Stunned

Shwedagon Paya, in Yangon. Enough said.

Kalaw

One downside of rushing straight from my short travels in Myanmar/Burma to my new life in Cambodia was the absence of time to reflect on my experiences in what has, in retrospect, become one of the most stunning, if not fascinating, countries I have ever visited. I acknowledge the debate between going and not going, between supporting an oppressive military junta through tourist dollars and not, and the reality that a dichotomy between the two choices does not exist. I will not use this space to rehash the debate -- it is a personal decision, hopefully one made after some thought, and my decision was to go, and to go responsibly.

Beyond the oft-debated politics of travel in that country, there are the oft-forgotten people, those eking an existence out of a dwindling tourist industry, those who still have to live in the country. As a whole, the Burmese were the warmest and most hospitable people I met on my travels. During my time there, I was invited to dine with families, offered gifts (such as the orange flowers, given to me by two children during a walk in the red-soiled mountainside town of Kalaw), and thanked by fiercely proud locals for visiting their country. There was an openness and a sincerity I encountered that thawed my jaded traveller heart -- I believe I'm fairly open-- and that this existed, in light of the current political climate, was humbling.

Fragments

The weeks are flying by. Between the constant motorbike zigzagging, the growing pile of work on my desk, the many meetings catered with Khmer pastries, and the varied social gatherings, I barely have a chance to catch my breath, to drink it all in, in measure, quietly and slowly.

The rain has arrived. This week, it pounded the streets of the city, relentlessly, accompanied by gusty winds that toppled outdoor furniture, the sound of rumbling thunder, and brilliant flashes of light. Once, I watched for the storm on my terrace, but all I could see was indistinguishable grey above the tiled rooftops.

This is kind of a more disjointed post than my usual -- I'm just checking in. I'm on a mission this weekend: a $5 massage and sauna, a pedicure, a few dresses made (more on that later), a movie, and the usual exploration. I am determined to find sun-dried tomatoes in Phnom Penh.

But before I go, and to add to the disjointedness even more, a few random pictures of life in Myanmar.

Yangon

My, oh my, Myanmar, your faces haunt me. Only half a day in this country and already I am enchanted by the saffron-robed monks with umbrellas armed to guard against the heat, with the men walking in traditional longyi, a unisex sarong, and with the radiant women and children adorned with thanakha, a yellow sandlewood paste worn as make-up/conditioner/sunscreen.

In transit

Where do I start? I find myself grasping for words that won't come, still digesting it all and, believe me, there's a whole lot to digest out here.

How do I begin to describe a journey that began with my poor, poor panicked dad locking himself out of the car that held our baggage, then involved a mad dash to the airport with a very frantic Jack, a never-ending corridor of shuffling lines, and a series of plane trips and layovers? I suppose you could call that a long day.

Stepping off the plane in Phnom Penh, we were instantly thrown into the throng: tuk-tuk drivers on the street touted their business with rapid-fire calls of "Madame, madame, tuk-tuk!", a wall of hot humid air greeted us, as did honking horns and sounds, sights and smells indecipherable and unfamiliar (for now). This is the Cambodia I remembered, in all of its overwhelming, raw, chaotic beauty.

Although I have been here for a few days, I feel unsettled, still in transit. I am looking at an apartment today, picking up my Myanmar visa at the embassy (after having answered many, many questions about my profession and my former employer), and leaving for Yangon in a few days.

I am exploring the city slowly, easing into life here, observing and conversing. It is scorching hot, 100 degrees and humid, and, as a result, I am addicted to fresh mango shakes and afternoon naps. Rainy season has just begun.

P.S. Thank you for all the sweet comments!

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.