Myanmar, SE Asia

Mention the country of Myanmar to the average westerner and you're likely to be greeted by blank stares, and the inevitable "Where's that?" This nearly forgotten Southeast Asian nation is better known to the west by its former colonial title of Burma.

The history of Myanmar can outlined by a long stretch of failed occupations by crumbling empires. The Mongolian hordes of Kublai Khan, the colonial British, and the Axis army of Japan have all held these people within their grasp at alternate times. And sadly, to this day, this trend of tyranny and occupation still shows no sign of ending.

Since 1989 Myanmar has been ruled by a military junta with one of the worlds worst records regarding human rights. For the last twenty years the nations democratically elected leader Aung San Suu Kyi has been held captive in her home a mere few miles from the hotel in which I write these words. And things have only gotten worse as of late. In 2007 the military publicly slaughtered a group of demonstrators lead by Buddhist monks who dared to protest the suspension of government oil subsidies that had led to rising gas prices. Then in 2008 when cyclone Nargis killed tens of thousands in the region, the country's leaders refused to allow western aid groups inside the borders, worsening a situation that eventually led top the deaths of at least 140,00 people.

But in the streets of Yangon and Mandalay you could be forgiven for being blind to the current plight of the Burmese people. Life goes on here as usual, though an eerie veil of Orwellian calm haunts many interactions. In Myanmar, it's important to read between the lines, to hear not only what is said, but what is implied in conversations. People will frequently silence or censor themselves. Like the monk who mid-sentence shuffled away from us whispering, "In my country, many spies everywhere." Or the tour guide who, while explaining the vast amounts of teak the government clear cut and sold overseas, joked "Myanmar is a rich country, but..."

It is for these reasons that when one travels to Myanmar, it must be done mindfully. With awareness of the situation at hand, and with great care to what one says, how loud you say it, and where you spend your money.

Most large restaurants hotels here are owned by high government officials. Money spent in these places does nothing to help the local people, and only serves to bolster the regime that suppresses them. Sadly it is impossible to travel this country without monetarily supporting the government in some way. The cost of your visa goes straight into their coffers, and even locally owned hotels with no government ties are charged a 12% tax. Fairly, for this reason many people choose to simply pass on visiting Myanmar. But doing so hurts the countless individuals who depend on tourism for their livelihood, and reinforces the peoples fears that the rest of the world has forgotten about them. The general consensus from folks that we talked to was that they desperately desire an increase in the number of travelers to their country.

I'm not going to lie to you. Some amount of the enjoyment I derived from traveling here was related to how few people currently come. On an average day we would see less than a dozen other tourists, and most of these would be during breakfast at our guest house.
Amenities are sparse, but this lends to the romance. Riding down a rough dirt road by horse drawn carriage to explore ancient temples. Chatting with a fourth generation puppeteer after a private evening performance of his art. Being awakened at dawn by the gentle hum of chanting monks after spending the night in a remote Buddhist monastery. Unique and memorable adventures abound here.

Travel was not easy, but frequently the experiences were more rewarding than in other places. This is not Thailand, or Malaysia. This is not Asia-light. It can be frustrating, awkward, and uncomfortable. You may be speechless at the stories people share, and the desperation on hand here is often heartbreaking. But Myanmar is also magical, captivating, encouraging, and delightful. The people here will surprise you with their kindness, resilience, and generosity. They are among the friendliest, and most genuine people I've encountered in all my travels. For all these reasons I would encourage adventurous, mindful travelers to give the country a chance. Your efforts will be rewarded.

Yakcast, Interrupted...?

Hey everyone, just wanted to post a quick update from Bangkok to let you all know that I am boarding a plane tomorrow headed for Myanmar (Burma). I will be spending two weeks there, and due to governmental restrictions on internet, I'm not certain whether I will have access to update the blog while I'm there. So if you don't see anything here for the next 14 days, don't worry, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm deceased or incarcerated. I might be, but not necessarily. It also means that after February 7th, you'll probably see a fast and furious set of updates. Until then, take care and enjoy life.

Similan Islands Live Aboard, Thailand

One of my main reasons, scratch that, the main reason for my returning to Thailand again so soon was my desire to take part in a diving live-aboard in the Similan and Suran Islands. The Similan National Park (whose name is derived from the Malay word, sembilan, meaning nine), are a series of nine islands that lie off the southern west coast of Thiland. This small stretch of the Andaman Sea is home to some of the ocean's most diverse gathering of life.

Manta Ray, sea horse, nudibranch, and moray eels are all common here. As are leopard sharks and black and white tip reef sharks. The elusive whale shark is also found in this area, though sightings are rare and always seem to have happened "...last week..." just before anyone (and everyone arrived.

It was with a cautious mix of excitement and trepidation that I boarded the West Coast Cruiser, the boat that would be my home for the following four nights and four days. There were eight of us booked for passage. Myself, two Dutch girls from Amsterdam, a quiet and heavily tattooed Swede man, three older Germans, and my bunk-mate (and subsequent dive partner) Hugo, a Scottish gent who had lived for the last eight years in my native Seattle.

It's frequently remarked on what a small world this is, but the cliche can only truly be appreciated when one experiences a coincidence such as this: to travel half-way around the world and end up sharing a cabin on a boat with with someone who lives a scant six blocks from your most recent home. It's a small, small world indeed.

The German's were all PADI certified dive-masters, and thus were separated into their own group, leaving the five remaining of us others to form our own enclave.

Our dive leader Andy, was a rough-humored affable young Brit whose closely cropped hair, hoop earrings, and myriad of tattoos gave him the appearance of a classic sea-faring pirate. The missing front tooth he displayed when he smiled (as he frequently did) did more to lend him character than it did to diminish his rugged good looks.

The first night aboard was spent much the same as the next three would be: drinking beer, swapping tales about diving, laughing, and watching poorly bootlegged DVDs of Will Ferrell comedies.

The sea that first night was rather rough, and our first hours aboard, heavy rain and lightening filled the night sky. I found myself retiring early that night (and indeed every night of the trip), rocked to sleep by the natural ebb and flow of the ocean.

Our first dive the next morning was at 8am, before coffee, but before breakfast. I hadn't been diving since I'd left Egypt nearly a year and a half before, and was worried that my performance would be poor. I needn't have worried though, as it turned out none of my colleagues had dived much more recently. We were quite literally and figuratively, all in the same boat.

By the end of the first day my air consumption was reasonable, and my buoyancy was steady. I felt confident though still a tad clumsy.

Sightings that day were good, but a tad typical. A few lion fish, puffer fish, Asian sweetlips, and ever present villainous titan trigger fish. The highlight of that first day for me however, was not biological but geological.

The unique dive site of Elephant Head Rock was an underwater labyrinth of swim throughs, and coral canyons, that delighted and staggered the senses. The number of ways in which this site could be navigated made it a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride of diving. I often found myself thinking we were headed in some new direction, only to find we had doubled back to a familiar location. This sort of dive, while loads of fun with an experienced leader, could be dangerous and bewildering without one. Thankfully Andy knew the site quite well, and was more than up to the task of leading us through it.

The third dive of that second day was memorable for a completely different reason, as it provided us with a glimpse at one of the ocean's strangest and most extraordinary creatures: the Mata Ray.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when we dove into the murky depths of Koh Bon. Visibility was only around ten meters, and the current was quite brisk. The destination of our dive was the tip of a reef 25 meters down which we had been instructed to swim to and hold on while we awaited the possible appearance of manta ray.

"I sent an SMS to the mantas," Andy had joked dryly before jumping into the water, "They should be around soon."

I'm not especially fond of strong currents, and I hate touching anything underwater, so it was with great regret that I found myself pinching the edge of the reef and fighting against the flow of the water. But after several minutes our collective struggle was rewarded. I snapped my head to attention as Andy banged his metal pointer against the aluminum of his tank, and there it was.

Over ten feet wide from tip to tip, it's wing-like fins adjusting to adapt to the flow of the current. Seeing one of these creatures in person it's hardly a wonder that their form has so strongly influenced the design of modern stealth planes. It's dark skin would camouflage it momentarily, and as it moved it seemed to slip in and out of existence like a desert mirage. Sometimes only the white ring of skin around it's massive mouth would be visible, betraying it's position to us. Then as quickly as it it had appeared it disappeared, gliding along the current, the sharp tip of its tail disappearing int the inky blackness behind us.

Mantas are oceanic nomads. Great travelers of the sea. The same ones found in these waters have often come up from as far as Australia on their long life journey, and I felt very grateful to have had even a glimpse of one.

Our third day on board brought us out to Richelieu Rock, one of the most famous dive sites in all the world. Made famous by Jacques Cousteau and the crew of his boat Calypso, the reef here was big enough that it took two dives just to circumnavigate the majority of the site. The amount of life on hand in the area was incredible. Teeming with clown fish, angel fish, trigger fish, coronet fish, eel, barracuda, and more. It was a much denser site than could possibly be absorbed. During our second dive on Richelieu I became so distracted that I nearly collided with a crown sea jelly whose head was nearly three feet across. After swimming to avoid contact I hovered in place as it drifted away, watching its translucent insides pump to propel it forward. Nothing in all my life has seemed so strange, so staggeringly alien as this mysterious creature. This was the stuff that inspires science fiction.

Our last day brought us an encounter with leopard shark. These lazy, gum mouthed, dweller of the deep are named for the the radiant, iridescent spots that cover their skin. I felt badly for this particular beast as it swam away each time we approached. Obviously shy, it valued its privacy, which I for one could understand. It seemed only to want to be left alone by these five strange fish that keep hovering around it, gawking. Though I greatly enjoyed seeing it, I felt secretly glad when it swam away from the reef where we would not follow it.

Fourteen dives in four days makes for a lot of time spent underwater, and as our boat headed back towards Khao Lak I was looking forwarding to a day off from diving. When we reached the shore I said good-bye to my new friends, and headed back towards Phuket.

When we reached the office of the dive center where this adventure had all began, I was surprised to find myself signing up for six local dives in the water around Phuket. I had only four more day in the area, and couldn't help but spend a couple more of them in that strange and fascinating world that exists so close to us, just beneath the surface of our Earth's sea.

Patong Beach - Phuket, Thailand

I'd never really wanted to go to Phuket in the first place. Unfortunately, that was where the dive center I'd booked my live aboard through was located. Thus I found myself, barely fifteen hours back in Thailand, stepping off of yet another plane and headed towards southern Thailand's premiere resort destination, Patong Beach.

It was evening when I arrived in town and I saw no sense in hitting the beach at 7pm, so after checking into a hotel and touching base with my dive shop, I allowed my jet lag to get the best of me and called it an early night.

The next morning I had a whole day to kill in Phuket before my dive boat left. After enjoying a simple breakfast of rice porridge with fish and a cup of instant coffee at a nearby cafe I decided to wander down-wind and check out the nearby beach front.

To say that Patong Beach is over developed would be an absurd understatement. And to simply call it tacky would be an insult to kitsch. The massive urban sprawl that lines the shore here is a labyrinth of Go-Go bars, 7-11's, fast food restaurants, sex clubs, Family Marts, and T-shirt shops that extend as far as the eye can see.

It's only mid-January, so of course most of the businesses here still have their "X-Mas" decorations up. Gaily colored images of Santa Clause are proudly displayed next to posters for (God help me) Thai Elvis impersonators and price quotes for massage parlours that promise every customer a "Happy Ending." It's as if the Las Vegas strip threw up on Highway 99, travelled all the way across the ocean and washed up up on these shores, jumbled but intact. Feckless fodder for one culture to use to exploit another.

It would have been hard to tell that I'd reached the actual beach except that I could clearly see thin blue line that separated sand from ocean. Besides that nearly every square meter of beautiful white sand was covered with recliner beach chairs and gaudy umbrellas advertising Cheers Beer, Red Bull, and Western Union. I could barely find a sparse enough sliver of bare sand to walk a straight line along slide the surf.

I gazed into the water at the jet skis, cruise ships, and luxury yachts that bobbed along the horizon, mobbing the view, and cursed myself for contributing to this whole God-damned mess.

It was an insult to anyone with taste. Though it didn't seem this would be much of an issue, as no one here appeared to have any. Strolling up the coast I looked over towards the folks who called this place paradise. Every one of them seemed to be twice my age, and three times as drunk, though it was only 11am. Old Swedish men in yachting caps and Speedo shorts, aging French women still shamelessly sunbathing topless at 65. Americans with their beer bellies and beer cozies, and thick necked Germans digging deep trenches in any bare bit of sand, as if anticipating some impending invasion to which only they were privy.

If this were paradise, then I was glad Eve had bitten into the apple.

After a short half hours walk I could hardly stand it any longer. I went back into town and found a small cafe where I could while away the afternoon with my Graham Greene and my Arthur Conan Doyle. I could only hope that my diving trip would make this all worth while, because so far, this was not my idea of a good time.

Welcome Back to the Yakcast...

Well, here I go again... Back in Bangkok much sooner than I expected. I will do my best to update this blog as often as possible, however due to some of the places I will be visiting this will be a greater challenge than it has been before.

I am flying down to Phuket today for a five day scuba liveaboard in the Similan Islands, and heading to Myanmar (Burma) on the 24th. After two weeks in Myanmar I will head to Laos for some trekking and three nights living in a tree house in the jungle. As always, I'll do what I can to keep you all informed. Stay tuned.

Varanasi, India

The city of Varanasi is one of the holiest sites in the Hindu world. The waters that are carried through here along the Ganges River are believed, by the faithful, to posess the ability to wash away a lifetime of sin. They are also the site of innumerable holy cremation ceremonies where bodies are burned and left to float away, forever becoming one with this sacred river.

My guest house, the Hotel Sonmony is situated directly over one of these cremation sites, or burning ghats as they are called. The entire establishment has a stale smokey scent about it, but it is clean, has friendly staff, and is centrally located. At only US$4 a night, I have little to complain about.

This city wakes up early. It's only 5:30am but by the time I reach the banks of the Ganges there are already crowds of people gathered along the concrete steps. Religious devotees preparing for their morning bath.

I gaze out at the still and purple morning sky, momentarily hypnotized. These buildings have stood for hundreds of years, and look as old as they really are. They seem to have grown from the shore, jumbled piles of varying color and architecture. Stacked high against the river their walls flake with brown, yellow, pink, white, and blue paint. Hand drawn murals advertise Pepsi-Cola alongside local restauants and guest houses. Some of the buildings are adorned with columns, others peaked roofs, towers, or turrets. All are built high above the water to minimize flooding during the monsoon season. I hire a boat for a ride along the shore, climb aboard and prepare to be swept away.

And I am. Nothing I've experienced so far in my travels could have prepared me for this hour long boat trip through the heart of the Hindu faith. As we paddle slowly past, I see men jumping up and down in the water over and over, trancelike, stopping only to chant and pray. Women in peacock-bright saris laugh and talk amongst each other while wading up to their hips in muddy brown water. Bells tinkle, drums boom, and buffalo roam.

A holy man painted ash white with long hair piled atop his head swings a flaming gold lantern shaped like a hooded serpant. Children in white and orange robes, their black hair shaved in curious skullcap haircuts, stand in rows and sing along with to a small band of tabla and harmonium. Practicing their morning excercises these children perform a routine which includes tht which I now believe to be the most distinctly Indian excercise of all – laughing.

I'd call it a circus, but that might be misconstrued as condecension, I don't meant it like that. It's just that the whole sight is so bizarre. So, well... foreign to me. This is not a holiday. Not a festival, not a special event. And it's not a show put on for tourists either. This is traditional India, and it is how life unfolds each morning here alongside this river.

As the sun begins to filter through the clouds, brightening an already colorful display, it seems as if the whole city is alive with prayer. Even a cynic like me finds it impossible to not be moved by the spirit of devotion on display all around. There is no irony, no self-concious mugging to any of this. No tongue, no cheek.

An old man with a bald head and thick Groucho Marx eyebrows waddles forward on bowed legs, crouches down and splashes himself with the holy water. He is grinning from ear to ear like a giant child, and so am I. Because so far, I love India.

Annapurna Circuit, Nepal

Anyone who knows me well knows I'm not much of an outdoorsman. For me a long trek lasts a weekend at most, and my idea of camping nearly always involves a car. I'm clumsy. I dropped out of the Boy Scouts to edit my school newspaper and I can barely use a compass, much less read a map. All the same though, I decided that while I was in Nepal I should take advantage of the opportunity to hit the trails. After taking careful stock of the routes available to me, I decided I'd take the longest, most challenging one I could find that didn't involve mountaineering. I decided to tackle the Annapurna Circuit.

The treks in Nepal are world class, and the most popular of all them is the Annapurna Circuit. It takes nearly three weeks to complete, and local guide companies give it a grade of Medium-Hard. It rises to a elevation of 5416 meters at its highest point and provides stunning views of the Annapurna Mountain range from which it derives it's name. The mountain trails that comprise it wind through some of the most diverse landscapes this country has to offer, and it has the added advantage of not requiring days of backtracking to complete. It also introduces hikers to a wide array of the local mountain communities that comprise so much of Nepal's population outside the Kathmandu Valley. On the Annapurna Circuit you are nearly never more than two hours away from a local tea-house, or small village with ample accommodation. The entire trek can be completed without ever having to pitch a tent.

Taking on this trek may have been brazen of me, but I'm not stupid. Which is why I decided to hire a guide through a local company that could lead me safely along the path and help me carry the belongings I'd need with me along the way. My guide, Om, was a twenty-five year old Nepali native with a goofy smile and an endless supply of corny jokes. He sang, screamed, and laughed his way through our long days with a level of energy and enthusiasm I thought only young children could possess. The guys at the trekking company refer to him as “funny,” though I think “crazy” could possibly be more appropriate. Nevertheless his services were invaluable to me. There was no way I could have completed the trek without him, and I am eternally grateful to him for his support and friendship.

What follows are excerpts from the diary I kept during the seventeen days it took us to complete the circuit:

Day 1
Today I awoke early at 5:15am to do my final preparations for the hike. Om met me around six and we took a short taxi ride to the bus station. The bus was local. Small and cramped. It seemed to stop every five minutes so that passengers could jump on and off. Here, as in most countries I've visited one can board a bus merely by waiting alongside the road and flagging it down. Bus terminals and official stops are found only in town centers where along with new passengers, the bus is raided by children selling bottles of water and men peddling cheap flutes, plastic toys, and numerous kinds of snacks.

The bus ride seemed to last forever, but thankfully the scenery was beautiful. The lush vegetation of Nepal comes as a welcome relief after weeks of dull brown landscapes in Egypt and Jordan.

I'm still a little nervous about the hike. Twenty-one days is a long time, and I can only hope I'm fit enough to handle it. Tonight we will be staying at a hotel in the small city of Besi Sahar and leaving for our adventure first thing in the morning.

Day 2
Today we started our hike around 8am. The walk was beautiful. Winding around mountains, past steeply tiered rice fields, and criss-crossing back and forth across the Marsyangdi River. There were several suspension bridges along the way and a few points where we needed to remove our shoes to cross small streams that fed the mighty water mass below.

It was a six hour trek, and thankfully was not that demanding. The change in altitude was not drastic, but most of the uphill climb was towards the end- during the hottest part of the day.

Day 3
Trekking in Nepal during the monsoon season is far from ideal. It started raining late last evening and lasted into mid-day. Much of the trail today was under water from run-off higher up the mountains. It made for slow but steady going. On a positive note however, along with the rain comes an increase in the size and beauty of the many waterfalls that line the valley.

Due to the downpour Om thought it best if we called it an early day and we stopped around 1:30pm in Jagat, a small village that used to function as a toll station back when the salt trade route wound through these hills. Nowadays it seems as if this town's main economy comes from tourism and the farming of corn. You can see this crop being stacked, shucked, and hauled everywhere in town. On arrival corn on the cob was the first thing we were served here. It was delicious and a real treat after two days of rice and dahl.

Day 5
Today we met up early on with a couple of women from California named Tracy and Rita. As much as I enjoy trekking with Om it was nice to have some other people to talk to. We gained 800 meters of elevation today and are now walking in the fog instead of below it.

Om told us today how lucky we are to be doing our trekking now rather than a few years ago. Apparently Maoists soldiers used to stop tourists at gunpoint and charge them a “fee” for using these trails. It was basically robbery, but the government was powerless to stop it.

Now the Maoists are the government, and are too busy ripping off the locals to bother with shaking down tourists. However all along these trails you can still see their hammer and sickle logo spray-painted along with their slogan, “Join the Maoist Revolution!”

Day 6
Another easy day. A short five hours to Lower Pisang hiking our way though thick pine tree forests. The landscape here reminds me a lot of home. On the one hand this is nice, but on the other hand it makes me quite home-sick. If I could choose right now I'd skip India entirely and just head straight to Boston from Nepal. But by purchasing my ticket I've once again locked myself in for the duration. And it's only another few weeks, right?

There are a large number of other trekkers staying here at the the Hotel Maya with us tonight, Along with the Californians we've been joined by three Israeli's named Yael, Ori, and O, as well as an Australian named Charlie. We played rounds of cards and drank steaming cups of milk tea to ward off the cold.

The village we're staying in tonight is especially beautiful. A number of old grey wooden houses are interspersed among the usual array of gaily colored wood hotels. Most all of the buildings here have the same corrugated metal roofs that are so common on homes in third world countries. To the north of town we can see the beautiful sight of Upper Pisang, an equally old collection of grey and blue buildings sitting atop a high hill covered in red buckwheat flowers. Prayer flags flutter from the tops of the roofs and crowning the village is a white and gold monastery with a pagoda style roof top. I can't believe how lucky I am to be doing this.

Day 7
Today we made it as far as Manang, a village that sits at 3540 meters above sea level. We will spend two nights here acclimatizing to the high altitude before we head up and across the pass.

Sometimes it's hard to believe we are at such high altitude. It's not like Kinabalu where you're climbing a mountain and you see the world dropping away quickly below you. Here the gains are more subtle and there are always higher peaks around you to make you forget how far up you really are.

The trail for the most part is wide and there are few points of actual danger along the way. The hardest part really is the endurance aspect. Day after day of pressing on despite bad weather, wet clothes, and occasional home-sickness. The worst of it will be over soon, but there are still many days of switchbacks and elevation gains ahead.

Day 9
Today we reached 4000 meters. It was a short walk, but the beginning was steep and my breathing is getting heavy and shallow. The path has become quite rocky and at times slightly narrower. The sky is clearing up and much of the day we had an excellent view of the mountains.

We've been joined on our journey by an old friend of Om's named Mukti and a young New Zealander named Kyle. But as we've gained members, we've lost some as well. Our Israeli friends have taken ill, and along with that they've fallen behind. I hope they catch up with us as it would be a shame not to see them again, but we have to keep going. They have a local porter with them so there is no reason for us to worry for their safety.

Around 1pm or so we reached Yak Kharka. There was a large field of yaks nearby. White, back, brown, and mixed colors. We watched them eat grass, fight, dig holes, and try to impress possible mates, They are strange Muppet-like creatures with their long matted hair and shaggy trails. There was even a white and brown spotted baby one that looked like an overgrown sheep dog.

Day 10
It was a short day today, but the last hour was the hardest part yet. We gained a total of 907 meters today, 475 meters of which was done in the last hour. We are staying the night at High Base Camp just up from Thorung Phedi. It's cold up here at 4925 meters.

I notice I have a slight headache developing and I can tell I'm more easily irritable. I don't think I'm developing altitude sickness, but I can tell that the height we're at is effecting me.

Day 11
Up and over the pass. Our day started early. We woke up at 5am, breakfast at 5:30, and we hit the trail by 6am. It took us a good two and a half hours to reach the highest point of 5416 meters. Rita was pretty sick on the way up, and my headache got worse. But once we reached the top it was all smiles and group photographs in front of the hundreds of flapping prayer flags that adorn the summit.

Just as we were throwing our bags on to leave, a goat herder came marching up the path shooing along his large and lively flock. One particularly rebellious goat strayed momentarily up a hill and was reprimanded with a swift stone thrown at his side!

It was extremely cold and windy at the summit so we began our decent reasonably quick. It didn't take long for the path to change to a steep, precarious, and unstable rocky, downward slope.

The first part looked to be a no-man's land. Nothing in sight except dull brown hills and a slippery path of sharp stones. The snow-capped peaks slipped away behind a mass of clouds and the only sound besides the harsh winds was the jovial singing of our group's three guides.

After an eternity of going down, the harsh brown environment have way to mossy hills, and the stone path was occasionally broken up by grassy plateaus. My right knee began to ache fiercely, smarting with each step. Around 1:30pm we reached Muktinath a small village that seems like a metropolis after the solitary tea houses of the last few days. With internet, guest houses, and even a counterfeit 7-11, Muktinath has all the comforts a weary traveller could hope for, or at least all one could expect.

Day 12
We woke up around 7am this morning and made a pre-breakfast hike up to the monastery in Muktinath. There was a Hindu temple there as well as a Buddhist one. Before entering the Hindu temple one must splash themselves on the head with water that pours out from a long series of bird head fountains. Only Nepali and Indians are allowed inside the temple so us westerners waited outside while our guides said their prayers.

A couple of sadhu (Hindu holy men) from India were sitting near the temple with red dots and long dreadlocks passing back and forth a hash pipe within sight of two police. Hash is illegal in Nepal but apparently this law does not apply to the holy men for whom smoking the drug is part of their religion.

After breakfast we set out on our trek which was a short two and a half hours. Around ninety minutes into it at a literal fork in the road we split off from Rita and Tracy as they headed to Jomsom to fly the rest of the way back to Pokhara. We'd been traveling together for over a week and I was quite sad to see them go. We all shook hands and waved goodbye, then set off in our respective directions.

Day 14
Today was a long day but we made excellent progress. Eight hours from Larjung to Tatopani. We met back up with the Israeli's along the way. They were in better health than when we had last seen them and told us that they had gotten so sick that they had to take horses across the pass. They were headed the same way as us, but they were in a jeep when we first saw them. Later on in the afternoon we met up with them on foot to finish the days journey.

We have been hiking full days since leaving Kagbeni and are running ahead of schedule. Therefore we will be spending two nights in Tatopani so we can relax and regain our strength. There is a hot spring here where for the equivalent of fifty-cents we can sit and soak ourselves for as long as we like in warm medicinal waters. My calves are still aching from the decent down the pass, but thankfully my knee has long since stopped hurting.

This town has so many amenities I almost feel like I'm in civilization again. Prices are significantly lower here and I can afford simple luxuries like laundry service and Coca-Cola. I am thankful for the rest day tomorrow as the last two days of the hike will be long and taxing. But at last the end is in sight.

Day 16
Today was the day we'd all been dreading. Long, arduous hours of steep and steady climbing. It feels somewhat defeating after coming down all that way the last few days to be going back up. We gained nearly 1700 meters today putting us back at the 2860 meter mark. Our guides had predicted it would take us eight hours to make the climb, but we all pushed hard and made it in six.

In Ghorepani we were treated by the hottest shower any of us has had in weeks. I can't explain to you just how refreshing it felt.

Day 17
We woke up at 4:00am this morning to head up to Poon Hill to see what was supposed to be the best view of the mountains on our entire trip. When we started our ascent, it was still dark and the sky was so clear that you could see the stars. After thirty minutes walking the sun began to rise and the air above us was thick with clouds. Besides the occasional mountain top poking through the mist there would be no view from the top of Poon Hill for our group.

Once we realized this we all pretty much decided it was pointless to continue on to the top and headed back to down to Ghorepani to have breakfast together before our last day of hiking.

After we left the village behind us it was all downhill from there. Literally. Thousands upon thousands of steep narrow steps. I took my time, alternating which leg I was leading with and sidestepping down in the hopes of not straining my knee any further. Many folks do this trek in reverse up to Muktinath, and I do not envy them. The way we took down would be a horrible way to go up. Not to mention the fact that they miss the most beautiful parts of the trek which I believe were nearly all on the other side of the pass.

It was strange to ascend as we did, passing back into the same climate we'd left behind so long ago in the first days of our journey. Towards the end we saw the reappearance of the multitude of dragon flies that I remember so clearly from that first days walk.

We all became elated as we ticked off the final few milestones. One hour remaining. Thirty minutes. Twenty minutes. Ten. But it seemed that fate was stacked against our celebration as mere minutes from the end a thunderstorm erupted along with a heavy miserable rain. Then, at our appointed meeting place, where our van was to be waiting to take us to our final destination of Pokhara, one of us was missing.

Ori, one our Israeli friends had forged ahead of the pack and managed to make a wrong turn along the way. We waited a half hour for him in the hopes that he would wise up and turn around, or ask for directions. Then we raced around in our taxi to see if he had popped out somewhere further on up the road. Then, just as we were about to give up hope and leave him behind, he pulled up in front of us on the back of a policeman's motorcycle.

No one wanted to hear about his adventure that involved him going the wrong way, getting on a bus, and finally eliciting help from the police. We all just wanted clean clothes, hot showers, and soft beds. The hour and a half long ride back to Pokhara was unpleasantly grim. But by the time we all met up later on that night, Ori was forgiven and everyone was elated to be at last be finished.

We ate steaks and drank cold beers. Laughed about each others struggles along the way and patted ourselves on the back perhaps a little bit too hard. But what can I say, we were finished and it felt really, really good. If you'd asked me two years, or even two months ago if I would do a thing like this, I'd surely have told you “No.” But I did. And I'd do it again. Just don't expect me to be doing it again anytime soon.

Impressions of Nepal

The tiny hatchback taxi cab I'm sitting in lurches forward and comes to a jarring halt, narrowly missing a sputtering motorbike. When it starts again it doesn't so much drive as it creeps forward on well worn shocks through the throngs of pedestrians, motorcars, stray cows, and bicycle rickshaws that clog the back alley streets of Kathmandu.

Staring out the window at the chaos of the Saturday morning market I am suitably overwhelmed. String beans, cauliflower, and other produce are spread out on colorful blankets while female vendors in traditional saris haggle with prospective buyers. Wandering salesman hawk Tiger Balm, offer shoe repair, and attempt to unload heaping piles of cheap knock-off watches. Hindu holy men known as sadhu, offer blessings and place red markings on foreheads to represent the mystical third-eye.

A man in a broad straw hat and denim blue shirt squeezes deftly through the crowds carrying on his back a long stick from which are suspended wicker scales heavy with heads of lettuce that manage somehow not to roll off. A rickshaw passes by headed the other direction down the allegedly two lane street, it's passenger seat piled high with red meat festering under the hot September sun.

The nation of Nepal often finds itself overshadowed by it's larger neighbors India and China (or dare I say Tibet?), however it has been making headlines lately. First with the election of the formally guerrilla Maoist party, and then most recently with the banishment of their King and the dissolving of their long-standing monarchy. But walking the city streets of the capitol one would hardly know that this country has seen so much recent political drama. Compared to past years that saw rioting in the streets of Kathmandu, these days things seem downright calm. Well, as calm as things ever get in a poor, densely populated third world capital.

And Nepal is unfortunately poor. Recent statistics show that nearly one-third of the country lives below the poverty line, and the country has the third highest infant mortality rate in the world. Government spending on health and human services here is predictably low, and outside of the Kathmandu Valley jobs are few and far between.

Approximately 24 million people call the nation of Nepal their home. The majority religion here is Hindu, which accounts for the way that cows roam the streets here with such absolute authority, but it's not the only faith practiced. The secondary religion is Buddhism, whose importance here is rapidly increasing due to the influx of refugees crossing over from Tibet. The people of Nepal are very proud of their legacy of religious tolerance, and are quick to tell visitors that they have never engaged in a war over religious ideology. Many of the shrines here are sacred to followers of both Hinduism and Buddhism alike, and the devout can be seen practicing their rituals in these spots side by side without conflict.

Though Nepal is a small nation, it has much to offer for budget traveler. In the 1960's Kathmandu became one of the favored spots along the so called “hippie trail” that wound through Asia, and the vast tourist infrastructure that was built to accommodate these hash-heads is still in place. The district of Thamel in Kathmandu has a collection of restaurants, guesthouses, and hustlers that is only rivaled by Bangkok's Khosan Road, and one can live comfortably here on a mere US$20 a day.

The Kathmandu Valley area alone is filled with a bevy of cultural attractions, from the Monkey Temple of Swayambhunath to the magical architecture of Patan. A week alone can be filled wandering the streets here and and taking in the sites.

But Nepal isn't all chaotic streets and serene temples. For most travelers the real lure of this nation is it's vast outdoors, most specifically the mountains of the Himalaya. This is the place where two mighty tectonic plates met and have been giving rise to some of the most beautiful scenery in the world for millions of years. It is the home of the Annapurna mountain range, and the mighty Mt. Everest. The trekking here is without a doubt some of the greatest in the world, and is also some of the most affordable.

Arrival here for me marks a bittersweet moment in my travels. I am now alone as Amanda has gone back to Boston to spend some time with her family. I will need to readjust to the liberating, but often lonely experience of traveling solo. I only hope I can remember how.

Petra, Jordan

It is a hot, dry day, but the high canyon that surrounds me provides much needed shade, and with it relief from the sun. Light plays off the tops of the sandstone walls revealing red, brown, and white rock, richly layered like strips of fatty bacon. Against the left wall is a channel deeply carved into the rock that once served as an ancient water conduit. I round a corner finding a bright flood of light against a far wall where the canyon opens up into a wider path. Against this wall, no, on this wall, part of it, are the pillars and peaked rooftops of a structure so ancient that it pre-dates the Bible...

There is still much debate among historians about when the city of Petra was first established, and in fact no method has yet been found to determine it's exact age. What is known however is that the settlement was built by the Nabataeans before the time of Christ. These desert dwellers chose this site for their capital both because of it's position along the Middle East caravan trade route, and for it's ease of defense since it could only be approached via narrow canyon routes.

The settlement reached peak importance around the first century, eventually falling under Roman rule (like just about everything else back then). In the year 363 AD, the city was ravaged by a powerful earthquake that destroyed many of the buildings and ruined the complex series of dams and water channels that made life here in the hot desert climate possible. After this Petra was largely abandoned. It became a tourist attraction after western explorers were introduced to it in the early 1800's, and today enjoys status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Petra is the number one tourist attraction in the Kingdom of Jordan, and is arguably the single most impressive archaeological site in the entire Middle East.

The structure of Al Khazneh (the Treasury) reveals itself to visitors slowly, a dramatic crescendo to the 2km long walk through the sandstone canyon known as the Siq. This is an ancient city planners equivalent to shock and awe. The enormous structure is carved deep into the coloured cliff side impressing all who stand before it to ponder the ingenuity of it's architects.

Al Khazneh is a well known iconic image. It's exterior was used as the set for the resting place of the Holy Grail in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and photograph's of it have been featured in countless coffee table books. But like the temples of Angkor, Petra is more than just a single monument- it is a city of them. Connected in this case by a footpath that climbs along cliff sides and across desert plains. Visitors spend their days here absorbed in a total package of atmosphere. The mystery of these tombs and temples coupled with the beauty of the surrounding landscape create an experience that is not just archaeological, but geological as well. Exploring this site is very literally, a walk in the park.

The people of Jordan also make Petra worth a visit. Unlike their Egyptian neighbors, the Jordanians are friendly, welcoming, and make visiting their country comparatively hassle-free. I struck up a conversation with a merchant on the site, enquiring about the cost a book he sold. He quoted me a fair price, and made no moves to try to force me into the sale. When I said I'd think about it, he smiled and told me he'd be there all day and that if I decided I wanted to make a purchase I could come back later. Though this may seem unremarkable, after enduring five weeks of aggressive Egyptian salesman I was honestly taken aback by this simple, polite interaction.

It takes at least one long, full day to explore the bulk of this site, and there is extensive walking and climbing involved. But perseverance is rewarded if one completes the climb to the Monastery and the rock cut tombs that have been dubbed “the High Places.” It takes around two hours from the entrance to reach this point but the Monastery itself is the largest and one of the most impressive of all of Petra's structures. It looks as if it was built by giants. While there we were treated to an impromptu folk concert by a local Arab who had climbed all the way up the path to play his oud and take advantage of the natural acoustics inside this mammoth structure.

There are also dramatic views from the high cliff sides near the Monastery where one can sit under tents and sip an ice cold drink or smoke apple flavored tobacco from a sheesha pipe, enjoy pleasant conversation with locals, or just get lost while staring across the vast expanse of Jordan's rocky desert.

By the end of the day we were thirsty and tired, our energy sapped away by the long hike and intense heat. The sun had begun to set as we made our decent and the early evening was mercifully cool. There were few tourists still around, and by this time even the merchants had abandoned their posts. As we made our way back, I paused for one last look at the Treasury building, once again impressed by its enduring classic design. They just don't build them like this anymore.

Dahab, Egypt

It was nearly midnight by the time we reached Dahab. We checked into our hotel, exhausted from the plane trip and subsequent taxi ride that had brought us here. Though we were tired we felt the coastline calling to us, and figured a quiet cup of tea and a leisurely stroll would help us relax before bedtime.

Walking out towards the water I felt an immediate sense of relief. After two and a half weeks in the hot desert sun, it felt so good to be by the water again. The darkness of the night was punctured by the dim and colorful lights of the restaurants that lined the stone pedestrian pathway. A cool, relaxing breeze drifted in from the water and the mellow sounds of jazzy flutes lilted out from nearby speakers to massage the last remnants of stress and over stimulation from my brain.

Scrap everything I've said about Egypt when it comes to this place. Dahab is different. There are no ruins here, no great architectural masterpieces. The closest thing to a historical monument this area has is the mighty Mt. Sinai where Moses was given the Ten Commandments. And though there are some hucksters here trying to hustle you into their restaurant or souvenir shop, for the most part everyone in Dahab is too busy relaxing and enjoying life to be all that aggressive.

The tourism industry in this area has evolved around scuba diving, which is of course why we came here. Clear back when I took my first PADI Open Water course in Honduras my instructor Joel had entertained us all with his stories about the diving in the Red Sea. My exotic fantasy about Egypt combined with the beautiful undersea pictures he painted with his words made this a place I had to visit.

The most infamous dive site in Dahab is the Blue Hole, which has the dubious honor of having the most fatalities of any dive site in the world. This tunnel of water descends an astonishing 130 meters deep into the sea, and the endless blue that surrounds one when immersed in it makes it hard to get your bearings, much less know which way is up.

One look at the Wikipedia article on the Blue Hole is enough to scare anyone out of the water and onto the nearest patch of dry desert. But the truth of the matter is most of these fatalities are from Tech-Divers, a special breed of undersea adventurer who use mixed gasses to descend to levels that make most recreational divers shudder at the very thought.

For recreational divers, the Blue Hole is just an exit point from a long drift dive along a nearby reef shelf called El Bells. This dive, though rather deep, is slow and easy with a beautiful wall of coral which serves the double purpose of helping with orientation, and give you something interesting to look at while you're diving.

Other nearby sites include the fantastic Ras Abu Gulum, a much less busy area which is only reachable by an hour long camel ride from Dahab. Besides the wide expanse of the sea, the only thing out there are a few Bedouin tents and couple of squat toilets. An afternoon in Ras Abu Gulum is enough to make Dahab seem noisy and bustling. The diving is pristine at these sites, and though there are not as many fish, turtles, or other large sea creatures, the corals are among some of the most diverse and beautiful I've ever seen.

Dahab also allows easy access to the marine park of Ras Mohammed, where hammerhead sharks are often spotted, and the wreck of the SS Thistlegorm. Though I didn't get to see any sharks, I took the opportunity to make a once in a lifetime wreck dive.

The Thistlegorm is a WWII boat that lies 30 meters below the water's surface on a sandy bottom. It was discovered by undersea explorer Jacques Costeau in the 1950's, but he kept the location a secret and it was only re-discovered again recently in the mid 1990's. Since then it has become one of the Red Sea's most popular dive site due to the length of the ship and the diversity of it's intact cargo. Rotting away inside the enormous belly of it's hull are British BSA motorcycles, army jeeps, and dozens of rifles. I don't normally enjoy wreck dives all that much, as these kinds of sites are normally silty with poor visibility. But if one is an experienced enough diver, exploring the SS Thistlegorm is well worth the time and money.

As inevitably happens when we visit diving meccas, we stayed longer than we had anticipated. A full three weeks in fact. These three weeks represent the single longest amount of time we've spent in any single place on our entire journey. We probably would have stayed longer if we hadn't already overstayed our visas. Coming to Dahab saved Egypt from being a complete let down for us. And actually gave us a reason to want to come back.

The Thing About Egypt...

I'd been waiting my entire life to come to Egypt. I mean really, who hasn't dreamed about visiting the land of the Pharaoh's? Who hasn't romanticized standing on the edge of a sand dune, gazing across the desert landscape into the eyes of the enigmatic Sphinx? Or pictured themselves puzzling over hieroglyphics at the temples of Luxor or Karnak? Egypt is more than just a destination for tourism, it is a pilgrimage site where we as a society go to explore our collective fascination with the mysteries of the ancient world. Unfortunately, it is a lousy place to travel.

First let's start with something positive. Egypt has some rather stunning history, and fabulous monuments. The ancient pharaoh's propensity for burying vast amounts of treasure along with them inside their tombs has lead to some of the most dramatic archeological finds in history. In addition Egypt's hot and dry desert climate has preserved monuments like the Great Pyramid and the temples at Abu Simbel in a way that the humid jungles in Guatemala and Cambodia do not.

These stunning pieces of architecture, along with the countries relative closeness to mainland Europe, helped to make Egypt the original tourist destination. Long before air travel opened the world up to mass tourism, people were brought here by the lure of ancient history and exotic culture.

Unfortunately tourism in Egypt has become a victim of it's own success, because no matter how neglected these sites become, or how difficult and bureaucratic travel here is made, people will still come. After all, it's the pyramids, right?.

And believe me, when you first see them in person, approaching from a distance, the pyramids are impressive. But nothing could match the disappointment I felt when I got close enough to see the ring of empty water bottles and other rubbish that encircled the base of these magnificent tombs. Nothing perhaps, but the irritation I felt at being unable to walk even five feet without being harassed by someone who wanted me to take their picture for a fee, or sell me water at horrendously inflated prices.

Now don't get me wrong, I know every world monument has it's touts, but Egypt is the only place I've ever traveled where they are allowed into the monument sites themselves. Places like Tikal and Angkor wisely keep the harassment outside, at the entrance to sites. Once you push your way past the throngs of pitchmen you are allowed to explore these places in relative peace. Egypt however has no such rules. And let me tell you, it's hard to contemplate the wonder of these buildings when someone is shouting in your face to try to sell you a tacky wooden statue of a cat.

It seems like no one here cares about anything. That there's no sense of pride in a job well done. As long as it's done, that's all that matters. The Egyptian Museum, the building that houses all of the country's most precious artifacts, is a jumble of displays with seemingly little order or relative information. Any text that does attempt to explain what you're looking at is likely to be typewritten on a faded, yellowing piece of paper that hasn't been touched in thirty years. It's great to see amulets and sarcophagus that are thousands of years old, but the lack of information here makes what could otherwise be a rich experience, shallow. I learned more about ancient Egypt in one afternoon at London's British Museum than in my whole trip to Egypt.

Then of course, there's the heat.

It would be a dull and obvious statement to say that Egypt is hot, especially in the summertime. But it's hard to precisely explain how mind-numbingly, lethargy-inducingly, patience-shorteningly hot it really is. Amanda and I often found ourselves noting that an evening felt cool only to check her thermometer and realize it was still above 90 degrees Fahrenheit. That's how bloody hot it was.

This unrelenting heat led to the sad fact that we spent nearly all our time we weren't exploring sites, holed up in our hotel with the air conditioning on the highest setting. It is with great shame that I admit that on more than one occasion we found ourselves eating at McDonald's because it was the only air conditioned restaurant we could find.

Upon arrival in Egypt any westerner will find themselves set upon by throngs of touts. I'm no stranger to enthusiastic sales people, having endured the tuk-tuk drivers of Bangkok and DVD hawkers in Kuala Lumpur's Chinatown. But the Egyptians have an exceptionally irritating way of pitching their sales. The following is a characteristic example of an interaction

Tout: “Excuse me my friend, carriage ride?”
Tourist (Politely): “No thank you.”
Tout (Angrily): “Why not?”
Tourist (Still Politely): “Thank you, but I'm just out for a walk.”
Tout (Following the tourist down the street): “Maybe later?”
Tourist (Growing Irritated But Trying to Remain Kind): “Probably not, sorry.”
Tout (Shouting now): “Why don't you want to ride in my carriage?”

At this point in the interaction the tourist may be lucky enough that the tout will leave them alone. However it is important to note that this is often not the case at all, and they will frequently be further pursued. It is also important to emphasise that even if the tout in the above example does leave them alone, then the helpless tourist will immediately be subjected to a nearly identical interaction with the next carriage driver, taxi jock, or junk souvenir peddler on the street, ad infinitum. Even when you find someone who seems to be on the up-and-up, to finally be willing to help you, to be willing to give you directions to where you want to go, or help you in some other way, look out. More than likely they're going to lead you to their perfume shop, or demand baksheesh, or some other such petty and frustrating trick. In Egypt that everyone has their own agenda in mind.

In their defense though, it must be noted that the desperate in-your-face style of salesmanship the Egyptians favor is a direct reflection of their poor economic standing. With nearly 20% unemployment and little in the way of viable natural resources the Egyptians should be given some leeway. And though as a traveler here it often seems that everyone feels entitled to a piece of your good fortune, it is remarkable how low the violent crime rate really is. In Egypt you're certain to be cheated on an almost daily basis, but nearly no one is ever robbed, even in a big city like Cairo. Take that New York.

You might get the impression from what I've written that we never had a good time in Egypt. This however, isn't entirely true. There were still several highlights such as our camping trip out to the western desert, or seeing the beautiful and mysterious temples at Abu Simble. But the overall experience of coming here was frustrating, exhausting, and ultimately defeating. I'd been waiting my whole life to go to Egypt, and in a way, I'm glad I did. Because now that I've been there, I'll never have to go back again.

Goreme, Turkey

I awoke with a start from my heavy slumber as a tinny arrival announcement burst from a speaker above me. I turned my neck with some difficulty, stiff from sleeping upright during the bus ride that had lasted all the previous night. My head still swimming with sleep, I stared out the window at the sloping rose colored canyons rolling by. Still and smooth they stood as they had for millions of years, like a rumpled blanket thrown across the horizon, waiting to be smoothed by the hands of God. The sun had only just begun to creep it's way up into the eastern skyline, and it's dim light cast eerie shadows across the valley. I reached over, shaking Amanda awake just in time for the bus to turn a corner and descend into wonderland.

It was like something out of a sci-fi novel. Scattered across the landscape were a series of craggy rock formations, that rose into the sky like giant ant hills. Not merely mountains, high up in these peaks were a multitude of deeply carved windows and passageways, that had been chiseled into the soft rock by men who thousands of years ago had called these hills their homes. Above it all hot air balloons hung, silently suspended over the strange, alien landscape.

Few places in the world are capable of eliciting the same sense of mystery as Cappadocia. It's history as a Christian refuge from the 4th to 11th centuries has led to countless sites for travelers to explore both above and below the ground. Besides the endless homes and monasteries built into the soft volcanic rock, and the beautiful hiking within the valleys themselves, there are also vast underground cities that descend over twenty levels deep that were used to hide from enemies during times of war. It's unique and otherworldly. In fact Cappadocia is so visually striking it was infamously used as the set for an alien world in the Turkish film The Man Who Saves the World (aka Turkish Star Wars).

Most travelers here, ourselves included, use the village of Goreme as a base for exploring the area. This village may be one of the few frequented destinations on earth that remains somehow unspoilt by mass tourism. Sure there are countless hotels and restaurants with kitschy names and pushy salesman, but equal to tourism this towns secondary economy is agriculture. And beneath all the the carpet shops and tour guides, beats the uninterrupted heart of village life that remains nearly the same today as it did a hundred years ago. It's not unusual to to see horse driven carriages lumber by bogged down with piles of hay, or to find the small path that leads to your hotel blocked by goats or cattle being herded through the winding cobblestone roads.

Speaking of hotels, one of the unique features of lodging in Goreme is the ability to stay in a cave hotel. These are newly built renditions of the ancient cave dwellings of early Christians. Here modern architecture meets ancient magic as rock forms ooze into brick and mortar like a thick, hardened batter. Cool inside, even on a hot day, these rooms are comfortable and unique, albeit a little musty.

Summer afternoons in Goreme are aboslutely perfect for exploring the surrounding area on foot. Paths connect the beauty of Pigeon Valley, Honey Valley, Rose Valley, and Love Valley together, making for an easy, three to four hour long trek. Evenings can be spent in one of the town's restaurants sampling local wines or taking in a peformance of traditional Turkish folk music. One could easily spend at least a week here, if not more, but sadly we only spent four days. Thankfully though, this is one destination I'm certain I'll be coming back to someday.

Mediterranean Coast, Turkey

Among our wish list of things we were hoping to do while in Turkey was a cruise along the Mediterranean. Upon arrival though, we realized how much more expensive traveling here would be than we'd anticipated. We quickly had to readjust our budget, nearly doubling it from what we had been spending in Asia. Any hope of doing any boating, scuba diving, or other such activities was quickly forsaken in favor of day to day expenses such as food, lodging, and entry fees to sites.

We found ourselves pleasantly surprised however, when we investigated the costs involved in one these, Blue Cruises, as they call them. Without much trouble we were able to find a three night, four day boat trip from Fethiye to Olimpos that, at just over US$200 per person, didn't completely bust our budget.

The boat itself was a beautiful yacht made of honey colored wood with eight small cabins, a loud, powerful motor, and sadly neglected sailing masts. The Captain, Osman, was a bit of a pirate. A madcap figure who started cracking beers before the boat even left the harbor and spent most of our four days on board drunkenly muttering to himself or singing along to the radio while he steered the ship. Thankfully the waters that line the coast are far more forgiving than the steep and winding roads that edge along them, and our Captain's enthusiasm for alcohol did not seem to heavily effect his ability to navigate.

Day after day we woke late, eating a light breakfast and marveling at our new surroundings. The coastline was a series of tiny ports, pebble beaches, and rocky cliffs, many of which were adorned with castles, or ancient ruins. The waters were an incredible turquoise blue, and in mid-June, comfortably warm to swim in. The high salt content of the water makes for exceptional buoyancy, and though I'm not the strongest of swimmers, I was still able to cover some exceptional distances without the aid of swimming fins.

I could describe our long conversations with other travelers, the infinite rounds of backgammon, or the hours spent reading in the hot mid-day sun, but I won't. To do so would be a betrayal of the spirit of laziness we partook in for those four days. Instead I will let the pictures that accompany this post augment the brevity of text, and instead will simply say that anyone who travels to this part of the world should do themselves a favor and book themselves a similar cruise. At just over US$50 a day, you really can't afford not to.

the Turkish Bath

An important part of every visit to Turkey is at least one trip to a public bath, or hamam. Hamams are everywhere in Turkey. There is at least one if not more in every city or small town, and you can usually spot them by their multi-domed bulbous exteriors. The tradition of the public bath was introduced here nearly two millenniums ago when the Roman Empire took control of the region. The Turks took such an affinity to the concept, that over time it has become an important and permanent fixture in their culture.

I chose to have my first hamam experience in the town of Selchuk after a long, dusty day exploring the ancient ruins of Ephesus. It was around 9pm on a Saturday night when I wandered in and made my way up the front desk.

The proprietor, a tall, salt and pepper haired man with a bulbous red nose helped my lock my valuables in a drawer and handed me a red checkered towel and a pair of sandals.

“Changing area.” he said to me, and pointed at a closet-sized room.

Closing the curtain I removed my clothes, wrapped the towel around my waist and slipped on the sandals. More than a little self-conscious, I exited the room and headed into the bathing area.

The domed interior of the room I entered was incredibly high and every surface was constructed of smooth marble that rippled around the place in great grey and white streaks. Directly underneath the dome was a smooth octagonal bench where people could sit or lay down to enjoy the great amounts of steam that filled the interior, and the walls were lined with a series of private wash stations.

It took me a moment to adjust to the heat and the humidity. There was only one other patron, an older man with grey hair and what would have been a long, proud mustache if it weren't dangling limply below his chin from over-exposure to great amounts of steam. He smiled kindly at me as I lumbered over to the bathing area and began to clean myself off.

After washing I sat on the marble slab beneath the dome and closed my eyes, breathing deeply and absorbing the steam. Before long I began to sweat profusely. The old man had vacated the room while I was washing, and since I had been left alone I tested the acoustics of the interior with a satisfyingly resonant hum.

It was around twenty minutes later that a tall, fat man lumbered slowly into the room, his eyes resting on me as he paused in the doorway. His large round belly hung out over the red and white checkered towel that was tied around his waist, and a shock of black hair grew straight up from his potato shaped head reaching a height that seemed to defy the laws of gravity.

A man of few words he pointed to a slab of marble to the right of the room's entrance and growled at me through a thick eastern accent, “Lay down.”

At this point in my story, I suppose I should lend some context to what was about to happen. Contrary to what you may be thinking this was not one of “those kinds” of bath houses. Shame on you for even thinking it. In Turkish baths after one has properly pressure cooked by steam, they receive what is called a soap massage from one of the attendants. During this process one lays down on a stone slab while a they are lathered up, massaged, and then scrubbed down with a kese, a cloth glove that looks vaguely like a kitchen mitt and feels roughly like a loofah sponge.

“Where you from?” asked the attended as he covered my skin with thick, foamy suds. Before I could reply he popped my spine three times with his great ham-like hands.

“...America.” I responded weakly.

He grunted at me and proceeded to massage my arms and legs with soap, finally rubbing the lather into my hair and scalp, effectively making me feel like a toddler getting a bath from my parents.

Once he had completed lathering me, he next put on his kese and began to scrub my body. Though the texture of the cloth is quite rough, it is not a painful or unpleasant experience. In fact, I found it to be quite relaxing.

“You are dirty. Very dirty,” the attendant grumbled.

I wondered momentarily if this was his idea of pillow talk until I saw the skin he was rubbing from me coming off in thick, grey clumps. I was indeed dirty. Very dirty.

After he had finished with me, the attendant pointed towards a shower at the corner of the room. “Cold shower,” he ordered me.

The ice cold water was for a moment like razors on my skin, but once I had adjusted to it the temperature felt quite pleasant, and when I was finished rinsing off my body radiated intensely against the heat of the room.

“You want oil massage?” the attendant asked, the tone he took made it seem less like an offer and more like a threat, and the idea of being further manhandled by his tree trunk arms was a bit more than I could bear.

“No, thank you.” I replied, and forced a weak smile.

Once outside the steam room, the proprietor of the hamam wrapped my head and body in soft green towels and sat me in front of a television with a cup of hot tea where I endured watching part of a surreal Turkish film about a farmer who had no arms.

Though the entire experience was a little disconcerting at the time, for the next two days I must admit to feeling unbelievably fresh. My skin was clean in a way that no amount of simple showering and washing could ever hope to achieve, and I began to understand why the hamam is such a popular phenomenon within Turkish culture. I might not recommend the experience to everyone, but it is certainly not one I will soon forget.