttle my bike to an uncomfortable speed passing bikes two and one and take the lead. I may be a girlfriend and a sister, but nobody puts Dos Equis in a corner; or, in this case, sticks me at third place. I blasted ahead partly out of demonstration, but mostly it was done with the deviant intent to make the boys squirm. 

I am convinced that motorbikes are the best way to travel. They are not only fun, hearty little machines, but fuel efficient and cheap to rent. At two dollars and fifty cents a day, we bought ourselves boundless freedom. By navigating our own course and indulging our whims, we were funneled away from the tourist scene and straight into the heart of Bali. The shocked, gaping faces of some of the villagers were a testament to just how far we had traveled off the beaten path.

The Balinese are among the happiest and friendliest people I have encountered. Everywhere we went we were greeted by big radiant smiles, vigorous waving, and shouts of inquiry. "Hellooo! Where you from? Where you going?" Children heading home from school stretched their tiny hands towards us, their faces bursting with joy and giggles as we slowed our bikes to a crawl and high-fived them as we passed.

Indonesia is a Muslim country, but scattered within the large archipelago are pockets of Animism, Buddism, Hinduism and Christianity. With beautifully designed stone temples and happy, peaceful people, Bali's Hindu beliefs--which are vastly different from Indias'--have shaped this island into a charming and rich cultural experience. Every morning palm baskets containing flowers, rice, and burning sticks of incense, are placed in temples, homes, vehicles and on the sidewalks as offerings to the gods. In a win-win situation, stray dogs are believed to be agents of the spirit world and are left in peace while they consume these gifts.

We allotted ourselves two weeks to explore Bali; riding in a large circular route from one side of the island to the other--gleaning memories along the way. Through cool, refreshing mountain forests; past picturesque fields of budding rice; and along the emerald-blue coastline of the Indian Ocean. At times, dark cumulous clouds would billow up over the mountains releasing their fury on the island in sheets of heavy rain. We were caught in these drenching storms on more than one occasion with no where to hide--sharp beads of water pelting our helmets and skin. 

In the small mountain village of Munduk, after hiking in the rain to three stunning waterfalls tucked deep in the lush jungle, we sat on our homestay's balcony with cups of hot muddy coffee gripped between our hands. As the sun sank below the palm-fringed horizon, the eire song of a Muslim prayer call drifted in the twilight. These calls to prayer resonate through out all of Indonesia--starting at four thirty in the morning and, like clockwork, sounding at pinnacle times through out the day. Even though Bali's population is nominally Hindu, there are mosques in every village projecting these haunting songs of devotion through crackling loud speakers.

As scooter-riding nomads, we were almost always on the move--stopping from time to time to rest our saddle-sore bottoms and explore an area more thoroughly. The black beaches of Balian, the crystal-coastline of Amed, and the quiet dive town of Tulamben, were a few of the places we spent multiple days forming an acquaintance.

West Coast

In Tulamben, one hundred yards off the beach in about fifty feet of water, rests the World War II ship, the U.S. Liberty. Damaged by a Japanese submarine, the Liberty was towed to Bali with the intent to repair it, but during a volcanic eruption in the 1960's it was swept into the sea by a violent lahar. Now Tulamben is on the map as one of the best scuba spots in Bali. The four of us found a reputable dive shop, suited up, and explored the ghostly remains of the wonderfully intact cargo ship. It was Ryan's first time diving and after getting use to the buoyancy regulator, and the strange sensation of breathing underwater, he cruised around as if he belonged. It is a gift of innovation to be able to visit this once impenetrable world. To possess the ability to breath comfortably, floating weightlessly amid unimaginable preasure, while observing the propulsive movements of a squid. I would have loved to be an aquanaut, a marine biologist, or a fish.

From sea to sky, one day's journey brought us to the mountain town of Salat and the base camp for our journey up Bali's biggest valcano. At over 3,142 meters, Agung appealed to us with its size, accesibility, and lack of popularity--in other words, no guide was necessary. The following morning we awoke at 3:45 and by the light of a pale moon rode our bikes up the steep road to Pura Pasar Agung--the Hindu temple and the beginning of the trail.

After two hours of vertical climbing, headlamps illuminating our path, the darkness gave way to the brilliance of a newborn day. As the colors from the sunrise burned with intensity and spread throughout the sky, we scrambled up the last pitch of rock and reached the summit. Land and sea bowed before us as we stood triumphant on top of the island--Kings and queens of Bali. 

The higher I climb, the further I can see, and the smaller I feel. I stood on top of that mountain surrounded by endless water, gazing down on the contours of the coastline and the fissured-looking road far below. This island is barely visible on a world map. I felt a sudden wave of gratification for the places I have been and an overwhelming sense of excitement for what I have yet to see. This was only one small adventure for Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros. The rest of the world awaited.

As the sun and the temperature rose, we broke the spell of the mountain and descended the steep, rocky slope--passing chattering monkeys and poetic flowers as we went. Dripping sweat and invigorated by our adventure, we reached Pura Pasar and the stairs that led down to our motor bikes. Hindu priests wearing their customary sarong and sash passed slowly by on their way up the mountain to pray. With an entire day before us teaming with possibilities, we mounted our bikes, started our engines, and nodded our heads--the customary symbol for readiness. 

"Let's ride!"

Pura Pasar Agung

March 24, 2015: The Land Of Jasmine

Out of our five senses, smell is considered to be the strongest trigger of our memory. As I stepped through the airport doors in Denpensar, I felt as if I had been transported back in time. The year is 2012 and I am entering Asia for the first time--leaving behind the sterile comforts, rationality, and familiarity of my home, and trading them in for a vibrant, enchanting, chaotic adventure.

The smell of incense, jasmine, and ozone hit my nose and I was swallowed whole by the frenzied pace and sheer strangeness of Asia. My isolated, first-world mind exploded and was never the same. I was romanced by exotic beauty, charmed by a land an ocean apart from my own--I couldn't have felt the distance more. 

On that day in April, three years ago, my eyes were opened to other cultures. The bubble in which I lived was popped and I was suddenly exposed, vulnerable and ignorant--a naked new born traveller. Since that moment I have learned so much, yet still know so little about this world and its people. My journey is an on-going education.

Three rotations around the sun and numerous passport stamps later, I have returned to the land of jasmine. Maybe it's the deep inhalation upon my arrival, the full circle course of my life, or the fact that I am traveling with my brother and David--two on my favorite people--but I feel a deep sense of contentment. I am exactly where I want to be.

We began our adventure in Kuta--the antithesis of Bali's serene, peaceful persona. The entrepreneurial spirit is strong in this large, sprawling city.

"My friend, buy this!" and, "transport, yes!" are commonly heard phrases during a walk down the vendor-filled streets. On the beach we were surrounded by salesmen and woman offering everything from ice cream, massages, and sarongs, to model ships and cross bows. In demonstration, one man threw off his flip flop and shot an arrow through it. He misunderstood our shock and delight as interest in his product.

Our stay in Kuta was short. Just long enough to sleep off the effects of the jet lag and to introduce Ryan to the world of cheap Asian beer and noodles. Bintang (beer) and mie goreng (fried noodles) are now the staples of Dave and Ryan's diet--each one trying their very best to make it until noon before indulging. Their efforts are admirable. 

I am getting my kicks from the fresh coconut and fruit juices, along with gado gado--steamed vegetables in a delicious peanut sauce. You just can't beat a tasty meal that costs 25,000 IRD, or $2 USD. Winning!

From Kuta we took a car to east Bali where we caught the fast boat to Gili Air, a tranquil little island off the west coast of Lombok. For five days we ate fresh caught fish and drank cheap cocktails and Bintang while trying our hardest not to get burnt by the relentless equatorial sun. We bought used masks and snorkels and rode the south flowing current over flowering reefs chocked full of life--sea turtles, moray eels, and hundreds of species of fish. Visitors from another world, we swam among families of exotic fish, and watched them dive into colorful coral--taking refuge from the giant alien shadows that loomed over them.

The best part of our stay on Gili Air was the relationships we formed with the locals. Amung, Easy, and Didi, three good ole Muslim boys, entertained us relentlessly with their jokes and boyish antics. Didi plucked out pop songs on his old, rusty guitar while Amung and friends sat in a circle around Dave and Ryan, enthralled by every word they spoke. They enviously 
commented on Dave's muscles, Ryan's mustache, and, to our shock and sadness, the color of our skin. 

"If only we were tall and white like you." 

They saw our skin as a free-pass, a ticket to a world of ease, and, in their young male minds, lots of babes. Amung and Didi couldn't find girlfriends. They were told they are "too dark." No matter how much we disagreed, showing them our burnt, painful skin and complimenting the beauty of their complexions, they remained adamant. 

Sadly on our small planet, surrounded by an unfathomably vast expanding universe, there is still an overwhelming stigma associated with such an insignificant thing as skin color. We witnessed it personally on Gili Air. Foreigners ignored the greetings of the locals as they passed by them on the road, or exhibited blatantly rude behavior and acts of superiority. 

It shocks me to the core how we as humans have done great things--advancements in modern medicine, landing a probe on a meteor traveling thousands of miles per hour, and splitting atoms--yet we are archaic and backward in our judgement and treatment of our fellow man. 

We said goodbye to our new friends and our cozy little bungalow on the beach and caught a twenty minute ferry to Lombok. From there we joined an island-hopping cruise to Flores with thirteen other travelers--ten Europeans, one Canadian, and two crazy Mexicans. Our boat, a small contraption of wood, tarps, and an engine, chugged along for four days, stopping at some thrilling snorkel spots. 

One particular location was called Manta Alley and was a migratory hotspot for these massive creatures. We absorbed minor shocks and jolts from tiny jellyfish as we watched one graceful winged giant after another soar beneath our suspended bodies. We dived deep, hovering over them as they glided past us effortlessly. We were dwarfed by their presence. One, I swear, had a wingspan of fifteen feet! I believe the rest of the trio would agree that the Giant Manta Rays were the highlight of our trip thus far.

Two of our stops were on Komodo and Rinca Island, where we hiked among dragons with our stick-yielding guides--our only protection. What incredibly fearsome creatures the Komodo Dragons are. They may look slow and lazy while basking in the early morning sun, but they are only waiting for their chance to single out their prey--exploding with surprising speed, dealing a fateful bacterial bite.

Living on a boat in the middle of the Indian Ocean was a memorable experience. We witnessed four incredible sunsets bursting with color, and three new days born in the same sky that hours earlier held the light of a thousand stars. We observed huge flying foxes commuting in transitioning skies--back and forth between food and sleep; large jellyfish with tendrils of blue and pink undulating in clear deep waters--aliens suspended in space. We swam with reef sharks who patrolled their underwater kingdom; and, from the vantage point of our boat, we spotted a large pod of migrating orcas breaching the surface for breaths offresh air. 

The ocean is an amazing, but sometimes treacherous, place. Potential hazards linger in numerous shapes and colors. They hide and wait or dance ominously in warning. Dave had a run in with one of these dangerous creatures while swimming. In shallow waters he placed his hand in the wrong spot in the sand and was struck by a small unseen critter who packed a powerful bite. 

Dave has a strong pain tolerance so I knew it was serious when I saw him wrinkle his face involuntarily in bouts of misery. Immediately his finger swelled, the puncture point turned blue, and his entire hand quaked.

Back on the boat we informed our guide of the mystery bite, looking for insight and reassurance that the wound wasn't serious. He gave Dave some onion. I've heard of the phrase rub a little dirt on it, but an onion?

Miles from no where, I bundled some ice in a damp t-shirt, cracked open some Benadryl and consulted my watch. Thirty minutes after the infliction... still alive. 

The swelling inevitably went down, the pain subsided and we deduced that Dave was going to pull through. The next day all that remained was a little stiffness. Another twenty-four hours later and it was as good as new. Dave's experience was a reminder that the ocean, despite its tranquil beauty, can strike as quick and as unexpectedly as a Komodo dragon. In a place so remote, a treatable accident can be life threatening. 

We arrived in Labaun Bajo, Flores on the fourth day. To our disappointment, this port town was nothing more than a hungry money-eating tourist trap. Unable to rent transportation and faced with the island's high prices, we decided to call an audible and fly back to Bali. The cheapest available flight was in two days.

Again and again we tried to rent transportation in order to venture out of that moral-stealing hole-in-the-wall town, but everything was booked. Feeling discouraged and ready to Bintang our troubles away, we reunited with some of our fellow boat passengers who were planning an excursion. We chipped in and chartered a small sputtering vessel that took us to our own private spot off the coast of Flores. That afternoon, on an island no bigger than a few acres, we BBQd fresh red snapper over a small driftwood fire, drank cheap Asian beer, played beach soccer, and snorkeled the surrounding reef. Not a bad day.

We are currently in the air headed to Bali where we will surf for a few days until meeting up with our friend, Josh, on the 27th, Dave's birthday. From there we will regroup and form a plan for the next stage of our trip. Maybe Lombok, maybe Java, perhaps Sulewasi. 

The future is open and bright and beautiful.

Some pictures to add to last week's post...

November 3, 2014: Pilgrims Of Helambu

Here's a story I've been sitting on and almost forgot. It puts a finishing nail on my 2014 Asia-trip. More Antarctica entries to come. All is well in the deep south.



I have seen things that I can't unsee and as a result I am driven by fire. There is no hope for me living a normal life. I am ruined according to some standards, but made whole by a much higher one. These experiences electrify my heart, jump-starting me into motion. I share my stories not only to find release, but because these illuminated memories are part of me and, at times, all I have to offer to those I love.                                                             

Nepal--June 5, 2014

Self discovery and incense hung heavy in the air as I walked along the narrow dirt trail that was forever leading me up. I am a pilgrim among pilgrims. They travel this road by the hundreds muttering mantras and singing soulful songs as they march towards heaven, towards a temple in the clouds. Every year these spiritual people travel from the far corners of Nepal and India to place their offerings in sacred waters and breathe prayers in the cold mountain air. They call this ritual Gangsdashahara. Old and young brave this trail, walking the weary distance in cheap foam flip-flops and carrying their belongings in strapped bags hung across their foreheads. They exert more effort into their religion than most.

Dave, Matt, and I watched them take slow calculated steps covering impressive miles of challenging terrain with out complaint. We felt weak in comparison. We were hyperbolized in durable hiking boots and wonderfully comfortable backpacks. The sky opened up and we felt ashamed as we took refuge under our gortex rain gear. Wearing plastic bags draped over their heads, they kept walking offering greetings "namaste" and polite conversation in broken English. Those who spoke no English smiled broadly--the universal sign of friendliness. This gesture transcended the language barrier and left a warm fondness in our hearts for these people. Together we moved forward and climbed higher, but our quests were of a different nature. They walked for their gods, for their religion. We walked for the gods within us, for the religion of our spirit. Adventure called us. They answered to piety.

We started early in the morning in the lowlands, walking past howling monkeys and exotic plants hung low and heavy by the collection of rainwater. The air was thick with humidity and smelled of atmosphere and stove smoke. Our ascent began immediately. Sweat soaked our t-shirts and the straps on our backpacks as we pushed our bodies up the mountain. Our climb was steady and steep. Long-lost muscles in our legs and backside began to protest loudly. By late afternoon, stiff and sore, we entered a new ecosystem. Rodadendrine bushes exhibiting blooming white flowers grew from rocky, mineral-rich soil, and birds with the sweetest voices trilled resonating songs. The smell of pine and the cool altitude refreshed us. Up and up we walked, past the timberline, until the bird's songs faded into silence and the only thing that stood between us and the heavens was rock and sky. As we climbed higher our lungs became heavy and labored. Oxygen molecules grew thin, our progress slowed, and our breath quickened. We traveled among the clouds, watching their wispy forms rise from the valleys and sail as if draped from the great masts of invisible ships. One moment we felt the sun reddening our face through a hole in the billowing mantle, and the next we were damp and shivering and locked in a dim white-washed world. We remained in the mist.

On the third day we arrived on holy ground. At over 4,300 meters Gosaikunda Lake, the willful objective of the stead-fast pilgrims of Helambu, appeared through the haze. Smiles spread like fire as each weary traveler locked eyes on the site. We celebrated our arrival with the pilgrims as we set up camp, but my spirits were dampened by the thick clouds that followed us. Here I stood on the rooftop of the world and I had not had a glimpse of the legendary mountains I had journeyed to see. Curtains of clouds kept them a mystery. The Himalayas consumed my thoughts.

We rested our tired bodies and drank hot coffee while we surveyed these mountain people's Mecca. According to legend this holy mountain lake was born from the trident of the god Shiva. Out of desperation he struck the earth after being poisoned by a demon. The spring flowed, he drank deeply, and the myth was born. These hindu travelers cover miles of difficult terrain to bathe in its magic waters. 

Chants of devotion and a smoke-like mist hung over the water's still, dark surface. Bodies wearing vermillion robes with paint-smeared faces materialized through the dense roaming clouds. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, but their voices remained--loud and soulful. Incense burned thick and offerings of scarlet cloth and candles floated in the black depths. The light from the candles glowed and created an erie ambience. We watched from afar, silently wondering at the strange beauty of the scene.  

In the waning light of the late afternoon the veil began to lift. Suddenly, unexpectedly the valley became visible from far below and the over-exposed world was restored with nature's blood-life. Earth, trees, and water pulsed with color. Patches of blue and the soft outline of cliffs began to appear, but the clouds still lingered obstinately. They did not want to unveil the castles in the sky. Desperately Dave and I took to our feet and headed towards the ridge that overshadowed our camp. Something deep inside pulled us. Some how we knew that if we gained that ground we would be rewarded. Sparked with hope, we climbed.

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Speechless. Awestruck. Shocked into silence. Descriptive words crawl up my throat and towards my larynx searching for release, only to be swallowed-up--incapable of expression. These words are digested; churned and then absorbed into the neglected corners of my heart and the deep crevices of my consciousness. A hearty meal of inexpressible beauty that nourishes and sustains my weakened soul. The only sound that manages to escape my uncoordinated lips are murmurs of astonishment, incomprehensible, and an occasional explicit word--whispered softly in disbelief and carried forth on a cold cloud of breath. The ugly word is immediately transmuted by the beauty of this place. 

I am driven to silence by my closeness to heaven. I am on top of the world surrounded by the Himalayan Mountains. They are intimidating giants threatening me with their terribleness yet, inviting, drawing me in with their inexhaustible beauty. I am at their mercy--a small animate, short-lived speck of matter standing in the shadows of kings as old as time. Who am I to look upon their majesties with chin raised high and eyes unyielding? How dare I stand tall and not buckle my knees in respectful worship! I am tiny and inconsequential, but for now, in this moment, I am full of vigor and as strong and formidable as those ice-crowned peaks. I am fragile yet unbreakable. Weak yet powerful. I am mortal and will soon be gone--not even a memory left of my name--but at this moment I am alive. So very alive.


The alpenglow from the sinking sun spills over the cragged faces, causing crystal-like glaciers to burst into flames. I am bathed in light and happiness. I have never been this high on earth before, carried by my hardened will and sturdy feet. The emotions that I cannot express with my voice begin to well up in my throat and eyes. These sentiments I choke down and wipe away. I hold back. When true beauty is absorbed into one's being it must find release. In words, writings, shouts of jubilance, tears of joy. It must be expressed. To hold these experiences captive is selfish as well as dangerous. As big and encompassing as some hearts are they cannot contain these powerful sites. It would be foolish to try. These moments were meant to break free.

Some illuminations fall beyond the borders of our vocabulary and are impossible to capture. I know my efforts, as pure and well-intentioned as they may be, will be a disappointment to the reality of this moment. Not even my memory will be able to recreate these vivid colors. Only a shadow will remain. But that shadow will have the ability to strike me mute again and again. I will treasure these memories until I die or until my mind is lost to age. They will live on, timeless and powerful. 

Once upon a time I stood on the top of the world--a pilgrim of Helambu.

June 13, 2014: Mongolia

Wide open space. Clean air. Clear, crystal water that sparkles brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight. Sun! No more dim, lifeless skies choked by pollution. The slow suffocation of sanity by millions of constricting bodies has been lifted. My mind has been saved. I can no longer hear loud abrasive mechanical and human noise, sounds that dig into the fibers of my brain. I've found peace and stillness. We have arrived in Mongolia. One of the world's truly wild places. 

I feel at home here. People are scarce and nature rules supreme. In the north, green vibrant grasslands roll into bare earth-toned mountains that are so still and lonely you can hear the whispers of time. By listening I feel like I am intruding on a deep secret  that wasn't meant for my ears. I listen anyway.To the south the great Gobi stretches wide and unforgiving under the unrelenting sun. It never ceases to amaze me how, by a matter of a few degrees longitude and the right tilt and rotation of the earth, this burning star, which is over ninety million miles away, can gently kiss our upturned faces with warm tenderness, or scorch the earth and bones with its fixed searing gaze. The big bright-blue Mongolian sky in which this temperamental god sits feels like it could swallow me whole. Its vastness consumes me.

I didn't just travel to Mongolia from China, I fled; with all the speed and desperation that self preservation and hope induces. And I never looked back. 

Our adventure in this thrilling, timeless land was short and concise. Upon our arrival in the capital city, Ulaanbaatar, we began immediately making preparations for our exploration. Within a few short days we were on the road heading south. Our spirits fluttered with excitement as we travelled forsaken stretches of sun-scorched land with our hired Mongol driver, Gumba. 

Gumba didn't speak much English. The few comprehensible words he knew included: machine (the name he gave to all motored vehicles), lunch (the word he used for every meal), and Mongolia (the term he used to describe the people, language, and place of his birth). But perhaps my favorite verbal idiosyncrasy that came out of our driver's mouth was his third person referrals. "Gumba, machine, yes!" (Meaning: get in the vehicle, it's time to go). Or, "Gumba lunch, no." (Meaning: he wasn't hungry for lunch... or, depending on the time of day, breakfast or dinner.) 

Dave and I enjoyed our driver's company. We were able to communicate through games of charades and a small incomplete Mongolian phrase book. We even taught him a few card and dice games which he embraced enthusiastically. "Gumba yes!" We were sad when we reached our northern-most destination, Lake Khosvgol, and parted ways. He was a good driver and a friendly embassador. 

Our wide encompassing journey started in the north, in the capital, where we arrived by train--the Trans Mongolian line--from China. As we meandered south through expansive grasslands where herds of horses, sheep, goats, and yaks wandered and grazed methodically, we soon realized that paved roads were luxuries of the past. Where by most developed country's transportation standards would have lain a smooth black surface accented with yellow, instead revealed multiple sets of tire tracks heading in a general direction. These tracks were printed in mud, grass, and sand, and led vehicles through streams, rock fields, and some of the steepest terrain ever to be called a road. It was an exciting driving experience, but painfully spine-jolting at times. We left a couple of nice cranium-shaped dingers on the ceiling of our Russian imported van.

As we travelled south we watched the landscape magically transform before our eyes. Cool snow-dusted mountains turned to dry thirsty hills tormented by heat. The change in temperature was shocking. We awoke one day with a chill northern wind nipping at our faces and went to sleep with the thermometer still a blaze from the sun's ceaseless stare. 

When we reached the Gobi region Gambu stopped the machine, locked the hub-caps, shifted to 4WD and turned the wheel west, proceeding through some of the most unforgettable miles of "road" I have traveled. 

Bactrian Camels speckled the sandy wasteland--their goofy-looking double humped bodies moving together in stride.They stopped intermittently to graze on resilient shrubs so thorny and dry I wondered how the creatures got them down their gullets with out injury. We rode these beasts, swaying in our saddles. Their movements are strange. Unlike most four legged animals, these creatures step with both their front and hind legs simultaneously, moving one side of their body and then the other. A fast trot on a camel feels like you are being vigorously shaken; teeth rattling, head boggling. Ouch. 

We climbed, rather we crawled, up golden-hued sand dunes a hundred stories high. The wind swept their surface, cutting sharp edges into the pyramid-like forms and erasing our blundering hand and footprints. A clean, smooth slate. These edges became more defined and acute by the shadows cast by the sun and, as we witnessed from our campsite one night, the full moon. The dunes sang an erie song as the wind played against their surface--a harmonious choir of moaning voices. That song haunts me still. 

We drove past dead, forlorn mountains as dry as sun-bleached bones, and hiked through shaded, half-lit canyons that held secrets of past worlds in the form of fossils. Great birds of prey, wide-winged wonders, soared at heavenly heights. I first noticed a massive shadow. The darkened ground caught my eye and I craned my neck unnaturally, skywards, towards its origin. I winced, momentarily blinded by the illumination of the sun. The shadow skimmed the ground's surface and as my eyes adjusted I discovered the source of the projection--the connective life flying a thousand feet above me. She is the shark of the sky, a golden eagle! Circling slowly, purposefully, she searches-her sharp eyes scanning the valley for a life she can snatch in her great, sharp talons. 

Here in the desert the sky battles the earth for space. A contrasting clash of brilliant blue, glittering gold, brass browns, and peaceful purples--the colors of the Gobi. The desert holds a magical appeal to those who come prepared--with eyes wide open and souls filled to the brim with wonder. Most travelers don't bother, preferring the lush vitality of alternate climates to this heart-breaking land. Even Marco Pollo looked upon his journey through the Gobi Desert with disdain and dread. But there are people who choose it. They thrive here. This land is part of them. They breath it. They bleed it--the blood returning to their hearts time and time again. They are modern nomads. The last of their kind.

They say home is where the heart is. The Mongol heart belongs to the land. Their lives and the lives of their beasts are dictated by weather patterns, the changing of seasons, droughts, etc. They live their lives on the steppes, in the mountains, and within the harsh desert--moving in cycles with the earth. They reap the bounties from fertile seasons--stoically thanking the gods of the earth for their benevolence--and resiliently absorbing the tragedies of famine--praying fervently, searching for atonement. 

They live a migratory life, like Canada Geese and the Monarch Butterfly. They float on the winds of necessity, never excess, and their homes are well suited to their nature. Gers--round tent-like structures--are broken down, transported by horse and cart or, just as often, by yak and cart, and rebuilt in a new location. The process of packing up and resetting one of these homes is quick, taking less than a day. They move rapidly and leave only foot prints and vodka bottles behind.

Through out our Mongolian journey we were generously given the opportunity to sleep in more than one nomadic home. We would be invited in with gestures and smiles, offered warm yak milk and biscuits, and asked to stay. We camped part of the time and slept in gers the rest--each spot containing a story and a memory. 

The first ger I entered surprised me greatly. Despite some extremely remote locations, many of these homes provided the comforts of a stationary life. A few even contained appliances! Of course these luxuries only exist alongside a generator. And this magic box comes at a great expense. 

The furniture, except for a small table, is arranged along the wall of the ger--a ring of comforts. Typically included is a vanity or wardrobe, a bed or two, a chair, and a small sink--the drain pipe leading to a removable bucket. Half the floor is a strip, or multiple strips, of carpet and the other side--the kitchen side--is a heavy plastic tarp or synthetic tile. In the middle of the room sits a small wood burning stove. The chimney pipe leads up and through a hole in the canvas ceiling, leaking sunshine that spills onto the centrically placed table. Gers are always warm and cozy. Always. The Mongols swaddled the interior walls of their tents with blankets--adding more in winter for insulation, and less on hot summer days. Family photos and embroidered pictures often hang from these unconventional walls--a hint of decor and a homey touch.

These homes are not glamorous by the western standard. The blankets on the wall are always miss-matched, the furniture is clashing, you have to dispose of your bucket-filled drain water, and sometimes the ger has no chairs--forcing you to sit cross-legged on stained carpet squares. And, of course, you have to brave the elements when using the bathroom--which consists of a hole in the ground sheltered by a couple of slabs of wood. No, these homes are not the feng shui three bedroom, two and a half bath, architectural masterpieces most people consider livable. It's a nomad's home. And I find the simplicity inviting and intrinsically warming. I would choose a ger.

We travelled directly up the heart of the country, heading north, immersing ourselves in the natural beauty of Mongolia. We hiked the dead cratered remains of extinct volcanos, felt the cool misty breath of pounding waterfalls, and skipped smooth, round stones off the surface of caribean-blue lakes, where chunks of ice lingered in the wintery waters. We tasted camel meat and yak cheese, sat in a circle on the floor of a ger drinking vodka with locals, rode horses up green hills smattered with bleating goats and lambs, and watched herds of antelope burst across the plains with explosive speed. We gazed awe-struck at flaming meteorites falling from a dark diamond-filled sky, and witnessed the birth of a new day--the morning sunlight visibly moving its rays across the green valley floor, chasing away shadows and lighting up lakes and rivers causing them to burn reflectively. We said goodnight to the sun as it disappeared over ancient mountains, the colors in the sky bleeding out like a mortal wound. 

Oh the beauty of freedom! The joy of travel and the thrill of exploration! Driving with windows down through new territory, wind tumultuously whipping my hair, my man--my heart--by my side, a herd of wild horses attempting to out-run our rickety-Russian van, Gumba blaring Mongolian-pop music and singing unabashed in his Mongol-tongue. 

I've never been happier. 

May 10, 2014: Lost In Translation

When we first arrived in Taiwan Dave, my master linguist, surprised me by speaking his first words in Spanish, not Mandarin. Where did that come from? Obviously it had been deeply rooted by our South American trip and had made the flight over the Pacific to Asia. Dave gave a good shake, rust went flying, and he was his normal proficient self again. I love Dave, but there are times while I am watching him break communication barriers with grace and ease that I feel some jealousy and resentment towards him and his gift. What takes him days to master, takes me months of sputtering and babbling to learn. And even then I am not always guaranteed to be understood. There is nothing more frustrating then asking for something in a foreign language, a phrase I have been practicing and repeating for some time, only to get a blank stare of incomprehension in return. Or to be completely taken out of context, that's just as maddening.

Once while we we were traveling in Chile, Dave and I were buying meat for dinner at a market. We stood across the case from the butcher deciding how much beef to buy. Feeling a rare bout of confidence I waved Dave back and stepped up to complete the task. I got this! Spanish flowed from my lips like honey as I trencended the language barrier to provide steaks for me and my man. When my words had ceased, I gave a nod of satisfaction and waited for a response and action from the butcher. My answer came in the form of laughter. Confused, I looked towards Dave to explain. He was choking back his own amusement as he translated the meaning of my own words.

"My boyfriend has big meat. I want more meat."

That wasn't the first time I made a foreigner laugh with my broken attempts at his language and it wasn't the last.

You can imagine my fears when I realized Mandarin-Chinese was the new language on the table. Dios mio! This time, however, I decided to confront this challenge with goals--determined to be less reliant on Dave and more self sufficient and confident in my own ability. With a new attitude I began this endeavor.

Goal number one was to learn enough of the language to be able to order and survive off of the local food stalls if I were to become separated from Dave. A girl's gotta eat. The second goal was to learn how to say "bathroom" so I wouldn't have to resort to committing obscenities in the streets. After visiting China I have found that this goal wouldn't have mattered as much by Chinese standards. That's ucky, China! The third task I appointed myself to learn was how to say, "I don't speak Chinese" ...as if it wasn't obvious. 

At first I almost cried with frustration. How is it possible that I could speak one word in Mandarin and have it translate into five different meanings with the slightest, and I do mean slightest, change in my voice? The word "ma" if spoken with different tones can translate into scold, mother, horse, or hemp. Not to mention that it is also added to the end of sentences to turn phrases into questions. Ah! 

I desperately wanted to give up, grab a strong drink, and let Dave do the talking. But, I set a goal, and if there is one thing I pride myself on, it's my tenacity. I set myself to work and as I practiced these words with the falling and rising tones endemic to the Chinese language, it magically started to get easier. I began to understand. I began to be understood. With my confidence growing, I started adding more goals--four, five, six goals...

Now I can not only feed myself and use the bathroom, but I can order iced coffees in the size I want, have brief, superficial, conversations, ask directions, and most importantly of all, I can say that "I speak a little Chinese."

I wouldn't say that I am taking to this language like a duck to water, maybe more like a child with swimmer trainers. The point is that I may lack grace, proficiency and, most of the time, comprehension, but I am floating and that feels good. However, we have crossed borders, China is behind us and Mongolia is before us with the Mongolian language--a Russian-Asian acrylic-hybrid of tung-twisting difficulty. It's one language that will leave you with your mouth ajar and with eyes staring uncomprehendingly into space. God help me!

April 22, 2014: Asia Proper

We are travelers again, travelers in a land of billions. We have regained our adventurous personas as well as our back-pack toting forms--mine looking more like a giant tortoise and less like a seasoned traveler. My legs are weak and shaky and the muscles on my hips protest loudly, but the more I march to the travelers tune, the stronger I will become, and the lighter my shell will feel.This I know as fact--part of the laws of traveling. For now, I look forward to the day when I don't feel like I'm hauling the world in the contents of my mint-green back pack.

So here we are, laden down with our necessities. We carry our belongings. We carry ourselves. We carry each other. We have arrived in China--Asia proper.

This journey is different from other trips we have taken. Our usual two is company has become three. Matt has joined us, and we are happy to have him. Not only does he provide an extra critically-thinking mind, enjoyable company, and a third-pegging opponent in our cribbage matches, he also possesses wander lust and a wide-eyed appreciation for the natural world. He fits right in.

We arrived in China by boat--the Cosco Star. As we shuffled up the boarding dock to the large vessel we didn't know what to expect. We had purchased the cheapest tickets possible and we were braced and ready for anything--almost anything. I don't believe any of us expected to be placed in a private cabin with downy-soft comforters and a bathroom/shower. Was there a mistake? None of us were about to point it out. That night as the Cosco Star rocked us softly to sleep, I wondered what we would find at the end of the China Sea.

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Hours earlier we stood on Taiwanese ground--the first stop on our travel itinerary. When you say 'Taiwan' most Westerner's automatic and singleminded response is: 'made in Taiwan!' 

Of course. It's their claim to fame, their trademark. However, most don't know, or care to know, Taiwan's complicated political history and their ongoing struggle to become or maintain (depending on whose side you're on) a sovereign identity. Many don't even know where in the world Taiwan is located.

An age-old story. The little people want their freedom, and the power in charge says, forget it. The Republic of Taiwan, as the members of the independence movement call themselves, are in a struggle to maintain their sovereignty from The People's Republic of China. Two coalitions clash within the small island; One pulling for democracy, the other tugging towards remaining with the communist state. Childishly, China pretends Taiwan's sixty-year old government and successful capitalistic economy doesn't exist. In their eyes, the islands off the coastline are still under Chinese dominion. During our first week of travel within China we met many people who, upon hearing where we came from, responded, "Ah, Taiwan Province." The declaration of independence has not been heard.

Not only does China refuse to accept it, but so does the World. The United Nations are staying out of this fight, declining to acknowledge Taiwan's claims. And, of course, the world symbol for liberty and justice, the good ole US of A is turning a blind eye towards Taiwan's requisitions. Let's face it, we are too deep in bed with China to do otherwise. China owns our governing official's little green, greedy souls. They wouldn't dare undermine the hand that holds our massive debt.

And so this political dance goes on and on. Only no one will dance with Taiwan. It will most likely join the ghosts of The Republic of the Congo, and other self-declared nations whose fates were decided by powerful players in an aggressive and extrinsically motivated game. They never had a chance. Odds be what they are, I'm still rooting for you, Republic of Taiwan.

Enough with the politics. Continuing on...

Dave and I began our trip in the middle of March when we flew to the capital city, Taipei. A week after our arrival we were joined by Ryan, and another seven days later by Matt. Showing incredible hospitality and impressive linguistic skills, Dave's friend, an American and a six-year resident of Taiwan, introduced us to this beautiful country. Not only did Devin offer-up his home for a month, translate meal after meal of characterized menus for us, and supplied David, Ryan, and I with surf boards, he also drove us full circle around the island giving us the grand tour. We couldn't have asked for a better host, tour-guide, and friend.

Right off the plane the Taiwanese people impressed me with their friendliness. We were given hellos and smiles in excess. By embarking in simple tasks, like buying tokens for the train, we would sometimes become encircled by radiant faces wanting to offer help where it was needed. One afternoon while eating noodles in the park, Dave and I were gifted with a double-thumbs up by a wide-grinning man. We weren't quite sure if his enthusiastic approval was for the noodles we were consuming or for our foreigner-status, but we soon realized that he wasn't about to put his thumbs away until we returned the gesture. With a resolute nod of his head he strolled gaily away, still smiling, as we lowered our digits. It was a humorous transaction.

They are even nice to their animals!

The Taiwanese are wonderful, but there is one thing that can transform these sweet, passive people into dangerous, shadowed nightmares of their formal selfs: a motored vehicle. Like Jekyll and Hyde, when they get behind the wheel they metamorphosize into license-wielding, horn-blasting monsters. There is no end to their negligence and no where a walking pedestrian can feel safe. We witnessed many traffic violations that would have left any American law official shocked by its audacity. Not only are there literally no stop signs in Taiwan, the stop lights are viewed as guidelines rather than the law. Solid lines on the road are considered perfectly passable--especially around the curves--and the middle of the road is a fine place to park your vehicle if you want to run into the store or have a leisurely lunch in a restaurant. There were several occasions when we were stopped behind a vehicle, patiently waiting for them to make their move, only to find that the car was missing its driver. Despite some close-calls, we never witnessed a single accident. However, I did get clipped once by a side-view mirror while walking.

Off the road, Taiwan won me over with its beauty and mystique. Jungles, waterfalls, and mountains fill this small island to the brim with loveliness and it pours over onto its shorelines. The cities are clean, modern and successful. And the entire country is easily navigable--with ample trains and busses to get you anywhere you want to go. Much of our time was spent enjoying the culture and the food, hiking, and soaking in the hot springs. Devin, David, Ryan, and I took many trips to the coast to surf--which brought back fond memories for Dave, who lived in Taiwan for close to two years and spent much of that time in the water. 

It's what you want!

Twice we drove south from our lovely little home-base in Jiaoxi, to a beautiful beach where we camped, surfed, and ate bowls and bowls of noodles. This was the spot where Ryan, after surfing twice in his life, shocked us with his surprising skill on a board--more than a little infuriating for me to watch after struggling with the sport for some months. But! There's nothing like a little sibling jealously to motivate and drive. I had my own personal success while bobbing in Taiwan's waters--catching some nice waves that are still rolling out in my memory. I hope my muscles remember the motion and can recall it with ease the next time I surf--which may be a while.

Dave Tearing It Up

The end of our time in Taiwan saddened everyone. We had to say goodbye to a beautiful place, which we were becoming well acquainted  with, and farewell to new friends and siblings. I was especially gloomy. Our exit meant parting ways with Ryan who had to fly back to the States the night before our departure. All good things must come to an end... or just start again new somewhere else. Why not China? Thoughts of future adventures with my brother danced in my head while I headed straight into the present one.

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So how was our introduction to China? Was it polite or rude? I must say, the port town of Xiamen was a gracious host. Again, an unexpected but pleasant surprise. A major tourist destination for the Chinese, Xiamen welcomed us with its westernized properties; large parks, colonial-style buildings and, of course, McDonalds, the staple of every refined and non refined society. We were absorbed softly and slowly into a country we knew was masking something--we felt it intuitively, smelled it olfaction-ally. We knew it was there. And it didn't take us long to find it through the smog.

A couple of turns off one of the European-modeled streets, a short walk down a narrow, winding alley and we found ourselves in the heart of Asia. If you ever want to overload your senses, take a stroll down a market street in China. I have seen many memorable and shocking sites throughout my travels, but China takes the prize as the most jaw-dropping.

Dave and I have many inside jokes. One of them is, "that's ucky, China" A phrase we use to describe the Country's insatiable appetite for anything and everything that moves. It goes something like this: "Ew, shark fin soup? That's ucky, China!" or "Put that puppy down! You can't eat that, that's ucky, China!" And so on. Silly, I know. But as we strolled down the narrow street of our first Chinese food market I was definitely thinking "that's ucky, China!"

Blood speckled our shoes as we walked through puddles of gore. Headless chickens, with dying nervous systems still jerking with the muscle memory of life, hung from their feet. The dim, glassy eyes of recently decapitated pig heads stared through us as we passed by their site-less gaze. And fish! Every kind of fish I recognized, and every specie I didn't, I'm sure, were present and piled high in that place. The sheer amount of seafood in that one little market, in that small district, of that single city in China, made my skin crawl. In the past I have heard people talk exuberantly about the depletion of our Oceans and the subject has always made me scoff. 'Our impact is insignificant' I would say. 'Mother Nature can take care of herself. She will always bounce back'. After walking down that narrow street, I'm not so sure.

What else was on the menu in that Chinese market? I don't have the lungs to tell you. But I will try to paint a small picture with the color of my words.

Truck loads of crustaceans and shellfish of every kind--clams, muscles, starfish, crabs, lobsters as long as my arm, sea snails, and urchins etc, etc--all waiting to be consumed. Some in buckets of water, some left out to dry on matts and tarps--flexing their shells and squirming from the discomfort of an oxygen-rich environment.

We walked past tubs containing turtles, eels, sea snakes, squid, octopus and frogs. Fish, fish, fish of all types and sizes lined the street. From shark and tuna to the smallest mino and ferry shrimp. Some alive, but most already dead.

A short distance further revealed the insect and bug section--grasshoppers, scorpions, millipedes, worms and grubs. Some piled high in buckets while others were impaled on skewers being fried or grilled--ready to eat. Oh boy! 

Just past the creepy crawlies was the pet store section. At least I thought it was a pet store. I was horrified to find even the furry and feathered critters weren't exempt from being considered palatable. I can't imagine a little song bird has much meat on its delicate little bones. That's shameful, China!

Of course the typical edible farm animals, as well as the untypical (horse meat), were displayed. I now understand the overwhelming desire Americans have to detach themselves from their food. Not many people, in North America, enjoy staring into half-closed, lifeless eyes on their plate. The Chinese, however, won't hesitate to eat those eyes--believing that they will attain better vision through their consumption.

Here is a small taste of what we saw. I am happy to report that the food we've had in China has been delicious. However, our experience in that market has put me on my guard and I am very careful not to ask for any song birds when ordering.

This is the last cat in China... which will be eaten on Tuesday.

We have since left Xiamen behind and are making our way town by town through our three week tour of China. One of the incredible aspects of traveling through China is that you'll look at a map and find the name of a place printed so small, you need a magnifying glass to see it, and you think, 'this must be a quaint, quiet place' only to find upon arriving that it has a population of over a million people. Madness! Getting use to the throngs of people has been difficult for this recluse from Montana. Crowds flow like massive rivers, unfamiliar and unnavigable--I fear I might drown. Tall, ugly buildings line the sky boxing me in. I am a trapped animal in these cities.

Not only are we often choked by numbers, but we are anomalies. From the moment we arrived, we have been met with confusion, awe, fear, and excitement. Mouths unhinge and are left ajar where ever we go. Cameras and iPhones come out and we are suddenly celebrities--very unglamorous ones, if you ask me. Stars travel in town cars and limos, not the local bus and on foot. 

Nearby a few girls giggle and hold up peace-signing fingers while posing with Matt. Standing next to me, Dave is approached by a smiling, eager little man."You take picture with girlfriend?" he asks, pointing to his smiling, eager little woman. Meanwhile I'm being prompted to hold a stranger's baby while she targets me in her camera's sites. The child screams with fear while the white-devil holds her--I shift its weight uncomfortably in my arms and give a wincing, awkward little smile. You get the picture. Where ever we go we are greeted with clicks and bright flashes.

At first all the attention was amusing. At first. But it has long since worn off--like my fake smile. The unabashed, unyielding stares I find to be the worst form of attention. The other day I asked Dave how to say in Mandarin, "why don't you take a picture? It last longer." Then I realized, they probably already have. 

Needless to say the Chinese are an excitable (and easily amused) group of people. They, however, can also be very sweet and generous--which allows me to forgive them time and time again for their camera-yielding transgressions. David, Matt and I have a plethora of stories depicting individual's generosity. 

There was Tina who we met in Tian Luo Keng. The region of Tian Luo Keng was our first destination outside of Xiamen and one of the locations of the infamous roundhouse--large traditional homes that can house entire villages. Some are so massive that they were at one time mistaken by the CIA as missile silos. After using her native tongue to help us procure a room in one of the roundhouses, Tina took us out to a big elaborate, multi-course lunch and insisted on paying the bill. 

Roundhouse

Then there was Wu. We met her at the train station. She bought us armfuls of packaged chicken feet to snack on during our long train ride (it's the thought that counts). And as if that wasn't enough, she raided her purse and handed out gum, toilet paper (a valuable commodity to have with you in China), fruit, and instant coffee. She even tried to give us money! 

The list of generosities goes on and on, growing larger each day. These friendly ambassadors all smile, take pictures, call us their good friends, and say, "welcome to my country."

When ever I travel in a new place I am continuously reminded of the similarities and differences between that country and my homeland. Whether it be cultural, societal, political, etc. I usually compare and analyze. I have been in China for close to two weeks now and I have found some contrasting  points. The first noted observation being the lack of personal space. I suppose this is to be expected from a country with a population approaching two billion. It's not only the dense crowds, it's how the individuals within those crowds behave which makes life as a traveling American a frustrating affair at times.

In the US there are rules that are inherently followed and upheld. For example, when we stand in line to purchase something at a store, the person behind us waits patiently for their turn to make a transaction. Or when we enter a building, we hold the door or stand politely to the side and let others exit or enter before us. We rarely stare unabashedly, shout in public, or smoke outside of courteous boundaries. There are exceptions, of course. Not every American follows these unspoken rules. But those individuals are the anomalies. Structure, order, and unspoken politeness is the norm in our country. 

In China, rules don't exist. As polite Americans we could wait in line forever and never move. That's because the Chinese consider line-cutting an art. We are learning fast how to hold our own against these sneaky, impatient people. It's a difficult process to embrace. Our parents would be disappointed to witness years of hard work being shed like a warm coat. Their little gentleman or lady--products of their meticulous behavioral training--reduced to pushing old people and children out of the way to get a seat on a bus. Monsters, we have become. But there are never any hard feelings. It's the Chinese way. Push and be pushed.

Another differentiating factor we've been exposed to is the constant noise. Life in China is a loud business. There is no off button for the ambient clashing of sound--unless you retreat deep into the country side and avoid all people. The Chinese, as a whole, are boisterously loud. Whether they are angry or having a polite conversation, everyone yells. Especially the old. This can be extremely confusing when you don't speak the language fluently. Is she angry with me or asking a general question? I don't know!

We have had mostly positive experiences in China. Mostly. Another rule in the backpackers trusty handbook is to always try and find the good in the bad. It's one way, and sometimes the only way, to maintain your sanity on a long, challenging journey. The three of us travel by this rule--making jokes and finding the positive angles even if we have to pull them out of thin air. However, two days ago we found ourselves in a situation where our eyes were beginning to twitch and we had nothing to hold on to.

We had booked a thirteen hour over-night train to Chengdu from Fengshou. We tried to purchase the hard sleeper option--which would have procured beds and a descent night sleep--but those tickets were sold out leaving only seats. We took them. This won't be too bad, we said. It's only thirteen hours. We spoke assurances to each other as we made our way to the station. Our positivity faltered the moment we stepped onto the train. 

I have never witnessed so many people stuffed into one place. We fought hard for every inch gained towards our assigned seats--pushing hard and stepping on bodies as we slowly made our way through the aisle. Of course people had claimed our seats. We held our tickets high and spoke forcefully in our basic, faltering Mandarin. We eventually dethroned our adversaries and went to work looking for somewhere to store our bulky back packs. After more arduous pushing and stumbling we managed to procure a spot and went to work stuffing our bags between other pieces of luggage. Sweating from the exertion and lack of ventilation, we reached our seats and again had to cast out the occupants.

Settling into our tightly crammed seats, we tried to relax and breath. Breath! Not long after we sat down, and the train began to lurch forward, did we realize that something was terribly wrong with the air quality. Craning my neck to investigate, it didn't take me long to find the source of our new problem. Only a few seats down an old man was chain-smoking. A bummer, especially since nonsmoking signs were hanging throughout the entire train. I'll just push and shove my way down the cattle-car and politely ask him to smoke elsewhere. Problem solved. I stood up with the goal of snuffing out the source of our trepidation, but as I took my first step, over the inert body of a sleeping women, I stopped short. A new wave of horror rushed over me as I perceived the gravity of our situation. My target, the old man, wasn't smoking alone. A large majority of our car had pulled out their packs and lighters to join him. I turned towards the door, our only hope, and saw a blockade of men, butts in hand, in the adjoining car. We were surrounded. There was nothing left to do but resign ourselves to our fate. We covered our faces with our shirts and wet wipes and settled down attempting to breath the acrid air. The look on our faces translated to each other that the positivity that we had once embraced was long gone.

We bore those thirteen hours as best we could--trying not to stare at our watches as the seconds dripped slowly into minutes and flowed thick as molasses into deep, heavy hours. None of us slept. Dave and Matt were continuously being crowded and leaned heavily on by people in the aisle. I luckily had a middle seat and wasn't subjected to that level of torment. The train was so crowded that we literally had to step on people to get to the bathroom. Everyone was sweating profusely because there was no ventilation. It had to be at least eighty degrees in that train car.  

With quiet relief we finally exited that train. And as we breathed deeply we found our positivity once again--and a little skepticism. I am no longer convinced that the heavy clouded air that hangs like a shroud over the cities of China is actually smog. I think it's Marlboro smoke.

We are finding that transportation can be difficult in China, and not only because of the previously mentioned obstacles. What often appears to be a relatively easy distance turns into a headache of connecting trains to busses, busses to trains. We spent two full days, and nights, on both before we reached the beautiful town and region of Yangshuo. We have found that the rewards of the journey are well worth the effort. They have to be. The karst landscape of the Yangshuo valley was unlike anything I have seen before. Huge limestone pillars draped with vegetation speckle the region and are a dramatic sight to behold. The mental pictures I carry with me from our time in Yangshuo look like they have been torn out of the pages of a fairy tale. Once upon a time in China...

We have just arrived in Sichuan--a region bordering Tibet. We've been told it shares many similarities with its infamous western neighbor. We plan on hiking and camping for a few days--shadowed by the Four Sisters Mountains--before moving north to visit the Terracotta Warriors. From Xi'an, it's onward to Beijing and the Great Wall, where we hope to hike and camp along those grand archaic stretches of stone. It's a relatively short yet eventful journey through China. I've always found that when borders are crossed, cultural diversity emerges, eyes are opened and memories are made. And those memories run deep and take a lifetime to forget. 

The Rooftop Of The World, The Himalayas

Thanks for sticking it through to the end. More to come in the following weeks.

Much love from China.