TRAVEL CHAPTERS EDITED

Excerpt from TRAVELS, Chapter 3.

Bathing Tribal. Northern Laos. Written 3rd March 08 in Vientiene, Laos.

Muang Noi was absolutely stunning. After the long, arduous journey from Luang Probang, I finally found what I consider to be the real Laos: rural village life. As we got off the boat we were welcomed by lots of "Sabaai Di"s (“hello, good day”s) from women and children who lined the dirt street that wiggled through the village. The houses, typical of rural Laos, were in the form of bamboo huts on stilts, one per family. They all sleep in the same open planned room at the top of the steps and have a little balcony from which they can peer down at the rest of their community. In this quaint township, chickens, dogs, ducks and pigs outnumbered the people, just as the locals outnumbered the tourists, by far (finally)! Muang Noi was still on the tourist trail, but more a comfortable base for the intrepid adventurer, than a back packer hot spot like Luang Probang, where every house had become a hotel or a restaurant and every sight for miles around already discovered. I rented a little hut for $5 a night that looked out onto the Nam Ou river below and mountains the other side. It had a little bathroom (cold water only - no accommodation had anything but) with a hammock outside.

The next day Bec, Stu and I hiked through paddy fields and mountains to another much smaller village two hours away. Most of the people there had never seen a car; it was pretty remote. There were, however, three other travelers who were staying the night there, and the atmosphere was so divine that I decided to do the same (the others went back to Muang Noi that afternoon). One family rented me a little hut to sleep in for the night for $1. It was very basic - four walls, a thin foam mattress on the floor and blankets to keep me warm.

I spent that afternoon hanging out with the village people, and sucking in their culture. I wondered through the village's dried up paddy fields (they’d been harvested already) and marvelled at little girls digging in the banks for beetles. They dug into the dirt with sticks, extracted the little creatures, and placed them in a little wicker basket that they carried over their shoulders. They later put them on a skewer and fried them for dinner as if they were marsh mellows! Generally, the village people of Laos eat whatever they can catch: fish, monkey, snake, dog… pretty much anything that moves, and they wear whatever keeps them warm, however old, grubby and holey it might be!

One of the other travelers, a thirty year old Austrian man called Chris was an anthropologist who spoke Lao, which made communicating with the people FAR easier than it would have been otherwise (although I must say I am getting rather good at the old sign language). We sat around a fire on the ground that evening and chatted with the locals. The tone was soft, quiet, and completely unrushed against the soothing sound of the crackling fire. There were long silences, but they were never awkward. The eldest son of the family who had put us up had just returned from a trip to the capital where he'd found and married his wife. He was 20, she was 15. He'd paid her family a million kip in order to marry her, and had brought her back to his village where they'd spend the rest of their lives. He asked Chris how much he'd have to pay for a wife where he came from - he didn't know what to say, and ended up telling him he'd be paying for the rest of his life! The boy didn't really understand this concept.

They wanted to know all about me. I got the usual piteous looks when I told them that no, I was not married. For a girl in their society to be 26 and single would be a big worry, and seeing as they knew nothing about where I come from, they assumed the same burden would apply to me. I have to say though, I do wish they wouldn’t look quite so sorry for me! It is just a little unsettling!

Towards the end of the evening, a doddery old man wondered over smoking opium from a pipe made from banana leaf. He peered at us with smiling eyes and offered us each a toke (I politely refused). Chris explained to me that most of the old guys do smoke the stuff. After a long and successful life it is accepted, even expected, that they spend the last few in a state of blissful oblivion!

By 9 pm the whole village was silent, and I sank into a wonderful deep sleep on the floor of my hut. I was woken at 5am by the cockle doodle doo of several roosters, and the hustle and bustle of the village getting up to go about their daily chores. The men went off into the forest to hunt, the women fed their ducks and chickens and pigs, and children played everywhere.

Pretty dirty and in need of a toothbrush, I walked back to Muang Noi that afternoon on my own. I walked through hilly grassland and sunken paddy fields and passed the odd farmer watching his water buffalo as they munched away at the dried crops. I felt very alone in the world, but not lonely; it was quite wonderful being so in-the-middle-of-nowhere. I was at this point a four hour bus ride, a two hour boat ride and a two hour trek from the nearest town that had internet (let alone a hospital)! Everything for miles around me was calm and serene and life on that hike back to Muang Noi took on a different pace and a different meaning. I felt perfectly safe, although I had taken a big stick from the village with me just in case I came across any stray dogs along the way!...

[about a week later]

...As we entered the village, about twenty colorfully clothed children came running up to have a look at us. We literally had a stare off for about 10 minutes. This village had only been visited by tourists three times before. We were enchanted by them, they were fascinated by us. We were soon shown to other side of the village where we found a little bit of heaven on earth... a pristine white sand beach lining the Mekong, where we bathed our very sweaty bodies as the sun went down behind the mountains. We were put up by a family in the village, all sleeping on the floor of the main room inside their bamboo hut. A fire blazed in the middle as they cooked us our dinner. They don't really take the meat off a chicken in the same way we do… rather they just chop it up willy-nilly, bones and all, and dump it in a saucepan to boil. You're left to tear whatever meat you can find off the various lumps of bony, gristly bits of the animal. This combined with sticky rice and boiled beans was our food for every meal of our trek; Pretty disgusting actually, but it didn't taste too bad at the time, we were all so exhausted and hungry!

The next day we trekked for four hours up hill the whole way under midday
sun. There was little shelter as sadly most of the trees for miles around had been chopped down by the Chinese to build rubber plantations. The effect that this process is having on the local communities in Northern Laos was very apparent and quite horrifying, but I won’t go into that now – it needs an entire essay! Anyway, this part of the trek was absolutely the most exhausting experience of my life! I was carrying warm clothes for the evening (cold at night) and all my camera equipment (including an extra zoom lens) which weighed my bag down considerably. By the time we reached the second village my legs felt like lead but my head was giddy from the endorphins released by exercise. Actually, I felt so high that I made a decision right then that once back home I will exercise more!

This next village was inhabited by 'Acka' tribe people, they’re the ones who wear the amazing silver sequined head dresses and beautiful garments of bright pinks, blues and greens. They were even more infatuated by us than the first. Their source of water came from a pipe that stuck out over a square bit of cement - this was the village's bathroom. So, me and the girls, in dire need of a shower, went to wash ourselves... well what a spectacle we were. It warns in the Laos guide book always to keep a sarong on when bathing or swimming, so as not to offend the locals, so we went about the rather complicated procedure of undressing and keeping our bodies hidden by our sarongs at the same time. With our sarongs wrapped around us we washed as best we could. Within seconds, 10, 15, about 20 children all gathered round to have a look at these three western women trying to wash the Laos way. They gawped and giggled, and when we went behind a hut to change back into our clothes they poked their little heads round the walls to spy on us! As we came out finally back in our clothes, three Acka women were scrubbing away, showing us how it’s done, baring all apart from their bottoms.. they cupped their breasts and jingle jangled them at us and laughed hysterically - we and our modesty were well and truly taken the piss out of. The whole episode was very funny.

There was no electricity, neither were there any loos, in either of these villages - we were pointed in the general direction of where to go and do our deeds. Dodging other excrements along the way to an appropriate bush became quite tricky in the dark - thank god for the head torch. In each village, at first is was impossible to take photos. Every time I even put my camera round my neck the locals would run away and hide as if I'd pulled out a gun. I figured out a way round the issue. I'd take a picture of myself, and then beckon the bravest of the bunch to come forward and have a look at the image on the back of the camera. When they saw it they gasped in surprise, and then using sign language, I showed them that I could do the same of them. Once one child let me take their photo, I'd show them themselves on the back, which they LOVED, and then found that several more would gather to be part of the experiment. Soon I had lots of little faces eager to see their faces staring back at them from the screen on the back of my camera. The women were more tricky - most of them too suspicious and too proud to give in to the game, but I managed to get a few…..


Excerpt from TRAVELS, Chapter 5.

Bird Attack. Central Vietnam. Written 13th April 08, in Galle, Sri Lanka.

After almost two and a half weeks in Vietnam, I must admit that I was not in love with the country yet. I was in Hoi An, which is beautiful, but I was starting to get a little tired of being hassled the whole time, and constantly having to beware of being ripped off, whether for a room or for a pack of cigarettes. I was missing the Laos people. However, I felt an urge to get off the beaten track. I needed to check that there wasn’t more to the Vietnamese than the ones I’d come across so far in the relatively touristy parts of the country. I was desperate to get on a motorbike and head off into the Central highlands but I needed someone / some others to do this with. I quite desperately networked the Hoi An social scene each evening trying to find other travelers who'd be interested in doing the trip from Hoi An to Pleiku, to no avail. It turned out I was traveling against the flow… anyone motorbike friendly had already done the trip but in the opposite direction, or, they were on a budget, and couldn't afford the extravagance.

Finally though, I met a dutch guy who told me about the 'Easy Riders,' a group of wise old Vietnamese men who take people off on excursions into the highlands on the back of their motorbikes, and guide them through tribal villages along the way. Well, I thought - fuck it... if no one will come with me, I'm going to do it on my own! I spent a morning investigating, to find a real Easy Rider (i.e. not one of the hundreds of men in the city who own a bike and pose as one). I found my man. He was called Mr Chau (pronounced Mr Chow), a 51 year old, skinny man with kind eyes and a face that creased up brilliantly when he smiled. I sat with him on the side of a road and I got a good vibe from him immediately. He spoke good English, and his character was gentle and witty. So the next afternoon, off we went; it was the best decision I made during my whole trip.

As we left the city of Hoi An and headed into the mountains, I felt an amazing sense of freedom… we drove into the night, into the unknown… I felt as free as a bird as we passed through stunning landscapes, and smelled the jungle that passed us by (occasionally I put on a bit of Leftfield on my i-pod to enhance the experience even more!). I get a real high off mystery; not knowing where you’re going and seizing every moment as yours and yours alone. Some could say I’m a little crazy to go heading off into the mountains with a Vietnamese man I’d only met the day before!... But hey, I’d been traveling for 2.5 months, and I felt my instincts by this time were trustworthy. They told me Mr Chau was a good man, and they were right.

At the beginning of our trip, I had the most extraordinary experience. Mr. Chau and I stopped at a road side cafe to get a bite to eat. As I entered the cafe, there was a flurrying at my feet. I looked down to see a bird flapping and hopping around. Well, my first thought was that the poor little creature must be crippled or blind but anyway it was in a panic and trying to get outside. So I stepped aside, but as I did so, I felt a sharp peck on the middle toe of my left foot. It then became apparent that the thing was intentionally going for me. After a few seconds of panicky squealing action, I looked up to find myself back on the pavement, and the bird perched at the back of the cafe on top of the wall (no ceiling) looking rather pleased with himself. It was about the size of a large sparrow, dark brown, with a white marking around its neck, and a large yellow beak. Mr Chau and the locals were laughing at me and ushering me back into the cafe, telling me it was ok, the bird is over there now.. all ok. I was bewildered. I couldn't believe that the bird had actually just attacked me... I told myself, Jax, its a bird... not a dog, a bird. Don’t be so silly.. go back inside the cafe.. the bird has nothing against you.. Well, it turned out it did.

For each step I cautiously took back into the cafe, the bird took a hop from one table to another in my direction. And then, before I knew what was going on, my arms and legs were flailing in all sorts of directions... it was War. With my helmet in one hand, I frantically lashed out at the most evil creature I have ever come across in my life. I was ready to kill, and so was he it seemed. He had very fast wings that enabled him to hover like a helicopter above me and then take diving sweeps towards my vulnerable body and feet. I must have looked a real sight, kicking, squealing, spinning around, lashing out... a few seconds later I found myself back on the pavement again. Believe it or not, this happened once more before Mr Chau finally agreed it might be a good idea to go somewhere else to eat. I walked away feeling utterly defeated and totally bewildered... still am!

Mr Chau and I sped through lush green mountains along the Ho Chi Min trail and he taught me about the war and what happened in various places that we visited along the way. It was really haunting, but amazing at the same time. Mr Chau explained to me that most of the villages that we visited didn’t exist during the war; the various tribes we came across would have been tucked away in the mountains at that time, only moving inland and taking advantage of the new road, the Ho Chi Min trail, in the mid 70’s.

We visited several villages each day where - finally - people wanted nothing from me but a wave or a smile. Mr Chau taught me enough Vietnamese for me to be able to introduce myself and engage on a basic level. Their faces lit up as soon as I said hello, I am from England, I am 26… One woman gave me a bracelet as a gift followed by a big smile and a hug. She didn't want anything in return, which was very rewarding indeed considering how corrupted by tourism most of the Vietnam I’d seen so far was. I had many magical moments, whether sipping rice wine with chiefs or eating pineapple from a farm lady’s back yard.

One encounter though was not quite so peaceful. As I tentatively approached one village, that flanked a large river and was surrounded by green fields, an old man came rushing up to me out of nowhere. As he got closer I saw that he was missing a hand. He hailed himself into a dramatic sign language explanation of how the war had lost him his hand, all the while accusingly pointing at me and asking,
“You?... America?”
“Neung Ang! Neung Ang!” I replied in my best Vietnamese, “I’m from England!” And I must say I’ve never been quite so glad to be able to say that in my life! He angrily pointed to the sky and then enacted bombs falling from planes. Then he’d point at his stubbed arm, at the ground, and then enact the bombs exploding, shouting America… America! He also did gun shots, getting hit, and falling to the ground. I wasn’t sure by which means he’d lost his hand until Mr Chau appeared after about 25 minutes and was able to translate. He’d walked into a left over land mine in 1980.

Vietnam has forgiven America for the atrocities it caused, and for the most part, the people there are looking into their exciting future rather than dwelling on their tragic past. However, that afternoon resentment towards America and the effect that she had had on this man’s homeland was right there, staring me in the face. In the markets of Hoi An I had felt it; the older men and women wouldn’t look you in the eye, but here in the highlands, where tourists didn’t make anyone wealthier, where there was no beneficial reason to keep your mouth shut, feelings and expressions were honest. Just as every smile was real, so was this man’s sorrow.


LIFE. Chapter 6. The Bum Wiggle. Written April 24th ’08. New York.

Well, here I am back in New York. My last week of my ‘travels’ was spent back in Sri Lanka where my Mum came and met me for a week’s holiday. We stayed in a beautiful villa and drank wine every night with our English friends who we were staying with. I was, in a way, already back in civilization as far my living conditions were concerned. It was a real treat to have fresh clean sheets on my bed and loo paper in the bathroom, even if we did have to watch out for the occasional scorpion that wondered round the house in the evenings.

I then flew back to London where I stopped for two nights before coming back to this crazy and wonderful city. My point is that I weaned myself back into first world society progressively, which I think helped a lot as far as ‘culture shock’ goes. It’s been great getting back and seeing all my friends, all of whom I missed while away and appreciate even more than I did before, now that I’m back.

It’s been quite strange though I must say… I mean I wasn’t gone for all that long, but I was in a different world on my travels, and now I’m back here and everything is very much as it was before. I don’t know what I was expecting… did I think the man in the deli would suddenly have blue hair? Or that all the buildings would all be ten stories higher? No, but here’s the thing: In life, you experience something new everyday - even if you don’t necessarily notice or acknowledge it, you do… but when you travel, especially if alone, you discover new people, new places, new attitudes, new kinds of foods, new types of transport, new animals, new streets, EVERY DAY, and you notice them all. You’re eyes are open wide and you are a sponge sucking in every new thing that is around you. So when I went into the liquor store to buy a bottle of wine, and I found myself reaching for the same Pinot Grigio as I always did before, and the man behind the counter asked for my ID in the same tone, with the same small smile as he always did before, I felt in a strange way as if I’d just woken up from an amazing dream (you know when you have one of those really long story telling dreams that you can’t believe your brain was clever enough to make up? – a bit like that). And now I’ve woken up, and here I am, back in my life in New York, and everything is (to use the invaluable Asian expression), “same same, but different!”

That is NOT to say that there isn’t a hell of a lot going on in this ever evolving city. I mean, actually there is SO much going on everywhere around you it’s almost too much to take it all in… no wonder people rush down the street looking down in front of them as if they have blinkers on… it’s all a bit much really! All sorts of people are everywhere, all around you, all of the time, and there is a hell of a lot to think about and concern yourself with. What to wear, how to do your hair, your first meeting of the day, whether you should go to this event or that, whether you should renew your gym membership even though you’ve only used it about ten times in the last year, relationship problems (yours or your friends), rent / mortgage, taxes, plans for the weekend, and as if this wasn’t all enough to set your head spinning, how many different kinds of bloody toothpaste can Colgate produce?! Max Fresh burst Flouride, Sparkling White Flouride, Total Flouride, Total Whitening Mint gel… I mean for fucks sake! - I just want some toothpaste! Too much choice can be overwhelming.

Anyway, that’s enough of my traveler-come-back-to-reality spiel! Now for New York; I love this city. And I realized last weekend just how diverse it is here. A friend of mine’s company was sponsoring a party last weekend for Bobby Konder’s birthday bash. It was held in a club called Mars 2112, on 51st Street and Broadway, a far cry from the Rose Bar at the Gramercy I can tell you that. It was a hip hop / funk party, catering to a massive following of African American ghetto living people… ‘Massive B,’ ‘Funkmaster Flex,’ and ‘Reggae Boyz’ (I’d never heard of them before) all performed, and it was quite an experience! The queue outside curled around the block, and the security at the door was rigorous. “Stand there!” “Ladies this way, men over there..!” We were herded from one spot to another until finally we were let in through the doors of the club. The six of us were the only white people there, literally, and the only ones who didn’t know every word and every move to every song that boomed from the speakers.

Conducive to the name of the club, the ceiling was starry and the walls fake stone. We walked through the bar area onto a huge balcony that circled over the dance floor, and we peered down. I was mesmerized. A heaving body of people danced and stuck their hands up in the air like I’ve never seen before. They were celebrating their culture, their history, their music, their way, and every one of them exuded a powerful sense of pride for being part of it. I went to the ladies feeling ever so slightly intimidated, half expecting to get glared at… but oh no – they couldn’t have been less interested. They were consumed by each other, their fellow brothers and sisters, and the energy that together they were creating… they were flying high off the night that they’d been waiting for. The DJs would turn off the music mid song and the whole club would finish it off word for word. The lyrics, in my opinion, left something to be desired… they were mostly about bitches, sons of bitches, hoes and fucking. Never the less, the vibe was exhilarating.

Back on the balcony, I started to observe the flirting tactics of this fascinating culture. Where at the Gramercy, the female species might charm their way into a man’s arms by polite conversation, sexy shoes, the right friends or the right colored lipstick, at Mars 2112, it was all about the bootie. I never knew bottoms could move so much in so many different ways! Looking down from above, I saw how the female species, looking for a mate, would arch their lower backs, stick out their bums and gyrate them around, to the side, up and down, in and out, all in perfect beat to the music. They all wore short skintight dresses or very short shorts with fluorescent skintight tops, just to make sure every curve of every bit of their bodies was on display for the male species to admire. The male would walk around the room, keeping a cool beat to the music, until he found a female whose moves and whose bottom he found particularly attractive. He’d then slide up behind her, and provided the female did not reject him with a flick of the arm or a sweeping step to the side, he’d put his arms around her waste, press his hips into her backside, and then the grinding would start. He’d grind, and grind, and grind, and she’d wiggle and wiggle and wiggle, and there it was; two members of the opposite sex had found each other. It was a very raw kind of romance.

I spotted two of my friends on the dance floor (it wasn’t hard) and thought I’d better go and join them.. a little voice inside my head was crying out “get into it Jax! Stop gawping and get in there!” I went down the stairs and found them in the middle of a swirling pool of people all funking it out like there was no tomorrow. I felt a little stiff at first, but soon the music and the atmosphere picked me up and carried me to that other place that people go to when they dance like they just don’t care. I fully surrendered myself to the music, I got my ghetto groove on, but only for about five minutes as then an incident happened that brought everyone around us back down to reality. A fight had broken out about twenty feet away from us and suddenly everyone around us paused to gage the situation. The music that everyone had one moment before been so consumed by was suddenly a background noise that no body was even aware of. It was crowded and dark, no one could really gage anything; and so then - panic. My friends and I found ourselves swept up in a rush of people running up the stairs of the club. There was a sudden fear in the whites of everyone’s eyes, as people grabbed hold of their friends and shouted “Go, go, go…” They knew what they were doing. You don’t hesitate when a fight breaks out… you don’t know who has a gun… you get the hell out of there!

The sprawling panic only lasted about five seconds; its amazing how long those seconds seem to last, and how many people can move from one place to another in that short time frame! We made it halfway up the stairs before the DJ told everyone through the microphone to relax, the situation was under control. We all stopped, and let a HUGE bouncer guy carry the aggressor up the stairs, passed us, and out of the club. The grooving, the singing, the grinding and the bum wiggling continued into the night, and I left at about 2am feeling as if I’d just been traveling again.

Since Saturday night, I’ve been seeing friends for dinners and coffees, I’ve had a few meetings, had my hair colored, and gone through a meter high pile of mail full of nasty bills and letters from the IRS. I saw my accountant and paid my over due taxes, and spent two hours going through my credit card bills and marking what was deductible – yes – of COURSE Duane Read is deductible! If I don’t buy shampoo, I can’t wash my hair, if I can’t wash my hair, I will look grubby and won’t get booked for my modeling jobs!

It is a very different world over here, a far cry from the villages of Laos and the highlands of Vietnam, but I’m glad to be back, and you can always find an adventure, wherever you are!

Xxxx Jax