Top 30 India Photos.

It is of 2 little girls who swarmed us the moment our camels set us down in Jaisalmer, the fabled sandcastle city in Rasjasthan. They begged for money, barrettes, make-up - they even snatched the hairtie off of my wrist. If you didn't give in they began to sing - LOUDLY. And terribly, like little desert hijras (Eunuchs who also sing until you pay them.)



I bought bangles from this woman in Jaisalmer - she complimented me lavishly even though I was oozing sweat and wearing a lumberjack shirt. It's expensive to keep that baby in eyeliner.


This little guy approached us in Jaisalmer and asked if we wanted to see a magic show. Normally I never give money to children, but come on. This was great.



A Tibetan monk spinning prayer wheels at the Dalai Lama'a residence-in-exile in Dharamsala. While I am definitely a strong supporter of Tibet and the plight of its people I think it is important for the West not to over-cuddlify (yes, I made that up) the religion of Tenzin Gyatso himself. There were problems pre-1950, no one denies that. But let's give them the chance to fix them. This was a beautiful, peaceful place



Tibetan prayer flags strung in the trees of McLeod Ganj. The farther into the Himalayas you go the more Tibetan and Burmese faces you see.


A man reflecting at the Golden Temple, in Amritsar. I respect Sikhism so much - it is an egalitarian, casteless religion that is a breath of fresh air from some of the archaic classism in Hinduism and the mysogyny of Islam in India. Sikh Gurudwaras are a really welcoming place - and they feed you!


The chaos of labrynthine Old Delhi, as seen from the back of a cycle rickshaw.


Men strolling across the vast plaza at the Jama Masjid in Delhi. This was commission by the same king who built the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort in Agra, so the style is very similar.


This old fellow sold me some peanuts in Rishikesh and posed very seriously when I asked him if I could take a photo. I love everything about this.


Ganga Aarti (evening Ganges prayer) in Rishikesh. The huge statue is of Shiva - a sexy, meat eating, tiger slaying god with millions of incarnations. I can still hear the chanting if I close my eyes.

In Goa everything changes - it was a Portuguese colony for 500 years and locals are proud of it. It is pre-dominantly Catholic, and the people have curly hair, biblical names and they dress differently. This is Mama Mary, half deaf and eccentric as hell, buying her day's supply of fish from the fish-wallah (Note the hungry cat circling - she made a huge racket.) When I saw this, I thought of the old feminist saying "a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle" and I was like "Hey! Maybe they do!"


A sar-clad woman strolls the shore at sunset, Anjuna Beach.


This photo was taken in an Isreali cafe in Arambol, Goa. I loved that little pup! Unfortunately, looking at this photo nearly makes me sick as this is the place that gave me dysentry. :(
Everyone gets sick in India, and often it is not from Indian food.


An old couple fishing from their cornicle boat in the river that runs through Hampi. We took a ride in one, and the driver spun us around like a Tilt-a-Whirl.


This old woman is a temple guardian - we gave her a donation and she gave us a tikka mark.


Women washing clothes on the banks of the Hampi River. They were all smiley and waving in the other shots I got of them, but I managed to take one where they relaxed.


OMFG. This is the cutest puppy I have ever seen. This was taken as we rested at a temple located on a huge hill, inhabited by ganga smoking sadhus. Note his little red collar with tiny bells!


Perfume vendor in Mysore - he and his brother charmed us so much that we agreed to buy some essential oils and incense.


Typical South Indian meal, eaten with your hands and served on banana leaves. This was delicious - and less than 2 bucks for both of us.


These guys were splashing, joking and playing in the water in Kerala. Wayyyy more fun way to take a bath than in the West.


The eyeliner is thought to protect small kids in a belief that it makes them ugly and the gods will not want them. I think it makes them look like adorable little glam rockers.


Also in Kerala, where a boat can provide a good living.


A few things to note: the monkey, the "Beware of Monkeys" sign behind me and that fact that I am holding a stick while I eat with my right hand. The moment you put that stick down, the monkey attacks you for your food. I am clearly not impressed.


Tea pickers at a Tata tea plantation in Munnar.


Pretty much the greatest feeling that exists. This right here.


Each day, twice a day, men have to carry these golden animal and God statues to different locations in the temple. Shiva and Parvati are placed in the same room at night so that they can have 'alone' time.


This was just weird.
Those kids above are also with this family - this was taken on Holi in Mamallapuram. On Holi people splash water and coloured powders on each other and drink epic amounts of bhang lassi (pot milkshakes) and get gonzo. We eventually backed slowly away from these people, and they just kept dancing and laughing. Creepy.

Laos and Other Four Letter Words: The Hell Bus.

The back of our bus....

“Sean.” I said very calmly and matter-of fact “You are going to have to get me some Valium.”

*****************************************************

Si Phan Don translates to Four Thousand Islands in Lao, and is a grouping of river islands located at the very Southern point of the country where the Mekong widens into a huge channel. Several of the islands are large enough to support both a population of several thousand locals and a thriving backpacker industry. Fruit shakes are blended, “Happy” pizzas are sprinkled with herb, reggae is blasted all evening and even tubing, a Vang Vieng phenomena, is possible. All in all – not our kind of place. (Laos seems to repel educated, socially aware backpackers and attracts the hard partying yobs that only want to jump off of waterfalls and eschew all local culture. Perhaps this is because it is the least developed South East Asian country, and it feels like there is less you “must see.” Either way, this sweet place gets blasted with a lot of vomit spewed out from 22 year olds fresh off of their undergrads.)

We now faced an interesting dilemma. Our next destination was Vietnam, and even though it would be way more convenient Sean and I could not work our way South (Saigon) to North (Hanoi) as we were meeting friends in Hue (centre of Vietnam) in 3 weeks time. In a mess of poor planning, that meant that though we were now only a stone's throw from Cambodia we had to head thousands of kilometres back to the North. The only option, it seemed, was to undertake an epic two and a half day bus journey all the way to Hanoi. Now we just had to decide which route to take.

We had spent the last 2 weeks with a few friends from home, Dave and Landon, and Johann (a stray Dutchman) and they would also accompany us to Hanoi. Sean and Johann met with a nice local travel agent, and after weighing out 5 or 6 different options they settled on a VIP bus from Pakse (a town 2 hours away) to Hue. From Hue we would then take another night bus, which we would arrange when we got there. It would be 2 nights of hell, we all agreed, but better than dicking around for 4 or 5 days trying to get there on shorter duration buses. Our hopes for a “King of Bus” (a huge, double decker deluxe coach that we had passed on numerous times due to its high cost) were dashed, but the travel agent had showed us photos of the Lao VIP bus we were booking – it looked pretty good, and despite having no AC he assured us that there were fans that would be blowing all night, even when the bus stopped. Besides, he himself was heading into Pakse the next day and would be accompanying us to his office, where we would be dropped off and could leave our bags for the 4 hours between our arrival and the Hue bus's departure. It wasn't perfect, but it was the most time-effective route and we were confident that we had made the right decision.

The next morning we started the massive journey that would take us on a boat, in a minivan and on a 15 hour bus ride. Everything started smoothly – after an hour in a severely tippy canoe we got into our minivan, and though it was packed to the rafters (Lao think nothing of cramming double the amount of passengers into a vehicle than there are seats for – sometimes more) the AC helped to take the humidity out of the relentless 40 degree heat. We edged closer to Pakse, and suddenly the van stopped and the agent hopped out. “OK, you have good journey. You go to our office now. No problems.” The driver sped off and we shrugged, assured that we were on our way.

The minivan sped through Pakse, zooming past all of the restaurants that we had hoped to spend our four hours in, and continued down the highway. Sean consulted his map. “The office must be near the bus station.” He reasoned. In Laos the government runs all of the buses, and so even the VIP and King of Bus leave from the same station as the rickety local buses, so it made sense that we were heading 8 km out of the city toward the depot. What did not make sense is that we now seemed to be turning into the public bus station. The driver, who did not speak much English, gestured. “Here. Office.”

It certainly was just the bus station. We tumbled out of the vehicle and looked around, chuckling. “Nice office, eh?” I said to Sean, handing over my voucher to the clerk behind the counter. He grunted, and passed me a bus ticket in return. A regular bus ticket. Regular Local Bus Ticket. For a 15 Hour Night Bus.

I have no problems with local buses. We normally take them everywhere – they are cheaper and a great way to meet locals and allow for a more authentic experience than swanky AC buses. But a night bus is bad enough even with full beds on the fanciest bus – but with shoddy seats and constant stopping? Unbearable.

“Ummm, excuse me?” I said to the clerk politely. “We have a VIP bus? Not local bus?”

“No. Local. Local Bus.” He gestured to the price list on the wall. I quickly did the math.

“But we paid for the VIP....” Realization clouded my narrowing eyes. My head snapped around like a pissed off Linda Blair, and seeing our minivan begin to pull away and I shouted at Sean, Dave and Johann. “Stopppp the Driverrrrrr!!!!”

Sean stepped beside the van and yanked open the passenger door. “This is a local ticket! The agent said VIP?” The driver went from 'some English' to 'no English' very quickly. Sean pulled out his mobile and demanded the travel agent's number. I dialed and as he answered I explained the situation. The man responded, “No Miss, I told your boyfriend this is local bus. Not VIP.” My face went red instantly and the pre-menstrual hormones coursing through my veins threatened to explode.

“You. Are. LYING!” I shouted at him, as Sean pried the phone from my fingers and began to speak with him.

“Yes, um.....hmmm. No, you didn't....um....WHAT? No...that's not true....you DID say it was a VIP bus...Okay, ummm....we would like the VIP bus.....YOU DID SAY IT WAS. You are LYING!!!!” After Johann took his turn with the same results I snatched the phone back.

“I am calling the tourist police, you liar. You are a dirty liar. Dishonest man! SHAME! Tourist POLICEEEEE!” And then he hung up, leaving my hands shaking and heart racing in that way that happens in a fight or flight moment. I knew very well that in situations like these there is nothing that can be done but warn other travelers – there is no ombudsman, no manager or authority you can call when you are in deepest Laos (or India, Nepal, Cambodia – you get my point.) It's not their problem. It's your problem.

After a brief caucus, we came to the conclusion that yes, we had been had, but now we needed on that VIP bus. I again marched to the counter, the surly man ignoring me until I throat-cleared and politely Excuse Me'd numerous times. “Hi! We want to pay more and take the VIP bus, please.”

He shuddered and grunted and vibrated in a way that made me realize that not only was Canadian diplomacy low on his list of priorities, after my outburst on the phone (which must have looked terribly uncouth and selfish to him, having no back story and only a rudimentary grasp of the language I was shouting in) he actually kind of hated me.

“No. No VIP bus. You have local bus.”

“Yes, I understand that I have local bus. I would like to pay more and take VIP bus.”

“No. You have local bus.”

I was now that strange traveling conundrum that every backpacker faces. Does this person understand what I want, and are they telling me the correct answer, or do they think that I am asking for something different and are now merely telling me what I already have? Which is it?!! You will find, in this situation, that no matter how much clarification you try to engage in you keep getting the same answer that you felt you needed clarification on in the first place. At some point you have to give up. Sean tried as well, and finally managed to glean the information that we dreaded – Yes, there was indeed a VIP bus but it was not until tomorrow, and No – the overpriced ticket price that we had already paid could not be used towards a new ticket. It was either squander more money on accommodation for one night in Pakse and a new ticket, or suck it up and get on the local bus – and in the spirit of the backpacker's credo we all agreed that money was more important.

“Excuse me?” I asked the gruff man who was again ignoring us, “which bus will we be taking?” As we waited for him to painstakingly fill out a form to acknowledge me I scanned the bus lot. The buses looked...OK, actually. They seemed quite new and even a bit shiny and clean. My mood lifted.

“Ugh. Ahhhgh, mumble...those ones. There.” He grunted and pointed to the one corner of the lot that my eyes had somehow managed to miss – a seedy, decrepit part of the station in which 2 buses sat, and while both were rusting hulks one was much better than the other. It, however, was boldly emblazoned with a sign that read “Da Nang” - a city 200 km from Hue. I was relieved – this must be our bus – it must stop in Hue on its way further down the coast to Da Nang.

“Da Nang bus?” I asked the Mumble Man as I pointed to the bus in question.

“Snurffle. Ha! No. Mmmmrumble. HUE bus.” And he in turn pointed to the bus I was most afraid of.

**************************************

The 5 of us trudged over to the bus. And what a bus it was.

It was one of the oldest vehicles I have ever seen, with peeling paint and bubbly corroded pockets so large I could place my hand inside. From the outside the windows appeared smeary and tinted, each only opening a maximum of 1 foot. As my eyes dared to creep upwards, I noticed the rice sacks. Tied to the top of the already precarious vehicle were at least one hundred 50 lb rice sacks, rigged haphazardly with a spiderweb of rope. A procession of coverall suited men worked busily, cramming every nook and cranny of the luggage hold with a bizarre array of goods – including more rice sacks. Lao buses make most of their profit from cargo transportation – a practice that is not actually legal but completely standard nonetheless. Conductors and drivers hire workers to load and unload, and make a relatively high profit from the fee that they charge people. It is not uncommon to have to share your space with a motorbike, a sloppy drum of fish sauce and a lone bleating goat tethered to the top of the bus.

Crammed in the back with someone's motorcycle on a different bus.

I dizzily climbed the stairs into the belly of the beast, a rank musty smell filling my nostrils and an incredulous expression on my spoiled Westerner's face. It was....putrid. The vinyl seats were stiff and crusty with age, the railings and handles were all flaking with rust. The windows, which had appeared tinted from the outside, were actually darkened with a coat of greasy spatter, and the aisle was littered with debris. There were goods loaded into the space where the entire last 5 rows had been torn out to leave space for an epic amount of rice bags and boxes. I backtracked and stormed off of the bus.

Poor little goat.

Mumble man was now joined by Cackling Lady. I am not sure to what degree she understood my mix of English, French and pidgin Lao, but she punctuated each pause in her answers with a cackle as if I was asking the stupidest questions on the planet.

“Please can we take the Da Nang bus? It goes through Hue?” I pleaded.

“Hrmm, No. Not Go.....” he said, right as she said, “Yes, yes – why not, hawhhee haaa ha.” She nodded vehemently and led us to the nicer bus. Mumble Man followed. The boys began to try to clarify – to ensure that we wouldn't wake up in Da Nang – or even further South.

“So we take this bus to Hue?” Johann asked, pointing to the better option. Cackling Lady laughed and said “Sure!” while everyone, Lao and Western alike, stood around looking awkward and confused. We paused for a moment to regroup - Landon looked near tears, Dave seemed in shock and Sean's face was worried.

“Fuuuuck!” I moaned, “this is terrible. I wouldn't care if I had paid for a local bus – if I was prepared for this. I hate feeling cheated! And does this laughing lady get what we mean? Should we take this Da Nang bus?” The question remained unanswered, because at that moment the Mumble Man announced– by grunting and gesturing and shooing us - that we would be taking the janky bus to Hue.

“Hey!” Sean said, “she said that we....” he looked around to find the Cackling Lady – who was now nowhere to be seen. We knew then that this was really going to happen, and we might as well get used to it.

“Sean.” I said very calm and matter-of fact “You are going to have to get me some Valium.”

***************************************

Sitting in Pakse, we ordered surprisingly good New York style pizzas, cheesy pastas and big icy fruit slushes – topped off by the requisite Beer Lao for the boys. Sean had emerged successful in his search for the required tablets – and Landon asked me “So, how much Valium do you take for something like this?” I shrugged.

“I have no idea” I answered honestly – the only prescription sedative I had ever taken was Atavan, an anti-anxiety drug that I use when I have to get a needle (Yes, the tattooed girl is afraid of syringes. Leeme alone about it.) “It's what people take on TV. I think 1 or 2?” She shuddered.

“I don't know – I worry about being really out of it and groggy.”

“Me too – but I am willing to deal with it – I am a soup of estrogen and progesterone rage right now and I will not sleep – or even be able to prevent myself from verbally abusing people – unless something synthetically forces me to relax.”

**************************************

Back to the station at 5pm, we clambered onto the bus, which was now in a much more dire state, filled with even more cargo. We sat down in our seats and Dave's promptly collapsed, the arm and back cushion completely detaching. At the same moment, we noticed that the entire floor under each seat was covered with metal pails filled with clay. These clay pots would be un-moulded and used as mini-barbecues (the only stove top most people use in SE Asia) but right now they were forcing our knees up around our chests. Unceremoniously I lifted 2 from beneath my feet and stacked them in the aisle, returning for Sean's. Dave, Landon and Johann followed – this was crazy. It is one thing to get a crummy bus with no AC, no fans (and certainly none that would be running all night like the Scam Agent had promised) and broken seats that don't recline, but to be asked – nay, expected to sit all night like an asshole with your ankles in your ears while all of Lao's clay pot supply occupies the spot you paid for...well. You can imagine. A worker, still busy loading boxes, bales and sacks into the back, picked the pots back up and began moving them right back under my feet.

Dave and his broken seat.

“NO.” I said loudly in a flat voice. He looked at me for a long moment and saw I was not faltering. I offered no more pleading, no explanation – just held his gaze with my feet planted on the ground. He hesitated, and began to move the pots to another section. A small victory as people streamed by, loading up firewood, bundles of sticks and plastic bag after plastic bag. It was like they had a hoarding problem. I kept expecting to see bundles of newspapers and shoe boxes filled with receipts and coupons – we were practically a stack of old Chatelaine back issues from this being my Grandmother's house. The smell of rotting vinyl and upholstery, of sweat, dirt and dust became cloying – so thick in the air we could taste it.

Clay pots under the seats. See how they're all wedged in there?

Soon 2 British guys got on, showed the conductor their ticket and were escorted to the back and told, “No have seat. You sit here.”

“But we paid for seats....um. Can we have seats?” The blank stare they received was answer enough. Remember – it's your problem, not their problem. The 2 blokes spent the entire night balanced on rice sacks (see the top of this page), which sounds like it may have been more comfortable – until you consider that all of the stuff that had been loaded on the bus, had to come off. All night long.

The hoary old bus wheezed to a start just as the sun was setting, and I took that as my cue to take 2 Valium. Turing left out of the station, the whole thing teetered and swayed and slowed down to a crawl.

“We're going to break down or crash at some point.” Sean said calmly. I nodded. Lao country music was now being played at top volume, but even over the din and through my earplugs I could hear cellophane crinkling. It would stop for a moment, start quietly and then break out into a full - 'where is the cat - he has a Safeway bag and is shredding it somewhere in the house' - level of noise. Sean, sitting on the aisle, without the benefit of the small amount of breeze that fluttered in through the window when we got up to our maximum speed of 25km, gagged beside me.

“Oh Fuck.” He said. By this point I was disoriented and just wanted to sleep.

“What?” I asked. I heard Landon gasp behind me.

“She....oh god, gross...she, this lady across the aisle from me has this big cooler and inside, wrapped in plastic are all of these snakes. Ackk. Can't you smell it?”

I could hear Landon, in a small voice. “She has rotting snakes.” My blindfold remained firmly in place.

Every 5 to 10 minutes we stopped to either pick up more goods or drop them off, and ladies selling cockroaches, crickets and chicken on sticks swarmed the bus, banging the windows with their skewered fare and each time jolting me out of the beginnings of sleep. At one stop, for an entire15 minutes, crates of water guns (for the upcoming Water Festival – Songkran) were loaded up, only to be dropped off one hour later. Huge boxes of Red Bull came aboard, along with wriggling bags of geckos and more wood. The music was blaring until at some point around 11pm, in an uncharacteristic act of confrontation, Sean approached the driver, asked politely to turn down the music and when he was ignored, turned it down himself (the sound system was an ancient home stereo rigged up in the luggage rack.) An hour later, as the music crept up in volume once again, Dave went up and did the same. Rude? Culturally Insensitive? Yes and yeah. But we were so tired and sad and frustrated that it was sickeningly satisfying.

Landon gives up.

Landon tapped my shoulder. “Can I have a Valium too please?” I handed her one and took another myself.

**********************************************

All throughout the middle of the night the bus stopped and started, Rotting Snake Lady crinkled and uncrinkled and ran off the bus hourly to sell (or bury?) her wares, lights blazed on and off and chattering and music intermittently flared up until at 3am we reached the Vietnamese border. Which did not open until 7am. Needless to say, no fans cooled us and though I was asleep I remember dreams of intense heat as we waited in a stagnant tin can for morning.

Sean gently brushed me awake at 6:45, when it was time to go through and get stamped into Vietnam. I was surprised to see that I had acquired a new stamp while I was sleeping. “I took your passport and stamped you out of Laos.” Sean said. I blinked at him.

“So, you took my passport and they stamped it – even though they didn't see me? I could have been killed and left in Laos? How do they know?” I asked, groggy and yes – calm.

“Well....” he paused think, “I'm pretty sure that as long as their paperwork says you left, you aren't their problem anymore.”

“Hmm. It's my problem. I see a theme here.”

As we chatted, the driver stood, saw Sean, Landon and I still on the bus and shouted “YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!!!” gesturing wildly to the Laos border checkpoint that we had already been through. We smiled and nodded and pointed to our passports.

“Yep Thanks! We got it!” This did little to quell the litany of “You's” spewing from his mouth.

We gazed at him in disbelief as we walked by.

Once we were through the Vietnamese border it was 7:30 am, and we thought that we would be in Hue by 8am as promised, or maybe 8:30. Wrong. Each time we approached a government checkpoint (in Communist countries this is often) chaos ensued. Just before the first one, the bus pulled over and all of the Red Bull (and there was a lot) was re-arranged and hidden in a compartment. At the next, we stopped for a moment to let a man off - he went running into the forest, and 5 minutes up the road as he came running back out of the forest and re-boarded the bus. Soon after that we stopped for forty five minutes while the crew unloaded all of the clay pots and rice sacks. Once we finally got going again it was really no better - the sleek, modern AC buses of Vietnam whizzed by us as we chugged along at the good 30 Km we had been doing all night and it was noon before our smelly, dirty and now near empty bus pulled into Hue.

It pulled over abruptly and stopped on a busy street. “YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!” The driver shouted at the 5 of us, and at the 2 bruised Brits in the back. He gestured that we should get off here - in the middle of nowhere with no orientation and no idea where we were.

“No Thanks man, just the bus station.” The Brits called out. The bus didn't move. Other people at the front also gestured wildly that we should get off.

“This might be the tourist area – I have no idea?” I said. I had been to Hue before, but I did not recognize this area at all.

“I'd rather go to the bus station or a landmark.” Johann said, and we all agreed. “Bus station please?” We said to the driver.

And he said......”YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!” and began instructing his workers to unload our packs onto the sidewalk, alongside of all of the Red Bull. Now we were all angry.

“Wait!” I shouted. “Hey!” He refused to look at me. I inhaled, shuddering with anger that the situation had helped build and that the Valium had not tamped., and pointed my finger. “Hey! YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU YOU!” He stopped on a dime, glowering at me. I watched as his fists balled and a little wittle bitsy thundercloud formed over his head. “You can't just leave us in the middle of nowhere where you just happen to be making a delivery!” But, of course, he could. It was.....all together now! Our problem.

We stood on the sidewalk and Sean raised his middle finger at the driver - one bird well deserved. We walked for a short time and completely by fluke managed to hit a small backpacker area with a few cafes, guesthouses and travel agencies. We sat down at a cafe, it's walls covered in traveler's graffiti, to enjoy our first Vietnamese meal of pho, gazing at one another like shell shocked survivors of a nasty battle. Which, in a way, we were.

Laos had been the easiest country to travel in – full of genuinely sweet people, beautiful scenery and fun activities. And then we met all of the country's assholes in one day – like fate suddenly decided that we had recently had it too easy and our quota of 'bad shit that happens to travelers' hadn't been met, so Here's This Bus!

After eating and sorting out our next night bus to Hanoi (which was, by comparison, a fucking Sheraton on wheels with individual pod beds and hardwood floors) I grabbed a Sharpie from the waitress, scanned the walls for an empty spot and grabbed a chair to stand on. High in the back of The Atlas Cafe in Hue, on the back wall above the door to the washroom, it now says:

“4 Canucks and a Dutchman survived the Hell Bus – Si Phan Don to Hue 2009.”

BKK FTW

There is Bangkok, and then there are other places.

It is not quaint. It is not pretty, or scenic or charming – it is a raised middle finger spread out over a vast area of traffic choked streets, glass high rises, huge shopping malls and time stained buildings. This city crackles and hums and feels like something is happening – like culture and life and history are changing in monumental leaps as you sit and drink a Chang beer. For every girlie bar clogged Soi 22, there is a Soi 11 full of restaurants, shops and art – and political unrest abounds. Asia is changing. It is changing right here in Bangkok. 

It is not the sanitized, hand-washed, vapid Singapore, a city concerned with pulling on its Manolos and hitting the club for 40 dollar drinks; it is not the backwater colonial ruin of Phnom Penh, a city in which red-nosed expats drink the day away; it is also not the frenzied, incomprehensible madness of Tokyo; it is its own stew,  a mix of the old Buddhist Southeast, the new shiny Asia and the influence - but never colonization - of the West. It's a sticky blend that doesn't always exactly work but always comes close.

Forget the putrid backpacker petri dish of the Khao San Road – the party to end all, filled with buckets (Sangsom whiskey, redbull and coke, served with ice in a child's sand pail) beers and rave, a mating ground where inappropriately dressed party animals can size each other up and experience their first trip away from Mum, Dad and Western social mores. Most travelers in their twenties arrive here, take a tour of a few Wats, come back to this street, party the night away and then head to the islands or Laos in the morning – these are the same people who will exclaim with gusto that “Bangkok is an armpit” or “Bangkok is a shit place” while they fondle a Ko Samui bar girl's ass, fist bump and chug their Fosters.

But for a person who is fascinated by how cities change and grow and develop into something different while still retaining their sameness – Bangkok is a perfect specimen.

Low buildings signify older areas – turn of the century shophouse districts faded and worn, with wooden shuttered windows and roll-up garage door entrances. Peering in each reveals the business at hand – a mechanic, a flower seller, a tailor. Traffic groans and halts outside while people chat and drink tea, and tuk tuk drivers nap parked next to spirit houses jutting onto the sidewalk wherever a special consultant advised was auspicious. Toothless old ladies sell vegetables, canny businesswomen tend to tables of clothing and DVDs and people pray and light incense everywhere, with loud Thai music and talk radio blasting from tinny speakers. 

Some areas have a seventies vibe, a time when Western investment was high – wood paneled steak houses and dimly lit Irish pubs leading into other parts of town that have a New Westminster/E Hastings feel to the architecture – reminding me of my childhood when these areas were still shopping districts. Mid-century modern neon signs advertise dry cleaning, a Booterie (where one buys boots) and luncheonettes, and it all feels somehow retro, the kind of retro that I also associate with New York or Chicago 1961. Two doors down is a big Chinese jeweler, some noodle stalls, a woman carrying a yoke on her neck and a dodgy Thai hotel and you are back in Asia – I am addicted to this schism.

A robed monk on a skytrain escalator - ancient mixed with modern.

Part of the reason Bangkok is so exotic is that it's a shockingly multi-cultural place – to gaze at the departures/arrivals board at Suvarnabhumi Airport is to know wonder. Kazakhstan Air flying to Astana, Air Vladivostok to Yuzno-Sakhalinisk, Druk Air to Thimphu. Flights to Rangoon, Nairobi, Kinshasa, Tbilisi, San'a, Yerevan – imagination places. Theravada monks walk down the same streets as men in full Bedouin costume, women in African head wraps and brightly coloured dresses mingle with craggy British expats and Burmese refugees in lungyi. You'll see Sikh turbans and Muslim skullcaps, Jewish yarmulkes and Palestinian kaffias, Catholic nun's habits and abbaya from Abu Dhabi.

If you're hungry, Bangkok is always snacking - and they mean business. Sidewalk restaurants spill out onto the streets, steaming bowls of noodles ladled out to be slurped while still piping hot, red knuckles of pork sliced and served on top. Big greasy piles of fresh fried chicken and skewers of meat satay, fishballs and baby octopus are barbecued, fragrant smoke blackening the buildings and filling the air. An entire fish on a skewer, my favourite, is 30 cents. Walk past a school at 3pm and the array of yummy snacks sold from small tables for children (and adults) is astounding – along side all of the typical Thai favourites you'll find tiny little sushi rolls in plastic boxes, fresh octopus pastry balls cooked in cast iron moulds, deep fried chicken feet and wings, crepes shaped into Mickey and Pokemon, hot dog and Thai sausage stuffed pigs n' blankets and big cups of bubble tea to wash it down. Children here are not sheltered from real food.

Still hungry? Western food is also abundant and really well done. Authentic Spanish tapas, Belgian brewhouses, chef driven fusion restaurants, small Tex Mex eateries, Italian delis – it would be possible to live here and never be homesick for your favourites. Not to mention all of the sushi – Bangkok is mad for Japan. Any sub category of Japanese cuisine is available here, as are their snack products, brands and chains. 

If you want to escape traditional Asia, high end luxury is everywhere - shopping malls that could rival those in LA, Vegas and Dubai, sparkling beacons of glitz at prices few can afford – yet people are shopping: D&G, Anna Sui, Marc Jacobs, Betsy Johnson, Shu Umera, Jurlique, Versace, Kate Spade, Vuitton – more brands than we have even in Vancouver. Extravagant restaurants and 5 star hotels fill not just one area of town, but many: Sukhumvit, Silom, Siam.

Sukhumvit is also the main expat area – a long stretch of road with small lanes (Soi) that run the gamut from debauched “Pussy Clubs” and ping pong shows to Little Arabia where the Middle Eastern embassies are located and in turn so are dozens of sheesha bars and falafel joints (how can 2 groups that eat EXACTLY the same food hate eachother so much?). Chic yet casual restaurants abound, as do about 20 Irish and British pubs (many holding pub quizzes – my favourite hobby). The Skytrain (no kidding) connects them all to the main hub of Siam Centre, whisking you past all of the heinous traffic in icy air conditioning. Sitting alongside the pretty high school tranny boys, the Thai/Western couples and the unimaginably stylish elite upper class, I feel like a wizened Bangkok expat – and I like it.

Is it dirty? Well, compared to the West, absolutely. Compared to China, India, Cambodia? Not on your life – it is a slick, sweet smelling gem. Is there poverty? Again – yes, there are huge slums, some quite near to affluent areas. But having lived in Mumbai, Bangkok's slums seem like condos – and there are way less people begging than in Vancouver or Toronto. Is it hot? Yes, but there is so much AC that you can always pop into one of the 5000 (no kidding) 7/11's and cool down for a few minutes, and on weekends hop on a 20 minute flight to the most beautiful beaches on the planet.

For me it is an eminently livable city. A city that feels cutting edge. A modern, multi faceted cosmopolis where I could sling on some local designers, mix n' match with some ripped up Tsubi jeans and a knock-off Birkin bag I bought at the Weekend Market and head for a martini in a world class lounge (or a beer at Cheap Charlies) where things are actually happening as easily as I could trawl the markets and barter for a dragonfruit. Where on the weekends I could flit to Hong Kong or Boracay or I could volunteer with the poor in the Klong Tooey slums. Where I could hang out with good ole' boy British expats and win pub quizzes on Thursday and attend art gallery openings and hip hop concerts on Friday. Where lunch costs 30 cents and is delicious and fresh and eaten on a plastic chair on the sidewalk with extra chilies, please. Where my tuk tuk driver can be listening to Pink and sporting a crazy hairdo but still stop to buy flowers to bless his dashboard Buddha. A place that no matter what will always remain mysterious, difficult and Thai. 

So next time someone tells you to “get out of Bangkok as quickly as you can and head South or North” look them in the eye and tell them to get their head out from their ass and actually look around. Leave the Khao San Road. Stop trying to cram Bangkok into what you want it to be and let it just be what it is. Because with or without you, that's exactly what it is going to do.

Je T'aime Kep Sur La Mer: Getting Crabs

Given Vancouver's proximity to the ocean and its hordes of cruise ship tourists looking to spend a lot of US cash, you would think that seafood restaurants would line our beaches – fresh fish chargrilled to order, salmon cedar-planked in front of you, baskets of still pinching lobster and crab plunged into their final boiling baths. But in reality – we don't really have any of this. Our closest big city neighbour – Seattle – capitalizes on its coastal location and port city past with an abundance of seafood restaurants both retro-kitschy and high end. But not us- NoFunCouver. We prefer to ship our pongy gold to Asia, Europe and America, leaving our beaches devoid of my favourite kind of eatery – the Crab Shack.

Ah, the very words bring up images of mythical sounding New England towns – Hyannisport, Kennebunkport, Bar Harbour - of 1950's stereotypes named Biff and Todd taking their gals to the local Crab Shack to gad about with Kennedy cousins and hand-jiving beach bunnies, getting directions to that night's clambake. I can imagine Archie's gang going to a Crab Shack on a weekend trip to a seaside town where they would be labeled “townies” by the locals, and Gidget - she would eat at a Crab Shack, hell, she'd surf her way right up to the front door and then join Annette Funnicelo and Frankie Avalon for some Beach Blanket Bingo when she was through.

I suppose it is the lack of this kind of beach culture in my own seaside city that has exotified it for me – and why when I heard that the crab capital of South East Asia (and I'd be willing to bet all of Asia) was located in the South of Cambodia in a sleepier than sleepy place called Kep I marked the map and set off.

Located less than 100 km from the frenzied party beaches of Sihanoukville on Cambodia's coast and a stone's throw from the Vietnamese border, Kep is a gloriously laid back town. Formerly a French seaside get-away called Kep Sur Mer, the troubled decades (to put it lightly) since independence have left the grand buildings to decay to mere skeletons, now filled with squatters who care for the vast gardens and string up hammocks in the empty, weather exposed halls. It is Kep's ruined villas and ornately stone walled vacant lots that give the place a deserted, haunted vibe – and an eerie ghosttown beauty.


There is almost nothing to do here – the beach is rocky and brown (the French had white sand trucked in during Kep's heydays) the ocean raging and grey, and everything is connected by meandering country roads and so when you find out that I spent three days here you have to realize that it was for one reason.....

....for Khmer people, the name Kep is synonomous with fresh steaming buckets of crab, and they swarm this unassuming stretch of sand every weekend in search of the stuff. Yes, I'll admit it – we came for the same reason. Good ole' crabby gold.

Our first full day we chartered a fishing boat and headed to nearby Koh Tonsay (Rabbit Island) – a near- deserted island inhabited by a few dozen Khmer catering to daytrippers from Kep. Rubberlegged upon reaching the shore from the bucking waves as we crossed the channel, we trekked for 15 minutes through lush deserted jungle. We emerged on the other side of the island, to an idyllic beach ringed with tree covered hills. A few crab shacks lined the shore, with hammocks out front and bungalows for rent, and so we chose a spot to lay in, went for a swim in the bathtub-warm water and relaxed in the morning sun.

Eleven-thirty rolled around and my stomach began to growl for lunch (but probably more from anticipation – only hours earlier my guesthouse had added rosemary and oregano from their beautiful little herb garden to my huge omelette– Asia egg win!) As we walked over to the tables, the sky cracked and shuddered and it began pouring rain, the wind whipping off of the water. “Good timing” I said to Sean, as we scanned the menu's offerings of fresh fish. Sean, not convinced that he liked crab (this is a guy that was vegan until 6 months ago and only eats fish in Asia, so he doesn't have a lot of experience with edible sea creatures) chose a small grilled ocean fish and I chose – of course – a medium plate of crab. As we sat and waited for our meal, we watched the owner of the restaurant head out into the sea, wade out to his crab trap anchored offshore and pluck out the unlucky specimens for my lunch – the freshest seafood I have ever eaten.


The crab arrived – 8 smallish guys chopped in half, all 16 pieces piled on the plate and drenched in deliciously oily sauce and freshly cracked Kampot pepper, another local specialty. No nutcrackers here – in Asia you dig into the crab with your fingers and teeth, spitting bits of shell out as you go and basically reveling in the extra sensuality of feeling your food so intimately (there is a saying in India “you first taste with your fingers and then with your tongue” - and it really does add another level of enjoyment.) The taste of this crab was sublime – delicate and fine while still maintaining its plump white meatiness. Each joint, knuckle and bend held a nugget of meat, no matter how small and we slurped and sucked and gorged for over an hour, emptying every coral-pink shell clean – Sean's earlier hesitation long passed. We occasionally paused to look up and beam at one another in a hazy food-drunk way and feed the yowling cat and pregnant dog plaintiffly staring from beneath the table the scraps of the grilled fish we were now ignoring.


The best part of the meal? The price. 3 pounds of ocean-fresh crab, one entire grilled fish and a hefty serving of rice came to 9 Canadian dollars. That is, of course, not including the many ice cold cans of Angkor beer that we downed while waiting for the rain to pass....

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The next morning we borrowed the rusted creaky bikes at our guesthouse and cycled around Kep, visiting the huge crab statue (like I said, Cambodians take crab very seriously) pausing to photograph the abandoned architecture, and marveling at the densely forested hills surrounding the rice paddies. And that was nce.....but only a warm up for round 2: Sunset Point and its dozens of oceanfront crab shacks.


With aching asses and tense leg muscles from our shoddy bikes, we chose the second restaurant we poked our head into – the “Fresh Crab Restaurant.” It was late afternoon and the skies were stormy and grey, forcing the waves to splash up right onto the dining platform. In Asia, restaurants that cater to locals have no Western style ambiance. Tables and chairs are plastic, flies buzz around bottles of fish sauce, beer posters line whatever walls there are (sometimes it is just a plastic tent and there are no walls) and the kitchen is an open area often with no electricity, relying rather on tubs of water and charcoal barbeques. We grabbed some plastic chairs far away from the surging tide and ordered our biggest meal yet – 5 pounds of delicious crab stirfried with twigs of fresh green peppercorns.


I gave a silent thanks to whatever wonderful God or Goddess or Saint or Star/Planet Alignment that had made this happen for me twice in as many days and tucked in. This time the waitress provided us with a huge metal bowl of water filled with limes for us to dunk our greasy fingers into as we reached for our Angkor beers or the occasional mouthful of vegetables. Again, nearly one hour passed as we devoured the succulent crabmeat until we were both stuffed. Always the glutton, I looked at Sean earnestly. “Should we order another 5 pounds?” It took him a few minutes of ignoring my big, pleading eyes to talk me out of it.

We cycled back to our bungalow through the winding peaceful roads at dusk, glancing at cows grazing on the oceanfront lots once inhabited by imposing French villas, smelling the sweet frangipani flowers and answering the “Hellos!” of small children, I realized that this small place, despite its brown sand and quiet atmosphere, is one of my favourite places. And that's only partly the crab...

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Most backpackers head to Cambodia's beach Valhalla, Sihanoukville, for fun in the sun and Southern Thailand/Bali style partying exploits, claiming that the mediocre beach quality is made up for by all of the clubs, restaurants and activities. But I, for one, will never go to S'Nook. No sir.

I'll be in Kep.

Vietnam from the Back of a Motorbike - Careening Through Old Hanoi

I thought after all of the countries I have visited in the last 7 months I would discover that the intense love I felt for Vietnam during my brief visit last year would be revealed as more a love for travel and Asia in general. I was wrong. Still, like an addiction, Vietnam feels like home.

I was wondering if Vietnam would feel the same this time, if it would affect me and change and move me the way it did last year. The amazing experience I had then, on a work trip, could be chalked up to a few things: it was practically free, the amazing people I met and traveled with, the fact it was considered 'work" and I got paid to be there and was treated to high end hotels and food. It was such a life changing experience that it was the lynchpin in my decision to quit my job, cash in my RSP's and savings and travel this insane, sweaty, colourful, ethereally strange continent - Asia.

Vietnam, as you probably know, was not my first stop. In fact, I had been traveling for 6.5 months before I made it back here. While I backpacked through India, Maldives, Nepal, Laos and Thailand, people constantly asked me why Vietnam was my favourite of all the countries I have been to, and I could never give an answer that felt right. I would sit there, like a self absorbed douche with a smug dreamy look on my face, and say " I...I don't know. I really can't, I mean it's not just one thing....it's...It's just everything."

And it is.

I still can't describe it entirely, but I am going to try.

Vietnam from the Back of a Motorbike - Careening Through Old Hanoi

Sean and I stayed an extra six nights beyond what we really needed in Hanoi, so that Sean could take advantage of the free wifi and work on his VFX reel, more important in his industry than a resume. During that time, I lazed a bit, had some foot massages, ate food, took walks and wrote. On our second last day, I decided that I needed to see one more "sight" - The Vietnam Museum of Ethnology. After debating taking a local bus to the museum located 30 minutes from the centre of Hanoi, I hopped on a motorbike instead.



People talk about the terrible traffic in Hanoi, but the reality is that the seething mass of pedestrians, motorbikes, cyclos (pedaled rickshaws), bicycles and cars (each carrying at least 3 times the recommended amount of passengers - I have seen 5 people on one Honda motorbike) never comes to a complete stop. The vehicles perform a complicated ballet of gentle swerves and honking horns that at first baffled and frightened me. As a Westerner trained never to step into oncoming traffic, I had to undo years of Pavlovian response to set my foot off of the curb and stare directly into the eyes of a motorbike driver 1 metre a way, let them swerve around me and begin crossing the street. Rather than shock or anger drivers,slowly crossing with deliberate movements is the norm here, and stopping or running is a guaranteed ticket to the morgue. Or, at the very least, a surefire way to an up close meeting with the pavement and the scorn of passersby.

As my driver and I careened through the streets, my knees brushed against many other people, cars and lampposts. Motorcycyling in big cities always freaks me out a bit, so I decided to concentrate on what was on either side of me rather than focusing straight ahead into the traffic, as I think that the driver had had enough of me shouting "Oi Choi Oi!" (Oh My God!) in his ear.



The sidewalks and narrow lanes that make up the Old Quarter are Hanoi's beating, bloody heart. The area surrounds Hoan Kiem Lake and is pulsating and manic, yet in ways seems like a glimpse into ancient history. Every street is named for what is sold there, there is Shoe Street, Metal Goods street, Gravestone Street, Toy Street, even Counterfeit Street (less fun than its sounds - dozens of shops selling fake money and paper goods used in Buddhist ceremonies.) This is a traditional Vietnamese way of organizing a city and it is not meant just to impress tourists – but it does. Sparks flew asI zoomed down the Welding Street. Sawdust filled my mouth and eyes on Woodworking Street, and my ears filled with the cacophonous tweeting of thousands of small sparrows on Birdcage Street.



These traditional stores are not the only places to do your shopping. In fact, it seems tome that most commerce in Vietnam happens on the street. Sidewalk hawkers set up stalls selling anything you can imagine. On my right side we passed a man in a conical hat holding 6 dead geese in each hand, gesturing to the traffic to entice people with the notion of a goose bbq that evening. On my left side minutes later we were swarmed by women running into the road at a rare stop light, trying to sell us plastic raincoats, umbrellas and sunglasses. Blankets were laid out and covered in toiletries, traditional balms, trinkets, books and firewood, and officious looking people sat at small tables,selling lottery tickets, offering scales to weigh yourself and services as letter writers for the illiterate.


And food was everywhere. So much food! Not the sanitized, pre packaged neat-n-tidy things we associate with take-out in North America, but vibrant, spicy morsels and soups guaranteed to make you happy. Mobile restaurants on wheels zipped in and out of traffic with us, and beside the parked ones small child sized chairs were lined up on the sidewalks for people to stop and grab a bowl of noodles and a bia hoi (fresh draft beer - 10 cents for a mug.) Some streets smelled divine - like ginger and garlic just dropped into a sizzling wok, and other streets reeked of the pungent, dirty genital smell of fermented fish sauce. Globes of shiny fruit were carried by women with yolks on their shoulder, the heaviness altering their walk into a jaunty bounce, and we passed entire streets that only specialize in one dish - cha ca (grilled fish), Nem (springrolls) and thit cho (grilled dog - I try to never glance inside those ones, they are filled with small dogs in cages. No kidding.)The words Com and Pho (Rice and Rice Noodle Soup) were emblazoned on every available surface, and usually a small old women will be perched beside, working on her own signature broth.


My moto driver and I zipped and weaved past parks full of children playing badminton, imposing communist buildings covered in red and yellow hammers and sickles, chattering old men playing mah jong, all surrounded by piles of garbage in the gutters. The evening broadcast of “Voice of Vietnam” blared eerily into the streets from mounted speakers – a'la Big Brother, while huge propaganda posters of Ho Chi Minh and the happy proletariat beamed down at me and everything was kind of coloured by this haze that is common in Vietnam, this smoky, misty cloudiness that makes everything seem muggy and exotic.


And though this is cliche - after touring the museum for 2 hours and marveling at the replica hill tribe houses, the handicrafts and the tribal art on display - I can't help but feel that the most truly interesting anthropology of Hanoi is not in its museums, but on its crazy, beautiful, hectic streets. I learned far more about Vietnam there.

Kompong Phhluk - Waterworld In Cambodia

“I guess this is what you meant about the road being bad!!” I shouted into Pi Sith's ear as we shimmied and roared down the muddy track, splashing through the squishy mud. I was perched precariously on the back of his motorbike, sitting further back than normal due to the metal contraption bolted to the seat, to which his “remorque moto” carriage was normally attached. He had unhooked it minutes ago, and now Sean and I were each straddling a bike as we completed the final leg of the “bad road” on our way to the boat launch.

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“We want to go to Kompong Phhluk.” Sean announced to Pi Sith, “To see the flooded forest and the stilted village. Can we go tomorrow?” Pi Sith's face, normally so friendly and happy, clouded over with panic. “Um, Kompong Phhluk not good now, road is very bad. You will be unhappy, I will be unhappy...” But looking at my face, I think he knew that his resistance was not going to deter me.
“Pi Sith, other tuk tuk drivers are offering the trip, and at our guesthouse too? We really want to go. We want to give you the business. Is it okay? Can we take the boat?” His nervous smile, in retrospect, should have alerted me that he was going to absolutely make sure we got what we wanted, even if he should have been telling us no way. Cambodians, especially in the service industry, have a hard time saying no - they always want us to be happy. People will give you the answer they think you want to hear rather than the actual truth, all in an effort to please. He made a few phone calls, and announced that the next day we would meet him at 8am and head to the boat dock, where his friend would take us out for 2 hours to see the village, rarely visited by foreigners. I was excited. “Thanks! See you then!”

The next morning I was not so excited when at 6:45 Sean woke me up. “Nnyeh. Phhh.” I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head. “Tooo earrrrrrrly. Not going. You go.” I waved the camera at him. “Take pictures.” Eventually, as Sean waved a coffee in front of my nose, I dragged myself out of bed and we headed to meet Pi Sith. “At least,” I said to Sean, swallowing some passion fruit Danish, “we just have to sit here in this tuk tuk, and then get in a boat for a few hours. I can handle that.”

On the way to the boat launch area we passed the Angkorian ruins of Roulous, rising mystically out of the jungle on our left. We passed orphanages filled with excited waving children, vendors presiding over their stocks of gasoline filled pop bottles (gas and go, it seems) and women riding bikes with their babies sitting on hammocks made of kramas (the ubiquitous checked Cambodian scarves) between the handle bars. “The ride through this area was worth the trip alone!” I exclaimed to Sean, and snuggled into him on the padded seat, noticing that the frequency of the bone-jarring potholes on the road was increasing.

Ten minutes later: my body was bruised and my nerves filleted as we pulled into the driveway of a traditional stilted house. The potholes had indeed increased until the paved road gave way completely and we were dragged along the dirt road in our remorque carriage, thrown around like rag dolls. Pi Sith turned around after each major 'thud!' and sheepishly smiled. “You OK?”
I didn't have to nod – the motion of the tuk tuk did that for me. With bruises.

Pi Sith unhooked the carriage, and motioned for me to get on his bike, telling Sean to get on the back of a new fellow's. Hanging on awkwardly to the metal bar mounted to the seat, I tried desperately to smooth down my skirt to a more appropriate level (Cambodia, like all of SE Asia, is very conservative in dress – short skirts and tank tops, while tolerated, are not appreciated) but it was firmly hiked up to mid thigh. “OK!” I said, laughing nervously, not excited about the ride ahead, but assuming it was going to be about 5 minutes long. “Let's go.”About 2 minutes later Pi Sith turned his head slightly to me. “About 40 minutes more.” Normally I love being on the back of a motorbike, but in this case, helmetless, under the glaring sun and vibrating my way through giant puddles I was less than enthused.
“Great!” I said to him. Sarcasm doesn't always translate. He gave me a thumbs up.

Question: Do you want to be with the more inexperienced driver, who is much more careful? Or the seasoned pro, who takes bigger risks but whose confidence guarantees some modicum of safety? I know my preference. And Sean won.

Pi Sith seemed nervous to have me, the precious girlfriend of his esteemed friend Mr Sean, on his rickety bike as we zoomed our way through the mucky sludge and narrow dry paths running through the bushes. “All this,” he said, gesturing around “is normally underwater in rainy season.” Which certainly explained the condition of this 'road.' Bikes and motos careened past us, barely missing my legs each time, my legs that were already patina-ed in a fine lattice work of bramble scratches, and men popped their heads up occasionally from the fishing they were doing on the banks of the shrunken river. Young men, probably still in their mid teens, looked up and saw some 'barang' (foreigners) and waved frantically, giving me the thumbs up. After this happened a few times, I realized that it was probably due to the fact that my breasts, while not the heaving ledge they were mere months ago are still a respectable C cup, were practically hitting my chin every few moments as I bumped along on my bucking motorbike. “Yeah, yeah, thumbs up to you too. Western women are whores, yeah yeah...”

The sun beating down on my already weather abused face (if I look like Hatchet Face in CryBaby in 10 years, well – at least I had fun) Pi Sith and I reached the cusp of a dank, muddy hole in the earth, about 30 metres long, with a teensy narrow space running along one side. As he revved up to begin the ride along the ledge, I jumped off the back. “Ummm, no, thats OK – I'll walk.” As he wobbled his way along, I hopped from dry spot to grass patch, reaching the other side to discover another chasm the same size and precariousness. “Yep, still walk.” I said to him.

About 300 metres away was our boat, a less than reassuring sight due to the steep mud banks surrounding the river as far as the eye could see. As we began putting along I began to wonder why we had come all the way out to this muddy, slippery dirty place. But then, as we chugged along, I began to see the most bizarre sight – rising from the banks of the river were thatch houses and gardens and pig pens and shrines – all perched on stilts as high as 6 metres. Children scurried around, people repaired boats and fished and picked river spinach, all in the shadows of their impossibly tall village. “It's like Waterworld.” Whispered Sean. “It's like Mad Max too.” I responded and thought for a moment. “It is like nothing that Patrick Swayze was ever in...”

Slowly winding our way along the murky river, we passed hundreds of similar houses. In the rainy season, the water gets so high that it laps at the floorboards of these buildings, erasing the mud paths and gardens and turning the village into a literal floating city. I couldn't help but wonder what they do with all the pigs when that happens....

After half an hour, we emerged out of the narrow river and onto one of the world's largest freshwater lakes, and the largest in Asia – the Tonle Sap. This lake is so huge that it provides fish for half of the population of Cambodia – yet pollution and overfishing (with dynamite. Yes. Dynamite fishing. It is a pretty big problem in Asia, destroying many coral reefs and endangering river dolphins and fish. I think it is pretty deplorable, but then again, similar things can be said about Canada's pork farming industry) are threatening its ability to feed this hungry country. The Tonle Sap was bewilderingly huge – we could not see its banks on any direction but the one we had just come from – it felt like being adrift on the ocean. Dotting the water were dozens of houses, these ones permanently afloat and often connected to small subsistence fish farms. As we passed by small shops, noodle restaurants and family homes, I was amazed to see people carrying on normal lives. In Vancouver, living on a houseboat is considered quite posh, but not here. These are literally people who cannot afford to live on the land.

As we snaked back through a flooded mangrove forest and arrived back in the tall stilted village, children selling pencils and books “for the students! Buy pencils!” clambered on the banks. We passed a wee little boy pulling a toy car made from hollowed out plastic water bottle that had four wheels attached, waving frantically as he saw us. Moments from docking, I noticed a small white creature moving in the reeds. It disappeared behind the plants for a moment, and when it reappeared I had a split second to register that it was a severed head. As I was about to scream bloody murder, the head and the body attached to it burst out of the mud, along with the heads 2 other small kids, their bodies still buried in mud from the neck down. Their peals of ecstatic laughter filled the air, joined by mine and Sean's. I gave them the thumbs up. “Way to scare the barang, guys!”

My laughter dissipated moments later – the long, muddy, scratchy bumpy road ahead beckoned.