Angkor Wat
(Siem Reap, Cambodia 17:03.24.04.2004)
I'm always very suspicious of ruins, as I am of paintings of Jesus and Indian restaurants. Everybody says the ones they've seen or been to is the best, and that I should make a special effort to experience whatever golden experience they had. But you know what they say. You can't judge a restaurant's chicken tikka masala until you've had it yourself.
"Jose, when you're in Cambodia, you HAVE to get to Angkor Wat at sunrise."
I've heard this over and over during the last couple of years. A Canadian girl who said it was the most amazing man-made thing she's ever seen. This British couple despised Cambodians but said I should not miss Angkor. "Get to Angkor and get the hell out once you've seen it at dawn." They said.
So I'm on a backseat of a motorbike at 5am racing through the dark. The air is cool but already quite thick. There are few people on the road. Some vendors but very few tourists. From a distance Angkor Wat seems like any other ruin. But as I get off the motorbike and approach the long path to the gateway, it hits me. The path to the entrance is a good 600 meters. The ordinariness of its apparent dimensions dissolves: This sucker is big. And I get really giddy, like I'm-8-years-old-and-time-to-open-Christmas-presents-even-if-it's-only-4am giddy.
The guards say we can go in. Some people are casually walking in, taking in the site, having spiritual moments. I cannot control myself. I'm the first one in the temple and I fly right to the center and just start climbing up the dangerously steep and tiny steps of the spires. I keep telling myself it isn't a race, I'm not a monkey, there is no flag at the top. But it's useless. I run around the entire top level of the temple, touching walls and surfaces I'm not supposed to.
In the meantime, more people have made it up. An Indian guy has taken off his shoes, propped himself on a ledge and is meditating. Two Japanese girls are giddily trying to climb up some steps. A mangy long-haired artist or poet or something is having himself a smoke as a youngish American male is talking very loudly about where else he has traveled and how the sunrise here doesn't compare to the sunrise at this in that exotic locale.
I catch my breath and begin to explore.
That was the first hour.
Because I'm an idiot, I manage to lose every single person in the surrounding jungles and temples of Angkor Wat. For a good hour, I am by myself. The best thing to do is retrace my steps and ask the soft drink vendors where I am. So instead, I pretend that I am Indiana Jones, MacGyver, and the Tomb Raider. I quickly abandon the Lara Croft idea as I am not that sexy, especially in my outfit. As a sidenote, a portion of that movie was actually filmed on location here at one of the temples.
I am scaling temples and running into more carvings of elephants and women with four arms and very intricate floral designs. Must be hundreds of thousands of these women. Hard to tell with erosion, but it seemed as if every square inch saw an artisan with a chisel. The scope is breathtaking. The entire complex is 82 square kilometers. Imagining what it once looked like and the manpower it took to create it are beyond what my stewing brain can muster in this heat.
Ahh the heat. The ungodly heat. Hmm, how do I describe it? That initial wave of heat when you open the oven when the fish sticks are done? Even for the locals it is hot. I am here during the low season. The lakes have dried up, and there is no escape. So, there's nothing I can do about it. I already look like I've been dipped in sunblock. I've got a t-shirt draped over my head and I continually tuck the sleeves under my chin. It's held together by a visor that's sitting on top of enormous aviator sunglasses. I am obviously protecting myself from the harmful UV rays of the sun and managing to look like a really lousy terrorist at the same time. But as all good terrorists and tourists must do, I keep up with the mission.
Three hours go by in no time. The fourth and the fifth are hard.
Every new corner brings with it the danger of running into a Buddhist monk. Because once they spot you and say "Buddha! Buddha!" you're committed to lighting three little incense wands, bowing three times and forking over a dollar. So I said, "But Mr. Monk, I just bowed three times to the headless and weatherworn Buddha 5 yards away in that OTHER sacred sanctum!" Of course that's a lie. Too bad I don't speak Khmer. The monk smiles his goofy zen smile, and I'm bowing like it's it's a nervous twitch, afraid that I'm holding the incense wrong, wondering if I say Om or Amen and debating if I should take off my terrorist headgear.
By hour six, I'm templed out. I don't care if I see another Buddha sculpture again or a woman holding a lotus flower or battle scenes or a cute elephant. I've had enough with the peaceful but insistent Buddhist monks. And all I want is the tepid -- which is the closest I'm going to get to cold -- water shower to rinse off the sunblock, scraped moss, bug squirts and incense off of me.
(Siem Reap, Cambodia 17:03.24.04.2004)
I'm always very suspicious of ruins, as I am of paintings of Jesus and Indian restaurants. Everybody says the ones they've seen or been to is the best, and that I should make a special effort to experience whatever golden experience they had. But you know what they say. You can't judge a restaurant's chicken tikka masala until you've had it yourself.
"Jose, when you're in Cambodia, you HAVE to get to Angkor Wat at sunrise."
I've heard this over and over during the last couple of years. A Canadian girl who said it was the most amazing man-made thing she's ever seen. This British couple despised Cambodians but said I should not miss Angkor. "Get to Angkor and get the hell out once you've seen it at dawn." They said.
So I'm on a backseat of a motorbike at 5am racing through the dark. The air is cool but already quite thick. There are few people on the road. Some vendors but very few tourists. From a distance Angkor Wat seems like any other ruin. But as I get off the motorbike and approach the long path to the gateway, it hits me. The path to the entrance is a good 600 meters. The ordinariness of its apparent dimensions dissolves: This sucker is big. And I get really giddy, like I'm-8-years-old-and-time-to-open-Christmas-presents-even-if-it's-only-4am giddy.
The guards say we can go in. Some people are casually walking in, taking in the site, having spiritual moments. I cannot control myself. I'm the first one in the temple and I fly right to the center and just start climbing up the dangerously steep and tiny steps of the spires. I keep telling myself it isn't a race, I'm not a monkey, there is no flag at the top. But it's useless. I run around the entire top level of the temple, touching walls and surfaces I'm not supposed to.
In the meantime, more people have made it up. An Indian guy has taken off his shoes, propped himself on a ledge and is meditating. Two Japanese girls are giddily trying to climb up some steps. A mangy long-haired artist or poet or something is having himself a smoke as a youngish American male is talking very loudly about where else he has traveled and how the sunrise here doesn't compare to the sunrise at this in that exotic locale.
I catch my breath and begin to explore.
That was the first hour.
Because I'm an idiot, I manage to lose every single person in the surrounding jungles and temples of Angkor Wat. For a good hour, I am by myself. The best thing to do is retrace my steps and ask the soft drink vendors where I am. So instead, I pretend that I am Indiana Jones, MacGyver, and the Tomb Raider. I quickly abandon the Lara Croft idea as I am not that sexy, especially in my outfit. As a sidenote, a portion of that movie was actually filmed on location here at one of the temples.
I am scaling temples and running into more carvings of elephants and women with four arms and very intricate floral designs. Must be hundreds of thousands of these women. Hard to tell with erosion, but it seemed as if every square inch saw an artisan with a chisel. The scope is breathtaking. The entire complex is 82 square kilometers. Imagining what it once looked like and the manpower it took to create it are beyond what my stewing brain can muster in this heat.
Ahh the heat. The ungodly heat. Hmm, how do I describe it? That initial wave of heat when you open the oven when the fish sticks are done? Even for the locals it is hot. I am here during the low season. The lakes have dried up, and there is no escape. So, there's nothing I can do about it. I already look like I've been dipped in sunblock. I've got a t-shirt draped over my head and I continually tuck the sleeves under my chin. It's held together by a visor that's sitting on top of enormous aviator sunglasses. I am obviously protecting myself from the harmful UV rays of the sun and managing to look like a really lousy terrorist at the same time. But as all good terrorists and tourists must do, I keep up with the mission.
Three hours go by in no time. The fourth and the fifth are hard.
Every new corner brings with it the danger of running into a Buddhist monk. Because once they spot you and say "Buddha! Buddha!" you're committed to lighting three little incense wands, bowing three times and forking over a dollar. So I said, "But Mr. Monk, I just bowed three times to the headless and weatherworn Buddha 5 yards away in that OTHER sacred sanctum!" Of course that's a lie. Too bad I don't speak Khmer. The monk smiles his goofy zen smile, and I'm bowing like it's it's a nervous twitch, afraid that I'm holding the incense wrong, wondering if I say Om or Amen and debating if I should take off my terrorist headgear.
By hour six, I'm templed out. I don't care if I see another Buddha sculpture again or a woman holding a lotus flower or battle scenes or a cute elephant. I've had enough with the peaceful but insistent Buddhist monks. And all I want is the tepid -- which is the closest I'm going to get to cold -- water shower to rinse off the sunblock, scraped moss, bug squirts and incense off of me.
Final night in Vietnam: Apocalypse NOW
(Saigon, Vietnam 22:38.20.4.2004)
I was going to recreate Apocalypse Now when I got to Saigon. That was the plan. Get really dirty and sweaty and stare at the fan on my ceiling for hours and listen to American rock and roll, shoot darting half-paranoid glances that indicate that I haven't been sleeping much or been drinking too much trying to erase some kind of pain.
So when I saw a description of a tour to ride up the Mekong river, on the delta, it was irresistible. Martin Sheen and boys the government had plucked from their youth. The black guy from the ghetto. The white surfer. On a secret mission to get a mysterious and dangerous Marlon Brando. This is what I was going to do. That was the plan.
The following is apocalypse NOW.
I am sitting underneath a small hut, in a supposed village, on plastic lawn furniture eating supposed tropical fruit watching a pitiful band of supposed farmers playing supposed traditional songs of the Mekong. Songs describing the beauty of the land. Songs praising the leader of the people. Songs that involve a middle aged man using his toes (see entry below) to play castanets on the ground as percussive accompaniment to the wild vocal screeches of a nonetheless beautiful girl. I am not being culturally insensitive here. This woman could not carry a tune. And if you can't carry a tune in a traditional Vietnamese song, you're in bad shape.
I am surrounded by eight French people, and I know they're French because they refuse to speak any other language. This woman rams into me and dismissively throws out a pardonnez-moi.
Sitting with me at my table are four young Japanese people. I know they're Japanese because they wear gloves and long sleeved shirts and scarves and whatever else they can cover their body with so they don't get dark. I also know they're Japanese because they're constantly taking photos of themselves in ridiculous positions: It's no longer just the peace sign. Japanese girl pretends to be tree, Japanese girl pretends to be eating ordinary metal rod on boat, Japanese boy has managed to stick himself underneath a small coconut tree sculpture. They are also painfully polite, unwilling to take anything unless all the French people have had their share. Always at the end of the line, always pouring out other people's drinks before they have theirs. I am feral next to these gentle creatures. I am monstrously devouring my supposed tropical fruit and the Japanese are having afternoon tea.
Meanwhile the French are hootin' and hollerin', yelling "C'est chaud!" over and over again to each other. And yes, I too am hot, and I'm wondering what is this awful supposed traditional band supposed to be doing, and...Where are my band of brothers? Is there another boat for me where I get to change to fatigues and stealthily ride up the finer tributaries of the river looking for Marlon Brando, meanwhile evading the wily traps of them gooks?
Sadly no.
This awful day long tour is an elaborate obstacle course, guiding unsuspecting tourists to spend their money. They are welcome to try the local coconut candy, rice wine but are also urgently recommended to take some home to their loved ones. And please take as many pictures as you like of The Vietnam Experience, especially of the python you can have slung around your neck (and then duly placed back in its cage). Oh don't forget to buy chopsticks fashioned from coconut shells.
Vietnam has changed in the last five years, I've been told by many locals. The country was heralded as the next Asian economic tiger. The prognosis was a bit premature, but they are trying to make up for lost time. There's a lot of foreign investments here. The country has also wisely diverted a lot of its resources to upgrading its tourist infrastructure. Travel in this country is easy, at times even very comfortable. And as with many developing nations eager to become westernized and modernized, Vietnam is rushing to the detriment of its own historical identity. They want tourist dollars but are not yet equipped to responsibly use the money to preserve, well, themselves. There doesn't seem to be any conservancy efforts -- cultural or environmental. I get the sense that the beautiful beaches I've seen will not be beautiful for much longer. And if the tourists want to see young girls in multi-colored garb, put them in these costumes. They're not quite the same ones they traditionally use, but it's suited more to the Western palate.
Tonight is my final night in Vietnam and I am starving. Of course the dilemma is this: Do I walk a few extra blocks to sit on tiny stools on the streets of Saigon eating pho laced with MSG? or do I go next door to an Italian restaurant?
(Saigon, Vietnam 22:38.20.4.2004)
I was going to recreate Apocalypse Now when I got to Saigon. That was the plan. Get really dirty and sweaty and stare at the fan on my ceiling for hours and listen to American rock and roll, shoot darting half-paranoid glances that indicate that I haven't been sleeping much or been drinking too much trying to erase some kind of pain.
So when I saw a description of a tour to ride up the Mekong river, on the delta, it was irresistible. Martin Sheen and boys the government had plucked from their youth. The black guy from the ghetto. The white surfer. On a secret mission to get a mysterious and dangerous Marlon Brando. This is what I was going to do. That was the plan.
The following is apocalypse NOW.
I am sitting underneath a small hut, in a supposed village, on plastic lawn furniture eating supposed tropical fruit watching a pitiful band of supposed farmers playing supposed traditional songs of the Mekong. Songs describing the beauty of the land. Songs praising the leader of the people. Songs that involve a middle aged man using his toes (see entry below) to play castanets on the ground as percussive accompaniment to the wild vocal screeches of a nonetheless beautiful girl. I am not being culturally insensitive here. This woman could not carry a tune. And if you can't carry a tune in a traditional Vietnamese song, you're in bad shape.
I am surrounded by eight French people, and I know they're French because they refuse to speak any other language. This woman rams into me and dismissively throws out a pardonnez-moi.
Sitting with me at my table are four young Japanese people. I know they're Japanese because they wear gloves and long sleeved shirts and scarves and whatever else they can cover their body with so they don't get dark. I also know they're Japanese because they're constantly taking photos of themselves in ridiculous positions: It's no longer just the peace sign. Japanese girl pretends to be tree, Japanese girl pretends to be eating ordinary metal rod on boat, Japanese boy has managed to stick himself underneath a small coconut tree sculpture. They are also painfully polite, unwilling to take anything unless all the French people have had their share. Always at the end of the line, always pouring out other people's drinks before they have theirs. I am feral next to these gentle creatures. I am monstrously devouring my supposed tropical fruit and the Japanese are having afternoon tea.
Meanwhile the French are hootin' and hollerin', yelling "C'est chaud!" over and over again to each other. And yes, I too am hot, and I'm wondering what is this awful supposed traditional band supposed to be doing, and...Where are my band of brothers? Is there another boat for me where I get to change to fatigues and stealthily ride up the finer tributaries of the river looking for Marlon Brando, meanwhile evading the wily traps of them gooks?
Sadly no.
This awful day long tour is an elaborate obstacle course, guiding unsuspecting tourists to spend their money. They are welcome to try the local coconut candy, rice wine but are also urgently recommended to take some home to their loved ones. And please take as many pictures as you like of The Vietnam Experience, especially of the python you can have slung around your neck (and then duly placed back in its cage). Oh don't forget to buy chopsticks fashioned from coconut shells.
Vietnam has changed in the last five years, I've been told by many locals. The country was heralded as the next Asian economic tiger. The prognosis was a bit premature, but they are trying to make up for lost time. There's a lot of foreign investments here. The country has also wisely diverted a lot of its resources to upgrading its tourist infrastructure. Travel in this country is easy, at times even very comfortable. And as with many developing nations eager to become westernized and modernized, Vietnam is rushing to the detriment of its own historical identity. They want tourist dollars but are not yet equipped to responsibly use the money to preserve, well, themselves. There doesn't seem to be any conservancy efforts -- cultural or environmental. I get the sense that the beautiful beaches I've seen will not be beautiful for much longer. And if the tourists want to see young girls in multi-colored garb, put them in these costumes. They're not quite the same ones they traditionally use, but it's suited more to the Western palate.
Tonight is my final night in Vietnam and I am starving. Of course the dilemma is this: Do I walk a few extra blocks to sit on tiny stools on the streets of Saigon eating pho laced with MSG? or do I go next door to an Italian restaurant?
One thing you need to know before coming to Vietnam...
(Saigon, Vietnam 22:13.19.4.2004)
OK, so I've been in Vietnam for a couple weeks now and I just figured out the secret.
Toes.
Grasping toes. Flexing toes. Nosey toes. Playful toes. Toes within inches of my rice soup. Toes right next to my cheek as I try to fall asleep on the train last night. Toes on pillows. Toes on stranger's pillows. Toes probing for cold surfaces. Toes rubbing itself on these cold surfaces.
The Vietnamese love their toes.
They're also really good at squatting. Slid my way through to the front section of an outdoor concert, knocking over old ladies selling corn and kneeing toddlers. Problem was I had to squat since I was up front. Could only do it for a few minutes. Kept losing my balance, my knees kept aching. Had to leave the concert, unfortunately missing the remainder of the Vietnamese NSYNC's vocal stylings and groovy moves. Walked away and had to stretch my legs and make old-man noises. Anyway, these people are amazing squatters: able to compact themselves into tiny packages, maintain balance and do it for hours at a time. Try squatting tonight, and you have to go all the way down (like a frog) so that your butt is just off the ground. If you can do it for more than 5 minutes without falling over or getting muscle spasms, I'll send you a package of pork spring rolls.
(Saigon, Vietnam 22:13.19.4.2004)
OK, so I've been in Vietnam for a couple weeks now and I just figured out the secret.
Toes.
Grasping toes. Flexing toes. Nosey toes. Playful toes. Toes within inches of my rice soup. Toes right next to my cheek as I try to fall asleep on the train last night. Toes on pillows. Toes on stranger's pillows. Toes probing for cold surfaces. Toes rubbing itself on these cold surfaces.
The Vietnamese love their toes.
They're also really good at squatting. Slid my way through to the front section of an outdoor concert, knocking over old ladies selling corn and kneeing toddlers. Problem was I had to squat since I was up front. Could only do it for a few minutes. Kept losing my balance, my knees kept aching. Had to leave the concert, unfortunately missing the remainder of the Vietnamese NSYNC's vocal stylings and groovy moves. Walked away and had to stretch my legs and make old-man noises. Anyway, these people are amazing squatters: able to compact themselves into tiny packages, maintain balance and do it for hours at a time. Try squatting tonight, and you have to go all the way down (like a frog) so that your butt is just off the ground. If you can do it for more than 5 minutes without falling over or getting muscle spasms, I'll send you a package of pork spring rolls.
