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Monday, September 1st, 2003
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10:00 am - Welcome ... read me first!
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The purpose of this LiveJournal is to mirror the travelogues that I e-mail to family and friends during my overseas wanderings. Currently, travelogues from the following trips are displayed here:
Patagonia, November 2002Central Europe, October 2001Southeast Asia, February 2001Scandinavia/Russia, May 2000India/Nepal, February 2000
... and a visit to an amazing Bolivian silver mine in September 1998.
More travelogues from other expeditions to Europe, Asia, and South America will be added shortly. And someday I might even add some pictures ...
The easiest way to read the travelogues is to head to the Memories page for this journal -- each trip is set up as a separate memory. (Obviously, the travelogues for each trip will make more sense if read chronologically, rather than in the reverse order that LiveJournal uses in its default views.)
Definitely drop me a note if you have any questions, would like to talk travel, or would be interested in checking out my daily personal journal.
Mark
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| Friday, November 15th, 2002
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10:23 pm - Valparaiso, and home ...
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Hello, all ...
Yep, I'm back in Chile. Tonight I'm in a little cybercafe in the University district of Santiago, populated by a mixture of earnest college students and puzzled international travelers (I, of course, would be among the latter.) Anyhow, here's the last report from this trip to South America:
Yesterday was another travel day, but it was also one of the trip's scenic highlights -- a high-altitude crossing of the central Andes, almost within spitting distance of the highest mountain in the Americas. It started after a late breakfast in Mendoza, when I headed down to the city's bustling bus station late in the morning and hopped aboard a Chilean-bound bus. A pretty nice bus, too, with on-board movies, complementary sandwiches and cokes, and an obsequious attendant. (With relatively few private cars down here, these countries take bus travel pretty seriously.)
Soon, we headed out of town, past endless suburban barrios (and, much to my horror, a brand-new Wal-Mart SuperCenter! As I've said before, you can run, but you can't hide ...). Then we were out in the vineyards of the wine country, with literally dozens of bodegas advertising their inviting-looking tasting rooms. And then a sharp turn to the west, and we were headed straight for the mountains.
Our climb into the Argentinean Andes included hours of long, twisting ascents of amazingly-deep desert canyons, which seemed to go on forever. Little valleys with small farming villages came and went, and isolated lodges and raft-trip outfitters appeared as we climbed higher. It was unquestionably gorgeous ... just a little like the American southwest, but on a far more epic scale.
By mid-afternoon, the narrow road had climbed to over 10,000 feet, and there were snow-covered mountain crags all around rising several thousand feet higher. I caught a glimpse, a few miles to the north, of Aconcagua -- the highest mountain in the Western Hemisphere. Then a stop at the Argentinean customs post and through a long tunnel piercing the heart of the Andean Range ... and we were in Chile.
The Chilean border formalities were slightly maddening, but the setting -- on an amazingly-high, impossibly steep mountain face -- definitely made it worthwhile. And if I'd thought the ascent into Argentina was spectacular, well, it was nothing compared to the Chilean side. The road instantly plunged several thousand feet down a thin cleft in the almost vertical mountain ... one narrow hairpin switchback after another (and another, and another ...). As the proverbial crow files, it was only a few miles until we were nearly down to sea level again ... but what an amazing and tortuous road! Definitely the most spectacular mountain crossing I'd ever seen, and easily one of the most sensational in the world.
The bus made it to Santiago by early evening. The city is in a broad desert valley, with high mountains in nearly every direction ... most of the roads into town feature lots of long tunnels. It's a great setting, and there's a warm and sunny southern California climate here. And everyone's putting up Christmas decorations! Before retiring to the hostel for the night, I had dinner with a couple more new international friends -- a guy from Wellington and a girl from Kalgoorlie. (It was great to meet someone from there, even if I don't know how to spell it!)
I've only looked around Santiago a bit, but I don't think it's going to be one of my favorite cities ... its fairly featureless, and mostly modern. It could almost be in (ugh) Texas. But I'll have a few hours to poke around tomorrow before my flight leaves, and that may change my opinion of things a bit.
Instead of exploring Santiago today, I decided to head for the famous Chilean port city of Valparaíso, someplace I'd wanted to see for a long time. The city has almost a mythic place in Latin American history -- the first port of call for sailing ships that had rounded Cape Horn, an exotic metropolis of trade and commerce in the wild South American frontier. (And for me the place also just has a great, evocative name ... right up there with Constantinople and Timbuktu.) So I had a pretty powerful mental image of the city, and I had to see it.
And I wasn't disappointed. Valparaíso is beautifully situated on a long, curving bay, with steep, high hills all around. The city's labyrinthian streets totally envelop the hills, reminding me a little of San Francisco but even more of La Paz, Bolivia. Little funicular railways climb from the bay to the barrios high above. There are huge, great nineteenth-century buildings everywhere. And the city is vibrant and lively. All and all, definitely an exotic and atmospheric place.
Anyhow, I spent a few hours wandering through the city, just absorbing my surroundings. I rode one of the little funiculars ... creaking, varnished wood, with a faint smell of creosote. And for lunch I bravely visited the town's aging, crumbling central market, with it's garbage, feral cats, and strange odors. Upstairs in the market, little restaurant stalls serve lunches of "paila marina" -- a fish and shellfish chowder that looks truly frightening but tastes wonderful. (The things that those Lonely Planet guidebook editors can talk me into doing ...)
And I guess that's about it. Tomorrow I'll start my long series of flights back to Bozeman, and by Sunday evening I should be relaxing in my own bed for a change. It's definitely been a great trip -- I really fell in love the incredible geography of both Chile and Argentina, and was very impressed with the vibrant cultures and truly wonderful people here. Getting back to reality will definitely suck -- but hopefully I'll only have to endure the terminal grayness of Butte for a few more months before another overseas escape comes along.
Mark
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| Wednesday, November 13th, 2002
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10:53 pm - Cemeteries and wine ...
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Hello, all ...
Well, tonight I'm writing from a small internet cafe looking out onto the town plaza of the little city of Mendoza, Argentina. I just came inside after buying a bag of fresh popcorn -- made with caramelized sugar -- from a little old man in the square, and watching the sun set over the mountains behind the fountains in the plaza. Pretty cool.
Anyhow, I've covered a fair amount of ground since my note to you from Punta Arenas. It's been a long combination of buses and flights, designed to see some scenery while avoiding as much expense and discomfort as possible. And all in all, it's gone pretty well.
I checked out of my lodgings in Punta Arenas on Monday morning (the place isn't recommended, by the way ... never trust a guest house done up in a magenta-and-orange paint scheme), ready to board a noon bus for the desert town of Rio Gallegos, Argentina. With a couple of hours to kill before bus time, I followed the advice of my Lonely Planet book and headed for a stroll through the town cemetery. And as a self-proclaimed connoisseur of cemeteries, I can tell you that this one was very cool. As promised, there were huge, ornate vaults holding the remains of the Patagonian sheep barons of the last century, but even more interesting were the thousands and thousands of smaller tombs, all done up in true Latin American Catholic style: photographs of the deceased, icons, mementos, and lots and lots of flowers. There were also a surprising number of old, English-language markers -- European immigrants who'd come over to work the ranches, Scottish sailors lost on Cape Horn, and on and on. Very evocative stuff.
Unfortunately, my noon bus didn't leave until well after one ... the driver was waiting for the paperwork that was supposedly necessary for the bus to cross the international border. (The papers actually never arrived, but the driver got tired of waiting -- and we made it across without them.) Once underway, though, it was another desolate but gorgeous afternoon crossing the deserts of Wyoming ... er, Patagonia.
The bus featured high-class onboard service, too. The attendant began by distributing tall drink glasses, and then came around with a little tray containing jars of Nescafé and sugar. Then she pulled out a thermos of hot water and filled everyone's glass. Finally, each of us got -- wrapped in a napkin -- something that could charitably be described as a Bologna sandwich. Eat your heart out, Greyhound.
The road to Rio Gallegos was partly paved and partly dirt, and a part of the road had one paved lane (the southbound) and one gravel lane. So on that part of the road everyone naturally drove on the southbound lane, regardless of the direction they were actually going.
We made good time to Rio Gallegos, but I was still worried -- I'd booked an evening flight from there to Buenos Aires, and the connection was looking hopeless. On the bus, I formed an alliance with a couple of Italians who were heading for the same flight, and the instant the bus arrived we were out the door, hailing a cab for the airport. Turns out we made the plane with time to spare, but I didn't see much of Rio Gallegos. (The town's only real claim to fame is that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid robbed the bank there back in 1905, and I'd kind of wanted to look for that site.)
My flight back to Buenos Aires included a great, unexpected treat -- an intermediate stop in Ushuaia, the self-proclaimed "southernmost city in the world," on the island of Tierra del Fuego. (Ushuaia has a mountains-and-fjords setting that is utterly, utterly beautiful ... it's someplace else I have to get back to someday.) Then it was back to the big city of B.A. and "home" to the hostel I'd stayed at last week.
(That hostel does have one strange, unique feature that I have to tell you about. The building has a light well near the back, providing ventilation and windows for the hostel's bathrooms. Unfortunately, though, the light well also seems to access (and amplify) the sound system from the adult movie theater that occupies the building next door! This means that everyone who uses the hostel's facilities is treated to a full-volume sound clip of the porn movie of the week. There's not a lot of *dialogue,* though ...)
Anyhow, I was pooped by the time I got back to B.A., and I decided I needed a day off. So on Tuesday I slept late, ate a lot, relaxed in the local parks, and didn't really do much of anything else. My one "tourist" activity was an afternoon tour of the city's famous, century-old Colón Opera house, "bigger than La Scala, and with better acoustics, too." It was really cool ... although I'm no fan of opera, some of the architecture associated with it can be really great.
And this morning I boarded a "Southern Winds Airlines" flight for the little city of Mendoza. It's totally different country than what I've seen so far ... looks a little like southern California, actually. (It's downright hot here ... very pleasantly hot.) This is the heart of Argentina's wine country -- there are over 2,000 wineries near Mendoza, although most of the stuff they produce is reportedly pretty awful.
This is another lovely little city. Lively, tree-lined streets, with little canals paralleling the sidewalks. Great plazas and parks, and a busy little downtown. I like it here a lot. I'm staying near the main plaza, at an extremely hip, cool hostel called "Campo Base" (the Base Camp). As you'd expect with a name like that, the place is a haven for climbers and outdoorsmen, and my fellow travelers are mostly lithe, suntanned guys heading either to or from the Andes ... which are just outside of town, actually.
As usual, I've come to a place where I'd like to spend a few more days, but my vacation time is running out. I think its off to Santiago tomorrow; I'll send one last note from there in a couple of days.
Mark
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| Sunday, November 10th, 2002
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7:31 pm - Torres del Paine ...
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Hello, all ...
Well, I've probably gotten just about as far south as I'm going to on this trip. Tonight I'm in Punta Arenas, Chile, at a little combination internet shop and video game emporium. Lots of teenage boys coming in to ogle the latest for Nintendo 64 ... kids are obviously the same here as everywhere.
Speaking of kids, I had an exciting experience walking over here tonight. Strolling through the town plaza, I noticed a large, unruly mob positioned around the front doors of the city's finest hotel. As I drew closer, it became apparent that the mob was composed largely of thirteen-year-old girls, and the explanations of passersby gave me enough information to figure out that the Chilean equivalent of a Backstreet Boy was trapped inside. Soon, a scream was heard from the building's side entrance, and the mob tore around the corner, but it was too late ... the idol had escaped in an unmarked van, complete with a police escort. The girls ran frantically behind, but all was lost.
Anyhow, I left you a couple of days ago, back in Puerto Natales. After sending my last letter, I headed over to my favorite restaurant in the town for what is almost the mandatory meal in these parts ... steak. And excellent steak it is, too -- maybe not quite as tender as Montana beef, but definitely more flavorful. And just to make sure that you get enough cholesterol and saturated fat with your dinner, steak here is typically served with a couple of fried eggs slapped on top. Throw in a giant plate of french fries, and you've got a cardiologist's nightmare. Afterwards, I headed off to my lodgings in Puerto Natales -- a little guest house called Cecilia's, run by a commanding Chilean woman and her meek Swiss husband. (Cecilia's homemade bread is famous throughout the Magallanes, and is definitely reason enough to stay there.)
Cecilia had prepared an impossibly-large box lunch for me the next morning; I grabbed it and caught an early bus for Torres del Paine, perhaps Chile's most spectacular natural attraction. This is a national park featuring glaciers, alpine lakes, and a magnificent mountain massif that would put the Tetons to shame. The mountains are spectacularly carved, with high, swooping, vertical rock faces that have defied the world's best climbers for decades. This was one of my primary destinations of the trip, and I wasn't disappointed in the least ... the peaks are amazing, and the interplay among mountains, glaciers, and lakes creates a magnificent vista that I don't think could be duplicated anywhere else on earth. This is also one of the world's most noted trekking sites ... which is something else I need to come back here to do someday.
The ride into Torres was another long trip on dirt roads, past vast estancias and beautiful, unspoiled mountain deserts. There was wildlife, too -- including thousands of guanacos (llama-like creatures). I kept thinking of the country south of Rock Springs, Wyoming ... although I doubt there are many guanacos there.
As with my bus trips in Argentina, it was fun watching and interacting with the European tourists on this excursion. While this country is easily some of the most spectacular I've ever seen, the basics of the local landscape are actually very familiar to me ... the deserts, the mountains, the vastness. I take all of that for granted, but it totally blows the Europeans away. Things like sagebrush, and mesas, and endless dirt roads, and the concept of open-range cattle, are all totally alien to them. The loudest squeals of excitement on the bus yesterday came not from the guanacos, or the first view of the famous massif, but from the sight of an honest-to-God cowboy trailing a small heard of horses into a pasture. German cameras were clicking like crazy, but I'd watched scenes like that a million times before.
Anyhow, I had a great day in the park -- quickly saw all the major sites, and hiked to an amazing vista point which encompassed the massif, a giant glacier, and hundreds of icebergs in a cobalt-blue lake. And then, back to my regular hangout in Puerto Natales (OK, I've been there twice) for another steak!
Today I caught another bus for Punta Arenas, a day of low, rolling hills, scrub forests, and -- amazingly -- paved roads. This city is on the Straits of Magellan, and was quite the cosmopolitan place in its day. As the hub of the Patagonian ranching boom of a century ago, there was once tremendous wealth here, and the town center is filled with huge, aging mansions and handsome old business blocks. The wealth is mostly gone, now, but the city remains a pretty charming place. It's been fun to explore.
Well, that's it for this letter. I think it's time I start heading north -- I have a lot of distance to cover before catching my flight next Saturday. So, the plan is to just spend a couple of uneventful days working northward. I'll send another note on Wednesday or so.
Mark
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| Friday, November 8th, 2002
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7:56 pm - And on to Chile ...
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Hello, all ...
Well, I just keep getting farther and farther south. Tonight I'm in Puerto Natales, Chile ... not quite the edge of the earth, but undeniably close. I'm inside a bright green building emblazoned with the words "STOP INTERNET 128KBPS FAST." It's definitely *not* fast, though. (It was actually a real chore even finding working internet access down here -- but the search process included an great discussion with a woman who operated a buffalo ranch in Fairburn, South Dakota! Imagine that ...)
Anyhow, the last couple of days have been extremely long, but very, very rewarding. Yesterday, I decided that I wanted to visit the Fitz Roy area, probably the most noted trekking and mountaineering region in Argentina. (The Fitz Roy country, along with the Moreno Glacier area, all form part of Argentina's largest national park, by the way -- the "Parque Nacional Los Glaciers." So even here, I can't get away from Glacier National Park!)
So yesterday morning I caught an early bus for El Chaltén, the tiny village that serves as the jumping-off point for the Fitz Roy country. My destination was a good 140 miles away, nearly all of that on gravel and dirt roads. And much of the trip was on Argentina's famed Route 40.
OK, I guess I should explain a little about Route 40 here. Route 40 is a largely-unpaved road traversing the length of Argentina's Patagonia, north to south. The route winds through hundreds and hundreds of miles of magnificent high desert and steppe country, past dramatic mountains and canyons, with the Andes always in view just to the west. The scenery is continually tremendous. And there are practically no towns, practically no services, practically no people, practically no other cars. These attributes have earned the road an almost mythic reverence among dedicated overlanders, who claim that Route 40 is perhaps the last great roadtrip left in the world. I do know that the part that I covered was exceptional, and I know I want to drive it all someday.
The trip up Route 40 was long and slow, utterly desolate but perpetually gorgeous. Virtually the only human presence on the trip was a tiny, elderly roadhouse, hidden behind a lonely string of poplar trees by the river, a zillion miles from nowhere. Inside, in a room that looked like a set from an old spaghetti western, a beautiful Argentinean girl served the most incredible pastries imaginable, accompanied by "café con leche" prepared on a little woodburning stove. It was so cool.
El Chaltén was tiny, frontier-like and extraordinarily remote, in a wonderful setting at the base of the Fitz Roy massif. It was raining a bit when I arrived, though, so rather than venture out I curled up for a while in a little cafe, sipping sweet, strong coffee and reading Bruce Chatwin's "In Patagonia." (Highly recommended, and hopefully more appropriate than my last reading choice!)
Anyhow, the sky soon began to clear, and I met up with Leon, a young computer technician from Utrecht, who'd been one of my roommates in Calafate. The two of us took to the trail, climbing a steep, muddy route through an eerie, thin, primeval forest. We made good time, reaching the high first ridge that frames the classic initial view of the Fitz Roy massif. Unfortunately, the tops of the peaks were still socked in, but the scene was still utterly tremendous: ice fields flowing off the crags of the massif, deep, untouched glacial valleys below, with the sunlit, multi-hued desert landscape behind us. It was a glorious, unforgettable combination that made for one of my most memorable afternoons ever.
The evening bus ride back to Calafate afforded more time in the spectacular Patagonian desert, with the snowcovered Andes shining in the sunset. There was also other drama to the trip, though: the day's rains had turned Route 40 into an endless muddy quagmire, extremely slick and more than a little frightening. The first vehicle we passed was in the ditch, the next stuck in the very center of the road. I felt totally certain that we were destined for one of those fates, but our bus driver responded to the situation with the most amazing display of driving skill I've ever seen, and we were saved. That guy was *so* good. One thing I've learned the last few years, is that if I'm ever in a life-or-death situation and need someone with unquestioned skill, courage, and cool nerves, I'll enlist the help of a third-world bus driver. There are none better.
And today it was time to say goodbye to Calafate and head for Chile. Another day on Route 40 (nicely dried out), past isolated sheep estancias, tiny remote roadhouses, and dramatic, unspoiled scenery. Very close to perfect. I sure hope they never pave that road, but I suspect that Argentina's highway engineers have the same malevolent, destructive plans that highway engineers everywhere do.
It took most of the day to get to Puerto Natales, a town that definitely feels like the end of the world. It's a fairly small city, with a real "frontier" feel, and an amazing coastal setting. It looks a little like Alaska's Kenai Peninsula, actually ... lots of water everywhere, snow-capped peaks behind. And very windy! This is the endpoint of the famous Chilean "inside passage" boat trip through the Andean fjords -- something else I've just got to do if I ever have time and money.
Well, I've definitely used up my quota of adjectives for one evening. I'll send off another note in two or three days.
Mark
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| Wednesday, November 6th, 2002
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10:15 pm - Into Patagonia ...
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Hello, All ...
Greetings from Patagonia! Tonight I'm in the exotic little town of El Calafate, writing from the computer room at my hostel. (My trusty Lonely Planet guidebook describes the hostel building as a "log cabin on steroids," which is pretty accurate, and which means that the structure would fit right in almost anywhere in western Montana. And it means that I feel pretty much at home here, too, despite the thin walls and lousy plumbing.)
Anyhow, I've come nearly 2,000 miles from Buenos Aires ... Argentina is definitely a big country. Since it would have taken me nearly three days to get down here without flying, I started out yesterday morning by hopping a bus out to Buenos Aires' modern Aeroparque to catch a southbound puddle-jumper. The trip started out with a couple hours of delay, however, as the airline tinkered with a "defecto" in my aging 737. But the company compensated by springing for breakfast, and I had a pleasant morning in a little airport cafe, sipping sweet, strong coffee and reading a cheap Spanish/English edition of Jim Morrison's poetry. (Hey, I saw that ... stop rolling your eyes! Jim Morrison is very popular down here.)
Once aloft, though, I enjoyed a four-hour panorama of Argentina unfolding below me. First the famous Pampas, looking from above remarkably like the American Midwest (if the Midwest were to have a coastline, that is). The Nevada-like landscape of northern Patagonia followed, arid but intriguing. My plane paused briefly in Porto Madryn (reportedly populated by Welsh immigrants), and then turned inland towards the still-invisible mountains. As we headed west, the countryside below me became increasingly more arid and lunar, and after a long wait, the peaks of the Andes began to take form on the far horizon.
And amazing mountains they are, too. As I drew closer, the scene resolved into a spectacular panorama of vast, deep-blue, serpentine lakes, leading from the wild desert into a huge, endless expanse of massive and intricately-sculpted mountains, almost totally encased in ice. I was enthralled.
My flight dropped me off at El Calafate's little airport, in a setting that can only be described as surreal. Looking in one direction, I could have sworn that I was in the middle of the Wyoming desert, or maybe headed for Winnemucca or some such place. But in the opposite direction, there were the Andes! It was all very weird, but extremely intriguing, and the desert looked so much the USA's Mountain West that I actually felt strangely comfortable.
El Calafate is a tiny little town, dependent largely on the tourist trade (now that the Patagonian sheep estancias have largely become uneconomical). For a variety of reasons, both explainable and not, the place reminds me very strongly of Pinedale, Wyoming ... go figure. (This town, I'm sure, has much better Italian restaurants, though.) I like it here a lot. Arid sagebrush mountains to the south, cattle and horses and barbed-wire fences, working dogs, and people who are sincerely friendly. But to the north, there's the shore of a huge desert lake that heads almost fifty miles into the heart of the Andes, almost to the Chilean border.
This morning I joined a hostel-sponsored tour that headed westward along that lakeshore, past remote estancias and gorgeous mountains, to one of the most famous and spectacular sights in South America: the Moreno Glacier. It's huge and beautifully sited, in a mountain setting that is strongly reminiscent of Montana's Glacier National Park ... so once again, I felt right at home. The toe of the Glacier is in the lake, and my day included a short trek along the lakeshore directly opposite the ice. It was pretty amazing, looking up at the sculpted blue ice, and watching (and hearing) vast chunks of the stuff crash into the water. My companions and I were ooohing and ahhhing constantly -- in no fewer than seven different languages, from Dutch to Hebrew.
And now I'm back in town. I ate roughly three-quarters of an entire lamb for dinner, and now I'm ready for a shower and bed. I think I'll head into the Andes once again tomorrow, and then maybe continue a little further south into still other glacial mountains. Anyhow ... I'll send another note in a couple of days.
Mark
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| Monday, November 4th, 2002
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8:02 pm - Argentina 101 ...
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Hello, all ...
Well, I guess most of you know the routine by now -- months of e-mail silence from Mark, followed by a string of lengthy missives from an obscure corner of the planet. It's been a few months, now, since I left you all hanging (somewhere in Denmark, as I recall) but I´m back on the road again. Tonight's letter is from a little shop that provides long distance phone calls and cheap internet to the citizens of Buenos Aires, Argentina.
I left a few days ago, now, and endured a series of flights that were long, dull, and generally painful. Each time I fly nowadays, the service seems crabbier, the seats smaller, the food more plastic. But I was rewarded this time to a morning view of a brilliant green subtropical landscape below me ... an Argentinean springtime, far more welcoming than a Montana November. (Montana has it beat as far as mountains go, though -- its utterly, utterly flat around here.)
I cleared customs in short order, found a bus into town, and was soon settled into a very handsome hostel occupying a restored Colonial mansion. The place was filled with wiry, experienced travelers ... most of whom are quietly going about the business of spending months on end exploring the world. And I get a lousy two weeks ... ugh.
And now time to explore Argentina. This is a country that prides itself, in large part, on being different from the rest of South America -- it bills itself as being the most "European" part of the continent. That's actually a thinly-veiled reference to race; the Argentineans are quite proud of the fact that they're nearly all of full-blooded European ancestry (i.e. white), while the other South American countries are largely populated by mixed-blood mestizos. But that attitude definitely does create a different atmosphere, here ... wandering the city is actually surprisingly close to being in Europe, and I certainly couldn't say the same for Lima or La Paz.
The locals here (they call themselves "porteños," since this is Argentina's port city) actually go so far as to call Buenos Aires the "Paris of the Americas." Well, I wouldn't go quite *that* far, but I can actually see the resemblance. There's some wonderful old Beaux Arts and Neoclassical architecture here, and an air of style and real civility that is absent in most western hemisphere cities. Unfortunately, all that is diluted somewhat by a rash of modern, third-world-style construction and by the ravages of the country's latest fiscal crisis. (There's always a crisis of one sort or another going on here, apparently.)
The country's recent economic collapse is a real factor here, affecting the day-to-day lives of the locals and of travelers like me, too. Briefly, a few months ago value of the Argentinean peso plunged, losing nearly three-fourths of its value in a matter of days. This ruined the financial lives of millions of Argentineans, driving much of the country's middle class down to the poverty level. It's obviously been pretty devastating here. Many of the locals, perhaps with some justification, blame their woes on the trend towards corporate globalization, and the street-level facades of the international banking houses have all been thoroughly vandalized. (I can't read all the graffiti, of course, but by now I definitely can pick out the Spanish translation of the word "bastards.") The foreign banks have responded by encasing much of the lower parts of their buildings in sheet metal.
From my perspective, though, the collapse of the peso has transformed a country that not long ago was annoyingly expensive into one that is now often ridiculously cheap. (And yes, I feel a little guilty about that!) The bus ride into town that would have been $11 a year ago is now only three bucks, for example, and internet access is less than 50 cents an hour. A Big Mac combo meal can be had for only $1.50 -- the cheapest I've seen anywhere in the world. (You can "grande size" it, and still be under $1.70.) Of course, while munching away I have to keep in mind that most of the locals can't afford a trip to McDonalds anymore.
Beyond all that, though, it's just been a pleasant place to play tourist for a couple of days. I've shopped and people-watched, visited the town center (with it's Washington Monument-like obelisk), seen the capitol (modeled after ours), watched Tango exhibitions in the streets, and generally enjoyed myself. I could easily spend another day or two here, but I think it's time to head a little farther south ... so with luck, expect an e-mail from Patagonia in another two or three days.
Mark
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| Saturday, October 27th, 2001
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12:01 pm - Berlin to Amsterdam ...
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Hello, all ...
Well, I'm almost home. I'm in Amsterdam this morning, sipping a cappuccino and typing away at an establishment that bills itself as the "World's Largest Internet Cafe" -- 650 shiny new flat-screen terminals, each complete with webcam and integrated telephone connection. Definitely the most sophisticated cybercafe I've visited this trip, but hardly the most atmospheric. Anyhow ...
First off, after sending my last letter I realized that, while I gave some impressions of Prague, I never actually mentioned anything that I *did* while I was there! So, here's a sampling: I visited the cathedral and climbed the 287 steps of it's tower; toured the nooks and crannies of the Prague Castle; saw the tomb of "Good King" Wencelas (however that's spelled!); ascended one of the towers of the Charles bridge to gaze wistfully out; and joined a vast lineup of camcorder-toting tourists to watch the famous Old Town clock strike 12 (overrated, without a doubt). And I went into the newer part of town one evening to find some non-touristy Czech food, but only discovered a total of *four* McDonald's, a TGI Friday's, a KFC, and the largest Dunkin' Doughnuts I've ever seen! (As far as American "corporate culture" goes, you can run, but you definitely can't hide.) Finally, I was among the first people ever to buy a Czech train ticket with a credit card -- it was kind of cool, but you had to be there to appreciate it.
And on to Berlin. I guess I might as well say it right at the beginning: Berlin definitely wasn't one of my favorite cities. In all fairness, this might partly be because I've finally overdosed on historic European architecture after two weeks, or maybe it was partly because the weather's finally turned cold on me. (And I wondered why most of the travelers I met were heading *south* this time of year!) But to me, Berlin was a relatively charmless place, sprawling and without focus, feeling almost more like an American than a European city sometimes.
Of course, Berlin today is still recovering from a couple of big twentieth-century strikes against it: the devastation caused by World War II, and the forty years as a "divided city" that followed. The war, of course, caused tremendous destruction, and effects of that are still evident in the tracts of vacant land that intersperse the urban development. Both the war and the later partition of the city also helped create an urban landscape that's diffuse and sprawling. There's no real "heart" to the place; rather, it's more a scattered collection of big-city neighborhoods that are a drive or a subway ride apart from one another.
Perhaps the best part of the historic city is in what was formerly East Berlin, and there's a tremendous amount of construction going on there. The Germans are midway through a series of massive building projects designed to reconstruct the city to virtually eliminate the visual effects of the war and the partition -- in essence, to allow Berlin to pretend that World War II never happened. (That's actually slightly disturbing, if you think about it too much.) It looks like the result of this will a series of long, monumental streetscapes with a mishmash of old and post-modern buildings. Some of the old stuff is fairly nice, but the new buildings are generally pretty pretentious-looking. It's not going to be a very "human" city when they're done, but I think they're trying for "epic sophistication" instead. But as someone who evaluates and criticizes buildings for a living, I didn't think too much of their efforts.
Enough of that. As far as the tourist sights, I saw the famous Reichstag (with it's new glass dome ... which I think really mucks it up); the Brandenburg Gate (under restoration at the moment); and the Checkpoint Charlie museum (which was quite good). I also ate lots of bratwurst, and wandered some of the business and shopping areas, which are extremely pleasant -- and if anyone's interested, Berlin has what is probably the best department store in the world!
Then it was time to head for Amsterdam to catch my flight home. I decided to take a "NachtZug" (night train) here, and to splurge on a sleeper as a reward for enduring all those hostel bunk beds recently. A procession of long, brightly-lit sleeping-car trains heads out of Berlin every evening: to Munich, Vienna, Paris, Stuttgart, Malmo, Krakow. It was fun watching them pull out, one by one, each departure looking like a scene from an Agatha Christie story. The Amsterdam train was last, with a classic, aged sleeping car bringing up the rear. My compartment was great: lots of varnished wood and chrome, a thick mattress and fluffy duvet, and a little table covered with a linen cloth. It was very cool, although not quite as exotic as my last European sleeping-car trip (in Yugoslavia, three years ago). This one was better in some ways, though: as we approached Amsterdam I was awakened by an elderly car attendant carrying my breakfast, while on the other trip time I was awakened by a teenaged Macedonian soldier carrying an automatic rifle! (He was only escorting the customs officials.)
Now I've got a day to kill in Amsterdam before my flight home. It's cool and rainy, and I'm pooped, so there's no hard-core tourist activity in store. (I've already seen most of the major museums in previous visits here.) This is easily one of my favorite cities to be in, though, so I'll definitely have to do some wandering around. (Of course, I'll try to stay out of the red light district and the famous, marijuana-selling "coffee shops." Really, I will!) And then it's back to (ugh) reality, and time to start daydreaming of the next trip. This has been a great one ... I was amazed by Venice, and know that I have to get back soon to see more of Italy. And I definitely fell in love with the Czech Republic -- it's one of the most beautiful and fascinating places I've ever seen, and I'd go back in a heartbeat.
And that's it! I'll close this series of e-mails with a mini-lecture ... and a one-sentence summary of what all of these trips have shown me: this world is an amazing and wonderful place, and there's *no* excuse at all for not getting out to experience it!
Mark
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| Wednesday, October 24th, 2001
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7:13 pm - Prague and beyond ...
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Hello, all --
Well, I made it to Berlin this afternoon. And the internet cafes keep getting classier -- this one has kind of a techno feel, with a glass floor covering a backlit bed of green bottle shards! A little unsettling, but still very cool. Anyhow ...
Most of my time since the last e-mail was spent in Prague, so I guess I'd better tell you a little about that. I'd wanted to visit Prague for years, and I'm not entirely sure why. I suspect, though, that my interest dates all the way back to 1968 -- I still have a very strong memory of seeing TV shots of the Soviet tanks entering the city that year. It must have been pretty heady stuff for a ten-year-old.
But I didn't really know exactly what was there. And when I finally saw Prague, understanding my conclusions about the place took a while ... it turned out to be a fairly complex city, at least for me. I guess I'll start out with the "bad stuff" first.
This was my third visit behind the former Iron Curtain, and intellectually, I knew what to expect there -- some poverty, social ills, annoying bureaucracies, things that don't work. It's not as bad as some other such places, but Prague does have all of that, and it was the first thing I noticed, and it was unsettling. The train station was filthy, for example, and filled with the street people you don't really see much of in Europe. When I headed out of my hostel the first day, I stopped for a 9AM espresso and found the cafe filled with callow young Czechs downing their morning beers. The city has a flashy upper class, but lots of people seem just above the poverty line, and look to be perpetually worn out. (They're not going to make it, but they all want to end up just like they think us Americans are -- their polyester knockoff clothes all have flashy, English-language brand names incorporating words like "USA" and "adventure.")
So you have to get past all of that, and within a few hours I did. I started encountering happier scenes, and I began experiencing the physical city itself -- perhaps the most remarkable city I've ever seen. Prague was the only major city in central Europe that escaped the bombs of last century's wars, and it's almost a time capsule. Street after street of beautiful, centuries-old structures, each in visual harmony with all the others. This continues for miles, with only the wide-eyed tourists and the souvenir vendors disrupting the baroque scene. Once you walk through the Old Town, you arrive at a handsome river and something called the Charles Bridge -- remarkable arched stonework, 600 years old, and lined with statues of the saints. Beyond the bridge are still more medieval buildings and then a long hill crowned by one of the largest castles in Europe. Walking across the bridge felt almost mystical, and the view of river and bridge and castle is the finest man-made scene I've ever seen. I went back there again and again, watching how the changing sky, a light mist, and the arrival of night altered the complex visual moods. The city was clearly both timeless and ethereal, and it drew me completely in.
Hopefully that didn't sound too corny, but Prague is easily the most evocative Western city I've ever seen. And it turned out to have a pretty vibrant human face, too -- far less depressing than I had first thought. There's a lot of culture there; I saw almost as many touts in Prague as I did in Bangkok, but the ones in Prague were handing out flyers for Vivaldi concerts instead of for call girls. Besides being a haven for classical music (they claim Mozart's heritage as avidly as does Salzburg), Prague is very proud of the fact that it was Franz Kafka's home. After hanging out in Prague for a couple of days, I think I'll be able to understand Kafka a little better.
But I caught the train to Berlin this morning -- a modern German train, new and clean and sterile, where a cup of coffee on board sold for two bucks. My surroundings became markedly less interesting as I progressed into Germany, and I found myself really wishing I'd stayed in Prague instead.
Anyhow, enough of that! I'm going to spend a day or two here in Berlin, looking around this decidedly-odd city, and then probably head for Amsterdam by Friday -- that'll give me a day's "cushion" before catching my flight home. I'll try to send out one more e-mail from there.
Mark
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| Monday, October 22nd, 2001
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6:48 pm - Czech wanderings ...
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Hello, all --
Greetings from the Czech Republic! Tonight I'm in a teeming internet cafe in the Old Town area of Prague. Lots of irritating American tourists here ... ugh. (The connection here is less than perfect, which is my excuse for that blank e-mail that got sent out a second ago. It couldn't have been operator error ... no, it just couldn't have!) Anyhow --
I guess I sent my message the morning after I arrived in Salzburg, and a lot has happened since then. I spent the remainder of that day wandering through Salzburg, and generally falling in love with the place. That city is known primarily for two famous historical associations, widely divergent in both time and caliber: it was where Mozart spent his early years, and it was where "The Sound of Music" was filmed! These two claims to fame form the basis for much of the city's tourist activity -- "Sound of Music" tours are big business here. (I quickly decided that I could easily live without *that* experience, although I did have to force myself to stop humming "You are 16" once or twice.)
Instead, I mostly just wandered around and took in the non-musical sights: the palace grounds, the cathedral, the catacombs of the local cemetery. And after lunch, I boarded a little funicular railway for the trip up to the castle that overlooks the town. The castle tour was pretty neat, with wonderful views of the wooded green Alpine foothills that border the city. The rest of Salzburg was quite pleasant, as well, with a lovely river, great streets for strolling, and lots of opportunities for window-shopping.
While in Salzburg, I heard about a small Czech town -- Cesky Krumlov, in southern Bohemia -- that was supposed to be extremely cool, and I decided to make a quick stopover there on my way to Prague. I headed out yesterday morning, arising early and catching the 8:10 express train for Linz. From there, I boarded a small, sleek, local Austrian train for the Czech boarder. After a few lonely minutes waiting at the frontier, an extremely sad and elderly little Czech train chugged up to the boarder and disgorged a few dazed-looking backpackers. I climbed aboard, and immediately began having flashbacks of my frightening Bulgarian train adventure a few years ago. That train brought me into the closest town, where an even worse-looking train awaited. But I got on board, and an hour or so later I alighted safely in the city of Ceske Budejovice. (The historic name for this town was Budweis, making it fairly easy to guess what famous American beverage had its origins here.) I headed over to the bus station, and with a bit of effort found a bus heading for Cesky Krumlov ... whew.
The instant I saw the town, I knew that the effort was worth it -- it's easily the best-preserved medieval village that I've ever seen. The old town fills the horseshoe bend in a little river surrounded by high hills, and I doubt that there's a building newer than 400 years old in the whole place. Narrow, winding cobblestone streets, little bridges over the river, a great town square, and church spires everywhere. And across the fiver, looming over everything, the most spectacular castle I've ever seen.
I spent the rest of the day wandering, and visiting the castle; I quickly felt at home, and decided that this was one of my favorite destinations ever. That night, I stopped in a little pub there and had a great Czech dinner -- roast pork, sauerkraut, and a *real* Budweiser -- for a little over 2 bucks. (Back in Austria, I would have spent almost that much for just a Diet Coke.) After dinner, I wandered back to the castle and wandered its parapets and outer corridors. Everything was floodlit, and I was the only person there. It was so cool.
The hostel there was a great place, as well, and the travelers were a sophisticated, hard-core bunch -- people who were on adventures lasting months on end, and had settled into Ceske Krumlov for a few days of "chilling out." (In contrast, the Salzburg hostel had a lot of college-age Americans, mostly still recovering from extended hangovers brought on by the Oktoberfest in Munich ... I much preferred the Ceske crowd.) I breakfasted this morning with a Brazilian and a Kiwi (New Zealander), and later took the bus out with a couple of South Africans -- one of whom used to live in Beulah, North Dakota! Imagine that.
Anyhow, today I caught the bus back to Budweis, and then the train to Prague. Another slow, grimy trip, through the picture-postcard Czech scenery that I'm really growing to love. (Sharing my compartment for part of the trip was a kid of 10 or so, traveling alone and reading a Czech translation of the third Harry Potter book, transfixed, with his mouth wide open. Some things are the same everywhere.)
And now I'm in Prague. I'll probably only stay here a day or so before heading for Berlin ... I'm falling behind schedule! I'll send another note from there.
Mark
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| Saturday, October 20th, 2001
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10:07 am - Salzburg arrival ...
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Hello, all --
Well, this morning I'm in Salzburg, Austria, writing from a funky, postmodern internet cafe decorated with discarded electric power-plant equipment. I arrived in town yesterday afternoon from Innsbruck, a spectacular train ride through lush Alpine valleys and foothills. Dramatic church spires, herds of dairy cows, and small stuccoed chalets were everywhere; I kept expecting to see Heidi yodeling from a hilltop.
Anyhow, I need to tell you about Innsbruck. When I mentioned Innsbruck to a well-traveled friend of mine in Bozeman, he dismissed it with, "Oh, the mountains there are just like the Wasatch Front in Utah." (This is the mountain range next to Salt Lake City.) It made me think briefly about the folly of flying 6,000 miles to see something that was just like what I could find at home, but I couldn't let that stop me.
Well, it turns out that there *is* a resemblance, but I'm happy to report that the Alps are considerably more spectacular than Utah's mountains ... and they're a little higher, too. Innsbruck's setting is extremely lovely, in a wide green valley, with a meandering river and endless layers of high, misty mountains in the background. The town itself is also very pleasant, with a quaint old town area and all the requisite historical monuments. Still, it's probably not my favorite destination -- the place is a little too trendy and self-important for me. I guess that a few decades of being a world-class ski resort will do that to a town.
I spent a little less than two days in Innsbruck, doing all the major tourist things. I climbed the steps of the city hall tower, visited a couple of ostentatious Baroque churches, and wandered through the old Royal Palace. I also saw the town's most famous sight -- the "Golden Roof" -- which is undoubtedly the most overrated tourist attraction I've ever seen. (It's more like a "golden awning," actually.)
On Thursday, I decided that I should get up into the mountains a little bit. So, I hopped a tram (streetcar) to the edge of town, and then boarded an incline railway which took me a good distance up the mountainside. From there, I caught an aerial gondola, which took me considerably higher, and then a second gondola which carried me almost to the top. Then I started hiking, and soon was at the summit of a rocky crag that was billed as the "top of the Tirols" ... roughly 6,000 feet above the city. It was spectacular, all right, with quintessential Alpine views in all directions. I wandered around the peaks for a bit, and then hiked partway down before catching one of the gondolas for the trip home. Some of the steepest trails I've ever been on, with tremendous exposure. My last stop for that day was the "Alpinzoo," which specializes in animals native to the mountains. Some gorgeous raptors there.
When you're traveling like this, life in a hostel can either be an ugly, a dull, or a tremendous experience, and you never know in advance. (The place in Venice, for example, was fairly boring and forgettable.) My Innsbruck hostel was a little iffy physically, but I ended up having a wonderful time there. The place had a ratty little common room with a large kitchen table, and every evening the travelers would congregate around the table, sharing their snacks and beers, and especially their conversation. I spent long hours hunched over the tabletop in earnest discussion with travelers from a half-dozen nations, swapping travel stories, analyzing world affairs, and roaming over dozens of other subjects. The talk would continue later at a nearby Italian cafe or at a little cellar bar (giant beers for 25 schillings), and didn't end until the wee hours. Evenings like that are great memories, and alone are worth the price of the trip to me.
(And it's continuing here in Salzburg, too; last night was spent in a huge, ornate cellar beer hall in a nearby monastery, discussing geopolitics with a ponytailed Colorado guy and an MBA student from Taiwan. I'm building up a serious sleep deficit, here.)
Well, I'm off to explore Salzburg. My tentative plan is to head for the Czech Republic tomorrow, and I'll send another note from there in a couple of days.
Mark
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| Wednesday, October 17th, 2001
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7:37 pm - Innsbruck ...
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Hello, all ...
Well, I made it to Innsbruck, Austria this afternoon. Tonight I'm at what is undoubtedly the snazziest internet cafe I've ever seen -- vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and fine Austrian beer served by a lovely blonde hostess. (The only problem is the keyboard -- all the punctuation is in the wrong place, and the "Z" and "Y" keys are transposed. Those zany Europeans ...)
Anyhow, I've finished up my visit to Venice, and was extraordinarily sorry to leave. Yesterday, I finally stopped getting lost, and visited the city's two most famous attractions. One is the Basilica de San Marco, which is one of the most fantastic pieces of religious architecture I've ever seen. Amazing gold-tile mosaics over everything, wonderful works of art, and treasure looted from Constantinople centuries ago. (And David, you're right -- the most incredible floors!) After that, I visited the Ducal palace, the other main architectural remnant from Venice's glory days. It's a truly spectacular building, part palace, part seat of government ... and part prison. Extremely sophisticated and ornate. It was a very cool experience ... marred only by endless parades of sheep-like group tours, interrupting everyone else's reverie. (Small lecture: if you have any self-respect, never, NEVER, sign up for a package tour of Europe.)
I managed a couple of more mundane excursions, too. Yesterday, I caught a vaporetto to Lido, which is on the natural breakwater that protects the Venetian islands. It was very pleasant there, and it gave me a chance to get a good look at the Mediterranean (and to sample the local gelato). I also (this was a couple of days ago), decided that I should see at least one land-based local town, so I took a train out to Tupizia (?)and poked around. It's claim to fame is that it was the birthplace of the Benneton clothing brand (and you think I look under-dressed in *Montana* ...)
And this morning I caught an early vaporetto to the station to leave. The Orient Express was waiting quietly on one of the tracks, and I looked longingly at it, but neither my wardrobe or credit limit would have been a good fit for that. Instead, I hopped a train with the unfortunate name "Andrea Doria" for Verona. Two more train rides from there, and I was in Innsbruck -- a spectacular ride over the legendary Brenner Pass. I'm now settled into a friendly but very eccentric little hostel, and tomorrow I'll start exploring.
One small complaint: I'm in the ALPS, and I'm further north than Bozeman, but it's still summer here!! Warm and sunny, highs in the low 80s, and everything is still green. It's not fair!
Oh, well. I'll send another note in two or three days.
Mark
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| Monday, October 15th, 2001
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6:31 pm - Greetings from Venice ...
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Hello, all --
Well, as most of you know, I'm spending a couple of weeks this fall continuing my tour of the cybercafes of the world. Today's bulk e-mail shipment comes to you from a tiny internet cafe somewhere in the back streets of Venice, Italy. (I know, this is nowhere near as exotic as Cambodia, Russia, or Nepal, but you'll just have to bear with me this time.)
Anyhow, I arrived here on Sunday morning, after a series of interminably long (but thankfully uneventful) flights. With the current political situation, I had expected the trip over to be fairly high-stress, but for the most part it was like nothing had ever happened. The flights were all full and security didn't appear very tight ... although it did seem that my fellow passengers were all eyeing each other a bit more suspiciously than before. And I ended up in first class on one of my flights Saturday, to find that Delta had very cleverly replaced all the metal food service knives with plastic ones. (The steel forks were still there, though, and seemed plenty sharp by themselves.)
Heading out on an overseas trip, it's always fun watching the airports become more and more exotic, and by the time I got to Paris, I felt palpable sense of anticipation from my surroundings. The last leg into Venice included a spectacular flyover of the Alps, and the in-flight breakfast featured some of the best coffee and cheese I'd ever tasted. (Not only does the coffee get better when you head to Europe, so do the baked goods, the ice cream, and about a thousand other edible things. Only the hamburgers seem to go into decline, but that's a trade-off I'm willing to live with.)
After landing in Venice, I walked out of the arrivals hall and down to the docks to catch a boat into the city. (Considering where I was, it seemed far more appropriate than the bus.) The boat took me around the perimeter of the island city, landing me at the famous Piazza San Marco -- the spectacular gateway to Venice in the days of sea travel. From there, I caught a "vaporetto" (a maritime bus) for my hostel, and I settled in.
I've wandered the city for a day, now, and I'm still pretty darn amazed. Venice is definitely a spectacular architectural monument -- all the buildings seem at least 500 years old, and they're astoundingly beautiful. And the water is everywhere. (And the tourist-filled gondolas are everywhere, too.) This town is definitely a world-class tourist trap; this is supposedly the off season, but I've still never seen so many chubby middle-aged men with camcorders and fold-out maps. I don't know how the locals put up with it.
Just walking the streets here is a main attraction, and it's great fun. When I get to a new city like this, I like to just start wandering, walking aimlessly until I'm hopelessly lost. And that's easier to do here than anyplace else I've ever seen -- get lost, I mean. The town's footpaths are narrow and crooked, with no sense of scale or order. The ones that look like they might become thoroughfares turn out to be dead ends, and the ones that look like dead ends actually open out onto lots of other little streets. (Of course, *those* streets all turn out to be dead ends!) My guidebook said it best when it described the city plan as an M.C. Escher painting. It's all fine, though, because there's so much to see; wonderfully-evocative little vignettes are around every corner. The narrow canals, the aimless streets, and the stone all combine to make a setting that's an architectural wonder, but that is also home to countless human-scale scenes that can be achingly beautiful.
There is one other feature about Venice that is making me fall in love with it: that, of course, is the food. I had the best penne of my life last night, and perfect cappuccinos at breakfast are mandatory. During my days of walking, I've maintained my strength through a steady diet of gelati, and I'm rapidly becoming an addict. Luckily, little gelati stands are around nearly every corner. Constant gelati consumption is *definitely* one of the best things about being in Italy.
And one last thing: I know that three or four of you have been here before, and everyone (of both genders) has told me in advance that nearly all Italians are uncommonly beautiful. Well, you're right!
And that's it for today. I've got one more day in Venice, and I'm planning to head up into Austria. I'll send another note from there.
Mark
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| Sunday, February 18th, 2001
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1:40 pm - Heading home ...
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Hello, all --
Well, it's time for the last e-mail from this Asia trip. Today, I'm a very funky little internet cafe in downtown Seoul, South Korea -- a place for kids to play computer games and do Napster downloads. The Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing in the background. (It's the same place I sent e-mails from on my way to and from Nepal.)
Anyhow, back to Bangkok ...
My last couple of days in Asia were uneventful but very pleasant. There are many wonderful day trips and sightseeing excursions available out of Bangkok, but I pointedly choose not to do any of them. I decided I'd been a hard-working tourist long enough, and that I was due for a little R&R. So I slept late, wandered the streets of the tourist areas, shopping and people-watching, took a couple of pleasant boat rides on the local river, and spent an inordinate amount of time patronizing open-air cafes. And it was great.
My hotel was in the center of the Khao San Road area, which is one of the most famous tourist hangouts in the world. You Leonardo DiCaprio fans (and you know who you are) will remember Khao San Road as the setting for the opening scenes from the film "The Beach." Don't worry, the street doesn't actually have quite the "underworld" feel that the movie portrays. (Although -- and this will only make sense if you've seen the film -- as I was wandering through Patpong one evening, one of the dozens of touts who accosted me sidled up alongside and actually hissed "Hey -- you want to drink snake blood?" I couldn't believe it!!)
Khao San is where all the Western backpacker types wandering Asia eventually seem to end up. It's one of the most lively places I've ever seen -- dozens of guest houses and cafes, and an endless number of small shops and street venders. There, you can easily get all the necessities of modern travel: T-shirts, fake IDs, Buddha statues, tattoos, pirated CDs, leather anklets, fried noodles, used books, and imitation Nike shorts. That list could go on and on and on. All the action spills out into the sidewalk, and at night it flows on into the street. The scene is packed with people, and just walking a block takes forever. It's great.
The Khao San types -- young and old -- are what you might describe as Terminally Cool. Everyone presents a carefully-constructed look of total ease, and seems to be in a perpetually-good mood. Body piercings are rampant, and very unusual dress is not unusual at all. The Thais who work along the street politely attempt to hide their perpetual bemusement at the westerners, but not always successfully.
Bangkok's other famous tourist gathering spot is of course Patpong, home of the Red Light District and the notorious Go-Go bars. Those places are still going strong, but nowadays they seem almost overshadowed by the hundreds of vendors who pack _those_ streets and sidewalks. Compared to Khao San, Patpong's merchandise is a little higher-class (and no, I'm not talking about the girls) -- the Patpong vendors specialize in fake Rolexes, CK perfume, Ralph Lauren shirts, and items of that ilk. Somewhat surprisingly, Patpong seems to be where all of Bangkok's middle-aged package-tour-group visitors seem to spend the evening. They walk around very haltingly, clutching their possessions tightly, and looking like they'd just fallen off the very edge of the earth.
Well, last night I left all that and boarded the redeye flight for Seoul. I've got an eight-hour layover here, so I cleared customs and hopped the subway into town. It's _really_ cold. The city is just getting over a big-time snowstorm ... there are piles of the white stuff everywhere and no one really seems to know what to do with it. I just did a little wandering around today, and visited one of the old palaces that I had stopped at last year. All the locals were there, taking pictures of the old buildings in the snow. It did look pretty cool.
And that's it. Assuming I make it back to the airport in one piece, I should be home roughly 24 hours from now. It's been a great, great trip; it was good to spend time in Thailand again, and I really loved Cambodia. Usually, by this point, I'm looking forward to getting home, but not today. I dread getting back to the daily drudge and to having my memories of this Asia experience start to fade.
Well, there's always next time ...
Mark
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| Thursday, February 15th, 2001
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6:45 pm - Khao San Road, at last
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Hello, all --
Well, I've made it to Bangkok! Tonight's e-mail comes from a packed internet cafe along the city's famous Khao San Road. It's been a long haul from Cambodia, but I made it here in near-record time. Here's how it all worked:
Let's see ... after my last message on Tuesday, I spent the rest of the afternoon touring the grounds of the Royal Palace in Phnom Penh. It's a beautiful, dignified compound, far removed in character from the frenetic streetscapes outside. Later that evening, I headed back to the Foreign Correspondents' Club for dinner, and then took an evening walk along the riverside promenade. Phnom Penh, like many Asian cities, really comes to life in the evening hours. Rows of vendors appeared, selling balloons and snacks. The city's teenage boys were all out on their motos, seeing and being seen. Everyone else was strolling. And there was a dramatic lightning storm out over the Mekong. It was great.
The next morning, I caught an early bus for Sienoukville (that's definitely spelled wrong!) -- the country's main port. A beautiful drive, through rice paddies and the foothills of the Elephant Mountains. It's along Cambodia's finest highway, too -- two full lanes, with a painted center stripe and everything! I was very impressed. At a rest stop on the way, I bought an unidentifiable-but-delicious home-made snack that I now suspect might have been deep-fried banana. (You have to be a little careful with that sort of thing out here. Asians have a penchant for deep-fat frying all kinds of small reptiles and amphibians, and serving them on sticks!)
My companion for the bus ride was a retired French gentleman who had taught school in Cambodia as a young man, right before the Khmer Rouge takeover. A quarter-century later, he was now wandering the country, searching for any of his former students who might have possibly survived the slaughters. So far, he had heard only tragic stories, and learned that most of his old pupils were long dead.
My plan was to get to Sienoukville, relax for a while, and then catch a ship headed for the Thai border. As I arrived, though, I learned that a boat was just about to leave, and so I went for it. (The sailing schedules are a little erratic, and I didn't really want to be stuck sitting on a Cambodian beach while my plane back home was taking off!) The vessel (grandly misnamed the "Orient Express") was another worn hand-me-down, a little larger than the earlier one, but still wholly without life jackets. Soon, we were chugging off into the Gulf of Thailand.
It turned out to be a gorgeous trip. We passed countless small, green islands, and miles of white-sand beach that might never have seen a tourist. Tiny wooden fishing boats went by, and we stopped at an isolated island village to unload shipments of live chickens and hogs. My only problem with the afternoon was hunger -- the tight connection from bus to boat meant that I'd skipped lunch. Fortunately, a tiny, barefoot girl came aboard, selling packages of Prawn Crackers ("contains 10 percent real prawns!"). Not too bad, actually.
Blindly following the instructions in our Lonely Planet guidebooks, all of the farangs on board jumped ship at the next-to-last port of call. Awaiting us there was a flotilla of extremely small boats, each powered by an excessively-large outboard motor. Three or four of us climbed into each boat, money changed hands, and off we headed for the Thai border, first through the inland waterways and then out into the open sea. My little boat was pounding the waves horribly and bouncing wildly, going at a fantastic speed. I freely admit that I was terrified.
After far too long, we headed past a breakwater and the frontier post was in sight. A cadre of teenage boys with motorbikes stood at our beachhead; as we approached, they each waded into the water, grabbed a piece of luggage, and headed for a moto, calling "20 baht, 20 baht." (That's the Thai currency -- the boys were asking for about 50 cents.) I found the moto with my bag and climbed aboard, and we screamed off towards the border. This "moto" thing is pretty much old hat for me by now.
The border closed at five, and it was exactly 5:00 when my passport got its Cambodian exit stamp. I had a momentary fear that the Thais wouldn't let me in, and I'd be stuck in no-man's-land for the night, but the Thai border police left a small opening in the razor wire for us. Once safely in Thailand, I caught a minibus for a beautiful drive along the coast to the town of Trat, the provincial capitol. My guest house for the night was pretty seedy, but the room cost the equivalent of $1.65 US, so I wasn't going to complain.
That night, I went with a couple of American girls (from the boat) to the Night Market for dinner. Every South Asian town of any size has a night market, and its an amazing thing: an outdoor area (sometimes a street) that is packed for the evening with food vendors of every sort and innumerable other folks selling innumerable other things. Everyone is out and about, and the aromas are just incredible; walking through a night market is one of the most vibrant experiences you'll ever have. I don't know exactly what I had for dinner that night, but it sure was good. The next morning, I walked back through the area again, and it had transformed into the "Day Market." Trat is known for it's seafood, and there were dozens and dozens of little stalls showing off freshly-caught fish, most of which I could never hope to identify.
And then today I caught a bus to Bangkok. A very ordinary bus, on an ordinary four-lane road. Sigh. I made it here a day and a half earlier than I thought I would, so now I've got some time to kill before my flight. Part of me just wants to curl up in front of an air conditioner for the next 40 hours, but I guess I'd better think of some sightseeing to do.
That's it for now. I'll try to send one last letter before I get home.
Mark
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| Tuesday, February 13th, 2001
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4:04 pm - The Killing Fields
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Hello, all --
Greetings from Phnom Penh!. Today I'm at the internet cafe in the city's famous "Foreign Correspondents' Club." Quite a change from my last few stops; I'm now surrounded by glass-brick walls, air conditioning, jazz on the stereo, and a real cappuccino machine! (Generally, Asia's idea of great coffee is Nescafe.) The actual club room, upstairs, is a marvelous place ... an ancient, sultry, open-air bar with ceiling fans, huge leather chairs, and views of the Mekong. I keep expecting Humphrey Bogart to walk in the room.
The last couple of days have been fairly active, all in all. After I last wrote, I made one final pilgrimage to the Bayon, and to Angkor Wat for one last sunset. After being barraged by so many temples, I wanted to be sure that my two favorite places were cemented in my memory.
The next morning, Nawin picked me up early for a memorable, pre-dawn moto ride out of Siem Reap, through the countryside, and to the shores of Tonle Sap lake. It was fascinating watching the country wake up, with small fires glowing in front of thatched huts and the lake's fishermen readying their boats and nets for the day. At the lakeshore, I bade Nawin farewell and boarded an "express boat" for the run to Phnom Penh. The boats make the trip much faster than any Cambodian bus could, and they look very sleek, besides. Unfortunately, my boat, at least, had seen far better days. (It was brought here after being deemed too old for service in _Sarawak_, and that's not a good sign.) The vessel also suffered from what I considered to be an insufficient number of life vests ... as in "none." But I bought some breakfast from a nearby vendor and went for it. The interior was packed and stifling.
After a while, I had decided I had had enough of the cabin, and I scrambled outside and onto the vessel's roof. (Most of the other backpacker types were already out there.) Suddenly, the trip changed from uncomfortable to glorious. The bright sun, the screaming engines, the tiny thatched villages slipping by ... it was a spectacular and wholly different view of rural Cambodia. The soundtrack from "Apocalypse Now" started going through my mind.
Five hours later, we were in Phnom Penh and I was nicely sunburned. I grabbed a moto for the hop into town and found a pleasant hotel near the riverfront. A short catnap later, I started looking around, a little uncertain as to what I would find. Phnom Penh has a bit of a reputation, I'm afraid -- the British would call it a "dodgy" place. A hint of lawlessness, of anything goes. Chicago in the 20s, maybe.
Well, so far at least, I don't see it. There's a lot of squalor, of course, but also some beautiful old colonial streetscapes, grassy boulevards, and a lovely promenade along the river. All in all, its pretty pleasant, and I like it here. Much better than Saigon.
There are a lot of expatriates, and a fair number of tourists, and more than a few land-mine victims who chase after them for handouts. Some of the latter are in wheelchairs, pushed by eager youngsters who can spot a "farang" (westerner) a mile away, and be right behind them in a second. And there are good Western restaurants (although you can always find great French bread down here, a decent hamburger can be another story). After a week of Asian dining, I backslid last night and entered a recommended restaurant that advertised fine "German-American" food. And I had an excellent .......... pizza. (Too bad I didn't go to the famous pizza place next door -- It's called "Happy Herbs," and if you want they'll add "herbs" to the pizza that will make you very, very happy!)
OK ... here's a warning: the next couple of paragraphs won't be too pleasant, so some of you may want to stop reading now. We all know about Cambodia's tragic recent history: the horrific Pol Pot regime, the depopulations, the torture, the roughly two million executions. It's a huge subtext in any discussion of the country's current character. Well, this morning I went out to see two of the sites associated with all that. The famous "killing fields" are about ten miles from town, and were the location of one of many execution camps. Today, you can wander the partly-excavated site and still see bits of human bone and clothing sticking up through the earth. At the center of the field, a tall, glass-walled stupa has been erected, housing the skulls of thousands of the Khmer Rouge victims, placed in neat rows by age and gender. One of the most distressing and moving things I've ever seen.
My next stop was the former prison where many of the killing fields victims had spent their last days. It was an old high school ... very innocent looking. But inside, there are now tiny, sweltering cells and horrific torture equipment. As a museum, the buildings now display the photographs of those who were brought there, photos usually taken just after they arrived at the prison. Row after row of the most expressive, evocative faces I'd ever seen ... the same doomed people, trapped by circumstance, whose skulls I had witnessed on display in that stupa an hour before.
Well, that's all for today. I'm probably going to start working my way towards Thailand tomorrow, and I'm likely to be out of internet range for two or three days. I'll send another e-mail when I get to Bangkok.
Mark
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| Sunday, February 11th, 2001
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12:33 pm - More from Siem Reap ...
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Hello, all --
One more letter from the Angkor Internet Cafe in Siem Reap. I'm just finishing up my visit to the Angkor temples ... it's been a fantastic few days.
It's all just too much to describe. The archeological complex here includes literally dozens of sites, the smallest of which is infinitely more grand than any prehistoric monument in the United States. The three main destinations here include Angkor Wat itself; "the Bayon," a fantastic temple of fanciful spires and dozens of huge Buddha faces, in the center of the ancient walled city of Angkor Thom; and "Ta Prohm," a huge, sprawling complex that has been "left to the jungle" by modern conservators, with jumbled rocks everywhere and huge trees growing out of stately rock walls and graceful, crumbling rooflines. Beyond that, though, there are many more ... vast temples and libraries, graceful and ancient reflecting pools, and a huge reviewing stand called the "Parade of the Elephants." I feel like I've seen them all, although I haven't -- the last few days are a blur of carved sandstone and temple steps.
Nawin, my moto driver for the past three days, has been a great companion. While his English is a bit awkward, he makes up for it with a winning smile and an easy laugh, and we've had a lot of fun. He zips me from temple to temple and waits outside, guarding the bike, while I explore. He's got it pretty good, actually ... driving around on his motorbike, and then lounging in a hammock and talking with his pals while I play tourist. I buy him frequent cans of cold soya milk from the vendor stalls, while I sip cokes in the shade. (All of the temple sites have thatched lean-tos outside, where the local girls sell cokes and T-shirts, and Nawin seems to be quite a hit with all of them. The girls always seem to be punching him in the stomach or chasing him with meat cleavers, so that must mean he's popular.)
I've tried to spend parts of the last couple of days visiting some of the relatively out-of-the-way sites here, to see a little of the countryside and get away from the crush of package tourists. Yesterday, Nawin and I headed out to Banteay Srei, about an hour and a half away in country that was partly occupied by the Khmer Rouge until fairly recently. There, I saw an impromptu concert, where many of the musicians had been crippled by the war or maimed by land mines. (There are an awful lot of people with missing limbs in this country ... its hard to imagine how horrible things must have been in Cambodia just a few years ago.) The trip out was bone-jarring and butt-numbing, leaving me in great admiration of Nawin's driving skills ... and also leaving me covered in a thick layer of orange Cambodian dust. For the rest of the day, total strangers came up to me, took a quick look, and said, "You must have been to Banteay Srei."
Today I went out to another remote site called Roluos. It was another painful drive ... Cambodia is known for having some of the worst, war-ravaged roads in the world, and its definitely true. My memories of the trip consist of repeatedly holding on tight, squinting into the dust, and wondering what Nawin was going to do about all of those giant Russian-built trucks that were bearing down on us. At a great temple site in Roluos, though, I found success -- I was the only tourist there!! Of course, that meant that I was mobbed by throngs of the local children, all trying to shake me down for the gift of a dollar. At the temple entrance, their mothers all took up the cause, reciting the local mantra to me:
"Excuse me, sir ... you want cold drink?"
"You want postcard then?"
"You want t-shirt then?"
And on and on. It drives some of the tourists crazy, but you have to take it with good humor. When it happens I've learned to counterattack, pulling a pack of postcards out of my backpack and saying, "you want to buy _my_ postcards? Only one dollar!"
Well, that's it for now. Tomorrow I'm off to Phnom Penh ... Cambodia's answer to the Wild West.
Mark
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| Friday, February 9th, 2001
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6:43 pm - The temples of Angkor
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Hello, all --
Well, I've made it to Cambodia! This evening, I'm at the "Angkor Internet Cafe" in Siem Reap, attempting to use a keyboard that is covered with Khmer alphabet characters. You'd have to see it to believe it.
I left Saigon yesterday morning, deciding to forsake a two-day bus trip here (which I'll partially repeat later anyhow) in favor of a short hop on Vietnam Airlines. And that indirectly caused a small-scale adventure. The travel agent who sold me my ticket promised me "free airport transportation," which I naively assumed meant "taxi." At the appointed hour, though, the agency naturally just rounded up a little Vietnamese dude on a motorbike! Gulp ... time to face my fears. I made a vow to use the "moto" driver's body as a shield when we crashed, but despite Saigon's traffic that didn't prove necessary.
Departing from Saigon's airport is a major hassle, but a couple of hours later I was safely in Siem Reap's tiny airfield. Emboldened by my adventure in Saigon, I hired another moto for the trip into town. Soon, I was ensconced in a handsome little guest house where breakfast is served on the terrace listening to roosters crow, and you drop your sandals in a neat row on the stoop before entering.
Now this is more like it! After the noise and tension of Saigon, Siem Reap seems like a proverbial slice of heaven. The place is pastoral and green, with trees and lawns, outdoor cafes, and a river filled with swimming children. The hassle factor is gone, and I'm at ease and content.
I'm here, of course, to see the famous temples of Angkor, which are a few kilometers north of town. Eighty years ago, the first tourists who came here arrived in Siem Reap by boat, and then toured the temples in elephant caravans. Today, the custom is to engage a moto and driver to take you around, and I decided to hire the affable young man who had brought me from the airport. Seven dollars a day for motorbike and driver ... by Montana standards, at least, a very good deal.
Soon I was riding on the back of a Cambodian motorcycle headed for Angkor Wat, the most famous of the temples. The first sight of it just blew me away -- no matter how much you read and how many pictures you see, they can't convey how magnificent the place is. Eight hundred years old, thousands of feet across, surrounded by a lake-size moat. The entrance is an elevated stone roadway, leading to fantastic geometric successions of colonnades, corridors, and towers, all intricately carved. Orange-robed Buddhist monks linger in front of small statues burning incense. As you go deeper inside, you go higher, climbing impossibly-steep stone stairs for views first of more unexplored chambers and then still of other temples beyond. When you climb as high as you can, you rest on a carved stone crag and await the sunset -- the traditional beginning of a visit to Angkor.
It was amazing. Every couple of minutes I found myself murmuring out loud, "This is so cool ... this is so cool." I don't think I'll ever see anything else quite like it, if only because I don't think there _is_ anything else quite like it.
Today was another full day of temple exploring with my little moto and driver. Amazing sites, all ... each one different from Angkor, but each one utterly engaging and memorable. The scale and vastness of the sites are unimaginable. It was close to a perfect day -- broken only by one moment of utter terror in a dark temple alcove, when I was hit head-on -- square in the face -- by a low-flying bat! (I suspect the bat was probably as upset with the whole episode as I was, but he didn't stop to chat.)
Well, I'm off to find dinner. (It will be hard to top last night, when I had curry baked inside a baby coconut!) I'm probably going to stay in Siem Reap a couple more days, and then head for Phnom Penh on Monday. I'll send another note once I get there.
Mark
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| Wednesday, February 7th, 2001
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8:12 pm - Saigon ...
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Hello, all --
Greetings from another painfully-slow Vietnamese internet cafe. I've had a couple of great days in Saigon now, and time for some impressions to sink in. So here goes ...
Since I'm (unfortunately) at the advanced age where I can remember the Vietnam war from my childhood, that's definitely what colored my preconceived notions about the city. It's easy to imagine Saigon with a Walter Cronkite voice-over, with helicopters lifting off of embassy rooftops, and with Martin (or Charlie) Sheen wandering through the streets in a flak jacket. Well, that's been 25 years, of course ... and that mystical-to-Americans bit of the city is pretty much lost. Saigon in 2001 is just another big South Asian city, definitely not the prettiest or most exotic I've seen, but still not without some charms.
The one primary sensation most Westerners probably carry away from the city today is the amazing ease with which one could get creamed by a motorbike here. The city is teeming with 'em (2,000,000+ at last count), and they're perpetually on the go. Traffic regulations are hypothetical at best, so just walking across the street here is an unheard-of challenge. The recommended method involves taking a deep breath, waiting for what seems to be a good moment of karma, and then bravely stepping straight into the melee. If you do it right, the motorcycles will gracefully flow all around you, and you'll probably survive. (Just don't ever let them see how afraid you are!)
Despite the overriding chaos, though, there are still some trees and buildings giving hints to an earlier grace that once marked the city -- I would have liked to have seen the place 70 years ago, in its colonial heyday. And it's kind of fun to watch the contemporary street life, actually -- from a safe perch sitting in a streetside cafe with a cold Tiger beer!
Even though the big war is visibly gone from Saigon, the city's two most noted tourist attractions are still war-related. The "Reunification Palace" is one of them -- it was the equivalent of the White House for the old South Vietnamese government, and is now preserved as a kind of war trophy, just as it looked when it was "liberated" in 1975. The palace is a great example of over-the-top 1960's architecture, and it was a lot of fun to wander around. The place even has a fully-equipped basement War Room!
The other big attraction is the "War Remnants Museum," which features an outdoor display of captured American armaments. Inside, there's a gallery of oversized photographs, all showing evil Americans torturing hapless Vietnamese. (Other things, too ... most of which are even worse.)
I wanted to see some Vietnamese countryside today, so I booked a trip to something called the "Cao Dai Temple." This is the home of an indigenous Vietnamese religion, mixing Catholicism and several eastern philosophies. (Reportedly, much of their philosophy comes from blending the writings of Sun Yat Sen and Victor Hugo!!) The temple was amazing, and we got to see one of the services ... mystical and very incomprehensible. On the way back to the city, there was a visit to part of the underground tunnel network used by the Viet Cong during the war. Very fascinating -- the tunnels ran for hundreds of miles, and were big enough for the skinny Vietnamese but not the "fat American soldiers." (Being the only fat American in attendance, I had to give it a shot -- I actually made it through, but the tunnels were probably littler back then.) While there, we also got to see a nifty demonstration on how to booby-trap your jungle against Yankee imperialists ... it was hard not to start feeling a little insecure.
Well, that's it for today. Tomorrow I'm off to Cambodia!
Mark
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| Monday, February 5th, 2001
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4:20 pm - Greetings from Asia ... again
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Hello, all --
It's been a few months, now, since most of you have received one of my e-mail travelogues ... but now it's time for a few more. Another trip to Southeast Asia is underway, and today's report is from Vietnam! I arrived in Saigon a few hours ago, and am now settled comfortably in the travelers' "ghetto" area. This is a very modern-looking little internet storefront, filled with earnest Vietnamese and grouchy tourists (and a couple of amazingly-georgeous Australians, but we won't get into that). Anyhow ...
I left Bozeman Saturday morning, and a couple of quick flights got me to San Francisco. The short stopover there was warm, sunny, and green (by Big Sky standards, anyhow) -- my reminder that no matter how wonderful Montana is, the winters are just a little too long. The Golden Gate was spectacular from the air. From there, it was a long 20 hours to Bangkok on my old friend Korean Air. (They're a fairly good airline, really ... be sure to request the seaweed soup with your lunch order.)
I made it to Bangkok a little before midnight on Sunday, wended my way through all the formalities, and found a room at a nearby hotel. Everything was like I remembered it -- hot, sticky, teeming, and alive.
Despite the transition from Bozeman, though, I was actually feeling a little jaded in Bangkok. (Breakfast this morning was a large plate of greasy fried noodles, and my only thought was "Yum!" -- a couple of years ago the sight would have send me running to the nearest McDonald's for cover.) But the city remains as evocative as ever -- both lush and dirty, both depressing and thrilling, with a sound and aroma you'd find nowhere in America.
I caught the morning Thai Airways flight from there to Saigon ("Ho Chi Minh City," technically, but that's too much to type). The scenery was a flat patchwork of farms and paddies Saigon's airport was huge, and is littered with concrete ammo "igloos" and other remnants from the American adventure over here. And now I'm in town, ready to look around. My initial impression is decidedly mixed, but there's a lot to see before coming to any conclusions.
Time to explore. I'll send another note in a couple of days.
Mark
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