But home is where I am now. I’ve been breathing cold Louisville, KY air since early December. My trip was cut short suddenly when I received an email that my grandfather was in the hospital for what would be the last time. Twelve hours (and a bus ride to the capital) later I was on the side of a Malaysian highway helping my cab driver change his flat tire. With only minutes to spare I jumped out at the airport, abandoning in the backseat the sandals I’d worn for seven months and two thick books, jetsam that would have kept my pack from fitting in the overhead compartment. I was living in rewind. It was eerie, the speed at which I was able to backpedal. The speed at which I was able to circumnavigate the entire planet at a moments notice. You know that montage in Fight Club where Edward Norton is flying around the country and experiences a disconnected sort of deja vu? It was like that with less bandages and more security. Malacca-Kuala Lumpur-Bangkok-Tokyo-Chicago.

Chicago about killed me. It was snowing. I’d gone from 100 degrees to 30 in 24 hours. By the time I made it from the plane up the walkway to the airport (in my lightweight rain jacket) my shivering was indistinguishable from a seizure. I’d consumed eight cups of coffee and four back-to-back in flight movies. My plan was to beat jet-lag preemptively. I hadn’t slept. My vision was obstructed by tall people in rough, gray coats. I found myself drowning in English, loud and obnoxious and everywhere. Sickly looking people all across the terminal bared their teeth and screamed into cell phones. Surely they were complaining of their cold, bleak surroundings—their gray floors and gray walls and gray-filtered sunlight. It was a zoo exhibit. Or an ant farm. The giant planes on the tarmac watched us silently through the glass. I found my way to the domestic terminal and huddled next to a vending machine. I was afraid to sit down, fall asleep, miss my flight. I counted to stay awake. I counted “people who stared at me,” “people without cell phones,” and “people who smiled.” I spent 90 minutes next to that vending machine. Smiles lost.

I slipped into my old life the way one might slip on an old shoe. Everything worked the way it should—I could still drive a stick, run the microwave, answer a cell phone—but it was all very surreal. I’m chalking it up to jet lag, reverse culture shock, and sunlight withdrawal, but I can barely remember my first two weeks stateside. I was my own apparition, out of touch with reality. I found myself constantly recoiling from everyday things. I became physically ill the first time I walked into a Bed, Bath and Beyond and saw a $40 piece of metal designed to hold toilet paper; available in bronze, nickel, and chrome. Thanks but I’d rather have five days on a Cambodian beach.

I’d like to think I’ve become more empowered. I’ve learned to accept my own strengths and I know how to take full control of my life. By living simply, eating meals of rice and sharing dirty accommodations, I have become comfortable with my “worst case scenario.” I can now take bigger risks without fearing the consequences, because I’ve already faced them. In many ways the things gained on a trip such as this one are intangible. And most intangibles cannot be defined without metaphor. The writer in me is gleeful at this conundrum. But the reality is that I cannot tell you what I’ve learned, lost, and gained. Our language is not yet that robust.

I spent two-hundred days wandering throughout Southeast Asia. And I did it on my own. Through my self-reliance I have achieved, if nothing else, self-trust. And it is with this I move forward, comfortable in my non-conformity, one step at a time.

The Breakdown by Numbers

Total cost (including airfare): less than $4,600
Airfare: $1150
Cost per day on the ground: ~$17.25 (ranging from $6-60)
Weight lost: 18 lbs (From 158 lbs to 140 lbs)
Days abroad: 201
Distance traveled (by land): 11,000 km / 6,800 miles
Distance traveled (by air): 31,600 km / 19,630 miles
Total distance traveled:  42,600 km / 26,480 miles

This was an experience that will continue to shape me for the rest of my life. I cannot imagine what else I might have done with that seven months that would prove more valuable. For those of you who have stuck with me through the whole journey, I am beyond grateful.

Last thing consumed: Quite a bit actually. I’m focusing on regaining all the muscle I lost. I’m eating 3,000 calories/day at the moment. Since my return I’ve regained 16 lbs.
Thought fragment: I’m driving 1,000 miles to Austin for SXSW in a couple weeks. It will be good to get back on the road again.

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Despite said dangers, our unfaithful steed bore us to Penang National Park, where we trekked into the dense monkey-infested jungle and arrived, at great length and covered in sweat, on a fairly private beach pocked with massive crab holes. The blue-green waters spoke of  relief, so we shed our salt-soaked shirts and swam. Before long, we were joined by a cautious and stealthy sea otter which spent most of its time examining us from a safe distance. Its head would vanish and pop up elsewhere, not unlike Whack-A-Mole from the days of old.

I have finally realized why it is that monkeys feel the need to attack me. And really, it’s all their fault. You see, monkeys happen to instinctively identify bared teeth as a challenge to fierce physical combat. As such, when I laugh at their silly ways and silly faces, they think I am challenging them to a dual. And when a human duals a monkey, nobody wins. So should you find yourself confronted by a monkey with the silliest of faces, even if said monkey is wearing a jester’s cap, do not, under any circumstance, laugh at the monkey. For it will attempt to eat you, and it will start with your bare ankles.

Almost without even trying, I’ve been celebrating Thanksgiving consistently since my arrival on Penang, Isle of Food. I must say, though, I’ve sampled all the top Malay dishes from local establishments, and they are all still trumped by Indian cuisine. As such, the image to the right was (one of) my Thanksgiving dinner(s).

I’ve been in Southeast Asia for nearly two hundred days, and I think I’ve avoided writing anything on this blog that might be seen as culturally insensitive. But all that is about to change. I fully understand that many different cultures use many different utensils and practice many different methods of eating. That is all fine and good. I like variety. When eating Pad Thai or any fried noodle dish, I would sooner take up chopsticks than I would a fork. When eating a sandwich or french fries, I use my hands. And of course, should I find myself eating steak, I think the most convenient tools would be a knife/fork combination. However, when enjoying Indian cuisine, the traditional method seems to be the use a single hand. By employing deft thumb movements, one can shovel food from the palm and remaining digits into one’s mouth. I used this method myself many months ago when I found myself sharing a meal of rice and chicken in the wilderness with a tiny Hmong girl. And after I learned the proper technique it worked quite well.

That said, eating heavily sauced rice with your hand is something that, even after a lifetime of training, can end in messy defeat. The other day I was sitting in a restaurant enjoying my meal with the spoon/fork combo. An Indian gentleman at another table tackled his with the hand method. As a result, he had curry and rice not only on his hand, but also spread about his mouth and on his shirt. I watched, amazed, taking another bite of rice and beef curry with my spoon. As another bit of rice fell to his shirt and I couldn’t help but think, “Dude, there’s just a better way.” So there you have it. Culturally insensitive or not, there are times when hand-eating is simply the inferior method. If any Indians (or other eat-with-your-handers) are reading this, feel free to sacrifice me in the comments section and defend saucy hands everywhere!

I’ll keep this brief, but I want talk for a moment about power. I believe that everything is relative. And I mean everything. Power is no exception. The most powerful person in the world is the person who has the most control over you, your life, and your decisions. Therefore, the most powerful person in existence, my dear reader, is you. Uncle Ben was right though, with great power comes great responsibility. What will you do with all your power?

Last thing consumed: Did you see those pictures above?
Thought fragment: I think, should I have such a grand opportunity upon my return, I’m going to opt out of the new TSA death ray scanners just to get the complimentary groping everyone is getting so excited about.

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First off we have a tiny bit of business to attend to. If anyone has clicked the Donate link to the right, they have seen that donations are not intended to go to me, but instead to the Wanderlust Lending Team at Kiva.org. For Kiva’s 5-Year Anniversary they are offering a $25 loan credit to anyone who invites five people. If you’ve considered lending before, now is the best time because you can your $25 donation would actually contribute $30! You can read more about Kiva at their website or on the Donate page here. If you are interested in participating, send a quick email to twocents.wanderlust@gmail.com with the subject line “Kiva.” I’ll send you an invite within 24 hours. Just keep in mind that the offer expires at the end of October. You can still join after that time, of course, but Kiva will no longer be offering additional loan credit. Now on to the travel stuff.

I escaped Cambodia the very same day my visa expired, which seems to be a bad habit I’ve formed. But last minute escapes are cinematic, no? Back in Thailand on a fifteen day transit visa (aiming for Malaysia) I decided to stop off at an island called Ko Chang. For all intents and purposes, I told myself the detour was “on the way” to Bangkok anyway. I arrived after dark due to some painfully disorganized buses at the border crossing. Little did I know that I would not see the sun for five days. My first afternoon a monsoon struck the island with deadly force. I’m not kidding, seven people died due to landslides and the island lost power for 60 hours. During this time I drained the batteries of my laptop and iPod and read nearly three novels. I also watched the cats hunt geckos. Determined to see the island in sunlight, I hung around for a few more days – though even after the power returned, the rain continued. Finally, on day five, the sun appeared for two hours. I visited the beach but saw only rocks, trash, and a few miserable tourists. At least I got some free barbecue at a bar one night and, due to power outages, negotiated a lower room rate. On day six I cut my losses and fled for Bangkok. But the rain followed me there, too.

From Bangkok I moved south as far as I could on one ticket. The result was a city called Had Yai not terribly far from Malaysia. From there I tried to get a ticket into Malaysia, but the local bus station only offered tickets to the border. So that’s where I went. I walked across the Thai-Malaysian border at around 3:30 PM on a Sunday. I had decided to try to go to another island (the sun was shining again!) called Pulau Langkawi. The nearest port was an hour away and no buses ran there. So I hired a taxi to take me the whole way for about $12. Now here I am, and I might stay quite a while. Malaysia was kind enough to give me a 90 day visa for free. There is a solid Indian population on the island, which is awesome because they all speak English and I’m going to eat curry until I pop. I’ve been here almost 48 hours now and haven’t seen a drop of rain, not even the typical afternoon shower. It is hot though, this is the furthest South I’ve ever been.

I feel like I should apologize for the “…and then I did this”-style of post. I was debating what to write about, but the past two weeks or so have mostly been transit, rainstorms, and basic living. And I guess that’s the interesting thing. I’ve always said that travel is a lifestyle, but I think now this holds true (for me) more than ever before, though perhaps from a slightly different perspective. I am still living, I just happen to be in Malaysia. Take today for instance: I got up early. I found a new local breakfast joint and had some yellow rice, curry, and eggs. I went for a run on the beach. I took care of some internet business (emails, web articles, Facebook, Skype). I went and had a lunch of lamb curry and white rice. I returned to the beach. I read a few chapters of fiction. Then I came back to my dorm and took a cold shower. Next I started writing this post. It’s been a relaxing day. After this I’ll probably head back to the beach to do some writing and watch the sunset. Then I’ll go get some dinner, come back “home,” watch a movie on my laptop, and go to bed. Aside from the context, the day itself is not that unusual. Like I said, I just happen to be in Malaysia. Living.

Last thing consumed: Lamb Curry and White Rice, at only $1.60 – I think I’ll stay awhile.
Thought fragment: Being a Muslim country, alcohol is heavily taxed and absurdly priced. You can buy alcohol free beer at the minimart for US$2 a bottle to play pretend. I think, as a result of this, my stay in Malaysia will be very…hydrating.

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I move a lot. Since landing in Bangkok all those months ago, I have spent my nights in over 50 different places, including buses, trains, boats, and even a cargo ship. Due to its small size, spending a month in Cambodia has given me a sort of reprieve. This isn’t to say that Cambodia doesn’t offer many destinations, I just don’t really need another French-inspired river town at the moment. I’m good on jungles and I’ve got more islands in my near future. So I spent a solid ten days recharging my batteries in Sihanoukville, often by having food delivered to me poolside and enjoying a $10 per day lifestyle. Now I am loitering in Siem Reap, probably until my visa expires, and spending even less. Here I have discovered a new and unique type of lifestyle: routine. Back home, I always did my best to avoid routine – it’s bland, conventional, and boring. It’s the rut we’re all stuck in. But I have discovered a valuable exception to this rule.

A routine is only unfulfilling when someone else is writing the schedule. Whether it’s the boss of an unpleasant workplace or a bitter professor or whoever, he or she probably doesn’t have your best interests in mind, yet probably does have a large portion of control over your life. This, to put it bluntly, is not awesome. It results in a massive loss of forward momentum. I am creating my own routine here in Siem Reap – I’m able to absorb the energy of the city and increase my creative output. I can watch every sunrise, sunset, and thunderstorm. I can sit in a cafe and write for two hours every morning. I am in a position to meet new and interesting people every single day. I don’t want to preach, but I do want to put out a reminder that it is vastly important to avoid becoming stagnant; even if your body is not moving, your mind should be. Whether it’s traveling Southeast Asia, learning to make homemade pizza, practicing Tai Chi, or reading a novel – the only wrong thing to do is nothing.

Despite “taking a vacation from traveling,” I did rent a bicycle and visit Angkor Wat and it’s surrounding temples. Angkor is often referred to as the jewel of Cambodia, and many people visit the country specifically for these temples. The beer here is even called Angkor. With that said, visiting Angkor Wat was, for me, sort of like being given a massive amount of tiramisu after eating brownies for four months. It was good. Really good. But it was still a chocolate dessert. And I wanted fresh sushi. Consider this: a grain of sand can be as interesting as an entire sea, it simply depends on the lens through which you view it. Just because you look at more doesn’t necessarily mean you see more. The same applies to the speed at which you move through the world. It is difficult, yet entirely necessary, to give oneself permission to stop and smell the street food – though the scent of garlic and chillies lends nothing to the “productivity” one feels, it is still an investment in one’s self, in one’s life experience.

So, for now, I am focusing on the sand grains, the golden details that get lost in the thick brush strokes of movement. Observe, for a moment, the yellow dragonfly which manages to maintain its curious and reckless flight, even in the clean, hard, thunder-less rain. How can it fly while drops as large, for it, as grapefruits fill the air? Notice the clothing, always steaming on the lines and balcony railings and baking in the rafters – the sloughed skins of t-shirts patiently waiting to collect more salt from our backs. Taste the  mango shake, served with more than a hint of sweet milk; the condensation is so thick and quick on the glass that for a moment you think you will need two hands just to hold it all. And this, these golden details, is all we have: our minds, our bodies, and the present. Nothing else is guaranteed.

Last thing consumed: A large baguette with an omelet, tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and hot tea
Thought fragment: Riding a bicycle out of the silent, inky blackness of the of the sleeping city to visit Angkor at sunrise was probably just as rewarding at Angkor itself.

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I really hate to gloss over the scuba diving in Nha Trang, the sand dunes of Mue Ne, and the electric chaos of Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon), but such is the way of blogging. I had an illness, anyway, in HCMC, which closely resembled a cold but that I’m sure was the result of bad quail eggs found in a few street-vendor steamed buns. Also, spending half a night sleeping on a wooden bench while waiting for the bus did not help my situation. At the end of this series of events I found myself crouch running the length of an American football field through the Cu Chi Tunnels with a stuffed up nose. My quadriceps still have not totally forgiven me for this sin. On the upside, I did manage to divert two separate but very organized attempts to rob me. After a bit of research, I have discovered these attempts were made by members of the Filipino Mafia. So that’s exciting.

I have since crossed my third land border into my fourth country: Cambodia. I spent a few nights in Phnom Penh, the capital, in a cheap room which undoubtedly used to be a kitchen. Tile climbed halfway up the walls and there was a mysterious door with a massive, spider-webbed pad-lock. It seems less people use chopsticks here and more people drive cars, all of which are Toyota Camrys. The addition of four-wheeled vehicles (and a plethora of tuk-tuks) makes crossing the streets that much more frightening. The weirdest thing I’ve seen thus far, though, has been group choreographed dancing in a nearby park. That sounds almost elegant until you see forty Cambodians fist pumping and hip-rolling to a remix of T-Pain’s, “Take Your Shirt Off.” At first I thought, “I’ll never, ever see that again.” Then a block up I saw a different group grooving to Pitbull’s, “Room Service.” The most absurd part was seeing all the families sitting around listening to the (very, very) explicit lyrics in English.

Cambodia is on two different currencies simultaneously. The first is the Cambodian Riel. The second is the United States Dollar. This creates what I refer to as “The Dollar Phenomenon,” which makes bartering slightly more difficult. It’s mostly psychological; when I want a moto driver to take me across town and he demands $2, I feel a bit strange countering with “fifty cents.” So I’ve started switching all bartering to riel. At about 4,000 riel to the dollar, 1,000 riel notes are essentially quarters, as no coins in either currency are minted in Cambodia. If I want something for 75 cents, offering 3,000 riel keeps me thinking in the local currency. With a budget of $15 per day, the dollars add up quick. It’s important to avoid the “everything is so cheap” mentality to stay on budget. Especially when a nice looking (counterfeit) Rolex costs only $15. It’s too bad they are reported to have a 100% failure rate.

In case anyone is wondering, I did not burn the Koran this September 11th. Instead of celebrating my freedom with displays of thoughtlessness, I chose to visit the Killing Fields of Choeung Ek. This is a quiet, peaceful site where 17,000 innocent Cambodians were violently bludgeoned to death under the Khmer Rouge (the ruling party in Cambodia between 1975 and 1979). Use the wiki-link to give yourself a history lesson. Before I went, I was told by two Argentinians that it was a waste of time, that there “was nothing to see there.” After my visit, I can’t help but wonder if they walked through with closed eyes. The detainees were often executed with pickaxes or bamboo rods or garden hoes in an effort to save bullets, then dumped into mass graves. To prevent revenge attempts later in life, babies where held by the legs and smashed into a tree. I don’t know if I would have believed it otherwise, but I saw the tree. I saw the mass graves. I saw the victim’s partially disintegrated clothing pushing up through the dry earth. And their bones. And their teeth. And in the towering commemorative stupa, I gazed into the empty sockets of 8,000 skulls, and listened to the whispers of the dead. Many of those people, perhaps most of them, would still be alive today.

Last thing consumed: Papaya Shrimp Salad, Battered and Fried Calamari, Morning Glory, and Steamed Rice
Thought fragment: I’ve been reading a lot of science stuff recently to try to keep my brain in tune. Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is consistently fascinating.

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I am now past the halfway point in this seven month journey. The halfway point, an instant in time like any other. Yet it is a time that begs the past to be weighed against the future, and all the while I sit in the present holding the scales. I’ve seen giant waterfalls and caves and mountains and beaches. I’ve been part of the street-side mayhem in capital cities and I’ve enjoyed the serenity of nowhere. I can flag down a local bus, barter in local currency, and eat elbow to elbow and knee to knee with locals despite having only a smile in common. I can sleep peacefully with a giant spider in the room. I can bathe in the rain. I have excreted sweat in a greater volume in the last hundred days that I have in my entire life. I have suffered swollen feet and bug bites and conjunctivitis. I have eaten a great quantity of bugs. But I have looked into the eyes and minds and hearts of countless individuals, and I have seen truths that press laughter or pain or hope or fear directly into my soul. My five senses have achieved a greater depth and range of perception, or perhaps I have simply given them a world worth perceiving.

This nomadic lifestyle has become my normality. There is a balance that must be maintained. It is true that enough movement, enough change, and enough chaos can unravel a life’s path to the point where it can be sewn anew. And it must be. It is a great opportunity that one’s tattered remains can be stitched and tacked and mended with the new experiences to be stronger than ever before, steadfast and ready to weather the next storm. It is with shuddering steps that we tread into the changing light. But we adapt. We always do. With new smiles and new promises and new hope we can always take that next breath, we can always take that next step.

So, take a moment, and consider your next step. Because we’re all walking somewhere. It’s absolutely respectable if you don’t know where you’re going, but you sure as hell better be moving your feet. Even if you’re just dancing in place, those feet had better be moving.

Now, I could tell you about motorbiking down from the mountains of Sapa and into the humidity once again. I could enlighten you to the scams and touts that work the Bac Ha market. Or I could frighten you with tales of a landslide that backed up two-wheeled traffic on steep, cliff-side road slick with mud. I could write of the colorful discovery of a Flower Hmong village and the tranquility which was found there. I could summarize the journey by train halfway down the country to Hue. Or I could address my brief and perplexing friendship with a Vietnamese Kung Fu family man and our journey to the elephant springs, and further, our consumption of an entire mountain chicken, head included.

But I’m not. Because beyond the brief summary you get by me not telling you, I simply cannot capture the flavor of white rose dumplings in Hoi An; I cannot describe the glow of colored lights on the river, or the fluttering music of a singing blind woman; I cannot give you the rumble of dragging a motorbike to the top of a mountain, overlooking the sea, on a road the width of a sidewalk and cratered with potholes. Because I can’t give you the air to breathe, or the heat, or the people. There is a magic in the details that someday you will have to claim for yourself. I’ve tried before. And next time I write, I will try again. But this time, at this halfway point, I’m still weighing the past against the future. Because sometimes it seems everything worth measuring is defined by its opposite. And how well can a free man write of freedom if it’s all he knows?

Last thing consumed: Grilled Ostrich (among other things)
Thought fragment: I do like storms though…

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Not until Sapa has an offer of, “hey mate, ya wanna grab a beer,” escalated into such an eventful and multicultural experience. I had arrived in a daze at sunrise after taking a night train to Lao Cai (on the Chinese border) and then a minibus onward, so I passed out immediately upon finding a bed. After sleeping into the afternoon, I wandered to the open window to discover that Sapa truly was a City in the Clouds. Mist shrouded mountains descended into green waves of rice paddies, with spots of clouds floating both above and below. I wandered the town for a while to get my bearings and was followed all the while by a persistent entourage of ethnic minorities attempting to sell me handicrafts. When I returned to my hotel (which luckily offered an affordable dorm room) I met a dread-locked hippie who had been living in Sapa for two months. He was just heading out for a drink and invited me to join him. I soon found myself in the company of a handful of other foreigners who had found themselves “stuck” in the wondrous mountain frontier. Our numbers at the corner Bia Hoi were outmatched by Hmong women, all of whom seemed familiar with my dread-locked friend and the rest of the western crowd. It turned out to be the birthday of one of the Hmong women, and the celebration continued over dinner at a nearby restaurant which included countless shots of apple-flavored “happy water” (otherwise known as rice wine moonshine, served by the shot from a plastic water bottle). By the night’s end, I was half-carrying my new friend back to the hotel, guided by a small Hmong girl who happened to know the way.

It was through this meeting that I came to know many of the locals on day one, and I quickly found myself entrenched in Hmong culture. For a time I spent my days helping to fix up a local school (founded only six weeks ago) and my nights watching the clouds slide through the streets from various food and drink spots around the small city. It’s easy to see how someone could get very, very comfortable here. After a few days the Hmong women in the streets came to know my face, and more often waved in greeting instead of sales attempts. I had moved up in status from the typical weekend tourist. And by chatting with the girls on the street, I again met the one who had led my friend and me home on my first night. With surprisingly good English and a mischievous smile, she told me of a long path to her home village, “it special way, more beautiful, tourist do not know. Long way also, tour company no sell because tourist cannot walk so far.” So I hired her as a guide on the spot.

The following day I looked down upon the cascading rice paddies, splashing together and consuming one another, endless in their attempts to reach the sky. Mountain winds pressed against us, not threatening but a firm reminder that we were very far from home. My tiny mountain guide stood on thin legs and grinned at me.
“You think it beautiful like postcard?”
“Yes, Ha, I think it is more beautiful than a postcard.” Her grin spread into a wide smile,
“You are happy.” It wasn’t a question. Just a statement of fact. Having learned English by talking to tourists on the streets of Sapa, Ha had her own eclectic way of expressing things. She often led our conversations into the philosophical, talking of life and love. “Someone can be very big on the outside,” she told me, “but sometimes on the inside they are not so big.” Later she would calmly explain to me the threats of opium addiction, parents selling their children, and poor medical care. I met one of the “sold” children. “They will tell the baby when he is older so he can go find his brothers and sisters.” She taught me the ways of rice and water buffalo, and in the same breaths spoke of friends who had died. “No worry, we all die for sure. Maybe I see her in second life.” I watched her as she stared out at the infinite green that was her home, and I knew she was also staring down the countless adversities that stood before her. And as I watched her squint into the wind with eyes brimming equally with dreams and sorrow, I realized that in that moment my new friend was a stronger person than I could ever hope to be.

After three hours of walking, climbing, and fighting squelching mud paths, we stopped for lunch on some rocks next to a river. I pulled a small bundle of tightly wrapped plastic bags from my day-pack, food which Ha had purchased back in town, and watched as she systematically opened them and spread the contents across her lap and on a nearby rock. The three bags contained a healthy slab of roast chicken, steamed rice, and a delicate mix of salt, chillies, bamboo, and lime. The previously gentle rain began to pick up, so we traded off the job of holding the umbrella while we ate with our hands. Three village children sat nearby under their own umbrellas and watched us, seemingly fascinated. I’m not surprised, really; I had barely seen any other locals over the past hours, much less any foreigners, just as Ha had promised.

When we arrived at the target village, Lao Chai, the tiny homestay had no food to provide. Ha suggested walking on to another village, Ta Van, with a better homestay. An hour later, in perfect darkness, we reached our destination. In total we had traveled about fifteen kilometers and visited five villages. It turned out that the family that owned the place was just sitting down to dinner. And the meal turned out to be the biggest and best I have had since entering Vietnam: chicken with bell peppers, pork with carrots and onions, fried spring rolls, steamed rice, boiled cabbage, my personal favorite, cow stomach, a couple dipping sauces, and, of course, “happy water.” The following morning, after a short three hour hike to a waterfall, we reached a road where I was able to charter a motorbike to take Ha and myself back into Sapa.

I will remain here for a few more days (at risk of needing a visa extension later) if only to further absorb this wondrous place. I fear that when I inevitably return it may be changed, perhaps, beyond recognition. Shout outs go to Tetsugoro (from back in Hanoi). Glen, dread-locked master of Sapa, I am lucky to have met you. The ladies of Holland Yanniek and Diona. Martin 1, professional dumpster diver and married to a Hmong woman, thank you for dinner. Red-bearded Peter. Shu, founder of the local school which is still so new that there isn’t even info on her website yet. Claudio. Sebastian (damn you for buying Tequila shots). Tom, hope your foot heals. Cedric. Martin 2. The countless Hmong who have shared their lives and their smiles, but in particular to Ha, who has changed my life forever.

Last thing consumed: Chicken and rice
Thought fragment: I made the delightful mistake of buying a a few souvenirs. Now, with the requirement of shipping a box home via a two-month slow boat, I can’t stop buying all the amazing handmade stuff. For lack of a better term, I’ve been Hmonging out.

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I have great difficulty doing nothing for extended periods of time. That is, stretches of inactivity almost always leave me anxious and craving some sort of creative outlet or physical exertion. I attribute this to the passing of time, which I’ve always seen as incredibly valuable, something not to be “wasted.” The longer I idle, the need for movement increases exponentially. But I found a place where time stands still. I idled for a full week on Don Det, one of the 4,000 Islands in Southern Laos, and during that time I craved nothing. The following is a passage I wrote while still on the island, outside of time’s grasp; perhaps it will help to explain the phenomenon.

My time here is spent reading, or thinking, or eating, or speaking. We do not multitask. Every morning begins with the croaking guffaw of a rooster, the giggles of children, the thudding of boat engines crawling up and downstream, pushing canoes of people with destinations. We do not feel the pull of time. Our daily decision is what to eat. Everything else is determined by the weather. When the sun shines we dive into the Mekong. When it rains we huddle together under shelter and laugh at the wind. We play with animals. We look to the mountains of Cambodia. We watch a cloud rise over the horizon, and watch it until it moves overhead and out of sight. Our limbs go to sleep and wake up and we never know. We watch sandals float downstream. We wait for the rain. We wait for the sun. We listen. We walk through the mud, which ranges from soppy and wet to firm, cold clay beneath our feet. We sleep at night. We sleep in the afternoon. We sleep in beds, in hammocks, and on the floor. We sleep in the sun. We sleep on wooden planks stretched out over the Mekong. We eat with our hands and flick ants off our arms. The bottoms of our feet have become rough and gray. We eat and drink together. We watch whirlpools form in the Mekong, like aquatic dust-devils. We feel the winds of approaching rain. Sometimes the wind lies, and the sun returns, and so we laugh and dive into the Mekong. We fish and catch nothing, then retire to the floor cushions from the effort. 

We take guesses at when it will rain during the day. We drink at nights, and sometimes during the day, too. We watch naked and half-clothed children play on the dirt path. We watch naked and half-clothed children play in the Mekong. We play in the Mekong too. Every evening dragonflies claim the sky as their own, demonstrating aerial superiority in the hundreds. We look at the mountains of Cambodia in the distance. We look at the water buffaloes chewing grass in the path. We look at brown cows standing in rice paddies. But mostly we look at the river and the sky. The painted clouds are sometimes too bright to look at directly. Sunsets press the deepest reds and oranges into the backs of our eyes. When the clouds slide on, a vast starscape sprinkles the sky like spilled milk, a promise of lands even further away than this one.

After a full month in Laos, I began a sixty hour journey by bus from Si Phan Don (the islands) back to Vientiane and then onward to Hanoi. I assumed it would be awful. But, I have learned the joys of buying Valium over the counter in third world pharmacies, so I slept quite peacefully for a majority of the journey. I’ve now crossed into Vietnam, and I’ve already spent a day cycling around through Hanoi’s chaotic traffic. It’s great fun. I’ve now spent a night on a boat on Ha Long Bay, sung Karaoke in Vietnamese fashion, and leaped from the top deck into the emerald waters at dusk. I’ve also spent a night on Cat Ba Island and hiked to Ngu Lam Peak in Cat Ba’s Biosphere Reserve, which boasts a rusty five-story tower from which one can witness a panorama of green. The island itself was overly touristy, so I spent the evening on the roof of the hotel with some new friends. We watched the the tiny motorbikes fourteen stories below and looked out at the hundreds of glowing boats anchored in the bay. The roof was a hierarchical array of cement, with small staircases leading to smaller cement platforms climbing just a bit further than the one before it. On the highest of these ever-climbing platforms stood, for some unknown reason, a heavy marble altar. To raise oneself atop this pedestal is a frightening and exhilarating experience. When you look to the horizon, in any direction, you cannot see the roof; you cannot see that on which you stand. In your heightened state of awareness, you sense only the warm, salty gusts of wind from the bay and the faint horns of traffic far below. It is very simple, you are standing in the sky, and the sky is all there is.

I apologize for the massive delay on this posting. I’ve had almost zero internet connection for the past couple weeks. Jungles and oceans don’t often support wifi, unfortunately. But, I assure you, Wanderlust has not been forgotten. I will now attempt to remember all the amazing people I’ve encountered over the past two weeks. Shout outs start with Adam, the Canadian I met in a hotel’s gym in Pakse (though neither of us was actually staying at that hotel). Thank you for breaking the six-day streak of no-English-speaking from which I was suffering. Motorbiking around the Bolevan Plateau was wicked. Nazim, owner of the Indian restaurant in Pakse where I ate four meals. Ollie the red-head pot-head. Howard and the other Adam (and Figaro!). Sara of the Netherlands. The other Matt and Devina, hope your wedding goes off without a hitch. Claire, the wittiest Australian I’ve ever met. All the French with unpronounceable names. Seesi and his family at Peace and Love bungalows on Don Det, thank you for the hospitality and the many meals we shared. Oliver, the Israeli in the bus station in Pakse, glad we had a couple of hours to wander the market and grab some food. Sara and Jorgie of the Drift. Matt and Colin from Top Pub in Hanoi, perhaps we’ll meet again in Seoul someday. The Ha Long Bay crew: Sara, Kathryn, Paul, Rachel, Constance, Alistair, and Luis (I’ll be elated if you manage to upload your photos to Facebook). Sander of Cat Ba Island, best of luck being a father! Most recently, Ellina, the brothers Mathias and Mike, “A”, and Yusif of Hanoi. Bia Hoi and street food again tonight?

Last thing consumed: A smorgasbord of random things, from squid to fried chicken to baked fish.
Thought fragment: A cold glass of beer can be purchased on street corners for 4,000 dong. That is twenty cents U.S. Go ahead and read that twice.

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Last thing consumed: Rice and Vegetables (oh joy….bring on the chili sauce)
Thought fragment: I got my hair chopped off today today, thought it was cheap at $3.75 – turned out to be a full service salon, with multiple shampooings, conditionings, and scalp massages. Nice. Also was able to use the local Champasak Palace Hotel’s gym for free. Double bonus. Lastly, I wonder if I should have posted a photo of the rats…I think some of the more sensitive readers might have ruined their keyboards.

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Vang Vieng is, without a doubt, one of the strangest, most mystical cities I have ever visited. Equal parts decadence and depravity, Vang Vieng is a city that exists outside of the real world. It is Never Never Land. It is Paradise Found. It is Sodom and Gomorrah. I spent a week there. This is not a tale of cultural encounters, nor of Asian delicacies, nor of philanthropy. This is a tale of the raging Nam Song river, the makeshift bars that line it, and the drunken tourists who ride the current on inflatable tubes. Everything in Vang Vieng is backwards. The town, funded almost entirely by a tourism influx that began in the 1980′s, is mafia run. The tourists come for tubing. The mafia controls the tubes. This is a town where one can walk into a bar and buy narcotics off a menu. Yes, most bars (both on and off the river) offer a “special menu” (an actual laminated menu) off which one can choose to order his marijuana in a brownie, or her magic mushrooms in a milkshake. Did I mention Laos is one of the world’s biggest opium producers?

Alright, are you keeping up? The ability to buy opium on a pizza in a restaurant is arguably a story in itself. But how about the apparent illegality in buying an inflatable inner-tube? Giant tubes are available to rent for the day from the tube mafia, disguised as a local company, at a massive premium (plus a deposit). Any individual caught selling alternate tubes or any tuk-tuk driver caught transporting a backpacker with an alternate tube will get fined by the tube mafia (or, judging from the way the townspeople whispered secretly, dropped into the Nam Song). After one day of renting a tube (and failed, deposit-losing attempts to re-use it), I realized how unbalanced the business model was and sought out a more cost effective tube. One that, once purchased, could be used everyday for free. My Canadian companions and I successfully purchased tubes from a mini-mart owner. The transaction, however, took place in the dusty, unlit back room of his shop. I was instructed in rough, whispering English to keep the tube deflated and hidden on my person when attempting to flag a tuk-tuk down for transport to the “start point.”

Let’s compare. To buy a bright yellow inflatable inner-tube emblazoned with a laughing sheep, I have to meet secretly an an undisclosed location. If I want to buy a bag of opium, though, I can just walk into the nearest bar. Such is Vang Vieng.

Now, once you’ve got your tube and you find yourself at the drop-zone 4km upstream, do you jump in your tube and sail away? Of course not, there are three bars at the start point, all offering free shots! These aren’t  just any shots of course, remember this is Laos! These are shots of colored Lao whiskey poured from bottles with creatures inside. Have some snake whiskey. Or scorpion. Or cockroach. Or bees! The bees whiskey was actually the best. Now that you are getting a nice buzz, the safest decision would naturally be to climb a rickety wooden ladder, partially supported by a tree, up onto an even ricketier wooden platform. From here, you can grip onto the biggest swing you’ve ever seen and plummet toward the roaring crowd before launching into space and landing in the Nam Song. Keep your wits about you though, because a bar worker will throw you a small black tube attached to a rope to reel you in. If you miss it (or if he misses you) you could could be swept downstream (where another dozen or so riverside bars await).

Perhaps you’re getting the idea. Tubers flow from bar to bar, where workers fish them out of the river with various roped projectiles. At the bar, tubers are given free shots and often the option of some other unique activity. Notable entertainment includes mud-pit tug-of-war, giant water-slides, zip-lines, more swings, and mud volleyball. According to Lonely Planet, one person dies per year from these treacherous activities. After having witnessed the carnage myself, I would add the word only to that sentence.

Vang Vieng has constructed itself around its substance availability. TV bars line the streets showing non-stop reruns of Friends and Family Guy. Laotian women line the streets selling crepes, pancakes, and some of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had. I think it would be wise for me to decline this opportunity to comment on the available narcotics. But I will say this, just because the happy pizzas are a great value doesn’t mean you should eat a whole one.

Shout outs go to, yet again, my three Canadian partners in crime, Cass, Jo, and Kell (you all get abbreviated now). My fellow Americans Eileen and Erica, glad you stayed a night at Champa Lao, hope the rains clears and you get some good tubing weather. Greg, all I can say is we escaped Vang Vieng together, hopefully there are some adventures to be had in the capital!

Last thing consumed: Seafood Pad Thai (in a thunderstorm)
Thought fragment: I’m seriously loving the French influence in Laos. I can get baguettes everywhere and there are bakeries too (and their sweet sweetness often costs but a buck)!

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