I first heard about the slow boat travels on the Mekong River from an Australian Queen over several cocktails. He was looking for his “spot” in Indochina and I was determined never to use road transport again on the shotgun highways of Cambodia.

I met the Queen in Siem Reap, Cambodia, in spitting distance of the famous Angkor Wat. When I arrived he appeared on the balcony at the hotel and that evening after several drinks he spilled far more stories than tales of slow boats.

But he did entice me, with plenty of eye fluttering, of romantic visions of slow, watery days watching floating villages, fishing boats and river life meander by. The stories became more colourful after a few margherita’s but I did not take much convincing.

Siem Reap is actually on the edge of the Tonle Sap, a tributary lake of the river. And so after the Queen and I parted company I decided to take a boat to Phnom Penh, from where you can follow the Mekong north or south.

The river actually starts on the Tibetan plateau at 5,181 metres in the Chinese Qinghai Province, crosses the Yunnan Province and follows the Myanmar-Laos border. It also forms most of the border between Thailand and Laos before plunging into Cambodia. It emerges again in Vietnam and finally gushes out into the South China Sea.

It’s the twelfth longest river in the world and runs like a vein through south east Asia for 4,200 kilometres; at times a raging muddy torrent, other times a sleepy coiling snake.

If it was India they would have made the river a god. People would come from everywhere just to dip a toe into the water. In Indochina river worship is not such a fad, but the 60 million people that live along its basin and depend on it daily for subsistence fishing, transport, industry and agriculture must view it somewhat religiously. The river also supports diverse fisheries, second only to the Amazon.

Certainly the names the locals have given it read like a list of credits. In Tibet it is called “Dza Chu”, in China “Lancang Jiang”, in Thailand and Laos “Mae Nam Khong”, in Cambodia “Tonle Thom” and Vietnam “Cuu Long”.

Translated these are the water of stone, the turbulent river, the mother of all the waters, the nine dragons river and the great water.

Standing by the Mekong in Phnom Penh, it was impossible not to be inspired by it – a murky expanse littered with fishing boats and local river craft, crumbling colonial architecture and Buddhist temples clinging to the banks and a view over cultivated lawns to the elaborate King’s palace.

The entire city was in preparation for the Bom Om Tuk festival. This three-day festivity celebrates the end of the wet season and the provision of fertile land. It draws people from every province and canoes were on display to be raced in the coming days.

From Phnom Penh I took the northern route to Laos, a three day journey to the border alone. Until Kratie the river was wide, brown and uninspiring. But north of Kratie it became a mosaic of rapids, eddies and whirlpools coursing between vegetated sandy islets. These featured waving children, birdlife, charging buffalo, coiling tree roots and flapping laundry.

I took the common passenger ferries, keen to see how the Indochinese travelled. Boarding always started early loading bags of sticky rice, motorbikes and boxes of live chickens. Some ferries were air-conditioned with karaoke videos or over-dramatized gangster films. On others you could sit on the deck and enjoy the sunshine.

People played cards or with babies, drank Laos beer with their packed lunches, shuffled to the rear-side bathroom in flip flops, or even slept.

The ferries only ran once a day and were express. But they would take on new passengers mid-river – a fascinating ordeal as the smaller village boats tried to transfer people and possessions without spillage in the swirling currents.

In the mid-afternoon we would halt in a town of no-acclaim, its lack of tourism more fascinating as traditional life prevailed – vegetable markets, French breads, coffee houses with reclining chairs to watch TV, limited electricity and a lifestyle beyond laid-back.

Upon entering Laos the Mekong meandered through Si Phan Don’s 4000 islands. Some of the islands are open for tourism but for now the rice fields, buffalo, French villas and colonial railways remain intact. The pace of life was “lounging” interspersed with coffee, the rice harvest and children.

Leaving the Thai border, the river continued north to the mellow Laos capital Vientiane and the UNESCO listed Luang Prabang. The river coils around both cities and it’s impossible not to be within sight or conscious thought of it. Besides the river is the best place for dining and to people-watch. saffron-cloaked monks, village women with stained teeth and old fishermen.

From Luang Prabang it’s a two-day journey to the Thai border, a popular route for leaving or entering the country. The scenery here is dramatic with high mountains, virgin forests and clear waters. It was also the end of my Mekong journeys.

In Huay Xai, Laos, I met a young Thai Queen who I asked how I should cross into Thailand. He turned a heavily made-up face to me and said in accentuated feminine tones, “Walk down to the river and say ‘I want to go to Thailand.'”

He tittered down to the river with me in tight white jeans and high heels and in five minutes we had crossed the narrow stretch to Thailand in a small wooden boat. It seemed a fitting tribute I had begun and ended my Mekong travels with a Queen.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer/photographer Joanne Lane who lives in Queensland, Australia.

Photos by Joanne Lane:
1: A full load leaves a dock on the river.
2: Passengers enjoying the river commute.
3: A mid-river transfer from little boat to big boat.

Getting There:
An international airport services Phnom Penh and Siem Reap in Cambodia, and Vientiane in Laos. It is possible to travel overland between Laos and Cambodia, Cambodia and Vietnam, and Laos and Thailand with the relevant visa. At present it is not possible to cross into Burma or China on the river.

Getting Around:
Boat travel is unfortunately more expensive on some routes. If you want to travel by road there are a few options. Buses, pickups, vans or 4wds operate on all routes. For more comfort and a lot less dust you can pay extra to sit inside the car console. In the cities you can flag motorbike taxis or tuk tuks for short rides. Always negotiate the price.

I am yakking in a yurt about yaks.

Outside an icy wind is blowing so we’ve gathered around a fire made from yak dung. This keeps the yurt surprisingly warm and no, it doesn’t smell.

We have warm blankets, lots of chay (tea) made from yak milk and plenty of good conversation that does venture beyond yaks. And when it’s warm enough we can lift up the heavy felt door and enjoy one of China’s best vistas over the angelic blue Lake Karakul and its surrounding glaciers. What more could you want?

My hosts are a Kyrgyz yurt dwelling family who live by the lake on the Karakoram Highway in China’s far west Xinjiang province. For traveler’s it has become accepted practice to “yurt it” in their tents before continuing over the border to Pakistan or back to Kashgar in China.

Getting here is all part of the fun. From Kashgar the road to Pakistan is windy, dusty and dry. Camels graze by the long straight road, a Chinese masterpiece in such hostile territory, otherwise the only other vehicles are donkey carts with grizzly passengers carting sheep to market.

The towns out here are frontier-like with a mix of Uigur, Han, Pakistani and Kyrgyz people lumped in a corner between their respective borders.

The Karakoram Highway leads through river gorges, barren sand dunes and high mountain passes which are all equally stunning, but the sudden appearance of the alpine lake is remarkable. It’s a huge blue expanse beneath the Pamir Mountains, with the highest peak of Mount Muztagata a dazzling 7546m with slopes flanked with glaciers.

In the valley around the lake, grasslands extend in each direction. Yurts cluster on the grassy fringes and yak, sheep, donkeys and horses make the most of the grazing land. Several yak belong to Abidi, the head of my host family, who lives in one of the yurts with his wife Raspu and their sons Booinish (five years) and Kutush (three years).

Abidi is a blue-eyed, fair skinned man of 30 years who met my bus when it arrived at Karakul. He had some English but it was the flowery recommendation he had flourished written by some fellow travelers of his family’s yurt life that convinced me.

A day in a yurt begins with chay (tea) and bread by the fire. A fire is needed all year round, because at 3800m the weather is freezing even in summer and there can be snow showers into June.

Abidi’s yurt is about 10 metres across. A stove for cooking and heating lies just inside the door with a pipe that goes out through an opening in the ceiling that can be widened or closed depending on the weather. Cooking utensils and pots are stored inside near the stove.

The floor beyond is covered with brightly woven mats and carpets. It’s a simple life but it’s also clear the family prefer this to living in the village, where they move when it becomes too cold.

Yurt life must be hard collecting water daily and sleeping on the floor, but there are also glimpses of the idyllic. Raspu and the other yurt women spend the day sewing on blankets outside while the kids play. It must be one of the best views of any workplace in the world. They are also in a happy position to spot passing tourists and offer them shelter, food or handicrafts for a haggled price.

On a sunny day it is particularly pleasant sitting outside, although generally yurt families are unphased by the cold and the younger kids have slits in their pants for quick toileting – a quick but surely cold method of potty training. The official toilet amounts to a designated area under a cliff face and the lake is used for washing – a chilling experience even to clean your teeth.

Once the sun sets time outside is minimal apart from the obligatory sunset shots. These are suitably gorgeous and if the cold doesn’t take your breath away the scenery will. Dusk is magic as the locals call their yak in for the night, Abidi’s sons chase goats and horses as take take their last tugs on the grass.

In the evening the family spends their time in conversation and song around the fire. While they’re aware of the upcoming Olympics they aren’t too concerned about the issues surrounding it. They are Kyrgyz and Beijing is many miles away.

During the day walking opportunities abound – simply strike out across the grasslands or climb one of the small hills for aerial views. The climbing can be tough in the high altitude but well worth it. The glaciers can be climbed but you should arrange a local guide and equipment. The locals also offer motorbike, horse or camel tours.

Abidi and I circumnavigated the lake by motorbike one morning. It was an innovative tour starting with a visit to his sister-in-law for yak milk tea and hot bread. Then we visited the dusty village school and mosque. Finally we drove around the lake admiring the flowers and passing yak, camel and horse.

Iif you don’t want to be this active you could draw, write, read or snooze and still feel you’d made the most of the day. Life operates at its own yurt-like pace – it’s all about the movement of yak, a good dung fire and hot cup of tea. Time doesn’t stand still but it’s certainly a happy illusion.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Joanne Lane who lives in Queensland, Australia;

Photos by Joanne Lane:
1: Women and kids pose out side a yurt..
2: Camels roam near Lake Karakul.
3: My host Abidi on his bike.

How To Get There:
Three buses depart daily from Kashgar for Lake Karakul (Y 40-50). Kashgar is connected to other parts of China by train, bus and air. The Caravan Cafe on Seman Lu can organise tours and onward travel. Kyrgyz yurt dwellers will meet the bus on arrival at Karakul.

Many have written recommendations in several languages and charge Y20-30 per night including food. Avoid staying in Jungking village which charges Y40 to enter the village. Mr Abidi Kudush lives one kilometre from the bus stop in a small clump of yurts by the lake. To contact him phone 1377 961 7293 from Kashgar, but get a local to talk on your behalf for better communication.

From where I sit perched on my elephant howdah, the Kaziranga National Park is a stretch of wild grassland fringed by marshland and thick jungle. The mahout nudges me gently and points.

Fifty feet away, small ears flicking, and horns pertly upturned like inverted commas, two one-horned rhinos stand face to face as if in conversation. One of them turns its head and peers short-sightedly at us through little piggy eyes.

I freeze and so does our elephant. Rhinos are notoriously unpredictable and have been known to charge with amazing speed despite their tank-like size.

But perhaps camera-toting tourists have become a ho-hum sight these days, or the wind has changed direction. Either way, the rhinos lose interest in us and lumber off in the direction of a muddy watercourse.

Located in Assam, in the north-east corner of India, the 430-acre Kaziranga Park is a rare success story in the annals of animal conservation.

Other than the Chitwan Reserve in Nepal, Kaziranga (declared a national park in 1974) is the only place in the world where one-horned rhinos (Rhinoceros Unicornis) are still in existence.

Although they remain an endangered species, they were on the verge of extinction thirty years ago having dwindled down to less than 200 animals in both India and Nepal.

Today, the rhino population in Kaziranga hovers around the 1700 mark. Even so the battle against poachers is far from over. Rhino horn—actually a spike of hardened hair—is reputedly an aphrodisiac and, as a powder it sells for about $40,000 per kilo.

The dawn is misty until an enormous, blood-orange sun emerges suddenly over the horizon. A swamp deer with curving antlers leaps across a field and for an instant is silhouetted against the sun like a black cardboard cut-out.

The breeze carries the tang of marshland, and as we emerge from a thicket of twelve-feet high spiny grass, we catch sight of a herd of wild elephants about a hundred yards away wallowing in the mud. A mother playfully squirts her baby with a stream of water. Engrossed in their morning toilet, they ignore us.

Not so a family of wild buffalo. They have a calf in their midst and the male lowers his head and tosses his horns. Our elephant hastily backs away.

An estimated 53 tigers also prowl through Kaziranga, but are tough to spot as they blend in with the tall, tawny grassland. The mahout shakes his head when I ask him about the possibility of a sighting. “Not here,” he says emphatically. “The jungle grows very quiet when a tiger is around.”

The morning is anything but silent: a cloud of chittering mynah-birds swerve and scatter overhead and the whoop of a langour monkey floats across to us from beyond a fringe of trees.

Later that day Palesh, a young man with an encyclopaedic knowledge of Kaziranga’s bird population, takes me on an open-roof jeep along rutted jungle paths. “Stop! Stop!” he commands the driver at intervals, and points out the flash of a small blue kingfisher, a pompous-looking spotted owlet and shoals of partridge.

An egret rides on the back of a rhino, and nesting lesser adjutant storks regard us with hauteur. Kaziranga boasts approximately 480 species of birds, some of which are migratory, and in a ninety-minute drive we spot at least 40 varieties—crow pheasant, red-breasted parakeets, a racquet-tailed drongo and a Pallas fishing eagle, to name just a few.

Back at the Wild Grass Resort I sit in the garden by the swimming pool. As dusk falls crickets shrill in the hibiscus bushes and an Indian Koel bird sends its plaintive cry across the lawns—a harbinger of summer.

The sunset sky is streaked orange and purple. Tomorrow I will be back amid the seething crowds of Mumbai—but will carry with me memories of emerald parrots, petal-eared rhinos and the eerie yowl of jackals under the full moon.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C. Learn more about Margaret at her website www.margaretdeefholts-journeys.com

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: Curious one-horned rhino
2: Welcome Salute by Tusker
3: Wild Grass Resort

Best time to Visit: Between November and April. Closed during the monsoon – June to September. The winter months from November to February are cool and require light woollens. March and April are steamy.

Getting There: Gawahati, the nearest city to Kaziranga has air connections from all the major Indian cities, after which it is a 5 ½ hour road trip to get to the game sanctuary. Although State transport buses ply from Gawahati, the most convenient way to get there is by private tourist taxi. Most operators offer reasonably priced services.

Accommodation: Wild Grass Resort offers safari tours and luxury accommodation. For more information visit www.nivalink.com/wildgrass/index.html

For More Information: www.kaziranga-national-park.com/hotels-resorts-kaziranga.shtml

When planning our holiday in Thailand, my husband had exclaimed excitedly,
“Let’s go and see the Kanchanaburi tigers. It will be fun!” I love an adventure and had enthusiastically agreed that meeting these majestic beasts would be an awesome experience.

Yet when I eventually laid eyes on the tigers, my excitement was replaced with nervousness and my mind was saying: “This would really be an experience, if I live to relate it!”

Eight tigers lay motionless on the ground of the Tiger Canyon, within the premises of the Watpa Luangta Ba Yannasampanno Forest Monastery, commonly known as Tiger Temple. The nearest tiger was about three meters from me. Except for their breathing movements, the octet seemed as if they were asleep yet ready to spring up and counter an unexpected attack.

Unlike at conventional zoos where visitors admire tigers from behind the safety of a moat surrounding the mammals’ enclosure, visitors to the Tiger Temple, can sit next to, and have pictures taken with the tigers in the Tiger Canyon.

The thrill of being so close to these beasts was slightly numbed by the fact that the only restrain on the tigers is a leash around their neck, attached to a metal chain and affixed to the ground.

Linking her left arm through my right arm, a volunteer guided me toward the rear of the closest tiger. As I crouched for my picture to be taken, I kept my eyes on the tiger, wondering if it could sense my presence.

I was next led to sit behind two tigers lying on their left side atop a flat rock. Slightly smaller than the previous tiger, it seemed as if they had slowly lain their exhausted bodies down to slumber. The tiger on the left was lightly resting its front right paw on the back of the other tiger, much like a reassuring touch from one sibling to another.

I gingerly placed my left hand on the first tiger; the beast hardly moved. This time, I managed to smile into the camera, before I was taken to the next tiger lying on the ground.

As I approached the largest tiger that I would be next to, a volunteer gave it what appeared to be a chest rub. This caused the tiger to calmly turn and stretch out on its back with its paws in the air, before resuming its previous motionless state with its eyes shut. I was startled by what happened, as I had assumed that the tigers would not welcome any disturbance.

As my camera captured me crouching beside its beautiful form, I was tempted to touch its hind paws, yet I was afraid the action would cause unexpected movement.

I could not act on the temptation as my time with the tigers ended. I went back to the waiting area while my camera went for a second round, capturing my husband’s turn with the tigers. I stood silently, reflecting on my amazing experience with the tigers as I watched my husband happily stroking the tigers as he would our pet dog, while beaming widely for the camera.

Later, we would learn that the tigers were led out of their cages to the canyon only in the afternoon between 3.30pm and 5pm. In the past, they were allowed to roam freely on the temple grounds but as the number of visitors increased, the tigers also became more irritable.

Thus they were kept caged when they were not meeting visitors in the canyon. As they are nocturnal animals, the tigers sleep during the heat of the day, which is what they appear to be doing in the canyon.

The current adult tigers were brought to the temple as cubs by villagers, mostly orphaned when their parents were killed by poachers. The first cub was brought here in 1995.

Out of compassion, abbot Pra Acharn Phusit (Chan) Kantitharo cared for the injured cub, together with the other wild animals including water buffalo, goat, hog, boar, red jungle fowl, pea fowl and deer, that came to the forest temple and sanctuary in 1994.

Through the years, some female tigers have given birth to cubs at the temple. As of 2006, 10 tiger cubs have been born at the temple, bringing the total number of tigers to 18.

The tigers are given dried cat food, cooked whole chicken, and cooked beef, ensuring that they do not taste blood and thus associate blood with meat. The monks feed, groom and handle the tigers, so the tigers are accustomed to human presence and unfamiliar with violence.

While the cubs can roam free within a reserve in future, the adults will spend their days with the monks. Therefore, construction on a bigger enclosure for the tigers is currently underway at the temple.

To date, the Tiger Temple has survived solely on alms and donations collected from the public. The enclosure’s construction means additional funds are required, thus there is now an entrance fee of 300 baht (approximately US$9.25), that visitors should consider as a minimum donation to the temple.

A third of this amount goes toward the building fund while the rest offsets the daily food, upkeep and medical attention required by the tigers.

The sun begins its slow descent as I leave the Tiger Temple, still awed by my close encounter with the few tigers and touched by the monks’ compassion for the beasts.

I turn to my husband and firmly state that we will come back to visit the tigers every year until they are housed in their new enclosure. It is a promise that we hope others can fulfill with us too.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Patricea Chow-Capodieci who lives in Singapore. Check her website at www.pizzazz-words.com

Photos by Patricea Chow-Capodieci:
1: An overview of the Tiger Canyon.
2: The author sits with a couple of tigers.
3: A variety of animals wander the Temple grounds.

About Wat Pa Luang Ta Ba Yannasampanno Forest Monastery

The temple is located at Saiyok District, Kanchanaburi Province, 71150, Thailand. It is open to visitors from 1pm to 5pm daily. Visitors can get close to the tigers at the Tiger Canyon from 3.30pm to 5pm.

There is an entrance fee of 300 baht (approximately US$9.25). Visitors are welcome to donate additional sums or purchase a variety of souvenirs. All proceeds go toward the fund for New Home for Tigers Project and daily expenditure for the care of the tigers.

Visitors are reminded not to don bright colours, such as red, pink or orange for they will not be allowed in to the Tiger Canyon. Ladies are reminded that this is a visit to a monastery, so please dress appropriately. A safe gauge is to ensure that your knees are covered and your top/blouse is not too revealing. Flash photography is not permitted in the Tiger Canyon.

Getting to Wat Pa Luang Ta Ba Yannasampanno Forest Monastery from Bangkok

By bus:
Take a bus from the Southern Bus Terminal in Bangkok to Kanchanaburi. The trip costs approximately 100 baht (approximately US$3) and lasts around three hours. At the Kanchanaburi bus station, take bus number 8203 heading toward Sai Yok. Ask the bus driver to stop at the temple, Wat Pa Luang Ta Ba Yannasampanno. This trip costs 25 baht (approximately US$0.75) and takes about 45 minutes. Alighting at the bus stop, follow the dirt road to the front gate of the temple. This is about 1.5km (slightly less than a mile) and takes about half an hour to 40 minutes.

By taxi:
Ask the taxi driver to bring you to the temple, Watpa Luangta Ba Yannasampanno. It will cost between 200 to 250 baht (approximately US$6 to US$8) and take about half an hour.

I’m standing at the edge of a pontoon, gazing down at the greedy waters of the South China Sea off the shores of Sabah, Borneo, and I’m scared witless. In fact, “witless” is what I must have been to sign on for this escapade in the first place, seeing as I’m terrified of water and can’t swim a stroke.

“Don’t worry,” says my guide Eric as he steers me onto a steel ladder, “You’ll be fine.” I have a sinking feeling, both literally and figuratively speaking, as I prepare to descend to a depth of ten metres to the floor of the ocean, but it’s too late to change my mind now.

Earlier on at the Sea Trek Centre on Pulau Sapi Island in the Tunku Abdul Rahman Marine Park, I’d been intrigued at the idea of strolling along the seabed despite being a non-swimmer.

The instructions on the fifteen-minute introductory video clip seemed simple enough, and I was reassured by the fact that three expert guides would be down there to come to the rescue if I signalled for help.

Also, I rather liked the idea of being video-taped underwater by the Sea Trek Centre cameraman, and showing off how intrepid I was to friends and family when I got home to Canada.

However, now that the moment of truth is upon me, my knees feel like rubber, and I cling white-knuckled to the ladder railings. I grope with my foot for the next rung, wondering whether my legs are long enough, and a hand grasps my ankle and gently guides me down.

The waters lap chest high, and one of the pontoon crew lowers a glass helmet over my head. Its rubber pads sit heavily on my shoulders, and an umbilical-like hose which is attached to an air pump on deck, lets me breathe normally.

As I dip below the surface of the water, fingers still desperately clutching the ladder, I’m engulfed in a murky green world, waves rippling and surging around me. A shadowy figure by my side, guides me down, down… He taps my arm and gestures, ‘slow, slow’.

I stare into the opaque waters, trying to remember instructions. “Hold your head straight, and try not to look down!” My feet touch the bottom of the ocean, and my companion, prises my fingers off the ladder.

I stand with my feet apart, (as demonstrated in the instruction video), but have lost all sense of direction. Panic! A second later, a hand at my elbow leads me to a rope, and gestures at me to hold it, and move sideways, crablike.

Moving slowly gripping the rope, my feet scrabbling over the rock-strewn ocean floor, I am suddenly buoyant – exultantly light and fearless, surrounded by spiky orange and speckled blue coral and undulating seaweed.

Brightly coloured fish flit past my glass visor, nibble on my fingers and elude my grasp when I reach out to touch them. They are magical creatures these butterflies of the sea, as they dart purple, yellow, scarlet, maroon and blue. Some are large oval iridescent baubles of green and gold; others are flecks of silver paper. They shoal about me, beautiful in their careless prodigality.

I exchange delighted smiles with my neighbour who peers at me through her fishbowl helmet and points to a clown anemone fish that “kisses” her outstretched fingers and then shoots away in a shiver of bright orange and black.

Further along a host of rainbow-hued parrotfish shimmer past, followed a little later by a narrow brown leaf-like creature, which lazily floats out of the murky waters, regards us without curiosity and glides off into the distance.

It is, as I find out later, an epaulette shark, which I might not have regarded with such equanimity had I known it then.

Time seems to be as fluid and slow as the waters that lap around me and as our 30-minute adventure draws to a close my underwater guide gestures towards the ladder that will take me back to the clamour of my world above the sea.

As I emerge, gravity anchors my feet to the ladder, and I have to work hard at heaving myself out of the water, eventually flopping like a beached whale onto the pontoon deck!

Eric beams, as we clamber on board the boat that will tender us back to Pulau Sapi. “What did you think of that? Wasn’t it amazing?” he says.

The answering burst of cheers, and clapping all but drowns out the growl of the launch’s outboard motor.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C. Learn more about Margaret at her website www.margaretdeefholts-journeys.com

Photos by Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhds:
1: Walkers on the pontoon, waiting their turn. Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhd.
2: Sea life surrounds author Margaret Deefholts. Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhd.
3: Glamour girls on the ocean floor. Borneo Seawalking Sdn Bhd.

Getting There:
Sapi Island in the Tunku Abdul Rahman Park is a 40 minute boat ride from Kota Kinabalu, the capital city of Sabah, Borneo.

Contact Information: Tourism Malaysia Sabah Phone at 1-6088-212121 or e-mail info@sabahtourism.com

For more information on sea walking go to Borneo Seawalking Sdn.Bhd’s website: www.borneoseawalking.com

The human skull looking down balefully at me through a wicker framework suspended from the rafters of the Serubah Longhouse in Sarawak is unsettling, but according to our guide, Bong, it embodies a benevolent spirit who protects the community who live here. “They are hospitable towards visitors,” Bong adds, catching my apprehensive upward glance. “So don’t worry!”

The tuai rumah, (headman) of the Iban longhouse also smiles reassuringly, while a young woman graciously welcomes us with glasses of tuak—a home-brewed rice wine. The milky liquid is sour-sweet with an acrid, but not unpleasant edge to it, and I savour the sensation of warmth as it travels down my throat.

The practice of decapitating enemies has long vanished in tribal Borneo in the wake of widespread Christianity. Nonetheless ancient taboos, rituals and a regard for the spirit world remain ingrained in the minds and hearts of the Iban, the Kadazan and other Dyak tribes who live in the jungles of Sabah and Sarawak.

“When a warrior brought home the head of his enemy,” says Bong, “it was skinned and smoke-dried over a fire, and then displayed on a pole while everyone celebrated the victory with feasting and dancing.

Because the spirit of the departed was believed to remain within the skull for seven days, the shaman would then perform special rituals of appeasement to make sure that the skull’s previous inhabitant had no vengeful hang-ups, and would instead act as a guardian of the longhouse by warding off demons and other evil influences.”

In keeping with this idea, wicker baskets surrounding the skulls above us have a collection of small offerings to make the spirits happy, and I notice that these include a few cigarette butts. Nicotine addiction evidently still persists in the afterlife. I drain my glass of fiery tuak as I raise a toast to the shrunken heads, which have now actually begun to look quite friendly.

The headman introduces us to his predecessor, Budit anak Libau now in his mid-to-late 80s and retired from his office as tuan rumah. Budit’s skin is like aged brown leather, and his gaunt upper torso is thickly embroidered with tattoos.

They tell a grisly tale, for the old man, despite his gentle smile and frail appearance today, was a formidable head-hunter in his youth; the tattooed emblems decorating his throat, chest, arms and back are his badges of bravery; the skulls on display at the entrance just above our heads include some of his trophies.

The Serubah Longhouse at Nanga Sampa lies deep in the jungles of Sarawak and to get here, we’d travelled for over an hour from the swanky Hilton-owned Batang Ai Longhouse Resort into a different world.

Our dug-out canoes, which looked as frail as peanut shells, bobbed and tossed their way along the rushing waters of the Lemanak River. Dense tropical vegetation, trailing vines and outcrops of roots squeezed the flow into narrow channels, and frilly whirlpools of white water had me grabbing the sides of the canoe until Bong cautioned, “Better not do that…the crocs around here love ladies fingers!”

As I stand now at the entrance of the Longhouse, the ruai or communal gallery seems to stretch a long, long way to the far end. The slatted wooden floor is perched on stilts and the area below, glimpsed between the planks, boasts a clutch of hens and a vociferously crowing cockerel.

The 25 rooms leading off the hallway are family units which accommodate anywhere from between 4 to 14 members and while families prepare meals in the privacy of their own rooms and manage their own farmland plots independent of one another, they all get together here on the ruai hallway to socialize, attend council meetings, and celebrate festivals.

I can’t imagine what it would be like to live alongside about 250 relatives (and some of their friends) on a daily basis, but in this closely knit tribal society, the longhouse functions like a village under one roof and affords security and a comforting sense of unity.

As we walk along the vast hallway, women smile or nod as they carry out their daily chores, a granny flashes us a toothless grin, mothers rock their babies in little bamboo cradles and a small boy, absorbed in whittling a stick, ignores us as he frowns in concentration.

We sit cross-legged on the floor, while watching the Ngajat, a traditional Iban dance of welcome. The ancient ex-headman, Budit, re-appears this time wearing a slit loincloth, several bead necklaces and a feathered headdress that all but sweeps the ceiling.

Moving majestically, arms waving in flowing movements, he advances, retreats, stamps his feet and utters a series of shrill cries (which sound more warlike than welcoming) while brandishing a spear and an octagonal wooden ceremonial shield.

A couple of young women wearing coronets as delicate as spun sugar, beaded necklaces trimmed with red pom-poms and aprons of silver coins, take centre stage. They smile and beckon us to join them. We circle the floor in a gleeful performance that owes more to tuak inspired confidence than talent.

The time has come to say farewell and we present the tuai rumah with boxes of candies and cookies in appreciation of their Iban hospitality. The kids hop up and down in excited anticipation while the women lay out equal portions for each family on the hallway mats.

No doubt the bony, hollow-eyed amicably grinning “guardians” at the entrance to the hallway received their fair share as well.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, an author and freelance travel writer
who lives in Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver B.C.

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: Overview of the I ban Serubah Longhouse.
2: Skull Trophies at the Iban Serubah Longhouse.
3: Tattooed Budit performs the Ngajat dance of welcome.

NOTE: Malaysia celebrated its 50th anniversary of Independence on August 31st and 2007 has been designated as “Visit Malaysia Year.” Party celebrations and splashy festivities will continue to keep the excitement at fever pitch across the country over the next twelve months to August 2008. There’s no better time to drop by for a visit! Go to http://travel.tourism.gov.my/ to explore their calendar of events.

If you go:

Getting There:

EVA Airlines flies from Vancouver to Kuala Lumpur (via Taipei) – contact your travel agent for flight details and costs, or click on www.evaair.com/html/b2c/english/ for on-line reservations. Malaysian Airlines has frequent flights between Kuala Lumpur and Kutching the capital of Sarawak in Borneo.

A daily shuttle service runs between the Hilton Hotel in Kutching and the luxurious and scenic Hilton Batang Ai Jungle Resort, a journey by road and boat that takes approximately 3.5 hours. Set in landscaped tropical gardens overlooking the Batang Ai Lake, and designed to resemble a tribal longhouse, the Lodge offers well appointed, air-conditioned rooms with a rustic ambience. Click Hilton Batang Ai to visit their home page.

Borneo Adventure Tours Sdn Bhd is a reputable and long established organization which runs overnight trips to the Serubah Longhouse at Nanga Sumpa. The also cater to small groups and individual bookings. For more information on their longhouse tours and other special interest trips go to:
www.borneoadventure.com/public/home/default.asp

Contact information:
Borneo Adventure Tours Sdn Bhd
55 Main Bazaar
93000 Kuching, Sarawak
Malaysia
Tel: +6082-245175
Fax: +6082-422626 / 234212
Email: info@borneoadventure.com

Brought up by Catholic parents to attend Sunday mass to remember Jesus’ selfless sacrifice for mankind, I felt strange that on this particular Sunday morning, I was instead visiting a cemetery in Thailand.

Places that hold the dead have always seemed eerie to me even in broad daylight, and my irrational fear was not helped by the knowledge that this was the Kanchanaburi War Cemetery, built to contain the remains of 6,982 prisoners of war who died while building a bridge of the Burma Railway for Japanese during the Second World War.

I held on to my husband’s hand as we walked through the entrance of the cemetery, pausing at the Kanchanaburi Memorial to read the names of 11 Indian soldiers buried in Muslim cemeteries across Thailand.

Despite the bright sunshine and clear weather of the morning, a somber silence hung in the air: visitors spoke in a soft whisper as they walked among the neat rows of tomb markers, sitting on a rectangular green garden bordered by low shrubs, and dotted with trees and small plants.

While most visitors spent time wandering among the section dedicated to British and Australian prisoners, my husband and I wandered to the quieter section that was set aside for Dutch prisoners.

The markers were made from the same stone and finished with a bronze plaque embedded with a gold cross detail.

Every marker revealed something about the remains buried under it: from teenagers to men in their mid 30s to 40s, and ranks from recruit upwards. However, we would occasionally come across markers inscribed only with ‘Known Unto God’.

All of them were someone’s son, brother, husband or father.

We could imagine the anguish felt by the families of these men who had ‘disappeared’ in the war. It also seemed particularly cruel that these men died in captivity without a proper burial place, and their family members could not maintain their memory in death.

We would soon realize that the markers were for those whose remains were fortunate to be identified: a sheltered pavilion standing on the left side of the cemetery had white marble panels inscribed with the names of 300 men, who died during an epidemic at Nieke camp and whose ashes are mixed in two graves on the cemetery.

After 30 minutes, we left the cemetery and spent the next 15 minutes walking in silence to the bridge standing over the river Kwai Yai, where most of the prisoners died.

The river was renamed from Mae Klong in the 1960s, after the bridge was made famous by the 1957 movie, The Bridge On the River Kwai. The latter was based on the novel The Bridge Over the River Kwai by Pierre Boulle, set against the building of the bridge as part of the Burma Railway.

The railway, constructed from October 1942 to December 1943, was a project by the Japanese to send supplies to its army in Burma. An estimated 16,000 prisoners of war and 49,000 forcibly recruited laborers from Malaya, Siam, Burma and the Dutch East Indies worked on the construction of the railway.

It gained the moniker of Death Railway as both prisoners and laborers died during the construction or maintenance of the bridge from disease, over-work, starvation or Allied bombings.

The remains of the prisoners were buried along the lines before they were transferred after the war to three cemeteries in Thailand, one of which was the Kanchanaburi War Cemetery.

As we walked along the steel bridge that was completed in April of 1943, the river passed calmly below it. The rising morning sun brought scenic views surrounding the bridge, all of which belied nothing of its gruesome history.

Our journey would continue further along the Death Railway, with a ride on a passenger train up to Nam Tok station, beyond which the railway line was dismantled by the State Railway of Thailand in 1947.

The unadorned train had wooden floor boards that were worn from numerous tourist feet walking through its cabins and the straight-back yellow painted wooden seats were uncomfortable. Even with fully opened windows and tiny ceiling fans whirring away, there was little respite from the thick tropical heat in the cabin of the moving train.

Our cabin was filled mainly with passengers in their 50s to 60s. Listening to the conversations among our neighboring passengers, we picked out English and Australian accents as they discussed the scenery and what they know of the Death Railway.

There were also some locals onboard hawking snacks, cold drinks and souvenir caps as the train passed through barren fields, over snaking rivers and close to mountain sides.

Suddenly, a guide shouts across the cabin: “The train is going to pass over the original wooden railway that is just up ahead. It is the only section of the entire railway that is wooden.”

Together with most of the people on the train, I popped my head out the window and prepare my camera to capture the monumental section of the Death Railway. After a few quick snaps, the cabin I was in chugged across the wooden section of the railway, bringing us safely across a deep gorge.

Many passengers would disembark from the train before its final stop at Nam Tok, where my husband and I ended our Sunday tour of the Death Railway just before noon.

It may not have been the usual Sunday mass in church but it was equally humbling and a reminder of the sacrifices these men made. They had left their country hoping to victoriously defend another nation, only to die in a foreign land with little dignity after immense suffering.

This journey will definitely leave an emotional mark on anyone, whether they had relatives that were involved in the war or not.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Patricea Chow-Capodieci who lives in Singapore. Check her website at www.pizzazz-words.com

About the photos:
1: Overview of the Kanchanaburi War Cemetery. Commonwealth War Graves
Commission photo.
2: The infamous bridge over the river Kwai. Patricea Chow-Capodieci photo.
3: Inside one of the cabins on The Death Railway. Patricea Chow-Capodieci photo.

About the Kanchanaburi War Cemetery:
The Kanchanaburi War Cemetery is located near the site of the former prisoner of war base-camp, Kanburi, during the Second World War. The cemetery was created by the Army Graves Services, designed by Colin St Clair Oakes and supported by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

Getting to Kanchanaburi War Cemetary:
From Bangkok, take the train from Thornburi station and alight at Kanchanaburi station. Mini bus #2 (10 baht/US$0.30) or a songtaew (5 baht/US$0.15) will take you to the cemetery, located on Saen Chuto Road in northwest Kanchanaburi. Alternatively, you can take a two to three hour bus ride from Bangkok’s southern bus terminal to Kanchanaburi bus terminal. The cemetery is an approximate 15-minute walk away.

About the Bridge over River Kwai Yai:
The bridge spans about three miles from down-town Kanchanaburi to across the Kwai Yai river. The current bridge suffered heavy bombardment from the Allied in 1945 and was rebuilt after the war by the Japanese. The curved spans are the original sections while the trapezoid stands are the replacements.

The bridge and railway are now maintained by the State Railway of Thailand, and are part of a Trans-River Kwai Death Railway tour. A passenger train runs from Thornburi station in Bangkok to Kanchanaburi, stopping at River Kwai Bridge station before crossing the bridge and continuing on to Nam Tok station. Trains depart daily around 6.30am, 10.30 am and 4.25pm from the River Kwai Bridge station. Tickets cost 150 baht (US$4.50) per person.

India’s history holds many ghosts. It is a land of old loves, ancient hatreds, tarnished dreams and fleeting glory. I am in Lucknow in North India, and I am drawn into a story of extraordinary courage in the face of insurmountable odds.

Lucknow was ruled for centuries by the Muslim Nawabs of Oudh. The last ruler was ousted by the British in 1856, ostensibly because he was a dissolute wastrel. While there was some truth to this, Wajid Ali Shah was also a cultured nobleman and generous patron of the arts.

The Province of Oudh was, however, of strategic importance to the British and it was in their interests to secure domination over it by whatever means they could employ.

It was a step that they would regret.

The annexation of Oudh was just one of the factors which ignited the tinder-box of rebellion in 1857, and brought about the Great Mutiny now referred to as The First War of Independence, by Indian nationalists.

In May 1857, insurrection had broken out in other parts of the country, and Sir Henry Lawrence, the gallant Chief Commissioner in Lucknow, prudently moved British and Anglo-Indian civilians (my great-grandmother among them) into the 60-acre walled defences of the British Residency.

Today, 150 years later, I sit under a tamarind tree, on a bench bordering the lawns of the old Residency, listening to the drone of bees, and the harsh cawing of crows. Dust devils whirl briefly in the warm afternoon breeze, and the air carries the scent of marigold flowers.

If I’d been here in 1857, these sounds would have been drowned by the bursting of shells, the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the almost continuous bombardment of cannon. The surroundings would have been shrouded in the grey dust of crumbling masonry.

Within the buildings around me today, was a defensive army of about 850 British officers and soldiers, backed by about 700 loyal native sepoys, plus a handful of civilian volunteers and several hundred non-combatants, including elderly citizens, women and children, most of whom were crammed into an underground warren of rooms known as the “Tykhana.”

As I walk into the Tykhana today, it is as if the shadows around me are alive with ghosts of women soothing the fevers of dying children, tending to soldiers’ bloody and torn limbs while around them the whine of bullets and the heavy crash of cannonballs, continue to slam against the walls of their brick shelter.

The searing heat of June that year, gave way to torrential monsoon rains in July; malaria, typhoid and cholera took their toll.

Emerging into the sunlight, I am glad to be free of the weight of so much sorrow yet there are other reminders scattered throughout the Residency. The splendid ballroom, converted into a hospital, bears the scars of shellfire.

A few residences still stand, their mildew-covered walls like rotted teeth lying open to the sky. The cemetery headstones tell their own tragic tales of bereavement.

It would be 141 days of fierce bombardment, before Sir Colin Campbell and his Highland battalion backed by other army detachments, came to the rescue. Only 800 soldiers and non-combatants, along with about 550 ragged and painfully emaciated women and children survived the ordeal.

As the conflagration of the uprising blazed across the Indo-Gangetic plain, the carnage on both sides left scars of bitter mistrust. As a result, the British government took over the reins of administration from the East India Company, and in 1858, India became Britain’s “fairest jewel in the Crown.”

Apart from the ruins of the Residency, Lucknow is filled with crumbling, yet once splendid Islamic mosques, tombs and mansions such as the romantically named “Dilkhusha Palace (Heart’s Delight).

I dismount from my rickshaw near the Rumi Darwaza, a magnificent gateway to the old city, to explore a building built in 1784. The Bara Imambara (once the residence of an Imam, or religious leader) is a marvel of architecture: its 15-metre high vaulted central hall stretches for 50 metres (the longest in the world) without any intermediary supporting pillars.

The upper floor consists of labyrinthine passages – the “Bhul-bhuliaya” – and visitors are challenged to find their way out of the maze. Few succeed and guides are poised to come to the rescue.

The labyrinth’s acoustic engineering is such that a whisper against one wall can be clearly heard even beyond several turns and twists of the corridors. Always suspicious of conspiracies, this is how the rulers of Lucknow guarded against disloyalty on the part of the keepers of the Imambara.

Lucknow is, of course, is much more than its historical monuments. The modern commercial area of Hazrat Gunj is the hub of air-conditioned shops, restaurants and concrete office buildings.

By contrast, the narrow lanes of Aminabad bazaar in old Lucknow seethe with colour and movement. Popular film music blares out from small food kiosks, sidewalk sellers offer marigold garlands, and fruit and vegetable stalls are piled high with produce.

Cows amble through the crowds, unhindered by shoppers, and vice-versa. At a small clothing store, I buy a strawberry pink cotton kurta (tunic) adorned with “chikkan” work – a type of shadow embroidery unique to Lucknow – for less than the cost of half a bag of groceries in Canada!

At a restaurant overlooking the old city, I dine on Lucknow’s legendary Moghlai cuisine. Domes and minarets dominate the skyline and, bathed in the glow of twilight, they evoke a dreamy “Arabian Nights” landscape.

The old city had, and still has, a distinctive ambience born of centuries-old traditions of courtly etiquette and stately manners. Urdu literature and Islamic art, fine apparel, exquisite jewellery and adornments, continue to be part of a genteel lifestyle among the descendents of Nawabi families, many of whom still live in rambling, if now rather shabby mansions.

Like their ancient city, they too are relics of another, more gracious world.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Margaret Deefholts, Canadian author and freelance travel writer who lives near Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Margaret Deefholts:
1: A view of the entrance and pathway from the terrace of the Bara Imambara.
2: The Baillie Gate to the Residency which took some of the heaviest fire from the rebels during the siege of Lucknow.
3: A street hawker’s stall near the entrance to the Residency.

IF YOU GO:

Getting There:
Lucknow has daily flights to and from most major Indian cities such as Delhi, Kolkata, Mumbai, Jaipur, Goa and Hyderabad. The air conditioned Shatabdi Express train runs between Lucknow and Delhi (6 hours), and other express trains fan out towards Allahabad, Varanasi, Mumbai, Kolkata etc. Long distance buses ply to most major destinations.

Where to Stay:
Hotels run the gamut from budget to top end, but none of them offer 5 star accommodation.
Carleton Hotel (once a palace) has large rooms, and an air of decaying elegance. Hotel Clarks Avadh is a modern hotel with luxury fittings, a restaurant, coffee shop and bar.

Best Time to Visit:
Between October and March. The winter evenings can be chilly with night temperatures dipping to near freezing levels. The summer temperatures routinely soar to 40oC.

Restaurants and Shopping:
Modern Lucknow city is noisy, dusty and crowded. However, Hazrat Gunj (the main drag), and its adjoining lanes, is an upscale shopping area with western-style malls, clothing and souvenir shops.

This is also the location of a number of restaurants serving fine Lucknow cuisine: sizzling kebabs, linen thin Rumali (handkerchief) rotis, aromatic pilaffs, and kulfi ice-cream—all fit for a Nawab’s discerning palate! Forego ice cubes in pop, and drink only chilled bottled water. Spicy Indian chai and creamy Indian-style coffee are popular (and safe) after-dinner beverages.

Government emporiums offer quality handicrafts, but their prices are non-negotiable. Ram Advani’s bookstore, also on Hazrat Gunj has an eclectic selection of Indian literature ranging from novels and non-fiction paperbacks, to illustrated coffee table books.

The bird sellers’ district in old Lucknow’s Chowk market is interesting to browse through. Pidgeon keeping and cockfighting have been popular in Lucknow from the time of the Nawabs.

Other:
Liquor in India is relatively inexpensive, but certain days of the week are designated as “dry” and the liquor stores are closed. Hotel bars and restaurants will, however, serve their clientele without any fuss. Indian dark rum (“Old Monk” or “Hercules XXX”) is excellent—fruity and richly textured; Indian whisky and gin is passable, but standards vary from brand to brand. “Kingfisher” beer is served chilled and on a hot day, or as an accompaniment to a fiery curry, it goes down very smoothly.

Most comprehensive guidebook: “Lonely Planet—India”. Don’t leave home without it!

Late one January afternoon I arrived in the center of Hanoi, the capital city of VietNam The sun sets early in the winter so the first thing I did was rush to one of the lakes that dot the city to savour the warmth.

Standing by the Hoan Kiem Lake I saw the circular reflection of Hanoi’s cityscape on its calm waters. Modern Asia blended with French style. After years of recovery, Hanoi was a brilliant star again. The still-life portrait entranced me and I was hooked on Hanoi.

Next morning, 6:00am, I savoured coffee, a fresh tasty baguette, and pho noodle soup before I headed back to the water. All around the circular lake Vietnamese – young and old, male and female – were practicing tai chi, aerobics, running, walking, badminton, meditation and playing flutes.

The rhythmic calmness of their movements was in harmony with the misty dawn peeking over the Buddhist temple on a tiny island connected to the shore by a bright-red bridge.

Finishing my stroll, I headed into the dynamic Old Quarters now celebrating its 1000th year. During the last 800 years it has been the commercial heart of Hanoi. Hurly-burly action pervaded every narrow street, though old trees seductively trailed their branches over young women cooking thin pancakes on grills.

Beautiful girls carried fresh produce on a traditional don ganh, the ancient bamboo pole across the shoulders with a basket of rice hung on each end, while men sat around low tables in courtyards and sipped their tiny cups of coffee.

Market shops burst with fresh green leafy vegetables, buckets of live fish flicking their tails, and an array of fruit that bedazzled the palate – elegant dragon fruit, lumpy jackdaws, branches of lichees, golden mangoes and infant-size bananas.

I noticed that the streets – lined with three-storied narrow building with residences above the street-level shops – changed their names to match the type of stores on them. Pho Hang Gui was the street for silk shopping because every shop had silks by the yard or silk outfits or embroidered silk for sale.

I couldn’t resist the traditional ao doi, a long sleeve Chinese tunic slit up the side to the waist with fitted long pants, that looked as delectable in the windows as they did on women walking by or riding bikes.

Days easily could be spend wandering the maze of busy streets and alleys that ended in places that had no beginnings and challenges of returning to where I started. But the mellow temperatures and the seductive passion to find just one more different place nudged me on until I found the French Quarters.

There I stayed awhile. Elegant buildings with long shutters, balconies and flowers brought back the past when the French were in this country.

Along Pho Nha Tho Street, were multi-cultural restaurants, including two good French ones, coffee bars, cafes, and boutiques of finely designed clothes, lacquered dishes, and household items.

At the end sat St. Joseph’s Cathedral with startling stained-glass windows and opened doors spilling songs out over the square.

Next day, in the large modern part of Hanoi, I saw culture existing side-by side with commerce. Hotels, cafes and restaurants were scattered among offices and businesses all over the city. The Opera House was down the street from the Water Puppet theatre and concert halls to make choices easy.

My experience getting into the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum, the number one place of pilgrimage for the Vietnamese, was novel. On either side of the long lines of people going into the mausoleum were soldiers with rifles to guarantee orderly, respectful behaviour.

Its museum provided abundant information about a leader who had made such a difference in recent history. No one, I found, wants to talk about the past war that we saw years ago on television. The present and future was the focus.

On the edge of Hanoi, the Museum of Ethnology was impressive. Inside, displays illustrated the diversity of Vietnamese culture and, outside, replicas of homes of the various Minority People – a title used for their aboriginal tribes – were situated in parklands. Visitors and local residents together admired this world-class museum.

Afterwards, the best part to see be was with people sitting in coffee bars all over the city watching the world change, as they conducted business deals.

It appeared that Vietnamese were born business-people: always creative, working hard from sunrise to sunset, and selling skillfully. I wished I had a suitcase to fill with the exquisite products sold at such reasonable prices.

Cuisine always has enhanced a country. An old Vietnamese proverb said people should learn to eat before they learn to speak. In Hanoi people were always eating in public.

Their cooking was a series of still life gems whose tastes satisfied my every longing.

I tried many types of food, from pho, a soul-satisfying noodle soup for breakfast – to regional dishes, such as cao lau, flat noodles stirred together with croutons, bean sprouts, greens and pork.

When I desired a taste of home, meals in French and Italian restaurants transported me.

All of this adds up to a beautiful city to visit, but the clinching fact is that everything in Viet Nam costs less than it does in most any other countries. You definitely can visit this grand city without harming your bank account.

Hurry now to Hanoi.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes author and freelance travel writer Sandra Harper who makes her home in Vancouver, on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Sandra Harper:
1: Morning reflections on Hoan Kiem Lake.
2: The Old Quarters, the commercial heart of Hanoi.
3: Very narrow buildings identify the French Quarters..

If you go:
For assistance in planning your trip go to www.footprintsvietnam.com

Located in South East Asia, the mystical island of Bali is only one of 18,110 islands making the world’s largest archipelago – Indonesia. I have had the wonderful privilege of visiting this exotic island twice – this second trip was made with my husband of twenty years.

We arrived in Denpasar taking a hurried taxi ride to south Kuta Beach where we stayed at the Bali Hai Resort & Spa. The horrendous traffic of rushing motorcycles was left far behind as we arrived at our deluxe ground floor suite overlooking the lush tropical hotel gardens.

Balinese Traditions

We chose to splurge on a deluxe room to experience the traditional outdoor Balinese bathroom – now, I truly believe one has not lived until they have showered amongst tropical foliage underneath turquoise skies – it is an experience not to be missed.

Upon our arrival at the hotel we had noticed (how could we not) a huge 20-foot dragon like creature in the breezeway of the hotel. We learned he was called an ogoh-ogoh but soon we came to know him as simply as ‘Bob.’

We saw several other ogoh-ogohs throughout Kuta but Bob was definitely amongst the scariest. We were told these paper-mache giants came from classic Bali folklore and are re-constructed into larger than life full color monsters with huge fangs, bulging eyes and very wild hair.

These fantastic monsters symbolize any evil spirits on the island that must be gotten rid of in order to maintain peace & harmony. We left Bob to diligently watch over our hotel.

On our fourth evening at the resort, we returned from a leisurely dinner and found a letter from hotel management explaining that in two day’s time was the Balinese New Year and that Nyepi (the Day of Silence) would be in effect.

It stated we must remain at the hotel and that all stores & restaurants on the island would be closed. Of course, basic provisions would be made available to all hotel guests. There would be no traffic, no visible lights, no noise, and no love-making. Everyone on Bali was to remain silent and in their own homes.

This prohibition would last for 24 hours. Hard to imagine that all the hustle and bustle of Kuta – which never seems to end – could just disappear. The darkness and silence of the island was to fool any lurking demons into thinking no one was home and so they simply would not come to the island.

We were not at all prepared but kindly respected the wishes of the hotel and readily became excited to be participating in such an important event in Balinese culture. The Balinese are a very religious society who practice a modern form of Hinduism. They express their beliefs daily through providing offerings (known as banten) of rice, fruit, and flowers placed on the ground in small woven bamboo baskets completed with a stick of burning incense – all to appease their gods.

Throughout the day on the eve of Nyepi, known as Hari Pengerukan, the streets of Kuta became full of giant ogoh-ogohs. Surreal in a way, yet very appealing with their colorfulness and sheer size drawing us in.

Traditionally, the male Balinese youth are the makers of these giants and were proudly about displaying their hard work. The planning and construction starts one to two months prior to Nyepi Day and entails many late nights.

The ogoh-ogohs are constructed on intricately woven wire and bamboo frames covered with paper and cloth. They are painted and decorated in amazingly bright colors – all to ward away the evil spirits.

Each ogoh-ogoh is rumored to cost between 2 and 6 million rupiah (approx $400 CAD or $355 USD) which is fund-raised in local communities. This is a staggering amount of money to any typical Balinese family as the average monthly wage is a disheartening $56 CAD or $50 USD.

Back at our hotel, the ceremony began just before dusk with the blessing of Bob. Holy water was sprinkled and a prayer said, then the music commenced.

A strange combination of cymbals, gongs and drums – a loud clattering seemingly lacking any rhythm – once again, to scare away any evil demons. With somewhat of a struggle, the men finally lifted Bob onto their shoulders and made way towards the gardens of the hotel.

Due to the heavy nature of the beast, Bob’s weight shifted easily causing many near accidents. They rounded the pool area when someone lost hold and Bob went half tumbling into the pool.

Processioners quickly jumped into the water to keep Bob from drowning – in fact, they did such a good job that Bob never even touched the water. The haunting music continued as Bob made his way to the ocean.

The final ritual must be performed at sea and at dusk they arrived on the white sandy beach where Bob was to meet his end. Once more Bob received what was to be his final blessing before being set ablaze.

The drums continued to beat as the crowds grew and the flames of Bob reached up to touch the night sky. Setting fire to the ogoh-ogoh (poor Bob) is done to finally destroy any evil spirits once and for all – well, at least until the next Balinese New Year comes along.

On Nyepi Day, we remained at the hotel – the restaurant was open until the early evening when everyone was encouraged to return to their rooms and draw their curtains closed so no light would escape. What to do in a hotel room in paradise? Read a book? Quietly watch television?

Well, no one would certainly know if I took advantage of our outdoor bath and took a long shower under the beautiful sparkling stars, would they?

Apparently not as the next day the island of Bali was alive and well – hustle and bustle included.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Connie Motz who makes her home in Genelle, B.C. Canada. See more of her work on her website at www.vacations.pro.

Connie Motz photos:
1: Our destination, Kuta Beach.
2: The ogoh-ogoh known as “Bob”.
3: Kuta prior to Nyepi.