The Road to El Rama, and the Boat to Bluefields

The trip out to the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua started with a very long wait in a very hot and crowed bus station on the north side of Managua. The Mayoreo Bus Terminal sits, in is faded and chipped, green painted splendor miles from anywhere you would ever want to be. The taxi ride across Managua costs more than any bus trip you could possibly take, save the 27 hour epic overland route to Puerto Cabazes. Our arrival was poorly planned, no bus for nine hours. The overnight option: save money on a hotel by getting your shut eye on route. I hadn't done this for years, but its an old trick of the dirt bagging budget traveler. I probably spent more time in bus stations and on buses during my first trip to South America than I did actually seeing stuff.
However, desperate times call for desperate measures. So we waited, ate some fried chicken and plantain chips, and waited some more. We boarded our bus at 8pm, and sat in the stifling heat, until 10:30 before making our departure. The bus was an old run down school bus, but it was classified as an express, which meant a minimum of stopping to load and unload peasants and their livestock.
Sitting beside a 6 foot one passenger, like my wife, only makes the journey harder. Her legs, instead of extending into the isle, always end up on my side of the seat, forcing me to sit askew, totally throwing my spine out of whack. There is an enormous difference between your lower back at 21 and your lower back at 32...that difference is expressed as lingering and sometimes searing pain. To be true, it probably is worse for her, but sympathy is sometimes hard to muster a 2 o'clock in the morning, trapped in the confines of a school bus seat.
We arrived in El Rama (the literal end of the road) ahead of schedule, and completely in the dark. Shuffling off the bus, we simply sat on our bags, contemplating our fates. After about an hour of this we wandered towards lines of people waiting for boat tickets at two separate offices down by the docks (presumably, it was still very dark). We waited in the shorter of the two, paid a man some money, and put our name on the list.
Unfortunately, we missed the first manifest, and so became the first two passengers on the 7:30 boat (as opposed to the 6:30). We moved closer to the docks, and watched the chaos and confusion of boat travel on this side of the country. A throng of people waiting for their respective "pangas" to fill and depart. To be honest, we had no idea what was going on, but seemingly, no one else did either. It was here that we first began to notice the not so subtle differences between the "costenos" and the rest of the population of the country. First off, these people are black...not Spanish looking at all...100% African. Secondly...they don't speak Spanish (not amongst themselves anyway). Creole (or Patois) is a dialect of English, with some French and Spanish thrown in the mix, but the rhythm, cadence, and shear volume of colloquialisms involved makes it almost incomprehensible to a non-native. Of coarse, the upshot is that they understand English perfectly, and can respond in an almost comprehensible manner.
So there we stood. The boats (pangas) began to fill. On one side of the wharf there were open boats, on the other, boats with roofs. The open boats called out numbers, the ones with roofs called out names. Boats on both sides left.
Eventually, we figured out that we had purchased tickets for the roofed boats. The last one of these left, and there we sat. The open boats began leaving, and soon there were only two partially full boats sitting at the dock. Still we waited. It was only 7:15, we were sure the 7:30 boat would arrive presently. At about 7:45, one of the boat operators from the other side (the open boats) came over and asked us, in a round about way, what the hell we were waiting for. "the 7:30 boat" we replied. It soon became apparent that there was no 7:30 boats, and that the only two remaining boats were in fact, the only two boats left that were going to Bluefields that morning. A quick run up the dock to the ticket office, a return of tickets for cash, and a handing of that cash over to the operator of the open boat ensured our passage. Although we had no tickets, our horribly misspelled names were added to the manifest, and off we went.
It is worth mentioning that we were not the only people waiting for a boat that didn't exist, there were a few locals doing the exact same thing.
We were seated, given life jackets (mandatory for all passengers), and sped off. The folks across the isle, were a middle aged creole couple, traveling with their son. They were very friendly, and talked a lot about the coast. They were originally from Pearl Lagoon (our final destination), but had been away for 12 years working in Managua. They were coming back home for Christmas, and you could tell they were excited about getting home, and being reunited with family and friends. Conversation was hindered by the roar of the big outboard engine, but we were able to gather a few facts about the area.
About 45 minutes into the 3 hour ride, it started to rain. Not a wussy little sprinkle, but a tropical deluge, intensified by the speed of the open boat. At this point, I was prepared to get totally soaked (my rain jacket was in my backpack, which was inaccessible) but after about 30 seconds of hard rain, the skipper produced a huge sheet of plastic, which my fellow passengers slowly rolled out, above their heads, towards the front were we sat. Although incredibly noisy beneath the rippling sheet of plastic, it was almost dry.
After a spell, the skies cleared, only to darken again. The process was repeated several times along the way. About 30 minutes outside of Bluefields, we passed a shrimp fishing port, and the turn off for Pearl Lagoon. The Rio Escondito widened, and the jungle eased into savanah.
We rounded a bend in the river, and entered the wide Lagoon that made Bluefields such a popular harbour for pirates in the 17th century. The name "Bluefields" is an anglicized corruption of name of the Dutch pirate Abraham Blauveldt, an active marauder of the 1630's, who set up shop in this bay. We pulled in at the main municipal dock and stepped into the boat office, to wait for another panga to take us back up river, and across a series of waterways to Pearl Lagoon.

Nicaragua Video Blog

Well here it is!!! Some rather shaky and sometimes un-interesting video footage that I shot in Nicaragua this year...the song is a good one...Enjoy.

Nica Adventures Part II: Leon and the Beach

Escaping the sweaty chaos of Managua (escaping is the best term), we headed to the charming and historic colonial city of Leon. Leon is a mere hour journey from Managua, but what a difference an hour can make. Crammed in a crowed minivan, we were happy to arrive at the dusty bus terminal. Taxi drivers in Leon are friendly, and the rates are set,no haggling required.
We spent our first evening in a charming colonial home, converted into a small hotel. It had a wonderful garden, and a comfy bed, but the family run ambiance was a little too strong, so we relocated to an equally comfortable and slightly cheaper new hotel a few blocks away.
Leon is not the most beautiful of Nicaragua's colonial cities, but it has a certain charm. The central plaza is clean, but spartan, with some very interesting murals and some viciously anti-American graffiti. The cathedral, one of Leon's many large churches, is decidedly dirty, coated with the ashes of many volcanic eruptions.
We skipped the plethora of museums, and instead, engaged ourselves in a number of day trips using Leon as a base.
We traveled to the small hamlet of San Jacinto, to see fumurolic pools. These little pits of boiling mud appear in this valley, a by product of the smoking Volcan Santa Clara that looms in the distance. Smiling children, with a well practiced patter, run to meet any visiting Gringo that happens by. The children are a necessary, as portions of the ground around the pits are very unstable and subject to collapse. The children (and visitors) also provide an important economic contribution to the impoverished town. Admission is reasonable, and there is a line of women selling volcanic rocks and pre-Columbian stone artifacts (I picked up a nice biface for 50 cents). The bubbling pits are interesting, and come in two colours of boiling mud: red or black.
Our next trip was to the beach towns of Poneloya and Las Penitas. This was a reconnaissance mission, but we made an enjoyable day of it, and found a nice Hotel for later. The beach was uncrowded and mostly clean, although the sand was too hot for our virgin feet to handle. Swimming was not recommended due to strong rip tides that kill annually.
The next day was given over to Nicaragua's most important historical site, the ruins of Leon Vijeo (Old Leon). This was the original location the Spanish chose for the City, but was abandoned after only a short period of time due to a catastrophic volcanic eruption that buried the city in 1610. The actual site itself is not really that engaging, although the setting is quite pretty, with a nice view of Volcan Momotombo (the towns nemesis). This is the final resting place of Francisco Hernandez de Cordobra (who was beheaded by the Govenor whom he appointed in a truly epic struggle for power). It was in Leon Viejo that we first learned the Nicaraguan practice of compulsory guides. The tour felt a little rushed, but the walk back in the village of Puerto Momotombo was pleasant and sunny.
Leon had a good selection of street food, including the infamous fritangas. These are food stands, or in some cases buffet style restaurants that serve up the traditional deep fried fare that comprises Nicaraguan cuisine. Leon is a difficult place to find breakfast, and in most cases, its simply easier to wait for lunch.
It was our last day in Leon that I learned how truly hellish the ordeal of cashing travelers cheques in Nicaraguan banks can be. First off, it is important to locate the correct bank, there is only one that can perform this magical transaction. Then you must wait in line to have your cheques scrutinized (this takes about 45 minutes). Unfortunately, at this juncture, you must return to the much longer general line, and stand around for at least another hour before converting your cheques to Cordobras (minus of course, the 5% commission). Remember to ask for small bills, or you will end up with 500 Cordobra notes, that absolutely no one can make change for. It is interesting to note, that although banks are heavily guarded by armed security personal, and despite the fact that all bank patrons must pass through metal detectors when entering, that you are not allowed to wear hats with the brim facing forward(backwards is okay). Fortunately, banks are well air conditioned.
From Leon, we head for a few days R&R at the beach. Las Penitas is quiet and uncrowded, with some good eating and drinking options. Unfortunately, Kira fell ill with a vicious "fritanga related" disease, and spent most of her time in bed or on the toilet. I watched the sun set and drank many cold bottles of Victoria Lager.

Nica Adventures Part 1: Fear and Loathing in Managua

PRESS PLAY FOR SLIDE SHOW!!!!


Part One of My Nicaraguan Adventures (or Arrival in Hell)

Arrival into Managua's Augusto Sandino Airport was a much anticipated affair, as our plane circled the city no less than three times in a stomach turning power arc. Customs was easily cleared with a $5 US fee for a ninety day tourist Visa. There were the usual assortment of clambering and shouting cab drivers as we exited the airport. Most wanted $20 US for the trip into central Managua (or what we presumed to be the centre) but I was able to talk the fare down to $12. Spanish numbers came back with ease, but I wasn't really catching anything beyond hello. Fortunately, the cab driver knew of our hotel, because I don't think I was fully capable of providing directions. Managua, despite its extensive sprawl, has no system of street names or addresses, with the location of buildings and residences being given by their relationship to other buildings or reference points. Example: my house is two blocks down (west towards the setting sun in this instance) and one block towards the lake (north) of the statue of the Guerrilla with No Name (a famous statue). These reference points are fixed in the minds of Managua's citizenry and are used, regardless of whether said landmark still exists.























The cab ride provided a good perspective on the poverty of the city, while the humidity and smell of burning plastic took me back to past travels in Latin America. As the taxi weaved its way through the menage of barrios that comprises central Managua, I was struck by the absolute lack of infrastructure and order. I also became aware of the absolute impossibility of traversing Managua in anything other than a taxi.
As we neared our hotel (Hostel Los Felipes in Barrio Martha Quezada), the night air was punctuated by the harsh staccato of whistle blasts. Private security guards keeping an ever tooting vigil throughout the night. The Hostel Felipes was a welcoming place, and sold beer in the lobby. I had only the fortitude to quaff one cold bottle of Victoria Lager before collapsing into a sweaty sleep (in front of CSI on the TV no less), but the cold beer did relive some of the stress of my journey, and also provided some relief from the 30 plus degree night air.
Morning was also hot. We ignored the lady at the front desks advice to take taxis everywhere, and headed of to find a ATM to procure some local currency. Then we found a nice little breakfast place around the corner from our hotel. By noon, we were fully immersed into exploration of Managua on foot, and felt pretty relaxed. We checked out the ruins of the cathedral (destroyed in the earthquake of 1972), went to the national museum, and strolled along the waterfront promenade. We even jumped in a cab and went to an obscure museum dedicated to the preservation of 6000 year old footprints preserved in volcanic mud.

As most of Managua's sights can be visited in about 4 hours, we decided to hike (from our hotel) up a hill to a park with a volcanic crater lake. a brief rain shower aside, it was a pleasant day.
However, things turned a little ugly on the return trip, when a young thug tried to steal my backpack on a deserted street. He failed, primarily because he wasn't quite scary or big enough, but also because Kira's loud yelling of profanities in English is quite intimidating. The scuffle was almost at a resolution when a taxi pulled up to assist us. Neighborhood women also poured into the street to give moral support and to clarify that the locals don't care for these young thugs either. We quickly retreated to our hotel (somewhat shaken from the event) and had just decided to retreat to the poolside bar when the taxi driver who intervened earlier pulled up outside with the ruffian and two police officers (the Nicaraguan National Police force goes mostly on foot). They inquired if the now foaming ruffian in the red soccer jersey was indeed the assailant (which he was). He began screaming what must of been some very unfriendly and unsavory epithets in my direction, and received a pretty good slap in the face from the female police officer who was seated beside him. Bleeding from the lip and crying, he looked very pathetic and not at all scary.
The police insisted that we come to the local station, and scribbled some directions on a piece of paper to give to a cab driver, but Kira and I simply lacked the desire to pursue the matter further. Besides, a cab ride there and back would have meant a net loss from the attempted robbery, so we figured that we would be ahead of the game if we simply stuck to the hotel compound. We retired for poolside beers, and only ventured forth to eat at the Pollo Estrella across the street. Not exactly fine dinning (a kind of Nicaraguan KFC), but given the security situation, and the lack of desire to experience any more of Managua's charms that day, it seemed the best solution.























The next day we got up early, and had breakfast at the same small restaurant around the corner (Gallo pinto, eggs, tortillas)and packed our things and headed off to hail a cab. We made it about a half block when a youth came running after us and told us to come back to the hotel. We did this, and were quite rudely accused of stealing the towels from the room. This got rather heated, particularly when they threated to charge us 10$ per towel. Kira became a little unhinged, and quite savagely told the lady were to stuff that idea. I think I finely got my point put across (more diplomatically than Kira might have, that it was clearly a house keeping mix up). We were aloud to leave, although we didn't exactly get an apology.
We headed out for the bus station, firmly resolving to avoid Managua as much as is possible for the duration of our trip.

Bamboo Train Video

I Just posted this video on Veoh...so check it out.
More to come, from asia and my up comming trip.

Like this Monkey Movie.

or this photomenage of my "Holiday in Cambodia"

The trick is to pick a kick ass tune!!!

Hmong Courting Rituals (as told by a Hmong man on the prowl)

Backyard weddings with long time partners are not the norm the world over. There are some strange and bizarre courting rituals in many cultures. The Hmongs courting rituals aren’t really strange, by they are different than what we in Canada are used to.

A disclaimer is in order here. All cultural factoids were told to me by my guide Tuvee (who is Hmong). This is no guarantee that they are 100% accurate, but what he said seems to make sense with what I saw.

It seems that the Hmong can only get married, or indeed even talk about marriage) during the festivities of the month long Hmong New Year (this is a good culture no?)

Eligible men and young women are only allowed contact at public events, and dialogue about love and marriage can only take place within the confines of what Tuvee simply referred to as “the ball game”. The rules of the ball game are simple…pick a girl you want to marry, stand across from her and toss a tennis ball back and forth, and in this way woo her off her feet. Apparently tossing a ball back and forth for a month allows enough time for the couple to fall in love. Anyway, as you can see, the girls get rather dressed up for these events (the men, like in most cultures, do not).

Some background about this spectacle (and my coming to see it) is in order here. As most of you know, I’m a fairly independent traveller, and I usually don’t use the services of guides per se. However, this event takes place in the “Bomb Village” outside of Phosavan, in Lao. Primarily, I was there to see the world famous and mysterious “Plain of Jars”. Initially, I thought that jars were all there was to see in the Phosavan region, but I was wrong. We were met at the truck station (Kira, myself, and an Irish girl named Ursula that we met along the way) by a guesthouse tout in a minivan, who offered us a free ride to his guesthouse ( a common scam, but in this case just good service). The name of the place was the Kong Keo Guesthouse, named after the owner a Mr Kong Keo, a lively little Hmong guy with a sense of humour and a pretty good golf swing. The tout turned out to be an affiliated guide named Tuvee (also Hmong) who took people to see the jar sights, but also offered cultural and scenic nature trips as well. There were a few others at the guesthouse when we arrived (all here to see the jars) and we figured on getting a group rate tour together. Now tours are the only legal way to get to the jar sites, and with the large amount of UXO (that’s unexploded ordinance for those of you not familiar with American bombing campaigns), it really is for the best. Everyone wanted to see the jars…but Tuvee was able to convince us to take a more varied (and slightly more expensive) tour that visited only one jar site, but a promised wealth of other, more interesting venues. As he (Tuvee) put it “When you see one jar site, you have both eyes open. But when you see two jars sites, you see the second with one eye closed. Three jar sites, and both eyes are closed.” This would seemingly prove true, as the enigmatic stone jars are a little dull.

So off we went to a bomb crater field (see one of my previous posts at Toasters of the Gods), then to the bomb village (a place where cluster bomb casings are use to make fences and grow herbs), and then a short drive over to a school field where all these colourfully dressed girls were standing in a line, tossing tennis balls back and forth with their friends, and occasionally a man. Tuvee explained the significance of the ball game, and the real reason for our visit became apparent. One of the pretty young girls, it seems, had caught Tuvee’s fancy, and he was, for lack of a better word, trying to put the moves on her in Hmong fashion. Now he carefully cloaked this by first getting us involved in the ball game (the act of throwing balls around has no particular cultural significance unless your intentions are running in that direction), but after a while he confessed his motives, and sought counsel from us as to what he should do about his crush. He got shot down by the way. The girl he was particularly attracted to was from a wealthier family (hence the different styled hat) and didn’t find him marriage worthy and said he was “like the old buffalo trying to get the calves) or something to that effect. Anyway, it was a pretty cool thing to witness, and great opportunity to openly snap pictures of pretty girls.

We later hiked to a waterfall, after a liquid lunch of rice whiskey at one of Tuvee’s moms house (yes that’s one of his moms...not one of his moms’ houses). He fed us some tradital Hmong food and showed us his pot plants Then finally, we went and saw some jars. Altogether a very good day.

I highly recommend the Phosavan experience (although its really quite chilly – read freezing- in the winter). I also highly recommend the Kong Keio Guesthouse, and taking a trip with Tuvee (he might find a new girlfriend by the time you get there). Either way, it’s a cool place to hang out. Sit by a warming fire in a bomb casing, and watch Mr. Kong Keo practice his short game. I doubt anyone would regret a trip here.

Flashing Back to Mexico

I recently (this morning) camping at a local waterfall, reading about Nicaragua (my next destination) and I realized that most of Nicaragua's natural attractions are volcanoes...some active...some extinct.
This got me thinking about one of the more surreal sights of my travels.
Vulcan Paricutin, in Michocan Mexico.
This was a very recent development...it started as a bubbling cyst in a farmers field in1943...the farmer tried in vain to put the volcano out by shovelling dirt on it. In a single year it rose to 1100 feet and started spewing lava on all the little villagers (fortunately the lava flow was slow, so most were able to run away). It's molten fury creeped over the little town at its base, burying and burning everything in it's path, except the spire of the cathedral.
This omission by the destructive forces of nature presents one of the must see/photograph wonders of Inland Mexico (or indeed anywhere). Its best photographed from a distance, as local boys with too much time on their hands have somewhat defaced it with spray-painted declarations of love etc. The distance shots also get in more lava...making it look less like a ruined church, and more like a ruined church submerged in lava...which it is.
I've made the trip out to Paracutin three times...and each time I've been rewarded with few visitors and a pleasant walk. Do not attempt approaching the church in sandals, as this slow cooling lava flow is razor sharp and cuts the feet. Dogs paws are also aggravated by the rocks, and dogs generally lack vigour in the heat.
Some people actually trek up the cone, but who needs that kind of physical torment on a hot day. Not only is it hot, but you start out at a pretty high elevation, so your stamina is already waning. Renting horses is an option...but I never really got around to it...perhaps next time.
Paracutin is closest to Uruapan...a largely ignored travel destination...but one of my favourite Mexican cities. Another good day trip from Uruapan is the guitar/catholic ketch making town of Paracho...this is where I get all my Virgin of Guadalupe paintings.

It's All About the Local Flavour (Part 2)

Lao is not a country known for its cuisine. There is a pretty good reason that you don’t find too many Lao food restaurants in this part of the world. Its not that the food is bad, it just lacks the kind of style that makes trendy ethnic food cultures trendy. Perhaps the Lao lost there culinary skills during the 11 year American bombing campaign…cooking in caves can be tricky…it’s hard to see.

One interesting feature about Lao food is that 95% of it is cooked on open wood fires. Even restaurants in comparatively large towns use outdoor/indoor wood fires to cook your food.

Lao cuisine is usually served with a basket of the ubiquitous sticky rice. The basket has a lid, and it is bad luck to forget to put the lid back on when you are done. Sticky rice is eaten with the hands (no chopsticks in Lao: no forks either, just spoons) and is used as a utensil to convey the non-rice part of the meal into the mouth. As a side note here, I recently ate at a Thai food place in Powell River, and got some strange looks from the cliental when I started shovelling my food in with my hands…but remember…this is proper etiquette for sticky rice.

Typically you get very small portions of food…but hey, its not like your paying much for them.

The Lao have a few traditional dishes that are worth mentioning:

The first is Laap, which is a meat or fish salad, served cold or warm. A meat salad sounds unappealing at first, but is really just shredded meat with chopped up onions, green beans, mint leaves, and chillies. It comes in Beef (which is sometimes actually water buffalo), Pork, Duck, Chicken, or Fish. It can be cooked or raw, spicy or bland. Laap, although the national specialty is rarely consistent and ranges from the best thing you’ve ever eaten (almost) to down right yucky.

The most common dish is foe, which are noodles (bland noodles) and is eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Foe is usually pretty boring (mainly because of the trend to now use cheap Chinese instant style noodles), but watch out for the bits of mystery meat…the whole animal goes into the soup. Foe is spiced up with chilli paste, by the consumer… the Lao like it spicy.

Another good dish is Luk Luk, which is a beef or buffalo stew type dish. Anything with fresh veggies is coveted after a few weeks.

But man can not live on food alone when roaming the world, and quite fortuitously, Lao is blessed with two of the best alcoholic beverages in the region. The first, and most important, is Beer Lao…the national (and only) brew. Beer Lao is not only good by Asian standards (typically regional beers suck) but is actually a good solid lager. It was created by the French, and is unavailable in neighbouring Thailand due to the fact that it would collapse the Thai brewing industry (Thai beers are a rather foul chemical tasting concoction that fortunately have high levels of alcohol in them).

The other beverage that one must try is the local rice whisky called Lao Lao. This is hootch to be sure, but over ice with honey and lime juice it is almost devine. Moderation is a must, as the uncontrolled fermentation process produces quite a punch. Lao Lao is made with fermented rice, and distilled in large fuel drums throughout the country. Ducks are commonly found trying to eat the fermenting rice.

No matter what you eat or drink, or where you have it, remember to say Khawp Jai Lai Lai when you leave. Not only does this mean thank you very much, but its real fun to say.

Its All About the Local Flavour (Part 1)

One thing I really love about travelling is the availability of cheap local yummies on the street. I absolutely love sampling the local fare...the old point and taste trip. This is a shot of some street vendors on Bangkok's Ko San Road, probably the only place in Thailand that you can find english (or even roman script) telling you what you're buying. You can get pretty good Pad Thai for 20 Bhat (about us$.50), but as the day gets hotter, the unrefridgerated shrimp get less appealling. And lets face it, as soon as the party crowd on Ko San wakes up (a little past noon) the area is just not enjoyable.

A little more Thai, and a little less farang (gringo in Thai) is the street food scene in bustling, yet quaint city of Chiang Mai in Northern Thailand. Now Chiang Mai gets more than its fair share of farang comming through (its all the rage to go on a trek and smoke opium with the hill tribes), but the citizens of Chiang Mai have not gone so far as to put every sign in english. The food here is different than in the south, and sticky rice (not even close to being like sushi rice) is the staple. It's what you get to go with the rice that makes eating in Chiang Mai so much fun. They gots eats.
These photos were taken on market Sunday. Now there is a huge street market everday, but Sunday is the best, as vendors from all over the region come in to sell their wares. Sunday is, in fact, the day that vendors come to sell to other vendors, who later (Monday through Saturday) sell these things to farang.
Great deals on multiple quantities of stuff can be found, and some vendors dub it the "wholesale market". This translates to even more yummy street food than normal as all those vendors from out of town require food. And most of these goodies cater not to farang, but to the Thai themselves....cuisine authentico.
Most of the snacks are a variation of meat on a stick, but some things are really tasty. The drinks are really sweet, and should be avoided by anyone with even a miniscule history of diabeties in their family.




For a sit down meal, there is a wide variety of reasonably inexpensive (read: really F@#$%^&& cheap) international fare type resturants, but the one must have meal in Chiang Mai is this local specialty curry cooked up in the citys' muslim quarter. In a dingy reasturant across from a mosque, advertised only in arabic and thai, there is a nameless restuarant that serves up a fabulous curry dish. And the experience of eating among so many traditionally dressed muslims in a predominantly buhddist country is a truely foriegn experience. And the problem of not speaking or reading arabic or thai?? Just show your white ass up, they know what you came for.

Meat on Street

This is a little travel tradition I like to call "Meat on the Street". This is an ongoing instalment of often disturbing images of questionably stored flesh intended for human consumption.
Pictured here are some sausages drying on a pole suspended between two chairs on a sidewalk outside a monastery in Luang Prabang (Lao PDR). This is one of the least graphic, as no recognizable parts of the animal are visible. These vsuages sat on this sidewalk for the duration of my stay (3 days) which seems odd, considering the number of resident dogs at this ,and all, monasteries in South East Asia. As a side point to consider, and most likely answering the burning question - why do monks need so many sausages?, monks only eat two meals a day (one at 6 am, and one at 11 am), and fast for the duration of the day. If you only ate two meals a day, and both could be considered reakfast, you would probably go through a lot of sausages too.
I have some real horror show images of a slaughter wagon in Mexico, and some good street butchering and market hanging pictures from all my travels in Latin America.
I will have to borrow my sisters scanner and unleash a torrent of street meat upon you good viewers.
It's noteworthy to mention that I have consumed a wide selection of meat products so exclusively from little vending carts in all places I've been, but the only food poisioning I can conclusively link to street food was a shredded carrot and cabbage toastado I bought in Quetzaltenengo (Xela) Guatemala. Kira was made seriously ill by a snack of Bolivian death Jello (green flavour) with a very attractive whipped topping. I warned her not to do it.
The principle at work here is that if the food is popular with the locals, it probably won't kill you. I've had much worse from restaurants, as who really knows what’s going on with the food behind the scenes. I had a bad run with East Indian food when in Lao, although at least one instance (out of three) was probably psychosomatic.
Strong local alcohol is also a proven prophylactic against tummy troubles, although the really cheap rum of Honduran origin should be avoided.
Again, I promise you more slaughter at a future date.

Travel Blogging Runs in My Family

My sister suggested that I start a travel orientated, photo rich blog of my travels. So here it is. Seeing as how she will be the only one reading it, I'm going to break convention and not do the I went here, I did this format, but rather present it by subject, or group of images that I can loosely loop into a subject based purely on whimsy.

Today’s subject is local transport oddities...those motorized conveyors of people and goods (but most importantly people) that are completely (or relatively) unique to a country or region.

The top image is from Thailand (Bangkok's Ko San Road to be precise). This flashy hybrid motorcycle taxi is called a "tuk-tuk". That’s onomatopoeia...it makes a tuk...tuking noise. They are also used in Lao, but have less power and a different pitch to the motor. The name is the same, but pronounced differently to reflect the difference in motor noise. I love literal languages. The strange looking machine in the middle is the rural equivalent of a tuk-tuk, and is essentially a rota-tiller tractor attached to a cart. Top speed: 5mph (downhill with a strong tailwind). Name: Dok-dok. Reason for name: see above.

This last beauty is from the Battambang rail line of North-western Cambodia. It is a bamboo train powered by a small motor, and is easily assembled by three Cambodians in less than two minutes. The come apart even easier, which is good, because they have to be taken of the track if other rail traffic is coming. The rules of the road are that the heavier vehicle has the right of way. The go faster than the actual Khmer trains, which if you seen the condition of the tracks, is not surprising, as it is time consuming to re-rail a de-railed train.