Bang Saphan Yai

Oops...the days have slipped sideways.  We've been at Bang Saphan a week now, just a day or two shy, and we've had some rain, some sun, some swimming, a trip to town and many good breakfasts at Palm Gardens.  The quiet is deafening.  The birds are a constant delight and even the dogs have finally gotten used to us.  Palm Gardens has turned out to be exactly what the doctor ordered and my bronchitis is clearing up with only the occasional cough.  This area used to be vast coconut plantations.  It is now slowly changing into Thai vacation homes, as well as homes for ex-pats including the ubiquitous western man/Thai wife combination.  There is a geriatric element to it, but I can't complain.  It's peaceful.  

Coming back from a trip to Roy Tawan, the local beachfront best coffee spot, we ran into the coconut harvesters, two men with monkies on motorbikes.  The monkies have long leashes attached to their collars and they run up the tree trunks, sorting and testing the clustered coconuts until they find a likely one.  Then they twist and twist and yank until the coconut comes free, and they toss it to the ground.  After several tries, one of the monkies shook his leash, causing his little bell to ring, and scampered down the trunk.  He sat right down, looking right and left, until his handler approached with a wide comb and groomed the monkey, combing out his fur, scratching his head all while the monkey sat, complacent and accepting.  We were told these monkies live with these handlers from childhood, and that this is the preferred method of harvest.  Later that day, huge piles of coconuts encircled the bottom of the trees awaiting the funny samlors that haul them off to be processed.

The weather has been, well, odd.  Very windy, to the point where the placid Gulf of Siam kicked up some mighty waves that came clear up into the parking lot of I Talay, the little seafood restaurant on the edge of the beach.  It closed down for a day and the other beachfront eateries were so windy it was hard to tell the rice from the sand.  It's been too rough to swim, even for intrepid Mr. Muzzy, and a couple of days it has been chilly.  We are lucky to have the pool at Palm Gardens, but yesterday it was a little too chill even for that!

Muzzy has been exploring the area on our rented motorbike.  Yesterday we went to the caves near Bang Saphan Yai, Tum Marong.  It is an old temple complex with a good road that leads up the side of an old karst mountain.  At the top is a nice sized Buddha statue and a few steps beyond, a good stairway leads down into the wide narrow entrance. For 20 baht, the nuns at the entrance further down the hill will turn the lights on.  Long strings of wire lead up through the jungle and culminate inside the cave, strung throughout to illuminate the hundreds of Buddha statues, all sizes.  There is even a quite nice Reclining Buddha under a canopy off to the rear of the main entrance.  It is cool and quiet, meditative. Colonies of bats hang from the ceiling, adjusting their wings, chattering and occasionally taking flight to move to another spot.  The walls and floors are a maze of stalagmites and stalactites, worn smooth from centuries of seeping water, multi-colored and sparkling with the limestone bodies of dead corals.  While Mr. Muzzy explored deeper and deeper, I sat out front for some time, enjoying the breeze of a mild day, waiting for butterflies to land on my hand, playing mind games to see just how relaxed I could get. A tall monk with a walking stick, accompanied by a few selected dogs, attempted to have a conversation with me.  We quickly established "mai kao jai passa Thai" (I don't speak Thai) and simply smiled and shrugged at one another as he pointed out a second entrance a few yards down the path.  Other than that, the wat was empty.  Near the entrance are monks quarters and some huts for the caretakers, and packs of abandoned dogs.  On a motorbike or with a stick, they pose no threat, and donations help with the electricity and food for the dogs.  The mountain is riddled with caves, holes in the sides where light pours through and several passages that meander in and about.  On the way down, the dogs bark, wander, and seem restless, but settle down eventually to do what sleeping dogs do.  The clumps of giant timber bamboo on either side of the path moan and clank in the wind, and there is an air of timelessness and peace prevailing, an altogether surprising experience.

Oh No, Stuck in Bangkok Again

It's been cold for Bangkok, really cold, wear my fleece vest cold, Thais in parkas cold.  We are here until we leave for Bang Saphan on Monday, revising our trip to maximize our pleasure seeking boredom at the beach for a full 2 weeks.  The cool weather has given us an opportunity to explore a bit more of Bangkok than we usually do.  We will revisit Thai Home Industries, see the beautiful hand forged cutlery and revisit the temple bells that fascinated us last visit.  In desperation for something to read (2 weeks at the beach is a long time), we ventured into Khaosan to find a bookstore.  We went early in the morning before the hordes of backpackers were up working on their first beer of the day, and with persistent questioning, were directed to a small stall that bought and sold books.  I found 4 books, exhorbitantly priced, but beggars can't be choosers.  I thought I had really scored until I opened up one fat tome and found it was in Swedish.  The good news is that we discovered Shewa, the spa Sarah told us about, an oasis of class amid a sea of street level massage stalls.  The Shewa is truly a gem.  Best pedicure I've ever had.

We found a new noodle shop, probably a Thai chain, Hong Kong Noodles.  They have a limited dim sum menu and lots of noodle soups with wontons.  It seemed a simple and safe solution to some gastro-intestinal issues and who could resist the menus proudly proclaiming "Honk Kong Noodles".  I love Asia.  We also found a small exquisite vintage clothing store tucked into a surviving traditional teak house off an alley that cuts between Pra Atit and Rambuttri Soi.  It's prices were outrageous, but the decor was charming...and we all know how I love charming, right?  It really is one of the essentials of travel for me.

But 10 days in Bangkok is a long long time.  Suffice it to say, we will not be staying this long again.  Monday, February 1st came and despite a slight detour to the floor of the Hualumpong Train Station (I passed out briefly right in front of Black Canyon Coffee...some people will do anything for a seat near a fan) we made it onto the morning train bound for Bang Saphan.  And here we are.  The quiet is deafening.  There is nothing to do, no where to go, nothing to buy.  Palm Gardens is a very short walk from the beach, and if that seems too far, it is a few short steps to the pool, which glitters serenely turquoise in the middle of the...what else...wait for it...palm gardens.  The people here at Palm Gardens are treasures for sure.  We feel welcome, secure and safe, like coming home.  

To say this has been a rough trip would be unfair.  To say I would ever regret coming to this, my happy place, would be unfair, but I think this is finally the vacation.  Sleeping, reading, eating, listening to the birds, listening to small waves lap the sand, contemplating my next swim.  I think all the maladies that got me here have decided to back the f**k off and let me and my long suffering, amazingly patient partner have a break.  It's a toss up who has had the harder duty, but I venture to say, being patient, eternally optimistic, and continually cheerleading deserves a special seat in heaven.  How did I get so lucky to deserve a man like Mr. Muzzy?  He is doing what he does best....off on a motorbike, exploring, foraging, and bringing all his news back to lay at my feet, because I am still, somehow, miraculously, his Princess.  Oh, and if anyone can get a Magnum bar from Bang Saphan Yai to the beach and into the room freezer, still intact, it is this man.  HIs talent runs deep and profound.

There and Back Again

I never thought an icy cold taxi could be so welcome.  Don Muang Airport, the metered taxi stand, and a driver who spoke NO English, not even that confusing kind where we are searching for Thai words and he is trying out his limited English, a pigeon mishmash that leaves everyone smiling and nodding, not sure whether we understood one another, but happy to have communicated.  It took me a few kilometers before I understood he wanted to take the Expressway and needed the toll money.  Thailand seems easy after Bali...3 degrees below the equator, 92 and 85% humidity.  Just walking to the bottom of Jalan Suweta left us drenched in sweat and exhausted.  It was easier to stay at Ketut's amid the garden, the birds, the peaceful quiet and his wonderful friendly family.  Our last night was poignant.  Wayan, Mrs. Ketut, gave us gifts and she and I talked and bonded.  She said Made told her taking me to Tampaksiring reminded her of taking her Auntie, Wayan's sister, who died of breast cancer a few years ago.  Of course, I'd rather not hear the "dying" part, but the sentiment is sweet and heartfelt, that reluctant community of "cancer people" that none of us really want to belong to.

These are holding days.  Days to visit the 7-Eleven and look for bug spray, scissors to replace the ones I had to leave at the Denpassar Airport, and see what chocolate is for sale.  Days for sitting at Ricky's with a cup of American with sweet milk and a bowl of muesli fruit and yogurt, and, of course, a visit to Chatuchak.  We are off to Korat next week, Nakhon Ratchasima, the site of a US airbase during the Vietnam war.  The hotels are all "business" related, whatever that means, but I do want to see Phimai.  It just seems that we need to move slowly, and carefully.

Babi Guling

When we were here in 92, Ketut took us to his favorite warung for babi guling, roast suckling pig.  I remember liking it a lot, but it wasn't something usually found in the restaurants around Ubud then. And, of course, it wasn't served when we were up north in Lovina as those communities are primarily Muslim.  Now there is a relatively famous place for babi guling right at the bottom of Jl Suweta, just before the Ubud palace.  We did not know that Ibu Oka was "on the map" since Anthony Bourdain visited it a couple of years ago.  Ibu Oka, which started as a small warung (a small street eatery with a few stools or a single long bench with very limited menu), is now a lunch "must do" spot for bus loads of day tripping tourists who visit the art center of Ubud.  Ibu Oka has a second warung right on Jl Suweta, but the best spot is still the house where the pigs are slow roasted every morning well before dawn.  It's popularity has prompted a classy new building that backs on to a jungle ravine, open air, sparkling clean, where you can indulge in this luscious delicacy along with hordes of other Balinese.  The "spesial" gets you a plate of rice covered in samples of the various ways the pork is prepared and served.  There are succulent slices, thin leaner samples smothered in special spices, spicy pork sausage, cracklin' skin, a mixture of chilies and finely chopped pork, and a ground mixture that is slightly sweet.

 We walked down in the heat of the day.  They are not open for dinner, and only serve until they run out of pigs, from around 11:00am until 4:00 or 5:00.  So lunch it is.  We turned left just after the temple on Jl Terpa something and kept walking until we saw the sign, a pig with an arrow.  It was well worth the heat and sweat and discomfort and no fan.  There was a nice breeze, though, and surprise surprise, the best iced coffee I've had in Bali.  And the babi guling was so good, we are going back tomorrow, our last day here.

Food is not Bali's forte, although it is possible to get excellent Asian fusion food.  Ubud abounds with health food, health food drinks, magical Jammu, and New Age vegetarian fresh meals, wheat free pizzas and more.  Ibu Rai, an old established eatery on Monkey Forest Road surprised us so much that we returned the next day to try the Coriander Duck again, just to make sure.  It was sublime, comparing well to any 4-5 star restaurant we've eaten in in the US.  Tonight we are trying The Three Monkeys...the menu looked great.  Ordinary everyday fare is less exciting, nasi goreng, mie goreng, respectively rice fried and noodle fried.  These dishes can be very good, but tend to be a little greasy and the noodles for the mie goreng are often dried ramen noodles, not the nice thin egg noodles I remember.  I have never cared for Gado Gado, and what is called curry here is really more of a soup.  Last time we were here we coined the phrase "boring goreng" and while there are more choices available now, it's hard to get excited over the street food after being in Thailand, where I seldom eat western food.

There is one notable exception to Balinese street food and that is the Traditional Balinese Feast at Ketut's Place.  This is a truly notable experience because most of the food you get is Indonesian and geared to Western palates.  The Balinese feast is all traditional Balinese food, prepared by Ketut's staff, supervised by his wife, Wayan, who has a background in the restaurant business.  This is a family affair as well as a cultural experience.  Not to be missed if you are in Bali.

By the way...we did try THe Three Monkeys down near the end of Monkey Forest Road.  It is in a "u" shape with a rice paddy filling the center of the "u".  The ambiance is top notch, the food was definitely  5 star and the bill left us wishing we had discovered it sooner since we leave tomorrow.  

There seems to be two Balis, before "the movie" and after "the movie".  Before the movie is our favorite, but this new Bali, New Agey, yoga wacky, crowded and crazy, is still...well...Bali.  And there is something truly magical about this little island that manages to hold on to its traditions in the midst of modern mayhem.

Pura Tirta Empul

Tampaksiring.  Today was our day for the holy water temple.  It is a Sunday, so a holiday for many Balinese, but also a special day for blessings.  Ketut's daughter Made (Ma-day...the second born.  There are only 4 names in Bali, determined by birth order...Wayang, Made, Nyoman, Ketut, boy or girl, no difference, and then it starts all over) was kind enough to act as our guide and we left early to avoid the crowds.  The drive itself was lovely, up into the hills with picturesque rice fields spilling down the sides of ravines and a breathtaking view of Mt. Gunung.  Made navigated the narrow twisting roads with aplomb.  She is a cautious driver.  The family knew my special wish to bathe in the sacred springs and ask for the blessing of health and wholeness.  We brought sarongs and a change of clothes because when the Balinese say bathe, they mean it.  We had several explanations of the process, but once we arrived to a sparsely filled parking lot and started walking toward the massive, intricately carved stone temple, nothing could have prepared us for the experience.

Like ducklings, we followed Made, who had her hands full with the large basket full of offerings prepared by Ketut's family.  Inside are several small 3-4 inch square basket containers made of palm leaves, filed with flower petals, rice and sometimes candies, and many sticks of incense.  Made made the initial offerings and then directed us to the changing building that houses numbered lockers for which she had secured 2 keys.  Once inside, I noted that not only were there many many Balinese already in process for the ritual, but that we were the only foreigners.  She directed us to strip down...nothing but the sarongs.  I placed the clothes I had brought for after bathing into the locker and proceeded to divest myself of everything else.  I stood in the locker building clad only in the thin sarong Muzzy bought me from the market a few days earlier.  I'm pretty good at fastening these things, the intricate twist and fold that keeps them in place, but with my strange new anatomy I felt particularly vulnerable.  I was NAKED!  And then there was Muzzy.  He struggled out of his clothes and I used the sarong I had brought to wear in the temple to tie around his waist.  It was a humbling and equalizing position for both of us.  Muzzy was concerned about being respectful and wanted to get it right.  He had no man to guide him through this.  When I secured his sarong he looked up and a Balinese man who was holding a modesty sarong up for his wife looked over and said, "You look good!"  Muzzy replied "I look good?"  The man smiled and nodded.  We trooped out of the bath house, already wet as there is water everywhere, and followed the intrepid Made as she made a couple more offerings, and then over the threshold through a cloud of incense smoke and into the bath itself.  

The parking lot may have been empty, but the sacred pool was not.  10 carved stone spouts along a wall pour holy spring water into a pool that is a little over waist deep.  The springs come from high on the volcanos that make up the island of Bali and the water is pure, fresh and holy.  It will cure you, bless you, and renew you.  There are two pools, separated by a stone walkway.  As you finish your ablutions in the first pool, you climb over this walkway and do three more in the next one. There are two spouts at the end of the first row that you don't use. 

We entered the first pool and joined a line that snaked around about 4 people deep.  Ordered chaos with lots of camaraderie, joking, laughing, children splashing, a shared sacred experience without any self-consciousness.  When our turn came to start praying, it took me a couple of spouts to get my rhythm...my silent prayer, 3 splashes of water on my face, and then a duck under the spout to let the water run over my body.  Immersed in prayer and aware of how lucky I am to be in another holy site so far from my home, I focused myself and began the ritual.

Made told me, "you must think of a dream, for good health."  I did.  As I came up from the first spout she said, "you must drink the water", I did.  The pool filled with floating offering baskets that tumbled from the ledge above the spouts spilling flower petals everywhere, and a line of hefty carp competed for possible food debris as we made our way down the line.  Finally, after crawling in a most undignified manner over the wall separating the first and second pools, we finished and emerged, dripping and shivering, despite the heat.  Made filled a gallon container with holy water to bring back to the family shrine, then led us back to the changing house, which by now was sopping wet with men, women and children changing everywhere.  There was a que for the 4 bathrooms at back which afforded a little more privacy.  We took our clothes and joined the line.  There was no order but also no angst.  What impatience there was was shared...we all had to pee after standing in cool water for so long.  Once inside the stall I did the dance of the flip flops, balancing on one foot and the other as I tried not to touch the floor, not to drop anything, not to drop anything into the squat toilet proper, and not to touch the walls.  I was wet and had neither towel or dry sarong, but I managed to get into my clothes and make it out alive, despite dropping my shirt, invoking the 3 minute rule, and trying not to think about it all too much.  At least it wasn't something to eat.

In the end, we all emerged feeling blessed, feeling cleansed and happy.

Ramayana

The sun comes up, the roosters herald the day.  As I was falling asleep, I discovered we have a large gecko in our room...the ones that say their name, (geee-koh in a baritone voice, no doubt dulcet to other geckos) over and over until they sort of fade away as if they have a sore throat.  I was a bit unsettled.  The small ones seem harmless, but the large ones are formidable.  Of course, the large ones eat more...spiders, mosquitos and other crawly things I avoid thinking about in the tropics.  Ahhhh...in the tropics....what a marvelous thought, what a marvelous place to be, where you hang out a wet t shirt and six hours later it's still wet, but warmer.

Muzzy is off on his morning walk, up the road through terraced rice paddies and jungle foliage.  He will be gone an hour.  I am sitting on our porch, sparkly clean, ready for breakfast and more adventures.

Last night we attended the Kecak performance at Ketut's local temple.  All the village families participate and it is held on the apron before the inner temple so anyone can come and you don't have to wear a sarong or scarf.  The kecak is a dance drama depicting a battle from the Ramayana between Rama and the evil Ravenna, who lusts after the beautiful Sita.  Ravenna sends his sidekick to trick Sita into leaving the protective circle where Rama has told Sita to stay.  The sidekick becomes a charming golden deer and lures her into leaving.  Ravenna captures and tries to seduce the faithful Sita.  Hanuman makes an appearance, as does a monkey army, a couple of comic relief characters, and a dragon.  It's a little complicated, so I won't go in to detail, but it is a beloved story.  The kecak refers to the "cak" sound made by the male chorus of 100+ men.  It is performed in a circle with a tall flaming light device in the middle.  The men form a 4-5 person deep circle around a tall iron structure holding many oil lamps, and the characters act out the drama dancing around it while the men chant.  One old man chants out the story, and the basic time is kept by one voice, continuously marking the beat. It was formalized in the 1930s with collaborative effort from Walter Spies, a famous artist who made his home in Bali and sort of put Bali on the map for western tourism.  This performance was done in our Ketut's village and his son was one of the performers...father and son may not participate together, it must be one or the other.  I saw this performed when we were here in '93, but this time was so special.  Sita was lovely, appropriately coy, loving, and tragic.  I love Balinese dance...its ritualized aspect appeals to my sense of creativity within structure.  In the warm Balinese night, with the candlelight flickering and the shadows playing out, it was the perfect scene of good versus evil, with good ultimately triumphing.

Yesterday I tried the pool...magnificent.  How bad can it be to tread water while tropical birds fly too and fro across the ravine?  Ketut's Place is so beautiful.  He has cages with rescued birds, rescued squirrels, pools with lazy turtles, koi, and plants that we see only in arboretums.  I found the frangipani tree, and the plumeria abound, yellow and purple, behind the ears of beautiful Balinese boys and graceful Balinese girls. This must be the place where sailors saw mermaids.  Today we may go someplace...Gunung Kawi or to the silver shop, or the water temple.  Or we may just go back down into the fray and find the shop with the Flores sarongs.  It's hard to leave our peaceful compound.

And we have our new segment for the Bellingham Bean involving kopi luwak, civet cats, Chester, cosmic Flavia and more....the possibilities are endless.

Bali Bliss

Bali...every moving day is a lost day, which promises new adventure at the end.  4 hours on the plane, arrival in Denpasser, no visa charge (I think it is because it's low season), and then finally, out the doors where a handsome young man named, appropriately, Krishna, holds a sign with our names on it.  As soon as we get through the gate, 2 guys grab our bags and Krishna tells us to wait while he goes to get the car.  We are not in Thailand anymore.  As we wait in the parking garage, one of the baggage rustlers whispers to me that we need to tip him and his friend $20.  I am astounded...I paid for pick up service, and don't mind tipping, but $20 to roll a bag a half a block?  These guys were dressed better than we were! The banner painted on the glass airport doors says "Shop Eat Play".  Obviously Bali is not the place it used to be.  I could go on and on and on, and probably will, but my oh my this place has changed, and not necessarily for the better.  Of course, it was another hour+ to Ubud from the airport, and I watched eagerly for some sign of that old Bali held like a small bright turquoise gem in my mind still existed.  There were flashes, but on the whole, it has changed changed changed.

Since we are very near the equator, we have 12 hours of sunlight, 12 of dark, so about 6:00 Bali time, the sun went down.  We came into Ubud in darkness.  Krishna drove us up (or is it down?) Monkey Forest Road where smart new SUVs lined the already too narrow lanes.  Any available parking space was filled in with motorbikes.  All of this in front of vaguely familiar guest houses and cafes, now accompanied by Ralph Lauren and various chi chi shops.  When we got to Bemos Corner, I didn't even recognize the place!  The only way I knew where we were was the old palace standing on the corner.  A slight jog to the left and up Jalan Suwata.  It was filled with shops and whatnot, no more empty spaces, private home compounds or rice fields.  I remember trudging up this road sweating, wet from a sudden downpour, thinking, oh, yes, we're almost there, only to discover one more hill before stumbling along the pocked dirt road, cursing myself for not bringing the torch, and finally spying the sign, Ketut's Place, Your Home in Ubud.

The front steps were crowded with people going out for the night.  We unloaded the bags which were whisked away by a silent young man and I stood amidst the lights and confusion, tired, spaced, wondering what the hell I had done.  I spied a little man in a long white shirt with tufts of greying hair peaking out beneath his baseball cap, and realized this must be Ketut.  I finally went after him as he retreated into the compound and said, "Are you Ketut?  Do you remember me?"  A smile spread across his face and he took my hand, "Yes, I remember.  We are much older now."  Yes, we are.

Ketut's compound is much changed.  It is packed with bungalows, some a full three stories high.  I am tempted to move to one of these so I can see over the rice fields, but I don't want to climb the stairs. There is a pool, and bungalows that fall down the sides of the steep ravine at the rear of his property.  But much is also the same.  It is quiet, serene, even.  Ketut's son Koming is in charge, a handsome young man with an equally lovely personality.  Bromeliads and epiphytes abound, sprouting from the tree trunks.  Birds of paradise bloom, coleus the size of hedges abound, all the house plants we nurture gone jungle.  There are bridges over little waterways, stone arches, weathered stepping stones, so much packed into such a small space.  Ketut is working on Ketut's Place 2 now and is very careful to refer our questions, "You must talk to my son."  It is peaceful here.  I'm a little afraid of walking down the hill to the bustle of this new Bali, the yoga, Jammu, New Age tourist Mecca Bali.  There are still roaches the size of small slippers, and kawa kawa, the large "harmless" spiders that spin their webs between palm trees.  The dogs are still here and our beloved Chichi has been replaced by curly haired Momo and another large brown dog who is not so friendly.  But these are the dogs that keep the evil spirits moving down the road at night.  Morning is still filled with the sound of roosters vying to bring the sun, and doves nesting in the trees.  I am writing on our little patio, waiting for breakfast, which will be delivered here.  Our little bungalow is the one Sarah and Don stayed in when we were here in 1993.  Muzzy still got up this morning and took his walk up into the rice fields above Ketut's Place.  We are much older now, still blessed.
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Bangkok again

We actually made it to Bangkok.  Instead of spending a couple of days decompressing, we plunged right in with khao man gai, foot massages and a frenzied walk to Jok Pochana. After delivering the t shirt,  we sat down to enjoy.  I wasn't feeling well, but figured a sip of cold Leo beer would do the trick, and what a trick it was.  Down I went, head between my knees, shaking, nausea rising.  The mama summoned a tuk tuk and Muzzy helped me in, handing me a bag just in time to keep me from throwing up all over the tuk tuk in front of the customers enjoying their meals.  I was too sick to be embarrassed.  Muzzy got me back to the Riverside and up to the room, where after a good long session of purging, we decided to call a doctor.  Dr. Khaosan Clinic dispatched a young man and his assistant, on duty all night and we decided it was dehydration...what a nice man, great English, thank god.  I am fine, a bit worse for wear, but I think that is the theme for this trip, a bit worse for wear.  We are not quite as hearty as in year's past, and still finding our groove.  That is why we have four days of nothing in Bangkok.

Observations:  early January in Thailand is lovely.  The weather is less humid, not so hot, and while there are many tourists, not nearly as many as there will be at the beginning of February.  We had rain  last night.  Today the air is clean and a breeze blows across the open patio at the edge of the Chao Praya.  The long tail boats ply back and forth, hoping for a fare.  The boatmen bob up and down in the choppy river eating breakfast noodles, marking space while the boat turns back and forth.  We watch the river tides turn, tugboats towing giant strings of barges down river, the yellow municipal river cleaning boats scooping up floating platforms of water hyacinth and garbage, the sight seeing yachts, and the restored wooden junk-like boats with decks of teak and privileged tourists lounging in deck chairs.  And I regain my rhythm.

So, Sunday.  The light is pink over the river this morning and Bangkok is in a holiday mood. It's Sunday. After a good day of rest we are ready to resume our adventure.   Chatuchak.  But first, breakfast at Ricky's.  We finally had dinner at. Jok Pochana. The new location is around the corner from the old one on Samsen Soi 2. The soi curves around and there is a whole alley that Jok Pochana has sort of taken over.  Lek's extended family owns a couple of shop houses and now there are two restaurants...Jok Pochana and Jeng's Noodles. It's actually better in some ways.  There is a constant breeze that wafts down the alley that's very. pleasant. We finally had our feast..    As we were leaving,, we ran into two people who stopped us to ask about the Jok Pochana T shirts.  We got to talking and found out we were talking to ourselves!  Crazy!  Very nice people from Northern California who have a store and now a condo in Chiang Mai..  We. May. Try to visit. Near the end of our trip.

So it begins...all the quirks and craziness of travel.  Forgive the erratic punctuation.  Something seems to be wrong with either my little iPad, the keyboard, or the Internet.  It's Asia, after all.  How can you tell.  Suffice it to say, we are back in the groove, laughing a lot, enjoying breakfast at Ricky's...how can it still be the same after all. These years,, and what makes their. Muesli. with fruit and yogurt. Something I pine for when I am home?  How do the mosquitoes get in with the door closed?  Why do they even bother with traffic signals, crosswalks and parking signs?  What's the deal with rolls of toilet paper for napkins, and all. Of life''s other. Imponderables..   With much trepedation. And frustration, I am going to post...I hope.

Off to see the...

January 7th we begin another adventure overseas.  Our last trip was at the beginning of 2014 and we had no idea of what the end of that year and the beginning of 2015 would bring.  We missed our 2015 trip but we are almost packed and are ready for a break.  I look forward to being in my "happy place",  SE Asia.  We are returning to Bali after 23 years and will stay with Ketut Suratana and his family.  I understand his son is now in charge of the guest house.  He was not quite a year old when we met him in 1993.   I'm sure things have changed, but our daughter Sarah assures us it is still the magical, art-filled world we found on that first trip.  I plan to bathe in the sacred spring.  Our friend, Annette Baker, will be joining us in Thailand for a trip to Issan to see the monitor lizards and the Khmer ruins, and, of course, the markets.  Other than that, who knows what we will find?  I'm sure Mr. Muzzy will take plenty of photos.

More photos from Asia 2014.

Phra Atit, Banglamphu, Bangkok
Accepting donations to feed the cats

Sugar cane and lime juice

One of the waitresses at the Daw Saw Yee, Yangon

Fortune Teller

My favorite Yangon market lady

Fish, Yangon morning market

Leaving Sittwe for Mrauk U

Myanmar Flag on our ferry boat

Mr. Muzzy on the ferry

Cook on the ferry

Temple entrance, Mrauk U

At the Beach

Finally, we slow down.  There is little for breakfast at the beach where we are staying, in fact, less than little, nothing for the first four days.  Today the Roy Tawan re-opened, the only breakfast place in this little area.  And aren't we lucky!  The coffee is real, and good!  I came armed with my own can of sweetened condensed milk, an addiction I acquired on my very first visit to Southeast Asia in 1991.  Even though I practiced and practiced, no one understands my farang version of "Nom wahn". We ate a goodbye breakfast with a lovely German couple we met here, Barbara and Michael, and Michael generously took my can of milk up to the window to show the cook what I wanted.  He came back with an opened can.  I put it in my little fridge and will take it with me in the morning.  And Roy Tawan has cake!  Really good cake!  So for the next few days until we leave, we have a good breakfast place without having to rent the motorbike to go into town.

After breakfast, we swim.  We swim every day for about an hour.  The water is warm and we bounce over small swells and an occasional breaker.  The gulf in this area is like a large, benign salt water swimming pool with no one and nothing in it.  The shore drops away very slowly and we can go quite far out and still touch the bottom.  There is no effort required.  This is the first time in I don't know how many years I have actually laid in the sun, rolling over to try and get a tan on my shockingly white gams.  I remember those years in southern California when the pursuit of the summer tan started around the beginning of April.  I used to rub a mixture of olive oil and iodine on myself and slowly broil on a blanket.  What was I thinking?  Now I am thinking about that, all these years later.  I think how good the sun feels on my old bones and I don't care that I look like an over-ripe plum in my one piece bathing suit.  Now a simple swim, and a shower to rinse off the sand is enough and I am grateful for it.  We read, we think about lunch, walk to lunch, walk back, shower again, and then its time for an afternoon lay down, because it is very very very hot.  It has taken us four days to slow down.  A little adventure, a lot of slow down.

If I could change anything, it would be the mix of people.  Mostly there are lots of fat old Germans and French, older men with young Thai girlfriends or wives.  I miss the mixture of young and old.  There are a few younger couples, but younger travelers want a Rave, or a more lively scene.  Many of the people staying here stay for months at a time.  The little bungalows are rented for 3 to 5 months and they prepare their own meals, camping on their little porches.  It is a bit like the RV camps in Arizona and alarmingly like an old folks home, only most of these people get around better.  There is a shocking lack of good butts and the European penchant for male bikinis never ceases to amaze and astound.  It is hard to connect, I think, unless you speak French, because the French absolutely do not speak any other language.  The Germans and Dutch, however, speak better English than we do sometimes, but they tend to congregate together.  As exuberant as Americans are, loud, bouncy like friendly puppy dogs, there are none, nada, zip.  We smile, we wave, but like new kids on the block, we are not invited in.  It's okay...couples like Barbara and Michael, and Hasi (we think) and Ingrid from Sweden, make up for the rest.  Its fun to share travel stories and learn about other people's lives.

Now it's nap time.  I've decided to bring home the shell collection Muzzy and I have on our porch and make one of those tacky shell mobiles from them to hang near the fire pit in our back yard.  Really, you say?  Will a gull perched atop a piece of driftwood be next?  Am I ready for the trailer park?

Bangkok and South to Bang Saphan

Nom wahn...sweet milk.  One of the take aways from this trip will be learning to ask for sweetened condensed milk for my coffee.  It's nom wahn, wahn being the accent, sounding like it starts with a k instead of wa, and clipped at the end.  Impossible to hear the first or second or even third time.  There is a book called Very Thai that is sweet and funny and great if you spend any time traveling in Thailand and want answers to the imponderables that come up, i.e. why small thin squares of pink tissue for table napkins, how the motorbike taxis work, why the police and army uniforms are so tight they look about to pop off of the men who wear them.  They need one of these guides for Myanmar.  I spent a small portion of my days in Yangon pondering the new paint jobs on the old, mildew encrusted buildings.  Bright turquoise paint now covers part of the front of the huge colonial building across Sule Paya Road from the May Shan, our Yangon home.  Did they run out of paint?  Did they only paint as far as they could reach?  Did they add Kilz-it to the paint before they used it?  Did they pressure wash before starting (I doubt it)?  Will they match this color and do more?  Or is this all they had in the basement of an old colonial era paint store?  These are questions I will never know the answer to.  How does a country so far neglected and compromised begin to renew itself?  In some places Myanmar has chosen to pull down these dilapidated mementos of the British Raj and replace them with Chinese Industrial architecture devoid of grace or charm and poorly built to boot.  But isn't that the way it is everywhere?  I don't know.  With no TV, limited internet, running low on reading material and long days to contemplate Life's mysteries, these are some of the things I think about.  Sweet Milk, where my next cup of coffee is coming from, will I finish the mystery I started only two days ago, today, and will there be a place to eat tonight?  I need a book to guide me...instead, I find the Belt of Orion, turn to the north and find the Big Dipper low in the horizon, its handle dipping into the sea, and wonder some more why I didn't take a course in star gazing.

The Local Ferry

After a full day on the Lemro River and a final stop at Mrauk U's most recently excavated temple Kothang, we woke early the next morning to catch the local ferry back to Sittwe and from there, to Yangon the next day.  We ate at Moe Cherry our last night...one more Rakhiang meal and, perhaps, one too many.

We rode to the ferry as the sun was just infiltrating the foggy morning.  After a bone-jarring drive we arrived at the busy dock.  We paid our fare and waited aboard while sacks of produce, stacks of woven bamboo fans, boxes of empty beer bottles, familes with lunches and cranky children, and very few farang found spots on the two decks.  Foreigners always ride up top, and always get a seat.  Ours were two listing beach chairs with slung cloth seats in various stages of disintegration.  A nice young man requested a dollar each since our tickets apparently didn't cover the cost of a seat.  The last thing I saw come up the two by six used as a gangplank were two women with clusters of chickens tied together at the legs.  I was pretty sure the chickens were still alive, at least as long as the ride to Sittwe, and felt fortunate that I didn't have to make the trip upside down with my leg tied to Muzzy.

The idling engine of the ferry accelerated and churned up the muddy river bottom to maneuver away from the dock.  At last we were under way.  Two men in longyis and puffy black Chinese polyester jackets with furry collars approached us to pay for our seats...again.  As difficult as it is to debate in a language I don't know, I stood my ground and indicated we'd already payed someone else for the privilege of sitting in these lovely chairs. It was ludicrous to argue over two dilapidated deck chairs, but my intestinal unrest made me cranky.  Our ferry crawled at a snail's pace down the river we'd come up 8 days earlier and while this trip wasn't as cold, it was certainly more crowded.  Every available inch of deck space was covered with families on mats or people crouching in the morning chill.  Muzzy went aft to stretch out and take photos and eventually I joined him.  The port side of the ferry was bathed in the rising sun and by turning myself strategically, I warmed up.  Looking over the railings I noted that the ferry was even more ancient than it looked when I beheld it at the dock in Mrauk U.  Coats of paint barely held the rusting railings together and the wooden deck was a minefield of uneven boards...but, of course, it hardly mattered since all available space was taken.  Upon returning to our seats we discovered that one of them had been re-sold.  A game of musical chairs ensued and in the end, the farangs ruled, hollow victory that it was.  Because we were both a little worse for wear, the ride was less exciting than the one going up, except for Muzzy's siting of several Sarus Cranes grazing in small groups and pairs through the harvested rice fields.  We spent a bilingual debate with some Italian travelers over whether they were cranes or storks.  At a little over 5 feet tall, they were impressive with their deep red heads and necks and gray bodies.

Our ferry stopped at every local dock, packing in even more people and produce.  Eventually, five hours into the trip, I realized I would have to find the toilet.  I dread using public toilets in third world countries.  In our 14 hour bus trip in Laos, the driver stopped at a convenient field and men and women went to different sides, squatted down and did their business.  The ferry had toilets on the bottom deck, I knew, from the ride up, but instinctively I knew this ferry was even less ammenable than the first one.  I stuffed my pocket with a small wad of toilet paper and hoisted myself up from the sagging deck chair.  Picking my way through peanut shells and sleeping children, I made my way to the stairway down to the bottom deck.  As I neared the bottom step I looked out over a sea of brown faces squatting over every possible inch of floor space.  Several women turned their eyes to me as I stood there, frozen...go back?  Try to work my way through the packed bodies?  I turned to the women and they raised their hands, indicating the direction I should go.  It was one of those universal women things.  We can't just stand and point whenever we want.  I plunged in, finding just enough space for my large farang feet to hit the deck and not someone's hand, heading around to the left, navigating a narrow asile between 5 foot high bales of produce and the passengers, past the "dining" area, a large table where a woman was serving plates of rice with curries, and back to the narrow section by the engines where three toilets waited.  As I neared the doors I noticed the two chicken ladies dozing with their backs to a sack of rice.  Looking down, the only available floor space in front of the toilets was covered with an array of chickens.  Legs still attached by plastic string, the chickens lay in fan-like circles, starring up at me.  They were still alive and I was happy about that.  I'm not so sure they were.  Now I had to avoid stepping on them while I pulled open the warped metal door to the nearest toilet and did a sort of leap into the unknown of one of the more disgusting toilets I've encountered.  It was everything I expected and more, but by now I have become adept, even at my age, at rolling up my pant legs, balancing on bricks used for footrests, and aiming at a not so strategically placed hole in the deck revealing the passing river below.  I was in and out, touching a minimum of surfaces before the chickens even knew I had been there.  I encountered only one cluck of disapproval on my way back to my seat, made by a woman who had to move aside for my foot.

Upon arrival in Sittwe, we watched in horror as a small wooden boat very nearly capsized as it collided with the ferry and several young men clambered up the sides like pirates boarding a ship, swarmed over the railings and battled for position, franctically soliciting tuk tuk rides for the foreigners aboard, of whom there were few.  It was a crazy scene and I was relieved to finally turn on the shower in our Shwe Thazin hotel room, drink some cold water, and lay down.

Kothuang Temple of 90,000 Buddhas

Begging bowls

Kothuang Temple

Kothuang Temple top

Buddha carvings

Kothuang interior where the roof has collapsed
and been covered with corrugated tin

Monks at Kothuang

Ferry dock at Mrauk U

All aboard

Leaving Mrauk U

Morning sun on the ferry

Smoking woman

Loading the ferry at Mrauk U

Sittwe, view from the top of our hotel
flying foxes.  They call them flying dogs

Random Babble

My last post left off at our explorations of the temples and stupas in Mrauk U.  We spent several hours two days in a row wandering through the dusky labyrinths and corridors that burrow through these 16th century structures.  Typically there is a main hall housing a large Buddha surrounded by tunnels with niches holding rows and rows of smaller Buddhas, some in the image of lost kings of the Rakhine kingdom.  We took countless photos but it is impossible to capture the mystery and magick of actually being there.  At the end of our first full day we joined our new friend Marc for dinner at a small Rakhine eatery near the market.  His guide joined us and the owner of the restaurant served up some traditional Rakhine cuisine.  We had deep fried squash with a spicy dipping sauce, fresh corn, lima beans, fish curry and pork curry, sticks of tiny fish fried crispy and eaten whole, lots of rice and, of course, Myanmar beer.  This was not a restaurant for the squeamish and I think we payed for that a couple of days later, but trying local food is one of the requisites of travel, don't you think?  It was one of several lively meals we shared with fellow travelers and Marc and Muzzy made fun company.

Kuang Thant
One of the only restaurants in Mrauk U
with an English sign

Marc and Muzzy

Our third day in Mrauk U was spent on a river journey up the Lemro to visit the Chin villages.  While the actual Chin territory is closed to foreigners, the government does allow tourists to visit these two or three villages north of Mrauk U.  It took about two hours to get to the first two villages.  We traveled in a small covered boat with a guide named Ao.  Ao spoke good English and eagerly shared all sorts of information, answering all our questions as best he could.  He even discussed politics and expressed some of the frustrations of the Rakhiang people with the Myanmar government.  They are an independent people, proud of their heritage and their language, quick to point out their differences from southern Myanmar.

Kothuang Temple
the temple of 90,000 Buddhas

Recently excavated temple

Making bricks

The boat landing at the Lemro River

Market town - sorting snails

Buying a basket

Our boat

Ao walked us through the first two villages that are Rakhiang and Chin, sort of two villages that run together.  Tourism pays for the primary school here and is one of the main sources of income for all of these remote Rakhiang villages.  We were taken to the home of an elder Chin woman who had traditional  facial tattoos.  Once characteristic of Chin women and applied with great religious  ceremony, the tattoos were  ended many years ago.  These  tattoos will die with the women of this generation.  We took a few photographs, an odd experience, and continued up the river to the next village, about a half hour north.

In this last village, there are nine women, all in their 60's and older, with facial tattoos, who are willing  to pose for photos.  While this has a rather zoo like quality to it, these women were incredibly gracious and dignified, showing off their weavings, welcoming us into their village, and inviting me to sit with them.  I indicated that I had a tattoo as well and pulled down the corner of my T-shirt to show my shoulder.  They gathered around and looked at it.  We all laughed.

Have a seat

It was a moment.  We had another when one woman asked Ao to bring us to her house.  She showed us her back strap loom, ordered Ao to bring us tea, and after a few moments conversation with him, she got up and went to the back of her house.  When she came back, she replaced the bamboo plugs in her ears with a pair of huge silver ear plugs.  I gasped and put my hand on my heart.  The other women gathered in the courtyard nodding their approval.  Our lady was so proud, and rightly so, of these beautiful heirloom earrings.  I felt privileged that she shared them with me.  As we prepared to leave, she found me and motioned for Muzzy to take her photo with me.  Lovely.  I didn't buy any textiles from the women, but gave them each a small contribution to thank them for letting us trespass.

Chinn woman

Chinn woman

Silver earrings

Chinn Woman

Chinn woman

Chinn woman

Back to the Net

Where to begin?  Okay...we are back in Yangon after a week up north in the Rakhine state of Myanmar.  We flew to Sittwe from Yangon, spent the night at the bat hotel, and caught the morning ferry to Mrauk U.  The bat hotel is the Shwe Thazin in Sittwe, on the main road and the trees across the street are the nesting place for hundreds of fruit bats.  They vie with the crows for space.  Its an awful racket and tweeting (the real kind) while hundreds of bats and crows swoop and chatter to get a spot.  Sittwe is a backwater but has some charming qualities.  Unfortunately we never made it to the big fish market, but we were on a tight schedule.  The Rakhine people throughout the region are very outspoken about their culture.  They will tell you about the neglect of their area by the government and are definite and clear about the differences between Rakhine people and the people in the south around Yangon.  All through Myanmar and especially in the north, we found people very friendly, eager to pose for pictures, and ready to help if it is needed.  This area has been closed off and on due to "ethnic" troubles.  As we left the airport, the road was lined with armed military, arms length apart facing away from the street.  It is a difficult situation and not discussed easily for many reasons, including the language barrier.  We know it has something to do with Rohinga, Indian Muslims who found themselves in this area at the end of WWII and now find themselves an unwanted minority although they have lived there for 60 years.  I think there are fine nuances here that an uninformed American had best leave alone.  Suffice it to say that security is tighter in this area of the north than elsewhere for travelers.  It is a poor area with a neglected infrastructure (not unusual in Myanmar) with a magnificent archaeological site at Mrauk U, and is the gateway to an area of great biodiversity.

Looking across from the roof terrace of
our hotel in Sittwe

The locals call them flying dogs

The Shwe Thazin, our hotel in Sittwe

Early the next morning we rode a tuk tuk, the Rakhine version, a tri-wheeled motorcycle with a covered truck-like bed attached with two benches on either side.  All of these seem to be driven by young men in their early teens or twenties, usually with a CD player rigged up hanging from the center brace over the passenger area, blasting Myanmar or Hindi music...the more distortion the better.  We reached the jetty for the public ferry, bought two tickets that included seats on the upper deck.  Dawn was just lightening the sky as I approached the two boards that served as the gangplank. I crab walked with my pack on my back, taking my time as I bounced over the boards, one foot on each.  Muzzy was behind me, yelling encouraging things like, "Bend your knees honey!  That's right, take your time".  I only looked down at the murky water once and gratefully took the hand of a small thin man in a funky longyi with a cheerot hanging from his betel stained mouth.  Muzzy, the surefooted Old Salt, glided across after me as another man steered us up a small stariway to the upper deck...for foreigners and Rakhine with seats.  It all turned out okay.  We sat with a very funny Belgian artist who lives in Germany, Marc, and another traveler, a French man whose name I shamefully never got.  Muzzy and Marc immediately hit it off and it was a towel-snapping, repartee-filled voyage.  Marc generously recorded riverside village life in a quick sketch in my travel journal.  It wasn't until I got home and went on the net that I discovered his beautiful artwork.

When we finally got underway, most of the regular passengers sat on mats on the decks, upper and lower, huddled and bundled and trying to keep warm.  According to the guide book, there is a government run ferry, and a privately run ferry, a fast boat (which was docked at the pier and similar to ones we took on our first trips to the islands in the gulf of Thailand) and various private boats for hire.  I'm not sure which ferry ours was, and, again, nuance of language is the barrier.  This is my third trip to Myanmar and it is the first time I've learned to say more than minglabar, hello, and jaysubeh, thank you.  I can ask for the bill and ask how much, say that the food is good and someone or something is pretty or beautiful.

Tickets for the ferry to Mrauk U
$10 including a seat

Our Ferry to Mrauk U

My happy gangplank

So, 5 hours later we arrived in Mrauk U and the Shwe Thazin.  Yes, run by the same family, but a much nicer hotel.  To our delight the main area of ruins surrounded us, all within walking distance.  The village of Mrauk U is in and around the 16th century temples.  We discovered on our second or third day that the temples that are exposed are merely a handful of ones uncovered.  Many of the jungle covered mounds are speculated to contain other stupas and temples.  The area, over 27 square miles, is full of them.  We spent the next two days exploring and photographing.  They are quite awesome.  Some restoration as been done, and not too badly, but it is possible to enter lone, small payas and visit Buddhas who have lost a head or a hand.  The pieces lay next to them, waiting to be reattached.

First class upper deck, the only place farang
are allowed to sit

Yes, I am happy

It could be worse

The restaurant

This post was much longer but the rest of it was lost when I tried to post it earlier today.  I will finish posting about our trip to Mrauk U and the Chin villages further north when we return to Bangkok.