Impressions of Laos from a slow boat up the Mekong

We - my Intrepid Travel tour group, which consists of four other travelers and one trip leader - left Luang Prabang for the Thailand boarder. For the next two days we'll be traveling by long boat along the Mekong River, which sure beats another six hours in a minivan along the precarious, but magnificent, mountain roads of Laos. It also gives me plenty of time to catch up on where I've been and what I've eaten. There's much to tell so this is a bit of a long post (which I'll be putting online when I next have internet connection) so let me dive right in....

We left the harried and chaotic streets of Hanoi behind by minibus. Of course leaving Hanoi doesn't mean leaving the crazy driving entirely. Our trip down the main road to Vinh was something of an adventure in and of itself, as it would along along the roads to the Laos boarder. What classifies as a "highway" in Vietnam is simply a strip of asphalt, lined at some points but disregarded entirely whether there or not. Cars, buses, trucks, motorbikes, bicycles, pedestrians, and livestock are constantly jostling for position. Its an anarchical system (if that oxymoron can stand) that seems to work...for the most part. We did see one instance where, for whatever reason, a truck appeared to loose its battle for control of the road and toppled over into the adjacent rice paddy. To the best we could see there was no injuries, thank fully.

After Vinh our course turned westward and followed the Ho Chi Minh Trail up into the mountains. The road was windy and carved into the mountains. As our minibus struggled up the incline, which at times seemed to be over a 10% grade, I couldn't help but think about the thousands of North Vietnamese soldiers and civilians - men and women - who with bicycles loaded down with hundreds of pounds of supplies labored along this route at night, which was an unpaved path at the time, under the near constant bombing from US airplanes. How could such resolve, determination, and resolve have been expected to be broken by military means? (A lesson, it would seem, has been forgotten today.)

We reached the top of the mountains and the boarder crossing to Laos. It, like most things in Vietnam, bore the hallmarks of the heavily bureaucratic society that has embraced a state controlled economy. (The most egregious example of which has to be the toll plaza that have two booths per lane. The first of which is where you pay your money and receive a ticket, only to drive forward a few dozens yards and give the ticket to the next official who lets you pass.) While the rest of my group - two Aussies, a Kiwi, and a Canadian - all walked easily past the final Vietnamese checkpoint with the boarder guards giving what seemed only a cursory glance through their passports, I stood for what seemed like several minutes as the guard, festooned in full uniform with over sized epaulets, scrutinized each and every page of my passport, repeatedly. Not only did he seem to be reviewing all the entry and exit stamps, but kept turning to the front page to look at the picture and then back at me. Now I know the photo is almost ten years old, but it was a bit unnerving to still be on the Vietnam side of the board with this happening while the rest of my group was across and boarding our new minibus. Finally another guard, who appeared more senior, approached, gave my passport a once over glance, and waved me through. Our Lao guide later explained to me that the first guard was most likely a rookie and overzealous, which made sense but didn't help as I was standing there waiting to see what was wrong.

We were now in Laos. Laos, the mere mention of this country will forever evoke strong and powerful memories for me. I've of course heard of the country before, from studying the Vietnam War as well as just my natural curiosity of the world. After watching the episode of No Reservations when Anthony Bourdain traveled through here, however, I knew it was a place I had to see for myself. Especially now while it is still relatively untraveled and undeveloped.

There is an immediate and dramatic change as soon as we crossed the boarder. Whereas Vietnam felt like an over-active beehive with crowds of people in constant movement, Laos is markedly less populous and the people, while just as enterprising, move at a less frenetic pace. Traffic too was different; rules of the road are mostly adhered to and gone was the bravado and reckless of the Vietnamese drivers, who can be known to pass as passing vehicle while rounding a uphill blind curve. But most notable was the change in the villages we passed.

Granted that my experience in Vietnam consisted mostly of being in Hanoi and along the roads, but whereas the Vietnamese seem to be throwing up modern buildings as quickly as possible in all places at once, Lao architecture retains and continues to reflect the culture and heritage (with the exception of in the larger towns and cities.) All along the roads are the simple stilt houses in which the people have lived for generations. So while Vietnam seems hellbent on continuing its full tilt building boom, feed by a stripping of natural resources, particularly the excavating of whole mountains for the minerals, much of the Lao countryside looks as it must have - with the exception of power lines and the more than occasional satellite dish - for hundreds of years.

Our first stop in Laos was at the capital city Vientiane . It sits on a bend in the Mekong river across from Thailand. As you might expect, with a new country comes new food opportunities for me, which began with our first dinner. Even though the restaurant had more of a foreigner presence than others I've been to thus far, they had fried crickets with lemon grass and chillies as an appetizer. Of course I ordered them. They were crunchy and flavorful with just a hint of spice. To be honest, if you didn't look at them or feel them in your hand has you ate them, you'd never suspect what they were. I suppose it just reaffirms my suspicion that nearly anything fried properly is good to eat.

Our schedule called for two nights in Vientiane , which was plenty of time to tour the city and take in most of the sights. I of course made my usual journey to see the local market, which was full of everything from fresh meats and vegetables to clothing, hardware, electronics, and anything in between. We also saw several stupors and Buddhist temples, as well as climbed to the top of Victory Gate for a panoramic view of the entire city and surrounding countryside. As the capital city, we also saw the presidential residence, the new People's Assembly building, and all the modernity one would expect. By renting bicycles, we were able to cover most of the city quickly, including locating a small bar perched high on the bank of the Mekong with a fantastic view of the river and Thailand. The cold Beer Lao was particularly tasty there, perhaps because of the riding it took to reach the bar.

One of the most moving and thought provoking things I saw in Vientiane was our visit to C.O.P.E., which stands for Cooperative Orthotic and Prosthetic Enterprise, a non-profit organization devoted to providing free prosthetics and rehabilitation for people who have been injured by the millions of unexploded munitions that litter the jungles and fields of Laos. As I mentioned earlier, during the Vietnam War the North Vietnamese used the Ho Chi Minh Trail, which runs through Laos, as the primary route to move supplies from North Vietnam to South Vietnam and Cambodia. As a result, US bombers flew 580,994 sorties over Laos and dropped over 200 million tonnes of bombs on Laos, more than was dropped in all of World War Two, in an effort to stem the flow along it. It is estimated that for about a decade a planeload of bombs fell on Laos every 8 minutes. A portion of these bombs did not detonate on contact with the ground, the explosive components remaining dormant for years until disturbed, with deadly and devastating effect.

During its campaign in Southeast Asia and Laos, the US used a significant number cluster bombs. These bombs, once dropped from the aircraft, break apart and release multiple - as many as several dozen - smaller submunitions, or "bomblets," which either explode on contact with the ground or embed themselves to form anti-personnel or anti-tank mines. In tests conducted on these cluster bombs, as much as 30% of the bomblets did not detonate on contact. It is estimated that during the US bombing campaign as many as 260 million of these bomblets were dropped. Thus, based on the estimate of 30% unexploded, there may be as many as 78 million unexploded bomblets throughout Laos. These continue to kill today. Farmers plowing their fields or clearing new land have been known to accidentally detonate bomblets, but often times children, searching for valuable scrap metal in the jungle, mistakenly pick up these pieces of liver ordinance.

Once such story happened in a small village in 2008. Nine children, boys and girls aged 1 to about 12, were playing by the river when one found a small ball of metal. The others gathered around to look at it. When one of the older ones recognized what it was, the one holding the ball dropped it immediately. It detonated. Parents in the village heard the noise and rushed to the river to find five of the children dead and four others injured.

This was from one bomblet not much bigger than a baseball. Decades after the war has ended, there are potentially millions of these still out there waiting for an unsuspecting person to find. In addition to aiding those who have been injured, C.O.P.E. assists partners with a Swiss NGO working to build community awareness of the dangers as well as to clear areas of unexploded ordnance. As I read the material and looked at the various displays I couldn't help but feel guilt because it was my country that littered this country with these deadly devices. In a bit of morbid irony, there was a picture of a fisherman who lost both his legs and one arm to a bomblet - not to mention his family's livelihood - to a cluster bomb wearing an t-shirt with America written on it and emblazoned with a bald eagle. It was a difficult reality to face head on like that, but necessary for us to remember the long lasting consequences of whatever we do. (Again, a lesson I fear has been forgotten today.)

There was another interesting moment during our time in Vientiane that is worth mentioning. Our guide, who spent ten years as a Buddhist monk, was explaining to us that there is a Buddha for each day of the week and that the Buddha corresponding to the day of the week of one's birth has significance for personality traits, similar to signs of the Zodiac. As he explained this, he mentioned that his birthday is November 16. Now I realize that it is a 1 in 365 (or 366) chance of that and it isn't as if I need a sign put in front of me to remember Karen and what is underlying this trip, but there it was. (I should also point out that, while she wasn't Buddhist, Karen did put a Buddha over our bed when she moved into my apartment and it remains there.)

We boarded a public bus in Vientiane for the four hour trip to Vang Vieng. The description that I'd heard was that it is a small town on the Song river that is famous for its tubing and caves in the surrounding mountains. What I didn't realize is that by "tubing" they meant Spring Break-like drinking along the river to earsplitting techno music and that the town itself is a Mecca for backpacking twenty-somethings, mostly Brits, who perpetuate the worst stereotype of western travelers. In fact foreigners vastly outnumber locals in the town center and at nearly any time of the day or night, until midnight, you can find a restaurant showing Friends, or Family Guy, or the Simpsons, or any one of a number of old American sitcoms, at decibels that make one long to spend time on the LAX approach pattern.

In the midst of this post-adolescence alcohol induced free-for-all, a sort of Apocalypse Now meets Revenge of the Nerds meets the Hangover, there were things worthy of fond memories. One was the food, of course, because if one were to wade past the signs advertising pizza, burgers, English breakfasts, and other European/western cuisine classics, there was some good eating to be food. First was the beef laap, severed of course with the bamboo basket of sticky rice. Laap, which I learned to cook later at a cooking class in Luang Prabang, is a dish of minced meat or tofu mixed with finely chopped lemongrass, kafir lime leaf, banana flower, chillies, dried spices, and lime juice. It is usually served at room temperature and eaten by taking a small amount of sticky rice in your right - always the right - hand, compressing it into a ball, then flattening it slighting and using it and your fingers to scoop the meat spices into your mouth. As a first introduction to laap this one was great. Full of spices and just enough heat from the chillies to making it noticeable but not overpowering.

Another great meal was of grilled whole fish, again served with sticky rice. The fish - I'm not sure what it was but would like to think it came from the Song river but more likely was from the Mekong - was caked in salt and then grilled slowly over charcoal in a Bar-B-Que made from half of a fifty-five gallon drum and heavy gauge chicken wire, a ubiquitous technique to be sure. Gutted and scaled but still with the bones, the flesh of the fish was a perfect opaque, moist and very flavorful. The charcoal imparted a nice smokey flavor and there were just enough charred bits to really taste the Bar-B-Que.

The third memorable meal was part of a full day trek I did with one other person on the tour and a guide. After spending a day cycling around seeing several caves - one requiring us to squirm through passages no wider than our hips - and tubing down the river, sans the spring break-esque revelry, we decided to seek a more rustic setting. We booked a full day trekking to a site called Secret Eden. Our guide, Khum, was personable, very knowledgeable about the region, and taught himself English better than many people with formal schooling. After a twenty minute drive out of town and short stop to see Elephant Cave, so named for the stalactite at the entrance shaped like the pachyderm, we set off. Or should I say up because after a brief walk through a rice paddy, the trail climbed straight up the mountain. It had rained the night before so the trail was made even more difficult because of the mud. Kuhm, wearing flip-flops, blazed the trail for us and patiently waited periodically for us to catch up with him. In a matter of a few minutes, we were well above the valley floor and enjoying spectacular views.

The views got better and better as we climbed higher. And while it was somewhat cooler under the canopy, I sweated profusely. I also drank constantly, draining almost two liters in the one hour it took us to reach the top of the ridge. When we got there, Khum gave us each a bit of a branch and instructed us to add ours to the pile (a stupor of leaves and flowers) at the side of the trail. He explained that doing so was to insure our safety and well being as we continued our journey down the other side of the mountain. There was another stupor on the other side of the trail and few yards from the one to which we added that was for travelers coming in the other direction.

Blessing secured, we began our descent down into the valley. As difficult as the trek up was, down was just as tricky. But the views were more amazing since there is no habitation on this side of the mountain because no roads can access it. The only signs of life are the fields cleared by the Hmong people who use the area for farming and gathering, and the small shed-like shelter they build in which to rest during the heat of the day. Once we reached the valley floor the path continued until we reached the opening of a large cavern into which a river flowed. Khum explained that the river entered here and then continued through the mountain, emerging on the other side and feeding into the Song. It was majestic. Easily 80 feet high at the opening and twice than in width. The river cascaded down over the rocks and disappearing into the darkness. After consulting his watch Khum said we'd be eating here and invited us to relax as he prepared the meal. And prepare he did.

Out of his pack he produced a bundle of charcoal and several bags of ingredients. On a rock perched ten feet above the rushing water, he arranged smaller rocks into a circle and built a small fire. Once lit, Khum pulled his knife from its sheath and literally leaped between the rocks back into the jungle, emerging moments later with three enormous banana leaves and several sticks of bamboo. Using the banana leaves as his prep station, chef Khum deftly prepared kabobs of chicken, vegetables, and pineapple. With the coals hot, the bamboo sticks were laid parallel on the smaller rocks and the skewers suspended between them above the heat. It was camp cooking at its finest. When done, he produced cartons of fried rice and presented the kabobs, rice and baguette to each of us. Sitting on the rocks at the mouth of the cave, the rush of the water and chirping of the insects providing music, and the smell of the still smoldering fire, eating those kabobs with our hands will forever be ingrained in my memory.

Lunch completed we continued walking through the Secret Eden, encountering several Hmong villagers working in the area, as we were now walking on the main path. We crossed a wide open field and were soon climbing again. The path now drier and more well-worn but every bit as steep as the one before. After about of quarter hour of climbing the quiet, until then broken only by the sound the insects in the trees around us, our footfalls, and breathing, was shattered by the sound of a tree falling across the valley from us. It was a slow, loud crack at first, followed by the distinct sound of wood splintering and branches slicing through the air as the fall picked up speed. Out of the corner of my eye and through the trees in front of me I caught a glimpse of the huge tree falling. The boom of it hitting the ground rattled all around us and then it was silent once more. It was a remarkable moment.

We crested the mountain and began down the other side, stopping briefly in Cave Number Six, so named because it was the sixth cave used by the Lao to hide in during the war. The entrance was unassuming but the inside opened to a cathedral. So high was the ceiling that our lights could barely illuminate it. Khum led us through the cave, no crawling this time, explaining the hundreds of people lived in it during the war. The beds had been removed and most other evidence of its inhabitants, but the walls bore the soot of countless fires used to light the area.

From there it was a short, but steep, climb down to the bottom and a walk through the Hmong village to our waiting tuk-tuk back to Vang Vieng. It was a remarkable day marked by the solitude and raw beauty of the area we walked, which was why the return to a town overrun by backpackers was quite the culture shock. I began to wonder what it must be like to be out in the Secret Eden at night. The absolute darkness and silence. Perhaps another trip.

After three night I think we all saw and did what we wanted in Vang Vieng. I overheard a couple guys saying that they'd been there twelve days already and that this was the second trip in six months. I honestly can't imagine surviving as, let alone enjoying, that amount of time, especially since they were of the partying-on-the-river contingent. I suppose I'm showing my age with such thinking. Besides, I guess there are those people who prefer to be halfway around the world in the middle of the jungle to drink, party, and get laid. And judging by the looks of some in the town, Vang Vieng might be the only place for them to do that.

Our next stop was Luang Prabang. Only about 65 or 70 miles from Vang Vieng as the crow flies, but we'd be following the path of a snake up and over the mountains. Now I've been on some winding roads. And I've been on some roads that had steep drop-offs. And I've been on some roads that have had both. But I've never been on a road like the one between Vang Vieng and Luang Prabang.

It is just wide enough in many places for two vehicles to pass and with a drop off on the side, or at times both, of several hundred feet straight down. Guard rails are non-existent; the only "safety" features being signs redundantly identifying sharp curves and the occasional cement post standing about 3 feet high. I doubt highly that these would have any effect on a car, let alone our minivan, were it to collide into one. Perhaps these are only for marking the location where a vehicle has parted ways with the road so the occupants can be recovered -- note I didn't say rescued. The mountains all around were jagged limestone monoliths with lush greenery covering portions of each peak. In other places the rock face was either too steep or too recently bared to permit vegetation to grow.

What made this precarious road all the more remarkable was that all along it was dotted with villages. Little more than a line of houses set mere feet from the road edge - where there was one - and incredibly clinging to the cliff's edge. As our minibus drove through them, glimpses of rural life were made. A young girl finding endless amusement from the two sticks she played with, a group of boys bathing at the water cistern, and women and men engaged in all manner of chores for their family and village. I thought it would have been nice to have stopped and watched these activities more closely, but then it occurred to me that there would be something intrusive in doing so and that what I gained in the momentary glances was enough to create a lasting impact. Besides, we still had several hours on the road to go.

Luang Prabang. Until 1560 this was the capital of Laos before it was moved to the more centrally located city of Vientiane . It remains, however, a spiritual capital of the country with many wats (Buddhist temples) and shrines, including one housing the footprint of Buddha. The city sits on the intersection of two rivers, the Mekong and the Khan. Crossing the Khan is easily done by the several bridges - two permanent and others seasonal - whereas the vast Mekong is only traversed by ferry.

Walking the streets of the city, I felt the same sense of calm and spiritual energy that I noticed in Kyoto. The pace, at least in the old part of the city, was more relaxed than anywhere else in Laos. Sitting on the corner eating my bowl of kaopiak sen, Lao pork noodle soup, I was nearly alone with just my thoughts and slurping of the noodles.

For dinner one evening, we crossed the Khan river by one of the rickety seasonal bamboo bridges to a place called Dyen Sabat. Nestled among the tall bamboo shoots above the river, the restaurant is a patchwork of wood platforms protruding from the hillside creating an idyllic, almost movie set, environment. Removing our shoes, we reclined on the large cushions around our squat table at the far edge. Below us the ground dropped away, leaving us suspended in the air surrounded by the bamboo. The food was no less impressive.

I ordered platter number two, a set mixture of Lao dishes, most of which I hadn't tried before. Buffalo skin with Lao chili paste was the center piece. The magenta colored paste, which I later learned is relatively simple to make, was at once spicy, tart, and sweet. I was instructed that the best way to eat the mixture was to pick it up with the Mekong weed coated with sesame seeds. The combination of flavors was indeed quite tasty, although the pieces of buffalo skin provided more texture than flavor and were quite chewy. An eggplant dip flavored with kafir lime was tangy and a nice accompaniment to the chili. Rounding out the platter were Luang Prabang sausage, a spicy pork sausage, and dried pork strips with sesame. Both of which were fantastic in their own rights. After such a meal it was a nice thing to have the walk back down the hill, over the bridge, and through the night market.

The following day I took an all day cooking class where we learned to make several classic Lao retrospect it shouldn't have been) is the ease and simplicity of the dishes. The Lao are adept at coaxing layers of flavor from few ingredients. Principle among them are lemon grass, kafir lime leaves, ginger, galangal root, and the ever present chillies - in either powder or fresh form. From these basics we cooked chicken laap, fried rice noodles with chicken, pork with vermicelli noodles and choko, Luang Parang salad, and a coconut curry with chicken. The instructors also demonstrated how to prepare sticky rice and Lao chili paste. I have a feeling that a rice steamer and mortar and pestle may soon join my already overstocked kitchen supply cabinet.

I was very excited for my final day in Luang Prabang. One of the things I'd heard so much about before coming to Laos was the morning procession of the monks to receive alms. It takes place at some level throughout the country - since alms is the only way by which monks can eat - but in Luang Prabang there are so many temples and monks that I've heard the streets are a veritable sea of saffron and gold robes in the early hours of the day. Of course where there's a sight to be seen there are tourists to ruin it.

The faithful lined the street, facing toward the road. Respectfully sitting with their offerings awaiting the line of monks. Walking single file, I presume in order of seniority based on the oldest looking being in the lead with the youngest bringing up the rear, the slowed before each individual who raised their offering - sticky rice, banana, etc. - to their head, touching their forehead before placing it in the monk's waiting basket or bowl. This repeats itself over and over again as each new line of monks make their way along the route. It was quite a sight.

However, the solemnity of the moment was spoiled by the onlookers who, despite the signs throughout town and the comments in every guidebook about how properly to view the event in a manner not to spoil or interrupt the solemn occasion, seemed unable or unwilling to respect it. It was shocking and depressing to see the dozens of people intruding on the procession by getting in close to snap a picture and insuring they got the shot by using their flash. Two things they are explicitly request not to do. As I sat watching the spectacle of the tourists, I wondered if it occurs to them at all that they are, by their actions, disrespecting and interfering in someone religious observance. I wanted to ask how they would feel were flash-happy tourists to come into their church snapping pictures as they knelt to receive communion? Or had a stranger thrust a video camera into their view while they said their morning prayers? There is a way to observe the receiving of alms without disturbing it and it is sad to see so many people unable to understand the distinction.

We left Luang Prabang early in the morning to be sure we made it to Pakbeng in the daylight, which we managed to do by only a few minutes. Pakbeng is a small way station of a town roughly halfway to the Thailand boarder crossing. It seems to exist mainly as an overnight stop for boats traveling to and from Luang Prabang and the board, with several guest houses and cafes but not much else. It has a Frontier Town feeling to it and in fact has only been connected to the Laos electric grid for about three months.

For my last dinner in Laos I tried the (water) buffalo laap, which had a good flavor and wasn't at all chewy as the skin had been. After dinner I accompanied the tour leader and our Lao guide to another small cafe whose clientele was entirely Lao for grilled spicy goat and blood sausages. The goat was indeed spicy, dusted with black pepper and chillies, with a fantastic smoky flavor. I was nearly meated-out but managed to try a small bit of the blood sausage, which has never been my favorite of flavors and this one, while quite good, did not go far in altering my preexisting feeling.

Now, as our boat slowly approaches the end of its journey and we prepare to cross into Thailand, I can look back on my days in Laos and say without equivocation that this was a country worth coming to see. My only regret is that I didn't have more time to spend here and specifically that I wasn't able to see the Plain of Jars in the center of the country. But there's always the next trip......


Note: I've taken LOADS of pictures but the internet connection I'm getting on my travels has not been good enough for me to include them here. I will be uploading them when I can to Facebook and Picasa and will post a subsequent message with links when they're online.

Hanoi

While I still have much to tell about my last days in Kyoto - food, sights and karaoke - I wanted to put a few thoughts down about Hanoi, the city I arrived in late Friday evening.

In many ways, Kyoto was a city of marked with a sense of spirituality. Even in the midst of the clamor of the downtown and the noise of ubiquitous pachinko parlors, there a calmness and underlying sense of serenity. By contrast, Hanoi is a pulsating mass of humanity, operating in a sort of organized chaos of sight, sound, and smell.

The ride in from the airport was at night so I couldn't see anything of the surrounding area - sure I'll get that in the coming days. One thing I noted was the distinct lack of electricity, since with the exception of the street lights down the middle of the road, there was very little illumination on either side. Yesterday I met up with some people - a mix of other folks from CouchSurfing.org and people they'd met at their hostels. We set off to the see the city with no real agenda, just a sense of wanting to experience a bit of Hanoi.

First stop, it turned out, was to the food market just a few meters from my hotel. No surprise there, I know. Here, on the street between two buildings, all manner of produce was being sold, meat butchered in the open air, and seafood and fish kept live up until the time of purchase. There were also many vendors selling prepared foods and the mix of smells coming from their pots, combined with the raw ingredients around, was indescribable. Another unique thing about the market was the number of people riding their motorbikes right through between the stalls, stopping to by this and that, and then continuing on (or, more precisely , weaving through) the flow of pedestrian shoppers.

Motorbikes are in fact the most common sight in Hanoi. They form a kind of river through the city streets, ebbing ever so slightly to enable pedestrians to cross the streets, which is something of an art form in and of itself. Traffic laws are virtually nonexistent, or at least go totally unenforced, leaving the streets a sort of Darwinian free for all. As best as I can gather, there are four tools for operating motorbikes and cars here. In order of importance they are: the horn, the gas peddle, the flashing headlights, and the break.

The horn is clearly the most critical of the four and is used by drivers nearly constantly. At first the continual honking is noticeable but it soon recedes into a kind of background white noise - that is until the horn comes from behind to alert you individually. The gas peddle is pretty self evident, although given the massive amount of other vehicles on the road, it can only be effectively used in the evenings. The flashing of high beams on the headlights is still a bit of an enigma. It isn't clear if the action informs the other drive not to cross in front of the approaching traffic or that it is okay. Put another way, I'm not sure if it says "please go first" or "don't get in my way." Somehow it seems to work out though. Lastly the break, which I imagine is used as little as possible to reduce wear on parts difficult to acquire in Vietnam.

From the market we headed through the Old Quarter, around Hoan Kiem Lake, and to the Hoa Lo Prison (the "Hanoi Hilton"). I'm still processing that visit and will write something more about it later.

After a visit to the temple of literature, we stopped for lunch at a small pho stand for bowls of the hearty dish. These common restaurants are usually owned and run by a whole family, with the dishes prepared and served right on the street or just off on low tables. The noodles were tender, the goose (at least that is what the proprietor said it was but I think it might have been duck) was well cooked and fresh. Accompanying the dish was sliced bamboo shoots, sprouts, and green onions. There were also the usually sauces and accompaniments - mint leaves, spicy red chillies, garlic in vinegar, fish sauce, etc. - but also a sort of hard bread that could be broken up and put in the bowl to absorb the broth. Over all it was a great bowl of pho.

Our final stop was at Ho Chi Min's mausoleum. We couldn't visit the inside because the last tour runs at 11 a.m., but just walking around the enormous plaza in which the building sits was impressive.

I ended my evening by meeting back up with some of the people from the day's tour - as well as two other new people - for dinner in the Old Quarter (to be described later) and drinks in a street cafe at boi hoi corner, named for the several establishments offering the style of Vietnamese beer.

Today I meet up with the tour group with whom I'll be traveling to Laos and Thailand. I've been seeing and experiencing so much and can't wait for what is coming up next -- which this morning starts with a pho breakfast.....

Womb of the Buddha, and baby octopus, and vending machine sake...oh my!

Yesterday was quite a day. No way to begin other than with at the beginning....firstly, the rain stopped and the mountains past the river exposed themselves ever so slightly, but with picturesque fog still shrouding them.



I began the day by meeting up with someone with whom I connected via Couch Surfing, a really great site for people traveling to meet others and even find inexpensive/free places to stay, at the Kyoto rail station. After an initial navigation problem on my part - there are at least three different "information" centers within the station for the railroad, the building, and for Kyoto - we set off for Kiyomizu Temple in eastern Kyoto.

"Temple" doesn't really accurately describe it since typically I think of a temple being a single (or in Beth Elohim's case, two) buildings. Kiyomizu is better described as a temple complex, spread over many acres and consisting of dozens of buildings, shrines, and other structures. And even though the weather was overcast it was still a beautiful sight to take in, with lush green vegetation punctuated by the almost ubiquitous pink cherry blossoms. We spent quite some time wandering throughout the site with the thousands of other tourists - both foreigner and Japanese, some of who were traditionally dressed for the occasion.

But the highlight of the visit has to have been the journey into the womb of the Buddha. It was toward the entrance of the temple - in fact before you actually paid the admission fee to enter the temple grounds - and was little more than a set of steps leading down into darkness overseen by a pair of elderly Japanese women who handed over a bag to carry our shoes, took our ¥100 donation, and instructed us to walk slowly with our left hand on the handrail. We descended into absolute darkness, the likes of which I've never before experienced. Completely enveloping; as if light never existed in this place. The stairs ended and the banister became a rope with over-sized Buddha beads that guided our way. Eyes opened or close it was indistinguishable, there was nothing but black all around and nothing but the rustling sounds of our footsteps. It is the thing that at first can be a but scary, but as I gave myself over to the experience, I found my mind clearing and focusing only on my breath. Turning a corner suddenly there was the womb glowing in the darkness. A round, marble-looking stone engraved with a Buddhist (I presume) symbol, the belief is that if you make a wish and touch it at the same time your wish will be granted. There was a light shining down on it from above, but what was remarkable about it was that not a single bit of light illuminated anything around it. Even standing right in front of the shaft of light my hands only revealed themselves from the darkness as I placed them upon the stone and disappearing just as completely when removed. It was as if the womb kept even a single bit of light energy from escaping; there was no ambient light surrounding it at all. Continuing on the path ascended back to the surface, returning us to the same elderly women. I've no idea how long the actual path was or the time it took us to walk it, but it was an experience that transcended space and time. I've only scratched the surface about what it is like and encourage anyone who might come to Kyoto to be sure to seek it out.

We continued to wander the path through Kiyomizu, visiting the dozens of individual shrines. From there we ambled along the twisting streets of the Gion district, eventually finding our way to the Yasaka Shrine, which sits in the Gion district just at the beginning of Maruyama Park. Much smaller and with fewer buildings than Kiyomizu, Yasaka Shrine was notable for it brilliant orange arches and buildings (again, I think Christo and Jeanne-Claude almost certainly visited Kyoto before conceiving The Gates).

But enough about the temples....bring on the food reports. We tried a whole bunch of things, all more tasty than the one before. First were small, pearl shaped rice balls skewered and grilled over a hibachi then coated with a sweet, soy-based sauce. For a starter or small bite to tide one over while walking around a multi-acre Buddhist temple nothing could be beat. Next we found ourselves in what could best be described at the front room of a family's house at the top of Maruyama Park - yes, they had a menu out front so it wasn't like we just barged into thee lives unwelcome. With only pictures of odd-looking foods, we ordered two items. One we were able to discern from our hostess was going to be sweet, the other was a mystery but involved rice. First, however, we sipped a black tea that had a distinctive and appealing cigar aroma, almost as if it had been steeped with tobacco leaves. The dishes, when they arrived, did not disappoint. The one on the right was a type of gelatin rice (think Jello in consistency), covering red beans and topped with a sweetened seaweed puree. It might sound unappetizing, but I assure it was quite pleasant and refreshing. The other was a pair of rice cakes wrapped with nori. One turned out to have a sort of sweet jelly-like fruit filling whereas the other had small cooked shrimp like fish that I'd seen throughout the Nishiki market. Sitting in the small, open air balcony overlooking this family's manicured garden it felt like we were living a hundred years ago.

More walking led us back to the Nishiki market and a fest of octopus. First was the baby octopus stuffed with a quail egg and served lollipop-style. Really, I couldn't make this sort of thing up. I mean, honestly, how cool do they look? And the taste? Amazing.
While octopus can sometimes be chewy and difficult to eat, this was succulent and tender with a hint of sweetness (again from a soy-based sauce I think it was cooked in.) The quail egg, which was stuffed in the head of the octopus, added a richness that made the experience that much more tasty. It might have seemed a bit like an Andrew Zimmerman moment, I can assure you the taste was WELL worth taking the plunge and ordering them. I can see baby-octopus pop shops opening up throughout America....okay, maybe not. We completed out Octopus eating with an order of takoyaki, a kind of fried octopus fritter served with sliced green onions and the syrupy soy sauce I've been seeing used over and over again, to delicious affect! As with anything fried, I envisioned hordes of post-bar hopping Japanese flocking to this little stand to indulge on plates upon plates of these in the light-night/early-morning hours. And I can assure you that if they were given a name without reference to octopus, the stands would be just as popular in college towns across the States.

Finally it was time for a drink and what better than a nice, cold glass of sake dispensed from a vending machine?


It should be noted that we broke one, unwritten rule about Japanese culture with the sake: we walked and drank at the same time. We later heard from a Swiss guy with whom we had sushi later in the evening, that it is considered impolite to walk and eat or drink. Indeed, as I thought back on the day and my time here so far I can recall seeing not a single Japanese person doing this. So live and learn for the next time, but the sake was very tasty and a great way to end a great tour.

Kyoto Day One

A little preface, today it is raining so while I'm waiting for it to let up I figured I'd take the opportunity to write about yesterday. Just didn't want anyone to think I'm spending all my time in Kyoto blogging :-)

Having endured some 25 hours of travel and transit time to make it to Kansai Airport, one of the hardest hurdles to overcome was making sure I was buying the right ticket and getting on the correct train to take me to Kyoto. Yet despite the Japanese Railroad's computer not wanting to accept my credit card and a lost in translation moment with the travelers assistance representative at the airport (whom I will readily acknowledge spoke way better English than I do Japanese so any miscommunication was entirely no my part) I made it onto the train, to Kyoto station, and the fifteen minute walk navigating the streets to the hostel.

Hosteling. What a notion. Haven't done this since Israel circa 1993 and much has changed - or maybe the hostlers in Israel are a different breed than what is here. More families than I was used to seeing and I certainly don't feel "old" when looking at my fellow travelers. All in all a congenial bunch, but sleeping in a dorm room will take some getting used to -- hooray for earplugs!

One of the first things I do whenever I get to a new place - after locating where I'll be staying and depositing my bags - is to take a walk around the area and get a lay of the land. Yesterday was no different, especially since I was feeling no effects of jet lag despite having been in transit for about 30 hours. Almost right away after leaving the hostel I passed a nondescript restaurant that I thought was a kushikatsu or yakitori type place and took note of it. Something that I realized off the bat is that unless they put pictures or plastic replicas of the food served within, it is often difficult to discern a restaurant from someones house.

From there I wandered over the Kamo River and came to my first, of what I'm sure will be many, shrines, the Hokoku Shrine. It was quite lovely, made even more so by the cherry blossoms that filled the air with a color a gentle sweet fragrance. The architecture was impressive as was the enormous bell just outside the main gates, housed, I might add, in its own temple-like structure. There was also a line of red-saffron colored gates leading to a smaller shrine that made me wonder if Christo and Jeanne-Claude visited Kyoto.

I left the Hokoku and walked the small, winding alley-like streets that predominate much of this city. Then, I started noticing women walking around in kimonos. First one or two older women, but then more and of various ages. Initially it was almost comical; a stereotype brought to life. Then it struck me, these were not women dressed up for a special occasion or on their way to a Japanese-themed restaurant, but people going about their day in their normal manner. The colors and patterns were beautiful: shades of pink, purple, seafoam green, and all other colors of the rainbow. In their graceful, almost ethereal movements as they made their way down the narrow streets, I couldn't help but see why early visitors (as well as modern ones) would be entranced by them. There truly is something otherworldly about them.

My walk took me back across the Kamo River and back toward my hostel along the takase canal. Again, there were cherry blossoms in full view along the entire length of the canal, heightening the picturesque old style houses that line the banks.

Which brought me back past the little restaurant that I passed on my way out earlier. Although no one at the hostel had been there before I decided to throw caution to the wind and check it out for myself. I soon realized why no one from the hostel had been, it is very much a local establishment. In the traditional way, the door slides open and I walked in through curtains hanging just inside, separating the entry from the restaurant itself. A small, L-shaped bar with about 10 seats looked over into the kitchen - although I would soon find out that nothing was in fact cooked there, just prepped. There was not another customer as I believe they had just unlocked the door for the evening. On the low counter at which I sat was a small plate, pair of chopsticks, metal tongs and, most importantly, a small gas powered hibachi. Now it was clear, this wasn't a yakatori restaurant but a BBQ joint.

There was no English menu, indeed I don't think I saw a single printed word in anything other than Japanese, but the waiters were extremely helpful in explaining the offerings. They repeatedly apologized for their broken English, but tried to explain that they had nothing to apologize and that it was I that was sorry for not knowing any Japanese. So, together we pointed, gestured, and smiled are way through the menu and I ordered sake, a plate of mixed kimchis, and a first plate of marinated meat - I think it was from the end portion of the short rib, but can't be 100% certain. What I do know is that the marbling was outrageous and the marinade sweet with a hint of soy and vinegar. The smoke rose off my personal hibachi and in no time I was taking the glistening pieces of cooked beef off, dipping them in the small bowl of hot BBQ sauce (there was also a sweet, vinegar one),and enjoying the unparalleled flavor of food that is eaten within seconds of coming from off the grill.

Washing it down with the sake and fortifying the meat with pieces of the kimchi and mouthfuls of rice, I was through my first plate immediately. By now more customers had arrived, but most had gone a narrow, steep flight of steps to the small dinning room above. At the other end of the bar from me, however, was an older couple that ordered a slew of dishes, each one being presented from across the bar from the men at the other side of counter. Wanting more and not wishing to interrupt the flow of the workers unnecessarily by peppering them with questions about the various menu items, I merely asked that they prepare for me the same dish as the couple received. A new plate of beef was soon before me. Sliced into slightly smaller pieces than the first - I think it might have been from further up on the short rib or perhaps the flanken - but with the same beautiful marbling and marinade. This time I savored the meat. Cooking a couple pieces at a time, allowing the rest to remain in the marinade until their time, I savored it as each buttery morsel melted in my mouth with a mixture of sweet and spicy flavors.

I could have stayed eating my way through plate after plate, but the food, sake, and travel began to catch up with me and I was soon craving my first night's sleep in almost a day and a half. So, with earplugs in place, I crawled into my bunk and drifted off to sleep, beyond content with my trip thus far and even more excited now for the days to come.

Another thought about food (and not the last)

I think the first meal of a trip often sets the tone for what is to come. I'm not talking about the in-flight meal, if there is one, although the bibimbap on KE86 last night was quite tasty. No, what I'm talking about is the first thing you eat when you've arrived at where you're going. Case in point, when we got to St Maarten in February 2008 there was some confusion with our airport transfer (caused by American Airline bumping us from our original flight for a later one) and while we were waiting for the driver to arrive we ducked into the little restaurant overlooking the arrival and ticketing halls, which at Princess Juliana International Airport is one and the same. While not a culinary standout, the restaurant was EXACTLY what we wanted, some hearty Caribbean cuisine featuring conch, shrimp and a healthy dose of island spices mixed with tropical drinks. It would be the staples of what we would be eating for the next week, with some additions, and we loved it.

So here I am in Incheon Airport at 8 a.m. looking for something to eat and what do I get? Just what I wanted, a bowl of noodle soup with kimchi. A most unlikely of breakfast foods for most westerners, but it is what they eat here so it is what I eat. And I didn't have to go far. Only to the concourse between gates 10 and 11. Because there, in the midst of the duty free shops and currency changers is a small shop serving up udon that would be the envy of most places I've been to in New York (or any other place so far).

Sated with the spicy broth and rich noodles, along with a bottle of Coca Cola - is there a better combination? - I'm about to board my final flight of the day for Osaka then onward by Japan Rail to Kyoto. If my simple airport bowl of noodles is any indication, this is going to be a great and tasty journey.

Notes from on board KE86

According to the in-flight map, we are some where over Siberia with about 3 1/2 hours left to go. Really kind of an amazing thing to consider. Only a few hours ago I was finishing Shabbat dinner in Park Slope and now I'm 38,000 feet abve the ground and almost halfway around the world hurtling forward at almost 600 miles per hour - all information given to me at my finger tips from the back of the seat in front of me.

The flight has been nothing but enjoyable. Unlike domestic flights I've been on where every inch seems to be taken up by a seat and every seat filled, Korea Air has spacious accommodations even in their economy class and I haven't noticed a single row completely filled, except for those with a family. And while meals on US flights have been relegated to snacks, if not entirely phased out or provided for purchase only, we were given the choice between a chicken entree or a traditionally bowl of bibimbop. Which do you think I chose? The funny thing was that when I asked for the bibimbop the flight attendant asked if I had it before. I guess the common choice for non-Koreans is to go with the western style chicken. Not me. And while not served in a hot clay bowl (I suppose there would be some weight and safety issues about that), it was fresh, with all the items one would expect to see. The individual package of rice - well cooked, I'd add - accompanied it along with a lightly pickled kimchi and small tube of Korean chili paste. I think that later I will have to stock up some extra tubes of it because it travels easily and provides a nice, spicy kick to any food.

Another interesting aspect of the flight is that because we basically flew over the Arctic, if not the North Pole itself (it is a bit difficult to precisely track our route so high north on the Mecater Projection, we experienced a sun rise and sunset already. I'm guessing if we left in the day time we would have been flying in daylight the whole time. (Also on the topic of navigation, while the direct line of flight would have taken us over North Korea, for reasons that should be obvious - especially in recent days - the plane went wide to the west while we were over eastern China to avoid the north completely and approach Incheon from the south. An extra few minutes in the plane but certainly worth it.)

A final observation is that the movie selection, again shown on the individual screens at out seats, don't merely show recent films but many that are still in the theater now. I'm not sure if Avitar would be worth seeing on a 5x5 LCD screen, but the Blind Side was perfectly fit, no pun intended, for my post-dinner entertainment.
Well only a few more hours. I'm still excited for the trip but also experiencing that twinge of apprehension that comes when you go outside your comfort zone. But I've been there before on other trips and at other times in my life. I've no doubt that this is going to be a great experience.

That's all for now from KE86 (and uploaded from Incheon Airport). Next stop Kyoto.