Tam Coc Rower

Tam Coc

 

We took a day trip down here from Hanoi. The whole area is covered with limestone rock formations called Karsts. The best way to experience it is to go by boat down the river. The rower navigates with his/her feet! The river goes through rice paddies and a few caves. It is really stunning.

Hue

Old pagoda

Incense

My new friend and I getting ready to go off to negotiate a boat trip

Thien Mu Pagoda

Friendly boat guy

 

The Citadel

Bridge all lit up

Beautiful bridge

Hue is the former Imperial Capitol of the Nguyen Dynasty. Another UNESCO World Heritage Site. It was heavily damaged by bombing during the French and American War but some of the old Citadel exists.
We were lucky to show up during the middle of a huge every-other-year festival. A big deal with lots of music and dance groups from all over Asia performing at a bunch of different venues all over town. A really exciting event for the city ( and for us.) The night before we left they lit up the bridge over the Perfume River with thousands of buckets filled with paraffin. It was really beautiful.
One of the best things we did was take a trip down the river to the Thien Mu Pagoda. We had no intention of doing this, in fact we had been hassled by so many hawkers about it we we're resolved not to give in but sometimes you just don't know how things will evolve.
We started the day out by crossing the river to check out an older neighborhood. See a few old pagodas, maybe get a bite to eat. Mike had to pee so we found a "café" down the end of an alley. It was really just someone's house with a beer sign over it but they had a toilet and cold beer so we sat down while the family stared at us. Someone must have made a call because the next thing we knew we were joined by a guy who spoke decent English and then a few minutes later by his wife who whizzed up on her scooter. They were quizzing us about what sights we had seen in Hue. Then we were chastised because we hadn't been on the river or seen the famous pagoda.
"You haven't been on a trip to Hue unless you have done this beautiful trip."
Of course they knew someone with a boat and could arrange the whole thing for us.
I caught on pretty quick to the fact that they were trying to set this up. Mike was a few steps behind so I was nudging him under the table trying to clue him in. This was in the afternoon which is typically our time to escape the heat and maybe snooze a little, so he wasn't catching on too fast. Next thing I knew the wife and I were off on her scooter and banging on the side of the boat, waking up the family who lives on it (again it was afternoon- sleepy time for everyone.) We negotiated a price and they came up the canal to pick us up.
The family that owned the boat- mother, father and teenaged daughter- were gracious hosts. They had a cooler of cold beer and made us some fresh springrolls. Mom pulled out a collection of souvenirs for us to buy and we picked out a couple of cards and a fan but she wasn't too pushy when we told her we didn't want anything else. The pagoda was beautiful, the view on the trip down and back was lovely and there was a nice breeze out on the river. All in all a really nice way to spend the afternoon and we felt good about giving them a little business.
Not at all how we expected the day to turn out but then sometimes those are the best times.

Zoom Zoom

When I was in first grade I was paid a dime a day to walk Donna Norman to school.  I can still remember getting kind of shoved out the door by my mom, and encouraged (told) to scoot on down to the Norman’s duplex to pick up my charge.

“Put the money in this napkin, so you don’t lose it.”  I’m not sure the dime meant all that much to me, though it did gain momentum of sorts because of the attention heaped on it by the adults.  I was more concerned with the responsibility of getting another person to their destination.  After all, it was only just recently I’d put the whole getting someplace thing together myself, and was sort of looking forward to hanging with the bigger kids, but the adult world had other plans, and I was stuck with Donna, who, for the record, was cute as hell in her flared little dress and patent leather shoes—something that, like the value of a dime, was nowhere near my radar screen at the age of five.  I didn’t give much thought to how Donna felt about the arrangement, or if she knew or cared about the fact I was getting paid for my kindness.  Probably anyone other than her mother would have registered as competition to so young a kid, a roadblock in the way of true and pure love.  Plus, it was her first foray out of the home and into a place of pain and differentness (school) making me the proverbial bringer of bad tidings.  I’d take her hand and together we’d work our way down the sidewalks of Oak Park to Tyler Elementary school—about six blocks.  Come lunch hour, I’d bring her home and collect my dime. 

In retrospect, I’m hard-pressed to imagine just what kind of security Mrs. Norman imagined her dime was buying.  I certainly knew enough to stop at the crosswalks and look for traffic, but any number of third graders out there could have had us for lunch.  Perhaps the sight of us toddling off together down the sidewalk, her hand bravely linked to mine, sparked a certain invincibility; a shield of and from humanity fueled by the light of our innocence and lack of fear.  Somehow, the coupling of humans into pairs, then into units of family, and finally communities, bears an almost transcendent power over the caprice of mayhem. A pocket of peace amid the madness, and it starts with a child’s hand, reaching out with a bit of hope and faith. Then, too, it could have simply been the detritus of a beer-soaked Labor Day afternoon, in which our very young and stupid parents waxed romantic over the prospect of their very young and vulnerable children setting forth into a hard and callous world—arm in arm, together.  Whatever the reason, I’m guessing there are very few five year olds leading their neighbor’s four year olds down the streets of Oak Park today—and not just because Detroit has turned into a cobweb of dust, fumes, and empty Strohs beer bottles.  We now bundle our sacred ones into airbag-equipped cars, wrap them into various plastic contrivances of protection, and organize their every move under the careful watch of paranoid adults.  Helmets, knee-pads, elbow pads, mouth guards.  After all, the world’s full of catastrophe.  Just look at the news.

The other day while crossing a not-too-busy street in Nah Trang, I failed to take hold of Rebecca’s hand.  It was hot, I was a tad uncomfortable, and frankly didn’t much feel like human contact. Plus, I correctly assumed she was just behind me.  Still, it was a break from our established tradition while in Asia. Once we both landed safely on the far shore of sidewalk, Rebecca gave me something of a sideways glance and asked, “Don’t you love me anymore?”  

Assuming the question was rhetorical, I proceeded to crank up a suitably wise-assed response.  I’m sorry, have we met?  Did you brush your teeth this morning…they’re kind of fuzzy-looking.  I don’t think that girl’s wearing any underpants…

                Not really.  Instead, I turned, and with a sense of urgency only the heat of fervent passion can kindle, enveloped her hand into both of mine as I dropped to a knee and asked her to forgive me and to once again be my bride—all to the kaleidoscopic backdrop of scooters whizzing past carrying their appointed charges of young, smiling Vietnamese.  Very romantic.  I can’t remember that it worked to suitably gloss over my transgression, but it did go to show I’m still capable of bending to a knee and back again without white-hot pain and the sound of distant thunder.  So there’s that.

                Then this: yesterday we (by which I invariably mean Rebecca if it has to do with researching our world) saw a review of a little family run Vietnamese restaurant near our hotel here in Hue.  It was perfect.  White tile walls, stainless steel tables, grandma playing with a couple of kids, and the whole of it open to the street.  Plus the food was gorgeous and cheap.  Pig heaven.  When we were done eating (a frankly embarrassing spectacle of slurping and grunting, shoulders slouched protectively round our kill) I ordered a coffee with milk while Rebecca finished her beer.  When it arrived, I leaned back to consider the whir of traffic and to watch the sweat bead onto my forearms.  Just then a young man—probably in his late twenties or early thirties, pulled up on a scooter to pick up something from the restaurant.  He was with a little girl, who stayed on the scooter waiting while her dad talked with the owner.  And by “little” I mean like two years old, maybe three. The bike was resting on its kick-stand, and she fidgeted about as children will, holding the throttle, reaching for the brakes, fingering the keys in the ignition.  She alternated between standing on the little platform and leaning back onto the seat—like a chaise lounge, all to the invariable backdrop of scooter traffic, taxis, and trucks racing by within inches of her tender frame.  Her dad chatted away with the restaurant owner.  Pulled out a cigarette, checked out a couple of Danish chicks seated near the toilet.

                “Look at her.  What do you think?  Three?  Two?”  I kind of suck when it comes to guessing a kid’s age.  Especially here in South-east Asia.  But she was wee. 

                Rebecca considered. “Maybe three.  Can’t be any more than that.”  For one horrible instant I flashed on an image of the child turning the key, somehow getting the engine going, and roaring into the open jaws of traffic, smiling beatifically as her young father turns in horror…

                But only briefly.  I became suddenly aware of the number of other children on the bikes whizzing past.  Typically they’re perched between a parent and the handlebars.  Either standing on the small platform below the seat, or sitting on the seat itself. Sometimes they wear helmets, but typically not.  And they’re totally engaged, watching the buzz and hum of activity before them.  Feeling the wind.

                “Christ.  Some of these kids aren’t old enough to walk.  They’re actually getting their first sense of movement on a two-wheeled vehicle.”  And, by the way, it’s all bikes—rather, all motorbikes.  In India there’s a serious encroachment of cars on the roads, choking out what little space there is, but here in S.E. Asia, it’s all bikes, save for a few taxis and the obligatory truck/bus. (And SUV’s, which are the Darth Vadars of transport, but that’s another story.)   

                Motor scooters are pressed into every conceivable service.  Cages mounted to racks extending over the rear wheel hold chickens (hundreds of them, alive and in serious contemplation of their fate); pigs, two to three very depressed-looking hogs; baskets filled with fish, still dripping and flopping from their morning swim.  They haul cases (like, many tens of cases) of beer, fifty-five gallon drums of fuel, beds, furniture.  Flowers, ice, coal. Four to five members of a family, typically alternating big and small, so the older can kind of look out for the little ones.  It’s a proper circus, and something of a lesson on just what is possible with a 125 cc engine and two wheels.  (Which, by the way, have completely encroached on most of the areas originally designated for pedestrians.  Between scooters at rest--and often zipping along the sidewalk to cut around a traffic jam-- goods seeping out of shop fronts onto the sidewalk, and makeshift restaurants, there’s very little room for us bipeds.)  Walking, it seems, is for saps.

                There’s a fluidity of movement, too, in both the whole of the traffic as it wends and merges at intersections and roundabouts, and with each individual’s control of their bike, which seems an extension of their body.  It all brings to mind the coursing of blood through arteries and veins.  Indeed, so complete is each rider’s relationship with his (and her) bike, the machine takes on an organic, appendage-like aspect, capable of giving and receiving neural information directly from the road and its various impediments.  Most of these riders, after all, grew up on a set of wheels. And in that regard, they are very different from you and me.  Which brings me around to how we pedestrians (as in, Rebecca and I) fare in this world of non-walkers.

                The answer is, pretty well—as long as we exercise a degree a faith.  As in: stepping forth into the fray with the belief that we will not be slammed to the road and ground into meat-jelly paste. We’ve come to expect they’ll alter course in subtle and not so subtle ways to create a pocket in the mayhem---a not entirely comfortable circumstance for someone accustomed to crosswalks and stop signs with clear rights of passage. We often finds ourselves in the middle of this fast-moving stream, trying to negotiate what amounts to a barrage of large, hot bullets coming at us from three to four different directions.  But if we lack the courage to leave the curb, we only experience one side of Asia’s streets. Stepping foot by foot directly into the path of an on-coming missile requires the confidence—the faith—that said missile will veer just before the point of impact.   It’s quite the rush, one best shared with a partner.

                And so we set out, relative babes in the woods, practicing our own brand of innocence against a potentially harsh world, trusting in its capacity to yield in the face of our faithful ignorance. Preferably hand in hand.

Hoi An

Flower candles

 

Lanterns during the Full Moon Festival

My Son- ancient Cham ruins

 

Cool architecture in the city

Hoi An riverside

Hoi An is about halfway up the coast of Vietnam. The old part of the city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. We were so lucky to show up on the 14th day of the lunar month (full moon.) The city has a festival every month on that day. All of the streetlights are turned off and the streets are lit with lanterns. A tradition is to go down to the river and float paper flowers with candles in them down the river along with wishes, hopes, thoughts, prayers... It was really beautiful.
We took a day trip to another World Heritage site down the river- My Son. Ancient ruins from the 5th- 12th century. The place was heavily bombed during the war. There are bomb craters scattered here and there. We brought a boat back up the river which was a nice change from the crazy mini bus rides.
Hoi An is known for a bunch of different special foods. My favorite is called Banh Xeo- a crispy rice cake with pork and shrimp in it. You fill it with a bean sprout and herb/lettuce mixture then wrap the whole thing in a rice paper. Dip it in a spicy sauce and eat it. So delicious! I think I ate it for every meal.
The first time I tried it was in the market. It was brought to me deconstructed and the lady who made it walked me through the process. At one point I made the mistake of using two rice papers instead of one. She just shook her head and grabbed the roll out of my hand (as I was taking a bite) and fixed it for me. I really need to take some Vietnamese cooking lessons.
I'm going to miss this food so much. I was getting a little skinny- my appetite was off for a while after being sick in Cambodia. I'm making up for it in Vietnam. Can't stop eating...

Bahn Xeo

100 Days

We've been gone for 100 days now.
Four different countries. Thirty-five different guesthouses plus two lovely stays with friends.
We've been on six planes. Fifteen trains, dozens of taxis including a few river taxis. Dozens of tuk-tuks/autorickshaws. A handful of bicycle rickshaws/cyclos. A dozen ferries/ boat trips. Half a dozen scooters. At least eighteen bus trips (my least favorite.) Metros in a couple of different cities.
We've had four different bouts of illness (two each) but they passed quickly.
We've managed to come in pretty well under budget.
We laugh a lot everyday.
We miss our friends, family and Charlie.
We're not tired yet and we're not ready to come home.

 

 

 I have a bunch of pictures to post but this WiFi is a little finicky.
We've been to Hoi An and are currently in Hue. Flying to Hanoi tomorrow. We'll update later.
Hugs and kisses!!!

Pho and coffee

Getting a haircut in Nha Trang

Pho!!

Delicious coffee

Nha Trang- yet another beautiful beach

Mary asked me if we were eating Pho and the answer is yes- every morning! A huge bowl for breakfast. It is available throughout the day but it seems to be mostly eaten as a breakfast food. Our guesthouse in HCMC had breakfast included and the choice was either eggs and toast or Pho Bo (beef with rice noodle) which was brought on a tray from the food stall down the street. It is always served with a side of bean sprouts, herbs, lime, chilis, an assortment of sauces and green tea to drink. The broth is very involved and takes hours to make. It's made of oxtail, bones and lots of herbs and spices. The Vietnamese have very strong opinions about where to get the best Pho. We haven't tried one we didn't love and the price is right- between 25,000- 40,000 Vietnamese Dong ($1-2 USD.)

We are also really enjoying the Vietnamese coffee. Really strong filter coffee with condensed milk. I take mine over ice, Mike likes his hot. Super sweet and delicious. They always serve green tea with it too- something to sip while you're waiting for your coffee to drip. Also a bargain at about buck a cup.

Later today we're taking our first Vietnamese train up the coast to Hoi An. An overnight train- leaving at 10pm and arriving tomorrow morning. Just by chance we are showing up on the 14th day of the lunar month when they have a full moon festival. Really lucky!

Da Lat

Central Highlands of Vietnam- lots of greenhouses and our first rain in months

Bundling flowers- Mike bought me a dozen roses for 10,000VND (50 cents)

Weasels (actually Civets)

 

 

Coffee beans after being ingested by the weasels

Delicious coffee

View overlooking coffee plantation

Silk factory- the girl is making silk thread from the cocoons

We were in Da Lat for a few days. It's in the Central Highlands that are along the spine of the country from north to south. Higher in altitude and much cooler. We saw our first significant rain there (even though it is supposedly the dry season.) It is a perfect climate for year round growing of all sorts of things- coffee, strawberries, roses, artichokes. There is also quite a bit of silk production. It is a famous  holiday and honeymoon spot so quite touristy but very pleasant.
We hired an "Easy Rider" guide to take us on a motorbike tour of the countryside. Our guide Tranh (or Paul- his "French name") was an American war vet who served in the Southern army. After the war he was put in a re-education camp for 3 years. He makes a living doing bike tours all over the country. We thought about taking a couple day tour but after being caught in pouring rain for 4 hours we decided against it. I guess our blood is too thin after all of the time on the beaches.
Our tour included visiting temples, a waterfall, a silk factory and rose greenhouses. We also went to a coffee plantation where we sampled the famous weasel coffee. Apparently the weasels ingest the coffee beans when they are at the peak of their flavor. After the beans pass through the weasels they are washed, roasted and ground. Very expensive coffee- but according to our guide just a gimmick. The digestion does nothing to change the composition of the coffee beans. The real advantage is that the weasels will only eat the best--perfectly ripe-- beans. It was fine coffee but probably not worth the extra cost.

Random Pics- Ho Chi Minh City

On A Cyclo- This guy talked us into a ride. We were convinced that we both wouldn't fit but he squeezed us in there. Not very comfortable and the guy was a bit of a maniac. But we made it in one piece for 50,000 Vietnamese Dong ($2.50.)

Crazy Cyclo dude!

Mike enjoying a bia hoi (fresh beer.) Super cheap draft beer. About 5000 VND a glass (25 cents.) 

 

HCMC is so cool. Great food, really pretty city with tree lined streets. Lots of parks with topiaries and flowers. We've toured a few museums and sites related to the American War. We're sad to be leaving but we can only imagine that what we see in the rest of the country will be just as good.
We're moving on today up into the Central Highlands  to a town called Da Lat where the Ho Chi Minh Trail cuts through the mountains. Should be cooler and a little quieter. We're not complaining but it has been in the high 80's/low 90's everyday and we're hoping to experience a little spring like weather since we're missing it at home.
We were going to take a 7-8 hour bus ride up in to the mountains but then I found a 40 minute flight for $30/each. So off we go to the airport.

Let's Eat

Making a selection

Escargot and Clams

and Crab too!

 

                 Last night we went to the night market to see if there were food stalls and to get something to eat. 

                “You pick.”  This is getting to be a common refrain from Rebecca.  We were standing in front of an outdoor combination restaurant/food cart.  It had definitely started as a food cart, with all the cooking going on out front, but had clearly grown, and had expanded its small metal tables and plastic chairs under tent and lights to accommodate a proper gaggle of tourists.  The menu-eagerly thrust under my eyes, was thick with images and loaded with western and Chinese options—as well as some Vietnamese staples. 

                “Let’s look around.”  Something about trying to do everything—which this restaurant clearly had down, was off-putting.  I’m sure it was just fine, but it was trying just a bit too hard to make things easy and safe for the tourists who wanted, well, easy and safe. Which is fine.  But the emphasis seemed more on getting our seats into a seat than in generating something special and/or unique.  I figured there was probably something more interesting in the neighborhood.  “What about this street?”  We turned off the main selling area into a wide walking street crowded with shops and people on bikes selling coffee and toys and junk.  The shops were mostly high dollar, and I started to think maybe we should just head back to the big tent when I spied a little something going on under a frayed awning. 

                Rather, I spied some one going on. A wizened old lady was squatting over a cement and steel bucket (of which this place is loaded) which held a charcoal fire with a grate.  On the grate were an assortment of crabs, oysters on the half shell, mussels and snails.  She was yakking up a storm, and within the shop were various souls sitting on tiny plastic stools at kid-sized plastic tables, eating seafood and drinking beer.  It was packed and noisy with various women running around with plates of food.  Fully half the tiny dining space was devoted to cooking and cleaning.  It all looked filthy and wonderful, but clearly too full for our white asses, and, what’s more, there was a couple waiting.

                “I don’t suppose you’d like to try there?”  I didn’t really think Rebecca would go for it.  She’s getting game, but this was a bit of a push.  Then: “Maybe…” 

                We walked up to one of the whirling women.  “You want food?”  “Yes.  Two.  How long?”  I looked at the other couple (French, as we soon learned…on their way back to Paris) and shrugged.  The woman said nothing, and I wasn’t sure she heard.  She then turned and snapped out a command to someone in the back, who magically produced two more toy-sized tables and four stools. They hurriedly plopped them down onto the sidewalk next to grandma, who was rattling on a blue streak of commands and wielding her magic ways over the hissing fire. Suddenly, we were seated.  Now what?

                Clearly, this was not a menu/hostess/maitre-d kind of place.  But I needn’t worry.  The woman I first approached was clearly the general in command, and she beckoned me and the French dude to a side table, which was groaning under the weight of various crustaceans.  “You try this.  And this.  What you think, you like this?”  I said yes to everything she suggested, sat back down, and gave Rebecca a shrug.  “What did you order?”  “Beats the hell out of me.  But I’m thinking it’s going to be interesting.”

                And it was.  Slathered in oil and smoke and chilies and peanuts…the dishes kept coming, along with little sides of various spices and oils.  Our savior field general periodically popped in to quietly dip a spoon into a dish and sprinkle one of the plates with a fragrant sauce.  Like she was teaching her children how to eat.  And we dug in like kids.  Stupid, hungry kids.  Lovely.

Kampot and Kep

Long and dusty road to Kep on a scooter

Kep crab

Beautiful Beach at Kep

Red, white and black peppercorns drying in the sun

Happy Mike

Happy Rebecca

The aftermath of our crab feast

Beautiful sunset over Bokor Mountain- the view from our guesthouse in Kampot.

 

Once again we’re on a bus. This time back to Phnom Penh. We’ve splurged for the VIP A/C bus. Mike’s watching the same James Bond movie for the 2^nd time- I think Skyfall.  Our spending habits have changed a little when it comes to accommodation and transportation. We’ve definitely found that spending a few extra bucks gives you a different level of comfort (and keeps me a lot happier.) We still manage to stay under our budget but on some days it’s just under.

We went to Kampot for a few days. Lovely little town on the southern coast near the Vietnam border. We rented a scooter and toured the countryside, pepper plantations and a little seaside town- Kep- that is famous for its crabs. Kampot is also the Durian capitol of Cambodia. The famously stinky fruit that is sadly not in season for another month or so. I have smelled it but not tasted it yet. I want to make sure when I do that it’s at the peak ripeness so I can fully enjoy- or maybe I’m just chicken…

The pepper they grow here is world famous. We had the best meal of our entire trip (so far) at a restaurant next to the crab market in Kep. A seafood platter appetizer with grilled calamari, crab, tiger prawns and fish. Then a couple of crab entrees with Kampot green pepper sauce. All while looking out over the sea, drinking a couple of cold Angkor beers and watching children haul in baskets stuffed with crabs. We had to work for every morsel of crab but it was well worth the effort.

Tomorrow we head into Vietnam. We decided to go back to Phnom Penh because it is the most direct route into Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon.)  We’re not sure of where we’re heading from there. We only have 2 ½ weeks in the country until we meet Mike’s sister Karen in Hanoi. We think we might head up into the hills then over to the coast. We’re just making it up as we go. We’ll keep you posted…

Blue Monday

We sat in the shade of a frayed umbrella at a corner café called The Rusty Keyhole.  Our lunch of pork ribs was doing a slow burn on a grill just off the sidewalk, the cook dipping an old paintbrush into a vat of sweet red barbeque sauce every two or three minutes as the smell of sizzling pork fat filled our nostrils.

                Overhead, the sky was varied only in its shades of blue.  “Maybe we should stay here an extra day.”

                “We could.  Viet Nam will be there whenever we show up.”

                We were in that place of contentment which comes with all of one’s basic needs met (and then some) coupled with a happy sense of discovery in a new place, the knowledge, further, that it’s ours for a couple of days, and the expectation of a whole new set of experiences as we looked down the barrel at Viet Nam.  That, plus the smell of meat, a cold beer, the blue sky, and my lovely wife made me think of nothing so much as getting back to our room and doing a bit of laundry.

                I know, right?  Our hotel sits on the wide, sweeping, oh-so-picturesque Kampot River.  Our room has two views, one of Red tile roofs and swaying palms, the other of crumbling (in a good way) French architecture, including pillared balconies and heavy, shuttered windows. And, if I stand on the bed, I can see the river! Into this scenario (one which I am sure to channel next January as I chip away at the ice mound on the end of the driveway) I willfully insert the act of standing over our small bathroom sink as I knead, rinse, wring, and hang my few articles of clothing.  Yep.

                Of course, it doesn’t need to be this way.  There are services.  Locals are quick to see the possibilities this influx of western travelers and ex-pats brings to their world, and the signage for laundry services (one buck per kilo, typically) line the roads.  I could fill a duffel full of clothes and have it back the next day in a neat, folded, pressed stack.  But something would be missing, and I don’t mean a sock.

                I started this little post after just finishing my laundry routine.  The reality is that I wear the same pair of shorts all the time.  It’s just too damn hot for long pants, and I like the fact that I can zip up the side pockets on these bad boys.  Plus, they’re made by Kuhl, and are reasonably bullet-proof.  They’re dark-ish green and hide the dirt nicely, but I can feel the dirt after a couple of weeks.  They hang a bit differently on my hips, as though the weight of the road they’ve endured is actually pulling them down.  Being a one-pant guy simplifies things in terms of the volume of wash, but complicates in terms of opportunity.  I don’t want my shorts out of service for more than one night, and certainly not for a day, but drying time is dependent on heat and humidity.   There were times in Central America when my shirts were never really dry.  But here in Kampot, the sky is hard and blue.  And hot.

                Which brings me to the afore-mentioned sink.  Laundry detergent can be had anywhere for a quarter a bag.  I typically do my clothes one article at a time by filling the sink with water, submerging an item, and sprinkling on a bit of soap.  I then work the pants, or shirt, or underwear with vigorous rubbing, twisting, and scrubbing.  And it’s during this process that the sink water goes from white and bubbly to a dark, brownish grey.  It almost seems to increase in viscosity.  And that feels inexpressibly good.  My mind spools out over the previous weeks, touching on the various bus/tuk-tuk/pick-up truck beds my ass has rested on.  The rice and noodles and fish sauce and peppers that somehow found their way from my plate/fork/chopsticks onto my lap.  The amount of sweat my ass pounds out when the temp tops ninety-five.  Invariably, my pants take it, well…in the shorts. Freeing all of that filth, and reflecting on its ways and means, is like having a chance to savor the same steak twice.  To have my cake and to eat it, too.  But there’s more.

                Everyone can relate to the joy of donning a clean shirt.  The smell and feel of possibility, of newness, as it finds purchase on one’s shoulders.  We grow accustomed to the scent of our laundry, and notice when it’s different.  Or if the towels were hung to dry rather than tumbled.  The crispy quality, the smell of the sun.  Our clothes, our daily fabrics, are woven into—and are a part of—our psyches.  They are an integral piece of our projection to the world.

                By taking part in the process of cleaning our clothes, of actually reaching in and pulling the dirt from their fabrics, we strengthen the connection between what we know we are and how we present what we know.  I’m not calling for an end to washing machines.  Or dishwashers.  They are good and noble tools which certainly have their place in the modern world.  I’m no Luddite.  But small, willful acts of maintaining oneself; cooking a meal from all fresh ingredients; catching, gutting, and frying a fish; changing a child’s diaper, all come with strings: strings which better bind us to our world. 

                Years ago a movie was made of the book City of Joy. (It was a fair effort, though I’d argue Patrick Swayze was miscast.)  It took place in Kolkata, and suggested a means of happiness outside of one’s life station.  One scene stuck with me, in which the western protagonist (Swayze) steps onto the deck of a boat he’s staying on and spies a man he understood to be a great mystic and teacher squatting over the river scrubbing dishes.  He seems incredulous that a man of such great wisdom and stature would be doing so menial a task, and asks what he’s doing.  “Praying,” the man says, and resumes his task.

                I think about that scene often, especially when doing the little jobs that need to be done.  And I can’t help but feel a sense of thanks for my ability to work.  To care for myself in little ways. 

                OK.  That’s enough.  Time to go out and explore further the streets of Kampot.  Suck in some dust and live a bit in my nice, clean duds.