Geekery: Budgeting for South East Asia

Remember when I said that we'd be doing our tour of South East Asia at a cost of $70/day (for 2 people!)? Remember when you thought, "That's insanely cheap, there is simply no way that is possible."? Remember when I proved you wrong? No? Well get ready because the data is right here!

Picture it: the waves lapping at the shore, the sun sinking into the South China Sea, a brightly colored drink in a pretty glass adorned with an orchid, half naked children running like mutant 2 legged crabs through the surf, a stray dog shoving his head into your crotch...the tip tap tip tap of fingers on keyboard, a beautiful color-coaded spread sheet. You can take the manager out of the project but you can't take the project manager out of the girl.

Much to Geoff's constant annoyance I spent some small amount of each day in paradise entering our expenditures into a Google spreadsheet so that I could hopefully come home to the wonderful fun of proving myself right. I also spent a similar amount of time each day raising my eyebrows and quietly fuming when Geoff ordered a second gin and tonic because how will we ever stay on budget if you insist on $6 in cocktails every day? (Of course, I have to acknowledge that it was either $6 in cocktail costs or considerably more in hospital fees from when he eventually broke down and strangled my OCD, penny-pinching ass -- so really gin was the more budget friendly option).

Before we get into the exciting data, a few caveats. There are for sure errors in my data and I have this fear that some crazy internet person is going to comb through it and email me copious notes about all of my mistakes. This is obviously a paranoid fantasy because while there are FOR SURE tons of crazy people on the internet who would do this, I am almost positive that I have yet to attract enough internet stalkers to have to worry about the crazies coming after me just yet. I only wish I was popular enough to have to worry about someone (or even multiple someones) OCD-ing it up on my lunch costs. But just in case, let me state that there are errors in this data. This is because I often didn't have access to wifi and thus was unmotivated to touch the computer (You mean I won't be able to read about funny cats? I'm out.). This is also because even though I sometimes like to pretend that I have a super-human memory, I still forget things. This is also because sometimes I cheated. Here is a list of ways that I totally cheated on the budget:

• I did not include flight costs. It is totally possible to recreate our trip using only buses and thus spending WAY less money but sometimes when you're on an overnight bus ride listening to the horn that the driver leans on once a minute as if to scream, "Wake up whitey, you're about to die!" You remember that you can totally afford a $50 plane ticket and that while, yes, this will totally screw the budget it might make up for that sin with a night of sleep and not being dead on the side of a highway in Vietnam.
• I did not include souvenir or gift costs so my firends and family may never know exactly how cheap knock off tshirts are in Bangkok.
• I did not include the cost of our scuba diving course because even though scuba diving in Thailand is shockingly cheap (we paid $278.43 each for the four day certification course with 4 dives) it cannot be done for $35/day/person and we had pre-approved that particular out of budget splurge. The budget and I thoroughly enjoyed the 4 days of free hotel room that came with the course.
• For the last 13 days of our trip I threw the budget out the window. These days were by far the most expensive on our trip. We lived it up in hotels built for very discerning Japanese business men and/or families of Germans. We drank singapore slings made with top shelf gin. We took taxis because we were too lazy (and fancy) for public transit. Sometimes we got into a tuktuk without even arguing about the price which means we paid 5 times more then we needed to and we didn't even care. We were the Mr. Howel and Lovey of Thailand and it was grand. Geoff wanted to continue recording the budget during these days of excess just for the hilarious comparison factor but I had to insist that we not do this because when the budget is in play I simply cannot stop thinking about how much more awesome the data would look if I just had one less mai tai, one less foot massage, one less bag of cookies from the mini bar -- and really, who wants to live like that?

Ok, enough blathering on to the data!

Days In Budget: 71

Hotel: $1,165.38

Food + Drink: $2,229.07

Travel: $604.71

Visas: $225.00

Tourism: $640.54

Local Transport: $361.03

Total Spent: $5,302.14

Daily Average: $74.68

Ok, so obviously we went over budget. It is difficult (nay, impossible) for me to type that sentence without following it up with a list of excuses which is exactly what I will do in just a moment here but first I will own it. We went over budget. That's ok.

Because, you see, we didn't have to. We could have quite easily stayed on budget. There are scores of days (46 to be exact) in my little spreadsheet that are happily under budget. There is even one day (February 17th) where we spent $25.15 -- thanks in part to that free hotel room that we got from our scuba class but mostly to the fact that sitting on the beach don't cost a thing. The problem was that when we went over budget we partied like Scrooge McDuck (if Mr. McDuck had been partying in Asia and if, instead of a pool full of gold coins, he had a really awesome tour of the Vietnam countryside followed by 3 cocktails OR a fancy sleeping car for his 12 hour train ride OR some sweet Laos visas). What I'm saying is that when we figured that we were going over budget anyway we seemed to say "well the diet is screwed for today, might as well eat an entire cheesecake." (This is an attitude that I have also employed in a less metaphorical way with actual cheesecakes and actual diets). Our most expensive day in Asia (3/8/2010) was a major blow out -- $198.50 -- we went on a tour of Angkor Wat which not only meant playing for a tour guide ($27) but also going to breakfast and dinner at the pricey establishments that our tour guide is getting kick backs to drop us off at, but more important than all that (which alone would have resulted in a $85.50 day) we bought our Vietnam Visas which (including delivery fees) cost a whopping $113.

In addition to the pain of Visa costs which made us consider looking into boarder crossing coyote services we spent a lot on getting from one place to another. For a while I even considered pulling all travel costs out of the budget since they were painfully expensive and since after a few Biere La Rues it was easy to convince yourself that travel wasn't part of a daily budget! And of course, there was the cheating. If we're not going to count flights why count pricey train rides or even cheap bus tickets?

I would also like to not count all of Cambodia. You'd think hotel rooms with bathroom walls that don't extend to the ceiling and towns covered with a thin layer of garbage would, if nothing else, be easy on the wallet but NOT SO! Since the country is much poorer then Thailand or Vietnam (Source) we kind of expected to live like kings -- but this was not to be. Part of the problem is that we spent a lot of time in Siem Reap visiting Angkor Wat and the surrounding ruins which are swarming with westerners and thus very expensive (ok, comparatively expensive... our average per day cost in Siem Reap was $81.92 which wouldn't even come close to covering our estimated cost of a night in our very own Brooklyn apartment (~$91)). The other part of the problem is that Cambodia is just hard and Geoff and I are comforted by the fancy. After a day of mourning the deaths of the past and turning away the legions of poor children we felt like we deserved some AC and our own bathroom. (Better people would probably feel like they too could do without but we are not better people).

Conversely we had been warned by many a traveler that Vietnam would be pricey but somehow it was by far our cheapest destination (possibly because we both would happily live off of $.50 Ban Mis made by an old lady on a scummy street corner). We scored in the north by visiting Hanoi and Halong Bay during the low season (downside: too cold to swim, upside: $6 rooms, uncrowded waters and not getting eaten by giant jellyfish). As far as I can tell the rest of the country is just always cheap. Our average hotel cost in Vietnam was $15.16 (compared to a trip-wide average of $17.66) and the hotels were markedly nicer than those in other countries -- we had AC, hot showers, complete bathroom walls, balconies AND CNN international! Over 22 days we had 24 meals that cost under $5. One day in Hue we had lunch for $.78 -- granted it was pho and coffee eaten while seated on a dirty curb but STILL! If you wanna live like a king Vietnam is highly recommended.

Ok, enough. I could continue to entertain you with the minutia of cost of traveling in South East Asia but I suspect that there are no readers left down here at the bottom of the page. If you're planning a trip of your own or if you're one of those elusive Random Access Babble super fans I'll happily (if a little wearily) send you a copy of the grand spreadsheet, just drop me and email.

South East Asia by the Numbers

• Length of Trip: 89 Days
• Countries Visited: 4 (Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos)
  
• Number of Hotels Stayed in: 35
• Cheapest Hotel: Cat Ba Island $6 (comes with free poster of naked lady!)
• Most Expensive Hotel: Lebua Hotel Bangkok $141.95
• Balcony Rooms: 6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)
• Flights: 8
• Train Trips: 6
• Bus Trips: 19
• Boat Trips: 6
• Approximate Distance Traveled: 33769.38 miles (flights: 29194.41, train: 1262.3, bus:3078.47, boat: 234.2)
• Number of Massages:11
• Cheapest Massage: Blind Massage School, Hue Vietnam $2.60 (includes a generous tip -- base cost $1.82!)
• Most Expensive Massage:$12, Hue Vietnam (some fancy hotel during a back pain emergency)
• New Fruits Eaten (Brianna only): 8 (mangosteen, mariana plum, water apple, vietnamese pomelo, longon, toddy palm fruit, dragonfruit, jackfruit)
• Books Read: 9 (Up in The Air, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, When you are Engulfed in Flames, Lush Life, Chang and Eng, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, Slam, Definitely Dead, Invisible Monsters)
• Pictures Taken (includes videos): 3399
• Amateur Botany Shots: 62
• Buddha Shots: 79
• Food Porn Shots: 104
• Pairs of Shoes Purchased: 6
• Scuba Dives: 4
• Scams Fallen Prey To: 2
• Motorbikes rented: 1
• Seas Swam in: 2 (South China Sea, Andaman Sea)
• Regrets: 0

If You're not Soaking Wet, You're Full of Sin

One of the few specific plans made before leaving the USA was to attend the Thai New Year festival in Chiang Mai. For Songkran people traditionally visit family, visit the Buddha, and ask for blessings; in actuality they spend most of the holiday week pouring buckets of water over the heads of westerners and (despite the many "Alcohol Free Festival!" signs threatening jail time) drinking. I'm not usually a big party in the streets kind of girl but I *AM* a water fight kind of girl. The ritual shower is supposed to remove all bad karma and after 3 days of soaking wet shorts and prune-y palms, my soul must be spotless for the first time since baptism.

The festival is technically only 3 days long but the water seems to start flowing in Chiang Rai and Chiang Mai at least 3 days early, presumably so the natives could warm up their bucket throwing arm for challenging maneuvers like the "hooking water into the back of a passing pickup truck" or the "dousing to the face of a speeding motorbike driver." By the festival's official start on Monday everyone seemed to be in good form.

We arrived in Chiang Mai via a tuktuk that slowed to honk at each gaggle of Thai teens as if to say "Hey guys, Whities in the back! Get out the garden hose!" Our wet ride ended at the main gate into the old city of Chiang Mai leaving us to walk the water gauntlet to our guesthouse with our packs on our backs. Surprisingly, no one splashed us -- we must have oozed too much pathos.

On our first full day in town we decided to walk the around the entire Chiang Mai moat, which is lined on both sides with battalions of armed revelers. Starting near our guesthouse we picked up a couple of mini super soakers (so maybe just soakers?) to defend ourselves. Getting doused only really hurts for the first few bucketfulls -- after that, wet is wet and you can get no wetter. You can, however, get colder. The most ruthless hooligans fill their buckets with ice water so despite the 100 degree heat I believe I have frost bite of the backside. I also did spot one 5 year old ragamuffin perched against a tree, pants down, peeing in his bucket -- a scary prospect that I decided to believe was isolated strictly to this specific little devil.

Throwing buckets of water on girls is clearly the main form of flirting in Thailand. If you like a girl you go down to the river and fill a colorful plastic bucket with murky water and then use all of your upper body strength to propel a 90mph flying puddle in the direction of your crush's ass. My own ass has been blessed so many times that certainly it has no sin left on it and I may be married to 5 or 12 Thai men, it's hard to keep track.

It's difficult to articulate the insanity of this event, and it's hardly captured on film -- we would have better pictures but the streets seemed like a camera deathwish. I walked whole blocks completely blind, taking bucket after bucket to the face. Traffic stands still, the road begins to blend with the river, there's dancing and screaming girls and stand after stand of steamed buns, grilled corn, fried sausages and Chang beer. The lady boys come out in full makeup and heels soaking wet and looking more fabulous then the driest beauty queen. The festival really is embraced by all -- if only because there is no chance of going anywhere in town without your head being introduced to a waterfall. Even the Midwestern Mormon missionaries got involved, standing on the edge of the river in their dress shirt and tie bailing water onto the heads of Buddhists and probably calling it a Baptism. Most. Successful. Mission. EVER! It's loud and chaotic but all in good fun -- I don't think I looked up from a single dousing to see anything other than a grinning face.

There is one ugly side of Songkran: White on white crime. While the Thais are all about soaking with a smile, the trudge through backpacker-ville is a more violent affair. More high propulsion water guns, fewer buckets. More evil cackles, fewer slightly self conscious giggles. It might just be western culture -- Geoff and I joked that should this festival ever cross the globe and resurface in the USA it would take exactly 2 hours before someone (probably my brother) had hooked up a diesel engine to a hose and went all Water Festival X-Games. It might also be that I can hardly blame the locals for relishing in an opportunity for just a little payback against the tourists that seem to own many of their streets for the rest of the year. But what excuse do the whities have for pointing a stream of ice cold right in my eye?

This obviously is not how things have always been. Back in the day the water was sprinkled lightly from a little silver bowl. There were no water guns, no break dancing in the street, no pickup trucks full of kids. I'm sure many a Thai grandma can't stop complaining about how the kids have taken the Buddha out of Songkran. But isn't this the same Buddah who adores alters full of beer and oreos? The same Buddha who ate so many servings of curry that his belly overflows his loin cloth? I can't imagine he'd be completely opposed to the revelry. But I'm an atheist, you can't go by me.

50 Ways to Die in 'Nam

Shortly before we left on our South East Asia Adventure my dad remarked that it was difficult for him to relate to our plans since he "spent most of my 20s trying to avoid an all expense paid trip to South East Asia." Dad was afraid of meeting his maker in Vietnam and that's understandable because even without a war raging this country is a danger zone. I know that I have, perhaps, a lower bar than most for declaring my eminent demise (see: here, here...) but in just 2 days on Cat Ba island I almost died 10-400 times.

(to the tune of 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover)

The problem can't be just inside my head, you must agree

This place is cursed as you will quickly see

You should stop reading now if you are my mom

There must be fifty ways to die in 'Nam

Cat Ba is located in northern Vietnam at the south end of Halong Bay. We visited in the lowest of low season when the bay was misty and the water cold and the hotel rooms with a balcony facing the sea were only $6 (which got you not only a bed and a shower but, inexplicitly, also a huge poster of a naked lady!). Most of our first full day in town was spent cruising around Halong Bay oohing and awwing at the limestone islands, and while I'm sure we could have fallen overboard and drown (esp after the lunch time beers) all felt fairly safe until we arrived at our last stop on Monkey Island.

When we wondered off of the boat and there were 5 primates on the beach surrounded by 10 or so people from another tour. The monkeys were rolling around in the sand and scurrying about which was 100% cute until we discovered that someone had given the smallest monkey some beer, then suddenly it was 90% sad and only about 10% hilarious. It soon became 30% sad, 5% hilarious and 65% life threatening when two monkeys suddenly charged Geoff grabbing him around the ankles and baring their teeth as he tried to kick them off while running towards the surf... Avoid the drunk primate, Kate...Thankfully, the monkeys seemed adverse to swimming in the chilly water (or maybe they just smartly wanted to avoid the beach ball sized jellyfish that patrol the bay... Don't get stung by a jelly, Kelly).

We started out our second day on Cat Ba island with bike rentals -- the national park where they keep the supposedly adorable ginger haired langers was only 12 or 18 kilometers away (depending on your source) which (mostly because I forgot how to convert miles to kilometers) sort of sounding like a distance that I could bike. Barely out of town my bike started making a weird clicking noise which was the perfect excuse to dismount and walk up the first punishing cliff... Could be a heart attack, Jack... The hills did not quit, 6% grade, 9%... and I was reduced over and over again walking the bike. Thank god Geoff and the new friends we had hooked up with were also huge wimps because if I'd had to watch Lance Armstrong breeze up and down the hills urging me to live strong I'd probably be rotting in a Vietnamese prison finding out if communists are pro death penalty (You could get the chair, Blair).

The national park is lush and misty and the steps up the hillside are covered in a slick coating of mud... Try not to slip and fall, Paul...It would be beautiful if I could spare any time from my "oh god the bees are going to eat me" dance. I have never been stung by a bee due primarily to a strict implementation of the brilliant "when you see a be run away" plan. But I can't run up or down or into the forest without risking a slip slide off of the mountain top so instead I stomp my feet and spin around and say things like "Oh god Geoff! They're coming for me!" Our new friends totally thought I was the coolest girl ever. As I gingerly climb hill number 4027 which involves a rusted out ladder precariously balanced over a sea of jagged boulders a pair of Aussie girls are descending. They mention that the top is not far off, that the view is fabulous and that, golly gee, the bees are in no way swarming like everyone said they would be. OH. MY. GOD...Just avoid the bee swarm, Norm...

The top of the mountain is indeed breathtaking and capped with a rickety set of stairs climbing even higher into the atmosphere. The copula at the tippy top is all cracked boards and rusted metal but my god the view was somehow enough to distract me from peeing my pants (but not enough to keep the "I am about to fall through the floor and into the forest" look out of my pictures.). ... Don't fall to your death, Beth....

Down we climb. Back to the bikes and a new route that the park ranger swears is all flat and easy. Liar Liar Liar. The buses squeak by us forcing me to hug my bike up against the edge of each limestone cliff... Don't get run over, Grover... My legs, oh my legs. I start to wonder what will happen if I physically cannot continue to propel my body over the hills. Will I sleep here on the gravel? Will one of these large construction trucks pick me up? Will Geoff be able to carry me and my bike on his back while peddling?

Somehow I make it back to town sore but alive and after much beer drinking and a $3 massage I head to bed hopeful that my aching muscles won't render me paralyzed come morning.

If I'm lucky I won't die in my sleep tonight

And I hope in the morning my legs will work alright

And then I passed out and I thought, as usual I was right

There must be fifty ways to die in 'Nam

Fifty ways to die in 'Nam

Adventures in Boarder Crossing

A terrible thing happened about a week ago in Siem Reap, Cambodia to an anonymous Cambodian motorbike driver who had the incredible misfortune to put head to pavement at an intersection just out of town. A much much less terrible thing happened to me on the same day when I had the misfortune to be in a tuktuk driving by the scene of the accident to see his lifeless body -- his neck squashed down as if his shoulders had tried to cram themselves inside of his head, a stream of urine trickling into the gutter. His girlfriend sobbing at the side of the road, the ambulance finally speeding by us a good 20 minutes later. So it is with this incident in mind that I assure all concerned parties (my mom, Geoff's mom, etc) that my healthy fear of motorbikes has only grown healthier and that truly we are trying to avoid them at all costs but it would be impossible for me to overstate how difficult this is. We always look for taxis, buses and buffalo rides, we always consider walking but all too often we find our behinds precariously perched on the back of a speeding bike. This is exactly how I traveled across the border into Vietnam, my backpack held between the drivers' legs, my head stuffed into a Winnie the Pooh helmet meant for a 7 year old girl, my mind trying to stave off images of the ghost of the dead moto driver with Geoff's face as I watch the sweaty back of his tshirt speed off ahead of me.

Motorbikes were not part of our tenuous plan.

We knew that from Sihanoukville, Cambodia we wanted to move on to Vietnam but we didn't want to go straight to Ho Chi Minh City which posed a problem when it came to bus schedules -- everything goes straight to Ho Chi Minh skipping the entire Mekong Delta. Our only other option seemed to be a $40 taxi to the border. We figured that once across the border there must be services -- taxis, buses, Vietnamese coffee falling like rain -- so off we went.

Cambodia doesn't seem to have traffic laws. Or if they do, they are as follows:

1. Pedestrians yield to bikes, which yield to motorbikes, which yield to tuktuks. which yield to cars, which yield to trucks and buses. Buffalos yield to no man.
2. When in doubt honk your horn A LOT. This applies to passing, driving on the wrong side of the road, saying hi to your buddy and letting everyone know that you are driving somewhere in a very very big hurry.

So I spend the 3 hour taxi ride clinging to the door handle and trying not to scream out that we're about to die. We live. And there it is, the border, I guess. Proceeded by about 50kms of dirt road and seemingly the only building within another 50kms is a cinder block affair locked between two railroad gates, in the distance beyond gate number two is a small guard post and... that's it, not exactly official looking. We are immediately accosted by a couple of motorcycle guys offering to drive us across the border and into the town 15kms away. There may have also been a few cows milling about in the dust but there were no taxis. I don't think Vietnam allows livestock powered border crossing, no matter how backwoods this whole process seemed.

I had dressed that morning prepared for a day of sitting and, anticipating a need for a cool breeze in the nether regions, slipped on a short green cargo skirt. Straddling the back of a moto my first greeting for Vietnam was all class, "Hello! Thank you for having me in your beautiful country, please check out my crotch! How about those under-roos, huh? Just one of the many ways that I plan to honor you during the coming weeks, don't thank me now (thank me next week when I've run out of clean panties and you get a real show)."

The town we end up in is only slightly more impressive than the border. We're deposited outside of an open market with no taxi's, buses or tuktuks in sight. We are not alone. Appearing almost out of the ether is a tall thin man with teeth edged in black rot. He wants to help us. Because this town? It has no buses. It has no taxis. It hardly has guesthouses. And he has family in the USA and he would very much like to take us to the next town to catch the bus to... somewhere else. This is a predicament because we have no real idea where we are and almost no desire to stay but on the other hand this whole schpeel feel like a scam. Because -- if you don't take the bus in 30 minutes? There are no more buses for 3 days. No, he has no idea how much the bus costs, yes he'd love to drive us to an ATM, no he would never lie, yes he runs a travel agency. So after much hemming and hawing and pointing out to a certain boyfriend that in the future we really need to do more than just show up at the border with a smile we decide to take the bus because the other options seem limited and because the Lonely Planet makes the town the bus is going to, Can Tho, sound like a paradise on the Mehkong. There is only one way to get to the bus stop -- can you guess?

My driver is texting while we merge onto the highway. My new helmet (sans the protective visage of Winnie) is way too big and with ever bump it bounces up and back down smacking me on the head as punishment for not just going to Ho Chi Min City with all of the other whiteies. When we get to the bus stop and the bus finally arrives we're quoted a price of $30 each -- sounds OK right? Well it's actually insane. The absolute most we have paid for any bus to anywhere in South East Asia is $12. But.... what are you gonna do, camp out at this road side stand posing as a bus stop? Take a third moto ride back into nowheresville? Accept that you're getting scammed, pay the money and chalk it up to adventure? Here we go.

So, on to the bus -- the very, very expensive bus. Other, cheaper, buses in South East Asia have had A/C, free bottles of water, karaoke, one even gave us each a tiny box of pastries! This bus... has seats with metal rods sticking out of the sides, it has a door that does not close, it has a rickety shelf that threatens to dislodge and topple on my head somewhere about 700 miles from the nearest ER. Can Tho, is 6 hours away. I had a small fruit salad at 8am, it is now 2pm and as if to taunt me fate drives us pass row after row of road side stands screaming "Bahn Mi!" "Bao!" "Other obviously delicious thing that I've never heard of because Bahn Mi and Bau are the only Vietnamese words that I know!" My tummy growls.

The bus is slow and seems to lack any sort of suspension system and it stops every 15 feet for just long enough to be annoying but nowhere near long enough to jump out and grab a sandwich. But it gets us there... or it gets us somewhere. Suddenly, 3 hours into the trip, a woman in the front of the bus hustles Geoff and I out onto the street and into a pedi-bike built for 2, well, 2 Vietnamese with asses much smaller than ours. We managed to squeeze onto the contraption with Geoff perched up on the back edge of the seat for a quick bike ride through traffic. Where were we going? How long would it take? Do they have Bahn Mi there? Because I am starving. We arrive at a seemingly random stretch of road next to a red minibus which is next to a road stand sign where they clearly have sandwiches and might even have Cokes, praise Buddah.

With my first Bahn Mi swimming around in my tummy, at least another 45 minutes of waiting by the side of the road and another bus ride of indeterminate length in my future it was time to answer the painful call of nature. I asked our minibus host to point to the closest lady's room and was directed to a shack just off the road. This was clearly the home of the woman lounging in a hammock in the front room so out of respect I slipped my shoes off before entering and followed her outstretched finger down the one hallway which ended in what, I guess, had to be the bathroom. The light in the room was dim but in one corner I could make out a huge trough full of water with a small bucket floating inside which I recognized as the water for toilet flushing, next to that was a medium bucket half full of water and clothing... there was clearly no toilet. I peeked out around the corner to confirm that the two room shack did not have a white linoleum room with a Glade plug in and a roll of double quilted Charmin hidden just around the corner. Nope. OK, so, no toilet, time to man up and look for the hole that must be somewhere on the floor. I stooped over a bit in the half light scanning the concrete for a darker than average patch with no luck. But... the floor did seem a bit slanted and the walls didn't extend all of the way down, about 8 feet below me I could just glimpse wet leaf litter on the ground. It occurred to me that maybe I was just supposed to pee on the floor. But what if I was wrong? What if I started peeing on the floor and the lady came running in justifiably angry? Also: how do I avoid peeing on my bare feet (which, it now occurs to me, are almost for sure standing in someone else's pee.)? I couldn't muster the courage to go back into the living room and try to pantomime asking the question "Hey? Should I pee on your floor or....?" They say you'll know when you've hit bottom... I pulled back the lingerie-sheer curtain and squatted. I have never peed so quickly. As I walked out of the living room a few minutes later the home owner demanded 5000 dong ($.25) which seemed like a good deal, I'd have charged A LOT more if someone wanted to pee on my floor. And yes, that's me outside of the shack just after doing the deed. Geoff thought we should capture the moment.

Eventually the new bus leaves and we roll through another great swath of lush greenery punctuated by food stands and flying kites as the sun goes down and I think, ok, if we ever get there I think I'll like it here. Rough arrival notwithstanding Vietnam is a huge contrast to Cambodia. The bigger roads have landscaping in the median and all of the cows that we've seen have been on a leash. It seems like a nice place. So when we arrive at the Can Tho bus station I'm not even that troubled when the only transportation option is the third moto ride of the day this time performed with my 14 kilo backpack on my back and my much lighter day pack on my front. If you come to Vietnam forget packing what you can carry, pack only what you can balance on the back of a speeding motorcycle.

Cambodia: Come for the Temples Stay for the Adoption Procedings

To be a good liberal leftie it sometimes seems that you have to love all countries and that you have to especially love all countries that are poor and you have to super especially love all countries where the people had some terrible shit go down (extra super double especially if the US brought that shit down themselves). By this scale Cambodia should be the number one leftie travel destination. The problem is that even bleeding hearts love 500 thread count sheets and electricity and clean sidewalks. Cambodia is pretty rough around the edges. The streets are mostly doubling as garbage dumps, the traffic is chaos, the bugs are huge. When you're traveling, especially when you're traveling for long enough to be called a traveler, you start to feel like you should go see the REAL shit. You know, the stuff mere vacationers never have the time to find, the places that other white people fear to tread. But if you're like me (bourgeois, impatient, really super white) you don't really want to be in the shit. It's always either too depressing or too boring and so you end up on a beach somewhere, looking at the beautiful ocean and wondering if you should have just gone to Florida (You know, if Florida was about 500 times cheaper).

The poverty and the history of the Khmer Rouge make Cambodia a troubling vacation spot. The people are in your face constantly trying to sell you something you don't need for more then it's worth and the history is in your face constantly reminding you that maybe you should buy a plastic change purse for $5. Hell, maybe you should buy 7. The Tuktuk driver who I'm trying to talk down from $3 to $2 for a ride across town is thinking, "Look bitch, your country bombed this place as part of a war with my enemies for 5 years, THEN some asshole from my own country who couldn't even pass college IN FRANCE comes back and just starts killing people because he thinks farming rice should be my greatest joy in life and now I've got drunk white girls all over the place who wanna argue with me over an amount of money that any other day they'd gladly use to buy 1/4 of a cup of coffee." And I can't blame the dude. If I lived through life in Cambodia 25 years ago my ass would STILL be drunk and anytime someone so much as brought up the idea of me and my friends maybe getting jobs and establishing a sanitation department I'd roll my eyes and start with the "When I was your age..." stories. I don't blame him, but I don't have to enjoy paying 3 times the going rate for a ride to the bar.

In Cambodia we have sat on beautiful beaches, seen a tree full to brimming with gigantic fruit bats and eaten a brilliant concoction called bonsong which consists of cold rice noodles, chunks of cucumber, grilled pork, peanuts, a chopped up spring roll and a savory broth. But Cambodia is known for only a few things: Horrible genocide, amazing temple ruins, orphanages and the making of the Tomb Raider movies.

After only 8 days in Cambodia, I can tell you exactly what happened to Angelina Jolie. She shows up decked out in her Lara Croft finery, having just discovered that with enough humidity and enough latex, yes, you can sweat from your boobs. Her hotel doesn't have a full wall between the bedroom and the bathroom, this entire town seems to be sculpted out of wet stinky mud and ain't nobody serving a PB&J, not even if you're making a blockbuster film, not even if you pay $20. She rocks into a local establishment and orders a Cointreau, lime juice and soda because, for some reason, she doesn't know that drowning misery requires much stronger medicine then orange liqueur. (The place names this drink after her and thus dooms all future tourists into paying top dollar for a glass of booze whose alcohol content can't possible be over 3%.) Anyway, she's in a bad mood. But then, out of the 900 degree heat pops a smiling little face, he makes a few jokes, they laugh, he maybe tries to sell her a lanyard, she buys 8. Then, next thing you know, she's back in LA shaving a faux-hawk onto the head of a 3 year old Cambodian boy and talking about raising her own international soccer team.

The kids in Cambodia are adorable. Sure they're always trying to selling you chotskis for inflated prices but they're also smiling and waving and dancing all over the country. The shrieks of "HELLLLOOOOOOO!!!!!" followed by waving so vigorous it could spawn a new aerobics trend, peel from school house windows. The local custom seems to be to dress all boys under the age of 4 in only a tshirt and so I have seen more peen in this country then in 5 years on the NYC dating scene. In one restaurant, the owner's son got his naked butt up on a table and dropped it like it was scorching hot all over the flatware. The next day, on a second visit (how could we say no to a free dinner show?), he emerged from his bath holding a gigantic toy ray gun and stalked his way across the dining room like the naked Cambodia James Bond before being scooped up for fatherly butt swatting.

Our greatest Cambodian child cuteness show took place in Angelina's own stomping grounds just outside of the temples at Angkor Wat. A few nights into our stay (visiting the sights of all of Lara Croft's greatest ass kickings, naturally) we had dinner at the local night market. The owner/waitress had brought us a bunson burner, a makeshift grill, a plate of raw shrimp and squid and her 5 year old child to keep us company. He started off his comedy stylings with a costume composed of toothpicks stuck anywhere they'd stick -- his nose, his hair, his mouth, all were festooned with wooden barbs -- perfect for scaring the white people. I met his growl with a "Grrrr!" of my own and a friendship was born. Next he showed us his muscles, and examined ours, feigning awe. Then he ran out into the street and flagged down a tuktuk driver, he climbed into his carriage and waved and waved as his chauffeur drove him slowly around the block. Then he was back to show us his belly, and demanding to see our bellies, then his chest -- my refusal to respond by flashing by bra received much frowning and pointing but I held my ground and managed to avoid a Cambodian indecent exposure arrest. Next, he demanded to use my Carmex but he obviously wasn't expecting lipgloss with such a kick because as soon as it hit his lips he was spitting on the ground and wailing to his mom about how disgusting this American woman was. By now we were done with dinner and forced to be on our way bidding our new friend adieu with vigorous waves of our own and a 2000 Reil ($.50) tip for his troubles.

So let's say you don't want to adopt a Cambodia kid -- should you still plan a visit? Well, the nice hotel rooms are $25 and so far the beaches are free of full moon parties. The temples put the ruins in Rome to shame and occasionally you can find street vendors selling doughy steamed buns stuffed with everything from minced chicken to cabbage and boiled egg. So, of course, like any Obama-loving secret socialist I'm going to do the good thing and say, "Yes, Come to Cambodia." Be shocked and sad and a little grossed out. Be amused and giggly and awed. And when you're sitting on a street corner in the dustiest town ever next to a river of mud unable to find a cafe clean enough that your lily white butt won't cringe while drinking her coke breath in, apologize to your boyfriend for being a huge baby and figure that this too is part of the experience. And then get yourself on the next bus to the beach.

And really, you can't be sure that you don't want a Cambodian child of your very own until you see them in action. Our little friend from the market wasn't even in an orphanage, in fact his mother was standing 5 feet away so I had to consider more drastic action like telling him I had some candy in a van just down the road. Unfortunately he was more of a Jolly Ranchers fan and I went with Snickers, foiled again.

Cambodia: If You Don't Buy From Me, I Cry

I love kids. I love them so much that if you're under 10 years old and I meet you on the subway in NYC or waiting for the bus in Bangkok I will smile and make funny faces and wave and blow kisses. So kids, if you're wondering who that crazy lady was -- it was me.

I am also not above buying your love. This is why I do not even consider visiting my niece and nephew without presents in hands. I find that children under the age of 5 are very easily bought off so for the price of a latte I can purchase at least 3 kisses and an I love you. Deal. Similarly, I have a long standing rule that I'm buying whatever the kids are selling -- from lemonade to Girl Scout cookies to raffles tickets for a cord of wood -- here's my dollar. In fact, in the case of Girl Scout cookies, here's my wallet.

Cambodia has shot my approach to children straight to hell. The kids are everywhere, waving back at me, saying crazy precocious things in better English than I speak, selling me postcards. And there's the rub. A girl can only buy so many postcards before her $70/day budget is completely blown.

I make the perfect target but despite my nature I've been breaking little hearts all over the country. In Phnom Phen the kids are all selling books. Copies of The Killing Fields pour from laundry baskets carried by 8 year olds at the Khmer restaurants and outside of the national palace and I was personally offered every single copy. Ultimately though, Geoff was the real target. Sitting at dinner on our last night in Phenon Phen he was hit up first by a 14 year old Obama fan (how awesome is it to be proud of our president while abroad? SUPER awesome) who he managed to fend off. Then came an 8 year old dressed in a smart button down shirt, red jams and a pair of pink crocs. He had all of the tactics down. "You, buy a book." "Buy this book, everyone loves it." "I have not read it but all of the tourists think it is great." "Why not? You don't like to read?" "Ok, you eating dinner, I let you eat and then I come back." And to me, "If he does not buy a book you buy a book." Impressive move sir.

And as soon as the last of our Angkor beer, amok and loc lac was deposited in our tummies he was back. "Hello, ok, you done. You buy book now." This finally devolved into a Rock, Paper, Scissors challenge and Geoff cannot resist any opportunity to gamble. So we now own a copy of The Killing Fields ($6) with a very nice cover and inside pages that appear to be photocopied on a machine from 1988. I also bought a set of 12 postcards for $2 because I am a sucker and also because one has a picture of kids and a buffalo and the back says "Children with Buffles" -- No one can resist Buffles, not even a cold hearted snake like myself.

The kid salesman mob at the front of the Angkor Wat temples means business. They swarm you as soon as you exit your tuktuk with cries of "Laaaaadeeeee! You want cold drink?" "You want bracelet?" "Five for 1 dollar!!" The first English phrase learned by all Cambodia children is "No, Thank You." The salesmanship is also bordering on stalking. "I remember you, you come back you buy from me." "You come back you want cold drink, you only buy from me, or else." "You not buy from me I cry." No pressure. Thankfully, these are all idle threats, but as soon as some kid comes through with the tears I will probably lose my resolve, give her all of my money, and catch the next flight back to the job that pays for my food/ragamuffin support fund.

Billy Mays is alive and well in the hearts of Cambodia. "You want wooden flute?" "It has carving!" "But wait there's more! Carving of bird!" "And an all bamboo woven case!" "BUT WAIT!" "All this for ONLY $1!!!!" "You buy flute now!"

Sadly (or for my budget, luckily) the children selling things outside of the temples here have failed miserably in understanding the needs of their customers.

Things Being Sold By Children Outside of Angkor Wat

• A million "silk" scarfs
• Gold painted Buddha figurines
• Pieces of bamboo folded into the shape of a grasshopper
• Photocopies of the Lonely Planet
• Water

Things I Wanted to Buy Outside of Angkor Wat

• A shower
• A battery powered fan
• A huge chunk of ice
• Gatoraid
• A parasol
• Moister wicking underwear
• Water

Those water salesman made a killing.

If I weren't committed to 2 more months of carrying all of my belongs on my back this would be a shoppers paradise. Tshirts for $5, scarves for $1, piles of silk pillow cases for $2. (Aside: Thailand is just as good and in our last few days there in May the spending spree is ON. Place your orders for knock off Calvin Klein panties and generic Viagra ($9/15 pills!!!)). Besides the pack of postcards and a tuktuk full of bottled water I'm purchase free. Good for the budget, but obviously I'll be back in Brooklyn come June lying in Prospect park wishing some toddler would waddle by with bottles of water and a $5 t-shirt covered in engrish.

Diving 101

Before heading off on this journey Geoff and I agreed that there was one pricey experience that we were willing to go out of budget for: Scuba certification. We knew we'd be on the island of Koh Tao, which has notoriously good diving, early in our trip and we knew that getting certified here was (despite being a bit out of our budget) crazy cheap. We decided to eat the ~$280 fee (which came with a free room!) and splurge on the 4 day class.

Signing up for Scuba class, I mentioned that as a child I'd had a number of ear infections and that, as a result, I often had a difficult time getting my ears to stay open when I was congested or changing elevation. The first guy I told this to said I'd need to go by the clinic and have a doc look at my ears before beginning the class, but when I mentioned the ears again to our actual instructor, Draco Malfoy (who was actually named Frankie but looks so much like a stoned version of the kid from Harry Potter that there's really no use pretending to call him anything else. As soon as a week from now we will only remember him as Draco) he seemed unconcerned. Also not a concern: the hacking and wheezing that soon took over Geoff's body, no problemo mate. So we plunge into the class which consists almost entirely of cheesy videos promises things like "divers have more fun than anyone else on earth!" and "diver's will take over the world by 2015 -- either join us now or choke to death when we flood the entire planet with water." After a day and half of this we're finally cleared to do our first underwater breathing exercises in the pool.

The whole breathing underwater bit proves surprisingly easy though I do have to think about it more than your standard breathing on land. Mostly I kneel happily at the bottom with 10 feet of water rolling overhead and act out inane tasks that appear to be part of some PADI frat hazing event. Some, like losing and locating your breathing device, seem like reasonable ways to ensure that I stay alive while diving. Others, like lying down flat and trying to make my body bob up and down in time with only my inhalations, are clearly invented by Draco for his own amusement.

At one point about 60 minutes into our 90 minutes underwater I was suddenly struck with overwhelming urge to pee which presented a number of problems. Firstly, I don't know if there is a PADI signal for "must evacuate bladder" but I certainly didn't know it (though doing the "not ok" signal and then pointing at my crotch seemed the obvious improv I suspect that is actually the sign for "look ahead, crabs!"). Even if I had been able to communicate my need I'm not sure what Draco would have done -- was I really going to take off a tank, a weight belt, a BCD vest, and a wet suit, then skip over to the (obviously sub-par) loo all while the class waited on me? Of course not, clearly this was a time for peeing in the pool. So I wait for a moment in class when everyone is focused on something else just in case all of the water around me suddenly turns yellow and get ready to pee... but nothing happens. Odd. I try again, this time really focusing on relaxing my muscles and letting go.... and whoops too much focus on peeing, not enough focus on breathing, almost passed out. Ok.... Pee.... Now! Nothing. So I went the remainder of the class with an achingly full bladder and no way to empty it -- apparently while walking and chewing gum has been mastered breathing and releasing urine is beyond me.

Ok, enough about peeing, out of the pool and into the ocean! After one more round of lectures, this time about the math used to avoid getting the bends. I'm practically giddy with math enthusiasm. This makes my natural tendency to brown nose it up even more acute which is not helped by Geoff, nor our German classmate Stephan who both refuse to answer questions no matter how easy. I don't know how other people have the heart to stare at an instructor while he flaps around in the breeze leading the class ever closer to an answer they've all known since beginning. I always cave after 5 seconds and blurt out the answer to save everyone from discomfort. I'm practically a classroom hero. And yet I would not have been at all surprised if Draco had started ending his questions with "anyone but Brianna," somehow held back.

Our first dive was mostly part of a a dive school bet called "Hey Draco, I bet you can't catch each of your students by the fin before they bob up to the top of the ocean and have their lungs explode!" Score one for the house of Slytherin cause somehow we all survived. We went down to 12 meters and didn't see much more in terms of sea life then what I was able to spot snorkeling on the surface but it was nice to go face to face with a sea cucumber the size of my thigh and live to tell the tale.

Dive 2 required an encore performance of Dive Skillz the musical. While kneeling on the bottom of the bay with a life sized statue of some sort of headless quadro-ped just behind us (apparently someone is creating a "underwater diving Disneyland" which seems... really weird and unnecessary.) we begin to repeat the same skills that were drilled into us at the bottom of the pool the day before. Again we have to fill our masks with water putting the delicate truce I've managed to negotiate with my contact lens in grave jeopardy, again I have to grab Geoff and shake the bejesus out of him in a dramatic one act called "Bitch give me some of your air!"

I was surprisingly fine during both dives, no rebellious contact lenses, no panicky need to rise to the surface. Geoff was not so lucky -- whatever virus that had taken over his sinuses was none to happy to be dunked underwater and he had to obsessively clear his ears over an over again as he slowly descended. When practicing clearing his mask of water, which requires one to exhale through their nose, a huge green wad of boogers was released into the freedom of the ocean -- some fish is eating well tonight.

It was after the second dive that problems began to surface for me. And by problems I mean an acute sense that I had ruptured an ear drum and/or had a guppy living in my ear canal -- could be either one. Basically my left ear hurt like fucking hell and all sound on that half of the world resembled the language spoken only by teacher's in Peanuts cartoons. Geoff was in the same boat and after exiting the literal boat we returned to our room to lie in front of the fan and moan at each other for 2 hours. This was a big problem because the next day we were due at 7am for more fun with diving (the most fun you'll ever have!).

We didn't make it. I was mostly ok (if a bit apprehensive) but Geoff was too busy hacking up all of the phlegm in hell to even consider challenging his ears to another battle to the death. Luckily, Draco and the dive school owner (a man with a tattoo covering the entire back of his calf that looked exactly like the picture at left and thus did not inspire confidence in the realm of great decision making) agreed that we could take a day or two off and complete our last 2 dives when Geoff was well.

A cold was no excuse to miss the final exam, though; so we arrived at the testing center (aka the bar behind the dive school) at 12:30 for a little old time test taking. I was, of course, giddy. Would there be Scan trons? #2 pencils? Cheaters for me to shake my head at in a superior way? WHO KNEW! So test, test, test, feeling pretty good about it, though not super confident that I was completely kicking multiple choice ass so I went back and double checked everything like a good little Jesse Spano/Andrea Zuckerman. You can imagine my shock when I received only 92%. I was, thankfully, able to stave off a full on melt down but my eyes stung with tears as I dealt with my serious brown noser student issues. I noted to myself that I needed only 75% to pass but felt not at all comforted. How did I miss 4 questions? Ok, review time, actually I only missed 3 because one of those questions was based on a picture and my test copy was seriously not readable. But STILL -- 94%!! How do I justify my self worth now? AT LEAST I did better than Geoff (90%) and didn't miss any of the math questions (naturally). Maybe I do need to go back into therapy.

[insert 2 days of lying on the beach sipping fruit shakes and complaining about heat]

On to dives 3 and 4! Sadly Draco didn't join us -- I suspect mostly because the dives were at 7am and he is obviously not willing to get up early just to do pansy ass diving with Americans. Fair enough. Our substitute instructor is named either Calen or Calum but due to his ridiculously thick English accent it is impossible to tell which. Unfortunately, he doesn't look like a Harry Potter character.

For our third dive we took the boat out about an hour to Chumpon Pinnacle where you are supposed to see tons of sharks. We saw none, but that was fine. Instead we saw sea anemones like mauve shag carpeting that hadn't seen a steam cleaner since 1972. We saw a grouper the size of a toaster oven which doesn't sound that big but when you're defenseless in 18 meters of water is certainly big enough. We saw schools of teeny tiny fish at least 1000 strong that bobbed and weaved in perfect sync with one another. We saw a forest of bubbles all around us from the dozens of other divers descending the same rope. I could hardly be bothered by the crowds as I was much too busy reaching out and popping the gigantic half moon bubbles as the floated up past me. I saw Geoff hanging out on the buoy line waiting to ascend with what looked like a slimy half dollar sized piece of seaweed hanging on to the bottom of his mask. And then I realized that what looked like underwater plant life was actually more boogers and I tried again to invent my own PADI signal -- this time for, "You are Disgusting, I May Never Kiss You Again," once more to no avail. The 45 minutes went by way too fast.

Dive 4 was again all about skill tests, again kneeling on the sandy bottom of a dive site known as The Twins. We took our masks off underwater and performed a hilarious navigation task that required us to pretend to need a compass to swim 10 feet in one direction and then turn around and swim back to the dive instructor. We also saw a couple of clown fish (is anyone else annoyed that the name "clown fish" is quickly being replaced by "Nemo"? Fuck you, Disney), and swam through a very very short underwater cave without bashing the coral with my tank.

And then back into the world. With totally pain free ears! Thank you Poseidon! With luck we'll find a few more worthwhile dive spots on our travels -- Geoff would like to see a wreck because he loves rotting old things and I would like to see more fish because... I like fish.

What I'm Eating in Thailand

Thai food (especially basil chicken) has been my go to takeout choice for years, so I've been looking forward to plates full of fried noodles and coconut curries and crispy spring rolls since this adventure was a twinkle in my eye. I had heard that what we Americans think of as Thai food is really only available in fancy restaurants in Thailand and that true Thai cuisine was much different -- spicier, with more questionable organs and a greater appreciation for anything on a stick.This has so far not really proved true -- while Bangkok was heavily dotted with food stands serving a million unidentifiable delicacies the rest of our trip has been a big bowl full of pad thai.

The prevalence of westernized Thai food is almost certainly due to our location -- lolling around in the south eastern islands we are ensconced on the tourist trail. We are almost always within strolling distance of a burger, though I'm happy to say that so far we've ordered only one (and this was mostly as payment for a perch at the local sports bar, the only place broadcasting the Winter Olympics).

But even from our place on the very edge of true Thai culture we have been able to get our beaks wet with plenty of yummy sauces and soups.

Thai food in Thailand is much more focused on condiments than its American incarnation. Any order of stir fry or fried rice comes with half a lime and a lazy susan full of dried chilies, fish sauce, and chilies preserved in vinegar most of which seem to be homemade. Doctoring your food with these accoutrement's is often half the battle to delicious. One popular breakfast item is a somewhat bland noodle or rice soup that on it's own hardly seems worth the 80 baht (~$2.30) but once your bowl is decked out in condiments a new breakfast of champions emerges from the steam.

Yes, we have been eating soup for breakfast. Also fried rice and the occasional green papaya salad. They're not much for breakfast food in this part of the world. I was at first able to embrace this and down spicy plates of stir fry at 8am but lately I've been opting for rice porridge with bananas and a shake.

Oh, the shakes. Mango, banana, coffee, coconut, lime -- big glasses of fruit and ice (and probably the occasional splash of sweetened condensed milk which I'm hoping does not make each one a caloric disaster). The Thais really seem to know what to do with fruit and a hot sweaty day. For about $1 you can order up these homemade slurpies on any beach or porch; I'm averaging 3 per day.

On the subject of cooling concoctions I must mention that the Thais are doing some amazing things with cucumbers. Almost every dish comes adorned with thick slices that are the perfect antidote to whatever spicy dish you've ordered. In the case of the laab salad I had for lunch a couple of days ago I'm certain that my tongue would have disintegrated into a pile of ash had it not been for the side plate full of cucumber slices (and holy basil leaves!) on crushed ice. Cucumbers are also featured as the main green in dozens of salads, doused in chilies and lime and holding up a few fat shrimp they're a welcome hot and cool reprieve from the scorching sun. Come August in New York I need to experiment with my own spicy cucumber dishes.

While it is not exactly difficult to survive on the slightly less than truly authentic meals available here on the islands, my tongue is looking forward to our travels further north. So far all of our favorite bites were purchased (mostly from stands on the side of the road) in Bangkok. On our first night in town we bought a more than delicious bowl of dark broth full of pork dumplings and greens for $1. Geoff ordered a huge plate of Thai beef salad in a restaurant across the street from the National Palace that had just the right ratio of grilled meat, chilies, vinegar and vegetables. The plate of "red pork" on the right was purchased for $1 in the Bangkok train station while waiting for our south bound night train (where we somehow got talked into a second, much more expensive ($30!), dinner that we would regret if it weren't for irresistible romance of dining while watching the Bangkok suburbs turn slowly into countryside.).

I am also starting my list of food I miss. For days now I've been craving sushi, I blame the heat. In NYC a spicy tuna roll and a bowl of edamame is my summer staple. I've also more than once wished for a margarita and a huge serving of chips and guacamole. For this I blame my California upbringing, I was raised to believe that there is no such thing as a beach without Mexican food. But give me time, next summer sitting on Water Taxi Beach or Coney Island I expect to be un-shut-up-able about my cravings for green mango salad and fried morning glory greens.

Zen and the Art of Breathing Under Water

I'm currently reading (and highly recommending) Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. It has me fantasizing just a bit about returning to running when I return to real life in May (or maybe sooner if we're ever faced with a day of less than 90% humidity and a stretch of beach longer than 100 yards). He writes so eloquently about running marathons while thinking of nothing for almost four hours at a time. Running for him is meditative. The only mantra I ever sang during my months of pounding pavement was the refrain "Keep running," which I had to focus all of my energy on in order to drown out my body's deafening chants of "THIS HURTS." Hardly zen.

I am, even more currently (as in right now, as I write this line), staring at the sunrise over the island of Koh Tao in southern Thailand. There is a small elderly Japanese man curled up in the lotus to my left; he looks at peace. I was, moments ago, sitting to his right doing a little stretching, admiring the gorgeous view and obsessively thinking about how to finish up my writing on meditation. Oh mind, will you never learn?

I have never been able to master meditation. Not to say that I've worked very hard at it but in the occasional yoga class when asked to empty my head of thoughts, to relax and let go of the troubles or pesterings that rattle around, I am never successful. Usually the best I can hope for is to reduce all brain chatter to "stop thinking, stop thinking, ooooh that girl has a cute yellow tank top! STOP. THINKING." Clearing my head is something I have always struggled with (so much so that even the promise of sleep often must be introduced via some mind numbing memory game meant to distract my brain just enough to allow the Sandman in).

But, luckily, this island is good for more than just beautiful sunrises. The water houses damsel fish and giant clams and coral like fields of deer horns and clumps of brain matter. Mere feet from the shoreline where I squatted on the sand, life stretched seemingly forever into the abyss. And somehow I find my mind easily drifting away from me while snorkeling. The weightlessness of being suspended in the water allows me to forget about my body. There is no nagging from my right hip urging me to move, there is no concern about sitting up straighter so my belly flattens out. The rhythmic shuck-shook of my own breathing and the rock of the waves and the slow motion tableaux of fish and sea cucumbers and anemones seems to calm me in a way that closed eyes and deep breaths and the occasional "om" never can.

It says much of my weakness for distraction that it is only when physically removed from chatting, from wiggling, from googling am I able to just be. When there is only water and fish and the all encompassing woosh of breath and tide then there is finally nothing.