Off the Grid in Mumbai

A few random thoughts, observations, and stories from the last five days…

· I was told repeatedly at very close range by a very loud and intoxicated teenager that I had a face like famous cricket star Ricky Ponting.

· The number of barefoot people is staggering.

· I’ve already mastered the art of looking through people that I don’t want to interact with.

· The number of snot-filled lugies littering the ground is staggering. All shapes, sizes, and colors.

· I’ve developed an indifference to poverty because it’s everywhere and there’s nothing you can do about it.

· I’m not a chotchkie buying kind of guy but the trinkets and junk over here is gold. Aladdin genie lamps everywhere and tiny hour glasses filled with sand a color I never knew existed.

· Homosexuality is way out in the open. I’m not talking about any blatant acts in public but the number of grown men holding hands is staggering. And until I learn that holding hands while walking down a beach is some cultural thing done by grown men with moustaches, I’m going to continue to assume they’ve seen Milk.

· If four of the seven members of the All World Competitive Walking Team were Indian I wouldn’t be surprised (one of the remaining three being Jess Davis, of course). These people know a thing or two about bobbing and weaving from crowded streets to jammed sidewalks. It’s like Rockefeller Center at lunch time, but just slightly dirtier.

· The number of fingerless hands, toeless feet, and abnormal growths is staggering.

· I find my sunglasses resting more and more on top of my head than on my nose. I first realized in Indonesia but I’m learning it again that no positive gain can be had from hiding your eyes in this part of the world. I get looks and stares from every direction all the time. Partially because I find myself off the grid often, but mainly because I’m 6’1” and white in a land of 5’8” and brown. I stand tall and I stand out. The first thing people do when they spot me is look at my eyes. I catch guys making eye contact with me on moving trains 50 feet away and it all goes down the same every time: They all see me, I pick one, we lock eyes. I’ll hold the stare for about two and a half seconds (just long enough to make it uncomfortable) then slide a small grin across my face. The second I do the white-linen robe-wearing Muslim smiles back and the chasm of stereotypical fear gets a bit smaller. From the time I walk out the front door to the time I return, I have these type moments every minute of every day while I’m in motion. Sunglasses deprive you of such pleasures.

· This morning I dove in the deep end of the swimming pool like a young child for the first time. A child that has no idea what’s coming or how he’ll react. This morning around 10:30 I had what I’ll call my first real dining adventure in India. I was 20km north of touristy Colaba (i.e. safe food) tracking down the best bike lead I’ve had yet. I had an hour to kill until the Jedi bike Master would be up and ready to see me so I let a pack of seven wildly energetic 11 year olds lead me to the Paramount Hotel to eat.

Hotel it certainly was not, but rather a Muslim-heavy no-frills local restaurant. The kind of place in which 6’1” and white doesn’t walk in very often. I took a seat in the corner and within thirty seconds a nice old gentleman from Goa (5 hour south) sat down, shook my hand, and in perfect English told me I looked like his Dutch son-in-law. He then places my chicken tikka masala, rice, and naan order with my waiter who looked like Bald Bull from Punch Out. Before he left he took my hand again and said “God is great. Allah will protect you and guide you on your journey.” Then he left. Now wasn’t that nice of him? So I got that going for me…which is nice. The masala was oily, the color of lava, and absolutely brilliant. I finished everything at which point I felt like that young child standing on the pool’s ledge. I’d just impregnated myself with a potentially explosive substance and I wasn’t exactly in my own back yard (i.e. near a hotel bathroom) to be able to do anything about it. The package was in the mail. Whatever was gonna happen was gonna happen one way or another. So I paid, walked out, and made my way down the street – one eye on the world and one eye on the closest toilet in case the unthinkable were to become a reality. Either the iron tank that is my stomach was able to quell the uprising, or the army wasn’t that strong to begin with. So far so good.

· I don’t know how else to say this so I’ll just say it. I’ve never seen so many three year old wangs in my life. No male infant or child under the age of 5 that lives on the street wears clothes from the waist down (a few don’t wear anything at all). So you just can’t help but look. Naked baby lying in mother’s arms on a sidewalk you are forced to walk down? You’re gonna look. They’re everywhere. Moving on.

· The number of bare asses making direct contact with pavement is staggering.

· I’m learning that most sets of directions are only useful for the first 30%. The first 30% is usually accurate with the balance being pure fiction. Make one left, go straight, turn right, signal. I’ll hear that and make one left, walk ten steps, and ask the next knowledgeable looking person for directions.

· The Slumdog Kids (SDKs) have actually become somewhat enjoyable. I’m 6’1” and white and they’re 3’7” and tiny. Whenever I want to lose a rupee-seeking missile I simply extend my stride and double my pace. After about five steps you’ve left them out of breath in the rear view mirror.

Now to the actual update…

India is intimidating. Plain and simple. For the first two days I was very timid. I moved very slowly. I kept to myself. I didn’t engage anyone. For two days I spoke little, bought nothing, ate one meal, and walked.

Walking is a great thing over here. Nothing builds confidence and knowledge quite like walking. Being able to cross the street like a regular when traffic is bearing down hard builds confidence. Buying a cone of peanuts from the street guy builds confidence. Being able to handle the SDKs builds confidence. Buying a train ticket with 50 eyes on you builds confidence. All the little things quickly add up. In retrospect I certainly didn’t think I was going to be so humbled and reserved as I was those first few days. I thought I’d hit the ground running and never look back. I guess I did in a way but I certainly took my time getting out of the starting blocks.

I can’t convey how refreshing and invigorating it is to have the challenge of buying a motorbike before me. It’s kind of like midterm exams in a sense. I’ve been in the classroom of the Far East for almost five months and this little project is to evaluate what I’ve learned. I wrote last time of the little work I did before arriving (few emails, few message boards). So what’s happened on the ground since?

Day 3 was really the start of the search. I hopped a taxi up to Chowpatty Beach and walked to Grant Street (the all-things-auto part of town). You need something fixed or replaced? You come here. Grant St. is also home to three dealerships I found online. I ended up sitting down with all three owners to learn about the new and used bike market in Mumbai. Before long that which I had read online was being corroborated by these three fine gentlemen with a combined age of 190. They reaffirmed that Delhi and not Mumbai was the city to find readily available used bikes, in particular the granddaddy of all Indian long distance touring bikes…the Royal Enfield Bullet. The best course of action, they said, was to talk to mechanics and find that one guy looking to sell his one bike. Needle in the haystack? This entire project would be simplified if I were starting out in Kathmandu (Nepal) or down in Goa. Both locations being huge starting/ending, buying/selling points for travelers like me doing exactly what I’m doing. Mumbai is sadly neither of those places.

***Thirty second commercial break…Quote of the Week honors fall to the owner of this little beauty: “We have not seen a lot of each other, with wedding plans for some, babies, Sully in Palm Beach, etc.” And we’re back live courtside with height-challenged Jim Gray***

So I pounded the pavement and did something that comes natural: talk to complete strangers. I visited at least five different auto shops and found the one guy that spoke English in each. I’d tell him my story and they’d tell me something in response. Every little fragment of information essential to the wealth of knowledge needed to ensure I don’t get ripped off and sold something that’s destined to create problems.

I got back to Colaba and hit the internet for three hours. I got lost in www.HorizonsUnlimited.com reread everything on www.indiamike.com about buying a bike in India. I discovered the most widely used Indian website for trading bikes. Mumbai’s listings were limited (185). Of that only 19 were for Enfields. Five were for Bullets. I emailed and called about 10 people to learn what would happen.

The long and short of it is the second hand market for Royal Enfield motorbikes is extremely fragmented in Mumbai. Result: I’m going to have to find the needle in the haystack of all haystacks – the one or two or ten guys that have a Royal Enfield to sell, that’s in good condition, at a price that wouldn’t take me to the cleaners.

What do you do when you need a dentist, or are buying a car, or shopping for a home? You talk to a trusted friend for their advice who has been through the process. I don’t have a single friend on the ground in India. Not a single person I can trust. So I do I know who is peddling bull and who is selling the truth?

Like I said before this would be much easier in other places. Places where I could approach the sea of other 6’1” and white guys sitting at a bar with bike helmets resting next on a stool next to them. In those places it turns into a numbers game. Talk to enough people and one of them is selling their bike. That guy gives you the straight story about the bike’s condition, fills you in with travel information, and agrees on a resemble price. Wouldn’t that be nice?

I thought that very scenario fell into my lap the other night. Carlos was twenty nine from Guatemala. He looked like Ricky Martin with a pony tail and I could tell he had no trouble with the opposite sex. He had also been riding a nasty looking 2007 Royal Enfield Bullet for the last five months. Carlos would become my boy for the next two days. We walked, drank beers on the roof of the InterContinental, and talked about the almost four thousand kilometers he’d ridden in the very region I intend to go. Talk about a gift.

When I found out that Carlos had only two weeks left in India before jumping to Sri Lanka, I delicately began the conversation about a possible sale. After two days he decided to pass and continue on his original plan of riding to India’s southern tip. I couldn’t blame him, but God would that have been perfect.

So yesterday I made a decision. Having learned what I learned and wanting to not spend one more day in Mumbai than was absolutely necessary, I gave myself a deadline. I arranged through the Taj Mahal travel desk (of course) to buy a one-way ticket on the 17 hour overnight train to the city of Jaipur, in the adjacent northern state of Rajasthan. That gave me exactly 48 hours to find a very promising lead or cut my losses and head north. Jaipur apparently has some decent bike markets and is a city I want to see. More importantly though is its five hour proximity to Delhi – the ultimate bike buying solution if need be. The clock was ticking…

That afternoon I walked around without the bike project weighing heavily around my neck. I shot some film, used an internet shop that looked like Homer Simpson’s garage, and got excited about the idea of a 17 hour train trip. Standing just outside Leopold’s Café (famous from the November 2008 terrorist attack) this mid-20s guy walks up and politely asks if I’d like to be an extra in a Bollywood movie. I tell him to walk with me, having heard the pitch before – pickup at 9am, three meals, return at 11pm, 500 rupees. I tell Neville that I’d love to but am preoccupied with finding a Bullet. He immediately drops his pitch and says the name Sajid Bahai.

I’ll skip what followed next between Neville and me and just say that I meet Sajid this morning at about 11:04am. I know the time because I was instructed to return at 11:00am sharp. Sajid is thirty-four years old but one would think forty-five from the graying of his hair, his massive belly, and his one disconcerting crooked eye. His bike shop is twenty-five minutes on the local train north into the Mumbai suburbs. And by suburbs I’m not talking picket fence, swing set and grass. 13.7 kilometers north of Colaba – that’s out there. Neville had told me directions but all he had written down in my book was:

Churchgate St. #1 (25 min)

Mahim stop (6 rupee)

Canossa High School

Sajid Bahai

Fatima Building

I arrive at the Churchgate train station about 8:30am. I find the word Mahim on the electronic board overhead, find track 4, and step onto my first train in India. I immediately do the hang-out-the-door thing along with every other male passenger as we pull out of the station. I arrive at Mahim, and after being overtaken by that herd of school kids and lead to dine with the Muslims, I locate Sajid’s shop.

From the fleet of bikes outside his shop I surmise that Sajid will be my best and final shot at riding out of Mumbai. Time to make a good impression. Win someone over and they will do a lot of things for you:

Madame, you’re hair is beautiful today.

Why thank you.

Now how about putting me on the top of the passenger standby list to Chicago?

Of course.

Here I had to win over someone who held the keys to my freedom. I begin slow and straight forward with my back story and intentions. I inject a lot of “sirs” even though he is only four years my elder. I offer him a drink when I take a break to buy water. We talk about my trip north and he concludes, with sound reasons, that the Bullet is the only bike for me. Listening to him share his wealth of knowledge I begin to think more and more that this guy is a straight shooter. After an hour of patiently waiting while he trades phone calls, he tells me in the next day or two he will have a 1996 Bullet arriving. I tell him about my approaching train ticket and my time constraints. I leave with a firm handshake and a promise from Sajid that he’ll call as soon as the bike arrives.

The clock is ticking…

At this moment I have 24 hours…

Next time I write you’ll know whether I left on that train or if I’m gonna ride out of Mumbai…

Holy #@!&ing &%(!

The following was written in two pieces…13 hours apart.

Part I: Written in the sky at 11am on a Tuesday morning…

The journey began with an alarm at 4:40am in a grim hostel room on Khao San Rd in Bangkok, Thailand. Shuttle van to the Bangkok airport in darkness. My fourth and final time trip to BKK. Bag collected and heading for the electronic entry doors, I stopped, turned, paused, and took the deepest lung-full of air I could muster…exhaled, turned, and marched into the terminal. After buying a bottle of water and cup of noodles I was left with just 36 baht. In a brilliant last bit of Southeast Asian hospitality the warm people at Dunkin’ Donuts fronted me the 4 baht I was short to enjoy my final meal: a strawberry jelly filled powered doughnut.

Whether you’re curious or not I thought I’d share my approach to India. It starts long before you land. For me it started as far back as December 1st. I held up at a fancy bookstore in a fancy mall in a fancy part of Bangkok and devoured Lonely Planet guides. Not looking for specifics but rather the 30,000 foot view. Interested only in the executive summary of each country. Cost of food and accommodations, visa processing time, ease or difficulty of transportation, length of time required to get from A to B via C, D, E, F and (most importantly)…climate. You don’t allow yourself to get bogged down in details at this stage. You just want to walk away with the knowledge that January thru April isn’t monsoon season or locust season or God knows what season. You do this top line research on enough countries and suddenly you’re equipped with enough knowledge to frame a skeleton outline that will be practical, feasible, and enjoyable. I walked out of Siam Paragon mall in Bangkok that day with the knowledge that the weather in February in India would be brilliant. And at that time…that’s all I needed to know. Everything else would come later…

That next step, when ready, is to peel off another layer of the research onion. Some countries you just wing. Either the place is small (Rhode Island), or your accessibility is limited (Myanmar), or the places of relative interest are few (Malaysia) or far between (Cambodia). In those cases you just show up, shoot from the hip, and improvise. Places like that don’t require great amounts of research. India is different. India is a whole other monster that requires strategy. So how do you begin to map out a month long trip to a country as geographical and culturally vast and diverse as India? Because let’s face it, landing in Mumbai without a mental road map for a month head would be akin to landing at JFK and asking the information kiosk lady “what should I see in your country while I’m here?”

***Thirty second commercial break…Flying over the mountains of southern Myanmar out the left side of the plane. Fitting it’s the last thing I’ll see of Southeast Asia…And we’re back live with the soothing whispers of the great Jim Nantz.***

The Lonely Planet India guide is 1,244 pages and weighs as much as a newborn Mollett child. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy carrying Ryan and Sam’s baby girl around in my backpack but the extra weight would piss me off. I could handle all the other aspects of carrying a 5 month old child in my bag (crying, breast feasting, diapers) but I’d have issues with the weight. My bag weighted 46.5lbs at the Jet Airways check-in counter this morning and that’s after making another painful round of sophomore cuts last night from the clothing roster. So I delayed buying the new baby girl until absolutely necessary – one week ago at the Phnom Pehn airport.

My approach to guide books is simple. Milk the practical information – maps, transit info, sights and accommodation recommendations. Whatever is left over should be taken with a nice mound of salt. I’ve met many a traveler that treats the Lonely Planet guides like an NFL playbook. They follow the book’s itineraries and recommendations with alarming precious. Not me. Nobody is writing my journey over here but this guy. Since no one in their right mind would read the entire India guide book in preparation, how do you most efficiently extract the necessary information from a 1,244 page text in order to make an informed decision on how best to maximize limited time in a country worthy of a lifetime?

1. Read the intro. Get stoked.

2. Flip to the back of the book and read the directory section that addresses everything from climate to money to toilets. Get at least a vague impression of how hard or how easy life might be. With that decent idea of what might be coming flip back to the country map and…

3. Find your entry point. For me it’s Mumbai (west coast, middle). With this in mind you…

4. Read the introduction section describing every state/province/territory/region that surrounds your entry point. If the introduction uses a lot of words like “pioneering” or “undiscovered” or “emerging”…think dive. When the top billed attractions in the first paragraph turn out to be museums and textiles shops…think elsewhere. Define to yourself what grabs you and what doesn’t.

5. Flip back to the country map and overlay all those grab-me states on the map. The skeleton route suddenly comes into focus. Then ask yourself is the route logical. If I want to exit the country to the north does it make any sense to head south first? What’s down there? Am I willing to head east to see Ajanta before heading west to hit Rajasthan? What are my priority must-sees? What am I willing to compromise on? Things will begin to pile up on the cutting floor. Priorities will begin to rank…

6. Go back to each state/province/territory/region section and highlight on the regional map every city/town/village that Lonely Planet writes about. This will define your intel coverage zone. Fly here and you’ll be flying with a map and compass. Fly elsewhere and you’ll be blind. Fly here and you’ll find company (backpackers, recognizable meals, clean beds). Fly elsewhere and you’ll find adventure (none of those). And just like that you’ve got a well defined skeleton in your head. Finally…

7. Throw all of the above research out the window and wing it.

Inevitably I’ll find a comfortably middle ground somewhere between 1and 7. This is my approach. When making an assault on a country as intimidating as India in as little time as I have you’ve got to be strategic. Shock & Awe. India should supply both. So from seat 25A here is my loose plan:

· Mumbai north through Gujarat (state) to Rajasthan (state). Knock on Pakistan’s door in Amritsar and depending on the Himalayan weather either continue north towards Ladakh or bang a right into Himachal Pradesh (state) before heading south to Delhi. Then east into Uttar Pradesh (state) for Agra and Varanasi before turning north…

Not that any of that meant anything to anyone but there she is…the rough outline…from high above the Bay of Bengal. How I get from A to B is a whole other story…

Part II: Written on the ground at 12:30am on a Wednesday morning. 13 hours after what you just read…

Ben Lucas made today what it was. His name should precede all that follows. About a week ago I called upon several musical confidants back home for submissions and recommendations to act as my personal soundtrack for India. My time in SEA was completely devoid of music and I made a vow to myself to rectify that for India. In addition to Ben’s slew of recommendations he threw in a classic. His email and I quote…

”Dan Head – You’re So Cool (from True Romance) (I don’t know why but I can picture you listening to this song for hours on repeat on a train in India with the country whizzing by.)”

The film is brilliant and soundtrack unforgettable. I knew the track. I loved the track. I bought the track. Take a two minute break here people. Open iTunes and buy it. It’ll be the best musical decision you make today. Guaranteed. This means you Nancy Stanley.

With thirty minutes till touchdown I packed my gear away, signed my immigration card, found my song on the iPod, hit repeat, and glued myself to the window for final approach. You know those moments in film when the images on screen are so perfectly married with their musical match that you think no better pairing could ever have been conceived? No. Watch more movies. Yes? This was one of those beautiful moments. Yet the feeling didn’t pass when the song ended. Because the song didn’t end. It just kept repeating…for the next ninety minutes. The music made the moment and the moment made the music.

The final approach was nothing short of religion. It was an emotional and spiritual high the likes of which I’ve only experienced a few times in life (southern Utah, Davis?). And it’s in rare moments like this when I do the least masculine thing possible: I shed tears. No explanation when it happens. It just does. It’s the high. The travel high. The life high. The perfect music to match the mountainous red earth revealing itself below like a dream. I’ve looked out many an airplane window in my life but none has ever captivated me like gazing upon India in those final minutes before landing. This was one of those moments when the thought of breaking out the camera is just laughable. This moment was for me and I savored it.

The soundtrack still pumping through the plugs I departed from the rear into the brilliant high-noon sun and dry air. Draw deep lung-full of air. Tilt face towards sun. Hold. Smile. Exhale. Walk. India. Here we go…

Immigration would be no problem (the earplugs would come off momentarily). Over to baggage claim. My bag would come out in pieces, the bottom compartment torn open. Several assorted luggage articles strewn about on the belt. F*ck. The earplugs would come off again as I braced myself for what could be a very harsh reality. But when my gear arrived at my feet everything was in order. The lock on the bottom compartment had been ripped open in a way that would suggest it had been caught on some equipment. Yet everything was there. Ominous start yet setback averted.

I made my way to the prepaid taxi stand – the honest taxi guys that ensure you don’t find yourself in a nightmare.

-How much to Colaba?

-450 rupee.

-OK.

Ticket in hand I ran into a Dutch fellow a few steps later that asked how much I paid. 450 I told him. “They took you,” he said. I looked down at the ticket and there in writing was the amount after tax: 370. My first business transaction in India and I got scammed. I smile and tell myself I just learned my first very important lesson about India for just 80 rupee ($2.00usd). I find my taxi and brush off the old man asking for 20 rupee in exchange for putting one hand on my bag while I put it in the trunk. And away we go in the Mazda Miata of taxis. A proverbial shoebox on wheels. We’re stopped at the airport gate for no more than 15 seconds when three SDKs (Slumdog kids) approach my open window, rest their paws on the ledge and begin their pleas. The entire exchange eye (me sitting) to eye (them standing). And I haven’t even left the airport.

So Cool back on the box and louder than ever, eyes locked on my viewfinder pointed out the window, life never felt so much like a movie. The images unfolding on the viewfinder seemingly synched to the musical rhythm dancing in my head. The midday sun, the horns, the color, the faces – visual sensory overload. An orgy for the faculties. One of the greatest taxi rides of my life.

I opted against booking a room in advance from Bangkok. I’ll wing it. So when the taxi dropped me off at the waterfront and the Gates of India, a towering monument to British rule, I did the natural thing and strolled into the lobby of Mumbai’s most expensive hotel and found a comfortable seat. The Taj Mahal Palace is to Mumbai what the Plaza Hotel is to New York. Not having showered since the night before in Thailand and lugging a backpack I casually shimmied over to the reception, inquired as to the standard room rate, and did my best I’m-a-serious-buyer-let-me-think-it-over act. 19,000 rupee ($422) for a single room, eh? One night you say? Thanks. Let me just go back over here, pull out my guide book for budget traveling, and think about it. But don’t worry my skin won’t touch your fine leather…

After getting my directional bearings and consulting the local map I set off to find my real bed. Batting oh for two I jumped on the third location. On the third floor of a prehistoric building, two blocks from the water and the Taj, complete with one of those rickety cage elevators, I found home. A massive room. Ancient beds (three of them actually). Two huge swinging shutters opening up to the street below. Oh and the filthiest bathroom yet. For 800 rupee I was locked for the night.

I walked back to the Taj and do what I always do in fancy hotels – use their concierge desk. With map and directions to the waterfront in hand I headed off on foot with a camera, sunglasses, and iPod on repeat. Life on the streets here is overwhelming. More on that later. I find the Arabian Sea waterline and James finds me. James was 21 years old, extremely friendly, spoke solid English, and would later turn out to be more Salim than Jamal, if you catch my drift. We walked. We talked. We had some laughs. After sunset I made my way home and showered for the second time in 4 hours. I rested on my sleeping bag (not touching these sheets) and smiled ear to ear. I’d done it. Day One in India in the books. An accomplishment worthy of a celebratory cocktail. So I headed off into the Mumbai night…

(His name may have been James but he was 100% Salim)

It’s a powerful moment when you realize you haven’t seen but a handful of other western tourists and you’re in the tourist ghetto. The sheer volume of Indians is mind bogglingly overwhelming. They’re everywhere. High above you on their balconies and down below sleeping barefoot in the streets. It’s an ocean of Indians…an Indian Ocean and I but a droplet of ginger ale. I walked. I bought water, oranges, and nuts. I stood, watched, and absorbed. The flow of traffic, how people cross the street, how they greet one another. It was a magical night…and then I discovered the market. An Aladdin fantasy come to life. I would buy a flask that spoke to me. And then something else would speak to me. Something potentially life altering…

Although it’s been on my mind for months I’ve reserved writing the following until now.

I intend to ride across India on a motorbike.

There is a bit more to this then you probably think. The late fall of 2008 was a rather low point in my adult life. I was working in Washington and not wildly content with things. Many things were lacking in my life. One in particular was a means of freedom. A vehicle of escape if you will. I have always had a strong love of the open road and spent virtually my entire childhood crisscrossing the not-so-mean streets and alleyways of northern Baltimore city on bicycles. So on one Saturday in October of 2008 I drove out to a motorcycle dealership. I didn’t know anything about anything. In fact I knew less. I was like a recent college grad speaking to his MD boss. I didn’t even know what I didn’t know. The one thing I did drive away with that afternoon was a fancy catalogue for the 2009 BWM series. In that catalogue I would learn for the first time of a documentary series titled Long Way Round (http://www.longwayround.com). In need of an escape from the approaching winter I downloaded the six part series and watched one episode a night before bed that week. Talk about inspiring.

Take a two minute break here people. Open Netflicks and put it in the queue. It’ll be the best home entertainment decision you make today. Guaranteed. This means you Brian Nickel.

It wasn’t long before I was back in the car on Saturday and heading to Bob’s BMW motorcycle dealership in Columbia, MD. Like all important decisions I slept on it…for 8 months…and following great consideration and research I secured financing, insurance, and parking. Now all I had to do was actually learn to ride.

On a fateful afternoon early last May I clicked the ‘confirm’ button on the Virginia Motorcycle Safety School website and locked myself in for its intensive two-day session starting at 7am on Saturday May 30th.

A few weeks later at roughly 2pm on Tuesday May 26th my boss walked into my office. He didn’t have to say it. The look on his face did the talking. Jokingly I suggested he “close the door.” That would be a good idea he replied. I swallowed. And from that moment my life was set on a different trajectory. Friday May 29th was my final day of work. The final day of my Desk Job Life. Saturday May 30th marked the beginning of whatever life held next for me. Fitting that at 7am that Saturday morning, the first day of the next chapter, I was straddling a motorcycle for the first time.

So why now and why in India? For one I feel I’m ready. I’ve spent time on numerous smaller bikes and have logged enough hours on the road to have an understanding of what this undertaking will involve. India has a well established resale market for second hand bikes and it is far and away the one country where an independent mode of transportation pays the greatest dividends.

So how does this idea became reality? I began research in Bangkok. Websites. Forums. Blog postings. I emailed the top dog at several reputable motorbike clubs in Mumbai for second-hand dealer recommendations. I’ve been chasing leads and researching ever since.

So what are the challenges? Well, many. I’ve never actually purchased a bike before. I’ve never maintained a bike before. Hell, I’ve never traveled on a bike before. Yet despite the obstacles many people do exactly what I intend.

Rewards? Adventure of a lifetime and if completed successfully an unimaginable sense of accomplishment.

Back to Bombay…

So there parked on the street is the bike of my dreams. I proceeded with respect and caution as I felt out the owner. I say I’m not an interested buyer but am curious about the value of such a restored piece of beauty. I roll the conversation rate over in my head. I ask for a phone number and depart. Seed planted.

I head off and acquire an Indian SIM card for the phone. I’m now live and wired. It’s 11pm and I’m still in need of my first drink in India. There is only one place: Harbor Bar inside the Taj Mahal. Seated on a high stool surrounded by timeless grace and elegance I contemplate my first drink. It doesn’t take long. It’s perfect. In fact it couldn’t be more perfect. I order my favorite liquor and my favorite brand of it. I order the city’s namesake. I order a Bombay Sapphire and limejuice. I wave off the barkeep as he reaches for a tall glass and redirect him to the highball glass on the shelf. Four ice cubes later and it is perfection. Before I take my first sip I think back on one of the greatest days of my life and grin.

Ben Lucas, you made today what it was. Today the Kid stayed in the picture. Today the Kid was the picture. Eternally grateful.

Southeast Asia on a Shoestring

It dawned on me not long ago on one particular bus ride that a day would come when I’d have to sit down, summarize my Southeast Asian experience, and lower the curtain on this grand opening act. And at that time I recall thinking it fitting that I lift the title to this blog from the famous yellow Lonely Planet guide – Southeast Asia on a Shoestring. On a shoestring? Well not always. Sometimes a shoestring, sometimes barefoot, and sometimes a leather tuxedo lace.

I fly out of Bangkok tomorrow at 8:40am. So how do I wrap this up, put a cute little bow on the experience, and neatly tuck it away on my Shelf of Life? Well a few things come to mind.

First, Southeast Asia by category. Drum roll please…

• Worst Accommodations: Vang Vieng, Laos. Floor ants plus a near physical altercation with an unpleasant Laotian hotel staffer led to a light sleep and an early morning check out.

• Best Meal: Chedi Club (Ubud, Bali). Deep fried duck. Impeccable service. Great company. Stiff cocktails. Majestic setting. Cohibas for desert.

• Longest Day: Tie. Indonesia/Indonesia. The 15 hour bus ride of unimaginable discomfort along the Trans-Sumatran highway set a precedent I never want to surpass. But the 22 hour marathon day from Sumatra to Singapore involving two minivans, two ferries, one metro, and a taxi? The best 37 hours I never want to experience again.

• Best Sunrise: Gili Trawangian, Indonesia. Standing alone atop the island’s highest point as the sun broke Rinjani’s volcanic crater rim…unforgettable…and unsurpassed.

• Closest Straight Razor Shave: Kalaw, Myanmar. He spoke no English but held a steady blade.

• Most Uncomfortable Travel: Tomato bus from Mandalay to Hsipaw, Myanmar. “Ethan, there are tomato crates occupying the entire area where my legs should go?” Third world discomfort finds a laughable new low.

• Dodgiest Meal: Denpasar market (Bali, Indonesia). Day 3 and consume something grey and very funky. Lab tests yet to ID said meat.

• Best Sunset: Maya Beach (Phi Phi Leh, Thailand). Watching the sun sink into the Andaman Sea from The Beach. Just barely beats Seaside Heights.

• Most Impressive Natural Site: Halong Bay, Vietnam. Look it up.

• Dirtiest Currency: Tie. Myanmar/Indonesia. The small denomination notes were like handling dirty diapers.

• Best Accommodations: Metropole Hotel (Hanoi, Vietnam). I’ll be back for my 50^th birthday party if not sooner.

• Longest Stay (Linger Award): Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Not by choice. By poor planning. Seven nights. Five too many.

• Shortest Stay: Ko Phan Ngan, Thailand. Bad vibe central. Some people spend a week. I spent 13 hours.

• Least Hygienic Public Moment: Forty-five minute flight from Lombok to Bali, Indonesia. Spending 57 hours climbing an active volcano without running water can do that. I still don’t know how they let us on that plane.

• Scariest Looking Police Force: Thailand. They look like futuristic cyborgs directing traffic.

• Country Most Likely to Return to Next: Indonesia. 34 days deep and only just scratched its surface.

• Most Pleasant Surprise: Jakarta, Indonesia. Jakarta! JAKARTA!?!? Who would have thought?

• Most Impressive Manmade Site: Temples of Bagan, Myanmar. The remoteness, beauty, and lack of tourists bumped Angkor to #2.

• Favorite City: Hanoi, Vietnam. The complete package. The buzz, the chaos, the food, the service, the price. Add some oriental Xmas cheer and you’ve got a list topper.

• Best Beach: Maya Beach (Phi Phi Leh, Thailand). End of discussion.

• Best Run In with the Law: Kengtung, Myanmar. Two hours of detainment alongside Lucius Polk by immigration officers for illegally riding motorbikes was an absolute pleasure.

• Best Beer: Tiger Beer (Singapore). Beating out Bintang (Indonesia), Dragon (Myanmar), Beer Lao (Laos), Leo/Singha/Chang (Thailand), 333/Biere Le Rue (Vietnam), and Angkor (Cambodia). The judge would like to thank all participants for their involvement.

• Best Cuisine: Vietnam. Gram for gram, dish for dish, dong for dong the Vietnamese stole the show.

• Best Cuisine (Honorable Mention): Sumatra, Indonesia. The Muslims of central Sumatra know a thing or two about curing beef. The lack of utensils or chop sticks (think hands) made for an all around unforgettable dining experience.

• Most Unforgettable Room: The Rock Backpackers (Phi Phi Don, Thailand). I might as well been in county lockup.

• Furthest from Home (figuratively speaking): Day Two hiking from Kalaw to Inle Lake, Myanmar. Waking up on the floor of a village hut; the closest airstrip a two day walk in either direction.

• Favorite Country: Myanmar. No surprise.

Second, Southeast Asia by number. Tomorrow, the day I leave, will be my 138^th day on the road. And for each I can tell you where I was, what I did, and where my head rested. By the numbers…

• Nights in Indonesia: 34
• Nights in Singapore: 4
• Nights in Malaysia: 7
• Nights in Myanmar: 24
• Nights in Thailand: 27
• Nights in Laos: 10
• Nights in Vietnam: 24
• Nights in Cambodia: 7
• Number of beds/seats slept in: 66

*Do the math. An average stay of two nights per location means three things: lots of packing, unpacking, and repacking.

• Overnight bus rides: 5
• Overnight bus rides without a foreign language musical accompaniment: 1
• External hard drives shipped home: 2
• Hours of 1920 x 1080 HD film footage contained on hard drives: 57
• Overnight trains: 2
• Airlines flown: 8

*Batavia (Indonesia), Air Asia, Myanmar Airways International, Yangoon Airways (Myanmar), Thai Airways, Lao Airlines, Vietnam Airlines, Bangkok Airways

• Countries where rode motorbike: 5
• Countries where received straight razor shave: 4

Third, Southeast Asia by the map.

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa=0&msid=113857108228539669434.000475cd617df8978ac81&z=3

Finally, Southeast Asia by scene. The only consistency in this journey has been the inconsistency. Traveling solo, with friends, with family, with partner, with strangers. Each dynamic has led to a unique experience. Each dynamic has crafted this journey. When I look back upon this first Act it’s pretty easy to slice and dice it. It’s easy to mark where the curtain fell on one scene and rose on another. Each scene defined differently by those people in it. Defined differently by the history, culture, geography, language, and cuisine. Each scene brilliant in its own right, but each very different from the next. By the scene…

• Act 1, Scene 1
  • Curtain up (September 11^th):
    • Pointing a camera out the window on final approach flying low enough over the Bali lineup to see the surfers faces.
  • Curtain down (October 2^nd):
    • Carrying for the first time a fully loaded backpack and a one-way bus ticket to central Java, saying goodbye to Devin, turning, and walking out of the Bali villa garden to begin traveling.

• Act 1, Scene 2
  • Curtain up (October 3^rd):
    • Standing alone at dawn outside a bus stop in Yogyakarta.
  • Curtain down (October 15^th):
    • Ringing Taylor Hurt’s doorbell in Singapore.

• Act 1, Scene 3
  • Curtain up (October 16^th):
    • Downing Singapore Slings at the Raffles Hotel and catching up with Devin.
  • Curtain down (October 26^th):
    • Carrying a fully loaded backpack, a bag of crisp US dollars, and a one-way plane ticket to a country without banks or ATMs, saying goodbye to Devin, turning, and walking out of the Kuala Lumpur hotel.

• Act 1, Scene 4
  • Curtain up (October 26^th):
    • Squinting closely to process the blood red betel nut juice dripping from my would-be taxi driver’s mouth outside Yangon airport.
  • Curtain down (November 22^nd):
    • Making eye contact with Jane, Laura, and a crutch-wielding Devin upon their arrival at Phuket airport.

• Act 1, Scene 5
  • Curtain up (November 23^rd):
    • Arriving into the Phi Phi Don via ferry.
  • Curtain down (December 4^th):
    • Checking out of a $4.50/night hostel and upgrading considerably in anticipation of an arrival.

• Act 1, Scene 6
  • Curtain up (December 5^th 1:25am):
    • Watching a foggy silhouette turn into Meghan at Bangkok airport.
  • Curtain down (January 26th 8:40am):
    • Pointing a camera out the window just after takeoff, leaving Southeast Asia behind…

I’m honestly surprised how quickly I’ve reverted back to my old fugal and efficient ways. I’ve had exactly five meals in four days…each from the street. I’m back in the $10/night room and back to planning five steps ahead. But it’s necessary for what lay ahead. See I’m ready to dive into the deep end again. I’m ready to claw at a new country. Ready to get dirty again.

The curtain is about to fall on Scene 6, but that’s not all. The curtain will also fall on Act 1 – the great opening act of Southeast Asia. But like all epics the real punch is found in Act 2. The plot will thicken, adversity will rear its head, and the pace (like my pulse) will quicken. Act 2 will be insanity. Act 2 will be frustrating. Act 2 will be breathtaking. Act 2 will be exhilarating. Act 2 will be brilliant. Act 2 will be coming whether I’m ready for it or not. Act 2 will be…

INDIA

Closing the Loop

I strive to not embellish or craft these write ups for the sake of entertaining those few out there reading. I tell it like it is. The good, the bad, the smelly. And occasionally something unfolds that might be construed as interesting. Crossing a border with a stack of money into a country with no banks or ATMs? Interesting. Ordering a banana shake on Khao San Rd (like I just did)? Not interesting. Interspersed in these random little rants I attempt to share a fair amount of myself. I try to put a bit more out there than just the Who, What, When, Where, How, and sometimes Why. There is more to this journey than just visiting countries, navigating rivers, and braving street food. There is of course a human story. My human story.

Most people value their privacy and I’m no different. Every time I hit “publish” to broadcast my life on this page I do so with a clear conscious because it’s about me. The words and pictures I choose to share are a reflection upon one person (for better or worse) – me. And I’m just fine with that. I’m fine with offering myself up for dissection…

“Christ…did you read O’Neil’s last blog? Did he go to school? Seriously his grammar is appalling. He’s always changing tense, misspelling words, starting sentences with and and but, and tacking ‘y’ on the end of words where it doesn’t belongy.”

And when I bring someone else into these words I do so delicately and with respect. So with that said I find myself here in Bangkok. Alone. I’ve never written at any length about Meghan Brown. From your seat she may read like nothing more than the reason my I suddenly changed to we. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Meghan disappeared fittingly behind a foggy glass partition at Bangkok airport last Friday morning at 5:36am. Fittingly because from that very same glass partition I got my first glimpse of her 50 days earlier. Fifty. I haven’t spent that much uninterrupted time together with one person since my birth. No job to interrupt. No girl’s night out to interrupt. No poker night to interrupt. 1,200 straight hours. And after 50 days we were still standing. Still standing tall. Still standing strong.

From Bangkok to Laos to Vietnam to Cambodia to Bangkok, it takes an amazing woman to cut her teeth on international travel with a line up like that. Quite the tour of Southeast Asia. Quite the loop. Our experience together was real in every sense of the word and had a profound effect on both of us. And that’s all I’m going to say about it. Not because that’s all I can say but because that’s all I should say. Some things belong here, some things don’t.

There will be two stories going forward. One will unfold on this page for all to read and will focus on the Who, What, When, Where, How, and sometimes Why of SBO traveling Asia. The other will unfold in private between two parties half a world apart. Each story will invariably affect the other, but only one will find its way to this page.

Fifty days never went by so quickly.

Nightfall in Phnom Penh

To begin it’s pronounced Pa-nam-pen and if you pronounce it correctly and say it quickly it sounds remarkably close to the clichéd three-drum beat that might follow a bad joke on late night television.

“Make walks into a bar sideways…Bangkok!”

…Phnom Penh …

On the surface PP is not what I would call an atheistically appealing city. It sits on one of the world’s great rivers but outside the riverfront promenade there isn’t a great deal to point your lens at. But therein lay the appeal and mystique of PP. It’s raw and rough and ready. More than a few lines in the guide book were dedicated to its dangers along with the presence of child prostitution. While checking out hotel websites it definitely gave me pause to see “No sex tourists” disclaimers on more than one reputable hotel homepage. For the first time in my Asian experience guns became a real and potential threat. I never saw one but apparently the men wear them like we wear socks. Along those lines I did receive a handful of offers from guys on the street to “fire machine gun…fire hand gun???” Come on guys. You want me to get in your sketchy taxi, be driven to some random plot of dry earth well outside the city, and stand by as some even more random guy I don’t know puts live ammunition into an old automatic weapon? Maybe tomorrow. But this is Cambodia and for the right amount of money one could fire a grenade launcher if one desired (or so the rumors go). Phnom Penh will go down as my least explored Asian city. And I’m OK with that. I always felt misfortune was just around the corner and I wasn’t about to play into its hands by checking out the local this and that.

Tom logged two nights in PP, Meghan and I four. When I think back to my time five distinct places will always come to mind.

1). Poolside at Le Royal Hotel. After one night at the Hotel Cambodiana, a PP landmark and perpetually frozen in 1977 architecture and décor, Tom upgraded to what he is labeling a top contender for Favorite Hotel in the World – Le Royal Hotel. An undisputed Grand Dame of Asian hotels, Le Royal has been the lodging crown jewel of PP and Cambodia since the days when peace and opium ruled the day. The marriage of swaying palms, turquoise blue water, and the light yellow building façade created the feeling this could be some turn of the century imperial outpost in a remote and epic corner of the British Empire. Is this Cambodia or Northern Africa? Traveling with Tom O’Neil – he sniffs out the finer things in life.

2). Killing Fields. About thirty minutes outside the city center, down a nondescript dusty road off a nondescript two lane highway is the site of Choeung Ek, the final resting place for some 20,000 innocent Cambodians executed at the hands of the Khmer Rouge in the late 1970s. All that stands today is a monument containing the remains of 8,000 victims and unearthed shallow graves.

3). S-21 (Security Prison 21). Located in central Phnom Penh the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum is a chilling example of the Khmer Rouge’s systematic effort to transform Cambodia into a peasant dominated farming cooperative. A converted high school, S-21 was a prison and execution camp like some 300 similar sites scattered across the country.

4). Foreign Correspondents Club. Occupying three floors and some of Phnom Penh’s most attractive real estate overlooking the Mekong, the FCC is a bar-restaurant-hotel that transports you to another place and another time. When you sink into that tall leather back chair, a frosty glass of Angkor draught in hand, and the breeze blowing through the open air second floor balcony that separates you from the chaotic street level realities below…you quickly forget where you are and when you are and romanticize about what this wet sanctuary for foreign journalists must have been like during the decades that preceded its ascension to what it is today: third world watering hole perfection.

5). Elephant Traffic Jam. I’ve seen a great many things in SE Asia but it’s been a long time since anything has stopped me cold in my tracks. This got it done.

When the time finally came to commence the 36 hour return trip to Manhattan Tom finished his final Angkor draft, said goodbye to the FCC, wished us well, and gracefully disappeared into dusk regally seated in the back of a tuk tuk. I would watch my brother ride out of view from the FCC’s balcony. There is only one Tom O’Neil ladies and gentlemen. And I’m fortunate and proud to call him my big brother.

And just like that three became two…

And two would head to Bangkok to close a circle they began 48 days earlier…

Angkor Wat

The temples of Angkor Wat are the stuff of Indiana Jones. The complex is vast, the temples numerous, and the ease with which one can escape the crowds to find solitude among temple rock and tree root is fist-pumpingly simple. Tom, Meghan and I attacked the temple circus via bicycle and checked off all we felt compelled to see in the course of a day. I returned the following morning alone for a stellar sunrise and a second helping.

The three of us agreed that Lonely Planet got it wrong in the case of Angkor. They suggest one could spend one week visiting the temples. Tom spent six hours. Temple fatigue is a very real thing in Asia. I met a guy from Holland who was hospitalized for TF. To a large extent if you’ve seen one you’ve seen a thousand. Unless you have an understanding of its theology or history, temples all very much look, feel, and speak the same. Then there is Angkor. The sheer size and complexity of these temples built 800 to 1,200 years ago is astonishing. Must see before you die? No. Must see if you’re in the neighborhood? Absolutely.

Siem Reap certainly has a party element to it and for three nights Meghan and I acted as yes-men to Tom’s holiday wishes. Cocktail? Sure. Cocktail? Sure. Cocktail? Sure. And yes I did put down not one but two AJ Tomb Raider inspired cocktails at the Red Piano bar. Tomb Raider cocktail? Cointreau + lime juice + tonic. So it’s like a cocktail with training wheels.

(The overly friendly management couldn’t process that Tom might not be interested in a non-English speaking eighteen year old Khmer beauty queen.)

Following three days in Siem Reap we hired a taxi for the drive to Cambodia’s capital. Tom enjoyed shotgun and a refresher course in the Game of Inches that is third world driving. After four hours of uninspiring scenery we were reacquainted with an old friend – the Mekong River. And there on its banks is what Steve Bowman once described as “probably the scariest city on earth.”

Its place in Indochina’s history is exotic, romantic, and grizzly all at once. Its reputation commands respect. The capital of Cambodia – far and away the rawest city I’ve encountered in Asia. It’s Phnom Penh. Ever heard of it? Didn’t think so.

Two Faces of Cambodia

At about 10am on Tuesday January 12^th I bent down and clawed at runway asphalt. It would be my last moment on Vietnamese soil. Twenty three days is what Meghan and I spent in Vietnam. I was sad to say goodbye as Vietnam had played host to the greatest moments of Meghan and my time together, but given the excitement of what lie ahead one can pause for only a moment before the excitement of the future carries you onward with wide eyes and wide smile. And carry on we did…to the Kingdom of Cambodia.

I’m going to board another plane tomorrow morning on January 19^th and leave Cambodia after only seven days. Having jumped from temple hunting and pool lounging in Siem Reap to fancy cocktailing and gut wrenching history lessons in the ultra raw capital city, I haven’t clawed at this country the way I’d have liked. I haven’t gotten particularly dirty with it or gotten under its skin the way I did in Myanmar or Indonesia. I had a holiday in Cambodia, not a lengthy swim in its deep in. Therefore I feel it would be premature and arrogant to draw any real conclusions about the essence of this country, its people, or its future. So instead I’ll cut to what I can draw upon – my visceral response to this place and its people.

Cambodia. Close your eyes, whisper the word, and tell me you don’t have some immediate reaction. A mental image. A gut feeling. Something must come to mind. Be it Martin Sheen cruising up river in Apocalypse Now, dense jungle canopy, human skulls, empty white beach, or temples… Whatever it is something is bound to appear on that white mental canvas when Cambodia escapes your lips. I know I had an image locked in my mind back in July when I first researched the Kingdom. But whatever image or impression or feeling I once held upstairs has long been replaced with a collage of unforgettable images.

The history of Cambodia is out there for the taking. Look it up online, rent a film, or pick up one of the countless literary works that focus on the genocide committed against the Khmer people between 1975 to 1979. What you’ll learn is that somewhere between two to three million Cambodians ultimately perished under the direction of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge regime during the 1970s. It’s a history of unimaginable human suffering that ended not so long ago. And on every face old enough to have endured that chapter of history, you can’t help but empathize for the mental scars and anguish they must carry around with them.

For me it’s been tough to separate the horrific history from the colorful experiences that unfold each hour. The sheer awesomeness of a place like Angkor Wat is dulled by the knowledge that tens of thousands lost their lives in shallow graves in every corner of the country, including Siem Reap. For me it’s a feeling that’s been impossible to shake ever since I landed. It’s a feeling that has lingered unsettlingly over every meal, every drink, and every interaction.

But that’s just me and my reaction has been influenced by all I’ve seen and experienced over the last four months. Who knows how I’d response to this country if I spent a month here and really dug in. If I found complete immersion here instead of in Myanmar? If this was my opening chapter in SE Asia and not it’s last? Who knows? I’ll never know. What I do know is that my intuition and instincts have kept me safe and served me well thus far. And both have been off the charts in telling me to respect Cambodia, protect that which I hold dear, and watch my back.

Adam Pennella told me a long time ago in Bali that his boss described the island of Java (Indonesia) as “the most haunted place on Earth.” Adam couldn’t elaborate on what exactly his boss meant, but after spending seven days in Cambodia I now understand. I can’t articulate the feeling. I can’t draw a picture or put it in words. I just feel it. Cambodia is the most haunted place I’ve ever been.

But there is another side…and it’s a bright side. Despite the struggles the people are warm. The people are friendly. The people smile. The people have hope for their future. And then they have temples…

***

The Two Faces of Cambodia. The two faces of what man is capable of…

Uncle Ho (Chi Minh City)

I haven’t written anything in eleven days [at the time of writing]. Eleven days. So very much can be squeezed into eleven days that I’m going to trade the typical SBO-emo recap for a greatest hits play by play and swap prose for photo. I don’t have a theme to peddle here, just a laundry list of life events that have been stewing in the waiting room for a week and a half and need to be processed. So here goes…

Professor Brown and I left Jungle Beach about 11am. The day and date matter not. What does is that our company for both the hour-long taxi to Nha Trang and our sleeper cabin on the overnight train to Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City (aaka Saigon (aaaka Ho Chi Minh City))) were two of the wildest wildcards one could hope for on such a leg. Pippa and Liam were hard living, hard laughing, and hard drinking free spirits from Manchester, England. The four of us bonded quickly in Jungle Beach and hitched our wagons together for the travel leg to Saigon. We arrived into the Vietnamese beach retreat of Nha Trang (think south Florida east side) around noon with nothing on the docket but a quest for good food, good drink, and reprieve from the routine of Jungle Beach. We raised our first toast at 12:30. By three that afternoon we were on a trajectory for greatness…and misery the next day. Our train was to depart at 8:30pm that evening so for some eight hours we lived it up – bought cheap sunglasses, bought pitchers of cheap brew, bought memories.

We created our own dance floors, did pushups on the bar, lost games of pool to 14 year old book sellers, laughed hard, hugged grungy street children, made friends, drew stares, set ‘em up and knocked ‘em down.

We made the train on time and could only laugh when our cabin contained not four bunks for the four drunkards but six bunks for the four of us plus two very frightened/alarmed/aggravated Japanese tourists. Intoxication + 3^rd world train travel = one of life’s great little pleasures. Liam and I would hang our heads out the window downing warm cans of Saigon beer for an hour taking in the streaming black void of Vietnamese countryside. When that lost flavor we found our way back to the cabin, tried to climb to our respective top bunks, and hilarity ensured. Clearly one of those you-had-to-be-there moments.

The word came from the railman like a 2×4 across the temple and jolted me conscious. “SAIGON!” We had arrived. We were still drunk. We were early. It was 4am. Quite an entrance. The spectacle that was the four of us gathering our possessions and exiting our cabin had all the necessary elements of a black & white slapstick comedy reel from the 1930s. Pippa, Liam, Meghan and I would say our goodbyes on the station platform, head off in different directions, and walk out of each other’s lives. Great times had by all…minus the two occupants on the bottom bunks.

…

The man needs no introduction. He enjoys long weekends in Japan and has graced the streets of Mardi Gras as The King more than a dozen times. He flies two-thirds the way across our country to eat burritos at Casa Bonita only to return home the same day all in the name of something he and his cronies refer to as a ‘mileage run.’ India, Australia, Brazil, Mexico, Latvia, Turkey, China, Vietnam, Ukraine, Argentina, France, Ibiza, Uranus, Sweden, Uruguay, Portugal, Germany, Estonia, Ireland, Scotland, England, Holland, Costa Rica, Norway, Poland, Czech Republic, Austria, Italy, and Romania…he’s done them all and I’m sure I’m missing a few. You know him. You love him. Thomas Francis O’Neil III. Better known to the masses as The Reverend.

My older brother Tom left yesterday afternoon after traveling with Meghan and I for the last nine days. Tom’s good friend Mary has enjoyed the expat lifestyle in Vietnam for over six years. And so it was that Mary would greet two weary, disheveled, and now-sobering travelers at her door at 5am. Meghan and I would crash hard on Mary’s couch, Tom fast asleep in the other room having arrived the night before. And just like that two became four…

Tom, Mary, Meghan, and I would spend three brilliant days in Saigon. We would eat. We would chat. We would catch up.

(Battle of the Tans – we won)

We would crawl in tunnels.

We would drink.

We would laugh. We would play air guitar.

We would witness a world record for most trips to the buffet during an exceptional brunch session at the Intercontinental Hotel by yours truly.

We would walk. We would talk. We would ride cyclos.

We would learn the real history of the Vietnam War.

We would squeeze off rounds from M-16s & M-60s .

The moments were rich but maybe none more than sitting back and watching Meghan and Tom becomes friends.

Saigon was the perfect end to a brilliant twenty three days in Vietnam. In the company of an amazing woman I was blessed to make memories I’ll cherish a lifetime.

Vietnam. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not next month. Maybe not even next year, but a day will certainly come when I long for the days of Vietnam so bad it will hurt. That much I have no doubt.

Four Days in the Jungle

…Beach that is. I’ve never had a nicer view from which to write about the world over here than I do right this second. I’m sitting on our patio, the beach fifteen feet from my chair separated by a rudimentary bamboo fence, early afternoon waves rolling in, blue sky clear to the horizon, and two puppies sleeping quietly in the white sand on the footpath not five feet to my left. I can see Meghan living life to the fullest in the waves right now alongside an English girl while I take a day off from the sun. Or I guess it’s my burnt belly that’s taking a day off from the sun.

Tonight will be our final night sleeping under a mandatory mosquito net, tomorrow our final day bathing in an outdoor shower. We’ve done nothing at all but have accomplished a great feat. We, more specifically I, were worn down upon arrival. The movement. The check in. The check out. The pack. The unpack. The repack. The cycle got too much and we needed to shut down the engines and recharge the batteries.

I’m sure that may sound incomprehensible given the stress-free, schedule-free, care-free lifestyle I’ve described over here, but if the mind isn’t in a place to appreciate where the body is then the body might as well pack up and go home. Much of what we’re experiencing over here is once in a lifetime. You may only get shot to float down the Mekong or climb the Himalayas or catch a wave in Indonesia, so if you’re burnt out or strung out or traveled out you sometimes need to stop, evaluate, recalibrate, right the ship, level the plane, and bring the bike to neutral. And only then when your head is screwed on right will you be in a place where you can witness Angkor Wat or the Killing Fields and appreciate all its profound glory or sadness and not treat them as just another box to be checked off from an itinerary that no longer has meaning. I wasn’t there yet but my train was heading in that direction, and thankfully that’s just the time we blew into Jungle Beach.

Today is the 119^th day I’ve been living out of a pack. During that time only once have I spent more nights in one specific bed than I have at Jungle Beach. And man did I need this. For four days now life has slowed to a crawl, a very welcome crawl. Life here pretty much flows like a constant. Like the Mekong I suppose. Life at Jungle Beach…

• You wake up somewhere between 5:30 and 8:00am, depending when the dogs start barking and how much sleep you were able to steal from the bonfire revealers the night before.
• After brushing teeth you wander up to the open air communal dining area and grab a seat at one of the thirty chairs along the long rectangular dining table. Breakfast is French toast or pancakes or noodles. Your choice and each dish served with a smile. You shoot the breeze with whoever happens to be downing their morning coffee and baguette when you stroll in. You might make a new connection with a new Dutch couple that just arrived (we did) or you might realize that you don’t actually care for the German know-it-all you thought you did the night before (I did) or you might just sit there in silence and listen to those around.
• You wander back to your beach front bungalow, grab the broom and sweep the sand off the red brick tiles that make up your porch. You tidy up your belongings. You take pride in your little hut. After all it’s your home. At least it feels that way.
• At this point you’re faced with the day’s first great dilemma. Is it time to apply sun tan lotion and begin lounging on the sand? Is it time to tap into the wifi connection at the main house and check email or write for a few? Is it time to take the long board into the drink to catch a few lazy rollers? Is it time to hike the twenty minutes to the waterfall? Is it time to kick the soccer ball? Is it time to seek shelter from the sun under a lean-to and attack the next book? Whichever choice you make you don’t settle in for long…
• At 11:45am a tiny Vietnamese woman walks out to the beach and proclaims “lunchtime” as if everyone didn’t already know that communal lunch is served sharp at high noon.
• Lunch is when the day really takes off. With anywhere from 20 to 45 people seated between two long tables, lunchtime is when alliances, clicks, and friendships are developed. It’s when information is shared. You been to India? You should go to Myanmar. How is Hoi An? You naturally sit close to those whose company you enjoy and far from those you don’t. With a revolving door of new comers and old goers you’re never short of new faces to engage and familiar faces to enjoy further. Lunch is always tuna, beef, rice, and veggies. Any culinary monotony is dwarfed by serving size. When all the dishes are cleared away you inevitably say yes to “white coffee with ice” like clockwork.
• With lunch in the bank you face the morning’s same dilemma: How to occupy the hours until the diner bell rings at 6pm. However it plays out I can almost guarantee that the warm turquoise South China Sea will play a prominent role.
• Between trips from your beach towel to the ocean to the surfboard to the outdoor shower to the main house and back to your beach towel, the afternoon sun will give you that sun-drunk feeling like you’ve accomplished something even though you haven’t…other than to darken your skin.
• Around 5:30ish you migrate to the actual shower along with the rest of the adult summer camp attendees. Washed and rinsed you don your clothes for the evening (never to impress), and make your way to the main house.
• At 6:00pm the dishes begin to land on your table. Tuna, beef, rice, and veggies. Looks, smells, and tastes familiar, but it is what it is. Dinner ends around 6:45 at which point you feel totally stuffed, spent from the sun, and laugh when the words “I may actually go to bed” escape your lips before 7pm. But that’s your choice. This is your trip. You’re the boss.
• For those night owls up after 8pm the night usually morphs into a game of Uno or Jenga or charades or pin pong before making your way down to the waterline for the obligatory bonfire.
• And when its finally time to call it quits at whatever hour that may be, you securely tuck the mosquito net under the bed mattress, lay your head on the pillow, and let the sound of the ocean waves do its thing and lull you to sleep.
• You wake up somewhere between 5:30 and 8:00am, depending when the dogs start barking….

When we leave tomorrow at noon for Saigon my batteries will feel fully charged. More important though is the fact that my head will be in a place ready to embrace, savor, and cherish the twilight of my experience in Southeast Asia. My clock is ticking and my hourglass is bottom heavy. My time in Indo-China is coming to a close but not before I live every remaining day in it to the absolute fullest.

With Jungle Beach to thank. Thank God we found this place. Thank God we found it now…

http://www.cnngo.com/explorations/none/indochinas-top-10-hot-destinations-064669

Getting Lost (& Found) in Central Vietnam

Yes, I’ve been very light on writing recently. Yes, the days and events have been piling up. Yes, I’ve been spreading my writing thin and shortchanging experiences that warrant much more detail. Yes, I have a good reason for all this. And yes, things will improve. But that’s more a pep talk for me than for you.

I left off in Hanoi…

What have you missed?

(I feel like bullets today…)

• There was an overnight train from Hanoi to Hue in which I found myself (as the lone westerner) in the bar car surrounded by railway attendants engaging in an extremely rudimentary game of Liar’s Poker. With No English Spoke Here…I won…I lost…I lost…I won…I left. Head leaning out the window, warm air blasting my hair back like a dog riding shotgun, the morning sun rising over the fields of central Vietnam, the view worth all the discomfort of an overnight sleeper bed. Ms. Brown will happily speak to that at length.
• Hue – some people spend days…we spent 17 hours…before heading south to…
• Hoi An. If ever there was a place to de-throne Luang Prabang as Most-Beautiful-Most-Romantic-Most-Lingerable-Place-In-Asia…Hoi An would be it. Proudly touting World Heritage Status, Hoi An’s preserved French architecture is the stuff of photographers dreams. The tiny alleys, the oil lanterns after dark, the lazy river front cafés, it’s got it all…and loads of tourists. Incorporating the best of Luang Prabang, Hoi An adds a few tricks of its own to give itself a well deserved seat at the Must-Visit table. Trick one ~ the food. The street food is gram for gram the best I’ve had in Asia. For mere dollars you can feast on mouthwatering spinach & duck, crispy battered shrimp, local wantons, spring rolls galore, tender squid, and on and on and on at the cutest riverfront picnic table setting imaginable. Trick two ~ the clothes. Hoi An is that legendary place where you get suits, shoes, jackets, pants, tuxedos, dresses, gowns in , and just about any design you can rip out of a magazine tailor made for a laughable price. I did some slight damage (just two winter jackets that fit like a glove and will put a smile on my face in Nepal). Meghan did some real damage. We spent four nights in Hoi An including a memorable New Years.
• New Years Eve day I picked up a motorbike and shimmied Meghan and I an hour north to Danang and China Beach. Under a brilliant blue sky dotted with few clouds, the ocean road from Hoi An to Danang was like the asphalt in front of the White House – perfect. With no traffic on the road it couldn’t have been a better ride. Having had a new pair of leather sandals made in Hoi An to replace an old pair which had been held together by duck-tape, I dug a hole in the fine sand of China Beach, thanked both for the fond memories, dropped both in the hole, buried both, and walked away. Sunglasses at the Metropole pool…sandals at China Beach…I clearly have a tough time saying goodbye to material objects. On a serious note though it was impossible to hold back tears as we rode past the heart of China Beach and thinking about all those American servicemen for which China Beach saw their final swim in the ocean, their final beach sunset, their final beach BBQ. I couldn’t help but think how much had changed in this corner of the world. About how special it was to be riding towards Monkey Mountain, which towers over China Beach, with arms wrapped around me that belonged to the daughter of an American officer who was stationed at Monkey Mountain forty years ago. Epic ride and an unforgettable close to the decade.  
• On January 2nd we packed up shop and headed south to Quy Nhon. The bus was 6 hours but it felt like 12 to Meghan. It felt like 24 to me. It was one of those days where you just hit a wall with all this. The honking, the loud in-bus movie soundtrack, the obligatory flat tire stop, the obligatory crappy bus stop food menu… it just got too much. And on those days you remind yourself that all things are temporary and that tomorrow will be a new day. And tomorrow was a new day…
• We did nothing January 3rd but lounge by a pool, frolic in the South China Sea, and eat seafood so fresh and cheap you pinch yourself.

There is much that slipped through the cracks in those six bullets above, and I honestly feel guilty in leaving it at that. Ever since I uttered the words “I like sharks” in reference to an ad for Shark Week in Alec Schweitzer’s basement in 1994, my nickname has been Shark to more than a handful of Baltimorons (thank you Spencer). Richard Dryfus’s character in Jaws once described the title character as follows:

“What we are dealing with here is a perfect engine, an eating machine…All this machine does is swim, and eat, and make little sharks. That’s all…”

I’m far from a perfect anything, but I can certainly relate with my namesake. My life on the road here is pretty simple…pretty perfect if you will.

I swim (travel), I eat, and make little blogs and videos. That’s all…

I like to record the world as I view it, I like to photographize (copy write Lucius Polk) the world as I see it, but I love to write about the world as I experience it. So when so much slips through the cracks and doesn’t find its way onto page or into one of the bullets above I feel a certain sense of loss in that I’m not performing one of my basic functions out here as a Shark on the Road.

Random digression over…that brings us to yesterday, January 4th. A day we needed. A day I needed…

At 5:30pm EST this past Sunday many of you were drinking beer, watching football, or changing diapers…and I’m willing to bet that a few of you were drinking beer, watching football, and changing diapers at the same time. While that was going on back home my alarm clock was going off at 5:30am Monday morning. By 6:45am Meghan and I were nestled into the rear of a 15 person mini van heading south out of Quy Nhon. Our destination that morning was the side of the highway. South Central Vietnam is all about the beach and with a massive coastline your options can be overwhelming. Yet we had read and both agreed that the tiny and secluded village of Doc Let was just what the Doc had ordered for us to break the cycle of guesthouse – bus – guesthouse – bus…that we had found ourselves in. The morning bus ride delivered the obligatory white knuckle session of Pass or Crash and after three hours of gazing out the window at Big Sur equivalent seascape scenery, the driver informed us we had arrived at the turn off to Doc Let. No hotels. No crowds of tourists. Just a petrol station and a handful of motorbike taxi guys. So there we stood with our packs as the bus drove off and the sun beat down on us from a cloudless sky above. Now we’re talking my language.

After a short negotiation Meghan and I found ourselves as passengers on the back of two motorbike taxis. It may sound crazy back home, but that’s just how things work over here. With not a taxi in sight this is just what you do. My hands clutching the pot belly of my jovial Vietnamese driver, we headed off on what would be a thirty minute bike ride down a single lane track that would eventually turn to dirt. When Meghan’s driver would pull alongside mine, we would trade ear to ear smiles and those this is crazy yet incredible looks. And then we arrived…

How to describe this place? JungleBeach is the closest thing to the commune of independent travelers from The Beach that I’ve found in SEA. Started by an aging Canadian expat named Silvio eight years ago, JungleBeach is that backpacker paradise that everyone tries to find but never does. Why so elusive? Because the masses (like the Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark) are “digging in the wrong place.” The masses are looking for this in Thailand, but we’ve found it here in Vietnam.

JB occupies an area that I would surmise to be two football fields stacked side by side. The end zones are the beach ~ pure, fine, white sand. The water temp is like a bath tub. The jungle interior itself is a maze of sandy paths shaded by a canopy of palm trees and bush. Scattered throughout this maze are the most primitive of accommodations. Bamboo frames covered by thatch roofs and straw walls. Add an overhead lamp and mosquito net over the bed and you have home. For $23usd/day you receive shelter, all the bottled water you can drink, and three meals a day. Breakfast is open anytime from 6am to 9am. Lunch is served at 12:30pm and dinner 6:30pm. The food is plentiful and the taste exceptional, but it’s the communal dining experience at a long table capable of seating thirty that creates the atmosphere of something truly unique. As rice, fish, meat, and veggies are served daily you trade road stories with an international cache of travelers all patient, interesting, and like-minded.

There was a young English couple that was just leaving when Meghan and I arrived. They had been here one month. They had apparently worked their way up the ladder over time because Meghan and I were more than happy to fill their void in the choicest of JungleBeach’s bungalow selection. Front and center, fifteen steps from the beach, we’re crashing in the top spot. If we had arrived on any of the previous thirty days, we wouldn’t have nabbed that real estate. Good luck? Good charma? Good times!

I knew I’d found that special place in Asia when I lifted my head last night at 1am to find, right out our front door, the beach bonfire still glowing with late night revealers. That sentiment was cemented this morning at 5:45am when my alarm clock went off to inform me it was time to check the surf report. Instead of moving I simply raised my head, processed the wave-less ocean not 100 feet away, and went back to sleep.

Vietnam ~ I’m starting to believe its where you find everything you’re looking for and much much more…