Mopeds & Miracles

The backpacker is a curious breed of traveler. Easily insulted by the accusation that they are simply sightseers, they aspire to be more than someone on vacation. They want to experience the culture and to interact with the locals. But most of all, they want to find that Holy Grail of Backpacking... the TWING (That Which is In No Guidebook). The backpacker dreams of finding that mythical beast, the secret destination that nobody knows about.  Well friends, I'm here to tell you a tale of one such beast in the jungles of Bali. Ganesh guards the entrance It won't be a short tale.  It won't always be an exciting tale.  You will likely have to take a bathroom break somewhere in the middle.  But like the search for the mythical beast itself, the persistent reader will be rewarded. Even the grandest tales can have humble beginnings and my tale began at a humble cocktail party.  And with a guy named Samuel, who was a friend of a friend.  Between the usual cocktail party

A typical kopitiam As I sit down in a cafe on Penang Island, Malaysia, he saunters over at me. One-eyed, a mouth full of missing teeth and a curious shape to his lips, he seems somehow alien. Despite being in Malaysia, he speaks to me in what I can only assume is Chinese and yet, this is not what makes him seem alien. No, I understand clearly that he wants to take my order and I ordered the one drink that is understood everywhere... beer. This is a cafe, but not in the Starbucks sense that a jaded urbanite might assume. No five dollar espressos will be found here, no patrons will be chatting on their cellphone in line, no fancy laptops will be proudly on display. In fact, one would be hard-pressed to realize that the main point of this establishment is drinking. It's not. This is a kopitiam - more food court than coffee shop and a mainstay of Malaysian and Singaporean food culture. If you want good food at a great price, you come here and being that Penang itself is k

Entrée Typical Saigon traffic On a cool Saigon night, the corps de ballet lines up behind me. Five wide and three deep, they wait for the light to change. To my left, a trendy Vietnamese teen rides her vintage Vespa. To my right, a smartly clad office worker in a business suit sits atop her gleaming new Yamaha Nouvo. These, my lead ballerinas , stand with me at the front of the corps . As the red light counts down, the dancers rev their engines in anticipation. Green light and the dancers all pounce forward in a grand jeté . The wind blows in my face as I savor the beauty of the dance. Ahead, a pedestrian blocks our way - a rock in the stream - but we adjust without the slightest hesitation. I weave right. Vespa girl weaves left. As my alley approaches and I prepare for my coda , I look to my right and give a small nod to Yamaha girl - great performance, see you again at the 7 o'clock show . She looks at me as though I'm crazy. And... she's right. I am completely and ho

Sometimes I just sit and stare. Stare and reminisce. Reminisce about those first few weeks, when you dive into a new country head first and bask in the glory of culture shock. How alien it sounded to hear a new language spoken, how tantalizing the smell of new and unknown foods, how curious you were to see people wearing strange clothes. Every experience feeds the traveler's addiction - to see something new or to feel something fresh - and you grasp frantically at anything that will keep that feeling alive. But as you paddle furiously upstream, you know what's waiting for you downstream. Comfort and rest. Adventure gives way to routine and you find comfort in the things you know - your favorite TV show from back home, a bar that reminds you of your old hangout. Slowly, the feelings of culture shock - once so visceral and green - become pale memories. Did you ever really feel that way or is it just a dream you make up as you sit and stare? Stare and reminisce? And th

For the last month, my home has been a small, modest room in Saigon's backpacker district. Dirty walls and a small bathroom. Curtains in a brown that hasn't been fashionable since the 70's. It's not a place you'd want your mother to know you're living, but it's cheap and it's not all bad. It's a room with a view, and then some. From my window, you can watch the Saigon circus parade by every night. The streets are full of Western tourists and the menagerie that follows wherever they go: peddlers and prostitutes. It's certainly not a dull neighborhood. Nor is it a quiet neighborhood. With several bars within one block, I am treated nightly to the sounds of Guns & Roses, Shakira and imported American pop culture. So it's not much surprise when I'm woken at 4am by the sounds of Dixie Jazz. Peddlers play Christmas music from their carts, why not Dixie jazz? Just ignore it, go back to sleep. But the volume keeps getting louder a

Anything can happen on the streets of Saigon. I've been propositioned for sex, drugs and rock & roll among other things. I've seen people playing soccer on the street, women doing aerobics on the street, anything you can think of. But the other day, the most unexpected thing happened to me while walking down the street in Saigon. I changed. Finding a place to live has been more of a challenge than I expected. Dreams of landlords throwing themselves at my feet to get at my American dollars have largely vanished, swept away by the reality that I'm only the one hundred thousandth Viet Kieu to come up with the brilliant idea of moving home to take over Vietnam. Just as I was ready to give up and settle on a place I wasn't really excited about, I got an unexpected phone call the other day and looked at a great house. Today, walking back to the building to meet the landlady, my mind was full of doubts. What if I was being scammed? Should I give them the deposi