Every Day is Sunday

Ask 10 people to name their favorite city in India and you’re likely to get 10 different answers.  We met fellow travelers who told us to skip Pushkar.  It wasn’t our favorite city (Udaipur or Jaisalmer would take that honor), but it was a great place to hang out for a few days.

Pushkar is a Hindu pilgrimage town and holy city.  There’s a big sign at the city limits informing tourists that no booze, meat, or eggs are allowed within the city limits.  Not wanting to offend what we came to admire, we climbed on-the-wagon (or is it off-the-wagon?) and stuck to a pure veg diet.

One key to surviving India is to find a quiet and comfortable home base.  We found a gem in Pushkar.  With its bright courtyard and comfortable rooms, the Seventh Heaven Hotel was an oasis in the middle of the city.  For only $10 per night, it was probably the best value of any place we’ve stayed on this entire trip.

Steps away from Seventh Heaven was the Old Rangji Temple, and within the temple complex we found a Yogi who was willing to take on two beginners.  For three days in a row, all we did was go to Yoga for sessions in the morning and afternoon, and spent the rest of the time in the courtyard of the Seventh Heaven reading, writing and relaxing. 

After three days of yoga, meditation and a pure veg diet, we started to feel the positive effects of a healthy lifestyle.  It was hard to believe that less than one year ago we were spending our days sitting in front of computers in little rooms with fluorescent lighting.  Washington DC has never felt further away.

We were loving our Pushkar experience, but after a few days on this schedule we felt the urge to get out and explore.  The city has hundreds of temples, including one of the world’s few Brahma Temples. 

The reason why Pushkar is home to India’s only Brahma temple goes back thousands of years.  Apparently the god Brahma wanted to perform a Yagna (self-mortification) at Pushkar’s lake, and when his wife Savitri didn’t attend, he married another woman on a whim.  Savitri, understandably annoyed, vowed that Brahma would not be worshipped anywhere else.  A little harsh, but at least he didn’t have to pay any alimony.

The city’s focal point is Pushkar lake, which is surrounded by 52 bathing ghats where pilgrims bathe in the sacred waters.  No photography allowed.  Some of the ghats have special importance: the god Vishnu appeared at the Varah Ghat in the form of a boar, and Ghandi’s ashes were sprinkled at the Gau Ghat, which is now called the Ghandi ghat..

Unfortunately, Pushkar has its fair share of pushy priests looking to take advantage of the tourists and pious pilgrims.  One priest, who we doubt was genuine, approached us and offered to do a puja (prayer) for us and our family members.  He got us all the way down to the ghats before we decided he was a con man.  Although the happiness of our family is worth a million rupees, we told our pushy, unprincipled priest that we weren’t interested in making a donation. We prayed unaided for our family and friends and left the pushy priest to feast on some other tourist.

Following Seth’s travel credo (whenever possible rent a motorbike and ride into the countryside), we rented a scooter for the day and explored the temples in the surrounding area.  The Pap Mochani Temple had fantastic views of the city.

Although it seems peaceful from up high, Pushkar can be a difficult place to walk around because of the hundreds of sacred cows that roam around the city.  Without steak or hamburgers on any menu, and with no other natural predators, the cows flourish and they are everywhere. 

One consequence of the cows is the ungodly piles of shit that line every street.  As you navigate the narrow streets, simultaneously dodging cow pies and motorbikes you also have to be careful not to get in between a cow and his garbage. 

There aren’t any sanitation companies in Pushkar (or anywhere outside of the major cities from what we can tell) and it seems like most people just throw their trash out their windows.  The cows then go to work serving as an ad-hoc waste management company.      

We enjoyed touring around the city, but nothing could beat our routine of Yoga and Heaven.

If the State of Rajasthan is the “Land of the Kings,” then the city of Jaisalmer is its crowned jewel.  A small trade route town in the middle of the Indian desert, Jaisalmer is a golden city that exceeded all our expectations.

Just 100 km from the present-day Pakistani border, the elite in Jaisalmer made boatloads of cash because of the city’s position on the camel-train routes between India and Central Asia.  The Maharajah decided to invest in real estate (the stockmarket was pretty risky even back then) and built the beautiful Jaisalmer Fort, which rises from the desert like a giant sandcastle in the sky.  

It was an extraordinary experience wandering around the lanes of this living museum, but we found that the majestic beauty of the Fort is best observed from a distance. 

Most people who come to Jaisalmer take a desert safari.  The program is the same no matter what company you use: a camel ride out to the desert, an hour playing in the sand dunes, and a night sleeping under the stars.  It was a hot day and we didn’t feel like wondering the streets looking for the perfect tour company, so we walked into the first travel agency we saw and signed up for a tour.  We didn’t get around to introductions until we were ready to leave.  When our tour guide introduced himself as “Mr. Desert” we knew were in good hands.      

The camel ride was scenic and only slightly painful.

Playing in the sand dunes was a blast. 

But it wasn’t until the sun went down and our host started telling us the story of his life that we realized that we were in the presence of greatness.  The story went something like this:  

In 1988, Jaisalmer held its first-ever Mr. Desert contest.  It was a publicity stunt to draw tourists and was promoted all over India.  A truck driver from the area noticed the ads and decided at the last minute to enter.  With his striking blue-grey eyes, broad shoulders and handlebar moustache, it wasn’t much of a contest.  Our hero successfully defended his title in 1989, 1990 and 1991.  Finally, in 1992, the contest’s sponsors wanted to give someone else a chance and made a new rule that no previous winners of the contest were eligible to compete.  In recognition of his achievements, the truck driver was given the title “Mr. Desert For Life” and became a lifetime judge of the contest.

Mr. Desert became somewhat of a celebrity after his remarkable four-peat.  He took small roles in Bollywood movies and even appeared in a coca-cola commercial. Encouraged by his friends, Mr. Desert decided to leverage his fame and get into the tourist business of – what else? – taking people out to the desert! 

But Mr. Desert wasn’t making any money.  He’d sit in his office all day but no tourists would darken his door.  His friends told him to the train station and meet the tourists as they come off the train.  For weeks he got up before dawn to meet tourists arriving from the overnight from Mumbai.  But his heart wasn’t in it.  It made him uncomfortable to see all of the other touts bombarding the haggard tourists.

Then one day, he got a call and was asked to become the face of “Jaisalmer” brand cigarettes.  He accepted although he’s never tried one and he encouraged us not to smoke.  Soon his face was plastered over every billboard in Jaisalmer.  He framed one of the big posters and put it behind his desk and sat under it.  Tourists would walk by his office, take one look at the poster and the man sitting underneath it, and they would come in to talk with him.  His business started booming. 

A few years later, Mr. Desert was recommended the Lonely Planet and things have never been the same. 

After telling us the story of his life, Mr. Desert went on to entertain us with hilarious stories about tourists and fascinating stories about his travels through Europe.  He was one of the most enthralling story-tellers we had come across on this trip – not a small feat for someone who didn’t learn English until he was in his thirties.

Now in his sixties, Mr. Desert doesn’t take many groups out anymore.  By chance we joined a family who had a developed a friendship with Mr. Desert when they went on his desert safari 10 years ago.  They returned to Jaisalmer this year so their kids could meet the legend, and they persuaded him to lead this tour himself.  We were just lucky to come along for the ride.

The first thing you notice about Jodpur is that all the houses are blue.

Believing that blue is the color of the Gods, all of the members of the Brahamn caste (the priest caste) in Jodpur started painting their houses blue. The tradition caught on, and now people of all castes paint their house the color of the sky.

The best view of the Blue City is from the Mehrangarh Fort. Located atop a enormous rock, it’s one of the largest and most majestic forts in India.

Near one of the seven gates are the handprints of 15 royal “satis,” Jodpur queens who threw themselves on the funeral pyres of their husbands.  It was concerned an honor for the women to sacrifice themselves following the deaths of their husbands, and this barbaric custom was very much in vogue in Rajasthan.  For example, when Maharaja Ajit Singh died in 1731, no fewer than six of his wifes and fifty-eight of his concubines burnt themselves on his funeral pyre.  Although the British governor declared sati illegal in 1829, the last recorded case of sati occurred in Jodpur as recently as 1953.

If that’s not crazy enough for you, Sati was even committed by women before their husbands were actually killed. In Rajasthan, surrender and defeat is a much worse fate than death. If a Rajasthani Fort was under siege and the outcome was looking grim, the women would voluntarily committ Sati just before the men went out to fight a desparate battle.  This form of Sati was also known as Jouhar. The idea was that once the women killed themselves in front of their husbands, the men would feel like they had nothing to lose when they went out for battle. The guidebook said that no invading army had ever breached the walls of the Jodpur Fort. Once we learned about Jouhar,  we had no doubt this was true.

At the top of the Fort is a restaurant that only opens after the Fort closes to the public.  The guidebook said it was the nicest place in the city to have a meal and so we expected it to be busy.  As it turned out, we were the only people there. 

They brought out a few candles and set up a lone table for us on the patio of the palace.  With the flickering candles casting shadows on the great palace behind us, we dined high above the Blue City on our private verandah. The Mararajah and Maharani of Jodpur never had it so good.

Of course, just when we were starting to lose our heads over Jodpur, India brought us back down to reality.  We finished dining in our castle and started walking the streets of Jodpur on our way back to the hotel. We didn’t know it at the time, but stray dogs rule the streets of India at night. We turned a corner and stood face-to-face with a mutt standing in the middle of the street blocking our path. As we started to move cautiously around the dog, it snapped at Erin. We were scared but managed to squeeze past the dog and move away down the narrow street.  Before we could get very far, the dog spun around and darted toward Erin’s leg.

EE: I always thought I had chicken legs but this dog thought I was a bone. I felt its teeth on my calf and got very scared.  At the last second the mangy dog decided I wasn’t tasty enough and inexplicably decided not to bite me.  After we stopped running, we examined my leg and I escaped unscathed.  Although there were no marks I was completely freaked out and, being a bit of hypochondriac, I was convinced for a few days that I had rabbies. 

We were looking for the magic of India, and we found it in Udaipur.  With palaces, havelis and temples at every turn, Udaipur’s old city puts on a display of the best of India. They call it the “Venice of the East,” but after seeing Udaipur in all its splendor, we’re going to start calling Venice the “Udaipur of the West.”

The Lake Palace, the City Palace, and the Monsoon Palace are the three centerpieces of the city.  The Lake Palace, which appears to float in the middle of the water, is refined enough for the Maharaja yet brash enough for a Bond film (parts of Octopussy were filed there).

The intricate City Palace sits on the banks of the water and presides over the town in all its splendor.

The Monsoon Palace sits improbably high on the tallest peak in Udaipur.

We were very lucky because the monsoons had come just three weeks before we arrived in Udaipur and filled the lake.  When the lake is full, the area looks idyllic.  When the lake is empty, however, the locals say that the area looks post-apocalyptic.  

We found a quiet spot to eat dinner overlooking both the City Palace and Lake Palace.  It took us two hours to eat our meal since we could hardly take our eyes off the beautiful sights. 

Rather than stay in the bustling old city, we chose a quiet B&B in the countryside.  Our hosts, a former Army Major and his wife Jyoti, welcomed us into their home and treated us like family. We sat on the patio with Jyoti’s parents and sister, who were visiting for the weekend, and heard the story behind our hosts’ arranged marriage. 

Devra literally translates to ‘where God resides’. When Jyoti heard that we recently celebrated our wedding anniversary, she invited us to take Hindu blessings in the 400 year-old shrine that still stands on the property. 

Like many other cities located in the province of Rajasthan, Udaipur has strong Hindu roots and most restaurants uphold the Hindu’s restriction on meat and alcohol.  Although we aren’t used to being vegetarian, the food in Udaipur was so good that we didn’t mind.  In fact, we liked the food so much we had to sign up for a cooking class to learn how to make our favorite dishes: aloo gobhi, veg curry and palak paneer.  The most valuable thing we learned that day, however, was the secret to making a delicious Indian Masala Chai.

Chai Wala

One thing that makes Rajasthanis unique is their dress.  The women wear brightly colored saris, nose rings, bangles on their wrists and ankles. 

The turbans that men wear are not just decorative, but they speak a language of their own.  Turban colors may signify caste or religion.  For example, Rajputs (warriors) traditionally war saffron signifying chivalry.  Brahmins (priests) wear pink, Dalits (untouchables) brown and nomads black.  Multicolored turbans are for festivals.  White, grey, black or blue turbans are worn by Hindus to signify sadness, but Muslims also wear these colors.  The way a turban is tied further indicates the wearer’s social class and origin.

In addition to its beautiful buildings, wonderful food, and interesting people, Udaipur also has one of India’s most valuable collections of antique cars.  The antique car museum was too random to skip.  Our favorites were the 1938 Cadillac and the 1930 fire-engine red Ford Patheon (both of which still run). 

In short, if you are looking to plan a romantic getaway, check to see if the lake has water and then book your tickets to Udaipur.  With all its different activities and places to stay, it’s one of the most balanced places we’ve visited on this trip.

Once a year the gods come to Chowpatty Beach in Mumbai to bathe in the sea.  Fat-bellied idols by the thousands, effigies of the elephant-headed deity Ganesh, flock toward the water. Some of the Ganeshes are small enough to be carried on shoulders or cradled in arms; others are the size of small mansions and are pulled through the city on great-wheeled wooden carts.

It was the Ganesh Chaturthi Festival and we were right in the middle of it.

The festival started in the mid-afternoon and by the evening there weren’t many tourists around so our foreign faces became somewhat of a novelty.  Everybody wanted us to join in their celebration and we must have posed for a hundred pictures.

We felt energized by the fully charged atmosphere.  People were constantly coming up to us and introducing themselves and welcoming us to India.  We lost ourselves in the sounds and the energy of the festival.

It was getting late and so we decided to take one more tour of the beach for heading back for the night.  Although there’s no alcohol around, things were getting pretty rowdy near the water.  We were having a great time, until a few Indian men started grabbing at Erin.

It was quintessential mob mentality. Erin couldn’t tell who hands were trying to touch her so we pushed and shoved, and threw a few elbows for good measure, and extracted ourselves from the crowd.  Just when we were falling head-over-heels for India, we were jolted back into reality.  We lost our heads for a moment but India sent us a clear message not to romanticize her.  If you came to see the real India then you have to take the bad with the good.

India is a very divisive subject among travelers.  Some people we met along the way said India was awful and advised us to avoid it completely; others told us that traveling in India would be the most remarkable experience of our lives.  It was difficult to reconcile this wildly conflicting advice, especially because both opinions came from trusted sources.  In the end we decided to go, for no better reason than we wanted to decide for ourselves.

First stop on our whirlwind five-week tour: Mumbai.  Good mid-priced lodging is difficult to find in Mumbai, but we snagged a great little hotel in the middle of the beautiful Colaba neighborhood.  We were steps away from the famous Leopold’s bar, where we drank the local hooch (Kingfischer Beer) and re-hashed some of the best moments from Gregory Roberts’ epic India novel Shantaram (which, incidentally, is a must-read and helped us decide in favor of India).

We strolled around Colaba and saw the typical Victorian architecture and townscape that defined colonial Bombay. 

The British legacy in India certainly isn’t confined to the architecture.  Jeff steered us toward India’s High Court so he could try to remember what it’s like to practice law.  We quietly entered a courtroom in the middle of proceedings and found a court full of lawyers dressed in black robes and frilled white shirts – a regrettable leave-behind by the British Raj.  In a land where the majority of people speak Hindi (and only Hindi), it was strange to hear the lawyers speaking the Queen’s English to debate the finer points of British common law.

We thought about stopping in at the Prince of Wales Museum but the entrance fee was 400 rupees – 40 times what the nationals pay. Generally we don’t paying a bit more but 40 times seemed a bit steep.  We skipped it on principle.

At least it was cheap to get around town.  With their distinctive black and yellow coloring, taxis swarm all over the road like oversized bubblebees.  Fighting their way through choking traffic jams, these little Ambassador cars are everywhere.  Lights are optional, engines may wheeze and jolt, seatbelts are nonexistent but you can guarantee that the horn is in perfect working order.

Determined to see all sides of Mumbai, we hired one of these taxis to show us the real sights.

First we went to the laundry.  A unique feature of Mumbai is the dhobi (traditional washman) who collects dirty laundry from all over town, washes it, and returns it – all for a pittance.  The laundry is washed in row upon row of concrete pens, each fitted with its own flogging stone.  The dhobis soak the clothes in sudsy water, beat the clothes on the stones, toss them into huge vats of boiling starch, and then hang them out to dry.  The most famous laundry is the “dhobi ghats” near the Mahalaxmi Station, where more than two hundred dhobis and their families work together as India’s biggest human-powered washing machine.

The profession, handed down from generation to generation, requires incredible strength.  The dhobis spend hours every day standing up to their knees in water filled with chemicals, manually scrubbing and beating the dirt out of each item of laundry. 

After the laundry, our taxi took us to Daharvi – Asia’s largest slum and home to 55% of Mumbai’s population.  We’ve visited many poor countries on this trip and visited a number of slums, but we still shocked by the scale of the filth and squalor of Mumbai. 

They call Daharvi a city within a city.  It is home to 55% of the Mumbai population and has its own commercial center – with merchants, leather workers, and recyclers conducting millions of dollars worth of commerce each day.

Workshop/House of a slum merchant who makes and sells brooms made from straw

As we walked through the narrow passageways between flimsy three-story shacks – each floor occupied by a different family – we were taken aback by the living conditions. It was worse than anything we saw in Africa. But one aspect of such extreme poverty that has been universal in our experience is the quiet dignity of the people living there. People smiled politely as we passed and nobody asked us for money. All they did was say hello and sometimes asked us to take their picture and show them the screen.

This is Mumbai’s tug-of-war.  On the one hand you have the upscale bars and restaurants in Colaba and on the other Asia’s largest slum.  But we found that this unease, this refusal to fit into any one category, is what makes Mumbai so enthralling.

Known for its beautiful scenery, colorful local villages, and amazing trekking, Northern Laos has become one of the foremost eco-tourism destinations in Southeast Asia.   We left our little piece of paradise in Luang Prabang to make the brutal (and we mean BRUTAL) 10 hour bus ride to the edges of the beautiful Nam Tha National Park. 

In Vieng Pukah we organized a three-day trek along the “Ahka Trail,” named after the indigenous tribe that lives in the area.  With our guide Mr. Boon Yee, and our cook Noy, the four of us loaded our packs with food and water and made our way into the jungle.

The trek was everything the guidebook said it would be.  It was beautiful, authentic and really hard on our bodies.

EE: The journey took us through several river crossings (the first was novel but after 7, I was ready for a bridge) and loads of mud.  There wasn’t a trail (unless you count the path the buffalo used) and our guide often had to use a machete to create a path for us.  The rain made the ground slippery and Jeff and I bit it half a dozen times – which was both funny and painful.

JW: The trek was definitely a challenge. At first I was excited about crossing the river by foot. But that quickly lost its thrill when I reached the other side and discovered several swollen leaches attached to my feet. Luckily our guide Mr. Boon Yee did a great job of keeping our spirits up. He taught us the phrase “Pa tit yow nom lye” (Your country is very beautiful) and the phrase “Pa tit yow bun lye” (Your country has many leeches.)

Bruised and covered in mud, we arrived for our first night in a Akha village high up in the hills.

We were greeted by a pack of exuberant boys who loved to scream. We would have guessed they were over-caffeinated or over-sugared except the village had neither soda nor candy. They gave us a warm albeit spastic welcome and took us to their playground for some fun before the sun went down. 

Exhausted from a long day we nearly collapsed into our bamboo thatched “house” only to find it was also home to packs of roosters, cows and pigs. Sleep was out of the question.  

EE: The animal house and straw mats we slept on became slightly tolerable when Mr. Boon told us we were getting massages after dinner. Yes! The silver-lining I’d been waiting for!  I might actually get through this trek. Eager to practice my new Laos language skills, when our massage ladies walked in I told them that their country was slippery and full of leeches instead of complimenting them on the beauty of their land…whoops. The Ahka girls spoke zero English and Mr Boon thought my comment was so funny he wouldn’t help me fix it - which might explain the almost unbearable pressure she applied to my very sore body.

We’ve done some pretty hard treks on this trip, but this was the first time we weren’t following a trail.  Without any huts or stations along the way, we had to carry all of our food and water on our backs.  Several times Noy our cook stopped along the trail to gather ferns, banana leaves, and other greens that she’d use in our next meal.

The Ahka villages were very basic and lacked electricity and running water.  When we started the hike we saw locals bathing in the river and thought it was quaint.  By the second day we were joining right in with the locals…and the water buffalo. 

The last day of our hike was the most treacherous of them all.  We cleared felled trees from our path, cleared leeches off our feet (Jeff removed 31 – a new Lao record), used vines to navigate steep drops, and held our breath as we walked over dodgy wooden bridges.

Even though our feet were sore and our bodies ached, we finished the trek feeling exhilarated having shed the trappings of modern life and spent three days walking the countryside and living close to the land.  But, then again, a proper shower and bed felt really really good.

Luang Prabang is an adorable little town on the banks of Mekong river.  “This place just oozes charm,” Erin liked to say every time we turned a corner.   

Long before it was a tourist destination, and even before it was a hub for the French colonists, Luang Prabang was a holy city and pilgrimage site for Buddist monks.  Dozens of monasteries and wats (Buddhist temples) line the streets of this peaceful town. 

Each morning at sunrise the monks walk around the city collecting alms from the locals.  It is a beautiful sight to see so many citizens honoring and providing for their holy men.

Once we got the hang of it we led our elephants to the river for a bath.  They waded deep into the Mekong until they were almost completely submerged and we began to scrub.  Erin’s elephant decided to have a little fun by taking her for a swim. 

It seemed weird to treat these massive two-ton animals like pets.  But then again the Lao think it’s weird that we treat our dogs like children.

One afternoon we rented a motorbike and drove out to see Kuang Si Falls.  At the base of this dazzling waterfall was a canyon-swing which Jeff very inartfully used to belly-flop into the icy water.

Glamour Shot

Near the waterfall was a playground complete with tire swing, hammock, and electric fence.  The electric fence was necessary because this was no ordinary playground: it was full of Asiatic black bears.  Unlike the black bears we saw from the bus in China, these lucky bears are part of a conservation effort.  They looked pretty comfortable lounging in those hammocks enjoying the natural air conditioning of the nearby waterfall. 

We’ve taken cooking classes in kitchens throughout southeast Asia.  What our made our cooking class in Luang Prabang unique was the absence of a kitchen.  Working on benches overlooking a stream, the only conventional kitchen items we used was a sharp knife and a mortar and pestle. 

We used fresh ingredients and freshly-caught fish so we didn’t need a fridge; we steamed the fish in banana leaves and deep-fried the veggies in lemongrass stalks so we didn’t need pots or pans; we cooked our food over wood coals so we didn’t need a gas or electric range.  It wasn’t the tastiest food we’ve made on this trip, but it was the most authentic experience we’ve had preparing local food.

Energized by Phnom Penh, we were ready to move on to the twin seaside towns of Kep and Kampot on the Gulf of Thailand.  It took all of the accumulated, stubborn, take-no-BS taxi haggling skills of Erin to get us a cab all for ourselves to Kampot for $25 (market price: $35).

We arrived in Kampot just at sunset to watch a brilliant orange-red glow as the sun set on the river. Kampot is a one-street town, with all the hotels, bars, and restaurants along the simple waterfront promenade. Our hotel of choice was booked, but the expat-friendliness that would set the tone for these days became quite apparent when the owner happily found us a room at a friend’s establishment. We were thrilled to meet Ben, an affable, busy, happy Irish guy, who had just opened his joint a few months before, complete with wood-fired pizza oven and large rooms. We ate a big, tasty, dinner outside – the first Sri Lankan food any of us had eaten ever —  and considered going dancing. But when we entered the club, the music was so loud as to be nearly inaudible, and there were only about 10 people (guys) inside sitting sullenly at tables. Combined with the “no guns” sign on the door, we decided that Erin getting up and shaking her booty to the flashing neon lights might cause more of a stir than we wanted, and gracefully took our leave.

The next morning, we took a delicious breakfast of fresh bread and croissants at Ben’s, and geared up for a motorbike ride to Kep, 30km away. We had packed our small daypacks for an overnight stay, or two, depending on what we found. You may remember from Vietnam, that we had already determined that motorbike days are great days.

Unfortunately, this one began inauspiciously. Just a few kilometers out of town, Jeff and Erin’s motorbike got a flat. Fortunately, as is often the case in developing Asia, we were just a few hundred yards from a fix-it shop, and 20 minutes and a couple dollars later, we had a brand new inner tube and were on our way.

We had read that there were some cave shrines along the route to Kampot, so we turned off onto a deeply rutted dirt road into a small village. Bump bump, bounce bounce, into and through a little village on a dirt road we puttered on our motorbikes, doing our best to avoid (or absorb) the potholes. Eventually, we came to natural curve in the road, and inevitably, a bunch of young boys appeared asking if we wanted to see the temples for a few dollars. We obliged them, and though the shrine itself was underwhelming, the precarious scamper up into the caves, the banter with the lead boy in his impressive English, and Seth climbing up into the light of the caves, made it worth it.

Before our departure from the village was done, Seth’s bike went defective, too. This time it was the tire not staying on the rim, and problem was a little more grave and a little more costly. We borrowed a cell phone to call Ben back into Kampot, who called the man who had rented us the bikes, and a lot of back and forth ensued, punctuated by bowls of cheap instant ramen noodles and the absolutely blistering midday heat of coastal Cambodia. Finally, we bucked up, and made a team decision. This was precious rural road-trip time – no time to waste! We’d pay the mechanic, get a new tire, get on our way, and deal with the rental guy on the return.

An hour or so later, we rolled into Kep. Into our stunning little 6-room bungalow getaway, “Les Flamboyantes.” Giant rooms with air conditioning and stone-and-mosaic showers, big front patios, reclining chairs with thick white cushions by a neat swimming pool, and a thatch-roof dining area that promised crabs and steak and good red wine. Mmmmm.

Our two days spent in Kep were relaxing gems. We watched some of the most break-taking sunsets any of us have ever seen, from several different hillside resorts. The colors were pure Monet – a riot of yellows and purples, fading from brilliant to soothing as the sun descended over the water, casting a gentle outline against the surrounding cliffs — and made even richer with passion fruit + vodkas for happy hour!

We rode our motorbikes down to the waterfront to eat delicious and famous locally-caught crabs. The ocean literally washes under the pilings of the restaurant strip, and you can see the water between the floorboards. Those crabs in part so good because they are cooked with fresh “Kampot pepper.”

Apparently, once upon a time, Kampot pepper was a delicious and treasured condiment in Europe, the pinnacle of pepper, so good that every respectable home in Paris had it on the table. Today, the pepper fields of Kep (Kampot is also the name of the province) are still productive, if not as renowned. Up the hills on our motorbikes and we found ourselves touring a pepper plantation. Who knew that pepper grew on tall, staked vines? What a neat sight. The berries on these vines were quite young and green, and when we popped them in our mouths, overwhelmingly hot. Eventually, they will ripen on the vine to red, and then beyond that, go overripe to black. That’s when they are picked and dried in the sun, and become the wrinkly black peppercorns you are familiar with.

Kep itself is a funny little place, which like the famous peppercorns, was apparently once a bit fancier, quite a destination for both French colonial and Cambodian national tourists looking to escape Phnom Penh and take in some sun and water. But during the civil war and genocide, it was deeply shelled, many of the buildings burnt and destroyed, and it basically fell into disuse and disrepair. It is just barely emerging from those doldrums, with many colonial buildings broken and swamped by the jungle, but a few others nicely restored. For our part, we were thankful for the gentle quiet.

One afternoon, we rode a motorized longboat out to a small island a couple miles off Kep. Jeff, to everyone’s amazement, made the bumpy trip both ways without puking. It was worth it, as we found ourselves on another truly idyllic beach, which in any other part of the world would be overrun with tourists. Here, the only available lodgings are super-rustic bungalows with no running water or electricity. We were able to “rent” a raised platform over the surf and just stretch out, the three of us under a palm tree, on a reed mat listening to the waves come in. Nothing but blue ocean in the distance. Ahh, paradise.

But the true clincher for Kep was an our evening back La Flamboyante. A dip in the charming swimming pool, and then a bunch of cocktails, and then dinner. All of the people at the single bar were totally eccentric expats, from the French owner to his cook brought from Madagascar. Wonderufl characters who have spent lifetimes wandering the globe, opening businesses, escaping tax authorities, and doing all manner of wild things. Like the French woman who had in her pocketbook a one-page contract (surely not up to Jeff’s legal standards) she had signed just that afternoon to rent one of the spaces down at the seafood market for an as-yet-to-be-determine alternative to a crab shack. With the care of our host, the whiskey flowed plentifully, and delicious appetizers like good cheese and fresh anchovies appeared before we even sat down to a wonderful French dinner. Once again, I was reminded of the many ways there are to live your way into the adventures of the world, to bushwhack your own path. And lubricate it with good food and drink.  In fact, the dinner and whiskey were so exhilarating that they led Erin and I to convince Jeff it was a good idea to march down to the ocean at night, strip down to our skivvies, and dive in to unknown dark water to disturb the supposed phosphorescents. While no glowing blue flagellates appeared at all, the laughs by the moonlight were entertainment enough.

Kep was my last stop with Erin and Jeff on their tour. I had lived 50 days of Sundays with them. While not a full 365, it was enough to remind me of why I love the Wertkinborns so: their sense of adventure, their kindness, their warmth, their taste for good food, and their desire to include others in it all. My parting advice to you faithful readers? Next time your dear friends invite you to join them on their Round-the-World trip, just say “yes.”

Phnom Penh started out as an inconvenient detour.  The only reason we even stopped in PP was because we needed to visit the Indian Embassy to apply for visas.  Much to our surprise, Cambodia’s capital city was a cool place to spend a few days.

Sadly, the biggest tourist attraction in PP is S-21 – the infamous prison where Pol Pot kept political prisoners of the Khmer Rouge.  We had heard about the Killing Fields before we arrived in Cambodia and accepted the conventional wisdom that Pol Pot was a homicidal maniac who murdered millions of his own people, but we didn’t know the extent of his madness. 

After successfully leading the Khmer Rouge to power against the Cambodian monarchy in 1975, Pol Pot decided that he wanted Cambodia to be an agrarian-based society.  To make this dream a reality, he destroyed the fabric of Cambodia life overnight by implementing a series of disastrous “Year Zero” policies.  For example, he ordered that all calendars be set to the year zero because it was the dawning of a new era.  He declared Cambodia’s currency to be worthless because he didn’t think that people should use money anymore.  And, incredibly, he ordered the 2 million residents of Phnom Penh to evacuate the city.  Many of Cambodia’s educated citizens were either killed in the countryside or forced to work as laborers in the field.

The alliance that Pol Pot had forged to overthrow the previous government wasn’t ready for these sweeping and devastating changes.  Loyalists during the revolution started to object.  Facing internal disagreements, Pol Pot turned on those in his own party and imprisoned many of his former lieutenants in S-21. 

Since he couldn’t trust any of his own people, he went into the countryside to recruit young boys to carry out his orders.  By the end, boys as young as 12 years old were presiding over the prison and torturing its inmates.  We learned how confessions forced at S-21 were extracted through disfigurement, removing toenails with pliers, suffocating a prisoner repeatedly, and skinning a person while alive.

Pol Pot’s reign was only three years long (1975-1978) but his disastrous turn set back Cambodia several decades. 

After learning so much about the history of the city, we were interested to experience modern city life and see how the city has recovered over the last 30 years.

We stopped at Seeing Hands Massage, home to the famous blind masseurs of PP.  Started by blind entreprenuers, this massage parlour helps previously unemployable men and women become professional massage therapists. 

EE: I’ve had a lot of massages in Southeast Asia. Many massage therapists use a standard set of movements which can sometimes feel generic. But it was clear from the first five minutes that my masseur Sophea was more in tune with my body. Sophea would tell me of the tightness and tension she felt as she worked out the kinks.

Feeling relaxed, we ventured to the waterfront to check out the view and found vendors selling all sorts of interesting things.  First we ran into the bug guy.  We hoped he wasn’t selling those giant cockroaches and massive black spiders as food – they made the scorpions we tried in Beijing look like a light snack.

Next we met a woman selling the cutest little green birds you ever saw.

She had dozens of those birds crammed into a small cage, and so we decided to buy three little birds and set them free.

Although not known for its cuisine, PP did have some interesting places to dine.  Our first night we ate at Friends, a training restaurant run by former street youth.  The next night we took a ride out to the outskirts of town where we were treated to dinner and a Las Vegas style show.

On our last night we encountered a culinary delight that we haven’t seen before on this trip: Happy Pizza.  What makes the pizza happy?  Its not the crust, tomato sauce, or cheese.