Travelling Sherman

Last batch of pictures

2007-11-23T18:03:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone,
We are back in the USA now. It feels good to be back.
So as promised, the Thailand Pictures are up. You can access them by going to the link below: http://www.flickr.com/photos/50539386@N00/sets/72157603274935798/

Also, check out some new Laos Pictures (may be at the end of the set)
http://www.flickr.com/photos/50539386@N00/sets/72157602795977999/

Before I go, two things to leave you with.

1. Two Plumbers on vacation, Ko Phi Phi, Thailand

2. Young Rockers of Chiang Mai (video)

-Travelling Sherman

Last Call

2007-11-21T02:49:00.000-08:00

Last Call

It's far from closing time here in Bangkok. Most of the youngsters are probably getting ready to go out for the evening. The women are putting on their make up, the Thai ladyboys are putting on their makeup. I'm not putting on any makeup. Instead, I'm here writing to you.

Like waking up from a dream, I again find myself scratching my head in bewilderment. We are in Bangkok at a fine little guesthouse called the "Wendy House". Modern conveniences are abound: Hot water, air conditioning, cable television, laundry service. Across the street we climb a flight of stairs to the skytrain platform reminiscent of platform nine and three quarters. The train would take us throughout the new parts of the city such as the National Stadium for the national soccer team or the Thai financial district for the international businessmen. We never even get on the train as we are distracted by two shopping malls each climbing over ten stories high.

Long live the King

As I may have mentioned before, the Thais love their king. And for good reason. Claiming the throne in 1946, the billionaire used most of his money for rural projects such as clean water and subsistent farming. He's helped steer the nation through several coup d'etat s in the last twenty years and has fostered a democratic civil government. The King resembles a God-like status, as anthems in his name are sang at sporting events, between movie previews, and at street fairs. When the King goes on everyone stops like pressing pause in our matrix. People stand, look up at the sky and sing. Lisa and I look around and play the part each time this happens. It's hard not to get goosebumps even as foreigners.

A note on hippies

I think many of us have gone through a hippie phase once in our lives. Some color their hair purple, others go and follow the grateful dead, others still turn to outer body experiences. But eventually, most of us leave the hippie world and either get jobs or cut our hair or donate our tie-dye t-shirts to goodwill.

In Thailand, there are many who still cling on to their tie dyes in desperation. One of these places is called Pai. In the northern district of Mae Hong Son, Pai is a rest stop for many travellers heading on to the town of Mae Hong Son, where the long-necked villagers are said to reside. Lisa and I pass on going to this village and instead focus our attention to resting in the town for a brief stay. We try a lemon grass shake, claiming to hold an array of vitamins and cleansing agents, which reminds me more of the ectoplasm from Ghostbusters. The dilated, blue-eyed Russian ex-pat owner talks to us for a while. He says it's great in Pai. More mellow, more relaxed than the big cities. I have to agree it's a nice play to stay for a few days, but I'd venture to guess that he's still holding on to his tie dye t-shirt.

Ken and Barbie

"No, I don't understand Thai", Lisa says for the 734th time this month. They respond by saying, "You, you same same like me. like Thai." Lisa nods her head and smiles, and then tries to explain to the waitress once again what she would like to order for the evening. Having an Asian heritage confuses the locals in these parts of the world. It's like having a Barbie doll that talks like Ken: they just don't get it. And when I try to speak Thai, it's like Ken talking like Barbie very poorly. In any case, initial frustration leads to admiration as Lisa realizes (and I emphatically agree) that the Thai women are some of the most beautiful in the world. So being called a Thai becomes a high honor.

The three week blur

Over the last few weeks, I would have expected myself to take copious notes, and have expected Lisa to have ninety-six more pictures. But I would be lying if I said this. When month two sets in during trip number two, the local villagers look the same, the British are talking about which bars to watch the soccer match, the Australians are talking about which bars to watch the Rugby matches, and the rest are fiddling with their backpacks twice the size of them.

So instead of trying to narrate through the three weeks chronologically, I'll try to point out some moments of clarity.

*We spend roughly a week in Chiang Mai and really enjoy the city. While it's touristy, you get a sense that the locals live among you, that they haven't tried to separate you into a tourist ghetto. One of the highlights is that we take a great cooking class from a teacher named Boom. Contrary to popular belief, Boom is a petite, Thai, soft-spoken teacher. She teaches us how to make the big three dishes of Thai Green Curry, Pad Thai, and Tom Yum Soup. I realize that my spice-o-meter ranks low according to Thai standards as I tell myself next time not to eat the entire short,red pepper.

*We stay at a beach paradise called Railay Beach in the Krabi province. Flanked by two limestone cliffs roughly sixty feet high, we spend the highlight of the day at the pool and in the water. That night, we look at the orange and purple sunset from the restaurant, watch the locals play volleyball and realize why this paradise is 25% more costly than the rest of the beaches nearby.

*Back north, we try our luck at an Ayuraveda (reminder to self to check spelling) retreat for a couple of days to mentally check out. While the hot yogurt on the head treatment is a bonus, two days later I'm looking at the receipt as I wonder how we spent our money. The Indian doctors are quite nice and knowledgeable, but the rest of the time I feel like we are extras in the Citizen Kane movie: the retreat is a huge, two-story white edifice, with ninety hotel rooms and only one set of guests, including ourselves.

*Back in the south, we spend a day travelling to the islands of Ko Phi Phi. We see Maya Bay, home to the story named "The Beach", which was made into a famous movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio. It's a movie where strange things happen on an island paradise where a community is found to be shut off from civilization. While we see beautiful jungles and caves, the five hundred tourists we also see leads me to believe that civilization finally made it.
We travel to the islands by speedboat at speeds that induce bumpy rides. The red wood trim at the bottom of our white boat feels like it should be caving within moments. Our tour guide for the day is smiling through all of this, as his 5' 2" frame walks about the boat, and is often seen with a wide grin and his two thumbs up. He points out a Viking Cave nearby, which is home to birds, and is home to their saliva which is taken from them and sent to Korea and China where they make bird's nest soup.

The islands today are quite calm and peaceful. No rough waves, no tsunamis. To be quite honest, the islands have been completely rebuilt since the 2004 tsunami. When asked where he was during the tsunami, our guide smiles, holds his thumbs us and tells us he was lucky man since he was sleeping and slept through the whole thing.

*We continue our beach life at another beach called Ko Lanta. South of Ko Phi Phi, Ko Lanta reminds me of the last undisturbed beach of Thailand. While it took us forever and a day to reach Ko Lanta by minivan, we stay at a place called white flower. White flower is owned by a swede who likes to give out nightly Sambuka and a Thai who DeeJays at a local radio station that plays American songs. I go on a curry kick. I try their Green curry, yellow curry (pineapple and chicken), and Muslim curry (red curry with peanuts and potatoes and chicken). Two days later, I've eaten enough curry and we've had enough beach and go back to Krabi town where we eat possibly the worst Italian meal of our lives.

How is Lisa doing?

Oh, she's doing fine. I humbly apologize for not talking more about Lisa on the blog. Instead, I shorten things by saying "we" quite often. And I'm sure she has her own stories and her own takes on the trip. So i'll try to copy some of the emails she's sent to many of you guys and add them on to the blog in due time. If you like the pictures you see on the flickr site and on the blog, thank Lisa. She's the photographer on the trip. Just tell her to stop taking so many pictures of the flooded forest.

Normal Life

Unlike last year, I can honestly say that I'm quite excited to be returning home this time. We both feel that we're ready for some normal life. We want to go to happy hour, maybe enjoy some American movies and maybe even enjoy finding employment - if nothing else at least for the medical insurance benefits. I've quite enjoyed writing these and I hope that you have enjoyed reading these from time to time. I think I'm done travelling for quite some time. As for what comes next, maybe I'll start another blog someday called "normallifesherman.blogspot.com". On second thought, maybe I'll get a job.

Thanks for reading, and always remember to keep travelling...wherever you are.

Travelling Sherman

PS. I'll get the Thailand photos up on Flickr in the next week or so. Check back!

A Special Report

2007-11-09T04:12:00.000-08:00

A special announcement

Due to extreme hardships such as repacking my backpack every three days as well as searching for frivolous souvenir items, I am sorry to report that I am temporarily on a brief blogging strike. I am trying to negotiate the contracts of future income which may come from these writings with my agent as well as the necessary Hollywood producers.

Do not worry, Lisa and I are in a quaint, Haight-Ashbury look-alike town of Pai, Thailand. I hope to resume the blogging in a few days or so, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience. In the meanwhile, please continue to enjoy the previous posts, or reruns, as I am continuing to place some pictures in context. I also have finished uploading the last batches of Laos and Vietnam pictures, as you can view them from the respective links below:

Flickr pictures for Vietnam
http://www.flickr.com/photos/50539386@N00/sets/72157602752584866/

Flickr pictures for Laos
http://www.flickr.com/photos/50539386@N00/sets/72157602795977999/

Again, I apologize for the inconvenience. I hope to return with a new episode in the coming week.

Until then, keep travelling..wherever you are.

Travelling Sherman

Laos

2007-10-30T02:09:00.000-07:00

Rice Krispies for the Holy

It's 5:30 in the morning, and Lisa is miraculously wide awake. She tells me it's time to get up or we'll miss everything. Fighting the dreamlike coma, I splash water on my face, put on some clothes and am out the door. The front door of the guesthouse is locked as they don't open until 8 AM. After contemplating hopping the fence into the monastary, we take the civilized approach and knock on the door. We wake up the staff apologizing profusely, as they let us out on to the street.

Moments later we are approached by overzealous older Laotian ladies. They take their turns pleading their requests to buy from them. All I see are bamboo containers filled with sticky rice and banana leaf sandwiches. Lisa and I take a plateful of the sandwiches and bowlfuls of sticky rice for a small donation.

We are in the midst of the Lai Heua Fai festival, the full moon festival in October. Every year, monks throughout the country of Laos come out of their three month retreat inside their monastaries to receive alms from the community. The people in the bigger Laotian cities of build large boats out of bamboo, banana leafs, paper and the like, then parade them through the cities before sending them out on the Mekong River later that evening.

We happen to be in the city of Louang Prabang. Flanked by temples, stupas and houses influenced by the French, Louang Prabang is Laos' main UNESCO heritage site. Here, you can enjoy everything from the Khao Xoy (Laotian noodle soup with minced pork) to French Coffee to an American breakfast that would rival restaurants back home. In our week's stay here, Louang Prabang has been a long, needed stop to our otherwise three days at a time lifestyle.

But this morning the menu is serving only the rice and banana leaf sandwiches. It is still early yet. Lisa and I are escorted by our Laotian vendors to the main street in town. They lay out the mats as we kneel down in preparation what is to come. My kneecaps feel sharp pain as they lay against the concrete. I buckle and fold my legs outward, as to not offend Mr. Buddha.

And then there is a sea of yellow cloth and balding brown heads coming our way. We are instructed to hand this sticky, crispy rice to as many monks as possible. We can throw a banana sandwich here and there for some extra decoration. Once we get down to the low level food reserves, the elder vendors are enthusiastic about giving you more...that is for a small fee of course. After thirty minutes of this process, we tell our elder friends that it's time for us to move on. We thank them for helping us glimpse into a bit of Laotian life. The whole process reminds me of Halloween's distant cousin, save for the Baby Ruths, Dracula Masks and house eggings.

Rice and Sandwich Surprise For the Monks

In Lao, monks are as common as the postman. While they have a holy quality about them, they also participate in real everyday life. They check email at the internet cafes, they light off firecrackers in the main square, and they may even play some patonk - the national lawn bowling game given by the french. But just about every Lao man comes into the monkhood for a short period of their life. Usually lasting two to three years, the monkhood serves as a rite of passage. They stop drinking alchohol, abstain from sexual relations and take a vow to go #1 sitting down as to not risk dirtying the robes. But entering the monkhood also insures a full education, as topics such as foreign languages, literature and Marxist-Leninist teachings are all apart of the curriculum.

The Festival of Lights

Later that evening, we are standing along the main street once again, roughly ten blocks away from where we stood that same morning. This time, it seems as if the whole city of Louang Prabang has entered the street.

We both have bought offerings of our own: A palm leaf base wrapped in banana leaves and topped by orange flowers, candles and incense. We would light them hours later and send them into the mekong river, keeping our wishes to ourselves and hoping they materialize. But for now, we watch the different boat floats in the ongoing parade. There are bamboo boats created in a gridlike fashion. There's boats with yellow streamers, boats with snakes, boats with dragons. All of which will be sent down the Mekong River for good luck. We see children from the Hmong village tribe and their boats. One of the children is getting clambored by an overeager tourist who seems to be taking ten pictures every three seconds. We walk a little further. We see more children holding a smaller boat like it was a miniature model toyship juxtaposed with it's bigger real life brothers. The drums start up again getting louder. Firecrackers go off in every direction as my eardrums feel like they begin to pop. We get out of the way and run into one of our Australian friends we have met in Vietnam. We all walk together with the swarming crowds, we put in our offerings and say goodbye to the evening, to the festival and hope for quiter surroundings.

Boat Races

The day before Lisa and I had hired a tuk tuk out of town to catch a glimpse at the local boat races apart of this festival.

The Full Moon festival also marks the end of the monsoon season. During the monsoon season, it was believed that the god-snake of naga escaped out of the Mekong Rivers throughout the city. The boat races are performed in order to convince the naga to come back into the water before he becomes too dangerous. Years ago, the naga was believed to take lives of many a foreign fishermen along the Vietntiane coastline. Today, the boat races live on (even though there has been no evidence of recent naga fatalities). The boats are painted with green snakes, with stripes of the team's chosen primary color.

The event spills out into the street as we see vendors hawking for you to buy peanunts, spring rolls or bed linens. We walk down to the Mekong river shore to watch the boat races, though the main events seem to be happening right around us. A middle aged woman in a tan hat and denim skirt leads a group of nine into an intoxicated folk dance resulting in offbeat footwork. Local kids are standing on tractor tires in the river cheering their boat team on. Musicians are scattered about with their red hand drums and bells trying to keep their four beats per measure but failing drastically. The boats pass by. A faint whistle by the boat captain instructs the team of twenty to a boat to paddle in unison. The cheers become louder. While we cannot see a finish line, we know that a given race finishes by the increase in volume of the cheers. I'm not sure who is cheering for whom, but it does not matter. We walk around the shorelines, look more at the strange folk dance group with the tan hatted leader. A Laotian mother comes up to me with her son and says "Saibadee, hello". Given the body language, the full translation should read "Hello white man, are you lost?" It doesn't matter. The locals are quite friendly enough with smiles as wide as the Mekong river itself. We gather our belongings and head back through the pile of tuk tuk and car traffic to find our driver. We get taken back to the tourist enclaves of Louang Prabang. We've had our fill of boats for the day.

Slow Boats and Trashy Buddhas

Every once in a while when you travel in third world or emerging countries, you wind up doing something that you shouldn't have done and get swindled for it. It happened today on our trip to the Pak Ou Caves.

The Pak Ou caves represent the biggest trashpile of Buddha statues in Northern Laos. Buddhas statues with broken eyes, decapitated heads, cigarette stains, and amputeed buddhas get sent here where they exist on display in their endless purgatory. The locals come to the cave on New Years for the "dipping of the buddhas" ceremony for good luck. Unfortunately the new year in the Buddhist calendar is months away as these buddhas were dry as a bone.

Pak Ou literally translates to "the mouth of the Ou" river, and it becomes fitting as we fall for the bait, hook line and sinker. The trip to the Pak Ou Caves takes you out on a slow boat that picks you up from the local Pier. After paying twice as much for half of the boat quality and quadruple the attitude, we sway back and forth up the muddy Mekong river before meeting up with the Nam Ou river where the caves reside. Our driver makes sure to stop for gas as the smells of petroleum permeates in the boat.

Arriving at the caves reminds me of what Chevy Chase must have felt like when Wallyworld was closed towards the end of the National Lampoon's vacation movie. All of this buildup for not much payoff. We walk up a series of steps, pay our $1 to our capitalist locals for the bathroom charge and meander towards the Lower Cave. We pay our respects to the low lying buddhas, walk to the upper cave, take out our flashlights and see some Buddha fragments. A twenty minute tour from a three hour boat trip. As we head back to Luang Prabang, the dozen of us tourists are shaking our heads wondered if it was all a bad dream, but then we look into our wallets and realize that we are $6.50 lighter.

The bottom drawer

There's much more to tell about this great country of Laos. The people by far have been the highest spirited and the most genuine. Save for a few boat rides and bowls of sticky rice, these locals really come up to you because they are friendly. A nice relief from Vietnam where the smiles are determined by the size of your wallet.

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1. We stop in a town called Vang Vieng in our travels. More of a pit stop between Vientiane (the Laotian capital) and Louang Prbang, the biggest thing this lovely town has to offer is tubing. For those not familiar, imagine taking an inner tube out of your automobile and floating down the river with it. That's it. Floating away. The day way quite peaceful, save for the Daytona Beach Spring Break like atmosphere that dates me by almost two decades.

2. In Vientiane, we stop by an herbal sauna that resides in a monastary. The sauna and massage package is a whopping two dollars, so we take a look inside. The lady who runs it speaks great english, and the wooden sauna is hot enough to shrivel you into a prune within minutes. The sauna is fueled by a big campfire 3 feet away from the flooring.

The Herbal Sauna Heating Source in Vientiane

3. In Luang Prabang, we travel to the Khaung Si waterfall. Known as the big waterfall, it contains three different pools. I swim in the little pool for a bit before taking a rest nearby the local village. While resting we meet an older Laotian man selling Pork and egg buns for 30 cents. His sign: "Best Fimily Ricipe". Terrible spelling but he was a man true to his word.

Khaung Si Waterfall

4. We see a Royal Ballet in Luang Prabang. A story about a Mean King Thotsakan of the Giants who likes a girl named Sida. Sida has two boy friends who protect her all the time. The king schemes and has his general dress up as a deer to lure the two boy friends away. Sida is left all alone, as the King uses trickery to kidnap sida. The local bird sees this going on, tries to stop it but gets tricked himself by the King. The ballet is not your usual Nutcracker, but proves to be quite entertaining. The green and blue painted masks with brightly golden crowns, the guitar and woodwind instruments match the dances by all of the characters. I later try to emulate the Giant Dance to Lisa as the local Lao attendant sees me and has a good laugh.

Pictures

So that's it for now. Tomorrow we leave Laos and go to Chiang Mai, Thailand. Working backwards I have caught up and have published the Vietnam Photos. You can look at them one of two ways:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/50539386@N00/sets/72157602752584866/
OR
click on Travelling Sherman's Pictures ---> Vietnam

Enjoy, and talk to you soon.
Keep travelling, wherever you are.

Travelling Sherman

Northern Vietnam

2007-10-19T00:34:00.000-07:00

A piece of Junk

October 18,

I'm sitting back on the wicker sofa writing on top of a glass table. It's been three days on the water, two ships, one kayak and an Island reminiscent of Las Vegas. The wicker sofa and glass table sit atop a wooden boat with deck chairs and an observation deck. The wood seems like a darkened brown hardwood with ornaments of the Snake-Like God of Naga along the edges. The boat looks sturdy enough, although I can't be sure when the last maintenance session happened. The Australians and New Mexicans are either reading, plugging into their iPods or doing some travel writing of their own. I look outside the boat and see rock outcroppings reminiscent of back home.

I'm currently joined by Lisa and ten others in Halong Bay, a waterway off the east coast of Vietnam in the Gulf of Tonkin. The bay is famous for its enormous and pristine rock outcroppings, caves and island archipelagos that stretch for miles. The local myth is that the rocks were created by a dragons whom the Vietnamese summoned from heaven to fight off the invading Chinese. The locals even say the dragon still exists. Modern science would most likely disagree and state that these were merely caused by tectonic plates on the fault line. The first story sounds a bit more romantic.

We are currently on the support boat that takes us to our Junk Boat which will take us back to the mainland and back to Hanoi. The phrase Junk Boat for some reason disturbs me, but my best guess as to its name comes from the fact that there are hundreds of these boats in the bay at one time looking distinctly similar: Old wooden boats that run fairly well but seem junky, not to forget the junk toxic fumes and sewage that spill into the water daily. It is a member of the UNESCO group (UN educational and scientific, cultural organization) due to its beauty and history. But like many other places in Vietnam, econmic growth brings unregulated pollution. And recently the UN gave the mandate to Vietnam to curb its pollution by a given percentage (of which I do not know) otherwise it will pull its UNESCO label within five years. Still, all of this doesn't prevent the majority of us from swimming alongside the boat from time to time. As one of the Australians proclaims, the salt kills everything.

If I were to rewind the film by three days to the start of the Halong Bay trip, we start at the port of Halong city after a three hour minibus ride from where we were staying in Hanoi, the country's capital. We are led by Kiel, a fearless 23-year old with slightly styled black hair and huge smile. While he tries his best to speak to us in English, the lack of verb tense and grammatical structure makes every statement a difficult one to understand. While this doesn't bother me the majority of the time, it will become somewhat more stressful as he gives us instructions while kayaking through the narrow caves. But that's not until tomorrow, for today we sit back and enjoy the "Amazing Caves".

Which to give the Vietnamese credit, are amazing. By now many of you may know about caves. They are formed by some sort of waterway, whether by river, sea or ocean. They are usually made of limestone, and have a high salt content. The water erodes the rock and cuts the rock after millions and millions of years. The rock dries up in various eclectic forms including stalactites (cylindrical shapes forming "tight" from the ceiling), stalagmites (cylindrical shapes forming from the floor, that "might be a stalagmite), and columns (stalactites and stalagmites coming together). Throw in some finger rocks and you have explained 60% of what there is to see in any given cave in the world.

But still these caves prove amazing as they were formed in the sea, and it's most likely that these caves will collapse entirely after another 30 million years. But at the moment, I'm just happy that the weather is holding out for some clear, cool sunny days.

The highlight of the amazing cave is yet another big linga rock - the male genital description. At least that's what Lisa and I guess it to be. Kiel, the guide, disagrees and says it could possibly be the finger of Buddha. Either case, it's male testosterone protruding through.

By late afternoon, we're back on our junk ship which will be our accommodation of the evening. We're joined by a French girl couple, Flor and Michelle; Three Australians, Adam, Simon and Tim ; Two New Mexicans (not Mexican babies but from the state of New Mexico) of Matt and Jordan; Two Swiss, Katrine and another blond haired woman whose name I forget; and of course the neutral Canadian Adrian. We all get along from the most part, all between the ages of 25 and 45, all travelling through Vietnam, half of us teachers or former teachers, and all of us looking for something a little bit different.

Two of our friends from the boat, Fleur and Michelle

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It feels like I've been paddling for ten hours straight, but truth be told it's only been an hour and a half. Lisa's doing the steering in the back, and since my shoulder muscles have fallen out of shape all I can do is paddle in infrequent bursts. Usually, Lisa will try and spur me on by counting to ten. I will then drop off from exhaustion and give out a big sigh. Our guide Kiel keeps us paddling as we stick together, taking breaks to rest my arms and to view blue lagoons.

The lagoon is an inlet, making a semicircle with roughly a half mile radius. The peaks of the rocks in all directions remind me of the California coast. My neck gets sore from looking upward. Kiel tells us to have a look around, and like primary school children we have no choice but to go along Muscle exhaustion is kicking in. But then I block everything out and realize that I'll likely never have the chance to be here again, and things fall into perspective. My mind wonders, my pains forgotten. We row out of the lagoon as we dock at the nearby beach.

Kayaking would be quite fun without the hard work, I imagine. You get to see local fishing villages, swim off beachfronts less traveled, and see caves off the main tourist corridor. One such cave we attempt to see is buried in the Halong bay archipelago, and for lack of information I will call it the unnamed cave. Kiel checks the tide and has us paddling in one kayak at a time. The afternoon lights dim to a skylight which dim even more into a heavy dusk. Kiel is leading with a head lamp that is one flicker away of losing all illuminosity. He asks for interested parties that would want to walk through the cave. Lisa, myself and more than half of the group decline, as we huddle along a damp shoreline in almost darkness.

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It's not a good time when one of the people come back from the cave tour and says, "Man, I think I just stepped on a bunch of live coral." New Mexico Matt came back with cuts gashes all over his ankle. The others come back fairly unscathed, but all agree that it probably was not worth the twenty minute stroll in the dark.

Our Friends, Tim (foreground) and Simon (behind) trying to paddle in the dark cave

So one by one again we kayak out of the cave, Lisa egging me on to paddle as quickly as possible out of the darkness. The loveable french couple of Flor and Michelle are hopelessly spinning their kayak around in circles, accidentally ramming into us in every which way possible. With a helpful shove, we get them in the right direction.

Saying goodbye to the cave, we make our final paddle of the day along a final fishing village. An overly agressive dog tries to paddle his way out to greet us, but we are safely out of his reach. Minutes later we see our support boat. We fumble back on to this boat one by one, climbing up the rickety ladder on to stabler ground. Five minutes later, as if we hadn't enough water for the day, I jump off the top of the ship with the Australians into the water. I mind the pollution and try to relax my aching arms.

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Back on board the boat, tonight we set a course for Cat Ba island. One of the bigger islands in the Halong Bay archipelago, it is mostly overshadowed by the craggy limestone hills above. We exit the boat on the less populated side of Cat Ba island, cram into a minivan, climb over the hills and see a town on the other side reminiscent of Las Vegas. The beachline is riddled tonight with fantastically gaudy umbrella lights that flicker red, yellow and green. Trees and spacy beachfront has been replaced by discos, western restaurants and hotels. We stay at one of these hotels, living the artificial life of air conditioning, cable T.V. and an all you can eat breakfast buffet. Tour guide Kiel meets us this evening and takes us to a club he thinks we would like, the only problem being the music tens of decibels too loud and disturbingly annoying.

After deciding on a local bar serving cheap bottles of Hanoi beer, sleep becomes imminent. We walk back to the artificial hotel life for a night, wake up the next morning and back on the support boat. The support boat brings us to our Junk boat, trading places with incomming people awaiting their day of Kayaking. Like a well oiled assembly line, we are led back on to the boat, anchors away and back to the Halong City Harbor. Stepping on to the platform, we are led back on to the minivan back to Hanoi via a toilet stop which passes through another disabled handicraft factory.

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Back in Hanoi, we are quickly plunged into city life, as the Frogger video game comes to life once again when crossing the street. Motorcycles and scooters abound, an ancient Vietnamese scooter rider lady with curling irons and nightgown comes within inches of contact. Hawkers are asking us once again for motorbike rides, Vietnamese T-shirts and bottled water. Being professionals at dealing with this behavior, Lisa and I walk back to our Hotel in Hanoi, thinking of these hawkers like flies you metaphorically swap away every few minutes. But then I remember in my mind to be nice, as these people live on the high salary of $50 a month.

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Whites only

In our travels throughout this country, Lisa is constantly asked where she resides. "You, you look Vietnamese." We actually time on the stopwatch how long it takes a stranger to ask us this question. The average time being 45 seconds. Thinking about this more, I can see why the locals ask the question. She is petite, with Asian features and Asian hair with "white"-ish Asian skin, surely she must be Vietnamese.

And then I begin to look at the Vietnamese women on their scooters. Their faces are covered with masks, their foreheads covered with scarves, their arms covered with long gloves reaching the shoulder. It's almost as if they are piece-mealing a burqa together. I am puzzled, as surely this cannot be comofrtable, the temperature reaching almost 90 degrees. Like many Asian countries, it's in to be a white girl, a symbol of affluence and status. Vietnamese women take great measures to insure white skin, whether it is covering every body part or using a white lotion on their face made from mercury. So what if it kills fish, as long as it makes them look good.

Water puppets

Speaking of white people, we get a chance to go to a water puppet show in town, the audience mainly being white tourists. The women in the music section have dangerously white skin and rosy cheeks, waiting in turn to sing their parts while the water puppets of dragons and phoenixes take their turn. The puppetry, itself, goes back over 800 years starting in the Red River Delta in Northern Vietnam. The puppets are made of wood and laquered with vegetable-based paint. They are then attached on long hooks with moveable parts for their head, legs and ankles. The show we watch in town focuses on the magical creatures of Vietnam: the dragon, the phoenix, the turtle and the lion. I have to admit that some of the facts above were researched out and do not come for first hand experience.

But for more info on water puppetry, check out the following site:
http://www.thingsasian.com/stories-photos/1239

The Vietnam Withdrawal

Like our American forefathers did more than thirty years ago, it's time to pull out of Vietnam. Our next stop is Laos (where we currently are at the present, and need to catch up in my writing), home of cheap barbecue stands and herbal saunas. More on that next time.

Keep a look out for more pictures. Hopefully the vietnam pictures will be up in a few days. I'll put up a message as they are up. They'll be on the same site as the Cambodia ones.

But for now, keep travelling, wherever you are.

Travelling Sherman

The Vietnam Coast

2007-10-14T02:41:00.000-07:00

A correction on communism

If you read the previous entry on Ho Chi Minh city, I was beginning to talk about Vietnam society, and how it is a communist government, yet it's hard to see it sometimes with the constant capitalist market howlers, motorcycle taxis and sunglass dealers. Over the last week, I've been privy to some stories that have changed my thinking on this matter. I refrain from making any overt opinions because in Vietnam, big brother may be reading this, even though the person may be only 5 foot 2.

Brief Story #1: Nguyen Ngu Center, Quy Nhon, Vietnam

The first story takes place in Quy Nhon, roughly a nine hour bus ride from Ho Chi Minh city. In 1990, there lived a local named Nguyen Ngu, who fell on some unfortunate luck when she found out her sister was in a street accident. Nguyen became the principal caretaker while finishing high school. Over the next few years, Nguyen gains empathy for other handicapped locals, and begins a vocational handicraft program teaching anything from sewing, painting, and the like. Ten years later, the program becomes a full blown school. She gets so much success that the government takes the program over as she is moved to a smaller shop two miles down the road. Lisa and I go and see the shop as we see figure drawings from dozens of students and it's inspiring, so we grab some souveneirs for the homefront. My favorite being the cow with theupside down head.

I speak to one of the locals who is mentally disabled. He writes down on his hand "From:" as he nods over to Lisa. I say, USA. He presses his nose down like her nose is too small for the USA. I say Taiwan. He shakes his head in confusion. I say China. He smiles. I'm not sure what for.

Brief Story #2: Barbara from New Zealand, now from Quy Nhon

This is a simple story of Barbara of Barbara's Backpackers guesthouse in Quy Nhon. She is a wealth of information for a city that is no more than a rest stop on to better tourist attractions. Still, she manages to get us a train ticket, make us a fruit lassi and tell us the sights of the beach, including one of a statue who is giving the middle finger to the Chinese. The statue representing the Vietnamese response to the third Chinese attempt at invasion in the twelth century. At any rate, I've been told that Barbara once had a much bigger hotel somewhere else. It did really well, then the government took it over. Now she gives local information to Sweaty tourists at rock bottom prices.

The moral of the story is that if you want to start a business in Vietnam, do well enough to stay in business, but slack off long enough to lose quite a bit of money so you don't seem that successful. That way you stay in business.

Beach life

A Stray Dog at the White Sand Dune, Mui Ne Beach

You may be wondering why we would fly six thousand miles away to go to the beach, when Hawaii, Baja Mexico, and even Thailand would be closer. I had the same thought as well, but we decided to try the beach anyways. Three towns and roughly six days later, I still wonder why we flew six thousand miles away just to go to the beach. But as I scratch my head, as some highlights start to enter my memory:

The Red Canyon, Mui Ne Beach

I think about Mui Ne beach, a resort town roughly four hours north of Ho Chi Minh city. And all of a sudden I remember walking on clay looking at spirals that look like stalagmites in a cave. And I remember deep earth red. Part of a two hour tour, the red canyon of Mui Ne is one of the bigger highlights of the trip, as a river some time ago has carved endless paths and craters. We scramble up to the top and look over the Atlantic, only to realize that we may miss our ride back to the guesthouse. We scamper double time to the road just to be sure.

Local Kids Selling Sled rides, Red Sand Dune, Mui Ne Beach

On the same tour, I remember going to two sand dunes. One white, one red. I feel like I'm on the planet tatooine in Star Wars. Except instead of the little Tattoinites shooting arrows at you, little kids come up to you and offer sled rides for a dollar. We attract three of them on the red sand dune at sunset. They teach me the numbers one to five in Vietnamese and laugh at my pronounciation.

I remember eating barbecue mussels with fish sauce in a restaurant in Mui Ne for the grand price of five dollars. I remember going back there three times in two days.

I remember taking a bus ride up to Nha Trang as the wife and I are pleasantly harrassed by a Vietnamese hotelvendor to stay at their accomodation. I remember being very tired and just wanting to get to the guesthouse. We finally got to that guesthouse, and remember eating mediocre pizza at a french ex-pat cafe one block away. It turns out to be the best meal in this over-priced, undernourished beach town.

Cham Towers at Nha Trang

But I do recall a good trip in Nha Trang to what are the Cham Towers. The Chams are an indigenous population to Vietnam, and have lived since roughly the fourth century. Heavily influenced by Hinduism, they build shrines to Vishnu and Shiva in their Brick Towers at the Loh Tom Pagoda. The Chams also enjoyed Buddha, so much that they erected a fifty foot Reclining Buddha. It's more like the sleeping Buddha, or the lackidasical Buddha. I digress. The stone workmanship is excellent, especially around the head reath. The tower also features an even bigger buddha at the very top surrounded by six monks, I'm not sure why six. He sits on top of a lotus flower, which represents spiritual enlightenment for the Hindus.

I was going to write one more memory about a bad experience I witnessed, but I'm not sure if it's necessary. Essentially it deals with a troubled veteran of the Iraq war on leave, most likely due to emotional stress. While not knowing his whole story, I befriend him while swimming in the ocean. I return to my chair to start reading my book when I hear shouting. The Iraq veteran becomes abusive with his argument, saying many names and hateful speech which I dare not recite. At first the locals laugh, and then they chide him away. The veteran gets on his motorcycle calling death threats to the entire shop. I turn to Lisa as we create our story of our fictitious Canadian Life for the record.

A train ride to fashion - somewhere around the 8th of October

It's 9 AM, and the waiting room is filling up. We've been sitting on the plastic cafeteria chairs of green and orange for about thirty minutes. The locals are arriving, old, young, male, female. The surgical masks serve as an anti-pollutant as well as a fashion accessory. The official at the entrance calls us on to the platform. We see the rusty green train pull up on to the tracks The wheels hum as they grind on the rails.

We board the train, find our seat and settle in for the five hour train ride to Danang. Air conditioning, a cheap lunch, television screens, toilets, all of the signs are existence are found. The passage doors between the trains are kept open, which allow for moderately loud clicking noises throughout the trip. I find out later that people throw their trash on the center aisle, a worker then comes to sweep this trash, pushes it through the passage door and on to the outside ground. The outside world serves as a big trash can. Efficent yet a bit unsanitary.

A few hours pass. Lisa is reading, and I am staring out of the window. The palm trees scream by the countryside. Thatched rooves of would be houses flash by in seconds. A toddler is sleeping in the back seat with a tank top and Army shorts. He wakes up, peaks his head over the seat to check in on his parents as well as the two six year old twin girls.

Hoi An - The silk road rest stop

The city of Hoi An sits roughly at 16 degrees latitidue to the north, roughly halfway between Saigon and Hanoi. It serves as a perfect rest stop on our trip northbound. The same could be said here roughly five-hundred years ago, as the Chinese and Japanese locals called this place home in the off-season. They would meet with the Europeans in Hoi An and trade everything from fabrics to elephant tusks. As part of our stay here, we hope to trade some of our Vietnamese money for some tailored fabrics, hold the tusks.

We had been given advice by the hotel receptionist to use a local family member for any clothing requirements. Toto tailors, two doors down. We go inside the shop to have a quick look. Lisa pulls out her Bloomingdales catalog to see if they can replicate the design. Two coats and two dresses, and three trips later, the short answer is yes. The tailors were fantastic, precise, and patient. Especially as Lisa tends to pick the fabrics at the bottom of the pile.

(Lisa with the Toto Tailors Owner)

It was only a matter of time before I got into the spirt of things. I had earmarked one of the Bloomingdales pages myself with Lisa's Fashion advice. Tweed wool coat, brownish-gold. I gave it a try. The next day I come back and the coat fits perfectly. I give high compliments to Anh, the head tailor. She laughs as I try to speak broken Vietnamese. Both her and Lisa sway me into getting the trousers. Again, more measurements. I sadly find out that I have bloomed to a size 34 due to the extra fried spring roles and marinated pork.

Food

When I look back on this trip years from now, the best part of Vietnam would have to be the food. Sweaty markets serve up everything from squid and vegetables, fresh spring rolls and fish sauce, coconut barbecue fish, and fried fish cakes. And that's just for breakfast. They even make spinach taste good, as it seems leafier, greener, and tastier. They even have a better nickname, calling it Morning Glory. I somehow manage to enjoy the spinach all day long.

We decide to investigate things a bit further by signing up for a cooking class at the Red bridge cafe. We start with a trip to the markets, as the guide identifies all of the different fruits and vegetables. She seems knowledgable enough, pointing out dragon fruit (spotted white fruit) as well as the different types of basil and lemongrass. She crosses the line as she points out the Chinese mushroom as being ugly like the Chinese. Lisa rightfully speaks out against the comment, but the guide resopnds to the momentary stressful situation with annoying giggles. I learn throughout that it becomes normal for many Southeast Asians to respond to confrontation with laughter. Still, it feels humiliating. We shrug it off later as an event due to undereducation.

The rest of the class is quite fun. We take a trip down the Ban river to the cooking school where Ngoc, the head chef takes over. He demonstrates Marinated squid with pineapple, Roasted eggplant in claypot, homemade rice paper spring rolls and Fried pancakes with vegetables and other stuff i cannot remember. We get to try the later three afterwards. The group is for the most part succesful. After two tries of making holes in the rice paper, my spring roll looks more like an overstuffed burrito than anything else. I never really minded the details of presentation.

Left: Lisa making a Vietnamese dish; Right: My unfortunate Spring Roll Result

And then there is Vietnamese Coffee, which some proclaim is even better than American or European coffee. The beans are roasted longer, then grounded and placed in a steel canister with preferated holes on the bottom. Boiling water then gets poured through the canister and into a glass and served immediately. It takes on a slightly sweeter flavor, and can be varied to be chilled with ice or mixed with milk. For me, I'm a black man who likes it hot in the morning. Please don't take the previous sentence out of context.

The other Stuff

Between eating and trying on clothes, we manage to take in some of the sights. The tourist bureau sells tickets in town which allows you to see one of the old houses, one of the old temples and assembly halls. The highlight of the visit is a trip to the Tan Ky house. Built over two-hundred years ago, it has hints of Chinese and Japanese architechture. The Chinese comes in as we see the five pilars with Chinese writing and 100-plus birds. They signify the elements of earth, metal, wind, fire and water. The three tiered horizontal support beams by the ceiling form a triangle, as each beam becomes shorter as you look up. The beams represent the three fabled places of heaven, hell and purgatory.

We take a look at the bowl of the legendary Confucious. We look closer and see a 3 mm hole in the bottom. The story goes is that you pour boiled water inside and make soup. And as you eat the soup, roughly 20% of the soup drips through the hole and is gone forever. While that sounds like a bad meal, the story teaches moderation. It's better to have 80% of the soup, then to try and eat all of the soup and end up with nothing. I get the concept, but I'll try to find the bowl without the hole in it.

We take a random trip to a place called My Son. Its served as the headquarters of the ancient Cham civilizations of Vietnam, starting way back in the 5th century. The highlight of the trip is a statue of the Linga and Yani, the male and female genital counterparts. Supposedly the Chams poured water over the linga and gets drained out through the Yani for good luck. People still do it today to pray for good luck on their exams, or gaining strength or getting pregnant. Good luck to them, but I think I'll pass on pouring water down someone's genitals.

Unfortunately the majority of My Son had been bombed during the Vietnam-American war. Bomb craters have replaced the temples in many situations. The more I look around, I can't help but realize that the complex is like Cambodia's Angkor Wat but not as nice. Still, it's nice to get outside and have a walk around in the countryside.

Onward to the North

Tomorrow we go to Hanoi by plane, flying out of neighboring Danang. Our last stop on the tour of vietnam, the country shaped like the letter "S". With any luck of an internet connection, I hope to tell you about this sooner than later. And with any more luck, I'll post some more pictures. Internet demand in Vietnam is high as local Vietnamese kids are playing a strange "Dance, Dance Revolution" game over the network. How can I compete with that?

Until then, keep travelling wherever you are.

-Travelling Sherman

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

2007-10-07T02:10:00.000-07:00

Somewhere around the first of October....

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A bus ride into Communism
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We've stopped at the border now for almost an hour. The passports are stamped one time for exiting Cambodia, and now we're on line to get into Vietnam. Unfortunately, there's no express checkout. The local yells out my name, "EY-RAKE SHIRMAYN", yep that's me. Both Lisa and I pick up our passports from the window. We get our "Welcome to the Socialist Republic of Vietnam" stamps, and hop back on the bus.

As many may know, Vietnam is a communist country, reunified by Ho Chi Minh in the mid-1970's. Ho has legendary heroic status, as he fended off the American Invasion and help bring peace to the country after 100-plus years of random millitary conflicts. But when you look closer at Vietnam, you see plenty of restaurants, plenty of hotels, and plenty of motor scooters from Japan. Education and medicine are taken care of by the government through hefty taxes, but after that the communism gets a bit harder to find.

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Some Good Advice
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We meet a local Australian gentleman on the bus ride into the capital of Ho Chi Minh city. He works in the tourist industry, and gives us some good advice about setting the pace when crossing the street. "Don't worry", he says, "You set the pace, and the motor scooters decide if they wish to go in front or behind you."

We check into a local hotel as we arrive in town feeling grateful of the advice. The first seven times we cross the street reminds me of the video game of "frogger". You begin to slowly cross the street and wait for the 95 scooters to pass, then continue crossing. If you're lucky, the local dump trucks and busses will have passed some time ago. If you're not, you get to stick out in the middle of the road watching vehicles of all shapes swerve around you at extremely close distances.

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Check Out, Check In
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We decide to leave the first hotel we stayed in Ho Chi Minh City due to Lisa's poignant observation of lack of windows and milldew walls. We decide to stay in the cheaper backpacker district at a budget accomodation. They provide cleaner sheets and semi-hot water at cheaper prices but lose about 10% of your laundary and blame you for it later.

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Breakfast of Champions
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9 AM, and we decide it's time for breakfast, and we've read that there's no better place to do breakfast than at a local Vietnamese market. A ten minute walk down the street puts us in the Tan Binh market. The smaller market in Ho Chi Minh city, but fantastic all the same. Ten different types of fishes are being dumped on tables, filleted and chopped right in front of you. Crab, tripe, mussels, trout, big fish, small fish, it doesn't matter. If there's a fish you want, there's a stall for it and it's most likely bloody at the moment.

We sit down at a particular stall on the plastic 15 inch benches. They're serving shrimp crepes and fried spring rolls this morning. The older lady will cook it right in front of you in her cast iron pot right over the wooden coals. Washed down with a sprite, the grand total comes to $1.50 for the both of us. And all that being said, the best meal we've eaten so far on the trip.

We pay the bill and walk around the rest of the market. We reach the wool and cotton fabric stalls in the next room over. There are two ladies who try to persuade us in broken english to buy a pair of pants. Not a pair that's hanging on the wall, but a pair they will tailor for you while you wait. All for the hefty total price of $5.

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War from a different perspective
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Just as the American Civil War was called different names such as 'The War Between the States' and 'The War of Northern Aggression', the Vietnam War in the mid-70's goes by a different name - the American War. In retrospect, it would be silly for Vietnamese to call the war the Vietnam War, since it would be like going to war against themselves. Well, that's partially true, but I digress. Here are some quick random history things I learned or relearned.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
BEGIN RANDOM AMERICAN-VIETNAM WAR TIMELINE, SKIP IF UNINTERESTED
-------------------------------------------------------------------
1850s ish: after a slew of dynasties and stands against various empires from Cambodia and Mongolia, the French take over Vietnam and annex it as a colony. They would be around the block for almost 100 years.

1940: France falls to Nazi Germany during World War II. The Japanese take over Vietnam.

1945: Ho Chi Minh gets excited and forms the National Liberation Committee of Vietnam and the Viet Minh party. Calls for a general uprising against the French. Tried to get some support money from President Truman and the US, but was denied.

1946: Power Struggle as French try to retain control of Vietnam. Fighting breaks out in Hanoi. The Franco-Viet Minh War Begins.

1954: To much Ho Chi as French begin losting control. Surrender on May 7 at the Geneva Conference. Vietnam gets split into North (Ho Chi Minh's communist) Vietnam, and South (Ngo Diem's Catholic) vietnam..

1959: The Ho Chi Minh trail gets expanded further south as Ho Chi Minh's army of the Viet Cong is formed. Over the next 5 years, the Viet Cong gets stronger and threatens the stability of the south.

1964: The US gets on another anticommunism war Kick as President Johnson implements the Gulf of Tonkin resolution, which begins the course for the American-Vietnam war. The first troops reach Danang, central viet nam march of 65.

1968: After 3 years of fighting. The VietCong initialize the Tet Offensive, bombarding over 100 cities across VietNam and surprising the US and South Vietnamese armies. The US responds in kind, killing ten times the amount of Viet Cong troops. Gruesome Images of the US killings taken by local reporters get sent back to the US and public opinion heavily sways against the war.

1973: The US pulls its last forces out of Vietnam. Three million Vietnamese have been killed as well as 60,000 US soldiers.
----------------------------------------
END RANDOM AMERICAN-VIETNAM WAR TIMELINE
-----------------------------------------

Most of the above information comes from books or from the War Remnants Museum we visited today. Besides the history, the museum provides gruesome pictures of the war. From a Vietnamese mother crossing the river with the kids to pictures of Vietnamese villagers at American gunpoint, the museum brings up the worst of the war.

And then there's Agent Orange, the US herbicidal weapon of choice. The millitary had been so frustrated about its ineffectiveness battling the VietCong that they sprayed 2 million acres of forest like it was the roach motel. The result has been amputated ligaments, birth defects, and other unpleasant symptoms.

There's much more to describe, but I think I'll stop here. The most fascinating thing about it all is how well people are doing in this country only thirty years after we left. Now the most conflict I see on the streets are the street vendors trying to sell me counterfeit sunglasses.

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Cu Chi Tunnel Vision
-----------------------

We take in a day at the Cu Chi tunnels, an expansive network of underground passageways dug out by the Viet Cong in the early 50's, originally to battle the french. It turns out to be quite handy for the Americans, as the 3 foot wide, 4 foot tall passageways are only fit for the Petit Vietnamese variety.

The tunnel tour goes on for a half day, and is mostly interesting. Our tour guide unfortunately is a bit meniacal, as he keeps repeating information, demands that his father worked as a US ambassador, recites random books to read and movies to watch, and tells us that his new wife is quite ugly but cooks well. To add to the fanfare, our guide shows us the neighboring shooting range the tourists can partake in after the tunnel tour.

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Onward and Upward
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I think that's enough Ho Chi Minh City for you. There's still a discrepancy as to calling it Saigon or Ho Chi Minh City. Saigon just sounds more exotic to me, but I'll leave it for the locals to decide. We now go up the 1500 km coast for some small town beach life, our destination being the Northern Vietnamese enclave of Hanoi.

As web access is only one sweaty internet cafe away, I'll do my best to let you know how things are going. So until then, keep travelling, wherever you are.

Travelling Sherman

Cambodia Photos are up!

2007-09-29T01:13:00.000-07:00

just wanted to let you know,
you can do it 1 of 2 ways.

1. click on "travelling sherman's pictures"--> cambodia
2. http://www.flickr.com/photos/50539386@N00/sets/72157602202861701/

enjoy

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

2007-09-28T03:04:00.000-07:00

9/28

The rain hasn't let up for a few hours. I'm eating my second slice of cake for dinner. Lipton Tea. I feel like I'm coming down a bit. Too much sugar in the vanilla cake. I shouldn't of had that second slice.

The name of the establishment is the Kiwi bakery. About 100 feet from the hotel, it was established by the locals a few years back after they returned from their sojourn abroad in New Zealand. We probably eat there at least once a day in our current four day stay in Phnom Penh. They have everything you would ever want. Fresh coffee, rolls, and eggs and bacon, although the later makes you run to the W.C. quite quickly.

We are staying in the nice part of town, nearby the river. It reminds me of a Cambodian Embarcadero as in San Francisco. Huge promenades, cool breezes, choppy waters, save the Tuk-Tuk hecklers and paraplegic vendors. We spend most of our evenings strolling the river, trying out different foods and drinking cheap Angkor Beer. I drink it more for the body cooling than the alcohol.

If you enter any Cambodian restaurant here, the first item you will most likely see is Amok. Amok can best be described as a coconut curry, egg-like dish with your choice of meat, served on a bed of rice and banana leaves. It's great going down, but they like to add their helpings of MSG.

If you turn the page on the menu, you're most likely going to find a dish called Luk-Luk. A tasty meat treat, it's usually a roasted stir-fry beef dish served with roasted tomatoes. Probably my favorite over the Amok, but still a bit greasy on the stomach.

The best item on the menu so far has been the Cambodian shakes. Coconut, Papaya, you name it just drink it. The two of us have drank down at least one a day, and by far it's been the most satisfying. Being in the tropics, Cambodian serves up some of the best fruits around. In addition to the above, street vendors crouch along the sidewalks serving everything from sliced pineapple to watermelon to banana halves. Don't worry about trying to look for it, as all you need to do is to walk on the main street before you get bombarded from the locals with offers.

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9/27

Phnom Penh is to Siem Reap as New York is to the Catskills, L.A. to its Disneyland, or Washington D.C. to its Colonial Williamsburg. Phnom Penh, being the country's capital brings an urban feel. The buildings are taller, the traffic is more dense, and the noise is louder. We take a walking tour on our first day. Here are some things that stood out in my mind:

The first thing is that all the streets are numbered and are arranged in a gridlike fashion. The Odd Numbers running North-South, and the Even Numbers running east-west. The problem is that half of the street signs are missing, so you basically think in terms of landmarks, such as "Take a right after the Cambodian Post office, then take a left after the Fruit stand", either way it's not too hard to get where you need to go.
There are two markets in town, an old market and a new market. Here are some comparisons:

Style/Decor
New Market: 6 tiered dome with air conditioning
Old Market: An Old wooden dome with no a/c

Customer Service
New Market: modern; Escalator trainees available
Old Market: Vendors and touts available on site on site even if you don't want them

What to buy
New Market: Obnoxious clothing at expensive
Old Market: Not as obnoxious clothing prices by Cambodian Standards at cheaper prices by all standards

What to eat
New Market: Swenson's Ice Cream; Organic meats, A/C inside the grocery store
Old Market: Fried rolls and stinky fish, no A/C for eating

-Both markets have their advantages. I successfully buy a polo shirt for $6. For some reason, I begin to wonder if I've bought the real thing, or if I've just contributed to sweatshop labor.

We visit Cambodia's Royal Palace, which looks a lot like Thailand's Royal palace. There's lots of statues of Mr. Morodon, Cambodia's first king. Lots of Garudas and Snakes. The highlight is this place called the Silver Pagoda. Fair enough, Lisa and I walk through the complex looking for the Pagoda. We pass various beautiful temples, concert halls and the like. We see a beautiful temple with many buddhas, one of them Emerald, a few of them golden, one from Myanmar (or Burma, or whatever you call it right now), and a few from Thailand. We walk to the end of the palace confused, wondering where the silver pagoda was. At 10 minutes to close, we realize that we had just walked through it. The silver pagoda is not silver on the outside, but has 15 panels of silver flooring on the inside. So much for bait and switch advertising. All and All, a beautiful set of temples.

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9/28

Shooting it up at the Killing Fields

Today is going to be an interesting day, although I wouldn't say today will be fun.
Today we step back in time to roughly thirty years ago to the height of Cambodia's Khmer Rouge. Officially started in 1975 by Pol Pot, Brother #1, The Khmer Rouge took the lives of roughly two million people. He started quite popular, to be a man of the people as he ousted the quite unpopular American Backed General Lon Nol. Like most dictators, paranoia and xenophobia give in, as Pol Pot's Khmer Rouge begins to kill anyone even remotely skeptical of the establishment. Soon he turns on his own soldiers. It's not until the Vietnamese invade in 1978 until Pol Pot is ousted. Even so, another decade of turmoil and famine would follow until elections would take place and a sense of stability returned.

We have a tuk-tuk driver lined up through the hotel, who will take us to two places: The Tuol Sleng Museum (a high school that was converted to a maximum security Khmer Rouge prison), and Choeung Ek (the mass killing field graves of the Khmer Rouge victims).

The Tuol Sleng Museum

It's quite hard to describe this place with simple words. I would imagine that it would be similar to the Nazi camps of Auschwitz and Dachau. The best way to describe it would be to list some of the rules of the prison:

Do nothing. Sit and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do it right away without protesting.
While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.
If you do not follow all of the rules, you shall get many lashes of electric wire

You get an eerie feeling walking along the grounds of Tuol Sleng, knowing that it was once a high school. We see interrogation rooms with pointed rods and gallows, where prisoners would be tortured. The "sleeping establishments"are no more than 7 feet by 3 feet in dimension. We watch a movie about some of the people that live through it. One of the survivors was a painter who luckily was forced to paint, although shackled, and managed to survive the regime.

The killing fields of Choeung Ek

About 10 miles outside the city, we reach Choeung Ek, where thousands of people are said to be bludgeoned to death and buried. We walk in, and the fields are strangely quiet and serene, like nothing ever happened. Until you reach the stupa where some of the remains lay. One thing that strikes Lisa is the killing tree, where they would attach a radio loudspeaker to the branches to prevent excessive crying noises from permeating throughout the area.

After an hour's time, we've had enough. We hop back into the Tuk Tuk and get ready to drive back. He then turns to us with a serious question, and asks us if we'd like to go shooting now. I guess in Cambodia, some of the old rifle ranges are now tourist attractions where tourists can have their luck shooting up some of the old livestock. A surreal moment in the trip, Lisa and I turn to each other and respond with a firm "no". We've had enough death for one day.

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So the bus is rolling out of the station once again bright and early to Ho Chi Minh City. Stay tuned.

Travelling Sherman

PS. Cambodia pictures should be up by tomorrow or so. Check the "Travelling Sherman's pictures" link --> Cambodia by then.

Siem Reap, Cambodia

2007-09-24T03:05:00.000-07:00

a kinder, gentler third world

9/21

The sun has intensified ten-fold as we walk off the plane out on the tarmac and into the airport. The mid-day sun clocks in at 93 degrees. A lean, dark haired Cambodian holds a sign curbside reading Eric Sherma . We hop in the back of his taxi, our bags in the trunk. We travel on fairly good roads mostly, with the occasioal potholes here and there. Giant stalks of grass overfilled with monsoon rain fill our view. The lush countryside seems endless. We reach Siem Reap, hop to nearby Angkor Wat, Cambodia's wonder of the world, the country's ticket out of poverty.

Sim, the driver described above, has surprisingly good English. Much better than any of his Thai counterparts. The usual questions come up. Sir, where you from? How long you stay? We answer truthfully, knowing in the back of our heads that there may be a sense of insincerity coming from his part. It doesn't matter. It's nice to have a bit of air conditioning at the moment.

He takes us to our guesthouse named the Red Piano. A nice place to stay but unfortunately there is no red piano. There are clean sheets, air conditioning and hot water. And for $20 a night, the piano becomes secondary. The Red Piano guesthouse was put on the map in 2001 when Angelina Jolie and her crew for the movie Tomb Raider came to stay. Their sister restaurant in town glorifies this with Plaques from the movie.

We settle into the room and walk into town. Immediately the tuk-tuk drivers come up to you and ask you for rides. Children run up to you and ask you to buy their post cards. I remember this now from before. Different country, same poverty. Although the Cambodians are much more gentle and much more humble about it. And when you get to read about their dark past of the Khmer Rouge it puts things in perspective. 2 million people died. About half of the children lost either their mother or father. Many have lost both. While the ngo's and the government have improved things quite a bit, you realize these guys don't have that much.

And you begin to realize that even after all of the violence and bad times of the last twenty years, the people are just as peaceful as ever. They come up to you, they smile, they laugh. And of course they wish you to buy something. A conversation may go like this:

Sir you want Tuk Tuk?
No thank you.
How about cold drink?
No, I'm sorry.
Maybe when you come back you buy from me, ok?
Ok. Thank you. Bye-bye.

I currently hold about 75 of these short conversations per day. But they don't bother me at all. I actually enjoy the dialogue. The first night in town we find the Siem Reap Night market. We talk to the vendors and find out they represent abused women's organizations and orphan organizations. All the merchandise they sell is made from orphans or abused women who have learned their new skills. All the proceeds go back to these people. A far better rate of return than Sally Strouthers or the United Way.

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9/22

Lisa is still bruised up from her night before yesterday's bout with the mosquitos in which she lost. Her eyes have some swelling and her temples have some bumps. I feel like I should dip her in a bowl of DEET. The rash I'm having starts to agravate quite a bit. Some misery kicks in with the both of us. The hot tropics brings a degree of uncomfort.

But two cold showers later gets us a little less negative. We meet Charlie, our tuk-tuk driver this morning. He stands roughly 5 foot, 5 in, dark wavy hair, with a wide, goofy grin. Charlie has one long strand of hair that comes out of a mole on his skin. My guess is 7 inches long. He enjoys swooping it away occasionally as he drives the tuk-tuk, like an ancient Chinese sage.

For those new to tuk-tuks, they can only be described as carriages run by second hand japanese motorbikes. The carriage has two wheels in the back, bucket seats, and a roof overhead for the elements. It seems to be the desired mode of travel in Siem Reap. You can rent bicycles, but they run twenty years old, and you have to fight the oncoming traffic in seven directions.

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Angkor Wat and The Temples

It would be ridiculous to try and describe every temple we visited over the last few days. The Angkor Wat complex covers about sixty square miles (more than the entire square mileage of San Francisco). Here's some of the ideas I've left with the Angkor Wat complex over the last few days.

-The majority of the temples focus around a few key characters.

Rama. Short for Ramachandra. The mythical King. An incarnate of Vishnu, he battles Ravanna...who seduced his wife. Ravanna and Rama battle it out. The good guys win, and Rama is forever the king.
Buddha. What more can be said except they have sculputures of him in every position. Lying down, standing up, sitting cross legged. The constant in Cambodia is that Buddha was a fan of pastel colors. According to the reliefs and sculptures, he enjoyed wearing orange with a yellow crown and purple earrings.
Naga. A Seven Headed Serpent who is the original ancestor to the Cambodian people. Serves as a bridge to the gods at Angkor Wat.
Garuda. A half man, half bird diety who usually gives the God Vishnu a ride to most places. Him and Naga don't get along too well.
Sita. Rama's wife. See #1.
Angels, nymphs, and wise men. For ornamental decoration.

95% chance that one of these six characters will be correct when describing the sculpture or statue.

A bit of History with the Angkor Complex

Started in around 800 A.D.and went until the 1400s, the Angkor empire of cambodia was the largest in southeast asia.
There were more than ten kings that ruled the Angkor Complex. Suryavarman II builds Angkor Wat in the mid 1100s, while Jayavarman came later and built Angkor Thom - A home within the Angkor wat complex. Inside Angkor Thom, Jayavarman VII (i'll call him J 7 ) builds a temple named Bayon, which sculpts 250 faces of in all around the place. J7 has a bit of an ego complex.

-Lisa and I spend three days with driver Charlie in the Tuk-Tuk visiting the temples. We marvel at the towers, the sculptures, and the steep steps. We spend roughly an hour at each temple (except for the mighty Angkor wat where we spend 4 hours over the course of two days). At the end of each temple visit, I walk back to the Tuk-Tuk with a bunch of notes, Lisa comes back with a bunch of pictures, and our driver is sleeping in the back seat all the while. For $12 a day and a free lunch, he's living on the Cambodian easy street, or bumpy ditch where the case may be.

Some of the temples that stick out in my mind

1. Angkor Wat. The original and the best. It is said to be a creation of the spiritual universe, and originally stored Shiva in the main central tower. You walk in through a hallway and see a 10-foot statue of vishnu. You walk through a promenade, through two pools to the main entrance. Its layout resembles the Taj Mahal as it was designed with a similar philosophy in mind. Each level can take hours to walk through. We walk around the first floor to look at the stone reliefs, trying to play "Where's Waldo" with the lonely planet descriptions. Heat fatigue sets in while we are here, as we both begin to resemble glue sticks. We come back two days later to climb the tower to see where the historic Shiva laid. We walk down the tower after waiting 20 minutes for the Korean tourists to waddle down as they hug the railing for dear life.

2. Bayon. For the reason mentioned before. 250 plus faces of an egomaniac of J7 (see the abbreviation above). All in beautiful pink sandstone.

3. Banteay Srei. A temple a bit out of town, it's also known as the lady temple. The reason being that the carvings of the angels and nymphs were so amazing, no mortal man could ever do it. A bonus is that there is a lilly pond in the back where we take a break from the action and almost fall asleep.

A Trip to the Enchanted Water Forest

9/25

Today, Charlie has taken us into the country. We see half naked children fishing for frogs. Using only rope for fishing line, wooden sticks for a rod, and muscle and carcasses from who knows what for bait. Charlie stops and talks to the boy. He comes over and shows us his frog of the day. The children are nice enough to have Lisa take their picture and they wish us good luck, it's more like them who need the good luck.

Charlie parks the Tuk-Tuk as we make the transfer to the boat. It's a rusty wooden motor boat. Blue roof with red trim. Dining room chairs are the seats of the journey. We are also joined by an older orange-shirted Cambodian woman. Her two year old rocks on her lap. She smiles at us hello with her beautiful holed-teeth smile.

Charlie, our tuk-tuk driver

The boat driver engages the motor. We putter along a swampy pass that makes for a short river. The green lush trees have overgrown from either side to make a pleasant tunnel. The dragon flies encircle in and out of the boat, but keep their distance.

The driver asks for a Band-Aid. The black vinyl steering wheel has burned his hands to a first degree. You wouldn't see it on his face, as Cambodians seem to be trained by birth to hide any physical pain. I notice the steering wheel is connected to a single frayed steel wire that encircles the boat and attaches to the rear rotor. I'm sure he'll have to take it in to his nearest dealer to get it replaced soon enough.

We haven't seen a person in the last twenty minutes. We come around the bend. We see a town of stilted bungalows twenty feet high. This is the flooded forest of Kompong Phluk, created out of the overflow of the Mekong River during the monsoon season. Wooden beams, tined walls and straw roofs. Charlie tells us that over three-thousand people live out here. Each bungalow has piles of wood on a lower level for a week's worth of cooking. A woman in polka dots is washing the laundary. Little boats appear in the water. The kids come up to say hello. The little boats are the mopeds, the feet, the bicycles of this village. Every errand runs a risk of tipping over into muddy wetness.

We read that the best way to see this water is to take a little boat further into the thick forest nearby. We transfer over into a dingy boat. 6 feet long. One 12-year old kid on each side paddling. No problem.

The ride is incredible. We go deeper into the forest. The sun disappears completely. Viny tree branches weave their way to the top. Fish hatcheries are positioned throughout for the village food. I feel like a dream in Pan's Labyrynth.

We thank the little ones for the ride as we make our way to the lone Island in the vicinity. We take in some local lunch of fried fish and rice and fanta that taste like day old bubble gum. I begin to chat with a local at the restaurant who is practicing his english. He keeps asking me "What is your language?", like he can't believe my first language would be English. So much for humility.

We finish lunch, and make our way back to whence we came. Back through the swamps, back through the country side, and back to Siem Reap. Tonight we rest. We leave tomorrow for the capital city of Phnom Penh. I'm sure there's something around the bend.

-Travelling Sherman

Fight Club in the Land of Smiles

2007-09-23T03:52:00.000-07:00

9/20

I think the blue trunked guy is gonna kick the red trunk guy's ass, Lisa says to me as we watch the twelve-year olds battle things out. And to think she we paid $20 each to see this. And to think we actually like it. Lisa's prediction does come true as the blue trunked kid lands a roundhouse to the right temple. The other guy gets carried out on a stretcher.

This is the sport of Muay Thai boxing. It seems to be Thailand's national sport. We decide to take in a fight to get some true thai culture. We take our second class seats as we follow the "Foreigners" sign upward. We sit on the concrete bleachers with Tiger beer and roasted peanuts no more than 20 yards from the ring.

It seems to me that it is an honor to be a Thai boxer. They are given offerings of flowers. They get to wear head pieces which look like elongated Christmas wreaths. Not to mention the flowery upright horn in the back. They are the center of attention in the ring as the Thai National Anthem starts. Before the match begins, each of the boxers will do a ritual folk dance as the band begins to play alongside. One fighter strikes up a gallop, while another strides across the ring like he is Michael Jackson in his golden years. Two drummers, a bell player and a woodwind player strike up a tune that crosses middle eastern music with Kenny G. Both fighters pray to their God of choice as the opening bell opens.

There are ten fights tonight. Each fight can go a maximum of five rounds. Three minutes each round, two minutes between the rounds. Unless there is a knockout, in which case the stretchers come out as described above.

Among all of this, a pack of locals in the stands next to us begin to murmur to each other, flashing their hands back and forth. One of the boxers lands a side kick to the stomach and these locals erupt in cheer. More hands and fingers beginning to flash back and forth. A few people at the bottom of the bleachers have a pen and notepad in hand. Reminiscent of the New York Stock Exchange, bets from all sides seem to be pouring in. Somehow the system emerges within the chaos.

To add to the fun, there is a Cheech Marin Look-a-like who is a coach for some of the fighters. He shakes his arms wildly with his dilated eyes and stained blue shirt. He begins to yell and scream profusely at his boxers.

With all of the fanfare, it's hard to concentrate on the fight, itself. We focus our attention back to the main event for a bit. We watch seven fights in total before jet lag kicks in. Three hours of Muay Thai boxing is enough for a lifetime. We walk through the iron gate out the doors, hop in a tuk-tuk and sleep off the festivities.

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This was the first time I've ever seen the Thai people violent or emotional. Usually it is the land of smiles. A Wat-dee krap, hello to you too sir. Even the 7-11 workers across the street are happy to see you in the morning.

So Thailand has served as a nice resting point as our trip officially begins. The other biggest accomplishment of the 48 hours in this city is viewing the Grand Palace, where the Royal Monastary and the Emerald Buddha Bust resides. We learn that the Thais dress up Buddha bust according to the seasons. The summer Buddha is scantily clad with almost nothing on. The rainy buddha has a big diagonal god stripe across his chest. And the winter Buddha has a light preforated gold blanket to get him through those cold 75 degree nights. It's not a bad life for the Buddha in this part of the world. He gets offerings of fruits, nuts, cheeses, lotus flowers, eggs. The Buddha eats better than I do, for sure.

The other highlights of the Grand Palace are the Golden Garudas (half man-half bird mythical creatures) throughout the place. He has this amazing hand over head posture move that I can't replicate even in my most precarious of states. It is also noted that the Thai Rama IX, the ruler of Thailand, has some amazing rooms throughout the palace. He conducts his state ceremonies in the Grand palace as well as the Coronation Ceremony every December 5, which basically is a day where all the people tell him how great he is in public. And word on the street is that he truly is a great man who has helped make a good life for his people.

Tomorrow we fly to Cambodia, our first stop being the town of Siem Reap, the home of Angkor Wat. But that's another story for another journal entry.

-Travelling Sherman

The Second Half

2007-09-17T19:16:00.000-07:00

Tonight, Travelling Sherman begins again.

I am struggling to put pen to paper at this very moment. Everything seems a bit blurry. I faintly remember doing this roughly nine months ago. Things were a bit different then. There was so much anticipation, so much excitement, and so much wonder.

So we had landed from Hong Kong just in time the New Year, our trip shortened, ourselves confused. Our home of mesh bags and clothespins had been dragged from underneath our feet.

We woke up to fog over the next few days back in San Francisco. The weather was our metaphor. Jet lag set in. 3 AM seemed like the perfect time to go to the grocery store.

The months passed. We visited Lisa's family quite a bit. We helped her Dad back to better health. It seemed like that would be our job for the short while: to take care of our family.

And so I thought I would take care of things and marry Lisa. I'm glad she said yes right away. A beautiful wedding happened in April, followed by two beautiful parties throughout the spring and summer.

We were married and happy and it was August. It was still foggy, but a bit warmer here in San Francisco. The idea came up to go back out to Asia and to finish our trip. It seemed like the best idea we had all day.

So another trip to the travel agent, four trips to REI, and two lonely planet books later, we sit here again in San Francisco, ready to jump back into our Van Winkle like dream that seems so foreign to us now.
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So we go by air back to Thailand, and head eastbound to Cambodia shortly after to reach the temples of Angkor. The idea is to spend time in Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos and back into Thailand.

But who knows what will happen.
Keep your trusty browser on this web page to find out.

-Travelling Sherman

Life in the Middle Seat

2007-01-13T11:13:00.000-08:00

12/29

It's almost the new year, and you would definitely know it by the crowdedness of this flight. Lisa and I are on our way home to San Francisco. An auspicious place in an auspicious time - San Francisco two days before the new year. Lisa and I are going home early to attend to her father's health. We both decided it was the right thing to do. As Tikka, the Nepali guide said to me once, "Life is important". I don't think I could have said it better, myself.

Since we had open-ended return tickets, we were able to book a flight for today. Since beggars cannot be choosers, Lisa and I take separate seats. We are in separate rows along the middle aisle in the middle seat, the most coveted seat on an airplane if you are a sardine.

The middle seat should serve as the appropriate seat, as I feel like I have lived life in the middle seat for some time now. Between jobs and between livelihoods, this trip has served as some sort of passageway from one phase of my life to the next. Maybe I'm laying the metaphor on a bit thick, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I've been asked by some about whether or not I will return to Asia. Most definitely. As for when,I reply 'when the time is right'. At this point, I'm not exactly sure what I mean by that, but something tells me that I'll know when the time will come to return.

So now comes the age old questions: What country did you like the best? What have you learned? How has your life changed? I feel like I'm answering the essay for a college entrance application. It would be easy to come up with short, canned, terse answers to the above questions. I would be lying to myself if I took this approach. Instead, I can share with you only my raw thoughts of the moment.

Thoughts on Asia
1. I have seen extreme poverty and realize that everyone in the western world is amazing wealthy compared to the majority of Asia.

2. I wish I could say that I loved all of the people from all of the places we visited. Unfortunately, that is not the case. I still hold prejudices and still become quite uncomfortable when I'm completely out of my element. I've also learned to accept this, deal with it, and focus on positive thoughts.

3. I've learned that the best meal you can have is the food from that country. Accept no substitutes.

4. I've learned that Lisa and I can get through any situation together and laugh about it later.

I am resisting the need to summarize the entire trip, especially since I don't consider this to be the end of the trip. I always hate endings, anyways. Take the movies, for example. The movie ends, and you have to get out of your seat only to walk over spilled popcorn and soda cans. You could say this trip was like a trip to the movies. I would say it was more like watching the first two Lord of the Rings movies. It's been a great start, but you know there's more to the story. So I guess I'm finished for now, then. I'll settle down for a bit in San Francisco. I'll attend to my practical matters. I'll settle down with Lisa, my true companion. I'll catch up with family and old friends. I'll pay my taxes, and I'll try to look out for the spilled popcorn and the soda cans on the way out.

Thank you for all of your support and emails. And remember to keep travelling, wherever you are.

--Travelling Sherman

Hong Kong

2007-01-13T09:48:00.000-08:00

12/28

Lisa and I are standing next to the Bruce Lee statue at the Avenue of the Stars while the light show in Hong Kong harbor begins. Scores of buildings are lit up in sync with a soundtrack by computer. With every downbeat, a different building light flickers on or off in the distance. I rub my head and am befuddled with amazement. It is in the Guinness Book of World Records for most lights in a light show. Pink Floyd never stood a chance. I wonder how these people on the other side of the pacific became so much smarter than us.

Welcome to Hong Kong, the land of efficiency. As we take the Airport bus into the neighborhood of Kowloon, Lisa and I see row after row of apartments. With a population of almost 7 million people, building up is the desired architectural plan. Street signs in Chinese and in English line up throughout every street corner. You are more likely to get lost in Disneyland than here. Oh yes, I almost forgot - Hong Kong has one of those as well.

It is easy to stay in Hong Kong for days. There's countless different markets. There is a jade market that sells all varieties of jewelry, there are men's a women's markets, there are fruit markets, meat markets and the like. Bargainers from all over the world come here to negotiate prices on various items. While bargaining is nothing new for us, I begin to enjoy it more here in Hong Kong. It's more of a game, more friendly, and most importantly I can leave anytime and not have a fear of being stalked.

Hong Kong is known for its food, especially its tea. Lisa and I take the afternoon in Hong Kong Park and visit the Flagstaff House Museum of Tea Ware. The museum takes you on a journey of tea. Here's what I found out....

(begin tea stuff, skip if uninterested)

People have been drinking this tea stuff for thousands of years. It all started with the Han Dynasty back in roughly 206 B.C. They boiled leaves together with some basic spices of spring onions, ginger, mint, dates, dogwood and orange peels.
Chinese Tea drinking started in the south until the Tang Dynasty brought it national at around 700 A.D. The Tang Dynasty started the ideas of steeping and powdering tea.
The Yuan Dynasty came out with cream tea in the 1200s. They used magnolia flowers along with salt and cream to make their concoction. They started the trend of using fragrant flowers , such as chamomile and chrysanthemum, like we do today.
The Ming Dynasty perfected the tea steeping idea in the 1400s. They would wash their teapots and tea leaves and put the dirty water into a slop bowl. Afterwards, they would pour hot water over the tea leaves and wait. The longer the steeping, the more flavor the leaves would give to the tea.
The Tibetans also have their own tea. They throw cheese and salt over their tea. The cold weather in the plateau must have made these people crazy enough to put cheese in their tea.
The Qing Dynasty came in roughly 1700 and championed the idea of oolong tea. They also steeped their tea. The only difference is that they fill the teapots 3/4 of the way full of leaves. This becomes really popular in the eastern provinces of Chaozhau and Fujian.
Even if you don't drink tea, it's nice to see how one beverage can be so ingrained with a society. Tea was the beverage for social occasions, for weddings and other religious ceremonies. So the next time Starbucks slops two teabags into your cup, stop for a minute and think about all of the sacrifices the Chinese made and be grateful.

(End of tea stuff)

The time goes by way too fast and the day is almost done. Soon we will be flying home to the USA. I feel as if there is much more to see in this strange but beautiful city. From the top of Hong Kong island, the mixture of skyscrapers and island chains provide a sharp contrast. Hong Kong to us was a place to stay on the way home to America. However, Hong Kong is a destination in its own right. With clean metros, delicious noodle soups with strange body organs, and dim sum restaurants by the dozen, this place is one of my top destinations. Stop your whining, I say. Hong Kong isn't going anywhere, especially now that the Chinese own the place. I'll be back to this continent sooner or later after a healthy dose of reality.

Keep travelling, wherever you are...

Travelling Sherman

Ko Samui (Thailand, Part 4)

2007-01-09T20:00:00.000-08:00

12/27

After sitting down upon some rucksacks, we step off the boat for Ko Samui. Each island we have reached in Thailand has become slightly larger than the previous one. Lisa and I along with our friends Stephanie and Melissa step off the ship to find accomodation. The plan is to only stay one day. Melissa and Stephanie plan to go south to Phuket while Lisa and I plan to fly north to Hong Kong. There has been a change of plans to be explained later. Simply put, Ko Samui is simply a rest stop to our final destinations.

Within these 24 hours, we manage to see the Big Buddha housed within the Wat Phra Yai temple. After a short walk past the overpriced beach restaurants, Asian markets and souvenir shops, we reach the temple entrance. At the entrance, there is a flight of stairs leading up to the big golden Buddha himself.

To be honest, it feels good to be in a temple again. I had become accustomed to taking off my shoes, spinning prayer wheels, and looking at the Buddha statues and donation boxes. I walk up the flight of stairs to get a closer look. There sits my golden Buddha friend. He looks different here in Thailand than in Nepal or India. His face is long and has shed a few pounds. It is almost as he's gotten a face lift and a nip/tuck job on the way over here.

The only mildly appalling observation about this Buddha is that when the sun goes down, the locals turn on about 200 flashing incandescent light bulbs. I feel as the carnival just came to town.

As I go back downstairs, Lisa points out the donation area. At first, my skepticism runs high. On second look, I realize that a 20 Baht (roughly $.70) donation allows you to write a name of a loved one on a brick. This brick is then put in a pile and will later be used to build or rebuild parts of the temple. I guess if that Buddha cannot be inside of you, your name can at least inside his temple.

The four of us walk back, catch the red sunset and find a place for dinner. We learn that Thai people make great Pad Thai but bad pub food. At least the Vodka/Red Bull is on sale this evening.

We stay the night in a nice $15 per night place. The only drawback is that it is 500 ft. from the runway. Small sonic booms happen on the half hour, only to fade into the night as the last plane takes off shortly after 10 PM. Tomorrow we leave Thailand - the land of pleasure, and fake Christmas dinners. Until then, keep travelling - wherever you are.

Travelling Sherman

Ko Phagnan (Thailand, part 3)

2007-01-03T20:22:00.000-08:00

12/26

To be honest, I cannot recall the daily events since the last entry. I only recall faces, foods and sandy beaches. We have been joined on this leg of the journey by our friends Stephanie and Melissa. Both are teachers whom we worked with last year. They are still working as their trip to Thailand is a needed getaway of relaxation.

It was by chance we met them in Ko Tao, as Lisa and I were walking to breakfast. We saw Stephanie and Melissa in a travel office as Stephanie had her wallet taken on the morning boat ride. After all of the details were sorted out, we cruise the island like a gang of girls (plus myself) have become.

The tide is high as the typhoons of the Phillipines affect the weather ever so slightly. The beachlines in Ko Tao shrink by the day, as we are forced further back into the grass. We decide to take an excursion to a monkey reserve on the south shore. We see a handful of monkeys navigating tree branches and canopies using their limbs as easily as we change lanes in traffic. They seem effortless as well as human like in their movements. One monkey, in particular, stands out. Tito, the cheeky black monkey, was the troublemaker of the group. Tito likes to play tag and chase people around. Tito interrupts two other monkeys during their romantic dinner of bananas and peanuts and harasses the male. The chase is on. Tito looks to have the other monkey cornered when the other monkey jumps to the highest balcony. Tito grows tired and gives up, as he comes to us to perform some tricks.

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The following day we reach Ko Phagnan -- the middle sized island in the Gulf of Thailand archipelago. We were forced to take the express vomit cruiser. The Thai crew hands out barf bags before takeoff. About a half an hour into the ride, the first victim falls across from me. Soon thereafter, the child reaches for his bag and deposits his excess. Soon enough, about a dozen passengers join into the fray. Lisa holds her ears as I close my eyes. At least they could have other than the clear colored bags for me to view the evidence.

We stay at a place called the central cottage - an hour's drive on the other side of the island. We huddle into a pickup truck and drive over what could possibly be the poorest maintained roads in all of Thailand. It takes us one hour to go twelve miles, about the same pace as L.A. traffic. We go up and down and up again like popcorn kernels. As long as we don't pop we should be fine.

The cottage is located on the Thong Nai Pan Yai - the big beach of the area. After two days of clouds, the weather turns sunny as the tide recedes. We walk every day to the neighboring beach as it reminds me everything about beaches back home: warm water, nice beaches, good waves, and handsome sandwiches.

Indeed, we eat at a place called 'Handsome Sandwiches'. The Thais make sandwiches and burgers here made to order. One sandwich will put you in pure bliss for the rest of the afternoon. They have tuna sandwiches, burger sandwiches, ham and cheese sandwiches all on a sesame seed bun. I even purchase some T-Shirts to commemorate my journey to the Handsome Sandwiches shop.

The Thais push Christmas on the Tourists as jingle bells, Santa hats, fireworks and Christmas carols fill the holiday. One tradition they have is lighting a small fire within a kite lamp and launching it into the sky. It is a sight to see until the fire kite falls into the trees. My fearsome worries of the kites catching fire in the forest are put to rest as the last fire burns out. We spend the rest of the evening having dinner and swapping stories. While the girls are reminiscing about Christmas at home, the lone Jew could care less. I'm demanding some Dreidels and chocolate gelt for the next trip.

So here we are today, the day after Christmas. The waters are much more calm as I write. We are on our way to Ko Samui, the third of the Gulf of Thailand Islands. Another set of adventures await as you will hear about it first by me. Anchors away. Another island, another day.

-Travelling Sherman

Thailand, Part 2

2007-01-03T19:47:00.000-08:00

12/18

Almost a week has passed, and I am still sitting in the same chair in the same restaurant on the same island. Thailand does this to you. These people are quite smart. They have produced a chain of islands that make you never want to return to your home country. They provide good food at low prices, packs of bungalows every half mile, and more smiles than anywhere else on the planet. The island where Lisa and I are living on is Ko Tao. With 80 degree Fahrenheit water, amazing pad Thai noodles at $2/plate, and amazing rooms at $6/night, I see no reason to leave the island.

Even getting to the island is easy. We board the local bus that is Air conditioned, has reclining seats, and toilet paper as far as the eye can see. We happen to be the only westerners on the bus, as the "Lord of the Rings" movie is dubbed into Thai. It's quite funny to hear Gandalf say things like "Wat dee krap" and other broken Thai phrases. This guy must have really been some wizard.

The bus driver stops at the appropriate stop, helps us with our bags, and walks us to the Taxi station without even asking for anything. I am puzzled. The driver wants nothing other than for us to be happy. What a strange concept. I rub my head as I think about it.

We wait a few hours in Chumpon, the mainland port city. Lisa and I are taking the night boat to Ko Tao. After getting some dinner, we hop on the boat to find the accommodation of some dusty twin beds on the floor. We are accompanied by 60 other fellow passengers. People are coughing, farting and belching throughout the evening. The boat begins to rock as I try sleeping on my stomach. It's like a water bed without all the needless markup.

We arrive to the Ko Tao pier at about 5 in the morning. We arrive at the Seashell resort and wait for things to open. About two hours later, Koh, the attendant checks us in to the bungalow. Lisa and I fall asleep soundly to the waves and motor scooters. A Fifteen hour trip to paradise is worth it. Next time, I'll remember to bring the Dramamine....

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Ko Tao is named the turtle island, as it is a haven for divers There are roughly 40 different diving schools to choose from. Our hotel had a deal where we basically get a free room for the hotel if we sign up for their diving school. We do an open water 4-day course and get certified in some of the warmest water on the planet. I feel as Lisa and I are back in school. We get our PADI (Professional Association of Diving Instructors) textbook. We have homework. We have to read three chapters and fill out the study guide. We finally get to paradise and I am taking notes. There is something wrong with this picture.

Our instructor, Fran is great. She is from England and has left her life to start a new one here as an underwater videographer. She helps Lisa and I through everything with ease. While all the regulators and vests seem intimidating at first, Fran makes it simple. It's only Lisa and I in the class. We practice sharing air, cleaning our masks and learning to be buoyant. By the last two days, we dive into open water and see trigger fish, yellow box fish, clownfish (Nemo) among many others. I feel like I'm in SpongeBob's world. Being underwater is like going to the aquarium, except they drop you inside of it instead. It's so peaceful that the 40 minutes you are down there seems like a nanosecond.

I imagine I'll grow tired of the beach, the fresh fish barbecues, the diving and the sun at some point. They even have thrown in some New Year's and Christmas decorations. If only I could find a menorah, it would feel like home.

So it's only right to say Happy Holidays. May the season bring love, joy, happiness and all of the other things that hallmark promises. By all means, take a vacation. I know I have taken my share. One of these days I should enter reality. On second thought, maybe not. So long for now from Thailand. The land of smiles. Keep smiling, wherever you are.

-Travelling Sherman

Thailand, part 1

2007-01-03T19:32:00.000-08:00

12/11/06, 11:30 A.M. Local time

What a difference a day makes.

We begin the morning being racially profiled. As we queue up to board the Air India flight to Bangkok, we walk up to the attendant gate where an Indian Military agent stands. After he allows the preceding dozen passengers pass without any hesitation, the agent stops us with his hand with a resounding "No!". When asked why, he simply states "Bag Tag!" Supposedly, not having an Air India bag tag on our carry-on luggage is a threat to their national security. He marches us back through the airport as we are on a wild goose chase to find these bag tags. Meanwhile, countless more Indian nationals board the flight with no bag tags on their carry-ons. Goodbye from India, don't let the door hit you on the way out.

After getting frisked and hassled in the early morning, the arrival into Thailand is a breath of fresh air. From the minute we land into Bangkok and walk off the plane, I begin to appreciate the marvels of a modern city. There are clean toilets, food courts, and beautiful smiling women.

Thailand is a country where pleasure is top priority. Even disagreements or stressful situations are accompanied by smiles. In Asian culture, I'm told it is impolite to express anger. That is why I see so many Thai people laughing so much. They're laughing away any lingering frustrations in their body.

We take the metered taxi into the Banglampu district of Bangkok. This, being the tourist district, has all the creature comforts of home. There is modern music, food of all types, pharmacies that sell dental floss, and central air.

The main road of this district is Ko San Road. When walking down this road, I begin to see more white people than Thai people. I'll gladly take this night of relaxation after enduring a 3 hour night's sleep in Delhi accompanied by horn honking and lizards. Tomorrow, we are going to the island of Ko Tao by a combination of bus and boat. After that, our future is unknown for a while. I think it will involve white sand, ocean water, a beverage and a hammock. Here is to the future. I'll see you in a few days to tell you about it.

-Travelling Sherman

The age of rats

2006-12-29T19:49:00.000-08:00

Somewhere around 12/7 on the way to Bikaner....

We get up at 8:30 AM to drive over 300 kilometers to Bikaner. Mr. Singh has made me a Punjab mix tape. Each song title takes up about 3 lines. Here's a couple of ideas as to what the songs are like. If you visit this site in the future, I hope to put some links to the music here.

Track 1: Sajem Meray Rangalay Jai Totay Mehlan
Description: A tabla E flat minor trance rhythm. It gives off a surreal, mystical feeling as it hits you most in the early morning hours.

Track 2: Kahan Gahay Baba Boleteytey
Description: A B flat minor down tempo song, with more melodic singing.

There are more songs like this, but you get the idea. The music matches the scenery. Deep guttural voices match the looks of desperation many of the surrounding townspeople have on their faces. Simply put, they are just happy to be alive. They don't need soap dispensers or bagel slicers. Give them a few pieces of wood and some chana masala and they are happy.

I also receive a great mix tape of a Pakistani Classical Musician named Hans Raj Hans. The album Mr. Singh gives to me is called Aaja Ve Mahdi. It is some of the most beautiful music I've ever heard. If you have iTunes, you can look him up at this address:
http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewAlbum?id=110951353&s=143441

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Bikaner and the Rats

So there's one major reason one goes to Bikaner and that is to see the Rat temple. The Rat temple is beholden as one of the most sacred temples in all of India. When we reach there, we see gray rats scurrying along the exposed stone temple floor. Having no shoes on adds another degree of adventure as we try and sidestep the rat dung. And yet, it is considered good luck to have these rats walk over your foot. It's especially good luck to see the big white rat. For the moment, I shake my head and wonder why.

For every strange Indian tradition, there is even a stranger mythical story. This one is no different, so here goes.

Travelling Sherman's Summary of Why the Rat Temple is Such a Big Deal

It all starts with a real person named Karni Mata (Mamma Karni). She is believed to be an incarnation of the Durga God (see Oh My God).
Karni had mad superpowers. Karni supposedly could bring people back from the dead. She could turn the water pure, she could help kings win battles, and she can feed people for days based on dirt and grass. Basically, Jesus, Allah, and Moses gave no competition to Mamma Karni.
So Karni Mata had one son and one sister. The sister wants to take the son to a holy temple down the road to spice things up.
The Karni Mata says o.k. to her sister, but warns not to dip the son into their holy tank they have over there. They have some disclaimer stating that dipping can be harmful to your health including death.
The sister takes the son, ignores the orders and dips the son into the holy tank. The son drowns. The sister is crying.
The sister goes back to Karni Mata to bring the son back to life since she heard Karni has superpowers. Karni says sorry, no way. The sister cries some more.
Karni gives a compromise. She says to her sister there is a way to bring the son back. The sister asks how, to which Karni replies 'the only way my son will come back is as a rat'.
So Karni does her magic and her son comes back as the one white rat at the Rat temple.
It is believed by the locals that when elders die, they also come back as rats. So essentially, you can see great-gramma gertrude running around the rat temple once a week. The locals claim this the '8th wonder' of the world. I just wonder who does the janitor duty.

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The last days of India....12/8 - 12/10

To be honest, the last days of India reminded me of a hangover. You rub your eyes, you collect your belongings, and you make arrangements to go back home. We arrive in Delhi on 12/9 into a hotel that the 'company' provided for us. All I have to say is that these hotel workers were so awful, it becomes comical. For example, a hotel worker asks us if we would like a cup of tea while were waiting for our room to be ready. After we agree, the worker comes with the tea and charges us $3 US. Most people in India give tea out to their enemies.

After going to a hotel of our choosing, we have a somewhat relaxing day in India, as possible as that may be. We go to Cannaught Place - the upscale section of Delhi to get some new clothes.

Mr. Singh takes us to the Delhi airport on our last morning - 12/10. It has now been almost a month in India. I can honestly say that India is the toughest country that I have traveled in during my short life. The laws do not make sense, the touts seem to be at every turn and have one hand in your wallet and one mouth in your ear. But if you can get past it, you realize that India is mysteriously beautiful. I try to remember the Indians like Mr. Singh: Kind, honest and warm. We leave India emotionally drained. We will fly to Thailand for a recovery session yet to be determined. But that is another blog for another time. The further the India trip becomes a memory, the stronger the memory lasts. It has been an unforgettable trip that has made me a better person.

Keep travelling, wherever you are.

-Travelling Sherman

Jaisalmer and Khudi

2006-12-29T18:17:00.000-08:00

12/4 - Jaisalmer

We pull into the Golden Sand City of Jaisalmer in the late afternoon. The rain has started to come down ever so steadily. We check into a hotel on the outskirts that reminds me of the Bates Hotel. Everything is in working order, but it seems like no fixtures have been replaced in the last fifty years. After taking an early dinner at a 'lonely planet recommended' establishment, we go straight to bed - praying that the bedbugs stay away for the evening.

12/5

So Mr. Singh has set up a tour from the 'company' today. The gentleman that will be giving the tour has a moustache that is an inch too big on either side. He joins us in the car as he sits in the front. After Mr. Singh drives us to the starting point - The Jaisalamer Fort - he drops us off for the morning tour with our 'company friend'.

For a lack of memorization skills, we can call this tour guide 'company friend', even though we have no idea if this tour guide works for the company and we know for sure that he's not our friend. The company friend guides us along through this fort - the oldest living fort as 4,000 Indians still live inside.

The company friend tells us that of the 4000 people, half are the Brahman (priest) class while the other half are the Rajput (warrior) class. The company friend is full of pride when he tells us that he is Brahman. He claims the he eats only vegetables and that he is clean, right before he hacks a big spitball into the ground.

Red handprints can be seen all throughout the fort. We are told the story....

The men of the family would go out to battle. Many of them would die and never come back.
The first thing the victors of an opposing army would do after slaying their dead is to come for the women. The women of the fallen sacrificed themselves in order to not allow this to happen.
The women would cut their hands and make red handprints upon the door, and then bury themselves in a funeral pyre.
When future nobility came to rule Jaisalamer, they began to see these handprints as good luck.

The rest of the fort tour by our company friend is fairly good. He rattles off other pointless facts that have escaped my brain once again. We see some more Jain temples, which by far humble the much dirtier Shiva temples within the fort.

We are finally taken to a Haveli. Havelis were inspired by the Mewari clans of the 19th century, as they had an Islamic architectural feel. The Patwa Haveli is one example. This Haveli, the one we are shown, was split later in the 19th century by 5 brothers who ran a merchant house selling ivory, silver and the like. The problem is that merchants, like many businessmen, were not satisfied with making some money. These merchants headed for the desert plains of the Pakistani border for the silk trade as Indira Ghandi takes it over in the 20th century. From this day forward the Patwa Haveli has been preserved as a national landmark.

The rest of the Jaisalmer tour turns lackluster, as we get shown various other emporiums where people try to guilt us into buying cash meres, shawls and other textiles. Between my years of training with Jewish guilt as well as my recent training with Indian con-artists, Lisa and I grow both bored and tired of the charade. We meet back with Mr. Singh and bid our 'company friend' farewell. May this strange man figure out his way in this more incredibly strange country.

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Khudi

Mr. Singh is back in the driver's seat as we head down the dusty road to Khudi, about 1 hour south of Jaisalmer. Khudi is famous for its camels and camel rides, as this becomes the program for the day.

At about 30 miles from Pakistan, it begins to feel like the Arabian Peninsula. Desert sand dunes as far as the eye can see along with sporadic cacti and other desert flowers shape the horizon. Today, we are a small group of three: myself, Lisa and a younger British woman.

I realize why I will never enter an equestrian tournament. Riding horses, camels and ponies are more suited for the female body.

Lisa and I begin to realize that our camels have taken on our personalities. Her camel is moody and doesn't want to walk anywhere in the dry heat, my camel is a little spastic and poops every 15 minutes.

We finally begin to get the hang of riding a camel. We increase the speed as we make our way from various villages to what we call a sunset point. Later we find out that many camel rides all converge on this point, making it the perfect hippie gathering.

My camel is named Disco. He is short, but feisty. He gets mad is the teenage guides use him for a gym vault. I would not feel bad at all if Disco took a big poop on our guide at this moment.

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The dinner is good that night. Lisa turns to bed early inside the non-heated bungalow hut. Mr. Singh then proceeds to beat me multiple times in Gin-Rummy. I'm going to get that card shark when he least expects it.

The bungalow huts prove to be worse than a night of camping in Nepal. It gets into the 30's Fahrenheit. Lisa and I have sent our sleeping bags home. The covers, being thin and narrow cover the most important organs of my body. The toilets are overflowed. I'm itching for morning.

But then, this is what India is all about - the highs and lows. I must admit, I'm in one of the most remote places on earth. I'll shiver a bit tonight for the experiences over the last week. I put on my beanie cap - my protective cap against the evil cold. I start to slumber. Good night for now.

Travelling Sherman

Hippies, lakes, and the blues

2006-12-15T02:08:00.000-08:00

11/30 Pushkar

Mr. Singh takes us to Pushkar - the land of Brahman and the hippies. We are in desert country. The quick story is that Brahman was so upset that he lost Savrati (see Oh My God) that he started crying. Brahmans tears fell to the ground and produced three lakes. Today, it is customary to go to Pushkar and throw some pink lotus flower petals into these lakes.

There are so many friends around here that welcome us to Pushkar and try to Pawn their lotus flowers for some quick rupees. To be honest, I can't shed a tear right now. I'm sorry, but Brahman is going to have to wait another day.

Another quote I hate is the "Where you from?" quote. If they were really nice people, they wouldn't come up and barge into the middle of my conversation. Today, my answer to this question to the upcoming vagabond is "Very far, far away." The vagabond leaves only to try his luck on another tourist.

There is a great hike that Lisa and our Swedish friends - Johanna and Rangard - follow. Savarti, Brahmans first wife got all upset about the wedding (see Oh, My God) and decided to move up into the hills. It's only a 30 minute walk, but you can see for miles in any direction.

The all you can eat Indian buffet is a bad idea, especially when nobody else is around. Lisa and I survive with some mild indigestion.

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12/1 - Udaipur

We get back in the car with Mr. Singh, as God's compact vehicle takes us 6 hours south to Udaipur. Along the way Mr. Singh gets a flat tire. This guy changes to the spare in 5 minutes flat. I believe he may have done this before.

We pull into a tire 'shop'. There's no AAA out here. After banging the spare tire off the wheel, the mechanic patches up the tire and crowbars it back on to the hubcap. Flies are sputtering everywhere. There is a famous joke about how many people does it take to change a lightbulb. The same could be said about how many people it takes to change a tire in India. I say 3. One to change it, one to make tea, and the other one to sit cross legged and stare incessantly.

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We finally make it to Udaipur. Known as the lake city, there are a handful of lakes within a span of 10 miles. After resting that night, we wake up and walk through the old city through the city palace. It was the home of the Mewar Dynasty - the longest running dynasty in the world. The Mewar today is still honored and respected in Udaipur, if even only as a figurehead position.

Walking back through the old city, Lisa sees some spices she wants to buy. We get stopped by a well-dressed Indian lady whose name is Rochi. She speaks English very well, and makes us feel comfortable. We find out that there are also cooking classes available. Being a great eater of Indian food, I have no option but to give in to temptation. Lisa and I go back to Rochi's house and arrange the times, dishes and details of the operation.

It turns out we have an hour more of 'free time' before our driver, Mr. Singh, is supposed to pick us up. After getting something to eat, we see Mr. Singh passing by. After explaining that we are going to be out longer to take this cooking class, Mr. Singh's usual smile turns into a scowl. He doesn't really say much to me after that, only that we should take a rickshaw back to the hotel and that he will continue our tour tomorrow morning. As he leaves, Lisa and I are baffled as to what we did or said to anger him.

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Lisa and I walk the 1/2 kilometer back up the hill up to Rochi's house. We take off our shoes and are greeted by Rochi. Rochi is also a teacher - teaching high school students english as well as other subjects. We get right down to business. Lisa has brought her pocket notebook as we make Saffron Lassi, chipote, bangain bharta (eggplant curry), aloo palak (spinach and potatoes), and vegetable curry (the base for many Indian favorites such as Chicken Tikka Masala). Lisa is writing frantically as both her and I try to take turns at shaping the dishes.

What is interesting is that for all of these dishes, there is one kitchen the size of a closet. There are 3 pots and a couple of metal spatulas and spoons. There are no revolving doors, fancy cutting boards or steamers for rice. Everything is either boiled or sauteed. Rochi and her mom have this down to perfection. All the ingredients are cut for every dish immediately. All the ingredients have been bought fresh before. The regrigerators are smaller than most Television units.

Two hours later, we are eating. The food is delicious. I'm glad that Lisa and I have had the experience to enter an Indian home and see how life is really lived inside. We later learn that the amount of food we cook is not normal. Most Indians eat what is comporable to simple rice and curry plates most nights. Rochi and her family have been most hospitable. We thank them for not trying to rob us of more money, or trying to poison us with their food, or trying to sell twenty-five other products we have no interest in buying.

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12/3

Mr. Singh loads us up bright and early today at 8 AM. I feel like a 10-year old ready for day camp. We have our lunches packed and the itinerary set. For today's journey is to Jodhpur, the blue city with a stopover at the jain temples in Ranakpur.

The Jain religion is a minority religion these days in India, but has a long history. Similar to Buddhism, there is a path of enlightenment. Like the Buddha man, the Jain founder Mahariva gave up family life earlier, got rid of all of his possessions, and started his own religion. The idea is that they are looking to be spiritually perfect. They do this by preaching the big concepts: non-violence, truthfulness, don't steal, don't be possessive, and no sexual relations. The Jains believe that by doing this, their souls become pure and achieve a better life the next time around. To be honest, there is no way that I could follow this regimen (especially the last rule), but I applaud their discipline.

For every religion, there are dozens of temples that enshrine them. Jainism is no different. We visit a temple in Rankapur called the Chaturmukha Jain temple. It is supported by 1444 carved pilars, not one of them the same carving. It looks like a child used some ginger bread cookie forms and laquered the print in marble. But a second look shows the holy Mahariva in all of his forms. The Jain temples get Travelling Sherman's nod as the cleanest and most welcoming temples. No one hounds you for donations, the marble floors are spotless, and there is no camera fee. We stay long enough to take some pictures of the carvings and have a proper look around. It's time to get back in the SikhMobile of Mr. Singh. Still another 300 kilometers to Jodhpur.

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So Mr. Singh, for the first and only time on this trip, is upset at us. He's not outwardly upset, but you can tell he is not his usual jolly self. The conversation turns back to last night. He asks how much we paid for the Indian cooking classes with Rochi. After telling him, he retorts with the fact that the amount of money we paid her could suffice a family of four for one week. I want to state my case, but I'm in no position to do so. I just nod willingly and try to steer the conversation in a different direction. Mr. Singh is more worried that we could had been poisioned or kidnapped or the like. "This is India", he says, "People will do almost anything for money." While the concept could be true, I believe that a brief paranoia has struck him. Moments later, he comes to his senses. He says, "My friend, that's over. Let's go get some tea."

Taking tea at a local highway stop is not like it is back home. First of all, you pull over to the side of a dusty road and you see no chairs. Instead, there are rubber like cot fixtures, where the customers take a seat in cross-legged fashion. While waiting for the tea, Mr. Singh reads the Hindustan Times - India's largest newspaper. He translates the local headlines for me, and then procedes to work on Sudoku. Milk tea is the beverage of choice in India, but since my stomach has failed me from time to time, I do without the milk. Flies hover around us as they want in on part of the action. I've grown accustomed to their presence by now. I take the customary sips as I look out on the Indian highway. Local villagers wait for busses not on benches, but in squatting position with both heels on the ground. Old, young, man and woman have no problem squatting for long periods of time. My legs become sore from just looking at them.

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Jodhpur

We are in Jodhpur, the blue city. The old city of Jodhpur has apartment buildings covered with faded blue paint. Founded by Rao Jodha of the Rathore clan back in the mid 1400s, the Rathores controlled much of western Rajasthan. Jodha was paranoid that neighboring clans would attack, so he moved the Rathore city capital to Jodhpur in a hillside spot. On top of the hill, the Mehrangarh fort was built. Overlooking the city, the Mehrangarh fort still sits high above the city. The fort is over 6 miles long and has ten gates. Never once was it penetrated by its enemies. Lisa and I take the audio guide tour. For once, no one hounds us. Just myself, Lisa, and a piece of electronic equipment. The Prime Minister of India has declared this a Historical Landmark and thus has invested in maintaining its luster. I thank the Prime Minister as this has been the best spot on the India tour thus far.

Mr. Singh is waiting for us outside as we finish the tour. We buy some teas at the local "Lonely Planet" reccomended shop just outside the fort. We get to our hotel and take in some dinner. The rooftop overlooks the fort, which illuminates at night. Lisa and I hear calls to prayer from all over the city, as the 15% Muslim population gets ready for it's 4th of 5 prayer sessions of the evening. Everything from atop is cam as the music from the chanting is dreamlike. Not to worry, for we will be back on the ground in no time avoiding the touts, cows and street beggars. Tomorrow, Mr. Singh promises us the best Lassi in Rajasthan at a local shop. I fall asleep gathering my strength for another day in India. I pray to the spirits above for hot water.

Travelling Sherman

Oh My God

2006-12-10T18:36:00.000-08:00

So Today's Journal entry is a little bit different.

Instead of giving you the days' events, I think that we need to take time out to talk about God. It's only the proper thing to do, given that we are in India.

To many, India is the hoilest place on earth. It is the home of yoga, ashrams, Buddha and mediation. Today's focus will be on the Hindu gods, since the majority of the people in India prace the Hindu faith.

Without further delay, these are travelling sherman's top 10 hindu gods. My apologies if the god of your choice is not on this list.

Top 10 Hindu Gods according to travelling sherman.

1. Brahman. The first of the Hindu tri-fecta, Brahman is what is called the creator. He is the God whose caste name is the highest on the planet. The Brahmans, or the priests, are top notch. Brahman is most revered in the town of Pushkar, in which Lisa and I later visit. The reason being is that he planned on marrying his long time Goddess girlfriend - Savarti. On their wedding day, Savarti was delayed in getting dressed, and the Indian wedding ceremony had started. Brahman needed a fill-in bride to complete this one portion of the ceremony so she calles this other woman - Gaytri - to take her place. Needless to say, Savarti is upset. She throws a curse on Brahman that he will go in decline as a God and will only be worshiped here in Pushkar. Years later, this turns to be true. While Brahman is still revered as the original, his stock has fallen recently due to Gods #2 and 3, to be explained forthcomming.

2. Vishnu, the preserver. He gets much respect around India due to the fact he was a wartime hero back in the day. He has supposedly been incarnated many times. The most famous ones being Krishna - the cowherder God explained below, and Buddha - everyone's favorite yoga idol.

3. Shiva. The destroyer and recreator. I guess you can call him the God that takes care of the Recycling. He takes old souls that has passed on and creates new ones. This God is everywhere. There are multiple temples in every city in India and Nepal. He has many different moods. When he gets angry, he turns into Bhirbab - this 'incredible hulk' like God that goes ballistic on anything crossing his path. All in all, Shiva is very much respected. He also rides on a neat-looking Bull named Nandi.

4. Pavarti. Shiva's consort - or wife. She is probably the sexiest Goddess of them all, so by all means, let's put her in the Top 5.

5. Ganesh. The elephant God. The Good luck god. Ganesh is also seen as a God of Knowledge. He was the Son of Shiva and Pavarti. Unfortunately, he had some hard times before achieving God Status, as Shiva the Dad was mad one day. Shiva is looking for his wife, Pavarti and sees her holding Ganesh in a loving fashion. For some reason, Shiva thought that Ganesh was making the moves on his mother and had his head cut off. Realizing what he's done, Shiva is torn to tears. The other Gods tell him that to redeem himself, he should take the first head he finds and put it back on Ganesh. After looking in the forest, all Shiva finds is an elephant. Sure enough, Shiva whacks the elephant's head and brings it back home for Ganesh. From here on out Ganesh becomes the elephant God. Elephants are celebrated throughout India - as Jaipur city elephant rides are as commonplace as rush hour traffic. Ganesh can now be found in gift shops, restaurants, and street vendors statewide.

6. Krishna. Everybody's favorite incarnation of Vishnu. He gets much heroic respect for his role in what Hindus call the Baghwad Gita. The story goes as follows.

Arjuna, an Indian general going back many centuries, is trying to win back the rightful ruling of his kingdom. He and his brothers are more than willing to fire out the Bows and arrows, but there's a catch. The people that they are fighting against are actually their jealous cousins, who also want to run the place. Arjuna starts to tear up when he realizes that he may have to kill some family members. That's when our superhero Krishna shows up as an armyman. Krishna tells Arjuna to get a grip. His overall message is, "Sometimes you just have to do your job, even though it's tough, because it's the right thing to do.'

Krishna was supposedly was also a cowboy as well as a part-time musician who wooed the ladies. All I have to say is that Elvis Presley has nothing on this guy, or God.

7. Hanuman, the monkey god. Another crowd pleaser. He is a hero of the famous story called the Ramayana. There's a whole story to this, but I'll try to summarize. There is this other King named Dasaratha who had this jealous wife named Kaikeyi. Kaikeyi is a younger wife, as Dasaratha has many wives. Kaikeyi wants her own son to become king. The problem is that her son is not the oldest one. The oldest son of Dasaratha's in named Rama. Kaikeyi gets all bent out of shape that her son won't be picked, and sends Rama into exile after the king Dasharatha's death. Years later, Rama gets some backup from this monkey god named Hanuman and reclaims the throne.

8. Gangaur. This Goddess is worshiped because she brings good luck. Recognized by her pink dress, Gangaur wishes them a safe return from battle. For women, they fling the pink flowers - signifying Gangaur - into a lake and pray for a good husband. This strategy may work as well as online dating.

9. Durga - the Goddess of destruction. While it sounds bad at first, Hindus believe she really destroys evil and is the true mother love of the universe. Personified as Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth, and Saraswati - the Goddess of Knowledge and Learning during the Hindu Diwali festival, Durga is like an old fashioned Mother Knows Best character. She is a consort of Shiva and holds great respect for the Hindu faith. That's why she makes the travelling sherman Hindu top 10.

10. The Holy Cow - the Kandenu God. They're not just for milking anymore. Cows are prevalent throughout all Hindu stories and traditions. Our friend, Krishna, was a cow herder. Our other friend, Brahma, created cows when creating priests. The Cow dung and cow urine are used in many Hindu ceremonies - including weddings - in which the people purify their houses. The horns on the cow represent the Gods. The face represents the sun and the moon. Their shoulders represent fire and their legs are the Himalayas. One can see cows o'plenty in almost every Indian city. Just don't ask for medium rare.

A disclaimer to anyone who may be reading this: The comments of the writer are not meant to be, nor are they meant to be used as fact in any way whatsoever. There are many Gods in the Hindu religion, and all of them have their place. These are simply some of my favorites.

Whether you are a religious zealot from the deep hills, or a cappucino agnostic living in a city, you cannot ignore this topic of God and religion when you are in India. Every bus has the Title of "God's Carrier" above the windshield. "God is great" can be seen on bumper stickers everywhere. What's great about Hinduism is that it's more of a buffet religion. You take what you like, you pass on what you don't like, and have as much as you want. Just make sure that you finish what you take, and use a clean plate each time when passing through the line.

-Travelling Sherman

Tigers, Textiles and Bollywood

2006-12-09T04:45:00.000-08:00

"Tigers and Owls and Deers, Oh My"

11/25

It is Day 3 in our India program with Mr. Singh, are hearladed driver. We are driving to Ranthembore National Park. It is the home of the Tigers, as Indira Ghandi started Project Tiger years ago to prevent them from extinction. Today has been a long drive at approximately 8 hours. I idle the time away looking out into the wilderness. The chaotic touts of Agra have been replaced by low lying brush and a big red ball of sunset. We go to sleep early tonight, as we are informed by Azra, the safari manager, that our wakeup call is roughly 5:30 A.M.

11/26

We enter the jeep and are two of six people. We meet a Spanish couple, whose names escape me at the moment along with a Swedish coule - Johanna and Rangnard. As we reach the park entrance, we are greeted by our friends barraging the jeep asking if we need things such as earmuffs, wool caps, gloves, and the like. I'm so glad my friends get up so early to harrass me. I'm also glad that my seat is towards the middle of the jeep, so the others become the line of first defense.

We venture on into the park. The driver and the guide parade us around promising us to see tigers. To be honest, my head is hurting so much that I could really care less about a tiger. It's a beautiful park at roughly 200 square miles. Why wake up the tiger? He's probably having a good nap. I turn my eyes to the sky as the 'guide' shows us various huge sitings of deer and owls. I could have driven 10 miles from my hometown for this jeep tour.

The hours pass and the group is almost about to give up. No tigers. The huge jeep/bus in front of us is making more noise than a samosa street stand in Delhi. All of the sudden, we hear what is referred to as the 'monkey call'. The monkeys in the trees warn the deer that a tiger is coming. Sure enough, the monkey is right. A beautiful Bengal tiger parades himself through the forest. We take some pictures and think we are through. No problem, the guide says, let's drive closer to the tiger. Johnanna, the Swedish girl, is losing her cookies. No problem, the guide says. Who is to argue at this point, as I am sure all of the necessary precautions have been taken for our safety.

We get to about 10 feet from the tiger and the tiger crosses our path. The tiger ignores us like we were yesterday's news and continues to the other side of the forest. It is amazing. We take some more pictures. Soon enough we are on our way back to the hotel. We have seen the fabled tiger. I just hope that the world can see more of them over the next 100 years.

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11/26 -11/27

"Jaipur"

Mr. Singh, our driver plays 2 cassette tapes front to back constantly. He plays his Sikh relighous songs. They actually are quite good as they have their share of tablas and accordians. The top song (translated into english) is called "Call to God". It is sung by a Sikh Priest in E flat minor. Mr. Singh promises to make a mix tape for me before he leaves us. I think he has a crush on me.

We reach Jaipur a few hours later. Jaipur is known as the pink city, as its old city lined with off-pink colors. Mr. Singh tells us that Pink is the color of hospitality and that this is how its color was created.

Jaipur is the completion of India's golden triangle, as Delhi and Agra make the other 2 corners. Started by Swai Jai Singh in the 18th century, Jaipur became the Capital of the Rajput colony - which later formed to become the state of Rajasthan. Jai Singh was the Mahanajra (or king) of this dynasty for many years, and wanted to make a home that was safe and had some access to clean water. The city was made as a grid like system according to Hindu Texts. Its is one of the few cities in India where you may not actually get lost if given a proper map.

Jaipur is also home to some of the nicest textiles in India. They use semiprecious stones with silk to make beautiful wall hangings, shawls, saris and the like. Three hours and a few hundred dollars later, Lisa and I buy enough cloth to cover the walls of a small studio. Don't worry, that's not the current plan - I hope.

Mr. Singh gives us the proper city tour. We enter the Pink gates to the City Palace, and check out the textile and arsenal museums. We see the assortment of knifes and guns. I find out that these guys were the first to come up with pajamas. Millions of small children with underoos are eternally grateful.

We see the Janthar Mantar - King Jah Sing's Astronomy museum. There are assortments of sun dials, rising sign dials and every dial known to man. The guide gives a good job as he tells us how to compute the time using the sun, the sign of zodiac, and the angle of this sign. This guy definately would be the student you would use to correct tests and quizzes if you were the teacher.

There are plenty of other forts and sights we see. A pink blur seems to cross my mind as I take it all in. We retire back at the hotel in the afternoon. We get suckered in to see what is called a "Bollywood" movie. Supposedly these films are the highest money grossing films in the world. Read on to find out the review. Otherwise, you can close this book or web browser and relax for a while.

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"The Bollywood Cinema at Raj Mandir, Jaipur, India"

The name of this movie is called "Vivia" or in english "From engagement to wedding". How do those Hindi-speaking folk pack so much into one word?

Start of Plot: Skip if not interested

So this family has one daughter and have adopted 1 niece. The adopt the nicece since the dad's brother and wife were in an accident.
The niece is considered the 'eldest daughter' by the dad.
The niece gives him his shawl every morning. They painstaikingly show this about 12 times. We get the point that the dad really loves this daughter.
This father has a friend who knows a family with a son that is ready to wed. The father gives this friend a picture of a daughter. The groom's family is excited that their rich son is leaving the house.
The mom resents the dad and niece since Dad spends way too much time with the niece instead of his real daughter. The mom gets all bent out of shape and decides she does not want to participate in the marriage.
Right before the wedding, there is a fire in the bridal party's house. The niece goes back into the house to rescue the younger sister (or real daughter's) life. The bride receives internal burns in the process.
There is a big dramatic scene about if the bride will be okay. During this scene, the mom comes around and accepts this niece as her daughter.
The bride is okay. The husband comes to the hospital. They have money so they fly in this rich guy to fix her up. Everyone is happy. The audience is applauding for the 30th time during the movie.

End of Plot

Going to see an Indian movie is an experience I will never forget. The lines are long and the people are pushy, which is quite normal by Indian standards. As the movie starts, people have no problem coming in bit by bit for the next 30 minutes making as much noise as possible. Seven to Nine cell phones can ring at any time. In fact, our driver, in the midst of translating every 10 seconds (there are no subititles) picks up his ringing cell phone and has a 'quiet' conversation. I don't mind, as I enjoy this more than the movie itself.

The movie contains cheesy dream sequences and obvious music cues. Musical outbreaks happen through the movie. Bad lip syncing is a must. It is fun for the entire family. In the end, how can I complain. This is India after all. Everything is about drama. Even finding your seat is dramatic as yells across the theatre are commonplace. I'm glad that I've had this experience at the Bollywood Cinema. I just don't think there's room on my Netflix queue for any more of them.

Travelling Sherman

Agra, India

2006-12-01T02:53:00.000-08:00

11/24

We see our driver, Mr. Singh, come up to the hotel in his tweed coat and black turban. He is happy to see us again, as we are of him. We step into the White dolphin car - our mode of transport for the next 2 weeks. He pulls open the passanger door as Lisa and I step inside.

Mr. Singh lights up two matchsticks of insense and has his morning prayer tapes playing in the background. I feel like I have just entered some mobile tantric room as his car is a shrine of peace. The white and pink flowers hang from the Dashboard. Next to it is his creed of how he is to protect and serve all visitors to his Nation of India. "It is my duty", he later tells us, "to make sure you are having good time in this program."

The 'program' for the day, as Mr. Singh calls it, is to drive to Agra. Agra is home of the famed Taj Mahal as well as many other fabled buildings. The drive is roughly six hours today. Mr. Singh is a fan of banannas as he stops by the fruit stand to order two bunches for the next few days. We take some bananas and store them in the back seat of the car. "2 bananas, 3 banans, no problem!" Our Sikh driver was definitely a monkey in his previous life.

Driving in India is a symphony of chaos. As every rule breaks Western intuition. They drive on the left side of the road and they use their horn every two seconds. In fact, it becomes way too common to see the sign "Please Blow Horn" on the back of a truck. It is way too common for cars to pass each other on to oncomming traffic. I close my eyes every 10 seconds for fear of another head on collision. Mr. Singh looks at me befuddled. "We drive, left, right, fast, slow, no problem!" We are told there are very few accidents in the major cities, and only very few accidents on the freeway. I tell Mr. Singh to just keep his eyes on the road.

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Today's first stop on the 'program' is the Agra Fort. There is a fairly long story, but I will try to limit it to a paragraph. This fort was the home of Shah Jahn - a Moghul emperor - grandson of the first Moghul emperor Akbar. The Moghuls were the Muslim tribes that occupied India for over six centuries. This Shah Jahn was quite the ladies man at a herum of over 5000 wives. S. Jahn's son, for either reasons of herum jealousy or just plain out power hungry, imprisoned his father later in life within the Agra fort. For the son had begun to assume power over the years. At any rate, the story goes that the last few years of Shah Jahn's life was spent in the Agra fort looking at the Taj Mahal from the bedroom. To me, that's not prison, that's a 4 star hotel with unlimited room service.

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11/25

Aap kay say hay? What's going on? Mr. Singh has us up at 6:15 today. We get dropped off roughly one mile away from the Taj Mahal. The sun has not come up yet, but the tourists are coming. We walk the rest since the Indian government has banned all vehicles within 1 mile due to pollution.

The Taj Mahal is considered the 8th wonder of the world. This Shah Jahn character mentioned above really liked Marble. He liked it so much that he instructs 20,000 of his closest friends to retrieve marble from Rajasthan, India over a 20 year period in order to build him a building. As I mentioned above, this guy had 5000 wives. He had a favorite wife, whose name I forget, but she must have been something. For he decided to start building this Taj Mahal in her honor when she died. Artesans come into the mix and bring in semi-precious stones, and then etch these stones in the marble. Each octagonal shaped marble piece took 20 days. One crack of the stone and they had to start over again. At any rate, S. Jahn's wife is buried here in the Taj Mahal. And after S. Jahn goes, he gets buried right next to it. All I have to say is that the estate tax accountants must have had a field day when he died.

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The reason we visit the Taj Mahal at sunrise is that sun and light affect this building tremendously. Being built of 100% hardened Indian marble, it is translucent in nature. When the sun or the moon or the stars hit the building, strange things happen to it. For example, when Lisa and I get there, the Taj Mahal becomes a soft, gray color. By midday, it becomes a pearly white color. People spend all day at the Taj Mahal just checking out the changing colors from the different lighting. It is a photographers dream come true. For me, I just like sitting down on the bench and getting away from the harrasing guides whom are not allowed inside.

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We stop on our way out of Agra at Fatehpur Sikiri, the old abandoned palace about 40 kilometers from Agra. It was the original capital of Akbar's reign, but was abandoned due to a low water supply. And given the 110+ degrees farenheit of the Indian summers, I don't blame him. We walk through the sandstone and marble structures and take pictures of the place. A highlight is that there is a pavilion where they played human chess. I guess it's good to be the king.

More to come, talk to you then.

Travelling Sherman

Delhi, India - Part 2

2006-11-28T03:17:00.000-08:00

We check out of the Ajanta hotel like bandits that morning. The DTTDC has instructed us that the Ajanta hotel is an assembalnce of small time crooks and are putting us in a good place today. We walk down 1/2 a block to where we will be meeting our driver. Our Driver's name we are told is Mr. Singh. Singh in English translates to Lion. So in other words, we are going into the Lion's Den.

A white, compact car with Dolphin borders pulls up five minutes later and we flock to it like it's our ticket to freedom. Mr. Singh steps out of the car. He is wearing a black turbon and carries a grizzly black beard. He reminds me of an Indian Santa Claus. Immediately he charms us as he whisks us away from the swarms of touts, rickshaws and beggars in the immediate area. As the door shuts, we are away. We leave the headaches behind us for the next few weeks.

Today's itinerary is a city tour of Delhi. Mr. Singh assures us that as his driver, we have nothing to worry about. He is going to take care of admission into any buildings and museums. He tells us in his heavy Punjab accent, "no problem".

Punjab is a state in India where many of the Sikhs of India live. Sikhism began in the 18th century as a means of protecting India from being overrun by the Islamic empire. Sikhism borrows from both Islam and Hinduism. The Sikhs believes in only one God, and they preach to this god using personal mediation. Sikhism was started by a Guru (expert) named Nanak. There were ten Gurus that followed. The last Guru basically stated that it is up to the people to continue this religion and pass it on to their respected families. One of the precepts of Sikhism is honesty to others. At this time, I'm really glad Mr. Singh is a Sikh. He can pray as much as he wants just as long as the trip gets better.

And the trip gets better - Immediately. It is amazing how easy it is to get from one monument to another monument to another museum in minutes in what usually would take an hour of combined haggling and worry. We visit New Delhi today. We see a Lakshmi temple. We see the Indira Ghandi Museum - a fascinating tribute to Ghandi's life. Ghandi was one of the most important Prime Ministers of India, as she started the India-UN food grain program and nationalized the banking system. She was a champion of Civil Rights, and like all leaders way ahead of their time die much too young. She was assasinated in 1984 at the tender age of 67.

We see the Qutab Minar - the Islamic victory tower. Bascially the Muslims destroyed a series of Hindu temples in the last great battle in the 12th century. Believing in recycling, they use the rubble of the old Hindu temples to create an immense 200 ft. tower. Those guys were ahead of their time.

We see the Lotus Temple - a strikingly beautiful temple that reminds me of the Sydney Opera house. It's a Bahaii temple based on the new Bahaii religion. This religion mixes the best in all of the major religions and creates its own. It has a whole bunch of precepts that state tolerance to all, world courts, just societies, and all of the other nonsensical unrealistic ideas. Still, it's a beautiful temple. I know that someone high up is laughing about the Bahaii temples all the way to the bank.

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After 4 days of intense frustration, today is finally a success. Having a driver allows you to see the charms of India. Lisa and I are leaving with Mr. Singh to Agra tomorrow - home of the Taj Mahal, the Agra fort, and troublesome scams. I'm sure I'll be telling you every painstaking detail here quite soon. Enjoy yourselves, as we will do the same.

Talk to you soon,

Travelling Sherman

Delhi, India - Part 1

2006-11-28T02:33:00.000-08:00

November 22,

I wake up from the sleeper train as people all around me have woken up. There is some commotion on the train, as tourists are throwing their rucksacks upon their backs. After a surprisingly good night's sleep on the train, we have arrived in Delhi. We exit the train station and walk down the steps to find ourselves planted in this Nation's Capital.

You begin to feel the throng of over 10 million people when entering in Delhi. Samosa stands, rickshaws and 'tourist' agencies fill the streets. As many of you may know, Delhi is broken off into two main sections: Old Delhi and New Delhi. The old city is the original Delhi township, that may have been settled over 2500 years ago. After originally being one of the primary towns of worship for the Hindu religion, it was overtaken by the Muslims in the 12th century.

The Muslims ruled Delhi for almost 6 centuries until the Brittish empire rolled into town around the early 19th century. The Brittish moved the capital of India to Delhi in the early 20th century and decked out what is now New Delhi. New roads, stores and restaurants were installed. Today, you can still see evidence of these two distinct parts of town - Old Delhi and New Delhi.

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While the food and mystique of India cannot be beat, India is not by any means a place to receive consistent information. Nothing is what it seems. For example, you can forget about asking for directions in India. A friend that we met told us that she asked six different people where a certain establishment was located and received six different answers. In India, the response of "I don't know" is never uttered. In fact, asking for directions can easily get you into a wild goose chase, where you are leashed around the city for 20 minutes and are emphatically shown your location when you get there. In other words, if you don't have your act together, don't even bother setting foot outside your hotel or guesthouse. Just go back to bed and try again the following day.

We are staying at the Ajanta hotel nearby the train station. And at first glance, it's a fine hotel. Lisa and I were thuroughly drained from Varanassi that we needed a nice place to stay. At $30 per night, the Ajanta hotel seems like a 4-star hotel compared to our previous amenities.

We then begin to read between the lines. If you want to get a taxi, they may say to you: "Why do you need a taxi? Just step into our travel office." You may even get impressed the first time you see "Gov't approved" outside the window. You then realize that half of the travel agents have the same sign posted out in front of their offices. My head begins to spin again. Nothing is what it seems.

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We finally look back into our India Rough Guide and find the DTTDC - the Delhi Tourism and Transport Development coorporation. This is considered the official government agency. I ask the rickshaw to take me here and he obediently follows. He insists on staying parked right outside so that he can take me back. After a weak showing of resistance, I give in. I let the rickshaw driver stay as I walk inside the office.

I meet a gentleman named Naz. Right away, he seems much more subdued than the scores of other agents and touts I have met in my travels. I tell him that my girlfriend and I wish to take a Delhi tour tomorrow. Naz gives me the information and tells me to come back with Lisa. For the first time, here is someone that was not desperately trying to squeeze out every rupee from my wallet.

I take the rickshaw back and it's a harrowing experience. The driver takes me to an emporium (an Indian craft store) despite my sharp disagreements. I refuse to get out of the rickshaw. The driver caves in and takes me back to the hotel. He makes my skin crawl. As I get out of the rickshaw I try to go into the internet cafe next door. The driver follows me in trying to 'help' me. If he was back in the USA, he would be a Friday evening miniseries. In India, he is business as usual.

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I meet Lisa and go over what Naz from the DTTDC told me. She agrees that it sounds good, as we agree to go back right away. We decide to walk this time. The same rickshaw driver follows us for a block and then gives up. We get to the area of town where I think the DTTDC is located, and then we get lost. Located in Connaught Place, you have to navigate through a series of concentric semicircles. We try asking for directions, and it's a disaster for the reasons explained above. After an hour, we retrace our steps and we miraculously find the place. We are exhausted yet relieved, as Naz sees us and greets us at the door.

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Naz has us take a seat, as a few groups of westerners are working out their travel plans as well. By the looks of their faces, it seems that they had some of the similar experiences as us. I gulp down two cups of chai (Indian tea with milk). We finally get a chance to speak with Naz.

Paranoia has taken over both Lisa and me. How do we know these guys are not imposters. Nothing is what it seems. India now seems to me as one big Twilight Zone episode that never ends. Naz assures us that all is okay. Between his experience with westerners and his experience in the industry, both Lisa and I begin to relax. Lisa is on her 3rd cigarette this afternoon, and I don't mind one bit.

After realizing that the bus tour is full tomorrow, Naz convinces us to take a driver and make it a bigger tour. We decide to do it. It may seem posh to have a driver every day, but in India it makes all the sense of the world. No rickshaws, no haggling, no headache. Let me know where I sign the check.

So Lisa and I sign up for a 15 day tour that starts with a 1 day city tour of Delhi, a few day stint in Agra, followed by almost a 2 week stint in Rajasthan. We are so relieved. After taking dinner closeby, the DTTDC even has a driver drop us off at our hotel. We are instructed to be packed and ready at 8:30 in the morning to meet Mr. Singh - our driver for the next 15 days.

Varanasi, India

2006-11-26T04:27:00.000-08:00

November 19,

I am sitting at the Ganga Fuji guest house with the various tourists from the UK, Australia and New Zeland. The boss tells us to have a seat. And for the first time here in Varanasi, my headache is beginning to subside.

Some people say that India is a constant headache. For the moment, I could not agree more. There are vehicles swiping at you from every direction. There is dust coming out from every angle. There are people coming at you with every trinket known to humankind. It begins to make sense why yoga was started in this country. It prevents people from the straight jacket. It also makes sense why Buddha became enlightened not far from this very spot. It furthermore makes sense how Buddha came up with his 4 noble truths: sorrow, the cause of sorrow, the end of sorrow, and the path leading to the End of Sorrow. My current theory is that the citizens of India need an escape from the chaos of its 1.1 billion people. They need to escape from the constant heckling of the Cycle rickshaws, Auto rickshaws, and bovine creatures. If anyone has found the path leading to the End of Sorrow, please send me an email straight away.

The Brahman (high class priest) has just stepped on the couch behind me and is murmuring some prayers in Hindi to Shiva - the God responsible for destroying and recreating things. The Brhaman looks into a red lighted box and reads his prayers similar to how an elementary school kid emphatically recites the Pledge of Allegiance. Within minutes, he is gone. Express prayer. You can leave the two hour sermon behind you. Now that is a religion looking into when I get back home.

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Varanassi is a love/hate relationship. It is India's olderst city - from the 6th century B.C. -- and to be quite honest, you can tell immediately when you get there. The old city is limited only to small motorbikes, pedestrians and cows. After one night in the plush outskirts of town in the Cantonment district, we dive into the old city like a 5 year old dives off the high dive for the first time. We take the auto-rickshaw as far as it goes, which is on the fringe of the city centre. For those not familiar with an auto-rickshaw, imagine attaching a lawn mower engine into an golf cart. You then fill the vehicle to 175% capacity, and charge exhorbatant ammounts to take people very small distances.

The driver lets us off the rickshaw as we walk on to the main Bazaar - rucksacks strapped in. It is like a scene out of the "Indiana Jones - Temple of Doom" movie. Shops and Bazaars outline an otherwise dusty road. There are no addresses - simply alleyways. The traffic is chaos. The rickshaws run rampantly down the roads with no sign of traffic laws in sight. The only thing that trumps their manner is the holy cow. Black cows, white cows, bony cows, gangly cows - it does not matter. The cow runs the road. That is the end of the story.

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Varanasi is considered the holiest city in all of India. Its temples mark the epicenter of Hinduism, attracting thousands of pilgrims each year. It would make sense that the Ganges river - India's largest and holiest river - would flow right through Varanasi. The people of Varanasi hold the Ganges with high regards. They believe that the river has a healing and theraputic power. Hence, many spiritual rituals are performed here on the river Ganges.
One such ritual is what I will call "The Sendoff of the Dead". During the day, the townspeople decorate the recently deceased in a shiny foil. The deceased are then put on to stretchers and paraded through the old city. After a brief ceremony in one of the old Hindu Temples, they are taken down to a ghat - a tiered riverbank where the sendoff ceremony will take place later that evening.
There are many ghats in Varanasi. They are mainly separated by caste system. For example, someone in the priest caste would be sent off in a different ghat than someone in the warrior Caste. We go to the Manikarka Ghat that evening, where mainly members of the priest caste are sent off.

Huge fires have been created along the ghats. The dead will first be creamated in a ritualistic nightly ceremony before their remains are sent along the Ganges. We huddle as close as we can around the procedings, but we are warned that getting to close would provoke hostile behavior. To be quite honest, I can understand. I wouldn't want a bunch of strangers scribbling notes and taking pictures at my loved one's funeral. On the flip side, the local Varanasi onlookers have no problem bugging you constantly while you try and watch the "sacred" ceremony. They may try out their broken english and ask questions such as the following:
"Know Something?"
"Friend, where you from?"

You can even pay a few hundred rupees per person to take a boat ride along the Ganges and watch the whole event. I'm sorry, I think I will pass on this and save my money for Redskins tickets.

The only thing I have learned in India is that I make many friends without saying a word. "Hey friend, I can take you around the city". "Hey friend, Rickshaw". They are even so nice to you that even the most tactful of "no's" is responded by a greated persuasion tactic. For example, they are willing to follow you around for 30 minutes stalking after you and yell. "Friend! Friend! Guide!" What nice people. WIth friends like that, who needs enemies.

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After 2 days of getting harrased by our "friends" at the Ghats, we decide to take a trip outside the city. We visit Sarnath. Home of the Buddha enlightenment and the 4 noble truths. It is here that Buddha was born and preached his first ceremony. It is here that Buddha sat under the Bodi tree and became enlightened. On roughly 5 acres of land, the grassy complex provides a great refuge from outside the Old City of Varanassi. There is even a museum that is quiet. While my brain is full from the outside stresses of India, I quietly sit on the benches inside the museum for 20 minutes straight. It was the calmest 20 minutes I have had in days.

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My goal is to not give this area such a hard time. Varanasi proves wonderful in many ways. Every meal we have had here is excellent. We eat South Indian flatbread (Dosas) with chickpeas. We have chana massala (chick peas and vegetables) and paneer palak (cheese and potatoes). Every meal is the equivalent of $3 US or less. We eat Dosas for snacks at 15 cents a piece. At lunch, they even realize to turn on the fan as the only white guy in the restaurant is sweating through his 2nd shirt of the day. Next time, I need not order the spiciest thing on the menu.

After a 3 days stay and a nice shave from the barber, Lisa and I realize it is time to leave. We have the Ganga Fuji guest house reserve a train. The Indian trains are quite good, being the 2nd largest train system in the entire world. Lisa and I get what is called AS-3 reservations. This means an air conditioned car with 6 twin folding beds (3 per side, vertically stacked). We meet some good people from France and Israel, and I eat the non-veg fried chicken and rice. Sleep awaits me. For tomorrow morning, we should arrive in Delhi, India - the Capital. If I've learned one thing in India thus far, it would be that nothing is what it seems, for better or worse.

Keep travelling, wherever you are.

Travelling Sherman

The last 5 days of the Trek and the future...

2006-11-21T02:28:00.000-08:00

Like any good story, you start with a setting, some character development, some rising action, followed by the climax - or turning point of the story. The Larke Pass was the climax. From here on out, we have what is called the falling action and conclusion of the Nepali trek story. Don't worry, there are more stories to come. In most books, the falling action and conclusion usually are quite brief. For this reason, I have condensed the last 5 days of the trek into one entry - and I promise it will be brief.

Bimtang - Day 16. The morning after the Larke Pass.

Lisa and I have slept for over 13 hours. I feel like a new man. Bimtang still proves to be a fairly cold night as Ice has molded over our tent. Our rain fly was not put on right as a humid chill and dampness fills the tent. We are dropping another 5000 feet today so I am told the weather will continue to be balmy.

We walk through some lush, tahoe-like scenery and reach camp in the mid-afternoon. We decide to explore the town, as there is an apple brandy distillery on site.

(Hours later)
There is no distillery, only roaring chickens. Tonight is the last night of camping. We wish the porters goodbye as we tip them accordingly. Kumar makes a good luck cake for us as rick tries the Nepali distilled alcohol called roxie. I get cajoled to take a sip. It reminds me of Sake, only worse.

O.K. Time to do the evennig rituals of blowing up the thermarest and clothespinnng the broken tent zipper shut. Talk to you tomorrow.

Day 17: Tilje to Tal.

So it was naiive to think that the hard hiking was indeed finished. I am confused as to why we keep going up steep, lush, trails with bamboo hugging either side. I am so over hiking right now you have no idea. A few times, the trail is completely unrecognizable. It turns out that the monsoons of last season caused a landslide which destroyed the first half of the trail. Nepli workers are despreately trying to repair it with the latest tools such as shovels, pick axes, and hand saws. A note to self to tell the Home Depot corporation to open up a new branch this side of the pacific.

As soon as I could not take it any longer, we enter a gate. Rick tells me we are now officially on the Anapurna trail. It is like I entered the land of Oz. These roads look like interstates compared to what we have hiked on for the past 3 weeks. We see a teahouse - which is basically the Nepali bed and breakfast. If you hike on the Anapurna trail, you actually get to stay in teahouses with beds every night of your trek. This sounds like such a foreign concept to me at this moment, but I'm not complaining.

We all sit down at a table. There are menus. They serve coffee. I am sitting on a chair. Such are the finer things in life. We are back in civilization. The only down side is that Nepalis are on Nepali time, so it's not rare to wait over 1 1/2 hours for your food to arrive. If you order chicken, for example, allow the appropriate time for the chicken to be caught, slaughtered, and sauteed.

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We push on for 3 more hours today. We see "trekkers" that look more like they stepped out of their cubiicle for a brief stroll around the office. They have all of these fancy trekking poles. They look funny. Ok. It's possble that we look funny coming out of the bushes with our bamboo walking sticks, but that is for a jury to decide.
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We sleep in Tal. We have a roof over our heads. I'll call the grounds "rustic". I am quite happy with rustic, no problem at all. No hot water yet. That luxury will have to wait for another day.

Day 18: Tal to Jagat to a little South of Syanje

Today , we arrive at a fairly clean and nice guest house. It is now Lisa and Jose's job to inspect the guest house before we go in to stay. We meet many foreigners. One foreigner of note is a German rastafarian who insists on blowing his digoredoo at dnner while he east Dahl Baht with his right hand. He claims it just tastes better this way. I should tell him that he probably went to one too many Grateful Dead concerts.

The only other notes of the day is that I accidentally order "pato pani" - trail water, instead of ordering "tato pani" - hot water. That gives a good laugh to the manager. Maybe I should just stick to english for a while.

Day 19: Syanje to Khudi
At this point, the temperature is balmy. We are in the jungle and we are back at 1,000 ft. elevations. It looks like we are going to shave off one day of the trip. Khudi is simply a bus station with 2 teahouses. We stay at a very average tea house. We don't care anymore. It's right next to the bus station. The owner persuades us to watch a slide show of his trip down some himalayan pass. We barter with him to show it to us for free, even though he initially offered out of his own goodwill. Some of these people are just plain funny with their logic. I fall asleep in the middle of the presentation and retire early to my room.

Day 20: The last day - the return to Kathmandu and Civilization

My sandy eyes glean out on the dim table as we wait for the 7 AM breakfast. Tika is reading the local newspaper out loud. The little boy is using the sink nearby. He is the owner's son, and is cute enough. He wears a Diadora shirt with English print on it. I'm sure he has no idea what it means. We have seen Michael Jackson, Usher, AC/DC and Eminem impregnated upon Nepali T-shirts. I don't think Nepalis choose the t-shirts based on their rock icon, I just think they are glad that they own a T-Shirt.

Bobby and Rick join us now. Rick has tweaked his knee and is popping every pill known to man. Bobby is miraculously clean as ever. Anup and Vinay have pressed on 2 days ago with Gopal in order to try to shave off an extra day on the trip. Tika thinks that they are most likely back in Kathmandu by now. Jose is always the slowest in the morning. He is most likely fumbling through his pack for the 5th time this hour.

------

We are fortunate enough to hire a minibus for the voyage home. While plush at first, Nepalis are 'efficient' enough to fill the vehicle to 135% maximum capacity. We make it back to Kathmandu within 6 hours even with the Maoist celebration parade that appears right outside of town.

We all arrive to the Kathmandu Peace Guest house. Civilization is upon us. After taking showers, we decide it's time to eat some American Food. We find a restaurant in Kahmandu called "K-Too". They serve steak and hamburgers. I am in heaven as I eat my half pound burger. It feels like the best burger I've ever tasted.

---
Alas, Part 1 - Nepal is now over, for the most part. Anup's birthday is tomorrow. He leaves the day after tomorrow. Vinay, the day after that. Rick, Jose and Bobby leave early next week. The fellowship is now broken. Not to worry, like any good miniseries or trilogy, there will be more stories to tell. Lisa and myself will continue on. Here is the rough guide.

Part 2: India - through mid-december
Part 3: Thailand through early January
Part 4: Cambodia and Viet Nam through early February.
Part 5: Taiwan.

Whatever happens, whenever it happens, i'll try to tell you about it.
Keep traveling, wherever you are.

--Travelling Sherman

Day 15: The Larke Pass (Part 2)

2006-11-21T01:45:00.000-08:00

After finishing our photo opportunities at the top of the Larke Pass, we make our way down. Rick has accessed the Manaslu map and points to the spot that says Warning: Loose rock and scree. At first, I'm not sure what scree means. Eventually, I find out. Rick has warned that the first 45 minutes of the downhill may be a bit tricky. When we ask the Nepalis this, they say that it is difficult as well. This does not sound good.

The downhill section of the Larke pass at first seems gentle. It opens up into a wide canyon. From the distance, you can even see where the snow stops and the rock begins. Unfortunately, this proves to be quite the misleading picture. Soon thereafter, the trail narrows. We begin to deal with rock and scree, or sheer ice.

I make my way down slowly. I have let the others pass. The only people behind me are Tika and Jose. Jose still is not doing well. Every 10 minutes he slips and falls. Tikka is just about walking for him. The ice is bad. I try sidestepping, which turns into slidestepping. The others are going quite slowly and have begun to use the help of Gopal - the other guide of our trip.

Like a newly trained jedi or a Dungeons and Dragons player that has recently received new weapons, I now realize the power of my walking stick. Every 10 feet, I reach out with my stick and break down some ice. Once the ice is broken down smoothly, I move one foot to the appropriate spot. I repeat this action over and over again. This action helps me get down the hill for some time.

I pass by some of the others and am now right behind Bobby. Bobby slips, stumbles and breaks his stick in two in the process. He becomes so disgruntled, he tosses his stick into the snow and purges on. He has developed a snowboarding like stance and tries to carve the hills.

After the 5th fall in 30 minutes for me, I decide to take a similar course of action. I decide that it's time to go sledding. I get on my behind, push, and go. I feel like I am 6 again. I am dodging rocks and making turns. I feel like I am on the Jamacian bobsled team. I roar past Anup and Vinay. I am actually beginning to enjoy myself. I wonder in amazement why the Tibetans and Nepalis have not gotten together and open up a slip and slide. Later on, Tika tells me that he wasn't too happy with us sledding as he feared we could have fallen off the edge.

I am dog tired. It is roughly noon. The sun is shining down heavily and I did not bring sunglasses nor my brimmed hat. I have had nothing to eat since 4 AM. My gas tank has hit empty long ago. I have gone maybe 1000 feet in the past hour. I see a group of rocks in the distance that signify the end of the snow. The Canadians have pressed on and have taken a break. Krisna - one of our sherpas (or leaders) - has already walked down a mile passed this point and is now walking back up to meet us. Anup and I are picking off rocks with our walking sticks and are hopping from place to place like the frogger video game. With a little help from Krisna, I get down 30 minutes late to the rocks. Lisa, Rick, Vinay and Bobby are now down there as well. I lay down from utter fatigue.

The Canadians were nice enough to give us some chipote (pancake) with salami. I devour my share like it was Thanksgiving. Supposedly our guides and cooks forgot to give us the snack pack that was promised. I am cursing them with all of my might - inside of my head of course.

Jose comes down about 20 minutes later and we all regroup. We take some water. The toughest part is almost over. We have come down over 2000 feet already to now be at a little bit under 15000. Soon we will be below where we camped last night. And tonight we are supposed to be down at under 12,000 ft - balmy conditions compared to our current situation.

---------------

We walk for another 45 minutes and find all of the porters sprawled out in a grassy knowl. They have given us some Nepali Capri Sun and day old wafers. I'm not sure whether to thank them or punch them in the nose. I choose the first option as to not cause a scene. I slowly come to my wits and realize I am just happy to have finished the hard part.

We all take some time out and take pictures. The mountains are indeed beautiful. I feel like we have just taken a helicopter high up into the Alps. White mountains and glaciers as far as the eye can see. We did it! We are over the Larke Pass!!

The only problem is that we still have another 3 hours of walking to do. The good news is that it's all downhill from here. Or should I say, all fairly easy downhill with some uphill, but no falling rock and scree...from here. It sounds like a mouthful. I'll just keep quiet and continue walking.

-----
2 PM. The same day.
When will this hike ever end? I can not concentrate anymore. I simply look down at my feet so that I do not trip. I look up to see Tika sitting on a low rock wall. He is grinning brightly. Welcome to the Manaslu cafe, he says. Shalesh - The youngest of the porters at 19 years old - has come back from our base camp to bring us tea. What a guy. Vinay, Lisa and myself sit down and take in the views. Out in the distance over a grassy field we see our tents. High above the tents Manaslu mountain makes its appearance. We finally see the mountain we have been circumscribing. At roughly 24,000+ feet it is the 8th largest mountain in the world. You feel like you could just run up the side and climb to the top. Not me. Not this trip. Not this lifetime. I walk down for the remaining 45 minutes into camp and collapse in the tent. Lisa is beside herself. Having a migraine come in during the last part of the hike, she is having a tough time. I blow up her thermarest as she walks into Bimtang. Free at last, free at last. We have done it!

We are both teared up from the day's events. We are both puzzled and insulted when the lunch call comes. It is 4 PM. The latest of lunch hours usually end at 2:30. I should take it easy on these guys, I know. I'm in bad spirits but I'm feeling great. I feel like a contradiction in terms. Tika assures me in his broken english, "The Larke Pass trek is really One day". "It is happy day, sad day, proud day, Manaslu day, our day." I couldn't have said it any better. Bring on the rice and potatoes. You may just have to pick my face up from the soup bowl.

Travelling Sherman

Day 15: The Larke Pass (part 1)

2006-11-16T20:44:00.000-08:00

I scramble out of bed at 3 in the morning to Nepali murmoring. "Shuba Biyhani" - good morning, Gopal announces triumphantly to each tent. I rub my eyes. Today is the day we go over. As Gopal later tells me, there is only one day of trekking, "the pass day". Today is our day. Lisa has already reported to me numerous times this morning how miserably cold the weather is outside. As I appreciate the weather report, it quite frankly does not motivate to make the move outside the tent. I prepare for the day's events by putting on just about every article of clothing I own: Hat, gloves, sweater, jacket, thermals, you name it I have it on.

After a few minutes, I venture outside. It's a day off from being a full moon, but the moon shines bright nevertheless. The coldness sets in. Oh my god, I need to start moving soon.

After using the lovely facilities, we go into the dining tent for a modest meal of hot water and ramen. While it's not much, it sure topples the disaster of last night's meal of the return of the spaghetti and cheese. Barf on a plate did not cut it for me last night. I felt compelled to eat as much as possible as I dig around the cheese for every last morsel of carbohydrate. Again, I am eating for energy, not for pleasure.
----
Karna, the porter has made walking sticks for all of the westerners in the group days ago. While I think a tool like a walking stick may be unnecessary, the porters and guides tell me that it will be crucial today. I should take heed of this advice, for if the Nepalis tell me it will be tough, it will most likely be more excruciating than I could possibly imagine.

Jose is a wreck this morning as he is running late from the tent. Rick checks in on Jose inside the tent and observes that Jose's items are everywhere. The altitude is starting to hit him as he claims to be feeling light headed. It's going to be a long day for Jose.

We officially begin the trek at 4 AM. In addition to our group, we are joined by the Canadians (Don and Linda) as well as a set of Czechs, an Austrian named Ziggy, and some Chinese. We are roughly 40 people in total - taking turns along the trail for rest stops and bathroom stops. I can now tell you that using the outdoor restroom at 15000 feet at 5 in the morning is not what I call luxury.

Within the first hour, Jose is overheating. He bought an "old navy security" jacket along that has kept him almost too warm. We stop for him to take off a layer, and then continue. Roughly 5 minutes after beginning to walk again, Jose can not find his hat. Jose at this point is freaking out. Rick joins jose in marcingh halfway down the hill to look for the hat. No such luck. Rick is slightly irritated. We are all cold. We continue the trip. The current time now is 4:40 AM.

After the first two hours of walking, we begin to see bits of sunshine. Looking around, the landscape seems lunar. The snow in every direction reminds me of moon rock. There are huge mountains in every direction. We are at roughly 16,000 feet. We have developed a steady pace and stop roughly once every 20 minutes. I use my walking stick to finally crack open my water frozen nalgene bottle. Since everyone else's water supply has been frozen, I share out my newly found treasure with everyone - Bobby, Lisa, Gopal and Jose.

Soon enough we see a rounded hill full of snow. I ask Gopal how much time we have until we reach the Larke Pass. Gopal responds in his relaxed fashion, "Maybe 1 hour, maybe after this hill, or the next one". We reach the summit of the first hill only to find that there are more hills up on the next horoizon. Large black poles have appeared to guide us through the Larke Pass. It is quite usual for the path to be covered with snow, so on heavy storm days - the poles are your only guides.

The rest stops have become more frequent now. It's tough to walk for more than 10 minutes without a quick break. Jose is struggling with the altitude as his head continues to hurt. Bobby and I are tired, but are doing well under the circumstances. Lisa is starting to grow headaches but is not sure whether or not it is due to more from the altitude or just her usual migraines. Under the circumstances, Lisa is doing amazing - helping out Jose as much as possible.

I reach a point where I need to continue to walk if ever so slowly. I feel as if I were to stop, that I would not start again. Lisa gives me the okay to walk ahead. She is in good hands with Bobby and Gopal. I trudge further along and pass the Canadians, Don and Linda. Ziggy the Austrian is still ahead of me. He hurdles through the poles one at a time in disciplined fashion.

I see Anup about 200 ft. ahead. His pace seems to be going slower now. I eventually catch up to him and we rest for a bit. I break my rule and take a bit of water and eat my last cliff bar. Anup is struggling as well. I offer him some water and the last half of my cliff bar. Anup tells me he is okay, and that he just needs to rest. I tell him that we are all here if you slip further behind.

My frustration has turned to anger as it is now almost 4 hours passed and no Larke Pass as of yet. Each hill seems more cumbersome than the last. Don and Linda catch up to me. I express my mild frustration of not reaching the pass as of yet. They inform me that I will know when the pass is coming by the prayer flags. These are the multi-colored banner flags that symbolize a Buddhist town or outpost: Blue for sky, White for clouds, Red fire, Yellow Jungle, and the Green Earth. I would take some green earth right about now.

--------

Alas, the prayer flags. Like a man dying of thirst finding a canteen in the middle of the desert, the peak is in within Reach. I take my stride up one notch and see Rick beaming down the hill back towards me. He asks me how I am doing, and I manage to tell him I am well. I tell him about Jose and the others. Him and Tika are going back to help out.

I climb a bit further and meet Vinay. We high-five each other as I reach the Larke Pass. I did it. We did it. I also inform Vinay about the others and he goes back down for a bit to find them. I hunch over a bit and look out. I'm on top of the trail. The Canadians have just made it up the pass as well. I become the guest photo taker for a while. I have no energy left, but I'm still able to focus into a viewfinder and snap a photo.

About 20 minutes later, everyone else has made it up the pass. We all celebrate. We are so estatic. Everyone takes pictures of everyone else. Jose is exhuasted but fine. Anup and Lisa have some headaches, but they are holding it together. One pass. One trek. One day only. It's all downhill from here. Unfortunately the first part of the downhill is at at 20+ degree incline with ice and rock. It deserves its own blog entry. For now, we celebrate our accomplishments. I'll get back to you once I am on safe ground below.

-Travelling Sherman

Day 14: Samdo to Dharmasala

2006-11-16T05:25:00.000-08:00

I wake up at roughly 6:30 in the morning. I have slept more than 6 hours, which qualifies for fairly well. The yak trains have stopped clammering their bells. I look outside the room and see the bright sunshine. The snow has stopped. A fresh foot of snow has fallen overnight. It looks like we are on for today. We are happy. Lisa and I do the usual morning preparations of stuffing the sleeping bags, airing out the therma-rests, chlorinating the water, packing the day packs with necessary materials such as baby wipes, toilet paper, cliff bars and water.

We finish in record time as breakfast is called at roughly 7:30. Today I try on an extra helping of Rice porridge. Tasty and warm, I have now grown accustomed to it. I eat now not on the whims of my taste buds, but on a need for energy. Vinay has told me that 1/2 the oxygen will exist at 17000 feet and that water and food are more vital than ever. I've supplemented my regimen with some Diamox - altitude sickness pills. Only myself and Bobby are trying the medicine. Gopal claims that I now need to drink 5 litres of water a day. Let me tell you something. If I start trying to drink 5 liters of water a day, I will be urinating more than I walk.

We start the trail at 8 AM. Another 3-4 hour push is scheduled for today. Today's hike calls for a 2,500 ft. climb to reach roughly 14,500 ft. For those of you back in the USA, this is higher than Mt. Whitney - the highest peak in the continental US.

The first stretch is actually quite gradual. After leaving Samdo, I follow the footprints made in the snow. It's a winter wonderland out here, but ironically warm. The sun is shining bright. I have 4 layers of clothes on. We are all cracking jokes and laughing. I continue to drink lots of water. At some point, we need to do a #1 break. Jose, Bobby and I take turns trying to spell our name in the snow.

The next stretch becomes treacherous. Some of the snow has melted and frozen over to ice. There is a 10 degree narrow downhill. To the left is about a 60 ft. drop. Not realizing the severity of the situation, I slip and fall from time to time. I am left frustrated. I curse at the mountain somewhat. Tika comes in and helps me find my footing. Thank the Gods for Tika, he stands at the edge of this path with no problem - pushing and prodding me to a safe haven.

I feel silly for making such a big scene and cursing the mountain. Lisa assures me that all is okay, and that it's better for me to focus on the last 45 minutes of uphill. We still have another 1,000 feet to climb. The 45 minutes feel like hours. Gopal has joined back up with us to help. Eventually, they point to the prayer flags, which symbol the edge of Dharmasala - our campsite. A last 10 minute push and we reach the hilltop.

The porters seem to have an extra set of lungs, as they have already passed us hours ago and set up our tents. Lisa and I put our belongings inside the tent, and take some pictures. I feel like I am at the top of the Swiss Alps. The wind is not strong at the moment, so walking around feels just fine. We take a break for some lunch. It's simple rice and potatoes. The Dahl of the Dahl Bat is no longer so we stick to lots of carbohydrates.

After Lunch, Lisa retires to the tent to read. We are told not to sleep at this altitude. Some of the gang tries to scare us into saying that sleeping by day equals the sleep of death. If I were to die at this altitude, it would not be in vain. I join the guys in doing a short aclamazation hike upwards. Rick and Vinay cruise past us with Gopal at their sides. Anup, Bobby, Jose and myself go for about a half hour and say screw it, there are better things to do.

The sun begins to set and cold start to seep in. We are told to basically where all of your clothing tonight. The temperature should get as low as the low 20's or even teens. We all go into Jose's tent and play more bridge. Five smelly people is the easiest way to keep warm.

Tomorrow lies the big day of crossing the Larke Pass. We are instructed to get up at 3 in the morning as we begin the hike at 4. The idea is that the uphill part should be nothing harder than we have seen before. There is talk of the downhill becomming quite tricky. I try not to let worry ruin my thinking. Get some sleep tonight, even if it's only for 4 hours. In 24 hours from now, we will be in Bimtang and over the pass. And more importantly, we will be over the hump. Hopefully, I'll be over my worries.

Good night from the frostbitten Tent,

Travelling Sherman

Day 13: Onward to Samdo

2006-11-15T03:27:00.000-08:00

As we wake up from our bed shack slumber, I find myself actually warm. Having a roof overhead does wonders after being in a tent for almost two weeks.

Today's trip is to Samdo. According to the maps, Samdo should be only a three hour hike today. Therefore, people have been calling to try and hike through to Dharmasala and cut one day off from the trip - and more importantly, cut one more day off from the cold.

The rain did not let up for most of the night. Jose is gladdened that we chose to stay in the bed shacks. Unfortunately he explains with excrutiatingly painful detail that he had to get up six times last night to pee. If that were to happen to me, I would have camped out in the bathroom. Even Tika and Gopal the guides start laughing. They must be wondering how can one human being talk about excretions for so long.

I'll be honest and defend Jose in saying that the bathroom turned disgusting overnight. Someone has forgotten to 'flush'. Excuse me, someone has forgotten to throw the bucket of water in the hole within the wooden planks. It really does make for a bad experience.

We get cracking early today after breakfast as more precipitation has started rolling in. Today, Jose has volunteered to walk with Lisa, myself and Bobby. Rick will flag behind with Gopal and take more pictures, while Vinay and Anup will push forward with Tika.

As the 4 of us start walking, we have an easy enough time talking and getting about our hike. Lisa takes pictures of streams and mountains as I aimlessly look around at the sky. An open canyon suddenly starts to climb gently in the distance. As I look around, I feel some raindrops on me. Not a problem. We keep walking and the rain starts to get a little bit harder. Since we are taking it slow today due to the altitude, most of the people pass us by. At some point, the 4 of us seem like we are lost. I imagine myself huddling under a boulder for the next 3 weeks until the local government finds my decrepid bones. I come to my senses when we see Rick and Gopal right behind us. Of course we knew where we were going the whole time.

Rain turns into snow and the snow starts to fall harder. This is not a good sign. We continue onward after 2 hours and realize the last hour will be a fair bit of climbing. We pass by what is called a yak train. A yak is basically a shaggy cow with huge horns that lives in the mountains. Yaks are beautiful creatures. Although each one weighs rougly a 1/2 a ton, scores of yaks will still be petrified of one human. The local herders bully them into shape by throwing rocks at them to keep their line. It is a sad sight to see, although I know it sadly has to be done. The yaks carry supplies from village to village. I just don't want to be the herder who falls victim to the first mutiny.

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We reach Samdo in roughly 3 1/2 hours today. We all are dragging somewhat. Anup, Vinay and Tika greet us and ask how we are feeling. I'm coping well enough, although a bit sluggish. Lisa, Bobby and Jose seem fine. The snow is falling harder now. There seems to be a bit of confusion at the moment. Tika, Gopal and the porters are shimmying about trying to accomplish some sort of task.

There is another shelter at Samdo. This one is more sophisticated. 2 levels. Approximately 10 rooms or so. There are some more groups that have caught up to us now. Three canadians, another group of Czechs - these guys being much more friendly. We huddle around as we are not sure if we are pressing on another three hours to Dharmasala - the 14,000 ft. campsite otherwise known as the landing point before the pass.

Vinay informs us that a porter from Dharmasala has just walked back to Samdo for more supplies today. Supposedly, blizzard-like conditions have hampered things for the trekkers in Dharmasala. An estimated 40 people are stuck up there for one more night, as no one attempted to make the pass today. It looks like we are not pressing on anymore today. To be quite honest, I'm fine with that. The only problem is that it's only 11 AM, and we still have the rest of the day to freeze and contemplate life.

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I am playing bridge again and I almost understand what I'm doing. It's the middle of the day and we are playing in the big room. This is the dining room, the living room, and a bedroom for 15 porters. I hear jingling bells outside which remind me of christmas/chanukah time. The only problem is that neither holiday is celebrated here. The bells are placed upon the yaks to signify a yak train is passing by. Samdo is a big depot for the yak trains as herders get supplies for the road ahead. There is even yak parking in this joint. The ratio of farm animals to people up here is most likely 2:1.

It's nice travelling with a girl sometimes. Everyone feels bad for the girl and gives her the best room. Being the boyfriend, you know that you most likely are going to sleep at least in the same bedroom with her - so you are set for accomodation. It's a cruel world, I know. I actually feel bad for Rick and Jose as the reservations get botched up and we only get 2 rooms instead of 3 rooms. They drew the short straws and are sleeping in the storage closet. I offer space and even bed time, but Jose and Rick are too humble to take me up on the offer.

The smoke has overwhelmed the porter room. There is only 1 kitchen and maybe 2 stoves. The smoke from these stoves permeates directly through the cracks into the porter room. We are flushed out once again as the masses huddle in either Lisa/mine/boby's room or Vinay and Anup's room. We are like sardines that have been placed in the frozen food section. I wait for dinner to come because I know that it will be time for bed immediately afterwards. The snow is still falling. There is contemplation of turning back if the storm does not let up after tomorrow. For the first time in my life, I am praying for the snow to stop. This means a lot coming from living in Truckee, California from time to time. I pray to God, Moses, Jesus, Vishnu, Shiva, and Buddha. We are going to need one of you to come forward and help us out, if for only this once.

-Travelling Sherman

Day 11 and 12: Sama (Ro)

2006-11-14T17:47:00.000-08:00

As Jose, Vinay and I are walking into a box canyon, we see a town in the distance. While Vinay stops to take a picture, Jose and I walk nearby to the prayer wheels, where I have grown accustomed to the Om Mane Padme Om chant.

The hike has been miraculously fast. Shailesh, another porter, is trying to teach me the nepali numbers 1-25. Between memorizing strange Nepali syllables and coping with now 11,000 ft. altitude, I now feel that I am trekking in a foreign land.

We reach Sama (Ro) in roughly 3 hours. Not bad for a day's walk. It's not even high noon as the rest of the group reaches town. The town has an alternate name, Samaygao, which I believe the Nepalis use and it sounds better to me, so from now on Sama (Ro) is Samaygao.

This place is much better than yesterday, as my mood is much better. The back of my head is starting to throb ever so slightly as I cope with the elevation. While 11,000 feet does not sound like much, my headache is compounded by the constant cold temperatures and a steady Nepali Diet of chipoti and Dahl Bat.

-----

After Rick and Lisa finish smoking their cigarettes, we decide to do a short hike to acclamate a little further. As we walk, we begin to hear heavy pulsating base drums, much like a war drum chant. Anup and Vinay tells me that this is coming from the Gompa (a small, buddhist monastary). We walk towards this gompa, sidestepping up a hill for roughly 30 minutes. My head is getting slightly lighter with every breath.

We reach the Gompa and walk in. I feel like I am with Buddha Gotama, himself. While it is not terribly lavish, I walk into the Gompa feeling like I just went into a time warp. The pungent smells of incense and smoke fill the air. There is a thronelike shrine in the middle with an image of Buddha. One of the people in the group say that Buddha is represented much differently in Nepal. He is more modest, more business-casual as opposed to the ornate sharp dressed Buddah shrines in Thailand. I like kicked back Buddah.

I go to kick back even farther and I almost bump into the dummer. A man in Traditional Boti clothing is reading a rectangular based Nepali Prayer book made out of parchment that looks decades old. In his left hand, he is holding the handle to a drum with an "S-like" handle which has a mallet attached to it. He seems to rhythmically strike the drum in sync with each syllable he utters. The man is so in the moment, I don't think he has bothered to look up in the last 5 hours. Lisa, myself and the gang leave him in peace as we go back to camp. The sunset is coming which basically means cold. I just hope I don't have to go use the poo-poo tent in the middle of the night. That's all I ask.

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Day 12: Rest Day in Samaygao...

Today is the scheduled rest day on the tour. The socially inept Czechloslavakians have left this morning. I think we slightly invaded on their privacy. They had stayed in the rudimentary bed shacks last night while we camped out in their front yard. Lisa thinks the shacks are so nice that she insists on moving in. This happens to become a wiser decision later tonight as the freezing rain moves in.

Since this is a rest day, I feel that this may be a good time to take a break from the action and introduce further some of the other westerners on our trip:

Lisa: The girlfriend. The only girl on this trip. She gets the Purple Heart award based on that alone. Even as she may complain behind closed tent zippers from time to time, she has done quite amazing. No other woman I know would even dare do this, and for that I am grateful. She is the practical one who brings baby wipes, sterilizing alcohol and conditioner. While I may snicker at some of these 'feminine' products from time to time during this trek, I'm so glad she brought them.

Rick: The leader. Whenever I have had a question about anything on the trek, one of my first responses would be, "let me ask rick." Rick has the best knowledge of the trail within the group of 7 westerners. He is the doctor of the moment with the most biological knowledge and extensive supply of pharmacutical supplies. Above all else, he keeps the most even of keels even when we individually gripe about our menial concerns of being cold and eating day old baked pasta.

Anup: The jokeman. He combines his knowledge of Indian and Nepali culture with a laid-back attitude and hankering towards College basketball. He can talk about anything from the chances of Duke winning the NCAA tournament to the palaces of Jaipur to the process of making ethanol fuel more efficient. I thank him advance for all the contacts in India he has given me and Lisa for the remainder of this trip.

Vinay: The cheerleader. Vinay is the one that goes out of the way to try and lift people's spirits through stories and songs. He knows more stories than Mr. Rogers. He tells me stories from the Tragedy of Karna to his child's escapades at school. A master photographer, he would qualify as a Renniasance man only if we can fine tune his singing. I will need his energy to make it over this pass.

Bobby: Lisa's brother and a good confidant. Bobby is the one that makes sure Lisa is okay when I'm not around from time to time. Him and Vinay are in a dead heat for biggest appetitite. Currently I give the nod over to Bobby, since he has eaten 12 bowls of porridge to Vinay's 11 up to this point. He is also known as the steri-pen man, as he waves his UV ray wand into people's nalgene bottles to zap away nasty parasites. Bobby tells it like it is. I like that. If more people just told it like it was, we would have less problems.

Jose: The enigma. What can I say about Jose that Ihaven't said already? I am glad he is here. He needs to stop eating raw sugar cubes as he is making everyone bonkers. Other than that, I love him.

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Today the group have 7 has broken up into 2 factions. One group will handle the gompa route to the Southeast and peak at about 13,000 feet. The other group will go to the nearby lake at about 11,000 feet. Rick, Anup and Tika the Guide are thinking about making it to Manaslu base camp today. I wish them the best of luck.

Our trip to the lake is quite nice as we hop over boulders and puddles. We get to see Manaslu oozing out slides after slides of ice and snow. The lake is just about frozen over. Hari, one of the porters, is our guide for the day. This makes me laugh as he has no idea where he is going. We reach the lake as we say goodbye to Rick, Anup and Tika as we head down to the lake for a closer look.

Hari likes to say "danger" a lot, even when there is none. If we pass by a thorny tree, he says 'danger'. If we pass by a few rocks out of place, he says 'danger'. He is what I think of as the Nepali Green Bean. Straight out of high school, this is trek #1 for Hari. Something tells me that he's not going on trek #2 anytime soon.

Hours later, Bobby, myself and Lisa are back at Samagyao. All in all, a great hike. The rest day was desperately needed for me. The cold has settled in a bit more and we go inside for lunch. A simple set of boiled eggs and leftover peanut butter, I do not mind. One by one, the rest of the comrades make it back inside. First, Jose, Vinay and Gopal. Then, Anup. Then, Rick and Tika. Rick looks like the Aboninable snowman as he tells us he just about reaches 15,000 feet. Rick is crazy to try to keep up with Tika. Tika is not crazy, since he is Nepali. Nepalis were born being able to hike. I was born being able to hike as long as there were porters carrying my stuff around. I swallow my pride and my eggs and enjoy the warmth. I'm excited about sleeping in a bed shack. I hope the sugar plum fairly pays a visit.

Day 10 : Lho

2006-11-14T01:25:00.000-08:00

Today by far has been the toughest day of the trek to date. We have climbed over 3000 feet today and all of us are dog tired. The views continue to be beautiful. At 10,000 feet, one can see glaciers in all directions. Today is the first day of the quite cold days. Tonight's lows should drop into the high 30s. We have small hikes tomorrow and the next day, followed by a rest day, followed by a night in Dharmasala before the pass. Then, we go over. 5 days. It seems like an eternity.

My mood is somewhat melancholy at the moment. We are in a village called Lho. It is a simple village comparable to 4 city blocks long - quite big for a remote village.

While going to a local bar inside the village, we run into a mother with a child who is badly bleeding from the ears. Between Lisa, Anup, Rick, Bobby, and myself, we manage to clean out the bloddy and apply some neosporin-like ointment. Gopal comes by to help out by singing in the baby's ear.

As rick finishes applying gauze pads to both ears and taping it across the head, I look around at all the people who are huddle in the village. The looks on their faces are despondant. People begin to line up one by one, jostling for our attention. It is too overwhelming. By the looks of the villagers' faces, it seems like no one has bothered to take a shower since September. Simple hygiene simply does not happen. This leads to infections which leads to serious health consequences. These people need real doctors. There is nothing more we can do to help them.

As I write today, I overhear voices saying that Mt. Manaslu has appeared clear within the sky. At this point, I have no desire to leave my tent. It's cold. I'm tired of talking to people all day. I need to hibernate in my tent and escape. I am fine. I will be fine. I say so long for now. Hopefully, you will find me in better spirits.

Namaste (for the 700th time today),
Travelling Sherman

Day 9: Nambache

2006-11-14T00:40:00.000-08:00

I am sitting on a gray, plastic mat. The same one we havebeen on for the last 9 days. We are joined by Mahananda (Tika's real uncle, who is also a porter) and Hari (Tika's brother's wife's brother). I'll stop writing for a second to let that soak in.

Smoke has just permeated into the area. Jose just summoned Anup to translate in order to tell these guys to stop. A Village boy has appeared and is staring at us. We are on exhibition for the entire village. Now I know how Shamoo feels at sea world.

Nambache is a quaint Boti town. The Boti are a mountain people that can be best explained by a hybrid of Tibetan Nepali. When encountering a family on the trail today, they looked puzzled as they see me - A bigger, whiter man with an REI cowboy hat. I might as well been from Planet Neptune. Fancy hiking shoes and backpacks are as foreign to them as a Chinese restaurant in Mississippi. They are just happy to be alive on planet earth, something I should think about more often.

Ramji is helping out with dinner tonight. At 23 years old, he has already started his family. Even after 9 days of camping, he seems affable, polite and polished. He serves us some genuine Nepali food: pasta with cauliflower. The cauliflower is curried with potatoes and lentils and gives us what the locals say 'good energy'. We are huddled into the dinner tent as the temperature falls into the 40s. It is Kumar the cook's birthday today. Ramji finishes off the dinner by serving us a carrot cake in Kumar's honor. We sing Happy Birthday to Kumar. The translation is lost on him. Nevertheless, Kumar shows good spirit as he blows out the candles. Tika breaks into a song about how if a girl and a boy were to meet and have true love, that the water would be clean. I've always agreed that good sanitary conditions make the best aphrodesiac.

The hiking has been strenuous, but the views have been awe-inspiring. We have seen countless waterfalls, Buddhist monastaries and stupas (small buddhist shrines). We have seen Himalayan peaks merge with cloud cover. I can honestly say the trip has been worth the sacrifice of sleeping in a clammy, humidified, tent. While I contemplate the mysteries of how to create a camp pillow from extra clothing and how to sleep on a 5 degree sloped hill, I need not forget the wonders of this place. The people of Nepal and Tibet have a hard life, a huge heart and a mighty spirit. I will need all of their heart and spirit to forge through the pass roughly 5 days from now. It's 8 PM and time for bed. We are going on a hike to a town named Sho tomorrow. Six hours more. Just another day at the office. More to come.

Day 8: Deng and a Top 10

2006-11-14T00:09:00.000-08:00

As I sit in the tent writing this entry, coldness is starting to set in. At about 7000 feet, the temperature gauge ever so slightly heads south. Lush, tropical banana trees are turning into more of a sierra nevada like pine needle setting. While it is reasonably pleasant at the moment, i realize that from here to the Larkey pass it simply will get dramatically colder, not warmer.

Everyone has been great. Gopal and Tika have guided us well thus far. They are patient enough when we stumble and even crack some jokes in english. Today, I fell into a thicket of the Nepali equivalent of California Pine Needles hands first. It is similar to hundres of needles pricking your hand at the same time. The stinging goes away after 10 minutes, but the area feels numb for about a Day.

Deng is another beautiful village. We are now surrounded by the Snow capped mountains of the Himalayas for the first time of our trip. Mt. Ganesh is to the east, and an unnamed mountain lies to the west. Nepalis don't even bother to name mountains less than 12000 feet high.

Rick, Anup and Vinay are all great photographers. I eavesdrop on their conversations as they compare notes about exposure speeds, f-stops, shutter speeds and polarizing lens filters. Rick has set up his tripod in the middle of camp to take the ideal Ansel Adams photograph. Days later, Rick is to realize that his manual camera did not automatically detect the ISO speed, but for now, I'll leave the moment in its current glory.

Today we visit the village for a bit. The people have turned to speak more Tibetan than Nepali, which makes it more confusing on anybody. We peer into a rudimentary shop where various stones are sold. After careful inspection and a thirty minute bargaining session, Lisa, Rick and some others buy the various "Om Mane Pedme Om" stone. At an alarming 80 rupees, we are left to think if we have been had by the local merchant. Another thirty minute discussion now occurs between Rick, Anup and Vinay about macroeconomics and price-fixing strategies of the third world. My head begins to hurt as I retire to the tent.

I have a side note to all of this nonsense from the above paragraph. We, as westerners, are rich. Nepalis are not. A fact of life is that no matter how much you bargain, you will always pay more than the Nepali price. They call it "Tourist price". This is still much better than outright begging, but still this alarms me. Rick tells me that we screw these guys everyday in the world, so a little bit of payback is o.k. Fair enough. I agree. Every day I wake up I am so fortunate that I have been given a great life with ample wealth and opportunity. Nepalis beg because western tourists have spoiled them by giving away free candy and pens instead of giving them infrastructure for schools and sewer systems. So I now beg for your forgiveness if the following offends you. After accumulating the data, I have found the top 10 ways that you can beg if you are Nepali.

10. Pretend you are pregnant and need milk for your baby. Bonus points for using a baby - it doesn't even have to be yours.
9. Pretend you are my friend and that you want to take me around Kathmandu to see the sites. Then charge me $25 for the 1/2 hour tour.
8. Run a trekking company. Tell your clients one price initially, then tell them another price when they get there. Say that it is for the Maoist fees but tottaly lie about it.
7. Join the Maoist party. That way, you don't even beg - you just extort the money directly from the tourists.
6. Carve some Tibetan characters in the first rock you see. Then say it is from the Tibetan priests and charge $10 per rock.
5. Become a 3 year old kid, yell Namaste, and belligerently ask for a pen.
4. Simply cut into the middle of a conversation between two tourists and cup your hands.
3. Pretend to show a slide show out of goodwill in your guesthouse, then charge them 200 rupees per person afterwards.
2. Become a Sada (holy man). Sit around with your stick and take a vow of silence. Most likely, tourists will donate to you just to get you to say something.
1. If all else fails, assault your victim. Slap a hand in the backpack and see what comes up.

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Tonights dinner is Biryani - a Nepali like chow mein, which is quite good. It beats out the Nepali pasta with melted cheese and ketchup. That dinner should never be cooked again as long as I live.

I am switching to Tato Pani (hot water) at the end of most evenings now. Less caffeine and still keeps you warm. Sitting cross-legged for multiple hours is taking its toll. I join in for a game of bridge with Rick, Jose and Bobby. The adventure awaits. I am ready. We are ready. Just wake me up when we start crossing the pass.

Day 7: Phillim and Jose

2006-11-13T23:39:00.000-08:00

No rest for the weary, as after a bad night's sleep on day 6, we venture on. Jose continues to talk like a 3rd grader, but it doesn't matter. Since he is the oldest in the group, he has license to do whatever he wants. To understand Jose is similar to understanding Algebra or Greek Mythology - it may seem so apparently easy, but there is much more to explore underneath the surface. On most days thus far, he wears the topi, the Nepali hat given to us during the Tika ceremony on Day 3. On top of that, he wears multi-colored swim trunks and a jacket purchased at the dollar store. To look at him is a conflict of concepts: old yet hip, poorly dressed but in the best of shape, silly humor but a phd. in physics - Jose is yin and yang mixed together. You just never know which side you get.

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"Pig Herding and Prayer Wheels"

Phillim is another Maoist town, but much more mellow than Machakola. As you walk in through the Gates, you see half-clothed children and women carrying bundles of rice downhill. The soil is said to be fertile once every two years. In fact, you can see bunches of fires burning at the same time This allows the nutrients of the soil are supposed to be replenished.

Gopal reccomends we stroll for 15 minutes to the nearby Buddhist monastary. He forgets to tell us about the 500 steps we had to take in the process to get there. Once reaching the top, we are immediately rewarded. As we enter the monastary, we are surrounded by Buddahs of all different shapes, sizes and poses. Off to the left, there is a prayer wheel. At the prayer wheel, the following is written in Nepali and translated for me in English:

Om Mane Pedme Om

Praise Buddah, it means. The Nepalis chant this repeatedly when entering the monastary. The prayer wheel personifies the chant. Jose tells me that you turn the prayer wheel clockwise for respecting Buddah. I also learn that anytime you are in a Buddhist monastary, you always move around any objects or fixtures from left to right. I am not sure why this is, but if anyone knows, do please let me know. I think of it as a Buddah Wheel of Fortune where you always hit jackpot.

As we walk back down to the village, I turn back and notice Gopal with a stick chasing a pig. It turns out that there was a big 'cow vs. pig' heavyweight contest transpiring in the middle of the rice fields along our path. Lisa and Bobby almost get caught in the middle. I can't help but laugh. I'm in the middle of a field, watching farm animals attack each other, miles from any computer, electrical outlet or machinery whatsoever. I can honestly say that I will miss farm animals in general when I return to the Bay Area.

Day 5: Machakola

2006-11-13T23:25:00.000-08:00

Today, we reach the poopy town of Machakola. I apologize for the vulgar language, but there really is poop everywhere. There is rooster poop, donkey poop, yak poop and every other poop you can think of. After a few mild days of camping in agreeable climates and camp sites, I have a feeling this campsite may leave something to be desired.

Enter the Maoists. This is the political party that has grown immensely over the last decade. Less than 6 months ago, they forced a coup d'etat in which the King of Nepal had to reinstate Parliament. This would sound like an agreeable thing for the King to do. The only problem is that once Parliament got instated, the first thing they did was to create a law to strip the King of his power.

A representative communist democracy. While it may be quite the oxy-moron of a government, this is exactly what has happened. As I write this, the Maoists are predicted to win more that 1/3 of the government legislature. All of this sounds like the birth pangs of a democratic state.

There's one small problem. The Maoists practice extortion along the side.

I will try and explain further. When you enter Nepal, you pay a visa on the spot. The Maoists think the same way for their cause. When you enter Maoist territory, you pay a fee. Delinquent payments are punished lightly at first. Maybe they will simply follow you from town to town. If you refuse to pay further you may be strongly suggested to pay. If you try to really put the screws on them, you may become tomorrow night's evening news.

The village of Machakola represents the first entry point into Maoist territory. As we enter the town, we see English print stating, "Welcome to Machakola. Enjoy your stay". These guys really know how to turn on the hospitality.

We are all on edge tonight. All 7 of us know that at least one of the villagers is associated with the Maoist party. We are now being watched. Everything we do from eating dinner, playing cards or brushing our teeth is carefully studied.
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The cook has bought a goat from across the river. We are alerted that this will be tonight's dinner. A stewed goat. Quite a bit gamey. I guess some little girl just lost her pet.

We realize that little voyeuristic kids stop being cute on day number 3. They like staring at Lisa when she switches out her bra. Paranoid by this, I run around at the kids and flash my shirt to get their attention away.

I am learning to play bridge. Rick and Jose are the experts as I stumble and follow. It reminds me of watching an episode of jeopardy.
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The next morning ,Tufun (translation: Storm) approaches Anup - one of the westerners in our group. Tufun has his hands folded as Anup and Tufun talk in Hindi. At some point, a meeting takes place inside Rick's tent, as he has called all of us over. It's time to fork over the cash. I give roughly 8000 roupees (roughly $100). I've lost the beer money for the rest of the trip. We are upset, but we realize that we have no other option.

After accumulating the money, we are still milling about around the campsite. The hard boiled eggs and chipoti for breakfast has settled in. We see Anup still standing with Tufun. It turns out that Anup has become enthralled into a political discussion with the Maoist representative. Only in Nepal will hardened criminals rob you, then engage you in some healthy debate. Anup may be careful here as to not get an attractive job offer as Maoist village bully. I hear they give better health benefits than the states.

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Not all is bad on this day. I find out more about Nepali culture.

It occurs to me that Nepalis will fake an injury to get any Western medicine they possibly can. For example, a lady in the town has a swelling in her leg, I give her 2 advil. A little boy has a 'broken' arm, we give him 2 advil. We ask both of them the next day how they are feeling and they act as if they never asked us for the medicine. Advil: The placebo medicine 3rd world countries trust the most.

Little Nepali kids are increasingly starting to yell Namaste more frequently the higher we climb in elevation. They also enjoy pens. 'Pen chai no' is the key phrase Gopal teaches us. No. I'm sorry, I left my 'I'm with stupid' pens back home.

We are off again on another 3 hour trip as day 5 turns to day 6. We plan to stay in a town called Jagat. As we march out of Machakola, the group is ready to leave behind salty goat and bitter townspeople. Onward and upward, wherever that is.

-travelling sherman

Day 3 - from the bottom drawer.

2006-11-12T02:35:00.000-08:00

Along our Doh Shoo Day hike, we reach Gopal's house. Gopal, being the other guide on our trip, was an excellent host. Gopal also hosts his own Tikka ceremony, with his daughter, Ghioti, being center stage.

Rick with Gopal's Family. Gopal is the Third person from the Left. Rick is the only westerner in the picture.

These locals are so nice that when Lisa breaks her flip flops on the hike, Ghioti insists on taking her sandals. Ghioti can walk barefoot for miles in the jungle no problem. Ghioti is seven years old.

A picture of Ghioti is seen below

We walk to Krisna the porter and Karna the Sherpa's houses. There's no real set itinerary at each once, just a few dozen head bows, stating namaste repeatedly, playing with the local kids, and drinking what I call Nepali Buffalo yogurt.

Recipe for Nepalli Buff (abbreviation in nepali for buffalo) yogurt:
1 quart of buffalo milk, boiled.
Remove the fat.
Add a bit of water.
Put 1 lime inside.
Drink.
Pray

While disgusting at first, the taste grows on to you. I decide to drink the whole thing. Fortunately enough, none of us get sick from the yogurt. In fact, the only one who has gotten sick so far has been Rick. He believes the culprit was the roadside dahl bat bus lunch stop. Never trust that bus food. He realizes that Antibiotics make the best friends and gives you dilusions of invincibility. Only 17 days left to go. Soon the sizzling heat will give way to the stark coldness of the 17000 foot Larke Pass. I try and get some sleep. No more staying at houses after this point. Tomorrow the trek truly begins.

Day 3: Baseri

2006-11-11T02:51:00.000-08:00

The last day of our stay in Tika's village and I am feeling quite honored. The hospitality has been nothing but spectacular. After 4 hours of hiking from our last camp - Arughat Bazar, we reach Tika and Gopal's village of Baseri.

Tika, one of our two guides on the trip

We walk into a picture that could have been taken 100 years ago. There is no electricity to speak of. There are stone floors, clay structures, and tin or straw roofs. We sleep in a very humble yet amazingly comfortable room. Hard, sturdy beds and a common area used for eating, storing clothes and anything else you can possibly imagine...

Yesterday was the third day of the Nepali festival - Dewali. On this day, we were told tat we were going to be apart of a ceremony. To be honest, I had no idea as to what to expect. I imagined something like a knighting ceremony, or a Luke Skywalker Star Wars ceremony. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

At 11 AM, we assemble outside on the mats placed in the middle of the grounds. Today is the "Tikka" ceremony. The tradition is that the sister marks upon the brothers' foreheads with various colors and symbols. The Tikka, itself, is the small red dot placed upon the bridge of your nose. It signifies good luck on future journeys. In exchange, the 'Tikkaed" men will apply small red stones on the sister's forehead and give to her 100 rupees ($1.50) each. Not bad for a day's ceremony, but a bit below minimum wage.

Tikka's sister getting the final honorary "Tikka" seen below.

"Tapai-lai costa cha?", how are you doing? How am I doing? Here are some highlights thus far on camping in the first 3 days.

1. Squatting and poo-poo (aka. #2). You walk into a small room with 2 footmats and a hole in the middle. The goal is when you go #2, you should try for the whole in one everytime. One should first get a degree in gymnastics before performing everyday bathroom procedures in Nepal.
One of the westerners on our trip, Jose, is infatuated with #2. We told him he is not to talk about it during the dinnertime hours.

2. Eating. The food has been great. The staple of Nepali cuisine is called Dahl Bat. This is basically rice (bat), bean and lentil gravy (Dahl), accompanied with curried Potatoes and a vegetable. Most Nepalis will eat this at least once a day with their right hand. (note to self: do not ask what they do with their left hand). In addition, we have our share of rice pudding with fresh bannanas from the forest. My thought of losing 10 pounds on this trip has gone through the window. During the "Tikka" ceremony as described above, we are given Roti (fried bread) among other dishes. The only problem is that we are expected to eat this in front of the cow dung placed in the middle of the square. It suggest rebirth. As I hold my stomach rocking it back and forth, the only thing it suggests to me is vomiting.

The food of the Tikka ceremony seen below:

3. Doh shoo day. The compulsory chat of the Diwali festival. Then asked for its translation, there is no straight answer. Last night was the parading of the Nepalis from town to town. Ahri the porter is playing the Mahdi - the nepali drum - constantly, while Karna the porter narrates in song throughout the village.

Karna

After the Tikka ceremony described earlier, we go from house to house singing the Doh shoo Day chant to each house...This is done to wish good luck to each household for the upcomming year. This goes well into the evening, and at some point when you think they are all finished, someone yells Doh Shoo Day once more and the whole crowd erupts in song. We all take turns dancing in the middle of the local village people like idiots. The Doh shoo day is to Nepalis as Jingle Bells are to Catholics or as Dayenu is to the Jews. Doh Shoo Day, Doh Shoo Day, Doh Shoo Day....just turn the light off when you are finished.

Day 1: Arughat Bazar

2006-11-11T02:42:00.000-08:00

The Nepali drums play in the background as camp breaks down. After the ten hour bus ride to Arughat Bazar and a night of camping by the river, we are ready to hike to Baseri - Tika and Gopal's village. A 4 mile hike with over a 1000 foot climb at the end is simply a prelude of things to come.

During our stay we have befriended the nicest of people. Lead by our guides Tika and Gopal, Devraj (Tika's brother) and about 2 dozen Nepali porters and chefs, I can not imagine any people being nicer. We meet a handful of the local kids - Ghita and Roo - who are more than jubliant. They are amazed by Rick, Vinay, and Lisa's digital camera. How can someone take a picture of one of them only to have it displayed in a six inch square screen.

Jose with some of the local children in Arughat Bazar

Last night, after the chicken soup and egg chop suey combination - the whole town decides to come and dance for the Dawali festival. Each song, only accompanied by the Mahdi- the Nepali drum - is sung by someone who truly cares. While I can not understand a single word they say, they explain their stories in song. Whether it is taking the rice from field to field, or playing the Nepali Nut dice game, there probably is a song written about it . And you know for sure that the song will be accompanied by a Mahdi, and will keep you up to well past 1 o'clock in the morning.

The Bus ride from Kathmandu...

2006-11-11T02:33:00.000-08:00

As we enter the bus, we pass by the gangly goats wallowing in the nearby trash pile. A fire is buring the excess piles. Local Nepalis are huddling around picking out the latest produce at the nearby stands.
We get on the bus and pile in. I hop over the jugs of hot water and I join Lisa in the front seats. There are a slew of local families hugging the windshield as the bus pulls out on its way. For the next seven hours, my view is the multi-colored tassles and red carpeted upholstery of the magical Nepali bus. Our destination is Arughat Bazar, on way to a 20 day trek over the Larke Pass. On the way we will be stopping at Baseri - the home village of our guides - Tika and Gopal. We will be here for the Dewali Festival.

Dewali, quite put, is the most celebrated festival of the year. Each day is a celebration of a different fabled Nepali event. The most important day is called Lokshmi - the celebration of Vishnu's partner - the Goddess of wealth. Nepalis all around light up the house so that this Goddess might grace their presence. I think of it as the holy lottery. You just never know.

My hand is startin' to run jagged from the lack of shocks on the prime conditioned 20 year old bus. The bus in front of us has stopped in the mud as we fear that their axel has broke. We will try and help them, but I am not sure what we can do.

Alas, it seems like a bit of welding has done the trip. On the road again. The Nepali Highwaymen. No Maoist revolution can stop us now.

Kathmandu

2006-10-20T22:12:00.000-07:00

October 21,

The handwover tablecloths line the table as the others go to get some breakfast. My mind has grown somewhat disoriented. I look down at my flood-ridden pants and try to take in what happened.

Last night was our first night in Nepal. After 20 hours of flying, I was sensing Nepal like one dreams under the influence of hallucenogens. While taking in some traditional Nepalese food at a local restaurant, we hear some rain, followed by louder rain, followed by resounding thunder. The manager looks disparagingly confused that a monsoon would hit so late into the year after the proverbial dry season has started.

We took slight note of the events, paid our bill, and went on our way back to the Guesthouse. As we turned the corner, continued walking just a little bit more, and then all of us began to look in disbelief. There was three feet of water trapped on each street any any direction we looked. Rick looks at us, thinks for a second, and says to roll up the pants. We wade through the streets block by block andI imagine how the Katrina victims must have felt. I felt like that we fell victim to the ten plagues. Rick takes no delay in photographing our wading as looks of fright encompass Traveling Lisa's face. Motorcycles and rickshaws line attempt to plow through the murky water as they were ships. We reach back to our guest house stinky, tired and dark. The flickering lights finally took a break for the night, as all the power was out in Nepal. We are staying in the Kathmandu Peace Guest House. Peace at last, at least until tomorrow.

Asia

2006-10-18T13:44:00.000-07:00

Hello to all,

Welcome to another installment of Travelling Sherman. If you have ever read any of these, I'm sure this installment will not disappoint you.

So for those who may not know me that well, let me explain myself:

My name is Eric, Eric Sherman. I have gone by many nicknames throughout my life, some I should not state at this time. The nickname I have chosen this time is Travelling Sherman. Sherman being my last name, and travelling..for this is my job for the next 4 months.

I am joined by my girlfriend, Lisa Lin. Her nickname from now on will be Travelling Lisa, for the same reason as described above.

We both live in the City of San Francisco, in the State of California, in the United States of America. Here is a picture of where San Francisco is for those of you who may have been sleeping under a rock for the majority of your life:

We will be joined by the following people on the first leg of our Journey.

Rick - our fearless leader. His bushy blond hair reminds me of Owen Wilson if Owen Wilson was intelligent. He is the one that has made all the arrangements, as he is the well-seasoned traveler. Simply put, if there has been a question I had so far about anything on this trip, Rick is the undeniable source.

Bobby - Travelling Lisa's Brother. He is just going to have to get over his metrosexual tendencies and get used to 3 weeks of camping. I am glad he is coming. He is apart of the family. I know he can do it.

Jose - When you meet him, you simply have the desire to cancel your cable tv service. At about 50 years old, he is a fountain of youth. He has traveled to more countries in the world than George Bush can spell. Just take it easy on the baby wipes at 13000 feet and all should be just fine.

Vinay and Anup - I have recently become friends with both of these fine people. Anup worked with Rick in a previous life, and Vinay and Anup have been friends for some time. Both have relatives that live in Northern India. Vinay and Anup are the inside men...speaking bits of Hindi here and there with our local villagers. They can get you anything you want on the inside, and it won't even cost you that much. They should be great companions on our Trek into the Himalayas.

From Left to Right: Bobby, Lisa, Anup, Jose, Vinay, Rick, and me.

Part 1: The Nepal Trek. The first month.

I am typing this on my computer back in San Francisco. I now am starting to realize that I will soon leave the creature comforts of wireless internet access, a memory foam bed, and taquerias. Our first part of the journey is Nepal. We are going on a three-week trek (walk) on a trail called Manasalu.

Nepal is located on the continent of Asia. It borders India to the south, east and west. It borders Tibet to the North. The Chinese say that Tibet is part of China. The Tibetans believe it is their own Country. I believe whatever the border agent wants me to when they are frisking me.

We should arrive to Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal, in roughly 20 hours and 8000 miles later. Once there, we are going to stay for the Festival of Lights. Not Chanukah, stop it. It is called Diwali. It lasts five days, as mass celebration should be taking place in the streets. Celebrating everything from boys being saved by snakes to victories of large wars, it's something not to be missed.

After that, it's on to a town to Gorkha, where we will convene with the guide and porters. After that, it's onward to the Manasalu trek for three weeks, where we will crest out halfway into it at 17000 feet.

Better get those cliff bars ready.

Talk to you soon. Keep traveling, wherever you are...

-Travelling Sherman

Brazil 2005: Part 2

2006-08-12T18:08:00.000-07:00

Brazil - part 2

7/25/05

So I'm sorry to say, this is the last of the Brazil Travelling Sherman episodes. As an Idiot, I lost my notebook on a recent journey back to New York. Here is what I had typed so far, I will try to addend as best as I can. As the Senor said to me one time, "The best memories are the ones that are in your head". I'll try and do you justice and remember to keep traveling…wherever you are.

Sao Paulo, July 5, 2005

The Day after independence day as I sit on this couch. We are weary travelers, Lisa and I. We take 2 days to recover in a lovely town called Santos -- one of the first settlements by the Portugese. Sanots is a port town known for its sugar juice and ice. Lisa's uncle runs this ice factory in town, more on this later.

MEAT

I have eaten more barbecue meat in the last 3 days than I have all year.

There are 2 big differences between Brazilian meat and USA meat.

1. Brazilian cows are free range, not overstuffed in a sty.

2. The cows eat grass, not any artificial feeds.

So I have been to 3 churrascarias (brazilian meat houses) in the last 4 days . I have become irregular. We go to this restaurant called Montana Ranch. You can tell by the 2 redneck singers that advertise for this place.

Don't be fooled, however. This is one, high class eating establishment. You get a meat card after the waiter sits you down. The meat card has 2 sides on it. 1 side has red, the other side has green.

Green = give me meat

Red = getting into a food coma, Stop.

So Uncle Tomas tells us how the churrascaria works. He hands me the map of a cow and it displays each different beef cut. There is a barrage of meat cutters cycling through cutting pieces of beef in my general direction

2 hours later I am in a meat coma. My favorite is called the "Little Diaper". I'm not sure of its correct term, but this is the nickname translated from Portuguese. This basically is part of the meat that holds all the shit together. It's a good, lean, salty, cut -- Just like that Brazilian mom I never had used to make.

So I forgot to tell you about Lisa's Uncle Tomas. He lives in Sao Paulo, Brazil. Some random observations about Sao Paulo

Sao Paulo has 20 million people. The 5^th largest city in the world.
It is an urban planning nightmare. The metro is good, but otherwise a sprawl of excess pollution and bingo parlours.
Some parts, which we fortunately miss, are the most dangerous in South America. A new law was recently passed where it is okay to drive slowly THROUGH the Red light late at night to prevent carjackings from occurring.

Tomas' house is great. We get treated to plush amenities such as a hot tub and karaoke machine. These people take karaoke seriously. Usually when I sing karaoke, it's right before I vomit on the waitress. On this night, Tomas rings up the songs from John Denver to the Beatles. I'm too sober for karaoke right now.

Here the top 5 problems with doing karaoke sober.

You realize the music and the pictures do NOT match. For example, the song "Country Roads" by John Denver has a picture of a woman walking by the River Seine.

2. The Olympic theme music at the beginning of the Karaoke cassette tape really doesn't inspire you to compete.

3. You know that no matter how well you sing, you will never get to be on American Idol.

4. You realize that everyone else, who hadn't had a thing to drink either, has decided to quit and fall asleep…realizing the lost cause of the evening.

5. The ladies simply do not dig it.

END OF WHAT I HAD WRITTEN DOWN.

Some last thoughts on Brazil (to summarize).

Lisa's Uncle Tomas takes us to a town called Santos. Santos is a beach town nearby where the Portugese first landed. I drive the Volkswagen around the town only to realize that Brazilians have not yet mastered the concept of lanes, signaling, or traffic lights. After my resting beats per minute increase to 125, Tomas grabs the wheel. Fair enough, I feel for him.

Tomas runs an ice plant. He claims it is a big refrigerator. He has generators set up to keep the chilling salt ice water and freezer rooms cold. He sells chipped ice, crushed ice, ice cubes, ice molds and any other ice novelty you could think of. I am very grateful to have gone on the tour. He has my respect, as well as the respect of many others in the community.

Later that evening I play tennis, eat meat and drink beer with Tomas and his friends. It is quite the interesting night. Mostly it consists of strange, hairy, men rambling on in languages that I don't understand. I realize that my tennis game could stand to improve, but realize that all men around the world barbecue the same way. They stand over a hot fire and wait for their meat to cook -- each in turn, grunting and taking credit for their creations.

We fly to a waterfall town called Foz de Iguazu. It puts Niagra falls to shame. If you do a web search on this place, you will know of what I am talking about. We take tours on both the Brazilian and Argentine side. We take a boat tour with 150 of our closest high school friends from Paraguay. I realize kids all over the world like to hold hands, make out, and color each other's backpacks.

We end up for the last few days in a town called Buzios. It is where Bridgette Bardou once roamed with her Brazilian boyfriend. It is a beautiful beach town full of cobblestone streets and capoiera dancing. Capoiera is an old afro-Brazilian dance, which looks like a martial art. It is beautiful to see as they do it under a sea of bright stars.

What else would you like to know? I get sick, get better. I realize that American Television has penetrated the southern hemisphere. I realize that I've come to a country rich in heritage and pride. I realize that there is a bigger world out there -- more than I have ever imagined. I realize my wallet is lighter but my heart is heavier for all the people that have a fraction of the resources that I do. At any rate, I hate this part of the journal. I'll leave the clichés to you. I have enjoyed myself immensely. I hope you have, too. Until next time, happy travels. -- Travelling Sherman.

Brazil 2005: Part 1

2006-08-12T18:07:00.000-07:00

Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, 6/23/2005

I am about to get on the "bonde" - the tram that takes you into the old historic section of Rio, Santa Teresa. It reminds me of the old time car rides ad Disney land. You wait in line, go through the gate, and get on the car on the railroad tracks. This Sammy Hagar like Brazilian just gave me a Sol Musica Brochure. Cabo Wabo has nothing on this place.

Welcome back to another traveling Sherman episode. This one takes place in Rio, or "He-Oh" as the locals say. We are going to the dangerous area, according to the hotel guide. So I figure there was no better way to start of us.

This starts day 2 of our trip to Brazil. I am joined by Traveling Lisa (aka girlfriend). She has been a very agreeable traveler. We start our stay at the Ipanema Plaza. I am reminded by her just now to look out for the kid behind me, more on this later.

Thoughts on Brazil thus far:

There are beautiful people here. I'm honest, the ladies are hot and they're not afraid to show their stuff off. The men have the bodies Fabio dreamed of having. Even the old ladies have buns of steel. The minimum requirement for heels must be 3 inches tall.

Ipanema Beach is definitely full of young bohemian capitalists. One hippie tries to sell me a bong. I tell him that I have stopped recently. He tells me that he has not, and wishes me a good trip.

There is more Churrasco (shaved beef) here than in all of Texas. The barbecue plate at the local restaurant comes with sausage, chicken, pork and steak. It also comes with fries and rice. This meal is large enough to feed myself, Lisa and 4 other homeless street-singers as I feed them through the window. I'm sure the manager must have been very proud of me.

6/25

Dig it; our first bus ride of the trip is about to happen. We are embarking on a trip to the Ihla Grande through a Town called Angra Dos Reis. Now we're beginning to travel. After three days at the Posh Ipanema Plaza, we are ready to hit the road. But before I get you on the bus, I should catch you up on the previous days events.

We saw Jesus standing right in front of us. A great miracle has happened. He was 132 ft. high and make of soapstone. He is none other than Corcovado. Check it out here if interested. Corcovado translated means hunch back, but there's nothing hunched about this guy.

The Corcovado status is Rio's version of the statue of liberty, Golden Gate Bridge, or Washington monument. It was finished in 1931 after 9 years of construction. It was considered the gift from the church. JC's left hand points to the north of the city, and you guessed it -- the right hand will point to the south. You see, Jesus gives you guidance in an otherwise misdirected life.

Today's tour guide is none other Gerrardo. No, not the talk show host -- much better.

Our tour consists of going to this Corcovado and the Tijuca forest. Rio is quite the green city with 20% of its square area covered in national parks. After Corcovado, we hake into the Mata Atlantica - the Atlantic forest - to take a closer look inside the park.

There is this waterfall called the Cascatinha Waterfall. (Check it out if you want) It was named after him because he lived there. The government put him up here because he was the official painter of Rio back in the day. We take a look. I splash my face with some bath water as we hike down the creek. I see some Hibiscus flowers, which Lisa tells me are from Hawaii. These are the flowers the hula girls wear I guess as you get off the plane to Hawaii.

We see Lapia (Brazilian fish). It is the same size as carp, but more of a dirty color. There are endless amounts of creeks and ponds. Gerrardo tells us that this is a fragile ecosystem. He says that much of Rio's water supply comes from this forest. That prevents me from urinating in the local creek for the remainder of the day.

I ask him about this Brazilian coffee. Do the Brazilians make good coffee? Gerrardo tells us that back in the day, Rio had plantations everywhere full of coffee. They tried cultivating the coffee plant in the Tijuca forest and others nearby. It turned out that the coffee plant took in so much water that it destroyed many of the other plants and prevented the natural water flow to the city. You see, it's all about the flow - dig? Whatever. Ok, so they eliminate the plantations 100 years ago and begin to plant more native plants in order to save the trees. All you tree huggers would be proud.

So when you order Brazilian coffee today, most likely it doesn't come from Brazil. It was most likely made in Arabia. However, the dark Brazilian roasting method is still a tried a true one. So when you buy Brazilian coffee, it's simply Brazilian style, made in Arabia, and packaged by starbucks. 1 million yuppies served.

Lisa is making some sort of comment about makeup. Another girl is putting on gobs of it on the bus. The mascara drowns her face as the 3^rd speed bump hits.

We make it back to the hotel and have a good stay in Brazil. Some other quick highlights:

If you enter a restaurant with people dressed up from Salvador, run the other way. It's just a front for a Long John Silver's restaurant. The restaurant was called Yamanja. I think that translates to "terrible fried seafood".

The first and only theft/losing of luggage occurs at this point. I lose Lisa's camera. Although we think that the make-up lady that Lisa points out may have stolen it when we were not looking. About 1 roll of film lost and a lesson learned. Someone please tell me what that lesson was.

We go to a really good Sushi restaurant called Sushi Leblon. Lisa bums a cigarette of off a lady named Marianna. It later turns into a one-hour-and-a-half conversation. Her and Vincent are on a 3-night stand. They are both married and are having an old fling. She used to live in Santa Cruz and misses the "right on" expression so much. I learn that Smoking causes cancer but makes friends.

Brazilians are just sexy people. The lady's voice at the airport says the number "Nine" like she just read a penthouse forum letter.

One hour later.

We get off the bus; take the taxi to a boat. There's no sign, no uniform, just a Carioca (Brazilian local) and his boat telling you he's going to Ihla Grande. Why not, just hop on and take a chance.

The boat ride is fantastic, a sea of green everywhere. This was the Brazil I was thinking of. Good Samba music and laid-back people. Lisa - again with the cigarettes - befriends Reginald, the local Language teacher and chess master. He talks about the island, retirement, and the meaning of life. The conversation lasts 20 minutes too long. It's good to know that we have someone we can go to in case we get into trouble. I can't write anymore, I'll tell you how it is later.

6/29

So we are leaving the island today. I finally get the time to tell you about it.

This place is a 25 square km area of paradise. From the beaches to the mountains to the views. All here is unreal.

People we meet:

Paes (Pah EES). He has been our guide for the trip. We found him in the tour company next door to where we have been staying. He reminds me of a young Redd Foxx, if he had lived on an island. He is cool and savvy. He speaks only Portuguese, but between a broken English-Spanish-Portuguese broken hybrid, we get by just fine.

Smiling Black Pizza Man. I never got his name. The first gentleman we meet on the island. He looks like a Brazilian kid-n-play. We stop for a chopp (draught beer). He is watching a kickboxing match on the local television and tries to tell us about it. I understand nothing other that he is happy about it.

German Hosts at the Pescador. Great people. The local German couple runs this pousada. One guy has a throat problem from too many cigarettes. Their daughter married a Brazilian years ago. Their parents decide to buy this place and move to Brazil. I think they'll get along just fine.

Rudimentary map of Ihla Grande.

Key:

^ = Mountains

W = water

Boat = boat.

Angra Dos Reis ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Rio de Janeiro

(nasty, polluted, ATMs)

Boat

| -------|

Ihla Grande

Beautiful, Pristine, Cars, No ATMs.

From Rio, you travel through what is called the Costa Verde, or the Green Coast. You travel by bus as your stomach turns more times than a Rotisserie Chicken. You come to Angra Dos Reis, which if you enjoy oil tankers and nuclear power plants would be a wonderful place to stay. You then hop a ferry to Ihla Grande. A big place indeed. We stay in the main village called Abraao. Here you can get necklaces, find places to eat and stay, and hear the locals pounding nails into the pillars to make more structures.

Some random facts about the island:

No building can be more than 2 stories high.

Originally discovered 4 centuries ago. Pirates (yarr!) lived here for a while, but couldn't find the treasure.

In the 19^th century, Brazil used this island as a leper colony and a prison. On one of the hikes, we see the prison ruins. It's over 6 square km. Huge concrete pillars separate over hundreds of cells. It's a disgusting place. Like many other island based prisons it becomes too expensive to maintain and gets shut down in the 1980's.

There are 105 beaches. We went to 4 of them. We visit a beach on our first day here called Lopes Mendes. The sand is white and crunches like fresh snow powder. It's white because of the high salt density in the water. No ships go here, you must travel in by foot.

The water is about 78 degrees and the waves form perfectly for surfers and body boarders alike. I buy a new pair of brightened Speedos for the trip. I see a lunar eclipse as I emerge out of the water.

Traveling Lisa can hike. I'm so relieved. She sets the pace this whole trip. Super cool and patient the whole time, even with the camera and everything.

There is an aqueduct on the island built in 1898. It is still used today to take the pure water from the mountain waterfalls and deliver it to the villages. However, by the time it reaches Abraao, it is slightly toxic. It is good enough for bathing, but not good enough for us gringos to drink.

---------

On the 2^nd day, we reach this waterfall led by Paes, the tour guide. First of all, Paes is the coolest cat around. He picks up random native trees and says,

"Here, For Health". "Here, for moscas (mosquitos)",

"Here, orange". "Here, papaya".

He whistles at birds and squirrels. His favorite sayings are "ta bon" (all right) and tranquillo. We talk about the island, the prison ruins, and the beach. We get to the waterfall and it is 30 ft. high. The water temperature feels about a cool 70 degrees as I shower up. I could have stayed there forever.

The hiking on the island can get pretty strenuous. The mountains are fairly low in elevation (300 ft) but some stretches are fairly steep and tricky. For example, on our trip into the waterfall, there is one passage that is purely steep mud. When I get to the top, I am grateful for my life.

I've discovered that sautéed octopus either with Salsa or with Paella is quite tasty. It tastes like a milder version of tuna fish. Lisa, Paes, and I grub out at the Praia de For a (beach) at this local restaurant there. Then I go swimming. I later find this beach is probably the most polluted on the island. A good day was had as we take the local ship back to the Abraao village where we are staying.

The Parrot's Peak (Pico de Papagaia)

Lisa and I walk 12 miles today and climb to about 2500 feet. Paes, our tour guide is back picking apples, bushwhacking trails, listening to squirrels, and smelling eucalyptus. As Lisa and I are sweating up the only road on the island, Paes points towards this narrow, steep path. "This is where we begin", he says. A long, perilous journey is ahead of us. Lisa and I scamper ahead for about 2 hours. We then meet up with 2 guys also on the trail. They warn us about this poisonous snake. Paes, being himself says "es Normal". We walk by unharmed. I soon realize most animals are scared shitless of us, and won't attack you until provoked.

I find this to be helpful as we pass some tarantulas. One of the guys we meet is a photographer for a newspaper where he is doing a feature story on the Ihla Grande. He swaps some pictures of these tarantulas as he gets some nature footage.

We continue climbing. The group has grown to 5. Lisa, Paes, myself, Andrea (the photographer) and his friend with the Limp Leg. I don't remember his name, so let's call him Limp Leg. Limp leg is a reporter for the same newspaper as Andrea. They are working together on this story.

Limp Leg does not like to hike, he says. You can tell with his adidas hiking shoes and black socks. He does manage to get great cell phone reception, as he has no problems using it all along the trail.

What could you be possibly be talking about on your cell phone as you are trying to forge ahead of danger on your way to the island peak? Well I thought of some scenarios…so hear they are.

Scenario 1: "Shit, bitch. I know my crabs would flame up as I walked through the jungle. I need 2 bottles of calamine lotion right away!"

Scenario 2: "I would like a large pizza with pepperoni and mushroom. 45 minutes"

Scenario 3: " Can you get me up to speed on the last 3 episodes of '24'? My Tivo just broke down and I can't get any reception up here."

Scenario 4: "Baby, I love you so much. Why do you keep calling me Antonio?"

We finally reach the peak of the parrot and the views are incredible. 360 degrees of mountains, beaches and sea. To the west, you see Sao Paulo state. To the east you can see the Mountains of Rio. We park ourselves on the rock and answer some questions from Limp Leg. Andrea takes some pictures of us like we are Louis and Clark. I ham up the story as this savage mountain man, climbing 14,000 ft. peaks every weekend.

So the reporters tell Lisa and I that we would be in the Rio newspaper on Sunday. They say it may even be one of the lead stories. I am overwhelmed. Either my ego is getting bigger, or it's a slow news day. I'll let you know if anything comes of it.

I am sad to be leaving this island, but happy to have finally started to enjoy Brazil. We are on the boat back to Angra Dos Reis, catching a bus to another beach town - Parati. As always, you will hear everything that happens first hand from me, none other than Traveling Sherman.

The World Cup

2006-07-21T13:51:00.000-07:00

Unless you have been sleeping under a rock, you probably have heard about the world cup by now. You have most likely seen Zinedine Zidane's headbut of Marco Materazzi at the end of overtime in the final match. At the time I wrote this post, the date was July 5th...and I had no idea at the time that Italy would be the crowned soccer champions of the world.

7/5/2006

This year's world cup of soccer is being played in Germany. I'll have to be honest. I'm not the biggest soccer fan. My soccer experience was 4 years as a kid in the house leagues. My position was left fullback. This is a defense position where I am supposed to prevent the ball from going into our goal. To be honest, I was more likely to play with more mounds of dirt when I took the field rather than a soccer ball.

But the thing about the world cup is that everyone in the world stops shooting their guns, taking their hostages, persecuting would-be terrorists and watches the tele. This year is no exception. I have become a soccer fanatic. Back home, I get up at 6 AM Pacific time just to watch Iran play Mexico.

Italy is addicted as well. At the time of this journal entry, they are playing the semi-final match against Germany. I've watched Italy beat Ghana, the Czech Republic and Australia. Everyone in Italy watches. Shopkeepers, Street Sweepers, and Bus Drivers alike - you name it, they watch it. In some towns, every store will close for 2 hours as little TV's glow across the land. In other towns, large TV Screens are illuminated and as many as 300 people watch on a given screen at a given time.

I do not know whom to root for. Italy? The country I am traveling in right now or Germany? The host country. Who knows? I am rooting for soccer - the bringer of peace, the bringer of madness...for even a short while. Play ball!

Italian Intimacy

2006-07-20T15:13:00.000-07:00

There's a joke that goes something like this:

A boy and his dad are talking one day and the boy asks the question:
"Dad, what's the difference between heaven and hell?"

The father thinks for a minute, and then begins to answer.

Heaven is when:

The cars are German
The Food is French
The Police are British
The lovers are Italian
...and everything is run by the Swiss.

Hell is when:

The cars are French
The food is British
The police are German
The lovers are Swiss
....and everything is run by the Italians

For every stereotype, there is an ounce of truth. Although many Italian workers are inefficient, the Italian passion runs strong. It is most likely true that they probably make love better than most, but the passion and love I am speaking of is subtler.

For example, Traveling Lisa asks if her bra may be showing. I respond to her, "Just show off your Bra". It doesn't matter. Italian breasts are more prevalent than Gelato stands. Women's midriffs are more common than a double espresso. Italy is simply the land of romance and intimacy. You may be thinking to yourself, are all Italians promiscuous? Absolutely not. They simply just like to be comfortable.

For instance, it is totally normal for a rich, Italian girl to strike up a conversation with a poor boat worker. It's perfectly normal for the highway tollbooth agent to talk with a man in a BMW for 10 minutes in the middle of rush hour traffic. The reason is intimacy. Italians do intimacy better than anyone. We see it at Gaia's house - people from all walks of life talk to each other. There are no jocks, nerds, stoners, freaks, goons, band geeks or skater crowds. Everyone is the same. Everyone has respect for one another. Italians are simply closer to one another. They take hours out of their day to eat lunch. No one comes back to them and asks them how many minutes they took on their lunch break. Tranquillo, I hear. That's just how they roll.

The 4th of July

2006-07-20T14:55:00.000-07:00

...And who the hell cares? We are thousands of miles away from your USA. No one here is sympathetic to your Boston Tea Party, your Battle of Yorktown, and Your Declaration of Independence. This is Italy. We had discovered indoor pluming, had a huge empire, painted on ceilings and even had a few crusades before you were even in diapers. So get on the boat like everyone else, drink a coffee, and buzz off.

---------
Sorrento to Positano

And away we go boat bound to Positano. We have left Sorrento with neither fond nor terrible memories. Nothing against the costal mainland town, but seeing a swarm of sweaty Brits talking about swimming isn't my idea of a good time. Traveling Lisa seems to agree with me. For every great party, there is a terrible hangover. Sorrento has been our hangover. We arrived here from Stromboli Island via Naples and Sorrento has been just good enough. It's a layover town on the hopes to get to your final destination. There are long streets filled with souvenir shops, Laundromats, and money exchange houses. The city trolley tour bus passes by every ten minutes. It feels more like Disneyland than Italy. They do have nice purple tiled bathroom floors. I'll be sure to send all the English pub owners in Sorrento my best the next time I come around.

Two People

2006-07-20T14:34:00.000-07:00

This blog concentrates on two people living in different places, having different occupations, but sharing the same love that all Italians seem to possess. They are both humble, friendly and caring. Although they live hundreds of miles from one another, they both represent how much love Italian people have for one another.

Angela

We pull up to the Villa Refe in Linguaglossa. At this time we do the usual "Bon Giorno" and other salutations as Angela answers off the intercom. She tells us rooms are available and shows us around for a little bit.
A brief description:

Short Grandmotherly type
Has relatives in the USA
Takes in Ferrell cats and dogs on a regular basis.
Likes their guests to keep making babies.

Angela is our reference point in Linguaglossa. She tells us information on everything between cemetaries, Mount Etna, Jeep Tours and how to grow various herbs. She is a wealth of information: How useful this information is, I am not so sure. She makes a good cafe' con leche, as she has spent time in Latino countries. All in all, she is a grandma you would love to visit for 2 days tops.

Pino (pee - no) from Stromboli

What else can I say other than the fact that he is legendary. The guy makes gourmet meals while smoking a pipe. He looks like a retired, gray-haired drunken sailor. But what he does in the kitchen is something that dreams are made of.

He moved to Stromboli island more than ten years ago from Trieste - an Italian city in the northeast. Pino tells us about how his father took him fro Trieste to Stromboli when he was a child. Pino liked it so much that he said goodbye to his job up North and set sail south to the island. His dream was to open up a restaurant. Years later, Al Gechi is the restaurant that fulfills his dreams. You hike up a slight hill as the Burmese boy and the signs tell you where to go. When you get to the restaurant, you are overlooking the entire sea high on the island. No one could even paint a better picture.

So Pinot scampers out in his linen button-down, blue shorts and boat shoes and begins the conversation. There is no menu, no prices, only the conversation. A typical conversation goes like this.

Pino: "What would you like this evening?"
Us: "Um..."
Pino: "I have an antipasto..marinated swordfish..you would like?"
Us: "Um..ok"
Pino: "I also have linguini with tuna fish tonight. you would like?"
Us: "Um..ok"
Pino: "How about wine. You need wine. Red would be good, yes?"
Us: "Sure"
Pino: "Ok, I go to work now for you"

So Pino climbs down into his kitchen basement and goes to work. He and his family run the entire operation. He is married to a striking Burmese woman, most likely 20 years his younger. They have a son named Andrea, whose goal is to show peole the way, collect the bill, and play with his penis. We catch the boy red handed as he handles our check.

Pino met his wife while on his 3-year trip to Asia. He wanted to learn about Asian cooking. He admires Thai and Indian food. It shows in his dishes as you sometimes seem to taste some coriander and turmeric along with the usual basil, parsley and olive oil staples.

For desert, he gives us Gelato and watermelon. He gives me a piece of watermelon so big that it could feed a whole summer camp. We have all eaten well. There is no rush whatsoever as we have the table for the night. At some point, the wife is so busy that the Nanny comes and helps serve. Miles Davis comes on in the background as the sun sets. The place gets busy and they seem to forget about the check. It doesn't matter, we have nowhere to go. Finally, Pino comes out to give us the check. We pay and thank him for a thuroughly good meal. We see him the next day and buy him a eer. That is what Italians are at their best: warm, friendly, and thirsty. I say good luck to Mr. Pino. May good fortune come to him and his family.

Just Say No

2006-07-20T11:34:00.000-07:00

Today's blog revolves around one word: No. It is a word recognized in almost every country. It has only two letters, but its meaning is powerful. No represents the absence of something, the opposite of yes, and in many cases - talks about the negative.

Italians seem to be in love with the word No. I am NOT saying that Italians are negative people. I think that they love to communicate in any way they possibly can. so if one does not know the language, local Italians resort to No to convey their meaning.

Examples:

1. In Linguaglossa (a small Sicilian town), I go into a restaurant and ask for a glass of wine. His reply: "No vino! Restorante!" He did not think he was being negative. However, he wanted to make sure I got the message.

2. In the Linguaglossa cemetary, as written about here , the groundskeeper kept shouting a given year followed by the word - "No". He did this for each year in which he could not find the name in question. Again, the keeper is not a bad person, he simply needs to get his point across.

3. When I drive on a freeway, I am a person who always questions if they are going in the right direction. In Italy, they have solved this problem, by posting the name of a city with a big red dot going through it. See the example below:

If you ask an Italian, this road sign means "Florence, No!". The highway workers are no mad at you. They just want to remind you that you may be going the wrong way.

So, if you are in a situation where you just cannot get your point across, just yell "No!" followed by your favorite adjective. Italians everywhere will be utterly thankful.

Stromboli: 7/3-7/5

2006-07-19T16:45:00.000-07:00

We reach Stromboli. It looks like an Island a little bit lost, looking for its place in the sun. From the Sicilian Mainland town of Milazzo, we pass by the other islands: Volcano, Lipari and Panarea similar to how a young child may pass over the spinach to get right to the ice cream. On the top of Stromboli lies the most active volcano in Europe. Let me tell you about our story of our trip up to the volcano.

So they say you should start walking at 5:30 and you should go with a guide. We take the advice and go with the trekking company called magmatrek. Here are the materials we would need to hike the volcano:
Helmet (1950's construction worker edition)
Head lamp
Hiking shoes
Change of clothes

All of the travel books said that this would be a moderate hike. They couldn't have been more wrong. By the time we had reached the top of the crater, we had been walking for almost 4 hours on a steep uphill. David, our guide, is nice enough. He works at both Stromboli and on Mount Etna guiding tours. He shows us the observatory that records seismic data of earthquakes and volcano eruptions. The last major eruption in Stromboli with lava flow was in 2002. It killed hundreds of people and caused tidal waves 40 feet high. Usually, lava flow is restricted to what is called the Sciara del fuoco (literal = street of fire). Indeed the crators of Stromboli fire up almost constantly as they pass down this pathway called Sciara del fuoco. It's a path on the island where all lava and pumice flows from the crater down to the base of the island into the sea. This cycle of eruption->lava flow-->sea happens constantly. If little eruptions do not happen all the time, gasses become trapped for extended periods of time and eventually will explode just like the button on your way too tight jeans if you try to put them on.

Sitting up at 3000 feet, I gaze out to the show that is about to begin. Someone forgot to tell me that the 4th of July came early. It turns out that over the past ten years or so, 5 smaller craters have been formed at the top of the summit. Each one of these craters erupts every 10 minutes or so. It makes old faithful look like your neighbor's broken down sprinkler system.

So we watch the show. Orange and red and yellow lava spew out the top in rapid fashion. It disperses mid-air and drops down into ash some 300 meters safely away from us. It is truly amazing. You can imagine the lava chambers filling up with magma and gasses until it can confine it no longer. With fireworks that seem to last forever, and the setting sun giving away in the background, it's hard to imagine anything more beautiful.

Travelling Lisa and Travelling Toby manage to get some pictures and video footage. Teresa is so moved, she starts to cry. I look at it similar to how one looks at a campfire late at night. I have no idea what this means, but I'd though I'd put one more metaphor out there.

The downhill descent is by no means easy. We are given masks to wear, which will all prevent us from breathing in too much sulfur dust. We walk down a black, sandy hardened lava field as I am instructed to put on my hed lamp and helmet. I can barely see the person 3 feet in front of me. While also coulding my night vision, the lava dust begins to clog my hiking shoes. Pebbles begin to feel like boulders as the rocks fill up the open space - jarring at my ankles with an exacto knife.

After 15 minutes, we finally clear the lava fields and are allowed to dump out the rocks. I'm not as scuffed up as I thought. The whole experience reminds me of skiing down Beaver Bowl at Alpine Meadows ski resort: Big, wide and full of rocks.

We get back into Stromboli town at 11 PM. We are dog tired. We muster enough energy to eat Pizza and go to bed. Every step was worth it. They call really active volcanoes "Eruption Stromboli". Now I can see why. It is the greatest show on earth.

The Merenda Code

2006-07-13T23:47:00.000-07:00

6/28 - in the morning.

Our Mission: To find the gravestone of one great-grandfather of Teresa Merenda. It is believed that he is buried in the Linguaglossa cemetary.

Our First step is to the cemetary. Make a right on the main road and proceed 1/2 mile until you reach the cemetary entrance.
As we get there, we notice there are 2 cemetaries: the old one and the new one. We walk through the old cemetary and find old murals of Arabia. We see the crescent and some sort of dome resembling Mecca. We continue on our journey through the old cemetary.

We notice that this could be the most ornate cemetary I have ever seen. Francesco, Conceto, Angela, Rosa and the others are lying in the tombs and are making me proud. Not only are the grave stones decorated with statues, they have portraits of themselves in black and white when they were younger.

Our next mission is to find the groundskeeper for the cemetary. We have no idea where he is, but I peel my eyes out for two old ladies. They seem suspicious. I go over to confront them about our mission.
-----
The 2 white haired ladies look at me as if I just landed my spaceship. I'm sorry I don't know Italian or French, I'm just a regular USA guy that knows some chicano Spanish.

My undercover skills tell me that the groundskeeper is on his way back. Sure enough, he arrives walking up the steps Espresso in hand. We exchange pleasantries and he asks me what is going on. I come out with it. We want to find the gravestone of one Mr. Merenda or Papalardo. Popalardo being the maiden name of Grandma. The groundskeeper shows me of a couple of books.

---------

A che anno morto? What year did he die. I look to Teresa and she does not know the exact year.

"Well if he was born in 1880, that means he robably died somewhere between 1930 and 1940, since he was roughly 50 years old when he died." - she says.

The groundskepper now loks at me with a slightly more confusing look than he did before. I translating the above bit to him, as he starts scribbling years like this.

1880, 1910, 1930, 1940

With each number, the groundskeeper gets more and more irritated.
"Anno!" (year), the grounds keeper says.
"Oh, between 1930-1940" I translate.
"Anno!"
"um.......1943?"

He opens the book. I say "Merenda".
He waves me off as he looks at the names in it like a Rabbi would do with a Torah.
"1943..." He searches..."no 1943!" "Anno!" - he exclaims again.
"Hm...1935?" I try another year
The grounds keeper does the same ritual with no luck.

1935...No 1935! Anno!
1936...No 1936! Anno!
Anno!
Anno! Stupido! Anno!
Anno!

I was left to believe that this was the groundskeeper's mantra. At this time, all of his buddies were in the room trying to figure out just what the hell was going on.

---------------------

I feel so helpless. The groundskeeper turns to his buddies for a moment. At this point I thought we were all dead for sure. The keeper (short for groundskeeper) pulls out a pen and a piece of paper and writes down the following:
COMUNE DI LINGUAGLOSSA
BARONE FRANCESCO

In all caps to, yo...like a psychopath.

The keeper seems happier now, as all of the buddies seem to share our desire to find Teresa's long, lost relative. They bid us goodbye and send us away.

---------------------

Step 2: The Comune Di Linguaglossa

The city hall. You would not believe this place. Usually, you go to a city hall in the USA and they give you the runaround. In Linguaglossa, they are all about customer service. We find our man Barone, and try to explain ourselves. Of course, he speaks no English. We however get through the translation that his buddy next door can pull up birth certificates.

Since I have forgotten Barone's buddy's name, I will call him certificate guy or "Certguy" for short. Certguy is amazing. Based on the info we give him, he goes back and finds the following certificates.

A picture of Barone

A picture of CertGuy

Francesco Merenda - Born in Linguaglossa, moves to New york - Teresa's grandfather.

Antonio Merenda - Also born in Lingua...moves to New york for a bit, then comes back. Died in Catania, Italy. This is Teresa's Granfather's brother.

There are some other distant relatives - phillipe and another antonio.

There is also Phillipa (Phillipe's wife). She supposedly still lives in Linguaglossa on one road called Via Marconi. After some initial investigation work, Toby locates the street. We are also given the number 44. This is the house where Phillipa lives.

We ring the bell several times but to no avail. They are not home. But even if they were...
a) it's probably NOT her anyways as she is most likely dead, OR
b)even if it was her, we would have no ideas as to what she way saying.

Travelling Toby takes some more pictures of the street and house as well as the documents. It will make only the finest of scrapbooks.

========================

Conclusions:

1. We know that Teresa had some grandarents and great uncles - and we know that they lived in Linguaglossa at some point.

2. Cemetary groundskeepers are slack workers. The guy has no problems locating names.

3. City hall of Linguaglossa puts the USA ones to shame. Their generosity is overwhelming.

4. The Italians love to gossip as much as we do....and they love a juicy story - real or fiction.

5. We meet the mayor of Linguaglossa. He wears a suit and sketchers. He laughs at my shoe joke. Had I joked with President Bush about his shoes, I would have been swatted, patted down and have had my rights read to me in a matter of seconds.

6. Toby likes to take pictures. No man, woman, child or document is safe. To his defense, the Italians LOVE it. We have more pictures of Italian people than most family albums in Italy.

----------------

As William Shakespeare once said: "All's well that ends well." At this late hour, I hope you understand. Of course there is more to come. Soon, I promise. Keep on a movin....

Travelling Sherman

Mt. Etna

2006-07-13T23:13:00.000-07:00

As our Ford Fiesta races up the north side of the base of Mt. Etna, so too comes the Town of Linguaglossa. A small town of no more than 50,000 people it is the pit stop on the way to the volcano. We stop by the train station and ask about accomodation for the evening. The Church processional and bingo games are occupying the day of most townfolk. The station agent tells us there is a pensione called the Villa Refe just up the street. We decide to have a look.

Maria greets us right at the gate. Her starched blue dress and her messy brown hair remind me of the traditional Latin mother: generous, happy, and kind-hearted. I'm glad to find out that she speaks Spanish fairly well, so we get along with conversation just fine. We find out that she has two sons that work on the grounds and one uncle in Chicago.
She shows us the rooms and all is fine. Angela keeps harping on breakfast at 8. Fair enough. In the swealtering heat, what else are you going to do.

6/28
The next morning we take in breakfast with fresh oj and cafe con leche. The black and white cat stares at us with strange intentions. Lisa gets all freaked out and decides to feed her some milk from the table. Angela later scares the cat away with her booming voice. There's no way I would ever break curfew with this one.

(6/28 in the afternoon)
Today's quest is Mt. Etna. Roughly 3300 feet, it's an active volcano. We drive up in our lawn mower of the car before we reach Piano Provenzana - the last town where cars can travel. We take a 4 wheel drive bus up the mountain, as the wheels are larger than our rental car. The ride proves to be bumpier than Space Mountain.

This was the car:

Mt. Etna fun facts:

It is an ACTIVE volcano. This means that this volcano erupts frequently. How frequently, this is up to you. There have been almost ten major eruptions in the last 100 years. The last big one was in the summer of 2002. Eight tourists died. It was a lateral eruption - spewing out from its sides rather than the top.

There are 25 crators fromed on the north side, 5 on the south side. But can you tell me how many crators are found on uranus?

The lava in the 2002 eruption reached over 7 km. long. It knocked out more than 30 homes and the town of Piano Provenzana . It almost knocked out Linguaglossa, but the park service managed to stop the lava flow 3 kilometers from town.

The lava would have buried a person 20 feet deep.

The 2002 eruption also created a collapse in the Volcano - 40 meters long and 15 meters wide. Travelling Lisa tells me this is similar to how when the roof of a pie collapses when taken out of the oven - due to gasses.

The crators are strangely colored - the colors representing different minerals. white = sulfur; black = bassalt; gray = magnesium; red = oxidised (rusted) rock.

Lisa explains to me about igneous rocks. They are created by volcanoes. Volcanoes erupt when magma gets lifted up from opening in a crust.

Volcanoes are usually caused by earthquakes.

Travelling Sherman asks more dumb questions. Lisa tells me I ask the same questions that her 12 year old students used to ask - including the autistic one named Patrick.

Toby likes post cards and view finders. He has 2 dozen at home.

The pizza shop at Etna reminds me of my 4th grade cafeteria experience.
............
Overall, Mt. Etna is a great trip. A must for anyone who goes to Sicily...

Terrasini and Gaia - 6/26

2006-07-12T10:18:00.000-07:00

Back to another installment of Travelling Sherman.
This post brings us to a town called Terrasini. Terrasini is a small town located just outside of Palermo. We are brought here by our friend Gaia. Gaia is an architect originally from Sicily, whom we had befriended here in San Francisco almost two years ago. Thanks to Travelling Toby's legwork, we manage to meet Gaia in Sicily and get a chance to meet her family and friends.

This is Gaia:

A new mode of travel has emerged for us: the car. Toby, Christoph and myself go into Palermo to the rental car shop. After some haggling about, we rent a beautiful Ford Focus. You can probably fit 3 of these cars inside one SUV. A couple of things to note about Cars and driving in Italy:

All cars are stick shift.
There are lane markings on some of the roads in Italy, but it's only reccomended, not enforced.
Do not drive in the left lane, unless you manage to go at least 100 miles per hour.
Honking horns are strongly encouraged

We drive out with Gaia to Terrasini, where her mom lives during the summer. Originally she is from Mondello, a small beach town just outside Palermo. We drive on the interstate and pass beaches and mountains. Eventually, we turn off on to a side street and stop. "Oh, no..she is going to kill us" - Toby says. In such a remote town like this one, I don't think our bodies would be found until autumn.

We pull up to the house and it is gorgeous. It is a palace. 3+ bedrooms, outside porch, swimming pool, all overlooking the Tyrrhenian sea.

Gaia has 1 sister (Rafaella) and 2 brothers (Fabrizzi and Alessandro).
Gaia has 1 mother named Angela. Her Father, whose name I did not get, is no longer living. From what I get from Gaia, he was an admirable man who was killed by the Mafia.
Gaia has a cousin Marco who is married to Gloria.
Gaia introduces us to 2 different friends: Settimo and Lucca.

I'll try featuring a few of the people of whom I remember as best as possible:

Settimo:

A gay man who enjoys bathing, he prances around with a button down and Speedos wondering whether he will go into the pool. He speaks English very well, and has an opinion about almost everything. He tried to work in the theatre but the Italian economy did not let it be. Now he works for the world's worst airline of Alitalia answering phone calls. I'm thinking about starting up a foundation to get him out of this job.

Lucca:
He is a friend of Gaias who fights the good fight. He sits in his chair smoking his cigarette with his dirty black long hair contemplating the world. Being an unemployed designer, he shakes his fist at the sky for his troubles. Actually a highly intelligent fellow, he goes into the political scandals of Silvio Berlusconni, the old prime minister of Italy. Supposedly there is a saying in italy that goes: "Berlusconni mangare tutti" (he ate the whole thing). Berlusconni took all the profits from the people and have therefore left them with shit.

Speaking of which, I offer this advise to Lucca: "When Life gives you lemons, make lemonade".
To which Lucca responds: "What happens when life gives you shit".
I told him that fertilizer can be used for lots of things. Touche.

-----------

The whole family is more than Generous. Gaia's mom can make vegetable lasagna and pesto pasta for 20 with one hand tied behind her back. I tell her she can move in anytime. Many side conversations emerege. For example, we talk about how Fabrizzi played with Americans from the N.F.L, and that Marco was the European windsurfer champion. It could be all a bunch of bologna but still we are enthralled. Sitting in the Sicilian sun, it doesn't matter. This is paradise. Great food, Good laughs and a blow-up turtle for the swimming pool, nothing could be better.

The next day we saunter out of Terrasini at a slow place leaving for our next destination. We bid Gaia farewell and wish her and her family the best of luck. I hope it's not the last time we see them. We are back on the road. The road to Linguaglossa - the next scavenger hunt. More about that next time.

Until then, keep on travelling....wherever you are

Travelling Sherman

Palermo: 6/24 and 6/25

2006-07-10T06:04:00.000-07:00

The last few days have filled out quite well. I have adjusted to the Italian schedule. This usually means waking up later, taking the afternoon nap, and eating dinner no earlier than 10 PM.

Today's story begins at the meat market. No, not that one. To be more exact, the setting is more of a market where just about anything can be sold. Here are some tof the items you can purchase at the Palermo market:
Tuna
Swordfish
Drill Bits
Tomatoes
Earings
Mr. Incredible cell phone
Box wine
Fishing reels
Car stereos

Think of it as Wal-mart without the falling prices.

Here is how it's set up:
Local Sicilian men shout at the top of their lungs advertising their products.
Customers walk down the dirt paths, avoiding the scooters and try to bargain with vendors.
Little kids with overgrown mullets help out by bagging your purchases.

The most amazing thing I saw was the Tuna. After catching it early that morning, they somehow manage to transport it into the market. They then use butcher knives I only dream of having, and cut up squares of fish that are bigger than the human head.

Toby is taking pictures incessantly. Teresa, Christoph [an old friend of Toby's from Germany], and Lisa are holding fruit, while I get overwhelmed in the crowd. After swimming out of the chaos, we walk down the nearby alley and come across a man with 2 dogs: Paulina and Big Balls. Ok, so I don't know the name of the second dog. The owner did say that he had overgrown testicles. Maybe he was just pointing at my testicles - who knows.

We take in lunch at Frigatoria Gastronomia (aka. Fast Food Joint #1). Beware, this is not your everyday fast food. You can get roasted eggplant, fried fish, chicken, tomato sauce, and fresh pizza for roughly $6. It's a feast for the eys and stomach.

We meet Adiana. - She is the waitress most likely in her late 20's. She wears a white t-shirt, Italian jeans, and velcro sneakers. She resembles our friend Teresa. At one point, we even ask if they are related. She nods kindly as to say "OK, just take the picture of me and I'll just smile at whatever you say". Then, she goes back to work in the sauna otherwise known as the Sicilian kictchen.

We then go to a church and a cathedral to take in our fill of Jesus for the day. We happen to catch a wedding in progress. I am waiting for Don Corleone to grace our presence, but he never does.

Palermo is quite a fun city. It is a big city, but it feels much cleaner than Naples. It is split up int (at least) 2 areas: the new city and the old city. The new city has Bennetton. The old city has building much older than Bennetton. It's a city that is put together well. There is one intersection in town called the Quattro Canti. It's an intersection with the most ornate architecture I have ever seen. Most of the statues are an ode to Philip III who ruled sicily in the 1600s, although I'm not sre why. As you look up, it looks like you are actually in a tall room with a large ceiling of statues.

Some other things to note:
We meet a Greek/Sicilian lady that cooks some great meat off the barbie in the middle of town. We take a seat at the adjoining restaurant only to have a 11 year old take our wine order.
It's never too early to have a beer. Toby and Christoph set the pace as I try to desperately follow.
Travelling in Palermo in late June produces temperatures so high your shirt is drenched within seconds.
I have some of the best Pizza in Palermo. The restaurant is overlooked by huge Gothic Churches in the old city.
When you order a Pizza, Italians/Sicilians do not mess around. For $5, you get a Pizza that is deep, cheesy, big and delicioso.

=====

I am sitting here on a beach in Cefalu' at the moment. The beach is nice. The salt content in the water is high enough you could foat on your back for hours.
Cefalu's main backdrop is called La Rocca (rock). It was first discovered by the Arabs almost 1000 years ago. The Normans, however, kicked them out in the 11th century and moved the whole place down to the beach to catch more waves.

=========
Christoph decides he wants to go to dinner with an oceanfront view and the sunsetting. He is such the romantic I could cry. Seriously, I am getting in touch with my feminine side. We find a place called Cafe il Saracena. It is a feast for the eyes and stomach. We eat ceviche with mussels, tuna and salmon, local chardonay, and a swordfish pasta with mint. We get to the joint early, so the wait staff loads the juke box with American songs such as Mission Impossible, Elvis Presley theme songs and Jimi Hendrix. When the box set comes out, I will let you know.

(Christoph is on the right)

One thing to note about going out to dinner in Italy, as well as Southern Europe. You better not be in a hurry. For example, back home most restaurants seem to want to shove the bill in front of you right after your last shot of coffee or Jager Meister (depending on your evening). In Italy, you have to do cartwheels in front of them before a waiter thinks to bring you the bill. The only reason I say this is that time passes, and Lisa looks at her watch. We realize we have less than 15 minutes to catch a train miles away. At this point, the Mission Impossible theme music is over, the wait staff is a little more bitter, and I am starting to get a little more impatient. It's similar to when you wake up the next morning after having sexual relations, you are dying to leave but you don't know how to do it gracefully. We finally get the check and beeline it back to the station. Toby is insane as he breaks out in full sprint. Trying to keep up with him is useless as my buddah gut gets the best of me. Dying from exhaustion, we finally make it to the train station only to find out that the train is delayed for 45 minutes.

Toby Sleeps on train after running

What is the moral of the above story. If you are in Sicily and you are running late do not worry. Most likely everyone else on the island is running even later.

More to come.
Travelling Sherman

Naples Sites

2006-07-07T08:31:00.000-07:00

Naples is all about the churches. I start scribbling notes on paper like a schoolboy finishing his term paper. I look at my notes and I think to myself, there's a whole lot of church in these notes. So I have decided to keep my notes to a minimum as I try to spare the painstaking details.

1. The Duomo of Naples
For every major Italian city there exists a Duomo. A Duomo is essentially a cathedral. Moreover, it represents the city. Even still, it becomes a great landmark. For example: "Turn left at the Duomo" or "If you pass the duomo, you have gone too far".

For every city there is a duomo. For every Duomo there is a story. Here is where the story begins:

Imagine that you were a person that did good things in life. Imagine you were a person that did good things in life for others. Enter San Gennaro, a Saint - or what I call a "do gooder". This person performed miracles a. lah Jesus Christ. Unfortunately, he was doing such a good job that the rest of the church turned Jealous. Of course, they do what any logical body of authority would do - behead the bastard. So in 305, San Gennaro was beheaded for doing too many good things.
Moral of the story: Good Guys finish last.

Ok, so there's more to it than that. Many years later, his body is brought to Naples to the Duomo. In 1989, there was hemoglobin found in the blood. Hemoglobin is the part of the red blood cells where oxygen was found. When oxygen is found, the blood liquifies. The only problems with this is that our guy Gennaro has been dead for 1500 years. Again, the superstitious people of Naples believe this to be another miracle of St. Gennaro. His blood supposedly liquifies 3 times a year. What a treat.

So if you are wondering what you can do with your body when you pass on, you can
a) be creamated
b) donate your body to science
c)become buried
d)try to have someone see if your blood liquifies. If so, you too may be able to get your owqn chapel and perform miracles...All without lifting a finger, or a bone.

2. Museo Arceologico Nazionale

So this is the big museum of Naples. Its biggest claim to fame is that many of the original statues and relics from the A.D. 79 Pompeii eruption have been stored here. The original statues of Artemis (goddess of hunting) and her bro Apollo (god of light and reason) are stored here. Some of the other big highlights:
*You get to see the famous God with the earth on the back. He is famous for coming up with that slogan "I have the weight of the world on my shoulders"
*A piece of a Meredian line replica the signs of Zodiac. For all of the non DaVinci Code readers, the Prime Meridian line is located in Greenwich, England. The Meridian line was used back in the day to tell time depending on how it was reflected by the sun.
*Sex room. No joke. There is a separate Ancient World of Sex. There are brothel pictures and decorations, sex organ charms, and phallic symbols everywhere. Some of the charmers are a statue of a bull with a penis in his mouth and some good oil on canvas porn of Venus (the love goddess) and Mars (her lover).

3. Napoli Soterranea (Underground Naples)

Beginning 400 feet below, Travelling Lisa and I go to discover Napoli Soterranea, the underbelly of naples. After 3 days in exhausting sickness and stifling heat it's nice to go underground. Yes, today we are venturing underneath the city.

Lisa and I are touring with a humble guide from Poland. She has a good command of the language, and tells us more about the history. We venture underground to find a labyrinth of tunnels and sisterns. The system of tunnels served as old backstage parlors for actors in the ampitheatre above. Years later, it served as an aqueduct for the entire city. And during World War II, it served as a bomb shelter for many. See the engraving of a bomb sketch that is more than 50 years old below --

We hear one story of the Pozatelli. It goes something like this.
Water from rivers and channels flowed under the tunnels and eventually collected into what are called sisterns. The sisterns represented the water supply for a particular region. Think of sisterns like you would think of fire hydrants. They are full of water, and the only people that can use them are studly firemen that women fantasize about.
Enter the Pozatelli. The original woman fantasy. They risked their lives daily to set up ropes and well systems to provide water for the rest of the community. They also would be known to leave presents for women they fancied. They stole from the rich and gave to the poor -- The original robin hoods of our time. They were usually short, and wore long coats to protect them from the elements. As we walk through the sisterns, you see the entrances where the pozatelli had to climb from. Batman had nothing on these guys.

The underground had indeed served as an ampitheatre in its time and so the following is a brief anectdote on Nero - the emperor and performer...
So Naples is the oldest city in Italy. Because of this, Naples had earned much props throughout the region. Many actors which to perform here. In fact, Nero the emperor performed here in AD 79. Honestly, I could care less about his acting. He did however manage a stint of good luck when he forced his audience to stick around after one of his shows. All 3000 of them stayed for a couple of encores while one of the most brutal earthquakes struck the area. Many people in Naples died. However, everyone in the Ampitheatre was saved.

As we leave the underground tour, we say a humble farewell to our tour guide. Looking back as I type this email, there are countless other sites in Naples that we miss...Countless castles and curches, more churches, and probably some more piazzas with jesus. But you get the idea. Naples is rich with history once you scratch its surface. All they need to do now is to work on the smog.

Naples: 6/22-6/23

2006-07-07T08:23:00.000-07:00

Naples

The plane is eerily silent as we begin to land. The Bay of Naples comes into view, along with its big brother, Mount Vesuvious. I sense a bit of haze which reminds me that it is going to be a hot day. The captain has reminded us to keep our seat belts fastened. We land in just fine. We grab our bags. We get on with it. We find a taxi as he drives us wrecklessly to our final destination.

This is Naples. Overcrowded streets, light smog, and crazy drivers. However, there emerges some sort of method to the madenss, as everyone is on cue - playing their part. The street vendor is working his bock, the housewife is dumping old water, the motor scooters zig-zag with ease. All I do is watch.

Lisa and I are staying in what is called the Centro Storico District. Otherwise known as the center of town. There is a university here. You know you are close when you see the anarchy symbols, reggae paraphanalia, and flyers to join up with the communist party. We scamper up to the Hotel Pignatelli, ring the bell and talk to Enzo. Enzo seems to be the common name because we confuse Enzo, the hotel man with Enzo, the hair stylist. One is flamboyant, the other one a plain bearded hotel worker.

Southern Italy

2006-07-07T08:14:00.000-07:00

Travelling Sherman
Southern Italy

Welcome once again everyone:
The content you are about to read could prove hazardous to your health. For example, it may induce a decrease in productivity at work. It may cause you to laugh out loud in spastic motions. Please, please, please under all circumstances consult a professional before continuing on.

Ok, so anyways. Here goes. Travelling Sherman has gone to Italy once again. This time the focus is on Southern Italy. A quick map.

1. Naples
2. Sicily
*Palermo and surrounding Areas.
*Mt. Etna
*Hunt for Teresa's relatives
*Aeolian Islands
*Amalfi Coast

(Travelling Lisa in background with albino shoulder in foreground)

Enjoy....Keep travelling, wherever you are...

Travelling Sherman