Hanoi, Vietnam

The last time I posted, I was in Ho Chi Minh City. Two flights and an amped-up wardrobe later, I’m in Hanoi. To quote my mother, circa two months ago, “You’re going to Hanoi? Isn’t that in North Vietnam? Are you even allowed there?”  Indeed I am. We may have lost the war, but not our rights as frivolous, money-spending tourists.

But before I got to Hanoi to blow my hard-earned Korea money, I detoured to Hoi An, a town on the central coast about halfway between HCMC and Hanoi. What is there to do in Hoi An, you ask? Well, to be honest, not a whole lot. Unless you are me, or any other clothes-conscious human being in which case, Hoi An is nothing short of the happiest place on earth. Passing by shop after shop of silky fabrics and bright colors, I thought I had reached nirvana. Or heaven. Something along those lines. I held off on shopping on the first day, and instead grabbed dinner with new friend James. To wind down from the day of traveling, we each ordered a bottle of wine and a couple mojitos. The rest of the night passed in a blur, though I do remember coming back to my room just before 10 p.m. (I think that just about sums up Hoi An’s nightlife, doesn’t it?), turning on Sex and the City and promptly falling asleep.

The next morning I met James at a cafe down the street and promptly ordered some coffee to sooth the bombs that were exploding in my head. While eating breakfast, I saw Korea friend Rachel walking down the street! I knew she was planning to get to Hoi An that day, but I didn’t expect to see her straight away. We spent the afternoon going from shop to shop, being sweet-talked by store owners, choosing fabrics and styles and having measurements taken. By the time we met up with James and some of Rachel friends for dinner, I had more than a dozen villagers working on my orders, ten on my winter coat alone.

The next day was a race to pick up everything, have it refitted and cram it all into a spare duffel. I ended up leaving Hoi An with a winter coat, three dresses, a skirt and a pair of suede ankle boots that I designed myself. Like I said, this place was heaven.

It was a bit of a struggle to get to Hanoi, as my 10:05 p.m. flight was delayed more than an hour due to technical issues, not getting us to the Vietnamese capital until half midnight. It didn’t help that take-off was a bit bumpy. I spent the first 20 minutes clutching the hand of a very nice Vietnamese guy, convinced I was going to die. Thankfully, he didn’t mind, and ended up being a wonderful seatmate. Once I released his hands, he showed me pictures from his recent wedding and honeymoon, then asked if I had a boyfriend. When I said no and tried to explain that it’s hard to see someone when you’re constantly on the move, he said, “Some girls…like girls. You?” Because obviously, if you haven’t got a boyfriend, you’re a lesbian. (I tried the opposite today, and told the moto driver that I was traveling with my boyfriend. Then he asked me how many times a night I slept with said boyfriend. There’s no winning this one. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.)

I shared a taxi into town with a couple of Aussies, the only other westerners on my flight. After they were dropped off at their hotel, I showed the cab driver where I needed to go, only to find that at 1:30 a.m., most decent places to stay have closed for the night. Imagine that! After driving to several Lonely Planet-recommended places and finding the same thing at each one, we returned to the hotel where the Aussies were staying, only to learn that my new friends had snagged the last room. The guy at reception motioned to his friend on a moto outside, who took me to another guesthouse, where I’m paying an outrageous $28 a night for a room. But it’s only for two nights and there’s free Internet and breakfast, so I’m sucking it up.

The only major bummer so far has been my burn, which I accidently hit against the moto last night as I was climbing off, peeling back all of the healing skin and leaving me hobbling around Hanoi. Showering this morning was excruciating, but after I cleaned up and dressed the burn and popped a couple Tylenol, walking around was bearable.

I’ve already checked out the Old Quarter and the area around the lake in the middle of the city. Was planning on seeing the prison where John McCain was held during the war, but I think I’ll save that for tomorrow. Today seems like a nap and cafe day, and I’m perfectly fine with that. Vietnamese coffee is easily the best I’ve ever had. I’m not sure if I’m finally developing that inevitable taste for coffee that all adults seem to have, but I’ll give the old Maxwell House a shot when I get home.

I think it’s time to part ways with the free Internet and take the elevator up to the third floor. I haven’t been on an elevator in nearly two months, so the idea is fairly exciting. Almost as exciting as napping, which will be plenty useful after several restless, five-hour nights.

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam

It’s probably a bad sign that I struggled for a good 10 seconds to remember what country I’m currently in. Brainfart, over. Blog post can resume. After parting ways with Scotland-bound Jeantte yesterday morning, I made my way to the depot in Phnom Penh and caught a nearly empty bus headed to Ho ChiMinh City, or as most people know it, Saigon. For the sake of brevity (and because it’s what Lonely Plant does), I’ll be referring to the city as HCMC.

After six hours on the bus and a painless trip through customs, I found that once again, Lonely Planet had recommended a top-notch place to stay. After being misled in Phuket, Phonsavan and Vientiane, the past two cities have been a pleasent surprise. My room here in HCMC has aircon, a hot shower, a huge bed and satellite TV, which I may have spent the morning watching. You would too, if your baseball team was one game away from 27 World Series wins.

After I watched the Yankees lose, I hit the streets. Brunch was Vietnamese curry and spring rolls, complete with a banana shake. I decided against walking to my first destination, the War Remnants Museum, as walking in this city is easily one of the most dangerous things I’ve ever done. Stoplights aren’t exactly obeyed, which is only a slight problem when you’ve got a few cars on the road. However, it becomes a much bigger problem when you’ve got, at any moment in time, 100+ motos barreling toward you. I was warned about the throngs of motos clogging the streets here, but I never imagined it would be this bad. If a guy decides the street is too crowded, he’ll drive on the sidewalk, then beep at you as though you’re invading his space. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. And when in Vietnam, walk a straight path on the sidewalk and hope like hell you don’t get hit.

As I said, my first stop today was War Remnants Museum, which was the only thing I had much interest in seeing at all, really. Now, I should have listened to my mother (here’s anticipating the I-told-you-so comment) when she told me last week not to get on bikes with strangers, not because I’m worried about getting kidnapped and murdered, but because when I climbed off my driver’s bike, my leg hit the exhaust pipe. Now I’ve got a large purple circle on my leg and a blister the size of a half dollar to show for it. Definitely not a good move on my part.

I limped through the museum, which turned out to be absolutely fascinating. Fascinating and stomach-churning, that is. I know about America’s fuck-ups in southeast Asia, believe me I do, but nothing hit me quite like this museum. It is definitely not for anyone with a weak stomach. Aside from the well-known pictures of napalm victims and children affected by Agent Orange, there were disfigured fetuses in formaldehyde (actual fetuses, not pictures), photos of decomposing bodies and the guillotine used at a torture prison in southern Vietnam. I can’t tell you the number of gasps and “Oh my Gods” I heard this afternoon.

I hobbled out of the museum and headed toward the Reunification Palace, originally intended to be the seat of government of South Vietnam. But we all know that didn’t happen. Now the “palace,” which just looks like a government office building, stands as it did thirty years ago. Unexciting, yes. But something I might as well see while I’m here? Yeah.

I was keen to check out one of the markets here–Jeanette and I got into a habit of market-browsing in every city we went to–but my leg was throbbing so I grabbed a moto, sat side-saddle (on the side without the exhaust pipe, thank you very much) and headed back to the guesthouse.

Tomorrow I head up to Hoi An, but I’m not entirely convinced I’ll make it. The latest typhoon has made travel along the coast difficult, stranding some of my friends in random coastal towns, and affecting a few flights. Here’s hoping I make it in one piece, eh??

Phnom Penh, Cambodia

Most of the trip has been about having fun. Surfing, fun. Playing with tigers, fun. Tubing down a river and getting free shots of whiskey, fun.

But it can’t all be fun and games. You can’t go to Cambodia without acknowledging its past–its recent, bloody past. Just three decades ago, Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge took over, evacuated Phnom Penh and began a mass extermination of the upper social classes. If you wore glasses or spoke another language, you didn’t have a shot in hell of surviving. Of the 600 doctors practicing in the country before 1975, only 60 lived to see 1980. Prior to being executed, thousands of people passed through a converted high school, known now as S-21. The complex has barely been touched in thirty years. The metal beds in the torture chambers remain, sometimes displaying a shovel or iron chains. In the other buildings, you can walk into the cells, hastily built with bricks or wood and scarcely large enough for a person to turn around in. Some of the floors had been converted into exhibition rooms, with hundreds of photos of the men, women and children who passed through before being sent to the killing fields. Signs posted around the area instructed visitors not to smile, but they were redundant. I couldn’t force a smile if I tried.

After S-21, we headed to the Killing Fields. I remember a photograph I saw years ago: skulls piled on top of each other, some with bullet holes, but many with entire pieces missing. The makeshift memorial has been replaced with a giant white stupa, holding thousands of skulls, bones and pieces of clothing pulled from the pits after the fall of the regime. The fields themselves are nothing more than pits dug in the ground now, some filled with dirty water, the occasional sign posted to tell you how many bodies were found in a particular spot.

This Halloween was more eerie, more haunting, than the 21 that came before it. Growing up, we’d decorate the house with kitschy cutouts. But this year, the skeletons, bats and ghosts were all real. S-21 and the Killing Fields are places that anyone traveling this part of the world needs to see. High school history classes have entire units devoted to the Holocaust, and virtually every university has classes on it. Why can’t the same be said of the genocide in Cambodia? Or Rwanda? Will our children be taught about the crisis in Sudan? Even now, thirty years later, many of the top-ranking Khmer officials have not been brought to justice. Pol Pot lived under house arrest until his death in 1998, and was ordering hits on former allies well into the 1990s.

This is my last hour in Cambodia before I grab a bus to Vietnam. It’s sad to leave here, but something tells me I’ll be back. Until then, I’ve got to remember the things I’ve seen here, both good and bad. I’ve got to remember the friendly, welcoming faces as well as the hands reaching out for money, the amazing food that I ate as kids looked up at me with hungry eyes, and the places I’ve visited, tourist attractions for foreigners, but a constant reminder to Cambodians of this country’s troubled past.

Sihanoukville, Cambodia

It’s been more than a month on the road now, and I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. Living out of a backpack, booking buses from city to city, cursing Lonely Planet for leading the traveler astray–I can do it. I can’t say the long-term backpacker life appeals to me. I’m much more comfortable traveling with the knowledge that I have a home base, be it Seoul, New York, Prague, whatever. The constant on-the-road thing has worn on me, though I must admit, I’ve gotten good at it. Always carry a spare roll of toilet paper. Check the sheets before taking a room (learned in an unfortunate incident in Vientiane). Don’t buy from kids on the street. Try the local food. (Assuming the local food is, you know, not fried insects. But then again, I guess it depends on how adventurous you are.) Know that more often than not, fellow travelers are friendly and eager to talk. It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been on the road, we’ve all got stories. Yesterday on a snorkeling day trip, I found myself surrounded by Brits headed to Laos. I had plenty to tell them, advice to give, answers to their questions. As a journalist, it’s your job to ask questions and listen and follow up those questions with more questions. Í  feel like I’ve always been the one to ask questions, to listen intently and to learn from other people’s experiences. For the first time in a long time, I was the one with the answers. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling to have half a dozen pair of eyes on me, asking questions that a month ago I was asking others.

Sihanoukville’s been lovely–the sea is warm, the people friendly and the desserts phenomenal. (I say that having eaten a slice of caramel pie with a biscuit crust covered in whipped cream and bananas a couple hours ago. Do I mean 4 p.m.? Maybe I do…)

After an early happy hour a few days ago, I took to the streets of Sihanoukville, searching for Sweeney, a friend and fellow teacher from Korea. After a fine pizza dinner, I attempted to get home by catching a ride on the back of a Khmer guy’s motorbike. Fun fact about the road my guesthouse is on: rainy season has completely washed it out. There are few things scarier than clutching onto a stranger as he speeds down a mostly dirt road paved with rocks. Big rocks. Because that’s how things work in Cambodia. Half the road is a ditch for rainwater en route to the sea, the rest rocks and dirt.

Our days have been filled with beach-lounging, amok-eating and turning away the dozens of Khmers who approach us every day. (“Massage, miss? Pedicure? Manicure? Threading? OK, maybe tomorrow?”)

Tomorrow we’re headed to Phnom Penh, where I’ll say farewell to Jeanette in a few days before heading off to Vietnam. We’re planning to meet up with Sweeney again to visit the Killing Fields and S-21, the infamous building where the Khmer Rouge tortured and killed nearly everyone who entered through the doors.

Before this trip, I was most nervous for Cambodia. A country that had seen civil war in my lifetime, that experienced genocide in my parents’ lifetime, that is so notoriously corrupt on every level–how could I not worry? But Cambodia may very well be my favorite country. It’s a mish-mash of cultures, of poor Khmers with wealthy expats, of old ideas and fears of government combined with the hope for a new generation, of rickety tuk-tuks whizzing past some of the most extravagant hotels I’ve ever seen. I love Cambodia, much differently than I loved Laos and Thailand, and indeed every other country I’ve been to. There’s something special about this place, and I know that I’m lucky to experience it. The Cambodia that I’m in will not be the Cambodia my children will know, nor is it the Cambodia that we watched on the news in the early 90s. It is constantly changing, turning over new leaves and building itself into something better.

Sihanoukville, Cambodia

I keep forgetting to put datelines here. Not sure if that’s important or not. Probably isn’t, right?

So after a 10-hour bus/minibus ride from Siem Reap, we made it to Sihanoukville. I’ve spent the last three days at Angkor Wat. What is even left to say about it? Words continue to fail me, and so I continue to fail as a journalist. How does one sum up a day, much less three, at the ruins? We scaled rocks that haven’t moved in several hundred, in some cases a thousand, years. Rocks that were put into place to honor Buddha and the Khmer king are now a playground for the adventure-seeking tourist and families on holiday. This once-great capital of an empire is now a money-making tourist attraction owned by a Japanese company. What will become of America’s great sites? In hundreds of years, will the Lincoln Memorial be anything more than a fenced-off pile of marble? What of the Empire State Building and Independence Hall and all of the other places that mean something to Americans? Are they built as well as the pyramids, the Acropolis and the Coliseum? Will they survive centuries of wear and tear, hurricanes and blizzards, the rise and fall of governments?

I know this blog has gotten a lot less fun and a lot more reflective in recent weeks, but when you’re on a bus for seven hours and your iPod is dead, there’s not much to do but think and plan the next blog entry. And let me tell you, there are a lot of long drives.

I knew very little about Cambodia before I decided to include it on my backpacking agenda. As a senior at Maryland, I convinced myself that I was going to move to Cambodia after graduation to work for one of the newspapers here. Then Korea happened and Cambodia became a distant memory.

Through some stroke of luck and Jewish geography, my path crossed with that of Bethany Murphy. I swear, she and I were destined to become friends. We’ve got mutual friends, mutual romantic pasts and mutual Hebrew names. She’s here in Siem Reap teaching for a year, and the first time we ever spoke, back in May, she invited me to stay at her apartment the moment I mentioned I’d eventually be in her neck of the woods.

That was five months ago.

Flash forward to now. After a flight from Vientiane and the world’s lamest layover at the Savahnakket airport (where, by the way, everything is under construction), we landed in Siem Reap and were greeted by Bethany’s tuk tuk driver, Mr. Loaung, who took us straight to the apartment to get settled.

Everything has been perfect since we got here. Mr Loaung takes us wherever we want to go, whenever we want to go there, Bethany showed us downtown Siem Reap and then cooked a delicious dinner, and we got to sleep in a bed without having to worry about bedbugs, lizards or snails.

Determined to make the most of our first day in Siem Reap, we went to bed fairly early last night. We woke up this morning, met Mr. Loaung at the front gate and set off for Angkor Wat. The temple complex is massive, absolutely massive. It took us a couple hours to get through a fraction of what there was to see, and by mid-morning it was too hot to see much else. We headed to Angkor Thom, the last capital of the Khmer empire, and one of the filming sites from Lara Croft: Tomb Raider.

Stop reading now. Navigate away from this blog and onto Expedia. Book a ticket to Cambodia. Now. I know journalists are supposed to be able to convey things through words, but it is here that words absolutely fail me. Angkor Thom was like nothing I’d ever seen. Parts of Bayon, the temple in the complex, rise up over 100 feet. The towers, rooms and statues are beyond impressive–and then you get a closer look. Everything in Bayon is made by stacking blocks of stone on top of each other. Somehow, thousands of small blocks get you the enormous temple, with its stairs, alters and sculptures. Even the gigantic faces are made from the rock, cut to make eyes and noses and lips. I walked away from Angkor Thom amazed at what was has stood the test of time. These ruins, streaked black over centuries, have seen multiple empires, French imperialism, American bombs and the bloody reign of the Khmer Rouge. It’s incredible to think about what had already existed here for hundreds of years by the time Christopher Columbus first set foot in the Americas.

We’re headed back to the temples tomorrow, and I’m hoping I can bear the hot weather. I’ve been just schvitzing my way through the past month. It almost–almost–makes me long for a nice New York winter…

I love Laos. I can’t say it enough, really. This place is unlike any other. Walk into a cafe and forget you’re in Asia. Walk back out and the cafe latte you just drank seems a continent away. It’s a total mindtrip, but a good one. There’s only been one real downside to this country, and I have history to thank for that one. Everyone knows about the Vietnam War, about the Vietcong, the threat of communism, and a few people even know that we lost the war. But nobody knows about, or at least talks about, the “Secret War,” the American involvement in the Laos Civil War. For more than half a decade, American planes dropped bombs all over eastern and southeastern Laos in an attempt to stop communist forces from expanding into the country. Thousands died in the bombings, with many more losing limbs.

Forty years later, 30 percent of the bombs are still unexploded, buried in Lao soil. These UXOs still pose a deadly threat to the Laotians who live in the eastern provinces. Laos being an an agrarian society, farming is impossible unless the land has been completely cleared of mines, a taxing and lengthy process. Children run the risk of being maimed and killed just by playing in the mountains and fields outside their small villages. Meanwhile, American kids sit in their air-conditioned classrooms, learning about hippies, civil rights and ‘Nam, completely unaware of the bombings in Laos and the constant threat posed to kids their age here.

On the Plain of Jars tour, we walked single- or double-file down the dirt paths. To our left and right were brick markers, signifying the safe zone. The areas beyond the safe zone have yet to be cleared of UXOs. We walked past craters the size of backyard swimming pools, the results of bombs dropped decades ago. In the mountains between Luang Prabang and Phonsavan, brown patches and absent vegatation surrounded by lush grass reminded us of the constant attacks this country endured. It was only 12 years ago that the U.S. government even admitted to bombing Laos during the war.

I’m floored by this, and you should be too. It makes me wonder what the Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan will be like in a half-century. When my children visit the Middle East someday, what will they learn? What won’t they have been taught in American schools? Most importantly, how will history look on today and on this generation?

I do love Laos, but I’m disheartened by the constant reminder of America’s arial bombardment. Restaurants and guesthouses all over Phonsavan use uncovered missiles as decoration, fencing and even as key-holders. Each tourism office has hundreds of missles and bombs, rusted with age, on display. I’m ready for tomorrow’s destination, Cambodia, where I can learn about the wrongs of the Khmer Rouge rather than the American government.

I’ve been pretty awful at updating since I got to Laos, but let’s blame that on the slow Internet connection here, OK? We spent our first few days in Luang Prabang. The town, full of cafes and al fresco restaurants, reminded me of a quaint European town. Even the architecture is styled after European buildings, showing France’s lasting influence on one of its former colonies.

We lazed our way through Luang Prabang (much as we’re lazing through the entire country), cafe-hopping and checking out the night market. On our last day, we headed out of town to play in some waterfalls and a swimming hole.

We decided to venture east to Phonsavan to see the famed Plain of Jars. The seven-hour minivan ride was just awful. Phonsavan is only a few hundred kilometers from Luang Prabang, but the only way to get there is by winding and swerving through mountains. We finally got to Phonsavan around dinnertime and searched for a guesthouse for the night. Lonely Planet recommended the Kong Keo guesthouse, but I can’t imagine why. We got there and looked around for the reception desk, only to find a man pissing on the outside wall of the bar. He got us a room and apologized for his drunken state (“Sorry, I have problems.” “Women problems?” “Yes, how you know?”). We met up with two guys we met on the van ride up to Phonsavan for dinner and drinks before calling it an early night.

The Plain of Jars was just that–plain. These jars, ranging from 1-3 meters in height, have been littered around the area for thousands of years, but nobody knows why. To be honest, there’s not much to do at the sites except take funny pictures of yourself popping in and out of the jars. We also visited the former capital of the province, which now exists as a few small shacks and a wat bombed into oblivion.

After our day trip in Phonsavan, we boarded another bus to Vang Vieng. The seven-hour trip on a public bus meant several toilet stops along the way. And by “toilet,” I mean, “everyone gets out on the side of the road and does their business simultaneously.” Weirdest. Experience. Ever. Especially when I stepped too far back and mooned everyone left on the bus. Still not the most humiliating part of the trip–that came a few minutes later, when an old Lao woman got back on the bus after the toilet stop and pinched my arm and grinned. I have never been so mortified.

Vang Vieng was an alright city. It would have been better had I not contracted food poisoning within half an hour of arriving. Note to self: Do not eat chicken from a street vendor in Vang Vieng. Big mistake. I was in bed sleeping the whole of the next day, absolutely miserable. I slept it off fast enough, and on our second full day, we made it tubing. Tubing is the only real attraction in the town. It’s tubing on a river, nothing strange there. The only difference is that every 50 meters or so is a bar. They rope you in, give you free whiskey shots and occasionally free food, and let you swing/slide/jump into the water. One place we stopped had a gigantic slide. We’re not talkin’ your mama’s country club pool slide here, folks. I went soaring a good 15-20 feet up in the air before landing in the water and being roped back to shore. Ridiculous.

Now we’re in the capital, Vientiane, which is likely going to be our last stop in Laos before moving on to Cambodia. Will post again before we leave, but for now, there’s a croissant with my name on it! Thank youuu, French colonization of southeast Asia! (Did I mention my six-dollar steak last night? How about the three-dollar carafe of wine?)

Never in my life did I think I’d be hanging more than 100 feet off the ground, held up my some rope, whether I lived or died in the control of a crazy Thai guy named Mr. Aussie.

Of course, never in my life did I think I’d be traveling Asia at the age of 22, either.

The past two weeks have been a mix of old and new, mostly the latter. A couple days ago, we rode bikes around the city, checking out the wats (temples) that dot Chiang Mai. I haven’t gotten on a bike in years–we’re talking around a decade–and was convinced it would end badly. Somehow, I made it through the day unscathed, albeit very, very sweaty. Yesterday I indulged in a favorite pastime–shopping. We hit up the market and I went a little crazy. A few vendors spoke to me in Hebrew as I passed, though I’m not sure why. I could only pick out a few words–”Ma nishma?” “Sababa?”–but when I looked in the direction of the voice, I’d find a vendor staring right at me. All that Hebrew put me in a mood for some Middle Eastern food, so I dragged a tired and weary Jeanette to an Israeli restaurant I’d seen. Oh falafel, how I’ve missed you.

As opposed to the past few days, today was a day of brand new things, starting with a successful trip to the consulate to add pages to my passport. In Seoul, this would take an entire afternoon, plus all the stress of having to courier it back to SEV. In Chiang Mai, I was in and out in half an hour. This afternoon, we headed out to the boonies for our most adventurous afternoon yet–ziplining through the jungle. (Sidenote: According to Wikipedia, ziplining is also known as “death slide.” Hardcore!!) We opted to go with Jungle Flight as opposed to Flight of the Gibbon, despite the latter advertising all over the damn city. We were joined by a British couple and a guy from Jersey–a solid group, I think. Our  instructors were two friendly Thai guys, Mr. Aussie and Mr. Boston (cue I Love N.Y.) who loved to unexpectedly push us off the ledges. No injuries, no deaths and an afternoon soaring through the trees. It was awesome and freeing and all, but to put it bluntly, I was scared shitless. I hate heights, and being suspended by some wire a hundred feet above the jungle floor is damn scary. The most terrifying parts of the course were when we would go straight down 10, 20 or 40 meters. Those drops were the worst because we had absolutely no control over them. Aussie and Boston controlled how fast we dropped, if we swung around and how much we jerked around before touching the platform. Scary as hell–but also exhilarating. Ziplining was nothing like I’d imagined–soaring hundreds of feet through the air at lightning speeds. But it was a chance to throw caution to the wind and jump from high trees, knowing I wasn’t going to fall to my death. That’s not to mention the killer view of the lush green forest and mountains further in the distance. And that’s not too bad, is it?

Tomorrow we’re heading to the border–a six-hour van trip–and spending the night at the border town of Chang Kong before ferrying across the Mekong River into Laos. A few pics from the trip thus far are already up, thanks to Jeanette’s patience with old-school Facebook uploading. I think there’s some surfing, some tigers and the ziplining crew in there. Next time you hear from me, I’ll be in Laos!