tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-224192422024-03-14T01:00:38.194+07:00Kopi Susu 2An expat blog about Jakarta and IndonesiaTrishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.comBlogger601125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-45667994690566029502014-05-18T08:54:00.004+07:002014-05-18T08:55:36.739+07:00KopiSusu2 has moved!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I got tired of Blogger.com's shenanigans, so I've set up camp at <a href="http://kopisusutwo.wordpress.com/">kopisusutwo.wordpress.com/</a>. Check out new posts about London there!</div>
Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-91448400861879325202014-05-15T19:21:00.003+07:002014-05-17T19:59:51.436+07:00Do not climb<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pQjlfGlh3n4/U3dc1TTbAfI/AAAAAAAAEtk/LvQmOZMorQg/s1600/londoneye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pQjlfGlh3n4/U3dc1TTbAfI/AAAAAAAAEtk/LvQmOZMorQg/s1600/londoneye.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
Please do not climb the London Eye.</div>
Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-42905546179946232212014-05-15T07:48:00.003+07:002014-05-17T20:08:29.248+07:00London-y things<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MlVd0LM7iNc/U3ddEI2TLZI/AAAAAAAAEuI/9uXFD1XAuJ4/s1600/turnipbicycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MlVd0LM7iNc/U3ddEI2TLZI/AAAAAAAAEuI/9uXFD1XAuJ4/s1600/turnipbicycle.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
The turnip delivery bicycle. <br />
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Signs advertising Sunday roast.<br />
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Subway stops called things like Tooting Bec.<br />
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Crosswalks that tell you which way to look. (So thoughtful! So useful for us confused tourists!)<br />
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Places named for Dickens characters.<br />
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Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-62950952884113733572014-05-11T13:30:00.000+07:002014-05-13T08:14:31.803+07:00The Worst Two Years: "A woman might pisse it out"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
London in the 1600s was a jumble of wooden houses. The streets were so narrow, the overhanging gables of the houses often touched. Fires were not unusual, but they usually burned out after claiming a few streets. Firefighting pumps had just been invented and weren't very effective, but bigger blazes could be stopped by pulling down houses to create firebreaks.<br />
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So nobody was unduly worried when a baker’s shop in Pudding Lane went up in flames in the early morning hours on September 2, 1666. Mayor Bludworth, awakened from a drunken sleep at 3 AM, looked at the flames and said, “Pish. A woman might pisse it out.” But nobody called a woman to do so, and before long the fire, pushed by a strong wind, was raging out of control.<br />
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Several unfortunate happenings converged to make this fire special. In the first place there was that howling wind, which drove the fire across the city. Second, people in the path of the flames began pulling their belongings out of their houses in a panic. The streets were soon clogged with carts, piles of furniture, people carrying all their worldly goods on their backs, and refugees trying desperately to flee. That made it hard for responders to reach the fire.<br /><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kqa2TZ4mJmE/U2qtdGDZKkI/AAAAAAAAEqI/0utxwdtwm8U/s1600/prefirelondon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kqa2TZ4mJmE/U2qtdGDZKkI/AAAAAAAAEqI/0utxwdtwm8U/s1600/prefirelondon.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>London in the mid-1600s was packed with wooden houses on narrow streets</i></td></tr>
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Third, it had been a dry and hot summer, so the houses were primed to burn. And fourth, warehouses along the Thames were packed with pitch, oil, brandy and tar; in the wake of the Great Plague, merchants were stockpiling stuff to sell to residents moving back into the city.<br />
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The blaze moved so fast that when people pulled houses down to try to create firebreaks, the flames caught the ruins before they could be cleared away, and the fire roared on. <br />
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The aforementioned drunken mayor wasn’t much help. During the crucial early stages of the fire, diarist, naval administrator and man-about-town Samuel Pepys rode to the King and secured the help of soldiers to pull down houses. He rode back to transmit the order to the mayor, only to find him standing in the street, staring at the fire in a daze. “I am spent: people will not obey me,” Bludworth raved. So nothing was done. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">London Fire Brigade monument. A fire brigade would have been useful,<br />
but alas, it wasn't founded for another two centuries.</td></tr>
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The fire turned London into a different sort of Hell: while the Plague had left it eerily empty, it was now packed with half-crazed crowds and mountains of possessions. Some people threw their furniture into the river with the slim hope of recovering it after the fire; others went out on boats, which rammed each other in the smoke and even caught on fire when sparks blew over the water.<br />
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On the fourth day, the wind died down. At the same time, a response had finally coalesced, and men blowing whole streets up with gunpowder had succeeded in creating firebreaks. But 90 percent of the city’s housing had gone up in smoke.<br />
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The fire led to many improvements, including wider streets and more graceful houses of brick and stone. It may even have helped clear out the vestiges of the Plague. But after the year they'd just had, Londoners had to wonder what they'd done to bring another disaster down on their heads.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-77958200251889847142014-05-10T10:00:00.000+07:002014-05-15T08:42:31.025+07:00The Worst Two Years: “London’s Dreadful Visitation”<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The plague hit London in 1664, but its great death machine did not get fully ramped up until 1665. It was a repeat engagement: London had suffered nearly 40 outbreaks of plague since 1348. But this was the most vicious bout yet, and it turned the city into a credible vision of Hell on earth.<br />
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The disease started by claiming a trickle of victims, but the toll from the “Dreadful Visitation,” as the official weekly death report called it, soon soared into the hundreds and even thousands per week. Early efforts to fight the disease may have made it worse. The moment a house was found to have a plague victim, the city sealed it up with all its occupants inside. Nobody was allowed out for forty days, during which time the illness often killed off every member of the family, one by one, and wiped out their servants for good measure.<br />
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This policy not only guaranteed prolonged close contact with the disease – it gave people a powerful incentive to hide signs of the plague. Deaths were recorded by indigent old women hired by the parishes as a form of welfare, so it was easy for a family to bribe its way out of a plague diagnosis. While some Londoners were locked up with their dying family members, others who were secretly infected were going about their business and spreading the disease around the city.<br />
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Leasor’s <i>The Plague and The Fire</i> argues that many victims could have been saved with proper medical care, but most of the doctors fled the city when the epidemic began, while others were more interested in peddling quack cures than treating fevers and cleaning sores.<br />
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“Plague nurses” sent to people’s homes sometimes provided elementary care. On the other hand, they sometimes decided to suffocate you and steal your belongings instead. They were a crapshoot, those plague nurses.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7w-gmMgEXOs/U2qk0GK4yYI/AAAAAAAAEpw/J7urVxo-9nQ/s1600/plague.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7w-gmMgEXOs/U2qk0GK4yYI/AAAAAAAAEpw/J7urVxo-9nQ/s1600/plague.jpg" height="340" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Image: Wellcome Museum, London, on Flickr</i></td></tr>
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In the end, the sheer number of dead brought the city to its knees. There were hardly enough living people left to bury them all. Many were tipped into mass graves with no record taken of their passing. Victims in the last stages of delirium wandered the mostly-deserted streets, sometimes attacking a healthy passerby out of spite. Only the arrival of winter stopped the disease.<br />
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Thus ended Year One.</div>
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Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-31186875425915959342014-05-09T13:00:00.000+07:002014-05-15T08:32:46.151+07:00Museum of London<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<p>It was totally random that we ended up here on our first day – really, we were just wandering around looking for anything that would keep our eyes open until a reasonable bedtime. But visiting the museum early in your trip is a great idea and I highly recommend going there directly after the Indian YMCA.</p><br />
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London’s history is so vast, it’s hard to figure out where to begin. But here I found what became my obsession over much of the trip: the Great Plague of 1665 and the Great Fire of 1666.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PG390LMez3A/U2pigOa7fiI/AAAAAAAAEpQ/OrVUzXoxg2U/s1600/Great_Fire_London.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PG390LMez3A/U2pigOa7fiI/AAAAAAAAEpQ/OrVUzXoxg2U/s1600/Great_Fire_London.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Fire: detail from an anonymous painting. (Image: Wikipedia)</td></tr>
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The plague killed at least one out of every six London residents – James Leasor’s highly entertaining book The Plague and the Fire, from which I cribbed much of the detail I'll be sharing in future posts, argues convincingly that it was more like one in four. The fire that roared through a year later wiped out 90 percent of the city’s housing. <br />
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It was like a neutron bomb followed by firebombs and I think, short of war, it was about the worst two years any city could have. By reading up on them, and going out to see the associated sites, you get a stereoscopic view of life in London in days gone by.<o:p></o:p></div>
Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-6553275608581494442014-05-07T22:47:00.002+07:002014-05-15T08:38:09.311+07:00How to Go to London<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Depending where you’re starting from, take a plane or a train or whatever. On arrival, get on the tube, go directly to the Warren St. station, walk to the Indian YMCA, and get one of every dish at the canteen.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4-xBn4tXqwA/U2pOhF7_17I/AAAAAAAAEoo/vO5MeRlqdqo/s1600/canteenfood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4-xBn4tXqwA/U2pOhF7_17I/AAAAAAAAEoo/vO5MeRlqdqo/s1600/canteenfood.jpg" height="270" width="400" /></a><br />
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Devour everything, from the tender chapati to the symphonically spiced mutton curry to the controlled-incendiary chickpeas. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-99q8VZp9nFM/U2pSFulmzGI/AAAAAAAAEo0/S_rUtcV_9v0/s1600/tray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-99q8VZp9nFM/U2pSFulmzGI/AAAAAAAAEo0/S_rUtcV_9v0/s1600/tray.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a><br />
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Have a nice chat with the super-friendly staff and tell them the food is sublime. Become a member of the clean plate club.<br />
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That is all.<br />
<br />
(For historical accuracy, I should note that we didn't do it this way on this trip. But I plan to from now on.)</div>
Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-68015576444993997292014-05-02T17:18:00.004+07:002014-05-08T20:58:31.416+07:00Going to London: Transit and non-transit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello Kopisusu2 fans! Nice to see you both (tee hee).<br />
<br />
"But wait," you say. "Where have you been for the last 1,367 days? And what are you doing in London?"<br />
<br />
More on the 1,367 days later. As for London, I'm here because my sister Cathy wanted to see some Chekhov plays, so she flew us both out on her frequent flyer miles - yippee! My other sister Beth and her husband John came along.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iGRFciUXf2A/U2JseLW6AKI/AAAAAAAAEmw/o8Ys2VJaPyg/s1600/timthumb.php.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Photo stolen from dayspas.com</i></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Cathy took the train up to New York. In the small space of time between her arrival and our departure at JFK, we squeezed in a trip to a day spa in Koreatown that had a steam room and a little sauna that looked like a troll house. It was far less extensive than the fabulous King Spa in Jersey, with its jade sauna and amethyst sauna and special mud sauna and ice sauna, which I'll have to write about sometime -- but it was great to get steam-cleaned before getting into that big tin can of germs known as the transatlantic jet.<br />
<br />
<div>
I got pretty much no sleep on the plane because I was busy watching free episodes of GIRLS, which I love but am too cheap to pay for at home.</div>
<div>
<br />
We had cunningly planned our time in London to coincide with a transit strike, so getting to the rental apartment was a challenge. After much to-ing and fro-ing we managed to get on the Express to Paddington Station.<br />
<br />
Paddington is not full of teddy bears, to the disappointment of certain members of our party. It has some pretty cool high windows, though, which reminded me of <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178053">Philip Larkin</a>.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EzZQG-38vC8/U2NuXyQe_mI/AAAAAAAAEnQ/M1llwuq2VEo/s1600/1024px-Wrought-iron-screen-Paddington-Station-south.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EzZQG-38vC8/U2NuXyQe_mI/AAAAAAAAEnQ/M1llwuq2VEo/s1600/1024px-Wrought-iron-screen-Paddington-Station-south.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">High windows. Photo: Wikimedia</span></i></span></td></tr>
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<br />
It turned out our Tube line was running, huzzah! After a lengthy and bitter struggle with the Oyster card machines, which are VERY picky about how you put your credit card in and how you take it out, we got onto a packed train and then another packed train.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hNfYQ95q1rU/U2qa97WXkAI/AAAAAAAAEpg/jVElw3rxJcg/s1600/oyster.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Picky, picky</span></i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Soon we were dragging our rolly bags down the cobblestone streets of Southwark. We probably should have taken a cab, but we were suffused with transit victory and determined to reach our destination under our own steam.<br />
</div>
<div>
By then it was 10 AM London time, and the day was just beginning.</div>
</div>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TFeEekHeuLI/AAAAAAAAD1Y/49K_7E2Dhl8/s1600/sususeat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TFeEekHeuLI/AAAAAAAAD1Y/49K_7E2Dhl8/s400/sususeat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Under the seat</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>The most worriesome parts of the trip were at certain security checks where we had to take her out and hold her while the carrier went through the scanner. We had put a kitty halter and leash on her, which she hated even more than the carrier.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TFec3Me8HqI/AAAAAAAAD1g/fFs1wLQP1oE/s1600/sususleep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TFec3Me8HqI/AAAAAAAAD1g/fFs1wLQP1oE/s400/sususleep.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Still, it was scary standing there holding a squirming cat in an enormous and chaotic airport. The security people seemed remarkably clueless about this and would fire questions at us and demand documents while the cat freaked out and the cat carrier sat there on the scanner belt, already approved for flight but just beyond arm's reach.<br />
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Susu was anxious at the beginning of the journey, she was panting with her mouth open, which is a strange and disturbing thing in a cat. I can't say she really got adjusted to traveling but she basically wore herself out after several hours and fell asleep. When we got to the airport hotel in LA she pulled the Invisible Kitty act, vanishing for at least an hour before we figured out that she had climbed up inside the box spring. But by morning she had recovered enough to investigate the room. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TFedknIQgNI/AAAAAAAAD1o/c1dFiCo5Xtw/s1600/susuhotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TFedknIQgNI/AAAAAAAAD1o/c1dFiCo5Xtw/s400/susuhotel.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
After that it was just one more short flight to Phoenix and a well-earned rest for all concerned.<br />
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Flying Cat Tips:<br />
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1. I found putting a puppy training pad in the bottom of the carrier completely pointless. It just got wadded up in a big lump in the corner. Susu was so stressed out I don't think she could have emitted any waste products anyway. In fact, she had a hard time using the litter box even after we settled into the hotel; I think she got pretty dehydrated.<br />
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2. Bring something warm to put in or around the carrier (being careful not to block the cat's air supply). Planes are really cold.<br />
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3. Get a carrier with a reach-in zipper so you can pet your cat when s/he is anxious. That really seemed to reassure her.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-66675175863078338072010-08-01T11:26:00.002+07:002010-08-03T08:46:17.586+07:00The hungry turtle and other underwater delightsWe were lucky to have an extra instructor along who came along on our PADI Open Water training just for fun. Sarah did some teaching and brought her new underwater camera along.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpyfrGXTJI/AAAAAAAAD1A/BVxNzLeGCkM/s1600/divemechad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpyfrGXTJI/AAAAAAAAD1A/BVxNzLeGCkM/s400/divemechad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Chad and me. All photos in this post by Sarah, with additional editing by me, the Photoshop control freak.</i></span></div><br />
Komodo is famous for its strong currents, so most of our classes were in the gentle waters outside the park. But for our last dive, we went to Tatawa Island, where we got to see the kind of underwater environments that make the place exceptional.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpvd3Ui53I/AAAAAAAAD0g/8qRh2i3maLo/s1600/coral.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpvd3Ui53I/AAAAAAAAD0g/8qRh2i3maLo/s400/coral.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
As a snorkeler I’m used to seeing either beautiful coral or a lot of fish. Tatawa had both in ridiculous abundance. We floated along in the current through clouds of tiny glassfish, all moving as one. We found Nemo.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpw2BhcwTI/AAAAAAAAD0w/y0mNjtEFib0/s1600/clown.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpw2BhcwTI/AAAAAAAAD0w/y0mNjtEFib0/s400/clown.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
And we hovered over huge, vibrant reefs.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpwg9vPFjI/AAAAAAAAD0o/431FdVk3DxM/s1600/coralbright.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpwg9vPFjI/AAAAAAAAD0o/431FdVk3DxM/s400/coralbright.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The best part was spending several minutes watching a turtle devour coral. He was really ripping into the reef, crunching pieces in his mouth and scattering coral crumbs everywhere. That’s something I won’t forget soon.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpxg7zmjxI/AAAAAAAAD04/A2K2WVUWnBM/s1600/turtletoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpxg7zmjxI/AAAAAAAAD04/A2K2WVUWnBM/s400/turtletoo.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-90472858621957119602010-07-31T11:06:00.001+07:002010-08-03T08:50:45.044+07:00Frogwoman 101The amazing thing about learning to dive was how scary it wasn’t. I was prepared to be freaked out when it really hit me that I was breathing underwater and that I was not going to surface anytime soon. But when I got down to the ocean floor with all the gear on, it just seemed kind of normal.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpogc4OL5I/AAAAAAAADzw/zFMAwJT1jpY/s1600/divefive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpogc4OL5I/AAAAAAAADzw/zFMAwJT1jpY/s320/divefive.jpg" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Chad and I high-fiving like the people in the dorky PADI videos. Really. We're not actually dorks.</i></span></div><br />
Even the underwater skills we had to learn – how to find your air hose if it falls out of your mouth, how to breathe using your buddy’s extra mouthpiece, etc. – were more like games than chores. I think the fact that I’ve snorkeled a fair amount helped; it’s easier if you’re already used to breathing with your face in the water and clearing water from the hose just using your breath.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEppLjBOyLI/AAAAAAAADz4/93JZ3vi7o44/s1600/divegame.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEppLjBOyLI/AAAAAAAADz4/93JZ3vi7o44/s400/divegame.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Chad (lying down) demonstrates proper buoyancy control for the instructor while I (with the pink weight belt) monitor my air supply.</i></span></div><br />
The truly scary part was getting out to the boat. The pier had partially collapsed (three years ago, a local guy told me) and never been repaired.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpp0LRKLFI/AAAAAAAAD0A/BUt7sZhSLjk/s1600/brokendockfar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpp0LRKLFI/AAAAAAAAD0A/BUt7sZhSLjk/s400/brokendockfar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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Going out and back required scrambling down one side using the gaps between boards as a ladder, walking over on three wobbly planks, and climbing up the other side. This got even trickier when the tide was up or somebody had dripped oil on the boards.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpqFvJCdQI/AAAAAAAAD0I/YsyOmzIdafg/s1600/brokenscramble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpqFvJCdQI/AAAAAAAAD0I/YsyOmzIdafg/s400/brokenscramble.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Dive instructor Sarah walks the planks.</span></i></span></div><br />
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The payoff for all that, of course, was diving. On our last day we went to a pretty cool reef off Tatawa Island, in Komodo National Park. Photos in the next post!Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-18769185466552047742010-07-30T10:29:00.001+07:002010-07-30T10:29:00.297+07:00Oops!We only planned to spend a night in Kuta, but fate intervened in the form of a stupid mistake. The morning of our onward flight to Labuan Bajo, we realized we’d both forgotten to replenish our supply of contact lenses. We were planning to dive and snorkel around some of the world’s most renowned coral reefs, and we would be as blind as two bats. It might be possible to get lenses on Flores, but we couldn’t count on it, and there wasn’t enough time to find out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpeeLIEyWI/AAAAAAAADzY/4g247JDSrpo/s1600/chadbucks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpeeLIEyWI/AAAAAAAADzY/4g247JDSrpo/s400/chadbucks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The airport Starbucks was playing Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now." Seriously.</i></span></div><br />
After agonizing, and checking with the airline, and agonizing some more, we decided to pay the penalty, delay the flight two days and get some lenses.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpgcyjKSoI/AAAAAAAADzg/elfoJCouQY0/s1600/footballstore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpgcyjKSoI/AAAAAAAADzg/elfoJCouQY0/s400/footballstore.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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Staying in Bali wasn’t such a bad thing anyway. With the World Cup in its final stages, Kuta had a bad case of football fever.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpj-E8mCiI/AAAAAAAADzo/DHvsv7xsdfw/s1600/footballsign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpj-E8mCiI/AAAAAAAADzo/DHvsv7xsdfw/s400/footballsign.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br />
I love World Cup time in Indonesia. Everyone stays up late to watch the matches in big groups, often clustered around TVs out on streetcorners. They spend the next day analyzing each team's performance and predicting the next-round results. It's a kind of sleepy happy madness, and it reminded me of our <a href="http://kopisusu2.blogspot.com/2006/06/nonton-bareng.html">earliest days back in Jakarta</a>, which feels appropriate for a farewell tour.<br />
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In another blast from the past, we brushed off our rusty surfing style with a couple of lessons. We graduated from the enormous foam boards and began to master somewhat smaller foam boards.<br />
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And finally, lenses in hand, we set out for Labuan Bajo.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-86060238545767424292010-07-29T10:22:00.001+07:002010-07-29T16:03:02.138+07:00Flores: Diving, dragons and digsAfter Burma we enjoyed a lovely week in Jakarta, seeing friends, mailing boxes home, and untangling bureaucratic details . Or perhaps I should say bureau-cat-ic details, since many of them revolved around the absurd process of preparing to take Susu with us on the plane. Who knew that a former half-starved street kitten of unknown origins would require something as fancy (and expensive) as an exit permit?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpcvSm-SdI/AAAAAAAADzQ/9Ga0C900P7M/s1600/flyingkitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpcvSm-SdI/AAAAAAAADzQ/9Ga0C900P7M/s400/flyingkitty.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Susu demonstrates the Flying Kitty pose, blissfully unaware that she will soon be a flying kitty herself</i></span></div><br />
Anyway, after getting things more or less organized we headed out for the last phase of the Southeast Asia Tour: Flores, Indonesia.<br />
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Why Flores?<br />
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First, there’s the diving, said to be among the best in the world. Second, there are Komodo dragons. What says “vacation” more than “island of giant reptiles”? Third, there are Hobbits. Or at least bones of Hobbits. Chad has wanted to do a story about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Homo_floresiensis">archeological discoveries</a> there since before we came to Indonesia, and I promptly volunteered to be the photographer because I love hanging around dig sites. <br />
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So we set off for Flores. First stop: Bali.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-6975831283524737032010-07-27T10:07:00.002+07:002010-07-27T12:35:46.026+07:00Best-T Honey toothpaste: Sweet!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpZcKEtXrI/AAAAAAAADzA/JdvIxzzAasQ/s1600/bestt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpZcKEtXrI/AAAAAAAADzA/JdvIxzzAasQ/s400/bestt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Here’s the answer to those artificial sweeteners that make your toothpaste taste like a chemistry experiment: toothpaste with honey! Because teeth and sugar go together like … er … because sugar is great for … hmm … well, it tastes good!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpa517rPXI/AAAAAAAADzI/wTbPJUVAC9Y/s1600/besttclose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEpa517rPXI/AAAAAAAADzI/wTbPJUVAC9Y/s400/besttclose.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
I bought Best-T in Yangon. It does, in fact, look and taste like honey, and it lists real honey (not artificial flavoring) as an ingredient. It behaved like normal toothpaste, but an hour after I used it, my teeth always felt dirty again. As far as I could tell, I might as well be brushing with a Snickers bar. So it’s back to boring old Pepsodent for now.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-52970820264546146432010-07-25T11:29:00.005+07:002010-07-26T16:03:50.149+07:00Smackdown: Yangon vs. Jakarta!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Out of all the sprawling Asian cities we visited on the tour, Yangon (Rangoon) reminded me the most of Jakarta. I think most of the resemblance was infrastructural, if I may coin a word: the crazy traffic, the smog, the poorly-maintained roads and the rather sad pedestrian overpasses all felt like my beloved Jakarta.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEkkQdE_z7I/AAAAAAAADyY/nK5Oq9MmTAo/s1600/yangonwalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEkkQdE_z7I/AAAAAAAADyY/nK5Oq9MmTAo/s400/yangonwalk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Beloved? Yes, I do love Jakarta, as much as it drives me crazy. There is a great city locked inside Jakarta's chaos, and it would only take some good management to bring it out. It pains me a little that my adopted city so resembles the abandoned capital of a long-abused nation like Myanmar. But so be it. Without further ado, I present Smackdown 2010: Jakarta-Yangon edition!<br />
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STREET LIFE: We didn't have enough time in Yangon to do a thorough survey of markets etc., but I'd have to give the edge to Jakarta. It's hard to match the buzz of the Jak when it comes to people hawking, hustling or just hanging out on the street.<br />
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TAXIS: Advantage Jakarta, again. Yangon's taxis lack shock absorbers, and for some reason most of them have lost the inner paneling on their doors, making them look sadder than even the shabbiest Kosti Jaya in Jakarta.<br />
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TRAFFIC: Both suffer from poor traffic control and an absence of mass transit, but Yangon is the winner, simply because it's smaller and fewer people can afford cars.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEkpjazH5yI/AAAAAAAADyo/FR1piSLYlO0/s1600/yangontraffic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEkpjazH5yI/AAAAAAAADyo/FR1piSLYlO0/s400/yangontraffic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yangon traffic: not yet Jakarta, but it's getting there</span></i></span></div><br />
AIR QUALITY: Advantage Yangon (see Traffic).<br />
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ROADS: Jakarta by a nose. Lots of potholes in both cities.<br />
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MONUMENTS: Sorry, Jakarta, but any city would be hard pressed to top the magnificence of Yangon's Shwedagon Pagoda. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEks8VVyW-I/AAAAAAAADy4/khyBRkq3NSo/s1600/shwedbig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEks8VVyW-I/AAAAAAAADy4/khyBRkq3NSo/s400/shwedbig.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
The final tally? A 3-3 tie! That's pretty much how the experts have called it as well; the two cities have <a href="http://www.thejakartaglobe.com/city/jakarta-overtakes-rangoon-in-expat-livability-index/365708">vied neck and neck</a> in the lower tier of contestants on the annual Expat Quality of Life report.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-59505415532297101642010-07-24T16:05:00.000+07:002010-07-24T16:05:00.776+07:00Stupas in the sun<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bagan">Bagan</a> is Burma's answer to Angkor: some 40 square kilometers packed with more than 2,000 temples.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgU5_-FYBI/AAAAAAAADyI/M5ccylwZSEQ/s1600/bagan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgU5_-FYBI/AAAAAAAADyI/M5ccylwZSEQ/s400/bagan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
As you might imagine, it's a bit overwhelming. There are huge old impressive stupas like this one ...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgRZ9CdE2I/AAAAAAAADx4/tzYQ2zP6iyM/s1600/baganbig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgRZ9CdE2I/AAAAAAAADx4/tzYQ2zP6iyM/s400/baganbig.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
But it was the small things that stayed with me, like a little teak statue<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgRG4D8t8I/AAAAAAAADxw/pgIuZjDyYBA/s1600/baganteak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgRG4D8t8I/AAAAAAAADxw/pgIuZjDyYBA/s400/baganteak.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
and a (thankfully unrestored) faded painting of a woman with an umbrella.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgTkogNm8I/AAAAAAAADyA/xcA349xJ0OQ/s1600/baganumbrella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgTkogNm8I/AAAAAAAADyA/xcA349xJ0OQ/s400/baganumbrella.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br />
This being Myanmar, there is a sad side to the story: the junta has been criticized for forcibly relocating people from the area in 1990, and has been accused of degrading the structures' historical value by renovating them inappropriately.<br />
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Hawkers and would-be guides at the more famous temples can drive you crazy, but the town itself, Nyaung U, was pleasantly laid-back. Lots of restaurants sold the local yogurt, which was tart, rich, slightly lumpy, and exceptionally delicious. Apparently Leonardo DiCaprio has a fancy <a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26297688/">frozen yogurt machine</a> in his office, but if I were a Hollywood star, I'd hire someone from Bagan to hang around making the fresh stuff for me.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-19128248920725482442010-07-23T12:19:00.003+07:002010-07-23T12:55:04.729+07:00How to stuff a JeepWe spent the third night of the hike in Namhsan, a cute and chilly little mountain town.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEf_s-kK-ZI/AAAAAAAADw4/-juzRnA_vqU/s1600/shower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEf_s-kK-ZI/AAAAAAAADw4/-juzRnA_vqU/s400/shower.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>The guide booked us seats on a Jeep headed down the mountain to Hsipaw the next day. Chad and I were surprised when the little vehicle pulled up in front of our guesthouse. It clearly had space for only five passengers – one on the bucket seat up front and four on the benches that faced each other in the back. There were already four people aboard, so where were we supposed to sit?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgA_IY8OXI/AAAAAAAADxA/x8FGQJvHjTM/s1600/jeepsmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgA_IY8OXI/AAAAAAAADxA/x8FGQJvHjTM/s400/jeepsmall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>It all became clear after the driver lashed our bags to the roof and gestured for us to get in. I got the remaining bench seat, with Chad on the floor at my feet and our tour guide on the tailgate. And that’s how it remained … until we stopped to take on more people. And more. And more.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgBYat585I/AAAAAAAADxI/800-ZaH8mmc/s1600/jeep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgBYat585I/AAAAAAAADxI/800-ZaH8mmc/s400/jeep.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>In all, we crammed fourteen passengers and a driver into the tiny vehicle: four on the benches, three on the floor, four sitting or standing on the tailgate, two in the bucket seat and one lucky dude sitting sidesaddle on the hood – I kid you not – while clinging to the side-view mirror. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgBnXPU9tI/AAAAAAAADxQ/FWb-b5X0Bmg/s1600/jeephood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgBnXPU9tI/AAAAAAAADxQ/FWb-b5X0Bmg/s400/jeephood.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>The dirt road down the mountain was swimming in mud. Work crews with hoes and shovels didn’t seem to be making a dent in the mess. The driver did a heroic job getting us to town without getting stuck, or, worse, sliding off the road.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgCF-BVRyI/AAAAAAAADxY/MOQ8MusBK8w/s1600/jeepmud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgCF-BVRyI/AAAAAAAADxY/MOQ8MusBK8w/s400/jeepmud.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>It was a very long five-hour ride: Chad's feet went numb and I felt like I’d been spanked with a two-by-four. But our one-time bad experience is a routine occurrence in Myanmar, where public buses and vans are almost always overflowing with people.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgClerPNeI/AAAAAAAADxg/lvvQc7yJQ38/s1600/jeepcrew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TEgClerPNeI/AAAAAAAADxg/lvvQc7yJQ38/s400/jeepcrew.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br />
As we stretched our legs at a rest stop halfway down the mountain, I wondered how many of our fellow travelers made this trip monthly or even weekly. Did they dread being crammed willy-nilly into the vehicle, or do you get used to it after the100th time?Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-40782399777137217202010-07-22T08:29:00.001+07:002010-07-22T08:31:23.741+07:00A night at the monasteryPardon the long outage; we've been roaming around inner Flores, Indonesia, where the internet connections are too slow to upload photos. So, back to the hike from Hsipaw to Namhsan ...<br />
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On days two and three, we learned how lucky we'd been on day one. It started raining the morning the second day, and it really didn't stop for the rest of the hike.<br />
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Mist clung to the mountains until midday.<br />
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Motorbikes put chains on their tires to navigate the treacherous muddy sloughs.<br />
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When we arrived for our second overnight, our guide discovered the friend he planned to stay with had gone to Mandalay for business. We would have to bunk down at the local monastery instead. Our guide was rather downcast, since he wouldn't be able to drink, but Chad and I were delighted.<br />
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We were shown into the large central room at the monastery. Other than a wooden cabinet for plates and silverware, and some sleeping mats and blankets in one corner, there was no furniture. In the now-familiar Burmese style, there was a fire in the floor at one end of the room. Monks, nuns and travelers drifted in and out, plunking down by the coals to chat, drink tea and get warm. The high mountain location and the constant rain made the air quite chilly.<br />
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The monastery cat liked to lounge around by the fire looking outrageously comfortable. As the coals burned down she moved in closer and closer until she was in danger of singeing her fur.<br />
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The nuns spread the dinner dishes out on mats on the floor. It was marvelous food: in the front of the photo you can see some shredded local squash, with a simple tofu and herb soup, some wedges of omelet, and a bowl of greens behind. The tastiest dish looked like mashed hard-boiled egg yolks, with a vinegary-sharp taste and a rich, velvety texture. It turned out to be the liquid and bits of solids leftover from the tofu-making process, fermented and spiced with a bit of chili, onion and garlic.<br />
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Chad and our guide departed for the men's building, where they watched some World Cup before retiring. I slept on a mat in the big room next to the elderly Mother Superior; we went right to bed at 8:30.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-40666941156932995232010-07-14T10:58:00.000+07:002010-07-14T10:58:17.071+07:00The long (long) walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Our half-day hike was only a warmup for the main event: a three-day trek from Hsipaw to Namhsan, up in the mountains of the Shan Plateau. We were told the first day would be the toughest, and that was no lie!<br />
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The path was quite good -- a lumber road bulldozed by the Chinese to get timber out of the hills faster. It rose at a comfortable rate and rarely turned downward, so you didn't lose any of your hard-earned elevation.We hiked through agricultural land for a good couple of hours before we started to see any untouched forest. The landscapes could have been from 200 years ago ...<br />
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and so could the farming implements. <br />
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You can sort of see our guide in the back. He was a chatty guy with a wry sense of humor; he kept joking that we were lost, and honestly, I'm still not sure that we weren't sometimes. He was also a heavy drinker who clearly had a hard time going long without alcohol, which would be a problem for him when we had to stay at a monastery later on.<br />
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After about four hours we stopped at a little roadside place for a bowl of Shan noodles, the signature Shan hilltribe dish. In Yangon, Mandalay and even Hsipaw you can find many a bowl of limp, packaged Shan noodles with instant broth. But this was the real thing: chewy, substatial handmade noodles like the ones we'd seen drying the day before, in a real chicken soup with fresh herbs. On the side were tasty chili sauce and some pungent pickled mustard greens.<br />
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You coudln't ask for better hiking food ... or food in general, really.<br />
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After lunch the road got steeper for quite a while. We were so spoiled for amazing mountain views that I hardly bothered to take photos of them. As I grew tired, my mind wandered in random directions and I spent long stretches trying to remember lyrics to long-lost tunes like "Gonna Lay Down My Old Guitar."<br />
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I was pretty excited to get to the village before nightfall. We'd been hiking since 8 a.m., and in our guide's estimation, had covered more than 20k (13 miles).<br />
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We stayed at a typical village house, a big wooden structure with one large room and a couple of small side rooms. In the middle of the big room was a fire on a metal grate -- the most wonderful fire I've ever seen, because I could throw off my pack, sit right down in front of it and enjoy the sensation of doing absolutely nothing.. The owner of the house then put on the most wonderful kettle I've ever seen. Since it was a tea-growing village, he grabbed a handful of fresh tea leaves, roasted them quickly over the flames on a dry pan, and brewed them up strong and smoky like Lapsang Souchong. Normally I don't drink caffeine that late but this time I had no worries. Even though we bedded down right on the floor on thin mats, I slept like the dead -- or at least the dead-tired.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-68583156045504223172010-07-12T12:13:00.001+07:002010-07-12T12:21:50.531+07:00Hsipaw: Sitting on top of the worldHsipaw is an adorable town a few hours east of Mandalay, down a narrow, winding, ill-repaired road lined with the bodies of buses that didn't quite make it. <br />
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Downtown is pretty sleepy, with a row of cheap tourist restaurants in front and a local market behind.<br />
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Tourists come to Hsipaw to hike, and that's what we did, starting with a half-day stroll to some nearby Shan hilltribe towns.<br />
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On our way out we paused for a delicious look at handmade noodles being hung out to dry. <br />
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We also got up close and personal with water buffalo.<br />
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Every town had a stupa, and these were surprisingly large and opulent considering the overall poverty. They also seemed to be renovated frequently. This one had a Buddha on top of a somewhat idiosyncratic globe: New Zealand was only a word without a landmass, and Laos and Cambodia were missing altogether.<br />
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"Why is the Buddha on top of a globe?" I asked our guide.<br />
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"Maybe this is after he's taken over the world," he answered.<br />
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"But does the Buddha want to take over the world?"<br />
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"Who knows?" he said with a mischievous grin.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-85992996739875264662010-07-07T12:33:00.000+07:002010-07-07T12:33:42.431+07:00The brave men of MandalayTo my disappointment, the Nylon Hotel was not made of nylon.<br />
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Our room boasted excellent views of the city, which we earned with our legs -- it was about 7,000 stairs up from the lobby. The electricity was an on-again, off-again affair, as it is in most of Myanmar. But the front-desk people were quite friendly and the location, across from the city's only ice cream parlor, was highly strategic.<br />
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Our first night there, we went downtown to see the Moustache Brothers, Mandalay's most famous comedy troupe. The Brothers offer a vaudeville-style mashup of jokes and musical numbers. They used to do their shtick in Burmese, but now they are only allowed to offer it in English before handfuls of foreigners in a converted garage. They boost their income by selling traditional puppets, which line the wall behind the stage.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDP3BSGqQeI/AAAAAAAADtw/KUjSZAxJAuM/s1600/lumaw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDP3BSGqQeI/AAAAAAAADtw/KUjSZAxJAuM/s400/lumaw.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Lu Maw (above) is the best English-speaker of the group, so he runs the show. His classically-trained wife does most of the traditional dances.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDP4fBL8eBI/AAAAAAAADuA/K8fqb2bWr-M/s1600/partrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDP4fBL8eBI/AAAAAAAADuA/K8fqb2bWr-M/s400/partrait.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br />
But the emotional heart of the evening is Par Par Lay, who has served three prison terms, including hard labor. His first arrest was for mocking the regime. The most recent was for leading opposition party members in offering donations to monks after the crackdown on the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2007_Burmese_anti-government_protests">Monks' Uprising</a> of 2007.<br />
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He doesn't do much talking in the show, but you can sense right away why Par Par Lay is one of the country's most beloved comedians. He has an irresistible radiance. When he comes on stage, you don't want to look at anyone else.<br />
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I've met a few famous people, mostly politicians -- but shaking Par Par Lay's hand was truly an honor. I can't imagine the courage it takes to laugh in the face of the Myanmar regime. It's something I can only aspire to have.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-37805903447667467832010-07-05T09:48:00.001+07:002010-07-05T10:03:54.234+07:00Yangon to Mandalay: The cold busBack when I was in Russia in the late 80s, whenever you were leaving on a trip somewhere and it happened to be raining, someone was sure to say lugubriously: "Zee SKY is CRYING because you are LEAFING." If that's the case, Myanmar must have been very unhappy to see us coming, because when we arrived that first morning inYangon it rained all day. We went straight from the airport to the bus station, and there we sat, from early morning until late afternoon, watching the rain fall on the buses, the muddy parking lot, and a stack of Max soft drinks.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDCTm3qq6RI/AAAAAAAADsQ/IBpBvmOeBwM/s1600/maxcola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDCTm3qq6RI/AAAAAAAADsQ/IBpBvmOeBwM/s400/maxcola.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br />
The nice lady who sold us the tickets got us settled in the bus station restaurant. "What kind of food would you like?" she asked, and when we said "Myanmar food" she said "Oh, thank you!" with a huge smile. The restaurant people stuffed us with curries. Then a kitten attacked Chad's sneakers. They probably deserved it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDCUxi5BvwI/AAAAAAAADsY/orflNFiVeh4/s1600/kitten.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDCUxi5BvwI/AAAAAAAADsY/orflNFiVeh4/s400/kitten.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
The TV was advertising a fascinating lineup of ancient American movies, from "For a Few Dollars More" to a Doris Day-Rock Hudson flick. I stared sleepily at the screen for hours, listening to a Burmese audio phrasebook I'd downloaded from the Defense Language Institute. It was full of useful phrases like "Stop or I'll shoot!" and "Please don't push, there are enough food parcels for everyone." <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDCb9IFaP2I/AAAAAAAADsg/8jns13kP7XU/s1600/busstation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDCb9IFaP2I/AAAAAAAADsg/8jns13kP7XU/s400/busstation.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div>There are two rules governing bus travel in Myanmar. First, long-distance buses leave in the afternoon and reach their destination at 4 a.m. I have no idea why, but that's how it is. Second, the Yangon-Mandalay bus is FREEZING COLD. Other travelers have confirmed this. I begged a blanket off the bus driver, but the insanely overchilled air from the ceiling vents cut right through it. I went through the 7 stages of extremely cold bus passengers: anger, disbelief, uncontrollable shivering, (fruitless) complaints to the driver, homicidal impulses, crying jag, and finally, surrender. With my fleece hiking hat pulled down over my ears, my wool sweater pulled up over my face, and the help of a knockout pill (Indonesia's Panadol PM, world's greatest cold medicine!), I finally managed to get some sleep.<br />
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Everyone had to get off the bus at 1 a.m. to show their i.d. at a police checkpoint. I tried to get outraged about this government intrusion, but mostly I was happy for the chance to restore some circulation to my toes. <br />
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And when I woke up again, we were there: Mandalay!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDFDFKNayPI/AAAAAAAADtQ/8qJC_HVrr3U/s1600/street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TDFDFKNayPI/AAAAAAAADtQ/8qJC_HVrr3U/s400/street.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-17787937633025031622010-07-02T13:35:00.004+07:002010-07-02T14:03:30.831+07:00Myanmar? Burma? Burma? Myanmar?The first question that arises when you consider visiting the country west of Thailand is: what the heck do I call this place? Myanmar is the name given to it by the junta who have ruled it with an iron fist since 1988. On the other hand, Burma is the colonial label stuck on it by the British, a corruption of the name of the ethnic-majority Bamar, and therefore not really ideal either. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCtLd0XCQCI/AAAAAAAADrg/DzRog2wuCfc/s1600/myanmar.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="301" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCtLd0XCQCI/AAAAAAAADrg/DzRog2wuCfc/s400/myanmar.gif" width="400" /></a></div>The second question is: should I go? Activists have promoted a tourism boycott against The Country That Shall Not Be Named since the mid-90s, spurred by statements from resistance hero Aung San Suu Kyi, who argued tourism profited the oppressive regime and encouraged it to create tourist destinations using forced labor. But there has been a steady push against the boycott by activists who argue that it hurts ordinary residents and further isolates the country.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TC1WhfehawI/AAAAAAAADro/ij_jhrWJgck/s1600/youngnuns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TC1WhfehawI/AAAAAAAADro/ij_jhrWJgck/s400/youngnuns.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Young nuns, near Hsipaw</span></i></div>Here's why I decided to go:<br />
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In recent years the government has loosened its grip on the hospitality industry. There are more private guesthouses to stay in so you aren't renting directly from the regime. Furthermore, tourists are no longer required to buy $200 in currency directly from the government when they arrive. In fact, we never changed money at an official exchange office, or even SAW an official exchange office.<br />
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Suu Kyi herself has recently been quoted as softening her position on tourism, although the statement is apocryphal since it comes via an unnamed source.<br />
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But mostly, I just think it's enlightening to see the place you live in through someone else's eyes. When I was growing up in Northern Virginia, I was always baffled by the hordes of tour buses lining up in front of Mount Vernon Plantation. To me, it was just that big house up the road. The history books said it was important because George Washington once lived there, but what really proved its significance to me was the large numbers of people willing to brave sticky summer heat, sunburn, mosquitoes and $5 Cokes just to go look at the place.<br />
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Conversely, when I moved to an old paper mill town in northern New Hampshire, I was amazed at how the local people viewed their hometown. I thought - and still think - it was one of the prettiest places I'd ever been: a valley bisected by a tumbling river and framed by three mountain ranges. People born and raised there, though, mostly saw a struggling mill, a decrepit downtown and a shrinking population. They were surprised anyone wanted to come see the place, never mind move there.<br />
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Thus, tourism itself, for all its flaws, carries an important message: <i>this place is on the map. It's beautiful, exotic, interesting. People will put up with hardships </i>(in Burma, significant hardships)<i> just to come see it. </i>It counteracts the isolation imposed by repressive regimes and buttresses people's sense that their country deserves better.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TC17dCH85CI/AAAAAAAADrw/Zn0XH22iEGY/s1600/demon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TC17dCH85CI/AAAAAAAADrw/Zn0XH22iEGY/s400/demon.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Statue, Bagan Historical Area</span></i></div><br />
It's true I don't feel great about certain taxes and fees going to the government. On the other hand, I wasn't thrilled when I discovered my US tax dollars were funding secret torture facilities, either. The world is full of horrors and it's hard to keep your hands completely clean.<br />
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I didn't have one of those dramatic moments you're supposed to have in a place like Burma -- you know, grasping someone's hand and murmuring "One day you shall be free! The whole world is watching!" Instead, I raved about the food, told people they had beautiful babies, gawked at amazing temples, shared in the hideous discomforts of local transportation, practiced English with those who wanted to, spent money at small local businesses, and laughed at the occasional political joke. And now I'm going to tell you all about it.<br />
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Is that enough? Maybe. I think so. I hope so.Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-60829533188092764812010-07-01T17:57:00.011+07:002012-03-10T02:21:11.309+07:00Dadlands: The thirteenth month<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Tuy Hoa is where my Dad reached the end of his Vietnam tour.<br />
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I’m finished!!!!!! I’m so happy and relieved I’m going to burst with joy. It’s so great to be alive! -- August 5, 1968, Tuy Hoa</i><br />
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Apparently, it's common for soldiers in a war zone to grow increasingly anxious about the possibility of death as the end of their tour approaches. That's what happened to my Dad. He expected to get the traditional soft assignment to Bangkok for his last couple of weeks. Instead he got sent back into the thick of things.<br />
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I was so darned scared and pessimistic when I found out I was coming here rather than Bangkok. </i> <i>The easiest part of it was the flying. The hardest part was thinking about flying. I couldn’t think of being with you and the kids without thinking of the awful pain if I didn’t come back. </i><br />
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<i>The North Vietnamese have been getting more and bigger guns. Small arms never worried me but the anti-aircraft weapons they are using are too much for a C-130. And when you are landing or making a drop you are really vulnerable. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCdFuO_1sgI/AAAAAAAADrY/Ohub8-zJCZo/s1600/statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCdFuO_1sgI/AAAAAAAADrY/Ohub8-zJCZo/s400/statue.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i>Statue of a Viet Cong soldier taking a downed US Air Force pilot prisoner, DMZ Museum, Quang Tri</i></span></div>He went on to tell my Mom all the stuff he had hidden from her over the previous 13 months: stories of friends shot down or nearly shot down, and the tale of his own brush with disaster at a small airstrip called Prek Klok. His C-130, carrying 24,000 pounds of high explosives, was ambushed with mortars and gunfire just after landing. Somehow he reversed all the way down the runway toward the incoming mortars and took off again.<br />
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<i>When we backed up we created so much dust that we couldn’t see how far we had moved. The airplane feels real strange when you’re backing up at 40 or 50 knots. We stopped and it was evident there still wasn’t enough room so we backed up again. This time it was OK so we poured the power on and I wasn’t sure until we got to 60 knots that we were going to make it. We knocked over a slender pole right at the end of the runway (it shouldn’t have been there anyway) and used every darn inch of it.</i><br />
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The whole crew got the Distinguished Flying Cross. Mom and all of us kids went to see Dad get his medal in Washington after his return. I've seen the family photos from that day, but until I read his description of the ambush I didn't really know<i> </i>what he had been honored for.<br />
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Reading the letters has been a great, if bittersweet, experience. My Mom's letters to him are a corker too, full of great period details like the time her mother took my older sisters out to "see the hippies" on Boston Common. <br />
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So, the moral of the story is: SAVE YOUR LETTERS, and archive your e-mail and blogs too. You never know who might find them interesting, even after you're gone. These letters survived only because one of those sisters of mine made a point of putting them in a safe place after Dad died.<br />
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Also, I'm very lucky to have a guy who lets me drag him to backwater towns, crummy hotels and deserted airfields just because my father happened to be there 40 years ago. The Dadlands Tour 2010 would not have happened without Chad, who sometimes supported it more ardently than I did. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22419242.post-1100091378350135392010-06-30T13:35:00.007+07:002010-06-30T20:03:42.901+07:00Dadlands: The incursionBack to Tuy Hoa for a story from my Dad's Vietnam war letters:<br />
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<i>A day off today. We need it after what happened last night. We had just returned to our quarters after having flown until 1 am when the mortars started coming in. They hit in the aircraft revetment area, about a mile away. The fracas brought us all out of bed and we were standing around outside (the mortars had stopped) watching the fires when an Air Policeman came up saying that about 10 Viet Cong had gotten on to the base and were headed in our direction. </i><br />
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<i>I envied him. He was wearing a helmet and flak vest and carrying an M-16. I was wearing underwear and shower clogs and didn’t even have a cigarette. </i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCcqwbB0QQI/AAAAAAAADrA/B5fnTfh-5b0/s1600/airporthootch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCcqwbB0QQI/AAAAAAAADrA/B5fnTfh-5b0/s400/airporthootch.jpg" width="400" /><span style="font-size: x-small;">F</span></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Tuy Hoa Airport (former air base)</i></span></div><i>He suggested we get into a bunker and we did. I didn’t like it, though, because there were about 30 of us in there and if the VC really wanted to get personnel (normally they don’t – they want airplanes) they could get us all with one hand grenade or satchel charge. So I left and went back to my quarters thinking that if they really wanted me, they would have to go through all the hootches and find me. </i><i><br />
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I stayed in the hootch for a while, then got dressed and went outside again because if an evacuation were started</i>,<i> I didn’t want to be left behind. There were 2 helicopter gun ships orbiting overhead dropping flares and occasionally cutting loose with machine gun fire. Suddenly, one of the helicopters wheeled around and cut loose five rockets into an area about a half mile away. Maybe a mile. All the calmness I had regained in the preceding hours left me in a flash but by then things were pretty well under control. An all clear was declared shortly and we went back to bed. </i><br />
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<i>This morning I hear that there were 2 search and rescue C-130s totally destroyed, either by mortars or satchel charges. They killed 9 Viet Cong. Five Americans were injured, only 2 seriously. </i><br />
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<i></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCcrKtFDiwI/AAAAAAAADrI/k1I3d4oZffg/s1600/airporttower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Zcd62JBCtYc/TCcrKtFDiwI/AAAAAAAADrI/k1I3d4oZffg/s400/airporttower.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Tower, Tuy Hoa Airport</i></span></div><br />
<i>I hesitate writing you about all this but it makes such interesting writing and besides it’s very unlikely to happen again before I leave which isn’t too far away.<br />
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Apparently the security people got caught napping. Security will undoubtedly get much better now. The whole thing rattled the base a bit. Somebody remarked that it was almost as bad as Cleveland.</i> -- <i>Tuy Hoa, July 29, 1969</i>Trishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16218984943813920951noreply@blogger.com0