tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2361941774281024472024-03-19T04:24:52.811-07:00E.A.T.Edible Adventure Travel -
Making my way around the world, eating, drinking and getting lost, one right mistake at a time...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.comBlogger32125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-5862576092093638032015-07-02T10:12:00.000-07:002015-07-02T10:12:08.139-07:00Hai Van Pass - Hue to Hoi An<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxcrrbfZfZvqnPr4IfAPUnoB1LPXELPMZTTvoyA7GdpGZz0P9ywOdpGcOu790TI2mxeSUHOH7AyZ0VOY2el1OddwP5HS8csWp2EuSBJty-yFmo3QofyBZEQSENbGqeQmxqthY5zPtw8k/s1600/DSC02075+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxcrrbfZfZvqnPr4IfAPUnoB1LPXELPMZTTvoyA7GdpGZz0P9ywOdpGcOu790TI2mxeSUHOH7AyZ0VOY2el1OddwP5HS8csWp2EuSBJty-yFmo3QofyBZEQSENbGqeQmxqthY5zPtw8k/s400/DSC02075+%25282%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entrance to the Old City</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A city
bleeding its history of grief and turmoil, one really can feel the pain
emanating from the walls of the Imperial city of Hue. I’ve read accounts of
people saying they felt or had haunted dreams. As Anthony Bourdain said, “Hue
is, in many ways, a city of ghosts, of memories and spirits.” Not that I’m a
superstitious one myself, the past really can be felt here. My first time
through Hue was brief. So brief, once I returned I decided I had never actually
been here before. This time I slowed my pace dramatically. Casually walking
around the Imperial City, the Dong Ba market, actually entering the Citadel,
rode scooters to the surrounding tombs. A visit to the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone)
is only a couple hours away with tunnels to explore. An experience I regret not
making the time for. Many I have talked to, myself included at first don’t feel
Hue has much to offer. They pass through in a day, maybe two. There’s so much
to see here behind the quiet shroud of a resilient past.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bun Bo Hue</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
everywhere in Vietnam, there is the provinces specialties that can never be
missed, and this time I didn’t want to pass them by. Only a small breakfast at
the Dong Ba market of Banh Canh Cua, a tapioca noodle soup with crab and quail
eggs, followed by a 3 hour exploration of the citadel slowly pacing along I was
ready for another feed. Into the old city, out for a wander until I found
something street side, and I was not disappointed. Something good usually comes
out of wandering with only an idea of a destination. Banh Trang Nuong is what I
found. The best way to describe it would be a Vietnamese pizza. A rice paper
with pate, chili paste, herbs, fried shallots and egg poured over top as the
food glue. It was then grilled over charcoal and cut into wedges, a perfect
light snack. Later in the week I took a cooking class of Hue’s more known
dishes. Banh Beo, a rice flour steam cake. Banh Khoai, a crispy Hue style
pancake, thicker than the Banh Xeo of Hoi An.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZ2sR4r-I2PLElTrXt5VY7IHEifURCZc4UsKP9FHfJNCWaaIyfhuVDc0v_8GQH8q8fT54d4ZOBH9aHAlLhaKqCm9WB606M5dL37imrIKAHVoXh5k6kRcka7_t2M3wwGXupIoZQrUlqQk/s1600/IMG_20150117_190606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZ2sR4r-I2PLElTrXt5VY7IHEifURCZc4UsKP9FHfJNCWaaIyfhuVDc0v_8GQH8q8fT54d4ZOBH9aHAlLhaKqCm9WB606M5dL37imrIKAHVoXh5k6kRcka7_t2M3wwGXupIoZQrUlqQk/s320/IMG_20150117_190606.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On my
final morning before hitting the road I went in search of my last Bun Bo Hue. In
five days I’ve had four bowls of this and been slightly disappointed, but this
bowl changed everything. As I approached, she was hunched over her cauldron
dishing out the one thing she serves. I sit down, get the initial stares
followed by smiles and order a bowl. Sliced beef, light dumpling like beef
balls, and what every other bowl has been missing. A large cube of blood curd.
I kept wondering if they were holding out on the foreigner, assuming I wouldn’t
appreciate it. I just wanted some blood. All this though over a pile of ‘bun’
noodles with a plate of shredded banana flower, beansprouts and herbs on the
side. Satisfied, both with my Bun Bo Hue and giving this dreary city the time
it deserved, I was southbound towards the Hai Van Pass with Hue at my back. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikbROjW3V7FB8PTgZSBMd2hIfCgtifHazhVze6MsMzPCzQWdY0VuI5w45q5Zk7f43zHnlw9FqId4bY33JnoOs5X6963aiDkR6ZVeelVRzOmtD7maWSvOXGuS6QT4pqbqI4DOnhncKCzxQ/s1600/IMG_20150118_163120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikbROjW3V7FB8PTgZSBMd2hIfCgtifHazhVze6MsMzPCzQWdY0VuI5w45q5Zk7f43zHnlw9FqId4bY33JnoOs5X6963aiDkR6ZVeelVRzOmtD7maWSvOXGuS6QT4pqbqI4DOnhncKCzxQ/s320/IMG_20150118_163120.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was
the first time I set out alone on a motorbike. The feeling of
freedom rushes in, the same feeling I had leaving Pakse onto the Bolaven
Plateau. Once the construction thinned and miles away from the city limits, my
attention couldn’t help but be drawn from the road. Growing hills on my right,
a fishing village on my left. I mainly had to watch out for buses, they don’t
stop for anything or one, and fair enough, they’re bigger. I began to rise in
the mountains, the views becoming nothing short of amazing, simply
unforgettable. Winding around the sides of mountains, climbing in the alpine
trees with the Pacific Ocean opening up on my left. A sight that was burned
into my mind on my previous trip, even when I couldn’t properly appreciate it
behind the window of a bus. I pulled over a handful of times to snack on
tamarind and gape out at the vista before me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-XfuFxMtSunM-I00eIhEcbw2QgX0gC_1uxWi2owpo2d6j7DPdpdYT3-5_bVrC7efbmp3gSjfrNwbwIKpzopMbsTFHBdQuzovtuGwsInOJjz9pcjIo-UchjF6-HMOEmkQThN_6v5UGM3w/s1600/IMG_20150119_082831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-XfuFxMtSunM-I00eIhEcbw2QgX0gC_1uxWi2owpo2d6j7DPdpdYT3-5_bVrC7efbmp3gSjfrNwbwIKpzopMbsTFHBdQuzovtuGwsInOJjz9pcjIo-UchjF6-HMOEmkQThN_6v5UGM3w/s320/IMG_20150119_082831.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The pinnacle neared, the once was
American bunker at the top of the Hai Van Pass lay in ruins overlooking the
land. Stopping off for some rocket fuel, Vietnamese coffee, of course I had to
climb among the old walls like a child. From this point on it was downhill into
Danang, the only section of city I had to navigate through. Weaving down, I was
sent on a bit of a joy ride by some construction in the city, inevitably
getting lost. Usually detours take you back to the original road, but not the
case here. I found myself in the middle of traffic which is less intimidating
than it looks. Just flow with the mob of bikes like water down a stream. Long
after accepting I was lost, just enjoying the cruise, I thought it wise to find
my way back to highway before the sun set. Eventually locating myself after an
extensive examination of the map, I was en route to Hoi An.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMWLdJXUeV9dNn-X6u0iTGAo6TXEE46srQ1QzIALQOXf45turSPawt5oPFjxuSOyQ3qSM5yl7QcrYFmWL8EM6BjBP1PbV80e_SGmC2FO6CpldpjsM02xbOyiloh-jTW-RS5po1tj586M/s1600/DSC02149+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMWLdJXUeV9dNn-X6u0iTGAo6TXEE46srQ1QzIALQOXf45turSPawt5oPFjxuSOyQ3qSM5yl7QcrYFmWL8EM6BjBP1PbV80e_SGmC2FO6CpldpjsM02xbOyiloh-jTW-RS5po1tj586M/s200/DSC02149+%25282%2529.JPG" width="200" /></a></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
remainder of the drive was straight through flat countryside, then almost only
blinking the dull yellow buildings of Hoi An were all around me. I’ve been
awaiting this moment for some time since my last departure. The contrast of
such a relaxed town where one can walk the river and enjoy a coffee with the
hustle of the hundreds of tailors and vendors. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBx0T_2h8BpWNeHblCKRWlNuxDEElA49neLtmaXjQdyWS3rB8-lic9o5ZsUQgMaACITdVj3NOrM-PME2TBoLA-mLc-ZkLZ3w3uX9fsaCZRXJFfTeoLe1D2vobrNVfArXqvM6umjx1BJDc/s1600/IMG_20150119_224447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBx0T_2h8BpWNeHblCKRWlNuxDEElA49neLtmaXjQdyWS3rB8-lic9o5ZsUQgMaACITdVj3NOrM-PME2TBoLA-mLc-ZkLZ3w3uX9fsaCZRXJFfTeoLe1D2vobrNVfArXqvM6umjx1BJDc/s320/IMG_20150119_224447.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bale Well</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I saw it
on the way in to my hostel, a restaurant on my mind since I arrived back in Vietnam.
Down a quiet side street, Bale Well sits on a corner always with the buzz of
conversation. For 110,000 ($5.50), enough to fill a table for two comes to me. A
plate of pork skewers, spring rolls, pickled vegetables, herbs and greens,
peanut sauce and chili sauce get delivered one after the other. Lastly and the
star of the table, Banh Xeo. A crispy, thin rice flour pancake with shrimp and
beansprouts. This is one of my favorite meals in Hoi An. If roaming the market
as I do, there is about a dozen stalls serving up Mi Quang and the areas well
known Cao Lau. Essentially both are noodle salads, but don’t let that deceive you,
there known for a reason. Hands down though, my number one eat in Hoi An is
from the now known as Banh Mi Queen. My absolute favorite sandwich in the world
thus far. I found her on my first visit here in a small corner just off from
the market, and later found out Anthony Bourdain also visited this spot on No
Reservations. I was stunned when I searched out the shop and found it missing.
I heard of this Banh Mi Queen but my loyalty held true… for a day. I wanted a
Banh Mi. I strolled by the location I was given and sure enough, there she was.
Been crowned queen and upgraded to a store front with tables inside. I’m unsure
of all the ingredients on this thing of beauty, I just say everything. Some
mysteries are better left unsolved. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08RUGpMRtcsJ8aqrUpU4HafxOBChkqzrB4DrmfBR8_mJ5qItpBp0Dymv397bWaY7aLa8bIY6U6_vQEH3VTs4nbZjw0j1ult8TU59H8ia_b97fj29Z83hlzfweLHH_2mPKMcQ7NE49hwY/s1600/IMG_20150123_155612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi08RUGpMRtcsJ8aqrUpU4HafxOBChkqzrB4DrmfBR8_mJ5qItpBp0Dymv397bWaY7aLa8bIY6U6_vQEH3VTs4nbZjw0j1ult8TU59H8ia_b97fj29Z83hlzfweLHH_2mPKMcQ7NE49hwY/s200/IMG_20150123_155612.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best sandwich in the world</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While
here, I generally avoid the tailors as best as possible, stroll the streets,
lounge in cafes, eat lots and recharge. I’m definitely not a suit guy but I figured this time, what the hell. I’m
in the Eden of cheap tailors. I spent about seventy dollars getting a jacket
and pants made in just over a day. If you’re going to do it, this is the place.
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vlkZjZYT1RtqxYkCc1JdlFUoi5U30pVIz8P1lbGq2uLKL0EMwcAen4U0CJRm2pyOMUSTYX5Ggs4XY9VjOvPiopw6OO1O_98WLXw_6T0bmoTSS5rlDdhZVUATEY04RlCs4cPzKhNucl0/s1600/IMG_20150120_173605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5vlkZjZYT1RtqxYkCc1JdlFUoi5U30pVIz8P1lbGq2uLKL0EMwcAen4U0CJRm2pyOMUSTYX5Ggs4XY9VjOvPiopw6OO1O_98WLXw_6T0bmoTSS5rlDdhZVUATEY04RlCs4cPzKhNucl0/s200/IMG_20150120_173605.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span> Renting a
motorcycle and traversing around have been highlights over the past year.
Whether India, Thailand, Laos and now Vietnam, the experience is priceless.
Next time I’ll be on two wheels for the length of this beautiful country, but
this is definitely the only way over the Hai Van Pass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-67721422348269308382015-05-14T06:18:00.000-07:002015-05-14T06:18:32.074-07:00A Valley Unknown - Mai Chau<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfunc_m_N4ZNis2H9KDdCWFbg2OrompoR6jGp4IYvYaKyGOnSrwmYEWcCzT_poqQfGzr4Wja4mq8U6qUgpgKPlRR8fqTRhG8CcfGZQpLkEzMpyjq0B29mIB8YThw8Ic5pvO5qgjzgX4zk/s1600/IMG_20150108_213427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfunc_m_N4ZNis2H9KDdCWFbg2OrompoR6jGp4IYvYaKyGOnSrwmYEWcCzT_poqQfGzr4Wja4mq8U6qUgpgKPlRR8fqTRhG8CcfGZQpLkEzMpyjq0B29mIB8YThw8Ic5pvO5qgjzgX4zk/s320/IMG_20150108_213427.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thang Co, for those interested</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Only a few hours southeast of Hanoi, over the mountains lies
a valley of green pastures, a quaint farming village and a local ethnic feel unlike
many other places I’ve travelled. As much as I have a love for Hanoi, I wanted to
get away for a couple days. I had already been to the majestic Halong Bay, the
rice paddy covered mountains of Sapa, the most northern market in Lao Cai (if
you are to ever go try the Thang Co, a dish made from horse stomach and other
good bits, a true local delicacy), and by no means should any of these be
missed. This time I was looking for a place I had never heard of. A place off
the beaten track as much as possible, which isn’t always the easiest thing to
find. Mai Chau was it. Only recently being discovered by tourists, few had or
made the time to go. I bought my ticket and was on the minibus the next morning
to a homestay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As it was
winter in Hanoi it was generally grey skies, a little dreary with a chill in
the air. Rising in elevation, climbing up the side of the separating mountains
we drove into a fog so dense I could hardly see the edge of the road. Somehow
protected from the more harsh weather on the coastal side, as soon as we
reached the top and crossed over the fog cleared almost instantaneously. The sky
was blue for the first time in days lighting the valley below. The sight was captivating
looking out over it all. An oasis defended by the surrounding mountains. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsZUEJ0SgIxH_rbVZ29mRHkcx3WBJJ88r3wir50l_YIzqxP_2eB4kQh7UVRHOj5b_dO-UrCv3LC7D_FPqgECF5tUfBLvocTHW7ANZuHJpVT7XU-tlKRtXdCyzrFtLW3wojPHlVxPUqFY/s1600/DSC02029+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsZUEJ0SgIxH_rbVZ29mRHkcx3WBJJ88r3wir50l_YIzqxP_2eB4kQh7UVRHOj5b_dO-UrCv3LC7D_FPqgECF5tUfBLvocTHW7ANZuHJpVT7XU-tlKRtXdCyzrFtLW3wojPHlVxPUqFY/s400/DSC02029+(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Arriving
in my homestay, a large room in a stilt house with multiple beds and the eating
area below. I claimed a bed, opened the windows and was lost in amazement just
by the view I stared out at. A much needed lunch was prepared family style. A
soup, stir fried vegetables, salad, grilled meat, fish and rice. More than one
could ask for, I was gracious for the hospitality. Every meal consisted of
similar spreads, but the dishes themselves would vary.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhyphenhyphen4c4YxD53rd0D-0UT5Ixy6CSnQrVpQuPb07a67_VI7m0V0xpG-kDHoijjY5Pe-ob-6kzIXgCKoJFrg_TnjN_qMAyaFw7RiDiE9y1Kyq8BLtF1e72-tefPiMY_6LtLb8yAq2YdYWIjY/s1600/DSC02035+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="88" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLhyphenhyphen4c4YxD53rd0D-0UT5Ixy6CSnQrVpQuPb07a67_VI7m0V0xpG-kDHoijjY5Pe-ob-6kzIXgCKoJFrg_TnjN_qMAyaFw7RiDiE9y1Kyq8BLtF1e72-tefPiMY_6LtLb8yAq2YdYWIjY/s400/DSC02035+(2).JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fields of Mai Chau</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jumping
on a bicycle for the first time in a while, it was the best way to explore the
valley. Peddling along the paths in between the fields while people were
tending to their winter crops: cauliflower, cabbage, kohlrabi. Some were
preparing the fields for the coming season for planting rice. Such a communal
feel as everybody worked side by side. There was fish farms to help sustain the
village as well. Skimming around the outskirts of the valley beside thick
bamboo forests, they creaked in the wind reminding me of the noise in 90’s
horror films as they are creeping through the cottage in the woods.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nHU4DYGfQ47wNvYEUuv2co-IJQ6_t6U5BxabJ1OmcRF3CgS9-bfLc3UiSxXra7pQgCjdhPhNfZC_uzCnOfPl3E8M8yAasoZ8gj73XaSzCl9n1CmY5xEc9jbbMWr2_LJwxzHp7E5OY-I/s1600/DSC02045+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8nHU4DYGfQ47wNvYEUuv2co-IJQ6_t6U5BxabJ1OmcRF3CgS9-bfLc3UiSxXra7pQgCjdhPhNfZC_uzCnOfPl3E8M8yAasoZ8gj73XaSzCl9n1CmY5xEc9jbbMWr2_LJwxzHp7E5OY-I/s320/DSC02045+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from 1000 step cave</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was brought
to one of the oldest houses in the village by a local who explained the
intricacies of building a bamboo house. Traditionally on stilts as livestock
were kept underneath. There was only two rooms, one for sleeping and
entertaining, the other a kitchen. The bamboo itself had a unique method of
been treated. Being cut in winter at its strongest, it is then submerged in
water for 6-12 months to kill off any worms that may be living there. After
this it is then set over fire to be smoked strengthening, drying and protecting
it from bugs. Once ready the whole village gathers and builds it as a
community.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOUSsuD5_Ju4N-kZoROXs4R0mtpv9W2LcA0_J_4cOwiinBSkjDzSaDORJlyyDF-6ojfwig59WN7Zg24HZ3PlVFmvnSySF9rp8CA8Z8FoIfrQydJn-1TDHLdUKQPzgt2rnWqszHvMSSFY/s1600/DSC02040+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOUSsuD5_Ju4N-kZoROXs4R0mtpv9W2LcA0_J_4cOwiinBSkjDzSaDORJlyyDF-6ojfwig59WN7Zg24HZ3PlVFmvnSySF9rp8CA8Z8FoIfrQydJn-1TDHLdUKQPzgt2rnWqszHvMSSFY/s320/DSC02040+(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After I
was taken to the local market, not very different from any I’d seen before.
Fresh local produce, the sweet smell of earth and herbs in the air. Moving on
to the meat section is where I saw something for the first time. A whole dog
being butchered not much different than when I had seen a lamb done. I know
most would cringe, cry, feel nauseated or just move away with haste. I guess it
was my chefs curiosity of food, but I stood and watched with excitement. Not every day
I come across something I’ve never seen before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mai Chau
was exactly what I was looking for. A beautiful, peaceful quiet retreat for a
couple days away from the cities and tourism. Not if but when I come back to
Vietnam I’m sure I will be making another visit to the valley on the other side
of the mountain, hoping it is just as stunning as this time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-23910040088916952442015-05-03T00:36:00.000-07:002015-05-03T01:30:21.013-07:00Street Food of Hanoi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Hanoi is one of my favorite
cities in Southeast Asia. A place I could see myself settle for a period of
time. Not forever I’m sure, but until whatever is in my blood decides to tell
me to move on. I have now been here twice, spending just under a month in total.
This time only discovering the city some more for what it is for me. There was
so much I missed my first time, as first times are never perfect. There are
multiple reasons as to my love of Hanoi. It can be fast paced, but there is
always a place to sneak away and escape the hustle and bustle. The people have
always been accommodating. I feel comfortable here for some reason or another,
but the tip of the iceberg is the FOOD. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Throughout the Old Quarter alone
there is always a new restaurant down an alley, tucked away. Or a café you
haven’t yet relaxed in and enjoyed a cup of delicious Vietnamese coffee. A
random street stall that popped up and you missed every other night somehow.
Vietnam in general is the one place I’ve spent an extended period of time in
and never once had a craving for something else. I’m not sure if it’s the
freshness and quality of ingredients, the variety of simple yet complex
flavours that are hard to perfect, years of dedication to their craft. The fact
that every place is slightly different, because this is true of all Asia, or at
least where I have travelled. It must just be a genuine love of Vietnamese
food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIEzlMeJp8qwLx_6hM9BpkFMftqNhv2qPhoj-fr6BlT3IXdnQLIhUADbBmy95mcQGOlLQcieMxWBoykpAjFlTSdiabXz_LQ0r769EZ9MunZ5Y-bZ0SOcMA1mc6oNexe8D2_5tRoaQk7I/s1600/IMG_20150105_064808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIEzlMeJp8qwLx_6hM9BpkFMftqNhv2qPhoj-fr6BlT3IXdnQLIhUADbBmy95mcQGOlLQcieMxWBoykpAjFlTSdiabXz_LQ0r769EZ9MunZ5Y-bZ0SOcMA1mc6oNexe8D2_5tRoaQk7I/s1600/IMG_20150105_064808.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pho Bo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pho Bo/Ga – The soup known worldwide, one of the most
popular street foods in the country, Pho. When this is placed in front of me,
it’s like seeing the white light at the end of the tunnel. As I walk towards
it, seasoning up the broth to my liking and take a sip. I’m there, heaven does
exist. Or at least my version of it where there is waterfalls of this. Rafts of
noodles, the fish strips of beef. The grass smelling of herbs and bean sprouts
for trees. Enough of the analogy, but a bowl of this is like a perfectly sounding
orchestra in your mouth. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A strong
clear broth flavoured with onion, lemongrass, daikon, roasted ginger, star
anise and cinnamon is the base. Warmed rice noodles of about fettucine width
are placed in the bowl, with the different accompaniments. This can vary from
the north to the south and serve them separate on a plate to add your desired
amount. Beansprouts, green onions, thinly sliced white onion, Thai basil,
sliced fresh chilies, lime wedges are quite common ones. Thinly shaved raw or
cooked beef is placed on the noodles and hot broth poured over top. The aroma
start filling your nostrils. This being Pho Bo, there are variations using
tendon, tripe and meatballs. Then of course there is Pho Ga which is made with
chicken opposed to beef.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiZvaLI8KBHOd7moloRCcmrkzRDcIW__jf05ktXekuCXMHpYfhmtFZLPJ9w91O3XBJr_OkHdtAGHmW1WYBZwgGFVgo4cp0V270M_qgqGNYXl_5PcZgyOlHW1CbFcMzxnc4vEVxtvUV6Y/s1600/IMG_20150101_224728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBiZvaLI8KBHOd7moloRCcmrkzRDcIW__jf05ktXekuCXMHpYfhmtFZLPJ9w91O3XBJr_OkHdtAGHmW1WYBZwgGFVgo4cp0V270M_qgqGNYXl_5PcZgyOlHW1CbFcMzxnc4vEVxtvUV6Y/s1600/IMG_20150101_224728.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bun Cha</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bun Cha – 1 Hang Manh, Hanoi – I discovered this my first
day back for lunch. I don’t know how I missed this the first time, but I was
kicking myself for it now. At least I found it early this time. Believed to
have originated in Hanoi, it is less common throughout the rest of the country.
A look at the dish and it doesn’t seem to be a whole lot to it. Simple flavours
but the balance of those is not easy. A plate of cold ‘bun’ rice noodles
different from Pho, these more like the shape of spaghetti and linguine along
with a heap of Vietnamese herbs and greens (served with just about everything).
Then comes the bowl of room temperature broth, sweet and sour based on vinegar,
sugar and fish sauce. Floating in it are char grilled slices of pork belly,
mini minced pork paddies and thinly sliced green papaya. A plate of sliced
chilies, garlic and lime is never too far away to add at will. Some people
would get another bowl and mix everything together bit by bit, while others
would just dip the noodles and herbs in with the pork. Whatever works, just be
sure to give it a try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Note: The address above also serves crispy and succulent Nem
Cua Be (crabmeat spring rolls). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ynjt0L8bB0OsF-r-65HESWCYeo1KFA-9LWreBqW5dRVKYBWO-JdiR-frDswwzsHXb8mGkg0GjBVYa2PBqA5wgdyhQvdiZl2AxIalbB4vEuieBL-NSZjR0yzjY3cJqcQ0OPRPRF7jluY/s1600/DSC01951+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ynjt0L8bB0OsF-r-65HESWCYeo1KFA-9LWreBqW5dRVKYBWO-JdiR-frDswwzsHXb8mGkg0GjBVYa2PBqA5wgdyhQvdiZl2AxIalbB4vEuieBL-NSZjR0yzjY3cJqcQ0OPRPRF7jluY/s1600/DSC01951+(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bun Thang</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bun Thang – This soup is similar to Pho Ga, same same, but
different. It uses the rice noodle (bun)
same as used in Bun Cha. Placed separately on the top an array of shredded
chicken, pork roll, herbs/green onions, sliced omelette, mushrooms and a small
dollop of shrimp paste. This gives the broth its unique flavour as it is mixed
in. Not overpowering, but a touch of depth.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBOzW8HqnWy1QRZDv0-vtoaPHDM0PtbgsDwF3xW1-J-9fRllXi3ENtJayzMnZb-AqKDwlfs_hG4hxD3G-IE_mYfwDfToFUzJtnnKA5RcWiz1gufA-7eHmUsdTSUZ0P-YQbXgFvte4DG5k/s1600/IMG_20150113_194932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBOzW8HqnWy1QRZDv0-vtoaPHDM0PtbgsDwF3xW1-J-9fRllXi3ENtJayzMnZb-AqKDwlfs_hG4hxD3G-IE_mYfwDfToFUzJtnnKA5RcWiz1gufA-7eHmUsdTSUZ0P-YQbXgFvte4DG5k/s1600/IMG_20150113_194932.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bun Rieu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bun Rieu – 11 Hang Bac, Hanoi – A nice change in the soup
department instead of Pho all the time (not that it’s a bad thing). Using the
‘bun’ rice noodles this soup is with a crab and tomato broth with a touch of
sourness, generally using tamarind or lime. The paddy crabs are used to make
both the broth and the crab like cakes floating in the red orange liquid. Fried
tofu and green onions thrown on top to add to its glory. Sure enough, before I
could take a bite, the chili paste and fresh herbs that are always there were
pushed my way. There is a couple variations of this dish. ‘Bun Oc’ is one of
them to look out for done with snails opposed to crab.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLEqaLcNXdNj_A4dV3LNGT4SSMMg_UbcDLZL_8J4t4wsj-E5NgCH86FPgzVys_-Bq_ptSeuw9CATShnNnwZioPjPGpO0PJQk48B8z1p52UoXpfpzD1E-SnAGAlLQyC-EkURGJTK-T08E/s1600/IMG_20150126_183645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTLEqaLcNXdNj_A4dV3LNGT4SSMMg_UbcDLZL_8J4t4wsj-E5NgCH86FPgzVys_-Bq_ptSeuw9CATShnNnwZioPjPGpO0PJQk48B8z1p52UoXpfpzD1E-SnAGAlLQyC-EkURGJTK-T08E/s1600/IMG_20150126_183645.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bun Bo Nam Bo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bun Bo Nam Bo – 67 Hang Dieu, Hanoi – A beef noodle dish that
happens to be one of my favorites. Translating to ‘beef noodles in the south,’
it may not have originated in the north, but is still abundant everywhere. Using
the ‘bun’ rice noodles again, they were placed room temperature on top of the
typical greens and herbs. Carrot, papaya, beansprouts, fried shallots and
garlic set over the noodles, followed by cooked tender strips of beef. A warm
beef jus vinaigrette is drizzled over top to pool slightly in the bottom and
then let’s not forget the roasted peanuts. This dish would often be my
appetizer before going to walk the streets for more, but the first time I had
it, it turned into 2 bowls and my dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xrNU9AEOlMtbIpczpyBIS8lEMp56J2PY54WNS86fT5iPPoGp2WxwEdD4-MD-AdvIMMUPa8RonILAjxOqlG-9m9OJfx5Z2LSB1oeyZCLQwX30GXABTZaM1FCEYNYLGUzZ3nYBD-mU3k4/s1600/IMG_20150123_155612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xrNU9AEOlMtbIpczpyBIS8lEMp56J2PY54WNS86fT5iPPoGp2WxwEdD4-MD-AdvIMMUPa8RonILAjxOqlG-9m9OJfx5Z2LSB1oeyZCLQwX30GXABTZaM1FCEYNYLGUzZ3nYBD-mU3k4/s1600/IMG_20150123_155612.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banh Mi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; tab-stops: 151.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Banh Mi – Now in my own opinion
this is the best sandwich in the world. I have other favorites, but this one
trumps them all. A quality bread is essential in a sandwich. The baguette being
introduced in the colonial period and tweaked a bit as most cultures do. Light
and airy with a thinner but crispy crust. The fillings from there vary from shop
to shop. Multiple parts of the glorious pig generally end up on it. Pork belly,
grilled pork, Vietnamese sausage, pork liver pate and pork floss naming some.
Variants to this could have chicken, egg and tofu. Then there is the fresh
vegetables and sauces that bring it to life. Thinly sliced cucumber, greens/herbs,
shredded pickled carrot and daikon, chili sauce, mayonnaise. Not one stand
being the same, always on the go and rarely more than a dollar. Although my
most favoured Banh Mi is not in Hanoi, but in Hoi An they can be found country
wide.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8FuP5DxZdwehDoR2RFuObWn8cbZohd7G82dhrzstvqjQVKmPR2eKQrteG1CQzR0kEDRJQJStuy2MezLb7PtuyR_h1kRPq0uyyTnUfD3Sx1wga77oO558aj47KJDhvYcVnFUS45Q3PjGc/s1600/IMG_20150110_110814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8FuP5DxZdwehDoR2RFuObWn8cbZohd7G82dhrzstvqjQVKmPR2eKQrteG1CQzR0kEDRJQJStuy2MezLb7PtuyR_h1kRPq0uyyTnUfD3Sx1wga77oO558aj47KJDhvYcVnFUS45Q3PjGc/s1600/IMG_20150110_110814.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Xoi Xeo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Xoi Xeo – Restaurant called Xoi Yen, 35b Nguyen Huu Huan,
Hanoi – Another of the dishes I missed my first time around and was blown away
when I found it. It was a 3 or 4 storey restaurant on the corner. Outside on
the main floor, production is happening like a fine tuned assembly line, loaded
bowls flying out. The place is packed, mainly locals. Organized chaos as people
are trying to run down with orders and up with food. Not knowing what to
expect, I thought I’d start basic and build from there. I ordered the
regular Xoi Xeo with chicken. I didn’t wait long and there it was. Sticky rice
with turmeric to give it a pale yellow colour on the bottom. Next was a pastel
yellow mung bean paste that had been pressed and shaved thinly over the rice.
Sliced chicken and a spoonful of fried shallots to finish up one of the most
seemingly simple dishes yet so intricate in flavour and textures. A while
assortment of accompaniments can be chosen from. My second bowl had crispy pork
belly and Chinese sausage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9E4dy_3c3sJ8WUaH-tdI3roYR8gqSyQH0984KIL6NQzBpHQA2bR24xNvXoy2UpnymAefMYt_Os9t4-qyWjiIURpM65_AZHVTJX-CLIxe-51pL2odvsN52HRldIESSQKgDpALrVZH-S88/s1600/DSC02068+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9E4dy_3c3sJ8WUaH-tdI3roYR8gqSyQH0984KIL6NQzBpHQA2bR24xNvXoy2UpnymAefMYt_Os9t4-qyWjiIURpM65_AZHVTJX-CLIxe-51pL2odvsN52HRldIESSQKgDpALrVZH-S88/s1600/DSC02068+(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banh Goi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Banh Goi – a.k.a Pillow Cakes – A Vietnamese empanada, these
are great for a mid-afternoon savoury snack. A light tender dough filled with
seasoned minced pork mixed with glass noodles and mushrooms. A light sweet and
sour dipping sauce with green papaya, garlic and chilies.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJl0qpmCs5YHAsIA9Zh_45P2KHoaefpdt_2cgQW9xUQ1RXJOZSxMU8-cLVvdEcgJ5s6FN3DMUcjM4lcfg_8brBD3F8y68DHjZuLRBS3mUeX3rJhJH6nb6xbU2GOvzd1P1qXjrHFkKFQs/s1600/IMG_20150114_082731.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nom Bo Kho</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nom Bo Kho – 23 Ho Hoan Kiem, Hanoi – A dried beef salad,
this is a popular snack. A salad of crisp julienned green papaya, carrot and
coarsely torn greens/herbs mixed with a dressing primarily of vinegar, sugar,
chili, fish and soy sauce. The dried beef is cut into chucks on top with a
spoonful of roasted peanuts. The textures in this salad play off each other.
The crunch of peanuts, crispness of papaya, chewiness of the dried beef and the
fresh delicate herbs. This salad gives the Thai and Laos som tam (papaya salad)
a good run for its money.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfavKTBJMVKJcMDjh79NWRV-gVw9Wh6eDXR1WFCDjcnqdh8PDMk53UF4qJXM3_fzvP56_aBuBRZ_a4BolUlr0rSBUHrMMBd1P8GoYNZ7CZ3XtSiKM5himYkxif26JYIb1hJx2cSyWplRc/s1600/IMG_20150105_220721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfavKTBJMVKJcMDjh79NWRV-gVw9Wh6eDXR1WFCDjcnqdh8PDMk53UF4qJXM3_fzvP56_aBuBRZ_a4BolUlr0rSBUHrMMBd1P8GoYNZ7CZ3XtSiKM5himYkxif26JYIb1hJx2cSyWplRc/s1600/IMG_20150105_220721.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moving fruit vendors</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fruit vendors – As anywhere in any part of Asia I have
travelled the fruit is abundant, fresh, diverse, local and seasonal. This is
true of Hanoi as well. Markets and portable street vendors are set up all over
the city. Some set up on street corners, some carrying it over their shoulder
with bamboo and some with baskets on the back of their bikes. No matter where
you are, you are never too far away from one of these vendors and their array
of fruits, so stop one and try out what’s seasonal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmJTWFrP_AS7gnEK9Kud4duwKmJaZN36cp80WKfW7eiuV7AO8_udvUE_A1vZKx3j5ZPTaR7hx6KZ1CRTAKD6T8rsO-_Z6vVXWxXQMc4FSdxu6xN9TJ7SMJ654TlGf9Tc130cV2WCwfCA/s1600/IMG_20150102_154541.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmJTWFrP_AS7gnEK9Kud4duwKmJaZN36cp80WKfW7eiuV7AO8_udvUE_A1vZKx3j5ZPTaR7hx6KZ1CRTAKD6T8rsO-_Z6vVXWxXQMc4FSdxu6xN9TJ7SMJ654TlGf9Tc130cV2WCwfCA/s1600/IMG_20150102_154541.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Egg coffee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Vietnamese Egg Coffee – In many of the cafés throughout
Hanoi where it first originated, this unique coffee can be found. It is made by
tempering the egg yolks with sugar and coffee. The coffee poured out is almost more of an
egg foam. When I had my first one, it was so thick I ate it with a spoon. Liquid tiramisu.
Condensed milk and apparently cheese can also be added to this concoction. It’s
a must try, but personally prefer my regular Vietnamese coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDcNhIsUHVMbSgLeGPB0KL88NjSKQsmOIiWPglvgcjjYmHuHcguVMHNQ2YW4r9axaB-xO0oh3TmAMv0C757ruleJf-mhYdJ2vwt4fiGakcpRxFur97QTJPgBGhbfbseUjKppyb_dr1BwM/s1600/DSC02012+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDcNhIsUHVMbSgLeGPB0KL88NjSKQsmOIiWPglvgcjjYmHuHcguVMHNQ2YW4r9axaB-xO0oh3TmAMv0C757ruleJf-mhYdJ2vwt4fiGakcpRxFur97QTJPgBGhbfbseUjKppyb_dr1BwM/s1600/DSC02012+(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Balut - For those of you who don’t know, Balut is the
fertilized developing duck embryo. Sounds appetizing, I know. It’s commonly
sold as street food in the Philippines and south-east Asia. If munching down on
some duck fetus isn’t your thing just think of it as a hard-boiled egg. The age
at which it is boiled is a matter of local preference. How old do you like your
fetus? I’ve read in the Philippines it’s around 15-17 days, and Vietnam 19-21,
where the bones have started to develop but are still tender. Looks kind of
like an alien egg or maybe a cancerous testicle, I can see why foreigners steer
clear of it, but like they say about people the beauties on the inside.
Depending on the country there is different condiments. With mine there was
salt, ginger and Vietnamese mint. I’m unsure of the age of the one I ate, but
no bones were present. It has a similar flavour to any other egg, but it’s much
richer. The yolk is quite creamy. Just avoid looking at it in all its veiny
delight and when you’re all done slurp back the juice that comes with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RpIEwU8s_Y6sbw35iNy_xKzqPd6wTWQXosrw6OcrEL3CAjVRMKSzC14I0HlfIAHN9lKbsAFwdw2Sim2x1KaeKS9A6c6_XIMHuqS6T79LEfWJEg85t3ZP6ciQwHmK-iZ6C5M-cWRpr6I/s1600/DSC02062+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RpIEwU8s_Y6sbw35iNy_xKzqPd6wTWQXosrw6OcrEL3CAjVRMKSzC14I0HlfIAHN9lKbsAFwdw2Sim2x1KaeKS9A6c6_XIMHuqS6T79LEfWJEg85t3ZP6ciQwHmK-iZ6C5M-cWRpr6I/s1600/DSC02062+(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snake skin and snake meatballs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Snake and Dog – Another couple for the not faint of heart.
As much as people may not want to believe dog is eaten in parts of the world. I
know many would and will stay clear of this and unfortunately I have not had
the luck of trying this yet. I just suggest for the adventurous eater to search
this out. I will be when I return again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The snake
meal is an experience and one of the most unique meals I've had. I have done this
a total of three times and thoroughly enjoyed the opportunity each time. It
starts with the eating of the beating heart followed by shots of blood and bile
mixed with rice whiskey. Shortly after a spread of 6 to 12 dishes are brought
out for everyone to share. I have previously written a post about my experience
the second time I went to the snake village in Hanoi. Link at the bottom.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3JQVZahGJR3DgxPIBRwvAOXcCr2AHDxj3vrei6W3xrPKGO2j45uxzJAaJJm9X-18kIgBfq24vtesoK-Zwa28-WJzR23MRGYwJTAYwuwJuUoAQgD7K5FrjkjXfSwZcojLlnLYGcbHsXc/s1600/IMG_20150102_192620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3JQVZahGJR3DgxPIBRwvAOXcCr2AHDxj3vrei6W3xrPKGO2j45uxzJAaJJm9X-18kIgBfq24vtesoK-Zwa28-WJzR23MRGYwJTAYwuwJuUoAQgD7K5FrjkjXfSwZcojLlnLYGcbHsXc/s1600/IMG_20150102_192620.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Worst meal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Worst meal – Now when I say worst meal, I don’t mean as I
had more than one. This was truly the only dish I tried that I didn’t enjoy
which caught me by surprise. A little street joint, typical signs of a good
meal to come. Small stools, shorter than needed tables, too many people crammed
in too small of place and full of locals. Weaselling our way to a seat I ordered
fried noodles with greens and pigeon hearts and gizzards. I was excited having
chicken offal before but never pigeon in particular. When the plate arrived it
looked like a blob of below average instant noodles with greens and pigeon bits
throughout. It tasted as such to and I ended up just picking out the pigeon and
greens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vietnam
is a foodie’s paradise from north to south and should be on anyone’s list if
you travel for food. All the food nowadays can be found more or less everywhere
throughout the country varying from place to place. All the food originated
somewhere and going there is always best. Just throw out your inhibitions of
the foreign and exotic and start eating out the world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Link to post on snake meal - <a href="http://edibleadventuretravel.blogspot.com/2013/12/snakes-on-plate.html">http://edibleadventuretravel.blogspot.com/2013/12/snakes-on-plate.html</a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-6589152529776729672015-04-20T05:54:00.002-07:002015-04-20T05:54:17.768-07:00Laos to Vietnam - An Unexpected 36 Hours<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Well there was always this dreaded bus I’d heard nothing but
horror stories about after my first trip to Southeast Asia. Luang Prabang to
Hanoi. Unfortunately I missed Laos my first time around, but was on my way
through and that bus route was my way out. This route is known for a 24 hour
ride where buses breaking down along the mountain roads is not uncommon. The
road bumpy and winding through stunning landscape that is generally missed
through the night even though sleep is barely permitted. It is one of those
journeys that no one recommends, but always once it’s over it was worth the
experience, subliminally telling you to do it. I had to see if it was as bad as
everyone made it out to be, and in the end I think I had a worse, yet better
experience.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cj7Xltlc_nQPoDUvip1uRUeZaNxnqB6ZYiTbjwZ-7oKEYdzhn9K6HllS05Y9vgg3e_ARUs366XeB9x0u7QwtMA8YNrUzEyY6UupNBLuZTuv1ZwIxzGdn89DWE0XT39vCntozSs8WJTU/s1600/IMG_20141228_234019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cj7Xltlc_nQPoDUvip1uRUeZaNxnqB6ZYiTbjwZ-7oKEYdzhn9K6HllS05Y9vgg3e_ARUs366XeB9x0u7QwtMA8YNrUzEyY6UupNBLuZTuv1ZwIxzGdn89DWE0XT39vCntozSs8WJTU/s1600/IMG_20141228_234019.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cluster of jars</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To begin with I was starting in Phonsavan, in
the northeast of Laos.
A place very undermined, known for the Plain of Jars. Shrouded in mystery, the
significance and reasoning behind these clusters of stone jars is still
unknown. Like the Stonehenge of the east, only theories exist. Also, similar to
Stonehenge, the rock used to carve these was brought from miles away, presumably
by elephants. Bones have been found in some leading people to believe they
could have been burial urns. Remnants of rice and spices have been uncovered suggesting
the potential for storage containers. This area was once on the ‘Silk Road’ for
the spice trade. Many had lids to cover, although few remain on. More local
legend than anything, a race of giants once walked the rugged landscape. The
jars were used to brew their Lao Lao in large batches. Myth or not, this is
what I choose to believe.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbLUsQCOPjZC3NMIXowPzkm9ehj76sd78pHq1JZN5j00DuAYMhR1-9z-TzV261jAm3PWRAn_h5eAsvuuh5SESVQpUhzlx5C3X2oZTSxWQihKmuMXOblsDQH0NAaprtTxG0OTGS4XypFE/s1600/IMG_20141228_193445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbLUsQCOPjZC3NMIXowPzkm9ehj76sd78pHq1JZN5j00DuAYMhR1-9z-TzV261jAm3PWRAn_h5eAsvuuh5SESVQpUhzlx5C3X2oZTSxWQihKmuMXOblsDQH0NAaprtTxG0OTGS4XypFE/s1600/IMG_20141228_193445.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Relaxing in my throne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Note: Although thousands of UXOs (unexploded ordnance) have
been cleared throughout the main Jar sites, one must still be careful going too
far from the beaten track here. This area of Laos was heavily bombed during the
Vietnam War and many still lay undiscovered.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back to
the journey. I was also here to cut off about 7 – 8 hours of the journey it
took to get from Laung Prabang to Phonsavan, thinking I was clever. In theory
this would have worked well. The bus is supposed to pass through and pick me
up around 1 am and I would be on route. 3 am comes along and sure enough I find
out the bus has broken down on the way, not even making it a third of the way.
Reliable. Strategically planning my remaining Kip, assuming I would be on my
way out, I couldn’t afford a hotel for the night. An act of kindness from the
hotel I booked my ticket through (I’m sure understanding my frustration), gave
me a bed for the night. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZrB5TU9tASO0_djnoKAZZC3ZkserIv8TVfszZcIvpeGdaZ0gsUsnocx0xSKO4FVLEfqVY5Zo6XSQwr6FPhS9eT_YHymjrGKd8bPzsK9t0u6axt32HiAiHuLqMUs-3TS1QobtePMA02HE/s1600/DSC01930+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZrB5TU9tASO0_djnoKAZZC3ZkserIv8TVfszZcIvpeGdaZ0gsUsnocx0xSKO4FVLEfqVY5Zo6XSQwr6FPhS9eT_YHymjrGKd8bPzsK9t0u6axt32HiAiHuLqMUs-3TS1QobtePMA02HE/s1600/DSC01930+(2).JPG" height="227" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoan Kiem Lake when I arrived</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I woke up
early to try and figure out my options. I had two. Either wait around all day
with no money for the potential no show bus again or take local transportation.
About the same cost when all said and done, but the local will actually get me
there I’m assured. Local it was and he brought me to the bus stop for 9 am. When I say
bus, it’s not what most would think. It was a loud, beat up pick-up truck with
an extended back carrying around 15 people at any given time along with
whatever supplies they’ve bought to bring home. This time there was a new grill
loaded up, bags of clothing, bulk groceries and the list goes on. Shoulder to
shoulder, legs bent awkwardly, it was a 3 hour stop and go ride until we met
another truck coming the other way. Here we had to switch trucks, so I helped
unload and load up again, hoping the speed the process if only by a little.
About 1 hour further down the road and we came to the border town, only to wait
a further 2 hours. Just being told to wait, I finally realized we were waiting
for a family to finish purchasing a coconut milk extracting machine. Lending a
hand loading it up (not a light piece of equipment, but I want one), we were
ready for the final stretch to the border itself. Halfway.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2qUiVdyqC-Eh24XkvVMb0zJcJ8BGAwOh1o9JXbpse2xhoMxYa_Uu4Yjb8vTI01jkR214tb8aMUWsfZEYmGVINFIGZqMJumfdAJX3IxZiqAYucqNaAeiqSUp9NAvkzjqoz6IT4n6DpgE/s1600/DSC01932+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR2qUiVdyqC-Eh24XkvVMb0zJcJ8BGAwOh1o9JXbpse2xhoMxYa_Uu4Yjb8vTI01jkR214tb8aMUWsfZEYmGVINFIGZqMJumfdAJX3IxZiqAYucqNaAeiqSUp9NAvkzjqoz6IT4n6DpgE/s1600/DSC01932+(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tortoise Tower, Hoan Kiem Lake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By the
time I made it to the border the sun was setting. The most people we manage in
the truck was 19, some hanging off the back. 3 locals were car sick, somehow
not used to their own roads yet and I think everyone wondering what I was doing
there. There was a line up at the border, so I made the 2 km walk through the
border as it was getting dark. The opportunistic motorcycle taxi knew I had no
option charging me double to get to the closest border town. His claim to the
charge was that it was dark. Knowing that was a load of crap, he was right in
one sense. I had no choice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dropped
at a hotel, I enquired about an ATM and a bus to Hanoi that night. Last bus was
in 1 hour and there was no ATMs in town apparently. All I had remaining was the
Kip that I was refunded in the morning for the bus that I didn’t get. Finally I
convinced her that it truly was all I had. She got me a bus ticket and took me
to a little shop to show me what I could afford for a snack with the remainder
of my money. A snack would have to do, since I haven’t eaten all day and couldn’t
get money until I reached Hanoi. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFxmv3vfeEG3Sra3zoHDEnjRMgDrzvorRJ9grW_nLmUBvKCzwRLl_ifcicNB3XUzWIR5VZqY6W3XrQVnhjTymzYLhIKGW9MHSsXtd-7DPOSKbqTycDKbmJwKYXTZnbUx0o2Ux7LUIk-k/s1600/DSC02009+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFxmv3vfeEG3Sra3zoHDEnjRMgDrzvorRJ9grW_nLmUBvKCzwRLl_ifcicNB3XUzWIR5VZqY6W3XrQVnhjTymzYLhIKGW9MHSsXtd-7DPOSKbqTycDKbmJwKYXTZnbUx0o2Ux7LUIk-k/s1600/DSC02009+(2).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanoi street market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> It was now 7:30 pm. </span>Exhausted,
this was the first bus I think I have witnessed arriving early. I was so
thankful I could sit down, fall asleep and wake up where I needed to be. This
was the first bus I’ve also been on where you can smoke. I don’t mind the smoke
necessarily, but the window they opened each time letting the almost freezing
North Vietnamese winter air in was brutal. After a few shivering hours, I manage
some shut eye. Not before long a lady was shaking me awake. Disoriented, knowing we can’t be
there yet, but not really knowing where I was for the past many hours, I just
followed the points. Staggering off the bus, she pointed to a random bus on the
other side of the highway. With no reason to question, I’ll end up somewhere, I
went to get on. Ushered to the back and only remaining seat, I climbed into the
middle, two people on either side. Felt a little like a hotdog in a bun. Trying
my best not to disturb anyone although I’m sure I did, I made myself
comfortable and was back out.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzU0xrgWIvsYtyc3iDc508OOCVyPh0SNinFCTTqys4P5XATZHfLD8W3gVDYKxSH-qY4X3G_OGCGiGtw27vMvvuN5IxSSMv1ot6IJHRB6Id8a2YpvQBirAZFFIUHKolVkvR4SkZOaDmK7U/s1600/DSC02006+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzU0xrgWIvsYtyc3iDc508OOCVyPh0SNinFCTTqys4P5XATZHfLD8W3gVDYKxSH-qY4X3G_OGCGiGtw27vMvvuN5IxSSMv1ot6IJHRB6Id8a2YpvQBirAZFFIUHKolVkvR4SkZOaDmK7U/s1600/DSC02006+(2).JPG" height="320" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First cup of Vietnamese coffee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not 100
percent sure how, but I woke up in Hanoi. It wasn’t the easiest way to get from
Laos to Vietnam, but the most interesting way I can guarantee. Getting to see
the local way of travel and life. How they go about shopping and the
transportation of their goods. Shared fruits with them along the journey, and
got to lend a helping hand where I could loading and unloading their belongings.
I couldn’t check in for another 6 hours at this point, I thought I would walk
the Old Quarter, happy to be back a second time. It was all so similar. Well first
things first. I’m exhausted, but need a brief kick of caffeine. Not to mention
my fix of strong Vietnamese coffee I’ve been longing for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-72304924696215616962015-02-24T20:44:00.000-08:002015-02-24T20:44:42.176-08:00Take the Ride - Bolaven Plateau<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As it always is, it’s sad to leave such a beautiful, relaxed
and social place like Don Det of the 4000 islands was this time. The island
slowly drifting out of sight as we made our way back to the mainland. The Bolaven
Plateau awaited. Five days of cruising through rural Laos, my first sense of
the freedom of a motorcycle on the barely trodden path as much as one really
can in Southeast Asia. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PF7hFMb34GcI9d1A6oMkbdH0sFElpkdiKINEv7pNVXhwU7vkeYmrKlx6OBxnN6yhi4sonrmJcLqhiD7cTSwuD9UqzlB4yQNXPvKqshUzbzH5MCTvsO2vas2HEMMX7czpD_UYk_V3UJI/s1600/IMG_20141219_190027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2PF7hFMb34GcI9d1A6oMkbdH0sFElpkdiKINEv7pNVXhwU7vkeYmrKlx6OBxnN6yhi4sonrmJcLqhiD7cTSwuD9UqzlB4yQNXPvKqshUzbzH5MCTvsO2vas2HEMMX7czpD_UYk_V3UJI/s1600/IMG_20141219_190027.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wasting
no time, as soon as we arrived in Pakse (the starting point), we made haste
renting four bikes and heading out before sun down, hoping to make it to the
first town. For 50,000 KIP or about 7 dollars a day we handed over our passport
in exchange for the keys and packed our day bag. Fueled up on some sort of fuel
resembling the colour of a magenta glow stick at a rave, then hit the highway. It
was late afternoon by the time we were out of the city and it was a straight
shot to Paksong, racing the sun.</span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkxRZRkDiRaH-DETZDx5shpOX8bblxleuJ98A5JlZbFXYBt_3pb-DLk1iQZGvlhiYTOz5uLTEJ2mfpbExTHjCfAOoJqGFz9jkt7I4bXMMZq1QKy46FSgolcKfCvh-ULO-2YGYje-CGAU/s1600/IMG_20141217_080301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkxRZRkDiRaH-DETZDx5shpOX8bblxleuJ98A5JlZbFXYBt_3pb-DLk1iQZGvlhiYTOz5uLTEJ2mfpbExTHjCfAOoJqGFz9jkt7I4bXMMZq1QKy46FSgolcKfCvh-ULO-2YGYje-CGAU/s1600/IMG_20141217_080301.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picking coffee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Backtracking
a little to see one of the many waterfalls dotted around the plateau, my trip
was almost cut short. At 60 kilometers per hour a truck decides to pass me with an
oncoming truck, as they do. Passing too closely the back of the truck nudged my
elbow sending me into a wobble I’m surprised didn’t send me into the ditch. I
thought I was going down to sample the road. After recovering from that scare
we drove into one of the coffee plantations. This one Dao Heuang, 2.5 square
kilometers of coffee plants, as far as you can see. I jumped in and picked some
to help a lady fill her basket. One day someone will drink a cup of
coffee picked by me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1LAtn6XZvFRC0MPNRujaFy4IoJYQyjF1mIhyfZbuZW-cIUMa_E2ifJPKRTELyS02CZ_ADe7wIxh5Yu444FjEJUaEZvn3gqsY1-KHLhdg-sQAFvHQHnEHYxG-rYJLqlie-1Fias-JI3d0/s1600/IMG_20141216_221055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1LAtn6XZvFRC0MPNRujaFy4IoJYQyjF1mIhyfZbuZW-cIUMa_E2ifJPKRTELyS02CZ_ADe7wIxh5Yu444FjEJUaEZvn3gqsY1-KHLhdg-sQAFvHQHnEHYxG-rYJLqlie-1Fias-JI3d0/s1600/IMG_20141216_221055.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On our
way to Sekong, we were hoping to see another couple waterfalls but somehow they
eluded us all. Instead we stopped to play a bit of football with a group of
local kids. It was confusing at first but we managed to join teams and kick the
ball around for a bit. I realized that I’ve lost some skill I once had in the
past 7 years along with the level of fitness. 30 minutes and I was knackered. Pulled
into Sekong just after dark and the only thing left to do to cap off a great
day was to eat, and I smelt dinner on the way into town. We drove by some
street vendors and immediately I knew where I was eating. Grilled chicken,
sausage and liver with sticky rice and papaya salad. For only 25000 KIP, around
3.5 dollars I had a feast I couldn’t finish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKfTv2MEj9Ca7iY2u57HaFzVCGQNj7wJ3MG-i4JDrboTEVec0qzen2mBYuBh1qwn-X-NYLpuLoeWJU3gj2Cpa-Dik5Fgmqq6hGMhiJyMKQciIJn1wZ8pELVmJDgiOQTlOb8roWEuWKy8/s1600/IMG_20141220_091638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKfTv2MEj9Ca7iY2u57HaFzVCGQNj7wJ3MG-i4JDrboTEVec0qzen2mBYuBh1qwn-X-NYLpuLoeWJU3gj2Cpa-Dik5Fgmqq6hGMhiJyMKQciIJn1wZ8pELVmJDgiOQTlOb8roWEuWKy8/s1600/IMG_20141220_091638.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tad Soung</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The drive
to Tad Lo, the most popular town on the loop was nothing short of spectacular.
Rural Laos was captivating. There’s 2 main waterfalls here. Tad Lo and Tad
Soung, a few kilometers out of town. In rainy season I’m sure it is a beautiful
sight, but it was just a trickle of water over the edge. Being able to sit on the
edge and gaze over the land treating it like a viewpoint was just as good.
Stopping off at the market we bought some food for a picnic on top of Tad Lo.
Bought some sticky rice, chicken lap and veggies, craving a fresh salad. The
lady renting us the bungalow gave me a cutting board and some form of machete.
Sliced up in a bowl with a squeeze of lime, works for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiehaJlszEgIXKE3K-SBQgjyRonsRyzxCoRCoVmpGt3D2j5jVuQ7pKv9N6O2SbMvWZRUwTFBYT68tJWpNog4OF7KQQVWZrjWGMxWvex3BjHlo4QDX2V7HS3Kn9rdCx0KqcWnPd9Ktdrk/s1600/IMG_20141222_165224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyiehaJlszEgIXKE3K-SBQgjyRonsRyzxCoRCoVmpGt3D2j5jVuQ7pKv9N6O2SbMvWZRUwTFBYT68tJWpNog4OF7KQQVWZrjWGMxWvex3BjHlo4QDX2V7HS3Kn9rdCx0KqcWnPd9Ktdrk/s1600/IMG_20141222_165224.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The makings of my salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We set
off on the last leg of the loop for us, back to Pakse and sadly the return of the
motorcycle. It was a direct route straight back with nothing but a coffee
break. In a small village there is Mr.Vieng Organic Coffee. Just recently
undertaking this new venture, he grows it himself, dries, shells and roast it
all by hand in small batches. Something that is rarely done anymore. The
roasting of a couple kilograms take 30-60 minutes of constant stirring alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4BRCDOi3kZiGeBz8O7h7TB3skaWkTBPn8WafLW53m7U_o4g2qgyYqmKA7kVZeb7FsK3vlvc65MhlThTw8YTuR5-PnBtUZpdR4LsC9q_1dxgfvS1_xNcbBHXce-glNSR9PqorMVfVUm5g/s1600/IMG_20141223_180309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4BRCDOi3kZiGeBz8O7h7TB3skaWkTBPn8WafLW53m7U_o4g2qgyYqmKA7kVZeb7FsK3vlvc65MhlThTw8YTuR5-PnBtUZpdR4LsC9q_1dxgfvS1_xNcbBHXce-glNSR9PqorMVfVUm5g/s1600/IMG_20141223_180309.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr.Vieng roasting coffee</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unfortunately
Pakse is on the horizon and as they say, all good things must come to an end. Riding
across the Bolaven Plateau was one of the best things I’ve done. The true sense
of freedom bursting forth. This has inspired me and changed the way in which I
would like to travel in the future. No reliance on bus tickets or trains, just
yourself, your bike and a map. From city to city and everything in between. Put
those two wheels between your legs and take the ride.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Watch my ride around the Bolaven Plateau on my YouTube page:</span><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEGlkhLkc9w">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nEGlkhLkc9w</a></div>
<br />
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</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-39906117001461536502015-01-26T02:52:00.000-08:002015-01-26T05:08:52.605-08:00Checked into Circus School<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqPGX8o_lk7l4ZdmGGi2dwsWtOsGydVLzwrrXIQtLjY2GoUYvg0BXaScaoRjEJ0-1gaWnrYAAYbxznkShW37JUSm7HK8dXJOFdnjRxdiE4QjF3vdSpRU-BhHUiE65Qqto42jXMNcissc/s1600/IMG_20141128_185519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqPGX8o_lk7l4ZdmGGi2dwsWtOsGydVLzwrrXIQtLjY2GoUYvg0BXaScaoRjEJ0-1gaWnrYAAYbxznkShW37JUSm7HK8dXJOFdnjRxdiE4QjF3vdSpRU-BhHUiE65Qqto42jXMNcissc/s1600/IMG_20141128_185519.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pai Circus School</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">762 curves, bends at high speeds, sometimes hearing the
squeals of the wheels as the minibus threatens to go up on two wheels. A bit of
advice is to abstain from drinking the night before, I’m not one to get car,
sea or flight sick but this ride hung over almost changed that. Not sure how
though, like most of the bus rides throughout Asia I arrived in Pai. A small
quaint town, a hippy haven surrounded by the mountains of northern Thailand. </span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdeuO6edPnYpIHEH4_Bbrtg0QXCqRWVSjoH7fm9-P0Z-901GDAoO9v-rQRQ1-yl1DVdW3UxvRDcB9gooW9E9u4x3_b6uByd27ZmwMUfjVyliqWTa3PWw-ytUswzLnkQ8GOMgyccIJi3I/s1600/IMG_20141122_221904.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdeuO6edPnYpIHEH4_Bbrtg0QXCqRWVSjoH7fm9-P0Z-901GDAoO9v-rQRQ1-yl1DVdW3UxvRDcB9gooW9E9u4x3_b6uByd27ZmwMUfjVyliqWTa3PWw-ytUswzLnkQ8GOMgyccIJi3I/s1600/IMG_20141122_221904.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stunning viewpoint</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eager to
get off the bus and avoid anything with wheels for a bit, I asked for some
directions to walk up to where I had planned to stay. Either I was too stunned
to follow simple directions (probably the case) or if I was just misguided, I
ended up in the opposite direction to where I expected. Everything happens for
a reason. Turns out the hostel was booked solid and I stumbled upon the Pai
Circus School getting the last available bed. About forty bungalows and a few
dorms, just about everything made from bamboo, the bunk beds, floor giving a
feeling of sleeping outside. Protected only from rain, the cold at night crept
in, this was my kind of place.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYOzryv5pitk5DUVvcb1cASSZ5qPYmNyecc7uQTap3jBwLuAmHMzf8VSXNIcBKXRZZf1mR7IOOg2OC6Jnxb4LUZzExMXg1IFeKRO0-qzMLSMlJw4QxhlxGcl5ILNcpRPm1InnkeORnpGg/s1600/IMG_20141129_183837.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYOzryv5pitk5DUVvcb1cASSZ5qPYmNyecc7uQTap3jBwLuAmHMzf8VSXNIcBKXRZZf1mR7IOOg2OC6Jnxb4LUZzExMXg1IFeKRO0-qzMLSMlJw4QxhlxGcl5ILNcpRPm1InnkeORnpGg/s1600/IMG_20141129_183837.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A dozen or so people practicing poi or staff
in the common area overlooking a view of the town and surrounding landscape
caught my attention immediately. A view few if any other places had to offer.
This was something I’ve always wanted the chance to learn with some basic
instruction and what better place to do it. They taught a total of twelve
different ‘circus acts’ from poi, devil sticks, hula hoop and more. For me it
was all about the poi, staff and practicing my juggling and introducing
juggling clubs to myself. For only six hundred Baht, about twenty dollars, you
could have full access to their equipment, lessons every day and the chance to
use fire once confident enough that you won’t burn yourself. It’s actually a
lot safer than you would think with a few simple guidelines. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9uFoZJ-vso_5CtOtvEam9oFsS2yg_D_l5Cx9St0Y2vpYkYae_MQLhbM0OgToiFC4kII-VhABImu63yifwT6SI1emij6MKzB9qCycU2_Hddn_1Rr2qAPkK9_RjzeDFAeVaQF5x0XB57ck/s1600/IMG_20150117_170827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9uFoZJ-vso_5CtOtvEam9oFsS2yg_D_l5Cx9St0Y2vpYkYae_MQLhbM0OgToiFC4kII-VhABImu63yifwT6SI1emij6MKzB9qCycU2_Hddn_1Rr2qAPkK9_RjzeDFAeVaQF5x0XB57ck/s1600/IMG_20150117_170827.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pai Canyon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pai is one of those perfect towns
to jump on a scooter for the first time if you’ve never had the guts to do so
before. The town itself is not too busy, but most of the driving is done in the
countryside, weaving through the mountains. Waterfalls are dotted around the
area all accessible by either scooter and/or a short trek. Only a short ride
out of town was the Pai Canyon, which is what struck my interest. A spectacular
sunset view, and completely different from what I had expected. I guess though
when I think of a canyon my mind goes directly to the Grand Canyon. Ultimately
dangerous which always makes things more worth it, you can walk along the
raised rock walls that have been carved out over time. Free of safety railings
you must watch where you tread. A simple misstep could send you for a thirty
meter fall, but the further explored the greater the rewards.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk98NqzFNSqZBB_Q3_DoOAT3GwbTA1Ul8Sq3dGx4IPMQGTglLM3QokKjwSYQmHPjoD2Q1asHYgUC-5op32BdsYTVQOWujdSKpj1wMDxmQNpTQfzDZnziuZfxnfhFMT95ut4XM9-j_IC2M/s1600/IMG_20150117_171948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk98NqzFNSqZBB_Q3_DoOAT3GwbTA1Ul8Sq3dGx4IPMQGTglLM3QokKjwSYQmHPjoD2Q1asHYgUC-5op32BdsYTVQOWujdSKpj1wMDxmQNpTQfzDZnziuZfxnfhFMT95ut4XM9-j_IC2M/s1600/IMG_20150117_171948.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teeth in the cave wall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being a stop on the Mae Hong Son
loop, many rent a bike from Chiang Mai. Pai being the first stop then continuing
on to Mae Hong Son and so on. On quite a tight budget myself, I couldn’t afford
to do this unfortunately. A common stop on the way sixty kilometers from Pai is
the Tham Lod Cave, the biggest cave in Thailand. The drive alone is well worth
it, cruising through rural Thailand at your own pace with some beautiful
viewpoints along the way. Once at the cave, a local lady guided us through with
a little lantern emanating the dimmest light. Pointing out different rock
formations, some even resembling different animals, it was about a one hour
hike with a bamboo raft back to the entrance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqCDrcTP8YUsNFirla59QSBSBOH8GpoRM7hvcwTWvewEYtZsPWFJAPFE5YM2fXXh0KD54wU_5G6jfIcMaCfd7v_fN7TMpfqj0g5mTAjN_PqBW3nObRb22cwGlq8EqjECllkKpiDXWm27U/s1600/IMG_20150118_221004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqCDrcTP8YUsNFirla59QSBSBOH8GpoRM7hvcwTWvewEYtZsPWFJAPFE5YM2fXXh0KD54wU_5G6jfIcMaCfd7v_fN7TMpfqj0g5mTAjN_PqBW3nObRb22cwGlq8EqjECllkKpiDXWm27U/s1600/IMG_20150118_221004.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practicing staff</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Most of my time in Pai was spent
relaxing, practicing poi, staff and juggling over the view around the Circus
School until my ninth and final night. It was time, let’s light these things on
fire! A quick dip in the liquid paraffin, hold it to the flame and then slip into
a trance. The flames swirling around, just you and the fire. It feels as if you’re
moving so quickly, the rest of the world temporarily frozen. Just moving with
the music until the flames slowly fade and extinguish. Slipping out of the
state of trance, focus comes back to the rest of the world. I have always loved
playing with fire and now have a legitimate reason to continue to do so into my
adult life. Nine days was more than I had planned here, but still not enough. I
see why people remain forever, but unfortunately for me it was another 762
curves back down to Chiang Mai. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Watch my first attempts spinning fire on my YouTube page.</span><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCKjqSPc1bfPvXrPEHmoj7FA">https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCKjqSPc1bfPvXrPEHmoj7FA</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-64898154759910446502015-01-17T18:23:00.000-08:002015-01-17T18:23:53.651-08:00Handful of Thai Recipes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nam Jim Thale – Spicy Seafood Dipping Sauce<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nam Jim refers to dipping sauce in Thai, and there are many
different ones, this one used primarily for seafood but is great with fresh
rolls as well. Traditionally done with a mortar and pestle, it can easily be
done in a blender. As with a lot of Thai dishes, there should be a balance
between salt, spice, sour and sweet. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqSn0zqL7datx3Fqm7lOMyzeOjuj3mxQWOrBb-feqZLNNrlXI0zobp958f2zZ7iRRLNZeU342Ou6pg6xyV_cScbkQ5DB_n6Ji8n9Q_M_G2jUKaJ7x5iY4Kn9CTvdQOm7SzBhsDOSLrw4/s1600/IMG_20150109_174205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqSn0zqL7datx3Fqm7lOMyzeOjuj3mxQWOrBb-feqZLNNrlXI0zobp958f2zZ7iRRLNZeU342Ou6pg6xyV_cScbkQ5DB_n6Ji8n9Q_M_G2jUKaJ7x5iY4Kn9CTvdQOm7SzBhsDOSLrw4/s1600/IMG_20150109_174205.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thai Eggplant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10 cl garlic, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10 small green chilies, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1-2 bunches coriander, chopped, the roots chopped as well</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">60ml fish sauce</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">60ml lime juice</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 tbsp palm sugar </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a mortar and pestle pound the garlic, chilies and
coriander roots to a paste. Add fish sauce, lime juice and palm sugar, mix
until sugar is dissolved. Adjust to your tastes so it is balanced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nam Prik Pow – Chili Jam<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chili jam is added to numerous Thai dishes such as salads
and soups. Can be used in stir-fries or as a condiment. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvsq0aobDOAhLXvIc5JOGGJ2phgDgq89uTP-gFVqacj1klcNpCGkJi1FHe4xUUvOjhuTRKZ5MrjRQ25GDqYqgr6mhQICvxEdsW5D7Ju2yPDgmKAT0ogNvbyMlM9a9VY9RE6kuYBT1YuE/s1600/IMG_20150109_225238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivvsq0aobDOAhLXvIc5JOGGJ2phgDgq89uTP-gFVqacj1klcNpCGkJi1FHe4xUUvOjhuTRKZ5MrjRQ25GDqYqgr6mhQICvxEdsW5D7Ju2yPDgmKAT0ogNvbyMlM9a9VY9RE6kuYBT1YuE/s1600/IMG_20150109_225238.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chili Jam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">100g garlic – peeled and roasted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">100g shallots – peeled and roasted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">15 big, red dried chilies – roasted and rough chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">250ml oil</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">40g palm sugar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10g sugar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pinch of salt</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a mortar and pestle, pound the chilies until a powder,
then add the garlic and shallots. Continue to pound until smooth. Heat the oil
in a wok and cook the chili paste for about 5 minutes. Add the sugars and salt.
Let cool and store in the fridge for up to 6 months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tom Yam Goong – Thai Hot and Sour Prawn Soup, serves 4<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This soup is famous and is a great example of the bright
flavours of Thailand. This version is quite spicy so depending on your spice
tolerance you can definitely cut back on some of the chilies. Adding a spoonful
of the chili jam from above is a great addition to this soup.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">300g prawns, washed, peeled and deveined. Keep peelings and
heads</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGAcyajLDXnv4nd6hTHd8eTFQJA50my8FKJsUhR_bcNgtTtfHCiCPOZ5QZgm1t_Rwg9MW8-XK1OfQABlZBpV94BRXe4gmxzfVaY5Ta4VpjXjkAnZQq-9tWoJT-Icgvimvr4bJeTFdU_M/s1600/IMG_20150109_174354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTGAcyajLDXnv4nd6hTHd8eTFQJA50my8FKJsUhR_bcNgtTtfHCiCPOZ5QZgm1t_Rwg9MW8-XK1OfQABlZBpV94BRXe4gmxzfVaY5Ta4VpjXjkAnZQq-9tWoJT-Icgvimvr4bJeTFdU_M/s1600/IMG_20150109_174354.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom Yam Goong</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">750ml water or chicken stock</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6 cl garlic, crushed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">6 shallots, sliced</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 stalks lemongrass, lower 1/3 only, 1 inch pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10 thin slices ginza (galangal), ginger can be used</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">200g straw mushrooms, halved, can be replaced with other
mushrooms</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 tomatoes, cut into thin wedges</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">20 small green chilies, whole for less heat, halved or
minced for more </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">45ml fish sauce</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5 kaffir lime leaves, stem removed, torn into pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30ml lime juice</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10g coriander, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Place prawn heads and peelings in stock or water in a pot
and bring to the boil, simmer 5 minutes. Remove prawns, then add the garlic,
shallots, lemongrass, and ginza, simmer 2 minutes. Add mushrooms, tomatoes,
chilies, kaffir and fish sauce, simmer 2 minutes. Add prawns, simmer 1 minutes.
Remove from heat, stir in lime juice. Garnish with coriander.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nam Prik Gaeng Kheo Wan – Green Curry Paste, makes 100-130g
(4-5 tbsp)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Something you rarely see done properly or fresh anymore, it
really makes a difference. A blender can be used, but the mortar and pestle is
traditional and more stress relieving. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dry – 1 tsp coriander seeds, toasted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">½ tsp cumin seeds, toasted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXuEF__f5KDUf-j4lBQJRd9Eq8fw65P4CwTIW4tfJ-S3LTA6JFW3SC8t5p0WWHmTGldyexYWhKhua8bJYugcp8SCUcH1ZDth_xpyt5jgkV345gmpCoviffu35U6IWyf6GRhE5TM-mFSV0/s1600/IMG_20150109_224322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXuEF__f5KDUf-j4lBQJRd9Eq8fw65P4CwTIW4tfJ-S3LTA6JFW3SC8t5p0WWHmTGldyexYWhKhua8bJYugcp8SCUcH1ZDth_xpyt5jgkV345gmpCoviffu35U6IWyf6GRhE5TM-mFSV0/s1600/IMG_20150109_224322.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making Green Curry Paste</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">½ tsp black peppercorns, toasted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">½ tsp salt</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fresh – 5g ginza (galangal), chopped, ginger can be used</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">15g (1 tsp) lemongrass, lower 1/3 only, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5g (3 tbsp) kaffir lime peel, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">20g (1 tsp) coriander root, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10g (2 tbsp) shallots, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5g (1 tbsp) garlic, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5g (1 tsp) shrimp paste</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5g (1 tsp) turmeric, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">20 small green chilies, chopped</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30g (1 cup) sweet basil leaves</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Put dry ingredients into a mortar and pestle and grind until
a powder. Add fresh ingredients and pound for about 10 minutes until the paste
is smooth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gaeng Kheo Wan Gai – Green Curry with Chicken, serves 4<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of the most spicy and well known dishes of Thailand.
This dish can be made as thick or thin as you like it. Often it is served
thinner almost as a soup. A couple things that make this dish stand above
others is the use of fresh coconut cream and fresh green curry paste. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tip – To make your own coconut cream is the most expensive
method, but you also end up with the coconut water to drink and the best
flavour. Open 2-3 coconuts, scrape the meat from the shell and place in a food
processor. Press through a sieve to remove any bits left. If you don’t want to
go to these extremes for the natural separation that occurs in the wok, any oil
can be used, but the flavour won’t quite be the same.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">300g chicken breast, thinly sliced</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoSOeACBcuXUKVtJiV_tcutR1j7HExcoHvlTeI0At5TuGSjZLFKj1Ddo89IYVgXBdr8ZjWkD2FjLxddmuZSso9Co1TQvC3ZgrpbwXIE7mlLu4uVKG6txh8IRMDa1khHlfQsvHMv_k4bY/s1600/IMG_20150109_174245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoSOeACBcuXUKVtJiV_tcutR1j7HExcoHvlTeI0At5TuGSjZLFKj1Ddo89IYVgXBdr8ZjWkD2FjLxddmuZSso9Co1TQvC3ZgrpbwXIE7mlLu4uVKG6txh8IRMDa1khHlfQsvHMv_k4bY/s1600/IMG_20150109_174245.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pea Eggplant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">250ml coconut cream, keep 30mls aside</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">250ml coconut milk</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">100g (4 tbsp) green curry paste</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3 large Thai eggplant, cut into ½ slices</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">50g pea eggplants</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">40g (2 tbsp) palm sugar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30ml (2 tbsp) fish sauce</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 kaffir lime leaves, torn into pieces discarding the stem</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30g (1 cup) sweet basil leaves, save some for garnish</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 large red chili, sliced</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Put the coconut cream into a wok and fry for 3-5 minutes, continuously
stirring until the oil begins to separate. Then add the green curry paste and
fry for 1-2 minutes. Add the chicken and cook until the outside has turned
white. Add the coconut milk and bring to the boil, then adding the eggplants.
Simmer for 4 minutes. Add the palm sugar, fish sauce, kaffir and basil leaves.
Turn of the heat once well combined and garnish with slice chilies, basil and a
drizzle of the remaining coconut cream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pad Prio Wan Phak – Sweet and Sour Vegetables, serves 4<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">45ml (3tbsp) oil</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuM4EbpScGJf_CthtVYl2-28E8ZBDzQnsXCQuoFUk1nZ-6ZxNgF0MYwWMn9ccU-4FyaqlaYtGhgwUXqy5awNxGdbqwodVT5IKjZJYdH4WlcQB2TNW2JHvUAGdBpjPkfOLRDf61vdu7h0/s1600/IMG_20150109_173501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCuM4EbpScGJf_CthtVYl2-28E8ZBDzQnsXCQuoFUk1nZ-6ZxNgF0MYwWMn9ccU-4FyaqlaYtGhgwUXqy5awNxGdbqwodVT5IKjZJYdH4WlcQB2TNW2JHvUAGdBpjPkfOLRDf61vdu7h0/s1600/IMG_20150109_173501.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet and Sour Vegetables</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5 cloves garlic, crushed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 onion, cut into bite size pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">100g cauliflower, cut into bite size pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 medium carrot, peeled and cut into thin slices</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 cucumber, cut into 1 inch pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">8 baby corn, halved lengthwise </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">220g pineapple, cut into bite size pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 large red chili, seeds removed, thinly sliced</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 tomatoes, cut into bite size pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">70g snow peas</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">60ml (1/4 cup) water or stock</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sauce – 15ml (1 tbsp) lime juice</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30g (3 tbsp) sugar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">15ml (1 tbsp) fish sauce</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">15ml (1 tbsp) oyster sauce</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">15ml (1 tbsp) soy sauce</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">45ml (3 tbsp) tomato sauce or ketchup (might need less sugar
if using prepared ketchup)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Heat the oil in a wok and fry the garlic and onions. Add the
cauliflower and carrot followed by the cucumber, baby corn, and pineapple.
Stir-fry for 2 minutes. Add the tomatoes, snow peas and stir-fry 1 minute longer.
Add water or stock, bring to a simmer. Add the sauce ingredients and stir to
combine. Adjust if necessary, serve.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Som Tam – Papaya Salad<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Very popular among both Thai people and foreigners. This can
be made as spicy as you like it and is traditionally prepared with a mortar and
pestle. Locals generally eat this with sticky rice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">200g green papaya (unripe mango could be used), peeled and
grated into thin strips</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3 cloves garlic</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMciK_FMAO_AO0cW49ymoUYXhP_T6EYsUbAX43CJg7UfRDYbTidYRjfoP-im1jJ8QxAGYOw7q8gKB5d9xnU2uH0FztG7e_72UpKaa8Du4luX8fvjX_8VaYpz4gGrCO6AWAyjTpPoNQRs/s1600/IMG_20150109_224235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijMciK_FMAO_AO0cW49ymoUYXhP_T6EYsUbAX43CJg7UfRDYbTidYRjfoP-im1jJ8QxAGYOw7q8gKB5d9xnU2uH0FztG7e_72UpKaa8Du4luX8fvjX_8VaYpz4gGrCO6AWAyjTpPoNQRs/s1600/IMG_20150109_224235.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papaya Salad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10 small green chilies</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">2 long beans (green beans can be used), cut into 1 inch
pieces</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5g (2 tbsp) dried shrimp</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30ml (2 tbsp) fish sauce</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30ml (2 tbsp) lime juice</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">10g (1 tsp) palm sugar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 tomato, slice into thin wedges</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30g (2 tbsp) peanuts, roasted</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Place the garlic, chilies and long beans in the mortar and
pestle and pound roughly. Add the green papaya pounding again to bruise the
ingredients. Then add the dried shrimp, fish sauce, lime juice, palm sugar and
stir together with the pestle and spoon until palm sugar is combined. Add the
peanuts and mix together. Serve with sticky rice. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Khanom Kluay – Steamed Banana Cake, serves 6<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A very simple cake to prepare and a nice alternative to the traditional
banana bread everyone is used to. These can be steamed in banana leaf boats or
little individual bowls. If you don't want to grate your own fresh coconut, you
can used unsweetened desiccated coconut, just soak for 10 minutes before hand.
This is also gluten free!</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6OuRHPip-T1enHzZpYJNyfJSecM_L-CIOLCHTE7_Zbo6J49hfPXVcsYIaEkZ3TddDAw7tUVaq1v6RO1y0ECX6JiK4YJBncDJZHnblVHfsLxahqadh-KGTP_KVnwHC1kiA4yQ_lG9WUf4/s1600/IMG_20150109_173320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6OuRHPip-T1enHzZpYJNyfJSecM_L-CIOLCHTE7_Zbo6J49hfPXVcsYIaEkZ3TddDAw7tUVaq1v6RO1y0ECX6JiK4YJBncDJZHnblVHfsLxahqadh-KGTP_KVnwHC1kiA4yQ_lG9WUf4/s1600/IMG_20150109_173320.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banana cakes getting ready to steam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">5 bananas, mashed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">120g (1 cup) rice flour</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">30g (1/4 cup) tapioca flour</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">130g (1 ½ cup) sugar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">½ tsp salt</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">125ml (½ cup) coconut cream</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">100g (3 cups) grated coconut</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mix all the ingredients in a bowl until well combined,
saving ¼ of the grated coconut. Place into banana leaf boats or bowls, sprinkle
remaining grated coconut on top and steam for 30 minutes. Can be served warm or
room temperature. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-38607854782092310772015-01-09T07:37:00.000-08:002015-01-09T07:37:44.396-08:00Working in a Thai Kitchen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I’ve been working in restaurants for over ten years now,
most of them spent cooking, working my way from a dishwasher to a sous chef.
For anyone who knows me or reads these blog posts of mine knows that when I
travel my main purpose is to learn as much as I can about the food. I’ll take
cooking classes when possible, talk with locals about where and what to eat and
search out local cuisine and strange delicacies trying just about anything I
can get my hands on. It’s not all amazing but it’s all worth a shot. So when
the opportunity came to help out briefly in a local Thai restaurant in
Kanchanaburi, Thailand, there was no chance I was going to pass it up. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTni_pHCkmxtyD-u4Au8a4d1DsJWQv7hZ5QQzScshSr4vTIfEjP3aDLEV1oJ3cw6UFZiD42jJXQu7FBDhu5tnlHZ9Hi7L-2IG1_teD_QZCubKXmhLxoBjihh9zCKMn8mUyeiy0PdGwMfg/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTni_pHCkmxtyD-u4Au8a4d1DsJWQv7hZ5QQzScshSr4vTIfEjP3aDLEV1oJ3cw6UFZiD42jJXQu7FBDhu5tnlHZ9Hi7L-2IG1_teD_QZCubKXmhLxoBjihh9zCKMn8mUyeiy0PdGwMfg/s1600/6.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Originally
only coming here to see the Bridge over the River Kwai, I was introduced to the
owner of the Jolly Frog. A guesthouse catering to budget travellers, but the
restaurant in front brought in many locals from all over town. I asked if I
could poke my head in the kitchen for a couple days, but it turned out we both
had something to offer each other. We discussed what he wanted which was a very
simple and recognizable Mexican menu. I told him I would return in two weeks
after a visa run with a template and ingredient list.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Upon my
return, I handed over my menu in which he chose five dishes. Enchiladas,
quesadillas, fajitas, black bean and rice burritos and nachos done with the
choice of pork, beef or chicken were the winning items. Time to source what we
could in the small city and improvise here and there. Instead of nachos it
became the normal toppings over French fries. Having about one to one and a
half dollars for each dish I had to cost the menu. Something I hadn’t done
much of since culinary school. Good refresher. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjixRuLLE4iapMpXpC62FqkGDVxiHDq5lw4SnQS2t1SYQigR1cQaoTmqeapXUtTXBVWpFzwGL5XDdNTjrQe86AnV1xr_8xBxhLhyphenhyphenysKMGfkCJ5uFVZQL0cinOEYfiBvdFEBFEbCW0vNlo/s1600/IMG_20141107_212404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjixRuLLE4iapMpXpC62FqkGDVxiHDq5lw4SnQS2t1SYQigR1cQaoTmqeapXUtTXBVWpFzwGL5XDdNTjrQe86AnV1xr_8xBxhLhyphenhyphenysKMGfkCJ5uFVZQL0cinOEYfiBvdFEBFEbCW0vNlo/s1600/IMG_20141107_212404.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset from the garden of the Jolly Frog</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is
where the fun began! Back into the kitchen after seven months away from knifes.
It was an amazing feeling to spread my travelling knife roll across the counter
and put them to work again. At first I was a little nervous to ‘invade’ a local
kitchen, that in twenty four years never had a ‘farang’ (foreigner) working
behind the line. The kitchen staff was made up of local women who spoke as much
English as I spoke Thai, so I knew this would be an interesting experience to
say the least. They accepted me openly into their kitchen with the expected
smiles, talking and giggles amongst themselves, eager to learn something new
and teach me what they knew. I could do the same since they wouldn’t understand
me either but I would have looked crazy since I would have been talking and
laughing to myself. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiJjbeTq8QuxoeV267_wXYYZ8IC3of_gK7FTQNR8o-zwUaXBP_LYoADt47Df7Acx5NI9YaF5T-3w19J7r5VdWfdBvpSsg5cfyHSYVL_xUlHYSwCuj3T94aMYuaWZbrD8VQlEKXfGihL0/s1600/IMG_20140826_132621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNiJjbeTq8QuxoeV267_wXYYZ8IC3of_gK7FTQNR8o-zwUaXBP_LYoADt47Df7Acx5NI9YaF5T-3w19J7r5VdWfdBvpSsg5cfyHSYVL_xUlHYSwCuj3T94aMYuaWZbrD8VQlEKXfGihL0/s1600/IMG_20140826_132621.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pad Kra Pao</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They picked
up everything quickly for the prep/cooking just by watching and always taking
notes, since I couldn’t explain what I was doing. It’s unbelievable how much
communication can be done with your hands, through demonstration and a genuine
interest in learning. To them they found it very humorous to have a farang in
their kitchen, trying to help where possible, watching over shoulders as they
prepared their dishes so effortlessly, or attempting to speak the Thai that I
was slowly learning. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As time
passed they began to let me control the wok with certain dishes such as Khao
Pad (fried rice), Pad Kra pao (meat stir fried with chili and basil), Pad Prio
Wan (sweet and sour), Pad Thai, Pad Siew and more while simply watching with
many others taking notes. As well as watching the menu items be made, I got the
chance to watch and eat the dishes they made for themselves for the daily staff
meal. Every day they made sure I sat down with them to eat, I think for their
amusement more than anything. They would watch me try things and break out in a
sweat from the intense amount of chili, or different dishes not usually enjoyed
by the western palate to see how I would react, such as ‘nam prik kapi’ a spicy
shrimp paste dipping sauce. I always enjoyed what they prepared and appreciated
the opportunity to eat them. It definitely gave my heat tolerance a workout.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6iZcKEmo2Dv_GULsi9mLYsazSxyxDyxpoo1hNwh4axILyOBcPjbhSvH3q9u6i_FUFX94IWIZAQiQCVWuEV_t0wTKXg2yboYDNivWS-Y_TG0t_eEBr0_ewtFNWqFrDb-sMmdQMsiQnXE/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6iZcKEmo2Dv_GULsi9mLYsazSxyxDyxpoo1hNwh4axILyOBcPjbhSvH3q9u6i_FUFX94IWIZAQiQCVWuEV_t0wTKXg2yboYDNivWS-Y_TG0t_eEBr0_ewtFNWqFrDb-sMmdQMsiQnXE/s1600/5.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nam Prik Kapi </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Walking
into a foreign kitchen of any kind respect has to be shown in the way that
things are done. Watch and observe, maybe it is a better way then you
previously knew, or perhaps you can improve upon their methods. This especially
goes for a foreign kitchen of another culture. Many things if not just about
everything was different from what I knew. Health and safety standards are at
the opposite end of the spectrum from North America, not that I agree with the
ridiculousness of our standards but that’s not for me to decide. Nevertheless,
everything I had been taught throughout my time in culinary school and as a
cook were temporarily thrown out the window. Coming from more than one kitchen
I’ve poked my head into, cross contamination doesn’t exist in the same manner.
The length of time product can sit out at room temperature is extended. We had
cats running through the kitchen scavenging scraps, which I didn’t mind (I know
some would), but on the upside I never saw a single rat near the premises. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWiXIDADt3TBfkEPD7BiJ0gcWH4FkJKcILlxw-ZXBEfmnVSFLtzxrOyLs6QKnkHKZrYiO_ZldD_NCsH2FYcFh05jsAMmhm4ScM0a-4jI6U8HseZ1Q6u85CNaErM4YJOIGVpXZQt5Gx58/s1600/IMG_20141111_171728.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtWiXIDADt3TBfkEPD7BiJ0gcWH4FkJKcILlxw-ZXBEfmnVSFLtzxrOyLs6QKnkHKZrYiO_ZldD_NCsH2FYcFh05jsAMmhm4ScM0a-4jI6U8HseZ1Q6u85CNaErM4YJOIGVpXZQt5Gx58/s1600/IMG_20141111_171728.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Most of the kitchen staff</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
end I was extremely sad to be leaving this tremendous group of ladies, but felt
so blessed that they welcomed me into their kitchen and taught me some of their
cuisine and were happy to learn some of mine. I learned a lot in such a short
time and look forward to returning to maybe spend a day or two behind the wok
again. This was such a unique experience that I’m sure most chefs don’t get and
I’m grateful to have had the opportunity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-53716104164842817552015-01-01T01:08:00.001-08:002015-01-01T01:08:46.804-08:00Back to the Land of Smiles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Landing back in Suvarnabhumi, an airport I’ve been inside a handful
of times. I rushed outside, this time looking to embrace that heat wave that
smacks you in the face once you step out. After being on the road for about
six months, it’s nice to have a sense of familiarity. Where to go, how to get
there, what to do, the basic formalities. It’s a small sense of comfort even
though it has been two and a half years since I’ve been in Bangkok and I know
new and unexpected things still lurk around every corner.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-a9A1Jae7lXWU9ZH2zWUjpsa7IBJwcNdR3LFCDY9KKMG4RjvLaKGLyC8tvwUJigkBUxBSdI1g62ZPvhF5B8b2C9o-IYU-1SvqugfI09UAg7tPYS-FGpQSDVuTsEHwQRZPOWav9tCtW5k/s1600/IMG_20141228_211900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-a9A1Jae7lXWU9ZH2zWUjpsa7IBJwcNdR3LFCDY9KKMG4RjvLaKGLyC8tvwUJigkBUxBSdI1g62ZPvhF5B8b2C9o-IYU-1SvqugfI09UAg7tPYS-FGpQSDVuTsEHwQRZPOWav9tCtW5k/s1600/IMG_20141228_211900.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khao San Road</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For a few
reasons I was heading to the notorious backpacker area of Khao San Road, the
gateway to Southeast Asia for probably ninety five percent of backpackers. To
start with, I never actually spent a night here on my last trip, so I thought
it was time to see what all the hype was about. Last time I only saw the
aftermath as I was dropped off around five in the morning. People staggering
back to their hostels when they realized the sun was up and a few working girls
trying for a last minute grab. Secondly the accommodation can be very cheap depending
on your standards (mine are quite low), and lastly I didn’t want to be here
long. Most of the tourist buses leave from the area and I was heading south as
soon as I could.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNE3lCi_VJNx0Mo8PcYuBoQIQdEXZo6TnpgPvzbGJJetFSmxMmPVjUcx5Q16BB3UYMW64O43-3nHgCib6IyBHsDCxY6tYVPEaD7VVYIqkH_QHIcHf_JTO5yH4hofT1Cq79uPiLZvVELw/s1600/IMG_20141228_211955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiNE3lCi_VJNx0Mo8PcYuBoQIQdEXZo6TnpgPvzbGJJetFSmxMmPVjUcx5Q16BB3UYMW64O43-3nHgCib6IyBHsDCxY6tYVPEaD7VVYIqkH_QHIcHf_JTO5yH4hofT1Cq79uPiLZvVELw/s1600/IMG_20141228_211955.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scorpion pusher</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> After getting
off the flight, out of the cab and finding a place for about six dollars, I
thought it was time to hit the street, join the crowd. At this point I had
little idea of how this night would play out. I planned on a few beers and probably
a bucket for old time sake, but due to the world cup football match that was
on, that was just the beginning. Next thing I know there’s scorpion in my
belly, the sun is in my eyes and somehow I’m helping someone get to the
hospital in my state. After this I realized maybe I should quit while I can
still walk and hit the bed instead of the pavement.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHrSv0wyaHBuA0Z3sKJFxHhwwRgZR25TsS1bOYVfMx-QFjVoJXIG3m43TN6Pn6GsrqRgkFEtWH5jf3Tb_X2Xw4CRZF6SgfAjpxb4xHQxZFkduZVWkabS2oZuFlprVbg-cQi51gO45VD4/s1600/IMG_20141228_212042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCHrSv0wyaHBuA0Z3sKJFxHhwwRgZR25TsS1bOYVfMx-QFjVoJXIG3m43TN6Pn6GsrqRgkFEtWH5jf3Tb_X2Xw4CRZF6SgfAjpxb4xHQxZFkduZVWkabS2oZuFlprVbg-cQi51gO45VD4/s1600/IMG_20141228_212042.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silk worm pupae</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> When I managed to crawl from my
bed, I went straight to buy a bus ticket south. I didn’t need a repeat night.
Khao San Road is a wild place where you never know what shenanigans will ensue,
but for me it’s a place of one or two days before I need to leave. I was going
to meet one of my best friends on Koh Pha Ngan, for the world renowned Full
Moon Party in a couple days (another thing I missed on my last trip), and
thought a rest might be a smart choice. I must be getting wiser. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQ_Oxt6vXXgxmXr0l6LmzWW3TudnGhxp47IeIAYPoY9ziBvhrOPSGxbGYzHi48X3a9SCeivEyXK77d94blg6cOgEAE6WqilSBzvb1rm1jDdtSLRhGnN_uwYWZWA9DZo9n-azOmVzw_4k/s1600/IMG_20141228_212118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcQ_Oxt6vXXgxmXr0l6LmzWW3TudnGhxp47IeIAYPoY9ziBvhrOPSGxbGYzHi48X3a9SCeivEyXK77d94blg6cOgEAE6WqilSBzvb1rm1jDdtSLRhGnN_uwYWZWA9DZo9n-azOmVzw_4k/s1600/IMG_20141228_212118.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Being back in Thailand has been something
I’ve dreamed about since I left Southeast Asia. From the moment I got home, I
was inspired to see more of Asia and immediately started saving for this trip.
It’s so nice to return with a smile on my face!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-78919096933053365992014-12-22T02:41:00.000-08:002014-12-22T02:41:54.219-08:00Breaching the Unknown Part 4 - Conquering the Pass<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoDHSElLU1ODRInhwIQrQy8CSz8ZzHGMBu0HH1g4piZKpkmfB8shvNiHnsdR8j19MoWS0AU_6pn3rwuGxeeKLNG49AB03jTrks1LuZDhoXpxClXrQD6ASFOroXcTeblBjzzTQg58-_mGY/s1600/IMG_20140706_092933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoDHSElLU1ODRInhwIQrQy8CSz8ZzHGMBu0HH1g4piZKpkmfB8shvNiHnsdR8j19MoWS0AU_6pn3rwuGxeeKLNG49AB03jTrks1LuZDhoXpxClXrQD6ASFOroXcTeblBjzzTQg58-_mGY/s1600/IMG_20140706_092933.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khoo, a local Manang dish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Day 9 – Nothing like trying some yak meat first thing in the
morning. A dish local to the Manang region, Khoo. A rice and potato porridge
with fried yak meat and chives on top. An extremely simple dish, but so
flavourful. A prime example of how the mountain villages make the most of what
they have to work with. I found the yak meat similar to beef with a stronger
flavour, slightly gamey. Comparable to the difference between lamb and mutton. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leaving
Yak Kharka walking through pastures with yaks grazing (the literal translation
of Yak Kharka, yak pastures), it was a short day and reasonably effortless day
compared to previous days. Over a couple dodgy looking bridges and Thorong
Phedi appeared around the edge of the mountain. We decided to spend the night
here instead of going up to the high camp, only about an hour further up a
steep path.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day 10 –
Rest.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day 11 –
Five in the morning, that time when you would rather throw your alarm across
the room. It was hard to get motivated, the rest day had taken my momentum and
the poor weather didn’t help. It had rained recently and the clouds threatened
it might again. I couldn’t justify sitting around another day, I was anxious to
reach the pinnacle of the Annapurna Circuit and conquer the Thorong-La Pass.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbPEZp9GGnjYaagLBxg6lgDHagoeeehjaVUDH2v_TjPGOn4wQvKLpOAiBrLOqdD_mqr88q43Mb1_YZcK0QsgmoMTK4xOyUdGwOJOa23FuZ_tAUYM3CfpJPV9LtosG4KBmU-rwGTIfFBE/s1600/IMG_20140706_185510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbPEZp9GGnjYaagLBxg6lgDHagoeeehjaVUDH2v_TjPGOn4wQvKLpOAiBrLOqdD_mqr88q43Mb1_YZcK0QsgmoMTK4xOyUdGwOJOa23FuZ_tAUYM3CfpJPV9LtosG4KBmU-rwGTIfFBE/s1600/IMG_20140706_185510.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the pinnacle, Thorong-La pass 5416m</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First
stage was to climb the steep path to high camp, recommended to do the evening
before. Now I see why, as doing this first thing in the early morning was, well
let’s say not ideal. A quick tea break, then the final two hour ascent of six
hundred meters to the climax. My quads burning, my chest heaving, but as the
mountain of prayer flags came into view, I was flooded with an overwhelming
sense of accomplishment. A fresh wave of energy flowed through my veins as I
almost broke out into a run to reach it. One of my most rewarding
accomplishments.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQ7gmuqjx_H3g94EadLwcv59Zo64R-f9QmgwBGV8-_Wl8orVdINlnhWrm9fx6p-hmXnSkH6zGOlZ4QGqt3aejhQJu8yrN1hu1LGSvyNdvTJ5ahJgTYcTuSoOVkei_mngDWmQGyNeSU18/s1600/IMG_20140712_171840.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQ7gmuqjx_H3g94EadLwcv59Zo64R-f9QmgwBGV8-_Wl8orVdINlnhWrm9fx6p-hmXnSkH6zGOlZ4QGqt3aejhQJu8yrN1hu1LGSvyNdvTJ5ahJgTYcTuSoOVkei_mngDWmQGyNeSU18/s1600/IMG_20140712_171840.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking in the valley on the way to Muktinath</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
celebratory shot of whiskey was slugged back as the photo shoot began, everyone
getting their fair share of pictures at 5416 meters, crossing the Thorong-La
pass. Unfortunately the weather wasn’t on our sides obscuring the view with
thick cloud cover. Sitting around enjoying the atmosphere of such a tremendous
achievement, after thirty minutes a light snow began to fall and it was time to
accept that the only way forward was back down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three
hours of constant downhill put the strain on my knees to stop me from running
forward. At the beginning it was barren mountain desert, void of most life. It
had a quiet beauty of its own as I lost everyone in the thick fog. The clean
air, arid landscape and noiselessness of it all cleared my mind, taking my
thoughts into the vast expanse of nothingness. Breaking through the fog into
the valley leading down to Muktinath was a view meant only for the eyes. Almost
a shame to even bother capturing it on film. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcXpfyzWcaFqVpQW_4S_-bMTPneyEDghB9nX-ax8B1ZpO5z_BZ8nIM-AxRIU-nlBdbTKmzbGE5hBrPqCiIKqPFnlQoXLVwGDc29cTngypEGbsSByOZK-uRR5-epinIk3UGPJGohBi3J1g/s1600/IMG_20140710_122301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcXpfyzWcaFqVpQW_4S_-bMTPneyEDghB9nX-ax8B1ZpO5z_BZ8nIM-AxRIU-nlBdbTKmzbGE5hBrPqCiIKqPFnlQoXLVwGDc29cTngypEGbsSByOZK-uRR5-epinIk3UGPJGohBi3J1g/s1600/IMG_20140710_122301.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yak Donald's combo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day 12 –
Originally planning on renting mountain bikes to carry on to Jomsom, there was
none available due to off season. Oh well, what’s one more day of trekking.
Only downside was for the most part we were back on the developing road with
minivans, cars and bikes honking away, disturbing the peace. An annoyance I had
almost forgotten about. A short stop in Kagbeni, the entrance to the Mustang
region of Nepal (special permits required to go any farther), to eat at a
restaurant I heard so much about, Yak Donald’s. One of those things you have to
try. I ordered up the Yak Donald’s combo, a yak burger with yak cheese, fries,
salad and sea buckthorn juice. Simply put, McDonald’s has some competition.
Much better food, if your one who considers McDonald’s food. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next
morning we caught a bus from Jomsom back to Pokhara since everyone was running
short on time left in the country. This was one the best experiences of my
life, physically and mentally pushing myself to limits I was unaware of
beforehand. The people, culture, scenery of the Himalayas is incomparable to
anything I’ve come across before. The food humble and unique to the region. This
is an experience I wouldn’t wish on anybody, but would recommend to everybody. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-84779338983958598322014-12-08T01:35:00.000-08:002014-12-08T01:35:08.140-08:00Breaching the Unknown Part 3 - Tilicho Lake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxUr-g-UCoxyareSwtjbwJ-_f6bYjZ4tUNDKSYk79na2PUnS9PQpGGChgNx42Tuq5HVJRapOTMW_6k8L4CP_dIC6W1bnqJAUqJQ8DF4IBVQMNqUZ6tjEfZZDOjq3Xs_YuLIWu-6RLr40/s1600/IMG_20141207_211829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUxUr-g-UCoxyareSwtjbwJ-_f6bYjZ4tUNDKSYk79na2PUnS9PQpGGChgNx42Tuq5HVJRapOTMW_6k8L4CP_dIC6W1bnqJAUqJQ8DF4IBVQMNqUZ6tjEfZZDOjq3Xs_YuLIWu-6RLr40/s1600/IMG_20141207_211829.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Day 6</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Day 6 – It’s recommended that once you reach Manang that a
day is taken to rest and acclimatize to the elevation. Since I made it here in
five days, one day ahead of the guidebooks I probably shouldn’t have left at
seven in the morning to take on the most difficult and dangerous side trek on
the Annapurna circuit. They also recommend not trekking this section by
yourself. Since I happened to meet another group of seven trekkers who were
going in the morning, I had two choices. Skip acclimatization or trek by myself
the following day, so off I went. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTq39kwP84DFK9L2gXcY1xW0dpKkf0krpEIqQbjBoat1zI2tKuRB_mIe1FvoPfv9y84nU5j0uEW30Z5G6v3HOj_pulN_hdeGWgek193HxIQ5ny36Ei-gUfRotmzHpUkSAPHnRnO_tkYw/s1600/IMG_20141207_211557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGTq39kwP84DFK9L2gXcY1xW0dpKkf0krpEIqQbjBoat1zI2tKuRB_mIe1FvoPfv9y84nU5j0uEW30Z5G6v3HOj_pulN_hdeGWgek193HxIQ5ny36Ei-gUfRotmzHpUkSAPHnRnO_tkYw/s1600/IMG_20141207_211557.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids of Khangsar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
the most strenuous part of the day, we had stopped in the small village of
Khangsar for a quick snack break, all craving for a snickers. Once we left, it
was almost constant climbing on a hard to decipher path until we reached the
landslide crossing. This said to be the most dangerous section of the trek. It
was a potential death trap where one slip or accidental waver with the weight
on your back sending you off balance to a gravelly doom. The gravel slipping
beneath my feet to the abyss below, threatening to take me with it if I didn’t
keep moving forward. The path at points only as wide as my foot having to place
one directly in front of the other. If there wasn’t enough to worry about even
though it was an adrenaline rush, a constant eye and ear had to be aware of the
potential of falling rocks from above. Making it safely across, a reasonably
smooth path led us into the Tilicho Base Camp for the night. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0LHh04EK8dG31bDD0NhJFkNfzngT8HaIlnCokLls-we-hDZQcHnx-2YUhdBSybz3Q1ccYW67ivmwQ0LnrqtQ4Rggevj7ZGi0eu7iQNLpgMiAKK9zoqAWmM5uvDAA_pctKFObyXsk0Qg/s1600/IMG_20140704_183759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR0LHh04EK8dG31bDD0NhJFkNfzngT8HaIlnCokLls-we-hDZQcHnx-2YUhdBSybz3Q1ccYW67ivmwQ0LnrqtQ4Rggevj7ZGi0eu7iQNLpgMiAKK9zoqAWmM5uvDAA_pctKFObyXsk0Qg/s1600/IMG_20140704_183759.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day 7 –
Sleeping in slightly for the first time since setting out, it was a ten o’clock
start for an eight hundred meter climb. The steepest and most constant ascent,
trekking only uphill for three hours with about one hour worth of breaks. The
air becoming so thin, the lack of oxygen kicking me in the chest today. I’d
never seen my chest heave up and down so much and rapidly attempting to catch
my breath but never quite succeeding. It was a demoralizing climb at points,
thinking you’ve been climbing forever and gone so far when around every bend it
just got steeper. A pounding headache came on quick, but luckily with the help
of a couple peracytamols, it faded just as fast. This is clearly why
acclimatization is important. Finally flat land was under my feet and Tilicho
Lake (one of the highest lakes in the world, 4950m) appeared before my eyes.
The turquoise pool fed by a glacier, surrounded by snow-capped mountains was
one of the most beautiful and rewarding sights I’ve ever embraced with my own
two eyes. Truly seemed like the home of a mythical being where one would
pilgrimage to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeNtANcjR5cLVXvRaBpw8UGLMQLtf62GwHmhG5OpHWjjTWFrB9aTenbD8jNpZ6pH2VnXCA9l4NWXgT0pe0-OL89njwKh3u2BeRGtQ2-29PpclqX-bWgE1X4zLH9Qqu7Kq2le0ZgtJbExo/s1600/IMG_20140701_001621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeNtANcjR5cLVXvRaBpw8UGLMQLtf62GwHmhG5OpHWjjTWFrB9aTenbD8jNpZ6pH2VnXCA9l4NWXgT0pe0-OL89njwKh3u2BeRGtQ2-29PpclqX-bWgE1X4zLH9Qqu7Kq2le0ZgtJbExo/s1600/IMG_20140701_001621.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inuksuk at Tilicho Lake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A plan
to light a fire and cook some instant noodles for lunch was put out by the wind
and the light drizzle of wet snow that was beginning to fall. In the meantime
while everyone made their attempts at lighting one, I built an Inuksuk and
decorated it with some prayer flags. A little bit of Canada left behind mixed
with Nepal and Tibet. Once the idea of lunch had been forgotten, we made haste
back down to our lodging as the rain was picking up. Strolling back into base
camp was a relieving feeling after such a demanding and rewarding day. Dinner
and the warmth from an actual fire was in order. It would have been an
extremely trying day had I been by myself. Sometimes the helpful push from your
group is needed besides my own drive and stubbornness.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ojTNutPLelDTAK345cYPTsYYBd9isc6CIfbCPKgIHZVqRWWWUgucyv2zlcu65xikhjywNVCp5NzpxSRrxNrnwrNPa2a3ogjoRz-l7rLXPVn0YRVfetmiqqWq6x_Hh7ZoboTS0YIVGOs/s1600/IMG_20141207_212134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ojTNutPLelDTAK345cYPTsYYBd9isc6CIfbCPKgIHZVqRWWWUgucyv2zlcu65xikhjywNVCp5NzpxSRrxNrnwrNPa2a3ogjoRz-l7rLXPVn0YRVfetmiqqWq6x_Hh7ZoboTS0YIVGOs/s1600/IMG_20141207_212134.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing the land</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day 8 –
It was time to get back on the initial Annapurna circuit via the side trail
leading up to Yak Karka. First things first was to follow our way back and over
the landslide area again. This time it seemed a lot less daunting. Once across
the path forked, one going back where we had come, the other heading up and
around the side of a mountain. Randomly there was what seemed like an abandoned
village, run down and lifeless except for a few livestock that were still
residing in the barns. Over the last peak for the day, and I began to descend
through a forested section with a scent at first I could not decipher.
Constantly inhaling deeply through my nose, I realized it to be the aroma of
apples and cinnamon baking. Odd but pleasant. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6dIxqkKIC_XI1Bru7kc4H-IBsTrAg4ewWPqX8Tski9Rgs6jyMp_g3j6sSBmhEgjnvOMUiT8kRDXl6W9hPVJKalgpBdfNlT3KTmXtSobCr_udcWm0GRNNx_SMhMAwGYqjpcvgY6rgtmE/s1600/IMG_20141207_212405.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6dIxqkKIC_XI1Bru7kc4H-IBsTrAg4ewWPqX8Tski9Rgs6jyMp_g3j6sSBmhEgjnvOMUiT8kRDXl6W9hPVJKalgpBdfNlT3KTmXtSobCr_udcWm0GRNNx_SMhMAwGYqjpcvgY6rgtmE/s1600/IMG_20141207_212405.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seemingly abandoned village</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the
bottom of the valley I crossed over the Thorong River with only the last
stretch along the road to Yak Karka ahead of me. I met a local from Kathmandu
who was sitting on the bridge with a notebook. At first I thought maybe he was
an artist, but as we made the last hour hike together he explained his job,
which had me a little jealous. He would spend about 15 days each month trekking
from Besi Sahar to the last town before the Thorong-La Pass inspecting the
bridges and reporting back if maintenance was needed. Once I reached town and
slipped off my boots it was relaxing to see a group of locals crowded around
the television trying to keep up to date with the FIFA World Cup, a great way
to end the Tilicho Lake Side Trek.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-90788502417688132192014-11-29T02:27:00.000-08:002014-11-29T02:27:09.513-08:00Breaching the Unknown - Part 2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Day 4 – Stiff, muscles tightened, I awoke with the pain of
an intense workout at the gym. This was a natural gym at its best. My body took
a thrashing after yesterdays forced hike trying to get ahead of schedule. Sore
and aching, I stretched it out as best I could with my very brief knowledge of
yoga, but the show must go on. I loaded up on breakfast, muesli and boiled
eggs. Nothing but protein and carbs, hoping to keep me going for the day. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-gfoGlMEJctt5EiXP_4gx6wxasWPJIEbqwYty5wqeQ8ylYJkbZhXLBDBA0DsjDgUNqxoZyYAqX3qgzQqcpSV7DGlKMfKfO90emqXibjEqtgXL25ZC5xEZBblPY0UBf4LjUlhsneZj6o/s1600/IMG_20140702_162706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-gfoGlMEJctt5EiXP_4gx6wxasWPJIEbqwYty5wqeQ8ylYJkbZhXLBDBA0DsjDgUNqxoZyYAqX3qgzQqcpSV7DGlKMfKfO90emqXibjEqtgXL25ZC5xEZBblPY0UBf4LjUlhsneZj6o/s1600/IMG_20140702_162706.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I packed my things, it began
to drizzle but I didn’t want to set out any later. I had a goal I wanted to
meet for the day, staying ahead of schedule. Instead of breaking into a heavy
downpour, luckily it only left the ground damp and ceased after a half an hour.
With or without the rain I was soaked through due to the steep ascents. Always
trying to keep my eyes out for wild berries, anything recognizable so I can
inquire in the next town about them, I found some wild strawberries alongside
the trail. The one benefit I think to hire a guide opposed to taking it on
yourself for me would be learning more about foraging for edibles in the
Himalayas. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQNQ7KqLv2Xpit6BvfY8Obfyx2a-_wbyXuiaflSBQz2EwKYeiWc0dP8qC1-QUlKr8b2GkyTCmVbMvtZ2jlcDHzXAjQ41PCpsocMsOywYhqbuXp79qdBwibCHJKhGzOo7y3gCJ8S1X8eA/s1600/IMG_20141129_163345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioQNQ7KqLv2Xpit6BvfY8Obfyx2a-_wbyXuiaflSBQz2EwKYeiWc0dP8qC1-QUlKr8b2GkyTCmVbMvtZ2jlcDHzXAjQ41PCpsocMsOywYhqbuXp79qdBwibCHJKhGzOo7y3gCJ8S1X8eA/s1600/IMG_20141129_163345.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With my body still adjusting to
the intense physical demands of trekking the mountains, I felt there was times
I lost touch with what I was even doing. Almost falling forward to force the
next foot in front of the other, feeling each step in the soles of my feet. I
clambered into Dhukur Pokhari with the thought of continuing on, but for once
my better judgement beat my stubbornness. I needed a break and didn’t want to
chance travelling in the dark, not to mention my pace had dramatically slowed
since the last village. Other than my feet my body couldn’t fully feel the pain
it was in until I took my pack off and tried to rest. My left shoulder had the
worst of it, my back was sore and my legs felt like jelly trying to walk up stairs.
I felt slightly nauseas from the combination of hunger, dehydration, physical
exhaustion and thousand or so meter rise in altitude. Almost a full day ahead
of the recommended checkpoint, I collapsed happily into bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxqtc7lpruJAz4F4wmLhpVood47YhYn9eGH_YRxaEBBZtGCvkDL5DBkhgLwgFhmt5nPpvL9XjNswGmpWlJyOGKcor4rIxg8AL8I4BOb8Gxy8VWJ-LfKVMAcL9pnm2CIdw-wyY3R29n7E/s1600/IMG_20141129_164532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxqtc7lpruJAz4F4wmLhpVood47YhYn9eGH_YRxaEBBZtGCvkDL5DBkhgLwgFhmt5nPpvL9XjNswGmpWlJyOGKcor4rIxg8AL8I4BOb8Gxy8VWJ-LfKVMAcL9pnm2CIdw-wyY3R29n7E/s1600/IMG_20141129_164532.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sea buckthorn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 5 – It was a beautiful
morning, no trace of rain. The clouds almost non-existent for the first time letting
the sun break on through warming the bones and drying the clothes I had hanging
off my pack like a clothes line. Miraculously my shoulder almost forgot the
pain it was in, leaving only my feet to remind me of the torture I’d put them
through. The aroma of pine and spruce permeated the air as the climate changed
as I rose in elevation. From subtropical slowly transforming into an alpine
region with a large farming presence with fields of buckwheat, millet and
beans. As I worked my way towards Manang I noticed juniper bushes in abundance.
Unfortunately most were unripe but managed to find a handful to chew on.
Stopping for tea in a small village I was introduced to sea buckthorn juice
made from a berry that grows wild in the region, which had a flavour similar to
carrot and orange together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzkR6niU9OwgJBKQin-02TdfrIDIcBhPxYNlnu4Pb461qDlxDT4O3qJqfRCgGd_Hsq05Q2ga4b8QNrYzJ0vKrpy9it8oRJzmePNyeYZiOAk5DR5PuEWWL54MpTOjmhtmkpLNrbL_RSPk/s1600/IMG_20141129_163822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWzkR6niU9OwgJBKQin-02TdfrIDIcBhPxYNlnu4Pb461qDlxDT4O3qJqfRCgGd_Hsq05Q2ga4b8QNrYzJ0vKrpy9it8oRJzmePNyeYZiOAk5DR5PuEWWL54MpTOjmhtmkpLNrbL_RSPk/s1600/IMG_20141129_163822.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I reached my goal by three o’clock
sunburnt and ready to call it an early day. I checked into the Tilicho Hotel
and met the first trekkers I had seen in three days. I didn’t really know if I would
run into many others and as nice as it was to trek peacefully at my own pace,
it was a breath of fresh air to meet some new people. One more dal baht (I
lived off this) with a dal made from buckwheat opposed to lentils and a sunset
over the mountains, it was time to crash. An early morning would come quick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-76259943576416674872014-11-06T22:45:00.000-08:002014-11-06T22:45:39.215-08:00Breaching The Unknown - Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Day 1 – 6:30 am. Packing only the essentials, a couple
outfits to hike in, one to hang around in at the days finish, gore-tex gear,
basic toiletries, a couple books, a little food (muesli for the mornings,
granola bars and trail mix as snacks on the move), and of course my juggling
balls I picked up in India. It was on to a tightly packed local bus, bags
strapped to the top heading towards the starting point of the Annapurna
Circuit, Besi Sahar. A two to three week trek into the Himalayas through
multiple climates, over the Thorong-La Pass and back around the Annapurna
mountain range, some of the tallest mountains in the world.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxSv8g35rDno7tAMlUccKL96vnqN-NyjgXHjUr0YXL9zZd6tsZFSuzpy1m6Fh0L06oVynhYdz_yQST7I5I_UVTwQUrIHuBNNEapx0yu3xO5NAZyeKeeQoo5-sSwppo_WknTsTO6Wjdz1Q/s1600/IMG_20141107_112835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxSv8g35rDno7tAMlUccKL96vnqN-NyjgXHjUr0YXL9zZd6tsZFSuzpy1m6Fh0L06oVynhYdz_yQST7I5I_UVTwQUrIHuBNNEapx0yu3xO5NAZyeKeeQoo5-sSwppo_WknTsTO6Wjdz1Q/s1600/IMG_20141107_112835.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">50 shades of green</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hitting
the path, or at this point dirt road from the far end of town, the anticipation
was boiling in me. I almost started running to get as far into the mountains as
I could. I didn’t want to kill my legs right off the get go with an extra
twenty pounds on my back, give or take, and I wanted to appreciate every ounce
of my time here. I’m surprised I didn’t walk off into the river not paying any
attention to the road ahead. My eyes stuck off into the distance watching the
speed of the river or into the lush carpet of trees, corn, rice and banana
trees covering the foothills. Fifty shades of green.</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5teV8IfQHwGmCavPWgcvCosmlhBVI7UBLBnTBB_D0gSpbQ4d87Gf_jTgKcQQI2S7EYd920VwVYRb15BKZ1SsuW2eN0uzHu0BWKpWyyjyjxKATmWqFmyHPH2py5NZkJ6MDk8V-txF-qWE/s1600/IMG_20141107_112338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5teV8IfQHwGmCavPWgcvCosmlhBVI7UBLBnTBB_D0gSpbQ4d87Gf_jTgKcQQI2S7EYd920VwVYRb15BKZ1SsuW2eN0uzHu0BWKpWyyjyjxKATmWqFmyHPH2py5NZkJ6MDk8V-txF-qWE/s1600/IMG_20141107_112338.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peeling vegetables for dal baht</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I
continued further down the road that over recent years has been slowly creeping
its way around the circuit, the new age clashed with the old. Dams were being
built for hydro-electric plants, construction prominent which was taking away
from the peaceful serenity one expected from the ‘isolated’ Himalayas. Raped of
its virginity by the modern era. As I asked around, some were happy with the
change, providing better electricity, easier transportation of goods, to
hospitals and relatives in neighboring villages and of course a demand for
work. On the other side of things, many were content and would prefer life the
way it was before. The noise pollution tremendous, the scenery compromised and
it takes away from the trekking which many villages rely on. Many people these
days wonder if it’s worth trekking anymore. In my opinion, it acts like a
festering wound on a perfect body.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46vCiafW4xnQSVpFK27Zf5H_cA8Kd02_f2YZLvN8G2VvgkvU7DSn9jSlpkcE8giXbvcXG9gRGjipil70YVB2cMALnD3piDPGjpngdn9Juccb8_AqGlTBuI0M_HMXiKHj_aAS3ILeyOwE/s1600/IMG_20141107_114900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg46vCiafW4xnQSVpFK27Zf5H_cA8Kd02_f2YZLvN8G2VvgkvU7DSn9jSlpkcE8giXbvcXG9gRGjipil70YVB2cMALnD3piDPGjpngdn9Juccb8_AqGlTBuI0M_HMXiKHj_aAS3ILeyOwE/s1600/IMG_20141107_114900.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small village</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Making my
way towards Ngadi, my first stop for the night, I was intercepted by a local
heading in the same direction. Inviting me to his little guesthouse, I
graciously accepted. In the off season, generally rooms are free since business
is low, as long as you eat both dinner and breakfast there. No problem, no
motivation to go elsewhere after a day’s hike. The couple so accommodating,
going out of their way to get me some local rice wine for dinner and allowed me
to help prep for our dal baht dinner ( a traditional Nepalese meal, similar to the
Indian thali) by cleaning the vegetables. The best one I had in Nepal. They are
all same, same but different.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRWpvm4T1e09XQSpQs9VfpTqT84jUpW9c9xa2OH8200eW3Aa7xClckb82a1EaYwITxb7bDKHG-YFTJHHIvRdoJ8QGT2B4yeaAVSj5Cytd35NvgQgerlxq_-lexw2oH7RUyupqenCe2eA/s1600/IMG_20140702_143408.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRWpvm4T1e09XQSpQs9VfpTqT84jUpW9c9xa2OH8200eW3Aa7xClckb82a1EaYwITxb7bDKHG-YFTJHHIvRdoJ8QGT2B4yeaAVSj5Cytd35NvgQgerlxq_-lexw2oH7RUyupqenCe2eA/s1600/IMG_20140702_143408.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh garlic drying</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day 2: Off
the road and onto a trail leading through subtropical forests. Its then that I
truly realized I was really trekking into the foothills of the Himalayan
mountain range. Taken aback by everything, the sounds of the river and
wildlife, the smells of damp earth and vegetation. Even though it was
physically exhausting, it was mentally relaxing, meditative. As I entered small
villages, what seem unchanged for centuries, a new set of smells filled my
nostrils. A smell of my childhood as I roamed our country property. The scent
of surrounding fields, livestock being housed and the fresh garden. The
occasional waft of fresh garlic. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The humidity
hung thick in the air, and the dark clouds of the ever threatening monsoon
rains loomed over head as I entered Ghermu. It was time to settle in for the
night. With no one else in town, I had free pick of all beds in town. It was a
tough day ascending close to five hundred meters, but good preparation for the
days ahead. I stuffed my face with another dal baht and lied down to rest my
feet.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqeBkRf6eq4B4bCycaVX9HVY9x-AlA6IDbn5H7WSJrDkETRJZwtK4DFH0Gd1beKbTesWdJ_6vUUd-t1-cPZG2fl4hvzMYA6zSzZiDhto4-vY2zSXfZljLEZqGzrbIT6UuFGlsZBHHYRLg/s1600/IMG_20141107_115046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqeBkRf6eq4B4bCycaVX9HVY9x-AlA6IDbn5H7WSJrDkETRJZwtK4DFH0Gd1beKbTesWdJ_6vUUd-t1-cPZG2fl4hvzMYA6zSzZiDhto4-vY2zSXfZljLEZqGzrbIT6UuFGlsZBHHYRLg/s1600/IMG_20141107_115046.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yarchagumba</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Day 3: Today
I was heading out alone. One of the two I began with fell ill through the night
and was staying put for the day. It was nice to have company, but hitting the
road into the unknown by myself was another thrill in itself. A place where
solo trekkers have gone missing in the past. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I entered
a quaint village named Syange and thought to stop for a morning cup of ginger
tea. The man at the teashop sold more than tea, tempting me with some of the
famous Nepalese charas I’ve heard so much about. Coming straight from the
mountains, how could I resist. Another one of his interesting wares was an
expensive form of Chinese medicine that he would forage for in his spare time.
Yarchagumba, a ghost moth larvae mummified by a parasitic fungus. Used for many ailments and as always an aphrodisiac. The bright yellow one the most prized
followed by the more common red-orange. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJsWn2T2tPTYVLR3o74UbEIKPWs93hgnY9ZSrWwugQ51OsxaRhuSPOA-TY1xYmJ41r5Dr9q37a9yJHu4pkPdDtk3dXpj8i9KpKaDXWGaQ9KOwfgxMV8aeJG39sMhXRYBHy2hXt-SpOS4/s1600/IMG_20141107_120947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJsWn2T2tPTYVLR3o74UbEIKPWs93hgnY9ZSrWwugQ51OsxaRhuSPOA-TY1xYmJ41r5Dr9q37a9yJHu4pkPdDtk3dXpj8i9KpKaDXWGaQ9KOwfgxMV8aeJG39sMhXRYBHy2hXt-SpOS4/s1600/IMG_20141107_120947.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterfall</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since Syange
the scenery had been getting even more spectacular. Walking past stunning
waterfalls surging from the mountain walls plunging hundreds of meters to the
Marshyangdi River below. A couple hours before Tal, the recommended checkpoint
for the night, the rains caught me for the first time. Only a light rain almost
waiting for me to get into town before it unleashed its true fury (not that it
would have mattered since I was soaked through with sweat). Within five minutes
of sitting down to another cup of tea the clouds let loose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr19KDpoMWaxFVygwnEUEGSOj8CMFiXKIgJFOyzhl5kZyH729YFOCa_QNSSOziDfQupVt0VXktj31HCh1GkJ4HQjN_DPktnWyWY-e0Z1BX9DGLhodplObaoyyqRSCA16oITKLLFUuPLJU/s1600/IMG_20141107_121144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr19KDpoMWaxFVygwnEUEGSOj8CMFiXKIgJFOyzhl5kZyH729YFOCa_QNSSOziDfQupVt0VXktj31HCh1GkJ4HQjN_DPktnWyWY-e0Z1BX9DGLhodplObaoyyqRSCA16oITKLLFUuPLJU/s1600/IMG_20141107_121144.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Himalayan blueberry</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I thought
I was stuck for the night, but so badly wanted to get ahead of schedule. After
an hour of waiting, the rain reduced to a slight drizzle, I took it as my
opening. I didn’t realize it was to be an uphill battle on a slick path
sometimes less than a meter wide with a direct drop into the rapids that would
wash you away in seconds. I reached Dharapani, my personal goal for the day
sitting at two thousand meters, when only three days ago I was at eight
hundred. When I arrived I was offered some Himalayan blueberries that the kids
were snacking on. A little more bitter than what I’m used to but a great way to
cap off a long and strenuous day. Nine hours trekking the mountains is similar
to a sixteen hour day in a busy kitchen. You don’t realize what your body went
through until it’s done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To Be Continued…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-70229757317468689612014-10-06T07:21:00.000-07:002014-10-07T02:44:21.305-07:00The Land of the Gods<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It began
with the slow crossing of a kilometer long bridge over a shallow valley by
peddle power. The natural border between India and Nepal, locals tend to cross
freely. A quick check in for my visa, and onto a night bus that I’m sure was
going to snap the axles. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVr7HXHgvN9k0AL4UmZaniG5LabTSilwBKhgM5-xOQajpNhu0vT5xRKLJJ9SbsfGvFhPoSskCrA26E4pvvzWkRKTP0PQ0neJm-1L2DhrDd5ikZ8KvSJ4MWOx52sVSTJHqYvqIAKSnTJKk/s1600/IMG_20141006_205744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVr7HXHgvN9k0AL4UmZaniG5LabTSilwBKhgM5-xOQajpNhu0vT5xRKLJJ9SbsfGvFhPoSskCrA26E4pvvzWkRKTP0PQ0neJm-1L2DhrDd5ikZ8KvSJ4MWOx52sVSTJHqYvqIAKSnTJKk/s1600/IMG_20141006_205744.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Emerald Hills</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I
woke, I was in a new ancient land for the gods. Embraced by a goddess, holding
me close to her bosom, dressed in a breathtaking emerald gown glistening in the
morning sun. Gently caressing her curves as I entered the valley, I was already
in love. Her beauty infectious, sinking a hook in my heart. The imperfections
were perfection. A country so mesmerizing, I was lost, entranced. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was all new again, a different
country, city, language, culture and cuisine. My curiosity and imagination on
the loose, running wild of what was to come and what once was while walking
through the centuries old streets and alleys of a once medieval culture.
Temples and stupas, shrines and monuments around every corner, constantly
discovering something different and interesting. A place for me to get lost in
the childhood recesses of my imagination.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoVCTxq0HDXhnZKjkvYqzaj0PPFVrwSiPUQPyHgyBL0tN060_31GjaDwbygwyZbJ4II_mTAtiwm-p3JVOmLlhO6zL3ErqG5GhIKY5_zwdx4l5o1yq6ARkRZLzSYIxswts3o4EHlvRTBo/s1600/IMG_20140613_091053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoVCTxq0HDXhnZKjkvYqzaj0PPFVrwSiPUQPyHgyBL0tN060_31GjaDwbygwyZbJ4II_mTAtiwm-p3JVOmLlhO6zL3ErqG5GhIKY5_zwdx4l5o1yq6ARkRZLzSYIxswts3o4EHlvRTBo/s1600/IMG_20140613_091053.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pork Momos with Tomato Chili Sauce</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I roamed the hippie/backpacker
area of Kathmandu, Thamel, perfumed of hash and incense. Narrow streets lined
with shops selling everything Nepalese and Tibetan you could want. Local
restaurants hammering out traditional dishes like momos, a Tibetan dumpling and
dal bhat. Similar to the Indian thali meal usually with potato curry, dal,
vegetable, pickle and rice or sometimes a preparation of buckwheat called
dhido. Steakhouses are prominent as trekkers often require a taste of home
after weeks in the mountains. Trekking and electronics shop have popped up all
over. Generally selling fake brand name gear preying on the unorganized
traveller heading for the unexpected hardships of the unforgiving Himalayas. Over
the years it has shifted here, but began on what was called ‘Freak Street’,
part of the hippie trail in the 60’s and 70’s. No longer reminiscent of what it
once was, it is still near the Durbar Square. One of three in the Kathmandu
Valley, a plaza full of Newar architecture seen in the temples and monuments
surrounding the Royal Palace. This one also containing the Kumari Ghal where
the most famous Royal Kumari resides. The reincarnation of a living goddess.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklsVbnSk4DsdCwUkxYvughlP62jPjHXpjDxWj7PVGfLcTfuf5EMlbru1aqMtjkYRujkp0xwI8Lv80WxNsszWuSfuFQQjrsuFzaEPfvi-rAtYxCj5O0redvxjjz-dvO-QL_UJkRT5WyXM/s1600/IMG_20140614_162511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklsVbnSk4DsdCwUkxYvughlP62jPjHXpjDxWj7PVGfLcTfuf5EMlbru1aqMtjkYRujkp0xwI8Lv80WxNsszWuSfuFQQjrsuFzaEPfvi-rAtYxCj5O0redvxjjz-dvO-QL_UJkRT5WyXM/s1600/IMG_20140614_162511.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rafting the Trisuli</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was five thirty in the
morning, head fogged trying to find the noise that was rattling me into
consciousness. With a bad case of cotton mouth and a churning in my stomach I
knew a few too many beverages had been consumed, especially for what I was
about to do. Managing my way downstairs dragging my heavy feet, I was ushered
to a bus where I dropped to my seat and was out. Next thing I know I was
strapped in a life jacket, helmet, with a paddle in hand hurtling down the
Trisuli River. Starting off calm with a strong current as the rapids grew, they
grew in my stomach just as much. The heat bearing down, the guide yelling
commands and being tossed around was taking its toll, so when we flipped into
the cold mountain stream it was invigorating. Once I surfaced, I was shocked to
life. Then realizing it was a mad scramble for sandals, paddles and water
bottles, I began the search while rushing towards the next set of rapids.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYWZ7VbkAaKZVCnTy0O6IwssFUR53JS_guqS1rNIad6SoHhPauZRJOV-SnKm8BMbZvpzLFaozFwhLHFYBfc7UP3UOGjYbZRwrDU9nKiHADfO8MVpQ-yIaEWTcmFoaDXavUtwbTzhbQU4/s1600/IMG_20141006_205944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBYWZ7VbkAaKZVCnTy0O6IwssFUR53JS_guqS1rNIad6SoHhPauZRJOV-SnKm8BMbZvpzLFaozFwhLHFYBfc7UP3UOGjYbZRwrDU9nKiHADfO8MVpQ-yIaEWTcmFoaDXavUtwbTzhbQU4/s1600/IMG_20141006_205944.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Last Resort Bungee View</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My next five thirty awakening wasn’t quite as
harsh. I kept it reasonably tame the night before knowing I was jumping off of
a swaying cable bridge. The Last Resort, a few hours from Kathmandu, a place
for adrenaline junkies. With limited money one thing in particular struck my
interest. Plunging one hundred and sixty meters into a valley over the raging
Bhote Khosi River. For those of you have never bungee jumped before, in my
opinion it’s one of the most addicting feelings. The feeling while standing on
the edge of the platform, feet strapped in is like the calm before the storm (not
to mention it had starting raining heavily as I was being strapped in reminding
me of that minute of staring, the rain beginning to fall before the fight at
the end of an action movie), as you take in the surroundings of your elevated view.
I almost forget that I’m standing here to jump but then the tug of the cord
comes, and looking down brings me back into perspective. What seems like in the
distance I hear counting down, 3, 2, 1. I spread my arms as if I’m trying to
fly, lean forward and gravity does the rest. Wind rushing past my face, the
ground getting closer, my mind almost goes blank as I take in the hit of
adrenaline, like a junkie shooting heroine. I got my temporary fix. The tension
of the cord starts and then springs you back up like a ragdoll. Being lowered
down, heart beating furiously, I’m already thinking about the next time.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7OsWIxJrFZVMS8ZXQUH6YO8wDqCXJnETX3wk50q_gHvSklGsavlswa7nFoKbPJ8CRejzH7K3FGnuarm5A8x-2eO6EaN4MjJEu3_rYLQCJ8XBdg2mpCHgiqE7LAu4ITaUohBIP_buvG3g/s1600/IMG_20140616_222328.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7OsWIxJrFZVMS8ZXQUH6YO8wDqCXJnETX3wk50q_gHvSklGsavlswa7nFoKbPJ8CRejzH7K3FGnuarm5A8x-2eO6EaN4MjJEu3_rYLQCJ8XBdg2mpCHgiqE7LAu4ITaUohBIP_buvG3g/s1600/IMG_20140616_222328.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Durbar Square</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s a terrible question to ask a
traveller what their favorite country is. To compare is nearly impossible for
me. Having unique personal experiences and growth, good and bad in each, I
never have a direct answer to this question. Nepal though, there was something
about it that immediately I was drawn to. The people friendly and hospitable,
the culture ancient and diverse, the landscape stunningly beautiful, the food
humble and flavourful. I don’t know if this would be my favorite country, but
it would be high on my list so far. One that I would highly recommend everyone
should visit. Once is not enough!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Videos of the bungee jump and canyon swing on my YouTube page.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p> </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;">
</span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-86792327736431426172014-07-30T03:33:00.000-07:002014-07-30T03:33:35.865-07:00T.I.I. This Is India<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-MEidqcSaf5ad9NcGdsVlYMSdr6KYBrqrwQZgYUtUTqjKLkFxD6n43GvXuJyRpA-TSCeq-c9AJb99-DKNUnCjgEGtBcDP43iJ6cnIo3gyHQJCRIRxN6bJe3C7ktWWdT-wxwQsWy2gZY/s1600/IMG_20140730_123706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-MEidqcSaf5ad9NcGdsVlYMSdr6KYBrqrwQZgYUtUTqjKLkFxD6n43GvXuJyRpA-TSCeq-c9AJb99-DKNUnCjgEGtBcDP43iJ6cnIo3gyHQJCRIRxN6bJe3C7ktWWdT-wxwQsWy2gZY/s1600/IMG_20140730_123706.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taj Mahal</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>India…
four months later and I’ve fallen for you. From northwest to south, and back to
the northeast I became accustomed to the pace of life here. Everything seems so
sped up compared to what I’m used to, but I came to realize this was only an
illusion. When the barrier shatters before your eyes life slows down, patience
truly does become a virtue, but I grew to enjoy this. Shanti Shanti as I was
told so many times. Peace, relax, patience, chill out.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A country
full of paradoxes. Vast wealth to crippling poverty, cities with hundreds of
millions to tribal villages, overwhelming crowds to the humbleness of few,
towering snow-capped mountains to cracked barren desert to luscious dense
jungles, deafening noise to the serenity of silence, turmoil of past conflicts
to the notion of peace, pristine monuments to fields of filth, courteous
hospitality to opportunistic scams, strictly ruled to blatant corruption, and
the list continues.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmLzyDzP8JcV_K8ZqoWqBJFEZAuFfUXA8-HGov71pt9V15Acr-Tb0vCOmHFGD5vDuNApFgFVVrSebpPwsCqWWkWowopADt9NeTSUz6LDycQslF-hm3CdqPjtIn-Yv6j3eJgTg1G7J5vQ/s1600/IMG_20140505_191742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmLzyDzP8JcV_K8ZqoWqBJFEZAuFfUXA8-HGov71pt9V15Acr-Tb0vCOmHFGD5vDuNApFgFVVrSebpPwsCqWWkWowopADt9NeTSUz6LDycQslF-hm3CdqPjtIn-Yv6j3eJgTg1G7J5vQ/s1600/IMG_20140505_191742.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh Grilled Crabs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The food
is as diverse as the culture, every region has their own style just like their
languages. Kashmiri cuisine in the far north heavily based around meat such as
lamb, mutton and goat. Punjabi famous for tandoori food and Rajasthani, influenced
by the many occupations of the state throughout its history and the limited
ingredients from its arid landscape. Mustard oil and paste are predominant in
Bengali cuisine along with the fish from the Ganges Delta and is well known for
the collage of sweets. Goan cuisine is loaded with fresh seafood, chili and
coconut milk with a strong Portuguese influence. The cashew and coconut feni, a
strong distilled liquor produced strictly in Goa has a pleasant kick to it with
the subtle aroma of the ingredient it’s made from. A popular drink Toddy,
coconut palm beer is made all over the south and is distilled to make the feni.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDLJGbm8vF7PJ2fguM5mLCDn80TU7XLkW3it8TQVLRZFKHokUxk7klOy8zfSgO31oEUoNsu_GSHvbHmyFq40sm-WKjSGPLUPdBCUjqpgYZfLCMOVvc9JGLXIUNyFMXim-6f17B4oQSwg/s1600/IMG_20140730_123150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDLJGbm8vF7PJ2fguM5mLCDn80TU7XLkW3it8TQVLRZFKHokUxk7klOy8zfSgO31oEUoNsu_GSHvbHmyFq40sm-WKjSGPLUPdBCUjqpgYZfLCMOVvc9JGLXIUNyFMXim-6f17B4oQSwg/s1600/IMG_20140730_123150.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Upma</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kerala being the jewel of India in my eyes
also had some of my most loved and missed dishes since departing from this extravagant
country. Similar to Goan in the sense of fresh seafood and the usage of coconut,
both lining the Arabian Sea, but Kerala also has an abundance of fresh water
fish in the lush backwaters throughout the state. The assortment of fruit
(mango, jackfruit, coconut, bananas) is to die for growing in almost every
backyard not to mention the spices and nuts grown locally. Breakfast dishes
such as the dosa served with coconut chutney and sambar were hard to get sick
of due to the many varieties, and my favorite Upma. Not far off the Italian
polenta, it was made with dry roasted semolina with the addition mustard seeds,
ginger, green chilies and curry leaves and was served with bananas. Using the
best eating tool, your hand, mash the bananas into it and chow down. Sweet,
savoury and filling, good for a long, hard day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is a country that with all
its diversity it can be overwhelming, but so captivating. There is something
new to learn in every city or village, down every street, from every person. The
experiences I had, the things I saw, the foods I ate will never be forgotten,
for this has taught me so much about myself. It wasn’t just a journey through
the mysteriousness of a place so foreign to me, but one inside myself. A piece
of my heart was left here to keep close to its bosom, calling me back so I can
really try to get further underneath the skin. Mark my words, I will return
with a shovel and do my best to dig deeper to its depths.</span><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_TJHEMJM_4ate-aLqyJR8wHxr9KuyIoXBrO7oeqbFxHqg04Ieeuw_VN_KwTDQDNF4JFiBRkDy0UxaFvxnrMTvWE4Xkvl-byu0FF9nvJlAaepTWt3whppzXqbPx8FGUodO7GTqLBxa5U/s1600/IMG_20140606_211841.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_TJHEMJM_4ate-aLqyJR8wHxr9KuyIoXBrO7oeqbFxHqg04Ieeuw_VN_KwTDQDNF4JFiBRkDy0UxaFvxnrMTvWE4Xkvl-byu0FF9nvJlAaepTWt3whppzXqbPx8FGUodO7GTqLBxa5U/s1600/IMG_20140606_211841.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mangos</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few simple recipes:</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paneer</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1L - 3.5% milk</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Juice of 1 lemon</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bring milk and lemon juice almost to a boil until it
separates, then strain through a cheesecloth and hang for 30 minutes. Put it
into a mold after the majority of the liquid has drained and place a weight on
it. Leave for 3-5 hours until the rest of the moisture has been pressed out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Chapatti – Yeilds 4-5<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 cup whole wheat flour<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Salt<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 cup water<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sift the dry ingredients and make a well in the bowl. Add
the water and knead for 10 minutes. Take a small ball of the dough and roll out
to about a ¼ inch. Cooked on a dry heated iron pan, flip when bubbles appear
and rotate to evenly brown.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-uKpPHRD7ck3GFdDpGBCVI8GAwkLVmNcsVtgrGdFhrH0Cf6lS25yHA5kWKSDZq8aIphH5PvcMuVUipTKrsuN9-3YMM2ZHiw_YQb1UB4V5MWZPvNewi7qtO4qzfKEUU6_pOVnsmqOINc/s1600/IMG_20140524_193306.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0-uKpPHRD7ck3GFdDpGBCVI8GAwkLVmNcsVtgrGdFhrH0Cf6lS25yHA5kWKSDZq8aIphH5PvcMuVUipTKrsuN9-3YMM2ZHiw_YQb1UB4V5MWZPvNewi7qtO4qzfKEUU6_pOVnsmqOINc/s1600/IMG_20140524_193306.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cliffs of Varkala, Kerala </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Coriander Chutney<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 cup roughly chopped coriander<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">3 cloves of garlic<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">1 green chili – to taste<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Salt and touch of water<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Blend all ingredients together until smooth. Season with
salt and lemon juice if necessary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-85009324288905028942014-07-07T06:44:00.000-07:002014-07-07T06:44:04.252-07:00Tubular Dude!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Four days of constant merciless rain beating down on the
saturated earth. Charred sky, lightning ripping across, it was upon me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought I lost the race to the south, the
monsoon got here early. Wading through the submerged streets of Kochi for food
alone, I remained close to shelter. A leaking bus down to Alleppey and within a
couple days the hurricane I learned of passed and Kerala lit up as the jewel of
India.</span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-mn__WiuVfzxip0ZsYdpELTtEcwszXS5Px6q13nQV9o70fltV0XKCujd2jyhnmlK_j25OOK0U6-4JfvcLvZz-Ju33Ffdl4lV5Oa64SK6E8TAZVU6QuEpcaOj9ZOdbk3IrptdcEfvywkU/s1600/IMG_20140510_171524.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-mn__WiuVfzxip0ZsYdpELTtEcwszXS5Px6q13nQV9o70fltV0XKCujd2jyhnmlK_j25OOK0U6-4JfvcLvZz-Ju33Ffdl4lV5Oa64SK6E8TAZVU6QuEpcaOj9ZOdbk3IrptdcEfvywkU/s1600/IMG_20140510_171524.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fresh Karimeen </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
leaves still damp, pale and lucid, the smell of wet earth in the air, the
humidity beginning to creep up. The sun had just risen, my eyes still clouded
with sleep and I was on a painfully loud boat on my way for breakfast in the
backwaters. Rush hour on the canals in the morning was one of the most peaceful
looking backdrops penetrated by a cacophony of bells, motors, shouting. Pulled
up to port and walked up a dirt path to a local house just up off the bank. A
table awaited us with one of the many styles of dosa, a potato curry to ladle
over and fresh chai. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDupYzd9dkTR8KvTca11Z8RO8qxkmLkiRyEQHOX4prrx1rHggXIuDB7q1Yq7hhP2Dxt4yRnSQQbhjULMNpMsYs0atKXz6u23OjcyZcRnX_jEb5c4fWAP2FkHhbB5f0jZkGC8FQ4szuFc/s1600/IMG_20140510_220914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdDupYzd9dkTR8KvTca11Z8RO8qxkmLkiRyEQHOX4prrx1rHggXIuDB7q1Yq7hhP2Dxt4yRnSQQbhjULMNpMsYs0atKXz6u23OjcyZcRnX_jEb5c4fWAP2FkHhbB5f0jZkGC8FQ4szuFc/s1600/IMG_20140510_220914.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>School
boy error, I forgot to bring toilet paper. I got to play woodsman and gather
some foreign leaves hoping for the best, that I wouldn’t be awkwardly itching
my ass for the next week. Our guide, scrawny as can be showed up and my main
thought was, how will this guy paddle us around for six hours, but he was a
machine. Ushering us to the canoe, we sunk into the seats and embarked on the
timeless escape through the small interlocking canals blocked off from the
noise of the main routes. We disappeared under the shaded canopy, brushing by
coconut and banana trees. The tranquility was soothing, the sounds meditative.
The birds above, the gentle lapping of water on the sides of the boat. Simplicity
with enormous beauty. Floating by the village life, everyone had their daily
chores. One women fishing, the other cleaning them, washing clothes,
transporting goods and building barriers for the coming monsoon. Some houses
seemed doomed to the inevitable rise of water looking as if they were already sitting
perfectly on the surface. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkxTaTC3KeCKDEiCOTJfrmyhBsbus1xwvMag_NqM-fsvt-AFe83X0fdKLIsXVV_T3MoG7cSFh2kKLaARei7Gm3Ee6Kh3lV63dJImbEbcjeGqgj7nn1yGQpPz2yxKnnsjc6ULxFVOD0_U/s1600/IMG_20140515_191759.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkxTaTC3KeCKDEiCOTJfrmyhBsbus1xwvMag_NqM-fsvt-AFe83X0fdKLIsXVV_T3MoG7cSFh2kKLaARei7Gm3Ee6Kh3lV63dJImbEbcjeGqgj7nn1yGQpPz2yxKnnsjc6ULxFVOD0_U/s1600/IMG_20140515_191759.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
opportunity had arisen, it was time to try ‘Toddy’. The locally distilled
coconut palm beer. The palm sap ferments quickly due to natural yeasts, up to
four percent within a couple of hours. The longer it is left the stronger and
more acidic it becomes until your drinking vinegar. It was eleven in the
morning and the locals were not being shy about slamming the sweet nectar back.
Tucked away in the back room it was poured out of old petrol containers through
a sieve into large blue bins, similar to a rain catcher. From there siphoned
into washed out wine/liquor bottles or into half liter measuring cups for your
drinking pleasure. It tasted almost like a cider with a clean finish of coconut
water. Refreshing in the heat, explaining the copious amounts consumed through
the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Varkala,
Varkala, Varkala… what to say? Only missing a couple criteria, a personal
beachside hut and white shimmering sand and I would potentially never leave. The
food so fresh, vibrant, the fruit selection incomparable. Jackfruit falling
from the trees there for the taking, bananas in the thousands and mangoes and
coconuts taunting from higher above. The beach stunning when the sun sets
lighting up the cliffs behind bright red. The cliff top lined with restaurants
and shops with the waves crashing below, the strong current throwing one though
the washing machine a bit making things interesting.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTnlCv4iL7XmAoaKBDCRtWdw3W8-d3D_oW8w77yqKcJjyvh4hlaVlCGIOed6pC_y56I337PEGH7Qj-HGHLlzAIW03kau7YB8eg6BU9TSybnAI80rPNEF3jGYriKskEWXY8y6_FwG9YgI/s1600/IMG_20140514_171556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTnlCv4iL7XmAoaKBDCRtWdw3W8-d3D_oW8w77yqKcJjyvh4hlaVlCGIOed6pC_y56I337PEGH7Qj-HGHLlzAIW03kau7YB8eg6BU9TSybnAI80rPNEF3jGYriKskEWXY8y6_FwG9YgI/s1600/IMG_20140514_171556.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Time to
get gnarly man, this will be tubular bro! I was going to ride some waves and
drink some salt water. This was the only remotely productive activity while
here. Dragged myself out of bed at the crack of dawn while the waves were prime,
it was thirty minutes to our location. It was a battle against the water,
paddling myself out and once there it was a waiting game. Patiently judging
which one would be it. It could take seconds or minutes, but it seems that you
don’t find them. Respecting the force of nature and the serenity of the ocean,
the right wave will find you when the time is right. Picking up as much speed
as I can while the mountain grows behind me, it picked me up with exhilarating
speed launching my forward with it, and most of the time off the board into the
churning depth. The few I managed to remain on the board was such an adrenaline
pumping, addicting feeling. Similar to carving a mountain for the first time or
crossing the wake behind a boat into choppier waters or springing back like a
ragdoll after the stomach lifting freefall of a bungee. It’s that feeling of
knowing you’ll be doing that again, but note to self, wear a shirt to prevent serious nipple chafing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was
running out of time to legally be in this country, so slowly I managed to climb
out of the black hole, my sweet little nest embracing my tight, pulling my
further into the abyss of paradise. I had a vision of my future self. He walked
up and kicked me, “You just got out of Goa, don’t do this again.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I packed
my bags and left the next day, looking back the whole way. Onwards to
Kanyakumari, the tip of the iceberg, where three seas meet and my turning point
back to the north following the east coast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-61261671691914431402014-06-08T09:02:00.001-07:002014-06-08T09:02:12.775-07:00It's A Trap<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I can hear the faint whispers of the lives of thousands lured
here and the many who were snared and never left. Come in, don’t worry, slip
off the sandals, have a drink, smoke a joint, breathe in the air. Slowly
becoming enshrouded by these emerald wisps of a maiden imprisoning me in
this forbidden fortress, where no desire goes unquenched. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmThOoYyQkohJraMtF-fE6J2XhF6ZcO3V8jDsEdc_SfrFPN27J75fIvOqVTuCmMS5vyhbptokeyZo_6ORrfr2ObN0hyphenhyphenjzYAwLl2F7Jtj5jTzC06a9xxez4fy1III4QTB37V9Sa42Gzs8/s1600/IMG_20140608_211854.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmThOoYyQkohJraMtF-fE6J2XhF6ZcO3V8jDsEdc_SfrFPN27J75fIvOqVTuCmMS5vyhbptokeyZo_6ORrfr2ObN0hyphenhyphenjzYAwLl2F7Jtj5jTzC06a9xxez4fy1III4QTB37V9Sa42Gzs8/s1600/IMG_20140608_211854.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King of Good Times</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Goa… as
almost all beach havens act as an opium den, the doors always open, but no one
ever wants to leave. Their fix is always ever present, just around the corner.
Whether it be something to keep you up until daybreak for the heart pumping
trance scene, or something to bring you down to level yourself out. The taste
of mind blurring nectar or the crisp sobering blood of a coconut. The bronzing
heat of the sun or the saltiness of the tepid water. The fragrant intensity of
the spices and chilies or the fresh fruits of the sea. Everything within reach.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLvX2aAhejywlBSANlBZDDd8OasvCZkAx6DmXbTDW8hRM0t46MWSaAds_zL1gCgPHqjJdNvgxT0taBYIzo9vOggk7IfkTpYYf-4ieczVKNaTLLNCEuAN4WFoyDzPT4QhHsGzDEg4rh1E/s1600/IMG_20140608_210721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmLvX2aAhejywlBSANlBZDDd8OasvCZkAx6DmXbTDW8hRM0t46MWSaAds_zL1gCgPHqjJdNvgxT0taBYIzo9vOggk7IfkTpYYf-4ieczVKNaTLLNCEuAN4WFoyDzPT4QhHsGzDEg4rh1E/s1600/IMG_20140608_210721.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I arrived
in Anjuna, the northern part of the state and was checking into prison. Tall
barbed wire fences towering above me, barred windows and a mug shot to not be
forgotten. Sharing a cell with another nine inmates, we were lucky security was
lax leaving us to our own devices. Beer cooler in the lounge and the charas
flowed in and out with ease. I lost track of time and days as they no longer
had meaning, they began to follow me and trail behind. Floating down a river of
cheap booze days blended into one another, when one ended and the next began
became unapparent. Was the sun coming up or going down? Motivation became
non-existent to the point where the simplest task would take days and finally
upon completion it felt like a great victory, as if Troy was breached. It traps
you without your own knowledge of it and when it is realized it’s too late…
you’re in.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRy56uDJmXa1EMth3v07ySlpA91RWcU5DwiV8RArzcz69dOyLy4LZycFzuBU685vp9VnSp3h-c_9GtPOG07lpI6j4kN6kZj6ZJj2IjIjQlM-TBg8ZRWFG7Fb12OHnkzX6Kf5z_iBS_9o/s1600/IMG_20140417_150901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRy56uDJmXa1EMth3v07ySlpA91RWcU5DwiV8RArzcz69dOyLy4LZycFzuBU685vp9VnSp3h-c_9GtPOG07lpI6j4kN6kZj6ZJj2IjIjQlM-TBg8ZRWFG7Fb12OHnkzX6Kf5z_iBS_9o/s1600/IMG_20140417_150901.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crab Xec Xec</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I knew
breaking out of prison wouldn’t be a simple task, but when the gates never
locked one would think it couldn’t be a herculean task either. I planned my
escape a few times, each time going to bed thinking tomorrow will be the day.
It was always tomorrow, then the day after that. Eventually the day came and
with the help of a friend met behind the bars we broke free with Queens, ‘I
want to break free’ playing behind us. We ran to the capital, Panjim to lay low
for a couple days.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Working
our way to the southern border, one last stop, Palolem. About two kilometers of
golden sand saturated with restaurants, sun beds, shops, beach shacks and
long stayers. Perfect place to blend in, but the dogs were on to us. By day
they were calm trying to beat the heat, but at night they picked up your scent.
They would gather in packs to intimidate and attempt a few lunges when they felt
lucky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFA2wvIKgo5fSE4_nb3Bcgh9N0XVTIpjT-LCxxb46N9z7YhxbbC-lFvZsSpLjOZJJo_QNBZ39GiK4wZjDD5uWZTqjod_TyJX_e-aV-lBJT497UOBibV28bGfZRtefIlkSThClUuU4C1c4/s1600/IMG_20140501_095747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFA2wvIKgo5fSE4_nb3Bcgh9N0XVTIpjT-LCxxb46N9z7YhxbbC-lFvZsSpLjOZJJo_QNBZ39GiK4wZjDD5uWZTqjod_TyJX_e-aV-lBJT497UOBibV28bGfZRtefIlkSThClUuU4C1c4/s1600/IMG_20140501_095747.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
time to make a final run for it before Goa consumed me, but it was an internal
struggle, being pulled in both directions. The water dragged me in every time
the increasing heat began to boil my blood, the cheap rum and Kingfisher still
flowing through my veins. Anything I need is within my grasp. Why should I
leave, life here is cheap and easy, no worries. Hakuna matata!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not sure
what it was, definitely not the angel on my shoulder because he was taken out
years ago, but something broadsided me, knocking me back on my ass. Get out of
here or you’ll become one of them, a permanent bum of the beach. I thought what’s
so wrong with that, I could do this. Wait, I have too much left to do still,
too much to see, too much to eat. I can’t get snared and become a sun wrinkled
fixture on the beach….. yet!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-928195542741679382014-05-30T01:08:00.000-07:002014-05-30T01:08:01.577-07:00Week Six Transition<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> It has been six weeks… India… things have changed. Something
at first turned me away from this country, an extreme culture shock. I didn’t
think I would be upset to leave, or really want to return. Still just under the
surface of a country that would take a lifetime to fully understand, I felt
different. Maybe I just relaxed a little more, leaning back into the life of
travel, accepting the good with the bad. Opened my eyes, mind and heart to it,
seeing more of what’s below the hardened resilient exterior of this extravagant
subcontinent. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iZYQN1mOSW1-tW3fWIOzR0PMnCjaf4GYXnEn9vlDn_nKVHf86jrmS1jPz1BRSHjmWoQbHTwOrzwOm2iPJiMM4LloXMLF4nZ0UX-bvDK5OInv3VtqXCyuKnANBMXBa8ffWwgGB8Sg2pE/s1600/IMG_20140403_200706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_iZYQN1mOSW1-tW3fWIOzR0PMnCjaf4GYXnEn9vlDn_nKVHf86jrmS1jPz1BRSHjmWoQbHTwOrzwOm2iPJiMM4LloXMLF4nZ0UX-bvDK5OInv3VtqXCyuKnANBMXBa8ffWwgGB8Sg2pE/s1600/IMG_20140403_200706.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street snack</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fifteen
hours, it was midafternoon, stifling hot with glutinous humidity, I pulled into
Mumbai. The home of Bollywood, millions of people, the financial and commercial
city of India and one the biggest slums in the world. Many of the paradoxes of
this vast country can be seen here exploring this concrete jungle. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Stiff and
anxious to stretch my legs, I left the station, over a ditch to the street and
made my way to the inner city train lines. Hanging out the side of the carriage,
trying to catch the breeze, I prepared for what I was expecting to be a chaotic
experience. It was anything but, relaxing for me, I was drawn to this place. I’m
sure reading Shantaram at the time didn’t help. The famous backpacker novel of
India set in Mumbai. I must have taken a step back though as I began to embrace
the culture and people as they grew on me during the previous weeks going along
for the ride. It was a beautiful city, the coastline of the harbour, Chowpatti,
watching the masses go about their busy lives and the slums of Dharavi.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP150ryvwlpOLgrAaYxE9SX349iqkOwx3qDKEgAhQ5U7J2jofj_HrotLJW0_cvIgcXKtMm2M91ZEfkidtumPDcKmwKTx5uxbmOcxfIIAq56Xx9N6tpoxkhpctX2pjrUigmEfCTSQvWVYE/s1600/IMG_20140403_222118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP150ryvwlpOLgrAaYxE9SX349iqkOwx3qDKEgAhQ5U7J2jofj_HrotLJW0_cvIgcXKtMm2M91ZEfkidtumPDcKmwKTx5uxbmOcxfIIAq56Xx9N6tpoxkhpctX2pjrUigmEfCTSQvWVYE/s1600/IMG_20140403_222118.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I made it
down to the south of the island city, Colaba, and checked into the India Guest
House. Cheapest I could find with a room smaller than most jail cells, still
more than I need. The weight of the heat bearing down on me, I went down to the
waterfront. A place many come to sit and watch the day turn to night as the
boats light up the black water. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-sF4g0HI4aYCAKVRkqqfw9_2C0Deyx-1AEl4d1RcStLdZwBMYYRXrcM1aIuQjj4g6tN57tVPNR5dO2NDIJS0Ii7ooxYwYd6ICn6aVu4AlCcygr8zoy64tFs091ziIiElgwj_VytRAW2c/s1600/IMG_20140404_075417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-sF4g0HI4aYCAKVRkqqfw9_2C0Deyx-1AEl4d1RcStLdZwBMYYRXrcM1aIuQjj4g6tN57tVPNR5dO2NDIJS0Ii7ooxYwYd6ICn6aVu4AlCcygr8zoy64tFs091ziIiElgwj_VytRAW2c/s1600/IMG_20140404_075417.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bhel Puri</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> As the
sun went down I realized I’d been in transit all day and hadn’t eaten, and some
of the best chaat (snacks) I’ve had awaited me. Aimlessly strolling into the
streets, I found an evening market around the block. The curious browsing
began, my kind of shopping. Bhajiya pav, onion bhaji on a bun with chili sauce.
Aloo pav, fried potato done the same. I lean towards the Bhajia pav with some
fried potato and spinach crammed in. Raw sprout salads being tossed up served
in a paper roll, dosas being spread on griddles. On a small metal dish two
samosas crushed with a chickpea puree ladled over topped with diced onion,
tomato, cilantro, chaat masala, and two sauces, one sweet and the other a chili
sauce. Bhel puri, made of puffed rice. Plopping my ass down a curb to digest
and watch the flow of life here, shopping, eating, haggling, drinking chai,
bikes weaving, I needed some dessert. Fruit stands with their displays so fresh
and vibrant, and mango season was just beginning. Mango and jackfruit it was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If you walk
around long enough in the Colaba area you’re bound to be asked to be an extra in
a Bollywood movie. For five hundred rupees and a long day, they will dress you
up and have a look behind the scenes. As I was wandering around looking for a
tour office I was asked to help with a movie set in the forties. Unfortunately I
had a ticket, beach bound for Goa and a tour of Dharavi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikw6nGjPXsDUQK-2Ys4GccQyqNHTC-I62H8LCEREAtE-fM51zuEyxlLdAYqPY7TI6JtJERwNsBkYzZByyRzPneD459VX3iMUJITRnB_4LzZnAzG_9YYBtSZ96Kj1ywy6UBi79MWsea9eY/s1600/IMG_20140528_231722.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikw6nGjPXsDUQK-2Ys4GccQyqNHTC-I62H8LCEREAtE-fM51zuEyxlLdAYqPY7TI6JtJERwNsBkYzZByyRzPneD459VX3iMUJITRnB_4LzZnAzG_9YYBtSZ96Kj1ywy6UBi79MWsea9eY/s1600/IMG_20140528_231722.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dharavi,
one of the biggest slums in the world, home to around one million people, no
way of really knowing, was an eye opening experience to happiness with so
little. Even poverty stricken pride was shown in everything thing they owned and
did. Determination in their faces overcoming what most could not bear. Smiles,
handshakes, and head bobbles from everyone as they went about their lives,
children following us through the alleys. Small businesses with what seemed
like a community effort, drying chilies, or making pottery and running their
homemade kilns. A scorching job in the already sweltering heat. Small markets
set out on plastic on the ground selling produce, fish or shrimp constantly
fanning to keep the flies away from their goods. I stopped for a chai and
omelette creating I think a surprised crowd. I don’t think many stop for
breakfast.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was
an experience I’m walking away from with a new outlook on what’s important. A souvenir
that can never be lost. This city has left a lasting impression on me, a city
with many layers like the country it’s in, and I now look forward to dig into
them further.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-71241757671723310692014-05-16T11:51:00.000-07:002014-05-16T11:51:31.897-07:00Dune... My Version<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">4:30 am, my eyes shoot open, soaked in sweat, bloated and
scorching flames from the pits of hell surging through my chest. Reassuring
myself that I just ate way too much spicy food after my strong bhang lassi and
that it would pass, I went to the rooftop in an attempt to cool down, walk it
off. Stepping onto the rooftop into the chilled desert breeze, taking deep
breaths of the fresh air trying to slow the rapid throbbing of my heart.
Stepping onto another planet. A dusty and dry world with who knows what lurking
in its arid landscape spanning the horizon. Behind stood the mighty living fort
projecting its golden hue as the sun crept up bringing it to life. Jaisalmer, a
place of a different time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIk9YA_U7vtqqM5j8fTIb8_aXrGrYyokgvtQIKusqg1SZ29ggQGGSXiDxnhk3GdWya7FKeaKmMtvZWj6CZX_Xg65blJkpWQEPMe6C6PQOnbSulgLz7MbqroH2gyjRc5U7yjwU0Rf5Veg/s1600/IMG_20140328_120714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIk9YA_U7vtqqM5j8fTIb8_aXrGrYyokgvtQIKusqg1SZ29ggQGGSXiDxnhk3GdWya7FKeaKmMtvZWj6CZX_Xg65blJkpWQEPMe6C6PQOnbSulgLz7MbqroH2gyjRc5U7yjwU0Rf5Veg/s1600/IMG_20140328_120714.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first feeling slightly relieved, my body
was just giving me a moment of peace before it began. Mad dash to the washroom
alleviating the tension in my stomach, I hoped that it was over, but
unfortunately I knew better. I had just opened the floodgates to an eight hour
onslaught, violent and viscous as a brutal war was waged inside. I was in dire
need of the Magic School Bus. With futile attempts to keep hydrated, dry heaves
ensued, straining the muscles throughout my body. Shortly after whatever was in
me was winning and hasty decisions had to be made, choosing where the Ganga was coming from first. In between bouts I curled into the
fetal position on the cold tile floor, unable and knowing there was no real
point in going far. First case of 'Delhi Belly'.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Based on
my condition and with better sense, I probably should have and was recommended
to cancel the camel safari I had planned that afternoon. I tend not to listen
to those voices, lacking what some might call ‘better judgement’ in these
situations. Plus, this is why I came, I couldn’t let it win. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghi0cEui7uKt2HLxPjMOhrSf-_mvrfQid3_jzj4bCvitnHyAdK3T2poUYGY96E-O1WJi2VRfHVVgOiHo9bbRtkLzYGLQwtOEjFsM20BtveenwAPFygRutD5MEeco7i2iEDeeqhhRDtUZA/s1600/IMG_20140321_112432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghi0cEui7uKt2HLxPjMOhrSf-_mvrfQid3_jzj4bCvitnHyAdK3T2poUYGY96E-O1WJi2VRfHVVgOiHo9bbRtkLzYGLQwtOEjFsM20BtveenwAPFygRutD5MEeco7i2iEDeeqhhRDtUZA/s1600/IMG_20140321_112432.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>2:00 pm,
I made it alive, extremely dehydrated and in one hour trekking in the blazing
heat of the Thar desert on camelback. Finally managing to keep water in my
system and some Imodium with it, it was time to go. Forty-five minute ride into
a new part of the world to where my camel awaited me. Raja. Tying up the
bandana, I threw my leg over into the awkward wide stance that took a little
getting used to. I would be walking funny after this. Grasping the stick used
as a handle, Raja rose to his full height and the ball busting ramble through
the serenely barren wasteland began. A great expanse of nothingness, yet
somehow filled with life. Villages survived and maintained, flora emerged
through the cracked landscape and the Indian gazelles galloped through the
parched landscape. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Wh80zRzPw_PXb4JZ9hR1FhwPgynUR53z3QqF8BdvCkty5GqW_5-Rc42VKHgUl7yulv-rITVKhiAe9fhjeMf8OgabisQ0oF5ve3djRHqRXTANE30ELob0ADoMNg2zbdjIwwbKIAFBqiQ/s1600/IMG_20140516_142510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Wh80zRzPw_PXb4JZ9hR1FhwPgynUR53z3QqF8BdvCkty5GqW_5-Rc42VKHgUl7yulv-rITVKhiAe9fhjeMf8OgabisQ0oF5ve3djRHqRXTANE30ELob0ADoMNg2zbdjIwwbKIAFBqiQ/s1600/IMG_20140516_142510.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Moving
along at a slow pace, taking in the beauty and peace of the quiet isolation,
seeing for miles, no one in sight. Something about it was therapeutic,
listening to the wind sweeping through taking your thoughts and worries with
it. The dunes resembling an oasis pond rippling out as Raja jumped in like a
pebble being thrown. In the distance on the skyline a gypsy village rose from
the sea of bronze stretched out before me. As soon as we were sighted, the children
dashed towards us as if protecting against invaders. Stopping only a dozen feet
from the august creatures of the old world, as they lowered us to the ground. Smiles
spread across their faces, waving vigorously, yelling ‘Hello’ trying to be
louder than the other. Jovial and energetic, wanting nothing but pictures and
chocolate, as they fought each other for the first shot, posing for the camera.
Using me as a jungle gym, climbing onto my back, hanging off my arms rendering
me immobile as I dragged half a dozen around attempting to make it back to my
camel. A struggle, but I made it and handed out the mere three candies I had
which started a lightning storm between them taking the attention off me so I
could escape into the vacant expanse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GeqqSSJqMUoHjDETdQA7VbauZOGNBKd1tamTe3cX6ZvUcurGmn-SE5nxf1qi31xpVrI0q6IJH_OhckgiPT3vOv0iDxBEkFxodLo0ox8SFD0wza6PUzAOKxj7dUxbyhTqpZXHqwir50Y/s1600/IMG_20140516_142842.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GeqqSSJqMUoHjDETdQA7VbauZOGNBKd1tamTe3cX6ZvUcurGmn-SE5nxf1qi31xpVrI0q6IJH_OhckgiPT3vOv0iDxBEkFxodLo0ox8SFD0wza6PUzAOKxj7dUxbyhTqpZXHqwir50Y/s1600/IMG_20140516_142842.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As the
sun set making the sky look ablaze, stepping to the summit of a dune, a shack
appeared. Camp for the night, lowered to the ground, my knees almost buckling
for the first few strides. Enjoying the surprisingly cool desert breeze as the
sun crept down, dinner was prepared and I was starving. Over hot coals rice,
aloo gobi, mixed veg curry and chapatti cooked on searing rocks. This proves
fancy tools aren’t required to make phenomenal meals. Dragging my cot to the
center of the dunes underneath the sheet of glass. I thought I saw clear skies
in Muskoka, but nothing like this. Cloudless, stars lighting up the ocean of
black as I slowly drifted off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Awoken by
the sun ascending behind me and the chilling wind sweeping across the
ever-changing terrain. Gathering the courage to step into the frozen sand, the
sun rose from beneath the horizon, everything shimmering gold. Taken back, it was
mesmerizing, lost in a gaze. A yell for breakfast snapped me out of it. Hard-boiled
eggs, toast, jam and chai, it was time to ship out. Raja stood up and began a trot
back to the jeep off this planet. </span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Life in the desert was hard but
beautiful, isolated placidity. Sitting back in utter relaxation moving with the
momentum of the camel, taking in the minutes as they were my last. I couldn’t
forget this quiet peace, surrounded by nothing but what I looked for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-47909776011719402802014-05-01T07:41:00.001-07:002014-05-01T07:41:06.841-07:00Blinded by the Colour - Holi 2014<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> The pink city, or in my opinion more brown than anything,
but hey, who am I to judge. Jaipur, for me was rather uneventful and
uninteresting compared to the many other cities in the desert state of
Rajasthan. Stunningly bright colours bouncing off the light brown sand, saris
flowing in the dry breeze throughout the magnificent state, rich with history
of invasion and conquering, full of culture, tradition, hospitality and some
succulent North Indian food. But here, to brighten Jaipur for me, I was here
for the monumental spring festival, Holi, celebrated almost country wide and
now throughout the world. The festival of colour and love is on the last full
moon of winter signifying the coming of spring, and for the most part an
anarchy of colour. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8GFSpBwehuccnBufCHUDmC6zRvbib_Xz1QUIcQfrTfXtU3AiBuA2tQPNWMyAxHnxRcPT0iNFzxFlLgzhin4_MZXvxyQoHe-aERPyOWNVar0qH478vRRy6fyDBn5SSM4pamgr_QpJtbk/s1600/IMG_20140501_154130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_8GFSpBwehuccnBufCHUDmC6zRvbib_Xz1QUIcQfrTfXtU3AiBuA2tQPNWMyAxHnxRcPT0iNFzxFlLgzhin4_MZXvxyQoHe-aERPyOWNVar0qH478vRRy6fyDBn5SSM4pamgr_QpJtbk/s1600/IMG_20140501_154130.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I woke in
a sweat, wide eyed as if a shot of adrenaline was pumped into my heart bringing
me back from the cusp of an overdose. I could feel the sweat beading down off
my chin on to my lap, the monotonous drone of the fan spinning, the temperature
slowly rising, I had to get out. I knew it was all going to begin soon and I
didn’t know if I was ready. Armed with a pump action water gun loaded with blue
dye and five bags of paint, I wasn’t sure if it was enough, was I going
unprepared. How much is enough when it’s every man, woman and child for
themselves in the lawlessness of the riotous streets. Gathering the troops on
the rooftop that were as much enemy as friend in this, we passed through the
front doors into city streets where it all began.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbP964KfFClk9zEHsCv8IQ2LmhK_a1YLetXxen_SBQWaMduVlUvK6T-35UGzUbosFKthaoh42ArMkrSttZB8ziV4CMEXUpmc8C1Sn34y1588dTFXydWC0Yrvb9YdrYHnZ0Bok_GYg_Yw/s1600/IMG_20140501_140548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLbP964KfFClk9zEHsCv8IQ2LmhK_a1YLetXxen_SBQWaMduVlUvK6T-35UGzUbosFKthaoh42ArMkrSttZB8ziV4CMEXUpmc8C1Sn34y1588dTFXydWC0Yrvb9YdrYHnZ0Bok_GYg_Yw/s1600/IMG_20140501_140548.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Coming at
us from all angles, I was locked and loaded deciding which one to shoot
first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drawing first blood from a
distance the rickshaw drivers with handfuls of paint, too many, just kept
coming. Happy Holi, and I was hit. Smearing the powdered paint into my face, I
returned the favour. Loading up the rickshaw with all ten of our squadron, I
hung off the back acting as our turret firing at oncoming motorists. No one was
safe… unless my cheap gun couldn’t reach. Bombs had been dropped left and right
through the city leaving walls, cars, cows and people massacred with the
coloured shrapnel. Stepping out into the mayhem, immediately being swarmed by
locals, I was lost in a cloud of dust and transformed into a tie-dye smurf
before long as we walked the old city. Rescuing a few lone soldiers along the
way from the opportunistic groping hands, we regrouped at our hostel to figure
out our next plan of attack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_e_WnydnXkYKKOfiTG1OUDEclju63g8frZNbcS1UC8WXX4UVTLcS_ntk2xgXIeMLrFBzHV7Ipv7VMSsMV23L_4NT2eAZTtMOC5ohuFd3vc5DbGpCzMerq2XhYUNzIbv3_-jtj9Dqrt8U/s1600/IMG_20140318_180532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_e_WnydnXkYKKOfiTG1OUDEclju63g8frZNbcS1UC8WXX4UVTLcS_ntk2xgXIeMLrFBzHV7Ipv7VMSsMV23L_4NT2eAZTtMOC5ohuFd3vc5DbGpCzMerq2XhYUNzIbv3_-jtj9Dqrt8U/s1600/IMG_20140318_180532.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Decisions
made, troops rallied, the infiltration of an outdoor rave was our next target.
Little did I know upon entering the warzone, the mayhem was only truly
beginning and the best was yet to come in the following hours. In need of some
liquid motivation, we found the bar. Going straight to my head making short
work of a few with so little in my stomach, I was anxious to get to the heart
of the storm. Attacked from all angles, a free for all, I was a complete
different colour at what seemed like five minute intervals. Drenched from top
to bottom, temporarily blinded by the few who would forget that I had eyes when
they smothered my face with paint, rendering me only capable of drinking while
I waited for my vision to return. Moving my feet and arms imitating the locals
dancing as camouflage as I walked through the mist sprinkler to remove some of
the layers of colour was a poor, ill-fated attempt. Within seconds of stepping
out of the mist, I was a target. If I didn’t stick out enough already, a
reasonably clean face, free of colour brought them swarming. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the sun retreated over the horizon
peace was declared and the music brought to a halt. I’d ingested enough paint
to piss a rainbow and in dire need of a proper meal and shower to refuel and
calm the soul. Watching the colour run off into the drain, it looked like I may
have slaughtered the teletubbies, left with wounds of dyed skin and a green
scalp. It was a city wide blitz leaving its mark on me for the remainder of my
days. A festival like no other, never to be forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-18501436530792709772014-04-09T23:04:00.000-07:002014-04-09T23:04:21.591-07:00The City of Life and Death<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Ground level, travelling with the locals, sleeper class on
the overnight train to Varanasi. Tight, cramped quarters with eight bunks,
somehow crowded with at least twelve people. I landed the top bunk, which I
considered lucky having the option to escape the crowded bunks of the bottom,
the bustle at every stop as people got on and off selling chai, cards and
snacks, being able to catch a few hours of shut eye with my feet hanging off
the edge into the aisle for all to smell. Striking up a conversation waiting
for the sticky heat inside the train to subside, led to meeting some of the friendliest
and courteous people, always interested in where I am from, what I think of
India and offering a taste of their dinner. Always prepared and loaded with
homemade vegetable curries, dal, rice and chapatti kept warm in their tiffin
carrier (lunch box). The cool night air began creeping in refreshing the
compact cabin as I climbed up to the top bunk to read until I clocked out.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTeNeHba7hcHDeiGkzjr2uQKf9Jb6gB9MjuUToKDDHbYhCKvdLCY4WsAlmRI_Hmq7KcUYOgFmJvUS0M0KACN_oH4pFbR-gmneeamd8xF2-mY1ZdGlXN1WtHKLfoVeRKUSZOw6vDeidFj4/s1600/IMG_20140315_225835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTeNeHba7hcHDeiGkzjr2uQKf9Jb6gB9MjuUToKDDHbYhCKvdLCY4WsAlmRI_Hmq7KcUYOgFmJvUS0M0KACN_oH4pFbR-gmneeamd8xF2-mY1ZdGlXN1WtHKLfoVeRKUSZOw6vDeidFj4/s1600/IMG_20140315_225835.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cycle Rickshaw</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Following
the normal routine of escaping the clutches of the touts right outside the
train station, posing to look helpful, preying on the unknowing that just down
the road a cheaper ride exists. Heading to the old city along the Ganga, I was
dropped off at the entrance to the alleys where the rickshaw could no longer
venture and given brief directions towards my hostel. Intensity began weighing
in on all the senses and it was only the tip of the iceberg. As I infiltrated
the dense, narrow passages, walls towering to either side, blocking out any
landmarks I could use, even the sky in spots and with it any sense of direction
I had. A maze filled with motionless cows except the slow grind of their teeth,
slowly chewing what they’ve combed through the abundant garbage for. Bikes
honking as they plowed through the hordes of slow moving people, many with bare
feet, somehow skillfully avoiding broken tiles, clay, glass and loaves of
steamy fresh cow shit right out of the oven. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stained and grungy with a pungent
odour that lingers in the street making my nose cringe, I was envisioning
things to be different as I turned towards the river. I guess I was just hoping
for a fresh, clean, refreshing breeze coming up off the Ganga, even though I
knew it was nothing but a contaminated, disease ridden stretch of water. As I
walked up and stood at the top of the ghats overlooking from a distance kids playing
in the water, laundry being scrubbed, while others meditated by the edge, one
of the holiest places in the country, with at least a cool breeze regardless of
its other attributes, it seemed placid, harmonious, where life and death came
to meet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-9rzXYrvDATMs8f0sbiu5kPR3Tk2ahBLzem_UWe1JWIznOMNPwxFJYbhxxcQdDVn0IBmxo85-qEAObtIY8_JKxa7B8A5Dq1FexcrYdsNSEXWLLBuQozrtEGviJWVzEMACauLH7QHKNA/s1600/IMG_20140311_214321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-9rzXYrvDATMs8f0sbiu5kPR3Tk2ahBLzem_UWe1JWIznOMNPwxFJYbhxxcQdDVn0IBmxo85-qEAObtIY8_JKxa7B8A5Dq1FexcrYdsNSEXWLLBuQozrtEGviJWVzEMACauLH7QHKNA/s1600/IMG_20140311_214321.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The banks of the Ganga</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then my stroll down the bank of
the river began and with it my opinion changed. A holy pilgrimage site, ancient
city with such a strong spiritual culture, sadly given over directly towards
tourism. What I thought of as a greeting, many men reach out to shake hands,
then begins molesting your hand in a death grip. Ripping it free with most of
its integrity, trying to walk away, he followed to clarify that I didn’t want a
massage. I thought it was obvious and no head massage either. Escaping one only
to walk into another, while being asked for boat rides in between. Drugs on
offer consistently, a handful of times within a half an hour walk, everything
from weed to ketamine to heroine. Then the burning ghats. It is believed that
if one dies and is cremated on the banks of the Ganga and their ashes spread,
they are reincarnated into their next life. Hindus travel from all over to live
out their last days to be close to the sacred river. People hail you in to
explain the details of the ceremony, being shown around the ghat, while
families mourn the death of a loved one. Trying not to gag on the acrid smell
of burning flesh, visibly able to see feet and head sticking out from the temple
of wood built around them. It was a morbid sight. After this the price of the
wood is explained claiming it at three hundred rupees a kilogram. Talking to
locals becoming informed that it’s a scam and it only costs twenty rupees and
the remainder of the donation is used to support habits of their own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVuD7FdlTdGqG1vb8VyCr6ZZ2Cyj9Ej3Vy-ZmDQM4G1ECTF370ryVz2fKETU0DpbMmrSE1MUDSzmw5enlsZzW9Cr6k5K2Wpidqy7M6egM2cWQNji3NJ-SLblPgaahjjn_MsqNa-nGgXM/s1600/IMG_20140310_223307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVuD7FdlTdGqG1vb8VyCr6ZZ2Cyj9Ej3Vy-ZmDQM4G1ECTF370ryVz2fKETU0DpbMmrSE1MUDSzmw5enlsZzW9Cr6k5K2Wpidqy7M6egM2cWQNji3NJ-SLblPgaahjjn_MsqNa-nGgXM/s1600/IMG_20140310_223307.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banana Bhang Lassi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Blue
Lassi Shop was famous for a reason. Smashing fresh fruit and curd with a wooden
pestle in an urn to a creamy consistency with chunks of fruit throughout. Each
one served in a disposable clay cup with the time taken to garnish. Quietly
inquiring about the bhang lassi, I was brought to the corner bench away from
crowded little shop. I ordered up a banana bhang lassi, and it was covertly
made and sent my way. Bhang is a cannabis product generally baked into
delicious treats or blended into a lassi. Taking about one to two hours to feel
the effects, I sat outside the shop and patiently awaited the subtle side
effects. After an hour or so, my body became mellow, sinking a little deeper
into the chair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched as funeral processions took place
walking right before me in the narrow lane heading directly to the burning
ghats. In such a short amount of time, five people were paraded down hoisted
over heads weaving through the obstacles of the street, as their family paid
tribute to their life. This continues almost all day and through the night. Not
being one who reads obituaries and in western society death is kept more
private, a family and close friend celebration of one’s life. This really put
into perspective how much constant death and suffering there is in this world
seeing it so openly in one mere city, just one corner of the map. It’s
disheartening to see a place such as this, thousands of years old, one of such
culture, ritual and tradition, being raped and pillaged by tourism and the
large number of people feeding off it. I was only there for a day and a half
before leaving, wishing I didn’t really take the advice of others on this city,
feeling as if I was merely adding to the exploitation of death and mourning of
others.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<br />
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-32308664725685093272014-03-21T09:58:00.002-07:002014-03-21T09:58:57.568-07:00Cold, Pain, Illness, all amongst Beauty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Not starting with any of these, instead my first mistake… booking
two tickets too close together and relying on the Indian rail system to be
punctual, but these others were soon to come. I was heading to the hill station
of Shimla on the UNESCO World Heritage train from Kalka (six hours north of New
Delhi). After realizing my first train to Kalka was already late, I jumped on
the local bus, which quality made doors slammed open and close as we constantly
braked and tried to pick up speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Running through the platforms I managed to make the train with three
minutes to spare. Then of course it was delayed, making my mad dash completely
in vain. Oh well, I made it and was about to wind the foothills of the
Himalayas through pitch black tunnels, over decrepit looking bridges, less than
a foot away from the edge. Coated in alpine forests, streams trickling down
through a path formed over years, whole villages built into the slanted canvas
of the land, I couldn’t keep my head inside the train unable to really capture
the natural beauty of it all in a photo. For these six hours I was at peace
forgetting the world around me and that I had nowhere to go once we reached
Shimla.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GJO9wFYlDftZO5NHzSt2A6X1dda1RH04l_J8MO9NocN95SdCI9hkXdQZ94b88IiPfm4PXpE6wmuuZ37jAvAv6q8OvtIh1BDuPeyVKfO6X0d8RBFoZ231z6922iCBkZr1fWXmeTle10M/s1600/IMG_20140224_200145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6GJO9wFYlDftZO5NHzSt2A6X1dda1RH04l_J8MO9NocN95SdCI9hkXdQZ94b88IiPfm4PXpE6wmuuZ37jAvAv6q8OvtIh1BDuPeyVKfO6X0d8RBFoZ231z6922iCBkZr1fWXmeTle10M/s1600/IMG_20140224_200145.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hanging off the side of the train</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> It was
dark when we arrived and without a reservation to simply get a rickshaw to, I
hiked a kilometer or so uphill into town with about an extra fifty pounds on my
back fending off porters and touts. No I didn’t want to carry my stuff, but I
wanted to pay them less, and with my lack of trust in the touts saying anything
to get you to their hotel for commission, they followed me all the way to town
not taking ‘I have a reservation’ for an answer. They must have called bullshit
because, well they were right, I had nowhere to go. Ducking into the first
guesthouse I saw to lose the annoying voices over my shoulder, it turned out to
be a cheap place and with good reason I found out later. Going to bed I could
see my breath. I had to sleep fully clothed with my winter coat and all the
blankets provided on what seemed like a slab of stone. Claiming they had hot
water was also a definite lie. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50DToUtM4PMuXFM6xJISR6jAvHOMGDM16ghwQqa2wvaW6hnxR1hmpR6otNohZV22PwOepuFU4cBQ69twQV5F7sdlD90eKGdvjmup0IOzlyW3uwr1XZleF9lACNav9MZtQGXeVmk6Q-zs/s1600/IMG_20140226_164502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50DToUtM4PMuXFM6xJISR6jAvHOMGDM16ghwQqa2wvaW6hnxR1hmpR6otNohZV22PwOepuFU4cBQ69twQV5F7sdlD90eKGdvjmup0IOzlyW3uwr1XZleF9lACNav9MZtQGXeVmk6Q-zs/s1600/IMG_20140226_164502.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a numbing shower and
relocating my testicles, I headed up about one thousand steep steps to the
Jakhu Temple (built for Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god), not realizing how out
of shape I was until about half way. Panting in the cold air, refusing my legs
the right to collapse, I stuttered up the rest of the way. Meeting a local on
the way up, he took me into the temple explaining the story behind it,
showing me the proper way to pray. Afterwards the priest dotted my forehead
with paint, poured a teaspoon of water in my hands, which I pretended to drink
avoiding it like the plague and some sort of sweet. Before I had a chance to
eat it, as I walked around the top mesmerized by the view the rhesus macaques
stealthily approached. Creeping in they started jumping at me. I found this fun
at first, lifting it just out of the grasp each time, like a bullfighter, until one decided to jump
and hang on to me, swatting at it. It wasn’t giving up unless I dropped it for
him. Relentless, just like the touts and porters.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9dUeFRQ7dEs5_EYmHZNIYUI908XNdi4hFQFYX2jGzk6DCjHmS1lLFz9n5dqu7ckD0A4jXJuJ_py-0_9WuJNuNeHHvUWJvQfyNgaxX1e3NYWmWujftuBg2kqRshOTphlwPckh1pubiRc/s1600/IMG_20140225_182511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi9dUeFRQ7dEs5_EYmHZNIYUI908XNdi4hFQFYX2jGzk6DCjHmS1lLFz9n5dqu7ckD0A4jXJuJ_py-0_9WuJNuNeHHvUWJvQfyNgaxX1e3NYWmWujftuBg2kqRshOTphlwPckh1pubiRc/s1600/IMG_20140225_182511.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Evening came, and with it my bus
further north to Manali, what I hoped would be an unforgettable snowboarding
experience laced with charas. Well it was definitely a day I won’t forget. A
windy road like a giant snake slithering through the mountains, barely wide
enough to pass oncoming traffic without pulling over most of the time. I had
full trust in the bus driver that we wouldn’t drive off the side tumbling down
as I tried to sleep. Suddenly we were at a standstill in a storm of furious
honking. I came to learn that a goods carrier truck took one of the many sharp
turns to quick and was now on its side blocking most of the road. After ill-fated
attempts to tow the truck out of the way with what they had to work with, the
bus driver decided he had waited long enough and went to squeeze through. If I
knew he was going for it coming inches from the edge, I would have gotten off
considering I had a front row window seat if we went down. Barely making it
through, I checked my pants before settling back into the sleep for a few more
hours. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Awakened in Manali at six in the
morning by the movement of the bus being emptied and a sore throat, exhausted
and grouchy, I jumped in the first rickshaw I saw to take me to my guesthouse. The
stunned driver not being able to find my hotel took me to some random place
claiming it was the one I asked for. Arguing a bit, but coughing and unable to
walk further I took the room, crashing until early afternoon. With my head in a
cloud when I woke unable to breathe well, looking outside to see snow, I
thought to myself, ‘what the hell am I doing’. I escaped the brutal Canadian
winter to travel to India back into the cold and snow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXFOtvvga0Ry96kWtT0BM-GHbaH6IuUkJKFjCsLX6U7lpW-hU4Lm5aeSkHgZ0LkkCwBVivdjzFFGD-vouhjYC-h6k8oV_IcfEIL9UwrZP6XFsQLRFJOLV6h_82KzHtuarkAfudnn8hl8Q/s1600/IMG_20140304_142345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXFOtvvga0Ry96kWtT0BM-GHbaH6IuUkJKFjCsLX6U7lpW-hU4Lm5aeSkHgZ0LkkCwBVivdjzFFGD-vouhjYC-h6k8oV_IcfEIL9UwrZP6XFsQLRFJOLV6h_82KzHtuarkAfudnn8hl8Q/s1600/IMG_20140304_142345.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aloo Tikki</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The day came to conquer the
mountains, or in actuality get conquered near the brink of death. The bus
brought me to Solang Nullah, the ski rsort just north of Manali, at 8:30 as per recommended, only to learn the lift
doesn’t start until 10:30 and no public toilets were open, and that cup of chai
got the system going. Duck walking out into the bush surrounding the area,
picking amongst the many outhouses, I returned to barter for some equipment
rentals. Boots that looked shredded from some of the wild dogs here, and a
scratched board that well could have been worse. It’s alive, the lift creaks to
a start. Not thinking twice I went to the top for the first time on a snowboard
in five or six years. With the snow beginning to melt, the frequent rain falls,
it was some of the worst conditions I’ve been on. Wet, chunky, layers of ice in
spots, no fresh powder and snowmobile tracks ravaging the slopes, I went for
it. Worst idea I’ve had in a little while, and my mind festers a lot of them.
About half way down the mountain I caught an edge on a snowmobile track sending
me flying, knocking the wind out of me and seriously injuring my back. As I sat
in the wet snow, in immense pain freezing my ass thinking it over, I really
didn’t know what I expected. Catching my breath, I forced my way to the bottom
and called it a very short day, the pain so fierce it was making me feel
nauseous. Next time, maybe I’ll start on the small hill again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Useless and unable to dress
myself without the utmost difficulty for about two days, I smoked my pain away into
a state of complete relaxation with the charas (hash) conveniently provided by
the guest house manager, loaded up on munchies and passed in and out of sleep
until I built up the strength to haul myself to the bus station, and finally
leave the snow-capped breathtaking mountains. One way ticket back to the heat,
escaping the snow for the second time where I could comfortably heal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-47963065313040224312014-03-07T07:29:00.001-08:002014-03-08T04:35:12.981-08:00A Shock to the Senses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> New Delhi, organized chaos. Not here, just chaos. I thought
it might have been the fact that it was a busy, foreign city for the first
time, but then I realized I had done this before and it wasn’t like this. Far
from what I expected in both good ways and bad from the stereotypical
assumptions of what I had seen in movies, documentaries, and heard from
embellished stories. I didn’t get knocked out by the smell when I stepped out
of the airplane, not that it smelt of peaches and roses, but it wasn't unbearable. Driving to my hostel, surrounded by cars, rickshaws and bikes
scattered throughout the road (there are lanes, but they go unnoticed) the
smell of pollution choked my nose with an accent of garbage. I didn’t realize
how good a filter my nose was until I was shooting black shit like when I
stacked straw and hay in the dusty, suffocating mow of a barn. Garbage lined
the streets without the existence of trash bins. I felt awkward at first,
scouting with my peripherals while I added to the piled gutters, trying to be
sneaky hoping no one would see me. Impossible to hide, but it’s a join the
crowd situation. The ground of Delhi was the garbage can. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx5oFzh92PEE8YEGnq-vxWZzBTiFQSqwOUNqjcY6oGypqhLxX3C5nr3zJWPcvuvQM_obb8CFYOH2pAGg5EAb41k9hiKdOQ3xB7F7gzOrPk4hFelMzkX2Go7l09uEMG9XZPXfd65Rwq_Pw/s1600/IMG_20140306_160416.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx5oFzh92PEE8YEGnq-vxWZzBTiFQSqwOUNqjcY6oGypqhLxX3C5nr3zJWPcvuvQM_obb8CFYOH2pAGg5EAb41k9hiKdOQ3xB7F7gzOrPk4hFelMzkX2Go7l09uEMG9XZPXfd65Rwq_Pw/s1600/IMG_20140306_160416.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
crowds and lines of people were a little overwhelming until you got the hang of
moving around. There is no such thing as personal space, more or less getting
dry humped around every corner. Pushing to move ahead faster with nowhere to
go, or grabbing and pulling you out of the way to squeeze through, it was an
aggressive way of life, with no room for patience. Something that must be
instilled from the first steps taken, or else one would not get anywhere. The
weak would not survive. The cycle/auto rickshaws are relentless, but I was used to that as it’s
the same where I’d been before. The key for me is to walk as if I know where
I’m going, even though I couldn’t be more lost and never make eye contact. Once
eye contact is established, it’s a license to hassle. Also unnecessarily long
staring is to be expected. Especially on the metro, it’s fast paced, no mercy
rules, and always too full. If you don’t make it in, the door just slams in
front of you, or if so unlucky on you or your bag. Getting off at one of the
last stops is a stampede from both directions. The gates open and they’re off.
Funneling out, with two lines on either side just waiting for their opening to
get on, chomping at the bit, and bulldoze the last few off. ‘Any unattended or
suspicious article like a briefcase, bag, toy, thermos or transistor could be a bomb.’ But
don’t worry, only a reassuring message scrolling the screen on the metro. All
bags must go through a scanner before entering the platforms and a quick pat
down required.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhaNKzxeFZp5mC4oVhhcU2tYYw_Elzh4bIe-mIG3nfXITUzCacjgH22KIKK96Zsh208WphumoSHVMr67cHkEYy711u6wIdjxnZ66if7fLEqvcZ2SGceRJhF3bv4nzE0ywRlaS7Qq5aU_4/s1600/IMG_20140307_204452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhaNKzxeFZp5mC4oVhhcU2tYYw_Elzh4bIe-mIG3nfXITUzCacjgH22KIKK96Zsh208WphumoSHVMr67cHkEYy711u6wIdjxnZ66if7fLEqvcZ2SGceRJhF3bv4nzE0ywRlaS7Qq5aU_4/s1600/IMG_20140307_204452.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To make
reservations out of the city by train, the maze of the rail station must be
taken on full force to find the tourist office to book your tickets in advance.
Getting my arm pulled, being pointed in the wrong direction half a dozen times,
I was lucky I had proper directions from someone who had already been, brushing
them off like a grain of salt. Unfortunately not my strong suit but one must
think ahead a couple days, which does makes sense considering millions of people
use the train every day in India. For the buses, certain ones run frequently in
which a reservation isn’t necessary, but it’s recommended if you want to make
sure you get where you want, when you want. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
markets are another world all of themselves. Frequenting a few of them, it’s
nice that the fresh, fragrant food and brewing chai tea somewhat overcome the
smell of exhaust. Diving right in I got a couple of samosas, deep fried paneer,
chickpea dal with a chili powder, fresh lime, cilantro, eaten with chapatti
bread, a dough rolled out and grilled or pan fried. Alleyways to get lost in
everywhere you look, certain streets selling nothing but shoes, then saris,
then glasses, it’s endless. Chandi Chowk, the well-known market in Old Delhi,
right across from the Red Fort, sells just about anything you would want if you
dig deep enough. At the end of this chaotic street, the wholesale spice market
is right around the corner. Huge bags of chilies and spices on carts on their
way out for delivery elsewhere, then every stall with bins of dates, nuts,
whole and freshly ground spices, so fragrant your nose takes over, enough to
make hundreds of masalas (spice blends). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCc9CXUmJwdEUjNOSK2NRLCBnmr4gC-V9erded92doAESfuPXxXCfLhhsTBRapRc6OFIgLbpdjUgs9fNMwxoDXvifnFD2_uUnR0TZHqT4U_Z8UWhxs1fuD0zLHT7maFWyPPugXMqNpfP8/s1600/IMG_20140222_184326.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCc9CXUmJwdEUjNOSK2NRLCBnmr4gC-V9erded92doAESfuPXxXCfLhhsTBRapRc6OFIgLbpdjUgs9fNMwxoDXvifnFD2_uUnR0TZHqT4U_Z8UWhxs1fuD0zLHT7maFWyPPugXMqNpfP8/s1600/IMG_20140222_184326.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Upon
leaving Delhi after only a few days heading north, my eyes laid witness to the
first true slum I had ever seen. The train picking up speed slowly, the slums
lined the tracks. Ramshackle homes built off each other, walls built of tarps,
cinder blocks, sticks or whatever was available. Fields, layered with garbage,
a massive compost pile, with pigs wallowing in it, dogs sniffing for food, cows
trying to graze, and the whole area was used as the public toilet. Everyone has
seen a glimpse of the slums in a movie, documentary or article, but seeing it
for myself still only beneath the surface as I rolled past, I had to turn away.
The worst is hidden from what I thought I knew. Having travelled to Asia
before, I thought I had an understanding of what was to come, but this… this
left me stunned, with a sense of stupidity and arrogance, realizing truthfully
how little I know of this world and how lucky I am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<img height="72" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaSmMyymVUiC3jmCxQ_8P3JPiUEdd07x-CL8dwqgOsdjbB98ltduxzUuN5FDK3Rsc7OacgfiXa7bRzAlhyphenhyphen7c9G3B3WCsLj0H0DisCg1NbNCvoOnKbhGeUJtibf82cJt0yLb6hKqW3TTIY/s1600/1.jpg" style="left: 481.32px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 913.66px;" width="96" /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"> </span>Triple checking my bag leaving Amsterdam,
crossing the border into Germany I didn’t want the same experience as the last
time I left and arrived in Paris. All good, bag is clean and I’m on route to
Stuttgart to visit with a great friend I met in Thailand. As always, I choose
the night bus. Uncomfortable as all hell, cramped, and no actual sleep ever
really comes, but I’m cheap saving me a hostel and from wasting a day on a bus.
Ten hours later, I clamber off the bus haggardly, blinded by the light I was
trying so hard to avoid through my squinted eyes only intensifying the
throbbing in my head from sleep deprivation, and the sudden movements
generating a cacophony of groans, grunts and wails like a herd of dying animals
from my stomach.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxDu_NGaW0x3zofiWerppwo0U_octDPQUI2AVO4LqZwHb0h_ImpQSwNKQTnl3jCXGL2oLgollshM1TXPM5TThbd5MVRyg34JHX16ytRNctAfd1aC37YLXZ-4jbIqAkRp5k0twAk-UzkA/s1600/IMG_20140208_132428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxxDu_NGaW0x3zofiWerppwo0U_octDPQUI2AVO4LqZwHb0h_ImpQSwNKQTnl3jCXGL2oLgollshM1TXPM5TThbd5MVRyg34JHX16ytRNctAfd1aC37YLXZ-4jbIqAkRp5k0twAk-UzkA/s1600/IMG_20140208_132428.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking the vineyards in the countryside</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"> Regaining
my balance to some degree, I notice him waiting by one of the platforms.
Meeting in a different realm of this world in the heat of the misty jungle
surrounding Chiang Mai, and again in Hanoi almost exactly two years prior to
now, this was a remarkably surreal moment I’m sure for both of us. Loading up
my bags, we shortly thereafter took flight on the autobahn, as I’m informed
Germans don’t drive fast but fly low. Cruising around 160km an hour which isn’t
considered that fast here, I couldn’t take my eyes off the scenery once we were
outside the city and into the rolling hills of the countryside. Fields painted
the landscape, vineyards scaling all the steep inclines, and patches of trees
dressed with vines were scattered throughout. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtmv-IZWBsBmM13aoQGFrU5X9fW_Af10NpQ9SKqii64ImWtZbO8hqrWaiEECn6INIYyD9ghBU9PEQ8UqW49Hjo983pBH_kFeMBv9KoqkEqaEJlyfmQ-_oBxSiudjg7MS4x1mbKhFWJypw/s1600/IMG_20140212_005250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtmv-IZWBsBmM13aoQGFrU5X9fW_Af10NpQ9SKqii64ImWtZbO8hqrWaiEECn6INIYyD9ghBU9PEQ8UqW49Hjo983pBH_kFeMBv9KoqkEqaEJlyfmQ-_oBxSiudjg7MS4x1mbKhFWJypw/s1600/IMG_20140212_005250.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-CA"> Surprisingly
doing absolutely nothing, uncomfortably on a bus for 10 hours with a potential
hour or so of unnoticeable sleep builds quite the appetite. A quick stop at the
market bakery, rounding up supplies for a simple breakfast spread to bring back
my even keel, before heading home into the beautiful, small town of Hofen (reminding
me of Thorndale where I grew up, stuck in the boondocks with its massive
populace of 800). Fresh rolls, pretzels, liverwurst, and some sort of ham-ish
sausage in a can, (an indisputable love for sausage in a can is quite evident,
similar to spam for Hawaiians, just way better) left with us. Showing me his
coop behind the house with a dozen or so plump quails, as fresh as possible,
straight from the bird’s ass, sunny-side up quail eggs joined our plates. Almost
knocking me out for a nap, filling up the void in my stomach, it was my first
lesson on the hearty, heavy, starch and meat based meals common to Swabian fare.
Followed up by an early welcome to Germany beer, a brew before noon always
sparks some temporary energy, as we headed out for a long walk through the
countryside with his more than eager Chocolate Lab. Briefly bringing me back
nearly 20 years, roaming the fields and bush behind my first house as a child,
I was stunned with the similarities between the two areas. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXK5wgifpaHdNO7zhMiT9izraMiB2DEswNSIKaCKUUtb6nK8sDMETeEBSZBTRNf_8vo5ZzrQipMCy9jiOh0cLhgVKBkdGcRq_TOlLXtX0C3FXCc7adqHtqHPvRggoEsjTbtQnd5hQh6I/s1600/DSC00172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMXK5wgifpaHdNO7zhMiT9izraMiB2DEswNSIKaCKUUtb6nK8sDMETeEBSZBTRNf_8vo5ZzrQipMCy9jiOh0cLhgVKBkdGcRq_TOlLXtX0C3FXCc7adqHtqHPvRggoEsjTbtQnd5hQh6I/s1600/DSC00172.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-CA"> I
was being brought to the local fire hall for dinner, where the volunteer
firefighters, retired, current and trainees, of which my friend was one, get
together monthly to eat, drink and socialize. I was introduced to my favorite
beer during my stay that night, Paulaner Hefeweizen, a wheat beer with a
citrusy flavour, similar to Hoegaarden with an orange slice, yet incomparable.
It was a light meal consisting of fresh farmer’s bread, pickles, pickled red
pepper and another type of liver sausage with mustard, dropped off personally
by the local butcher. So great to feel the sense of community here, supporting
local businesses opposed to the massive, overtaking supermarkets. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"> Getting
invited to catch a glimpse behind the scenes at his shop, I couldn’t pass that
up. It was definitely just a crash course in German meats and sausages, its
unfathomable how many tubed shaped meats get produced in just one shop.
Multiple kinds of blood sausage, liverwurst and salamis just to name a few, it
would take years to learn them all, but afterwards you could get your bachelor
of meat as he put it. Two types of meat grinders, one producing a regular
course grind, the other emulsifying the meat and fat into a paste as a base for
many different smooth textured sausages, like the currywurst. Trying to show me
the size and capacity of the smoker, I only got a glance at the pounds of meat
in there before the smoke saw its chance to escape, enveloping the room,
choking and burning our eyes. Crates of Maultashen, which is a very traditional
Swabian dish. Created by the monks, similar to a large ravioli, it was
initially made to hide the meat from God during the days of Lent. As long as it
helped them sleep at night, but regardless eating my fair share, pan-fried in
butter or in a broth, they were phenomenal. Spaetzle, also originating in
Swabia, another friend showed me the proper way of whipping the batter off a
wooden board into boiling water. An art form in itself, to say the least mine
were quite inconsistent.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJBW5fbWbTo96ehMYd0lm4O1abkz4WhZhZq_Prv8gXSE0sMH1wz_yLf0pU8wpQOthzezeNiuXiE25i4zjXQKi56vUeQznDfVOP_w66uJPC3twhBOSIv-D6fY9Ap3q397zOOMti9ys8zc/s1600/IMG_20140214_180400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJBW5fbWbTo96ehMYd0lm4O1abkz4WhZhZq_Prv8gXSE0sMH1wz_yLf0pU8wpQOthzezeNiuXiE25i4zjXQKi56vUeQznDfVOP_w66uJPC3twhBOSIv-D6fY9Ap3q397zOOMti9ys8zc/s1600/IMG_20140214_180400.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meat platter from the butchers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"> Another
one of the volunteer firefighters was the announcer for the local hockey team
the Beitigheim Steelers. Learning that I had never been to an actual stadium
hockey game in my life, which is weird to say as a Canadian, and my lack of
understanding of anything being said, they were scheming right under my nose
that first night. Giving us tickets to the home game on Friday, I couldn’t
believe I was going to see my first game in Germany. As he started his
announcements, very unexpectedly, he gave me a special welcome as I was pointed
out to all. Then after the second period I was proclaimed fan of the night,
with my face thrown on the jumbo-tron, and the stadium yelling ‘drink’ as I
pounded back one of my fresh pints. Afterwards, invited onto the ice to hand a
six pack of the beer sponsor to the captain and received a couple shirts, one
getting signed by the team. Ruining any future hockey game for me, as my best
game I’m sure I will ever go to was also my first, but couldn’t have asked for
a better time and surprise. I also thought before this game that people were
hockey fanatics back home, until I witnessed what the fans here are like. Only
comparable to what I’ve seen of the Japanese with baseball. The drum beats
constant vibrating my skull long after I left, the incessant clapping leaving
my hands red and throbbing, not to mention the solid high fives given to all
within reach whenever they scored. There was steady and almost uninterrupted
chanting only ceasing for the megaphone holder to belt out the beginning of
another war cry for everyone to follow giving the troops moral. True fans,
jumping, screaming and the odd toss of a drink on the ice at the opposing
goalie.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpMv2Ge7iHTTsZh_x5c4PfpPut7SGIjuaSqt6Qyb2BiEikX1uiTYOqi87TuplYf5xy755oTDnajixi-JRjfLnA3U167XD8vWyyeZDM-XMGrxS4y-RyTcFOtqItiJ5URn3PTCwbXdQnhY/s1600/DSC00197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfpMv2Ge7iHTTsZh_x5c4PfpPut7SGIjuaSqt6Qyb2BiEikX1uiTYOqi87TuplYf5xy755oTDnajixi-JRjfLnA3U167XD8vWyyeZDM-XMGrxS4y-RyTcFOtqItiJ5URn3PTCwbXdQnhY/s1600/DSC00197.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schnapps Tasting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"> The
Besen, where the passions of Swabia come to unite. Community, friends, family,
local food and wine. No strangers exist, only friends who have yet to meet. Only
open about four months of the year in the off season, they are constantly
packed, loaded with wine produced from there vineyards, and for us the third
time was a charm. Fitting around forty people or less, the first one we
attempted to get a table in was full with people continuing to pull in one
after the other. Waiters and waitresses skilfully weave around tables, chairs and
people glowing with wine and pleasure, like an orgy without the sex. The level
of noise rising with every glass put to lips. The harmonious ring rippling
through the room as glasses met in the middle clanging together followed by
Prost, or cheers, with a subtle meeting of the eyes. Without eye contact you
condemn yourself to seven years of bad sex. Something not worth risking and was
happy I was informed quickly of this upon arriving in Germany. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"> The
second besen we went to was just as full, even smaller with what seemed like
just as many people. Once again proficient servers somehow snaking around the
same obstacles with the addition of some who rose up with the beginning of the
accordion. Arms spread, swaying, waving their arms as the sung along lightly
bumping the tops of heads of those still seated. Possibly intentional as a get
up and join in or the copious amounts of wine leaving them off balance. My
brain was screaming ‘get me out of here.’ I was too sober for this but on the
other hand if I came in with a head full of schnapps and wine, I would have
joined in like I understood the crowed room as I did in Vietnamese karaoke. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2a_hk-y6xTA6Jt3Nr0Dm4zBonLhqPnIhk9VtXFqD8HdF9gRefh13VCkU3PrTqHVjHx1fDEF2jJB73hWv3HIZJsr96koTLcDqS2QVJq0wftV_gUXesdD7Un0HU3dOzZ4StppqtiqFS75c/s1600/IMG_20140216_005152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2a_hk-y6xTA6Jt3Nr0Dm4zBonLhqPnIhk9VtXFqD8HdF9gRefh13VCkU3PrTqHVjHx1fDEF2jJB73hWv3HIZJsr96koTLcDqS2QVJq0wftV_gUXesdD7Un0HU3dOzZ4StppqtiqFS75c/s1600/IMG_20140216_005152.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meal at the Besen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA"> After
hope was almost lost of getting the besen experience, an open table was found
at the smallest one we had been to so far. Rushing over to our last chance for
the evening, we stepped in to find a table for six while we were a group of
eleven. Clown car style, we squeezed in crammed elbow to elbow, we made it
work. Wine was poured, food was ordered and good times ensued. Taking the
recommendation of my friends, I ordered the Schlachtplatte, which is more or
less a sausage and meat platter. My hunt for fresh German blood sausage was
over, exploding as if I hit a main artery with my knife squirting blood all
over my plate leaving plenty to be mopped up with the freshly made bread.
Liverwurst with a texture of haggis, bursting, turning inside out as I
punctured the casing to reveal its insides. Liberal slices of tender, melt in
your mouth braised pork belly and pork neck on top of a mound of warm
sauerkraut. All followed by a hefty slab of moist apple and peach bread pudding
with vanilla ice cream. Bottles of local wine flowed making this my most
memorable meal, with a few new friends, unspeakably great food, a warm,
inviting and seasonal atmosphere in what seemed like someone’s personal dining
room.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN-CA"> I was given a true Swabian experience
throughout my time here, falling in love with the people, culture, gorgeous
countryside, food and drink. Only really scratching the surface, I was left
with too many reasons to return, and plan to do just that to dig a little
deeper.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236194177428102447.post-71036957191851899702014-02-13T05:25:00.000-08:002014-02-13T05:25:17.037-08:00Round Two<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Down cobblestone alleys, over canals amongst centuries old
buildings, like giants towering over, the intoxicating aroma of pancakes and
weed permeate the air. The faint whispers for Charlie or coca in my ear, and
the not so subtle incessant pounding on glass doorways from the flaunting porn
star like girls as I mosey through the streets barely putting one foot in front
of the other, captivated by the mesmerizing aura set off by the glow of the red
lights. I’m back, round two… Amsterdam!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuq8MOwx-xWsrN7XaleqF1TPItZoQnbVuCYjibQ6QVdvKdnNqLtP26I26YZ9YnUOJIoCVQ6S9KnTvMQThWnrGhyphenhyphens4N9cNVxlbTW-vqIJengfSNgLdTh1V8z90h64HUh5YpnyU8_b7ymM8/s1600/IMG_20140131_164010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuq8MOwx-xWsrN7XaleqF1TPItZoQnbVuCYjibQ6QVdvKdnNqLtP26I26YZ9YnUOJIoCVQ6S9KnTvMQThWnrGhyphenhyphens4N9cNVxlbTW-vqIJengfSNgLdTh1V8z90h64HUh5YpnyU8_b7ymM8/s1600/IMG_20140131_164010.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Anne
Frank House, no thanks, the line was astronomical even for this time of year. Van Gogh Museum, Heineken
Brewery Tour. Nope and nope, well I walked by at least, if that counts for
anything. Not a fan of line ups or tourists traps (falling for one in an
attempt to be social, it was sadly an hour of my life I will never get back), I
chose to take the slower pace of life, sitting in cafes and coffee shops (yes,
they’re different, simply coffee shops have a more unique menu, generally no
food) just taking in the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of this promiscuous
city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Staying
at The Flying Pig Downtown hostel, I was right in the district this time. A
relaxed and laid back environment, where travellers could chill out in the
smoking room, some people forgetting the caliber of the pot, they became so
incapacitated I swear they never left, and a bar with the cheapest bottle of
beer (2 for 4 euros) I could find. Amsterdam in general is quite expensive to
drink, charging way too much for Heineken thinking it’s better than it is, and
for a mixed drink, 4 euros for a shot and 2 more for the coke. I’ve never seen
a bigger scam, well that’s a lie, but nonetheless. This was probably all in all
a good thing for me, giving my liver a bit of a break. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykd49T9rs5lGIdEOlWWMMVqgGUaro9KcWLP4XQOCksqxB6fy6YpLdWJF_vPt3a1yHjRpA3if96Q_wEIkZkfMB7rJEHDv_mSdNWLm5TK8RTQUJA1TZklgRhWLRPA7Nlo5OT6djHeiAVCw/s1600/IMG_20140202_161642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykd49T9rs5lGIdEOlWWMMVqgGUaro9KcWLP4XQOCksqxB6fy6YpLdWJF_vPt3a1yHjRpA3if96Q_wEIkZkfMB7rJEHDv_mSdNWLm5TK8RTQUJA1TZklgRhWLRPA7Nlo5OT6djHeiAVCw/s1600/IMG_20140202_161642.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Surprised
by the haze my head was in last time, I found myself actually capable of
navigating my way through the city. Somehow I actually found my way back to the
places I remembered so vividly, as if instead of returning I just woke up from
a six year dream and continued my trip. The city was etched into my brain,
permanent and unchanging. First things first, I cross Dam Square, down a narrow
alley, containing a calming herbal scent, and following my nose, it’s just up
ahead. An oval sign, lit up with fluorescent neon lights screaming out Abraxas.
Upon entering this hobbit hole like shop, all weights fall from my shoulders as
I’m greeted with your not so average menu. Discussing and purchasing some of
their wares, I order an Americano and the best juice I’ve ever had, Looza.
Personally I prefer the banana, pear and mango, but they all deserve equal
merit. After returning from my first trip, I hunted this sweet nectar down,
driving to the US (at that point my only legitimate reason for ever going) to
find it, I just needed another taste. Managing to balance everything while I
slowly made my way up the coil of stairs, I settled in to renew myself in the
art of rolling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscv5l4GCCZXK5ID7rFT5lMIJMOI8GSHWoQTxuGTNLq9doLU63shG8XOlF6yyRR0YdiRkol8lm70cpcCRXgWuk29cenu-9pRkmCOT4yzdxsZBEUK5IOJktwoiyuEUlNfGUu9kbVNGP8yQ/s1600/IMG_20140213_012830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgscv5l4GCCZXK5ID7rFT5lMIJMOI8GSHWoQTxuGTNLq9doLU63shG8XOlF6yyRR0YdiRkol8lm70cpcCRXgWuk29cenu-9pRkmCOT4yzdxsZBEUK5IOJktwoiyuEUlNfGUu9kbVNGP8yQ/s1600/IMG_20140213_012830.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sitting
in these shops is otherworldly, time slides by as I slip into a state of
trance. I watch life pass by before my half open eyes, observing, in what I
feel is deep thought, yet feeling unable to take part, as if looking through a
window. Listening from a distance to giggles from nowhere, rambling of
forgotten points and the odd, ‘Hey bro, can I borrow your lighter,’ I’m
perfectly content with my coffee, looza, spliff and wandering mind. Continuing
to puff away, I zoom out on the microscope, falling further and further away.
Currently as I sat in a state of limbo, or at least extremely unmotivated,
slowly but surely focus comes back and hunger draws near. A new dilemma
approaches … what to EAT.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdkbWADhqiGJ0tKSwx93GnFzt1e4jR7nSlHz-86olLtzAJw_QjRf_CThxG9yLa_Sz61ygRCVQGvWXS-EDAmhsK1uVykSPBQzjncXno1L-Tg6yP2mV5fwRSpVwy5AbH8hG6auVUMQsjiM/s1600/IMG_20140130_181207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdkbWADhqiGJ0tKSwx93GnFzt1e4jR7nSlHz-86olLtzAJw_QjRf_CThxG9yLa_Sz61ygRCVQGvWXS-EDAmhsK1uVykSPBQzjncXno1L-Tg6yP2mV5fwRSpVwy5AbH8hG6auVUMQsjiM/s1600/IMG_20140130_181207.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With way
too many ideas floating through my head at once, I remember Chipsy King.
Primarily a French fry joint, I figured I couldn’t go wrong with a Dutch
classic and typical stoner food. Thick cut, pre-blanched, perfectly crispy
exterior, light and fluffy interior, these people know their fries. Finished
only with mayonnaise, peanut satay sauce and chopped onions. Sure you could get
ketchup, but why do something stupid like that. Not that I don’t have my hands
full, I find myself being drawn somewhere else. Subconsciously I know what I
want and realize I shouldn’t think anymore and leave it up to my stomach,
letting my feet just carry me forward. They’ll take me where I need to go, and
they did. Poffertjes, tiny little Dutch pancakes. Like taking a bite of a cloud
coated in butter, dusted with powdered sugar, my mouth had an orgasm drooling
from the side, leaving them more enticing than most of the girls in the
windows. I prepared myself for a coma and ordered another lot.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Waking up
clear headed and hungry, there was two things wrong with this picture. I was in
Amsterdam, at least this was an easy fix. Heading out in the opposite
direction, and while crossing over a canal I noticed a line for another long
established Dutch street food. These lines I’m okay with, just means it has to
be good. Lightly brined herring with chopped onions and sweet and sour pickle,
eaten by itself or on a bun. As I walked away taking my first bite, I reared to
a halt and got back in line for another, imagining what it would be like in a
maki roll, something I’ll have to experiment with. Getting my fill, I worked
my way towards Dampkring, quite a famous coffee shop for, well the obvious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvZbwlOYsEww9N2pmTUDJeAFK01YWCs__IZZKGZH-rqjB9LAdbsjedqeQxBHwayQypjP3G8jhM7P5_t4vnaLTsWHzn9YuV__1X0wCKa4HBvzXbfYGy3HBFN0JG9YZUYPKhTx9W-jvOTs/s1600/IMG_20140213_124939.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMvZbwlOYsEww9N2pmTUDJeAFK01YWCs__IZZKGZH-rqjB9LAdbsjedqeQxBHwayQypjP3G8jhM7P5_t4vnaLTsWHzn9YuV__1X0wCKa4HBvzXbfYGy3HBFN0JG9YZUYPKhTx9W-jvOTs/s1600/IMG_20140213_124939.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My sweet tooth is kicking back in
again, so I grab a Stoopwafel (the Dutch caramel syrup waffle cookie) for the directionless
walk I’m embarking on. Crossing Dam Square, through the horde of pigeons, I
just about back hand one away as it thinks I’m going to let it land on me for
some of my Stroopwafel. Little does it know, I will 1- fight to the death for
this cookie, and 2- I eat pigeon. There is plenty of other stupid tourists who
think it is fun for them to land on you, and get a picture taken looking like
the crazy bird lady from Home Alone 2. I myself, don’t see the joy in having
flying shit rats all over my arms and head. Personally I prefer them not full
of garbage and in a savoury pigeon pie.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cheese, holy shit, it was
everywhere, the cheese. I found a quaint little shop, Reypenaer offering a
tasting of six cheeses, hand washed and aged under a master’s eye. Two goat and
four cow’s milk cheeses produced in their warehouse. Already a fan of the goat
cheeses I have tried, once again I was leaning towards the Wyngaard Chevre
Gris. Aged ten months, with an ivory colour, scent of crème fraiche and
slightly granular with a drier texture. Once the tasting concluded we were left
to our own devices for five minutes or so to finish up our wine and port. This
was a poor move for both parties involved. I ate as much free cheese as I could
in that time frame making a six cheese fondue in my stomach, but this also led
to me being unable to have a proper bowel movement the following day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
time to go under the gun again, the slow cat scratch as ink is imbedded into my
skin. The timeless and only real souvenir I need this time, I couldn’t wait,
the first of many as I travel the world. The only downside is the price point,
but being as it is Amsterdam, I couldn’t expect much less. It’s like paying for
a brand name, the novelty of it all. Not to mention, a place where most of
their business comes from ‘well planned out’, drunk and high decisions, so they
were able to get away with it in this city of carnal sins.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbb5OQ-XTY9StaqME-KDzHd3nIqdhQKP3XBn0Bit6HZBAAp09f_h-2BEdXrESc_GRlk0Z7F72MQ7tNG9KAiSTQm8Wtx_Ufxr7Ab6bIzm4XeeaOtdaDqWhv8eYBXa62BPubM_dnRecLnq8/s1600/IMG_20140205_134932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbb5OQ-XTY9StaqME-KDzHd3nIqdhQKP3XBn0Bit6HZBAAp09f_h-2BEdXrESc_GRlk0Z7F72MQ7tNG9KAiSTQm8Wtx_Ufxr7Ab6bIzm4XeeaOtdaDqWhv8eYBXa62BPubM_dnRecLnq8/s1600/IMG_20140205_134932.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I sit
on the second floor of another coffee shop, watching the sun set over the
horizon, the red lights begin to take over and the curtains slide open exposing
the naked flesh of a multitude of women … well for the most part anyways. A
little bit of whatever gives you that rise can be found here. It might be down
a dark alley, only noticeable while exuding that warm luminescent glow from its
hidden entrance welcoming all willing. Even though I’ve been here once before,
there’s something about prostitutes in windows that never gets old, just my
perception that changes. At the age of 19, being my first extended trip away
from home with only a good friend, I thought of this as nothing but a spectacle
and joke, a good laugh as I walked by. Now with a better understanding of the
way things work, I felt a sense of remorse for these women, for having to
resort to such lengths to support themselves, or even worse, forced into such a
trade. One can only imagine the bullshit that weighs on this job and the person.
Banging profusely on their windows, heckling with drunks, enduring blatant
laughing and pointing, it would run someone into the ground. Unfortunately it
is far from a perfect world out there, but try to keep in mind that this is not a choice
they would make if other options were available.</span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before I
leave this kingdom of pleasure for years to come, I wander the streets one
final time soaking in the atmosphere of a city that is like no other I’ve
visited. I gorge on all things bliss, putting myself into dream state until I
awaken again in Amsterdam for round three.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17271494750644175555noreply@blogger.com0