Halong Bay Cabin

Halong Bay

A Vietnamese friend of a friend who lives in DC recommended that if I had a few days to see something of the country, I should head for Halong Bay, a World Heritage Site of 3,000 rocky islands off the north coast of Vietnam. It was an excellent suggestion and I even managed to find an adventure tourist operator that offered kayaking. I signed up for a three day individual trip.

Unfortunately, my trip coincided with the arrival of the remnants of a tropical storm. My first view of the bay was to a chorus of violent retching. Fortunately the old trick of keeping my eyes glued to the horizon meant that I managed to stave off the green in spite of the putrid smell and nausea inducing sounds, to say nothing of the pitching waves crashing over the boat. But not even the harrowing experience of that boat ride could stop me from being completely awestruck by my first sight of the islands. Words cannot do justice to the bay, so I am posting some photos, and even those only capture a small part of the magnificence.

As I disembarked I realized that my bag, which had been on the floor between my feet, was completely soaked. I just hoped that it was from the ocean coming in through cracks in the windows rather than the alternative… The boat was not exactly waterproof and during a particularly bad bout of rolling waves I did find myself wondering how I would get out if the boat actually tipped. Needless to say it rained continuously for the three days I was there so I was wet for 72 hours. Fortunately it was hot enough that it didn’t matter too much and I was having too much fun to notice.

By 10:30 am we had arrived at camp, a collection of thatched sleeping huts, an open dining shelter and a kitchen (see photo). I spent the first day enjoying the absolute silence sitting in the dining room reading or writing and watching the rain blanket this heavenly scenery and of course kayaking. My guide and I went out for a few hours in the afternoon. He at first seemed to be the quiet serious type, but later I realized he was the quiet immature type. Disappointingly he knew very little of the flora and fauna, the way of life of the fishermen living on houseboats in the bay, and even less about kayaking. It just meant that I had lots of for enjoying the scenery in quiet.

The second day we were in kayaks for about eight hours of pure heaven. We actually saw monkeys twice (a rare sighting even once) and I saw a snake and lots of amazing jelly fish. It did make me more hesitant to go for a long swim like my first day!

By the third day my arms were really aching from the strenuous work out that they aren’t used to, but I wanted to make the most of it. So I got up at 5:30am (jet lag does have it’s benefits) and headed out by myself for three hours. It would be so easy to get lost in this maze of islands that all look the same so I just stuck to the coast of the island the camp is on. It was so great to be out there on my own. After breakfast my guide told me he had saved the best for last and took me out. As the tide was going out, we kayaked through a shallow cave for 200 meters or so. It was so shallow that we were crouched down in pitch black with only a weak flashlight to guide us. Finally we literally saw the light at the end of the tunnel and suddenly we were out in a tiny enclosed lake that could only be reached through the cave. The waters were untainted by the pollution in the rest of the bay and you could see the impact. From sitting up in the kayak I could count the different types and colors of corals and sea urchins. It was completely silent except for the sound of the birds and our paddles in the water. It was an amazing send off, but I’m sure that it will not be the last time that I visit Halong Bay. I’m considering brining a sea kayak with me if I move out here!

Hanoi

First Impressions

Friday afternoon I woke up from a three-hour nap (jet lag has been killing me, so I finally compromised on my no-napping rule). I decided it was high-time to get out and see something of the city.

I took a taxi into the old quarter and meandered around some shops before heading towards the main market – which I knew would be closed by the time I arrived. As I walked along the streets dodging mopeds and trying to take in everything around me, I was very aware of one thing: no one was watching. Even though I was more often than not the only foreigner in sight, no one was staring. Even more surprising, no one was calling out to me to try and draw me into the shops or sell me something or beg for something. Even though there was what seemed to be poverty around me, no one was asking for anything. I was just left to my own devices – a very pleasant change from the usual harassment of travel in a development country.

As I adjusted to the lack of these distractions, I felt myself relaxing. I looked around at the interesting mixture of architecture, a jumble of old French colonial and Asian style. Most of the buildings in the Old quarter are very narrow and four stories tall. It turns out that at some point taxation was based on the width of the house and so houses are very narrow and long and tall. Just like my house in DC and for the very same reason!

I did find the mopeds buzzing everywhere a little disconcerting at first, but the longer I am here, the more I realize they actually good drivers and somehow manage to avoid crashing into pedestrians. Crossing the street is a bit harrowing at first as there is no break in the traffic so you just have to start walking and hope (expect) that the mopeds will avoid you.

Before heading back to the hotel, I decided to go for a massage. I went to a place recommended by the lonely planet, but now that I think about it, the Lonely Planet might not be the best source for recommending what are normally considered luxury items.. Are backpackers really experts on the finer things in life? (Yes, I guess I have changed since my days as a backpacker). Unfortunately in Vietnam ‘massage parlor’ is often code for other entertainments and while they do offer massage, for men towards the end of the experience they will place their hand in a key location and ask, “Happy ending?” My experience was not that uncomfortable but it certainly was odd. The girl sat on me – as in her bum was resting on the back of my thighs! I couldn’t figure out if this was normal because Vietnamese are so small and can’t reach the massage table or whether it was meant to be as suggestive as it came across to me. Either way I was definitely creeped out! I’m sure there are better options out there.

Second Attempt

I managed to get the letter from the Vietnamese Ministry of Interior in one day and a refund for my first ticket and bought a second one that actually cost less than the first. So on Tuesday I found myself heading back to Dulles. At least this time I am flying on a different airline.

Fourteen sleepless hours on the plane and I find myself in Seoul for a few hours. This is an amazing airport. I think I counted four different Coach stores. Not that I’m shopping. I have an 11 hour lay-over here on my way back so I may take advantage of the very organized tour packages designed for those in transit. Tours start at 1 hour for $20 – not a bad deal.

I am on my way to Vietnam for fun and for life. I am checking it out to see if it might be a place that I someday might want to live. You never know what opportunities life can throw at you when you least expect it.

False Start

On Sunday morning I packed my bags and jumped into a cab to head to the airport. I am going to Vietnam – or so I thought. Because I had to buy my ticket at the last minute, I ended up flying on my least favorite airline and having to check in at my least favorite airport. In fact, the only reason I don’t like United is because of their chaotic check-in system at Dulles. So I waited somewhat impatiently in the check-in line for 45 minutes while three people checked in the fifty or so people ahead of me. By the time I got to the front of the line, I was just ready to get on the plane – anywhere but in that line.

But I didn’t – get on the plane that is. “Where is your visa”, says the woman behind the counter. “I don’t need a visa”, I replied. She then informed in her power-asserting tone that I either needed a visa or a letter from the embassy saying there would be a visa for me upon arrival in Vietnam. I would say that sounds ridiculous, but the truth is that it is completely believable in the bureaucratic games of developing country governments. I asked to speak to the manager. Same answer. I even called my host in Vietnam and woke him up at 11pm. He still insisted that I do not need a visa. But the airline refused to allow me on the flight.

So I got in a cab and went home.

The Researcher

I am writing this sitting in the grand reading room of the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress and I am now officially a guest researcher of the library. I even have my own shelf for books I am borrowing – they are not allowed out of the library.

I have been tinkering around with my family tree for a long time, gathering names, dates, and my favorite part – anecdotes that really tell you something about the person and their times. More recently I have played around with the idea of filling out some of these anecdotes and putting them down on paper. I am focused on the stories of four courageous women in my family who immigrated to Africa (or within Africa in one case) all for very different reasons. One was pushed by the desperation of destitution; another felt trapped by the loss of her place in society from the shame of divorce in Edwardian London; a third moved to rural Africa to get to know the mother she could barely remember; and the last because she refused to live in a country that was racially divided by the rules of apartheid.

For the last six months, I have been piecing together scraps of information gathered from family and figuring out how to fill in the gaps. In scouring the internet and in two visits to London where I explored the National Archives and the Library at the National Maritime Museum I have found my great grandmother’s divorce records, my great grandfather’s will, the detailed shipping notes of the 1880 voyage that brought my great-great-grandmother from Scotland to Durban, and the birth record of my great-great-grandmother’s first husband which revealed that he was illegitimate – which might explain why her parents were so unhappy with the marriage that they disowned her.

My research in the Jefferson Reading Room is about understanding better the context in which these events took place. The Library of Congress is the largest library in the world, which means I have access to such unusual books as:
- Experiences of Rhodesia's pioneer women: being a true account of the adventures of the early white women settlers in Southern Rhodesia from 1890 (ironically, my dad was the author’s veterinarian in Zimbabwe many years ago);
- First steps in civilizing Rhodesia; and,
- Edwardian Stories of Divorce.

Tomorrow my project takes another step forward – I have my first writing class looking at the works of Alice Munroe. Ms. Munroe is an award winning short story writer who has a skill for weaving stories based on family history intertwined with historically accurate threads from her imagination. The course, which is at a local writers’ center, just happened to be offered now that I actually have time to take it. Serendipity.

Being a DC Tourist

I am making the most of my time off, not just being productive getting things done in my house and garden, but also encouraging friends to play hooky and spend the day with me doing fun things. On Thursday, one good friend did just that and we decided to be home grown tourists for the day in DC.

First stop was the Newseum – a museum of the news. The private museum starts visitors with a short video that establishes the context of the museum – presenting both key events in history covered in the news and the history of newsmaking. The video included this quote from Thomas Jefferson in 1786, "Our liberty cannot be guarded but by the freedom of the press, nor that be limited without danger of losing it." But my suspicions were aroused. The video covered the key themes of news: first time events, life and death, discovery, and of course war and peace. They showed several clips from the current conflict in Iraq during the war segment but they included something that just didn’t quite fit – a photograph of Osama Bin Laden, right in the middle of all the Iraq images (not in the later Afghanistan images). Now our wonderful president GWB would like us to believe that Osama is somehow connected to Iraq, but to date, there has been no evidence unearthed of any connection. Interestingly most Americans believe that there is a connection because GWB is so good at his job. It turns out that the Newsuem’s founder is none other than Rupert Murdoch, media tycoon who brought to us the Fox news network and other mouthpieces for the current administration.

The other missing piece in the museum was information on the current administration’s infringement on freedom of the press. There was an exhibit on the embedded reporters that are on the ground in Iraq, but they did not include a discussion on the fact that the military also controls all footage that is allowed to be released by these reporters. Nor did they cover the fact that stories published by reporters (or footage shown on CNN) that portrays a less-than-flattering image of the US quickly disappear. (See my “Afghan Soldier” entry in June 2006). A disappointment to say the least. That said, I will drop the Newseum a line and make sure they are aware of their Osama mistake, but I will say that the rest of the museum was very interesting and informative. As Franklin D. Roosevelt said in 1938, “A free press is essential to us as a people and to the maintenance of our form of government” (another quote from the video).

After a very sunny lunch sitting at the Naval memorial and watching cadets rehearse for their summer Concerts on the Avenue, we went across the street to the National Gallery of Art to see the special exhibit on Afghanistan. Somehow I had not heard of the exhibit, but everyone should know about it. It is a collection of spectacular ancient artifacts from four sites in Afghanistan. The pieces themselves are breathtaking and include a two thousand year old intact plaster bust of a poet, a plate of silver and gold, and a magnificent collapsible gold crown. The history of the objects is equally as fascinating as many are a unique blend of east and west. Maybe the best example of this is a gold statue representing the Greek Goddess Aphrodite but with a South Asian bindi and the wings of an Indian goddess.

Despite the interest in the objects themselves, the exhibit is most amazing for its more recent history. The only reason these artifacts survived the past 25 years of conflict in Afghanistan is due to the heroism of Omara Khan Massoudi, the Director of the National Museum of Afghanistan. In 1988, when the Russians were preparing to invade Afghanistan, he foresaw the threat to the treasures in the museum and he and some trusted colleagues packed up the greatest treasures and hid them in safes under the Presidential Palace. They never spoke a word about them until 2003. It is difficult to imagine how hard their lives must have been during that time and how much personal gain they could have received from the hidden treasure. The museum was ransacked, artifacts destroyed by the Taleban and even shelled. Much of the Museum’s collection was destroyed, but these pieces remain in tact.

I cannot recommend the exhibition highly enough. The schedule in the US:
- National Gallery of Art (Washington, D.C.)
May 25 to September 7, 2008
- Asian Art Museum of San Francisco
October 24, 2008, to January 25, 2009
- The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston
February 22 to May 17, 2009
- The Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York)
June 23 to September 20, 2009

For more information on the exhibit see the current edition of National Geographic or read the article at: http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2008/06/afghan-treasures/atwood-text

Satchidaranda Ashram

My four days at the Satchidaranda Ashram, otherwise known as Yogaville, were probably worth about a month of downtime at home. I feel like a different relaxed slower version of my former self.

The Ashram is in a spectacular natural setting bordering the James River in rural Virginia. The 1,000 acres is most hilly forests with views of the mountains and the river. Right now the meadows are covered in wildflowers and there is rich birdlife. My days there started before 5 am with meditation and Hatha yoga before breakfast. The rest of the day was a mix of meditation and yoga with plenty of time by myself for reading, hiking in the woods, thinking and of course napping (a daily activity while I was there).

There is an ancient Native American medicine wheel on the grounds of the Ashram. A medicine wheel is a physical representation of a spiritual presence; a circle of stones representing Native American spiritual beliefs. (A description can be found at http://www.wolfcreekarts.com/Medicine_Wheel.htm) Twice I tried to find the medicine wheel, which is tucked away in the woods. Twice I failed. There are those that would say that I was not meant to find it, I chose to believe that I was not meant to find it this week so that I have a reason to come back again.

A Pause

For a while now I have been wanting to make a change. I have been struggling with figuring out my next adventure, how to get there, and even just figuring out how to find the time to figure it all out. As an anonymous poster recently commented on this blog, “I looked at [the Home Sweet Home] post from 2005 and your still complaining about the same things! So why don't you stop?!” And stop I have.

As of last Friday, I am officially on a three-month sabbatical from work. No work at all. And no travel, unless I want to, and the only for fun.

I cannot remember the last time that I had three whole months at home without work or school. Mostly I can’t remember because it was so long ago – like when I was ten. Before my working days started as a papergirl delivering the newspaper every day through rain and snow and sleet and ice; then as a checkout chick; then a janitor, telemarketer, administrative assistant, receptionist, communications officer, research assistant and finally an economic development consultant. Whew, I think it is time for a break.

My first week off I have focused on recovering from the to-be-expected cold (which always seems to arrive once the stress is off) and grasping the enormity of this opportunity. My natural tendency is to fill this time with as many non work-related activities as possible, trying to do everything I’ve ever wanted to do if only I had the time in three months. I want to waterproof my basement, re-do my backyard, learn to do an Eskimo roll (in a kyack), hike the Appalachian trail, spent time with friends and family, send out a Christmas letter (in July), and write a book. But just for a change, I am fighting the tendency to replace one hectic lifestyle with another.

My only objective for this time is to recover from a difficult work environment, hectic travel schedule and a secondary personal life squeezed in between. For me this translates into staying in one place and maximizing fun with friends and family. Not to say that I won't do some of the things on the list above, but I'm just not going to try and do it all. In fact, I am starting with a week of nothing - a four-day yoga and meditation retreat in rural Virginia. I can’t think of a better way to reprogram my over stimulated mind for more rest and relaxation than most of us will ever know.

Home or Away

Day 2 in Albania and it already feels like I never left. It's strange to arrive in a place and have your boyfriend to greet you, your favorite restaurants and to just feel at home. In some ways. In other ways it still feels like I am living a double life and staying in hotels doesn't help. Speaking of being at home - I am going back to the hotel to go the gym. More tomorrow.

Long Time

It has been too long since my last blog and I've decided it's time to start again. I have been traveling non-stop, but constantly to Albania. In fact, I have been spending so much time in Albania that it has started to feel more like home and my work here has been quite boring over the past few months, so I had no desire to write about it and bore you all.

I'm now back in Albania for the 6th trip in one year. I've spent a total of 6 months here, which is about three times the amount of time that I have spent at home in DC. And of course, this was in between other trips (to Belize and Guatemala on vacation, and Liberia and the Dominican Republic for work). I never thought that I would say these words, but I am seriously sick of traveling!

So I am back in Albania for two weeks, and am sort of hoping that this is my last trip for a little while. I am also very tired of my job and working for a difficult boss, so I am currently "exploring my options". With the potential for change in Zimbabwe, I am keeping my fingers crossed and hoping that some interesting work might come there once a new government is in place. I know I am getting ahead of myself, but my dream would be to do this work in Zimbabwe - and to stop traveling when I get there.

Stranger than Fiction

Sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction. It was a rather eventful trip out here to Albania. My flights all left on time and my luggage was there on the carousel when I got to Tirana, which already makes it a rather unusual journey, but it was far more strange than that.

On the longest leg from Atlanta to Milan I was seated in the back of the plane because as usual I had to buy my ticket at the last minute. There was an empty seat next to me, and a nice woman from Surrey on the other side. We chatted a bit about her passion for hunting dogs, which is what brought her to Madison, Wisconsin where she had been at a dog event. I went about my usual cross-Atlantic routine of dinner with a movie and then sleep. At some point while I was watching Georgia Rules, I glanced over at her because she seemed to be staring at me. I then thought she was staring at the TV screen in the empty middle seat, so I went back to ignoring her. I didn’t realize that anything was wrong until I noticed that she had been gone for a while and then a flight attendant came and covered her empty seat with a blanket. My curiosity was peaked, but I had no idea what was going on so I tried to sleep, but flight attendants kept coming back and waking me up as they bumped me reaching across for her blankets and pillows. Finally one of them told me that the woman had passed out, vomited, and they thought she had a seizure! At that moment there was an announcement on the PA asking whether there was a doctor on board. I guess she was really in bad shape. I felt sorry for her, but there was really nothing for me to do, so I laid down across the three seats to finally go to sleep, only to be woken up 10 minutes later to moved to Business Class so my sick fellow traveler could have the three seats to herself. Of course I didn’t complain but I am sorry that I only had 3 hours in business class before I was woken up for breakfast!

In Milan I had to run to catch my connecting flight, which was boarding by the time I got there. As I stood in my sleep deprived daze watching the people in the waiting lounge, I noticed an adorable little girl skipping towards me. Suddenly she stopped mid hop and stared mouth open looking completely amazed. A black woman had just crossed her path, and as she stared I realized that it was probably the first time the child had seen a black person. I tried to imagine how strange that would be for her and all the questions that must be running through her head.

When I finally got on the plane to Tirana I just wanted to sleep, but the boisterous conversation from the row behind me got my attention. The conversation was shifting between Albanian and English. Two men were asking the third about his experiences in prison and pushing him for details of the strangest thing he saw in his time on the inside. I thought it was a joke, but when he proceed to say that he had been beaten up twice I realized he wasn’t kidding. That story wasn’t juicy enough for his companions so they pushed him for something more interesting. He then told them about being in the shower with the only other white guy in the jail in the next shower stall. He was going about his business when he suddenly became aware that there were four legs under the shower wall next door – two white, two black. It was definitely not your average airplane eavesdropping about holidays or business trips. Ironically when I arrived to check in at the Sheraton, the men that were behind me on the plane were there checking in. They told me they were deporting an ex-con back to Albania. The guy then proceeded to ask me if I wanted to grab a drink later – ummm…I don’t think so.