Let's go camping.

via

The last few days, I have had the strongest urge to go camping, to drive out of this city and to wake up to open spaces, green trees, crisp air, quiet.  The funny thing is I'm not much of a camper (Ethan is), and the last time and place I camped was in a dinosaur park in Mongolia, surreptitiously, under the autumn sky, several years and a lifetime ago.

District Flea

images via

Apparently, the creators of Brooklyn Flea have started a similar operation in the District - at least for a six-week trial run.  While no Chatuchak Market in Bangkok or Black Market in Ulaanbaatar, this flea market should be a fun Saturday outing.  And what is this I hear about a kimchi grilled cheese sandwich?  An investigation is warranted.

Daydreaming

All pictures stolen from a friend

I'm sure my friends and colleagues laugh at my strange, inexplicable fondness of Mongolia.  It's good, then, that, having traveled there separately, Ethan shares the same sentiments as me.  We have a running joke about living in Ulaanbaatar for a year.  He would teach; I would research.  If we crave more, we could dip into Beijing via a 36 hour train ride, or in the opposite direction on the train, go to Olkhon Island in Russia, also the stuff of dreams.  It's unlikely for a host of reasons, but mainly because after Cambodia, I need more creature comforts--not less. 

These pictures were taken by a friend during my first few days in the country.  That place really was magic.  And years later, its expansive landscapes and misty mornings still haunt me.

Let's talk about yurts.

It's another Friday morning in Phnom Penh.  I had a lovely morning. Heather and I made it to another 6:30am yoga session (I'm so proud of myself), where friend and amazing-woman Lee was also in attendance.  After the yoga session, Lee and I shared coffee and muffins at Brown Cafe.  We chatted for several hours and were later joined by her colleague, who shares my love of brogues, vintage eyeglasses,  brightly patterned scarves, and weathered cognac -hued briefcases. (Those interests, especially among colleagues, are so rare in Cambodia, and such a treat!)

It's also the beginning of the Pchum Ben holiday, a (for me) nine-day holiday that empties the streets of Phnom Penh and creates longer than usual travel routes to the rest of the country.  This is a time for Cambodians to visit their families in the provinces and to offer prayers at the local pagodas.  Last year, Connie and Spence visited me to find a near empty city, with very few restaurants open.  That feels so long ago.  

This year, Ethan and I are taking a short trip to Bangkok, Thailand.   We leave tonight.  I'm going to search for beauty products at the shiny malls and hunt for items at Topshop.  But mostly, we're going to eat, and wander.  I'm not taking the entire holiday, however, as I need to write.  (Stress levels just shot up.)

Oh, but this post was intended to be about yurts - or gers, as Mongolians say.

In August, after Kashgar, we traveled south to Karakul in western China, to a Kyrgystan lakeside village that sits about eight hours from the Pakistan border.  As we drove along, the scenery climbed up and up, dotted only with  road construction and military checkpoints, where we were questioned about our nationality and our intent to travel through the region.  Prior to the Kashgar incident, one could travel independently to Karakul via a cheap bus ride and then find a family to stay with.  That was not the case at the time of our travels.  We were required to hire a driver and to purchase a permit, which we flagged about at each and every checkpoint.

Once at the lake, I realized that the elevation was much higher than I had expected - I had slight altitude sickness.  It was also much cooler - I slept under 6 thick blankets, though I was severely underdressed (skinny jeans, button down shirt, 3.1 Lim bag, scarf). The yurt smelled of camel or sheep, or some smell that brought me back to my travels in Mongolia.

And, the morning after: bright and crisp, with an errant goat making trouble.  I snuck out of the yurt and drank all the images in.  

On the move.

via Fabien09 flickr

Within the last 2 days before my departure, my computer crashed, aking with it all my files , including a massive document I was attempting to complete. Also my camera is on the fritz. Oh luck.

In any case, I'm making my way to Almaty, Kazakhstan to meet Ethan. While I am super excited to see Kazakhstan, I am equally excited to see Xinjiang province, China, especially Kashgar, which I've been told has a massive, colorful bazaar. I'm hoping to find some nice textiles there.

This three/four week vacation is needed. Cambodia is too intense right now. I need a bit of breathing and thinking room. I feel as if I'm becoming pessimistic.

Last week, a friend, who I met in Mongolia two years ago, wrote to me. He gave me an update on his life, what has transpired in the past two years since our intense chat. He asked what came of my decision to try human rights lawyering in Asia.

Wow. I can't believe how much my life has changed in that period of time.

Note to Self: Packing for Siberia

Cashmere leggings and yoga pants, even when paired together, don't insulate the bitter bite of Siberian winter, its chilly embrace bleeding through every bare thread, into every pore. Ah, it was an interesting attempt.

Mongolia, your images still haunt me!

A new month

Hello, October.

On this day last year, I sat in my Portland apartment, frantically packing my bags for a last-minute trip to Beijing, scheduled to leave early the next morning. I had found very cheap airline tickets, and, needing no excuse for travel then, I was determined in Beijing to catch the Trans-Siberian Railway into Mongolia and Russia, eventually to St. Petersburg. In between jobs, I told myself I would take a few weeks tops, and then go back to my life in Portland. Quite straightforward.

But it didn't work out that way. I eventually made it to St. Petersburg and back to Portland, but not to stay and not to go back to my life there. Because on that epic train journey, many things changed. Out of that trip grew my decision to finally leave Portland (for a while). And, out of that trip grew the most peculiar decision to explore international human rights law positions abroad.

A year later, I find myself in Battambang, a sleepy town in northern Cambodia with an even sleepier river, flanked by decaying French architecture and wide palm-lined streets on which youth bike. This afternoon, I found myself wading through neon-green rice paddies, sludging through mud and trying to keep my balance, barefoot, under the weight of my bag, as I walked to the lake where, earlier this year, two children drowned while they attempted to collect clean drinking water for their evicted family (who should have been provided running water at the resettlement site!). This weekend, I will meet with families evicted, or soon to be evicted, by the Asian Development Bank-funded Railway Rehabilitation Program, a project aimed at rehabilitating Cambodia's 650+ km of derelict railways.

I've said this before, but I never saw this twist in the road. Even so, here I am.

So, what will October bring? Life these days, though stressful, seems full of so many possibilities. It is all very strange.

Nothing

via David Horvitz

I did nothing yesterday, nothing but eat a falafel shawarma and read a book about the antiquated ways of former Soviet republics in the sun, and make (order) a dress made from the three meters of chambray material my Canadian flatmate left me, and thrift at Japanese Thrift, a charity that imports granny clothes exclusively from Japan, and nosh on the egg-tomato-baguette sandwich my new flatmate, an American high school teacher, made for me. My inner grandma is happy.

A few days ago, I received an email from my friend, Damian, who I met in Mongolia. In catching up, he closed by writing, "Make sure you scare yourself somehow in someway everyday!" I like that. It brought a smile to my tired face, in a way similar to these 2009 Notes, by David Horvitz, which entertained and inspired me.

But, just for the next few weeks, I'm going to be cautious about venturing off into new streets, especially dark ones: My friend Thida was mugged this weekend! Two friends in two weeks. What?!

Note to Self: Camping in Dinosaur Parks

Don't do it unless absolutely necessary. It was probably illegal. Apart from that, singing our various national anthems over a cow-poo campfire was rad, even when I almost fell into the campfire from too much giddiness/exhaustion/Genghis Khan Vodka. And the view of the endless sky, littered with more stars than I have ever seen, was glorious.

Note to Self: Bathing in Siberian Lakes

High on my short list of places to revisit is Olkhon Island, Russia. Olkhon Island sits on Lake Baikal, the deepest fresh water lake in the world and also one of the oldest--at least 25 million years old. From Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, it is over a day's journey via train and then another six hours via bus to the island. To the Buryat people and to shamans, the island is one of the most sacred places on earth, a place of pilgrimage, the source of folklore and legend. According to one legend, a dip in Lake Baikal will add 25 years to your life.

Summers on the island, I've been told, are crowded and busy. When I visited, however, it was the cusp of Siberian winter, so my memories are of a place that appeared untouched, pristine and quiet, the stillness blighted only by the shrieking wind.

We set out in the morning to explore the island by foot, agreeing to return to our guesthouse by dark. I will tell you that exploring that island made me feel like a child, gripped by simple awe, open-eyed and open-mouthed, with constant murmurs of, "Krasiva, krasiva" (beautiful, beautiful).

My two days there were not enough. And, yes, in warmer weather, I will take another dip in the lake. Someday.

The Unbearable Lightness

via the ever-inspiring BodyVox

My last apartment in Portland was directly across the old BodyVox dance studio, occupied by the troupe before they moved to their more spacious location a few streets up. On certain evenings, you could sit with your meal and look out the window, at the old brick brewery building across, and watch the movement, the decisive fluid expressions, of the dancers as they rehearsed. It was entrancing and on balmy summer nights, a simple pleasure to behold.

I am fascinated by the idea of dance, moved by its stewards. My fascination, with literal and metaphorical dance, comes from my utter lack of coordination. Wish as I may, I've never ever been a graceful creature. In fact, I've often joked that the most ill-suited job for me would be a ballerina! Yet, once, a time not long ago, under the moonlight and within the consuming silence of the Mongolian desert, I danced, with a stranger who told me, among other wise things, that I should dance with myself. Now, if that isn't a wonderful exclamation point to my growing fascination, I don't know what is.

Gunver from the Ger

As luck would have it, my friend, Gunver, and I will be in Myanmar at the same time, so I may have a travel friend for a part of that journey!

Two things about the lovely Gunver: First, we met in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, on a day when the sun deceptively hid winter's sharp bite, two women travelling alone -- one headed east into Tibet, the other, west into Russia. Shortly after meeting, we devised a plan to hire a guide and rent a Russian jeep to explore the Gobi Desert. But before that, we agreed, additional travel friends were needed to defray costs.

After posting signs at expat cafes boasting of good coffee (i.e., tourist coffee, non-NesCafe coffee), we found others to join: Damian, a chap from Manchester, who biked from his home to Moscow, over the course of 79 days, to catch the Trans-Siberian Railway and who, given the opportunity, can move you with his stories of espresso-croissant mornings spent biking through the French countryside; and Anette and Gerald, a couple from Amsterdam, who saved, saved, saved, then quit their jobs and rented out their home for a year while they wandered the world. We found a guide and a driver, too. Off we went. (More on that someday.)

Second, though very sweet, Gunver is intimidating, with a logical Dane sensibility, unapologetically grounded in ration, strong, prepared. She is also an adept traveller, physically able-bodied. She runs marathons, plays football (i.e., soccer), has trekked through Nepal and navigated the Uyuni Desert, alone. In contrast, I prefer sipping on cappuccinos, making my way through the jungle of racks at Barneys or at Rosebowl Flea Market, and engaging in activities best enjoyed in pretty dresses (preferably Mayle). Needless to say, as I was savoring unintended falls into Siberian lakes and streams, she was racing the descending sun, up the sand dunes -- believe me, no easy feat under the ever-shifting ground.

I just am not, nor have I ever been, an über-adventurous, outdoorsy type of gal.

As a travel friend, then, she is a strong counterpoint to my haphazard travel ways, of which I've grown rather fond and reliant. And, she inspires me to leave behind some of the fear--manufactured or homegrown, supported or not, of the unknown or known--that often hinders.

Shadows. Silhouettes.

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

A Study in Spaces

When I embarked on the Trans-Siberian Railway last fall, I never imagined that I'd decide, on that journey among, and perhaps as a result of interactions with, like-minded travellers to move to Cambodia to work. It wasn't even a seedling of a thought. Now, I see that once that idea took shape, formed roots, it grew at a breakneck speed.

There is something to be said about the distances traversed on that trip, both the external and the internal, distances beyond the measure of railroad tracks transporting me from Beijing to St. Petersburg, distances set against a backdrop of tremendous vastness, empirically measurable --an expanse of 9,000+ km, eight time zones, two continents -- yet incomprehensible to the human mind.

And, the people. In my train compartment, self-imposed platskartny, there were no walls of solitude behind which to hide from the piercing eyes directed at the foreign woman travelling alone. Questions were presented--the same ones, usually: Where are you from? Why are you here? Are you married? Are you scared? Are you religious? (Once: Has someone hurt you yet?)

Our butchered translations danced, a jovial jig. Eventually, the initial awkwardness, the strangeness melted. Or, maybe it was the realization, quickly ascending, that we would sit like this, face-to-face with gazes held, for two, almost three, days. Then, warmth: profuse offerings of vodka, sausage, bread, tea; gift-giving, trinkets, pine cones; small acts of human kindness; laughter.

All the while, outside, the landscape unfolded in a blanket of sand, snow and ice.

Cambodia Packing, pt. 1

This afternoon, I had coffee with the fab Miss Becki, a voice of reason for a very important part of my move: my wardrobe. Strangely, I have no apprehensions about the health and evacuation insurance needed for this move. Nor does the idea of trekking across Myanmar or any equivalent remote area give me more than a quick pause. Believe it or not, what triggers pangs of panic in the middle of the night is my ability, if any, to condense years of my life into two suitcases.

I travel light, squeezing everything into my bright Le Sportsac bag, which is tiny relative to other backpacks. I (happily) make do with much less. In the Gobi Desert of Mongolia, for example, we slept without electricity, relying on cow poo fires (really) to warm us in the gers and the rising sun to serve as our alarm clock. What water was available was saved for the livestock -- that is to say, there was no running water, no showers, no bathtubs. And, in spite of these inconveniences, the 8+ days I spent in that desert gave me some of the best memories of my life so far.

But I am moving to LIVE and to WORK in Cambodia, in the field of human rights law. If you have been to Phnom Penh, you know that, even though it is the capital, it is a poor city. The undeniable charm of the decaying French colonial infrastructure ultimately gives way to a backdrop of constant hub-bub, of crime, garbage and the other realities of living in a developing country.

So, what goes, and what stays? What about my trekking trips to places like Myanmar, Tibet? What about my weekend trips to places with more Western comforts, like Hong Kong and Singapore? And more importantly, what of my pretty dresses?

I have a headache.

via Bird

I stumbled upon this skirt by United Bamboo, and I love its art deco, lurex style. Suitable for a lawyer in the US? Sure, in some offices. I would have made it work. Suitable for my life in Phnom Penh? Eh. Undecided.

Home? Phnom Penh, Cambodia