The Issue of Transport

One thing niggling away at me has been the prospect of transportation in Phnom Penh. There is no public bus system in the city, no subway, no trains. The presence of cars is scarce, limited to wealthy expats, diplomats and government officials -- not that I would even contemplate purchasing or renting a car for my stay.

Of course, I can choose to walk, or to ride a bike, thus testing my sluggish reflexes against the congested arterials of this decaying French colonial city.

And then, there's the motorbike, the ubiquitous mode of transport in SE Asia. You can purchase a used motorbike in Cambodia for less than $200 USD. With one motorbike adventure under my belt, why do I suspect that having my own may be more dangerous? Oh, that's right -- because, even on foot, I am tragically clumsy and uncoordinated.

And, if nothing else, when I tire of pounding my feet on the scorching pavement, I can hire a tuk-tuk, which is a rickshaw attached to a motorbike, a lovely way to zip across the city.

I am undecided. This will be sorted out, I'm certain, next week.

Breakfast Tales

I've been told that some people make an elaborate ritual out of breakfast: coffee, fresh-squeezed juice, fruit cut up neatly and tossed over granola-covered yogurt, made-from-scratch ricotta pancakes, a quiche. (I'm talking to you, Mami.) I've never been such a person -- not that I wouldn't mind partaking in this ritual, perhaps even enjoying it. For years, however, breakfast was spent in my office, in front of my laptop, cup of coffee in one hand and densely-written text in the other. It was always a hurried affair, not necessarily bad, just necessary.

I think it may be time to explore this breakfast ritual. This morning, I woke up craving languorous mornings started over golden banana pancakes with a drizzling of condensed milk and a cup of masala chai tea. Simple and delicious, no? I'll soon find out, as I am going to try my hand at a banana pancake breakfast, tomorrow.

Today, I'm off to Silverlake for brunch. Most of my weekend was spent holed up, so I am determined to make the most of what is left.

Ikat

That day, on a lark, I decided to visit a nearby village known for its woven wares, a community where this legacy was passed from one generation to the next. After the short boat ride, I was on the small island. I remember the feel of the scorching sun on my forehead. I had forgotten to bring a hat, again, and I wondered how long my heavy-duty sunscreen would hold up.

I immediately found myself wandering past homes and backyards, among open grassy fields upon which stilted wood-framed houses perched and livestock grazed freely.

After some time spent tracing the circumference of the island along its only dirt road, I wandered past her backyard. Seeing me, she slowly pried open the wooden gate that demarcated her property, inviting me in for a cup of water. I accepted. With hands trembling, she showed me her loom, her work, the silk cloths she created in striking hues and prints. The cloths were mottled a bit, the threads hanging loose on some parts and forcibly jutting out on others, but, as a result of these imperfections, they appeared even more beautiful to me, more arresting.

I decided on an ikat print for 60,000 kip. I still have the cloth and have been toying with the idea of making it into something wearable, like a skirt. When I was last in Portland, I talked to seamstress-extraorindaire Lindsay about possibilities. I remain unsure. It seems a shame to cut it up.

Statues, Smiles

(In order: Soja, Japan; Siem Riep, Cambodia; Champasak, Laos, last two photos.)

Dressed up Buddha statues, as you often find in temples, wats, and monasteries throughout Asia, make me smile.

Note to Self: Hitchhiking

It was somewhat reckless. I won't do it again, even though the Thai and Laotian matrons, with brows furrowed in concern for the young (ha) woman travelling alone, told me it was safe, customary even, to hitchhike in Laos, AND I was stranded in a remote village because, in that part of Laos, buses only run in the morning. No, I won't do it again despite the fact that the 80+km ride on the back of the motorbike, against the glowing crimson sunset, slowly encroaching, and with the wind whipping through my hair, was incredible. Incredible.

(Sorry, mum, if you're reading this.)

Shadows. Silhouettes.

(In order: Luang Prabang, Laos; Kyoto, Japan; Gobi Desert, Mongolia; Olkhon Island, Russia; Gobi Desert (again), Mongolia.)

Slow Like Molasses

At six o'clock in the morn, and after a sinuous overnight bus ride from Bangkok (set to the tune of Thai karaoke music), I arrived in the hinterland of Chiang Kong, Thailand, crossed the Thailand-Laos border via a short boat ride, and boarded the famed "slow boat" to Luang Prabang, Laos. The slow boat was just that--two days of slow on the mighty Mekong River, a lesson in the beauty of cramped spaces, leaden movement and patience.

Laos is the sort of country that embraces you in its sleepy haze and then makes you walk precariously placed gangplanks, in complete darkness, to get ashore. Really. Somehow, somewhen, somewhy, you surrender and learn to enjoy the process.

Saffron-Robed Monks

How many pictures of monks does one really need? The answer I came up with as I was organizing a few photos: many, apparently. Saffron-robed monks, everywhere.

Southeast Asia Memories