The Gift of a Guide

Sunlei is a bona fide genius. As a PhD, he spends his weekdays in a laboratory breeding table grapes. That’s right. He is currently working on a grape creation that has Thompson worried. He might also be the nicest person I have ever met. He is certainly the most patient and welcoming. The only thing that makes him better is his sweet-natured, and equally intelligent fiancé, Lin. Together, they were our personal guides in Beijing. We owe this opportunity to the Zaharris crew in Redding. They hosted Sun for a getaway at the ranch while he was studying for a year at Berkeley. One more reason to support foreign exchange!

What made our experience so rich with Sun and Lin, is the realization that we are nearly parallel couples (when you back out the genius part) living on opposite exposures of the planet. We are the same age, and though our environments are antithetic, our worldview is ironically similar. This provided me the opportunity to engage in genuine conversations, some that probably made Mao roll over in the Mausoleum. I unloaded piles of questions on Sun. Through his responses I was able to formulate an understanding of Beijing, and his life in China, that has surprised me, saddened me, informed me, and filled me with hope all at once.

Yet our time with Sun and Lin wasn’t entirely academic. They coached us through a Mongolian style hot pot meal that now wears the crown as our best dining experience in Asia. The Tsing Taos we drank by Houhan Lake are among the most memorable libations of the journey. Sun and Lin embody what the distant adventure is all about—a proper balance of enlightenment and unfettered fun.

The Disappearing Hutongs

It is evident that life is changing in Beijing. Bulldozers blot the corners of most city blocks. Abrupt chain link fences obscure construction sites. Shiny new buildings cast shadows over communist era complexes. Polished garbage cans offer receptacles for recycling. Street sweepers whisk away dirt and grime. Posters in the subway support the heavily financed anti-tobacco campaign. Policies have been written to promote politeness, namely in the form of less public phlegm tossing. No menu is without photographs, and very few are without English translations. The first Wednesday of every month has been deemed “Queue Awareness Day,” where Beijingers are asked to refrain from line-hopping.

I think the Olympics last summer were the catalyst for most of these transformations. This month marks the one year anniversary of the games in Beijing, but the spirit of the event is still very much a part of everyday life. The five rings permanently decorate roadways and billboards, and a visit to the “Bird’s Nest” is on every Beijingers list of tourist must-do’s. The pride and singularity we witnessed in the production of the opening ceremony was not contrived—it is a very real thing, and a quality that truly defines the people of this city. The Olympic Games were over in three weeks, but their impact on Beijing will be everlasting.

The most interesting, and I believe most controversial, of these cultural renovations is the demolition of what the Chinese call Hutongs. Literally translated, Hutong means “narrow alley,” an apt description for these traditional neighborhoods. The alleyways are formed by small, single story dwellings. Four homes are blocked together in squares, creating shared courtyards and small public areas. Living quarters are tight, but the arrangement naturally fosters a strong sense of community. Their existence dates back to imperial times. This mode of living, this style of home life, proved harmonious for centuries. But the Westernization of Beijing has relegated the Hutongs to the endangered species list.

In today’s Beijing, they are recognized more as a stop for voyeuristic visitors than a place for modern living. For 150 yuan, one can commission a rickshaw driver for a thirty minute manufactured tour. The government has deemed the Hutongs as unfit for contemporary life. The Party contends that the plumbing is outdated, the electricity is inept, and that the Hutongs are an oily blemish upon the fresh new skin that is Beijing. They are bulldozed blocks at a time, and replaced with drab, characterless, hastily constructed, multilevel apartment complexes. Many residents in the Hutongs are delighted to accept the “upgrade”—if they can’t afford to pay for their new high rise apartment, the government is quick to provide the subsidy. Yet there are many who are fond of their traditional way of life. Those people who resist the change, and refuse to vacate for the arrival of the bulldozer, are delicately prodded from their positions by the government’s subtle tactics, like cutting their electricity and tying their water pipes. Something about not being able to flush can quickly change your opinion.

A Whole New Experience

I’m back. Out from underneath the long arm of the law. Mao can’t hold me down. I’ve risen above the man. I broke free from the chains. Let freedom ring! Okay, this is a bit melodramatic. But still, I can now report something I never imagined I would be able to say: I have been censored by the government.

The night of our arrival in Beijing, I was hunting through my bag for a clean pair of socks (knowing full well no such item existed) when I was startled by a shrill cry from the opposite side of the room. Jeannie was aghast. Fist pounding and feet stamping ensued. “My Facebook page is blocked,” she exclaimed. I rushed to console her, all the while thinking what a blessing six days would be without “The Face.” After all, this journey is about traveling beyond comfort zones and testing ourselves by living without the normal conveniences of life. “Oh my gosh, your blog is blocked too,” Jeannie said. Now I was pissed.

Jokes aside, this encounter with cyber censorship brought us eye to eye with a shocking truth. In the year 2009, 1.2 billion people live their lives in a world where the national government determines what they read and when they read it. The Party controls the media. If they decide they don’t like the message, or even the tone, it’s gone. Anything that doesn’t satisfy their agenda is immediately filtered, leaving only their carefully chosen words for consumption. The truth is spun, facts are disguised, and a nation of people is left with only one perspective. My American soul doesn’t allow me to imagine a life like this. I reject it even as a possibility. But this experience has forced me to confront this reality.

In Hong Kong, where the media is still free, I read an article in the South China Post about an entrepreneur from mainland China who founded a Twitter clone site in Beijing. What started as a social networking site, soon evolved into a public forum for people to post their personal views. There was a groundswell of liberal commentary on the site in the weeks following the recent unrest in Urumqi—a region in western China populated by an ethnic minority group. The government presented the creator of the site with an ultimatum. He either allowed the Party to censor the material posted by his users, or he faced having his site shut down. He refused to allow censorship. Days later, millions of people found a blank page when they visited the site. This ultimatum is not only presented to Chinese companies. Both Google and Yahoo allow the government to censor their search engines. An enquiry in Beijing produces an entirely different list of sites than one in Los Angeles.

Yet the Chinese people have many reasons for which to thank the People’s Party. I wasn’t in Beijing twenty years ago, but I gather the overall condition has improved. Life is crowded and congested, but I think the average person is happy. I can’t help but recite the old adage, ignorance is bliss. I think we could all benefit from a little less mauling and mayhem on the evening news. There I go, a true American, presenting two sides to the story.

Just Getting There

6:12—Kiss Jeannie. She barely opens her eyes. We discuss dinner plans.

6:14—Snatch my bag. Out the door.

6:19—Canned coffee in hand. Flag down a cab. Request Dongzhufen Subway Station. Driver shouts at me. I stare blankly. He speeds off.

6:31—Second taxi arrives at station. Pay 10 yuan. Bolt through turnstile.

6:33—Subway is packed. I pry in. Smashed against glass. People touching every part of my body.

6:36—Thirty more crush inside. Man sneezes on my cheek.

6:44—Change lines. Tunnel is like Qwest Field after a Seahawks game.

6:59—Arrive at bus transfer hall. Locate #980 to distant Miyun. Grandma hawks giant phlegm. Misses my leg by two inches.

7:04—Dust cigarette ashes from seat with back of hand. Settle in for 100km ride.

7:22—Slide over for new seatmate. Great guy. Smells like fish.

7:49—Fish guy dozes off. Rolls head onto my shoulder.

8:37—Arrive at first Miyun station. Persuaded off bus by man with three-inch-long nose hairs.

8:38—Feet on the street. Middle of nowhere. Nose Hairs pulls out a price sheet. Points to an idling car. Conned.

8:39—Call him a name he doesn’t understand. Laugh boisterously at his price. Haggle hard.

8:45—Negotiate the plan: Nose Hairs will provide remaining ride from Miyun to Jinshanling, I will trek 14km to Simatai, where he will meet me and provide return to Miyun. Settle on 280 yuan. Both happy.

8:50—Use translation book for small talk with Nose Hairs. Nose Hairs’ name is June. June is forty.

9:17—June buys me a water.

9:43—Harrowing hill. Bone-rattling road. I am tense. June is cool.

10:20—Deep breath. Gaze upon the crumbly glory of The Great Wall of China.

The Sights of Tiananmen Square

The first time I acknowledged the existence of a world outside the United States I was seven years old, settled between my mom and dad, watching images of Tiananmen Square on the nightly news. I saw a young man, feet glued to the concrete, stand nose to nose with a menacing machine. I learned that night what a tank is.

We spent our first full day in Beijing, rather predictably, engaging in the compulsory, yet completely invigorating, visit to Tiananmen Square. As the largest public gathering place on the planet, it is one of the few locations I’ve seen that is astonishing in its nothingness. It is a massive, wide open plot of socialist cement. The distant edges of the square are lined with memorials, museums, and of the greatest interest, the Mao Mausoleum. Only a thirty meter obelisk, paying tribute to the heroes of the revolution, and one waiving red flag of the Republic, interrupt the openness of the square. The sun, beating off the harsh finish of the concrete beneath your feet, has the ability to bake your emotions, and stir within your chest the sheer power and force of the People’s Party. It is impossible to stand in Tiananmen and not feel the spirit of lives lost at the cost of ideals.

Jeannie and I, as the only Westerners in the square, looked out upon the endless throngs of Chinese pilgrims who made the distant trip from rural China to Tiananmen, and wondered what they felt in their chests. They took their turn subtly bowing in the direction of the building that holds Mao’s corpse. They marveled in awe at the stately gates of the Forbidden City. They saluted the stern-jawed members of the Red Guard as they marched past in perfect unison. But before they stopped to bear witness to all of these things, before they paused to take in Mao and the gates and the guards, before they pondered the sites of the capital they had only read about in history books, the same sights they had surely dreamt of observing on some sublime day in the future, they halted in their tracks to behold the most glorious sight in Tiananmen Square—Jeannie Scharetg.

It started with one brave child. She approached Jeannie with the kind of unbridled curiosity that only a five year old can possess. She sat next to her on the ground, threw out two fingers in an emphatic peace sign, and bared all six of her tiny teeth for the camera. Her parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, and cousins all snapped furiously at the buttons of their digital cameras. There was an explosion of flash bulbs, a symphony of beeps. And just like that the seal was broken. The flood gates were lifted. All of the timid onlookers who had been standing in the flanks came rushing to Jeannie’s side. They each flashed the same embarrassed smile, uttered the same Chinese words, and nestled their shoulders closer and closer to Jeannie.

They ogled at the miracle of her blonde hair, braded tightly behind her head in two bobbing pigtails. They peered intently at her green eyes. They wondered at the freckles on her arms. They studied the red polish on her toenails. Men and women alike drank in her impossibly long legs.

And there I stood. The ogre. I was slowly ushered to the side by the more ambitious of the photographers. Mere minutes before, I had read in my guidebook that the Chinese often refer to white men (quite affectionately I’m sure) as “Big Noses.” They’d probably never seen a beak quite as astonishing as mine. They must have feared I would cast a shadow into their photos with the American goddess. And this, compounded by the fact that my beard has now reached semi-barbarian status, was enough to preclude me from even one snapshot. “Move the big-nosed-barbarian-peasant-ogre to the side!” I know this is what they shouted to each other in Mandarin. So I shuffled into the distance and watched the turnstile of giddy Chinese spin round and round. They are indeed the most shutter-happy lot I have ever known. Had I been in a more entrepreneurial mood I would have started selling tickets.

I get a great rise from the thought of Jeannie’s photograph spread across the vast subcontinent of China. The mantle at home. The desktop at work. The attachment on an email to an entire contact list.

“What did you see in the capital?” the villagers will ask upon their return.

“Mao, the Forbidden City, and this girl!”

Wonderful Complexities

Pinches were mandatory. It wasn’t a dream. When we woke in the morning, having bedded down the previous night in a Beijing hotel, we were indeed in CHINA. I dashed to the shower with a feeling of triumphant arrival. This land, after all, has been elusive. My attempt at visitation in 2003 was denied (the respiratory disease, SARS, put a quick kibosh on that plan). Then Jeannie’s gastric battles in Hong Kong held Beijing in the wind once again (nursing her to health was paramount). And finally, even as we looked down on mainland China from the window of a 747, threatening electrical storms delayed our landing (we spun our engines for two extra hours as we waited for more temperate skies). To be in Beijing was a victory, and the completion of a personal pilgrimage of sorts.

I’ve long been interested in the contemporary history of the People’s Republic. The book, Lost on Planet China, sufficiently stoked this fire, and gave room to my burgeoning fascination with this country of 1.2 billion people. Perhaps it is the complexities of this place that intrigue me so. Even the most simple of questions seem impossible to answer. Is China communist? Is China capitalist? I guess it is the hunt for the answer, even though a definitive conclusion is unlikely, that really turns my key.

The core of my interest lies in the creases of the passive face that exists at every turn. Mao Zedong is everywhere in the capital. His image is at the center of every piece of currency, his meek grin is emblazoned on every type of souvenir, his “Little Red Book of Quotations” is more available than the day’s newspaper, and of course, famously, his massive portrait overlooks the gates of Tiananmen Square. All this, while it is widely known that his policies and practices as the Chairman of the People’s Republic brought about the demise of 38 million of his countrymen. And so exists the wonderful complexities of Chinese society.

10 Reasons I Would Be Happy To Live In Hong Kong

1. Life exists to a Michael Jackson soundtrack—it’s like living in the Thriller video without the werewolves and freaky yellow eyes.

2. The girls laugh at everything I say.

3. You can spend the morning walking through a mountain jungle, the afternoon on a white sand beach, and the evening in a heaving city of seven million people.

4. You can read an article in the People’s Daily (mouthpiece of the government) and then pick up the South China Post to get the real story.

5. The knockoff Gucci bags are authentic enough that I will never have to buy Jeannie a real one.

6. When you need a respite from pork buns and roasted duck, there is an expat quarter that feels like a cross between San Diego’s Gas Lamp and London’s West End.

7. The exotic imported beer is Coor’s Light.

8. A view from the 61st floor stares straight into the midsection of the neighboring building.

9. You can discuss your recent traveler’s bowel ailment in the backseat of a cab without disturbing the driver.

10. When the China sun goes down, the lights come on, and the world actually becomes brighter.

Fingers of Fury

Ok. I can’t resist anymore. These massages must be discussed. Massage has figured so prominently for us throughout our Asian tour that I would be doing an injustice to our experience if I didn’t commit to some kind of honest documentation. I guess my hesitation to come forward with the massage blog has been a subconscious guilt about the uninhibited pleasure of the act. Massage is, after all, a completely indulgent practice for us. Let’s be straightforward. Massage holds no medicinal benefits for us, as we are in perfectly reasonable health. To be utterly forthright, massage has been a form of pampering that we (and some more than others) have unabashedly thrown ourselves to for the last three weeks. Jeannie has actually become hopelessly addicted. I was urged to hold an impromptu intervention on a street corner just two nights ago. Enough is enough. Her retort is that we are contributing to the local economy. She is too clever. While this claim does hold some merit, I can’t be tricked that easily. I know her well enough to see her true motivation. But it is so hard to blame her. Even as I stood there, placing a one week embargo on massage, my mind was teasing me with thoughts of the next foot rub.

Massage is so embedded in the culture of this region. While there is certainly heavy marketing to the traveling demographic, it is not only on offer in the tourist quarters of each town. We’ve done a decent amount of backstreet navigation, and I can attest to the fact that some of the best (and also most aggressive) massage parlors are not on Main Street. I’m actually convinced there isn’t a city block on this continent that doesn’t have at least one parlor. They grow here like we grow coffee shops at home. And they have every service imaginable. One of the more exotic offerings is what they call “ear candling.” In this treatment, a hollow candle is lit and the base inserted into your ear drum. The rising air pressure from the flame apparently works to extract wax, and as they say, all of the negative energy from the area between your ears. Naturally, after the intervention, Jeannie pointed out I needed one of these.

One of my favorite pastimes has been to observe the local parlor tactics of stirring up clientele. All four Asian countries we’ve been to have employed their own unique style. In Bali, the friendly masseuses around our hotel angled ever so sweetly to get my first name. One woman in particular cunningly lulled me into a conversation about the island. I made the rookie mistake of introducing myself. For the next two days, “Caseeeeey!” echoed across the beach every time I came within eyeshot. The Malaysians take a more subtle approach, and rely on signage to create business. Plastic signs, neon signs, wooden signs, corrugated metal signs—logos and branding figure heavily in the modern financial culture of Kuala Lumpur, and it is no different in the massage trade. In Thailand, they rely on the power of seduction. Each business owner places the two or three best looking female members of the staff in the doorway, and tells them not to be shy. After a day in any Thai city it is impossible to rid your head of the notorious call, “Hellroooh, Massaaaaaa….” In Hong Kong, parlors are much stealthier. They hire street hustlers to patrol entire city blocks. A brisk tug on the back of your shirt sleeve alerts you to a small woman, whispering something in a surreptitious voice about “massage…foot…shoulder…ear.” You get the sense she is hawking something illegal or taboo. I find this tactic quite unnerving. It’s actually enough to make me prefer the hollering of the Balinese and Thai.

Ultimately, it was two regrettable massage incidents that moved me to pull the plug on our parlor participation. I suppose my penance is to divulge them now.

Regrettable Incident #1: We were deep in China Town, Kuala Lumpur. It was long after dark. Jeannie initiated a hard path for the neon “REFLEXOLOGY” sign on the corner. I followed. We were greeted inside the shadowy door by three men and one woman—together, they comprised the massage staff. (Sidebar: I am sure men give terrific foot reflexology treatments. I, however, at this time and place, was not excited about the possibility of a guy rubbing on my big toe.) As the staff shuffled into position, grabbing their oils and buckets and towels, I deftly maneuvered my way out of the seats where the male masseuses were getting set, and into the chair belonging to the only female member of the staff. Quite pleased with myself, I contentedly removed my shoes, and exchanged a smile with my girl. Without saying a word, she oiled up and set straight to work. I closed my eyes, relaxed my head on the pillow, and let her work her magic. It wasn’t a minute later when I thought to myself, “My, what strong hands this woman has.” When I lifted my head to take a look, I think my heart must have skipped a beat. My foot was engulfed in the meatiest paw in Malaysia. She had knuckles like Chuck Norris, maybe even a little hair between them. When I asked my masseuse her name, her Adam’s apple moved six inches. I said it was shadowy.

Regrettable Incident #2: Having put incident #1 behind me, and taking more than my fair share of heat from Jeannie, I determined that no future parlor visit could produce a more surprising outcome, and opted to get back in the game. That is when I became a bit too bullish. Feeling bored by the thirty minute foot massage I had adopted as my staple service, I confidently negotiated a price on the granddaddy of all parlor programs: The Bangkok Special Two Hour Traditional Thai Massage. For what felt like half of a day, the strongest woman in Asia worked feverishly to break my skin, using the pointed angles of her bony elbows. Through the haziness of my painful stupor, I remember her balancing all of her weight on my spine, using only her kneecaps for stability. She pulled on my foot while driving her heel into my groin. She tied my arms in a knot behind my head. The massage evolved into a showdown of sorts. She was trying to break me. I was trying to keep my hip bone connected to my leg bone. How much pain can one small woman inflict? This little devil would be happy to show you.

Good and Evil in Indonesia

I’d be telling a lie if I said that it didn’t rattle my cage a bit. We were, after all, in the Indonesian capital city of Jakarta just three weeks ago. Sure, we’ve contemplated the dangerous reality of our presence in this part of the world—we’ve spent several nights in the last month with a Marriott roof over our heads. But before we jump to fretting over our personal safety, Jeannie and I have both noted that the recent hotel bombings prompt us to think about our friends in Bali. Throughout our travels across the island, we had many opportunities to mingle with the Balinese people. We found them to be open and generous, qualities that enabled us to engage in many conversations beyond simple salutations.

The nature of our journey allows us to form meaningful, though short, relationships with the service people that intersect our course. Flight attendants, taxi drivers, waiters and waitresses, hotel receptionists—all have a story that can provide invaluable insight to the culture, practices, beliefs, and history of a place. It was a taxi driver in Bali, named Mr. Mara, who left a lasting impression on us both.

It was our last night in Indonesia, and we had been celebrating (as is usually the case). Mr. Mara picked us up outside the restaurant we had selected for the night. I assumed my standard position in the front seat (not sure if it’s the length of my legs or my affinity for chatting with strangers that usually lands me that spot in cabs). We saw immediately that Mr. Mara was amenable (jovial is a better word) so we jumped straight into name-trading and discussions of the King of Pop. I had spent part of the afternoon visiting the Kuta Beach Memorial at the site of the 2002 terror bombing—an act that took the lives of over 200 innocent people, and utterly crippled the tourism industry across the resort island. I was curious about Mara’s whereabouts the day of the explosion, and how the attack had impacted his business.

In the same way we can all recall in an instant where we were, what we were doing, even what the weather was like on September 11th, Mara flew into a vivid retelling of the night seven years ago that changed his life. He was working as a host in a seafood restaurant in the cultural center of Bali, a town called Ubud. This part of the island, known for its local art and traditional dance performances, probably falls last on the typical tourist’s list of Bali Must-Do’s (it’s a long way from the pool bar). When people stopped visiting the beaches altogether, you can imagine what that did to the landlocked, artistic town of Ubud. Mara and his coworkers were laid off in just a matter of weeks.

To compound the loss of his job, Mara’s family life quickly spiraled into a series of tragic events. His hunt for a new source of income was intensified by the anticipation of the birth of his second son. His wife was seven months into her pregnancy when sudden complications arose, requiring an immediate cesarean section. The doctor informed Mara the procedure would cost the equivalent of $750—a sum of money that the unemployed Mara could only dream of acquiring. Seizing his only option, he wrote a letter to the Indonesian government, petitioning for help with the hospital fees and the surgical procedure. By the time he received a negative response from his local officials, it was already too late. Mara was in the hospital room when the fetus was removed from his wife’s womb. As a devout Hindu, it was now Mara’s responsibility to complete the burial ceremony, an act that required him to take the body of his unborn son to his childhood village on the northern coast of Bali. He wrapped him in sheets and rode three hours through the middle of the night—holding his son in one hand and the throttle of his motor scooter in the other.

The cab had fallen completely silent, but for the sobs of Jeannie in the backseat. This story, and the way he told it, was almost too much to bear. Just before we all coiled into despair, Mara tempered his tale with the sensational news that another son had been born, six months ago. His beaming smile returned, and he relieved us with the laugh we had come to enjoy so much in the first half of the ride. Right up until we arrived at the hotel, he entertained us with stories of his newborn and of his seven year-old, a young upstart who has found a passion for Balinese dance and speaking English.

Captured by his laugh and his ability for storytelling, we hadn’t even noticed he had circled his taxi around the front loop of the hotel. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the rupiah I needed to pay the fare. At the same time, Jeannie reached into her bag and produced a twenty dollar note, the kind with Andrew Jackson on it. When she presented it to Mr. Mara, his head nearly hit the ceiling of the cab. The prolific storyteller started to stutter. And then he fell speechless. I still think I saw a tear form in the corner of his eye.

We got his business card. Jeannie, in her purest form, decided immediately upon our return home we will put together a package of sorts for Mara and his family. I have a feeling, given the recent headlines, he will be needing that package more than ever.

A Visit from Molave

I answered the hotel phone to the petite voice of a Chinese woman representing the Toni&Guy Hair Salon. She was looking for Jeannie, who apparently had made an appointment to have her hair colored and cut. The woman politely informed me the purpose of the call was to confirm that her appointment would be canceled due to the typhoon.

“The what?” I interrupted. She responded with the innocent giggle I have grown to appreciate as an endearing trait of the women in this country.

“You did not hear it? There is typhoon level 8 coming for Hong Kong. It arrive tonight and stay tomorrow.”

I thanked her for the call, returned the phone to the nightstand, and then turned to look out the window of our 61st floor guestroom. The sky was a bit darker than it had been the previous day, but there was no reason to suspect a storm was on the way. Intrigued by this possible turn of events, I reached for my Asia guidebook and flipped to a section where I recalled reading something about extreme weather in Hong Kong. Sure enough, I found a special color inset amidst the black and white text with the heading, “Typhoons: What to do.” My eyes were drawn to the last sentence of the script—“If a T8 typhoon is headed for Hong Kong, retreat to your hotel room, close all the windows and drapes, and wait for the storm to pass.” Wow. This required further investigation.

I threw on some sandals and was standing at the front desk in two minutes. A group of Westerners had congregated at the counter. A bombarded staff member, with slightly less than total mastery of the English language, stood with wide eyes and pointed to a freshly drafted memo pasted to an easel. It started, “Attention Valued Guests…”

What I learned from the memo was nothing short of thrilling. Typhoon Molave was stewing, and apparently conjuring strength, in the sea to the south. Before midnight, the typhoon was to make landfall, and bring with it torrential rain and gale force wind. The worst of the storm was to last twelve hours. The memo warned that power outages were a great possibility, and generally offered advice right to boarding up your windows and tying down your house pets. I love a good storm. This had me excited. I raced upstairs to get Jeannie. There was an urgent trip in store—we needed provisions.

In the room, I was met with nervous eyes and an anxiety that nearly pacified my enthusiasm.

“C’mon, Jeanne, this will be fun,” I said. “We can sit up here in the room and watch the whole thing pass by. I already asked the concierge if the top of the hotel would rock back and forth, and he said no.”

Oops. I guess she hadn’t yet considered the teetering of the hotel as a possibility. Putting the thought in her head was an error. I gave her my best “I’m here to make everything alright” hug, grabbed a stash of Hong Kong dollars, and bolted out the door.

Once on the street, I realized I wasn’t the only one on the hunt for supplies. Every store, sidewalk, and street crossing was packed with people, all dashing about with an overt sense of urgency. A light drizzle began to fall from the sky, hastening the already rapid footsteps of pedestrians all over the city. All at once a thousand umbrellas popped open. I took two or three pokes in the eye from grandmas with wayward bumbershoots, but couldn’t be deterred from the mission. I charged on, and returned to the hotel with rations in hand, just as the sky opened up and released the wrath of the South China Sea.

Trekking Thailand

If this journey is about being exposed to life-changing experiences, Thailand delivered. After spending four days on the sundrenched islands of Koh Samui and Koh Phangan in the Gulf of Thailand, we jetted to the northern region of the country, and the traveler’s hub of Chiang Mai. Closer to Burma than Bangkok, this town of one million people is known as Thailand’s second city. It qualifies as a must-hit on the backpacker’s circuit of Thailand as a reputed jump off location for trekking the mountains of the Land of Smiles. After happily ingesting our recommended dose of island sand and surf, we were ready for what Chiang Mai has to offer—jungles, rivers, hilltribes, and as reported by fellow travelers, elephants.

Of the 200 outfitters that provide guided treks through the highlands, my travel book suggested one in particular that seemed to meet our needs. Rather conveniently it doubled as a guesthouse. And so Eagle House #2 became our home for the night. Spartan at best, the room was a challenge for Jeannie. It smelled a bit stale, the pillow was not without stains, and an insect or two also called it home. But for $7, the price was certainly right. Jeannie set out to redecorating immediately. I think the frazzled bed spread hit the floor before my bag. “I’ll be using my Balinese sarong for a blanket tonight,” she said. Without any further explanation I knew I’d be on my own for finding covers. Bed linens or not, I also knew a night at the Eagle House would be repaid in the next two days.

The following morning we rose early, I having slept quite soundly under a towel. Backpacks in tow, we climbed into the bed of a pick-up truck for our ride into the mountains, with our guide, Mr. Dang, at the wheel. Each side of the truck bed was fitted with a bench large enough for five rear ends. So along with four Germans and two Brits, Kelly, Shomit, Jeannie and I left the busy streets of Chiang Mai for the bamboo forests of the hinterlands. Our first stop was an eighty meter waterfall at the edge of the Mae Tang National Park. After a stuffy ride in sweltering heat, we relieved ourselves with a refreshing swim in the roiling natural pool. It took all the strength I had to stand upright under the crashing of the falls. The site served as a wonderful introduction to the wildness and the beauty that lay ahead.

After stopping for a Pad Thai lunch at a remote roadside café, we motored up the steep country road to a forest service station, where we bid farewell to the truck. We spent the rest of the afternoon trekking through a lush (and very soggy) mountain rainforest. Between thick bamboo groves and banana leaves the size of cars, we looked out over mist-covered mountain ridges that led right into Laos. The views were shocking, and inspirational enough to make me forget about the leaches that were sucking on my feet.

The air grew thinner as we climbed, but was still so thick with moisture you seemed to drink it rather than breath it in. Shirts drenched, shorts muddied, and knees weary we arrived at our destination for the night—a hilltribe village of 300 people, known as the Karen. We bathed in the river. We watched men cultivate a rice terrace. We ate a chicken that walked the village that morning. We sipped whisky with people of the tribe. We slept on the floor of a wooden hut. We did things we will probably never do again.

The next morning we woke to crowing roosters, ate a breakfast of fresh eggs and the toast we had trekked in the day before, and wasted no time in setting out on the trail. Jeannie and Kelly presented the tribe with some children’s books on our way out of the village, and then we ascended over a massive mountain ridge. The morning was especially hot. Jeannie was distracted from the heat only by her elaborate pattern of inflamed mosquito bites. Fortunately, the trials of the jungle were soon forgotten when a family of elephants appeared from behind a dense thicket of ivy. They were to be our transportation for a three mile journey down the river. I can say the ensuing experience is truly one of the greatest things I’ve done in my life.

For two hours Jeannie and I rode alone upon the back of a quiet, steady animal. Our elephant was a magnificent being. Only separated from the creature’s back by a handcrafted wooden seat, we patted the head and rubbed the shoulders of our friend as he generously shared with us the stunning banks of the Mae Tang River. Only the gushing of the water and an occasional trumpet from the elephant could be heard. The forest at our sides was completely still. I will never forget the silence and peace of the experience. I may never feel closer to nature again.

Animal Sightings

Animals have been a surprisingly large part of our experience. Perhaps it is Jeannie’s love for the creature kingdom that has steered us to observing, discussing, and contemplating the native fauna of each country we’ve visited. There were the seal pups of the Kaikoura Peninsula in New Zealand, the koalas and their joeys at the Sydney Zoo, the sticky-toed geckos (and trumpet fish) of Bali, the reticulated python exhibit in Kuala Lumpur, and the pinnacle of all animal experiences, the Tiger Kingdom in Chiang Mai, Thailand. All of these creature encounters have been fascinating, and we have enjoyed watching their behaviors immensely. But none of these live-in-the-flesh animal sightings have been quite as intriguing as the ones on the a la carte dinner menu.

In our travels through Australasia we have learned that no being is safe. Crocodile steaks anyone? How about a nibble of Kangaroo Jerky? Have two. Ostrich is common. And no menu is complete without a little snake. Moving on to the seafood offerings of the evening: octopus, eel, shark, barracuda (tooth-snarled head included, of course!) In the mood for pork? Rest assured, knuckle soup is always in demand. Beef fillets and chicken breasts are just boring. Why eat that when you can munch on the intestine, bladder, esophagus, or knee cartilage? I’ve heard the spicy cow brain is delightful. If cow is too mainstream for your taste there is always donkey. But don’t plan on eating the rib meat—hoof is the way to go.

We’ve spent most of our time digesting the more palatable of the native offerings, although I haven’t dismissed much. I’m not inclined to denying the recommendations of our restaurant hosts. I’ve paid the price more than once (I’ll conclude the details there), but every sampling has been worth the risk, with the exception of maybe one. In a local back-alley Malaysian restaurant in Thailand, we enjoyed a spicy beef satay. It was delicate and rich all at once, and unarguably delicious. As we dined, a large and greasy rat sauntered arrogantly alongside the patio tables. “My, what a meaty rat,” we joked, turning back to our beefy skewers. Only a day later, when walking through a hidden grocery market, did we see a skinless rodent, petrified in the prone position, prepped and fried, two buck front teeth still intact. Special price—only 100 baht. My satay was 200.

I’ve read that the cuisine of mainland China favors the four-legged furry friends of America. I’m accepting of all cultural differences, but that might be one practice I’ll be forced to turn a blind eye against. Fido for dinner is enough to make me green about the gills. If it registers that high on my queasy scale, I think it might be enough to make Jeannie’s head explode. Her head is just too pretty for such an incident. I’ve kept an eye open for all things wild and exotic on this journey, but I really hope that’s something we don’t see.

Muay Thai in Koh Samui

I’m really not sure if it was perspiration or water from the trainer’s bottle that exploded from the boxer’s brow, and flew directly down the neck of my Singha beer. The 200 baht premium for ringside seats was already paying for itself.

Chaweng Stadium, an arena taken straight from a Van Damme classic, was rife with local Muay Thai fanatics and Westerners wearing nervous expressions. Shomit and I did our best to appear relaxed, but the tension in the place was palpable. The boxers swayed around the ring, gloved hands circling their cheeks, with resemblance to cobra snakes, seemingly charmed by the beating of the drums from the top row of the bleachers.

As the three minute round progressed, the rapping of the drums hastened, and so did the pace of the bout. The fighters traded heavy blows, catapulting through the air and slashing at each other with their feet. Their bodies came crashing together, now joined from the shoulders in a twisting grapple. The more aggressive of the two began driving his knee into the rib cage of his opponent. A red welt the size of a pancake began to bubble around the recipient’s kidney. The aggressor, sensing the opportunity, unbuckled his grip from the neck of his hostage, and unleashed a battery of snapping punches.

In a final ditch to escape, the defeated man turned in our direction. He was close enough for us to see his eyes glaze over as he parted from consciousness and crumpled to the mat. The local contingency went bonkers. Baht changed hands like cards in a poker game. Men shouted emphatically at each other in Thai, carrying on with an energy that flirted with turning hostile. The same intensity we had witnessed in the ring could be felt now in the crowd. It was clear in the way some of the men postured (and by the cut of their jibs) they were not foreign to being inside the ropes. Something about an ear that looks more like a cauliflower tends to give that away. After the collaterals had been collected, and a sufficient amount of fingers had been pointed, the crowd settled back into their seats and we settled back into our Singhas. This was only the first fight. We had six more on the bill.

Touted by promoters as the “most devastating martial art,” Muay Thai boxing feels like the national pastime of Thailand. It seems as though every town has at least a handful of stadiums (to be accurate, the venues I’ve seen are more like smoky bars than stadiums). The match spectators are nearly all men. (The stadium makes a great location for sizeable groups of entrepreneurial Thai women. They clog the exits looking for paying dates.)

While the matches do seem to encourage some of the seedier practices of Thai society, there are elaborate traditions to the sport that I have not even begun to understand. Every bout begins with a ritualistic song and dance, in which the fighters very serenely engage in what looks like prayer. It also appears to be a sport of great honor and respect. The fighters attack with abandon between bells, but when the battle is over they embrace and sip water from their opponent’s cup. For all of its violence, there is a strange beauty to Muay Thai. We’ll have to see if it’s beautiful enough to lure Jeannie from the massage parlor in Bangkok.

Where Have All the Americans Gone?

We can count them on one hand. Today marks the one month checkpoint of our world journey. Five new stamps decorate the pages of my tattered passport. For thirty days we’ve tramped up and down foreign streets, eaten in countless restaurants, and explored more than a healthy dose of markets. We’ve slept in fifteen different beds. And we’ve only met five Americans (two of them were Kelly and Shomit). I’ve met more new people in the last month than I have in the last year, but none of them can sing the Star Spangled Banner.

The Fourth of July was nothing more than a day between the 3rd and the 5th. We toasted a Tiger beer or two, and I daydreamt for a few moments of a barbequed cheeseburger, but the day passed without a smile from a compatriot. It is quite surprising, really. And this part of the world is not void of Westerners—there are Aussies aplenty, the Dutch love the warmth, the Germans are easy to spot in their Speedos, and the regal British accent is easy to hear. Even the Canucks are well represented (we’ve found they want no relation to us).

Locals assume we are Australian. When we say California they stretch their necks and curl their brows. Then they sing a Michael Jackson hook. MJ is larger than life. I regret to think we are not present due to the economic times. We’ve all made concessions in the last eighteen months, but travel must remain a priority for us as a society—especially foreign travel. And there are bargains to be had. I get the sense that every downturn we’ve experienced at home has been felt twofold here. Prices on menus have been obscured with white out and scribbled over with reduced amounts. Domestic flights between destinations can be nabbed for the price of pizza delivery back home. And, as Jeannie has become rather familiar with, sixty minute massages on the beach require a $5 investment.

Worlds Apart

As we depart Kuala Lumpur, we are struck by the vast differences between our first two ports of call in Southeast Asia. While a short spatial distance separates Malaysia and Bali, they are worlds apart in character. This fact became immediately apparent from surface observations, and the gap only broadened as we dug deeper into the nature of Malaysia and its vibrant capital city, known simply as KL.

The culture and demeanor of Bali is widely characterized by its religion. As a Hindu state, Bali is an island within Indonesia, both literally and figuratively. The surrounding lands are occupied predominately by practicing Muslims. In Bali, you find ornate constructions of golden deity statues and brightly adorned temples shrouded in aromatic incent smoke. At the base of every doorway, both public and private, is a bright green receptacle, similar to the shape of an ash tray, fashioned from folded palm leaves. The Balinese fill the trays with incent candles and slow burning flower petals. Malaysia, meanwhile, is an Islamic state with exclusively Muslim political leaders. Mosques and minarets can be found down every road. The star and moon symbols of the Islamic faith are boldly portrayed on the national flag. The call to prayer pierces the air five times a day, when rhythmic Arabic chants are belted out from loud speakers positioned atop equidistant minarets.

In parts of Bali there is a ban on the construction of buildings. The government has mandated that no structure shall be taller than a coconut tree. Conversely, the shining jewel and national symbol of the progress of Malaysia, is the Petronas Tower, which from 1996 to 2003 was the tallest structure in the world. At 88 stories, it brilliantly reflects the Malaysian sun, and epitomizes the collective desire of the Malay people to embrace the western ideal of modernity. They are very proud to offer Starbucks.

While Bali is embedded in native tradition and is largely homogenous, Malaysia is defined by its multi-ethnicity. As an important destination on early trade routes, Peninsular Malaysia has long been a contested strip of land. In different periods it has been occupied by the Portuguese, the Dutch, and the British. When the Queen ultimately decided to vacate the peninsula, the Japanese came swooping in, and owned the land throughout most of World War II. All the while, mass immigration from India and China led to the creation of strong communities of both peoples. It wasn’t until 1957 that Malaysia declared independence and Malays really defined a sense of nationality. Today they are a proud bunch, and most of the ethnic Malays consider themselves Malaysian rather than descendants of their motherlands. But the influences of the past are undeniable, and walking the street can feel like teleporting from one continent to the next. We all agree that the KL China Town is one of the most pulsating city blocks we’ve ever experienced.

The Doctor Fish

Somewhere in my scouring of travel magazines over the past year, I stumbled upon an article about a breakthrough foot therapy gaining a cult following. The treatment had somewhat of an underground mystique—I got the sense you could only partake in the service after being ushered down a dusty alley and through the drapes of a smoky doorway by a small man named Lee with a Fu Man Chu. As the kind of guy that will always follow Lee down an alley, I was instantly intrigued. I stored the article somewhere in the hazy recesses of my mind and determined to keep an open eye for Lee, the alley, or if lucky, both at the same time.

As it turned out, the mysterious foot therapy found us, rather ironically in the midst of one Kuala Lumpur’s many brightly lit shopping malls. No smoke, no drapes, no Fu Man Chu, just a huge vinyl sign that read: CUTE FISH SPA.

For five Ringgit (equivalent to $1.50 USD), you can submit yourself to one of the most bazaar sensations imaginable for ten titillating minutes. The Malays have discovered a toothless fish that exists for one purpose alone—to devour the callused and dead skin that clings to the soles of your feet. When you plunge your sockless toes into their tank they attack you with the veraciousness of piranhas. A foot frenzy ensues. They nibble and peck, suck and gnaw. The bigger ones chew. It takes all you have not to squirm out of your skin. Jeannie squirmed right out of hers just watching me get the treatment. Kelly was brave enough to offer up a big toe. That was all the doctor fish could get out of her.

Amazingly, I departed the CUTE FISH SPA walking on a cloud. The stuff is gold. I’ve been working Shomit for the past two days to import the concept to the states. The Doctor Fish idea has legs, er, fins.

Quarantine in Kuala Lumpur

Somewhere between the icy winds of Mt. Tongariro and a hazardous stroll through a congested market in urban Bali, I contracted a nasty little bug. This pest soon morphed into a full blown upper respiratory infection that not only gave me a thunderous cough, but the inclination to a call on medical attention in Asia. I’m hard to find at a doctor’s office at home, if that helps clarify how dire my condition became. But there was no moment quite as perilous as facing the confines of quarantine upon arrival in Malaysia.

When our flight landed at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport, we deplaned not to the cheery and festive faces we had grown accustom to in places like Fiji and New Zealand, but to stern eyes raking over us from above tightly strapped surgical masks. Without masks we were a minority. Blue masks, grey masks, green masks, black masks, designer masks—and me, my stuffed nose and whooping mouth of bacteria exposed to the world. I never knew the sensation of having a naked face until this moment. The feather in my throat now stroked heavily at my esophagus. Brutal. I stifled a cough that would have crumbled the walls of the airport, and dizzily followed the crowd toward the sign that read: H1N1 QUARANTINE CHECKPOINT.

Attempting to hide amongst the sea of people filing through customs was futile. I imagined a massive red arrow bobbing just above my head, shouting out to the customs agents, “This is who you’re looking for!” Trying to appear healthy and sprite, I approached the counter to receive my compulsory questionnaire. I grasped a pen in my sweaty palm and scanned the questions on the form. Oh, no.

Have you recently been to a country defined as a H1N1 hot zone by the World Health Organization (Australia)?

Check.

Have you been trekking in any remote areas?

Check.

Have you been suffering from a cough for more than five days?

Check.

I am not the lying type. And I especially don’t like lying to immigration officers in developing countries. But it was time to throw my moral concerns to the wind. I answered “no” to every question on the form.

Moments later I was standing before the customs officer, knees knocking as he discriminately flipped through my passport. He paused for a moment on my Chinese visa, and took a long look at an old stamp from a port in Mexico. There was to be trouble. And then he opened the page with a stamp from Australia so fresh I think the ink had yet to dry. The time had come. Visions of dark hallways, gloved doctors, and padded rooms danced in my head. I was ready to throw myself at the mercy of the officer, confess all my sins, and explode with the cough that was bottled so deep in my chest. The words were forming on my tongue when he reached for his stamp, pounded it against his ink pad, and pressed it to the inside of my passport. I don’t think he’d ever seen an American so happy to be in Malaysia.

The Balinese Art of Spearfishing

We have united with our first visitors. Jeannie and I deplaned in Indonesia to the beaming smiles of Kelly and Shomit. They are the most adventurous of people, with curious hearts and open minds. They have the gift of the traveler’s paradigm—there is no problem too big, no mystery too small. As a couple, they are the perfect travel companions. Plus, it’s great to have a guy around. It took no more than twenty four hours after meeting with Shomit to engage in some good old fashioned “mantivities.” With his initiative, I even tried something new—something I’ve always wanted to try. Spearfishing.

Look no further than the attached photo for the proof of this statement: spearfishing is harder than it appears. When we left the beach to meet our captain and expert of the aqua spear, I had visions of returning to the homestead with the bounty of the sea—maybe a red snapper, or a yellowfin tuna. We learned from the locals that the seas were teeming with them just beyond the waves. Feeding from Shomit’s confidence, I even told Jeannie (with an inflated chest) to save room for lunch, as I would be the provider for the day. It’s a good thing there was a restaurant beside our bungalow.

It turns out I cannot swim nearly as well as fish. Getting close to them can be extremely challenging, especially when carrying a despairingly primitive weapon. I got the sense that most of the fish I encountered were not foreign to the spear—giving me great reason to doubt the scientific claim that the scaled creatures have no memory. They were somehow able to keep a two meter distance from the end of my spear at all times—a minor complication when the leash on the shaft is one meter long.

Then, of course, I was greatly limited by my selection of prey. The big fish, tuna and snapper, swam too deep. I nearly popped my eardrums and permanently suctioned my mask to my face in a futile twelve foot descent. The shallow reef fish were too beautiful. I was so mesmerized by their colors I forgot I was fishing for nearly half an hour. Some of the reef fish were actually large enough to be accompanied by a side of rice and fried noodles, but I didn’t have the heart to take one down. Then I discovered the perfect compromise; a fish that swims at a reachable depth, and doesn’t shimmer like a kaleidoscope in the sunshine—the trumpet fish. Slow and docile, it made the perfect target. There was only one problem. The trumpet fish has the same girth as the very spear I was using to snare it. Only the master marksman could hit such a target. Or a lucky beginner without a clue of how to spearfish in Bali. Luckily, I belong to the second camp.

When I returned to the bungalow with my catch, I soon learned the Balinese love to engage in a good laugh. When they looked upon my trumpet, and the fish that Shomit was holding (to his credit, “it looked much bigger when it was underwater”) they spared no breath in berating our skills. I actually had to plead with the proprietor to have the cook even prepare my catch. But alas, a meal was produced. It’s a good thing there was plenty of cold Bintang available to wash it down.

It's a Backpack With Wheels!

Ever hold the vision of a moment in your mind for months at a time? I suppose we all anticipate future scenarios. Some people believe you actually create those happenings by thinking and dreaming about them coming true (there’s a great book about this phenomenon called, The Secret—thanks, Shomit). I shouldn’t say that I dreamt about my particular moment, it would be unkind to hope for it to come true. But I certainly did think about it. And I certainly envisioned it in fairly vivid detail. This vision became very real on a beach in Bali. Allow me to set the scene.

We had big plans for the day. The manager of our beach bungalow hotel kindly made our van arrangements the night before. We met our driver at a quarter of ten, and without delay began the erratic road dance of moped dodging. We had a boat to catch. We were to board a passenger watercraft to Nusa Lembongan, a tranquil island located within one hour’s journey from the east coast of Bali. The boats to Nusa Lembongan depart from the village of Sanur—a long way from the resorts and Italian boutiques that typically characterize the western view of Bali. Our driver disposed of us a half kilometer from the beach, very conveniently at the footsteps of a grotesque souvenir shop and an ATM machine. We grabbed our bags and tramped down the colorful road to the boat.

By the time we reached the beach Jeannie had accumulated salty dew on her forehead and collarbone. The morning was hot. Balinese bustled up and down the beach and along the sidewalk that shanks the shore. A steep ramp adjoined the road’s end and the sand’s beginning. We studied the waterline for the dock that would unite us with our boat. No such thing. Our boat bobbed in the water, a sure twenty foot wade from dry land. This was the moment of truth.

For three weeks now Jeannie has survived brilliantly with her luggage situation. After months of debate, incessant balancing of pros and cons, and more than a healthy serving of my input, Jeannie made the personal decision to invest in a suitcase. As a devout proponent of the backpack, I cautioned her strongly against the pitfalls of the traditional suitcase. So Jeannie thought she discovered the perfect compromise when she found a suitcase with both wheels and “shoulder straps.” This piece of luggage has an extremely generous allowance for filler, so naturally, it was filled up. It became filled to the point where the straps are now completely obsolete. They’d surely snap like an overstretched rubberband if they were ever employed. I like to call her bag, “The Crate.”

With our toes at the end of the ramp, about to descend across the sand to our boat teetering in the waves, we exchanged a glance that contained a million thoughts. More thoughts than I could ever hope to include here. With all my belongings bound tightly to my back (and for the record, capable of running to the boat if need be), I waited for her next move. In true Jeannie fashion, she took a deep breath, and defiantly marched down the ramp to the sand below. She towed that bag a hundred feet across the beach, the wheels leaving a design in the sand never before seen by the Balinese. Two bold footprints, followed by winding symmetrical grooves. She was like Neil Armstrong staking the American flag on the moon.

This was the moment I had played over in my mind countless times—the moment that Jeannie’s luggage came crashing against the realities of the developing world. In our great bag debates before we left home, I did my best to paint the ugliest, most inconvenient and uncomfortable scenarios for Jeannie. I think one of those scenarios actually included a beach and a boat. What I didn’t envision, but most certainly should have, was Jeannie arriving on the scene and doing what she always does—conquering the challenge.

An Evening at The Opera House

I may be carrying all of my worldly belongings in a 65 liter backpack, but that doesn’t preclude my desire to experience the pleasures of high culture. So given the opportunity, Jeannie and I purchased tickets to a show at the world famous Sydney Opera House.

I prepared for our night of elegance by donning my finest attire—the striped shirt I reserve for special occasions (any event where a t-shirt is not up to standard), my jeans (freshly washed in the hotel Laundromat), and my hiking shoes (a distinct class above my Rainbow sandals). I looked dapper. That was until I saw a man, who looked strangely like Pavarotti, dressed in a million dollar tuxedo, garnished with a shimmering white scarf. I looked like riffraff.


Jeannie and I meekly followed Pavarotti up the majestic steps of the Opera House. We thought maybe under the guise of custodians we’d be permitted to see the show. With mild trepidation we presented our show cards to the usher, to which she took one glance and muttered, “You are entirely in the wrong place.”



Fortunately for us, she was right, and not just discriminating against my fragrance, eau de backpacker. Our tickets were for the show in the playhouse, located around the side of the Opera House, and not for the Baroque Showcase being held in the main theatre. So we parted from Pavarotti, and shuffled over to a side of the venue where I drew fewer downward looks. I should add that Jeannie looked more beautiful than any of the champagne sippers who frowned at my trail shoes.

Surfer's Paradise and the Gold Coast

Driven by what some may call an overzealous desire to see as much of the country as possible, Jeannie and I caught a domestic flight this week on Virgin Blue, Richard Branson’s offering to the Australian premium economy airline industry. We jetted to the middle of the eastern coastline, known here as the Gold Coast. (Our wintertime travels have prompted us to rename this popular beach destination the Cold Coast). But worry not, despite brisk weather and even a spit of rain, we managed to have a wonderful time in the fine state of Queensland.

We owe much of our good time to the hospitality of Stephanie and Jonas. A high school classmate of Jeannie’s, Steph has lived in Australia for ten years. She has an Australian education, an Australian passport, an Australian mortgage, and even a bit of an Australian accent—for all intensive purposes, she is Australian. And additionally, an outstanding tour guide. Her boyfriend, Jonas, is a Swede with an equal passion for all things Aussie. He is a hat designer for the Australian surf company, Billabong, and a very intelligent guy. Jeannie and I enjoyed their company a great deal.

We made a home for ourselves in the tourist epicenter of the Gold Coast, a three kilometer stretch of sand, surf and high-rise accommodation, called Surfer’s Paradise. (I have a positive predisposition for any town with an apostrophe in its name. Maybe my marketing side leads me to respect the tactics of the tourism board that named the town. How can you avoid a place called Surfer’s Paradise?) The general aesthetics of the place are of the same cut as Waikiki Beach. Dueling towers scrape the sky at forty stories and higher, restaurants and bars entice diners to overpriced meals and Mai Tai’s, souvenir shops beckon the weary with promises of goods at wholesale pricepoints. But behind the commercialism is a surf break that warrants the location’s namesake.

With Steph as our guide, we were able to explore much of what southern Queensland and the Gold Coast has to offer. Over the course of three days we became very acquainted with her two-door Land Rover. My favorite coastal stop was a surf break called Burleigh Heads. (The longer I resist the razor I think this might become Jeannie’s nickname for me.) We stopped there at sunset and I counted 88 surfers bobbing in the water. From Burleigh you can peer across the bay at Surfer’s Paradise. It is only from here that you can truly understand the expansiveness of the city skyline.

The next day we ventured into the rainforest highlands that form the interior of the coast. We spent the afternoon tramping along the Queensland Food and Wine Trail. My wallet made its first appearance at a small winery by the name of Thumm (pronounced like “tomb,” with the aid of a German umlach). As the proprietor’s first customers of the day, we were treated to an extremely comprehensive tasting, one that quickly became a sampling of every varietal offering from the winery. By the time we reached the desert wines my ability to taste critically had flown away with the Kookaburra in the vineyard. When the owner opened the door to his aging cellar, I was already the proud owner of a 25 year-old Port.

We followed our wine tasting odyssey in true Aussie fashion—with an hour long cheese and beer sampling. The Witch’s Chase Cheese Company, located at the top of Mt. Tamborine, makes their signature cheese on the premises, and even draws their principle ingredient from the cows and goats that reside on the mountain. Their product is remarkable. And for the record, I’ve never seen anyone power through a cheese tasting like Jeannie. She can muscle down a slice of Gouda faster than you can say Leicester.

Aussie Kindness

I think the biggest surprise of our time spent in Australia is how few surprises there have been. There is a clear brotherhood between the land Down Under and the land of Stars and Stripes. But if there is one fundamental difference to point out, it is the general kindness, and openness, of the Aussie spirit. I don’t mean to say that we as Americans are cretins, just that the Aussies are noticeably more outgoing in their gestures of warmth. Take this sign, for example. The lifeguard explains that swimming here will guarantee certain death by drowning in a deep hole, but just can’t refrain from wishing you a “nice day!” Having a pleasant afternoon isn’t exactly my next thought after envisioning being sucked into a deep hole. I guess that’s where I differ from the common Aussie.

The greatest quality to their kindness is that it can be coaxed to even greater levels. Aussies love a good compliment. At a beach bar in Surfer’s Paradise I gushed to the bartender for a bit about how much I enjoy Australian beer. I told him it was the best I’d had (maybe exaggerated a bit by consumption of said product), and my drink suddenly became gratis.

They seem to be very trusting people. They are willing to show themselves in a way that is quite endearing. Conversations come easy—a quality in a host that is invaluable to the traveler. Some of my most memorable experiences here have been chatting with the service people I’ve encountered. The man in the convenience store who sold me a calling card, the guy who showed me how to make my coffee at the self-service machine, the Gold Coast cab driver from New South Wales, the concierge at the hotel desk—its amazing where a conversation can go from a simple, “hey, mate.” (For the record, I think “g’day” left the Aussie vernacular the same time we stopped saying “groovy”).