The Typhoon Broke My Umbrella

The Star Ferry Terminal and Hong Kong Skyline

Crossing the bridge from Kowloon to Lantau Island on my way to the airport, the Hong Kong “Symphony of Lights” illuminated the island outside the car window. The sky scrapers were flickering with colored lights while lasers danced in the sky. It was a fitting farewell from Hong Kong and Asia. In a few short hours, I would be on board my Singapore Airlines flight to San Francisco - returning to American soil for the first time in almost three months. My heart raced with anticipation of any number of things: the excitement of flying my favorite airline in the world, getting closer to home, catching up with old friends and family, starting school, wondering when and where my next trip will take me.

My short stay in Hong Kong was pleasant enough. I can’t say I fell in love with the city, but I enjoyed myself and would be happy to return someday. I spent my first day wandering around the city in the dismal pre-typhoon weather. All of the shopping malls and various points around the city had signs stating that signal 3 had been raised for the Special Administrative Region, i.e. a typhoon was anticipated to hit within 12 hours. I had an umbrella with me, but less than an hour after leaving the hotel, a gust of wind literally ripped my umbrella to pieces. The metal frame of the umbrella had snapped into multiple pieces, and the fabric had ripped. I tossed the umbrella in the nearest garbage can and continued wandering around the harbor in the wet, windy weather. I paused to snap some photos of the statue of Bruce Lee along the Avenue of Stars.

The next day, I felt bored with Hong Kong already. The weather was still wet, sticky and cloudy, so my outdoor activities were limited, and I just wasn’t in the mood for museums. In the evening, I decided to go ahead and hop over to Macau. I walked down to the ferry terminal, grabbed a ticket, and boarded the next hydrofoil to Macau. Although the typhoon had passed without ever hitting Hong Kong, the water was still incredibly rough from the windy weather. The two Japanese girls behind me couldn’t quite handle the ride, and they spent the 1.5 hours taking turns running to the restroom, seasick bag in hand.

I would probably point a canon at that building too

I was pleasantly surprised with what I found in Macau. Floating into the port, one can’t help but notice the gargantuan Las Vegas style hotels and attractions that line the Cotai Strip. MGM Grand, Wynn, The Venetian - they’re all there, along with some local casino establishments. I took a cab into the center of town and the ruins of Sao Paolo. I climbed to the top of the fortress, snapped pictures of the old facade, all that remains of St. Paul’s church. Later, I wandered down the cobblestone pedestrian only streets that weave their way through the old Portuguese colonial buildings. Macau isn’t as refined as Hong Kong, but I found it’s rough-edged character enchanting.

Ruins of Sao Paolo

After making a couple laps around the old city, I started hunting for a good Portuguese or Macanese restaurant for dinner. I ended up at a small restaurant tucked in an alleyway near the cathedral where I enjoyed some Pasteis de Bacalhao (Fried Salt Cod Cakes) and Arroz de Marisco (seafood rice). The food was outstanding and served in massive quantities. I felt bad leaving behind so much of the giant pot filled with deliciously creamy rice loaded with prawns, squid, octopus, clams, mussels, and fish. Properly satiated from dinner, I walked back to the ferry terminal and was back in Hong Kong by 1AM.

They really are everywhere

Hong Kong was my last stop in Asia, and I was on my way back to the states, but my journey wasn’t over yet. I spent a few short hours sleeping in San Francisco before an early flight back out of the US to Vancouver. I spent a great weekend with my good friend Jon wandering around Vancouver, eating good food, and having some good laughs.

I might like you better, if...

Old Lijiang

Naked fire, eh...

Maybe this has something to do with the naked fires

Uhhh???

Yes, miss, I did just take your picture

I may have walked a little too quickly from the plane towards passport control in Chengdu, but I was trying to keep up with a particularly long-legged American in front of me that was setting the pace. I worked myself into a very slight sweat in the warm humid airport. The quarantine officer took my H1N1 declaration, gave it a once over and then sent me on my way. As I walked through the gate towards passport control, though, an alarm went off because my temperature was too high. An officer jumped towards me, grabbed my arm and said, “We must take your temperature again.”

Before landing, they had played an informational video on the plane about customs and quarantine procedures in China and the new protocol for the prevention of the spread of Swine flu (H1N1). The video started with a shimmering red and gold image of the Chinese state emblem and pomp music like that of an old news reel - both suitable for a communist propaganda film. The film was in Chinese with English subtitles, but they had neglected to consider the readability of the subtitles against different backgrounds, so the white text was projected onto a white background during most of the film, so I only caught a few key words. My favorite part of the film was watching the cartoon depictions of different flu symptoms. Nothing like a runny nosed cartoon character to get you excited about visiting a new country. I guess I had been properly warned about the strict health precautions being taken at the entry points to China.

I followed the officer behind a curtain in the quarantine area, where I was handed a face mask and asked to sit down. A doctor gave me a thermometer and asked me to place it under my arm. He then proceeded to review my declaration and repeat most of the questions verbally. “Have you had trouble breathing, runny nose, congestion, fever or other symptoms recently? What cities and countries have you been to in the last 7 days? Where are you staying in China? What is your mobile phone number? What is the phone number of someone else that knows your travel itinerary?” The questions went on and on. The doctor took back the thermometer, recorded the temperature and asked me to wait because another doctor was going to check my throat. I guess it’s a good thing I had an over 5 hour layover before my flight to Lijiang. In the end, they had collected too many passengers of questionable health to make me wait any longer for the check-up. “Your temperature is normal, so we will let you go now, but please contact the authorities immediately if you develop any symptoms.”

Passport control and customs were a breeze after worrying that I might get stuck in some medical quarantine area for god knows how long. I found my way to the China Airlines check-in counter, but they wouldn’t check me in for my Lijiang flight because it was still too early. I pleaded with them to just check my bags and then I could wander the airport hands free until it was time to collect my boarding pass. The agent agreed, took my bags and printed out my boarding pass, which she then set aside and said I could collect in 4 hours. Luckily, the Chengdu airport has a surplus of tea houses with internet access, so I settled down in front of a terminal with a glass of jasmine tea. It didn’t take me long to realize that the health inspections weren’t the only sign I was in China. Youtube, twitter, facebook and my own blog were, among many other sites, inaccessible from within the PRC. It took me a while to figure out what I could do after I checked my email, but I ended up checking the news and browsing the couch surfing site.

Eventually, I was granted my boarding pass and went on to my connecting flight. On board, a young, short Chinese woman was sitting next to me. After she had already fastened her seatbelt and settled into her seat, she decided she needed her reading light on but couldn’t reach it. I figured out what was going on, and I turned on her light for her before she had to move all of her stuff and get out of the seat. She said thank you, one phrase I could understand, and then proceeded to ask me something in Chinese. I told her that I don’t speak Chinese, but that didn’t slow her down one bit. She gave a look of disappointed understanding and then continued conversing with me in one of the few languages in the world that I have absolute zero comprehension of. Eventually, she smiled and went back to reading her book. I then switched my focus to the news being shown on the overhead screens. Once again, it was a poorly subtitled Chinese broadcast, but one story really caught my attention.

“This year’s butter cow and butter calf at the Ohio state fair will be accompanied by an equally buttery farmer and his wife.” No need to worry about what they think about Americans on this side of the world - they know we have excellent butter sculptures in Ohio.

After having collected my baggage in Lijiang, still laughing about the buttery farmer, I stepped outside to find a taxi. I was directed to the next taxi in line, which was being watched over by its rather surly female driver. She was probably only in her late 30s or early 40s, but she looked like she was almost 60. I told her the name of my hotel, and she said 100. I didn’t catch what she was saying the first time around, but once repeated, I realized what she was saying. I figured her asking for 100 yuan for the ride to the hotel was a signal to start bargaining, but since I had reached the limit of her English, we weren’t getting very far. One of the airport staff saw me struggling, came over and said, “meter?” Yes! Meter! That’s all I want is for her to use a meter. The ride into town was silent, and I feared for my life every time Little Miss Giggles overtook another vehicle on a blind curve in the dark. Once in town, Giggles decided she had had enough of the silence and turned on some music. The last thing I expected was for the CD to start playing a techno beat, but I was pushed over the edge when the lyrics came on. “I might like you better, if we slept together.” It was impossible to contain myself any longer, and I started laughing out loud. The driver just looked at me like I was crazy.

Waking up the next morning to a gray, rainy sky in Lijiang, I felt tired and a bit short of breath. Crap, was I indeed coming down with a case of H1N1? Had they inadvertently exposed me to the virus while I sat waiting in the quarantine area at the airport? I didn’t have any other symptoms, so I sat back and tried to think what could be the problem. Suddenly it occurred to me that I wasn’t too far from Tibet. What’s the elevation in Lijiang? I got on the computer to google the information, and sure enough, Lijiang sits at an altitude of about 2400 meters (almost 8,000 feet), more than high enough for some minor altitude sickness. Symptoms of altitude sickness include fatigue, shortness of breath and dehydration among others. Coming from an elevation near sea level, it is no surprise that I was having difficulty acclimating to the new altitude. To adjust to long-term stays at altitudes above 5,000 feet can take as long as 30 days. Yay! I’m not dying, I’m just oxygen deprived! The internet recommended lots of rest, avoid physical exertion, drink lots of water and ask for some oxygen for severe cases. Feeling more comfortable having self-diagnosed my condition, I opted not to be the American dork asking the hotel for oxygen, but I did follow the rest of the advice.

I spent some time wandering around the old town of Lijiang, which is picture perfect. The streams and canals around the city were crossed by numerous stone and wooden bridges. The old architecture of the Naxi homeland was a taste of “true” China, albeit in an almost Epcot fashion with everything so well-renovated and full or tourists. I lost my way down the narrow stone alleys of the town, which was the perfect way to explore. At one of the squares, a group of elderly women were performing traditional Naxi dances. It seemed as though the lead woman knew what she was doing, while the rest just kept looking around at each other for clues. There were a number of pauses and missteps, but it added to the charm factor of the whole thing. Walking away from the dancers, I heard the jingling of bells and the shouts of horsemen. I turned to see two traditionally dressed men riding horses rapidly down the road. I grabbed my camera to take the picture, and they turned and rode directly towards me. I was in definite danger of being trampled by two small horses ridden by two small men, but in the end, I passed right between the two… just barely.


The shopping was tempting, but I couldn’t cope with the trouble of transporting some of the beautiful ceramics, and I just couldn’t quite justify purchasing one of the large traditional fox skin hats, though I’m still a little disappointed about that one. The smell of dried yak meat wafts down every street and alleyway of Lijiang, and once I saw where the smell was coming from, I figured out what I had just had for breakfast. I had picked up a sushi roll from the buffet with some mysterious brown shreds inside. It didn’t taste like any fish I had tasted before, but I couldn’t quite place what it did taste like. The smell of the yak meat was a perfect match to the flavor still lingering in the back of my mouth. Yak sushi, breakfast of champions.

I’ve enjoyed my limited time in Lijiang, although I keep peering towards the mountains in hopes of catching a glimpse of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, but the clouds this time of year seem to just sit permanently on the peak. The first day, I wasn’t even convinced the mountain existed the clouds were so thick. Over the course of time, I have seen the base of the mountain and some of the lower peaks surrounding it, but the clouds refuse to give up their resting place, and I’ll be leaving without having seen the main peak. Such is life.

Just a drink, a martini, shaken not stirred

Riding off into the sunset on a speed boat with mountains of limestone jetting out of the water, it all felt very James Bond. Was I on my way to check in at a new beach resort, or was I unknowingly being transported to a meeting with Dr. No? Arriving at Rayavadee, the Cambodian method of wading through shallow waters was unacceptable for a guest like me. Instead, because the boat couldn’t reach the resort pier at low tide, they brought a dock out to me by tractor. It was all rather peculiar, but I loved it. Two guest services personnel were waiting on the dock to welcome me, and back on the beach, the guest services manager had my check-in documents ready. I was escorted to a beautiful open-air waiting room where they brought me a fresh coconut milk and lime welcome drink, and I signed the registration papers.

I was eligible for an upgrade, but they suggested I take a look at both bungalows first. The higher category room had a private “hydropool” in the garden but was located further from the beaches and main pool. The lower category room they had prepared for me, however, was directly beside the main pool with a view of Railay beach, and the interior was identical to the other bungalow. I opted for the room with a sea view that already had a chilled bottle of Prosecco waiting for me. The bungalow was fantastic, full of mahogany and all the creature comforts one could desire. My favorite part of my orientation tour, however, was when the young lady escorting me around the resort pointed out that the closet was double sided with one door on the bedroom side and one door in the bathroom. “If you need the restroom quickly, fastest way through the closet.” I spent the first evening in the room giggling childishly at how wonderful this place was (and imagining myself rushing through the closet to the toilet). I popped open the bottle of Prosecco, ordered some room service and made myself at home.

The next morning, I enjoyed breakfast at the main restaurant and then walked around the resort taking some photos. I spent a few hours swimming and enjoying a perfectly sunny day. I walked to all three beaches on this 26 acre property and had some excellent French fries in the Grotto bar inside a cave at Phranang beach. I wanted at least one perfect day of beach relaxation on this trip, and I lucked out and got it. It was, afterall, monsoon season, and showers could have put a damper on my beach time at any moment, but the sun was shining all day.

Should I take the M1 to the M2 down to 342, or stay on the service road all the way to Railay beach? It may sound like trying to figure out which highway to take to get somewhere, but this is what was going through my head while trying to find my way back to my bungalow late in the evening after a great dinner of steamed sea bass with ginger, chilies and lime at the Krua Phranang Thai restaurant on the opposite end of the property. The paths around the property were quite narrow, full of vegetation and not incredibly well-lit. the exception was the service road, which was wide enough for golf carts to pass by and had plenty of lighting. The real question is which way I was least likely to be attacked by wild animals. Against my better judgment, I decided to take the smaller, shorter path to my room. Sure enough, while walking quickly down the path trying to ignore the unidentifiable sounds of the night, rustling in the bushes and splashes in the ponds, a medium-sized gray monkey jumped straight in front of me on the path and looked me in the eyes. I glared right back at him, he let out a yelp and bolted faster than he came. I guess I’m one scary monkey.

Some more breakfast and some more swimming in the morning before I had to bid farewell to my short-term home at Rayavadee. The staff encouraged me to come back and spend more time soon, and I agreed to try my hardest. Back on the speedboat tilted up at full speed towards the mainland, my Bond-like adventure was over.

I've had a very interesting welcome to China, but alas, access to my blog and facebook have been blocked by big brother. Just a mobile post to say I will be posting again on Tuesday, inshallah.

Gimme one dolla'

Photo-op in front of Angkor Wat

Raining at Bayon Temple

Ta Phrom Temple

Some kids helping move the rice seedlings

West Bantay Lake in the storm

I hate rain - always have. Give me snow or give me sun, just don’t get me wet unless I plan on it. The meteorological madness that let loose the last two days apparently didn’t care to pay attention to my preferences. Harsh sunlight and incredible heat, downpours of biblical proportions that may last 10 minutes or may last all night, the weather bounced between these radical conditions with only seconds of notice. Despite the obligatory moisture that goes along with rainfall and is noticeably in contradiction to my opening partiality towards remaining dry, I actually found the sudden storms both afternoons perfect for the setting. The scenes created by the torrential rainfall beating against 1,000 year old temple ruins or whipping across the rippling lake were almost cinematic in nature. If I hadn’t been worried about my camera getting too wet, I would have been running around in the rain taking more photographs.

I started out yesterday exploring the ruins of Angkor Wat. For those of you familiar with this national symbol of Cambodia, you probably have an image in your head of the temple and may suspect that there is a surrounding complex. The few of you that have had the opportunity to visit know that there is so much more to it than that. Angkor Wat is but one temple complex in an expansive national park full of ruins. Temple after temple rest amongst the trees and lakes that go on for miles. After visiting the main temple, I returned to the hotel for lunch and a swim before setting out again in the afternoon. It was while visiting Bayon temple that the skies opened up, and we sat surrounded by the leaky stones of the temple, smiling Buddha faces peering at us from all directions. It was another one of those moments, where I felt as if I was standing between eras. The ancient pride of the Khmer people lying in silent testimony of the former greatness of this land as the percussion of the rain drowned out the sounds of modern life. The steady beat of water dripping through the stones reminded me that time had not been suspended.

Walking back to the car with our umbrellas overhead, a young girl approached us on the elephant terrace. She was wearing pajamas, soaking wet, and jumping from puddle to puddle making a bigger splash each time. The girl started chatting playfully with my guide, and as he paused to explain something to me, she reached for my umbrella, and I reluctantly handed it over. I was nervous she might take the umbrella and bolt, leaving me to face the elements, but instead she stood beside me stretching to her limits to try and hold the umbrella above my head. When the guide finished talking, she motioned to me as if to say, “Get moving, we have stuff to see.” My guide asked her what grade she was in - fourth. Then he inquired as to what exactly she was doing here - selling postcards of course. That’s when she remembered that she’s supposed to be working. “Hey Mr., you want postcard? One dolla’! Ok, ten postcards, one dolla’!” Frustrated by my negative responses (I had already bought 10 postcards from another young girl), she finally said, “Ok, no postcards, just give me one dolla’!” She followed us to the road constantly reminding me that I should just fork over some money because she told me to, but switched targets very quickly when a group of Brits were getting ready to get in a Tuk Tuk back to their hotel. She blocked the entrance of the Tuk Tuk, leaving them standing in the rain, smiled innocently and said, “Gimme one dolla’!” Priceless, simply priceless. That night, the rain came harder and harder, thunder rumbling incessantly with occasional flashes of lightning. At some points, I thought the hotel might float away the rain was so hard.

In the morning, things had calmed down, and the sun was out like usual. We returned to the Angkor complex to visit Banteay Srei temple, another example of intricately carved elegant temple architecture from year 967. From there, it was on to Ta Phrom temple, used in the filming of Tomb Raider, and then on to one more temple, the name of which I can’t recall. We also made a brief stop at the Landmine Museum, something not every country has. The civil war in Cambodia only officially ended in 1998, so tragic remnants of the decades-long conflict still dot the country. Signs litter the roads between town and the temples, ‘Mine Field Cleared by…” I know that should be a positive message, but it really makes me wander how many non-cleared fields are a short walk away.

My touring program continued in the afternoon, when my village guide came to take me out to his village. We rode down another dirt road pocked with large holes, ditches and puddles of unknown depths. Once in the village, we started walking around as the guide explained his village origins, the social intricacies of village life in Cambodia, and the local farming economy. We stopped at the home of his siblings to see how the planting of the rice seedlings was going and to enjoy some fresh coconut water. The driver had left the village to drive to the other side of the lake where he was supposed to meet us after a leisurely boat ride. Trekking through the fields and forests near the village, I once again started thinking about those mine field signs. In heavily mined areas, it’s always best to stay on paved surfaces, but instead, I was making my way through drained rice paddies and rural dirt paths. Brilliant. Turns out my worries were misdirected. My guide pointed out an ant nest on the ground surrounded by rather large black ants. “These ants are very poisonous and aggressive, so just jump over them.” Fabulous, just what every fat American in shorts and sandals wants to hear while wandering through the countryside of Cambodia.

I made it to the shores of West Bantay Lake without any ant bites or exploding landmines. The boat was tied to a post a good 5 meters into the lake and it wasn’t getting any closer. I took off my sandals and waded out to the boat. I’m not quite sure how I accomplished it, but I managed to climb aboard the boat from the water, and then we looked out into the distance and saw a wall of water coming towards us. The dark clouds dimmed the sunlight, the wind picked up and began to turn the lake into an angry sea. Suddenly the rain dropped on us as if the gods were taking turns pouring buckets over us. The wind was blowing the rain sideways, soaking us from all directions. Rather than sitting on the edge of the boat, we were standing in the middle, directing our efforts to finding the driest place possible in a makeshift swimming pool. We watched as small fishing boats were rocked from side to side, taking on more water until they sank almost completely into the lake. For a brief moment, the rain subsided, but the guide looked out into the distance and said, “One more coming.” After a second round of being beat about by bullet-like rain and rough winds, we were left with a sunny blue sky and proceeded across the lake where the car was waiting.

The last stop of the day was a silk farm, where I saw how silk worms were grown and fed, how they spin their cocoons, and how the cocoons are turned into raw and fine silk for weaving. The Artisans de Angkor silk farm finds people from the villages and brings them out to the farm for training and then allow them to work for the locally significant sum of $150 USD per month. It’s income that they wouldn’t otherwise have, and a skill set that they can take with them anywhere. Most of them are also given English lessons at the silk farm, another skill valuable in the long-term. We often forget how fortunate we really are.

No chance to access the Internet, but I am sitting in a theatre in Cambodia waiting for a dance performance to begin.

Rollin' down the River

Luang Prabang exudes an enchanting character unlike any other I have experienced thus far in Southeast Asia. I love how the French colonial architecture has mixed with local design elements and nestled itself among golden temples, lush greenery and the waters of the Mekong and Khan rivers. The town is quite small and very quaint. I’m not the only Farang (foreigner) to fall in love with this place, as almost every other shop, restaurant or hotel is owned by a Westerner, but the place is not a tourist trap, it is still quintessentially Lao. Today, I set out with my guide to discover just exactly how Lao the area really is.

It was raining hard as we left the town, and my guide was concerned that we may have trouble getting down the road to the village. One phone call ahead to the village and his worries were moot because it wasn’t raining there. Turning off the main road, I quickly realized the source of his concerns. The road to the village was a narrow dirt road with many steep hills and sharp curves, and when I say “dirt road,” I don’t mean a North Carolina style dirt road paved with gravel, rather genuine dirt that when mixed with large quantities of water would turn into a slippery, muddy path of nastiness. Once at the village, we boarded one of the traditional long narrow wooden boats with a local fisherman for a short cruise down the river. We stopped at the various nets and bamboo traps along the way to check for the morning’s catch. On the other side of the river, we stopped for a demonstration of how the local Lao Lao rice whiskey is made.

The Lao Lao village was small and rural. There are no access roads, only the river. Chickens and dogs roamed freely around the village while young ladies wove silk and grandmothers tended their grandchildren. A petite middle-aged woman came out to welcome us and took us to the site of her Lao Lao production. She had already steamed some sticky rice in the morning to prepare for our visit. She washed the sticky rice repeatedly before draining it and mixing it with a rice derived yeast. Normally, they make the yeast themselves also using sticky rice, but during the rainy season, they cannot dry the rice because they have no drying machines. Once mixed with the yeast, the rice is added to a large pot for fermentation. After weeks of fermentation, the rice produces rice wine, which must then be distilled to make rice whiskey. Long stalks of bamboo are used to fuel the fire underneath the distillation barrel. The ends burn in the fire, and the stalks are pushed gradually deeper into the cinders as they burn away. A metal distillation funnel and a lid sealed with a cloth rim ensure that the rice whiskey makes it’s way into a clean jar through a cloth filter.

Following the demonstration, I bought a couple bottles and we moved on to some old caves downriver. Originally thought to be the home of a Naga (a mythical serpent), many animists used to make sacrifices in the caves. One of the local Kings decided to turn the cave into a sacred place for Buddhists as well, hoping to convert some of the local village people. Soon the caves were filled with Buddha statues. From as early as the 15th century, the Buddhas of varying size and shape peer tranquilly out towards the river. The hike up to the upper cave was long and exhausting, and the thick sticky air made the journey daunting. A wet sweaty mess, I survived and saw the place where my guide’s family and other villagers once hid during the war, side by side with centuries of Buddhist history.

Back at the village where we had boarded the fishing boat, my guide’s father, the former village chief, invited us for a traditional lunch in his home. We sat on the floor and enjoyed truly local fare. Chicken soup, minced pork and vegetables steamed in banana leaves, stir fried ‘morning glories’ (which upon googling, I just discovered are on the USDA’s “Federal Noxious Weed List” and the plants are illegal in the US…Mmmm…they were good though), fried river shrimp, bamboo shoots and hot chilies mixed with crab paste, all served with sticky rice. The food was delicious, especially the noxious weeds. I think my guide’s father was concerned at my single marital status because the lunch conversation seemed to revolve largely around weddings and marriage traditions.

After lunch, we went to a small village where we watched paper being made from mulberry bark, and then proceeded to a silk weaving village. The silk weaving village was a real treat because it was truly off the beaten track. We drove down another even more treacherous mud road as far as we could, walked across a rather rickety bamboo bridge, and then wandered down the path through the village to the silk weaving center. The women there demonstrated how the silk is dyed using natural products, as well as some of the long weaving process. One young lady was working impressively fast at a rather difficult pattern of silk. The owner of the center said that this particular girl earns as much as $6 USD per day because she is able to finish more weaving every day.

Tired after a long day of exploration, I took an afternoon nap before heading out for a walk around the night market and finding some dinner. I ate at a small restaurant called Arisai, which was excellent. The owner was a Lao gentleman who moved to Paris in 1975 when the communists took over. “Now we are able to come back.” he told me, and come back he did. His restaurant was elegant with a definite French flavor.

This town has a way of feeling both exotic and comfortable at the same time. The Lao people are very friendly, and they have taken the best of their colonial history and blended it seamlessly with their local culture and heritage like a fine woven silk of overlapping patterns and colors. On one side of the street you may have people enjoying sticky rice and steamed fish while fresh croissants and pain du chocolat are being served on the other. The sophistication of a French town met by the peaceful country existence of the people just a short way down the Mekong. I’m both surprised and delighted by what I have discovered here.

Morning on Phou Si Mountain

It’s only 7AM, and I’ve already given alms to about 300 Buddhist monks and climbed Phou Si Mountain (just for comedic value, ph does not make an F sound in Lao). Pulling my camera out of the bag to take some photos of the monks, the lens immediately fogged over thanks to the incredible humidity. The sun had just finished rising as I knelt by the side of the road with my basket of sticky rice. The monks began to file past like an army of faithful draped in bright orange robes, each carrying a pot for collecting food. Locals and foreigners alike dropped sticky rice, candies and cookies in pot after pot as the monks and novices whizzed by.

Side by side with the more fortunate people giving alms were children and adults from poorer families also kneeling with baskets in front of them. As the monks passed by, they would drop some of their alms into the baskets of the poor people. It was a full cycle of giving occurring in a matter of seconds out on the hot moist streets of Luang Prabang.

My hands were unaccustomed to gathering the small clumps of sticky rice, so I was moving too slow for many of the monks. Knowing that there were many more waiting behind them and they had already collected plenty, several of the monks would pass by me without receiving anything when I wasn’t moving fast enough. Although I was giving more generous portions of rice than the locals, I was much more conservative than most of the foreigners. Eventually, however, my rice did run out, so I waited for a line of monks to pass before I rose to take some photos.

Not realizing that she was purchasing rice from a street vendor, an inappropriately dressed Dutch woman was dropping sticky rice into the monk’s pots by the fist full. When she got up to leave, she was followed by the women who had been shoveling rice in front of her for the last hour. Not having negotiated a price for the alms, she was suddenly confronted with a hard round of negotiating.

With most of the monks having passed by, we hopped into the van and drove to the foot of Phou Si Mountain. It’s not a monolithic mountain, but in the heat and humidity, trekking up the hundreds of steps was challenging. Along the way, I passed a large black scorpion hanging out by the side of the path. I was relieved to see that he had as little interest in me as I did in him. At the top of the mountain, I was faced with beautiful views over the city settled between the Mekong and Khan rivers. Fog was rolling between the mountains as the sun slowly melted it away. We walked around the stupa and past the monastery, where more people were presenting alms to the city monk. Over the top and back down the other side, covered in sweat, our morning on Phou si was over.

No More Virgins in Chiang Mai

“Passenger Stephen George please come to the service counter.” I thought maybe the announcement had something to do with making sure my luggage was transferred from my Dubai flight to my connecting flight from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, but the news was a little less mundane. The Thai Airways staff had received a message at the gate requesting that they notify me that my flight from Chiang Mai to Luang Prabang in 4 days had been cancelled. I think the gate staffed were pleasantly surprised and somewhat relieved at how well I took the news. I took the phone number for Lao Airlines in Chiang Mai and thanked them for letting me know. Why should I get upset? I’m on vacation.

I made it to Chiang Mai where I was met by a compact, energy-filled, young lady who was to be my tour guide for the next couple days. For those of you that have met my friend Uzma (Hi Uzma!), Gina is the Thai version. Her smile and her bubbly personality were contagious, and I think I spent most of my time with her laughing. Having not slept much since I left Doha, I was a little tired and chose to take a long nap at the hotel when we arrived. Gina returned in the evening to take me to a local khantoke dance performance and dinner.

I had a very large and enjoyable dinner of chicken soup, yellow curry with pork, crispy noodles with tamarind, fried chicken with herbs, fried bananas, chili paste with tomatoes, chili paste with eggplant, sticky rice, steamed rice, fresh cucumbers and long beans, stir-fried mixed vegetables, and fresh fruit with sweet rice cakes for dessert. Gina thought it would be best that I sit on the floor to have a real local experience, and once I saw the “tables”, I completely agreed with her decision. The tables still didn’t have seats, they just brought you and the food a bit higher. By the time the dance performance was starting though, my right leg had gone completely numb. I was trying so hard to follow local etiquette and keep my feet behind me to prevent pointing the soles of my feet at someone (a sign of disrespect in Thailand), but I was beginning to worry that my leg might fall off from lack of circulation. I managed to maneuver into a more comfortable position without offending anyone. On the way back to the hotel, Gina mentioned that she hoped it would not rain in the morning. She explained a local ritual to prevent rain that involves having a virgin place an upside down stalk of lemongrass into the ground. "Problem is, impossible to find virgin now!"

The next day, Gina and I, despite a little rain, went up to Doi Suthep, a local mountain crowned by an important Buddhist temple. The mountain is called Elephant mountain because the legend says that an elephant carried the remains of the King to the top of the mountain and then died itself. “Do you know why the elephant died?” Gina asked. “Try walking up the mountain and you’ll know,” she answered for me.

At the temple, I learned to always walk clockwise around the temples and how to pay respect to Buddha in the Thai style. When visiting the mountain, it is said you are allowed to make one wish, so I followed the tradition and wished away. There is also a very interesting tradition involving asking an elephant figurine any questions you might have. You first ask the elephant your question and then try to lift the figurine with your pinky (for men, ring finger for women). Then, you repeat your question, but ask the figurine to become heavier or lighter if the answer is yes. I tried it, and I liked my answer.

The day continued with visits to a Jade workshop, teak carving factory, silk weaving factory and a few more temples. When the tour ended, Gina asked if I would like to join her for the special Sunday “Walking Street”, a local market where they close down some of the main streets in town to allow vendors to set up their goods for sale. Together, we wandered around town a bit looking at all the cheap goods on offer. We stopped at a street stand to try some of the local noodles, which were fantastic; spicy and sweet, full of flavor, and right up my alley. After our spicy dinner, we grabbed some black jelly, a strange herbal gelatin made from the root of a Chinese herb that supposedly helps lower cholesterol. The jelly is shaved off a giant jiggling mass, placed in a bowl of crushed ice and topped with palm sugar. It was a perfect dessert.

Gina didn’t accompany me on Monday. Instead, I took an all day Thai cooking class. We went to the market in the morning and then prepared six different Thai dishes during the day, eating each one after we were done cooking that particular course. It was a fun class, and Thai food is a lot less complicated than I thought. During my first day in Chiang Mai, I had visited a tailor to have some new suits made for school since many events require formal business attire, so after the cooking class, I stopped by for my final fitting before they pack up the suits and ship them home. You have to love a place where you can get three bespoke suits made in two days and it costs the same as one suit at home. I polished off the day with a walk through the night market where I bought some tasteless t-shirts for gifts.

This morning, I packed up and went with Gina to the airport where we said our goodbyes. Boarding my Lao Airlines flight to Luang Prabang, I wasn’t the only one that found it amusing that we were flying a small Chinese-built propeller plane. Several of the young Western travelers whipped out their cameras and started posing in front of the plane. I had to practically fold myself in half to fit through the door of the plane, and I kept hitting my head on the overhead compartment doors that were a little less than overhead for me. At one point during the flight, people sitting towards the front started turning around with a look that screamed, “What’s that smell?” The smell was our inflight meal being passed out by the stewardess starting from the back. Despite the smell, I chomped right into the pork meatball sandwich. It wasn’t the best meal of my life, but it didn’t kill me.

There’s something delightfully old-fashioned about sleeping in a four-poster bed surrounded by a mosquito net blowing gently under the breeze of a ceiling fan (ok, so I have an AC unit too). I’m laying here getting ready to call it an early night here in Luang Prabang, and I have a very pleasant first impression of this town. The French colonists left their mark on this small town full of colonial era buildings, bakeries and coffee shops, yet the town has a distinctly Lao flair to it. I wandered up and down the main street of town this evening and visited the night market. The people here seem friendly and easy-going, and I think I’m falling in love with the overall atmosphere. It’s hot and sticky outside, but somehow that adds to the experience. I had dinner at a traditional Lao restaurant recommended by my guide here, and I’m not entirely sure what I ate, but I enjoyed it. I started with some fresh spring rolls and then moved on to a Luang Prabang Pork Casserole (really more of a hot pot type dish) with sticky rice. The spring rolls were very familiar, but I’m not sure I want to know which parts of the pig were in my pork casserole. There was a lot of indistinguishable gray and white minced meat, some of which I think were different organs, but even with my highest suspicions, not knowing for sure meant I was able to eat and enjoy. Tomorrow, I have an early start to my Lao adventure, so I’m off to eat my goodnight cream puff (Vive la France!) and drift off to sleep under my mosquito net.

A beautiful day in Chiang Mai

Squat and wish - guess Jessica is good for something!

Gina and I at the Yaang Come Village Hotel

My room at the Hotel Les 3 Nagas in Luang Prabang, Laos

Flight attendants are now demonstrating how to fasten and unfasten your seatbelt

The call to prayer is echoing through the Dubai airport, and I have chosen to pray for the surprisingly large numbers of clueless travelers wandering the planet. I’m no fool - I know that I travel much more than the average person and have the benefit of years of learning experiences. Only recently, however, have I come to realize that there are some people out there that are truly incapable of figuring out the most basic elements of travel.

On my way from Amman to Doha, I was boarding my Qatar Airways flight when three very small, very pushy Indonesian ladies were trying to force their way past me onto the plane. One particularly scrawny one kept trying to squeeze past me pushing my backpack from side to side in the process. I was severely annoyed and purposely blocked her every move. Once on board, it turned out we were all sitting together in the same row…joy. I’m not sure how exactly the girls made it from Indonesia to Jordan, but it appeared as though they had never been on a plane before in their lives. They repeatedly tried to fasten their seatbelts backwards and could not figure out why it wasn’t working. Once I showed them how the seatbelts worked, we started for takeoff. One tiny bump while climbing to cruising altitude, and the girls covered their faces in fear. When the flight attendants came around with food and beverages, the girls pushed the seats in front of them repeatedly expecting the tray to drop down - I showed them how the trays work as well. After the meal, the gentleman in front of the girl in the window seat decided to recline his seat. It came back suddenly, and the girl screamed and put her hands in a defensive position. When one of them wanted to get up to use the restroom, I had to once again demonstrate how to unbuckle the seat belts because just trying to stand up wasn’t working. When we landed, I let the girls get in front of me so that they could push and annoy someone else.

Finally, I understand why they demonstrate how to fasten and unfasten seatbelts in the airplane safety announcements. I was amazed by this random case of total unawareness, but it appears not to be an isolated case. Flying this morning from Doha to Dubai, an Indian fellow seated next to me had already successfully fastened his seatbelt (upside down), but he decided he wanted out. He started rubbing and pulling on the belt buckle. His efforts gradually became more and more frantic as he feared that he had strapped himself to the seat for life. I tapped him on the shoulder and showed him how to release the buckle. He repeated my actions and breathed a sigh of relief… then he put the belt back on, upside down again.

I was also amazed by the way some of the Arab passengers would outright ignore the requests of the flight attendants to do things like sit down, fasten their seatbelts, make sure their children were safely seated, move their purses, open their window shades, etc, etc… It’s amazing how little some people care. It was somewhat amusing to look around the plane at the number of passengers using airsick bags to pack away parts of their meals for later.

I’ll have to admit that I’ve also become a bit of a germophobe thanks to the media and the outbreak of H1N1. I have become painfully aware of every cough, sneeze and sniffle on the plane. A passenger a few rows back on one of my flights vomited during landing, and the flight attendant came by to ask all of the questions I was wondering. Is he just airsick? Has he been sick before flying? Does he have a fever? Unfortunately, he and his friends didn’t speak a word of English, so I guess we’ll never know.

Traveling isn’t easy anymore, and for some people it appears to be even more difficult than one might expect. I try to remind myself, though, that as annoying as the ignorant might be, with a little help, they might learn to be a little bit more pleasant.

Doing Doha

Visiting shopping malls in foreign countries is always a great way to gain insight into the life of the local middle class. With one full day in Qatar, I spent, perhaps pathetically, several hours of it in the Villaggio Shopping mall in Doha. Villaggio is designed to be like a compilation of Italian cities, complete with a Venetian-style canal and gondolas. Unfortunately, this Vegas-like imitation didn’t even manage to reach second-rate theme park style. The canal is a short straight waterway through the middle of the mall, and the gondolas are staffed by young Asian guys that press start on the electric motor. Walking through the mall, there was a significant amount of activity around the giant Carrefore hypermarket and the surrounding everyday shops like H&M.

At the end of the canal, just before the food court (which was complete with Coldstone Creamery and Krispy Kreme Donuts), a small stand selling children’s books and music on Islam was blaring Koranic Suras read by a deep creepy-voiced man albeit with great annunciation. Past the loud lessons of Islam, one reaches the Via Rosso, the brightest, cleanest and flashiest portion of the mall. This almost completely deserted wing was replete with designer shops from Bulgari to Zegna. Inside every other shop, one could see women in the most elegant of Abayas, covered from head to toe in gracefully flowing black silk trimmed with jewels, their eyes peeking through a Niqab. The women were almost always reluctantly accompanied by middle-aged Arab men in gym clothes - mostly Adidas shorts and muscle shirts.

There are two common types of dress in Doha, traditional Arab costumes and Western clothing. Women of all ages seem to pull off both styles well. There is something mystical, almost magical about a gaggle of black clad women with their faces hidden floating by. Their age can be approximated by the evenness of their stride and the size of their backsides. At least in this portion of the world, butts seem to gradually enlarge with age. Older women are more likely to have a limp or unbalanced walk, whether this is caused by muscle pain, bone weakness or uneven ballast from their buttocks is anyone’s guess. The girls with slim figures and graceful footwork proceed into the second round of the game. Younger girls are more likely to have a glittery colored trim to their Abaya, but you must also decide whether it was their father or their husband that gave them the extra cash for such a flashy getup. With their faces covered, you are left to judge their beauty by their hands and their eyes. The beauty of a woman’s hand can be significant; fine, soft, delicate, well-manicured, the shape becomes as exciting as the curves of a model when the mind is left to wander. But the eyes… the eyes are the window to the soul. One can see a lot about a person’s life, attitude and beauty from their eyes.

Arab men are much better off sticking to the traditional thobe and gutra outfit of the gulf. The simple, lightweight outfit can be as casual or dressy as one wants. It is all about how a man carries himself in the outfit and small details like cuff links and the quality of the fabrics. Young Arab men that choose to dress in Western clothing seem to have the unfortunate habit of making themselves into uber-trendy, arrogant, Eurotrash peacocks, showing off their feathers by wearing sunglasses indoors or sporting the occasional black leather fedora.

The people watching at the mall only got better when they started setting up for a children’s performance in front of the Virgin Mega Store. The show appeared to be state sponsored with the goal of teaching people not to talk on the phone while driving. Seems to be an interesting tactic to raise the next generation of Qatari drivers with a general understanding of traffic regulations, but one has to wonder if that generation will survive through the present set of drivers. During the show, one performer was glued to his phone at all times. He announces that he is going for a drive, which is immediately followed by the gathering of kids from the audience for a song and dance on stage that tells parents not to talk and drive. With an annoying children’s song like that, maybe they’ll get the adults to stop talking on their phones while driving afterall. “Please don’t talk and drive, oh Papa, you’re gonna die.” (I’m taking some poetic liberties with the translation of the lyrics). Following the dance number, there is the sound of a car crash and some very foreboding music. The mobile-phone-loving actor soon appears with his face wrapped in red bandages… very creepy, but it was soon followed by another annoying song with all the kids dancing on stage. In the end, the gentleman didn’t learn his lesson, and I think he died. Time to sing another song kids!

As interesting as it was, I didn’t spend my entire visit to Doha in the mall. My entire mission for the visit was to visit the new Museum of Islamic Art, and that’s exactly what I did as soon as they opened on Thursday. The I.M. Pei designed building is beautiful, both inside and out. The building almost makes the beautiful pieces of art inside it pale by comparison. I think they did a fantastic job collecting and displaying pieces of Islamic art from different periods. The carved wooden doors from Syria and Egypt were my favorites, but there were also some amazing examples of metalwork, ceramics, paintings and carpets. I am curious how an illustrated page from an old Ramayana is classified as Islamic art, but it was a beautiful piece. All in all, I spent about three hours perusing the museum. They also had an impressive temporary exhibit about the “Book of Secrets,“ and Islamic text written in Moorish Spain and currently housed in an Italian library. The book is full of mechanical inventions, and the texts and illustrations were painstakingly restored by the MIA team. The exhibit used large flawlessly functioning touch screen computers to allow visitors to read the book page by page and see 3D models of the inventions and how they function. Unfortunately, the museum shop would not ship any purchases, and I didn’t feel like taking the time to make a run to the post office, so I missed out on some great books, DVDs and porcelain pieces.

Doha was a pleasant enough city to visit, and I’m very glad I made it to the museum. I got lucky because there was talk of a sandstorm while I was in town, and it was speculated to be the largest in many years, but it never materialized (although looking outside here in Dubai, visibility just dropped drastically). I’m also pleased with my visit to Qatar because it was my first time couchsurfing, and it was a great experience. I stayed with a young couple, Melissa and Dan, working in Doha. It was a perfect first, and I look forward to more couchsurfing to come!

A Treatise on Middle Eastern Driving Habits

The following text deals primarily with the norms of traffic and driving in the Republic of Lebanon, however, examples are also taken from Iraq, Syria and Jordan where noted. Driving in the Middle East requires a select set of skills, the most important of which is awareness. Traffic functions differently in this region, and one should take note of some of the many differences explained herein.

- Most roads do not have painted lines, and when they do, they are merely suggestions of lanes, not regulatory markings meant to be followed. Two lane roads can easily become three or even four lane roads with a little precision driving. This is particularly important to note during heavy traffic when extra lanes are most likely to appear in order to increase the slow yet smooth movement of vehicles.

- Much like painted lines on the highway, most regulatory signs are also merely placed for encouragement. One-way roads are two way as long as there is room for two cars to fit. Going the wrong direction on major highways is perfectly acceptable if it is the closest route to your destination - stay as far to the left as possible and flash your lights at every passing car just to ensure their awareness of your position.

- The use of car horns is obligatory as an aid to other drivers. If someone is nearing your position on the road, give two gentle toots to alert the approaching driver. When driving past the home or workplace of a friend or family member, give a toot as a friendly greeting. On blind curves, it is advisable to honk once, especially if you are towards the center of the road or even completely within your own ‘lane’ - this is a warning for opposing drivers to merge slightly to the correct side of the road. Short blasts of the horn are always helpful tones with no negative or confrontational connotation whatsoever. One long loud honk, however, is a sign of anger and frustration - you are advised to remedy the situation immediately.

- Speed bumps can appear with little or no marking at the most random of locations. Always be prepared to brake suddenly or gain some minor degree of air time. In the case of Iraq, pay attention to other drivers for signs of an approaching speed bump - any speed less than 160 kph (100 mph) probably means there is either traffic or a speed bump.

- Military checkpoints should not be frightening, and they certainly don’t indicate a significant delay in your journey. Approach the soldier slowly with your window down and interior lights on if driving at night. A general greeting, wave of the hand and a thank you are all that are required of you for a quick pass through the checkpoint. Only prepare your ID or documents if asked. Even if your hosts demonstrate otherwise, it is always inadvisable to threaten to run over a soldier at a checkpoint. If the checkpoint has no barricades, no flags and no uniforms, it is probably not a checkpoint at all, rather militia members offering propaganda in exchange for donations - feel free to engage in conversation and/or negotiation.

- In Jordan, it is perfectly normal to see a smiling camel riding in the back of a pick-up truck.

- Popular opinion, or at least that of my cousin Mounira, suggests that having to stop for a herd of sheep or goats crossing the road is good luck, and one should unroll the window and inhale the scent of real life.

- Do NOT, however, inhale the air from any tunnels. Air circulation is not common and fumes can be noxious.

- Most cars in the Middle East are programmed to start an electronic beeping from the dashboard when the speed of the vehicle reaches 120 kph (75 mph). This appears to be more for the annoyance of all passengers than a warning to the driver of dangerous speeds. The exception to this appears to be in Jordan, where traffic police are abundant, and speed limits appear to be strictly enforced. If renting a car in the region, avoid Volvos if you have a lead foot, the high pitched tone of the warning is loud and ear-piercing - damn Swedes.

- One must always watch for the heads of customs officers popping out of the ground at border crossings. At the Syrian-Jordanian border in Jaber, customs agents stand in holes in the ground in order to tap the bottoms of automobiles as they pass over head to make sure nothing is hidden in one of the underside tanks. Don’t drive too fast through the border, lest you inadvertently decapitate a state official (something that certainly can’t be good). It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it… I guess.

- If a road appears to be just wide enough for a golf cart to pass through, it is probably still meant for two way traffic, unless it is located in a city, in which case there will probably be too many cars parked on the sidewalk to allow two way traffic.

- The following are the expected best practices for crossing through an intersection with a traffic light. Green means slow down and check for people running red lights. Yellow is just a color added to the signal for excitement and has no real meaning. Red means slow to an almost complete stop but accelerate again if there is no cross traffic. When turning right on a red light, it is possible that you will cause an accident if you stop completely; proceed slowly into the oncoming traffic.

- In most countries, traffic circles are used instead of traffic lights to allow smooth transit through an intersection for traffic approaching from all directions with the simple rule of yielding to traffic already in the circle. In the Middle East, however, traffic circles are often an excuse to install even more traffic lights, as lights are needed for entering the circle as well as proceeding around the circle.

- Pedestrian crossings are few and far between, so pedestrians seldom use them and cars seldom respect them. Always watch for pedestrians in the road. If you see an outstretched palm facing you with a slight incline, this is a polite request to slow or stop for the crossing pedestrian.

- To signal another driver to slow down or stop, clinch the finger tips of one hand together with your palm facing upwards and move your hand slightly in a downward direction.

- Turn signals are a sign of earnest desire or necessity to move in a particular direction. They should not be used in occasions when you should be able to proceed with little hindrance, but will generally earn you either a warning toot or space to proceed with caution when used properly. If other vehicles do not seem to be respecting your turn signal, open your window and start flopping your hand up and down - this is a signal to other drivers that something drastic is about to occur.

- Beware of flopping hands.

A Last Crusade for Jordan

My attempt at getting some sun on the beach in Aqaba was perhaps a bit too earnest. I ended up with a slight burn on my shoulders and a little bit on my legs as well. Being the skilled person I am, I managed to tan just the left half of my right leg, front and back. Despite these small setbacks, I had a very pleasant and relaxing visit to Aqaba, staying at the newly opened Kempinski Red Sea Resort. The hotel is so new, in fact, that they won’t have their grand opening until late August. It was a fantastic opportunity to stay at such a nice hotel because the young staff were excited about the new property, eagerly serving the few guests, and they weren’t yet disillusioned by the often frustrating life in the service industry.

I asked the concierge on duty if she thought it would be possible for me to get a car and driver to take me to Petra, see the site and then proceed to the Amman airport in time for my 5PM flight to Doha. There was a bit of confusion as we talked through the process, but I was patient and helped her understand exactly what I needed, and eventually we had it all set. I would leave at 7AM, drive 2 hours to Petra, spend 3 to 4 hours walking around and then continue on for the 2.5 to 3 hour drive to Queen Alia International Airport.

At 7AM, I was closing up my suitcase as the phone rang. It was the concierge letting me know that my driver had arrived. I went downstairs to checkout, and she had breakfast and lunch packed up for my journey. It was a pleasant surprise, and the perfect example of how staff can go above and beyond before they learn to hate guests. It’s unfortunate for us nice people, but there are far too many overly demanding, impatient and outright rude customers out there to expect service staff to always offer service with a smile.

We made it to Petra right on time. The driver helped me purchase a ticket, and then I set out hiking through the rocks. It was early enough in the morning, that there were few other tourists there, so at times I felt like I was all alone in this incredible location. When the wind would blow through the rocks, I could almost hear the whispers of ancient Nabatiya telling me stories of ages past. I can’t begin to explain how picturesque Petra really is. A cool breeze blew through the rocks offering relief from the intense desert sun. Coming across the major structure of the ancient Nabatian city was breathtaking, and it really felt like a step back in time with no sounds of modern life nearby.

An enchanting morning of exploring part of the ancient world was over, and I was back in the car speeding away to the airport. I made it to Amman with plenty of time to spare and was soon on my flight to Doha.

Damascene Style

My flight was scheduled to depart Amman at 17:00, and at 16:00 we still weren’t quite at the airport. What was I going to do if I didn’t make the flight? It was the last flight of the day to Aqaba, and another 4 to 5 hours in the car after the already over 3 hour drive from Damascus did not sound exciting. Sitting in the back seat twiddling my thumbs and thinking about the tight schedule, Jordan was passing by my eyes. The occasional gust of wind brought clouds of sand around the car.

Damascus was nicer than I had expected, but I still have mixed feelings about Syria. With only one full day to explore the city, I decided it best to hire a guide to ensure I see all the important sites. It didn’t take me long to regret that decision. I was in the middle of the capital city of a Middle Eastern dictatorship that thrives on propaganda. In many ways, Assad’s tight control of Syria has saved it from the problems Lebanon has faced over the years. The roads are well kept, the city is pretty clean by Middle Eastern standards, large spotless government buildings stand proudly throughout the city, there is little crime, Muslims and Christians live side by side in peace, and political unrest is unheard of. Images of Hafez and Bachar al Assad are everywhere in the country, and I half expected one of them to appear on my computer screen shaking their finger at me when I tried to access facebook and couchsurfing, both websites which are blocked from Syrian internet service providers.

My guide was more like the assistant minister of propaganda than a well-versed tour guide. I was disappointed with his ill-informed history and his obvious over-Damacusization of everything he could think of, and even found his commentary in general very boring. He seemed thwarted when I shot down his statement that September 11th was completely staged with an eyewitness account. He had insisted that to this day, they had never found any evidence that a plane had hit the Pentagon. My nearly 6 hour tour of Beirut had seemed long, but it was enjoyable and informative. The 7 hour tour of Damascus was never-ending and tedious, and I was visibly annoyed with the guide by the time we made it back to the hotel. That said, I did like some of what I saw in Damascus, and the Ommayad mosque in particular was beautiful. I only wish I had chosen to explore the city on my own.

Damascus reminds me of a Middle Eastern Seoul - a metropolitan city surrounded by mountains. In this case, the city is believed by many to be the location of the Garden of Eden, and the surrounding hills are home to the first evil, the story of Cain and Abel. The city has an almost mystical atmosphere to it, particularly in the old town. So many stories by so many people have been told in and about this city; Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, St. Paul, the Prophet Mohammed, and many others. Layer upon layer of history hides in the most unlikely of places. At one point, we went into a pedestrian tunnel full of low-priced clothing shops, much like the metro stations of many European cities - Budapest comes to mind. Daddy Yankee was playing on the stereo while young misled Syrian men stood in their slim-cut button down shirts with their hairy chests bulging from the mostly open buttons. Apparently, while women are encouraged to cover up (to a much more moderate degree than many Muslim countries), men use their chests like peacock feathers to attract the shy members of the opposite sex. We were there to see one of the few exposed portions of the old Roman wall surrounding the city because where else would it be hiding?

This morning, I had breakfast at the hotel and then waited for a driver to pick me up for the drive to the Amman airport. Leaving Damascus, the rest of Syria appeared much more like I had expected. Like the Bekaa valley in Lebanon, the area between Damascus and the Jordanian border is dry and dusty, yet fertile. One thing that stuck out to me was that while the Syrian soldiers spray painted every available surface in Lebanon with pro-Syrian slogans, there is not a spot of graffiti anywhere in Syria. The border between Syria and Jordan was much less busy and much easier to pass through than the Lebanese-Syrian border. Even still, it was definitely another example of a complicated and confusing Middle Eastern land border.

Once inside Jordan, I can’t explain how, but the entire atmosphere changed. Even visually, the fertile plains of Syria gave way to sandy desert hills. Lebanon is definitely the most beautiful country in the region from what I have seen so far, but I every place has its own charms. I did manage to check in and board my flight to Aqaba, and now I am at a brand new hotel on the Red Sea. The Kempinski hasn’t even had its grand opening yet, but I’m here enjoying the view of the white sand beach from my balcony, and I look forward to enjoying some sun and swimming tomorrow.