Mt. Kinabalu, Malaysia

My legs burn as take my next step forward. The taught rope I hold tightly in my hands rubs against my palm, and I prepare to step again. In the pitch blackness of the morning, my foot slips, and I strengthen my grip upon the the rope. Regaining my footing, I curse under my breath, wondering for the millionth time this morning why on Earth I'm doing this.
Like a decayed witches tooth, it's middle enshrouded by a white belt of clouds, the majestic form of Mt. Kinabalu scrapes high against the skies of Malaysian Borneo. At 13,451 ft tall, this formidable peak is the highest point in southeast Asia.
The name Kinabalu comes from the native term Aki Nabalu, which roughly translates as the revered place of the dead. Tribal people in this area of Borneo once believed this place was inhabited by the spirits of their ancestors. Today many descendants of these locals serve as guides and porters, accompanying tourists to the mountain summit on a daily basis. A frequent stop on the tourist trail, nearly every guest house and travel shop in the nearby city of Kota Kinabalu sells package trips to climb this mountain.
It's also the home of the annual Mt. Kinabalu International Climbathon, advertised as "The World's Toughest Mountain Race." Once a year, participants sprint up and down the mountain trails at a maddening pace. Last year's winner Kilian Jornet Birgada of Spain completed the 21km race in an unbelievable 2 hours 39 minutes and 10 seconds!
This was my second day of my ascent. The previous day was comprised of a short, but steep 6.5km rise through the mountain forest. My guide, a short, softly spoken local woman named Nani was making her second trip up and down the mountain in three days. Huffing and puffing, I clumsily followed her steady, determined pace. She hardly seemed phased by the scorching temperature, or the steepness of the climb. Seven rest stops marked the way to the lodge at Laban Rata where I would spend the night before attempting the climb to reach the summit, but we only stopped at three.
The highlight of the first day's climb came late. Barely one kilometer from the lodge we entered into a canopy of banzai trees. Their gnarled branches extended upwards, meeting in an arch above the pathway, blocking out the sun. Though these trees are hundreds of years old, due to heavy winds and poor soil they grow to less than fifteen feet tall. Their charcoal colored branches looked dead, like the scorched remains of a campfire. It seemed a place of great mystery, and for the first time I began to understand why the villagers of Sabah had once believed this to be such a powerful place.
I reached the lodge around 2pm, and spent the afternoon reading, drinking coffee, and chatting with other climbers. After dinner I attempted to sleep, but as it was only 6pm it was still much too early. I lay awake in bed for hours before finally drifting off.
The second day began at 3am, in thin, cold, high altitude air. Starting with a long, steep, slippery flight of wooden steps, it only got more challenging from there. The darkness of the night was punctured only by tiny pinpricks of light- the distant headlamps of other climbers. Up the mountain they rose like fireflies, ever higher. A harsh reminder of how far I still had to go.
Around the time the ropes appeared I began to think about turning back. Bolted to the mountainside these thickly woven lifelines extend up the slopes in areas too steep for most to climb without aid. The darkness was difficult to negotiate and there were no harnesses or safety clips to attach to the ropes. I knew if I let go it was a long way down. A fall from here would surely result in serious injury if not death. But I had come this far and turning back barely two kilometers from the top would seem a waste. Fueled by a noxious mixture of ego and adrenaline I soldiered on.
This is the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm thirty-two, but I feel like I'm fifty. I stop to catch my breath, collapsing on the slope. For the first time all morning I look up at the sky and notice the spectacular array of stars. My guide sits down next to me. In her baggy clothes and orange hooded jacket she bears more than a passing resemblance to a Jawa.
"Only 1.7 kilometers to go," she tells me.
I'm sure this is meant as encouragement, but considering our ascent this morning is slightly less than 3km in total, I hardly find this to be a relief.

Around dawn we reach a gently sloping rocky plateau. Cracked granite dunes stretch into the distance. Orange balls of lightning flicker within heavy storm clouds. The horned curve of South Peak looms ominous behind me, and a jumbled pile of boulders ahead marks the end of my ascent. It's like walking through a painting. Among the first rays of the morning sun I limp gingerly along on shining sheets of grey-blue glass.
On a clear morning it's said you can see as far as the Philippines from here. But this was not a clear morning, so we would have to make do with a view of the surrounding villages. It's a tired cliché to say it's always worth it once you reach the top. A mantra I heard repeated again and again that morning by exhausted climbers mustering the strength to continue. While you're up there though, it's hard not to agree.
Everyone is elated. A group of Chinese bankers on a morale event unfurl their corporate flag and snap a photo in front of it. A young Malaysian boy pulls out his mobile phone and places a wake up call to his girlfriend from their nation's rooftop. I guzzle the remainder of a bottle of Red Bull and try not to think of the 9km below me I will soon be walking down.

It's just after 12pm when I reach the bottom of the mountain. By this time I've been hiking for nearly nine hours, and my legs won't stop shaking. The last 6km nearly defeated me. My guide, eager to get home, seemed hesitant to take even the shortest of breaks as we made our decent. During the last three hours we only rested once for five minutes.
Exhausted, I fall onto a bench just outside the trail's entrance, awaiting the arrival of the taxi that will take me back to my guesthouse. A scoreboard with the previous years race results stands nearby, the impossibly short completion times mocking my small achievement. Passers-by chuckle at my sweaty, bleary-eyed state, and I smile weakly at them. Closing my eyes, I begin to drift asleep. It's a tired cliché to say it's always worth it once you reach the top, but it's even more true at the bottom- when it's over.



*** In the interest of full disclosure, I must confess that due to the small size of my day bag, I did not have a camera with me during my climb of Mt. Kinabalu. Therefore the first two images used in this post were taken, with permission, from the Wikipedia article on Mt. Kinabalu.

Singapore City, Singapore

At the southern most point of continental Asia lies the tiny island-nation of Singapore. Covering roughly 683 square kilometers and home to nearly 4.4 million people, Singapore is Asia's most unlikely economic powerhouse.
In 1965 ideological differences between government officials led to Singapore being kicked out of the newly formed nation of Malaysia. With no real natural resources to speak of, and therefore seemingly few economic advantages, this small country had good reason to worry about its future. This is why it is such an incredible achievement that today the average monthly salary of a Singapore resident is $11,300 US. Roughly twelve and a half times that of the average Malaysian next door.
Stepping off the train and into Singapore was shock to my system. Gone was the relaxed, laid back atmosphere that permeates most of southeast Asia. Replaced instead by the hustle and bustle one finds in the urban centers of America, Japan, and eastern China. Crowds of determined, ambitious people speed-walking along at a stock-tickers pace.
The style here is beyond modern- an explosion of futurama. Everyone is wired into the communication grid with iPods, Blackberry's, PSPs, and LG handsets. Futuristic architecture lines the streets. It's like walking through a pop-up edition of Wallpaper magazine. The entire city gleams with iron and glass.
The streets are spotless. This is not an exaggeration. Singapore makes tidy Berlin look like a pigpen in comparison. Fines of over $1000 US are given out for spitting, littering, or eating and drinking on the subway. Graffiti is non-existent. Every lawn is manicured and every building appears freshly painted. A drastic change from the gritty, characteristic streets of so many other Asian cities.
In a grim foreshadowing of our own future, Singapore is dominated by a endless series of interconnected multi-level shopping super-centers. It seems nearly impossible, and at times almost unnecessary, to ever leave the infinite labyrinth of subways and shopping malls that connect this cities districts. These are not the kinds of malls we're used to at home either. With kitsch names like SunTec, and Vivo City, these monuments to consumerism are stuffed with fancy restaurants, art galleries, movie theaters, and in one case even a symphonic hall.
In the space of a scant few hours here, one can bundle up in a parka and moon boots to sled down a fake snow drift, then relax in the sun on the man-made beaches of Sentosa Island. It's unreal. That's what Singapore is in many ways, a kind of virtual reality. A blissed out Utopian bubble nestled smugly in a troubled region.
With all of the maddening distractions available to them, it's no surprise that most people here don't seem bothered by one party government rule, or their lack of free press. It's another modern day example of Bread and Circus.
We would spend two days here, doing the sorts of things we can't do elsewhere on this trip. Catching an afternoon symphony. Eating clean, raw fish. Seeing a Hollywood film in stadium-seated, large-screen movie theater. Enjoying the comforts of home.
Things are nice in Singapore, perhaps too nice. An eerie kind of perfection haunts its avenues and streets. Forty-eight short hours after arriving, we boarded a train bound north to Kuala Lumpur. As the carriage pulled itself along the track, crossing the white cement bridge that links Singapore to Malaysia, I could literally see the cracks in the pavement reappear. Leaning back, I smiled, returning to a world that I love not only for it's admirable qualities, but for it's imperfections as well.

Georgetown, Malaysia

It's night time, and it's still above eighty-five degrees. The air is humid from a short tropical downpour that only recently ended. The dimly lit streets ahead of me are lined with beautiful, crumbling, colonial-era buildings. A carnival of colored signs in Chinese, Arabic, and English advertise the city's kafe's, hair saloons, hotels, and seemingly endless array of restaurants and food carts. Cars and motorbikes tear down the wide avenues at high speeds, their loud motors eclipsing a broadcast of the Muslim call to prayer.

Georgetown is the main city of Penang, an island province that sits along the northwestern coast of peninsular Malaysia. It's convenient accessibility to India and Indo-China made it an important trading port in the latter-days of British and Dutch colonialism. The island was largely uninhabited until 1786 when British explorer Francis Light arrived. Light foresaw the small islands immense value to the spice trade and crafted a deal with the Sultan of the region allowing him to establish a trading port there.
For a time Panang in general, and Georgetown in particular, experienced a rapid amount of growth. Immigrants from China, Indonesia, Thailand and India flocked to the tiny island where free-trade policies brought ships to the ports, and with them jobs. By the early 1800's the streets of Georgetown were bustling with trishaw peddlers, restaurant owners, and various other hucksters. Though less crowded then, the make-up of Georgetown's streets that still exists today was clearly established during this early economic boom period.

Though it's late, the streets are full of local people, eating, smoking, laughing and shopping. The sweet scent of incense mixes with the rich smells of curry and the spicy smoke of heavily peppered stir-fry. We turn the corner and head up Lebuh Panang entering the area of town locals affectionately call Little India.
It is an abrupt change. As if every sense in my body has been cranked up three or four additional notches. The contents of every shop window are alive with color and patterns. Gold jewelry and other accessories glitter alongside pink, orange, and lime green saris. Tabla drums blast from stereo speakers accompanied by tongue-twisting Hindi rap. Video screens show absurd scenes from Bollywood musicals. Everything is sensational in the most literal sense of the word.
The smiling shopkeepers with their magnificent bushy mustaches beckon us to enter their establishments. Politely but firmly we refuse. Our stomachs are rumbling and we already have a destination in mind.

The streets of Georgetown are an orgy of food. Over the last month I've grown tired of the culinary options offered to me in Thailand. With it's varying ethnicities Malaysian cuisine is some of the most diverse I've yet to encounter. Chinese, Indian, Thai, and curious amalgamations of all three can be found everywhere, day or night. Right now I'm especially impressed with the Indian fare. For less than US$5 one can stuff themselves with mutton roti, tikki masala, and garlic nann. It's hard not to get hungry prowling the streets here, and I've found myself eating for sheer pleasure far too often for my own good.

We arrive at Sri Ananda, an Indian cafeteria-style eatery. Squeezing through the entrance we pass closely by a sweating, dark skinned cook as he violently slaps roti dough against a flour dusted metal counter. The piles of fried pakora, samosas, and steaming tins of thick, spicy gravies within view whet my apatite as we make our way towards the air conditioned dining hall.
The cool, white and blue tiled seating area here more closely resembles a locker room than what I normally think of as a restaurant. The community washing area in the back (this food is traditionally eaten using one's hands) does little to help dispel this.
The restaurant is full even at this late hour, and we take the only open table left. Waiters in white shirts and black pants wander from group to group, taking orders and tabulating bills. Bussers in dark purple and yellow tops with matching mesh baseball caps run platters to tables, collect dishes, and heckle the cooks through the small window that connects this room to the kitchen. Our waiter appears, his tall, broad frame striding towards us from the far end of the hall. We place our orders and patiently await their arrival.
The drinks come first. Glass jugs filled with tart, refreshing lime juice accented by sweet mint leaves. Every sip is a pleasure and I feel the oppressing heat slip away.
The next part happen so quickly I hardly have time to keep track of everything arriving. A steady, rapid stream of workers approach our table. The first rolls out two banana leaf place mats onto which the second scoops us generous portions of steaming white rice. A third appears immediately behind adding dollops of lumpy but delicious blended vegetables to the green husks of our place settings. The food keeps coming and before we know it our table is full of tiny metal bowls brimming with steamy succulent delights. The chicken curry I ordered is excellent, but so spicy I curse myself for sucking down most of my beverage before the meal. I crack off a section of pappadam, a thin cracker-like bread, and dip it into a cool, mellow yogurt sauce that serves cool my aching tongue.

It seems impossible to keep eating, but equally difficult to quit. Just as we intend to stop, a final delivery arrives. In addition to our meals I'd also ordered mutton roti murtabak, a flaky bread filled with egg, curry, onion and lamb. But by this stage of the meal its impending arrival has been long since forgotten. A distant memory drowned beneath an ocean of excess. Groaning I enlist Amanda's aid in eating it. Breaking off pie-wedge sections, we enjoy it's savory flavor. Heavier on the egg than I prefer, but good none the less. We eat just enough of it so that it doesn't appear wasted.
Standing at the cashier's counter the sheer enormity of the meal we ate hits my stomach. I'll probably regret this later. But for now we slink out the front door into the hot night air, fat and shameful, but thoroughly satisfied.

First Impressions of Malaysia

Crossing the border from Thailand into Malaysia, one can spot immediate differences. Highways have barriers. Motorbike drivers uni formally wear helmets. Power lines appear modern and efficient. There are ballparks, playgrounds, toll-booths, and roadside landscaping. This is not the third world.
Malaysia is a unique and young country. Its majority population is a mix of immigrants from southern Thailand, northern Indonesia, China and India. A small minority of aboriginal Malaysian's, or Orang Asli (Original People) as they are called, also still exist here. However they are vastly outnumbered.
Islam is the dominant religion, and one can see this reflected everywhere throughout the country. The head scarf worn by Muslim women is more commonly seen here than blue-jeans and it's not unusual to see fast food restaurants advertise themselves as halal, meaning that their menu strictly adheres to all requirements of the Muslim diet. Large, spectacular Mosque's exist in nearly every city. Yet Islam is only one of the many religions found here. Hindu, Buddhism, Christianity, and even Animism are actively practiced as well. Though Islam is recognized as the state religion, it is important to note that freedom of religion is still assured by law.
With all of the diversity that is found here, Malaysia seems to be experiencing a bit of an identity crisis; similar perhaps to the one the United States must have suffered during its influx of immigrants during the 1800's. With all three of Malaysia's dominant cultures sharing the same space, but not the same cultural or religious traditions, what does it mean to be Malaysian?
The government here has been working hard at trying to create a sense of national identity. Bhasa Malayu, a language similar to that of Indonesia has been taught in public schools for several generations now, and has been widely adopted by all as the official language. Less successful, though gaining some recent traction, has been the movement to adopt Islamic law.
On the surface this odd Asian melting pot seems to be working. The various groups appear to interact easily and to even enjoy the diversity of their community. Indians can be seen passionately talking politics with their Chinese countrymen, while indigenous Muslim women in head scarfs share tea with red-dotted Hindi mothers. The youth of Malaysia especially seem to mix together with ease, each successive generation erasing barriers bit by bit.
But to characterize this nation as some kind of multicultural paradise would be to deny the complexity of the real situation. Things are further complicated by the large economic inequity that exists here, often found along racial lines. The Chinese are seen as the dominant economic force, and indigenous Malays often fear being left behind. Since 1970 law has required that 30% of corporate wealth be owned by indigenous Malays, and though this policy has helped to close the economic gap, it has understandably been met with fierce resistance from the other members of Malaysian society.
To the outsider though, the varying cultural landscape of Malaysia creates a fun and fascinating place to visit. You can have Thai noodle soup for breakfast, Indian curry for lunch, and Chinese Dim Sum for dinner. Cinemas play a variety of films from Hollywood, Bollywood, Hong Kong, and China. And the fingerprints of European colonialism can be found everywhere, from the Austrian style chalet apartment buildings to the rich roasted coffee of the local Kafe's.
It's a clean, comfortable, and affluent pocket of southeast Asia. The kind of which I had no idea existed. Overall, I'm incredibly impressed, and I can't wait to see more of what it has to offer.

Sai Yok National Park, Thailand

Sai Yok National Park
The bus dropped us off along the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. The only things around were a couple of roadside food stalls and a sign announcing in English and Thai the entrance to our destination: Sai Yok National Park. We had no hotel reservations, no map of the park, and barely an idea of where to go. A brief and largely uninformative passage on this place in our guidebook warned of limited availability of food and little in the way of English language information. We were in short, woefully unprepared.
Several weeks before leaving Seattle I had seen a travel blog that made mention of raft bungalows that rested alongside the river in a national park near Kanchanaburi. The authors description had peaked my interest, and an accompanying photograph of this riverside gem sealed the deal. I simply had to find this place. I was unable to relocate the source of my inspiration no matter how dutifully I Googled pertinent words and phrases. A phone number in my Lonely Planet guidebook for similar sounding accommodations was a dead end as well, as the line had been disconnected. But like Ahab for his whale I would not give up the hunt. Which was how we found ourselves, against my better judgement, standing beside a long and lonely strip of foreign highway.
We lugged our heavy packs across the road and entered the park. It wasn't long before a couple of older Thai men rode up towards us on scooters.
“Taxi? Taxi?” they called in short staccato voices. For once I welcomed the intrusion.
I read them the name of where we wanted to go to off of a crumpled piece of paper: 'naam tok sai yok yai.' I still don't know what it means, but I was encouraged when one of the men nodded indicating comprehension. Across fractured language barriers we agreed upon a price. Then Amanda and I each climbed on the rear of one of their scooters. Our heavy packs pulling us backwards, we held on for dear life with no helmets to protect our idiot brains.
The ride was slow, smooth, and most importantly, brief and without incident. We stopped twice. Once to pay an entrance fee to the park and another time to have our tickets checked. When we reached our agreed destination point it looked not unlike the parking lot of any average National Park back home in the States. Mercifully we saw that there were food stalls selling hot Thai dishes, cold bottles of water, and the ever important Beer Chang. We balked at the requisite V.I.P. buses towering over us nearly as tall as the strong, slender teak trees they were parked next to.
Off in the distance we spied the Ranger Station and figured it might be worth a shot to see if there was any relevant information inside. As is customary, we removed our shoes before entering the facility and approached the information desk. We were amused to find it occupied by two local children one around eight years of age, the other probably no older than three.
I smiled and greeted them in their language, “Sa-wat-dii-kraap.”
They giggled shyly, no doubt amused by my clumsy pronunciation, and then the oldest called out to someone in the next room. A moment later a woman walked out in a park ranger uniform. She spoke no English, and unfortunately, but not unsurprisingly, my phrasebook does not contain an approximation for the term raft bungalow. The woman was kind, but I could tell she did not understand what it was we were looking for. She supplied us with a pamphlet that contained a map, and an English summary of the parks services, but no mention of any riverside accommodations. It did however show us where the water was so we set off on a short jaunt to see if we could locate our destination from it's shores. We had not gone far when we saw a sign pointing down a small path that said River View Bungalows. We quickly followed it down.
The path led us down a wooden dock and around a corner. Our spirits lifted as we saw a gorgeous, wide stream of water with wood cabanas bobbing gently up and down along it's sides. The accommodations were lovely with tall glass windows laid into the doors and small porches with wooden benches where one could lounge around and watch the river flow. We spied one colorful long-tail boat parked along the edge of the buildings, while another zipped past us on the river leaving the platform we stood upon bouncing in it's wake. In the distance a waterfall spilled its way down a tall stack of boulders where it joined the gentle river and begun it's journey downstream. A casual glance in the other direction revealed a tall wooden suspension bridge that spanned the water. It was just as I had imagined it. Better perhaps.
It took a little trouble to find a room. The lodgings we had stumbled upon appeared empty, but we were told they had all been reserved. A kindly young Thai woman who spoke some English called out to another older woman across the riverbank. They exchanged a few quick words and we were told that though the lodgings on this side were spoken for there was plenty of room in the guesthouses on the other side. Even from here we could see that the lodgings she spoke were more shabby than these, but faced with the alternative of renting a tent from park services we quickly agreed.
A long-tail boat was arranged to carry us along to the other side of the river. The journey required little use of the motor, mostly skillful navigation on the part of the driver augmented by an occasional burst of the combustible. We were very thankful for the ride as this small kindness saved us the trouble of lugging our backpacks across the bridge and along the narrow cliff side that led to the accommodations.
A quick shower cleared my mood and I took a rest on the porch of the cabin to watch the world go by. Traffic buzzed up and down the river. A young boy jumped into the water, letting it carry him downstream, climbing out a few yards later. A quick convenient way to clean up and cool off.
I began to wonder what it must be like to grow up here. Having been born and raised in the suburbs of the Pacific Northwest I had never considered before what it must be like to live ones life with a powerful and defining natural force, like this river, at it's center. This river served as highway, bathtub, playground, and less spectacularly, sewage system for the people that live here. It supplied economy in terms of the tourism it brought. And though I loath to imagine due to the waste going into it, this river more than likely served as a source of food to some extent as well. These people knew this piece of water inside out. Respected it in their own way. There is nothing back home in my neighborhood that could possibly equate to it's importance to them.
The luxuries of modern life have isolated us from the natural world, making us to numb to the importance of the resources that surround us. So much so, that we've begun to see the grocery stores, retailers and other companies that we patronize as the suppliers of these goods rather than the rivers, oceans, and vast tracts of land that truly sustain and support our lifestyles. Our entire eco-system has become virtually invisible to us. This powerful world that we live in has lost the mythic properties we once attributed it to it, and with that loss we have forgotten a way of life.
We have replaced it with the Bull, the Bear, the Dollar and the Dow. These are our modern myths. The Invisible Hand of the Marketplace. “It's the economy stupid.” A way of life built not on the world that surrounds us, but on intellectual ideas that have become our reality.
It is however, this very framework which has allowed me to come here. Enabled me to see all of this. Without the high-tech economy that feeds my bank account I wouldn't be sitting here halfway across the world romanticizing poverty, naively waxing for a “simple life.”
The sound of a overworked engine snapped me out of my thoughts and brought me back to where I was. Looking up I saw a long-tail boat struggling to pull a large floating platform down the river in our direction. There were around a half dozen or so foreigners on the platform, sipping cocktails and sunning themselves in their Speedo's. In the distance, coming up swiftly behind them, were another two dozen pasty white bodies bobbing up and down in the river. Life jackets keeping them afloat they were clearly headed to join the platform.
A young man, probably their tour guide, blew a loud metal whistle, and shouted a warning at the group in what sounded like Russian. The platform docked at the waterfall, and as the floating bodies pulled themselves up onto it, they began one by one, to stand underneath the strong spray of the waterfall. The women screamed their heads off. The men stood grim, macho and stoic in that way Russian males have perfected after decades of cold weather and existentialist philosophy.
I was angry. After working so hard to find this nice, quiet place, after going so far out of the way, it seemed cruel to have my contemplative quiet ruined by this loud and unruly mob of package vacationing tourists. I was frustrated and disappointed. But mostly I was jealous because it looked like so much fun.
As the day progressed it began to seem as if the whole of eastern Europe was here. Group after group of former Soviets came bobbing down the river like ripe Red apples. It turned out that they had booked all the rooms across the river.
That night we ate at a buffet dinner at their guesthouse's restaurant. We were too shy, outnumbered as we were, to approach any of them and start a conversation, but sat in the corner our voyeuristic eyes watching them eat and drink themselves silly. They held raffles giving away cowboy hats, stuffed animals and Thai whiskey. They blasted disco, took shots of alcohol, hugged each other and drank some more.
From what we gathered this was the last night of their trip to Thailand and in a couple of days they would return to the cold winter of their mother country. Figuratively chained behind their desks, they would dream of the feeling of freedom and the sunny weather that I'd still be here experiencing. Long after I went to bed I could still hear them partying across the river, and for once, I could hardly blame them.

Kanchanaburi, Thailand

We arrived in Kanchanaburi by public bus. I usually prefer this mode of travel to gratuitous tourist herding transport vehicles that clog the highways of SE Asia. You can see them everywhere. Their garishly graffitied exteriors bulleting down the highways spilling freon and bumping disco tunes. Stopping every time the driver knows he can get a free meal or some other form of baksheesh for corralling thirty-two sweaty, rich, and famished farang into the most dismal roadside feeding trough he can find along the way.

Public transportation by comparison is less spacious (I've had my knees up against the seat in front of me many a time), but I find it is generally a faster and much more charming way to travel here. You'll never see an old woman transporting chickens sitting next to Buddhist monk in saffron robes on a V.I.P. bus, or hear fractured war stories from a retired Laoatian soldier either.

You'll also pay more attention to your surroundings on a public bus. On a tourist bus you'll never miss your stop because chances are, everyone on this bus is going to the same spot, so why even look up from your book? On a public bus, your stop isn't necessarily the last one. In fact, you'll probably be the only one getting off there. So you'll be paying attention all right. Checking road signs from time to time, making eye contact with the ticket-taker to see if your exit point is coming up. A little paranoia can be healthy. And if you're looking around with more purpose, guess what? You might actually see something!

Did I mention the snacks are better too? On public transport, from time to time, someone will leap onto the bus selling food the locals would actually eat. Warm waffles, banana chips, dried beef with sticky rice. This is the fast food you're supposed to eat here.

I can hear some of you already, “But is it okay to eat that stuff? It hasn't been properly refrigerated, right?” Well, the truth of the matter is it probably hasn't. But just how long do you think that overpriced noodle soup with egg in it has been swilling for at that roadside stop in the middle of nowhere? Probably an awful lot longer. I'll take the stuff the locals are snatching up over the stuff that tourists are settling for any day.

But I digress. Upon arrival in Kanchanaburi we were of course immediately swarmed upon by taxi drivers. Unlike the motorized tuk-tuks of Bangkok, here the transport of choice seems to be bicycle drawn rickshaws. I did not enjoy the experience of riding in this particular mode of transportation at all. For one it's not much faster than walking. But also, it strikes me as just plain cruel. To make this man pedal us and our packs in the heat of the afternoon over two miles through heavy traffic for the paltry sum of a dollar and a half seemed incredibly distasteful to me. However, after a three hour bus ride neither of Amanda nor I felt like stumbling through the busy city with our heavy packs blindly seeking out our guesthouse. Thankfully our rickshaw driver was not only friendly, but enthusiastic about his work, and I was able to ease my conscience by giving him a decent tip.

Our first choice in guesthouses was full, but we were quickly able to find a second, at our drivers suggestion just down the road. We desperately wanted to walk there, but our new friend insisted pointing out that we had overpaid him and that he should take us there. Not wishing to insult him (or deny him the possibility of a kickback from the hotel owner) we piled back again onto the rickshaw, and rode down the road a laughable twenty yards to what was nearly the next driveway.

Most of the major guesthouses in Kanchanaburi are built along the river, and ours was no exception. To reach them one goes down a side street off of the main road, which then descends away from the din of the traffic to where these wooden bungalows rest over the infamous river Kwai. it's not quite as romantic as it sounds like it might be, but it's nice nonetheless, and positively atmospheric at nighttime. It was already late afternoon when we arrived, and most of the cities attractions were closing. So instead of site-seeing we ate, read, and slept our way through the evening, planning to get an early start the next morning at seeing some of the cities historical attractions.

The Thai Burma Railway Center

Towards the end of World War II, when the Japanese occupied much of Asia, work began on a railroad to bring supplies across Thailand, and Burma in anticipation of invading India. With Japan's war against the Allies faltering, this project was expedited in order to secure their foothold in Asia. A feat that would normally require five years to complete, was performed in just sixteen months. In order to achieve such results the Japanese employed slave labor from prisoners of war. Conditions were inhumane, and over 100,000 Thai, British, Dutch, Australian and American prisoners died as a result of overwork, sickness and starvation. Today this stretch of track is known as the Death Railway, and the horrors inflicted on it's laborers are solemnly memorialized at The Thailand Burma Railway Center in Kanchanaburi.

The museum here is quite good. Using photos, text, and scale models it weaves a fair and proper picture of what took place here from 1942-1943. The engineering feat that was accomplished here is acknowledged, and the atrocities that took place are exhaustively documented. A video containing interviews with Thai prisoners of war is especially impactful. I found their staunch stories of survival full of equal parts sadness and hope.

Next door to the museum is a cemetery containing the graves of many of the servicemen who died building the railroad. Walking amongst the endless headstones here, I marveled at how young most of the POWs who died here had been. The average age seemed to be 23-26. Many were younger. I felt a moment of guilt and pleasure in this solemn place as I crossed paths with the stream of one one of the sprinklers that watered the green grass.

Just down the street was another cemetery, this one a traditional Thai type. In the center was a large conical structure built from cement which resembled a modern take on the traditional Chedi structures I'd seen previously in ancient temples at Angkor and Ayuthaya. Surrounding these were similar, smaller versions which were individual graves. Further down we found another style of grave. These were made up of a thick, concrete slab, curved like a crescent moon suspended on it's side. They were enscripted with memorials and met with a small hill of grass extending down like a tiny hill the approximate length of a human body. Many of these traditional graves had small photographs affixed to them, presumably of the person buried there. Many offerings were laid at the bases of the graves. Incense, tea, and brightly colored ribbons among the favorites. Though curious, I felt voyeuristic wandering amongst the bodies that lay resting here, and my lack of reference to what I was seeing made me feel very removed from their culture. I have never felt at home in graveyards as many do, and so I left Amanda snapping pictures of the site, to sit across the street drinking water in the shade of a tall tree.

The Death Railway Theme Park

Perhaps the museum and graveyard had left me in a somber mood, but I couldn't help but feel cynical when we reached the site of the Bridge over the river Kwai. It was crawling with people. The bridge that was so famously destroyed years before had been rebuilt so that tourists could have their picture taken on it, smiling while licking ice creams. T-shirts were sold with pictures of a steam train barreling across the trestle that so many had died building under duress. Those who were completely detached from reality could cross the bridge in a tiny toy locomotive, choo-chooing their way across the graves of countless of thousands of World War II POWs.

But the ultimate insult lay only yards away on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks. Forgotten under the shadow of a tall white building lay a grim black wall in memory of those who had died. Clearly this memory had been erased. The wall was shabby and unkempt, the script written on it was hardly legible through the dirt it was covered with. A sharp contrast to the shiny train that stood a mere few paces away. There was no somber mood here. Nothing was memorialized besides commerce. I felt sick to my stomach. We left quickly and without hesitation.

Ko Chang, Thailand

It's 7am now, and it's been pissing rain in paradise all night long. The several items I left out to dry on my bungalow porch last night, are anything but. Despite grey skies, the view is outstanding. Concrete and plank wooden paths weave through a quaint green garden in front of me and into the distance. White bungalows dot the gently curving hillside. Local people go about their morning business, sweeping porches, stacking laundry, and gathering supplies for their days work. Sturdy palm trees stretch up to the sky, top heavy with young coconuts. Somewhere off the distance I can hear the ocean, the crashing waves fighting the songs of insects for my ears attention.

A small colorful bird perches itself atop a wicker chair on the porch of the neighboring bungalow, pausing to belt out a morning reveille that defies it's tiny frame. Like the first shot in a war, this shatters the peace, and the roosters begin their morning calls. They won't stop for the next bloody hour.

Ko Chang is Thailand's second biggest island. It contains numerous beaches, a temperate rain forest, and an abundance of tourists. Not an overabundance mind you, but the word is definitely out. And with it's convenient location on the east coast of Thailand, a mere four hours drive from Bangkok, it's no wonder more and more travelers are forgoing southern destinations like Krabi and Phuket for the beaches of Ko Chang.

There have been noticeable changes since I was last here two years ago. Upon arrival at the ferry dock, I was greeted by the grim sight of a full-color billboard advertising condos for sale on the island. I was also surprised to see that the tiny dock where a small shuttle boat had taken us across before had been replaced by a full scale ferry with a bottom level that could accommodate cars.

Once ashore though, the forty-five minute taxi ride revealed that the quiet, island charm I was looking forward to had not been entirely swept away. Sure there were super-sized resort hotels being built, and more scooters zipping down the roads, but they were, for the most part, close to the dock at places like White Sand Beach. The further we drove on the less of these there were. By the time our taxi had reached Lonely Beach, things looked pretty much as they did the day I left two years before. The dirt walkway which snakes through the woods leading from guesthouses out to the main beach has yet to be paved over, or even landscaped. The tattoo parlours, Thai massage stations, and makeshift bars that line the way are still as ragged as ever. Dirt cheap accommodations are still on hand for shoestring travelers. In short, there's still a place for backpackers in the new Ko Chang.

The beach here is small, but it's easy find yourself a private patch of sand and while away the hours with a good book, the ocean stretched out in front you. The water is warm, the faces are friendly, and the seafood on the barbecue is fresh. Amanda and I spent several days in a row here, snorkeling, kayaking to nearby islands, lounging around, and generally being lazy. Recooperating from the nightmare of the daily grind back home.

There's no shortage or restaurants and bars here, but by far the most popular is the Treehouse. The Treehouse, is a veritable institution here, having been built here back when the name Lonely Beach was more well deserved. The restaurant is basically a giant wooden deck built out over the water. Rickety and old it creaks when you walk across it. There are holes in places. Hammocks are slung between bamboo staffs, and colorful floor mats are spread out below low wooden tables. Geometrically diverse lanterns are hung off gnarled driftwood poles, emitting dim light in varying colors. Soft, tasteful music, helps construct the mood, and build energy as the night unfolds. It's a laid back wonderland, and probably my favorite place on Earth to toss back a drink or two and blow my mind on the surrounding landscape.

After a week, we felt it was probably time to move on, and I woke early this morning to pack my bag and sit on the porch one last time. The storm from the night before will no doubt make the taxi ride back through the steep winding roads of Ko Chang formidable at best. I'm not looking forward to the bus ride ahead of us, or to another night in Bangkok. But at least there I won't have to listen to this damned rooster.