tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58024737872604454542024-03-05T20:56:18.233-07:00Walking In WonderJenny and Brett are headed out to explore this small planet we live on. Please join us on this journey for a year of soulful exploration and sheer adventure.Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-5765264712419066522011-04-16T17:55:00.002-06:002011-04-16T18:01:20.840-06:00Samoa--Jenny<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div><strong>Samoa:</strong> One of the Pacific islands in the time zone "island time". <br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><strong>The motto:</strong> "Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?" <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwrfa6altfjZl7FOXlTIFnpsDMcev77Df6YfHFMlFLvPTuKS1OOWZXp6V9_Ml7vV4Mwp66u2pkqss6wiN92-ezNh9yUZgRe-n7GP1ym_NygOxpw3OaVrPhZsqPbv932mr7BooNkffN3g/s1600/IMG_4641.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwrfa6altfjZl7FOXlTIFnpsDMcev77Df6YfHFMlFLvPTuKS1OOWZXp6V9_Ml7vV4Mwp66u2pkqss6wiN92-ezNh9yUZgRe-n7GP1ym_NygOxpw3OaVrPhZsqPbv932mr7BooNkffN3g/s200/IMG_4641.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>This small group of Pacific Islands called Samoa were injected into our itinerary late in our trip, by way of volunteering for Project CURE. This Denver-based humanitarian organization collects medical supplies and equipment in the U.S. and disseminates them to developing countries based on need. That was our job. To assess the needs of the country's hospital system. We had five days to do it. Our host would be Ali, a second-career medical student in the newly accredited program at Oceania University of Medicine. He picked us up by storm at the airport at 2 am, and didn't stop talking until he dropped us off a week later. Ali, born and raised in Iran, and later a resident of Los Angeles where he became a chiropractor and successful business man, was a true force of nature. His rich <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">patch worked</span> history is the perfect companion to his frenzied pace and head full of intentions for changing the world. His sassy Latino wife, Ketty, who had risen out of poverty in South America as a girl and immigrated to L.A., works in the lab at Oceania, while teaching her funky <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Zumba</span> workouts in the evenings. They decided to leave their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">privileged</span> life in California and head to Samoa with little more than the clothes on their back and a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">commitment</span> to their faith. I couldn't have made up a story or a couple as colorful and energetic as them. But that is a different tale. </div><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1sgdPvnLqL_LxWDLIaKOQYT9Om2gGWLc2kcx4Zj-7fBn36cRga-wiDtEjowimtCeLH3k2a6pKWJ_IY-3sU76A6WPM0Z1sQJ7JdVIrA_0fqpeoypKQSq_suO4UpbpgMefwZDloMVhBbs/s1600/IMG_4668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh1sgdPvnLqL_LxWDLIaKOQYT9Om2gGWLc2kcx4Zj-7fBn36cRga-wiDtEjowimtCeLH3k2a6pKWJ_IY-3sU76A6WPM0Z1sQJ7JdVIrA_0fqpeoypKQSq_suO4UpbpgMefwZDloMVhBbs/s320/IMG_4668.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9XwB4_-_W-3GwGddwoqi90df5MrtFMLBZm6YwMz5-ntZTDrXHqHTOgreE4HgxnmsSxBqQ3hBVjwFJDUkrBgKwbTFvs9_VH4QXf1ZEY51RFRY61rHBZS2g62d9ArYlYdJ24I89dJP3mSs/s1600/IMG_4643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9XwB4_-_W-3GwGddwoqi90df5MrtFMLBZm6YwMz5-ntZTDrXHqHTOgreE4HgxnmsSxBqQ3hBVjwFJDUkrBgKwbTFvs9_VH4QXf1ZEY51RFRY61rHBZS2g62d9ArYlYdJ24I89dJP3mSs/s320/IMG_4643.JPG" width="158" /></a>Samoa was surprisingly not the tourist trap that typifies so many Pacific islands. The Samoan culture and village life is still intact, with a preservation of what they call <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">fa'a</span> Samoa, or the Samoan Way. The verdant islands are flanked by rocky volcanic beaches and reefs, not the kind one would seek out for swimming, surfing or <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">cocktails</span> under an umbrella, but beautiful in their own rugged way. The islands are littered along their edges with tsunami-induced ghost towns. The Samoans are very large people. Large in personality, and large in size. And very tough. Brett was warned not to join a group of guys for a pick-up game of rugby unless he wanted his ass kicked. Even the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">fafafine</span>, the cross-dressing third gender of Samoa, were not the kind of people you wanted on your bad side. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">fafafine</span> are actually quite accepted in the culture of the Samoans, and often take on caregiver roles and provide the family glue. We spent an evening at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">fafafine</span> show, where large men lip sync in evening gowns, changing elaborate costumes with each set, to music ranging from lounge, to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Bett</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Midler</span> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Shania</span> Twain. They had the performers down to the quiver of the lips, the toss of the hair, the bump of a hip. Lovely!</div></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQu6Zkqpqy3DceTCBq3hWPhOq8vAPYcwcmP1IKheKmJ6BH7M-_TeSY15eE0wGTV0cFEeIa1GhspJwXokOTxSDMuiwAsjJUm-XxQBkzImKYBvkXFSFcLo9Vw1NBinsHoKSEE2wkBXmIOVc/s1600/IMG_4712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQu6Zkqpqy3DceTCBq3hWPhOq8vAPYcwcmP1IKheKmJ6BH7M-_TeSY15eE0wGTV0cFEeIa1GhspJwXokOTxSDMuiwAsjJUm-XxQBkzImKYBvkXFSFcLo9Vw1NBinsHoKSEE2wkBXmIOVc/s200/IMG_4712.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Unfortunately, the largeness of the population contributes to a huge problem with diabetes and heart disease. Since <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Samoa's</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Christianization</span> by missionaries, the totem of their culture is their faith. On Sundays, the townsfolk can be seen walking along the roadside, donned in white, to and from the glorious churches scattered throughout the islands. Lucky for us, on the Sunday we spent in Samoa, Ali was looking for an excuse to visit the newer Baha'i temple. We were happy to oblige. If I were to make up a religion, I would create Baha'i verbatim. With one gross <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">exception</span>: just like a belief in the afterlife must precede Buddhism, a belief in God must precede <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Baha'i</span>. Nevertheless, if we talk about <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">women's</span>' equality, the provision of aid to the needy, an acceptance of all the great religious texts, a desire for unity of all humanity and a belief in self-actualization, it is all there. The people we met at the temple embodied these concepts. And the great irony is that this religion was created by a man, or "messenger of God" in the Middle East during an era and culture in conflict with all the precepts of the religion. <br />
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So, our work. Brett and I buried our heads in interviews with everyone Ali could grab an appointment with...the nurses (who "really" run the show, as they say), the physicians, the managerial staff, the Chairman of the Board for the National Health Service, the local Rotary Club, and other titles and figure heads. We got the wish lists of each department, often receiving the feedback "the last time someone asked us what we needed, we never heard from them again". Oh, we are different. But I got the vibe that they weren't so sure. I tried to tread lightly by mentioning that this was just an assessment, and that all the pieces had to be in place before any supplies could actually be shipped. At times I felt I was contributing to false hope, coupled with a growing sense of ownership and extreme interest in making this shipment of a 40-foot container of gifts a success. By the end of the assessments, the appointments, the luncheons and the dinner meetings, our brains were swimming with questions about the facts, the rumors, the needs, the wants, and the overall status of the health care system in Samoa. All of this, compounded by the fact that Samoa is receiving a large amount of aid from China, Japan, Australia and New Zealand; and other projects, details unknown to us, were coming down the pike. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZRNozVmaEL9xytGACpqgtyvDYaTY9XFS9dUc8hoq9AzV5zAc6KmnmCCIilA_P9we72zpfLFdaGjrHxXhdztlim825UtDbSJYl611xYramGUR40jN3hSLqpBaqv7Mn26CQcDQ3WdcRVWQ/s1600/IMG_4556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZRNozVmaEL9xytGACpqgtyvDYaTY9XFS9dUc8hoq9AzV5zAc6KmnmCCIilA_P9we72zpfLFdaGjrHxXhdztlim825UtDbSJYl611xYramGUR40jN3hSLqpBaqv7Mn26CQcDQ3WdcRVWQ/s320/IMG_4556.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>A few things we know for sure. They need doctors. They need specialists. They need help educating the people of Samoa against relying solely on traditional medicine. Many a patient had come in for treatment holding a leaf over a wound that when examined turned out to be a severe infection, cancer, or broken bone not properly set. They want a lot of expensive equipment. More data-finding for us. Having equipment does nothing if you have no one who knows how to use it and to maintain it. And, as with a mammogram machine, if you can diagnose breast cancer but don't have the resources to treat it, the technology could prove harmful. There also was an insinuation of corruption within the health care system under the ugly face of self-interest. Still, there were many people we felt were genuine and well-meaning. But we began to feel like we were in a game of Clue. We never knew quite what to believe, whom to trust. In the end, you put all the clues together as best you can, you designate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">accountability</span> through certain trusted actors, and you provide the help that is most needed.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiawcsb3GSqlyKQeAxIgsMWpZdlmEH1GvfTlEoF8msKbS6JRwHFbl8d7tcZ-OpmbOteyzLx56u9-QbCPV9e7jdvoDuAvmuldfX3zynwRWt0OOELV6pG1Zejc3W_-VoCzhAXlS9UXf0CJ9I/s1600/IMG_4661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiawcsb3GSqlyKQeAxIgsMWpZdlmEH1GvfTlEoF8msKbS6JRwHFbl8d7tcZ-OpmbOteyzLx56u9-QbCPV9e7jdvoDuAvmuldfX3zynwRWt0OOELV6pG1Zejc3W_-VoCzhAXlS9UXf0CJ9I/s320/IMG_4661.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
After becoming intimately familiar with both major hospitals and their contents from IV catheters to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">echocardiogram</span> machines, Brett and I decided to spend a few days resting and exploring the less-inhabited island of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Savai'i</span>. We drove the perimeter of the island exploring volcanic blowholes, tsunami-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">decimated</span> churches, and rural <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">fales</span>, or thatched huts. We spent hours swimming in the calm surf, exploring reefs and sea life through our goggles. And we watched the sun set in the last place on earth, the western-most point of the world at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Fafa</span> O <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Sauai'i</span>, holding each other and sitting atop a black outcropping of rock while shiny lizards slipped in and out of the sharp rocks around us.</div></div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-64866110604588671772011-04-14T21:08:00.001-06:002011-04-14T21:11:18.611-06:00Australia Down Under - Brett<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We had been looking forward to this day for months. As we got out of the camper and approached the grocery store, our mouths watered and our excitement became palpable. To cook for oneself. To choose exactly what went into every meal. To eat on our own schedule. To know what each dish is. We were stoked.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And $276 later we were two of the happiest people in Australia. Refrigerator full of salad fixings, fresh vegetables, orange juice, and meat with no gristle or bones in sight. It was heaven. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">After eight months in the developing world (and granted some of the best food we had ever eaten), we were very ready to be in control of our own destiny. Our own kitchen, the same sheets every night, and our own transportation – not to mention our own language and a culture that we (mostly) understood.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPnveP9uErRYlXJUQv7q4hUuCJd8v1jTFp2j-qdgocD59yggVNbX4uwBHRo4uYhVPpM4RaXLn89oC2IUrxihm7m9RERP6LfNgor6SC7umNhKJOgQjjBzav_UIZ8DaNCU8ASrh1uz00qI/s1600/IMG_4150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCPnveP9uErRYlXJUQv7q4hUuCJd8v1jTFp2j-qdgocD59yggVNbX4uwBHRo4uYhVPpM4RaXLn89oC2IUrxihm7m9RERP6LfNgor6SC7umNhKJOgQjjBzav_UIZ8DaNCU8ASrh1uz00qI/s200/IMG_4150.JPG" width="200" /></a>We flew into Brisbane the day the river crested in the worst flood they've had in 40 years. The view from the plane as we flew over the city on a gloriously sunny afternoon with clear, blue skies was surreal. Thousands of homes lost and most of downtown submerged. But Aussies are a hardy bunch and the following day the clean-up had begun. We went to volunteer, shoveling mud and scrubbing walls, but they had more people than they could use and we were soon told to go home and come back in a month when all the enthusiasm had subsided.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PoJB6K9FHzjVpu7Z4ZPCx8llKIDV4NwVbZVSW3cPAO16zMFsjMgKatiufnwcTPSVEE_U3WwM_Sw5SeL9rfnesO08mc_TnSZTT3NfmSaoOdpONmLiowCR5u-RHJ-rdVAECXimJdvpWts/s1600/IMG_4382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; cssfloat: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PoJB6K9FHzjVpu7Z4ZPCx8llKIDV4NwVbZVSW3cPAO16zMFsjMgKatiufnwcTPSVEE_U3WwM_Sw5SeL9rfnesO08mc_TnSZTT3NfmSaoOdpONmLiowCR5u-RHJ-rdVAECXimJdvpWts/s200/IMG_4382.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">So instead we set about preparing our “home” for the arrival of our California friends, Soltz and CarolAnn. And in this case “home” was a seven-meter long, two-and-a-half meter wide, six-berth, turbo-deisel “CheapaCampa” motorhome with the steering wheel inexplicably located on the passenger side. The six-month pregnant Soltzes were going to join us for two weeks of beaches, mountains, and cities from Brisbane to Sydney.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxegAZMFzBUOBKwMNCREmCId-u1CTiZhpE32KQcHXrkWT2NfFyWz7ePPsP6ZgJWQRvmTiZOqPRXh48Ilg1D2tksUghtuGyqld5uRMxO2pjQmBdM8RXuA6sWsXLs1Pq6IZCxxNH_DnmkjM/s1600/IMG_4220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxegAZMFzBUOBKwMNCREmCId-u1CTiZhpE32KQcHXrkWT2NfFyWz7ePPsP6ZgJWQRvmTiZOqPRXh48Ilg1D2tksUghtuGyqld5uRMxO2pjQmBdM8RXuA6sWsXLs1Pq6IZCxxNH_DnmkjM/s200/IMG_4220.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTCSTGnr390pCJWbJKwA1DOkqRxEx-T3-brsYvqiyG-C316OrqcqlYJsD6i7Pd8ICST101BEjlKlv4KANl2tEeBQrmhKSjKCZVPUTacks4vErkjkb09tARSt3Jbqm9XPgz5FbEQhfiXI/s1600/IMG_4175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTCSTGnr390pCJWbJKwA1DOkqRxEx-T3-brsYvqiyG-C316OrqcqlYJsD6i7Pd8ICST101BEjlKlv4KANl2tEeBQrmhKSjKCZVPUTacks4vErkjkb09tARSt3Jbqm9XPgz5FbEQhfiXI/s200/IMG_4175.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And it was glorious! Enjoying gifts of Stone Imperial Stout and a 1000 IBU IPA, barbequing and playing football on the beach, riding beach cruisers and sea kayaking, and spending long evenings deep in conversation, we wended our way down the eastern seaboard from the Gold Coast and Byron Bay, through the farmland of northern New South Wales, to Nelson Bay, the Blue Mountains, and finally Manly Beach and Sydney. We hiked in misty mountains and strolled along secluded beaches at sunset. We fed insistent kangaroos and spotted lazy koala bears. We learned the secrets of marsupials and marveled at the songs of tropical birds. We celebrated “Australia Day” and toured the iconic Sydney Opera House. We floated in sensory deprivation tanks and went scuba diving with 8-foot sharks. We even bought didgeridoos and had late night jam sessions in the back of the RV after Jenny and CarolAnn led us on the giggling tour of historic Miller Street in Sydney. But the common thread that tied all of these experiences together – that made this part of our trip so amazingly special – was the companionship of little Annabelle growing each day in CarolAnn's belly. It was magical. Watching these two friends embark on this fantastic journey was one of the most rewarding experiences of the trip for me. Jenny and I listened and asked questions and sat in awe as these two soon-to-be parents shared their fears and their dreams, described their hopes and their plans, and demonstrated a thoughtfulness about bringing this new life into the world that gives me a new respect for two of my closest friends. Little Annabelle will be joining us at the end of May and I know for a fact that she could not have chosen two more loving and wonderful parents.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNp8h6yvvGwJzq6xHsv9GDDQmYRHPmwhMKqiNkYoZ92LhmbbGS0GAHcW7mUX8jj3l-jtQWC7JpUPMDPPa95KMz-CjKZayIFOggM14LABYBqSACUsQnskWtNUr9-Wp70xrb_Js2-mqSxqg/s1600/IMG_4334.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="129" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNp8h6yvvGwJzq6xHsv9GDDQmYRHPmwhMKqiNkYoZ92LhmbbGS0GAHcW7mUX8jj3l-jtQWC7JpUPMDPPa95KMz-CjKZayIFOggM14LABYBqSACUsQnskWtNUr9-Wp70xrb_Js2-mqSxqg/s200/IMG_4334.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>But time, and this journey, continue on. We hugged tearful goodbyes to the Soltzes in Sydney and Jenny and I were once again on our own. We were lucky enough to have scored tickets to Madame Butterfly and put on our best clothes (hmm, flip-flops or running shoes?) for a night at the Sydney Opera House before heading down the coast for some surfing and more camping on the beach. We eventually cut inland and crossed the Great Snowy Range, climbing Mt. Koziasco (the highest point in Australia) on our way to the Yarra Valley, one of Australia's premier wine regions. Two days of wine tasting (thanks to our Scottish driver, Alistar, and his 1990 Ford LTD limousine) in Healsville and Rutherglenn kept us quite happy on our journey towards Melbourne (pronounced “melbin” for all those dumb Yankees like us). We even managed to fit in the Beechworth Honey Experience – tasting about 20 very unique honey flavors and learning how honeybees actually do what they do (another mystery solved!). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfDYBkRyF_qqEYLOAPUx677BD2GoAsgGWzHrAgbsIUQWZN2o0KHucXGs51zBHBreI5WiK43BpZKbjXEUb32mXJy3oZozA-17yKvLdaZKlAkof2-zNDHtJ4ijI8pFJYeM_SbHrp4tOXJQ/s1600/IMG_4443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="101" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfDYBkRyF_qqEYLOAPUx677BD2GoAsgGWzHrAgbsIUQWZN2o0KHucXGs51zBHBreI5WiK43BpZKbjXEUb32mXJy3oZozA-17yKvLdaZKlAkof2-zNDHtJ4ijI8pFJYeM_SbHrp4tOXJQ/s200/IMG_4443.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Louise and Clive's house</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And finally it was on to another plane for the ends of the earth and the island of Tasmania, 200 kilometers off the southern coast of Australia. Tasmania is a wild and rugged place and truly feels like the end of nowhere. Our amazing Vail, Colorado friends Louise and Clive (a Tazzy native) picked us up at the airport and proceeded to pamper us for a solid week. To date we had slept in 128 different places and I am quite certain not a single one of them had a bed this comfortable. Louise and Clive split their time between Vail and Tasmania and have just finished building their dream home on the wild, rugged coast on this lost island. Waking every morning to the gray, menacing ocean crashing on the rocks below the house made one want to snuggle deeper under the covers. But the sun did shine and we managed to get in some sailing, sea kayaking, running, and skinny dipping (Brrrr!!!). Most of the week was spent preparing for our upcoming volunteer work in Samoa, but every evening was passed in wonderful conversation over sensational food, often prepared in Clive's outdoor man-kitchen (of which I am jealous). For the first time in nine months we had a real home. Thank you Louise and Clive. You will never know how much that meant to us.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDtPw36ce3DSGwj7D2kBjg3lDjr09BjJqeIe-36ucIUcYiKGzseDag7P6l9XqcH3XURzTAyeqgOHNzFw9RKOg91A8xwlc46Ex9twGk-Drl7SsLCQZ0r2CqSjk3N8lDRKieWt_lCz3dvg/s1600/IMG_4418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtDtPw36ce3DSGwj7D2kBjg3lDjr09BjJqeIe-36ucIUcYiKGzseDag7P6l9XqcH3XURzTAyeqgOHNzFw9RKOg91A8xwlc46Ex9twGk-Drl7SsLCQZ0r2CqSjk3N8lDRKieWt_lCz3dvg/s200/IMG_4418.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">We had just spent a whole month back in the “developed” world and it was wonderful and strange. Gone were the $5 beach cottages, replaced by $60 tourist park campsites. Palate searing Jeow Mak Keua was replaced by barbequed burgers and fries. “Namaste” was replaced with “G'Day Mate!” And our position in society as revered “Americans” was replaced by our position in society as “stupid Americans”. As much as we needed the familiarity of the West and a respite from the difficulties of travel in a foreign land, we were sad to have left exotic Asia and be back in the world of SUVs and processed food. But before heading to New Zealand we had one more foray left into the unknown. So we boarded a plane headed for Samoa and were once again thrust into an unfamiliar culture full of new smells, new friends, new foods, a new language, and the stark realization that five more months of 3rd world travel in South America just wasn't going to happen.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-39460882444217752942011-03-30T22:45:00.007-06:002011-04-07T02:17:30.805-06:00New Years 2011: South Vietnam - Jenny<strong>Phu Quoc Island<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-BQf2gOnShtwdHuzZbJPka5n7pGA9qfHt1opneFpgvDMvdT1zD41-BecwSsRVttJ8NX82Vyk5FRu2UdASXx1Ky4_mUT3qzaUrz2r30peIW_N6tEtmdRpnL0rcQIpeiVGUhVyZ3jSs8rX/s1600/Fun+girlfriend+time+Jenny+and+Lisa+on+Phu+Quoc+1.3.11.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590102766319920946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM-BQf2gOnShtwdHuzZbJPka5n7pGA9qfHt1opneFpgvDMvdT1zD41-BecwSsRVttJ8NX82Vyk5FRu2UdASXx1Ky4_mUT3qzaUrz2r30peIW_N6tEtmdRpnL0rcQIpeiVGUhVyZ3jSs8rX/s320/Fun+girlfriend+time+Jenny+and+Lisa+on+Phu+Quoc+1.3.11.JPG" /></a></strong> <br /><div><br /><div><br /><div><br /><div>I think we both looked forward to meeting up with Lisa, my girlfriend from Denver, who fit us in to the beginning of her month-long vacation in Vietnam. We needed a fresh breath of air, some new ideas, and some nurturing from a well-rested and enthusiastic traveler and friend. We got just that. She and another friend, Penny, had made us a care package with all kinds of things from back home such as bacon-chocolate, good toothpaste, ginger candies, and sparkly fingernail polish. We spent days soaking in the sun and ge<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHtBeacHtQ0Dz9T39lw0or9L0P4WCTnxA9doQG94FQ6GOr4BLCA3tLF4yLcVXsxBqO-cW4zA8HbGAMMuDSNyta6HpiR8ESn_KbhUufgYUFmH64DjSJeatnN4nQbTbz6LB6QEqC8fnw7xX/s1600/IMG_4091.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 152px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 160px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590102779164793170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyHtBeacHtQ0Dz9T39lw0or9L0P4WCTnxA9doQG94FQ6GOr4BLCA3tLF4yLcVXsxBqO-cW4zA8HbGAMMuDSNyta6HpiR8ESn_KbhUufgYUFmH64DjSJeatnN4nQbTbz6LB6QEqC8fnw7xX/s320/IMG_4091.JPG" /></a>tting $5 massages on the beach, played sand volleyball pick-up games, did yoga and Lisa's bootcamp (ouch...couldn't walk for 3 days!). We spent an evening walking the market, which ended in a smorgasboard of all kinds of unrecognisable seafood that came from the prettiest shells we could find. (Note: pretty doesn't equal tasty). We felt a bit guilty after eating at the market, realizing that this area is so obviously overfished. The three of us rented motor scooters and rode down a squirrely gravel road to a gorgeous wide white-sand beach where we played in the water like kids. We spent a day scuba diving<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Jnl4m_oZ76SWFMgbTiFUnT3qR-LRxsb8baJD8-9kW6zvhaxCqvkM4ZekmnJ-wmeZVo5Sj7g5zf8a6vxEGfqzfOtoSRqntmgh9Cba2ygWEyGEU0doyw8C8khJtaXArWsiN-RdHRhIcqis/s1600/Jenny+and+Brett+motorbike+ride+Phu+Quoc+1.3.11.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 231px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 213px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590102783212256818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7Jnl4m_oZ76SWFMgbTiFUnT3qR-LRxsb8baJD8-9kW6zvhaxCqvkM4ZekmnJ-wmeZVo5Sj7g5zf8a6vxEGfqzfOtoSRqntmgh9Cba2ygWEyGEU0doyw8C8khJtaXArWsiN-RdHRhIcqis/s320/Jenny+and+Brett+motorbike+ride+Phu+Quoc+1.3.11.JPG" /></a>, which, although was a fun endeavor in-and-of itself, was pretty disappointing from a quality standpoint. The water was murky, and we saw very little in the way of creatures. Unless floating plastic bags count. Still, we got some good Lisa time. More yoga, deep conversations and beach massages. We met Bogue, a fun and intense dude from back home in Colorado, who was vacationing with his mid-western family. See ya back in CO! </div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvG4zGU_ErTH0gTspzSQnQKGZwPcsStIEfAz_lUGIWCbr5Z3RfHgfcxdUfJUUN8RTi1zptn9N7SqX_fdqZ4FV_cNvgBZtzxI06OkCJACN3QJ7qTC466V8ARJ_Pw0tpVlMiHVt5Jk7sotEE/s1600/Lisa%252C+Brett+and+Jenny+diving+in+Phu+Quoc+1.2.11.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 260px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 189px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590102772571473074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvG4zGU_ErTH0gTspzSQnQKGZwPcsStIEfAz_lUGIWCbr5Z3RfHgfcxdUfJUUN8RTi1zptn9N7SqX_fdqZ4FV_cNvgBZtzxI06OkCJACN3QJ7qTC466V8ARJ_Pw0tpVlMiHVt5Jk7sotEE/s320/Lisa%252C+Brett+and+Jenny+diving+in+Phu+Quoc+1.2.11.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Needless to say, the southern sun and Lisa's sunny disposition made us very happy.</div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvG4zGU_ErTH0gTspzSQnQKGZwPcsStIEfAz_lUGIWCbr5Z3RfHgfcxdUfJUUN8RTi1zptn9N7SqX_fdqZ4FV_cNvgBZtzxI06OkCJACN3QJ7qTC466V8ARJ_Pw0tpVlMiHVt5Jk7sotEE/s1600/Lisa%252C+Brett+and+Jenny+diving+in+Phu+Quoc+1.2.11.JPG"></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Around this time I started having some "female problems" that warranted a trip back to a bigger city for a check-up. We left Lisa and Phu Quoc hoping to catch up again, but unfortunately I had to stay in Ho Chi Minh (HCM) for a few more days and we never got to say our real goodbyes to Lise. The medical care was AMAZING. More efficient, and as professional as anything at home. Things were fine after the doctor visit, so we spent a few days walking around HCM (Saigon, as many of the Vietnamese prefer). We met a friend of Brett's and his wife, Chris and Lucy Graham, for a great traditional Vietnamese dinner. We had a suit custom made for Brett. We found a hot little Vietnamese rock singer who played short 30-minute sets every night at an outdoor venue, singing "I Hate Myself for Loving You" and other chick rock songs. Mui Ne was our last stop on the Asian tour. It is a small coastal town filled with Russian tourists and high winds, making it a mecca for kite-surfing. We thought about learning to kite surf, but the water was choppy and the wind was relentless...and we only had two days. Not enough to do more than get dragged around the beach doing face plants in the sand with a kite while learning how to control the sail. So we went out for a surf lesson instead, which was also mediocre at best. And one of our bike helmets got stolen. I think Mui Ne was the perfect reminder that we were ready to get to Australia. Our sheets were dirty, the bus was 2 hours late, the hotel staff were rude to us, and we were tired of playing tourist with the locals who just wanted our money. When you are indundated with sensory overload, beggars, liars, pollution, crowds, dust, fear, it becomes more and more difficult to be objective, to separate the individual from the group/mass mentality, and not to feel a stirring of dislike for Vietnam, Asia, Mankind. What kind of curse is it that human beings share such characteristics as love, and yet somehow have divisive characteristics such as racism, clashing habits and values, and misunderstandings born of language and culture differences? I know that the "tourist track" puts one in a position to be at the mercy of others and the conditions of the road. This is only compounded by having little personal space, no freedom of transport according to one's own will, a limited budget and few creature comforts. Did I mention I have not seen a hairdryer for 8 months, my only shoes are smelly trail runners and cheap flip-flops, and my make-up consists of chapstick? I'm no diva, but what I would give right now to slip on some nice jeans, a cute top and some strappy sandles. We both say we know we will look back on much of our time in Asia with fondness and gratuity. But for now, we are pretty burned out. </div><br /><div><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33cc00;">When you come to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on. -FDR</span></em></div></div></div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-78134119249937961082011-03-30T22:41:00.015-06:002011-04-07T02:16:38.099-06:00December: Cambodia - Jenny<div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Notice: Contains graphic content!</span></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Tiny school girls wearing bright white shirts and <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGZhvq96wFv-agaLjZIK0PwPOqV67slW0LrLciDIjOtUTIOR5Uapm8sMzcIL9RZJ2v0nXdtgkDfnZQZoxPEHWfpttgAoEhlRFVbBgUTBWOE8y15KIpSQ6KOthBllRXcU2x4Ba9SMPCNun/s1600/IMG_3940.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590109546997540098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGZhvq96wFv-agaLjZIK0PwPOqV67slW0LrLciDIjOtUTIOR5Uapm8sMzcIL9RZJ2v0nXdtgkDfnZQZoxPEHWfpttgAoEhlRFVbBgUTBWOE8y15KIpSQ6KOthBllRXcU2x4Ba9SMPCNun/s320/IMG_3940.JPG" /></a>blue plaid skirts wear their blue-black hair in tight pig-tails protruding from the sides of their head. They swing down a dirt path touching shoulders and toting backpacks , oblivious of and accustomed to the white bull lazing a few feet away in the sprawling dusty field. Arriving in Cambodia and meeting our smiling and friendly tuk tuk driver in Siam Riep, we let out a deep breath of air from our stale lungs. Cambodia would be a different place from Northern Vietnam. We hit Siam Riep around Christmas time. Despite our non-Christian status, we longed for a little Christmas caroling and baby <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCXQKa3YCkuyUNVXoS7fNgA86x_RcjFxJRXumE_g2EpikHnnXFoFAOY4q0zjzF8mBzHwVjQ3UVflOakjF63L6xXastSBRB_JTfIOVVBCv_vfLYqCineTF4BAdWgag0u7biJoTH9eastWz/s1600/IMG_3941.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590105787069796994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCXQKa3YCkuyUNVXoS7fNgA86x_RcjFxJRXumE_g2EpikHnnXFoFAOY4q0zjzF8mBzHwVjQ3UVflOakjF63L6xXastSBRB_JTfIOVVBCv_vfLYqCineTF4BAdWgag0u7biJoTH9eastWz/s320/IMG_3941.JPG" /></a>Jesus. Well, we found Cambodian massage therapists with Santa Claus hats, and a Christmas dinner that was complete with mashed potatoes, chicken and cranberry sauce. And an Angelina Jolie cocktail. We spent an afternoon touring a silk farm which proved to be another one of those mysteries solved. The silk worm may die at the hands of man, but their short 37-day lives are immortalized in beauty, some of which will be in the form of throw pillows on our couch. Brett loves throw p<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAbxUhhFix2BUSr2JV99kkKZescFEoE-7gkM_gVaX_Jw_593puOHXRzIbMy9OpFDQyee1yQsEaJZsLHmSnIhkcV7brF1QvILzhG-OYTIx-I5MsH6CTRK_gFf4toqjnNB1JyT-4eME21ly/s1600/IMG_3983.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 265px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 195px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590105798847813490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAbxUhhFix2BUSr2JV99kkKZescFEoE-7gkM_gVaX_Jw_593puOHXRzIbMy9OpFDQyee1yQsEaJZsLHmSnIhkcV7brF1QvILzhG-OYTIx-I5MsH6CTRK_gFf4toqjnNB1JyT-4eME21ly/s320/IMG_3983.JPG" /></a>illows. Especially on beds. When he gets to arrange them as part of making the bed every day. We rented clunker bikes and took a day riding around Angkor Wat, Bayon and Angkor Thom, best known to Americans as the place where the Angelina Jolie movie Tomb Raider was filmed. These 1,000 year old stone temples are the remains of a city that was built over centuries by the Kmher Buddhists and Hindus, changing hands depending on the Jayavarman (J) ruler and religion of the day. The best evidence of t<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoytRq1KoN6yCeExvvKigEEHSSy98gJ1IqYRSOWPzSAS4ho_PJaa03CvPq300iVoBhLqfgN7gy7VAcgP3qpetWxgZRf1NtT7FjyEIByqvNBwOWpfOO1164OJjj3UDk3GprKvyQSykXHm8i/s1600/IMG_3959.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590105793351713634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoytRq1KoN6yCeExvvKigEEHSSy98gJ1IqYRSOWPzSAS4ho_PJaa03CvPq300iVoBhLqfgN7gy7VAcgP3qpetWxgZRf1NtT7FjyEIByqvNBwOWpfOO1164OJjj3UDk3GprKvyQSykXHm8i/s320/IMG_3959.JPG" /></a>his was the absolute lack of heads on all Buddha statues, which had been chopped off by the Hindu J VIII. Many of the ruins have all but been reclaimed by the surrounding jungles, sporting Banyan trees whose serpentine roots and trunks grow atop and throughout the crumbling rock structures.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>On to Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia and with a reputation as the prettiest city in Southeast Asia. We couchsurfed with Sam, a Cambo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfDDu6MCAx2AkQKPtH7d4Y99T-l3qfg_KBXjvIBnV1pUkXUmYdSdouZnBpaK2VKlHOckniJs4ohX5rW-_DT7KnJ40dCrpVcKIVtfxiC1atnTowOwf6OEhUw1AOyZvFV2DwUeENPLfRTxWN/s1600/IMG_4017.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590109558422707410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfDDu6MCAx2AkQKPtH7d4Y99T-l3qfg_KBXjvIBnV1pUkXUmYdSdouZnBpaK2VKlHOckniJs4ohX5rW-_DT7KnJ40dCrpVcKIVtfxiC1atnTowOwf6OEhUw1AOyZvFV2DwUeENPLfRTxWN/s320/IMG_4017.JPG" /></a>dian native who studied development work in New Zealand and returned to Cambodia to apply his skills. He is well-spoken and driven. He is openly gay and is creating social and mentoring programs for gay men and HIV+ people in Phnom Penh. Sam is a force of nature. When asked what others can do to best help people in developing countries, he suggested to ask them what they want to do, and just support them in meeting their goals. Ideally, mentoring is best done by those with similar cultural values and backgrounds. Any help or change must be grounded in the recipient's own culture and social structure.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>While in Phnom Penh we visited the horrific killing fields and Tuol Sleng, otherwise known as the S-21 torture site. The Khmer Rouge tortured and killed 20,000 of the Cambodian Khmers at this site. (The estimated total number of people killed by the Khmer Rouge is around 1.4 million, whether by murder or starvation.) Standing in the grassy center of an old high school building cum prison, one can imagine the sticky blood running acros<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihW9PXRx026d3WSAfvhUS0zhp8xnFi9xUormwmvp71n0x11RAcRoAdj_ao9jNEQJ3J3fMwZ0yyzi3xM68-aL4RWFDIcVCGKir1rly2WK1Awt7qKFt-gTsvi-hWHMLdZnQpXH0hJTPm77HJ/s1600/IMG_4009.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590105803942112338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihW9PXRx026d3WSAfvhUS0zhp8xnFi9xUormwmvp71n0x11RAcRoAdj_ao9jNEQJ3J3fMwZ0yyzi3xM68-aL4RWFDIcVCGKir1rly2WK1Awt7qKFt-gTsvi-hWHMLdZnQpXH0hJTPm77HJ/s320/IMG_4009.JPG" /></a>s the floors and down the outside walls of the torture rooms, smell the stench of skin burning and bodies decaying, hear the cries of mothers as they watched their children being thrown against tree trunks or thrown up in the air and shot, and the shrieks and cries of the tortured falling deaf upon the empty city. The Khmer killed anyone with an education. Anyone who wore spectacles was fair game. First they were tortured, each and every one of them, so that their family members could be identified and also killed. They were forced to eat feces, recieve electric shocks, hang in painful positions, have their livers cut out while they were alive. They were seldom shot, but usually hit with blunt instruments or cut with razor-like palm fronds so as to save bullets. To this day wh<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdi2z9y0akNuZETC_cd6a8-6VqVZBlWhEUUflplEDsdZRqs7FX3hJulLmATm4RbSbMx4cRgXE0YwqhQ3jv-tR07pmJZvS59zjW0LMaSJb7g5g6rnRRpqc4Gmph1kE3Hn8cLmBjDr1mlW2o/s1600/IMG_4031.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590105807909041970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdi2z9y0akNuZETC_cd6a8-6VqVZBlWhEUUflplEDsdZRqs7FX3hJulLmATm4RbSbMx4cRgXE0YwqhQ3jv-tR07pmJZvS59zjW0LMaSJb7g5g6rnRRpqc4Gmph1kE3Hn8cLmBjDr1mlW2o/s320/IMG_4031.JPG" /></a>en the area gets a lot of rain, remnants float to the top of the shallow graves...clothing, teeth, bones. The most frightening thing about genocide of this kind is how so many human minds can be influenced to PARTICIPATE in the torture and killing. What makes ordinary men mass murderers? Is it ground in fear, cowardess, peer pressure? Is human sense of morality that fragile, that easily manipulated and changed? And it is so widespread...Ottaman Empire, Russia, Germany, Rwanda, China, Cambodia, Borneo, East Timor...all in the last century. </div></div><br /><div><br /><div><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Nonviolence means not only avoiding external physical violence but also internal violence of spirit. You not only refuse to shoot a man, but you refuse to hate him. -Martin Luther King Jr. </span></em></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We spent our last evening in Phnom Penh at a gay bar drinking coctails, where I met a Cambodian pharmacy student who had just finished a lecture in bioethics. Pharmaceutical ethics! The issues they studied were assuring knowledge and licensure of both modern pharmaceuticals and traditional practices, as well as avoiding the huge black market of counterfeit drugs. We said goodbye to Sam, and headed to the small coastal town of Kep, where we spent a few days eating freshly caught peppered crab, drinking wine, and watching the sun set over our next destination...the island of Phu Quoc, Vietnam. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWNS2J7pzauF2gE40fhuL5S3FRRAHeHi6kHReAy9RWtS9ZRlsLM3HH_58SPO15DZKl8ef5MXkSt_BS_XX6SgtbAMN4DEopSQ9hnIQaLcyt60t9qOdPLRf9XQOlESCTYOoeI8XwIebcBAV/s1600/IMG_4076.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590109568369349986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWNS2J7pzauF2gE40fhuL5S3FRRAHeHi6kHReAy9RWtS9ZRlsLM3HH_58SPO15DZKl8ef5MXkSt_BS_XX6SgtbAMN4DEopSQ9hnIQaLcyt60t9qOdPLRf9XQOlESCTYOoeI8XwIebcBAV/s320/IMG_4076.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdCVKYLYIDy6l_d8oCejMYwqOmEdIZAda2WmxusLZ-j8W0OAyIXp99TwYq2AySfYz8qfWJskEdlrYMO4OoOFWR4aMIT6KiOOB2aJprTCApQjNdrbzcwiHySKg4i1K07lk-xEVw2nUDi0n/s1600/IMG_4068.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590109560266239218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWdCVKYLYIDy6l_d8oCejMYwqOmEdIZAda2WmxusLZ-j8W0OAyIXp99TwYq2AySfYz8qfWJskEdlrYMO4OoOFWR4aMIT6KiOOB2aJprTCApQjNdrbzcwiHySKg4i1K07lk-xEVw2nUDi0n/s320/IMG_4068.JPG" /></a></div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-33152899595172322912011-03-30T21:50:00.007-06:002011-04-07T02:49:04.305-06:00December 2010: Northern Vietnam- Jenny<em><span style="color:#33cc00;">To what avail the plow or sail,</span></em> <em><span style="color:#33cc00;">or land or life, if freedom fail? -Ralph Waldo Emerson</span></em> Hanoi. To us it felt crowded, grey and dreary, the mood matching the overcast, drizzly and humid weather. Infrastructure was poor. Decomposition gases bubbled to the green filmy surface of the lakes. Sidewalks were congested and dirty, aggressive motorbikers flooded the streets in chaotic rows 7 to 8 astride, and the gloomy people were impervious to our smiles, questions and overall presence. They seem to exist in a state of survival. Meanwhile, the ocassional $100,000 car would drive by, squeezing through a narrow street as if they placed no value on the lives of the motorbikers and pedestrians walking there. It just felt dark. We had arranged to couchsurf with John, or Jack (still not sure) Jones. Jack was living temporarily in a 4th story apartment in Hanoi while he awaited a job constructing a multi-million dollar vacation resort. Jack is from England originally, and still keeps his girlfriend from Germany, who he met while couchsurfing! Having been unemployed by choice for some number of months, he was trying to motivate himself (he loves beer!) and find some mojo to rediscover his passion for his work. Jack was very gracious, and kept us for 3 days while we explored the city. One night Jack had arranged for us to go out to eat at his favorite neighborhood spot. We walked into a crowded joint and sat down low around<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQggKfkjtvFN6uMdZEgWUvXvgFGTUfFcMPWVtRGSQwUXA2IYUaM5CeFV2m2-EvJNWUJuIFPLdEyn7aaSfmESS4Qv5DlLz5Q4275YgpQU2Od29BjkuPuiUBimgQWPrBVE0qR4tWomZC1XrF/s1600/IMG_3881.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590096824202859826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQggKfkjtvFN6uMdZEgWUvXvgFGTUfFcMPWVtRGSQwUXA2IYUaM5CeFV2m2-EvJNWUJuIFPLdEyn7aaSfmESS4Qv5DlLz5Q4275YgpQU2Od29BjkuPuiUBimgQWPrBVE0qR4tWomZC1XrF/s320/IMG_3881.JPG" /></a> a table on the child-size plastic colored chairs (I think all of Vietnam got “special price” on these). A plate of thinly chopped raw meat and veggies was brought to us to cook “fondue” style. We cooked our own meat in a splattering frying pan at the table. It was delicious! But something didn't seem right. The meat didn't quite taste like beef. On the way out we asked using hand gestures (few northern Vietnamese seemed to speak any English), what kind of meat was this? When the lady pointed to a dog walking by, we stood in a state of disbelief...we had just eaten A DOG. Jack said with some amount of shock, “So I have been eating DOG for the last 3 weeks?!” My only comfort in this fiasco is the fact that most dogs in Vietnam seemed to be stray, undomesticated, and fairly aggressive and slinky. Ugh. Being in a communist country, Brett and I struggled to find evidence of its impact. While in Hanoi we visited two museums, which when juxtaposed, only added to the confusion of our understanding of communism in Vietnam; these were the Ho Chi Minh Museum and the Hanoi Hilton. Uncle Ho, as Ho Chi Minh is affectionately referred, seemed to be a great<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GZFTEgi94P4r2E5aTAf8fsjDhZcwktYBX2hGu-2_JuKyuKuoB7J4qwxD2qYcqK-O4FZ7qERt_ndrCBYN3iHF6AQtzUwxKazZ82YuKL7aQ-SxTDXa2rpp5Iun06Cnfya1mXfREekWEJb5/s1600/IMG_3878.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590096817770969202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GZFTEgi94P4r2E5aTAf8fsjDhZcwktYBX2hGu-2_JuKyuKuoB7J4qwxD2qYcqK-O4FZ7qERt_ndrCBYN3iHF6AQtzUwxKazZ82YuKL7aQ-SxTDXa2rpp5Iun06Cnfya1mXfREekWEJb5/s320/IMG_3878.JPG" /></a> man with pure ideas about equality, community and education. His museum displays beautiful quotes next to historic photographs of Uncle Ho sitting “with the people”, a working man's man. It walks through his life as a young social activist fighting for Vietnamese civil rights and follows his life through his leadership of the Viet Cong to the end of his life. We unfortunately (or fortunately) visited the museum on a day the mausoleum was closed, where we could have viewed the actual preserved body of the small aged Ho Chi Minh himself. If we weren't sure that the Vietnamese were capable of propaganda, no-- historical revisionism-- in the most blatant of ways, we were convinced by the time we experienced the museum at the old Hanoi Hilton prison site. The prison was used originally by the French during the colonization days to jail uncooperative Vietnamese. But what we are more familiar with is the building's use during the Vietnam War to imprison the American POWs, specifically downed and captured fighter pilots. John McCain's uniform was displayed, as was a picture of Vietnamese swimming out to rescue McCain where he crashed in Truc Bach Lake in Hanoi. Along with this, photos displayed U.S. POWs playing games, raising their own chickens, even practicing their own religion! One wall boasted the line, “The POWs were lucky to have Vietnamese as their captors”, stating explicitly how well they were treated. This flies in the face of all historical accounts we have read of the cruelty endured by the American military in the Hanoi Hilton. History is always told through the lens of the storyteller. But this is more than a slight inconsistency. Needing a respite, we took a bus out of Hanoi and headed for Halong Bay to jump aboard “Indochina Sails” for a 3 day sail around the area. The boat was a replica of the old wooden junks with 3-4 large sails. It was a beautiful boat. Thanks Aunt Debbie for the<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiH7xFlOxaxGlx5yxEBicv65Bc1DQnnWsjYVhyphenhyphenIkC_mVFSlfLCczqjmZL1HUyWxhwyfFWm6gbtCXtMHhHlrDAcqXz0jEFcm-TBnx7jNIubQ2z48fUT2g7KIFzZF1tv-dQW4E5ECtXcjhM/s1600/IMG_3890.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 208px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590096826124583330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOiH7xFlOxaxGlx5yxEBicv65Bc1DQnnWsjYVhyphenhyphenIkC_mVFSlfLCczqjmZL1HUyWxhwyfFWm6gbtCXtMHhHlrDAcqXz0jEFcm-TBnx7jNIubQ2z48fUT2g7KIFzZF1tv-dQW4E5ECtXcjhM/s320/IMG_3890.JPG" /></a> lead! The food was great and the room was probably one of the nicest rooms we had stayed in to date. Despite the fact that the bay was a bit crowded and the cruise felt a bit canned, it was nevertheless a gorgeous place, with bald white limestone peaks emerging vertically like gumdrops from the jellyfish-loving water. We did a little kayaking, cave exploring, and yoga on the deck of Indochina Sails. We were excited to try our hand at squid fishing which turned into something more like bobbing a fishing rod in the water w<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pCM4Tlk1I9k3LLAfkciiasJdkYWt1J9c2iT5C-BCOPXDqEapkc6nHkmkmpoedz8bKYJbNPrzDxU7UbEnyv8lKI6JWEthpHRJY9l9B86xZetxwseNEIlVUPsBu4dGqqVkr2x6OuUq_y-Y/s1600/PC200025.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590096831720217506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pCM4Tlk1I9k3LLAfkciiasJdkYWt1J9c2iT5C-BCOPXDqEapkc6nHkmkmpoedz8bKYJbNPrzDxU7UbEnyv8lKI6JWEthpHRJY9l9B86xZetxwseNEIlVUPsBu4dGqqVkr2x6OuUq_y-Y/s320/PC200025.JPG" /></a>ith a big light shining down on, well, water. Brett swears he saw one squid under the boat. I am not so sure. The most memorable side trip was a visit to the Halong Bay Pearl Farm where cultured pearls are created. The oysters are actually implanted with mantle tissue from another mollusk to select for pearl color. A small rounded hollow shell is placed in the oyster, and they are left to do their work for 2 years. The pearl pops out perfectly, with no need for polishing or treating. I bought a pair of beautiful pearl earrings while Brett played on the blow-up water park features. <strong>A Quick Rant on the State of Things in my Head</strong> <strong></strong>Yes, traveling creates undulating emotions. But it was in Northern Vietnam that I felt the culmination of the darkness we had witnessed around Asia. Reading a book called “The Girl in the Picture”, I felt the despair of a bright girl growing up in a war-torn, oppressed, impoverished country. Kim Phuc was shamed by her mother, told she would never find love in her injured state as a nepalm strike victim, and grew up without much compassion or empathy from others. Any semblance of a carefree joyous life was drained out of her. Combined with the worn faces of the Vietnamese I was looking at presently, I realized that life isn't just better with beauty, freedom, and the luxury of time...it is life. I stopped feeling guilty that I had these things and others didn't...and began to appreciate them in a way I never have before. How can you lift the darkness from others? En masse? I think of the voluminous human lives throughout history spent in survival mode, experiencing little freedom, joy and pleasure in their lifetimes. I felt a gripping emotion again in the Hanoi Hilton. As I peered into the eyes of pictures of young American men, something visceral hit me. It might have been as simple as facial recognition, but a deep love swept over me. In those faces I could see the reliability of someone's word. The ability to read facial expressions and intentions. The Truth as I have come to know it. I love Americans. I miss home. Being away, I no longer subject the U.S. to the microscope the way I once did. I can readily see what we have in contrast to other countries. My internal radar about people is as functional in Asia as the plug outlets. I am tired of getting wine milkshakes, catching the 1:00 bus at 3:00, the inability to tell the massage therapist something more subtle and kind than “Ow”. When I wave am I being rude? Is my shirt exposing too much skin? When I smile am I making others suspicious, uncomfortable, or am I inviting unwarranted advances? Why do men always talk to Brett when I am speaking to them? There exists a constant feeling of acute awareness and guardedness. I want to feel a love and caring for all people. But the reality is, it is not easy to love others. People can be difficult, loud, distrusting, pushy, and manipulative. Life can lead people to prioritize survival over relationships and grace. I have such a regret when I feel angry at yet another tout being aggressive. It drives me to ignore someone, a fellow human being, when my conscience dictates that this is rude and inhumane. Kindness means nothing to certain humans, believe me I've tried. It all comes down to survival. You play a different game here. As I sit on long bus rides with plenty of reflection time, I realize I miss my bro. He makes me laugh. I've known him all my living days. Tears well when I think of him, and how he has been a constant in my life. And my parents. Have I taken them for granted? I hear Abba through my earphones and, again, tears well for my friend Karen. I miss camping, climbing, biking, skiing with good friends. I look forward to being a big part of our nephew-to-be Baltazar's life (now we know he is actually a she and will be Nora Landin). <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kNswXw9VoITnxnuiNcSccqxkXKlCVW1ZBZSwG8r6blJd8QGQElRks52L0TzwukTUYSEu3fpjQ0ShNDSOASwKLhaa5H9Ormda3qLhowiuXycJ9qOSlJJy0IqxECrCyhn0wKCD34F-8h2A/s1600/IMG_3939.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590096842191627586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kNswXw9VoITnxnuiNcSccqxkXKlCVW1ZBZSwG8r6blJd8QGQElRks52L0TzwukTUYSEu3fpjQ0ShNDSOASwKLhaa5H9Ormda3qLhowiuXycJ9qOSlJJy0IqxECrCyhn0wKCD34F-8h2A/s320/IMG_3939.JPG" /></a> I just feel so heavy.Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-26656513839833727762011-03-06T21:36:00.008-07:002011-03-30T23:28:47.124-06:00Laos: by Brett<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkf30yT9LrVXnb5MNGmE3Dgne2IIwtkd1O2onR14T7r1F-gnU5LCKr-3TJ4POujpMUTRk4sYV1awZQHnRc6aAS2xXVWtL1DeqkJ6kvsNfIMpSSOAqbTl42QmqOI2S6aqKNhkMgHJRbuwe/s1600/IMG_3730.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581199110810969090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSkf30yT9LrVXnb5MNGmE3Dgne2IIwtkd1O2onR14T7r1F-gnU5LCKr-3TJ4POujpMUTRk4sYV1awZQHnRc6aAS2xXVWtL1DeqkJ6kvsNfIMpSSOAqbTl42QmqOI2S6aqKNhkMgHJRbuwe/s320/IMG_3730.JPG" /></a> <br /><div><br /><div><br /><div>Yet another overnight bus ride with 14 passengers begging the driver to slow down while various other passengers retched their guts out in plastic bags, everyone squeezing their eyes shut in sheer terror as we careened around corners and passed three-abreast at high speed through blind curves and small villages. But daybreak brought peace and our first view of the mighty Mekong river. This winding, misty waterway mirrors the swirling confusion in my own brain surrounding the history of this beautiful land. Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam. All related in my mind to the “Vietnam War”, but how do the pieces fit together? Did you know that in the 60's and 70's America dropped more bombs on Laos than all the Allied forces combined dropped during all of World War II? On Laos? Was there a war in Laos? Did you know that on your last birthday, on this past Christmas day, last week<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwTVtFlO8-v_Wt1yHPL8tPJM_Q_yLibnorkz7iFG20eVUWs-6LQW0f_uKQeiOr0G0WcD83khCmJSwkDiHnxAbi0XDH8XmR8tsueWzYesX6GxJeoZ28Dos-QeU5BIDklGxXcxUM-yhTP_7/s1600/IMG_3836.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581196251239355490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrwTVtFlO8-v_Wt1yHPL8tPJM_Q_yLibnorkz7iFG20eVUWs-6LQW0f_uKQeiOr0G0WcD83khCmJSwkDiHnxAbi0XDH8XmR8tsueWzYesX6GxJeoZ28Dos-QeU5BIDklGxXcxUM-yhTP_7/s320/IMG_3836.JPG" /></a>, yesterday, today, tomorrow, and every day for the next hundred years, one person in Laos was or will be killed or maimed by unexploded ordnance - bombs that we (America) dropped over 40 years ago but never exploded. Thirty-seven years after our last official combat troops were withdrawn from Vietnam, the legacy of war still haunts the farmers and children of Laos. And the same story is true in Cambodia. For two countries that were never acknowledged to the American public as being part of “the Vietnam war”, the remnants of American involvement here are everywhere. We crossed the river from Thailand into Laos and boarded one more bus to Luang Nam Tha in the very northwestern corner of the country near the border with Burma. Our goal was to trek in the Nam Ha National Protected Area and meet some of the local tribes in this unspoiled part of the country. The Karens, the Hmong, the Khmu, and the Akha would be our hosts and our guides through this remote region. But before we could leave on our three-day trek we discovered something. The Lao people smile even more than the Thai people do – if that's possible. Over the next two weeks we would find that the 20th poorest country in the world has the happiest, nicest people we have ever met. Please remind me of the definition of poverty, again? Rumor has it that Laos is a dream for motorcycles with twisty mountain roads, good pavement, and no traffic. And so it is. After meeting the amazing Martina and Sahi (our travel soul-mate couple), we set out from the capital (Vientiane) for five days of exploring, living off the bikes, and staying wherever we ended up come sunset. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjOhSgssVSW9p7zSlek3q2YrWIt1LdzOfXK7oBlWlxtzaWmdK8tKhwsm2iJeJnJl67qkJrIrqaAReZo2WqpBjwthM5kmhMqohFRmpPwikkikUBZwCsZyDVDLxqFrZEe3p95adwJ82xII9/s1600/IMG_3779.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581197057930045890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjOhSgssVSW9p7zSlek3q2YrWIt1LdzOfXK7oBlWlxtzaWmdK8tKhwsm2iJeJnJl67qkJrIrqaAReZo2WqpBjwthM5kmhMqohFRmpPwikkikUBZwCsZyDVDLxqFrZEe3p95adwJ82xII9/s320/IMG_3779.JPG" /></a> And it was sublime. Jenny rode like a pro on her Honda Tracker and Brett kicked the street bike habit for the workhorse Honda Baja enduro. Maybe it was just being surrounded by such nice people, but you would be hard pressed to have found two more happy souls in all of Laos. There's nothing like being on a motorcycle to make a land come alive. The countryside unrolls beneath you in sights and sounds and smells and sensations that you never get from a bus or a plane. Side roads beckon and you engage with the locals on a truly personal level. Using hand signals to borrow a tool from the town mechanic. Taking a picture by a river surrounded by a group of shy, laughing, smiling children. Having lunch with members of a hill tribe that you've only read about in books. Happening upon a local funeral procession and watching as they burn the body by the side of the road. On busses we tend to bury ourselves in books or pass away the hours of boredom with sleep. Our companions are other (usually western) travelers and our meals are pre-planned stops at uninteresting restaurants whose sole purpose is to get a busload of passengers in and out in 20 minutes. On the road, with the wind in our hair, we are wide-awake with all senses on high alert. The greens are greener, the smells sharper, and the mist penetrating our jackets makes us feel like a part of the land. The sun soaking into our necks and even the dust that cakes our faces become a part of us. We didn't want it to end. But the seed has been planted and ideas for South America have begun to churn. Could we ride motos from Patagonia to Colombia? The lure of the wide open road beckons and part of our heart will always remain in the rolling, misty hills of Laos. But all good things must come to an end (do we really believe that?) and eventually we arrive once again at the banks of the Mekong River and the cute French colonial town of Luang Prabang. After reading about the “secret war” in Laos (a book called the Ravens) we sought out the UXO (Unexploded Ordinance) museum, a very well done documentary on the continuing cost of the American war over 35 years later, and the men and women who still work on a daily basis to remove, defuse, or explode the millions of bombs still littering the Lao countryside. Sobering to say the least. But it wasn't all serious as we sought out waterfalls and swimming holes, explored the win<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQBVghrPRTOO2mut6oOyNOm8glkZQeaCIKXgAnwF3ufsFKs9xLPTOdsD77GlQp2xMS_gOAdWkKn0QO947Y065a_L93tUovkEXgY3LwEpzlq71SetqGtk7iH1jhcx46kVVmjcn678e8jbY/s1600/IMG_3823.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581197886356059602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQBVghrPRTOO2mut6oOyNOm8glkZQeaCIKXgAnwF3ufsFKs9xLPTOdsD77GlQp2xMS_gOAdWkKn0QO947Y065a_L93tUovkEXgY3LwEpzlq71SetqGtk7iH1jhcx46kVVmjcn678e8jbY/s320/IMG_3823.JPG" /></a>ding roads outside of town (one last day on the bikes), visited the Asian sun bear sanctuary, and took an amazing cooking class (where we learned to cook with, among other things, whole dried squirrel – teeth, fingernails and all). But the highlight of Luang Prabang had to be the “Adventure Meal” at a local restaurant called Tamarind run by a British expat and her Lao husband Joy. We were able to choose our “level of adventure” and we decided to go all the way. The first course was a fairly tame tour of local forest products and basic fishy things (cooked and raw). But the second platter was quite the challenge. A three month old egg (salty), pig brains (uhh, yeah...), buffalo lung (spongy), fried crickets (crunchy, and the bits get stuck in your teeth), pickled whole fish (salty), fried cicaidas (crunchy on the outside, absolutely revolting on the inside), fermented fish broth (six months – what a stench!), and whole frogs (again). We were both not feeling so hot by the end, but we managed to eat at least a few bites of everything. The film of Jenny and the frog is priceless. :) But our time in Laos was drawing to a close and soon it was time to pack up and move on. We have a very fond place in our heart for this beautiful country and the warm, friendly Lao people who made us feel so welcome. </div></div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-16494391433253045722011-02-21T21:21:00.000-07:002011-02-21T21:21:44.631-07:00Shaken up but okay in New Zealand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hey all. If you didn't hear there was a big earthquake in Christchurch (New Zealand) today. It was really scary, but we got out okay. The place we were supposed to stay doesn't exist anymore so we've hitch-hiked south. We're definitely shaken up with some cuts and bruises, but we're totally fine. Definitely keep the folks of Christchurch in your thoughts. It's really bad.<br />
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We promise we'll post more soon.<br />
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Lots of love,<br />
Brett and Jenny <br />
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</div>Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-46782319917689874952011-01-08T22:02:00.000-07:002011-01-08T22:02:04.200-07:00Northern Thailand: Taking a break - Brett<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUsADT4ZuwsM2Lv7pLO_tm8bYl442DA43sC_eima5S6TSjDGLQ4LDzqtBP_8kbxSTl2I_ONEqHJYvdz_rJxoOK1q0Rfo3y0vmHrvlJXG_JHzNKjBMzpVP4Hdc_pFKr4y4Xx37YB75M1Nw/s1600/IMG_3205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUsADT4ZuwsM2Lv7pLO_tm8bYl442DA43sC_eima5S6TSjDGLQ4LDzqtBP_8kbxSTl2I_ONEqHJYvdz_rJxoOK1q0Rfo3y0vmHrvlJXG_JHzNKjBMzpVP4Hdc_pFKr4y4Xx37YB75M1Nw/s200/IMG_3205.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Bangkok – City of hedonism, thronging masses, commerce, sex tourism, and chess matches. And, as we discovered, land of amazing food, old friends, fantastic Belgian beers, and... ladyboys.<br />
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We arrived in Bangkok via a long walk, a taxi, three airplanes, and a train into the heart of this sprawling Asian capital. My friend Mark picked us up accompanied by his girlfriend, Meiw. Mark works for the U.S. State Department traveling around Asia assessing aid programs and deciding who gets grants from the huge USAID budget. He came to Thailand almost three years ago after a two-year stint in Mongolia, also doing aid work. And after five days in Bangkok, we came to see why he loved this place so much.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9fh4mX-aYKbauhFA5IlpOKdHiTBLCiRkWwqx_op4m4G892drDblPRA-5WYB_d-K7yNucDacxS9kxNsynBHgY6y9LOwb4y1GUkrDhlIG0fFjnqeN_WV-LyQk2rcnUUDYm-0v3EcX7HVk/s1600/IMG_3228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9fh4mX-aYKbauhFA5IlpOKdHiTBLCiRkWwqx_op4m4G892drDblPRA-5WYB_d-K7yNucDacxS9kxNsynBHgY6y9LOwb4y1GUkrDhlIG0fFjnqeN_WV-LyQk2rcnUUDYm-0v3EcX7HVk/s200/IMG_3228.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>So have you heard the one about the two Americans who wanted to see the wonders of the world?<br />
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Mark, Meiw, Jenny, and I walk into a bar. As my eyes adjust to the light I realize that I am surrounded by 30-40 of the absolute most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life. I had heard that Thai women were gorgeous, but this was ridiculous. It defied the laws of physics, biochemistry, and statistics. They are flirty and smiley and I can feel that weird, pleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach. And then Mark drops the bomb.<br />
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“Brett, they're all dudes.”<br />
“Huh? No way.”<br />
“Yep, every single one. They're called ladyboys”<br />
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It's not possible. Okay, yes, I like athletic looking women, but these (wo)men have a sublime, lithe beauty that is anything but masculine. They are not cut or muscular or toned. They are just – beautiful. <br />
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My head is spinning and I feel all weird inside. I'm about as open as they come about my sexuality, but somehow I feel confused and weird and guilty and... I don't know – it's just strange. My heart goes out to these guys who feel compelled to drastically alter what nature has given them. But in some way I feel better knowing that, at least in Thailand, they are free to live life as they see fit. Another part of the world puzzle clicks into place.<br />
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So I have always thought of poverty as a lack of adequate money to fulfill one's basic needs. But we are discovering on this trip that poverty can take many forms. Southeast Asia is full of local officials who have become rich off of corruption and bribery, but who are educationally poor. We have encountered farmers who have plenty to eat, and a roof over their head, but who could not pay for a doctors visit no matter how urgent or necessary. One could easily argue that many of our peers in America are spiritually poor, given the pervasive nature of gods, karma, and puja rituals we have experienced here in Asia. And what of the joy of living every day just to live? I am a perfect example of one who has wealth, shelter, friends, family, and a bright future – but who thinks too much about what may come to pass some day. What I should be doing. What my future might hold. A poverty of peace? I have met more happy people who have nothing. But I am getting ahead of myself...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkp2bKlz1m-JRaW03QmsV5WO0U4WDttGT6JgVvHpGUjIkm71bY42uPcV5e5eOZltiQNMTrtYXtRhDkpfv94LuF0K5WKnBTZ7nTDoeJvL66ht6_0K_9cbMuX2-JIRcS0aSY4kosJr8Byw/s1600/IMG_3275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkp2bKlz1m-JRaW03QmsV5WO0U4WDttGT6JgVvHpGUjIkm71bY42uPcV5e5eOZltiQNMTrtYXtRhDkpfv94LuF0K5WKnBTZ7nTDoeJvL66ht6_0K_9cbMuX2-JIRcS0aSY4kosJr8Byw/s200/IMG_3275.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We left Bangkok headed for Pai. Chang Mai is the gateway to northern Thailand (and Pai) and we were lucky enough to stop here and hook up with Adam and Kathy, our friends from Boulder who are also traveling for a year. We arrrived on the eve of Loy Kraton – the festival of lights – and spent three nights wandering packed night markets, dodging massive displays of uncoordinated but seriously impressive impromptu fireworks displays, and experiencing a pyromaniacs dream of self-ascending flaming lanterns, floating (and burning) works of carved vegitation, and ear-drum asssulting adult toys (see our Picasa site for details), along with thousands of fellow revelers packing the streets of this old royal city.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzx3Vz-OCoPgPfuzihRQUlDQ-k4m_dtaE3PERdPHL7kYGh42xT5Xkn_XS84hqT7GSatN_4vuEX4aGtbF_g8ejn2wGDE2xZuGol2bOsno4TJT3hRkODDCdA6wxACbQtHuDujjcjvyxAhlo/s1600/IMG_3471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzx3Vz-OCoPgPfuzihRQUlDQ-k4m_dtaE3PERdPHL7kYGh42xT5Xkn_XS84hqT7GSatN_4vuEX4aGtbF_g8ejn2wGDE2xZuGol2bOsno4TJT3hRkODDCdA6wxACbQtHuDujjcjvyxAhlo/s200/IMG_3471.JPG" width="200" /></a>Post-festival we moved on and finally found the peace we had been looking for in Pai. We felt like we were on the verge of imploding. Jenny had given the ultimatum. We stop for two weeks. Daily naps, writing, yoga, running, and chess games served to keep us busy during week one. But after about five days, Brett was getting fidgety and feeling like we were wasting time. Week two we moved about 4 km outside of (the already sleepy) town to an organic farm/fish pond and decided that we had found heaven on earth. Morning breakfast of home-made, organic muesli (over 32 ingredients including popcorn and pumpkin chips!), “good morning juice”, and “love tea” started each glorious day. Indeed, the menu stated that the food was made with “110% love”, and you could taste it in every bite (one morning Orn, the owner/chef told me she was upping my dosage to 120%). Brett settled in and began to enjoy this slower-paced life. And Jenny was getting her mojo back. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XUK6Y-bD9Yq-MG-Bp5zvk7tsV08AP39r68XqPbW3JJKy453qGhLlUBq4epbcxzbUtj5o1FPfg7rGpQMKr0d1KdhS4g918wp8nVCdM1urZn9zeaHBq-7gayAAlLy9ZgNiIpUoWodZQAg/s1600/IMG_3484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-XUK6Y-bD9Yq-MG-Bp5zvk7tsV08AP39r68XqPbW3JJKy453qGhLlUBq4epbcxzbUtj5o1FPfg7rGpQMKr0d1KdhS4g918wp8nVCdM1urZn9zeaHBq-7gayAAlLy9ZgNiIpUoWodZQAg/s200/IMG_3484.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Not to say we did nothing. In anticipation of our upcoming Laos motorcycle tour we decided to rent motos and do some practicing. Two days of winding, empty, perfect mountain roads later we were ecstatic. This was the BEST! Jenny was stylin' on her Honda Phantom (black with flames on the gas tank) and Brett found an old rocket that brought ear to ear grins (although watching Jenny ride was even more fun than riding his own bike).<br />
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But vying for the highlight of northern Thailand was our day playing with our 13-year-old elephant. You really have to see the pictures to understand how much fun we had. After a bareback stroll through the local hills we lumbered down to the water and played. And played. And played. We got sprayed, we played bucking elephant, we got tossed into the river, and we laughed and laughed and laughed. Brett is not much of an animal person, but he fell in love with these gentle giants. Did you know that elephants live to be a hundred years old? Did you know that they are pregnant for over two years!? If we ever settle somewhere for long enough, I now know what kind of pet I want...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLRqTlWTvZQOKouADv_YTWdyjr7Ec1kzzB4m3eoUvji2dDy4dTaUloPgAFO-TP5eTl1wVsuqcXTNXwmlmEp0CVyTQMMcoucxJmWJeKYMQ0c_rLmCMCRzKZDHTdNjoaK5S5zKpJ9cgjvE/s1600/SANY0116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTLRqTlWTvZQOKouADv_YTWdyjr7Ec1kzzB4m3eoUvji2dDy4dTaUloPgAFO-TP5eTl1wVsuqcXTNXwmlmEp0CVyTQMMcoucxJmWJeKYMQ0c_rLmCMCRzKZDHTdNjoaK5S5zKpJ9cgjvE/s200/SANY0116.JPG" width="123" /></a></div>Thailand was now coming to a close. Our two weeks of forced rest had worked. We were both stoked on traveling again, getting along well, and feeling enthusiastic about the rest of southeast Asia. We would need it as we had six weeks of hard travel left if we wanted to see Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia before our grand tour of the far east ended and we headed down to Australia and New Zealand.<br />
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We waved goodbye to Orn and Run at Bueng Farm and boarded a bus heading east towards the mighty Mekong River and the mysterious country of Laos. We thought we were leaving the “land of smiles”, but little did we know that we were about to meet the nicest, friendliest, happiest people on planet Earth.Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-62043724704735235812011-01-08T21:33:00.000-07:002011-01-08T21:33:17.014-07:00Thailand: Land of Smiles - Brett<em>It is not Life's job to tell you its ultimate meaning. Rather, it is the task of the individual to offer Life the best lived, most meaningful life one can manage.</em> - Elie Wiesel<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqHFZGS4VjnPdG2Rlu3ETrISJDwTYSVM0ndugmnagKM0d1-FORmcifn0Ef_KeTrRz2-3viKYSYwF8qcZptGPO4WQhibL3T-MaMHFoDR81zP1PLm7JGYIEV3Jns4wGQZYwS2Nb6j4JOIY/s1600/IMG_3426.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmqHFZGS4VjnPdG2Rlu3ETrISJDwTYSVM0ndugmnagKM0d1-FORmcifn0Ef_KeTrRz2-3viKYSYwF8qcZptGPO4WQhibL3T-MaMHFoDR81zP1PLm7JGYIEV3Jns4wGQZYwS2Nb6j4JOIY/s200/IMG_3426.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We emerged from our ten days of silence as changed persons. This was not a desire or a question or a hope – it was known in our core as fact. When you are sitting with a quiet mind – finally at peace with yourself on day 5 or 6 – the power of Truth can blindside you and leave you reeling. As I have often related through these pages, this journey is not just to see the world, but also to look for some of the Answers to those mysteries that burden one's soul. We have variously turned to religion, classical philosophy, and new age spiritualism as possible avenues of discovery, only to find hypocrisy, overly complicated theories, or ideas that simply did not resonate with our hearts or our heads. We have found isolated pieces of meaning across many different wisdom traditions, but how does one pick and choose? Jesus taught us to love our neighbors. Buddha taught us to be dispassionate observers. Existentialism teach us that we alone control our destiny. Ghandi taught us the power of non-violence. These are all ideas that fundamentally appeal to the soul – but why can no one agree on how to carry out a lifestyle based on these principals?<br />
This journey has given us the opportunity to read and study and observe and discuss and meditate and contemplate in a way that is not possible in the everyday world of career and responsibilities. And after years of searching and months of travel and days of silence sitting at the top of a hill in northern India, four small words presented themselves to me with a clarity and a conviction that I have never previously experienced. <br />
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love, compassion, integrity, and grace<br />
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Four small words that finally found a home in my heart. Could it really be that simple? I felt like a piece of the big picture was finally falling into place. These words provide the guidance that I have been searching for to become the man I want to be.<br />
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You know, I remember reading somewhere that you finally achieve enlightenment when you realize that you've been elightened all along. Far from the heady claim of enlightenment I know that these answers have been inside of me for many years, yet I have lacked the courage to live a life based on these truths.<br />
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And if you read the saints and the mystics and the kabbalahs and the sufis of the world's wisdom traditions, you will find that they too have come to the same conclusion. Be a good person. Live with integrity. Give back to the world. All the world's religions boiled down to their most fundamental Truths. All the rest – the rosaries, the songs, the incense, the fasting, the rules – all are just trappings to help us achieve a foundation of love, integrity, compassion, and grace.<br />
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I now believe this as firmly as I have ever believed anything in my life. This is my God.<br />
So is it that simple? Swimming in the bliss that often accompanies such profound (?) insights, we left the retreat full of promise and excitement, believing the next step in our lives was just beginning. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLy7jdqdk91I0MPghvOyZkXbxPnG40YvuJCNi0b3Q2XOMuHCp9f_2liN6amdDdyPvrAjwqZ04h_FQZktn6Dwdqhzs1x-UliZKr0z5XZ9ACP8nPP0Zlffus_91pC_iTpTBU2tKQdXLoCU/s1600/IMG_3410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLy7jdqdk91I0MPghvOyZkXbxPnG40YvuJCNi0b3Q2XOMuHCp9f_2liN6amdDdyPvrAjwqZ04h_FQZktn6Dwdqhzs1x-UliZKr0z5XZ9ACP8nPP0Zlffus_91pC_iTpTBU2tKQdXLoCU/s200/IMG_3410.JPG" width="184" /></a></div>But the reality was that we had no idea how to put into practice what we had each discovered. We fought bitterly with each other within hours of leaving the retreat. But we were determined, and through steady work over the next three weeks we would experience a new level of love for each other as we learned to respond instead of react to the daily challenges of an almost symbiotic relationship. And the awareness that we practice every day helps us respond to the difficulties of different cultures, different values, and different environments with a previously unknown or undiscovered grace.<br />
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But to allow these newfound skills to flourish, we needed a break. Aside from the ten days spent in intense, mind-altering, sleep-deprived meditation, we had never been in one place longer than seven days, and that pleasure only once. One hundred different beds in less than two hundred days. Sounds like a David Lee Roth memoir.<br />
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So we decided to park it for two weeks of naps, swimming, reading, chess, and motorcycles. Our chosen spot was the tiny, northern Thailand town of Pai – population 3,500. <br />
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But first we had to get there.Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-75283387869455604872010-12-03T21:31:00.004-07:002019-03-17T20:20:10.807-06:00Thailand: Land of Smiles - BrettIn progress...Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-51027047699663632592010-11-26T02:55:00.001-07:002010-11-26T02:56:49.393-07:00Whoa - Merapi erupts!You may recall that we climbed the active volcano Merapi ("much fire"), a couple months ago when we were on the island of Java in Indonesia. You also may have heard that it just erupted again (last eruption was, I believe, in 2006). We have talked to several friends in the area and it sounds pretty bad. Here are some pics of where we were. And <a href="http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/11/mount_merapis_eruptions.html">here</a> is a link to an amazing set of photos that will definitely touch your heart. Please keep the folks in this area in your thoughts. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Merapi from the village of Chanderejo where we stayed with Budi and Morni</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6OlBcv1h5L44Jrcv6Zj7HXEvmCCRqmR8qA6UEcVt4uf0x3i9viwJmFMNVdrV-ouA5egWd9cn9QWt9WIAcOP88nYt9F1wpeKpVYx-8Fy7SUZsWwYELLUWBcikwBPX_6Hx-rOyvF4QBeYQ/s1600/IMG_1733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6OlBcv1h5L44Jrcv6Zj7HXEvmCCRqmR8qA6UEcVt4uf0x3i9viwJmFMNVdrV-ouA5egWd9cn9QWt9WIAcOP88nYt9F1wpeKpVYx-8Fy7SUZsWwYELLUWBcikwBPX_6Hx-rOyvF4QBeYQ/s320/IMG_1733.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the steaming and very active feeling summit</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJK1GkrmlmxEiybQ9hUGFQXgfrPoLfoNdgeg_Smb_4xo4hVUpiXk5USrIhIl7M-bOnUdW3HqzGtGPrOC4Ls8hnmEa4J3FGYWUJhSExyUWMbyd-UAl0T_hCi_wN_V0IfrOry574GFETL4/s1600/Merapi4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJK1GkrmlmxEiybQ9hUGFQXgfrPoLfoNdgeg_Smb_4xo4hVUpiXk5USrIhIl7M-bOnUdW3HqzGtGPrOC4Ls8hnmEa4J3FGYWUJhSExyUWMbyd-UAl0T_hCi_wN_V0IfrOry574GFETL4/s320/Merapi4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WHOA! Glad we were there when we were.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKpX5oNXXzB5XiLrn45JqQbalUYCU_x4oTbFL1zE8vHTlYj1YGbSQ-D9z_h8HWmz4EbFONuQJXlkfLU-fnEgEBkp6l4Wh46qSTN0ZS605uJTETTM_bYlWkbCVuclhMOCsViVAQUhm3XA/s1600/Merapi5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsKpX5oNXXzB5XiLrn45JqQbalUYCU_x4oTbFL1zE8vHTlYj1YGbSQ-D9z_h8HWmz4EbFONuQJXlkfLU-fnEgEBkp6l4Wh46qSTN0ZS605uJTETTM_bYlWkbCVuclhMOCsViVAQUhm3XA/s320/Merapi5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damn! We were right there!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaBxpkoh18THlXV2IX7xTxHMoskCUSrSp9obnJ1Wo91mWdspg7ijDP5BohfqfljonzX7d-H97q0YU6VH5B8Hj0r6FAAb3o6DeaImlSGmonu_sIo8-S1qKpqYCaqdgdNnURJe0mQZH7RA/s1600/Merapi3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAaBxpkoh18THlXV2IX7xTxHMoskCUSrSp9obnJ1Wo91mWdspg7ijDP5BohfqfljonzX7d-H97q0YU6VH5B8Hj0r6FAAb3o6DeaImlSGmonu_sIo8-S1qKpqYCaqdgdNnURJe0mQZH7RA/s320/Merapi3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toasty</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-60588544483578744542010-11-21T00:08:00.009-07:002010-12-03T05:45:22.622-07:00Vipassana Meditation Retreat-- Jenny<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZnayL-mTrFHZkUeArliCeo9DqpbI3X2R91UniOCEWz3rtjsRZuSDnQK3g4lb0nZUeTvB53p6QRld0YQP6473yTQjUw87skinj6wzt1Z5b4SgT9vmF7A6-0OlLL-i3QR1QIAQn7PSf15Io/s1600/IMG_3200.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542332345774573394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZnayL-mTrFHZkUeArliCeo9DqpbI3X2R91UniOCEWz3rtjsRZuSDnQK3g4lb0nZUeTvB53p6QRld0YQP6473yTQjUw87skinj6wzt1Z5b4SgT9vmF7A6-0OlLL-i3QR1QIAQn7PSf15Io/s320/IMG_3200.JPG" /></a><br /><em><span style="color:#33cc00;">"Whether one believes in a religion or not, and whether one believes in rebirth or not, there isn't anyone who doesn't appreciate kindness and compassion." - Dalai Lama</span><br /></em><div></div><div> </div><div>The rule book said “No talking or body language, no reading, no writing, no music, no cameras, no yoga, only two meals a day, up at 4 am, and ten hours a day of sitting meditation”. And there we were, on day “0”, handing over all of our valuables and mobile entertainment, not to be seen again for ten days. We had read the Buddhism primer. We had experienced some Hindu yoga. But we really wanted to dig in deep. We were to be in separate camps, Brett in the men's and me in the women's. But there would be group meditations. We agreed that we would not even so much as make eye contact with each other, if we were to give this a fair chance. Vipassana is a meditation technique discovered by Buddha, but accessible to anyone of any religion. It is universal. Buddha taught that craving and aversion were the causes of human suffering. The aging S.N. Goenka from Myanmar has revived the technique in it's purest form and has written a book to to coincide with his oral teachings called “The Art of Living”. For a short description see www.dhamma.org/en/art.shtmj .<br /><br /><strong>Day one.</strong><br />I am not sure if the monkeys in my head or the real monkeys living along side us at the camp were terrorizing me more. Day one we focused on our breath. And watched as our thoughts strayed. And we focused again on our breath. And our thoughts strayed. It starts getting a bit rediculous, and you have to laugh at yourself. I told stories to myself of a gunman coming into the meditation hall, and me jumping up to save everyone. I had thoughts of creating a You Tube video of a master meditator being challenged to see how long he could sit without being distracted by feathers tickling his nose, by jokes, by noise and music. I had thoughts of the monkeys outside biting me, going to the hospital, and going into anaphylactic shock from the rabies shot. Insane! This is what they tell us. Our minds are insane. And we must not let our minds control us. I wholeheartedly agree.<br /><br /><strong>Day three.<br /></strong>I am really sick of focusing on my upper lip. Can we do something else? I sit and watch the monkeys at lunch today. Two of them are picking fleas off each other quietly and lovingly. An alpha male is pacing back and forth, breathing fast, ready to attack something. The babies are climbing a tree, swinging, and flying arms stretched outward, landing with a bang on the steel rooftop of my dorm, then sliding down uncontrollably to the gutter, back to the tree and repeat. This flurry of activity perfectly parallels my thought pattern. I find it so striking that my eyes well up and I chuckle to myself, grinning from ear to ear uncontrollably.<br /><br /><strong>Day six</strong>. <strong><span style="color:#33cc00;">“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding</span></strong>.” -Khalil Gibran<br />I feel something changing. I am starting to understand how this technique works. But it is difficult. The body starts hurting when you sit in one place for one to two hours without moving. The mind gets agitated and bored, you get sleepy, all tricks of your mind to keep you from meditating. I notice that Brett has resigned himself to a chair, later to find out his old MCL injury was flaring up again. He was getting bored, he was freezing, he was in pain, and wasn't sure if he wanted to continue. He started doing more meditation in his room, and then sneaking and reading his Gandhi book. But he stayed. My day six was horrible. I was also restless, I was getting upset with myself that I couldn't sit still. I was aching as well. But we were both gaining insights into ourselves.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Day seven</strong>. <em><span style="color:#33cc00;">“Being is the stillness beneath the mental noise”.-</span></em>Eckart Tolle<br />I had a breakthrough. I was able to experience unpleasant feelings and sensations in my body and remain “equanimous”. I didn't react to them. I was able to just observe. This is the technique of Vipassana. It is to sever the connection between the mind and the body, so that the mind and its insanity (or past conditioning) can no longer control your reactions, which manifest as greed, passion, anger, fear, jealousy, etc. It seems so simple. Remain aware, remain equanimous. No aversions, no cravings. Don't react. Everything is impermanent. My senses are so raw and acute today, that I notice minutia all around me. I watch the sunset as I have every evening. This evening I notice at first that the air is filled with a stillness. But as I examine the plants at my feet, they are ever-so-slightly rocking back and forth. They are growing too, even more slowly. They, like us, are growing and decaying. There is a constant energy flowing through everything. Nothing is as it seems.<br /><br /><strong>Day ten.</strong> <em><span style="color:#33cc00;">“Calm is his mind, calm is his speech, calm is his action, who, rightly knowing, is wholly freed, perfectly peaceful, and equipoised.”</span></em> - Buddha<br />The noble silence we had kept for nine days is broken. Strangely, Brett and I both reported feeling very close and loving towards the people we spent 10 days with, des<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZR7lX8qYpb32GHS2gan7neRzjUslfMdyoQh1d1FnsXlP70vvb_Mt6mPTjsQfID3dute0X4TNKnYzzUwCRm3-wyzKjpMe5owvXh4jOmjDSiLKm_J_0TcZJ1d7dLR1bqupq4WS8eqRYiD1r/s1600/IMG_3203.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542332836039543234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZR7lX8qYpb32GHS2gan7neRzjUslfMdyoQh1d1FnsXlP70vvb_Mt6mPTjsQfID3dute0X4TNKnYzzUwCRm3-wyzKjpMe5owvXh4jOmjDSiLKm_J_0TcZJ1d7dLR1bqupq4WS8eqRYiD1r/s320/IMG_3203.JPG" /></a>pite the fact that we had hardly seen their faces or spoken a word. We found each other at the “common area”, and couldn't stop chatting about our experiences. We had 36 hours of plane rides ahead of us to talk, and we were looking forward to it. We still had one more lecture and a few more sittings before we were finished. The last morning we all pitched in to clean the Dhamma Hall, our rooms, the kitchen and the bathrooms. The retreat center runs on donations only, and relies on the students to help out. I sat out in the woods on the women's walking trail for the last time, watching a few of the baby monkeys in the distance. Suddenly, the big male monkey spotted me, ran up the tree above me, and started swaying back and forth on the branch, threatening me. I took the hint and slowly down-turned my eyes, creeping away. But I laughed to myself thinking that, after spending 10 days with them, I now understand the monkeys and their behavior much better, and they scare me a lot less. The same goes for my monkey mind.<br /><br />In the words of S.N. Goenka: <span style="color:#33cc00;"><em>“May all beings be happy. May they enjoy real peace, real harmony, real happiness.”</em></span></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-41942001112866879882010-11-21T00:05:00.017-07:002010-11-22T07:23:21.123-07:00Incredible India: Jenny<div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1w0eb0u42ZS1_yeW9wzPsXQs_ByYHpCJFty0KiAVtsELTNwI0gZBqNJ1ZDjM5Idus2yUAid8M0zNXTAK0HmGvYGi1JuKxAs0AbDOJSo6lSJXH7DvPIyAtzjlI2ScNSwOZcfkPHHoDXTg/s1600/IMG_3010.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 215px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542328221483216914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk1w0eb0u42ZS1_yeW9wzPsXQs_ByYHpCJFty0KiAVtsELTNwI0gZBqNJ1ZDjM5Idus2yUAid8M0zNXTAK0HmGvYGi1JuKxAs0AbDOJSo6lSJXH7DvPIyAtzjlI2ScNSwOZcfkPHHoDXTg/s320/IMG_3010.JPG" /></a> Surrender. This is what is necessary to experience India. India is a world where extreme filth and poverty exist alongside temples dripping with gold. It has been described as a place you will at once love and hate. The corruption is palpable, but the people have a lighthearted and loving quality that is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">irresistible</span>. In the West, we commonly experience the existential angst of too many choices, of manipulating our environment to fit our needs and expectations. In India, there is a lesson for us. The people of India, without the choices or ability to control their lives in many ways, have learned to be content, if even happy, with what IS, and have learned to control what is INSIDE. Holding on to Western ideals in India will drive you crazy. Surrender.<br /><br /><strong>Lane Driving is Sane Driving</strong> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-SjavwBOJsSUcz_5DX-UEKz3jnJoii2K0Qt_Gd9eUMOoH9iIDF6vBXZMqLQT87ClR_36iwTR8FDDUi-kYyivZ-idIti0Mh9vRdNSLfmicUafilXZy9bvfOcgllYYAf9wepW3-BvOxMm8/s1600/IMG_2953.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542326610063276322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-SjavwBOJsSUcz_5DX-UEKz3jnJoii2K0Qt_Gd9eUMOoH9iIDF6vBXZMqLQT87ClR_36iwTR8FDDUi-kYyivZ-idIti0Mh9vRdNSLfmicUafilXZy9bvfOcgllYYAf9wepW3-BvOxMm8/s320/IMG_2953.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfRhcfrAjIPnNTiMIOLX3Ts8v95CHOHc5uJqpt98eIOx3_OtVVP5MnBwaH__r7092AkxmFu9AmyPvnDh7dLmHAQAsTyDUVzOnKEJzfa905Odk115UcBj2LgZ_Rxa21w5ykwcj6t1aIoeOD/s1600/IMG_2853.JPG"></a><br />We spent the first half of our trip in cars and buses. The concept of staying in the lines is as absent here as it has been in most of Asia. But the concept of stopping in the middle of a highway for a crossing cow, well, totally acceptable. Or a goat, a camel, a pig, an elephant. No problem, hit the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">tuk</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">tuk</span> next to you. But DON'T hit the holy cow! Starting our journey in Delhi, we met Jenny's friend, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ang</span>. She is headed to Goa for a month-long course on providing aid to developing countries. Our hotel <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ajanta</span> was great, besides the part where we all had to run out of the hotel lobby due to an electric fire caused by an <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9wSyx0SlFA3bgXCuG7TW3v_hAXmhWfozqa6JXsr9muAIziTg5zv5DyO95aHsyQyuN-Ohty4GXIMcVX2mkL2g7F7ngis0PeQFdJZ-cd1jaiJcaZjjzhXaM8oe_r110qrFnGDibN-XrGwYi/s1600/IMG_2910.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542324531150197954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9wSyx0SlFA3bgXCuG7TW3v_hAXmhWfozqa6JXsr9muAIziTg5zv5DyO95aHsyQyuN-Ohty4GXIMcVX2mkL2g7F7ngis0PeQFdJZ-cd1jaiJcaZjjzhXaM8oe_r110qrFnGDibN-XrGwYi/s320/IMG_2910.JPG" /></a>overloaded circuit and someone turning off and on the switch until it blew. No problem, you can all come back in now. Our first day on the town was the last day of the Commonwealth Games, which are a competition in sports between all of the former British colonies. (Well, if you can call ping-pong, lawn billiards, and leap-frog sports.) Unfortunately for us, everything was closed. But it gave us a nice rest day. We eventually got out to explore Delhi, the Red Fort, the National Museum which Brett loved (he especially wanted to spend hours looking at the tapestries and textiles), and the Gandhi museum. At the Gandhi museum there is a wall of text that you could spend hours reading like a history book. We wished we had more time to stay and read. Gandhi was not only timeless and progressive, but also a product of his time and culture as well. A fascinating man and force of nature, nevertheless. And revered in India.<br /><br /><strong>No Money No Honey<br /></strong>We left Delhi for the other two points of the "golden triangle", Agra and Jaipur. We had Ram as our driver, who luckily used his horn at every bottleneck, every stop sign, and every cow. Ram was confusing at first, as every sentence started with "You". "You going to Agra. You are museum is open. You are we go shopping". Later we learned that this is a common way of speaking for some regions of India. But this is supposed to be a story about love. It is about the one place worth going in Agra, the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Taj</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mahal</span>. The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Taj</span>, the symbol for etern<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwuAIobuqtI7vISCwrFCdl7NM8jRFMizQm9Gp1KxKI9n2b8hKGJh-eyOUePzK-3HHnmh3SDqVpoUoCMcJfYMPn1r-5UGCjYP5qU962VE5UhCaoHxNXBPjQH7GZ1pmQHTvf718mVfaX_Jn/s1600/IMG_2807.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 172px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542323049309133186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGwuAIobuqtI7vISCwrFCdl7NM8jRFMizQm9Gp1KxKI9n2b8hKGJh-eyOUePzK-3HHnmh3SDqVpoUoCMcJfYMPn1r-5UGCjYP5qU962VE5UhCaoHxNXBPjQH7GZ1pmQHTvf718mVfaX_Jn/s320/IMG_2807.JPG" /></a>al love, is a mausoleum for Queen <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mumtaz</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mahal</span>, the Muslim wife of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mughal</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">emperor</span> Shah <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jahan</span>. The story is that, as his favorite wife and one that bore him 14 children (dying in childbirth on the 14<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span>), he built her an architectural feat of beauty and perfection, of white marble with inlaid semi-precious stones. Years later, Shah <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jahan's</span> reign was forcefully seized from him by his own son, who proceeded to imprison Shah <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jahan</span> in the fort across the river for the rest of his life, but always with a view of his beloved and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Taj</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mahal</span>. You start to feel sorry for the guy, until you hear the rumor that he ordered the hands of every man involved in building the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Taj</span> to be amputated, so that another <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">Taj</span> could not be built to rival his <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">beloved's</span>. An impressive display of love, or of power and wealth? <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hmm</span>. Hard to say. We also visited the Agra Fort, luckily one day AFTER the man with a gun boarded a tour bus and opened fire (apparently missing everyone).<br />Jaipur was our next stop. We still had <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">honkin</span>' Ram as our driver, and gained a tour guide as well, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">Vijay</span>. We spent a day just shopping in Jaipur, and another day sightseeing. We visited the Amber Fort and the water palace, remnants of the Muslim <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mughal</span> empire, the period of time when Muslims reigned over <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hindis</span>. Brett and I bought <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">lots</span> of fun things that now fill Luke and Todd <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">Landin's</span> living rooms in large boxes.<br /><br /><strong>No Hurry, No Worry, No Camel, No Curry <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5QPgC90UBmzqVIZXdhX8rHiF2eXRCqYUAvhlXClYje6QNLfJBZUsEb7LCJCvlaMBlKyS1EWGSNwqQAOl6nn1IGgI-Qa-0c_5yKnPvgecpgfdFMiBKBDcNVzxbLkMUQSBoNL0Qk94GNIy/s1600/IMG_3031.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542323709283228754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5QPgC90UBmzqVIZXdhX8rHiF2eXRCqYUAvhlXClYje6QNLfJBZUsEb7LCJCvlaMBlKyS1EWGSNwqQAOl6nn1IGgI-Qa-0c_5yKnPvgecpgfdFMiBKBDcNVzxbLkMUQSBoNL0Qk94GNIy/s320/IMG_3031.JPG" /></a><br /></strong>In the west of India, in the state of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">Rajastan</span>, the desert stretches for hundreds of miles. Camels are the working animal of this area. It was here, about 30 km from the Pakistan border, that we set out on a camel safari. Contrary to popular belief, only African camels spit. In fact, they are pretty cool animals. I rode baby Kingfisher. Brett sat atop Johnny Walker. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ang</span> was on Michael Jackson, who according to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ang</span>, was flea-bitten. We rode for three days through the desert, stopping at night on soft sand dunes to dwell under the full moon. Despite the heat of the day, it was a magical experience. We had three <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">Rajastani</span> men and a young boy cooking us meals of potatoes, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">dahl</span> and flame-cooked <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">chapati </span>bread, all with a sprinkling of sand. (Helps digestion, apparently, and adds a crunch.) We had a little doggy guardian angel who followed us for two days, and slept curled up next to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ang</span>, flea-bitten. In the evening after dinner, we sang songs while our guides played the em<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq51N-GSx_IZPvdkFzqHneJxW5VxjKMfchiHscwQ5a5uhQ9MwIXh6DaTn5zcZAn149HYnYiUTz5KVRyr-yf7nRBWZaOoP05Gl__KZSfK74maOCZTUCWN3_L2KqzunvmgW8pAJ8COw2QfUg/s1600/IMG_3082.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542325792969253570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq51N-GSx_IZPvdkFzqHneJxW5VxjKMfchiHscwQ5a5uhQ9MwIXh6DaTn5zcZAn149HYnYiUTz5KVRyr-yf7nRBWZaOoP05Gl__KZSfK74maOCZTUCWN3_L2KqzunvmgW8pAJ8COw2QfUg/s320/IMG_3082.JPG" /></a>pty water-container drum. Some great Indian songs were sung, as well as "Old MacDonald had a Farm". But obviously, this farm had elephants and tigers and such. The moon lit up the sky, and crept slowly over us as we slept. We awoke to the strange cries of wild peacocks. And I learned that camels have a sweet spot like dogs...if you scratch their necks, they will lie down and even turn over on their side. Really cool animals.<br /><br /><strong>South to Goa<br /></strong>We decided to fly with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ang</span> down to the old Portuguese colony of Goa, then have a little guy time/girl time apart. Brett went a little further north up the beach and found a little yoga joint to practice, and tried his hand at paragliding. All of the Indians I talked to said, "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ooo</span>, that's dangerous! He is crazy!" Meanwhile, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ang</span> and I did spa day. We had golden facials (?), pedicures, and had our toenails decorated with shiny things. We drank some Indian wine, took walks on the beach, and relaxed at Bernard's Place. We took a cooking class in an old Portuguese-style home, complete with a lighted shrine of Jesus and Mary. We learned of the "Seven Sisters", the spices that all good Indian housewives have in their kitchen: pepper, cumin, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">tumeric</span>, cloves, cinnamon, cardamon and mustard seeds. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">We visited</span> the spice plantation, where we were amazed and astounded to see that cinnamon is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">actually</span> the bark of a tree, cocoa grows in big pods on trees, vanilla grows on a vine, and all of the other spices come from plants too, not from the grocery store! Saying goodbye to my buddy <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ang</span>, Brett and I met in Delhi for what we would soon discover would be the creepiest bus ride ever. We took an overnight bus from Delhi to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dharamsala</span>...well, we ended up on the "local" bus. The five white people were designated the hard bench seat in the back of the bus. They tried to shove more people back there with us, but we protested. Most of the seats were broken. In fact, one man's seat literally wa<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGtyI4C0Qf6kCNG6DHu-O75PKF46v1grWEw7ZqOD67cKARg1DHE0SwJN8XcWmWr5X9vqEodgZN146qytX5qLBmUmsKXx_EnzYJDxM9hrwUa_XrlwT7z0_zgnpK0pTjqqWAny1r8e0j7rj7/s1600/IMG_3156.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542374841723720130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGtyI4C0Qf6kCNG6DHu-O75PKF46v1grWEw7ZqOD67cKARg1DHE0SwJN8XcWmWr5X9vqEodgZN146qytX5qLBmUmsKXx_EnzYJDxM9hrwUa_XrlwT7z0_zgnpK0pTjqqWAny1r8e0j7rj7/s320/IMG_3156.JPG" /></a>s in the lap of the man behind him...see pics. There were no shocks on the bus. The bus driver, like every other driver in India, drove with his brakes and used his horn every five minutes. We are not talking a single beep. Oh no. It was a short tune at a very loud volume. No air conditioning. Dust flying in the windows. In the middle of the night we happened upon a truck broken down in the middle of the road. Our bus driver attempts to drive around it, scraping the sides of the bus and shattering several windows, showering glass down on those sitting on that side. We finally get going again after an hour of shenanigans, now with the bus swaying back and forth, and glass sliding from side to side, front to back of the floor boards. At dawn we arrive in the mountains. Our aggressive lead-footed bus driver <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_43" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">chooses</span> the narrow and winding mountain road. To make up for the slow uphills, he races the downhills, barely missing people walking by; and I swear we were on two wheels on a few of the tight turns that he misjudged and went flying into. I was imagining the headlines for the paper "...A bus with 40 locals and 5 white tourists die when their bus overturns and rolls down the side of a mountain nearing <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_44" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dharamsala</span>..." Brett gave us a good 10-20% chance of crashing. Thank goodness he was wrong. But what we didn't realize, not only was the bus transporting people, but we had half-a-dozen delivery stops of large packages. When all was said and done, we were crammed like sardines in the back of the death trap for 16 or 17 hours. We arrived in McLeod <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_45" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganj</span> and slept for the rest of the day. McLeod <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_46" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganj</span> was an adorable little town in the foot-hills of the Himalayas. It is a town full of monks and meditation, the home of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_47" class="blsp-spelling-error">Daili</span> Lama, and of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_48" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">exiled</span> yet thriving Tibetans. We wished our India visa was not expiring after the meditation retreat. </div><div> </div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHwCf2e-A3esAufDKVnOkXfsDez4fPIp2abkgh1XUHErNBlnqcKvW-KlbxOg98uBW8cvwuOjb-JBZpWBo2MFlSzBu0GPk1hI7Z9xBV8xb-9da1sT1r0hkwfOJE6BVgLvANmortRuMP7N2k/s1600/IMG_3042.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542378385145000034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHwCf2e-A3esAufDKVnOkXfsDez4fPIp2abkgh1XUHErNBlnqcKvW-KlbxOg98uBW8cvwuOjb-JBZpWBo2MFlSzBu0GPk1hI7Z9xBV8xb-9da1sT1r0hkwfOJE6BVgLvANmortRuMP7N2k/s320/IMG_3042.JPG" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhotYaT5I5ljPk6a7Q52N10oPUQK0iHmNyXl2NF_5gsOjZrP2XumLf2D8Ro3pa9dxFiEA4Z7nEvV1S6mQND-4V4JO598ErYtAXGyIHxA2LZyoChujOJHnig_ptnHF34zQx_5iTk9djag4wi/s1600/IMG_3044.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542378756391346386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhotYaT5I5ljPk6a7Q52N10oPUQK0iHmNyXl2NF_5gsOjZrP2XumLf2D8Ro3pa9dxFiEA4Z7nEvV1S6mQND-4V4JO598ErYtAXGyIHxA2LZyoChujOJHnig_ptnHF34zQx_5iTk9djag4wi/s320/IMG_3044.JPG" /></a></div></div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-68574904626388172862010-10-31T07:47:00.000-06:002010-10-31T07:47:05.640-06:0010-day silent retreat starts tomorrowHey everybody - We're out of touch until at least November 12th for our ten-day silent meditation retreat here in Dharamsala, India in the foothills of the Himalaya (where the Dali Lama lives). This is going to be tough! Talk to everyone soon!Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-68588097295744212942010-10-27T07:53:00.010-06:002010-11-26T03:26:22.847-07:00October 13, 2010: TWO NEPALS<div><div><div><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533387960062819778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiftpI-MpliRexzyNicwyKzMe_9jJuRLiYyR5cm6n-x73X6TEPCmBbGRjxCgeAIyEBe7l8auTUUt0hCrmmuQrp2m-OXjOdltEGmmDzIupF64CxvtYLliLzh21EKWQprvmw-RzSeI0LKPpGc/s320/IMG_2442.JPG" /> Nepal has been a journey of extremes from the poverty and assault on the senses in Kathmandu to the human strength and capability reflected in the hearts and flesh of the Buddhist Sherpas. In Nepal we have seen the best and worst of humanity. While in Bali and Thailand we grew to understand more about Hinduism, in the Himalayas we began a journey into the Buddhist traditions. Our bodies experienced 18 days of high-altitude trekking, culminating in a breath-taking heavy-footed height of 18,200 feet. We touched greatness in the form of the two <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Erics</span> from Boulder...Eric Larsen, who <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">summited</span> Everest days after we visited him at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">basecamp</span> (and now has fulfilled his lofty goal of reaching the „three poles“ in a year’s time), and Eric <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Weinmyer</span> (also an Everest <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">summiter</span>), who was leading a group of disabled military veterans to the peak of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lobuche</span>. In our reflections on Nepal, this land of such extremes, we ponder the relevance of Buddha’s teachings of „the middle way.“<br /><br /><strong>Brief History Lesson<br /></strong>The Kingdom of Nepal, as it was known for centuries, is a land that shares a southern border with India, and has many similarities to it's neighbor. Yet, lest we forget, Nepal was never a British colony; and to be sure, it is in a different time zone...15 minutes later than India. In Kathmandu, the capital and historically the heartbeat of Nepal, streets are filled with Hindus donning red <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">tiki</span>-dotted <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">foreheads</span>, brightly colored saris, and men hanging out of suffocatingly packed local buses. Scratching under the surface, though, we find that Nepal is a blending of Buddhism and Hinduism, castes and karma, prayer flags and deities. The city <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">stupas</span>, including <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bod'nath</span> near which we slept at the Dragon Guesthouse, are centers of Buddhism, often populated by red-robed bald-headed Tibetan Buddhists, many of whom are in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">exile</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Sidartha</span> Gautama (Buddha) was born in the Kingdom in the 6<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> century BC, but swiftly left to tour what is now northern India, and it wasn't until the 5<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> century AD through the marriage of a Nepali King to his Chinese Buddhist sweetheart that the land of Nepal became Buddhist. Oh, the power of love! Nepal went through a protracted dark age until establishing a prosperous trade route through Kathmandu, marking the beginning of the golden age and wealth for Nepal. The centuries-long Hindu Shah dynasty began in the 1700's. The first Shah king, using his ruthless and skilled <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gurka</span> fighters, conquered and united all of Nepal, and kept the Shahs in power in varying degrees up until the 1900s. Following this major (and bloody) unification, Nepal cut itself off from the outside world between 1812-1951. In the meantime, up to 300,000 Nepalis fought in World Wars I and II for the Allied troops. Upon opening it's doors in 1951, Sir Edmund Hillary and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tenzing</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Norgay</span> Sherpa promptly made history with their Everest summit at the height incompatible with life of 29, 035 feet (8,850 meters).<br />Politically, the now Republic of Nepal became a democracy in 1990, or what would be a decade of corruption under the guise of democracy. In 1998, the communist Maoist party was elected (yes, election of a communist party) with an overwhelming majority based on it's promises to support the people, who had lost any faith and trust in the current „democracy“. The Maoists had been fighting the "People's War" by terrorist means for the last decade. (The U.S. had siphoned billions of dollars to the government of Nepal to fight the Maoist terrorists, the same organization who now hold the power.) Two years later, Nepal still awaits a new constitution draft and the support and services promised.<br /><br /><strong>THE FIRST NEPAL: KATHMANDU <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtb5461jtXPRw89XV-dqb59YQlRlc9gw-K1hOxqMK8XSDk62zR820ifD3VkfZ3MWrJqMTsHmCESDIFB17BTmO4vO4cf3a9uKVZaWaQQdOcfxwm8UFhreE2pcP3JjVrVcabMfAj5HjcJLp/s1600/IMG_2311.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533389429729040402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtb5461jtXPRw89XV-dqb59YQlRlc9gw-K1hOxqMK8XSDk62zR820ifD3VkfZ3MWrJqMTsHmCESDIFB17BTmO4vO4cf3a9uKVZaWaQQdOcfxwm8UFhreE2pcP3JjVrVcabMfAj5HjcJLp/s320/IMG_2311.JPG" /></a><br /></strong>Brett and I were quite aghast on our arrival to Kathmandu at the physical, social and political conditions. The city is a sprawl of clay brick buildings of no more than four to five stories high in various levels of disrepair and dilapidation. The infrastructure is poor with narrow pitted dirt roads, inadequate traffic control, and crowds of people spilling into streets due to lack of walkways. Trash collection is inadequate, and rolling black-outs of electricity occur regularly. Our first meal, at the Yak Restaurant, was complete with a rat at our feet and roaches crawling across the food preparation area. Although we came out unscathed, we stuck to more upscale joints like Flavors Cafe on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bod'nath</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Stupa</span> square. The square was our respite, complete with resident cow, a flock of doves, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">monasteries</span>, incense-filled air, and elderly women <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">circumabulating</span> the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">stupa</span> clockwise while turning the prayer wheels and whispering to Buddha, Shiva and Brahman. The social conditions are no better. Trafficking of girls is not uncommon, and women have few rights. Only 33% of women are educated compared to 67% of men, which keeps women at home, in the fields, and subordinate to men. One of the young U.S. tourists, a college student we met along the way, had a frightening experience being pressed between men on a crowded bus and fondled. As we had heard such amazing things about Nepal, Kathmandu was shockingly uncomfortable place to travel, especially for me as a woman. Orphanages that house the clusters of city street children can do little more than put a roof over their heads and provide a diet with little nutritional value. The prospect of providing a bright future for these children are slim. Health care, from clean water, to access to care for the largely rural population, to availability of modern technology and medicine, are pipe dreams for most Nepalese. We found a retired Nepali economist named Ram at the Bod‘<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">nath</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">stupa</span> who publishes a journal called „Quarterly Development Review“. He has, in his retirement, dedicated himself to creating awareness of the social and political issues of Nepal, many <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">aforementioned</span>. He is also accruing Hindu karma points in the process!<br /><br />Frankly speaking, Kathmandu was a necessary evil en route to our big Himalayan adventure which was to start at the domestic terminal of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tribhuvan</span> International Airport in Kathmandu. We were filled with excitement on our way to the airport. Four days later, we found ourselves dragging ourselves out of bed, repacking our backpacks and returning to the crowded and increasingly irritated mob of travelers in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tribhuvan</span> airport, with little hope that the weather had cleared in our Himalayan destination <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lukla</span>, in order to land at the most dangerous airstrip in the world. And to add to our experience, we learned that two planes had crashed in the last two months, killing most people aboard due to poor <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">visibility</span> and difficult landing conditions. The icing on the cake was when we were finally offered the last two seats on a plane to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lukla</span>. On this fourth day (of what was becoming hell), the corrupt man working behind the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nabil</span> Bank counter refused to stamp our tickets to show we had already paid the airport tax. I paid him again, and he took my money and handed me our tickets back STILL unstamped. In disbelief and almost in tears, they escorted me away from the counter. Brett returned, and the crook of a man took even more of our money from Brett before finally giving us a stamp. On the bright side, during these four days we got a chance to get to know <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gopal</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chetri</span>, our faithful cab driver with the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ganesh</span> charm hanging from his rear-view mirror, who was to be found every morning waiting near the Bod‘<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">nath</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">stupa</span>. He is one of one million Nepali men that has had to leave Nepal at different times to find work. Our proprietors at the Dragon Guesthouse always welcomed us back with a warm welcome and a shared look of pity for our plight. And we made friends with fellow travelers who were stranded with us.<br /><br /><strong>THE SECOND NEPAL: THE HIMALAYAS<br /></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigS304CS95DMnltD7AluSFFuHNZTZJVezk-RBDB_a9yxV5a9XvOnUrmwaLcTp0bjNfBQclOzEllDbIaN3FCJiayKpwAC3zC9PtnXR9nCC6lziCk85FSMRdt9R-dn9myIg_A4951Q1jlTeC/s1600/IMG_2509.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533393362665328658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigS304CS95DMnltD7AluSFFuHNZTZJVezk-RBDB_a9yxV5a9XvOnUrmwaLcTp0bjNfBQclOzEllDbIaN3FCJiayKpwAC3zC9PtnXR9nCC6lziCk85FSMRdt9R-dn9myIg_A4951Q1jlTeC/s320/IMG_2509.JPG" /></a><br /><em><span style="color:#3333ff;"><span style="color:#33ff33;">~"Nowhere else are the earth and sky so alive. The glaciers melt, rocks tumble, cold wind cuts through ravines and across bluffs. The Himalayas are an amalgam of growth and destruction, as shifting earth pushes the peaks skyward, and the elements and human activity simultaneously work the earth, the stone, the waters slowly back down, right before the eye."</span><br /><br /></span></em>The fog finally cleared, we landed safely at the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tenzing</span>-Hillary <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lukla</span> airport, and we began the journey through the magical mountains of the Himalaya (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">hima</span>=snow, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">laya</span>=home/land). I deleted the death note to my parents from the draft section of my e-mail. Brett was ecstatic, with child-like enthusiasm. I felt that we had entered another world, but reminiscent of the crisp, clear, mountain air of home. We marveled at the numbers and heights of waterfalls. We were told by a local that Nepal is second only to the Amazon for numbers of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-error">waterf</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTi0Jwvhne9bP6Lmp8nSe4Qis39bUrW9fOhrnBOHnXUcXUs6rZwO2ruvXioXJgEVlIpKyePpvfnDXYCdBEnk4FEqqyCR0UhHkgfkYyICMPD2Sjc4VTLAJA0Pxw7mE_XhPvY2t_ZUhk-VU7/s1600/IMG_2332.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533393369424271458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTi0Jwvhne9bP6Lmp8nSe4Qis39bUrW9fOhrnBOHnXUcXUs6rZwO2ruvXioXJgEVlIpKyePpvfnDXYCdBEnk4FEqqyCR0UhHkgfkYyICMPD2Sjc4VTLAJA0Pxw7mE_XhPvY2t_ZUhk-VU7/s320/IMG_2332.JPG" /></a><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">alls</span>. We were joined by our three new airport friends, Scott, Oliver, and Sam, with whom we had <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">commiserated</span> over the last four painful days on the journey upward, through which would be our last cloudy day for the remainder of our trek! (That is, until we reached <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_43" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lukla</span> at the end of our trek, at which time the clouds rolled in and sat heavy for another four days, grounding the planes.) The next 18 days were to be spent trekking a roughly estimated 100 miles, with the „The Snow Leopard“ by Peter <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_44" class="blsp-spelling-error">Matthiessen</span> to accompany us on our journey. What follows here are some random journal entries during our days at altitude, engrossed in discussions on Buddhism and spirituality, surrounded in natural beauty, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_45" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">tea houses</span>, the Sherpa people, and some seriously stinky feet. Read: twenty-one days with one shower, two pairs of socks, and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_46" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gortex</span> water-proof shoes.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;">September 27, 2010<br /></span></em>The same altitude as the summit of Long's Peak...here we are in the Himalayas at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_47" class="blsp-spelling-error">Luza</span>, 4,390 meters, at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_48" class="blsp-spelling-error">Khang</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_49" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tega</span> View Lodge run by <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_50" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chumjee</span>, a beautiful Sherpa woman with one gold tooth, traditional grey wool floor-length dress, hair tied back in a colorful scarf, and a Mountain Hardware down puffy. (Brett and I took to calling them "down <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_51" class="blsp-spelling-error">comfys</span>“). The lodge sits cradled on all sides by hills covered in short grass and stubby bushes, granite rock formations over which a wide <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_52" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">gurgling</span> stream passes, traveling toward the 500 meter drop-off toward the roaring grey river below. Flanking the lodge are meandering stone walls meant for the yaks to be contained and feed in the summer months. The sound of cowbells on the wind surrounds us. Above it all, sharp craggy monsters of bright white peaks encircle the hills, the stream, the lodge on all sides, while the hovering misty clouds meander half-way, buttressing the tallest crags.<br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_53" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chumjee</span>. She is humanity and compassion. As Brett stands, peering out through a clear morning sky, she sidles up to him to share the view, few words spoken. As I ready myself for yoga, she watches, and picks little white down feathers and stray hairs off of my black sweater. She notices me sitting on a hard flat granite wall, and offers me a pad for comfort. She is constantly watching, anticipating our needs. She has a poster on the wall of 25 different deities, which reflects the influence of Hinduism in the Tibetan Buddhism she practices. Village life may be hard, but although suffering may exist, it seems that they are spared the petty sufferings of the "modern" world, the existential angst of having too much choice, the neuroses that come with having too much time to ponder the navel, the creation of problems where none exist.<br />What is ideal? If one was able to miraculously steer the fate of world cultures, would one isolate them, or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_54" class="blsp-spelling-error">enculturate</span> them in western ideals, that invisible shroud passing over the world and homogenizing everything in it's wake?<br />Tears come easily in this land. Spontaneous beauty, an unexpected smile or act by a Sherpa, finding Brett's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_55" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">silhouette</span> at the top of the mountain, seeing him waving both arms dramatically so I can find him on the horizon.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;">September 29, 2010<br /></span></em>We gained 1.400 feet today. (Maddening, isn't it. I keep switching the unit of height. And so it went for the entire trek-feet, no, meters...) We both have headaches in the occipital region of our brains. We stayed in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_56" class="blsp-spelling-error">Luza</span> for two nights since I ended up with a bit of nausea and a decent headache yesterday morning. Some minor headaches are to be expected. Today we stopped by the British-run emergency clinic in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_57" class="blsp-spelling-error">Machermo</span>. For 100 rupees, we had our oxygen saturation checked. Mine was 91%, and Brett's was 89-90%. Not bad for above 15,000 feet. Later in the evening, I sit listening to all of the languages being spoken at the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_58" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">tea house</span>, and wish I could speak them all and join in the conversations.<br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_59" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Tea house</span>: A building with simple rooms and a common area attached to a kitchen. Stone on the outside, thin plywood walls and flooring on the inside. One shared squat toilet. Twin beds in the usually tiny rooms with random colorful and often dirty comforter covers. Common area set so that everyone sits on a permanent bench under the windows facing the center of the room, where an iron stove burns dried yak and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_60" class="blsp-spelling-error">dzo</span> dung, paper trash, or juniper branches. On the menu: potatoes, eggs, pasta with yak cheese, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_61" class="blsp-spelling-error">dal</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_62" class="blsp-spelling-error">bhat</span> (lentils), <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_63" class="blsp-spelling-error">sherpa</span> stew, garlic soup (for headaches), and tea. Ginger tea, hot lemon, hot orange, mint, tea with milk.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;">October 1, 2010</span></em><br />In the village of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_64" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gokyo</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_65" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pasang</span>, the son of our lodge owner, is a 25 year-old Sherpa who is studying the humanities in Kathmandu, focusing on sociology and computer graphics. He is well-spoken. His goal is to return to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_66" class="blsp-spelling-error">Khumjung</span> to teach the kiddos there. His family runs <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_67" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6P-CmmvbULDV6vF5EMqEAsz3jsVSqbpiBIjnCXG24WIqVEX1BUjlYAUnNNw4o-sDm9-EdtMP1dwc50Lk-C5l3mhfaNVhJ6CFMfqbdXU8Ku4QH53refRTQj_oVSPXvnhBQq3v0Se7Jq32/s1600/IMG_2519.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533393370652878530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid6P-CmmvbULDV6vF5EMqEAsz3jsVSqbpiBIjnCXG24WIqVEX1BUjlYAUnNNw4o-sDm9-EdtMP1dwc50Lk-C5l3mhfaNVhJ6CFMfqbdXU8Ku4QH53refRTQj_oVSPXvnhBQq3v0Se7Jq32/s320/IMG_2519.JPG" /></a>e Lakeside Lodge in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_68" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gokyo</span>, and were very welcoming. Brett and I were the only people staying at the lodge. (As a matter of fact, it was pretty quiet and we got a lot of time with the locals all the way up the valley to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_69" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gokyo</span>.) <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_70" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pasang's</span> little sister was charming. A three-year-old Sherpa girl with a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_71" class="blsp-spelling-error">squinty</span> smile, squeaky voice singing Sherpa songs, and red circles for cheeks. She is dressed in warm puffy clothes, and walks around observing and parroting everyone. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_72" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pasang</span> says he didn't appreciate his home in the mountains until he spent time in Kathmandu. He joined us for yoga on the morning we left, and although a bit inflexible, he took the session seriously and without ego.<br />This was our second day in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_73" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gokyo</span>. We would have left yesterday, but for a failed attempt to find our way across the glacier to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_74" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dragnag</span>. Following the (outdated) map, we found our way to the (old) trail, and made it half-way across the lifeless glacier, the trail abruptly ending at a cliff with rocks and ice dripping down the side and surrounded by water. Quite sketchy! <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_75" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pasang</span> said that he remembers playing on the glacier 15 years ago when it was covered in snow. Now it is a vast wasteland of gray rocks covering underlying ice, interspersed with expanding lakes.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;">October 4, 2010</span><br /></em>Climbed our highest elevation today, Kala <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_76" class="blsp-spelling-error">Patar</span>, at 18,200 feet! We both have colds, and slept very little last night, waking every few minutes gasping for breath. Brett received a promise ring from his love with the inscription "Om Mani <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_77" class="blsp-spelling-error">Padme</span> Hum" at the top of a very windy <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_78" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kalapatar</span>, witnessed by the big peaks...Everest, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_79" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ama</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_80" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dablam</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_81" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nupse</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_82" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lotse</span>, and various other 7,000 meter peaks. Tomorrow to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_83" class="blsp-spelling-error">basecamp</span> to leave a Snickers and a beer for Eric Larsen, who should be <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_84" class="blsp-spelling-error">summiting</span> Everest this week. Also today, we found a bucket of hot water and shaved. This only happened once.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#33ff33;"><strong>Om Mani <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_85" class="blsp-spelling-error">Padme</span> Hum</strong>: The Jewel in the Heart of the Lotus. This phrase is spoken millions of times a day, it is cast upon the wind through prayer flags, and carved into <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_86" class="blsp-spelling-error">mani</span> stone displays. It is at once a proclamation to the powers that be, and a reminder of our ever-lasting journey as we attempt to rise above the temporal human suffering to achieve the diamond-like enlightenment of nirvana. A Buddha is a living celebration of the human potential.<br /></span><span style="color:#3333ff;"><br /></span><span style="color:#660000;">October 5, 2010</span></em><br />Eric caught wind that we were in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_87" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gorak</span> Shep and ran down to say Hi! (What takes most people three hours takes him one...badass.) He leaves to get to Camp 3 tomorrow, so we would have missed him. He looks strong. It is said that at the death zone above 8,000 meters, the body begins to lose vital functions and is slowly dying. He is climbing with only five Sherpas. He says his company found five young motivated Sherpas who make Eric feel slow. Eric tells us that while he is doing the Everest step (left foot, breathe, right foot, breathe), one of the<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ykWyWlCN0C0nxL47dsDR-Osox4EgxN_eiAEy2Zu-jNv1KiSjg0K0FOzqLtDh5n0-0WwXFJUAuhF0GwAkNaBiURCwBKMzbnxMhdyYyMVT9aDcG3uJQa0yPMJ6mlwHoDdIGod6o306Q_yF/s1600/IMG_2620.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533393381986167602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ykWyWlCN0C0nxL47dsDR-Osox4EgxN_eiAEy2Zu-jNv1KiSjg0K0FOzqLtDh5n0-0WwXFJUAuhF0GwAkNaBiURCwBKMzbnxMhdyYyMVT9aDcG3uJQa0yPMJ6mlwHoDdIGod6o306Q_yF/s320/IMG_2620.JPG" /></a> Sherpas is skipping along behind him chatting on his cell phone. Eric is very <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_88" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">conscientious</span>, doing a lot of the work himself to climb Everest, unlike many others who are not so conscious of the fragility of the environment and of human life. Sir Edmund Hillary may have popularized the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_89" class="blsp-spelling-error">Khumbu</span> region of Nepal, but he also spent the rest of his life giving back to the community...building schools, planting trees, creating environmental awareness. Unfortunately, many people have come to Everest in a selfish quest to summit at all costs. Those costs include the environment and human life.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#33ff33;">~“Human life is far more important than getting to the top of the mountain.“</span></em> Sir Edmund Hillary<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;">October 7, 2010</span></em><br />We take step after step, heavy-chested, as a 25 year-old Sherpa catches us to talk. He is going to market at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_90" class="blsp-spelling-error">Namche</span>. He tells us he has a two-year-old. Oh, and he has climbed Everest. Twice. We chat, then he darts up the path, running, leaving us feeling as if we are standing still. The distances the Sherpas travel on foot through these difficult mountains breeds a realization of the capacity of the human body and spirit. And how we haven't reached it.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;">October 12, 2010</span></em><br />After four days of praying for clear skies in Lukla, the town was becoming crowded with more and more trekkers waiting for the planes to begin flying. We had a flight out today for Delhi, India. We weren’t going to make it. Until a Singaporean woman offered us two seats out on a helicopter. We left at 8:00 am that morning, and arrived in Delhi that afternoon, with a mad rush in Kathmandu in between to return our rented gear and even do a little shopping!<br /><br /><strong>Thoughts on our Exploration of Buddhism:<br /></strong>Buddhism arose in 500 BC through the Pali Canon, as an offshoot of Hinduism. There are many forms of Buddhism practiced throughout Southeast Asia, China, Japan, Nepal, Burma, and Bhutan. The principle components are a belief in reincarnation, karma, and meditation. Through meditation, pursuit of knowledge and moral virtue, ignorance and selfish desire are overcome, the cause of human suffering is removed, and nirvana is attained.<br /><br />At first blush, Buddhism contains many attractive qualities. It is a peaceful religion. It teaches one to live a virtuous life. It relieves one of the suffering in life, and of the fear of death. It teaches benevolence and compassion. These are the qualities of most world religions. (An interesting observation--during my readings on Buddhism I have found many similarities not only with Christianity, but with Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics as well.) Yet, you really have to believe in reincarnation to be a Buddhist, in the strictest sense. The cosmology of many forms of Buddhism is likewise very complex, and difficult for our rational brains. Also, Brett and I have had many discussions about finding the balance between playing the part of the Buddhist dispassionate observer watching without judgement, and reacting to the emotion we encounter. How do we discover what we percieve as injustice, evil or pain, and not judge? This seems to be a paradox. Yet, what Buddhism seems to say is, that we do not react in the moment, but we find and use our unique talents to unleash on the suffering of the world in a thoughtful way.<br /><br />No matter, this passage from Matthiessen’s "The Snow Leopard“ speaks to what I feel is the heart of Buddhism and being. Here he is talking about his young son Alex...<br /><em><span style="color:#3333ff;"><span style="color:#33ff33;">„In his first summers, forsaking all his toys, my son would stand rapt for near and hour in his sandbox in the orchard, as doves and redwings came down on the warm wind, the leaves dancing, the clouds flying, birdsong and sweet smell of privet and rose. The child was not observing; he was at rest in the very center of the universe, a part of things, unaware of endings and beginnings, still in unison with the primordial nature of creation, letting all light and phenomena pour through.“</span> </span></em></div></div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-57552930534703774892010-10-15T09:50:00.000-06:002010-10-15T09:50:50.667-06:00Thailand: Tonsai - Brett<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_nj-FZXtl36046LWvVh7n9Gxs5jmOp-_XLRfjuXcyuRlVN5EIkgkI-64BPPZW737sEwiOnpvkgdWIXWm4kZ7JjgDT61HcnEQ8s9H5ZKAOoRK9iGM2dWqTAKjSV0nvxnr3fMGF0uXBdQ/s1600/IMG_2221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_nj-FZXtl36046LWvVh7n9Gxs5jmOp-_XLRfjuXcyuRlVN5EIkgkI-64BPPZW737sEwiOnpvkgdWIXWm4kZ7JjgDT61HcnEQ8s9H5ZKAOoRK9iGM2dWqTAKjSV0nvxnr3fMGF0uXBdQ/s200/IMG_2221.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>We load up the kayaks with climbing gear, water, and extra food pilfered from the morning's buffet. A 20-minute paddle later we glide up to a rickety bamboo ladder reaching down from the cliff above. We tie off the kayaks and soon I am climbing some of the most fantastic limestone the world has to offer. David says there have probably been a dozen people to ever ascend this route. Cool. A whole wall of 5.8-5.11 routes becomes our playground for the day. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuRt3ZUhFFzPY2ihlX5Y7sDdBni8y2XQVSTp0lTd0eXEBwYN2_46tTMl1gXKnrGz4txb1JOWYJiMXu1REQbX5z-rBQRHNR6JyZsJceonY1o9jAEC3b8m5Hpt7RAXEfcPapMhHq6z04aM/s1600/P9140156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuRt3ZUhFFzPY2ihlX5Y7sDdBni8y2XQVSTp0lTd0eXEBwYN2_46tTMl1gXKnrGz4txb1JOWYJiMXu1REQbX5z-rBQRHNR6JyZsJceonY1o9jAEC3b8m5Hpt7RAXEfcPapMhHq6z04aM/s200/P9140156.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>As the week glides along Jenny and I find ourselves not wanting it to end. The relaxation. The yoga. The conversations. The amazing views. And, of course, the climbing. How can we make this last? We certainly can't stay at the Paradise (way too pricey for our budget), but David offers us a tempting alternative. Tonsai – half a day's journey away, is the Thailand climbing that everyone dreams about. We're sold, and with David's copy of the guidebook in hand, we take the boat-boat-bus-taxi-boat journey to what will be one of the all-time highlights of our trip.<br />
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Once again we find ourselves hopping over the edge of an old boat, flip-flops in hand, landing knee-deep in a bath-water warm sea. Once again we wonder if this really is our life...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKl994_TXiNklWtzpv3CGN3M8pCVLGLIYj5HITL3izfXaVWBFeFpVx90P8TN91McKli6uHZJztyENxW-B8XaZceK2oBcfbPLshyphenhyphendAxDnyplVCGwRqXYumCBC368Wf-tAW8ngjWqJ8MDw/s1600/IMG_2255.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKl994_TXiNklWtzpv3CGN3M8pCVLGLIYj5HITL3izfXaVWBFeFpVx90P8TN91McKli6uHZJztyENxW-B8XaZceK2oBcfbPLshyphenhyphendAxDnyplVCGwRqXYumCBC368Wf-tAW8ngjWqJ8MDw/s200/IMG_2255.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>Tonight, as we lay on the deck of the Freedom Bar, staring up at the stars and listening to the waves gently lapping the sand not ten feet away, we contemplate just staying right here for a while. Jenny led her first climb outside today – a nice 5.9 right off the sand. Tomorrow morning she will lead me and our new friends, Jeff and Brandon, in yoga on the beach before heading out for more of the same. And by week's end Jenny will be leading 10b's and following 11a's.<br />
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Tonsai is truly a magical place with $6 bungalows, 5.13's on the beach next to the bar, and phenomenally sublime rock. There is so much to explore and so many great conversations to be had sitting out under the stars. Oh yeah, and somehow, in all of this, I seem to have forgotten about the food. Thai food in Thailand is as good as it gets. Absolutely the best food we've had so far. A bowl of coconut milk red curry and a glass of freshly squeezed lime juice will cost you $3. Mango sticky rice for breakfast is about a buck. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidY-EYstMI-QULXoK4nE93wZkSZ1hdW_RGh_u0tA-FvyKyK73A3l0Zm7lDk8Iz66drIta0T15CtqWsAtgL2riSsj9JAN1GfE0AfvSWI187JF1-bXIzgz3-Y1MmViOSaK1Zpk7BcVVSMRk/s1600/IMG_2224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidY-EYstMI-QULXoK4nE93wZkSZ1hdW_RGh_u0tA-FvyKyK73A3l0Zm7lDk8Iz66drIta0T15CtqWsAtgL2riSsj9JAN1GfE0AfvSWI187JF1-bXIzgz3-Y1MmViOSaK1Zpk7BcVVSMRk/s200/IMG_2224.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>The laid back vibe here is perfect and Jenny and I continue our spiritual journey through brave new conversations with other wayward souls. After a rough couple months, my heart is at peace, knowing that I am finally on a path of true discovery. We are approaching the Truth from the fringes and I can feel the faint echoes of ancient mysteries calling out to me – drawing me in.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnbduWj6Vwj3SDLpHWpWqV6lx8_27a8ajCFfgRVWu6OXg08UnirbfsfL4p_h86QWwHZOZlN_ewcUOqP2-YG6kElmlphsOnSe7A215HAL6vHz9GEEbOag3ft8TFBIBelOcNu3b_b3I-b8/s1600/IMG_2274.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnbduWj6Vwj3SDLpHWpWqV6lx8_27a8ajCFfgRVWu6OXg08UnirbfsfL4p_h86QWwHZOZlN_ewcUOqP2-YG6kElmlphsOnSe7A215HAL6vHz9GEEbOag3ft8TFBIBelOcNu3b_b3I-b8/s200/IMG_2274.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>The monsoon is ending and it is time to head on. Our time here has been all too short. Thailand has been one of those perfect mixes of fun and personal growth, and we head into the next chapter with anticipation. The Tibetian Buddhism of northern Nepal will surely be a fitting follow-on and I can only imagine that the soaring peaks of the Himalaya might just be the perfect backdrop for additional contemplation.Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-29996595916811775912010-10-15T09:03:00.001-06:002010-10-15T09:05:11.812-06:00Thailand: Koh Yao Noi - BrettNot a day apart in three months and we were feeling it. We haven't been shy about the difficulties of being with the person you love 24/7 for months on end, but it was time to do something about it – for real this time. We had about two weeks before we needed to be in Nepal and the beaches of Thailand were a short flight away. Jenny was talking about a yoga retreat or maybe some meditation or maybe going to a tea plantation or... I decided a manly week of surfing in Phuket, maybe followed by some climbing in Krabi/Rayley would be good for me... A week apart. Whoa – this was going to be a change.<br />
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I left for the airport with tears in my eyes, already missing Jenny but knowing that this was for the best. I bucked up and tried to look at this as a great adventure and a time to get my mojo back, spend some time doing pretty much whatever the hell I wanted. Surf my ass off. Chill out in a cool beach-side cimbing town. No one to answer to.<br />
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As I walk through the Singapore airport I spy a sign, “Free Internet”. Well, maybe a quick note to Jenny would be nice. “At the airport. Missing you.” You know, just so she knows I made it to my flight okay. Some hottie trying to pick me up as soon as I walk out of the airport in Thailand. Casual conversation, but I put the brakes on quickly as she moves in for the kill. (So this is what it's like to travel alone...) Empty hotel room and it's raining – surf is flat. Wonder if Jenny is online. I'll just Skype her real quick to see if she's decided what she's doing yet. Dinner alone. Back at the hotel and Jenny calls to say goodnight. We talk for a long time. We miss each other. I fall asleep restelessly and wake up early. The computer buzzes. Jenny is getting on the next flight to Phuket to go to this yoga/meditation/spiritual retreat on the island of Koh Yao Noi nearby – do I want to join her? I pack my bags and pick her up at the airport – total separation time: just over 24 hours.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm17ngE4RB7JkPVv6tV95hKz0vQBk7DMe0Nh_o_5aFmjNAQ4ylpyB3MYzbAkrUBmy-lScOJCR0NN91hFunW2Sv5F6yPAcTmzfNQchnP6GImTwPCwvPRj_ZdTZMJbHPQzpJk33xg7CbR18/s1600/IMG_2208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm17ngE4RB7JkPVv6tV95hKz0vQBk7DMe0Nh_o_5aFmjNAQ4ylpyB3MYzbAkrUBmy-lScOJCR0NN91hFunW2Sv5F6yPAcTmzfNQchnP6GImTwPCwvPRj_ZdTZMJbHPQzpJk33xg7CbR18/s200/IMG_2208.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>The speedboat skips across the glassy surface as a large eagle soars easily above. I smile at Jenny, sillouetted against the setting sun. As we round the corner the roar of the engine softens and we settle slightly into the soft sea. The Paradise Koh Yao Resort comes into view and we glance at each other in disbelief. THIS is where we are going to spend the next eight days? It is perfect. A white crescent of sand with nothing in sight but palm trees and orange sandstone cliffs. We are greeted with a cool wash cloth and an icy glass of lemon juice with sugar. I have a feeling this is going to be a good week.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEgGWBwyTq2-PmIziTYbgVZnNOvMtooiKlKjxr1pXhIU5tRw4DwnT65vCsDG2OtGZZL-vo3N3klSg1utZM2ZP3Sj4PW56cMXzGadM31wVWgz-tFcqNk0TTkW8FqxY6JJlD-0_ImA_fPM/s1600/IMG_2194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEgGWBwyTq2-PmIziTYbgVZnNOvMtooiKlKjxr1pXhIU5tRw4DwnT65vCsDG2OtGZZL-vo3N3klSg1utZM2ZP3Sj4PW56cMXzGadM31wVWgz-tFcqNk0TTkW8FqxY6JJlD-0_ImA_fPM/s200/IMG_2194.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The yoga studio</td></tr>
</tbody></table> What is it, exactly, that we are looking for? We are at that place in our lives where many people end up eventually. Our basic needs are taken care of. We have good careers. We are financially stable. We have a great group of friends, a ski house in the mountains, and we are healthy. We love our jobs. Why do we feel like there should be something more? “Someone once said that God offers man the choice between repose and truth – he cannot have both.” (Peter Methiason) Which will it be, the red pill or the blue? We chose truth and, in the process, have stripped away the comforts of home and accoutrement of modern life. I tell myself that we can always go back, but can we? Once we have glimpsed a different path, can we return to our former selves? We set off on this journey not knowing where it may lead. To a strange place? Or, just possibly, back home.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfx6Rv9eD5fd7D5JHKMvu2dyBW4V7rIQv90DHtbo88s0BOFdOYMmkgSxG99rJLYxLerrY8DrMMYWDoW1pWj-VqhBUJOxuNmZdkV_HMEDD60dY1jhIin8P0Nm2a-zfpVnR1QimLR6cppVY/s1600/P9100141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfx6Rv9eD5fd7D5JHKMvu2dyBW4V7rIQv90DHtbo88s0BOFdOYMmkgSxG99rJLYxLerrY8DrMMYWDoW1pWj-VqhBUJOxuNmZdkV_HMEDD60dY1jhIin8P0Nm2a-zfpVnR1QimLR6cppVY/s200/P9100141.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>The week proceeds with an easy rhythm as Jenny and I are drawn deeper and deeper into the mystery. Our instructor, David, exists within and among and between the machinery of everyday life. We are his only students this week and the days flow by. Our bodies and minds are responding well to the twice-daily sessions of yoga and spiritual instruction, and he joins us most afternoons for climbing, massage, kayaking, cooking classes, mountain biking, and even more soulful discussion. I am discovering a place of stillness in my heart previously unknown to me and, for the first time in my life, my mind is quiet enough to really contemplate – to follow an idea all the way to completion. Jenny's and my conversations become deeper by the day as we immerse ourselves in the ideas of Chopra, Lazlo, Hawkins, Govinda. David's philosophy is probably more Hindu than anything else, but he easily mixes new age spirituality with reverence for the pantheon of the old wisdom. Syncretism – the blending of religions, ideas, philosophies, and immortal truth. I honestly don't believe that anyone has figured out the mysteries of the universe, so this approach is more appealing to me – much more my style. The saints and the mystics of most major religions seem to agree on the basic tenents. It is the details that get in the way. Be a good person. Treat others well. Act with intention and integrity. That's about it. Quite simple, really.<br />
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The week slips away all to quickly and suddenly it is time to say goodbye.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fwXMjbS7aBj8xXUffQBbWOOOmGFUwre873cktNWzOEvvCQ7Wx9ntDuSCMnd4ZdlW47KmGCXbj1gNtCBqmuUrj1NPG5YFoNFhgN0N56KEkhySWHHo236F7OSrwrSCJB7ONWyfu-YTyjk/s1600/P9100153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fwXMjbS7aBj8xXUffQBbWOOOmGFUwre873cktNWzOEvvCQ7Wx9ntDuSCMnd4ZdlW47KmGCXbj1gNtCBqmuUrj1NPG5YFoNFhgN0N56KEkhySWHHo236F7OSrwrSCJB7ONWyfu-YTyjk/s200/P9100153.JPG" width="200" /></a>David – We came to Koh Yao for yoga and relaxation, wanting more but with little expectation. On our parting you've changed the wind's direction, slightly altering our trajectory. We are learning to listen more openly to the universe. Thanks for providing a sacred space for discovery and renewal. Namaste (the spirit in me honors the spirit in you). </div>Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-60155619690753513552010-10-15T08:46:00.000-06:002010-10-15T08:46:09.705-06:00Singapore - Brett<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aohkUgvQCq-wBjCFKZ8XFBuQOWtcmOFkkLzsWPgQNQxpJmGBxAWIdHHc7VoNT6vpNsTqz-iYrYnlJpg14fJU-kxR-uSeiWXZGBshQo79pi957fj-8L3Q02ph-_Yk24Zg5Cno-yAJrUM/s1600/IMG_2034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1aohkUgvQCq-wBjCFKZ8XFBuQOWtcmOFkkLzsWPgQNQxpJmGBxAWIdHHc7VoNT6vpNsTqz-iYrYnlJpg14fJU-kxR-uSeiWXZGBshQo79pi957fj-8L3Q02ph-_Yk24Zg5Cno-yAJrUM/s200/IMG_2034.JPG" width="200" /></a>What would you do if you had complete control to develop a nation to your liking? The answer would probably come out looking something like Singapore. Clean, modern, tightly controlled, and very pretty, with an extremely low poverty and unemployment rate; high, stable wages; a good health care system; and a seemingly happy, driven, and well-integrated populace. The city-state's motto is, “Democracy, Prosperity, Peace, Equality, and Justice.” It's a tall order for the racially mixed city made up of Chinese, Indian, Malay, and “Other” (mostly western ex-pats). But Singapore pulls it off with a healthy dose of self-control and a little bit of heavy-handed threatening. You get the feeling that people are aware of the freedom that they have given up (mostly reflected in an inability to criticize the government – or chew gum in public), but have chosen to accept this trade-off in exchange for a clean, safe, and generally very pleasant life experience.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAUxM0jk0uywXtf6G9xYzL0jqEeJCH8fZtJVdsQ2OP8tyYZFy8V-lWN5N5LekLoQEduYGRMevbkDsuKrO7RlCrg_UPGwU3xQznFWm8ijSakWvFMqmf3FyZ5EC3rV0M4G0wlxBJ_4iHVos/s1600/IMG_2059.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAUxM0jk0uywXtf6G9xYzL0jqEeJCH8fZtJVdsQ2OP8tyYZFy8V-lWN5N5LekLoQEduYGRMevbkDsuKrO7RlCrg_UPGwU3xQznFWm8ijSakWvFMqmf3FyZ5EC3rV0M4G0wlxBJ_4iHVos/s200/IMG_2059.JPG" width="146" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKr5UMt9Lqp85EqF_I2yHl9RHrxUCdihaPbZhRJzqQP23IGDAFuT5B9Wf8ffgsNAO1irsdvT13fCWTg-K1aqCe4Rofk4YC0MJzQOi1SGCFWar0qXiVRlLlFRIwbStnBXWe0QwPppufgcE/s1600/IMG_2058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" qx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKr5UMt9Lqp85EqF_I2yHl9RHrxUCdihaPbZhRJzqQP23IGDAFuT5B9Wf8ffgsNAO1irsdvT13fCWTg-K1aqCe4Rofk4YC0MJzQOi1SGCFWar0qXiVRlLlFRIwbStnBXWe0QwPppufgcE/s200/IMG_2058.JPG" width="170" /></a>Our time in Singapore was short, but it was a welcome relief from the past three months of dirt roads, pollution, and questionable food. Ah, to drink the tap water! The first couple days were spent wandering around, eating wonderful food (Mmmm – Little India!), finding a great brewery (spicy, bold, “white” IPA with hints of banana and clove – 7% and about 90 IBUs), and sleeping in air conditioning. I even celebrated all this cleanliness by shaving my beard. We were fortunate enough to have several friends of friends in town and really enjoyed drinks and conversation, long runs through the park, and a very insightful look into the ex-pat lifestyle.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4P3HTniOul5UQTmqJuIJ4my0QamIPiiPHe8vOql3m4ai5enHeDFfZocN1VS1KEMqBhz-Bnk5HAhhNgJ1FVTSH_hZrKTp2IVJSF2H4RuWVWjP7OPCits9wn6Bisb28kWtVS250NhKg34o/s1600/IMG_2115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4P3HTniOul5UQTmqJuIJ4my0QamIPiiPHe8vOql3m4ai5enHeDFfZocN1VS1KEMqBhz-Bnk5HAhhNgJ1FVTSH_hZrKTp2IVJSF2H4RuWVWjP7OPCits9wn6Bisb28kWtVS250NhKg34o/s200/IMG_2115.JPG" width="200" /></a>This latter experience came thanks to the incredible hospitality provided by Sonya and Ole Jacob and their two beautiful children. Sonya is Jenny's friend Cathy's sister (from her Boulder cycling team) and originally just met us for a run in the very scenic McRitchie Reservoir park. But Sonya took pity on us and graciously invited us come stay at her home for the week which ended up being filled with delightful meals (Ole Jacob's pepper crab was to die for!), good wine, and trips to the swimming pool. We also learned what it took to transplant your family to a foreign country, where you (as the wife) are not allowed to work, and adapt to a strange culture of live-in “help” and international schools. Just what these two weary travelers needed.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRomRZoRPo_bfh4Xg6KMg1G3jue3HiVIKAK3u-y7BGnJxtBSGo5pOh_QuPBrnKY5eb8EKVu1lGv22_A87-X-goBVAGu6-gaiULusQVNcl2AGcdSbp44iuyu3vwfKgOCaInCPlGIUEbLI/s1600/Pool1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRomRZoRPo_bfh4Xg6KMg1G3jue3HiVIKAK3u-y7BGnJxtBSGo5pOh_QuPBrnKY5eb8EKVu1lGv22_A87-X-goBVAGu6-gaiULusQVNcl2AGcdSbp44iuyu3vwfKgOCaInCPlGIUEbLI/s200/Pool1.jpg" width="200" /></a>The rest of our time in Singapore was spent wandering the National Museum (a great look at the history of Singapore and some insight into how it was “planned” from the very beginning) and the Asian Civilizations Museum (which pulled together a lot of the pieces that we have been learning over our last three months of travel). We perused shops, strolled through Chinatown, took the elevator to the 70th floor of the Suishotel building (what a view!), and walked along the recently renewed riverfront Quays people watching and reflecting on our journey. As always, my mind goes back to the same questions? Where are we going? What are we really trying to accomplish with this trip? I feel like I'm still searching...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz7K82AUjjad2oFdv_raTTqOugLf9YOF-FjR4Ot_PDeUk6NWyGWk6a-iucuPfWrtxfErsNmB-SEyjs5bbz7gEHiy_AYQHQqEPsZsYBPAJc0QJN8i2wdfNpep9nGTzCyIyoQ9HhZ0Onok/s1600/IMG_2083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz7K82AUjjad2oFdv_raTTqOugLf9YOF-FjR4Ot_PDeUk6NWyGWk6a-iucuPfWrtxfErsNmB-SEyjs5bbz7gEHiy_AYQHQqEPsZsYBPAJc0QJN8i2wdfNpep9nGTzCyIyoQ9HhZ0Onok/s320/IMG_2083.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And, as so often happens, bits and pieces of the answers start to come when you least expect them. Ambling down a small street next to a beautifully painted temple in Chinatown, we stop in a small shop with some peaceful, soothing music playing in the back. A few words are exchanged with the shop owner and, somehow, an hour later we are still standing there raptly engaged in a deep conversation (via broken English) about the mysteries of the soul and the subtelties of various Buddhist philosophies. I left that conversation with head and heart spinning and a renewed commitment to seeking out more answers, more wisdom, and more Truth. Little did I know what was around the corner.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-69126455446522650282010-09-07T08:07:00.002-06:002010-09-07T08:15:03.244-06:00Trekking in Borneo – Brett“One, Two, Three!” Jenny puts her whole body into it, pulls hard, and the skin of the barking deer strips right off like a banana peel. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5c6T0Ie5lgk8iymxoB8HU9wIEzdbmo0katFZOH7lIcqh2yAdM1So9_7Qn9QaAI6o_qf_RI8iyl8EwpJkDmXnliuDip1EczMEoYuwzLm4H7wwdg53ZO5eHgQIMm2tQWIrpyRzi1JiVQmc/s1600/IMG_1833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5c6T0Ie5lgk8iymxoB8HU9wIEzdbmo0katFZOH7lIcqh2yAdM1So9_7Qn9QaAI6o_qf_RI8iyl8EwpJkDmXnliuDip1EczMEoYuwzLm4H7wwdg53ZO5eHgQIMm2tQWIrpyRzi1JiVQmc/s200/IMG_1833.JPG" width="154" /></a></div><br />
This is what we said we wanted – to live off the land in the jungle of Borneo. And we are getting more than we bargained for. Our mountain survival skills and Gore-tex jackets are mostly useless when the forest is so thick you can't see more than 20 meters, there's 100% humidity, and every step means picking up another leech or two that quickly start climbing towards those vulnerable parts...<br />
Now that the skin is off, the machete makes quick work of separating the legs and shoulders, ribs, and haunches. The cuts are laid out on palm fronds, then the raw meat is loaded up and we continue walking through the jungle, collecting more pieces of dinner as we go. Wild ginger, water spinach, mushrooms, palm hearts – everything we need is here in the forest. The rice is grown locally in the villages, fish are pulled from the crystal clear streams, and there are natural salt licks found on the long, winding ridges here in the highlands. The salt is traded for coffee grown down a little lower towards the coast and sugar is made from the palm sap. Even the oil for cooking comes from the ubiquitous palms. Our four-day trek is filled with lessons about local medicine with the jungle supplying everything from eye-drops to local anesthetic to blood clotting agents to digestive aids. You have a headache? No problem, let's just take some of this leaf and brew it into a tea. Got bit by a centipede? Here, put some of this sap on it – it will take away the sting and make the swelling go down. Need to write a contract or send a message? Easy – scratch it onto the back of this broad leaf and let it dry for a day and you've got a water-resistant record that will last for years. Thirsty? Chip a little hole in the side of a bamboo tree, stick a reed in the hole, and suck – pure, filtered water. Mmmm, so good!<br />
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Our two guides, Reddy and Stephen, are both Kelabits – part of the larger group of Borneo natives known as Dayaks. They grew up here in the jungle learning the same skills that their fathers and their father's fathers have been passing down for thousands of years. Yes, their long-houses used to have skulls hanging inside, but that was ages ago. The Christian missionaries who have so influenced this area over the last hundred years helped put a stop to that, along with the local governments who recognized that the island's fierce reputation was keeping potential traders away. But these skills are quickly falling to the lure of high-paying jobs in the big city. The small villages are devoid of anyone between the ages of 10 and 35 as the logging roads that started going in over the last ten years have allowed the extraction of both natural resources and the talented young children from these once isolated communities. The old folks are the only ones left to plant the rice and many of the villages have been abandoned altogether, or their numbers have dwindled to tens of hardy souls who still wake up every morning, put on their bamboo hats, grab a grass-woven grocery bag, and head into the “jungle supermarket” to get breakfast. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZb-7AfhIKFHbjF92e-4i1-Xbk9CX1jfv3vEsrD1gcIV0cpwRM3Fu_mOrnIZ0bIqtsKe1UlLbHCVfrv_GC0ZZieQnD5h3dV80uuq6XZhE3_tPnAAF67TnuJ1oo-hZ7OoJaOc12tcW8y7U/s1600/IMG_1845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZb-7AfhIKFHbjF92e-4i1-Xbk9CX1jfv3vEsrD1gcIV0cpwRM3Fu_mOrnIZ0bIqtsKe1UlLbHCVfrv_GC0ZZieQnD5h3dV80uuq6XZhE3_tPnAAF67TnuJ1oo-hZ7OoJaOc12tcW8y7U/s200/IMG_1845.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
But we knew none of this as our Twin Otter touched down in little Bario – several hundred souls and the center of the universe for this vast region of primary forest and waning culture. We spent the first day anxiously waiting for our guide to appear out of the jungle. We listened to the rain hammer the tin roof over our heads and took advantage of a dry spell to wander the deep mud pit that serves as the only road through the middle of the village. We day-dreamed about poisonous bugs and deadly snakes. We stared longingly into the thick forest surrounding us – a little scared about what we might actually find in there. That night Ainee served up fresh wild boar (which she had been smoking all day) and plates of the famous local pineapple that lacks any tartness and just melts in your mouth like warm buttery sugar. Heaven. The mutton-bone soup and the chicken curry (not a local dish) left a little to be desired, but hey – we were definitely not complaining. Finally, out of the dark, comes a little man with a big smile and an easy laugh. Reddy was to be our guide for the next four days – and would become a great friend and teacher that we will never forget. Sweet! It looked like this was actually going to happen! We went to bed with full bellies and dreamed of hanging vines and wild rivers and... leeches.</div><br />
The next morning we set off – leech-proof socks pulled up to our knees. An hour later the logging road gave way to a water buffalo path and then a foot path and then – just jungle. We spent our first night in the little (34 person) village of Pa'Lungan – a three hour walk to the nearest (often impassable) road of any kind. After dinner we learned that a young anthropology PhD candidate from Chicago had recently left after spending two and a half years here studying this ancient culture.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgIY0kZcube-l_ogoEP2pxzRfBnhsjHTq1bsFkbB1BVB-sw7TGbpIGcQyst-cPnnO0CeytrryS6xrCuQ7jL91JibbmvBY7kSJtdNjCzp7YIp2woah1xjE9ihLPNR55-i8-OFl6C-N8YI/s1600/P8260073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgIY0kZcube-l_ogoEP2pxzRfBnhsjHTq1bsFkbB1BVB-sw7TGbpIGcQyst-cPnnO0CeytrryS6xrCuQ7jL91JibbmvBY7kSJtdNjCzp7YIp2woah1xjE9ihLPNR55-i8-OFl6C-N8YI/s200/P8260073.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
So what will happen to these small villages scattered around the “developing” nation of Malaysia? Many will simply cease to exist and will quickly be reclaimed by the unrelenting jungle. But some of these towns have decided that they want to survive and so they are re-inventing themselves. Bario, for better or worse, has one of those rare souls who can see the forest and the trees. John is in his late-thirties and has brought in anthropology and business students from the local university in Sarawak to develop “e-Bario”. Bario, this little town only accessible by 14 hours of treacherous logging road (and only in the dry season) or by the tiny Twin Otter airplanes that fly in from the coast, now has a couple of solar arrays, a diesel generator, a handful of 4x4 pickup trucks, and – the internet. John is pushing “eco-tourism” with a vengeance and has helped promote more than half a dozen guest houses and lodges (some quite nice) in and around town. He regularly goes to the capital (Kuala Lumpur) to seek funding from the government for his seemingly never-ending list of projects. He even organized a “slow-food” festival last year(!). John has brought awareness of the “United Nations Declaration on the Right of Indigenous Peoples” to the local population and regularly pays “courtesy calls” to the logging company scouts who “accidentally” stray into the area. John understands that nothing will happen without the assistance of the government and he is relentless in his quest to market Bario and the surrounding natural beauty in a way that forces the government to recognize and protect this valuable resource. For better or worse? Again, this exposure to the modern world hastens the decline of the local culture and there are grumblings around town about John's self-promotion and rumors that much of the development money goes to him. There was the US$12 Million hydroelectric project that ran for one day before being declared a failure and being abandoned. There are the deals with the logging company trading land rights for the promise of a paved road through town. And along with the proposed national park will come restrictions on guiding and hunting and off-trail travel.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpVKv1W7agpPQZGUTkC3ooT2AYbipiZLybvAaVoPdcAtZ8gW2Yq_hmOHMMeDjK53AoRsHn7x40wM1PJ9dJx4Kx5Eeo84Km_p50p0yHpsAiw1iWOzAPBPFlH1AOS2SSnBVNoPfV0dOYKA/s1600/P8260049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbpVKv1W7agpPQZGUTkC3ooT2AYbipiZLybvAaVoPdcAtZ8gW2Yq_hmOHMMeDjK53AoRsHn7x40wM1PJ9dJx4Kx5Eeo84Km_p50p0yHpsAiw1iWOzAPBPFlH1AOS2SSnBVNoPfV0dOYKA/s200/P8260049.JPG" width="200" /></a>It would take a novel to fully describe the experiences of the next four days, but my childhood dreams of going to “the jungle in Borneo” have been successfully fulfilled. I don't think Jenny or I will ever again set up camp in the rain without laughing about Reddy and Stephen chopping down trees and cutting vines to build our sleeping platform while we huddled under a tarp in the pouring rain (like the helpless white tourists that we were). I have not the talent to describe the beauty of the nameless creek where we ate a delicious lunch of smoked barking deer, water spinach, and ear mushrooms. And until you experience it, you will never fully appreciate the jungle orchestra or what sunset looks like from deep under the canopy of some of the world's last pristine rain forest.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
To Supan and Nabun, Stephen and Reddy, Ainee and John and the wonderful people of Bario, Pa'Ukat, and Pa'Lungan – terima kasih banyak, thank you very much. We are now a part of pulong tau “our forest” and we will never forget this amazing experience. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">(To see the rest of the photos - click <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/Brett.Landin/100829BorneoTrekking#">here</a>.)</div>Bretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-55573669328444227442010-08-23T08:30:00.000-06:002010-08-23T08:30:09.127-06:00Off the grid - Second attemptIf at first you don't succeed...<br />
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Tomorrow morning we fly from Miri to Bario (Malaysia) to trek in the jungle (Kelabit Highlands) for six days. Should be back on-line by the end of the month.<br />
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Have a great week!<br />
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Brett and JennyBretthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06149285553306850279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-51688476846188988222010-08-20T02:17:00.025-06:002010-08-20T06:53:32.994-06:00Jogykarta, Indonesia to Sipadan Island, Malaysia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqK4-VPf9vUStuRWUh0vs6ufj_XfDbmLEFLBnYs7yetvEJnEz7OYv0AYFygCj5jO-dL0tkJYuxJKWWG5ZmhqoEVVG2XdmtgJydgChyphenhyphenJQNHXT9P7LOiQUx5qZ1w9-XFwvGVU5OAtnhONNc/s1600/IMG_1732.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507431139641208066" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijqK4-VPf9vUStuRWUh0vs6ufj_XfDbmLEFLBnYs7yetvEJnEz7OYv0AYFygCj5jO-dL0tkJYuxJKWWG5ZmhqoEVVG2XdmtgJydgChyphenhyphenJQNHXT9P7LOiQUx5qZ1w9-XFwvGVU5OAtnhONNc/s200/IMG_1732.JPG" style="float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
<div><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<em>Peace cannot be attained through violence. It can only be attained through understanding</em>”. Einstein<br />
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Indonesia is a strange land. The political label “Unified in Diversity” feels like a superficial Kumbaya attempt to try to create the image of peace in a country in constant turmoil on multiple fronts. It is much more settled since the election of SBY, the current president. The country has gone from a 30-year dictatorship to a fairly stable democracy over the last 12 years. But there remains the fact of recent blood shed, yes, within the last 10-15 years, from East Timor to Kalimantan to Java. Aceh has been granted freedom to practice sharia law to keep them from pursuing violent tactics. The Javanese fundamental Muslims, think Mafia, are creating fear in Java. The tribes of the Apokayan Highlands in Borneo are fighting and killing to keep loggers from destroying their precious home. Hunger is rampant. Hunger drives human beings to do anything to meet basic needs.<br />
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After our encounter with the volcano Bromo we spent a week in Yogyakarta, a city known for its hundreds of universities and its intellectual atmosphere. It is also one of the few areas in Indonesia that still retains the power of a sultan (a Muslim king). Many Indonesians from the multitude of islands come here to study. We decided to do a little couchsurfing. We stayed with three hosts over the next week. Cool experience. We were able to experience Yogya (pronounced Joja) from the minds and hearts of three very different households.<br />
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<strong>Ruimzicht</strong> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqezEzB60mq_kBH3RjEtbfs9DJo22Hhx5EoVP-MaWZk_kLNRg3lr4P1Sx13n0T-GWGZUKWkA_vlQlIvZe8louoZdtEZoJ9N6IJwlgNW7TuqtEU5pqXWwmOAqs0FIV-klJhITjBYn0jQfl/s1600/IMG_1655.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507420003734568098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqezEzB60mq_kBH3RjEtbfs9DJo22Hhx5EoVP-MaWZk_kLNRg3lr4P1Sx13n0T-GWGZUKWkA_vlQlIvZe8louoZdtEZoJ9N6IJwlgNW7TuqtEU5pqXWwmOAqs0FIV-klJhITjBYn0jQfl/s200/IMG_1655.JPG" style="float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 134px;" /></a><br />
Our first night we stayed with Wim and Phillip. Wim is a 66 year-old retired Dutch journalist who fell in love with Phillip 12 years ago, married him, and moved to Phillip's home country, Indonesia. They built a beautiful custom home outside of Yogya surrounded by beautiful landscaping, a live bird collection, and two clumsy sweet golden retrievers. We slept in a beautiful four-poster bed with crisp sheets and our own outdoor bathroom. Phillip, younger than Wim by 20 years, manages a business that exports housewares and décor to large shops such as Crate and Barrel, Cost Plus World Market, and Pier 1 Imports. Here's the kicker: Those items are EACH created and handmade under palm trees, in small storefronts, and in people's modest homes of tin and wood and dirt floors. There is no factory, no assembly lines, no machinery. Wim was very open and eager to share his experiences as a European living in Indonesia. He felt that one of the biggest difficulties for him was the inability to trust Indonesians. You never know what a smile means. Sometimes people fear the truth will hurt someone's feelings. They lie to save face. It's their culture; unwritten societal rules. But so different from what we value. It reminds me of the ethical dilemma that is sometimes encountered in Western hospitals... that Asian families will ask the physician and nurse not to tell their child or grandparent of their diagnosis so as to “protect them” from the truth. It's a hard concept for Westerners to grasp. We will always remember Wim for his wide view, or Ruimzicht (in Dutch). He believes, as his father did, in being open to all cultures, beliefs, and values. Live and Let Live.<br />
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<strong>You Go Girl!</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFHf5Rh3_4__2CcYjU_qQLHWOXk-N1MZDNZSfdniPP95O6ItJ32f4AjII_D1PB4GoTUySFDG6ZNsdkUMA5XNfZYA7WAEsqYhZzlDx8CMFy_feDBHq0i5l7MDK1SB-mxtYG90bEv7fpEuF0/s1600/IMG_1704.JPG"></a><br />
We stayed for 3 nights with Mia, Edi, and their little boy Ega in their middle-class home in the northern suburbs of Yogya. Mia is a thirty-something go-getter with a drive to succeed like no other we have met on our trip. She fights her spoiled upbringing with humanitarian pursuits and work. She and Edi don't get to spend a lot of time together. He is busy as the second-in-command at a microfinance bank, mountain biking, and playing with Ega. Mia is busy running her English School, writing books, and spending time with friends singing Kary<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI5CBrnf5_9EftboRgULQg8FZN6kOI6jyrrd0XVZVUzKKn4l-XDdKQ1n93Cw6UbWkCakkcHW5VNgaNdee_2rYLBqnRzVOcFe9pyeMZoIMXCJJFnn771pUMkUFnpzbwjRkB1mludEJkxIc/s1600/IMG_1702.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507428204140807186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifI5CBrnf5_9EftboRgULQg8FZN6kOI6jyrrd0XVZVUzKKn4l-XDdKQ1n93Cw6UbWkCakkcHW5VNgaNdee_2rYLBqnRzVOcFe9pyeMZoIMXCJJFnn771pUMkUFnpzbwjRkB1mludEJkxIc/s200/IMG_1702.JPG" style="float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a>oke! She has an amazing voice. Always a surprise around the corner with Mia. We were guests on her one-hour English radio program for Jogja English School (JES) where she interviewed us about cultural differences and our travels. One caller asked us this: “ Hi. I was wondering what you do for a living. How do you like Yogya? Do you believe in the supernatural or ghosts?”. -Uhhh...<br />
We thank Mia for the Al Jazeera fix, the meals, and the kindness and attention she gave us. “No You Didunt...” (with neck moving side to side and fingers snapping in the air...) Mia - eat your vegetables!<br />
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<strong>Crazy Indian and Crazier Indonesian</strong><br />
The last few nights we spent with Manu and Dede. Manu is Indian, and has been living in Yogya for over a year with his girlfriend Dede who is native to the area. It was with M<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIa9CTw1WQfwJF1d7l_6YCwVmc1aI8XU_yx0_zI1cvNm3GYzyoxZn1gDb2xe8y4ae65v8eGReX3HzWOwyPv3ShnxMjAL79nU1tZGiPWL1DVxvw1tktmuR23dcZ4BzaXZW4f595EEolKOr/s1600/IMG_1761.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507419561236031874" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPIa9CTw1WQfwJF1d7l_6YCwVmc1aI8XU_yx0_zI1cvNm3GYzyoxZn1gDb2xe8y4ae65v8eGReX3HzWOwyPv3ShnxMjAL79nU1tZGiPWL1DVxvw1tktmuR23dcZ4BzaXZW4f595EEolKOr/s200/IMG_1761.JPG" style="float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>anu and Dede that Brett and I found ourselves transported back to college, crammed into one car with eight people, reaching the nightclub by midnight. We had some amazing conversations with this unlikely pair over “goat bone soup” and thick black coffee with a hot wedge of glowing charcoal floating on top. They took us and the French gals to the banyan trees where we were blindfolded and made to walk between the two banyans in order to have our wish fulfilled. We touched the stone monument (Tugu) in the center of the city which indicates that we will return to Yogya again someday. And we learned the word Jembhut. You don't want to know. While staying with Manu and Dede we took a trip to the acti<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUVZrPnofVjMVbw8Izp7seUKlXvadA7KdHzIZLSbQ1dRMFp_8Hi0srW1InhCUgTTrdq_xeGZXj7a3IHmUsGqwn6c51xF-6o-DWyr9DejBN0e5Ulsvj9ed14lavICHaSwuTVWScuxW97sz/s1600/IMG_1736.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507430414012886370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUVZrPnofVjMVbw8Izp7seUKlXvadA7KdHzIZLSbQ1dRMFp_8Hi0srW1InhCUgTTrdq_xeGZXj7a3IHmUsGqwn6c51xF-6o-DWyr9DejBN0e5Ulsvj9ed14lavICHaSwuTVWScuxW97sz/s200/IMG_1736.JPG" style="float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>ve volcano Merapi (last eruption was 2006!) and climbed it overnight with a steaming peak view of the sunrise the following morning. Then back to Manu's. My favorite memory of this crazy couple is riding on the back of Dede's scooter while she sang an entire Jason Mraz song about love and world peace.<br />
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<strong>Tarakan and the Lost Days</strong><br />
Tarakan was hard. It is a rough port town in Eastern Indonesia (Lonely Planet failed us miserably). It is a necessary evil to get to other destinations, but we stayed for four days trying unsuccessfully to plan our jungle trek into the interior. The gem in this town was meeting Dave and Joy Forney. We found Dave at Missionary Air Fellowship (MAF), a Christian organization that hires small plane pilots to live in third world countries and provide needed services. He and his wife had us over to their home for dinner and provided assistance in planning our jungle tour. They live in Tarakan with their 5 kids. They were recently given a baby gibbon (related to apes) who just wanted to hang around your neck and cuddle everywhere you went. Even Brett fell in love with that sweet little animal! Maybe since we aren't having kids, we could get a gibbon! Hee, hee!</span></div><br />
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<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0i0lRqwMYwQti4YB4X400SzVLV2XmIIVvGRPhhk7n7ZWggsyMPQESxn05_YIvGsrSopLaQwMshUgIhQkpn_Qrdqu4XlLEPdQs8xcjDOmepAguIoskPn_T8VjhJchyphenhyphenjRCAhwZeeLYYDY4t/s1600/IMG_1768.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507422168381628546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0i0lRqwMYwQti4YB4X400SzVLV2XmIIVvGRPhhk7n7ZWggsyMPQESxn05_YIvGsrSopLaQwMshUgIhQkpn_Qrdqu4XlLEPdQs8xcjDOmepAguIoskPn_T8VjhJchyphenhyphenjRCAhwZeeLYYDY4t/s200/IMG_1768.JPG" style="height: 200px; width: 150px;" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0i0lRqwMYwQti4YB4X400SzVLV2XmIIVvGRPhhk7n7ZWggsyMPQESxn05_YIvGsrSopLaQwMshUgIhQkpn_Qrdqu4XlLEPdQs8xcjDOmepAguIoskPn_T8VjhJchyphenhyphenjRCAhwZeeLYYDY4t/s1600/IMG_1768.JPG"></a></div><br />
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<strong>Quentin Tarantino Moments</strong><br />
We seem to have one QT moment a month. The first was in the middle of the night when our overnight bus stopped at a roadside cafeteria for us to eat, somewhere in Indonesia (BFI). The lighting was yellow and dim. The music was loud and sounded like foreign elevator music. Everyone seemed to move in slow motion. A dusty old store front selling mementos, toys and kitch was open outside the restaurant door, poorly lit with a shadowy figure behind the counter.<br />
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The second QT moment was at the port in Tarakan awaiting our boat outta there. Over the loudspeaker a breathy woman spoke slow careful instructions in Indonesian while the sound reverberated eerily through the air. Motorcycles flashed by, large trucks covertly carrying goods slowly ground to a halt, and army men in fatigues piled onto the dock unloading their second-hand U.S. machine guns (M-16s), while seedy looking men lounged about the ticket counters.<br />
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The third QT moment...we watched the movie Inglorious Bastards! Disturbing.<br />
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<strong>The Plight of the Chinese</strong><br />
Everyone seems to marginalize the Chinese. We have started finding ourselves trying to defend the underdog. Indonesians historically have gone after the Chinese, burning their businesses and homes. The word on the street is that the Chinese either steal their business, or they cut corners and produce poorly made goods. It has been quite a theme in Asia. It resembles, in some ways, how the Jews are marginalized. Both seem to stem from the fact that both Chinese and Jews are hard-working and successful, and this creates the fear in others of being replaced or dominated. This is just an initial observation...no data here.<br />
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<strong>Ramadan</strong><br />
Ramadan started on August 11. What would this mean for us and our travels? Well, the call-to-prayer sounded all night that first night (seemingly). No Muslim eats or drinks during daylight hours for a month so that they may practice self-control and strength of spirit, mind and body. Many restaurants either close during the day, or just pull their door half-way closed. McDonald's, KFC, and the Chinese restaurants are open. We just have to be careful not to eat in front of people who are fasting out of respect. AND, no one can smoke all day! Heaven!<br />
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True story to illustrate what Ramadan looks like: <span style="font-style: italic;">Brett and I had hopped a 2-hour bus from the airport to Semporna one evening. The bus was full, Brett and I the only bulays. (white people or foreigners). Suddenly, on a long stretch of road lined with palm trees for as far as the eye could see, the van briskly pulled over and came to a stop. There was a flurry of activity and opening of plastic bags, paper and soda bottles. After a moment of discombobulation, we realized the call-to-eat had occurred, and all of the Muslims in our van had just been waiting for that moment to satisfy their hunger! We later were told that they only have a few minutes to get those first bites in or the devil would get in. I cannot substantiate this belief as true, though!</span><br />
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<strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjza8B65i0PNztFxEzAyvdxivb8tkIjaoD0-R2a1uuI4c8e59HVhc0SMk45ra1x2SsVxBxrCTFSa8GLKIy-7Uv_5DXTk7nPWSc7tVnJvXVlMwK6HX9GPRtoRaF3_OeHrvi__IhYwD8twnD6/s1600/P8150027.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507423503472012338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjza8B65i0PNztFxEzAyvdxivb8tkIjaoD0-R2a1uuI4c8e59HVhc0SMk45ra1x2SsVxBxrCTFSa8GLKIy-7Uv_5DXTk7nPWSc7tVnJvXVlMwK6HX9GPRtoRaF3_OeHrvi__IhYwD8twnD6/s200/P8150027.JPG" style="float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Diving in Mabul</strong><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">For the last week we have been in far eastern Malaysia in Semporna. We were led here by our Bali dive guide who said this is one of the best places in the world to dive! We have seen some pretty cool stuff during our seven dives in two days. Cuttlefish, tons of green turtles, rockfish, leafy scorpionfish, mantis shrimp, lionfish, Indian walkman, etc. Life underwater is so weird, magical, otherworldly. But we are waiting out the better part of a week to get to the real treasure...the Sipadan dive with sharks. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5MfEDjSRxkwmbNTPlfYzFxIREkZCiZOTk3IskFomF_q2tMVDDTzLJGZ8q9ixzkcCiKGEepsn-MBtWTryU6_fQ0BqyAMCimDSgpZ9YdKOcBQ6YHjCyTIfIFN3LNFW_O-dGT08xgEQhJL6/s1600/P8150033.JPG" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507422853634172914" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ5MfEDjSRxkwmbNTPlfYzFxIREkZCiZOTk3IskFomF_q2tMVDDTzLJGZ8q9ixzkcCiKGEepsn-MBtWTryU6_fQ0BqyAMCimDSgpZ9YdKOcBQ6YHjCyTIfIFN3LNFW_O-dGT08xgEQhJL6/s200/P8150033.JPG" style="height: 150px; width: 200px;" /></a></div><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Reality of Travel</span><br />
Okay. So those of you who have done this kind of travel probably warned us. But do we ever listen? Naw. Traveling the world is not so romantic. It is a lot of the mundane, interspersed with some incredible moments and experiences. It's sleeping on buses, getting stuck waiting hours at ports, being stinky and sticky, finding out after staying in a creepy dirty room for 4 nights that it was in vein because the trip you were planning fell through. Travel is easily summed up by the wisdom: Wo-man plans, God laughs. It is spending every breathing moment with the one you love, or who you thought you loved, or who just gets on your every last nerve!!! But, it is also a time for reflection. It is in the reflection that the true meaning of all this comes. It is in the crash course in communication skills with your life mate that you grow. Ya know...listen with intent, repeat back what the other person said, and acknowledge their feelings. It is about learning compromise, not just saying it, bu<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhkRyjgMFmJyG9EBU_korVtZSfJSyFwAACpq33_rzJQoFVEW43TdDGzZY6A3KUdFMObNl4BYLEB9TyQB-Bx3aiPfyHP7RlRIZ8pmRlmR44rPWmFjqyKCvFJ8BWHVTyAqkBHK8KMUc6uY_n/s1600/IMG_1813.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507424112963023266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhkRyjgMFmJyG9EBU_korVtZSfJSyFwAACpq33_rzJQoFVEW43TdDGzZY6A3KUdFMObNl4BYLEB9TyQB-Bx3aiPfyHP7RlRIZ8pmRlmR44rPWmFjqyKCvFJ8BWHVTyAqkBHK8KMUc6uY_n/s200/IMG_1813.JPG" style="float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>t really practicing it. Because you have to. It is a lesson in maturity, of staying cool under stress and change. It's about pushing your limits. It's about knowing the world in a different way. Knowing how China feels. Knowing how Indonesia thinks. Feeling the quiet miracle of floating near the bottom of the ocean amongst strange creatures. And of glancing at your partner with a knowing look that says, “Yeah, I know. I thought that too.”</div><br />
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<div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-87346443351291253282010-08-07T00:37:00.002-06:002010-08-07T00:46:55.259-06:00New and Improved ItineraryHi friends. As we expected, our itinerary is changing again! We have updated it to the right of our homepage. In a nutshell, we decided to go to Nepal earlier to buy time for the heat to dissipate in India and Burma. <br /><br />Sooo, if you want to come meet us for some adventure, check it out! Right now we are meeting:<br /><br />~Ang in India in October<br />~Rob and Jess in PNG and Great Barrier Reef in late December, early January<br />~Poppy and Moppy McCurdy in Australia in late January?<br />~Todd and Carrie in New Zealand in March<br />~Karen and Louise in South America?<br /><br />Love to all. JenJennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-13639064432906445162010-08-03T02:10:00.005-06:002010-08-03T02:36:55.778-06:0060 days and 29 different beds...<ol><br /><li>July 27th, 2010: Welcome to Indonesia – Brett<br /><br />Ahhh, after a month of hard travel we are ready for a couple days of relaxing on the world-famous beaches of Bali. We have a lot of reading and planning to do, and a lot of writing to catch up on. Besides, this trip is supposed to be fun too, right? Maybe some snorkeling, naps on the beach, sleeping in... We both have this vision of a little bungalow on a deserted piece of sand where drinks are cheap and the water is warm.<br /><br />The best laid plans...<br /><br />1. The airport: 800 people waiting for a “Visa On Arrival” with five immigration officers working. Plus our biggest fight of the trip. Not a good start. We finally get out of there around midnight to head to our hotel on the beach.<br />2. Bali: First night's hotel is kind of a dump complete with sex tourists, brownouts every two minutes, and a location that is decidedly not anywhere near the beach (but had more than it's fair share of stray dogs, both dead and alive). A quick internet search yields “Padangbai” as a “cool backpacker hangout on a crescent of white sand” about 15 miles up the coast. Sweet.<br />3. Padangbai turns out to take about five hours to get to and is anything but cute. A small harbor full of tired fishing boats and a brick wall most of the way along the beach. WTF! As the sun sets on another wasted day, we order a whole pitcher of sangria made with arak (the local spirit), and drink until we feel better (not recommended – an arak buzz comes on like a freight-train). We wonder what everyone loves so much about Bali. More internet searching scores “the Gili Islands” (of Eat, Pray, Love fame) as a cute little piece of paradise just waiting for us a few islands away. It's 2.5 hours by expensive speedboat, or 6 hours by local transport. We opt for the local method and spend 9 hours getting hassled, lied to, and hearded around by various unscrupulous types whose primary job in life is to separate us from our money. We arrive on Gili Trawangan after dark – tired, irritated, with no place to stay, and really hoping for something better.<br />4. Gili T: Well, we kind of have our bungalow and the beach is mostly deserted, and there are no motorized vehicles, which is nice. But we are both sick (head-cold, not intestinal), the beach is all coral (no barefoot strolls), and the prices are going to bust our budget. Time to move on to the smallest speck of white sand in the area – Gili Meno.<br />5. Gili Meno, population 300 – An open air (and saltwater-only shower/tap) bungalow on a deserted beach. Finally meeting and talking to some locals (breakfast of banana crepes every morning with Denin at his little cafe that is literally in the water during high tide. Vis<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUYauhmwvf0fPfvkdQs_BADODpPcT0rYm-ZM8alCt9igQnj6IAnlyMRiDi0-4JMDV2qiGyLxmNdSvHOLAK2SuRJRm4LdMZ_zM3RrDSMhfADadCZJ9LtTq6MHiyoy7L8YcPlbpssbiYKX_/s1600/IMG_1200.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501095115307499122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUYauhmwvf0fPfvkdQs_BADODpPcT0rYm-ZM8alCt9igQnj6IAnlyMRiDi0-4JMDV2qiGyLxmNdSvHOLAK2SuRJRm4LdMZ_zM3RrDSMhfADadCZJ9LtTq6MHiyoy7L8YcPlbpssbiYKX_/s200/IMG_1200.JPG" /></a>iting the primary school in the middle of the island as a guest of Zaneur (the local teacher and horse-cart driver). Finishing our China writing. Romantic dinners of fresh fish, gado-gado, and cold beer watching the sun sink into the sea with Bali's iconic volcano, Mount Agung, in the background. Days in the sun snorkeling and napping. Wandering through the tide pools. Trading books with cool fellow travelers (Carolina from Equador). And enough time to plan a rough itinerary for our time in Indonesia. Wow – a week after ariving in Indonesia, we've finally found what we were looking for. But now it's time to move on.<br /><br />Indonesia has been like that for us. There are some gems here, for sure, but they are hard to find. China seemed to provide wonder around every corner, but Indo has been frustrating. We have definitely found some cool people and some beautiful places, but they seem to hide behind the poverty, the traffic, the hassling for money, and the oppressive heat. Our purpose is to see the world and meet its people. To learn what they think and how they feel about their place in the grand scheme of things. The language barrier is certainly part of the difficulty, but we have struggled to connect with people like we did in China. Maybe it is because most of the folks we interact with on a daily basis here are dirt-poor, service-industry people. We have so little common-ground and the obvious have-have not discrepancy makes it difficult to connect as equals. More on that later...<br /><br />In the mean-time I'm going to hit some highlights!<br /><br />1. Ubud, Bali. Like Boulder on steroids! New age center of the universe packed full of juice bars, yoga studios, and $5/hour massages. We loved it! Yes, it's touristy, but my god is it b<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvN-KOybAINMEM4egnR4hsUekWm7BucVJQxPO3N3LT1IQMeS2_LlCw1-p7kWp59ovePkusS1H3QO4fsZ1ahl5UlRn0M0GgGfrIdWgw9P-7TYxQk6ZQdREVF1RvtgwQ-2zefCyhxnLOIK1/s1600/IMG_1252.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501096966708071954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvN-KOybAINMEM4egnR4hsUekWm7BucVJQxPO3N3LT1IQMeS2_LlCw1-p7kWp59ovePkusS1H3QO4fsZ1ahl5UlRn0M0GgGfrIdWgw9P-7TYxQk6ZQdREVF1RvtgwQ-2zefCyhxnLOIK1/s200/IMG_1252.JPG" /></a>eautiful. We took dance classes, did yoga in this amazing, open-air studio in the middle of the rice paddies, took bike rides through the country side with Aspen, Colorado ex-pats Rally and Kathy (now living in Ubud running a textile business), shopped for beautiful art, attended traditional dance performances, and took another cooking class. Okay, now we're starting to see what people love about Bali.<br />2. Scuba diving off Nusa Penida island (SE of Bali). Oh. My. God. Unbelievable. It's better than any promotional scuba diving film you've ever seen. While Jenny finished her certification, Brett got in a little over his head (ahem) with a group of dive masters who thought that Brett was a little more experienced than he really is (lost in translation is a common theme for us). A drift dive at 75 feet with massive currents and really strong up/down wellings – HOLY cow. Combined with the fact that I haven't been diving in ten years – well, I burned through my air in 40 minutes just trying to keep up. Second dive went much better but damn I have a lot to learn! The next day was awesome as we got to dive the wreck of the USS Liberty together near Tulamben off the NE coast of Bali. Floating upside down in 60 feet of water seeing Jenny silloueted above me in a swarm of fish next to the rusting hulk of this huge ship is an image that will remain one of those highlight memories in my brain. We even got to swim through the old cargo hold and Jenny chased a shark!<br />3. Surfing on Kuta Beach. The original Indo surf spot served up perfect, long, smooth six-footers in deep water that you could ride all the way to the beach. Probably rode 40 waves in one morning. Un-freakin'-believable! (Randy H. - I did get served HARD by a ten-footer when I got a bit cocky... ouch. Reminded me of that morning in Newport.)<br />4. Finding McDonalds soft-serve right on the beach in Bali. $0.22 will get you a perfect mound of cool, white perfection. For 8 cents more you can get it dipped in chocolate. Mmmmmm – our favorite late night snack (open 24 hours).<br />5. Smiles everywhere. The Indonesian people love to smile. Kids, grandmas, soldiers. It's awesome and it makes you feel happy.<br />6. Watching the sun rise over the smoking cone of Bromo volcano as it sits in a pool of swirling mist. Wow! We later climbed to the rim and peered down into the gaping cauldron as it spewed noxious, sulfurous steam. Volcanos just have a way of inspiring awe... Java is <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1F14_C8PcO7PHplIS3337NEr3VQnrNVPF-f43XUS63_eDYGFrc8rkeyim4EFmVoAhAHWcUQ8vW_VWhgdBQVjxsXw-ZBgXr-vEmhFT1nXaTgWxsXgbEOyQY7ae2e6ptpb2whfI3CxKMc6/s1600/IMG_1474.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501098605028965778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh1F14_C8PcO7PHplIS3337NEr3VQnrNVPF-f43XUS63_eDYGFrc8rkeyim4EFmVoAhAHWcUQ8vW_VWhgdBQVjxsXw-ZBgXr-vEmhFT1nXaTgWxsXgbEOyQY7ae2e6ptpb2whfI3CxKMc6/s200/IMG_1474.JPG" /></a>a land where volcanoes bring life (the most fertile soil on earth) and death (there are 20 something active volcanoes in this area, the latest eruption killed a thousand people in 2006).<br />7. Our current homestay with Buti and Morni in the little village of Canderejo (bet you a hundred bucks you can't find it on Google Maps). Hint – it's in the middle of freakin' nowhere on the flanks of the (active) volcano Merapi (translates as “much fire”). Here we have played with the local kids as they prepare for the upcoming homing pigeon competition, we have ground tapioca root and pressed it into “crackers”, we have gone native (there is no TP and even if there was, there is no place to put it), and we have learned the joy of bathing each other with a small ladle and a stone basin of water. And tonight we will join the local village trance dance where I have been warned that I may try to chew glass (no drugs involved – the trance is brought on by chanting). Do you think my insurance will cover this?<br /><br />Yes, 29 different beds in 60 days can definitely take its toll. No doubt I am home-sick for family and friends and familiar food. But as I look back on the last two months it is hard to feel anything but gratitude and wonder.<br /><br />As the sun sets and the haunting call to prayer echoes out across the valley I want to thank you for being a part of this journey.<br /><br />Selemat jalan (safe journey),<br />Brett and Jenny</li></ol>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-35122869066794618422010-08-03T00:48:00.005-06:002010-08-03T02:38:59.968-06:00Authenticity in Indonesia - Jenny<div><div><div>Brett and I set out to experience the authentic world...the real people, cultures, countries. After the first six weeks of traveling, an unsettling feeling was creeping in. Where was the connection with the locals? Our yearning to connect authentically with many people felt cheap. We are relaxing, vacationing, dining while the locals are laboring, going about their daily chores, sometimes even serving us, often <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_tHWa9kzL3OSBTRLvP2sFYS2g1V-cQlyEGVF8HizmtvmJt3nSPYchtjEA21uVHtqPewXw6UjbuMPj2xlxAS82rQIebQPcDzxmNDA9NNX3ZL4NI-BXX_0Gpa6wFdzMoffCu7uWs7eWPSrV/s1600/IMG_1415.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 149px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501085289712413394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_tHWa9kzL3OSBTRLvP2sFYS2g1V-cQlyEGVF8HizmtvmJt3nSPYchtjEA21uVHtqPewXw6UjbuMPj2xlxAS82rQIebQPcDzxmNDA9NNX3ZL4NI-BXX_0Gpa6wFdzMoffCu7uWs7eWPSrV/s200/IMG_1415.JPG" /></a>just trying to make ends meet. And there is the obvious socioeconomic discrepancy that taints even the best intentions. When one is revered based solely on location of birth, and is seen as business for the tourist industry, a cynicism grows regarding any “meaningful” conversations. Also adding to the authenticity conundrum is the factor of time. In order to reap the rewards of a bilateral and equal exchange, some level of trust and relationship-building is necessary. And this sort of travel doesn't lend itself to this kind of time. If we become involved by donating money or doing volunteer work, the relationship seems more fair, but still not equal. So, we are realizing that the depth we seek may not be possible, but that we can still glean bits of connection with people everywhere we go.<br /><br />The unsettling feeling doesn't stop there. Beginning in China, there seemed to be a loss of cultural soul. The Mao years stripped China of much of its character and historical traditions. But something greater than that was experienced. The elders seemed to have a resignation about them, while the younger generations seemed to have little concept of ancient Chinese culture, which appears to have been watered down by “modernity”, science, technology, and progress. Dances are staged. Works of art are replicated thousands of times over, and are being marketed as “originals”. Tourism and making the sale has stripped much dignity from the vendors, begging at every chance to not only make a sale, but to try to fool any would-be buyer into paying huge excesses over what an object is worth. Gone, I think, are the times when a traveler is invited into a local's home out of kindness, and the “find” of an original hand-made artifact is relatively non-existent. Travel, even in the smallest of towns, seems to be an industry.<br />Just as this world started to feel soul-less and staged, we landed in Indonesia. Still a place of richness, connectedness, authenticity. Not to be confused with pure authenticity. Bali and the Gili Islands were quite touristy. But there exists in Indonesia a pride, a deep familial thread, that binds generations and keeps the cultural torch burning brightly. In this realization, I think Brett and I began to see that our experiences will most likely vaccilate between true authenticity and the sickeningly commercial nature of tourism in all of its forms. But after Candirejo, Central Java, Indonesia, we know that authenticity and rich cultural souls still exist. Will travel in another 100 years reveal a world void of the richness and variation of “other cultures” in the face of globalization? I don't know. But I do know that it still exists in the present. And it looks much like this, during our homestay in the village of 4,000 people called Candirejo...<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLt4qsPHFVsMZDOAdXvZl7Ja6TjKr7cUwLVA4IbqmlWHxoWKs4-8HJYEC4mP6f0qkakdcQdIVu1VBAD2hw3Z_nK-wE8Ninxc4BS8dDwFeVpaDaTK2OKBo-ATsUEFxufRz23WWJIWNjOLWn/s1600/IMG_1640.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501090835651671938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLt4qsPHFVsMZDOAdXvZl7Ja6TjKr7cUwLVA4IbqmlWHxoWKs4-8HJYEC4mP6f0qkakdcQdIVu1VBAD2hw3Z_nK-wE8Ninxc4BS8dDwFeVpaDaTK2OKBo-ATsUEFxufRz23WWJIWNjOLWn/s200/IMG_1640.JPG" /></a><br />~I sit in a bamboo armchair in its broken yet functional seat in front of the home of Budi and Morni as the sun rises. The smell of wood burning from nearby kitchens preparing breakfast mixes with the cloud of dust filling the air from the neighbor sweeping the dirt in front of her home. With a short brittle straw broom she labors removing trash and forming clean lines on the ground, like I do with the vacuum cleaner. The small pile of litter is burned on site, and adds to the cloud. Two adolescent chickens race by my peripheral vision leading my eyes upward past the parked motorscooter, past the magenta flower-filled tree hosting the largest butterfly I have ever seen, to the random scattering of men beginning to congregate at the crossroads – men donning batik wrap-around sarongs, pressed button-down shirts, sandles, and peci, the circular felt hats that Muslim men wear. Music resembling a slow Arab folk song plays in the distance, joined by voices greeting each other with “Salamat pagi” (good morning), the occasional puttering of a 100cc motorscooter engine, and, is it? Could it be? Yes, it is...the whistle on the back of an incoming homing pigeon, signaling the upcoming pigeon competition.<br /><br />Just last night we ate dinner at the simple home of Budi and Morni. They are 30 years old, and Morni is four months pregnant with their first child, a boy. Much of the food Morni prepares is fried in coconut oil...tofu with carrots and cabbage, tapioca, potatoes, and the ocassional chicken. Budi says they eat a chicken about every two weeks. I asked how they choose the chicken to be sacrificed...he responded “We take the slowest one!” After dinner Brett and I bathed in the mandi Indonesian-style bath, using a ladle to pour water from a well over our bodies in an outdoor concrete structure that shares the backyard with the chickens and goats. It is time, B<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_oJPi2e111NNs8LEraWC9LkBtVw-WTplOYo0ndofdvOQQD-1AsCIt_PoAnsHhyphenhyphenqYZ1BJSH7IivihEb2AHVYozXF9RuUL9AevjFwgkfl7dVhAxukQQtY6jqItyyUNk3XdXQ4X8-lGv8V7/s1600/IMG_1561.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501088399068052642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_oJPi2e111NNs8LEraWC9LkBtVw-WTplOYo0ndofdvOQQD-1AsCIt_PoAnsHhyphenhyphenqYZ1BJSH7IivihEb2AHVYozXF9RuUL9AevjFwgkfl7dVhAxukQQtY6jqItyyUNk3XdXQ4X8-lGv8V7/s200/IMG_1561.JPG" /></a>udi, tells us, to go play in the gamalan orchestra, succeeded by a dance (or two) following the gamalan. Three evenings a week the villagers gather to play clangy repetitive trance-inducing music on instruments resembling drums, xylophones, and gongs. They invited Brett and me to play with them. 16 16 16 16, 56 56 56 56...I'm doing it! I'm doing it! Wait, where is 5, oh wait, 1, agghhh! We were the only foreigners present, and clearly not the best at gamelan. Next, we attended the first dance production – talented dancers in beautiful, jingly, elaborate costumes. Again, an all Indonesian audience of villagers, with lots of families and children running around. Our awkward, gangly whiteness stood several heads above the crowd. We got a lot of stares, and a lot of smiles. At a break the dancers left the stage, and the two hosts suddenly pointed to us and said something into the microphone about “the Americans” and “welcome”. The crowd of 50-100 Indos all turned to examine us. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyApXh8nn8CvCbZx0iHKVL_ztJfGIWBhHrGImYDkjMyTMBmQegTyL5RS5C8ud1TI2ppIlD6J7Oytc_vjXf4FUipdHCZMKeStcx9LBeLOeOe7q319zo0xFYc5yrb_mUqhNs3ecfAPB_FpUC/s1600/IMG_1584.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501089468109667378" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyApXh8nn8CvCbZx0iHKVL_ztJfGIWBhHrGImYDkjMyTMBmQegTyL5RS5C8ud1TI2ppIlD6J7Oytc_vjXf4FUipdHCZMKeStcx9LBeLOeOe7q319zo0xFYc5yrb_mUqhNs3ecfAPB_FpUC/s200/IMG_1584.JPG" /></a><br />Then we all three (Budi, Brett and myself) hop on his trusty little scooter to the next dance, a more “casual” production of locals with old worn costumes and a dirt floor. The characters came out with some semblance of order, but over the next hour would regress into a chaotic messy group of trance-dancers eating glass and fire, and falling on the ground lifeless, requiring full assistance to eventually get back on their feet . I asked the 18-year-old villager next to me of one of the men, “Is he okay?” She casually answered, “Yes, of course. The devil just took his soul.” Duh.<br />Not only was this finally the authenticity we craved, but the perfect paradigm of Indonesia. A Javanese village of Muslim farmers who pray five times a day in a mosque, who build homes and educate their children in ways influenced by the Dutch, whose art and dance is Hindu with relics of mysticism and animism, and whose cuisine and architecture bears a striking resemblance to the Chinese.<br /><br />Authenticity revealed. The world is still pretty big.</div></div></div>Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5802473787260445454.post-70137403649244626542010-07-16T03:35:00.002-06:002010-07-16T03:37:40.210-06:00Recipe Page!See above the posts for our new page: <strong>Recipes.</strong> Here we will keep a running tab of our favorite foods. Try them out...we swear by them!Jennyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01146453742729038655noreply@blogger.com4