Sikkim

Sept. 29^th, 2011

After crossing the border into Sikkim, the ancient Buddhist kingdom in the Himalayas and a semi-autonomous state of India, it was a short ride before we reached the town of Jorethang. For me it was just a transit point, so when I was dropped off in town, I immediately asked around for the next jeep station. The town was in a deep valley, and therefore not as dramatically beautiful as Darjeeling, although it felt even more removed from the Bengali land of the south that I had left so recently. Culturally it was obviously different, although there was something else that I had a hard time putting my finger on. Something about the look of the buildings, perhaps the region’s history had affected the way it developed. Everything seemed just a little bit more…coherent.

This building does not express what I was just talking about.

The jeep station was something like a multi-level parking garage. This was unique, as were the actual jeep schedule sheets at the ticket booth (also unique). Vendors walked around selling tea, ice cream and veg momos. Momos, if you don’t know, are like a steamed wonton with a variety of potential fillings. This one had some sort of bland, shredded, boiled cabbage in it. I bought a plate, and luckily it came with a hot pepper sauce that saved it from complete boredom. Unfortunately I had just missed the last bus to Pelling, the town I was headed. They said there was one more jeep going to Geyzing (via a town called Legship) and from there I could get another jeep or taxi. That was good enough for me. As the crow flies, I could not have been more than 20 miles from Pelling. On a map it looked like it would not possibly take more than an hour. But if you look closely at the road on the map, you’ll notice that it is drawn as a messy little squiggle, showing that it would be a lit of ziggang and zagging as we escalated into the mountains.

The first leg, to Geyzing, took about two hours. The road had a lot of damage to it from the earthquake. I would later find out that a matter of a couple days earlier, the road was completely impassable. It was impressive, that with the resources available, and with the terrain, that the road was able to be restored within ten days of the earthquake. At one turn, I saw a shallow river simply flowing over the road. This was strange and almost frightening. It was on a hairpin turn on a steep face. The weirder part, though, was that I saw a couple of cars parked in the flowing water. I was confused at first, but then saw that the drivers were outside using the water to wash their cars off. I wouldn’t have wanted to linger where water was flowing freely and surely breaking down the asphalt underneath us.

Landslide/Road damage

The jeep lot in Geyzing was crowded and hectic for such a small town. We had ascended quite a ways, and there were some incredible views. The town looked quaint, and worth stopping in. Pelling, my desination was far more famous, and attracted a good number of tourists for its views of Khangchendzonga, the world’s third highest peak. If I wasn’t already behind schedule a day and on a limited time frame, I probably would have passed a day or two in the town. Unfnortunately, I did not have that luxury.

The jeep to Pelling took the better part of an hour, despite the fact that we moved about 7 km. I did some searching around town, and found one of my all-time greatest hotel deals. It took a bit of bargaining, but it was worth it. It was huge, fairly clean, had a huge bed with plenty of blankets, a bathroom, a TV, outlets (you have to pay extra to stay in hotels with outlets in Kolkata), but most of all was the view. I had huge windows that looked down over the valley below, and in the distance, if it was clear, I would hopefully have some mountain views. The town seemed to cater to Bengalis and south Indian tourists, so there was an abundance of south Indian restaurants priced a little too far out of my price range. I was lucky to find a basic little momo shop to get dinner before it was dark. They were bland, but again, the sauce made up for it, as did the setting. It was a little family run shop that seemed barely in use. They had to go find a chair for me to sit down at the lone wooden table. The grandparents giggled in the back, while the mother seemed too overwhelmed with her kids to carry out her chef duties. I languidly consumed my moms, as I watched the little town slowly pass by through the shops open front. It was perfect.

Pelling

Some people in town play a game that involves tossing coins into a little hole in the ground. Kind of like horseshoes, kind of like golf, kind of like Las Vegas.

There was not a lot to do in the town itself, but there was a lot to see in the area. It was worth taking strolls through town, though, as the views were spectacular and the people were friendly. In the morning, I woke early so I could get a glimpse of Khangchendzonga before it was obscured by clouds. At 6 AM my alarm went off. I sat up in bed, and there it was. Sweet. And then I laid back down and caught another hour or two of sleep.

Khangchendzonga from my window.

View of the valley and villages below.

The rest of my day was spent walking to some nearby religious and historical sites. The first was the ruins of Rabdentse, about three km from my hotel. It was a relaxing walk to the entrance of the ruins and it felt good to be in the fresh mountain air. The ruins are from the ancient capital of Sikkim from 1670 to 1814. The capital of the kingdom has actually changed several times over the last few centuries.

It is a twenty-minute walk from the entrance of the site to the actual ruins. On the way, I ran into a group of local tourists from Gangtok, the current capital of Sikkim. They were extremely friendly, and one of the men asked if I would like to join their tour, since they had hired a local guide. It seemed interesting to me that they had a local guide, since I have generally shunned guides in my travels. The group was a family, and the father, who was a young teacher, was excited to talk to a foreigner. The guide, who was also young and friendly, spoke good English, but was a little more reserved. When we got to the ruins, the father took the most enthusiasm in explaining the history of the ruins, although he generally repeated the same small bits of information over and over.

There he is on the right, giving me the rundown.

They had brought a picnic, and invited me to share their beer and samosas with them. They pulled out a bag of something I had only seen during my hour stay in Bhutan five years ago: HIT Super Strong Beer. It should have exclamation points in its name too. Anyway, there was plenty to go around, with the men drinking most of it, but the mother of the family taking occasional swigs as well. This is one thing that I find enjoyable about the Himalayan culture: a more liberal approach to alcohol. While in most of India, it is done in dark, dingy bars or on the sly out of an unmarked bottle, but rarely out in the open in a picnic setting at a historical landmark.

The father got more gregarious as he tip-toed into his beer. It seemed that he had probably been drinking before I had met him based on the way he was acting, as well as his inability to finish his large beer. When I pointed out that we had finished ours, and he was only halfway through, he got ambitious. Perhaps I take some blame in what followed. He put the bottle to his lips, tipped it upside down and began to chug relentlessly. About halfway through, panic began to develop in his eyes. He dropped the bottle and lunged toward a nearby ledge over the ruins. He was on his knees, leaning over the ledge and heaving away all of his samosas and beer. Right onto the ancient capital of the kingdom of Sikkim. Classy.

They had invited me to continue their tour with them and drive to a nearby monastery, but after the incident with the beer, they said they decided it was best just to head back to their hotel. On the walk back to their car, I mostly stuck next to the guide. He was talking about how disappointing it was that all the tourists that came from other parts of India didn’t treat the area well, and tossed their garbage everywhere. It was refreshing to hear him say this, because in most places it is just not something people think of. We ended up picking up garbage (some being littered right in front of us by our group of tourists) all the way back to the car. Perhaps it was due to a lack of population, but Sikkim did have considerably less garbage than other parts of India that I had seen.

After they left, I walked back towards Pelling, and stopped to see the Pemayangtse Gompa. Built in 1765, it is one of Sikkim’s oldest gompas, or Buddhist monasteries. As I walked up the steep hill toward its hilltop perch, I noticed some bamboo scaffolding hugging the three-story high walls. There were several men on the scaffolding, repairing the building. Apparently it had been damaged in the recent earthquake and there were cracks in the brick walls. Part of me just wanted to watch the workers repair the building, but after taking a couple pictures of them, I felt that my presence was making them uncomfortable.

Unfortunately for me and the reader, I was not able to take pictures inside the monastery. So now I have to go through the trouble of describing the complex religious imagery going on inside. And really, who am I fooling that I can understand all that I saw, let alone explain it all several months later? I’ll tell you this much: There were lots of colors, many artistic expressions of different incarnations of Buddha, shelves upon shelves of ancient hand-written scriptures. It was pretty empty at this time of day, but there was somebody there to show me around briefly. In one of the rooms, I could hear some musicians playing what I could assume to be some sort of devotional music. Basic, repetitive, but with an enchanting element to it. I wanted to stick around and just sit and enjoy the peacefulness or examine the ornate art that covered the walls, but I felt that my guide would get impatient with me or that I would simply be intruding by being present as some ceremony was about to take place. Outside was also quiet and empty, but had a courtyard lined with housing for the monks. The view was more than enviable.

As the sun started to dip below the nearby mountains, I felt that it would get cold soon, so I started walking the couple of km back to town. By the time I got back, I was feeling a tinge of nausea. I had been hungry, but as the nausea increased, it went away. I got to my room and got in bed, doing my best to sit up and enjoy the view that I was lucky to have. I developed a fever, and started to get freezing cold. Then the diarrhea started. I was sick all night and all through the next day. It was the sickest I had been since I Morocco, almost a year earlier. I was surprised that of all places, I had gotten sick in the seemingly clean Himalayan areas. This was far a far cry from the sweaty bacteria incubator of Kolkata, where I not only have never been sick, but threw caution to the wind by eating street food and drinking tap water. I couldn’t really understand what was happening to me, but I was just glad that I had my laptop and a few movies on it to keep my mind off my stomach. I spent a shameless amount of time the next day just watching movies between sprints to the bathroom bouts of alternating sweats and freezes. All I consumed all day were some packaged “tiffin” cakes and a bottle of Pepsi. Today, the thought of that meal makes me nauseous, but at the time, it was the only thing in town that I thought wouldn’t kill me. By the evening, it felt that the sickness was passing. A simple 24-hour bug. I was only disappointed that I hadn’t gotten to explore more of the surrounding villages or gone on a hike. All in all though, for how free I feel with what foods I eat and what waters I drink when traveling, the very occasional day of sickness is worth it to me. Too often I see people being so careful with what they eat, but they will get sick anyway. It is part of traveling, so it is almost unavoidable. I would later find out, too, that the sickness that I had was most likely caused by a parasite I caught from swimming in the Niger River in Mali, and not even from food poisoning or contaminated water in India. Still, as disappointing as it was to be sick, I think it came at a perfect time. Being sick in the mountains of Sikkim, I am sure, beats being sick in sweltering, crowded, Kolkata any day. I feel very fortunate for always having stayed healthy in that city.

From Siliguri to Darjeeling to Sikkim

Sept. 27^th, 2012

My train from Kolkata to New Jalpaiguri was supposed to take about 10 or 11 hours, so when I woke up at 7 AM, I realized we were running a couple hours late. Of course, this was no cause for alarm, as Indian trains are known for anything but their punctuality. I continued to hang out and read on my top bunk until we finally arrived at the final stop some time between nine and ten. Everyone pushed and shoved as they forced their over-sized suitcases through the aisles and doors. I yawned and slowly gathered my belongings, and shoved everything into my small backpack.

I had been to this station once at night in my first trip to India, but when I got out, the scene before me was not familiar. The station seemed a lot smaller and rural than I had remembered. I ignored those thoughts, and put them in the back of my mind. The most pressing issue was to figure out how to get to Siliguri, a transport hub town about 5 km away. I didn’t know of any bus that went directly, but I didn’t want to take a taxi either. I asked around about which bus to take. Someone pointed to the back of the lot to a local bus with a big crowd around it. It was already full, but people were still forcing their way on. I tossed myself into the melee and wedged myself into the doorway. Somehow I made it on, bag and all. I was squeezed tightly among a dozen sullen men standing up, hanging on tightly to whatever was available to avoid getting tossed around as the bus lurched along the road. When I asked if this bus went to Siliguri, someone said it would take me to a bus that was going there. It seemed odd that I would have to take two buses to get to a town so close.

After about fifteen minutes, we arrived to what seemed like the center of a small town. People hustled along the side of the road as they got their day started. Someone pointed to another bus and told me it was going to Siliguri. I let the crowd on the bus slowly squeeze me out of the door. For such a small town, it was still loud, crowded and fast-paced. Someone shouting from the bus summoned me with rapid calls of “Siliguri! Siliguri! Siliguri!”

After fifteen minutes on the bus I was wondering what was taking so long. Finally, the attendant came by to collect the fares. I asked how much it was and he said 70 rupees. This was a shock, as a short-distance bus should have cost no more than 10 or 20 rupees. I asked how long the bus would take, and he said 3 or 4 hours. It started to sink in. Somehow I had missed my stop, and taken the train to the end of the line in who knows where. I was confused how New Jalpaiguri was not the last stop, since it was called the New Jalpaiguri Express, and nothing on the ticket indicated that the train went beyond my stop. I looked at a map, and figured I was in some small town just north of Bangladesh. It was a shock to suddenly be in a completely different place than I had thought. At the same time, I knew there was nothing I could do, so I calmly laid my head against the window, thankful I had scored a seat, and had a nap.

When we arrived in Siliguri in the late afternoon, I realized that the mistake I had made would be a serious delay in my mission to get to Sikkim. On a map, Sikkim and Siliguri are very close, but due to the mountainous terrain and bad roads, the journey takes a lot longer than one would expect. I was hoping to make it in a day, but at this point, that was an impossible desire. Before leaving Siliguri, I would have to go to an office to get my permit to enter Sikkim. I had heard that you could get it at some border crossings, but not all of them, so I was getting it here to be safe.

Siliguri is not my favorite place. Nor is it anyone’s favorite place, I am sure. It is a disorganized, transit hub. It is loud, obnoxious and the kind of place I do not want to linger in. It was a breath of fresh air, though, when I entered the Sikkim permit office and found the Sikkimese staff to be warm and genial. Unfortunately, though, I needed to get a copy of my passport to get my permit, and they had no copy machine. It took me about thirty minutes of wandering the back streets of the town before I finally found a copy shop. After that, though, the process to pick up the permit was easy, and I got it done just before they closed. I was relieved, as I never had any desire to spend a night in Siliguri. Once was enough.

I went to the area of town where jeeps were departing for Darjeeling. There is no bus, just jeeps. At one point in time, you could actually take a train all the way to Darjeeling, but it seems that due to either earthquakes or landslides this is no longer possible. Because it was so late in the day, my options for a jeep were limited, and I took the only one that I could find. I waited around the dusty lot for other passengers to fill it. I bought some samosas from a small restaurant, but regretted it since they were overpriced and under-spiced. Soon enough, though, we were ready to go, and I was crammed into the middle seat in the back. Yes, it would be bumpy and I wouldn’t be able to see much, but I was used to getting the worst spot in most Indian transportation. It’s hard to fight for your space when you have to do it through a language barrier, not to mention the fact that you never really know what is going on around you.

The ride to Darjeeling, which was halfway to Sikkim would take a few hours. For the first twenty minutes, we rolled through sparse forest filled with an orange, dusky haze. Soon, though, we were heaved upward at a steep angle, rising quickly into Himalayan foothills. It became dark, and I could barely make out our surroundings. All I could tell was that the road was steep, narrow and had plenty of holes and hazards. At times it seemed that we were hanging over the edge of the road, preparing to disappear into the abyss below. I could faintly tell that it would be a long way down if the driver made a careless mistake. We were pushed even closer to the edge when another jeep would come creeping down from above as and we had to share the road for a brief, but nerve-wracking moment.

After climbing about a mile and a quarter in elevation, we arrived in Darjeeling. Because it was dark, I couldn’t make out much of the scenery, but I knew that we were high. It was pouring rain, so I took shelter in front of a shop and tried to orient myself with a map. It took a bit of wandering, but I finally got my bearings. I found myself walking through a narrow street with three-story buildings towering over me on either side. I was almost certain I was on the right street to find the guesthouse I was in search of. I had walked a ways down the road, and started to question my navigation, when suddenly the power went out. I had thought I was dark already, but what little light was coming from nearby windows had been just enough to illuminate the streets for safe walking. Now it was completely black all around me. I just stopped. Going back from where I had come was not going to get me to a guesthouse sooner, but moving forward in the dark seemed unlikely to yield any results either. I just stood there for a couple minutes, knowing that I shouldn’t expect the lights to come on any time soon, and waited for my eyes to adjust. Then I remembered that I had packed a small flashlight. It was barely enough to get me by, but it helped me move along. Just as I arrived at the guesthouse, the lights came on. It had been over 24 hours since I left Kolkata, but I had arrived to a new, elevated land where things were much different.

Entering into the lit front room of the guesthouse made me truly feel like I had taken a big step suddenly. Kolkata, the train ride, Siliguri, and the jeep ride had all felt like the India that I think of when I think of India. But now I was suddenly having nostalgic feelings of Nepal. The gentle atmosphere, the décor, the face of the guesthouse manager and a rustic smell that I could not quite put my finger on. It all spun me around and made me feel I was suddenly in Nepal. It was cold and I was once again grateful for keeping my orange second hand jacket from Morocco. I was also grateful for the cool air. I hadn’t been anything remotely close to cold in months.

The manager showed me to my quarters. The dorm beds were only 100 rupees ($2) and I had the whole thing to myself. I would have to say that more than half of the dorms I have ever stayed in, I have been the only occupant. There was no heating, but there were heavy, mattress like comforters. They all felt slightly moist and the whole room had a mildewy feel to it. It was not a place to linger, so I returned to the restaurant upstairs and ordered a milk tea (dudh chia) which is a little different than the Bengali chai. I honestly don’t know what the difference between the two are, but this tasted exactly like what I remember from my time in Nepal. Although I had not reached my goal destination for the day, it felt good enough to make it to this elevation, have a cozy room, a book and a hot cup of tea. I can appreciate the simpler things.

I woke underneath two of the crushing, wet comforters. I was warm enough, but as I started to move the covers, the cold air seeped in and almost stopped me. I was motivated, though, by one of my most favorite moments in traveling. You’ve had this, hopefully we’ve all gotten to experience this magic at least once. When you arrive to a place for the first time at night, and have to wait through the night to really see where you are. And then in the morning you are rewarded with some sort of incredible view that is a world away from what you had last seen in the daylight. This was my motivation for braving the cold. I hopped out of bed, threw my jacket and shoes (shoes!? Yes, I was starting to wear actual shoes again!) and walked along the wraparound balcony. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve this sight, but it felt like an excessive reward for something I noble I must have done recently.

There It Is

After a cup of milk tea, I checked out and walked down to the lot of jeeps. It was a long walk down the big hill that Darjeeling sits on. Most of the roads traversed the landscape gently from side to side, but occasionally I would cut down steep stairs and alleyways. I made my way through the market and arrived at the jeeps.

Walking through the market, following a porter with a heavy load.

I found the jeep heading to Jorethang, just across the border of Sikkim. I managed to get a window seat this time. We descended down an incredibly steep road through acres and acres of green tea fields. We could see women with large baskets on their back, picking the leaves. It must have been hard work and I’m sure the intense slopes didn’t make it any easier.

Tea fields

The road was narrow and in worse shape than the one we had been in the night before. It was less essential and there for less maintained than the road between Darjeeling and Siliguri. I have to be honest and say that for much of it I was at least a little bit scared. Of all the sketchy rides I’ve had, this one seemed like the most dangerous. Adding to this, there had been a major earthquake in Sikkim about a week earlier. It had caused landslides and buildings to collapse. The evidence of this wasn’t too obvious, and I wasn’t sure what damages had been caused by the earthquake, and what was simply neglect.

Landslide.

After a couple hours of creeping lower and lower into the valley below (quite a sight, but quite a fright) we crossed a rickety bridge over a river and arrived at the border post for Sikkim. I felt bad for my fellow passengers as they normally would be waved on through. Instead, since there was a foreigner aboard, we had to stop and everyone waited while I handed over my passport and paperwork to the guards. They were thorough in their inspection, but friendly enough to make up for it. I got my passport stamp and was on my way.

Crossing the border.

The view of Jorethang, a town just across the border into Sikkim.

International Withdrawals

Sept. 27ish, 2012

My first few days in Kolkata, as exhausting as they were, were remarkably exhilarating. I spent a lot of time trying to get my bearings and revisit old favorite spots. I finally got my dish of raj kachori, and it tasted every bit as incredible as I remembered it. The smooth curd, soft potato and crunchy kachori played off each other well, while the sweet and spicy chutneys performed a powerful dance all over my tongue. Like my last time in India, though, my appetite was seriously curbed by whatever forces there were. I was more adventurous in my eating than ever, but for some reason I was unable to put away more than two small meals a day, and even those were a challenge.

After closer inspection, a lot had changed in the immediate vicinity of Kolkata. A large portion of the crusty old New Market had been renovated, apparently after being ravaged by fire. Instead of grimy stalls in the front, there were glass windows selling name brand sports equipment and luggage. More surprisingly, though, the touts were neither overly desperate or as numerous as I remembered. Before, there was a small army of men in white shalwar suits carrying baskets that would try to direct you to various shops to get commission. While I could never stand them before, I missed the fun challenge of trying to get rid of them while navigating the market. They were still there, but much less likely to ruin your market experience. The market itself was no longer as crowded as it used to be either, and what was once an exhilarating experience, was now relatively dull. The meat market within, though, was still as smelly as ever.

I had changed my Thai Baht into Rupees at the airport, but when that ran out, I went to an ATM, my preferred method of money management when abroad. To my disappointment, none of the machines seemed to be working. It was not the biggest shock, but on the second day of attempting to withdraw, I suspected something worse when it failed repeatedly. I made a phone call to mother and asked her to call the bank. It could have been worse, but basically the bank had shut off my card when they saw that I was trying to withdraw from INDIA. Of course, a lot of this is because I still bank with my small Idaho bank that is not used to withdrawals being made from such obscure places. At the same time, though, I only keep this bank because they are not used to dealing with international withdrawals, and therefore don’t seem to bother with putting steep fees on these transactions. It was only recently that they started charging anything, and even now it is only $1.50 per withdrawal, which is a pittance compared to what most banks charge. Still, it was strange how I could travel through Europe, or Southeast Asia without problem, but as soon as I got to India, they had cause for suspicion. They had done the same thing to me in Mauritania, but that time they had completely cancelled my card, certain that my security had been “compromised”. Anyway, it would take a couple days for the bank to get my card back on. In the meantime I would have to exchange the last of my emergency dollars. In Africa I had carried nearly a thousand dollars, half of it in Euros, but never needed it. Then I spent most of it in France and Cambodia (where they take dollars and have extremely high ATM fees) and had just a few 20’s left.

While some of the dingy old guest houses with $3 beds were still intact, there were a lot more hotels reaching for tourists and travelers with a little more money and desire for comfort. After inspection, though, many of these hotels, that charged four times more than their budget counterparts had only invested in the façade and image. While they had fancy signs and a modern air-conditioned reception area, the rooms were tiny, stuffy and sometimes damp. My room, on the other hand, was nothing to look at, but had high ceilings, a powerful fan, big windows facing a quiet street, two beds and plenty of space. More importantly, though, it had several common areas where you could hang out with your fellow travelers in the evening. Kolkata is one of the rare places where I prefer to spend my evenings with some fellow travelers sipping beers rather than seeking out a local spot to have a drink. Unlike in places like the Philippines or Ghana, the local drinking spots are terribly depressing and even I don’t find them worth going to. There are upscale bars and clubs as well, but they charge covers, have strict dress codes and the drinks cost as much as two days in my hotel. Also, I find the traveler community in Kolkata more inspiring than most. People are there for all different reasons. Most of all though, the nature of Kolkata tends to keep the wild revelers looking for spring break atmosphere relegated to the tiny state of Goa. After Cambodia, specifically Sihanoukville, I needed some change. I had been having a great time, partying and what not, but Kolkata rocked me back into a sober world, which I needed for a bit of focus. It was a serious cold turkey as well, since I arrived during state elections, and the sale of alcohol was forbidden for my first few days. It was a more dramatic change in day to day life than I expected, but was embracing it. I was trading one combo of chaos and calm (dance floors and beach) for another (the city and the sobriety). I finally had some time all by myself. After Lise left Cambodia and I didn’t want to be alone, I had found myself avoiding loneliness by spending so much time with other travelers. Now I could spend more time on my room, walking the city, reading in my room or having a quiet meal alone. It was a special few days for me.

One of my earliest missions in Kolkata was to seek out solid information about getting a visa to Pakistan. Yes, a big goal of mine was to make it there during this trip to India. I knew that getting the visa would be a big challenge as I had been reading about it on online travel forums. The most current information I could get was about a year old, and it said that it was still possible for an American to get a visa to Pakistan in Delhi. It is a notoriously unstable situation, though, that mostly has to do with India and Pakistan’s rickety relations. Additionally, though, recent killing of Osama bin Laden and Pakistan’s increasingly unstable relation with America wouldn’t help my case either. I went to an STD (phone) booth and called the Pakistan embassy in Delhi to get an answer. After a few tries, I finally got through, and explained my situation. Before I could even finish, though, I was cut off, being told, “No, it is not possible”. “What if I…” “No! Not possible!” Click. Well, that was that. I mean, I could have explored other means of getting to Pakistan, but my time was restricted with other obligations and didn’t have time to hang out in Delhi for weeks trying various ways to get a visa. I figured I could check again in a month, but my hopes were severely diminished.

I was enjoying Kolkata, but I had some ambition boiling. Although I was alone in Cambodia, I had business to take care of that dictated what I was doing from day to day. Now I had a few days where I could do whatever I wanted. So after a few days in Kolkata, I decided to go north. Over the past year of travel, I had had all sorts of landscapes in front of me. Jungle, desert, beach, city, countryside, etc. The only thing I was yearning for was mountains. Most places I had been in were either flat or coastal, and I was feeling like I hadn’t had any thin mountain air in far too long. So I was heading to Sikkim, the semi-autonomous mountainous kingdom wedged between West Bengal, Nepal, China and Bhutan.

The day before leaving, I went to the train ticket office. Since I had last been in India, they had created a new system for reservations for foreigners. This one of the rare instances of feeling that India was actually creating a convenience for me. The other options were to buy a ticket at a travel agency close to where I stayed and pay extra in commission or go to the regular ticket office and wait in line for hours, quite possibly to find that the tickets had been sold out long ago. Instead I could go to the foreigner ticket office and purchase one of the allotted number of tickets for foreigners. I was impressed with this system and felt almost guilty for the convenience. While at the office I met a group of Sri Lankan Muslims in white robes and big beards. They were friendly men, just coming from Bangladesh where they said they were meeting with some brothers. It was interesting that even though they were from the same region, we could still have a chat about traveling since they were also foreigners to Kolkata.

The next evening I made my way to the train station. I took a bus to Babu Ghat, directly across the river from Howrah Station. I got on a passenger ferry and crossed the Hooghly River. It was my first time taking this route to the station and it was an enjoyable new experience to traverse this large, holy tributary of the Ganges and see a wonderful view of the city and the Howrah Bridge in the hazy dusk. Upon reaching the station, I was stifled by the crowds and chaos. It was the same as it was the first time I had been there, but don’t remember being this overwhelmed. Thousands of people were forcing their way through the other thousands of people to get to and from their trains. In the midst of this, there were masses of homeless people that made the open floors of the train station their home. The stories of the people that ended up in the train station with nowhere else to go were as varied and diverse as India itself. The station was not just a transportation hub, but a living, breathing hub of humanity. While most people were on their way to and from a destination, there was a huge contingent engaged in various forms of commerce, hustling and basic survival. It was a fascinating setting, but I didn’t have much time to kill. I needed to fill some water bottles, buy some samosas for the journey and get to my train platform.

I had scored a top bunk on the 2^nd class sleeper train. It’s not the lowest class, but for it is the rare instance where I will pay the extra dollar for comfort. The extra dollar guarantees that you are not standing or sitting on the floor as well as having a bed to sleep in. However there are a few classes above that guarantee you things like air conditioning, no cockroaches, blankets and meals. Frills to me. Let’s go!

I had finally pared down my pack by leaving most of my stuff in Kolkata. I now had a small backpack and my little orange bag from the Philippines. It felt liberating to travel with the bare essentials. I got into my upper berth and stretched out on the vinyl-covered blue shelf of a bed. The family below tried not to acknowledge my presence but I caught them glancing up at me regularly as they ate their meal out of a collection of thick foil packaging. Although my spot was cozy in a unique way, I didn’t sleep well through the night. I didn’t care though. I felt this was going to be a good adventure, and for that you don’t need sleep.

Return to Kolkata

Sept. 24, 2012

I was nervous about my return to Kolkata. It is a city that holds a lot of emotional significance to my life. I wasn’t sure what to expect. In the five years since I have left, I have constantly heard about the economic boom in India, and the rapid growth and development that went along with it. Would I see noticeable changes? And if so, would they be positive, inspirational changes, or would it be an offensively lopsided modernization that further widens the gap between rich and poor; the few haves and the infinite masses of have nots. I also wondered how the intensity of Kolkata would affect me. Other than a couple of brief experiences in Mexico and Belize, India had been my first real travel experience. Before going there the first time, I had been warned in every possible way about how hard it can be to live in Kolkata. The pollution, the traffic, the crowds, etc. Yes, it was shocking my first time, but I had been ready for just about anything. As far as being overwhelmed by the city, I was not nervous at all. Not only had I spent a couple months here before, I had been to over a dozen countries since then. I felt that the last thing I would need to worry about was any sort of culture shock.

To get into the city, I decided to be ambitious and take a bus. This looked like it would be a challenge since I had read that the buses leave from a station about a kilometer away from the airport. After some wandering and asking around, though, I found out that there was a new airport bus that would leave directly from the terminal. This was a big surprise. As I sat and waited, I saw a stall selling snacks. I hadn’t eaten since the night before and decided to get some of “Magic Masala” Lay’s and a Mountain Dew. The man operating the stall told me the prices, but when I went to pay, he wanted twenty more rupees than it should have been. He gave some explanation of why he would charge me 70 rupees for a 20 rupee bag of chips and a 30 rupee Mountain Dew, but it didn’t make any sense. I handed the food back to him, got my money back and walked away, still hungry and thirsty. It was a fitting welcome back.

The bus was not the smoke belching, rattling blue behemoth with a wooden frame that I had expected. Instead it was a brand new, modern bus with air-conditioning and tinted windows. To be honest it was disappointing in its lifelessness. There was no scruffy man hanging out of the open door screaming the destination, but instead an LED display on the front that stated “Esplanade”. The tint obscured my view and the air-con gave a false sense of comfort. I was cut off from the dramatic sights, sounds and smells of this intense city. Part of me wished that I would have sprung for the extra $4 to take a taxi for a more powerful return to the city.

For the first half of the traffic-addled ride, I could make out a slightly more developed city than I had remembered. The billboards and shops seemed more modern and everything seemed less run down than I had remembered. Then suddenly, getting off a main thoroughfare, I felt liked I was flung back into the chaos that I remembered so fondly. Our path was blocked by men with carts, livestock, a fleet of smoking auto rickshaws and working pedestrians hustling through the traffic as they carried out their “nine to five”. The ragged, mildewed buildings, with laundry struggling to dry in every window, sprung up out of the garden of pandemonium before us. Although my senses were encumbered I could start to feel the energy of the city.

I was the last person to get off the bus when we finally arrived at the Esplanade “station”. I got out and was embraced by the arresting humidity, noise and mayhem. It is not a city of loneliness or solitude, so just let it wrap you in its arms, hang on, and it will take you where it wants you to go. When I look back on this moment of my first few steps, I picture a smile growing on my face that I was trying to restrain. While it is known as the city of joy, it is not a place of public displays of glee.

I had a vague idea of where I was, I still had to ask someone the direction to New Market, a landmark that would orient me. The person I asked, a Nimbu Pani wallah (sweet lime juice vendor), was disarmingly kind and pointed me in the right direction. My excitement counterbalanced the extreme burden of my ever-growing backpack as I made my way toward the infamous Sudder Street.

Before I could even think about finding a place to sleep, I was accosted by a food vendor in a familiar location near New Market. Accosted probably is not the right word because I approached him, but his mere presence basically forced me to go eat. I wanted to taste the dish I had yearned for for so many years and failed repeatedly in recreating. I saw on his sign that he offered my dish, Raj Kachori, and requested a plate. I was surprised and almost disappointed, though, when he handed me a plate of puris and chickpeas instead. In fact, after looking at his stand, I saw none of the ingredients for the dish I was looking for, but took what he gave me anyway. I was too hungry to complain. To my pleasant surprise, the food was far better than I could have dreamed of. The puris were fluffy, the chickpeas spicy with an unforgettable touch of lime.

In my first minutes walking through the New Market area, I was pleasantly intrigued with the changes that had and hadn’t arrived. At first glance, a lot of the most memorable aspects were still intact. The rickshaw wallahs showed no sign of leaving despite an ongoing battle over their legality and most of the shops and hotels seemed about the same at first. I would later discover, though, that a lot more had changed than I first realized. I was also quite surprised at how friendly the people I encountered were. Based on my memories, I was expecting a lot more gruff attitudes paralleled by incessant hustlers. Not only did I find friendly people and a lack of scammers in my first few minutes, it seemed that there were not nearly as many foreigners hanging around as I had expected. Since I had last been here, India had burst much further into the international community’s consciousness with its economic boom, the rise of Bollywood and pop culture phenomenons like Slumdog Millionaire. India was transforming itself from a typical destination for do-gooders and hippy backpackers seeking spiritual enlightenment to a serious travel destination for people of all travel persuasions. The “Incredible India” campaign was transforming the tourism scene, and pushing it to a higher standard of travel and not just a place for people with more time than money. That being said, I was surprised at how few foreigners I saw on my first walk down Sudder Street. Perhaps, though, it was because I had seen some real backpacker ghettoes and traveler destinations in Thailand and Cambodia more recently, so having a majority presence of Indians on the street made it seem like a relatively untouched neighborhood.

Of course, these are just my first impressions on my return. A lot of this was clouded by other experiences, expectations, etc. After spending a couple more months in Kolkata, I would come to change my perception of the city and especially the neighborhood I was based in. But for now, I was intoxicated with the city and my judgment was impaired.

I perused Sudder Street, looking for a place to sleep. Already two of my three old digs had closed. The Salvation Army was under some sort of construction and the dingy old “Calcutta Guest House” that catered to Bangladeshi immigrants had been bought out and transformed by a different hotel. The Paragon, my favorite place, had raised their rates significantly. I ended up at the “Modern Lodge”, which is really one of the less modern places I have ever stayed in. As expected, the mattress was thin and dirty, the sheets torn, the communal toilet was smelly and squatty, the showers (surprisingly not bucket showers) were cold, and there were no outlets in the room. Also as expected, the ceilings were high, the communal areas were friendly and had a nice rooftop to do laundry and socialize. It was a sort of luxury to be back in this utter lack of luxury. Of course, I realize how silly and even offensive this sounds. I was told once that I romanticize poverty. Yes, this living was a lot more basic than what I was used to for my entire life, and even much less “comfortable” than most places in my travels. And would I like to live forever with these relatively rough conditions, even though I enjoy it for the time being? Probably not. So is it offensive to the people that struggle to attain shelter as good as mine, that I enjoy something like this for its simplicity? Maybe. And this is what Kolkata is constantly doing to me. Challenging me, making me wonder what I am doing in the moment as well as in the greater scheme of things. The most important aspects of Kolkata, for me, are the every day challenges that test you mentally, physically, spiritually.

Anyway, my first few days in the city were surprisingly difficult. Despite my initial enthusiasm for the return, I found myself immediately drained. I was surprised, since I had been feeling confident in my ability to adapt to anything and take any new place in stride. I had traveled through Central America and Mexico, a few countries in West and North Africa, and a good portion of Southeast Asia. I was pretty sure that after all that, coming back to a place I had already been to before would not be a challenge. I figured any memory of it being overwhelming was because I had not seen much of the urban developing world before. Now that I had seen a lot more, I imagined Kolkata would seem much less intimidating. I couldn’t have been more wrong. There were few times in my travels where I felt more drained and exhausted from simply living daily life. Mostly it was physical, but there was an emotional toll as well. I could not believe the humidity. Everywhere else I had been in Asia was humid, but something about Kolkata made it seem even more intense. Maybe it was all the pollution and filth in the air that made it seem that much more thick. Like Arizonans saying, “but it’s a dry heat” to show it’s not that bad in the desert, in Kolkata I felt like saying, “but it’s a dirty humid” to show how uncomfortable it really was. On top of that were the typical things that will bother the outsider. Noise, crowds, poverty, bad smells, etc. I was so surprised that this was starting to bring me down, since five years earlier I felt like it didn’t affect me nearly as much. I can only assume that this had something to do with what I was expecting in the two different trips. Before going the first time, it had been over-stated to me, over and over, how intense it is in India and how I would barely be able to function. Everything was so over dramatic that when I arrived it did not seem that difficult to handle. This time, I was expecting a cake walk, and instead was getting slapped in the face by India. At the end of the day, though, I was glad for this. I felt like I was long overdue for some culture shock.

Mad Dash For the Border

I had made it back to Sihanoukville with just enough time to celebrate the birthdays of my friends Jimmy, Danny and Janna Jupiter. Although the hostel had a real bar with a dance floor, the occasional fire dancers, a pool and a high platform to jump into the pool from, all the cool kids spent the night at the “Charity Café” after hours. Jimmy and Danny had finished their shifts at the coffee bar with all of us hanging around sipping on cups of whiskey and Cokes. I got the honors of plugging my computer into their speaker system and having a nostalgic night as the DJ. We ended up having a much bigger party at the coffee bar than was going on inside the hostel. In the interest of transparency, I have to include the detail that an elderly Irish bloke showed up. He was a friend of Jimmy and Danny’s and he had brought a little birthday gift for them: tabs of acid. They had a good time with the stuff, but I wasn't about to touch it. He lived in Cambodia, so I had to wonder if he was making his own locally or had smuggled a big supply during his last trip home. Everyone was up late into the night, but I had a big day of travel the following morning, so I had to call it a night around 4.

Three or four hours later, I had a serious mission: get to Bangkok! On a map, it does not appear that far, because it really isn’t. Unless you take a tourist bus that goes straight there, it is kind of complicated from Sihanoukville. Sometimes my aversion to using tourist facilities is a matter of cutting off my nose to spite my face. Sometimes, though, the face will at least get a good story out of it, though, and turns out, noses aren’t that cool anyway. So I stuck to my guns and got the first local bus going in the direction of Phnom Penh. This was seriously lame, because nobody wanted to let me on for cheaper than the full price to Phnom Penh, even though I only needed to go a quarter of the way. They weren’t leaving full, and they still pick up people along the way. It made no sense. After a few buses left without me, I gave up and paid the full fare. I disembarked after an hour, at a junction with a small road that leads to the border near Krong Koh Kong (pretty cool name, huh? I mean, other than the acronym.) There were a few taxis hanging out at the junction, insisting that I should pay them to take me on the four-hour ride to the border because there were no buses. This was highly improbable, but I actually had no information on whether there was any public transport that could actually get me to the border. I walked down the narrow, rural road, and stuck my thumb out to the occasional passing car. A couple kids from a nearby house wandered out and stared for a while, then started waving and yelling, “hello!” I would respond, and they would respond, and I would respond, and they would respond, I would respond, and they would respond, I would respond, and they would respond, I would respond, and they would respond, I would respond, and they would respond, I would respond, and they would respond, I would respond, and they would respond. After about 88 rounds of hello exchanges, I realized they were not getting bored, and I was. More importantly, though, they were distracting me from the task at hand. The task at thumb. I ignored them for about nine seconds, but they thought I couldn’t hear them and got louder, closer, and crept from the realm of cute into that of obnoxious. Luckily I was soon rescued by a van. Well a bus van, so I had to pay the fare, but I was getting a little worried anyway. I still had about 20 hours before my flight left, which was enough, but any hold up could be devastating.

The van was incredibly cramped and I was very conscious of my enormous size and even enormouser size of my pack. My company on this journey was mostly country folk and a lot of elderly with worn faces that spoke volumes about the hardship they had endured in their lives. We wound through the hilly countryside, stopping to drop off and pick up people on occasion. We crossed through parts of the Cardamom Mountains, which rewarded us with much more dramatic scenery than I had seen in the rest of Cambodia or Thailand.

After about four or five hours, we reached the town of Krong Koh Kong. I was still a few miles from the border, but this was the end of the line. I was hoping for some sort of public transport to the border, but since there is not much of a town there, it seemed that if there was anything, it was extremely rare. I asked around, mostly looking for someone that could understand me, but also hoping to find some information on how to get to the border. Eventually I found a bunch of guys hanging out in a bar watching a soccer game. The one who seemed most capable in English was a relatively large man in fatigues. While traveling I have encountered a lot of police officers as well as soldiers. I have had mixed experiences with police officers, but soldiers have always been nothing but kind and helpful to me. This man was no exception. He said if I paid for the gas, he would take me all the way to the border. Next thing I knew, I was on the back of his motorcycle, trying not to let my heavy pack tip me off the back, speeding over a bridge toward the border at Hat Lek.

Things were moving smoothly, and I reached the border by 4 or 5 pm. Just like I had seen at the northern border, the Cambodian side of the border had a few upscale casinos and hotels to attract the Thais across the border, where they could legally gamble. I got in line to pass through the Cambodian customs and immigration booth. They checked over my passport and everything was going smoothly. I was about to be given my exit stamp and motioned along, when all of a sudden a second official came to take a look at my passport. He seemed to have found a problem. Of course, I thought. Although I have nothing but affection for Cambodia as a country, their border officials have bad reputations, and they had tried to rip me off when I entered the country. They summoned me inside my office and directed a clerk sitting on chair, using a stool as a writing service, to write me a fine for over-staying my visa. I demanded to know what the problem was. They pointed at the stamp on my passport and said that my visa expired on the 22^nd. It was the 23^rd. I pointed at the actual visa page, and showed that it said that it expired on the 23^rd. I was not about to be pushed around for some sort of bribe disguised as a fine. The clerk wrote out a ticket and a receipt for $5 (it’s a standard $5/day charge for overstaying) and I refused to pay. Every time I challenged them, they would bring somebody else over, have them look over my passport, and come to the conclusion that I still owed $5. I was so angry, because it was so plain to me, that Cambodia visa said it expired on the 23^rd and I was not overstaying. Without explanation, they kept pointing at the entrance stamp on the next page that said “22^nd”. Surely that was a mistake, no? Turns out it wasn’t, and I had to figure out on my own that I was actually at fault. The visa expiration date signified amount of time I had to enter the country. From the time of entry, though, I would only get 30 days. I was still angry, though, for their confusing system. To make matters worse, as I stormed out of there, I slipped in some mud, and fell all the way down, covering the entire right half of my body in mud. I still had to fly in a matter of hours, and I was about to top myself in my record for most unkempt airline passenger.

On the other side of the border, I waited for a van to fill with Thai gamblers so we could get to Trat, the nearest town with bus connections to Bangkok. It was an hour of waiting, and I met an elderly German expat who lived in Cambodia. He said he ran a lodge up in the Cardamom mountains and they offered all sorts of adventures including hiking and mountain biking. He seemed content with his Cambodian life, especially his wife, standing nearby, who was half his age. “She’s really good,” he said with a wink that made me puke in my mouth just a bit.

Being back in Thailand did not excite me. Everyone seemed rich and things appeared much more modern and developed. At this point, Thailand was just a convenient bridge between Cambodia and India. The wait was about an hour and I was in the luxurious air-con van with comfortable seats. After another hour, we arrived at the bus station in Trat. I found that the next bus to Bangkok would be in a couple hours at 10:00 pm. My room for error was growing thinner, but I was still on target to make my flight. I had spent a night in Trat five years earlier and while it was mostly just a transit hub, I had found it a pleasantly quiet town. I went across the street from the station and found an empty little food court. There were only two stalls open, so I picked one randomly. I asked which dish was the spiciest and ordered it. The food provided some solace for being back in Thailand. It was spicy, and delicious, something that I could rarely say for a casual cheap meal in Cambodia. I made sure to savor my last Thai meal, and just punish my tongue as I sweated through it.

Through fits of sleep I approached Bangkok in the large, chilly vessel. I had thought that it would take me all the way to the airport, but I guess I had been misinformed. The station I was dropped off at, though, did have connections to the airport that wouldn’t start for a couple hours. I waited around, watching the few haggard souls that wandered the station, scavenging for food or good luck.

I finally arrived at the airport at around six in the morning. It was four hours before my flight. I timed it perfectly. I had enough time to collect myself, send some e-mails, and relax with some music before boarding my plane. This felt like another big moment in my trip. It was hard to fully realize what was about to happen when I boarded my plane. This was the culmination of nearly five years of anticipation. Half a decade ago, I had come alive during my trip to India. It was an experience that had changed me forever. I had opened my eyes to the world and never looked back. It was almost like taking a pilgrimage to my own personal place of enlightenment. I had been waiting to get back here for years, but kept getting sidetracked. Now, the gods of travel had summoned me for my return.

Surviving Snooki (aka Sihanoukville) Part 2

On one of my first nights in Sihanoukville, after having some drinks at various bars, I found myself back at Utopia chatting with a lanky Canadian dude. As it has happened on more than a bunch of occasions with Canadians, some American bashing just started pouring uncontrollably out of his mouth. Now, when I get into these conversations with people about why American is so awful, I have a lot to agree with. I disagree with a lot of our foreign policy (most importantly), I think we could have more equality when it comes to gay rights, all of our statistics about how many uninsured people we have in poverty, etc. Yes, there is a lot to criticize, but it gets hard when people barrage me with criticism in a social setting because I feel some weird obligation to defend America. Quite often the generalizations people bring up are outlandish, but somehow based in a small truth. Everyone carries a gun in America. There’s no gay marriage in America. People can shoot you if you are trespassing. Your border patrol can shoot illegal immigrants. The list goes on and on, and it leaves me tired of explaining the nuances of our legal system and the fact that laws vary widely from state to state. Anyway, as soon as this Canadian guy hears that I’m from Seattle, he says, “Oh, I don’t like Seattle.” I was surprised, but intrigued, because people rarely say a bad word about it. I was not offended, just curious.

“Really? What don’t you like about it?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t like it. It’s boring.”

“Oh, ok, did you go there to visit?”

“Yeah, I was just there for a few days.”

“When?”

“I was fourteen. I went with my parents. Yeah, it was just lame. There was nothing to do.”

I don’t think I need to explain further. I didn’t bother arguing, I just laughed to myself. With that bit of friendly introduction out of the way, he felt it was now time to talk about how messed up my country is. I let him do his thing, though it always feels awkward to feel attacked directly and then to agree. That is probably why I naturally feel the urge to defend America even when I know the person is right.

“Your education system is so messed up. You guys don’t even know what the Khmer Rouge is because they don’t teach it in your history classes,” he said.

“No, that’s not true,” I lied. “I learned about it my high school history class.”

I don’t know why I lied, but I tried to explain that not every high school education is the same, and if you have a good teacher, you might learn a lot more about certain issues. To be fair, there is a fair contingent of Canadians that rejects the anti-American sentiments and doesn’t bother with the whole Canadian flag on their backpack to alert everyone that they are not Americans.

Another night I was hanging out with the regular crew from the hostel and we met a couple that had just spent three months traveling together in India where they had met. The guy was German and the girl was Israeli. We spent a good portion of the night with them, dancing to the dub step that the Irish DJ was spinning. Something was weird about the German guy, though. He seemed quiet and pouting, while girlfriend was having the time of her life and he ended up leaving before her. The next day, as I was walking to the beach, I heard someone call out to me from inside a hostel bar that I was walking past. I looked inside and saw the German guy sitting at the bar, waving me in. I sat down and he ordered a beer for me. I was trying to catch the last hour of sunlight on the beach, but I figured I could join him for a beer. He did not look well. I barely knew him, but he looked like he needed someone to talk to. For a few minutes he explained that stuff between him and his girlfriend weren’t going so well. Now, this whole relationship drama is not the interesting part of my story, it’s just the cause of it. Pretty soon his friend, an Aussie guy who they had been traveling with for the past few weeks, showed up at the bar, and ordered a new round of beers. He seemed fully committed to helping his friend get over his problems with substance abuse. Then he asked the bartender for a rolling paper and proceeded to roll a massive spliff for them to share. Pretty soon a Cambodian guy arrived on a motorbike with a paper bag. He handed the bag to the Aussie along with a couple bucks of change. Out of the bag spilled a variety of blister packs that the guy had picked up at the pharmacy. You can get pretty much anything in Cambodia without a prescription, and at very low prices. He had gotten what looked like Hunter S. Thompson’s “whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers and laughers.” Valiums, vicodins, tranquilizers, ritalins, and who knows what else. He started passing them around and the German obediently popped into his mouth whatever was handed to him. I stuck to the beer, but within the hour that I sat with them, this guy was absolutely destroyed. I have never witnessed a anyone turn into such a heaping mess of a person in such a short amount of time. The Australian was doing fine, but then again, he didn’t have to deal with harsh emotions of a potential breakup with, as the German put it, “the love of my life”. The German had ordered a couple of small baguettes with butter and then some fries with ketchup. He quickly went from eating like a normal person to giggling with teary eyes, mashing the food all around his plate, mixing it all with ketchup and butter, and smearing it in and around his mouth with both hands. He could barely function and the Aussie was just giggling along with him. I have seen women and drugs wreak havoc on people’s lives or mental states, but never so quickly! This guy was an experienced traveler, but I imagined he was going to wake up alone soon, and feel very, very, very far from home, and extremely lost. I decided I had to bail now, as it would only get worse, and I needed a swim before the sun went down. I just hoped the Aussie could stay sane enough to watch out for this poor man’s safety.

I was pretty naïve about the drug use among travelers in Cambodia. In fact, I have probably always been naïve about the drug use among travelers in most places that I’ve been. As someone who often travels alone and is not in the market for drugs, it makes sense. Looking back on Central America, especially after hearing other stories from people that had been around those parts, I imagine a lot more travelers than I realized were regularly indulging in the high quality, easily accessible cocaine. Southeast Asian countries generally have such strict drug laws (including the death penalty for trafficking in several countries) that most travelers that take the risk probably keep it extra quiet. Cambodia, however, was a different story. Marijuana was actually legal in the country until 1997. It was sold openly in markets for dirt cheap and was even cooked into some traditional dishes. Although it is illegal now, it is still widely available, cheap and doesn’t carry a high risk of cops giving you a hard time about it. In fact there are a few infamous places in the bigger cities that serve “Happy Pizzas” and don’t seem to face any legal repercussions (see Anthony Bourdain’s episode in Cambodia where he not so discreetly has several of them delivered to his hotel). Harder drugs, though, are also much more popular than I first realized. Back in the day, Cambodia was famous for its opium dens. As far as I know they don’t exist anymore, at least not like they used to. Eventually heroin became very popular and was the choice drug for expat English teachers in the 90’s. For the price and purity, it far surpasses anything obtainable in the west. It is often sold to ignorant foreigners as “cocaine”. Because it is so strong, snorting it is actually a very popular way to get high. It’s potency is dangerous and every year a few travelers die from this stuff in the Boeng Kak area of Phnom Penh where I had been staying. More recently, though, a drug known locally as “yaba” has taken the region by storm and travelers have been getting their fix in large numbers too. Basically it is Methamphetamine mixed with caffeine. The interesting thing about meth outside of America is that it doesn’t have the same white trash/hillbilly connotation that we have here. It’s a dirty, cheap, depressing drug that is completely unglamorous. On the other hand, in Europe and other places, it has become much more popular among young people as a sort of party drug. It didn’t seem obviously prevalent among my friends in Sihanoukville, but there were a couple times when I heard casual mention of it, or there was that one guy who seemed especially energetic and whacked out that made me suspicious. Cambodia is the kind of semi-lawless place where foreigners come with an anything goes kind of attitude. And I haven’t even commented on the prostitution. It seemed like a good thing that my stay in these parts was limited.

One idea that was really instilled in me while staying in Sihanoukville was that it is really hard to stereotype people by where they are from. I mean, this is not that innovative of an idea at all, but I did feel that I was gaining a better sense of people based on where they traveled rather than where they were from. Sure, I love to stereotype Aussies as fun-loving, but often ignorant party animals, or Israelis as the least adventurous eaters ever, or French guys as interesting people, but boring to have some drinks with. Yes, these stereotypes are fun, but it makes no sense to stereotype these people when you have only met them while traveling. I started noticing in Sihanoukville that I can understand a lot more about someone based on where they have been traveling. For the people in Cambodia that had been in India, I could tell they had different qualities. Not because they had been to India, but because they had chosen to go there. I feel that the majority of the people visiting Sihanoukville were just out to party, not necessarily to explore the intricacies of culture, and that was their MO for traveling in general. This idea became even more pronounced later, when I was in Kolkata and met people from, for example, the UK or Australia, who did not drink heavily and seemed far more intellectual or spiritually minded than their counterparts back on the beach. It also made me think back to the people I had met in Africa. They often shared a lot of characteristics of being cynical, especially when it came to any sort of aid work or charity. If I was going to tell some traveler in Africa that I was in the Peace Corps, volunteering, or an aid worker, I would expect them to roll their eyes and get into a confrontational conversation, or at least insult me behind my back. I was almost nervous to tell people in Asia about any of my volunteer plans, and would have defenses and justifications for my actions already loaded. They never came though. Everyone, at least on the surface, seemed to have a positive view of that, and thought it was a great thing to do.

Because I have always avoided the most touristy spots when traveling, especially if they have a Spring Break feel, it was weird for me to spend a good chunk of my time in Cambodia in Sihanoukville. I felt guilty because Cambodia is really a gem of a country that I felt deserved to be more thoroughly explored, understood and appreciated. At the same time, I had to treat it as just another component of my entire trip. While we were in Africa, which was mostly in dry, hot, inland places, we longed for a fun beach town to have a good time on. Months later, I felt like I was fulfilling that desire. As much as it was not the most enlightening place by any means, I still learned a lot. I learned a lot about people, travelers, traveling, relationships, friendships, etc. I didn’t end up feeling like I had completely wasted my time in Cambodia. It was just a bit of a shame that this experience in a community of International travelers had to distract me from such a great country.