Missoula, Spandex capitol of Montana

I was just in Montana. I have yet to see Brokeback Mountain so my preconceived ideas about rednecks and cowboys there were still intact. The fact that Missoula is a university town and that there are more bikes than cows there has me thinking that this may not be your average Montana burg. What made it special for me (and the reason I went there) is that the epicenter of the self-contained long distance bicycle touring world is here. Adventure Cycling Association headquarters here was giving a seminar on bicycle tour leadership. Hmm, you mean I might actually find a way to get paid to naval gaze and wonder why I was born if only to cycle and die?
Sure I'm barely employed and broke but did someone say "road-trip"? It was weird to be on the open road again after being 'home' for the past few months. Actually it was awesome and I love the way a road, yes even I-90, lays out ahead of you into the distance like a long welcome mat. "Come on in the adventure is right this way"! The weird part of it was having the bicycle over my head instead of under my butt. I kept looking up longingly through the sun roof (OK for all you people who actually like to drive safely with your gaze fixed ahead...or for any liability attorney's...yes I realize driving is an inherently dangerous activity and one should drive with both eyes on the road at all times and with the utmost prudence) as bugs splattered my bikes head tube and handle bars. I thought about the difference between travelling by car and by bike and wished I could have pulled over and just started pedalling. Smearing moth and yellow jacket carcasses across my windshield I felt my sore back and flat ass melting deeper into the seat as I brushed off the crumbs from my most recent snack. I used to get a sore back and sore ass from cycle touring too but felt alive getting them. In my Subaru I felt like the passing scenery was a TV show behind the windscreen as my heart rate stayed steady at 60 beats per minute. And there is something that happens on long car trips that hasn't been discussed much. Something that I'm willing to risk embarrassment and self exposure to get out into the open. After a few hours in the car it feels like something foul has crawled into my mouth... and then died. It's weird. I can go a whole day on a bike without brushing my teeth and feel fine...OK, looking for a toothbrush by then but not desperately. But travel by car for over 6 hours and I begin scanning for the next rest area and a razor as my teeth have grown a five o'clock shadow! Is it just me? Maybe it's that cheap greasy-spoon Folgers you had two hours ago (Seattle coffee snobs, just say no). Maybe it's the 5th Hostess Ho-Ho you just ate justifying it as "energy" to keep going. Whatever, it's wrong and it had me once again wanting to be cycling instead of driving up those rolling hills of Eastern Washington.
But that's not what I wanted to write about...at all. It was great to be surrounded by people who not only wear lycra shorts and really loud jerseys but who talk eat drink dream discuss (ad-nauseum) and obsess over bicycling and the world of bicycling. I'm still not a gear head, nor in the same league as most of these folks, but what a joy to be discussing the finer points of packing a pannier or the road conditions of Malaysia with people who have been there and packed that. We spent a lot of time in the class room going over the finer points of touring and personality conflicts that arise when people are pushed out of their normal routines. We talked about how to organize camping gear and how to find the next campsite. But the big issue of cycle touring seems to revolve around food. People need to eat...a lot apparently, when they ride thousands of miles in a summer. Five thousand calories/day to be more scientific. We learned by doing. We had a budget and went to the store and shopped for the number of cyclists in our group as if we were on a tour. We prepared the food as if we were on a tour...2 cooks per meal. The problem arose when we ate as if we were on tour. Five thousand calories per day is a lot of food. Especially if you are sitting in a classroom. By noon after gorging a huge multi-course breakfast, my belly would just begin to feel normal again. LUNCH TIME! By the time dinner came around we were all feeling bloated. And yes we then overate again. For three days the food orgy continued until we finally went on a 35 mile ride with the group. I can blame the massive meals or I can blame the strong headwinds but I think I need to come clean and blame my lack of riding the past 2 months for feeling so wimpy on this ride. It's not like I was the last to arrive or that one guy on a trip that everyone is always waiting for (while passively-aggressively glancing at watches as he crawls in). It's just that I felt weak. It happened when I was leading the pack into the wind. I was starting to breathe really hard and must have been a bit wobbly because Rod (who is the director of the tour dept. and also a bicycle racer so give me a break already) blew by me. It's not the fact that he blew by me that had me going...it's how. It was no stomping/standing move where a guy throws his bike side to side to fly uphill. That would have been easier to take. It was subtle and beautiful and so relaxed that was devastating. I realized right then how hard cycle racing must be. When you are suffering and hurting and working at a maximum it can't be good to see someone just slide by as if they were sauntering past your dinner table with a martini in hand. I wondered just how many more journeys must I take until I can look so smooth on a bike. Apparently, a lot more journeys and a lot less 5000 calorie food days!

This is it

Today is the last time I'll set foot in a spa. That is until I make it big and can afford a $135 hot stone massage and a $75 pedicure. My nails will look like crap for a while and that thought wrecked my sleep. I'm up early and putting on my 100% polyester uniform also for the last time. A person should never wear polyester against their will. Actually upon deeper thought, a person should never wear 100% polyester at all. The slinky way it rubs against my skin. The way it avoids wrinkling even though I ball it up and stuff it in the envelope drawer at work every night before closing only to put it on unwashed the next morning. The passive aggressive little bitch in me actually likes this feature because I somehow feel subversive and alternative by seeing how long I can wear a uniform before washing it. I know this is a rather disgusting and inappropriate {and pointless} thing to do but I like the cognitive disonance of it all. Like in the opening scene of David Lynch's Blue Velvet where the camera shows a normal "beautiful" suburban scene and slowly pans down under the perfect lawn to the slithering wormy substance it's all built on. A perfect analogy for the spa. So I stand behind the counter in my own little personal funkiness to remind me that it's all a sham. There is so much toxic energy and stress behind the thin veneer of polyester and fake smiles that my cheeks (and soul)hurt just thinking about it. That's what really has me running for the exits. I want a life of authenticity. I want a life not veneered over by "niceness" and pretty smells. The stench of an open sewer in some back alley of Phnom Penh isn't my favorite thing either, but walking through it I knew I was alive. Better yet so were the people living in it. Not just existing but living and selling and buying and hustling and bustling and laughing and crying and crapping in the streets. People there hang out with family...and struggle. The cake eaters (thank you for that term 'anonymous islander') here don't really struggle and still feel the need to take a "spa vacation" to get AWAY from their kids. Again I think of the words of the Dalai Lama who notes that income level and happiness are inversely proportionate.
But back to polyester. It's an amazing substance and so unnatural I can feel the sking tumors growing, slowly growing, throughout the day. It also reminds me too much of my first "real" job at Jack In The Box. But instead of coming home smelling like a double cheese bacon jack and french fries, I arrive home to Sheryl smelling of canteloupe/lime infusers or jasmine/burnt sugar candles. Agreed, it is a step up but if I account for inflation I probably made as much or more at 16 years old than I do now. The deep fat fryer is looking better all the time...

Spa ER...or Little Spa Bitch

OK, it felt good to quit and knowing there is a light at the end of the spa scented tunnel will make the next two weeks a happy place in my mind. Even if the spoiled class still continues to pamper itself to heal the pain of a cramped yacht or maybe even a bit to much sun on the skin (causing irreparable oxidizing damage which can be cured by our REJUVENATING line of skin care products), I will leave this spa scene with my head held high knowing I have helped out on some fundamental level. Like when I used to be in the ER assisting on a cardiac code that turned out well, I have helped out on some deep meaningful level with spa emergencies I never knew existed until now. It seems I'm destined to be surrounded by emergencies. In the ER we had "trauma codes". When a horrible traumatic injury occurs speed is of the essence and we would prepare the ER before the patient arrived. Here at the spa we have Drama Codes. Nails seem to be a more common but not less traumatic SE (spa emergency) than eyebrows and for that I am thankful. But still, I am getting tired of women coming in NEEDING her nails to be repaired ASAP. Nails are something I think about when I need to trim them. I never knew they could be obsessed about...incessantly for people who don't have real things to worry about. Chipping is a real issue for sure, but let's not forget the angst of scratching or smudging either. And when I have to deliver the bad news that we don't 'do' acrylics (not that I know what that really means) it is never received well. So while these are true emergencies and something I don't want to discount, they are like level one emergencies compared to the level two emergencies of eyebrows. But neither of these comes close to the level of a bridal party crisis. I suppose if my folks were spending $100,000 on my wedding I could be more empathetic but it's really hard when bridezilla and her minions come in knowing that her wedding will be just the best wedding ever but could be totally ruined if her toenails aren't absolutely perfect. When they all come in stressed and on edge, I somehow care just that much less. That attitude makes me want to pull a Nancy Reagan and "just say no". "Oh I'm sorry, did you NEED a 2:00 pedicure?" "Hmmm, and pictures are at 3:00?" "We could squeeze it in at 3:00..can you ask the photographer to wait an hour or so?" The ensuing look of hatred/panic I get is so much more valuable than the tip I just lost. Priceless.
OK, so I'm a passive aggressive little spa bitch. I know that.

Product

You'd think that learning the in's and out's of working in a spa would pretty much be easy. You'd be right actually. So it was surprising that before we opened, 2 reps from the line of product we would be selling came up and gave us a week-long training. Product. Not a product or the product, but product. It sounds more important, more weighty, almost substantial when there isn't an article preceding it. But it's not substantial, or important, so a ONE WEEK LONG training about gels and shampoo seemed excessive. I mean how could 2 women talk non-stop about face creams, cleansers, toners, moisturizers, rejuvenators and anti-aging anti-oxidants for a whole week? For those men married to women who use these things I'm sure you understand...but I was shocked. It's not that my girlfriend Sheryl is make-up phobic (she's no stranger to eye liner or and occasional lip gloss) but she tends to discuss "product" as much as the average person talks about colo-rectal cancer (which happens to be one of my favorite dining table discussions by the way). But the shock is wearing off now as I am surrounded by people (OK , I'll say it...women) who 'talk product' all the time with customers who want to know what cream or topical treatment will make them look the youngest. Here's a secret from spa boy...NONE OF THEM DO!!! People go into a facial treatment looking old and lets just be honest, they come out looking refreshed and relaxed...and OLD. It's like when someone asks you, "does this dress make me look fat?" No it doesn't...the fact that they're fat makes them look fat! But back to the training week (i.e. product brainwash session). If you take a small truth and surround it with lies and package it right, it all looks to be true. Like this...

When we got to the training area I knew who the reps were right away. Remember the Sesame Street song that was designed to help us differentiate objects from one another? "One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong..." It went through my head as I saw these women fresh in from California. Surrounded by fleece, jeans and Birkenstocks their high heels and professional casual business attire made them stand out. That wasn't the only thing standing out as breast implants are apparently also de rigueur for the female sales rep/product trainer. Their bright personalities and perfectly bleached teeth shone like the southern California sun against the contrasting drizzly Northwest day. Settling into the morning lecture with a cappuccino in hand I was thinking how this was my first day at work in about 8 months...since swinging through the trees over in Kauai running zip-line tours. This was going to be cake and I smiled as the dazzling rep started the power point presentation. It seems I was woefully mistaken and mentally unprepared. I knew I should have made that cappuccino a double as these spa pros started using words like superoxide dismutase (a powerful anti-oxidant...duh!) and Pelargonium Graveolens (or geranium for you non-spa plebes). I was starting to worry about some final exam because my unfocused mind kept wandering from thoughts of breast implants and $150 bottles of face creams to cycling Southern Thailand and meeting people in the middle of Nowhere, Cambodia. People who couldn't care less about the pH of their skin and how to tone it but could sure use that $150. Not for the first time (nor the last believe me) did I begin to wonder about me and a spa environment being a good fit. The Southern California reps were working the crowd by the third day or so and even the most die hard granola's of us were dying to moisturize and were questioning how we had made it this far in life without using daily skin balancing creams. We were all given goodie bags of sample product and every time I went to the bathroom I would secretly apply some moisturizer around my eyes and wait for the crows feet to disappear. The disappointment was visceral by the end of the week as I still looked almost 45. I wanted results, not the shiny, greasy skin with a few zits that I was seeing in the mirror. I was supposed to be excited about selling this snake oil to women and play on their fears of not being desirable anymore. Instead I was getting anxious that I was in some kind of cult as all the heads in the room were bobbing up and down with every new declaration of how this line of product could rejuvenate the skin...while that line of product could restore the skin...and this cream balances while that one restores. Meaningless adjectives sounding real. Making claims that can never be proven nor disproven as they were all subjective. My internal bullshit meter was red-lining as the unsubstantiated claims kept coming. Things like, "We all know our bones are made of minerals so we came up with a line of mineral salts that when taken in a bath have beneficial results for the entire body. But remember these are not to be used on children under 6 years old or pregnant women." WHAT?! These smelly salt baths sounded more dangerous than a years prescription of oxycontin and the room full of massage therapists were yellow-highlighting the words pregnant and 6 years old. I was imagining hypercalcemia and thumb sized kidney stones from one bath too many and cracked up. We could have used those salts to rim our margarita glasses and given it to a 6 year old with no deleterious results yet these gals are telling us not to take a bath in it??? At that point (actually it was a lot earlier... somewhere on the first morning of training) I tuned out and tried to relive the glory days of sitting in a urine soaked latrine on a boat in the Mekong River.

SPA...Salus Per Aqua (health by water). How did going to natural hot springs for relaxation and health benefits get hijacked by people who sell fake relaxation via laboratory created scents (cut grass/ white pepper) and who play fake music (liquid mind VII) that could have been generated by (and has the soul of) a computer program? And who are these people who come in so afraid of the natural progression of aging or of death that they spend $400, without batting a fake eyelash, on 'product' designed to keep them younger looking? But the real question is why am I working in an environment I have no interest in, assisting people for whom I have no respect? That's it. I'm quitting. As of today. You are the first to hear of it. I just made up my mind that life is too short and I'm done. TAKE THIS JOB AND SPRITZ IT!! Well off to work to tell my boss...wish me luck.

Spa Boy #1

Before I begin today's blog about the silliness of the rich and stupid, I need to tell you about the dangers of percocet. For the past 18 years I have told patients that any narcotic pain reliever can cause constipation. Never having needed one it was all just professional advice learned from my pharmacology text book. Of course, I've had to deal professionally with those side effects after people return to the ER 4 or 5 days after an injury...it's called digital disimpaction. Without getting too graphic, and oh...am I tempted to, digital refers to the fingers and disimpaction refers to the removal of stool (no not a stool) from someones ass. But the personal experience of a percocet constipated post op bowel movement was like trying to birth a calf out of my ass. I have empathy. So be warned. Drink lots of water if you are taking narcotics...and PUSH.
OK, spa boy story time. Working the front desk of a high end spa in a posh resort town is, um, let's just say it's not a career choice for anyone over 17. So to pass the time I try to figure out how all the clients have made their millions. Old money trustafarians are easy to spot...they treat me like I don't exist. As much as that pisses me off it doesn't bother me as much as those who I imagine are the CEO's of oil companies or managers of musical groups like Boyz-II-Men. Being ignored by them would be a blessing, but there seems to be a need for some of these people to let every one else around them know how important they are by acting rude. It's like the money is a self esteem band-aid and since it might be the only thing going for them it gets pushed in my face as a sign of superiority. I know this is might sound like sour grapes...but two things are true: 1) I'm a bit of a classist and don't really like the rich...and 2) I never generalize or stereotype people...and 3) my dark side is a bit jealous. But not really. Not when I think of the girl with the eyebrow emergency at the spa the other day. I realized then that tragedy can strike the rich just as hard as the rest of us and all that money can't protect us from true grief.

Manicures, pedicures, facials, hair 'blow-outs' (I'm still not clear on that one either), hair up-do's, make-overs, body wraps, mineral rubs, massages of all flavors, and regretfully, eye brow shaping. We do it all. Upscale with all the scents and candles and scented air infusers you'd expect in a posh spa. You know the smell I'm talking about. Candles burning with scintillating names like Mango-Tangerine or Citrus-Mellon. My favorite is Ginger-Pomegranate. The next time you are in the store go sniff a pomegranate...there is absolutely no aroma to a pomegranate. This annoying fruit might taste sweet/sour and vaguely like some kind of berry but there is no scent. But anyway, all these smells are designed to make you feel warm and luxurious and relaxed and ready for a wonderful spa day. Like a house full of the aroma of freshly baked cookies, you just feel good. All those feelings however were shattered the other day when we heard a scream and noticed a woman running for the bathroom. One of our esthiticians came out and said, "I only plucked out a few before I handed her the mirror." Then we all heard the sobs coming from the bathroom. Including the people in the sound proofed massage rooms. In any spa there are the multitude of "products". Some are for exfoliation, some for moisturizing...you know. We have a spray, like a spritz really, that is designed for relaxation. As soon as the sobs became audible there was a flurry of women running down the tastefully carpeted hallways and someone had thoughtfully grabbed the calming spritz. I wish I could have been in that bathroom to see the scene as they all tried to calm and soothe this woman's pain with their "spa voices" and spraying her in a cloud of calming mist. It didn't work. Ten minutes later a harried woman came in the front door, cell phone in hand, looking for her daughter. I just pointed to the back hall, "she's in the bathroom". I needn't have wasted my breath as the sobs were guiding her. Ten more minutes and a less harried dad came in also carrying a cell phone. The sobs continued...for 45 minutes. I entered the facial room where the damage had been done. And there on the table, like fresh evidence from a crime scene was the pair of tweezers and fewer than 10 eyebrow hairs. How much damage could have been done here I wondered. Forty five minutes and way too much sobbing later I found out. As she came sniffling to the front desk I gave her face a quick furtive glance...not wanting to draw attention to what I was sure was going to look like some disfiguring goiter. Her eyebrows looked absolutely normal. I mean NORMAL! Her mother told me, over the sniffling and nose blowing of the daughter, that "she is very sensitive about her eyebrows." "NO SHIT", I wanted to scream but gave her my sympathetic understanding nod reserved for those men who come into the ER with a foreign body stuck up their butt and say they have no idea how it got there.

The Fall

The universe acts in weird ways. I think I've finally figured out something or have turned a new page in my life and BAM things just go in the direction they want to whether I'm ready or not. Or as my friend Robert Lester says, "The grandfathers turn up the heat when we don't listen to what they have to say". Well the heat has been turned up and I've been burned. After a good 4000 miles or so riding in SE Asia without a scratch I crashed off my bike last month and fractured my left wrist. All those crazy highways and insane Bangkok streets and killer mountain passes and I'm fine. Here on the back roads of a quiet little island I get cocky and try some steering tricks and come slamming down onto the pavement. This happens on the way to training for my first job as a massage therapist...ONE DAY AFTER I GET MY MASSAGE LICENSE IN THE MAIL!! When I hit the ground my4th and 5th fingers went instantly numb which I guess is a blessing because the rest of my twisted wrist and hand hurt like I'd never felt before (since I have never actually broken a bone before) and I hope to never feel again.

But now, a month later this is all old news. After a $20,000 surgery and a month of walking around with a gimpy left wrist I'm feeling weak, lazy and fat (not to mention the $20,000 debt thing). I want to feel strong and pain free again. And I just want to ride my bike dammit! OK, so I'm whining...I'm allowed, i earned it. I know intellectually it's too soon but I don't care. When I go to do something simple like open a door or wipe my butt I remember why I'm not yet on my bike...BECAUSE IT FREAKING HURTS!

So many lessons to learn here...patience, humility, pain control, and all the blessing in my life that I'm once again reminded to be appreciative of. Like the fact that I'm alive. Like the fact that I'm generally healthy. Like the fact that I have wonderful people in my life like my family and my friends. Sure I might whine but I know in the big picture all is good baby. Within 20 minutes after my crash, as I was in a car heading to the medical center here in Friday Harbor, I saw a young man with cerebral palsy or some other type of neurological disorder walking down the street. Maybe I was delirious or in shock but I was just so appreciative of all the gifts of health and strength I've been given during this lifetime. It's only my wrist, thank you god.
Thanking god for a fractured wrist may constitute insanity. But so is riding down the middle of Bangkok traffic with The Specials blaring from my iPod. So is sleeping out in a jungle in Thailand with no food or water. Come to think of it so are most of the things I have chosen to do lately so I guess that defines me as insane. Welcome to my world.
But the title to today's blog refers as much to my new found job situation as it does my cycling skills. I've fallen from the responsible place of ER nurse to almost being a massage therapist to...Spa Boy. Which would be a great name for a blog I think. Waiting for my wrist to heal my new boss, the spa director kept me on as a receptionist/spa attendant. I'm grateful for that as it keeps some money coming in while I recover. But making a little more than I did in high school at age 45 is humbling. The fall. Status, perfect health, financially responsible. It's been a long summer and it isn't even half over. But just as I can see the benefits in lessons needing to be learned from breaking my arm, there is one benefit of being the spa boy...lots of writing material. Coming soon...the eyebrow emergency.

Getting back on the horse of run-on sentences

Well, it's time for me to start writing again. My fingers rest here on the keyboard and, while not quite trembling, they look up at me questioningly and ask for direction. Not confused exactly, but like 10 lost pre-schoolers who took a wrong turn on an afternoon field trip. Which way to go now? What to write after sitting in solitary for almost 2 months now? OK I'm exagerating again and I know that 's not like me but...whatever. Solitary is an exageration. Unemployed, confused, and more relaxed than I've ever been is not. All the angst and worries about money and about self esteem and about changing careers (after 18 years of nursing) and leaving what I know and moving toward a future that is uncertain and new...hmm, sounds like travelling. And like travel this new unemployed part of life (it will have been 3 months by the time I actually start working again...after 6 months on the road) is awesome and also full of struggles. Three months of not working and being at home watching the days get longer and the temperature slowly rise is a lot different than 3 months on the road. Lots of time (too much) for naval gazing and wondering what it's all about. Yet I recommend it to anyone. It amazes me how much time and energy we spend around our work. When we don't have work (and this is important...nor a TV) the day opens to an empty canvas of opportunity. What do we do with all the time? How do we want to spend our life energy? What have I done with this opportunity?
1) Catching up on Season 2 of 'LOST' . I know we're into season 3 but I have no TV. And to hell with the naval lint, I want to know what Locke's obsession with the hatch is and sure Sawyer is hot but I hope Kate hooks up with Jack even though he can be such a jerk sometimes.
2)Surfing the internet like I'll find something worth looking at while knowing there isn't but looking anyway...like at the headline news which leads to looking up factoids that you have no interest in like the Mariners' standings in the AL West division.
3)Avoiding writing in this blog like avoiding an acquaintance who has left you a message and wants you to call back but you don't because the guilt you have for not calling back is weaker than the desire to not call back even though it would enable you to delete their message from your answering machine. So I avoid and yet I want to write. I like to write. I like the image of being a writer and romanticise being a writer. A new Thoreau on a small island in the NW with scarf waving in the cold wind around my neck , a modern day Hemingway doing battle with a bike instead of a fish or a bull. Or even a Dave Barry or David Sedaris will do...knowing that people will read this and laugh and say to their friends "Oh my god, have you read James' blog entry today? He's so funny and talented I wish I could meet him...maybe he could give our commencement speech next year". That sort of thing.
4)Catching up on sex
5)Riding my bike in circles around the island
6)Gardening. This will be a whole blog entry someday as it is one of the most rewarding things I've done since getting home (except for watching LOST). There is nothing like getting your hands dirty and clearing a plot of land and preparing the soil and picking out what you want to grow and planting the seeds and watering and watching their little leaves poke out while contemplating the mystery of life and how it and the food it will produce can come from a little seed. OK, so maybe parenting comes in a close second but since I don't have kids I am guessing gardening is more rewarding by far. I am proud of all the new accomplishments of my babies...like when they first sprout or when they drop those cute little first leaves that poke up from the soil and differentiate into tomato or pea or basil plants that they are supposed to grow into. The hard lessons of life like transplanting and thinning only seem to make them stronger!

So here we go. Another adventure in writing and blogging and blabbing. The domestic blog until next winter when I go to India and can feel all adventurous again...although this time with the love of my life Sheryl...who you will get to meet soon enough...hold on sweetie.

San Juan Island!

I've been craving this for months and here I am...sitting on a beach log with my back to the ocean and looking at ducks (mallards and buffleheads) floating on a small lagoon. Their invisible feet propelling them effortlessly makes it look like they are being blown randomly by the cold wind that is biting my neck. Driftwood all along the beach sticks up out of the sand at random angles like long forgotten tombstones shining white in the harsh low angle of sunlight. A monstrous blue heron circles silently overhead before alighting on a fir. I'm not sure if "alight" is the right word as the tree branch bends precariously under its weight. A big yellow cloud of pollen puffs off in the breeze under the giant bird. It is spring here and I had forgotten the amount of pollen a single fir can generate. The pollen reminds me it is spring. The sun is still low in the horizon even though it's noon, and the wind keeps nipping at my exposed skin. But in this little sheltered area the sunlight feels good on my face. Walking earlier along the path through the giant trees I saw no one. I heard only the sounds of birds and wind in the trees and the small wavelets licking the shore. What made the tears come was the smell. I hadn't expected the power of the smell of the pine trees. I hadn't missed that smell at all as the odors of Asia can be overwhelming. The heavy wet decaying smells of the jungle, or the hot smokey stench of all the roasting meat-stick vendors, or the ever-present funk of open sewers. The humidity of SE Asia made the air feel used , like I was breathing someone else's sigh. The halitosis of hundreds of millions of people was at first oppressive but I soon acclimated and forgot the subtle and fresh scent of a cold pine forest after a cleansing rain. Even though the wet earth smelled of mushrooms and ferns and moldy wood it was the fresh scent of nature... and things occurring as they should. There were no tuk-tuks fouling the air or clouds of diesel billowing from tail-pipes. As I wandered the path it led to the shore and the smell of the sea mixed with the pines and I finally felt home for the first time.
At home for the first time...both in my own skin and on this island. I'd walked this path many times before but never as this man at this time in his life. I walked it alone and enjoyed it more than if anyone were with me. I have been here for 5 days now and haven't called anyone or seen any friends...only family members. I'm still in a state of transition and being alone with James is a thing I have never been comfortable with until now. I'd always look for someone to spend my time with in the past. I'd try to plan my day around who I was with or what I was doing next. Even when walking on a trail I would be thinking about what the next thing on my days agenda would be. I'd hurry through the walk to get it done or over with and check it off my list so the next thing could be done. It was as if my entire life was a thing to be lived after I was done doing the thing I was now doing! The harder I ran looking for the next thing to do, the less attention I gave doing the present activity. Sure I had a busy life and lots of things going on but I never really enjoyed those things. I've grown up a bit. I need to slow down...not for my body and not for lack of energy, but for lack of joy. Do I get some prize at the end of this life for being busy? The prize comes now by enjoying this precious moment. I think spending 6 to 8 hours a day pedalling, always pedalling, doing the same thing even in different places and with different amazing experiences broke me of the "what's next" habit. Even though I constantly still wonder "what's next" in my life regarding career and ways to make a living, it's different. I can spend time alone now with James and actually like my company and not have to wonder about the next minutes or hours...they will, no doubt, lead to the next career path no matter how much I stress about it.

Re-entry

Back in town for less than 24 hours and I'm sitting in an old high school gym waiting for the "music" to begin. I moved out of this town 5 years ago and looking around the crowded bleachers is like a time warp. My god, it feels like I never left as I see the same faces that I used to and will again, daily, for the foreseeable future. Five years and the circle is complete. I left here after a divorce suddenly shrank this already small island north of Seattle. It seems big enough again. Big enough to breathe and big enough to start over. And if I ride around it 10 times, big enough to feel like I'm on a bike tour...in Iceland! I am so NOT ready for the freezing wind and rain that has met me in the NW. OK, so it's in the 50's and cloudy and I'm whining but crap, I had a heat rash on my scrotum a week ago and now I almost miss it.
Sheryl, the woman who waited (sometimes patiently) six months for me to come home from Asia, and I are here to listen to her younger son Julian play the trumpet in his band concert. The kids look excited and anxious. The parents look more like...resolved. I mean, when is the last time you attended a 6th grade band concert. Sitting here it hits me that 5 years is a long time. The passage of time for me seems like a blink and the mirror doesn't change that much from day to day even though the grey is more prominent and the wrinkles deeper. But there are kids here playing a horribly arranged Star Wars theme who were just out of kindergarten when I left. It seems to me that their parents have changed much more drastically than I have as well. Of course they have. I'll never get old. I'm different than everyone else! Old acquaintances walk by. Whoa, is that...? Or, man, ...isn't looking so good these days.
Then I see him. Sitting there in the trumpet section playing 3rd trumpet. The smallest kid in the band, hunched over and reading his music with a nervous intensity. I can't tell if he is any good through the cacophony of mistuned wind and brass instruments but he is the clearest thing to a past life experience as I've had in a long time. This life, that is, in my past. Memories of being the small, scared, runt of the school playing in my first band concert, desperately seeking approval, flood my thoughts. I don't have any children of my own. How else can a 44 year old guy go on a trip for 6 months and be so "irresponsible"(and not be on a 'deadbeat dad' list somewhere)? So, I haven't been to a school event in a long time. I realized with some clarity that this concert (or football game or baseball game or debate) is one reason people have kids. To remember, to relive, to continue ones unrealized dreams through another. You get to hit the rewind button and play it all over again with a mini-me. For a few minutes I became that little kid as he played and struggled and persevered and stood up to take a bow. It was a sweet melancholy. I remembered how, even through my fear of making a fool of myself, I would come through and feel elated and feel the love of family, and feel successful. Of course the music was awful tonight, just as it was 33 years ago when I sat in that same chair in a different gym. But it sounded so sweet as I got lost in the drama of one kids struggle and in the drama of life continuing on just as it should. It's funny how we all torture ourselves voluntarily, in our own ways, and struggle so we can grow. Growth is a painful process so we hate it and yet crave it because without it we die. I realized this past year that pain, while not really a friend, is an ally. The changes I've experienced this year have been so enriching while also painful... whether through cycling, a crumpled relationship or some yoga asana that twists me in ways I don't want to be twisted. I have spent so much time avoiding that which helps me grow...hmmm. So this new pain of being cold all the time, and aimless, and unsure of what is next, and not cycling daily, and living in the "real" world again, and living "an ordinary life"...what lessons am I to learn from this time in my life?
I'll find out soon enough but in the meantime I'll just go play my trumpet with Julian and watch us both grow.

Home!...Now What

Bangkok to Seoul to San Francisco to Seattle...30 hours. I feel numb and tired and lethargic. I also am a bit confused as to what is next and where I'm going. For the past 6 months I never really knew where I was going until I got on my bike and started pedalling. That I had just got out of bed in the morning, eaten some breakfast and had another diarrheal stool was enough direction for me. Now I sit and look out at a cold and cloudy sky, wet pavement and windblown trees. My bike is in a box and my panniers are put away. What do I do now? I have identified with "being a traveller" and feeling "special" somehow, and now that part of me is gone (until next time)... What part of me will fill that void? Who am I now if I don't cycle and be adventurous and hunt for an internet cafe so I can write (brag?) about it and get all the love and feedback from friends and even people I've never met?
And of course nothing has really changed at all. I awoke this morning and ate some breakfast and had a poop (if you must know it was solid, brown and it floated) and still have no idea where I'm going...but I know I'm not pedalling there...too freaking cold! Not to mention that my rear rim is bent and god only knows what other disasters await me when I open the shredded box that contains my once beautiful bike. So the cycling adventure is over. It replaced the zip-line-tour-guide-adventure part of my life. And that replaced my E.R. nursing adventure. I realize of course, as I write this, that all those things just describe only one aspect of my life while I was experiencing so many other aspects at the same time. So why do I feel like I have to identify with parts of my life instead of the whole? Do I have to be doing something cool to feel good about who I am like some 18 year old with a self esteem deficit? What about this guy who has been the constant through all these life changes? He's still here and is the constant. He is still naval gazing (especially here in the NW with dark cold clouds and really good coffee) and laughing and loving and breathing and self-doubting and second-guessing and worried and care-free and putting his body into wierd yoga positions and then asking why. He's still asking what it all means and looking for the point in any of this. James is still here, the constant. And constantly whining and laughing and crying and knowing that this is the next adventure...this moment and this second. In the words of Bob Marley (who, before the trip I used to love and now just flinch when I hear, as every Asian bar catering to Westerners overplays his hits ALL THE TIME...and don't even get me started on the Jack Johnson rant!!), "when one door is closed, many more is open". These new moments are all unfolding right now to creat my present adventure. And that they all add up to make a life of meaningful and meaningless moments but moments none the less to be experienced as only I can.
I thought I would wrap up this adventure of mine with relevant anecdotes... or comparisons between the East and the West, or sone poignant moment that defined what the trip meant to me. I find that I can't do it. I will continue to write stories and memories from the recent bike trip and I will write about moments from this new adventure. On one of my last days in Nong Khai, I was writing in my journal trying to keep back the tears and a woman sat down and asked me if I was a writer. It was the first time I ever just said yes, and let it be. This trip has given me that incredible gift. It may be crap. It may be good. But I write and I put it out there for people to read and I found out that I love it. I want to thank you for reading it and commenting and keeping me going when I was pissed or down or discouraged and tired. People whom I've never met like Stoder, or met once like Wheelz or acquaintances who now feel like a friend...Margaret! Hopefully you'll keep reading because if I fail as a writer I might need to borrow some money from time to time! And I need help picking a new blog name...send me some ideas... as I know now why I left Kauai.

Relax...Take Deep Breaths...Balance

Over and over this past week I've heard those words repeated. I've been in a yoga retreat in Nong Khai, Thailand for the last "adventure" of my trip. Pancho, my yoga instructor and all around spiritual community builder here, has a background in theater and those three reminders were uttered just as you would imagine a yoga teacher should. They came slowly, stretched out and breathy. It worked: I actually relaxed and breathed deeply and found my balance. The yoga class was perfect for me as the focus was on breath and quieting the mind (not that I need any mind quieting at all) and the improved flow of pranic energy. This is the kind of inner work I've been seeking the whole trip and here, and found it in my last week in Asia...without pedalling! The inner journey experience while cycling was difficult and yet invaluable. Through stubborn perseverance and lonliness and determination I overcame fears and my own insanities of which I've mentioned before. I found an inner resilience and strenth and self respect I never knew before. I discovered a James who I like that I never knew before. I found scrotal pain I never knew existed before!! Yoga is analagous (except for the scrotal part) but takes a very different approach. Through cycling, I became more aware of the dispiriting inner voice that always whines and wants to quit when things get hard (easy gutterheads). I could settle into a cycling rhythm that allowed me to gently but assertively hold an uncomfortable but maintainable edge. And I got a lot stronger physically. And as the riding was just what my stagnant yoga practice needed, the yoga was the perfect ending for this trip. Abused and overworked muscles and tendons and bones that were never meant to move that reptititiously for that long, day after day and month after month were worked and stretched in a different and more wholistic way.
I cycled into Nong Khai and followed an inner beacon that often leads me to right where I need to be. It's weird and I don't know how it woks but I'm learning to really trust it. Lost in the bustle that is day market stall after day market stall I saw a sign saying Mut-Mee guest house. I had signed up for the yoga class weeks earlier and thought maybe the Mut-Mee people could guide me there. A small, quiet, tree lined side street led toward the guest house. Pancho's yoga studio and home are both next door to the Mut-Mee. Providence led me to the right place once again and I was glad as it had been an 80km ride from the nature preserve in Laos and the direct sunlight was bearing down as if through a magnifying glass. I hopped off my bike and smiled knowing this was going to be my last stop on the trip and it was over looking the Mekong river. The smile soon faded when I looked around at all the white faces and the young hippy set eating western food. Once again I was in Thailand and yet could be anywhere. Americans, Dutch, Germans, British and Canadians...all being served by the Thais who didn't really mingle. But by the next day my dismay had evaporated as I realized very few people were drinking. A lot of these people either lived here or were long term renters who came for the yoga/neditation classes...then fell in love with the little community of new agers, and decided to stay. Here was a group of like minded, spiritual seekers that spend way too much time naval gazing. It was a place that would have had my friend Cary looking for a semi-automatic weapon. I was in heaven. An 11:00 post yoga breakfast would last 2 hours as we would discuss things like whether morality is subjective. It's kind of embarassing to write about now because none of us were even stoned. The atmosphere and heat just fed these discussions until the 2:00 meditation hour started. I actually had a hard time leaving the Mut-Mee after 2 days and just languished at the tables reading or waiting for another conversation to start up. There was a little bookstore and an art studio and people playing music all around and shady banana trees and a thatch roofed restaurant and the flowing Mekong behind it all. I spent one of the most relaxing weeks of my life there (even though the yoga retreat was physically and mentally difficult) and was sad to have to leave. Especially since the train from Nong Khai was taking me back to the familiar and evil haunts of Bangkok.

Roberto, squared

I've already written, OK whined, about my first days' ride out of Luang Prabang, Laos. It was a 80 or 90 km day (already repressing the pain) of mostly uphills and heat. But I failed to mention that this is where I ran into Roberto. And his friend, Roberto. The guest house was at the top of the hill and I was dead tired as I pushed my bike into the storage room next to the restaurant. The storage room also had a large mattress on the floor and doubled as someones bedroom but no one seemed to care I was parking my bike there. It was then I saw a beautiful new Trek mountain bike next to the fridge and piles of veggies and fruit. My sense of "off the beaten track" was offended, but I looked forward to talking trash with another cyclist. It's the kind of conversation that will make the average non-cyclist fall rapidly into REM sleep. You know, "how many kilomteres did you go today" and "how much water did you drink" and "what did you think of that last hill" and the like. It's weird but we instantly have a connection. No matter where we are from or how old or how different, a cyclist out here is a kindred spirit. So I sat down and was thinking about my upcoming noodle soup when a very handsome and ruggedly stubbled Italian guy came in and sat down at another table. I walked over and sat down and he introduced himself as, you guessed it, Roberto. After 2 minutes the conversation ended. It was clear the kindred spirit thing was not going on here, at all. At first I thought it was a language issue, but his English was pretty good. You know that feeling when you really wish you hadn't just sat down and committed yourself to a conversation with someone you have absolutely no connection with and you feel sort of tight in the throat and chest and a little squirmy and fidgety and you start looking around for empty tables and thinking up excuses for why you have to eat alone and can't come up with a good enough one to make it hide the fact that you'd pretty much rather eat anywhere else in the world than at this one table? Yeah, that was the feeling I was having just as his giant, bald headed, bird faced friend named, mm hmm, Roberto came and sat down with us. I was relieved...for about 2 more minutes until the same feeling crept over me and the silencio at the table became strained. I tried the always reliable, "George Bush is a moron" line of conversation but it fell away almost unnoticed. I tried the well worn bike-gear-blather but again a big miss as he didn't seem too interested even in his own cycling adventure. As a matter of fact he didn't seem interested in much. He had just met his friend, Roberto, in Laos and Roberto was following Roberto via bus and carrying a lot of his gear for him. I was wishing Alisa would hurry up and save me from this scene but since she and I were needing a lot more space than a small box of a room with two single beds can provide (i.e. wishing the other would accidentally ride off a mountain cliff), she was in no hurry to share dinner as well.
When dinner came we all dug into the food and I finally noticed the eyes of these two mis-matched Italians. They were bleary and bloodshot. When the conversation was thus directed to the always popular subject of drugs they both perked up and the discussion was lively. Both in their 30's and a bit old for constant drug use I was startled to find out that this was why they liked Laos so much. With the constant pot use, and smoking opium when available, I wondered when the one Roberto had enough time or energy for bike riding. It was like a full time occupation with these guys as they discussed the different aspects of drug use here in Laos.
We vowed to cycle together the next day and I finally escaped off to bed. By 9:00 the next morning there was no sign of Roberto, or that his bags were anywhere near being packed so Alisa and I took off. We ran into him later that day. Since his buddy had all his gear on a bus somewhere, he caught up with us easily...even after smoking his morning joint. That afternoon, found the two Robertos staying at the same guest house as Alisa and I, once again. This place was a jewel that every passing cyclist had mentioned to us. As an aside, after cycling for hours and seeing the cars, busses and mopeds passing, and having long internal dialogues with oneself, it is a rare and wonderful treat to see a geared up, loaded down, cyclist coming from the opposite direction. I always like to stop and chat and it gives me another excuse to not pedal. There are an amazing number of us cycling fools out on the roads of the world and even if it makes me feel a little less "special", it's always good to share the pain and information. The ones that make me feel like the wuss I am are the ones who have cycled from their homes in Europe somewhere. Through the middle east and Pakistan, into India up the Himalayas into Tibet, through China, maybe dip in Kyrgistan or durka-durkastan until they find some beach in Thailand to hang out on. I find them heading north, cycling home...2 years or so later. Along this stretch of road every cyclist had mentioned the hot springs just outide of our next destination. After 2 days of mountain passes the decision was a no brainer and we altered plans so as to stay at the bungalows just next to the hot springs. The steep mountains and woods surrounding the place were beautiful. The atmosphere, even though built right on the main north/south route of Laos, was serene. "Main route" here means an occasional truck or bus passes as opposed to a smaller road where nothing passes. A large square pool had been dug out right next to the road but a little further up the hill was a hot stream that, nestled in the trees and boulders, soaked away all my muscle tension and pain. In the morning I was glad I had chosen the stream to sit in as there was a group of locals that were brushing their teeth, doing laundry and bathing, soap and all, in the big pool. The two Roberto's were sleeping in apparently, once again, so Alisa and I took off after a snack, vowing to eat in town. We didn't want to repeat last nights dinner experience. The Roberto's must have had the munchies last night because the food that arrived at the table was sketchy and had no similarity to what was ordered. I'm used to that by now of course but the disparity had reached a new level. Why Roberto chose to order schnitzl in northern Laos was a mystery. So was the plate of food that arrived about an hour later. My vegetarian noodle soup had more huge chunks of meat in it than noodles but it looked rather like chicken so I picked out the bits and ate the rest...and I hate doing that! But they must have run out of chicken because the mystery meat that everyone else ate brought up the topic of eating dog meat in Laos. Apparently eating a dog that had yellow fur gives one more power than if the dog is another color. In Thailand a yellow dog will be exported (as pets of course) and fetch up to 4000 Bhat. That is almost $150!! As dinner here was dirt cheap the meat must have come from some poor black mutt. No one felt very good the next day.
Riding along in the afternoon heat I discovered how Roberto can do so many drugs and cycle around Asia so well. As passenger truck passed by I heard a "ciao" coming from the back and saw the Roberto's waving amiably with big grins and a bike tied to the roof of the truck. "Hey, that's cheating" I yelled smiling and waving, forgetting all the trains and busses I've enjoyed over the past few months. For the rest of my time in Laos I kept running across the Roberto's. In Vang Vienne they came up to our breakfast table, already hopelessly stoned, and ordered their second breakfast of the day as ours looked so delicioso. Later that day I ran into them heading for the "happy pizza" place and they were discussing the magic mushroom shake with which to chase it down. In Vientiane we cycled passed them once again and they invited us to visit them at their guest house later in the day. I never did get there. I think we took our relationship as far as it could go...even though I ended up really liking these guys. I can't even say why. Maybe it was just seeing a familiar face everywhere I went. Maybe it was their relaxed attitudes and constant smiles. But ultimatley, it's not nearly enough as stoned people are really boring. Pleasant maybe, but boring and I couldn't face another evening with the Roberto's.

International Womens Day...Laos style

My third day at Lao Pako nature preserve and things were moving as slow as possible...just the way I like it. My morning herbal sauna was over and I was wondering what to do. The sauna was amazing. I had to meander through a hot jungle to get to the sauna house. The small wood structure with a grass roof was on a gentle slope just above a stream for the refreshing dip afterward. Most people describe this part of Laos as a sauna and wonder why anyone would want to go from one sauna to a hotter one. I wondered that too as I stripped down and entered the steamy dark room. But I realized that day, that if one steps from the hottest fires of hell into the more reasonable fires of Laos, it makes Laos seem rather refreshing...which it isn't. From under the hut a pipe leads horizontally out to a small boiler sitting over two long logs that had their ends pushed into a fire. Its a great system. Someone puts eucalyptus leaves and other "herbs from the jungle" into the boiler and if the room cools down too much you just run out in all your sweaty nakedness and shove the logs farther into the flames and streak back in. It was plenty hot however as I stepped into the steamy abyss. The herbal smells and wood smoke mix with the hot wet air as I melted into a puddle of sweat. The smell was cooling and counteracted the heat which allows one to stay longer than is prudent. Not known for prudence, I hung out in there for a good 30 minutes before feeling the (by this time in my trip, normal-post-cycling) effects of dehydration and electrolyte imbalance. The lightheadedness was kind of nice and for a dollar one of the cheapest highs in Laos. That and Beer Lao, but I've already discussed the magic of Beer Lao. And since I've decided to go back to beer abstinance (which as we'll see in a minute lasted all of three hours) I felt great. Stumbling into the cool stream I stared up at the leaf speckled sky and smiled at how perfect this moment was. The dizziness wasn't clearing after I took 3 or 4 more trips to the steam room and started to wonder about the "jungle herbs" that were in the steaming pot above the fire. Back at the resort however my mind cleared after 2 liters of water. It was then, in my paralytic state, that I realized that Phut was talking to me. It was 90 degrees by now and it took me a minute to formulate an answer to his question. He just stood there waiting for my answer. Either he sees a lot of really drugged out tourists or, like everyone else in Laos, is so mellow that waiting 20 seconds for a reply is not abnormal.
"What party?" I asked. "You know, I told you yesterday my village is celebrate international womens day". Leaving the shaded, open deck/reception area and cycling in the blazing midday heat didn't sound really fun after a dehydration high. But how often does one get invited to a Laoatian villiage party? (As it turns out...all the time but how was I to know?) "Of course I'm going" I said, and thought, 'as soon as my legs lose that gelatenous feeling.'
I set out at about 1:00pm instantly remembering it was the hottest part of the day. In the clear cut jungle area I was surrounded by the pleasing and mystical sounds of wooden cowbells. The sound was all around and weird since I could only see an occasional emaciated cow in the scrub. I always think of percussion instruments as each bell has its own tone. With dozens of them tinkling invisibly and no other sounds and nothing around for miles it was my own private concert and I stood in the shadeless road smiling once again at Laos. It was the sweat pouring down my asscrack that pulled me from my reverie and I rode on to the small village. The booming subwoofers told me I was close. When I got to the school field there were maybe 150 people sitting outside under the trees. Plastic benches and stools were set up in front of a wall of massive speakers as a guy with a microphone in his hand was shouting excitedly into it. Being the only white guy in the crowd I felt a little uncomfortable realizing that this was their party and I was crashing it. Even though I had been invited, my host was back at the "resort". Just blend in I laughed to myself as I leaned my bike up against the fence. I haven't really bothered locking my bike these days as I have had no reason to. Back at home I would have put the chain through both wheels and found something strong to lock it to. Here in Laos it feels way safer than my own country. Maybe its just because they are all so wealthy I shrugged and went off into the crowd. The musicians had taken over the mic and were blaring some nice sounding Laos pop which has a swinging little reggae beat and great lyrics. Actually they were singing in Laoation which pissed me off but didn't seem to bother anyone else. People were staring at me while I was leaning up against a tree trying to be as inconspicuous as possible but the looks were not hostile at all. A handsome young guy in a starched shirt came up to me and invited me over to his table of friends. I told him I'd be right over and made a detour to the beer stand. There were 3 tables set up for concessions. One for chips and sunflower seeds, the other for meat stick snacks and the biggest by far was the Beer Laos stand. Grabbing three large bottles of beer I headed back to the group of friends who had cleared a spot for me. They were all well dressed and looked fresh whereas I had on a sweaty dirty T-shirt and some natty shorts. They didn't seem to care as their gaze was fixed on the beer. I was a hit as I opened them up and passed them out. But even though they were pleased, no one grabbed a bottle but just kept them together in the middle of the table. Then I realized that there were no cups and started looking around for some. The last pot luck I attended at home someone always brings the cups and plates...its an unspoken expectation and they always show up. Then at the end of the party we always gather up the trash bag and throw away 5 pounds of plastic. No such waste here! Someone stood by my side and poured me a half cup of beer and waited. I took a sip and continued the tortured conversation of where I lived etc. The guy pouring beer was still at my side and my young friend said "You must finish your beer". I thought it was some sort of macho thing about not sipping beer so I downed the rest. The guy pouring looked relieved and grabbed my cup, refilled it and gave it to someone else. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle! I don't know how many of us shared that cup that day but I was there for 3 hours and it was going strong when I left. I was at the table of college students who were visiting the village for 4 months teaching English to the local kids. They all wanted to speak English so I had the same conversations over and over until one woman asked me if I wanted to dance. The music was too loud in front of the speaker wall and that's just where everyone was. The Laos dance, as a generalization of course, like they live...very relaxed and slowly. Kind of like a reggae sway...you find that groove and hang with it. Everyone in the crowd with the same move and all smiling and laughing and loving the afternoon. Everyone includes the cool teen-agers, the married couples, the old ladies dancing together and a few drunk old men dancing alone. I was surprised to see that everyone was drunk as well. The Beer Loas was flowing hard but I was a bit shocked to see one 60-ish year old woman pouring beer down the throat of another older woman. As the beer soaked the front of her shirt they both just laughed and supported each other with a free arm. It was International Womens Day after all and these girls were milking every minute of it and having a blast. After many, many half cups of beer later and dance after dance with half the village, I had an experience I've never had before and gave me just one more reason to love this country. While dancing and looking out over the crowd I realized I was looking out over the crowd! Being 5'7" on a dance floor usually allows me the view of armpits and bouncing breasts...OK so not all bad but still a bit claustrophobic. Here the tops of heads were swaying and I could see to the horizon which was also swaying! It was time for me to go back to the lodge and drink something other than Beer Laos. I had to extricate myself from the party and especially from one guy who wanted me to sleep at his house all night...but not really sleep. The bike swayed a bit as I rode out of town they all waved and smiled and shouted goodbye.
The women here in Laos got one day off this year from cooking and sweeping and toiling and harvesting and slaving away. They took that day and, here in this village, played just as hard as they work. Unbridled joy in a crowd is a rare thing to see...it's a memory that I hope stays with me for a long time.

Hey...I'm not dead yet!

I've been out of computer range for a while now but thanks for all the feedback...I'm so so so pleased you have enjoyed this blog. But don't stop now!!
I've been crying a lot lately. Well, not a lot, but sporadically and at inconvenient times. I have just over a week left on this journey and while I'm ready to go home I hate to leave. It's not Thailand that I hate saying goodbye to however. It's the entirety of it all. The intensity, and growth, and all the challenges and the meeting of those challenges that travelling has brought me. But that trip home is still a week away...lets go back a few days. Crossing the Friendship Bridge from Laos to Thailand was too easy and it was when I got to the immigration stop that I realized that the "adventure" part of my trip was over. The ass-kicking hills and the out of the way places and the general sense of being off the beaten track were all behind me now. In front were the 8 lanes of immigration checkpoints. The area was clean and organized and with yellow "king" shirts everywhere it was a stark reminder of being back in "civilization". The official smiled and warned me to ride safely as he saw I was on a bicycle. I was recalling my introduction to Laos a few weeks ago at a small border crossing where two grumpy officials in military fatigues unhappily stamped my passport and wouldn't answer my questions. But once beyond those guys Laos was the friendliest place I've ever been. If Thailand is known as the land of a thousand smiles then Laos would have to be the land of a whole lot of really smiley, high-fivin', happy people that don't resent you being in their country... at all. Cycling into Nong Khai I was amazed at all the traffic. Only the biggest freeway in Vientiane was this busy. I had become used to a newer, better pace. Here in Thailand people stopped at the red lights because there might be a car coming from another direction. In Vientiane (lonely planet calls it the most laid back capitol city in the world) people would come to a red light, realize no one was around for a mile or so, and run it. It seemed sensible enough to me even after I passed numerous painted outlines of mopeds on the road. At first I didn't understand. Then I came across fresh paint marks that were surrounded by monks praying for the souls of the deceased while family members held candles and flowers.
The pace was especially slow in the last place I visited in Laos. It was a nature preserve 50 km out of Vientiane. It was a nasty ride there as the air quality was some of the worst I've seen over here in Asia. This city was a smoke filled oven and even still I was a bit sad to leave it. Vientiane, for all its charm and crumbling French architecture, amazing baguettes and French food, incredibly ornate Wats and the smilin'est people on earth, is kind of a crap hole. I love Vientiane. You can't not love Vientiane. You love it like an old widower loves his 17 year old mangey, stinky, flea ridden but sweet dog. The dog that wants nothing more than for you to pet it... but the pustules on its skin make you think twice because you know intuitively what that skin will feel like all crusty and moist under your fingers. And you know what your hand will smell like after petting the thing, just as the old man inevitably offers you a pretzel or some other finger food that you can't politely refuse. So you have to excuse yourself to his bathroom for a hand wash but notice the bathroom hasn't been cleaned since his wife died and makes the the dog look positively sparkling. THAT is how you love Vientiene. Only the bathrooms aren't as clean and there is never soap or towels so your post anal scrub and cold water rinse while wiping your hands on your sweaty, salty bike shorts don't really improve your hygiene. But this isn't what I wanted to write about today at all. Back to the nature preserve.
Alisa rode about half way out to the park with me as she said she needed some exercise. Of course she was suffering from classical separation anxiety as we were going our own ways. Her fear of all the Laos children running up to her while cycling and giving her high fives was starting to take over her rational mind. She regarded me as some talisman of protection and didn't want to be on her own anymore. She had convinced herself that some 5 year old would take her out with a high 10 unless I was riding out in front. It's amazing what heat and electrolyte imbalance can do to ones mind. During the ride I had to give her the almost cliche, "Do you think your brother Lance worries about all the little French kids high 10-ing him everytime he has a hard climb up the Peloton?" speech. It seemed to work as she was able to shout out a few weak "Sabaidees" to the kids we passed. After 24km Alisa turned around and we said our goodbyes. As I watched her shrink in my rearview (with a tailwind dammit) I thought about how nice it was to travel with a friend who just happens to be a stronger cyclist that I. She pulled me up more hills than she will know and when the headwinds blew I was the perfect gentleman with a ladies first attitude. We managed to have only a very few arguments and I can count on both hands (OK toes too) how many times I wanted to kill her. Travelling is difficult. Travelling at close quarters under difficult conditions with a total stranger nearly impossible and yet we pulled it off and remain friends (until she reads this blog I'm afraid...sorry about the separation anxiety BS Alisa...but it is kind of funny). I also thought, as I travelled into the boonies, how nice it was to be travelling solo again. There is an openness that occurrs when alone and opportunities for self discovery present themselves. Actually the opportunity occurs with each pedal stroke (or each second of our lives if you will) if you pay attention. And I was paying attention as the road changed from paved to red dirt. I felt hot, dirty, sweaty, tired, strong, alone, connected, anxious, calm, concerned and care free. I FELT! I was alive and I knew it. This is life...this endless pointless spinning of pedals was life and I was in it and part of it all. This was my thought...and even before my usual afternoon opium dose! But still this isn't what I wanted to write about.
I'm sitting on the banks of the Mekong river looking across into Laos. On the main road over there an occasional car or moped drives by lazily. I miss that pace. I am in Nong Khai which is celebating some week long festival with amazing energy. Every night the streets are packed with stalls selling meat-shapes on a stick or fresh fruit or candies or coconuts or strange drinks like the black colored liquid with gelatinous chunks that taste like dirt and grass. Every other stall it seems is selling DVD's and the TV's with attached mega speakers pump out Thai karaoke. From distorted speakers, music overlaps the sounds from other distorted speakers. The shrill voices of hawkers trying to yell over the music. The masses all shuffle as if on a conveyor belt along streets too crowded to pass. Smoke from the noodle stands mixes with smoke from the "meat-stick-people" which mixes with the smoke from the fish grillers. Everywhere are blinkey lights and big stuffed animals and there is a screaming raffle give-away and small roller coaster rides for the kids. At the end of the street on a large stage a karaoke guy is singing between a group of Thai go-go dancers with black knee length boots. I pass by a TV showing mangled corpses being hauled out of some horrible car wreck (shown by the local EMS group). It all adds up to sensory overload and it is mad. Seeing as how I spent the last 3 nights in a nature preserve I'm not really that receptive to Thailands ability to overstimulate.
Lao Pako preserve sits on a 90 degree bend in the Na Ngam river 50km and a world away from Vientiane. Riding the red dirt roads through tiny unnamed villages with grass thatched huts I started to think I was lost. An hour and a half of jarring dust will do that. But finally a small sign pointed down a white sandy road and 3km later I was at the "resort". Surrounding the reserve was a flat desolate clear-cut area but once inside the park the beauty of the jungle was all around. The air was cooler and cleaner and the sounds in the trees calming. There were more staff than guests here and this place was laid back even for Laos standards. One of the activities on the notice board was "relaxing"...just under "reading a book". At the entry to the place was the omnipresent "sweeping guy". The Laos love to sweep. It's like a national past time. Everywhere you go someone will be sweeping. If there is another ice-age the Laos need to take up curling as a winter sport. Curling being about as exciting as Bocci ball...the other national past time in Laos. I think the reason sweeping is sweeping the nation is because of the brooms. Very flat and made with a wispy soft straw and a handle a foot too short, it's about as efficient as a size 10 Reebok for pushing crap into a pile. So a 15 minute sweep job takes an hour. Add to that the Laos sense of urgency about finishing anything and we're up to 90 minutes. But it's hot over here so I give them credit for even being aboe to move. Besides the gentle , slow, pushing of a broom the only other noise I heard was that of wildlife. The river slid silently by but the birds and insects and wind in the trees was serene. For the next 3 and a half days they would be my soundtrack of Laos.
But I think I started this blog with something about tears...not sure it was a long time ago. I feel torn between the pain of leaving and the joy I've had this year. But pain isn't even the right word...these are tears of being overwhelmed by an amazing journey. These are also tears of gratitude for a world so beautiful and for me being able to experience it. I went for a hard ride yesterday and while pushing it as hard as I could, I just lost it...screeaming and with tears streaming down my face. I am going home. My trip is over. I am not the same man I was 6 months ago...and of course I'm the same man. Travelling has kept me awake and alive and vibrant. I want to bottle it and take it home with me and sip from it and get drunk on it everyday! But I fear the "other" James. I fear my own sloth and laziness and self-doubt and inertia. I fear my own ruts and the shovels with which I dig them. The shovel of comfort. I fear toilet paper and cleanliness and hot running water and soft beds and all that I take for granted at home...how to stay aware and awake there?! I just read The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran and this struck me poignantly: "...or have you only comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house as a guest, and then becomes the host, and then a master". As doubts and laziness and comfort can drive me, so also can the fear of those things and I continue to move, to seek, to travel. It is time to find a balance between them...it's time to go home. My new mantra is, " Do not let comfort be my master".

Who would've thought this was why I left Kauai

Hey! I have new photos up on the link if your interested check em out.
The heat was getting to us. It was the end of the day and after 10 hours of cycling out of the mountains and onto some level ground we were ready for the kick back part of the day. After heading south for the past 10 days the road started north again and the light headwind was getting annoying. Then after getting lost on smaller and smaller roads we were suddenly found. The dam appeared around a bend and we were almost to the guest house. Then out of nowhere it appeared. The road just shot up at an angle I hadn't seen since Thailand. One thing about Laos roads...they may be never-ending and damn steep but they were engineered with the idea of people actually using them...unlike Thai roads of which I've complained enough! But my legs were now jello after the long day and had nothing left, at all. We were both surly but I just lost it and started cussing and yelling at that hillside like it gave a damn. It didn't and around the next bend got even steeper. The spewing vitriolic hate that I let forth was powerful and started pulling me up the hill. Alisa was fighting her own battle and couldn't deal with my tantrum and told me to shut the hell up. I stood up and pedaled harder and with each stroke of my legs the cussing became more nasty and creative. I was out of earshot of Alisa now and having the big tantrum of this trip. My legs had re-developed the heat rash of southern Thailand and I was red-faced, soaked and mean looking when we came across two guys sitting at the side of the road. They smiled and pointed up the road when we asked if we were going in the right direction toward Na Nam. Normally this would have been encouraging but today everyone had the same response with differing estimates of distances. Ten kilometers back someone said, "Yes, Na Nam this way...maybeee 5 kilometers". Normally this kind of thing happens all the time here as people want to be friendly and polite and make you feel good. Normally this is an awesome trait that I love about SE Asia...friendly, smiling, and helpful strangers. These two pointed straight up the hill and said "Yes, maybe 2 kilometers". Normally I would have said thank you but it was good that I was panting so heavily or I might have started screaming at them to shut the hell up. As it was I rode off yelling at the road again and revelling in my hate fest. The power of anger is amazing and I tore up the hill using most of the little energy I had left. Turns out it was about a kilometer as the hill topped out around the next twist. And 2 hours later, I was feeling great and drinking a cold beer lao with the owner of a restaurant who used to work for the American secret airforce. ( Aside Alert! You know, the CIA funded nightmare called Air America that bombed most of Laos to hell trying to stop Ho Chi Minh as well as the communist insurgents in Laos. The airforce that ran more sorties in Laos than were run in Viet Nam! The secret airforce that dropped over 1000 pounds of ordinance for every citizen in Laos causing untold pain and death. Why didn't I learn about this crap in school, dammit?!) He still loved America and Americans and was so warm and sweet to us. With rotting teeth (some moving disturbingly as he talked) and love in his eyes he told of us repairing airplanes for the Americans. He didn't seem to care about the politics but he sure liked working with all the Americans. That was after his 9 year career of being a monk. In the morning he performed a ceremony and, putting a cloth bracelet on my wrist, blessed me and my family and wished me a safe and happy journey. It was a touching and wonderful connection in which two strangers from opposite ends of the world are sharing something bigger than each of them. But lets get back to my pain and infantile behavior for a minute.
The reason I began todays blog with my tantrum is that I realized something about myself in that rant. I can be a total whiner. I can be weak, or a crybaby. I can moan about the littlest things and I can be a real ass sometimes. In the past I always wanted to improve and change and "better" myself thinking that those traits made me unlovable. I got it, out here on the back roads of Laos, that nothing needs to change but the rediculous voice in my head that thinks I'm somehow incomplete! Ever! Somehow I came to understand (blame the heat) this week that those annoying traits make me human, not anything else. Sometimes they can even be assets. I don't have to be a certain way or have to change anything to be lovable. I've come to love myself on this trip. AND THAT IS WORTH LEAVING KAUAI FOR!! Having that realization has given me a feeling of completion and I'm ready to come home. I'm homesick for family and for my love, Sheryl and for a sense of groundedness that travelling often doesn't afford.

Vang Vieng

"This place feels like a border town". I said it, but Alisa was thinking it as we pedaled in from the mountains to V.V. By the way, if you were wondering why I didn't blog about Alisa in the last post it's because we separated for a lot of the first days climb. Listening to her very good advice, I shipped at least 10 pounds of gear back to Bangkok so I could keep up with her. As a result, hmm... how can I put this politely, I kicked her ass up and down those mountains!! Bring it on Lance! Anyway, for the past three days we had been in the boonies and stayed in places where the tourists are not backpackers and not westerners. That always makes me feel superior to everyone else traveling. It's like I have it figured out and all these poor suckers are just along for the ride following mindlessly some route chosen for them by Lonely Planet. The fact that I am surrounded by them right now in an internet cafe is not lost on me, at all. But I still do feel superior...it's the curse of the low-self-esteem-afflicted I'm afraid. Coming back onto the backpacker circuit also has the downside of seeing how cheesy mass tourism really is. A few of us here and there eating noodles from some hole in the wall is one thing. But Vang Vieng is the antithesis of that...a town created for tourists by people who think (and quite correctly I'm afraid) they know what tourists want.
For example, bars. Not just a few bars to cater to the thirsty, but a main street that is bar after bar after bar. This town is a tiny, dusty hole with 2 main streets and maybe 30 bars. But it isn't Khao San Road with blaring, pumping party music. It's TV bars. Every bar has either a big screen TV or multiple TV's so you can watch from any table. The tables are low slung affairs with pillows on the ground so you can lie down and take in the show for as long as your high lasts. TV bars with themes. Like the one that shows only episodes of the smash hit FRIENDS. Over and over, day after day, one mind numbing FRIENDS show after the other. I was trying to imagine the hip LA english that the staff at that bar were learning by listening to Matt Le Blanc and Jennifer Aniston. But not for long because we passed the TV bar that shows the SIMPSONS ad nauseum...DOH! So this dusty town with nothing but guest houses, bars and internet cafes feels very border-esque. The problem is that the border is no where near here.
As the sun went down and we walked around, it hit us both how this is the new-milennium opium den. Pizza places can sell you a "happy pizza" with marijuana on top instead of oregano and you can get a magic mushroom shake. After that you can lie down and trip your way through Homer Simpson as long as you'd like. And people were...lots of them.
Today it is hot. Really freaking hot and the sun is out full strength. Not the filtered sunlight we've been getting up in the hills from all the slashing and burning...no it rained last night. The rain cleaned up the air nicely but took away the smoke filter and now it is really (did I mention) HOT! It is so hot that my pride followed all my strength and we found ourselves planted in front of a TV bar watching some excellent movie choices like "My super ex-girlfriend" and then "The Pink Panther". Thankfully the power went out before some other movie started, and we remembered that we were in Laos. As in S.E. Asia Laos... as far away from AMERICA as you'd want to go! So we left and walked down the street as the power came back on and we stared at the opium dens anew and felt instantly superior to the losers who could come all the way to Laos just to watch TV. That's why I'm here now at the internet cafe really getting my fill of Laos culture before dinner and the next movie!! It's all really just a hoot and only gets obnoxious if I judge it, myself, or anyone else for that matter.

Sabai Dee!

The grass really isn't greener. Not always. The past 3 days have been some of the hardest cycling yet in the lost mountain ranges of N Laos. I wouldn't change any of it for a second. Riding up STEEP hills that go on forever with sweat stinging in my eyes? Love it. Coming around a bend in the road only to see the asphalt snaking up the side of the clear-cut, burned out hillsides and disappearing into the smoky distance? Love it a little less. Making eye contact with some tourist, half my age, looking bored out of her mind as her bus passes? Priceless. As hard as the last few days of hot and humid riding have been, I feel like a million dollars just sitting here in this internet cafe. I am alive. I am tired. I have just accomplished something that was worth doing. And my ass is killing me.
The road from Luang Prabang to the capitol city, Vientiane is the major highway running north-south in this part of the country. Occasionally a car passes. It is no wider than a country road and no passing lanes, that is what the blind curves are for. On the steeper downhill sections I found this out by passing trucks and cars on these blind curves as the diesel spew gets nauseating on the long descents. Even though the people in the back of the truck (and there are always people in the back of a truck) are smiling and waving and giving me the thumbs up, I still want to pass them as it is the rare chance a cyclist gets to pass a motor vehicle. It is so satisfying...like lane splitting in Bangkok. There is some psychic connection that one has with blind curves the longer one drives over here. It is the only explanation for the ability to pass blindly yet knowing you will survive. Sure you may have to hit the brakes as hard as you can a few times. Sure you might have to force the car you're passing to cram on his brakes a few times but in the end everyone survives and speeds off to the next curve. I think I've mastered it after watching enough cars try it...although I have been wearing my helmet religiously just in case.
As soon as Luang Prabang was in the rear view mirror the hills started with a gentle warning. Eight hours later, and the warnings gone unheeded, I was at the summit of a hill dripping in salty sweat and "over it" as my niece Juelianna would say. The previous three hours and 20km had been spent on one solid climb. No little downhill sections, at all. No little spots to coast and let the blood back into my thighs. No spots to relax and spin gently so the lubricant in my knee joints could circulate. Just a continuous UP in my lowest gear. In those three hours I think I experienced four of the five stages of grief researched by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross. Hour one found me in denial that a mountain could actually go on like this for 20 km. This rapidly moved into anger that a mountain could go on like this for 20 km. The second hour found me in the stage of bargaining with myself, god, the imagined truck driver that might stop and ask if I wanted a ride...anyone or anything that would listen. As no one stopped, and god seemed preoccupied, and I got sick of whining (yes it's possible), I started to move into the fourth stage...depression. But the amazing thing about riding through Laos is that it won't let me get depressed. The scenery is just so beautiful. Even if it is deforested, and a lot of the hillsides are baren and black from slash and burn aggriculture, and the smoke is so thick from all the burning that you can barely see the next ridge (as well as having bronchial pain from deep breathing it all day), Loas is still a beauty. I wanted to ponder the destruction of the earth and how we are all on a one way trip to environmental suicide (because we all know how helpful and useful those thoughts are!) but the damn kids kept interruping me and kept me smiling. Small villages lined the way up the mountain and every time I rode through one all the kids would shout as loud as they could, "Sabai Dee!!!!" A village here is defined as a row of wooden structures on stilts with palm leaf roofs lining either side of the road. No side streets in these towns as the structures were precariously perched over steep drop offs. Under the houses were pigs and chickens and lots of dirt. And even gasping for air I couldn't help but shout back a sabaidee. From dark doorways kids would appear and always waving and shouting hello. From unseen places a shout of sabaidee was frequently heard. The bigger kids, from 4 to 10 years old, would run out to the side of the road and give high fives as I passed. It was a great feeling and so encouraging to have all these little guys rooting for me. I could imagine what it must be like to be famous like Lance Armstrong or Julia Roberts for a day! OK, maybe not, but those are the kind of messed up thoughts that passed through my mind as the electrolyte imbalance got more critical.
The last hour of the ascent felt steeper yet and I moved into the fifth stage of grief...acceptance. Breathe in for 3 pedal strokes; breathe out for 3 pedal strokes. Repeat. The breathing took over the thinking and it just became an exercise of stubborn will. Just keep pedalling and you will get there. And as I did pull into town and found a guest house, I felt like a rock star. Mick Jagger maybe, or one of the other dinosaurs who should have quit long ago... but still, a rock star. And the guest house up there? Let's be nice and say it wasn't a 5 star resort. It didn't have running water and the beds looked eerily similar to the bedbug infested things that I've "slept" in before. The dank shower room consisted of a 50 gallon oil barrel (Shell Oil logo still visible) full of cold water. There was an small empty bucket outside and I took it towel clad into the back kitchen (and you really don't want to know what is in a back kitchen in Laos...let alone the front kitchen). There the bucket was filled with boiling water from a huge pot being heated by a log fire. Mixed with the water from the oil drum, that bucket bath was better than most showers I've ever had. Washing away the funk that had accumulated on my body was all that mattered and it reminded me once again of all the crazy little things we not only take for granted, but get so upset about in our daily "struggles". Yet another reminder that travelling is such a great teacher. It can show us our craziness by stripping from us our familiar expectations...and replacing them with that cultures' crazy expectations.
I awoke bite free and ready to do it all over again and that's exactly what I did...for the next two days. Each day the power in my legs decreased. I rolled into Vang Vieng last night vowing that now I will take a day off and play in the river here and drink lots of Lao coffee. The sludge that just a few days ago I complained about is now a favorite staple and drug of choice. Super sweet, thick and chewy! Unfortunately this town is all about other drugs of choice and is a hot spot on the backpacker loop. But that is for tomorrows blog.

A River Journey Down The Mekong

Let me try to describe what the last two days of travelling in Laos have been like. And I preface this with the fact that my ass hurts more now, after 2 days of non-cycling, than it has since early Malaysia. A two day long-boat trip down the Mekong River from the border town of Huai Xai (yeah, I can't pronounce it either) to Luang Prabang on a hard, straight backed bench right out of a southern baptist church will do that to any butt. The pain really started before the boat ride, next to my ass...in my wallet. What should have cost $15 for the journey ended up being $30 as no one would tell us where the boat dock was. Everyone wanted to sell us tickets but mystery surrounded how to buy directly. One official looking booth next to the sign to our destination was occupied by a guy who pointed up the road when we asked to buy a ticket. Since we had just arrived on the bank of the river in this new country, up the road was, basically, Laos. The advice we got from everyone varied from "Go to the bus station" (we're thinking NO!) to the ubiquitous "can not". We finally caved in and bought the ticket from a guest house as the boat was leaving soon (or so we thought). Following the tuk-tuk on bicycle for 1/4 mile led us to the docks but the damage was already done and we had been fleeced. Fifteen dollars for a quarter mile bike ride...hey, it's a lot when you're spending $2.00 for lodging and $1.50 for meals!
Patience takes on a whole new meaning when travelling and especially travelling with the herd of backpackers all trying to find the next new thing and using the same Lonely Planet book to do it. We all packed into a boat approximately 10 feet wide (to hell with the metric system!) by 100 feet long. I say packed because there were maybe 200 people on this boat. The bicycles were stored up top and all bags were under the floor boards by 9:30am and we were ready to go as it was getting hot. By "we" I mean all the passengers. The crew was way more relaxed than the rest of us however and we didn't do much more than sweat and wait for the occasional straggler (or wiser tourist who had done this before). By the time the engine fired up, to the cheers of all, and we pulled out of the dock/sand bar it was 11:30 and our butts were already complaining. The Brits on board were whining that we were behind schedule as if a schedule actually has meaning over here, and the Canadians were on their 2nd or 3rd "beer-lao". The Canadians were definitely having more fun than the rest of us. But the fact that they were Canadian meant that their livers were well primed for 90 ounces of beer before breakfast. For those who have been to Laos (and I've been here for all of two days), Beer-Lao is more than a beer for the backpacker...it's a way of life. For just about a dollar one can get a good buzz on a 32 ounce bottle of nice, hoppy, light beer. The beer being light and delicious, and the weather being hot and humid, one beer just doesn't seem to cut it for most of the backpacking set. The philosophy of more is better takes over the philosophy of moderation after the second beer. And the resulting drunk fest that occurred on the boat was kind of depressing and yet impressive. People were getting to that place where , holding up a big 32 ouncer in each hand and waving them at passing monks seemed like a good idea. I've seen people drinking a 32 ouncer for breakfast as I'm still picking the sleep goo from my eyes and trying to focus on my lao coffee (read sludge). Lao coffee is another bloggable item that I just don't have the patience for but suffice it to say that sludge is a kindly description. Don't get me wrong, it'll wake you up...like a marching band will wake you up, like Led Zepplin will wake you up, like a Laotian hot chili poop will wake you up!!! Yeah, it'll do the job but in a painful kind of way. The cup, filled one fourth with condensed milk, barely sweetens and whitens but without it the enamel peels from your teeth. I've had 3 cups this morning and you can see how the clarity of mind is effected! The golden triangle indeed. To hell with heroin, the drugs of choice here are beer lao and lao coffee.
All right, back to the point of this entry... the river trip down the Mekong. The river is a brown and beautiful glassy mess. Cutting through places accessable only by river gives one the feeling of exploration as the steep hillsides and river banks were almost totally void of habitation or signs of human activity. Jagged twisted rock formations poke up like sharks teeth or striated fins from the murky brown water. Large forested areas mixed with ferns and palm trees gave it that strange feeling of "I've-been-here-before-except-for-the-tropical-bits". You know the feeling. The air was hot enough that you wanted to jump in the water half the time. The other half you remembered that this river starts in China and that the definition of a river in China is 'something that takes toxic things downstream away from you'. It was easy to remember that however, because anywhere there was a back-eddy, and therefore turbulence, a foamy brown baseball sized sludge-nut formed. It looked like the Mekong was making its own styrofoam and shipping it downstream with us tourists. So instead of looking to the river to cool down we would go to the bathroom. The floor was puddling with god knows how much beer lao pee. And the amazing quality of my new Thai baggy pants to drop into it still amazes me. Holding up the pants and trying to pee and then trying to tie them up again on a rocking boat can be challenging. I failed that challenge and will just tell you that the wicking ability of thai cotton to soak up liquids of any nature needs to be studied. It's uncanny how wet the bottoms of my pants became with an ungodly mixture of watever was on that dark and wet floor. Sitting back in my seat I did notice the cooling effects of urine soaked trousers but couldn't really enjoy it as I also imagined the bacteria colonizing my shins.
There were more people than seats on the boat and the overcrowding gave one the feling of claustrophobia mixed with a big party. In this case a frat party. Going to the back of the boat to pee was an experiment in balance and not stepping on the toes of everyone in the isle. But in the back was the engine "compartment" and a group of sleeping beer-lao soaked backpackers all intertwined and going deaf in the roar of the room. The engine was totally exposed and screaming at OSHA defying decibels. On it were flowers and rice offerings that kept this motor running. It was important as any engine failure would probaboly mean sinking at the downstream pace we were going and the jagged rocks that were jutting out from the banks of the river. And back here too was the Thai Bob Marley who was dreadlocking some young westerner's long black hair. It was as if everyone I had seen for the past month on Khao San Road had been placed in this boat as a cruel joke by god for some forgotten sin. It was everything I find obnoxious about travelling along the backpackers well worn route and I was trapped just a few feet under my bicycle. I was on this boat for two days...9 hours each day.
The second day everyone (even the Canadians!) who had been drinking crazily was subdued and either reading or listening to ipods and trying not to barf by the looks of them. What had the day before been a party boat was now a church service with prayers of delivery and forgiveness coming from the upright benches. A 10 hour church service. And as fun as that sounds, I was dying to get off this beautiful and horrible little long-boat trip down the Mekong. By the time I got to Luang Prabang I was begging for some of those monster hills of N Thailand and the feeling of desperation watching Alisa shrinking into the future. In two days we leave for Vienne Tien and I'm sure I'll be begging for the party boat and a cold one. The grass is always greener, as is the river.