It's Bohemian

    We took a train into Singapore, and arrived slightly confused as to how to get a taxi to either Chinatown or Little India. The confusion came as a surprise because for the first time in three months, we were in a first world, modern country. Singapore, unlike it's neighboring Southeast Asia tourist havens, is not a cheap tourist destination. Despite it's size and location or possibly because of it - Singapore is a tiny island on the southern tip of a peninsula below Malaysia - and because of it's tremendous wealth, is not a tourist haven. It's a very modern country, and like most modern countries, it caters to it's citizens and not an influx of foreign currency during tourist season.

    While in Thailand, Vietnam, and Malaysia, we were constantly asked if not hassled as to where we were going. Tuk took drivers, taxi drivers, motor bike taxi drivers, all standing at the door of every bus or the pier of every boat we rode on, trying to offer us their services. Not so in Singapore. Much like America, or anywhere in the Western world, you hail a taxi if you want one; you seek out a service if you need it. The other countries we had traveled through so far - and these are second and third world countries which have a much lower standard and cost of living than Singapore - would bring every conceivable service to you as you walked across the street, weather you needed it or not. You are a savior to poverty. You are money. You are, in many cases, a large part of the local economy.

    Singapore, on the other hand, has oil. And being as small as it is, not a ton of room for you. And because of the thriving economy, Singapore feels like one big amusement park, with shopping malls taking up half of the landscape. Singapore is not crowded, so to speak, but it is certainly bustling.

    We finally found a taxi at the train station, a very clean and fairly new vehicle, and gasped at the price to get us there. By appearance of things, you got the impression that bargaining was not par out here, quite a departure from the past several months. We arrived at our chosen guesthouse near Little India and checked in. InCrowd, highly recommended by Lonely Planet, turned out to be a good choice. It was the most expensive place we stayed, paying a little over $10 a person for a dorm room with shared shower, but it was run exceptionally. When I daydream about opening a guesthouse, it would be like this one in many ways. Yes, I have come to daydreaming about opening a guesthouse; one with a cafe and a large selection of books you could read; one with a hammock heaven perched high in the trees surrounding it, or above the cafe somehow; one with buckets so you could wash your own clothes and lines to dry them; one with a proper fan placed in the right center of the room to provide the most air to all corners rather than just one corner of the bed; one with wifi, even if only at the cafe to encourage a little more business with the purchase of coffee. In the end, a person needs purpose, but more so, I think I am the kind of person who always need to be creating. And yes, I'm a dreamer….but I'm not the only one.

    The shower at InCrowd was the best I had since leaving America. It was better than the one I had at home. It was so good, I had to blog about it. And a western toilet? With toilet paper provided? And a spray hose? It was almost too much. We were at a backpackers guesthouse, and it felt like luxury. Free breakfast allowed you to walk into the kitchen area - across from the reception desk - and pick grab two boiled eggs, two toast with butter and orange marmalade, and coffee or tea - clean your own dishes when you're done. Four computers mounted on the wall offered free internet, there was free wifi, a sofa sitting area, and a beanbag sitting area that belonged in a retro-chic lounge. Warning to anyone who wants to stay there - pay advance for as many nights as you want to stay, because they are always so booked in advance that unless you're extremely lucky, you will have to get booted for someone who has made a reservation.

    The bus system on Singapore is simple to understand, and the metro system is ultra-clean and ultra-modern. More so than the ones I have experienced in America. What's not so simple, is life in Singapore. They call Singapore a fine city (country), and it is in more than one sense of the word. One day we took a metro after a long day of exploring and were confronted by one of the operators while still in the tunnel, on our way out. She scolded us for carrying a (empty) plastic cup of Jasmin Green Iced Tea from McDonald's onto the metro. I think she took mercy when she was confronted by our confusion and shock, and told us to hurry out because we were on camera, and someone would be coming soon to fine us. That's right - carrying food or drink onto the metro will cost you S$500. Public protest: S$1000. I'm not sure what the fine is for spitting gum onto a sidewalk, nor do I know the fine for possessing gum at all. Chewing gum is illegal. You won't find it in the stores at all, and bringing it into the country may be dealt with a less harsh form of prosecution but not dissimilar to being caught smuggling drugs.

    But Singapore is magical, with art and exhibits and performances everywhere and seemingly all the time. We were fortunate to have been there on a weekend when the student association at the University of Singapore was putting on a multistage outdoor performing arts exhibition. We didn't know what to expect, and we offered a tremendous variety, moving us from one stage to another as one performance ended and another began, winding us through the lawn outside of campus. Laser lights, smoke machines, satellites, fire dancers, traditional clothes, lyrical performers and rap artists, spray paint artists and suspension performers…taking from the past and their ideas of the future, expressive art mixed with interpretation and perspective about their culture and their place in the world.

    One day we walked passed Little India, toward the center of town. We came across a Hindu Temple, something we had not yet encountered in our travels through predominantly Buddhist (and in the case of Malaysia, Muslim) countries. Singapore is not predominantly Hindu by any means; it was just a happenstance of the path we chose. After making our way around the temple and admiring the statues of divinities, we walked out and into a street market. We have grown accustomed to them; smells of fish and meat following you as you walk through fruit stands and stands selling shirts and clothes, past the stall selling fried insects, onto another several stalls selling squids and dried fish. This market had the same look and feel, minus the smell. We were not in the mood to shop so we walked briskly through the market and took a left at the next corner, only to step into another world - glass buildings, the names of French and Italian fashion designers labeling every doorway, with people moving under flickering lights or neon displays. For the next hour, we walked, and never were we abandoned by the company of a mall along our way. I may have seen larger malls in my life, but never have I seen so many, one after the other, some attached underground, others not, simply mall after mall after mall, and high end malls at that. This was not a place for the shoestring backpacker. This was a place  for the rich. I was reading a book called Some Girls at the time (it's not really a guy book for those looking for recommendations), and the American girl who went to Brunei to become a harem girl for the prince was taken on shopping sprees and their destination was always Singapore.

    In Singapore, we took it all in. We enjoyed our hot shower, we were delighted by our flushable toilets, we lounged in air-conditioning. We went to a movie, we ate at Carl's Junior and played cards at Starbucks. We enjoyed a pizza from none other than California Pizza Kitchen, which may not have the best pizza in the world, but wait…we're still in Southeast Asia? Singapore felt like what Dubai should feel like.

    I was in the bus leaving Singapore, returning to Malaysia, when I realized that I had forgotten my iPhone at the guesthouse. I had plugged it in that morning, and left to plugged in the dorm room at The Prince of Wales Guesthouse. It was about an hour to Malaysia, and mostly because we had to go through immigration for both countries. I arrived at the bus station in Malaysia, obtained a bunch of coins for the pay phone, and made the call to the number on the business card for the guesthouse. The sound quality was terrible, and the entire time I talked I felt I was contracting leprosy from the handset. No time to worry about that; I had to communicate that I had left my phone in hopes that they would find it, and I had to do it while putting coin after coin into the phone just to stay connected. The display showed how much money I had left and was counting down quickly, in leaps of a quarter at a time, so fast that I could barely keep up. There were a couple times I had to stop talking so I could concentrate on getting money into the slot. The man at the reception desk found it, and I informed him that I would get on a bus and come right back. An hour later we had checked into a hotel near the border, and I left my bag, grabbed my book (still Some Girls), went back to the bus station, and made my way across the border, again.

    While in line waiting for the bus, an elderly Chinese couple struck up a conversation with me. They happen to be Singaporean and not Chinese, but that is their ancestry. They, mainly the husband, would ask me if I'd been to this country or that country, and mid-answer would laugh and wave his hands as he started telling me a story about his travels there long ago. He had traveled a lot, and now lived in Singapore. They had asked (several times) where I was headed, and each time would nod and wave while telling me what stop I should get off at and which bus I should take next. I had the impression that this bus would drop me off where I had caught the one in the morning to Malaysia, but that was not the case. They offered to get off and help me catch the next bus, but I assured them I could find it - it was in Little India after all. They told me that they were getting off at the next stop, and as they got off they pointed to those getting on and smiled to say "follow them." The inside of the bus quickly changed; it was only after the bus left again that I realized the bus was filled with very fair skinned locals, and that they mostly appeared to have a Chinese ancestry. This was the bus from Malaysia over the boarder into Singapore. The elderly couple - who I was told were 76 and 72 years old - had gone over in the morning to do some shopping and then come back. I didn't find out what they had gone for, but was told that it was illegal to bring many things over the border, including cigarettes. The lady smoked and had told me that cigarettes cost about ten times more in Singapore than they do just across the border in Malaysia, but that it was against the law to bring any over. The bus had been filled with one culture of Singapore locals and was now filled with a group with Indian ancestry; mainly very dark skinned, smiling and talking in Hindi or Urdu (I have to be honest that I do not yet know the difference, but will be in India for two months soon and plan on losing this ignorance). Follow them, they had said.

    Several stops later and nearly everyone gets up. I look outside and we are one block away from the Little India Metro Station. I get up as well and make my way to the guesthouse to retrieve my iPhone. An hour later, and I am back in Malaysia - three border crossings, three hours.

    I feel like I have said very little about Singapore, and in fact I have. I was there for a total of five days, and feel as if I experienced so much in so little time and yet only saw the surface. Imagine being tossed into a waterfall - within the second that you drop from top to bottom, you experience such intensity, but you know nothing of the river before or what lies ahead. But in those short days, I was able to say (repeatedly) that I could live in Singapore. It's charming; it's rich in flavor; it has an eye on the future but so much identity with the past; it's diverse and modern and expressive. It's Singapore.

This may be one of my more edgy and controversial entries, so I apologise to the faint at heart. Nature is the strongest force in the world, as we are reminded of this fact when earthquakes or floods or tonados humble us. These things also unite us. Well, this topic is about how nature, even in it's simplest form, both humbles and unites us, the backpackers around the world.

There are few things that are consistent when you travel the way we have. You can expect to always need to lower your expectations, and I think you're safe if that's your compass for most anything. Eating, sleeping, traveling from one spot to the next - just expect to get the wrong food, possibly have hairs all over your sheets, and have the tire of your bus explode three times with a brake malfunction somewhere in there. Expect to go looking for turtles and never seeing them. But also expect to wake up after a night of sweat and mosquitoes to the most amazing sunrises. Expect not to see turtles but have sharks swim beneath you and make you forget you were looking for turtles int he first place. Expect to eat the most amazing food - whatever it's called - that you never ordered but will continue to look for every day until you get the next wrong and amazing food. Also expect to pay too much because you just don't know what you're up against, yet pay half what you would "back home." Not much else is consistent, except this: you will invariably discuss your bowel movements and toilet experiences with everyone you meet. Yes, everyone. It's like a handshake. Sometimes it's the icebreaker. You lean over at a bar, give your "playa" grin, sink, and ask "so…squat or western?" Sometimes you go for it and just come out with "I've gone twice today already." We were once strolling through the jungles and had just spotted some wild boar, and one of our travel buddies says (with no prior conversation or prompt) "I haven't gone for five days…"

It's almost a universal greeting the way English is the universal language out here. We all have issues, and at some point, usually during a meal, the topic comes up. The reasons why are pretty practical. You order some food - it could be as simple as the safe bet cheeseburger - and something about the amount of mayo, chili sauce, ketchup, and barbecue sauce that's streaming down your hand along with a friends somewhat concerned question "is this meat cooked all the way? or is it red because of all the spices?" makes you or someone else state the obvious that "you'll find out in the morning." And that's if you even got what ow ordered…imagine not having any idea what it is but knowing you're not going to send it back when there are starving people everywhere around you. Forget those "there are starving people in Africa" statements. You just turn around while you're eating out here.

The term "pooh attack" does not refer to a cute, talking bear giving a beat-down to Tigger or Piglet. It refers to the need to find a toilet and to find one fast! You don't even care if it's squat or western, and usually give the rest in your party about three seconds to respond to "does anyone have toilet paper?" Stories of "man, I once got on this van and immediately got scared I wouldn't make it another five minutes let alone the four hours to Phuket" (true story) and "this one time I was at the Full Moon Party and 'it' struck, and I knocked on a random bungalow and pleaded with two naked people to use their toilet but then couldn't find how to flush it so I ran out before they saw what a mess I made" or, and this is common: "shoot…talking about this somehow gave me a pooh attack" tend to come up over every meal. You may think this is funny. You may think this is disgusting. But this is reality in Southeast Asia, you take heed.

As you talk about the way this demon creeps up suddenly at the wrong time, you eventually make your way to discussing different kinds of toilets. A lot of these stories will never be understood by you - you simply have to come and experience the pooh attack for yourself - but there are some lessons I can relay.

I am now more and more often confronted with having to make a choice. One that you may not think as monumental, but important nonetheless. Western? or hole? I didn't have this choice when I made my first video in Taipei immediately after going to the toilet in the airport, where I only had the "hole in the ground" option. Having been a self-professed germaphobe, I thought this experience humorous and somewhat ironic. Now, I look at those Western toilets with amusement - you? I'm not choosing you. I'm going for the hole. Yes my friends, no more worrying about what might be on that seat, and no more worrying about….hmm…too much information? No more worrying about clogging it, not to mention the…again TMI.

Do I confess to much? Possibly. But remember, this is all table talk out here, and politics isn't any cleaner a topic. At least this one is something we can all relate to, and not one anyone is going to war over.

I woke up in the middle of the night to a scratching noise scraping across the tin roof of our bungalow. I was terrified immediately, unsure what it was but having seen the huge five foot lizards on the island. I didn't like it being so close, even with the separation of metal between us, and sat staring into pitch black darkness hoping that the lizard or snake or rat wouldn't find it's way into the room.

When I first woke, the noise was at the far end of the room. I heard the tapping-then-scraping claws along the metal as it slide forward a step then stopped; then moved again five seconds later, the movement prolonging the second, then stopped, only to move again…the pattern was fairly consistent, though off beat, making it even more terrorizing. The noise was making its way closer and closer, and I was certain I would be face to face with a Monitor Lizard within minutes, me trapped within my mosquito net while it charged at me from out of the darkness.

The noise eventually stopped and I fell back to sleep.

In the morning, what remained of my chocolate cream Oreo's from the night before were gone. Whatever had been sliding across our rooftop was actually in our room, sliding across the shelf that ran the length of my bed. It was within inches of me, but in the morning heat the thought of it was more curious than terrifying.

The sun is pretty intense on the Perhentian Islands. We stayed on the smaller of the two, having been told that the larger island has the more expensive resorts. Fifty Ringgit seems a little steep for the standard of room we received, but the island is among the most beautiful I have ever seen. It's primitive, with no roads on the island and only a path (that often is no more than a small clearing of brush) winding through the dense forest from one beach to another. I ate breakfast, which was wonderful but more pricy than the three or four Ringgit meals we sought out on the mainland, then walked into the South China Sea, literally. The water is crystal clear, and as you walk out twenty feet, the water reaching your hips, you see the soft sandy floor under your feet. Keep walking…thirty feet…forty feet…you eventually have to swim, but even then when the water is at least 15 feet deep, you see the sea floor clearly, with a colorful coral garden beneath as hundreds of fish swim around you and often to you in curiosity.

I cam out of the water and bathed in the run, then decided to take a nap. It was mid-afternoon; I figured an hour out of the sun and then I might go swim again, maybe snorkel this time in hopes of seeing some sharks or turtles. The scraping noise came again…

I jumped to a sitting position immediately and started looking around as quickly as I could, ready to fight off whatever was in our bungalow. Having daylight to assist me this time, I saw it across the room, inside the mosquito net of the other bed, propped up on a pillow, it's head tilted in my direction, it's tongue slithering in and out of it's closed mouth. A three foot lizard stood staring at me, both of us motionless. I imagine that the expression on my face was the polar opposite of the expressionless face it bore, and it didn't even occur to me that it was scared of me. That's something you talk about when you talk about things that can harm you. Sharks, snakes, spiders - they're more scared of you than you are of them. Well, try to remember that when you have a dinosaur in your bed!

I had no idea what to do. I sat for a moment, contemplating how I would get out without being attacked, knowing I needed to make the first move rather than having to react to it lunging at me. Yup, I thought about being the attacker and throwing the first punch. Way to aggravate a situation James! The alternative was an image of me running and hopping around the room like a dancing leprechaun, jumping between beds, hoping on one foot with the other raised as high as my face, arms flailing as  it chased me around a small bungalow, knowing I would find the door eventually and go scurrying across the sand and into the water as far as I could swim, only to realize I was now surrounded by sharks. Options...

I got out from under the mosquito net and charged at it, knowing I had another net between us as protection. The giant lizard leaped back, flying into the wall behind it in a loud thud, and disappeared behind the bed. That thus was loud! which meant that this freaking' thing is pure muscle, and a heavy scaly mass of muscle at that. I wasn't going to wait around to see how this dual would end. I was going to run for it.

I went to tell the people who ran the bungalow, and they kept asking "gecko?" Don't you guys see my face? Don't you see how excited I am about the monster that I witnessed on my bed? No, NOT a gecko! This little stain on my shorts was not a result of n insurance company mascot. This was T-Rex's second cousin twice removed coming bcd from extinction to eat us all! I wanted to assure them. This is a bloody monster! Now would you please go and risk your life to get it out while I stand safely in the distance, close enough to watch with all the other tourists?

One of the guys grabs a huge stick with a metal piece attached to the end (no idea what it's really used for but it could cause some serious damage) and leads the way back to our bungalow. At this point, four or five other groups from neighboring bungalows are watching. I unlock the door (a tiny padlock that you could break by looking at it the wrong way) and scan the room for the beast as I step back to make room for the dinosaur hunter. There it is, about two feet in front of us, trapped inside the mosquito net. It thrashed violently, trying to escape. It was panicking, which is not a good thing, because no one is going to act rationally when cornered. I don't know the extent of a lizards rationality in a normal situation, but I wasn't going to be in the way of it's inch long razor sharp claws in this situation. In an instant the lizard finds it's way out from under the net; I jump back screaming (manly profanities to show I'm not really scared) and once my eyes gain focus again, I see the lizard about five feet up a coconut tree outside of out bungalow. The man starts slapping the trunk with his stick, moving around the tree to follow the lizard who simply doesn't want to get a beat down. He makes contact with the lizard at last, who drops onto our neighbors bungalow roof in a loud, hollow thud, slides down and slams to the floor and bolts. Someone said they saw it running into the forest, most likely to tell it's parents what we had done to it. I was certain I was going to see my Oreo's again tonight on the inside of some giant lizard.

What? Only a baby? Yes, this ginormous lizard was only a baby, the giggling bungalow manager kept assuring us as if it would make us feel better about the situation. He didn't realize that all it meant was that larger ones existed, but we already knew that. We had seen them blocking the path to one of the bathrooms the day before.

The islands of Malaysia are exciting places. I find Malaysia to be more beautiful than Thailand. It is not as developed for tourism, but the landscape itself can't be beat. Having had a close encounter with a dinosaur, we decided we should go snorkeling in search of sharks, and that's just what we did.

There were four of us, swimming out cautiously at first, then forgetting about the sharks, certain that we were not going to see them. You tend to forget about things when you're out in the ocean looking at an underwater world that's both mysterious and beautiful. So many colors - so much movement. Color in yellow and pink and blue and orange and white create a terrain with as many dimensions as colors. Large shells with what looks like tie-died muscles clamp onto rocks; sea anemones sway beneath the water - you dive down and come close - clone fish start coming out as if to guard their territory, swimming right up to your mask to show you who owns the block. Rainbow colors fish chomp audibly on algea; zebra striped fish start following you around; you turn and there is a long barracuda looking fish with sap teeth staring at you (harmless, I'm sure, but you're in the middle of an unknown world). I swam deeper, hoping to see a shark. I turned, and I saw it, maybe fifteen feet from me, and the moment I spotted it, it turned to face me. My heart skipped a beat.I'll tell that story next...

Smells like Hell - Tastes like Heaven

That's what the man said about durian when he was listing the flavors of ice-cream that were available - chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, durian - that he served in a hamburger bun, with or without chopped roasted peanuts for two ringet. He was dressed in a traditional Arabic  robe and a scull cap, though his accent was distinctively Indian. Beside him at another stand a chinese woman sold fruits - pineapple, mango, apples in a dark sauce (that you could get with a little chilli), and jak fruit. We originally wanted to buy some bananas for the monkeys we encountered at the botanical garden, but after witnessing a man throw large slices of bread at the monkeys, and after picking up a couple slices that the monkeys had left behind, and after Jess stood in the middle of the grass near the Japanese garden trying to feed the monkeys, and only after I saw her running toward the sidewalk screaming, throwing bread over her head as she was being chased by impatient monkeys did we decide to simply feed ourselves.

Jak fruit is so much better than durian. We didn't know that they were different fruit, so we kept saying "I don't like the mushy one. I like the one that's more chewy and sweet like bubble gum." Thats been our best explanation of jak fruit. As we sat on a planter eating our ice-cream burgers (not really sure what else to call them) we spoke to a local man whose features were more distinctly Malay, which to me meant that his features were not distinctly chinese or indian or arab. He looked like the product of two generations of all three of them in a delicate mix he spoke English perfectly, but was able to converse with us (if we had the ability) in Chinese, Arabic, or Malay.

It was only the night before that we sat in a courtyard of a Chinese Clan temple watching a Chinese Opera being performed. Men and women in intense makeup and colorful dress came and went, singing in between proclamations that we didn't understand. All we knew was that this one particular long red fabric was pretty important, so much so that people were crying and fighting over it. As bats swooped over our heads and as this Chinese fairytale unfolded, the "Call to Prayer" sounded in the distance over the city in Arabic, announcing the last of the five Muslim daily prayers. The chicken mussalla that we had an hour or so ago had not affected me the way I feared, which is one of those simple things in life that you learn to appreciate when one of the most important things you pack in your bag as you leave the guesthouse is your own roll of toilet paper.

Georgtown, an old port city located on the north eastern part of the island, still has the diversity you would expect when merchants and traders gather in commerce; a harmonious existence of dependance and respect that makes livelihoods across seas possible. If you were able to freeze time and focus your eyes to one small section, you wouldn't know if you were in China, India, Arabia (I'm using broad strokes, I know)…a trained eye might be able to relive the smells, sights, sounds, and possibly the feel of a specific city in some far away land. Bring the world back to life and in the motion you see all these cultures passing you by in the stream of life that seems to be Malaysia. Never before have I witnessed such a melting. Although I am writing with memories of Penang, it seems to me right now that Malaysia is what America was is dubbed; but Malaysia is more the melting pot and less the salad bowl that is America.

I sat at a table while an old Chinese man cut chicken with a hatchet as if it were a scalpel, placing it on a plate of soy sauce and what I think was plum sauce, then adding a little oil to it. A women about the same age as he brought it over with another plate of rice. A younger man, about my age, brought be a small bowl of very plain soup. The rice was warm, the chicken cold, the soup steaming. I found that if I placed a little chick on my plate of rice and then poured a small amount of soup over it, the chicken heated up into a tender and moist delicacy. The man smiled often, saying random things to what I assumed was his family as they went to different tables serving food, hollering things back and forth in Chinese. Some people would come to the cart where all the food was served from and he would switch to what I figured as Malay quickly, then to English for some. I could be certain, but I think he said a few words in Arabic and possibly Urdu as well to come passersby when appropriate. The same smile, and the same sincerity or trained smile was bestowed on all. It didn't matter what the smile meant; it was universal, and the same level of respect was offered to all, even if was for the purpose of running a little business. This was not an isolated incident. The jolly people as well as those who seemed a little more serious than most were that way to everyone as I observed them. People were themselves, looking past color and race and origin, and looking into the belly of life.

Sure, there were "clan" houses scattered around the city - Chinese families who had come to Georgetown and created small mafia's, supporting newcomers in finding work and food and shelter, possibly for some kind of future cut in wages - and sure these clan houses were elitist in that they most likely had disputes with other clan houses and other races once upon a time if not still. But I would venture to say that the discrimination was not one of race, but perceived necessity and survival. I feel at home in Malaysia, even when so much feels unfamiliar, because I'm just another alien who could fit right in, should I choose to, and more so, should I find out how to survive here without being a burden on others.

I won't start writing out the wondering of my mind in full, but as I walked down the street I started to imagine a world where no borders existed, where people were burdened by their own ability to survive, where begging and stealing were equally vile, but where all people treated one another just the same, with their own moral compass as their guide. In some ways it's a scary place, but it also feels like utopia, and in a way, so does Malaysia.

I arrived in Malaysia yesterday. A destination is as much the sum of all the legs of the journey as it is a city or town, so before I talk about the bunk bed I'm sleeping in or the bathroom down the hall that I share...

I was in Hatyai, the largest of the cities of Southern Thailand. There is a lot of Chinese influence here, and a lot of Muslim influence, with people weaving in and out through the fabric of the city as if they are just different threads in the same pattern.

The guesthouse I stayed in was cheap - 160Baht a night for a single, with your own bathroom that leaves you wondering what kinds of things you can catch on your feet that might be difficult to get rid of. I think there were bedbugs in the mattress, but who knows; something about the mold and dust make me itchy anyway. And yet, it was, in it's own way, wonderful.

The train station was only two blocks away, and day and night markets surrounded it, leading to a modern mall with KFC and McDonald's an Sizzler, movie theaters and karaoke game rooms....I decided to try two things, so I enjoyed (yup, actually enjoyed) a couple silk worms and bamboo worms (that's what they called them) that had been sprayed with salt water at the market. I may try the scorpions some day, but not quite yet. Think protein filled crunchy salted snacks....

I also decided to try the Double Big Mac. I couldn't get through half it! I did find a hair in my fries, which is not surprising for Thailand but was for McD's. And when I was done, with a pile of fries left and less than half of the sandwich on my tray, I felt "the attack." The kind of attack you only truly understand when having been out here. So much for having to watch out for street vendor food. Watch out for McD's too...

I left Hatyai and am now sitting on the top of a bunk bed in Penang, Malaysia. Entering Malaysia was a fun experience. You can take an AC van from Hatyai for 350Baht; it takes you to the Thai border where you get out and get in line to receive your exit stamp; then you drive 500 meters and get out again to go through immigration in Malaysia. Nothing fancy, but when you're in a van for several hours, these little stops are fun, and somewhat exciting since you always wonder if you're going to make it through. Sure, pretty much everyone makes it through, but there is always that chance that you did something wrong without knowing it and end up living your life between borders...I think I would learn how to juggle.

The moment you cross into Malaysia, things look different. Billboards in English - street signs with Latin (English?) characters - police spelled Polis and taxi spelled Takesi on the side of vehicles. It was raining, a thick cloud hugging the foot of a mountain in the distance, the landscape covered in trees; steam and lush green of a rainforest battling the freeway for dominance over the land. Rice fields, sheep, muddy roads and wooden shacks...and then, entire California-style communities with stucco walls and clay roofing emerging out of the jungle.

Penang is nothing like most of Thailand, and certainly not anything like a Thai island. As we crossed the bridge here, we say skyscrapers along the shoreline as if creating a wall around the island. Once you enter, you feel like you're inside a normal city; speeding cars, streets lined with mechanic shops and fabric shops, street carts, large trucks both new and old. The people "look" very Chinese, or very Indian, or very "local." Chinese store signs, mosques, and malls.

The food is amazing already, and all I had was a somewhat Indian burger made by a street vendor of little words. I sat on a chair near a dumpster behind him, and he smiled when I gave him a thumbs up as hamburger juice streamed down my fingers. For 4.5RM, it's about $1.50 for a really good eat.

Malaysia is modern in so many ways that Thailand is not, and yet, it has a similar spirit. At least from the window of an AC van. I have just gotten here, and am sure I will understand the flavor more over this next month. I'm looking forward to recognizing the spice that is Malaysia by the time I leave.

The waves crashed more violently than just a couple weeks before against

the rocks that I sat on. Enormous clouds seemed to swell in the bluest

of skies, appearing too big to remain floating as they were. Hanan was

sitting at his usual place, at the table outside his tour office,

drinking his nightly Chang and smoking when I decided to join him. "Two

Thai. One boy, one girl. Water take away." he said as he pointed out

toward the ocean with his chin. "lifeguard save them." he said after so

long a pause I had begun thinking about how those same waters I was

entranced in meditation with had taken two souls; how one persons peace

could be holding hands with another's loss.

It's been some time since I've written, not for lack of material, but

possibly it's abundance. After leaving Vietnam we realized how beautiful

it actually had been, though we may not have been ready for one another.

It's hard to describe, as many things are here, how each place has it's

own song and spirit, often unfamiliar and in its mystery somewhat harsh

at first, until you step back and realize you'll never be in a place

with that same embrace ever again. In Vietnam it was the coffee (ca phe

sua da) and pho, the pagodas and the countryside. In Thailand, it's the

feeling of being at home with the mangos and jak fruit and sticky rice,

and the quest for 30 Baht pad Thai, not to mention the iced tea with

milk, the waters, the sky, and the smiles.

This last Full Moon Party was intense, more so than the last. Often I

felt as if I was one huge organism caught in the beat of life beyond

reality; often witnessing itself and oneself as if in a reflection,

knowing you are a part of a whole and somehow that whole at once.

Koh Toa was beautiful. Being able to dive and dolphin swim among fish

around massive white domes of coral, and seeing your friend float above

hundreds of fish as a crackling sound streams around you, the sound of

them feeding audible in the water, is like landing on an alien planet.

You sometimes even feel as if you're lost in space.

Koh Samui - home, in spirit at least - someday, soon, a reality.

And tomorrow, moving south, and into Malaysia within the week.

How do I tell the story of having thought I was kidnapped by my taxi

driver, finding myself in a small cage with a matress on one wall and a

machettie on another, only to realize he was offering me a peace pipe?

Or how, with a backpack pulling me backwards I sat on a motorbike as it

went speeding up and down the slopes that hug the Andaman Sea as I was

taken to bungalows that had closed for the night, and how, knowing where

the girl who runs the place lives, I go knocking; a head pokes out

behind a curtain, slightly scared, mostly confused and shocked to see

me, responding to my knock with "sorry, I naked!" These are the things

of life, my life, and not a tourists journal of sights to see.

And then there is the reunion with Moon Bedi, after 23 or so years, not

having had a clue of his whereabouts for all these years, only to

reunite on Phuket.

How does one describe life? I guess one lives it, and shares what one

can.

I spent some time off from writing about my travel experiences, mostly wrestling with myself as I tried to find my place in Vietnam. Leaving America two months ago was easy - I had a lot of time to prepare, and knew what to expect, for the most part - white, sandy beaches and clear, deep blue waters, pleanty of sun, and smiles. Sure, I didn't get this initially when I arrived in Bangkok, but I had just left so much, embarking on a new adventure, and everything seemed wonderful in that context. After spending nearly a month on the beach, going back to a city was received by all my senses as unwelcome. I refused to continue being a tourist, but I forced to admit that I was, confronted by offers for tours at every turn, or to buy a souvenier as I tried to stroll the streets in peace. I was not allowed to feel at home, and I didn't like the reality of it - that this was not my home, and that there was good reason for no one to want me to ever claim it as such.

As I sat at a Cafe, drinking Ca Phe Sua Da (coffee with milk and ice) I began to accept that I would always be a tourist in Vietnam. As I allowed it to sink in, I also realized (spend a month on the beach and some realizations seem to take a while to hit you) that there was a reason I did not feel as relaxed...I was in a city! What city is not aggressive? What city is not a machine of parts each struggling to not be the first to break? What city is not filled with people who have piled in for the purpose of making a living, and are all in a race to make a living from the limited resources that exist within it, the greatest resource being us...being me...the tourist.

I settled down, stopped being harsh on myself for not being able to find my place in Vietnam, and stopped being harsh on the country for not allowing me the place I desired. I drank my Vietnamese coffee - strong black coffee that many drink with condensed mile and ice - a wonderful jolt of caffeine that people drink twice a day - a drink I found myself drinking two or three times before noon. I allowed myself to watch the machine that was Hanoi, and I began to see it's beauty.

Saigon - a city of 10 million people. If you go there, spend one day touring the city, but then get out of there on one of the super cheap tours and go see the tunnels from the Vietnam War (the one with America). Go further south and see the Makong Delta as well. This is the beauty of southern Vietnam.

Mui Ne - when you get there, just start taking kite surfing lessons. You're missing out if you don't, and not at the right beach if you intend to do anything different.

Delat - jump on the back of a motorbike with the easy riders for $20 for the day and take the tour to the silk factory, the Elephant Waterfall, Happy Buddha, and the countryside. If you're there for several days, and trust your ability to ride, get a motorbike of your own and just ride.

If you have the money, I recommend having th Easy Riders take you to Nha Trang, and to take as many days as you can afford. I regret not being able to say "you won't regret it" from first hand experience.

Hoi An - get some clothes made at Hugo - don't waste your time elsewhere. We saw clothes from a few other places, and they aren't bad, but the tailor at Hugo is wonderful. And if you want a nice and cheap place to stay, go to Bong Khanh which is directly across the street. Rent a motorbike to get to Marble Mountain, and give yourself about three hours before it gets dark. Once it's dark, it's too dark to enjoy or see anything. And take a small (a few snacks) picnic. The beach at Hoi An was wonderful, and you could get to it on bikes.

Hue is not a bad city, but the Citadel is not that impressive. It's being renovated, so it might be good in a year. The beauty is in getting out of the city and seeing the tombs. We got a motorbike and went out wondering with no idea where we were or what we were going to do, and stumbled upon one accidentally. It's amazingly beautiful.

Hanoi - enjoy the coffee, go to a movie, eat a lot of pho and if you can, some pigeon, and allow yourself to witness Vietnam.

I know this sounded more like a tour book than anything, but like I said, in Vietnam, you're a tourist, and with good reason. Don't try to be anything else, and you'll enjoy it more. You can be a tourist and get a lot out of it, so long as you don't spend your time fighting the desire to fit in.

Vietnam is a beautiful country - harsh in many ways - in need of time to find it's own way - but wonderful in it's own way.

I have three journal entries that are half finished about different towns in Vietnam, and I have had a difficult time painting the picture of my experiences. I came to realize that it is hard to capture the complexity of Vietnam in words the way it's difficult expressing the smell of curry in words. There is something very "Vietnam" about every moment, and I guess that can be said about any country.

We rented motorbikes yesterday for the first time in Vietnam and went to Marble Mountain, across the road from China Beach, near Hoi An. When you rent motorbikes (in Thailand or in Vietnam) you want to go until the tank is empty. This is how you get it, and you don't feel like you got the most out of it until you're either exhausted or the tank is empty, the latter taking precedence. I think they siphon the gas for their own use and give you the bikes empty otherwise. When we got back at the end of the night, Jess and I decided to ride as fast as we could (with safety in mind) to rid ourselves of an overflow of energy and to empty our tanks. We crossed a bridge near our hotel and immediately came to a stop as we saw a large chunk of concrete fly through the air, lobbed across the street by a guy holding a wooden bat, the projectile disappearing into the opening of a restaurant; seconds later a large grey mass was returned, projected out of the hollow that was the restaurant at the guy with the bat; two on one side, one on the other, we had entered a street fight of the kind I had never encountered before. Someone at that restaurant had done something to offend the other; more blocks of concrete went flying back and forth though the air; some aimed into the restaurant, some at the sign of the place, some back at the guys across the street - they seemed extremely drunk - the rage in their eyes was intense. I thought to myself "I hope the guy in the restaurant takes a second to call the cops" and then realized I had not seen a cop in the city since I arrived. I had not seen a single member of the law; the city was lawless and it seemed that order was maintained the way you would expect in a small village, and this "city" was not much different than a small village that was being transformed and modernized by tourism. You are constantly reminded that you're in a third world country when you order food and have it returned with at least one questionable object - a piece of hair or a shard of bone is not uncommon but not a big deal - you ask yourself "what kind of meat is this?" - you make sure to order bottled water and swat flies off your food as you eat - the food smells great but drafts from the market pass by from time to time carrying with it a mixture of fish and meat and molding greens and oil and grease and sweat. And then it's times like these that you realize there is life here outside the world that we have created for ourselves; life outside of tourism; and that this IS the third world and not just your third world experience. You realize you're not at one of the parks within Disney World, although you often wonder if their purpose for maintaining whatever forms of history it could is for the sole purpose of tourism. The fight continued and we were too close; we went zooming off to see the countryside, leaving that little "experience" behind us, and I thought "if this was happening in my own country (wherever that is) I would not just get out of here and zoom into the countryside to see what else I could see. I would do something about it. But here, I'm a tourist.

Sitting at a restaurant today we saw a girl no older than six walk up to a group of Australian women at another table and try to sell them trinkets. Wooden dragonflies that balanced on their nose when you placed them at the tip of your finger. "She's a trained hustler" said Jess, and it occurred to me that this was part of what I was missing. Child labor? Was this some huge chocolate corporation running kids around the street to provide us with the things we crave? No. This girl was being brought up to survive, possibly as a slave in a gang, possibly as the little daughter of a women sitting at another corner selling soup or trinkets herself, her husband out on a motorbike posing as a taxi, trying to make some money, or by directing "us" to his sisters or mothers or daughters tailor shop (everyone has a family member who owns a tailor shop in Hoi An); their son running around doing the same….this town revolved around "us," the tourists, and we were molding Vietnam because we are it's ability to survive; we are it's ability to shelter a family, to find food for the day, to make it by…to live. And it's a sad thought, to hear a certain amount of desperation in the voice of another when they ask you to buy; when they all seem to sell Pringles as well as bicycles, as well as tour and motorbikes, as well as custom tailored clothes and postcards, as well as a massage. A desperate plea that "no one has bought from me today, will you, please, I give you good price, please, you buy…" as you start ignoring them, tired of saying "no, no thank you, no, no I have one, no thank you, no, I only have a little room in my bag, no, I'm sorry."

While watching that girl at the restaurant a boy who should have been approaching manhood came to our table and tried to sell us postcards. We said we were not interested, to which he replied "I have not sold today; you help me; buy is good luck for me." This is a common notion; the first customer of the morning is likely to get the best deal because if they let you leave without a sale, you may set the luck for the day against their favor; if you buy, you swing luck in their favor. He had no sold anything all day, which could mean anything from he wasn't actually selling anything earlier because he was doing something else to he didn't sell anything because he was down on his luck. "We bought these at the beach. Maybe 12 of them" I replied. He wanted to know how much I paid, and I honestly didn't remember because we purchased them out of guilt for a women who looked 70 and had sat by us for about 10 minutes asking us to buy in the me guilty plea; her eyes looked moist as if she were blind; as she sat there I wondered how many nights she lay awake as "my country fought to guarantee my freedom," and I felt that now I had to pay to guarantee her a meal. He then tried to sell me Tiger Balm and I told him we had one already; we had bought one in Thailand thinking it would help our heat rash. Ours is a bigger pack and he said the smaller ones are better, using the "you help me, bring me luck" line a couple more times. When I said "no, thank you" for the 10th time (at least, no exaggeration) he said "this is not fair" and walked away. Not fair…the words echoed through my mind as we ate. "Why is that my problem" was one of the responses in my head. "Okay, I'll buy one" was the other. We constantly struggle with "well, it's only fifty cents - what's fifty cents to us?" and he fact that we too are unemployed. I think about a lot of this as an alms, or as a tax I have to pay for turning their lives into an object of my experience if not my amusement. But I wonder why I should have to pay this price. And I wonder why it is that I want this place (this region) to remain cheap so I can afford to be here - as if wanting them to remain in poverty so that I can find a room with AC for cheap.

I am beginning to understand Vietnam. Not so much it's history, but the present as a result of both history and a difficult trek into the future. I am beginning to understand that the things that annoy me (hello you buy) are their least aggressive form of survival in the midst of the only income they can rely on - ours. The street fight I witnessed was a more aggressive form of survival (most likely) - gang warfare over a corner, not around drugs but around silk or wood carvings or a pho stand. Who's dipping their hands in my ability to get some money from these tourists…

They see us for what we are…we are people walking around their land, looking at their lives as if it were entertainment. We are curious, but the things that we are taking pictures of are 4 year old girls in rags sitting in mud playing with a plastic bag and straw that contained a drink that one of "us" finished earlier; men sitting in a hybrid bicycle and wheelchair, both legs missing either because of a mine we placed there years ago or some other ailment, trying to sell me something I don't need but feel obligated to buy - something I would probably throw away or just give back, making it the same charity we are asked not to perform; an old man who looks 60 or more pulling a cart full of hay or bricks or coal, not thinking that this man is just doing another day's work except he doesn't get to sit at his desk under air condition and doesn't have labor laws protecting him. Our tourism - the things we marvel at - this is their lives. We come in looking for an AC and wifi and hot water; we come looking for good food and cold bottled water; we come looking for all of this luxury that only exists because we can afford to pay for it as we marvel at their poverty, and we want it cheap. Sure, there is a sign at the hotel that reads "Vietnamese Price - Foreigner Price" and our price is nearly double theirs for the same single room, but I doubt the Vietnamese guest is taking pictures of the old woman hunched under the weight of fruit or coal balanced on her shoulder as she walks the street without bottled water in the same heat we complain about.

I am having a hard time writing about Vietnam because I am lost in my own tourism, and not sure where. I have seen so many beautiful things, in Delat, in Hoi An, here in Hue - I have seen the Tomb of Minh Mang, and of his son, the last emperor; I have seen the elephant waterfall, trekking down the slippery and jagged rock face to the foot of the fall and stood in the mist and marveled; I have seen silk being made and was offered a silk worm to eat; I have stood in front of the Happy Buddha in Delat and walked though the gardens of the Pagoda; I have been taught about the ways of Buddhism at the Dragon Pagoda, the oldest is Delat; I have seen en elephant sitting in the back of a truck zoom by us on the road in the city; I have seen beautiful misty mountain tops and an expanse of green that's almost overwhelming in it's magnificence; I have eaten well, eaten poorly, eaten questionably, all wonderfully; I have experienced more in the last few weeks than many do in months or years or lifetimes, and yet…all I have experienced is life…someone else's simple, impoverished life - the backdrop to their desire to survive.

Chill and just enjoy it? No...

I came to Saigon and survived the streets. That's the best anyone can hope for in a city with 10 million people that at any given time seems to have half the population on scooters. Stand at an intersection and it's sometimes hard to know which direction has the green light. Jess and I sat at a park bench watching the traffic, and neither of us were able to count to two without hearing a horn go off somewhere, usually just on the street in front of us. "Every man for themselves" is our mantra here; we hate the idea of not sticking together, but it's just so much safer being in charge of your own safety and yours alone as you try to cross the street. I somehow feel that I could close my eyes and walk across with the same chances of survival, because to their credit, people on the streets are very aware. Aware of traffic; aware that the phone in their hand could get snatched at any time; aware that the strap on of their bag could get slashed by someone on a scooter. Horns don't mean "hey, what the hell do you think you're doing!" Horns mean "careful....coming through..."

No, I haven't written about Phuket yet. I originally thought it was writers block with no rhyme or reason other than that it comes on as a craving might. Nothing predicates it; it simply hits you. I have come to realize that the block was brought on by the lack of words to describe the experience that I had, similar to describing color to someone without sight. I am searching for the words to define moments without drowning you in every detail that seem to essential right now.

Jess just asked me to turn down the AC a little bit. After a month of living under a fan and waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and itching from bug bites, I have mixed feelings about the AC, the fridge, and the television that is (possibly ironically) playing Misery (by Stephen King) right now.

I asked someone today "so what do locals call this city" to which he answered "Saigon. Only in newspapers we call Ho Chi Minh City." He was in Phuket at the same time we were, although we didn't know it at the time. While eating a shrimp salad on a fluffy chip, and a fried rice in a lotus leaf with lotus flower nuts, he said "people in Thailand very friendly. Always smile." It was an odd thing for me to hear from a local, but it made sense. Ho Chi Minh City (I am going to use the names interchangably) is a City with a capitol "C." It's intense. It's aggressive. It's survival. But it's also Vietnam. That word holds so much that I don't know where to begin. The simplest way for me to describe it is to talk about ink.

I have a tattoo on the inside of my right arm that I drew on the back of a notebook that was already filled with doodles. It was my notepad that I took into meetings. If a meeting is not captivating, or if I feel it's more a facade than a meeting, then I both entertain myself and help myself focus on the meeting by distracting myself with doodles. That doodle made it's way to my arm on the same day Jess had the tattoo placed on the arch of her foot, and Steph got the fire tattoo on her hip. While traveling, I was intent on adding art from each culture to my tattoo. In Thailand, the art is distinctive. I know, at least in style, what it is from Thailand that I wish to add to my body. in Saigon, I could not find the style. I asked our friend today "what is the style of art that is distinct to Vietnam." He said "Vietnam has so many people come in it is not just art of Vietnam." The last century in the history of VIetnam, violence and forced influence was imposed on the country by France, Russian, China, America...what was lost was not their pride, but their cultural identity.

I say this knowing I may be simplifying things, not because I have penetrated the depths of the country and now have the authority to, but because I am more a tenderfoot here than I was in Thailand. But Vietnam seems to be a place that is defining itself once again.

*     *     *

Food - that is the highlight. I have a happy belly full of the best pho I have ever had. Jess is a pho anthropologist and doesn't agree it was the best, but "pretty good" is up there on her chart.

If you're going to eat here, dare to get sick and experience good food. Throw caution to the wind a bit because the food here is amazing. Yesterday I wanted to go to one of the best eats in town, so I went onto the Travel Channel and looked up Anthony Bourdain to see what he recommended. We walked, dodging scooters along the way, and zig-zagged from District 1 where we are staying at backpackers alley to District 3. I'm very disappointed to say that the food was sub par at this place that was recommended as the best in Saigon. Want to eat the best? Pull up a plastic stool at an aluminum table with your knees up at your chest and point to a piece of grilled meet behind a plastic window of the cart and enjoy the best of Saigon.

*     *     *

Tomorrow we're off to Hanoi. We have six open bus tickets, allowing us to visit five towns on the way; four along the coast and one a little inland. I'm looking forward to it. The city, once again, is not for us. It's for those who wish to make a living in this country just like any other country. The countryside is where we belong...that and the beach.

I don't want anyone to think that Ho Chi Minh City should be skipped. Sure, a police officer whistled at me and told me I was not allowed to take pictures of a governemt building, and then waved away by another not to walk through one of the parks, but there are many things that bring a smile to my face here. For example, watching a group of men playing a game similar to hackysac with a badminton-like birdie. Or seeing fifty women come out of nowhere in the park and start jazzersizing to music.

I will admit that this city has made me keep my head down. Made me ignore the hello's of pretty much everyone because a hello is not just a hello...it's a "hello you buy you buy" all in one breath. It hurts the heart a little to think that a greeting cannot be returned because it has lost it's meaning, but you can't blame Vietnam. Blame those who imposed their culture on it; blame those who tried to replace the art of the people with their own. What Vietnam needs is time, maybe time to itself. Sometimes I think that that is what it is asking for, and I feel that it has the right to. Facebook is blocked here, and I don't know if that's the right way to approach it, but I understand.

But hey...I still have three weeks in Vietnam, and look forward to experiencing its secret beauties, and finding its art and culture outside the city...tomorrow.

I'm sitting in a bungalow in Phuket, having just posted about what we expected to see once we got here, about to write what we have seen now that we are here, and do not think it would be right to do so without writing a little more about Ko Lanta.

 Ko Lanta, much like Ko Samui, felt like home. Part of it was the beach; part of it was the bungalow; but more than anything, it was the people.

 I will never forget the greeting we received from Love when we first arrived. His tanned face had the slightest hint of age, his smile radiant, his eyes radiant, his sunglasses on his head, long dreads hanging over his shoulders. That smile said "you're friends if you choose to be." The first words he uttered echoed everything else about him - "Sabai Demai" he asked? It's a form of asking how are you, but it's asking about your entire state of being. Are you happy more so than are you well. A sick man who's happy is greater than a healthy man who is not.

 Jess and I bought snorkling gear because I was bit by the snorkling bite, thanks to our friend Bert. Swimming in the water, not knowing how deep it was on your left, hugging the rocks to your right that allowed you to see the ocean floor, it's hard not to fear the unknown - that unknown to me mostly translated into sharks. Bert and I decided we would go and try to catch fish one more time, this time making our way to a rock that was jutting out of the water a ways away. That fear of "what's under there" stays with you while you swim. I thought that if I got there fast enough, no shark would have a chance to come get me. It's somewhat of a fools logic, similar to thinking you can outrun a shark if you needed to. As we swam out there, I would look up to see where Bert was and where the rock was; if Bert was near, it felt safer, not because he would be able to do anything about an attacking shark, and I guess not because it decreased my chances of being eaten by 50% with him out there on the menu. Not sure why I guess. Maybe it actually is the latter. I would stick my head out of the water and notice that he was a ways away, on course, headed toward the rock as I headed out to open ocean.

Halfway there Bert said something to the effect of "so what do you think," more so asking if I was going to make it I think. I said "let's make it to the rock" in the form of both question and statement. He said "I'm fit" and started making his way out there. I have to admit, I like that expression a lot. We didn't see a lot of "beach bodies" in Thailand; not in the stupid American standard that's plastered in magazines and on gym ads; but that's not what it was about. Got a six pack? Who cares if you can't swim for more than five minutes. Are you fit? That's what counts, anywhere you are.

We finally made it to the rock and climbed up. Trying to spear a fish was futile out there. If you missed, or even if you hit, that spear could end up in a crack somewhere or deep enough to be lost forever.

Standing on the rock I confessed my fear of the ocean. Since I was a child I somehow knew I would die out there; no idea how or why; it just was. I told him of my fear of sharks to which he told me "well, deh awh none out ear." What?! No Sharks!? He told me of the many things to worry about in the waters (and out of the waters) in Australia, and not to worry about it out here since there really was nothing to worry about.

We decided to swim back; I put my head in the water as Bert dove off the rock. A few minutes later I stuck my head out of the water and noticed that Bert was far from me, closer to shore than I was, the rock between us. I had started swimming the wrong way. I heard from the distance as he yelled over to me "where are you going you crazy American bastard!" I started to swim toward him, back on course, laughing under water, making a loud, hollow sound of laugher under water. I guess the knowledge that there were no sharks removed my need to get back to shore quickly. What for....there are no sharks!

I look forward to finding Bert when we make it to Australia someday; he knows the outback, and we hope he will guide us through it.

There are others to write about on Ko Lanta. Neil, for example, who we are sure we will see when we return with Kate in May. I somehow feel that he, Susanna, and the friends at O-Zone will have a larger role to play in our love of that island then they have so far. I look forward to it, and somehow hope they look upon us tenderfoots as friends as well. I miss them. It's an odd feeling.