An Announcement

Alas, I have decided to let my website, www.owilybug.ca, to fade away. Instead, my photography can now be found on www.owilybug.com. So, please, no panicking!
Whilst announcing this little tit bit of news, I should also mention that I have a gallery of photos of India ("Colours of India") on display at my local Blenz Cafe at 1615 Robson Street, Vancouver, until the end of January. If you're in the neighbourhood, please check it out.
Last bit of news to announce (while I'm at it): I had a very successful autumn season as a tour leader with Adventures Abroad. My tours took me to Greece and Turkey (this extended tour also featured the first tour for my father, Michael Hodgson!), Egypt and India. Upon my return, I had a bit of a break until I started today at the Adventures Abroad office as the new Operations Manager (in-training, at the moment). Very exciting. Of course, I do plan on making it away to exotic locations from time to time when the rigours of office life allow me to!
And remember: it's fun to collect pins!

March of the Pigs - Laos Part II

Northern Laos. March, 2005.

Adrian’s face was ashen as he returned to the warmth of our crowded bamboo hut. Bowe and I had been enjoying the comraderie of our Laotian hosts amidst the sampling of lao-hai on a distinctly chilly evening. The second evening of our hill-tribe trek in northern Laos had been exciting and welcoming. But our Swiss friend’s look spoke of shock and fear. We bent forward to hear his tale…

Bowe and I had survived our river voyage up the Nam Tha. A long day of multiple boat transfers and a three-hour saengthaew trip laden with pigs, ducks and a nauseous puppy brought us eventually to Luang Nam Tha in northwestern Laos. We spent a few days attempting to find a hill-tribe trek suitable to our interests and fending off a roving pack of colourfully-garbed Akha women who relentlessly tried to pawn trinkets to the new falang arrivals in their town. All in all, it was evident that Luang Nam Tha had already appeared on the traveler radar and was beginning its transformation into an alternate Chiang Mai for eco-tourists. Reports of hill villages with lurking trinket-hawkers surfaced through our conversations with other tourists. Bowe and I considered our options and decided to continue onward.

Our departure from Luang Nam Tha came via a washboard road littered with occasional craters. Ample evidence of Laotian road conditions was indicated by the liberal offerings of sick-bags spread out strategically along the roof hooks on the ceiling of the bus. Nevertheless, we survived our journey to Udom Xai, a less-than-desirable transport hub, where we transferred to an open-sided truck and proceeded to Muang Khua in the north of Laos. Our less-than-fortuitous timing had us making this journey on a day where the temperatures had dropped to a rare five degrees Celsius. Bowe and I huddled amongst our fellow passengers in the back, using shared bodily warmth to keep from freezing in the biting wind. Three hours of chattering teeth and shaking limbs later, we arrived at our wee destination, close to the Chinese border. The town was composed of bamboo huts spread out along the dusty road, a central market area, and access to the Nam Ou River, the traditional transport link to other parts of the country. A conveniently placed sign heralded the way to our guesthouse for the evening, the appropriately named Nam Ou Guesthouse, situated looking over the river.

As we settled into the open-air restaurant attached to the guesthouse, we took note that all non-locals in town were patrons of our chosen inn. We were surrounded by a Swedish tour group for the most part, with a few remaining tables occupied by a scattering of independent travelers. It was thus that we met Adrian, a Swiss fellow, looking for possible hiking companions to join him on a Hill-Tribe trek in the Muang Khua area.

A hand-written advert had been posted by Khammane, a local guide, to take visitors to Muang Khua into the surrounding villages on 1-, 2-, or 3-day treks. Adrian had gone down to the house that had been described as the residence to contact Khammane, left a message and was awaiting his arrival to discuss details of a trip. And so it was that Bowe and I fell into a new opportunity to do some trekking after our expectation that it was not going to happen. Khammane arrived, a lean, reasonably tall man (for Laos) with a jaunty cap, soft voice and kind face. It turned out that Khammane was the local high school chemistry teacher who did guide work on the side to help support his family. He outlined the rough itinerary of his proposed 3-day trek, and summarized with a set price of $15 U.S. a day per person, everything included. Who were we to turn down such a stroke of good fortune? A mere five days into our stay in Laos and we were already embodying our appraisal of the country – a laidback, go-with-the-flow attitude. And adventure awaited…

We were up early to get a head-start on the trekking day. Khammane arrived at the guesthouse at the pre-determined hour and introduced us to his aide-de-camp for the voyage, a young man sporting a red baseball cap and yellow flip-flop sandals. We wound up nicknaming him John for no particular reason except that the three of us couldn’t remember his Laotian name (stupid falang, hey?). We set off with full daypacks into the market of Muang Khua to purchase our food supplies. Quite frankly the choice of vendor was how we made our purchase decisions given that each of them more or less carried the same wares. We eventually settled on a wonderful older woman with a big smile and kind eyes. She carried on a very animated conversation with us, pointing randomly to vegetables, Bowe’s long hair (add another Laotian to the list of people who were unsure of Bowe’s gender), my strange pink skin, and so on. We smiled inanely and repeated our “Sabadii’s” like idiots as we made to leave. The other women nearby looked enviously at her as we loaded up our bags. Our rations included assorted veggies, some chocolate snacks and some pens for the village children we would be visiting. We made our way toward the town centre, about 20 metres from the market, to jump on the saengthaew to carry us toward the village where we would start our hike. Luckily, I remembered it might be well-advised to take some toilet paper with us. I doubted luxurious, white-enamel washrooms brimming with fancy supplies awaited us amongst the hill tribe villages.

We boarded our mechanical chariot, bound for our starting point in the trek. Khammane had organized our saengthaew as a sort-of charter bus. Heading south, we stopped at a town Bowe and I had passed through the day before on our chilly journey to Muang Khua. The truck stopped and we hopped out, following Khammane obediently to a part of the village where a large vat of bubbling liquid awaited. Adrian, Bowe and I looked askance at one another with nervousness. Were we going to be boiled alive? No. No such fear about that. This was Laos. Instead, it was fear of what we knew we would be expected to try. At nine o’clock in the morning. Lao-lao. Our stomachs rebelled prematurely. A village woman was tending the distillation of the liquid in preparation for the New Year festivities that would come early in the next month. Pii Mai was the Laotian name for the festival and it typically included three days of slinging water at one another and consuming generous portions of lao-lao. We got to sample the new batch, distilled through a wonderfully basic, yet elegant, barrel design. With our now-expected gaggle of village children hanging about nearby, amused and curious about the new falang in town, we dutifully raised the lao-lao to our lips and supped of its power. Ergh. Belly roll. “Fai-mai”, I coughed, a recently acquired Laotian expression referring to fire that Lonely Planet had seen fit to put in their dictionary. No doubt they had used the same term once they had slipped the esophagus-burner down the throat. The woman tending the brew cracked a toothy grin and chortled. She looked suspiciously akin to the woman we had bought the vegetables from in Muang Khua. With warm bellies and a mild buzz (enforced after an obligatory extra shot of demon liquid), we tripped back to the truck. Our couple of extra passengers waited patiently for the grinning falang to scramble aboard and off we went, leaving the clucking chickens, barking dogs and the waving children in our dust.



Khammane Xayavong

Another half hour on the road brought us to our starting point. It was another small village full of the usual. Chickens, dogs, children and all that. Khammane greeted some of the members of the village and one woman brought us along toward a bamboo bridge that connected the banks of the river and sent us on our way. We negotiated our way across the wooden boards, waved goodbye to the obligatory watchful kids that stood on the other side, and proceeded up a track and a particularly steep hill. Very steep. My Mexican pancho was off in no time. Sweat trickled quickly and in far greater quantities than I wished. I looked at my trekking partners. Bowe was fine, but then again he’s a sprightly 28 years. Adrian looked to be in similar shape to me. Literally and figuratively. John was probably around 16 years old and this seemed to be a walk in the park (well, hills) for him. Khammane, who dare I say was bordering on the forties or older (?) essentially floated up the path. I questioned my choice to have a couple of quiet Beer Laos each night since my arrival in the country. Adrian and I were not to expect it yet, but these three days would entail a number of sharp ascents and descents that would test our mettle. Perhaps this is why Khammane fortified us with the lao-lao before the journey began. Fortuitously, as the sweat became commonplace for me, my fatigue wore off and I started to embrace the cooler temperatures that greeted us as each step gained us more altitude. Cool temperatures were something of a novelty after the first two months in Southeast Asia.

As we ascended into the low-level cloud of the hills Khammane pointed out that the cloud was in fact created from the slash-and-burn tactics prevalent in the region. While not as effective as the Thais had been in recent years, the Laotian government was attempting to cut the supply of the opium trade that still operated amongst many of the hill tribes. Slash-and-burn was one strategy to deal with it, as were more environmentally-sound practices that the many NGO’s and the UN were attempting to implement, namely showing the benefits of planting other crops besides the poppy. Our views across to the surrounding hills and the villages that lay far below were obscured by the smoke that clung to the slopes of the region.



Opium Seeds Drying in the Sun
(Village Name withheld on request)

Our first stop of the day was for lunch, our first experience of visiting a hill tribe village in Laos (Bowe had participated in a hike in Northern Thailand). Khammane greeted the people as we entered our increasingly familiar set-up of bamboo huts, some raised on platforms, others on ground level. Excitement brewed amongst the local children and we heard the now familiar refrains of “falang” and “sabadii” echo through the dusty lanes. Khammane guided us through to a hut, ostensibly the abode of the village elder. Preparations were quickly made and we were shown where to drop our packs and to sit down. Food was brought out and cooking began. Khammane acted as translator as the elder and his family asked us our names and where we were from. For some reason, the fact that a Canadian was present seemed (and would continue for the trip) to be quite a novelty. Inquiries into where Canada was and how far it would take to get there invariably followed. Evidently they already knew about Switzerland and the States. We were asked if we would be able to treat a malady that was suffered by the village elder. Adrian and I bowed to Bowe’s knowledge of first aid on the matter of the growth the elder suffered from, but it was insufficient. The village had had some experience with westerners before, and they had been doctors. There was some expectation that we would know too. Alas, we could not help.

Our meal began after a rattan table was placed in the middle of our haphazard circle on the floor. Bamboo containers full of sticky rice were placed within fingers reach of each twosome and communal platters and bowls of an unrecognizable food were set upon the wicker platform. We were prompted to dig in, using the sticky rice in one hand to pick up the vegetable-like morsels on the one platter, and soaking up the broth-like victuals in the other. All of it was really quite tasty and fortifying. Energy seeped back into our tired muscles. Our sweat-soaked backs that had grown chilly with rest warmed to the satisfying fare. We still had no idea what we were eating. Until Bowe picked out a wee paw of bone from his broth, that is. Hmmm. A broad grin from Khammane greeted our discovery. He searched his knowledge of English for a moment and then said, quizzically, “I think it is what you call… squirrel?” Bowe shrugged, took some more and said “Not too bad!” I’d have to agree. It was quite tasty.

Our meals complete, our quintet of trekkers bade our farewells after many thanks to the elder and the other villagers. We gave out some of the pens that we had purchased that morning in Muang Khua. The children who had been watching us eat with much intrigue surprised us with a cleverly designed mask that they wore for us, taking turns, before we departed. An extra bit of cardboard had been cut away to form a face and some kind of text marker had been used to make a beard and moustache on the mask. Bowe and I had some admirers for our facial hair! The kids laughed and giggled as they swapped wearing the mask as we made our way to the outskirts of the village. We laughed with them, taking some photos and showing them the results with the digital cameras. The children squealed with more delight. Leaving then on a high note and full of yummy squirrel lunch, we headed further up into the hills.



“Clever Mask!”
In the village of the “Squirrel”

As our trek took us further into the high country of Phongsali province, it struck us further how much of a difference Laos was compared to the other nations in the Southeast Asian region. Thailand and Vietnam were made up of 66 million and 81 million people respectively. Laos had roughly 6 million people in a similar area of land as the other countries. Now that we were far above the toil of the river towns, we were alone and soaking in the vastness and isolation of the hills. I found this very soothing. To paraphrase a parable I had heard previous to my trip in Southeast Asia, if you wanted a field of some sort built and maintained in Indochina, you would get the Thais to finance and construct it, you would get the Cambodians to watch it and you would have the Laotians listen to the flowers grow. I had yet to visit Cambodia (by this point), but I could see the truth to the other two.

Our afternoon of hiking through the upper reaches of the hills was much easier once we had reached our high point. We made quick time along the paths that cut through the thick growth of plants on either side, excepting where we broke out into a wide swath of previous slash-and-burns. As the sun cut across the sky toward the end of the day, we descended into a burn in the side of the hill that had been formed by water ages ago. The river still ran its way down the burn to the valley below. The river was still obviously used by the nearby village as its source of bathing. We caught a number of villagers bathing in the buff. Surprise! Falang alert! We made our way toward them after the women had a chance to conceal themselves. There was a mixture of embarrassment and curiousity. The newness of the foreign element brought out the friendly nature of the villagers and we were soon being shown their recently captured pygmy slow loris, a small mammal with big eyes related to the primate family that, incidentally, had a natural defense mechanism of poisoned claws. The villagers had trapped the creature and managed to tie it to a large bamboo stick using a piece of string. The big mournful eyes of the loris looked back at us. We were alternately curious, excited and saddened by yet another fascinating animal that was kept tied up by Laotian captors. Khammane told us that the loris’ were captured by the villagers in hopes of being able to sell them to a zoo, but for the most part, they would be used for their tasty livers (no – not that we tried). My concern for animals had to take on a bit of a thick skin whilst in Laos.



A captured Pygmy Slow Loris in Kiawkam village

After exploiting the captured loris with plenty of photographs we followed Khammane onward to the village of Kiawkam, home to our encountered bathers. The entry to the village was over a basic wooden fence that surrounded the main huts. Short wooden ladders were the access points to clambering over the fence. The imminent arrival of the falang had been broadcast by the bathers who had arrived before us. The children of Kiawkam were giddy with anticipation of their new guests.



Kiawkam Village

It was already late in the day and we were led to the hut of the head of the village to put down our packs, rest our feet and be welcomed by the elders. But as in so many other similar occasions, we had barely hauled off our packs and positioned ourselves toward the back of the hut when we were besieged by the children. Time for magic tricks and digital camera fun! It turned out that we would be the first falang to actually spend the night in this village, so the novelty for the kids was overwhelming. Before we knew it, we had the Great Wall of Kiawkam children in front of us. It was very amusing. Although we had some concern that the floor of the hut was going to collapse from the weight, the children did their best to not actually make contact with us, in spite of the growing weight of the children from behind. By the time that the digital cameras were being shown, the wall was wavering back and forth, imminently ready to tumble down resulting in a pile of thrashing Laotian kids and surprised falang. Surprisingly, this didn’t actually happen.



Kiawkam’s Wall of Children

Entertaining the children with our emerging grasp of Laotian took its toll on our fatigued minds and bodies. As food was prepared and brought in, the children gradually stole away to their own huts and supper times. We were joined by our host, the head of the village (whom appeared somewhat younger than the three of us) and his mates. A robust meal of khao niaw, chicken (?), and vegetable matter similar to burdock root was followed by lao-hai time. We were now quite familiar with the process of gathering around the clay pot full of fermented rice, filled with water, and sucking furiously on the four or five bamboo straws that poked out of the vessel to try and empty the liquid as quickly as possible.



Sampling “lao-hai” in Kiawkam village

Now having three falang come and stay in your village for the first time is pretty exciting stuff. The topping up of the lao-hai got faster and faster. Soon, everyone seemed to be having a merry old time. It was somewhere around this point that Adrian excused himself, making his way out into the darkness outside to answer a call of nature. We continued our frivolity as our Laotian and English conversations seemed to become much more understandable to everyone involved. Thank you lao-hai! And then the door to the hut burst open as a panting and mortified Adrian returned, ashen-faced. Our sudden silence and wide-open stares obviously said: What, pray tell, had happened?

Simply, this: Adrian made his way out beyond the primary fence-line of the village to the animal enclosure – well, really it was the pig enclosure. We had been assured that if the need to urinate were to come up (as we had undoubtedly done already) it is easy to find a spot to empty your bladder and feel a lot better. However, if you were to have a bit of trouble with your stomach and bowel as a result of, say, ingesting some bad squirrel, you needed to make your way to the pig enclosure. With impenetrable darkness surrounding him, Adrian hunched down to go about his duty when the sudden snorting of pigs that knew the sound of an upcoming meal was pending caught him by surprise. The snorting became a harrumphing and the harrumphing became a general sound of melee as the scrabble of a drove of pigs honed in on Adrian, hunkered down and sorely exposed (as it were) to danger. Let’s just say that Adrian made like a Swiss train and was off over the fence before the pigs had a chance. Mind you, the pigs weren’t after Adrian, but he wasn’t about to risk being caught in the feeding frenzy. Wide-eyed and heart thumping like a bunny, Adrian burst into the hut to our quizzical stares and this was the story that spilled out of him like something else so recently noted (oops, sorry about that one).

Adrian finished his tale and we greeted it with about three seconds of silence, whereupon Khammane, Bowe, a couple of others who understood the gist of the story, and I broke into huge fits of laughter. We would try to stop the tears streaming from our eyes to tell the others, but we had to wait until Khammane was able to translate. Of course, once he managed there was another general outbreak of mirth from the Laotians. All good times really, all aided and abetted by lao-hai…

So potential Laotian trekker, heed this warning! Bad squirrel can lead to voracious pigs! (Bet you’ve never heard that used in a sentence before).

Luang Nam Tha or Bust - Laos Part I

Nam Tha River, Laos. March, 2005.

The dwindling of the oppressive heat in the late afternoon was just the tonic as we motored slowly upstream on the Nam Tha River. Our longboat, piloted by our three Lao boatmen, stirred the breeze on our face as the dense, subtropical rainforest cast its shadow across the increasingly shallow river. We were nearly two hours away from the small village where we were intending to spend the night in our 2 day journey from Huay Xai, border point on the Mekong opposite Thailand. Our destination? Luang Nam Tha in northwestern Laos. It was an exciting day in its novelty versus the well-trodden traveler path that marked much of Southeast Asia. We looked forward to stretching our limbs by the time we got to our destination as we took in the thick foliage, the occasional passing longboat steered by human-and-pole power by local river-goers, and the infrequent cluster of bamboo huts and gathering of tiny children pausing in their daily activities to gawk at we foreigners looking back at them from our transport. It had been a long day, but a rewarding day of relaxation and novelty. Of course, that’s when our boat engine blew up.

The oil seeping from the engine into the river was not what we had pictured for this trip. Imagine that. Our communication with our guides was limited to a few basic phrases in English that our one Lao compatriot had acquired over the years. His name was Seri and he was a very friendly sort and he had spent a good portion of the trip helping us to pronounce the tonal challenges that the Lao language offered to English-speakers. The prowess of the other two boatmen was evident in their steering and poling ability on the river. Unfortunately, we could not offer to return the favour with respect to our current dilemma. It was obvious that they thought we would possess some keen western knowledge to getting this engine up and running again. Although Bowe certainly had a greater ability with mechanical devices, we simply did not have the tools to make a difference, not even if we were to try and MacGyver it. We would thus prove to be a disappointment. Our options were limited. Indeed, it was time to break out the extra oars and poles and use manual power to maneuver our way upstream. I quickly appreciated the strength and stamina of our Lao friends as I found myself regretting my reasonably sedentary lifestyle I had fallen back into upon my return to school. Sigh. What must be thought of the westerners as our (well… my) attempts to coordinate oaring upstream were inept at best. Nevertheless, we were lucky enough to arrive at what would become our home for a night within about half an hour from our engine disaster in a small village called Bam Pet (essentially translated as “Village Five”).

Bowe and I were visiting Laos just as a new census of its peoples was being conducted around the country. Imagine a scaled graph with a very wide base representing the ages of newborns through 10 years of age. Then imagine a quick tapering of that base up through the ages with not too many living beyond 50 years of age. It would resemble many of the “wats” (a Buddhist monastery shaped with a tapered roof) that these Buddhist countries possess. Now imagine a village that indicated that demographic. That is where we were staying the night. Oodles of children were present as were a decreasing handful of adults as the ages increased. We were greeted at the river’s edge as we oared our way amongst the other boats that were stationed off of the main riverside access to Bam Pet. Suffice it to say that two very white men, one with long hair and a full beard, the other with beard and very red nose from his Celtic skin being “blessed” by the exposure to sun in Southeast Asia for the last 2 months, was not a common sight in Bam Pet. Rarely have I considered myself a novelty until that particular moment. The village children in their hordes emerged to see what the river had washed up for their amusement for the evening. Cautious stares greeted us as the children grew ever braver in approaching the strange men that had been dumped on their shore. Bowe and I, a little uneasy with the whole situation that had developed from our loss of “comfort zone”, practiced our newest Lao word “Sabadii!” (translated as “hello”) to the encroaching children whilst our guides negotiated with the village head that for all we knew could involve our first-borns and my (apparently, very novel) bright yellow water bottle. Our cautious greetings were repeated back to us with much appreciation by the children. They obviously took it as a sign that we were fluent in Lao and we flapped around looking for our recently purchased used Laos guide to try out the basic phrases in the back of the book.

The negotiations were complete as the sun started to set. We were staying the night in Bam Pet. We were hustled up the hill with the help of some of the elder village boys who took it upon themselves to carry our packs. The horde of curious youths followed quickly behind as we were brought to the hut of the head of the village. We took in the sights and sounds of grunting village pigs, sniffing village dogs and clucking village chickens. Our entryway to the hut was via a small ladder that led up to the main level. This necessitated a semi-ludicrous balancing act as we were now in possession of our backpacks again. Apparently I’m not as dexterous as I used to be but, to the amusement of our onlookers, managed to scramble up with little consequence. Did this new loft allow us the time and opportunity to survey our surrounds and digest our new situation? No. We were soon joined up on the balcony by most of the village. Our noticeably absent guides were not available to offer insight or translation into what was expected of us, if anything. It was time to wing it…

As we established ourselves on our balcony, our “home-for-the-night”, we realized that the village was in front of us. Literally. We had a wall of children watching our every move and fruitlessly (as far as we knew) attempting to understand our conversation about just how to strategically deal with the evening. Our guides appeared briefly to offer us an opportunity to have duck for the night’s meal. They had this duck in their arms. It was not looking particularly pleased with the prospect of having its life being debated for dinner. In the end, we decided against it. Its life was all of 25,000 kip. That is about $3 Canadian. Not bad, I guess. It was a big duck. In the end, we believe our guides ate it.

Our hosts, having provided us with mats to sleep on for the evening, then took it upon themselves to provide us with our Bam Pet, duck-free meal. We were presented with a large bowl of sticky rice (khao niaw), a staple of Lao dishes that we quickly learned to appreciate, and a hearty broth of mixed vegetables, and more than likely, bits of meat of some nature. With now approximately half of the village looking on, we nodded and voiced our appreciation of the fine meal presented to us. We were also presented with a carafe of tea and shots of what we soon would discover was a local fermented rice drink that could, more than likely, strip paint. It was called “lao-lao”. We would quickly learn that this had a kick like a mule and it was also expected for us to shoot it back at a reasonable pace and then have it topped up again upon finish. Oh oh. What were we in for? I admittedly had a fairly strong tolerance to alcoholic beverages, but Bowe was starting to feel the effects after a few shots of the demon liquid. We also thought it prudent to keep our wits about us. We observed that we were the only ones partaking in the drink. The rest of the village looked on, as we believed, with anticipation. It was, after all, a new country and we were just starting to get our bearings on the nature of the country and its peoples. We had a wealth of belongings in our packs compared to what this village would ever possess and the government officials did know we were out here, right? We heard the grunting of the pigs nearby…

Turning yet again to the Laos guide to attempt communication was our first step to try and win over the curious villagers as we ate our dinner. We struggled through the tonal language in introducing who we were and where we were from. This became easier after the lao-lao started to take effect. The subject matter of marriage and children came up quite quickly, obviously a subject of great interest for our hosts. Indeed, its placement in the small talk section came shortly after name exchange and where we were from. Suffice it to say that the guidebook had little mention of a philosophical explanation about how people in the western world were a little bit more reticent about leaping into marriage with the first available mate and start breeding. Alas, we had to turn to magic tricks and our digital cameras instead.

If there is any advice I can give to the aspiring Laos-bound traveler, it is to learn magic and card tricks and to possess a digital camera. These are as good as gold. You would find that most of the Laotians love to have their photo taken and will excitedly push themselves forward to be the centre of attention (not everyone is so eager however, and will retreat to the background, so it is wise to show them that you are taking a photo before going and doing so). Upon using the cameras, the children soon found themselves in hysterics. They quickly warmed to the fact that they could see themselves in but a couple of moments and were soon falling over themselves in order to crowd around the camera. One particular little boy was able to position himself in order to be front and centre in practically every photo. He of the faded zip-up jacket, big smile and partially-patched hair: a star is born. The one front-and-centre child would prove to be a common experience in Laos, possibly due to their parents’ social standing within the village.

However, our long day and the warmth of our lao-lao soon caused the eyes to droop and we indicated we needed to go to sleep. Reluctantly, the children made their way down the ladder and our hosts started to prepare everything for sleep time. Quickly the village slipped into silence. The sleep I was so looking forward to would not come for some time though. At first, the heat was the first factor, as I tossed and turned, a little unsure as to exposing skin to any lingering mosquitoes (such as the obligatory mozzie that was taking up residence, noisily, in my ear). A dose of natural citronella took care of that problem but proved to be too cloying as the cloud clung to my head. But then the serenade of the village began. The time-challenged roosters began crowing five hours early, the village dogs barked and growled in a rising baritone crescendo that was matched by the operatic wailing of a disgruntled baby, and even the pigs maintained a low grunting that added a bass resonance to the chorus. Blearily, I took all of this in and even found grim humour to it all. Until the stirrings of the fisher-folk for the four o’clock morning castings, that is. The hubbub continued for some time. I believe that I eventually got a good 20-minute sleep.

Our guides woke us from our brief slumber at around 5:30 in the morning. The temperature was distinctly chilly at this time of morning. We carefully descended the darkened hillside to the riverbank after a quick but fumbling packing job of our belongings. The Nam Tha was shrouded in mist rising from the water, obscuring the blackness of the opposite bank like a gray blanket. Our borrowed boat awaited us, obscured by the dark and fog until we were at the bank itself. After loading up the gear, we settled in for what would prove to be a rather frigid journey. Our motor cut through the silence that had been enhanced by the heavy mist. We moved out into the current and journeyed northwards toward our next destination, the original village we had meant to stay in the night before. The darkness, the fog, the silence and the lack of sleep all contributed to a sense that we had been transported into the film, Apocalypse Now. Silhouettes of fishermen in their boats casting nets into the river drifted past us as we continued upstream. Bowe and I were both trying to soak it all into our memories, aware that this was one of those special moments that would creep up into our consciousness for years to come. We huddled under our jackets as the cold from the wind and the temperature crept into our bones. The sun’s warmth would soon be much appreciated.

A couple of hours passed as we made our way up the river and the stiffness of crunching ourselves into a narrower longboat soon took its toll on our joints. We bypassed several minor villages very similar to the one that we had stayed in the night before as we went. We waved greetings of “Sabadii” to the village children who excitedly waved back to the falang in the boat. Bowe and I were starting to feel like we were cutting through the cultural wall that had been somewhat present in our other travels in Southeast Asia to this point. That brought both a sense of contentment and of brewing excitement about the adventures that awaited us in Laos. Indeed, those adventures would prove fascinating and would instill a sense of longing to return again before tourism could grow into a well-oiled machine like many of the other neighbouring countries. However, I suspect such a machine would take quite a while to implement in the “Land of the Lotus Blossoms”.

A Northern Embrace

Coastal mountains ancient
Stark tundra revealed
Pounding waves unceasing
The Arctic eternal
Mortality forgotten, existence embraced

Happy Belated Birthday, Mongolia!

Oops. I missed it by a couple of days, but it was Mongolia's National Day on July 11th. What, pray tell, is the National Day celebrating? Modern Mongolia's gaining of independence from China in the year, 1921. That's what. They refer to it as the Naadam Festival and it is typically celebrated with the consumption of sheep testicles (boiled in a soup), generous portions of airag (fermented mare's milk) and wrestling tournaments. Very exciting stuff.

Of course, I'm taking this opportunity to import upon the reader some random facts that some of you out there might find interesting. Remember, the Mongols were certainly feared back in the day, not for their bad breath coming from such above-mentioned delicacies, but for their military campaigns that spread across the Asian continent and into the centre of Europe, leaving a trail of destruction and mayhem in their wake. What made them so formidable at the start of the 13th century?

1. They used not one, but three, horses per rider to cover impressive distances without over-tiring their mounts so that they were fresh to go into battle.

2. They erected changing stations before battle to slip on silk shirts. Silk shirts allowed those that were hit by arrows to more easily extract the arrowhead without excess damage to the wound.

3. They were expert horsemen who could fire arrows from their mounts and turn "on a dime" (if they had dimes, they could have turned on them, I assure you). Why? They invented the stirrup. Technology in military history proves its worth once again.

Interesting, hmmm?

So a toast of mare's milk to those cunning Mongols.

Extra random fact: The name "Genghis Khan" got corrupted from his actual name. In fact, it was Chinggis Khan. There is a popular beer in Mongolia called Chinggis. It's actually pretty good. Better than the mare's milk and testicle soup, anyway.

Nemrut Dagi: Turkey

March 1995

Perhaps it was the one hour of sleep. Perhaps it was the early morning exertion. Nevertheless, I found myself making a rather poor decision. I decided to take a short cut down an icy slope to the bottom of the ridge. My tiredness, lack of food and water, and my haste to try and make it to the summit of Nemrut Dagi for the sunrise had led me to do this. I noted that the bottom of the ridge was approaching quite rapidly. There was a large outcrop of rocks below. Hmmm. Not so good. I was now starting to spin around as I shot down the mountain-side and was well out of control. How did I get myself into this situation again?

The journey to the east of Turkey had started innocently enough. I had found myself in Cappadocia in central Turkey for close to a week. It was warm for early March, had friendly locals, and the amazing scenery of rock formations cut out by the elements over the ages had kept me around to explore a location almost untouched by tourists at that time of year. I had met the one other foreigner staying at the Kose Pension in Goreme a couple of nights before. His name was Frank, an Englishman traveling around the Middle East. We had gone out the night before on a rare night of drinks in a town not renowned for nightlife and had met a number of the locals. Our first encounter was with Murat, a fellow who introduced himself grandly as a “Kurdish terrorist”. Upon finding out we were a Canadian and an Englishman, Murat exclaimed “Ah! I am married to a Canadian woman and I used to be married to an English woman!” Frank and I exchanged skeptical glances. This was not the first time in the Middle East that we had heard an embellished story. Nevertheless, Murat proved to be a man of his word. We met the Canadian wife the next day. Our grandiose plans to visit the site of Nemrut Dagi, sketched out in a hazy, well-meaning way the night before, came to fruition. Murat had been talking to a German woman, Marika, and her Turkish friend, Selen, who also lived in Germany, and they were keen on visiting the isolated mountain near Adiyaman in Eastern Turkey. Murat was prepared to take the four of us in his old, beat-up yellow car on a two-day excursion to visit Nemrut Dagi and Kurdistan for the low, low price of $50 U.S. all inclusive.

Now it should be noted that Kurdistan was considered a dangerous area for foreign tourists to visit. It was 1995 and there had been recent “terror” attacks (before that expression came into vogue in our post-9/11 world) by the PKK (Kurdish Workers Party – KWP had been taken by the Korean Women’s Poker league; just a joke – ed.) in response to oppression by the Turks.

As our group gathered on a chilly, early morning to begin the 8-hour drive to Adiyaman, we looked doubtfully at our transport. We now understood why day packs were the only belongings allowed to accompany us. As is the case whilst traveling, you very often find yourself in new and somewhat awkward situations with people you have only just met and the shared experience finds one getting familiar on a far quicker scale than, say, hanging out in your local coffee shop at home. In this case, we had to decide how to squeeze three in the back and which one of us would be the lucky individual to score the passenger seat in the front. Frank took first shift in the front, leaving Marika, Selen, and myself in the amusing situation of alternating sitting positions on top of one another as we headed off on a bumpy, arse-jarring journey eastward over the next several hours.

As we headed east the weather started to change and we encountered snow flurries as we passed through more mountainous areas. Murat kept us entertained with stories of his life, his people and his people’s history. He also kept us on the edges of our seats as his driving took second place to his dynamic hand gestures and dramatic acrobatics, turning to make direct eye contact with his passengers on any particularly important point.

Over the course of the journey Murat described what the western Turkish media had not reported. “Yes, the PKK have conducted ‘guerilla activities’ in Istanbul and other western Turkish cities, but the reports of tourists getting hurt is exaggerated. Any tourists involved had been treated well and the kidnappings had been used to try and gain attention for the Kurdish cause” he claimed. “Also, what does not get out to the world news is that the Turkish army has burned hundreds of villages in Kurdistan to try and flush out any of our ‘freedom fighters’ (I’m sure he didn’t say ‘freedom fighters’, but it’s in vogue now, isn’t it?). I took Murat’s version of the state of affairs with a tiny bit of skepticism but I figured that there was more than a grain of truth to his passionate position. The Kurds have not had a good time of it in either Turkey or Iraq. It’s another case of a group of peoples without their own country (as recognized by the world) struggling under the mainstream media radar whilst we get a decidedly one-sided view from those in power. End of minor rant.

However, it wasn’t all passionate nationalism on our trip. It became a bit of a party atmosphere as we told travel stories and jokes and Murat proved to be a very humourous tour guide. In fact, it was on such a note that we were laughing at the latest gem when Murat turned to us from his, erm, ‘steering’ to bolt around in his seat and ask with great gravitas: “We are approaching the border to Kurdistan. Get rid of any drugs and/or guns you have on you immediately!” The sudden silence was broken as Frank quipped “Well, better get rid of the AK-47’s and the kilo of coke, then.” The rest of us broke up in the back seat, knocking heads in the process. Nevertheless, the unofficial border point to Kurdistan was ahead with armed Turkish military, but we were sped through after a “tiny present” to the guard on duty to supplement his wages. The armed forces are not well paid in Turkey…

We eventually arrived in Adiyaman and emerged from our vehicle sore and cramped from the long day. Murat took us along to his sister and brother-in-law’s house to have a traditional Kurdish meal with the family. An interesting dynamic occurred as a selection of languages was used to communicate amongst everyone there. Turkish, German, French and English were spoken in the now cramped quarters of the family living room. The five of us squeezed onto mats and pillows with the five members of Murat’s extended family. Although oblivious to it at the time in our exhaustion, we were neglectful in showing appreciation to our hosts for their wonderful hospitality. We ate our meal with the family in relative silence as we looked forward to our beds for our early morning start to Nemrut Dagi. In fact, as the evening wore on and the strong smoke from the ever-lit cigarettes in the house got unbearable we begged off to our pension to get some sleep for the next day.

The next day arrived far too early as far as I was concerned. We had gone to bed at 11 pm and were awake at 1 am in order to make it to Nemrut for the sunrise. We were in the car by 2 am and setting off for the mountains. Our supplies were non-existent, besides my Nalgene water bottle. To say we went into this thing half-arsed would be an understatement. Nevertheless, we were in good, if tired, spirits as we looked forward to our adventure.

As we made our way up the track to the access point of Nemrut in the wee hours of the morning, the weak light from the headlights of our car led our way over increasingly bumpy conditions. A quick check confirmed that we were actually on the road, as greater bumpiness waited to either side. At times we pressed through deep troughs in the road that had collected melted ice and water. Our spinal columns were given a good jarring as the road rose into larger and more plentiful rock debris that had been left over the winter. We stopped briefly at a lonely, abandoned car stopped at the side of the road on the way up. The dawn had begun to glimmer, affording us some light, and Murat pointed out the peak of Nemrut Dagi. We continued, as the road did eventually lead to close to the summit. We had wondered what business the car’s passengers had here at this time of year, but onward and upward as they say. Until we reached the lake in the middle of the road soon after. Yes, a lake. At least it was as far as we were concerned. We were not going any further in our vehicle.

At this point I started to question the likelihood of making it to the summit of Nemrut for the sunrise. We were still very distant from our goal and a series of ridges lay between us and Nemrut. Without much further ado, we set off. I was obviously the most zealous in my efforts to reach the summit for dawn as I left the others behind. My choice of direction was based on the straightest line toward our destination. Up one ridge and down another, up again and down again I went. I was draining myself of a lot of energy with my pace and I found my lack of sleep and lack of food (due to a lack of appetite based on a surprise case of constipation over the last day) clouded my judgment. Thus, my decision to descend the icy ridge on my arse was ill-informed but well-intentioned in my pursuit of the summit. It was the last ridge before Nemrut and I could see the reds and pinks of the dawn growing rapidly.

As I shot down the ice my fatigue left me as my adrenalin kicked in on realization that the rocks poised below were about to give meaning to “between a rock and a hard place”. I dug in my hands and used them to steer my way down the slope. Remarkably, it worked. I avoided the rocks, reached the bottom of the slope, let out a whoop of joy at being alive and threw up my hands in the air. Unfortunately I noticed what kind of effect using your hands as brakes on ice is like. My hands were now bloody and cold. The cold at least slowed the bleeding, but I knew I better clean them up a bit and had to use about a quarter of my water bottle to do so. My first-aid complete, I continued toward Nemrut, now realizing that Frank, previously the closest behind me, was nowhere to be seen.

I made my way up the steep ridge of the mountain, now very tired and feeling a bit light-headed from the drop in adrenalin (and the rise in altitude). The day was beginning. I pressed myself hard up the final portion, tiring from the deep snow that I was struggling to trudge through. My knees were burning with every couple of steps and I needed to rest for a minute before continuing. It was in such a resting position that I looked to see the dawn had beaten me. The rays of the sun cast upon the top of the mountain and soon I too was soaked in the warm light. It was in this fashion that I came up the western side of Nemrut Dagi in the shadow of the tumulus mound that marked the summit. I noted from my guidebook that the tumulus, or burial, mound had been erected over the remains of Antiochus I who had had this site marked as a monument to his gloriousness. And his modesty. Ahem…

So what’s the deal with Nemrut Dagi? Why make this big journey out to Kurdistan for a mountain? Two reasons. The first is that it’s an incredible historical marker to a minor king’s rule and ego. Second, it’s a cool thing to do when you’re not supposed to go out to a “terrorist-infested” locale. Travel bragging rights are oh so important when you’re 23. An immature 23, that is. But, more to the first point, Nemrut Dagi means quite simply Mount Nimrod. Yes, this is where the expression “nimrod” comes from. Feel free to speculate. “Ancient King” Antiochus I was the ruler of a Syrian province called Commagene that announced it’s independence from the Seleucid kingdom in 162 BC. King Antiochus I Epthiphanes achieved deity status upon his rule in 69 – 36 BC. His burial mound at the top of Nemrut Dagi increased the already 2150 m mountain another 150 some-odd metres. The monuments to his wonderfulness included statues of Zeus, Apollo, Hercules and, of course, Antiochus. After all, we all think of him when we think of the other four, right? And that is my historical lesson for the story.

My first impression of the western terrace was like my journey to the top. I was both a little disappointed and a little exultant. I was now in the presence of ancient history in a rarely visited place but, being on the leeward side of the mountain, the statues and remains of the terrace were almost completely buried. Sigh. Now what? No one else was in view and now that I was almost at the top, the cold began to seep in and made my sweaty back start to freeze. I decided to keep warm by summiting the mountain to get a better view and give me a chance to survey as much of the surroundings as possible. It was not far and soon I had reached the top. Mountains lay all around and many of the peaks were emerging from the shadow as the glow of the sun touched their summits. I had the warm fuzzies from the sight (and a sense of accomplishment) but I was also a bit concerned as my attempts to spot my hiking partners were as yet in vain.

Descending the eastern side of the mound (it is much easier to negotiate snow on the way down) I took leaping bounds toward what I could now make out were a collection of monuments that marked the eastern terrace. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the mound that I discovered a half-buried sign in the snow stating in Turkish, German, and English: “IT IS FORBIDDEN TO CLIMB THE TUMULUS MOUND”. Hmmm. Too late, methinks. At least there wasn’t supposed to be any kind of curse placed on those who failed to heed the warning. Was there?

The statues were far more visible from the snow than anything on the western side. The day proved to be fine and sunny and the warmth of the sun helped my spirits. Nevertheless, after examining the old Commagene scripts on the central monument, photographing the fallen heads of the statues on the ground and scrambling around in the snow, I felt after 20 minutes that I had explored the site as much as I could given the circumstances. Now I only needed to worry about when the others would arrive.

Thankfully it would not prove too much longer for the others to show up. They had fallen quite a bit behind and I felt guilty for rushing off after my sunrise Grail. Still, the others seemed in good, if cold and tired, spirits and spent the next half hour exploring the terraces. I got to play tour guide. We mugged for photos in front of the fallen heads and on top of the headless figures lying before the mound. An earthquake had managed to behead the Gods at an earlier point in the century. But our lack of supplies and fatigue began to wear on us. We decided it would be best to head back but there was some disagreement as to the best way to do that. In the end, we proceeded to take a “short-cut” and take a more direct line down the mountain toward the car. I suppose I had used up my luck from my previous icy descent, for things would really go from a grand day out to quite a gong show…

We made our way down the embankment at a slow pace. Selen and I made a series of descents close to a large outcrop of rock to the left of the slope in hopes of using secure handholds. Murat set out down the middle of the snow field, using the tried-and-true method I had tried earlier. Frank followed us for a time before figuring Murat’s decision to have greater merit. Marika was now having difficulty with the cold and wet and was falling behind. Then tragedy struck. Frank had made his way out into the snow field whereupon he slipped and slid for several metres until his tailbone ran into a hidden rock outcrop. Frank lay motionless for a minute. If Frank did not respond or if his spine had been injured we were now in a lot of trouble. Luckily, Frank ‘only’ had the breath knocked out of him, but he was now in a lot of pain. Murat worked his way back up to Frank to take a look at his injury. Selen and I had now made it down a good portion of the mountain and awaited the others to do so too. Murat helped Frank make his way down the rest of the slope. In time, we all reached the bottom but still needed the car and food and water.

Some luck came to us when we did reach the bottom. We ran into the occupants of the other car that we had encountered on the way up. They proved to be hunters from a nearby town. They were hunting using a trained falcon and luckily had extra supplies of food with them. While we ate a strange sort of hard paste they gave to us, Murat limped his way back to the car. He too had had a small slide on the final part of the slope and had come away a little worse for wear. Soon after, Murat brought the car to where the hunters’ car awaited and we bade our thanks and farewells to the hunters. We collapsed into the yellow chariot and Murat steered our way back to civilization and a necessary meal and nap. Murat took Frank to a doctor in Adiyaman to have his tailbone attended to while we recovered at the pension.

After our recovery, we were greeted by Murat who apologized for the set of circumstances that had led to our situation on the mountain. I suppose he had gotten an earful from Frank over the course of seeing the doctor. Frank had been blaming our Kurdish friend for all our misfortunes. Frank could be terribly English at times. Perhaps Frank was a little pissed because the “natural therapy” the doctor had prescribed had been a patch on his arse.

Murat told us that we were being invited back to his family’s place for dinner that night. Apparently we had not expressed enough gratitude for our meal the previous evening. In order to bring honour back to the family we were being invited again for what would prove to be a lavish traditional spread. This traditional repast involved many delicacies, including a raw minced meat delicacy hand-rolled in spices and sauce. Yum. This time we took exceptional care to voice approval of the meal and murmur delicious smacking sounds as we ate. We weren’t going to screw that up again.

The evening wore on and the last couple of days started to catch up with me. In fact, as we sat around in the family room amongst the cloying Turkish (Kurdish?) cigarettes, the closed quarters and the odd belly rumblings beginning from my intestines, I took note that I was not feeling very well. I gave my thanks to the family and took my leave for the guesthouse. The night proved to not be good. I came down with incredible body temperature changes and barely slept. When I got up in the morning to go my muscles were racked with pain, my head was pounding and I was still constipated. And I had an eight-hour car ride to Goreme ahead of me. Anyone have a dervish’s sword I could fall on?

Suffice it to say that the journey back to Cappadocia was one I would never want to do again in my condition. It must have been a combination of altitude sickness, overexertion and disagreeable raw meat. The others, besides Frank and his tailbone, were in reasonably fine shape and I tried to picture myself in my happy place as we bumped back across the country. There’s nothing quite like feeling like death warmed over for 8 hours in a sardine tin. At long last we arrived back at the Kose pension and Auntie Dawn, the Scottish hostess, ushered me to bed and brought me aspirin and tea over the next three days as I recuperated. I said goodbye to Frank, Marika and Selen as they continued their travels to the Aegean coast. My path lay to the south and the Mediterranean Coast once I had sufficiently recovered.

So it had been the best of times and the worst of times. A borrowed phrase? Yes, but very accurate. It sums up one of the true adventures that I’ve had whilst traveling. It’s all the more memorable due to the ups and downs. What’s the moral of the piece? If you meet a self-proclaimed Kurdish terrorist in a bar in Cappadocia, at least consider taking him up on an offer to visit Kurdistan for a memorable time…

Starstruck in Spain

The place? Marbella, Spain. The time? December, 1994.

Chris leaned to us after the three women had left and explained “The other woman was Sean Connery’s wife by the way”.

Long-term backpacking brings its share of highs and lows, excitement and boredom. The initial thrill of the trip can tend to fall into the grips of normalcy. You leave your choice of transport (bus, train, car); find your accommodation (hostel, campsite, construction site); navigate town for food and to visit tourist sites to photograph and study diligently for historical significance and/or beauty; and meet your fellow travelers and occasional friendly locals. Before you know it, you feel as though you have “experienced” the city, town or hamlet in question and are ready to take your next mode of transport to another destination. But that would be the cynic talking. That is the traveler who has managed to squeeze the potential novelty out of one of the most amazing experiences open to people – to see the world and other cultures and to throw oneself out of the comfort zone in order to do so. But therein is the crux of the matter. Traveling expands your horizons and fills in the comfort zone that has been pushed out by the initial act of just boarding that plane, train, boat, etc. You can adapt to the newness by developing strategies to cope with the new environments because the acts of reaching a new destination have common requirements. But then again these new environments always have the capacity to throw your new strategies to the wind and that is where the travel story is born.

Jamie, my good friend from Ontario, and I were now two months into our European backpacking trip. We had already had a run-in with dodgy Barcelonan police, been cursed by gypsy women in Granada (too late – that’s where we had had to spend the night in the construction site on our first night), and had a potentially worrying body search crossing into Gibraltar before Christmas. Nevertheless, we had come along by leaps and bounds in the art of backpacking. Two weeks in Morocco with little else but our daypacks and our first third-world country under our belt, we had spent a relaxing Yuletide living it up on the Rock (no, not Newfoundland – Gibraltar). It was Boxing Day and I was in the process of phoning Chris Haney and his girlfriend (now wife), Hiam. Chris is one of the owners and developers of Trivial Pursuit. When the autumn sets in and winter looms in Southwest Ontario, Chris and Hiam retire to the chi-chi resort of Marbella in Southern Spain to enjoy notably warmer weather. Fair enough. My father knew Chris through the golf course, “The Devil’s Pulpit”. Before Jamie and I set off for Paris to start our journey we were introduced to Chris at the 19th hole at the Pulpit. An offer of a phone number and an invitation to call “if you’re in Spain” was accepted with due appreciation and genuine puzzlement of whether this offer meant dinner one night or a round of golf in Andalucia. Nevertheless, I hoped to dispel our lack of knowledge with the phone call.

Man’s voice: “Hola! Es Pepe”.
Me: “Um, hello? Is Chris there, please”.
M.V.: “Que?”
Me: “Um, Chris? Chris Haney?”
M.V.: “Ah! Senor Chris. (Fast Spanish sentence). Uno momento, por favor!”
Woman’s voice: “Hello?”
Me: “Um. Hi. Is Chris there? It’s Jonathan, son of Michael Hodgson from the Devil’s Pulpit?!”
W.V.: (very quickly) “ Jonathan! This is Hiam! Where are you? When are you going to be here? How are you coming in?”
Me: (looking askance at Jamie) “Hmm. Well, we’re in Gibraltar right now. I suppose tomorrow? Maybe… 4:00? By bus?”
Hiam: Excellent! Call when you get in! I’ll have Pepe pick you up at the bus station!”
Me: “Pepe?”
Hiam: “Yes, Pepe! He’s our butler. See you tomorrow!”
(Dial tone)
Me: “So, Jamie… still no idea what’s up, but we’re being picked up tomorrow in Marbella by Pepe. At four. Let’s hope we can get a bus…”

So with no real idea of what to expect in Marbella, we arrived fortuitously at the bus station close enough to my proposed hour. Mediterranean time, be blessed. Our phone call caught Chris at home, sick with a cold rather than at the golf course, and he arrived at the bus station to shuttle us away in his Nissan Pathfinder to the closest waterside pub. Jamie and I looked at each other queasily. We had spent a rather celebratory time in Gibraltar enjoying British-style culinary delicacies and an inordinate amount of Guinness. After all, it had been our first Christmas away from home. Nevertheless, Chris insisted on buying the local cervezas for us: “Tres otros mas, por favor!” A few rounds into this and we greeted the arrival of three women obviously known to Chris. We were introduced to Hiam, her daughter Fifi (okay, really Fetoun, but she went by her nickname) and Micheline. We somewhat slurred our hellos, it being the fifth round in about an hour. The next part of the conversation involved what was to be done with the two travelers. Apparently we were being brought back to their “hacienda”. And Jamie and I had been wondering, in our current state, just what hostel we were going to have to find for the night. The logistics were discussed between Hiam and Chris and then the women departed while we finished up our lagers. We bade our goodbyes for the time being and that is when Chris swiveled around to explain that Micheline was also known as Mrs. Connery. Not for the first time, Jamie and I exchanged raised eyebrows during our stay in Marbella town.

So after a couple of weeks of backpacking in Morocco, being hassled by carpet salesmen, sleeping in $3 “hotel” rooms, and pushing our comfort zones in a completely new direction, we found our next several days catapulting the zone in the other direction. We were chauffeured back to the “modest” home of Chris and Hiam. And Pepe and Paula (the married employees). And Fifi. And “Speedy” (Hiam’s brother), the other current house guest. Jamie and I had our own room out back by the pool. We had our meals prepared for us by the Spanish-speaking P & P who shooed us out of the kitchen after our first attempts to go do the dishes. We hobnobbed with the rich elite youth of Marbella society who appeared to be of all nationalities, except Spanish. They in turn were astonished that we were hitchhiking, bussing, and rail-riding across Europe rather than jet-setting. We were taken on day trips to white-washed mountain towns in the heart of Andalucia. Face it – we were spoiled rotten. Nevertheless, our biggest surprise of the stay and, perhaps, the whole trip was yet to come.

After a particularly late night – hey, it’s Spain – of playing pool and frequenting the all-night bars of town, we crawled back to our home-away-from-home. A few hours later, Hiam came bursting into our room to announce that we had to get ready to go to lunch. There was hurry in her voice and we groaned as we had to get up to meet this unexpected twist in our day. Some twenty minutes later, Jamie and I, with noticeable lack of suitable attire, emerged and met Hiam at the Pathfinder. We got in and assessed Hiam’s fine apparel. Questioningly, I asked if the fading shorts and threadbare t-shirts that we were wearing were appropriate for this luncheon. Without even a glance Hiam assured us that it would be fine, “but first, we have to go pick up Sean”. Again, the raising of eyebrows and a flutter of nervousness was shared between the protagonists of the piece.

In due course, we arrived outside of a large, gated mansion. Hiam got out of the SUV and rang the buzzer at the gate. A minute or two went by and the gates opened as a white Jeep Cherokee with gold striping emerged from the compound. Indeed, Sean was behind the wheel, sporting a jaunty Turkish cap; Micheline was in the passenger seat; and two less discernible figures were in the back of the vehicle. With us in the lead and the Connerys’ following, we proceeded toward our lunch destination – yet another Marbella mansion hosting the event. As we parked the Nissan, we were met outside of the house by Mr. Connery, his son Jason, Micheline, and Micheline’s daughter from a previous marriage. In retrospect, I missed my opportunity to have a little bit of fun with the situation. There was an assumption made that we were somehow related to Chris (the Canadian accents, first and foremost). We dispelled that error. To think, I had had a chance to pull out a few quips to make it a more memorable experience. To whit: “Actually, we were just hitchhiking along and got picked up and here we are! And what do you do, sir?” Alas. We were star-struck in Spain. My minute claim to fame is that I had the former James Bond hold open the door for me when I had to run out to the SUV to retrieve Hiam’s purse and hurry back to the manor. We shared an afternoon with the upper-class of Marbella society at a buffet of 30 some-odd persons-of-influence, savouring delectable morsels, supping fine wine, and shooting billiards with the younger generations. Frankly, we missed our chance to chat with the former Edinburgh-milkman-turned-iconic-actor. I can vouch for the star presence and powerful voice however.

Our time in Marbella is now a surreal memory, diluted by time and the tendency to have one’s memories conform to the telling of the story rather than a completely accurate depiction of the events. I’m sure I was much more suave in real life… We played it out a few more days in our gilded hacienda. Promises of visiting the Connerys for photos went astray as the entire social circle seemed to come down with the vicious cold that Chris Haney was suffering from. Jamie and I spent the New Year with the Haneys’ and then the itchy feet became a bit too much. Portugal beckoned. We bade our goodbyes to Chris, Hiam, Fifi, Speedy, Pepe and Paola. Pepe drove us to the bus station. We set off for new destinations wondering what new wrinkles our travels would deal us. We figured not too much could beat our last week.

One of Chris’s parting explanations for their incredible hospitality was his travel background. He and the others who had gone on to develop Trivial Pursuit had spent a year in Spain and Morocco back in the late seventies. They had little money at the time and they were helped out extensively by the kindness of relative strangers. His only request for our stay was that we repay the favour to future travelers, a sound request I have done my best to continue. In retrospect, our time in both Morocco and Marbella were the products of the immense gap in the difference between the two. Traveling on $10 a day or less in Northern Africa in a place that pushed our comfort zone to the limit was juxtaposed by the time spent in luxury in Spain that pushed our comfort zone in the other direction. Low-budget freedom vs. luxurious restrictions, due to social and transport issues. It was a new set of rules and experiences that added to the whole nature of our travels. But in the end, I guess it makes for a great tale of name-dropping.

“Hodgson. Jon Hodgson. Signing off.”

On Mount Kinabalu

I collect pins...

A dear friend of mine asked me the other day why there is an on-running joke about pin collecting in matters of Facebook status updates and other random references by yours truly. For those who haven't the faintest to what I am referring to, I should note that these references tend to just repeat "I collect pins" a whole lot. No wonder people think I've acquired some rare disease in remotest Papua New Guinea, the far-flung regions of the Caucasus, or the Lost Lagoon in Stanley Park.

But now, due to popular demand, I am here to set the record reasonably straight. It all began on a busy day at High Street Hostel in Edinburgh, Scotland about 9 years ago - yikes!). It was check-out time, or thereabouts, and Charmead (famed author of the "All the Queen's Men" blog and certified rock star) and I were working the front desk, dealing with the outgoing rush of sweaty backpackers from our home-away-from-home for nomads. In the flurry of activity, a small visa-sized photo of a Japanese woman of indeterminate age had been left behind amongst a collection of pink tickets of departed travelers.

Unsure as to who this actually was, we decided it would be best put up on our cork-matting to either side of the reception window, snuggled amongst those typical accoutrements of hostels and bars throughout the world: low-denomination foreign currency, drunken photos of staff members past and present, and random Canadian and Australian pins.

I think it was about ten minutes after the pic went up that our first inquiry into who it was came from one of our staff members, Mel from Ireland. Post-rush euphoria prompted me to spit out: "Oh. That's my daughter, Kaoru". Now Mel is a rather smart cookie and she was observant enough to note that my supposed daughter was Asian. Challenging me on this, I (in rare creative and quick-thinking form) elaborated on the tale on the spot:

"Well, you see Mel, you can tell from the photo that Kaoru is of a fairly indeterminate age. She is, in fact, 11 years old. It just so happened that I had gone to Japan many years ago - 12 of them or so ago, when I was just 16 years old. I was there with my parents for a month when I met a maiko, or apprentice geisha of the same age. One thing led to another and, lo and behold, she was pregnant. I had left to go back to Canada and Kaoru was raised as Japanese. I've seen her rarely as I have only been over once since then. Beautiful child, really. She's taken an interest in Canadian culture once she found about me. And she collects pins."

Mel raised an eyebrow at me and I could hear some kind of stifled laughter from behind me where Char was trying not to lose it. I kept a straight face, however and Mel left for the lounge downstairs. That gave Char a chance to let burst with merriment. We agreed that Mel probably didn't buy it.

However, it wasn't too much later in the day that random long-termers and staff of the hostel came by reception to comment about my daughter and how surprised they were by this interesting story. Alas. My story had worked too well. In fact, what became even more amusing was the sudden swelling of pins that started to grow around the photo, ostensibly for me to collect and put into an envelope to send to Kaoru for her pin collection. Again, truth proves to be as strange as fiction.

And here we are nine years later or so. Kaoru would be 20 years old at this point in an alternate reality. She'd have a number of pins from strangers who made their home at High Street Hostel for a spell, and I'd be much more fluent in Japanese than I am at the moment, I'd suspect.
"Sou desu-ka? So desu-yo!"

Random fact: Kaoru was the name of the first ever guest to stay at Castle Rock Hostel in Edinburgh in 1997.

Happy Canada Day, eh!

Well here we are. It's Canada Day. Happy Canada Day everyone. Today's activities will consist of adventures on a boat followed by a barbeque down near English Bay. It is a beautiful sunny day and my face will likely go a rosy colour by the end of the day.
But, I digress. I'm sure that everyone is giddy with anticipation of finding out the results of the Canada Day quiz. So without much further ado...

1. Where does the word, “Canada”, originate? (a) Papua New Guinea (b) A regional native Canadian term for “village” (c) letters taken out of a hat (d) William Shatners’ hairpiece. Answer: Contrary to popular belief, Canada was indeed named by the process of taking letters out of a hat rather than a native Canadian term. In fact we came dangerously close to being called “Banana” (Instead the letters “C”, eh? “N”, eh? And “D”, eh? derived our current name).

2. Name the world’s favourite Canadian export. (a) Labatt Ice (b) Bryan “Cuts like a knife” Adams (c) seal fur coats (d) Ed the Sock. Answer: Close to call, but let’s give it to Ed for his diplomatic skills.

3. When do you know it’s truly a cold day in Canada? (a) Your car doesn’t start in the morning (b) Your nostril hairs freeze (c) Your dog sled team is frozen to the sled (d) The teenagers do up their jackets. Answer: I’ll give the nod to the teenagers on this one.

4. Which one of the following is NOT one of Canada’s national symbols? (a) The beaver (b) The maple leaf (c) Ice hockey (d) Tim Horton’s. Answer: I suppose we can argue its Tim Horton’s doughnut/coffee chain. It got bought out by an American chain much to the chagrin of proud Canadians everywhere. Having said that, stay tuned. They're looking at restructuring as a Canadian company again!

5. Which one of the following phrases, when used, makes it easy to identify a Canadian from an American? (a) Out, eh? (b) About, eh? (c) No doubt, eh? (d) Toque, eh? (e) All of the above, eh? Answer: (e), eh?

6. Complete the following sentence correctly: “My Canada includes…” (a) Quebec (b) Ed the Sock (c) The McKenzie Brothers (see www.bobanddoug.com) (d) Bryan “Cuts like a knife” Adams (e) all of the above. Answer: (e) of course.

7. Which sentence does not belong with the theme of Canadiana? (a) Take off, you hoser! (b) Cold, eh? (c) What’cha doing May Two-Four, eh? (d) No doubt, eh? (e) Don’t come the raw prawn with me, mate!” Answer: We’ll give it to (e), unless you find yourself in Whistler in ski season.

8. Canadian Club is: (a) A brand of rye whiskey (b) A brand of Canadian cigarettes (c) A brand of sparkling water (d) an instrument used to beat cute furry seals. Answer: Shocked I am! The patent office said (a) had the trademark. So much for that marketing scheme…

9. What is Canada’s most beautiful sight? (a) The Rocky Mountain vistas (b) Niagara Falls (c) Old Quebec City in the spring (d) Rachel McAdam. Answer: Chacun son gout. If you picked one you got it right in your own special way. Good for you. Pat on the back.

10. What is Canada’s biggest mountain? (a) Mount Robson (b) Mont Real (c) Mount Hood (d) Blackcomb (e) Our newly produced national debt to "stimulate" the economy. Answer: (c) at last count, though open to (e)’s emerging threat.

Results:

0-4 Correct: Better get cracking on your Canadian pop culture, history, geography and psychology. The 2010 Vancouver Olympic Games are on their way. Get caught up in the hype!

5-7 Correct: Pretty good! Might just test you on your provincial capital knowledge next time! You’re showing promise in embracing the Canuck within you.

8-9 Correct: Very good! You’ll be sprinkling your sentences with liberal doses of “eh’s” before you know it (Kiwis have a head start on this one)! Don’t forget to load up the cooler with Canadian and a mickey of C.C. and just give ‘er, eh?

10 Correct: Excellent! Move over Bob and Doug and Pierre Elliot too. We’ve got a nouveau-Canuck in the hoose! You can cover the country for me. I’m going travelin’.

Have a wonderful Canada Day everyone. Don't forget to take off, eh?

Canada Day Quiz, eh?

I was just down at my local Blenz cafe for my morning ritual involving an Americano, a non-fiction book (in this case, "Balkan Ghosts", a travel/historical piece on that oft-unsettled region of Europe), and soaking in the buzz of Vancouver's West End. I was a little surprised that the cafe had seized the first-mover advantage of celebrating Canada Day - a day early.
Flags of the Maple Leaf were thickly concentrated throughout the place and it got me thinking about a couple of things. One, I had to pay rent tomorrow and, two, I started thinking about this grand ol' Nordic country I call home. Inspired, I thought I'd share with you an impromptu Canadian quiz (for they also had a more mundane quiz on the Blenz' coffee cups) in this, our 142nd birthday (looking good - our country must not smoke or drink).
This quiz is multiple choice and answers will be published tomorrow, which is really Canada Day, unless you're in New Zealand or Australia or Japan. It's July 1st there already...

1. Where does the word, “Canada”, originate? (a) Papua/New Guinea (b) A regional native Canadian term for “village” (c) letters taken out of a hat (d) William Shatners’ hairpiece.

2. Name the world’s favourite Canadian export. (a) Labatt Ice (b) Bryan “Cuts like a knife” Adams (c) seal fur coats (d) Ed the Sock.

3. When do you know it’s truly a cold day in Canada? (a) Your car doesn’t start in the morning (b) Your nostril hairs freeze (c) Your dog sled team is frozen to the sled (d) The teenagers do up their jackets.

4. Which one of the following is NOT one of Canada’s national symbols? (a) The beaver (b) The maple leaf (c) Ice hockey (d) Tim Horton’s.

5. Which one of the following phrases, when used, makes it easy to identify a Canadian from an American? (a) Out, eh? (b) About, eh? (c) No doubt, eh? (d) Toque, eh? (e) All of the above, eh?

6. Complete the following sentence correctly: “My Canada includes…” (a) Quebec (b) Ed the Sock (c) The McKenzie Brothers (see www.bobanddoug.com) (d) Bryan “Cuts like a knife” Adams (e) all of the above.

7. Which sentence does NOT belong with the theme of Canadiana? (a) Take off, you hoser! (b) Cold, eh? (c) What’cha doing May Two-Four, eh? (d) No doubt, eh? (e) Don’t come the raw prawn with me, mate!”

8. Canadian Club is: (a) A brand of rye whiskey (b) A brand of Canadian cigarettes (c) A brand of sparkling water (d) an instrument used to beat cute furry seals.

9. What is Canada’s most beautiful sight? (a) The Rocky Mountain vistas (b) Niagara Falls (c) Old Quebec City in the spring (d) Rachel McAdam.

10. What is Canada’s biggest mountain? (a) Mount Robson (b) Mont Real (c) Mount Hood (d) Blackcomb (e) Our newly produced national debt to "stimulate" the economy.

Answers published tomorrow! No doubt, eh?!

What exactly is this "owilybug" thing about?

No doubt, many are wondering about what an "owilybug" is. Indeed, many must be curious about what it's been for many years now. I will attempt to explain this, yet it will probably remain one of those things you really just had to be there for. So, here goes:

In 1997, at the inaugural summer of Castle Rock Hostel in Edinburgh, myself and Sheralee MacDonald, one of the receptionists at the hostels, had the opportunity to join several employees from the other hostels to go on a start-up tour company's trip to the Trossachs, a mountainous region near Stirling in Central Scotland. The tour consisted of a 5-hour hike up to Ben Venue, one of the higher peaks in the area. Furthermore, this was Sir Walter Scott country. Perhaps possessed by a diluted form of Sir Scott, impromptu, ummm..., "poetry" began. One of the so-called set of stanzas went something like "O wily bug, o you art thou so wily...". I would like to say that I could blame it on the altitude but, let's face it, Ben Venue just isn't big enough. Indeed, it was probably a result of actually getting out from behind the hostel desk for the first time that summer. As a result, owilybug.ca was born. Silly? Yes. But there you have it.

Sunrise on the Ganges

Note: This was originally written for the Adventures Abroad website "community" blog, so it's very skewed toward a bit of marketing and key words. Future blogs will be a lot less formal...

India. The name itself evokes images of ancient civilizations, swarming cities, colourful markets and a host of eclectic religions. Mix in sprawling ghettoes, a booming economy and a land stretching from the highest mountains in the world to steaming jungles to parched desert dunes and let it all bring a simmer to the imagination. It is frequently written in travel magazines and articles that India is a land of contrasts. I say, whoever is bored of India is bored with life.
Of all the destinations in India, one of the most vivid is that of Varanasi in Uttar Pradesh state in the north of the country. Considered one of the holiest cities of India, Varanasi (or Benares) is a pilgrimage destination for Hindus, Buddhist and Jains. The River Ganga, or Ganges, flows from the Himalaya, through Varanasi, and onto the Bay of Bengal. It is mandatory in any Varanasi itinerary to experience the mystique of the city from the water. Why? As one of the world’s oldest continuously inhabited cities, Varanasi’s citizens always made use of the waters of the Ganga. It was the lifeblood of the population and it continues to be so. Ghats, or steps, have traditionally been the means of access to the river’s edge for purposes ranging from laundry to bathing to cremation.
Our North India tour features a visit to Varanasi and one of the most consistently rated highlights in all our clients’ feedback is that of our boat trip onto the Ganga for sunrise. A visit at any time of year is always a mystical experience: floating out onto the water in our expansive rowboat, mist rising around us, the quiet solitude of pre-dawn giving way to the first sounds of a new day’s activities.
The incredible thing about Varanasi is that there always seems to be some celebration or festival whenever you visit. Combine the fact that it is one of the holiest cities and that there are so many gods and goddesses in the Hindu pantheon and then factor in that there are only 365 days in a year. Chances are good that you’ll see something awe-inspiring every day and night of the year.
It was on one such occasion that my group and I chanced upon something wondrous. Our North India trip was featuring Pushkar, yet another very important religious festival in the desert state of Rajasthan, that November. However, as luck would have it, we arrived in Varanasi just in time for the Chhat Puja. The Chhat what? The Chhat Puja is the celebration of the sun, or “Lord Sun”. Pilgrims from all around India had gathered on the ghats of the Ganga to welcome the arrival of a new day.
Waking very early that morning, we made our way through the winding alleys of the city toward the banks of the river where we boarded our boat in the pre-dawn darkness. Our rower and his 11-year old son and helper navigated our vessel toward the site of the main ghats and the bulk of the festival-goers. The near silence of the pre-dawn slowly gave way to the growing hubbub of voices and the view of the ghats that were literally heaving with humanity. Occasional fireworks shot over the heads of the crowds and exploded in loud reports amongst the waterside buildings, briefly illuminating the river and the sheer depth of the multitude present.
We were alternately propelled against the current by our captain and then left to float amongst the gentle current, all the while soaking in the otherworldly atmosphere we had happened upon. Other boats of tourists, Indian and foreigners both, glided past us as we cruised parallel to the banks of the Ganga. Occasional boats piloted by would-be salesmen sidled up to ours in an effort to tout the value of their postcards, playing cards, Shiva figurines and other rupee-a-dozen wares.
All of this was taking place as the sky unveiled the first hints of dawn. With each passing minute you could sense the swelling anticipation of the gathered masses as the time to sunrise grew near. A collective mumble gave way to a louder and louder clamour as the initial pinks and reds of first light approached. Many of us found ourselves holding our breaths as the voice of the crowd escalated to a high pitch of celebration and the sun emerged from the haze that obscured the horizon. The delight of thousands of voices broke over us as we all, tourist and pilgrim alike, turned to the sunrise.
Our guide and captain allowed a few more moments of contemplation and then, as our collective spell slowly dissolved, we eased back down the river to our docking point. Another day had begun. Locals bathed in the waters of the river, women laundered their colourful saris, Rhesus monkeys clambered along balconies, and we disembarked to make our way through more of the maze-like alleys of Varanasi, heading for our hotel and a breakfast well deserved.