When I settled in Bangkok in 2010, I lived in an area called Victory Monument, chosen (of course) for its full gamut of street food options and relative isolation from the expat scene. On one side of the monument is Ratchaprarop, a road with plenty of friendly bars frequented by the expat community, and lots of street stalls in between. On the other side, where I lived, was a highway over a tiny klong river and a sprawling series of night food markets that opened up after 4pm. On the narrow sois leading away from the highway were low-rise apartments, tiny shops and lots of Thai students.Pickup trucks with fruit and vegetables would wind up and down the streets, blasting their specials on a loudspeaker. I preferred this side of the tracks – it had so many more layers to discover.

A new coffee stand had opened near the corner of Rajwithi Soi 6, overseen by a smart, earnest woman with the brightest smile in the district. She spoke no English but it didn’t stop her from getting her point across, muttering under her breath as she prepared the drinks with flamboyance and a wink. Her iced coffee was built in tiers – sweetened condensed milk, espresso, chocolate and topped with sweet cream. By all accounts, it was incredible. But I am not an iced coffee person and instead ordered a simple hot coffee with milk.

Best coffee in all of Bangkok!

It became apparent that this would not do.

The first time I stopped by, I asked for a hot coffee in Thai but she shook her head as though she misheard, and opened her vat of ice, pointing forcefully in its direction. “No,” I said, “hot coffee”. Shaking her head and muttering, she made me a hot coffee, strong and delicious. Off I went. The next day, I returned on the way to the subway, and asked for the same. She seemed more agitated than the day before, gesticulating and talking to me in Thai, which I could not understand. On the third day, she was prepared: she had asked a friend who spoke English to sit vigil until I showed up. The moment they saw my face the coffee lady exploded into rapid-fire Thai, punctuated by wild hand motions.

“She wants to know” the friend said slowly “what is wrong with you that you drink hot coffee on a hot day.”

Coffee, translation and culture shock in Bangkok: me with my favourite coffee lady and her tailor-translator friend.

I grew up in Montreal with weekends spent in the Eastern Townships and many of them helping my dad’s friend Wes on his farm. He would drink hot tea from a thermos throughout, even on the hottest days of summer. Once, I asked him why and his response stuck with me since: drinking the hot liquid cooled your body on a warm day.

Old wives tale? Perhaps. It’s been tested, and there is a shred of truth to the assumption, but certainly not enough to make it absolute. That said, I do love my hot coffee, regardless of whether it merely adds to the rivulets of sweat pouring down my face in muggy Bangkok. At some point, I simply gave up on trying to cool down and stuck to the drink I love.

I explained as much to my favourite coffee lady and her tailor friend, but they remained skeptical, reminding me that it was, in fact, close to 40C outside. I was resolute; hot coffee or no coffee. For the remaining months in town, I’d wander by the stand in the morning and perch precariously on a stool near the side of the road, drinking my coffee and sweating. Each and every day, I’d be rewarded with a wry smile, as if to say “one day she will stop being so stupid and get an iced drink.”

Coffee never looked so good.

Over a year after I left Bangkok, I returned with friends to take them to my favourite haunts. I was living up in Chiang Mai, and wanted to pay a visit to the great people I missed in Thailand’s capital. Of course, my coffee stand was on the list, but I wasn’t sure she would remember me. Instead, not only did she crack up when I walked into her field of vision, but she made me a hot coffee on the spot, without my even asking it.  She also whipped out her cell phone and called her friend to come by and say hello – “the crazy lady who drinks hot coffee is back!”

While hot coffee might not be the drink of choice in Victory Monument, at least it made me a new friend.

-Jodi

P.S. I had no idea September 29 was National Coffee day in the USA, but apparently this post was more timely than I realized!

The post Coffee and Culture Shock in Bangkok appeared first on Legal Nomads.

It turned out that the express was anything but. Stopping between stations, the subway was packed with rush hour passengers, all of us crunched together. Separate sardines on a commute home. I remember looking around me and wondering what people’s stories were, this mishmash of humanity on a late Monday in New York. I was dressed for meetings in a skirt and silk top and boots; no one giving me a passing glance would think I lived elsewhere, that I had spent the past 3+ years roaming the globe. One never knows what lies beneath the outer layers.

"Manhattanhenge" in New York this summer.

As the train ground to a halt for what must have been the 20^th time, the woman next to me, my height with a pixie cut and bright brown eyes, was knocked unceremoniously to the side by the giant hairy arm of her righthand neighbour. He was completely lost in his music, not realizing (or caring) that he kept elbowing pixie in the face. Several minutes passed. Five, six. Still stopped on the Brooklyn Bridge, my neighbour was stuck smelling the arm of the giant to her right. I turned to her and suggested she start pulling his arm hairs out, one by one. She giggled. The man across from us stifled a laugh.

More time passed, but we did not move.  Six of us were standing in star formation, each joined together by the metal pole affixing us to our allotted subway places, grounding us for the duration of our ride home. There’s a funny sort of intimacy that bubbles to the surface when you’re motionless in the subway; you can’t help but actually start noticing details instead of vaguely staring past the person in front of you. Your straphanging neighbours cease being random strangers and start to take shape into real people, with quirks and personalities and stories.

After several service announcements (“broken subway is broken”) and still wedged on the Brooklyn Bridge, the woman to my right cocked her head in my direction and whispered “since I’m not going to pull arm hairs out, tell me – what’s your life story.” So I told her. And she told me hers, and then we both raised our eyes to the man across the way, who shrugged and volunteered that he was from Florida, had just moved here to take a job after years of freelancing. “I thought the train was supposed to be fast?” he asked. We nodded, commiserating.

 * * *

I often receive emails asking for suggestions about where to visit that’s off the beaten path.  People who write to say “I know you put these places on your blog, but where are the secret places, the ones that no one else knows about?” Oftentimes people are looking for a connection to others that feels special or sacred, something different. A story that we can look back on and tell the story to friends at home. “And then, she invited me to her family’s house and I ate with them, staying late into the night!”  But do we really need somewhere away from all the tourists to get that feeling of sincere invitation or authenticity?

Every Sunday in Chiang Mai I would take my motorbike to the night market to get a massage and grilled pork and sticky rice. It was a routine that made Sundays the best of the week, full of smoky meat and sharp, spicy sauce and followed by an hour of someone beating up my legs and back. And in the middle of the hustle and bustle, the fluid movement of near and far, I always felt like I was in another world from the endless stream of tourists flowing by. I would go to the same woman every week and while she worked her magic we’d make fun of the random outfits on those walking by, or berate the men working there for teasing the youngest girl on staff. The song and dance between her and the other massage workers was overstated and comical, slapstick humour and lots of laughs. By the time I left town, I was showered in hugs and given bags stuffed with food to take on my onward journey.

Incredible smoked pork from the Sunday Walking Street in Chiang Mai

And yet, when people ask for suggestions to Chiang Mai, they don’t want the night market. They want something different, something that sets their visit apart from the others. Like an everyday commute in New York, you don’t need the social clout of stepping outside the quotidien to have memorable experiences. You only need to look at the people around you – truly look, communicate, smile. The rest falls into place.

* * *

Three days before my ride to Brooklyn, I was taking the subway to the Lower East Side for the Restless Legs travel reading series. Three Frenchmen were lost, and given that I’m from Montreal, I jumped in to help them figure out where they wanted to go next. They stayed on the platform, and as I boarded the train, a woman joked that she ought to have learned French in high school. (Let’s just say the Frenchmen weren’t hard on the eyes.) This initial banter turned into a long discussion about the politics of Russia and Siberia and an invitation to her family’s house for dinner.

None of these stories make me special, and none are truly outside the confines of what’s normal for everyday human interaction. So why is it that when I tell people about my new subway friends, their jaws drop and they say “why don’t I meet people on the subway?” While it’s true that I’ve become more open to these random connections by virtue of my travels, I had similar experiences prior to quitting my job to travel the world. Perhaps it’s the same thing that has me winding my way through cities in search of markets and food instead of sights to see; I’m fascinated the most by the interaction between people.

Eating dinner with the village chief in Northern Laos

To those who write to say they’d love to travel but aren’t yet ready to go, I suggest that they get outside of their comfort zone, even in their own hometown. “You want to get off the beaten path? Start small, then take your show on the road.” It’s an excellent start.   And when people write me to ask for isolated places, I do send them a list. But I also suggest that they remain open to the panoply of human interactions as they move through their days.  Yes, I love to get away from the tourists and the many people who travel for travel’s sake, but it’s not always about the most far flung places. In the middle of the busiest cities you’ll find those same connections and new friendships.

Tell me, what does getting off the beaten path mean for you?

The post What does Off the Beaten Path Really Mean? appeared first on Legal Nomads.

Is there such thing as a solo female travel tip?

I don’t tend to brand myself as a solo female traveler. Over the course of my travels, I’ve certainly offered up some tips and experiences, and my meta tags on this site belie the factual obviousness that I am, really, a female traveler traipsing around the world alone. A fair point made both in the Facebook thread and in other forums is that many female-specific tips aren’t specific at all. Instead, carrying a doorstop in your bag, bringing a mugger’s wallet with you or carrying a safety whistle are tips that apply to both genders. With the exception of the Diva Cup (something that cannot in any way be construed as dual-gendered), travel solo is travel solo as far as practicalities are concerned.

However, focusing on tips does a disservice to the reality that many women are afraid to travel alone. I get emails every single day from women who want to know how I do it. Am I scared? Have I been mugged? Was I ever assaulted or attacked? These are extremely personal questions, but very valid ones from people aching to travel but scared of what might happen if they go unaccompanied. Trepidation about rape and sexual harassment remains a checkmate argument as far as I’m concerned; while tips might apply across the board, rarely do men need to worry about safety the way we do. Their mental ‘worst case’ scenarios don’t usually dip into sexual assault.

Separating the tips from the experience of travel as a woman

Much of what we encounter as travelers transcends the pragmatic. So while the intricacies of gender can be debated, we can’t pretend we’re all the same. As the NYT column notes, differences exist within groups of women or men too; the way we each approach travel and the travel experience as a whole is extremely personal. Reading the article brought me back to a draft post about the ability as a Western woman to live both worlds, male and female, even when visiting traditionally conservative places.

While this can be catalyzed by some choice advice – a little research, some powers of observation – the take-away is the interaction itself. This is what I mean when I talk about the ‘solo female travel experience’. And this is what I allude to when I write these women back: yes, you might occasionally be scared. Yes, there might be a close call or two. But you’ll eventually learn to trust your gut and ultimately you will find that travel as a woman, even a woman alone, will bring you a wealth of wonderful memories.

While staying with nomads in Mongolia, I learned how to ferment mare’s milk from this grandmother

Walking the Line in Myanmar and Jordan

In Myanmar, I spent close to a week along the bustling shores of Inle Lake. With rotating markets at dawn, colourful Pa-O tribes and more Shan noodles and grilled fish than I could handle, it was a concentrated week of wonder. As I wrote in my photoessay from Inle Lake, one of the days involved a visit to my boat driver’s floating village and an invitation to his best friend’s wedding. As a woman, I was plunked into a giggling group of thanaka-covered kids as soon as I walked in, eyes bright with confusion about what I was doing in their midst. When we all walked upstairs, I was led to a sea of women, each with wide smiles and hands reaching out to me.  Soon thereafter, someone nudged me over the invisible line separating the room in two, and I was proffered cheroot cigars and whiskey, the men nodding in approval as I puffed away.

It was an incredible thing, this ability to experience both aspects of a traditional Burmese ceremony. Conversely, none of the male tourists were invited to the women’s side of the room – that would be extremely inappropriate in the local culture. But by being a strange amalgamation of male and female, feminine but independent (I was, after all, travelling alone), I was able to experience both.

Women’s side of the wedding in Inle Lake, Burma (Myanmar)

Men’s side of the wedding in Inle Lake, Burma (Myanmar)

A similar thing happened in Jordan. I joined a family in Rasun to cook dinner, apron-clad and in the kitchen while my guide and driver sat outside with the men. The hours of chopping and washing and giggling with the family’s children were great fun (the flower you see in my hair below was foisted on me by the youngest child). It was also a chance to as some of the questions I had about being a woman in Jordan without intervention from a male figure. At one point, my guide Ali walked toward the kitchen and one of the daughters fled to the back room. As he was not family, she did not want him to see her with face and head uncovered. Once dinner was made, I went outside to the patio and ate with Ali and our driver Rami, along with the male members of the family. We stayed quite late, talking with them about their lives and work, leaving long after dark. I remember getting into the car and feeling very lucky that I could see both sides of this world I barely knew.

Cooking in Rasun, Jordan with the women of the house.

And eating the meal a little later, with our driver, guide and the men of the house.

The art of fitting in

I’ve lived countless experiences like these, and reader emails from women often ask how it is that I’ve managed to find myself interacting with locals. My advice is the same as I would offer to anyone (male or female) who was looking to get under the skin of a new place: dress the part, watch everything and ask questions.

I recently shared some stories about Myanmar, some involving my decision to procure a longyiand then wear it for most of my travels.  This wasn’t a matter of kitsch or mimicry for the sake of tourism, but rather a genuine attempt to blend in a little more. Given the sensitivity to sexuality in many countries I’ve travelled, getting invited into someone’s home or becoming a part of a street cart’s daily routine is a lot more likely when you’re cognizant of the benchmarks for conservative dress and act accordingly. Wearing a bikini while wandering around a Muslim village in the Gili Islands isn’t the best idea (oh, but people do). Don’t go to the Middle East with a crotch-dusting dress, or wear hot pants to a Buddhist temple. When in Indonesia, I covered my arms and legs and when I was invited to a Balinese wedding, I went to the local market to get a kebaya out of respect for the bride and groom. Dressing the part isn’t obligatory but I’ve found it goes a long way toward breaking the ice with locals, and the local women were particularly pleased with my efforts.

Attending a wedding in Bali

Trust, travel and a leap of faith

Occasionally I have judged wrongly, or my gut said to leave but I convinced myself otherwise and regretted my choice. However, the worst situation I was ever in stemmed from a completely innocuous walk along a bustling street in downtown Marseille in 2001. It was the middle of the day in October and I was wearing a jacket and jeans. I was simply walking to the train station. Other than being elsewhere, there was nothing I could have done differently. I was harassed with increasing intensity by a group of men, who then followed up the street. Among other things, their taunts culminated with my head being cracked against a brick wall. Fortunately, two large Australians stopped – though I’d like to note that no one else did – just as I was being told I wouldn’t actually be heading home. Thus I’ve never dealt with any severe consequences, unlike some other brave women I’ve met. But that moment has most certainly stayed with me, replaying itself during the years. It was a lesson in the fragility of paths but also in a strength I didn’t realize I had: the next day I forced myself back to the same exact road to mirror my steps. If I didn’t go back then, I felt like they won.

I’m not telling this story for pity points- if that was my style I’d have written it long ago. Other women have shared much more horrifying stories and I’m certainly aware that I was extremely lucky. I’m writing it here to make a point: that despite the fears and very real potential issues, I took a leap of faith on this trip and traveled alone. And I’ve been rewarded for that choice, with all the crazy stories of karaoke with captains and being told I was brave in the Philippines and then getting told off by a cab driver for the same reason. In the shadow of a moment, I can now decide exactly what I’m going to do in a given situation.

Comparing feet with a nun in Burma (Myanmar)

Don’t forget the bottom line

We travel to experience the world, and I do so in the body I’ve been given. Semantics are irrelevant when you look at the macro picture, and the singular most satisfying aspect of my travels has been intense glimpses of what it’s like to live life in a wholly foreign place. (The food hasn’t been bad either.) The weddings, the weeks with street stalls, the times living in Palawan and fishing for breakfast with locals – each of these situations took a small leap of faith to trust that despite being a mini-sized solo female traveler, I would nonetheless reap great rewards from trying something new. With each experience, I’ve gained confidence to keep trying. The positives of traveling alone have far exceeded the negatives (among them: someone to watch my bag while I pee), and my curiosity has only grown. As the comments to the NYT article show, I’m not alone.

Jodi

The post Solo Female Travel, Trust and the Art of Fitting In appeared first on Legal Nomads.

This boat ride was part two of my epic trip out of the northern reaches of Burma, with the first part resulting in our tiny longtail boat dying in the middle of the Ayeyarwaddy and my safety whistle coming to the rescue to get us towed to shore. After this disaster of a day, most of the tourists in our boat decided to take the train back to Mandalay. A few of us decided that the eclipse was well worth whatever misadventure awaited and booked our tickets on the government ferry. (Note: it was then that I ended up licking the money to prove to the government worker that it was sufficiently new, thereby resulting in his calling the hotel manager to deal with me).

The first indication of our trip being a little longer than expected was when we showed up at the dock and were informed that our boat was anchored “out there” somewhere, with a vague waving of the hand toward the banks of the Ayeyarwaddy. Stuffed into a longtail, we passed by several boats stuck in the river and were told that the water was far lower than expected. The trip might take a little longer, but not to worry – we’d get there.

Exhibit A: This boat wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon.

Finally, we arrived at our trusty steed:

The boat ended up leaving quite late as we had to wait for the longtails to taxi all of our passengers to the boat. As a result, almost immediately after lifting the anchor, the light began to change and the solar eclipse began. Sharing two pairs of eclipse glasses, we headed to the front of the boat with several of the locals:

With the captain blaring dance music from his cabin, we danced on deck and watched the sun disappear in the afternoon light.

This was the co-captain and his family, who had never seen eclipse glasses before:

Try as we might, we couldn’t get this crew member to stop staring at the sun through his t-shirt, even when we told him it could damage his eyesight:

Eerie, hazy glow over the boat as the sun slowly disappeared:

The eclipse cast great light on the rest of the ship. Here is the view looking back from the front where we were standing:

Me and the “Swiss misses”, two young Swiss girls also on board, making the “It’s Eclipse O’Clock!” sign. Everyone was having a terrific time.

Well, not everyone:

And the main star of the show! Photo taken by putting the eclipse glasses up to my camera lens and manually adjusting the settings. I was using only a point & shoot, so it’s not the best quality.

Map of the eclipse’s reach over Burma:

Eclipse over, a routine was established. Days were spent lounging on deck or watching the traffic on the Ayeyarwaddy, meeting the constant stream of locals who found it very odd that we were even on the boat when we could have taken a train instead. Mornings down on the main floor, stuffed like sardines at tiny wooden tables eating fried rice or mohinga for breakfast. They were luxuriously lazy days of watching and learning.

Afternoon sun over the river:

Me and the Swiss Misses:

While at first shy, the locals soon opened up to the few of us tourists on board. We taught them how to play Memory using a deck of cards, practiced card tricks and did yoga in the morning (the latter being the most crowd-gathering of all our activities).

Rob doing card tricks on the sleeping deck:

Enjoying an afternoon snack:

Making new friends:

The captain soon decided he should get to know us too. Like every other person in Burma, he had to ask the basics: where was I from, where (no, really – where) was my husband and how old was I. Like the monks in Mandalay who stalled on Question 3, the captain had a small breakdown when he found out I was older than him. “But you are BABY LOOKING!” he accused. And thus a new nickname was born: “pyiesee” (pronounced pee-see), meaning little Burmese girl. By the end of the trip, the entire crew (chef included) was calling me this, yelling it out from the far reaches of the boat and even on the loudspeaker. They thought it was hilarious.

And then the captain challenged me to a karaoke-off. Burma’s most popular rock band is Iron Cross and they helpfully provide karaoke DVDs with the songs first redone in Burmese and then the original video played thereafter in English. So we would switch off, with him singing Living on a Prayer in Burmese, and then my doing so in English. Several DVDs and songs, from Journey to Air Supply to Toni Braxton followed. Soon, the crew decided the whole boat should hear this and thus the karaoke-off was fed into the ship’s PA system, for everyone to sing along.

Of course, he then decided I ought to try and drive the boat:

At this point, I had passed his test and was thus invited to drink shots of bamboo whiskey with the crew. The chef’s wife made a point of shaking her head at me – behaviour not fitting for a woman, it appeared. Warm from the whiskey, I crept up to the front deck at dusk with my camera and a notebook, enjoying the quiet and the beautiful scene.

During the course of our trip, the boat would cross-cross the river and make short stops on each shore. Passengers would pour onto the deck, chased by vendors trying to sell some snacks before our rickety boat pushed off again. Some of the larger villages required additional supplies, and thus in Katha we had half an hour to run through the town and explore:

With only a few moments in Katha, I was glad to have caught this amazing older man in the middle of his board game with his family. Such expression on his face! I wish I had the time to find out what his life was like and how he saw the world.

Our last day on board, already over 24 hours late (we got stuck in the sandbar several times), the sun started to disappear over the horizon and everyone on board – monks and photojournalists alike – congregated on deck to watch:

The final sunset on the approach to Mandalay was a glorious one:

Overall, a terrific solar eclipse and fascinating few days of laughter, cultural exchange and karaoke. I met very few people who took the slow boat but I highly recommend it if you have the time to spare. Those 3 days were some of the best on my travels.

UPDATE: Full photo album of the slow boat from Bhamo to Mandalay in my Picasa Gallery.

-Jodi

The post A Solar Eclipse in Burma appeared first on Legal Nomads.

And against the broad canvas of my general readjustment, I’ve noticed a series of ‘holy crap’ moments, whereby I need to remind myself that life is just not the way it was a few days ago.

1. Table Napkins or Toilet Paper? My first thought when eating out this week: wait, you mean we each have a napkin?  For the last 7 months, restaurant napkins unspooled from a cartoon-clad plastic dispenser of toilet paper that sat in the middle of the table. Napkins were first come, first serve – and meals generally ended with a tiny pile of discarded paper next to my plate. I went for dinner with my friend Cheryl this week and watched her put her napkin on her lap, suffering my first etiquette disconnect. Did I really used to do this? I guess so.

2. Waiting for All Food to Arrive. Common courtesy generally dictates that you wait for everyone to get their food before you dig in, with small wiggle room for dishes that absolutely must be eaten hot (read: fajitas) or where someone skips a course. Not so in Asia, where you will easily receive your dish well after everyone else at the table has finished theirs. Waiting for everyone to eat would be a travesty as most of the table’s food would be cold by the time that lowest-common denominator moment arrived. I need to remind myself to wait when eating in a group since my instincts are now to dig in first, look around later!

Delicious pad si ew noodles from the Pumpkin Lady on my street.

3. Portion Control. Or lack thereof, obviously. My style of eating has evolved from ‘obsessed with food but saving it for meal times’ to ‘obsessed with food, ergo every moment is meal time’. In Thailand, grazing is a national sport, and I fit right in. Walking down the street, one is bombarded by an infinite series of culinary options, unfolding in front of you like your own personal buffet. But portions are small, and you eat until you are full and then move on until you feel that familiar pang of longing for those perfectly grilled pork skewers and sticky rice. Portion sizes here in the US are astoundingly, disturbingly large. I sense a summer of appetizers (or a series of leftovers) for me.

4. Prices. Were I to eat in New York the way I did in Bangkok, I would be bereft of funds – quickly. But when a skewer of pork and sticky rice cost 5 baht (15 cents) each, and a full plate of noodles or chicken curry runs me under a dollar, money goes quite a long way. I spent more on a subway ride in NYC than I did on food for an entire day in Thailand. While I know this is merely the reality of returning to North America, it doesn’t make the sticker shock any less painful or jarring.

5. Where are all the Ladies? My life in Bangkok revolved around a set of talented ladies who made my existence much more enjoyable. I would go to my Coffee Lady in the morning and chat with her about her day, while stopping in to say hello to my Tailor Lady next door. I would eat dinner at Soi 6′s Pumpkin Lady, and lunch at the Som Tam lady just next to the Ratchawithi intersection. I would wave to my Shake Lady when I returned home, stopping at the Fruit Cart Lady for some pineapple as I walked down my street. Where have all the ladies gone? Sadly, life in North America is too fast paced for a different, specific cart to satisfy each need. But I often find myself thinking of these women and their impact on my life in Bangkok; I looked forward to talking with them every day, and miss their radiant smiles.

Me with Tailor Lady and Coffee Lady on my street.

6. Smiling at Everyone. Speaking of smiling, having spent 7 months smiling at everyone and everything, be it in response to a smile from someone else or just because it is the thing to do, I am hopelessly used to it as a matter of course. This smiling thing is not par for the course in New York, and the customary reaction has been wariness (what is this crazy girl smiling at?), confusion (why is she smiling at me? WHY?) or, from those under the age of 10, a smile back. That’s not to say NY isn’t friendly – it is – it’s just a different breed of friendly, moving on a separate plane of existence from the one I was accustomed to. I wonder if I will be surprised at all the smiles in reverse, when I head to Nepal at the end of the summer.

7. Personality-Drenched Public Transportation. The complex network of buses, trains and taxis in New York is both thorough and effective – but it’s not as exciting navigating through a city like Bangkok. There are no motosai taxis, the orange-vested, fearless motorcycle drivers who are the lifeblood of Bangkok’s tangled web of streets, sois and back-alley shortcuts. There is no BTS Lady, yelling out the stops on the SkyTrain in her comforting, lilting voice. There are no boats along tiny klong rivers running deep in the heart of downtown, hectic and fast, a secret snapshot into everyday life amidst the concrete. And there are no tuk-tuks belching smoke into the air, their drivers giggling madly as they whisk you about town. Here, there are traffic rules. And they are enforced. This is probably good for my life’s trajectory, but it’s nowhere near as fun.

A few of my soi’s motosai drivers. I couldn’t walk by them without them making me stop to eat, drink or give them high fives.

8. My Face is No Longer Melting. I never truly discovered ‘hot’ until I stayed in Bangkok through their shoulder season. April was beyond hot, the heat hitting you like a wall the second you stepped outside, leaving you drenched with sweat in seconds. Unless you are Thai – and thus do not sweat. But us farang were a soggy, sweaty, pasty-white mess. Whether I walked slowly, carried a wet handkerchief and drank water like it was going out of style, the net takeaway was that my face was melting off. Conversely, the summer in North America feels comfortable and cool – a good thing as people complain about these last few 32-degree days in NY.

9. Tall Beautiful Woman? Not Necessarily a Ladyboy. I do not want to generalize too thoroughly here, but if you stroll through Bangkok and spot a tall, beautiful Thai woman – chances are she was born a man. Some of the most stunning, delicate and well-dressed women in Bangkok were the ladyboys and they were a ton of fun to spend time with (as a woman, of course). I am still at the point where, upon seeing a tall woman here in NY, I glance at her hands and feet. An unexpected and funny leftover from my months in Asia.

10. Bargaining. I went to buy two popsicles near Battery Park city this weekend, and when the vendor told me the price, I said cajolingly “Come on, I’m buying two -  you can’t give me a better price?” Understandably, his look indicated that I had just grown a second head. Bargaining was a way of life, be it in stores, market stalls or wandering down the street in search of food. Not so in North America.

* * *

Readjustment comes with its own set of perks, however: it is cherry season here, and I have been happily consuming bags of them, leaving red stains on my notebooks and countertops. I missed sharp cheddar cheese like it’s nobody’s business, and I am planning to eat poutine (my province’s culinary claim to fame) this weekend. The hundreds of travel bloggers descending on New York also make for an easier time easing in; trading travel stories and empathizing with each other is the perfect way to recalibrate to life on this side of the pond. I am also looking forward to reuniting with some of the bloggers I’ve met on the road, and to meeting the many people who have supported Legal Nomads, left comments on my posts and given me advice online over the past few years.

Still more to come about Bangkok, Burma and Cambodia – but first likely a TBEX-related interlude about this weekend’s conference.

-Jodi

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Truly feeling the “no problem” vibe can be difficult when you are intensely entangled in the chaos of a new country. For example, keeping your cool when you’ve just gotten off an overnight bus, have no idea where you are staying and you also happen to be ravishingly hungry can be an interesting exercise in personal tolerance. But I’ve found that arming myself with my expression of choice goes a long way toward breaking the ice and finding a new friend in a strange place.

No problem didn’t make Flip Flop Man like me, but it did get me a big discount on those shoes, and a begrudging OK to take a self-portrait with him.

The Lion King popularized hakuna matata, the Swahili version of “there are no worries”, which has become deeply entrenched in the lexicon of any child who watched the movie. In Thailand, my use of the expression mai-pen-rai (pronounced almost slurredly, as though the “r” is actually an “l”) netted me some giggles from the women and a beaming smile from the men. In Malaysia, a place where the language is blissfully fun to learn, the phrase tak apa* coupled with a grin was perfect to diffuse any situation, and usually earn myself a discount on my room. And in the Philippines, where longtime readers know I had a series of transportation adventures (usually by boat) the expression bahala na with a big shrug of the shoulders definitely lightened the mood and usually resulted in an invite to dinner.

There is one downside: I am sorry to report that the Kryptonite of ice-breakers is not effective with everyone. This is the goat that chased me up the street in the Gili Islands. If only it worked on animals too.

-Jodi

*Tak apa literally means “no what”, and I’ve taken to substituting “Oh, it’s no what” in English. instead of no problem. This, combined with my enthusiastic adoption of “can!” whenever I agree with something/think something is possible (from Bahasa’s boleh) means that I’m starting to sound like a muppet when I speak.

* * *

Update! Thanks to everyone who emailed me or commented with another language’s version of “no worries.” Some additions:

Chinese: Mei wenti.
Irish: Gan imní.
Spanish: Esta bien or no problema.
French: pas de soucis, and Quebec French: pas de trouble.
Latin: Nil desparandum.
Korean: gwen-chan-ah.
Inuktitut: isumaalunngittuq (I have awesome readers!).
Egyptian: wala yehemmak.
Turkish: sorun değil.
Estonian: ei ole midagi.
Bahasa Indonesia: nggak apa-apa or gak apa-ap.
Lao: Bo panang.
Japanese: Nandemonai
Jamaican: Irie Mon

Update 2! More languages:

Urdu: Koi baat naheen.
Hebrew: Ein Ba’aya.
Slovenian: Ni problema.
Serbian & Croatian: Nema problema.
Dutch: Geen zorgen.
Russian: Нет проблем (Nyet prablem).
German: Keine Sorge.
Arabic: ما في مشكله (Mafee Mushkila)

Update 3:

Cantonese: Mou man tai
Greek: Kanena provlima
Lithuanian: Nesirupink
Italian: Non ti preoccupare
Swedish: Det är lugnt
Tamil: Onnum illai

Armenian: Venas Tchouni

Hungarian (mix and match!) nem (no)/semmi (nothing) + probléma/baj/gond (problem/worries)

and some additional submissions:

Klingon: Qay’be’
Pig Latin: Oh-nay orries-way
Bee Bop: Nop-o Wop-o-rop-rop-i-e-sop.
Bureaucratese: “Up to this point, no particular concerns have been formally identified with the proposal as such.”

The post My Favorite Expression in the Whole Wide World appeared first on Legal Nomads.

The most recent manifestation of such an entertaining cultural rarity occurred in Mataram, Lombok. I had just summitted Rinjani and was limping through town in search of a pharmacy to appease my aching (and bleeding) feet. I finally found one directly across the street from the Mataram mall, and spent 1/2 an hour bandaging and cleaning my feet in the pharmacy itself, much to the consternation of the pharmacists. In the process, a random older white guy came in, glanced dismissively at my feet and informed me that if I peed in my hiking boots before I started hiking, I’d never get blisters. I nodded at him slowly and he left without purchasing anything. The pharmacist looked at me like I was insane, and I assured him I would be peeing only in toilets, not in my boots. He was appeased.

But that’s not the culture clash part (though it was objectively mind-boggling). That came a few minutes later when, my feet safely wrapped in layers of gauze, I hobbled across the street to Mataram Mall to get a bite to eat. In the main concourse, a fashion runway had been set up for what appeared to be a bridal fashion show. The show hadn’t started yet but on the runway were about half a dozen women, all dancing their hearts out. To the Black Eyed Peas song My Humps. That’s right: 6 fully covered, veiled Muslim women in the extremely conservative town of Mataram were getting down to a song with the following chorus:

“My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps. (Check it out) .”

with an especially poignant verse of:

“What you gon’do with all that junk?
All that junk inside that trunk?
I’ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
What u gon’do with all that ass?
All that ass inside them jeans?
I’m a make, make, make, make you scream
Make u scream, make you scream.”

Hilarious.

It is times like these that prove travel does not need to be about exciting places or adrenaline rushes. While I’ve had my share of both, moments like this one in Mataram will remain etched in my brain because of how enjoyable it was to have witnessed them. Given that few people spoke English in Mataram, I assume no one (not the dancers, nor the organizers of the fashion show) had any clue what Fergie was singing. And it’s probably best that no one knew what the lyrics meant; in a city (and culture) that frowns upon bare shoulders and any touching by the opposite sex, a song inviting a man to ‘scream’ at a woman’s lady lumps wouldn’t go over well at all!

-Jodi

The post A Culture Clash Moment in Mataram, Indonesia appeared first on Legal Nomads.

A normal harbour scene from my time in Indonesia, minus the chickens.

What I Learned About Public Transportation in Indonesia:

1. Indonesian slow ferries are as on time as Filipino slow ferries. That is, they are never remotely on time.

2. Indonesian slow ferries have a secret weapon: a raised, square platform covered in a green, rugged carpet. Located at the back of the ferry, it provided a perfect opportunity to lie down and a much more comfortable option than the hard, plastic seats everyone else seemed to occupy.

3. If you have a ticket for a seat in a minibus, it does not mean you will sit in the minibus. Chances are, you will sit atop it.

One of my favorite shots from the minibus ride, as you can see our shadow in the bottom left corner.

And the view from the roof.

4. The ticket collector does not see the fact that you are sitting on the roof of his minivan as a deterrent to obtaining your ticket. Laughing hysterically at him when he asks you for your ticket as you speed toward Bima does not make him go away. Ignoring him does.

5. Tree branches hurt a lot more when they hit you in the head at 60km/h

6. Nailing your random Indonesian neighbour in the ribs with your elbow whilst he fondles your thigh on a night bus is an effective way of getting him to stop, fast.

7. As a tourist, using the toilet on a night bus is not acceptable. However, if you are a local, blowing your nose on the curtains in front of the bus attendant is perfectly fine.

8. It is perfectly normal to stop for food at 4am and you are a crazy tourist for not eating with the rest of the bus.

9. Indonesians love “Sweet Child of Mine” but do not love it when you and your friends decide to sing along with the song as it blares on a ferry loudspeaker.

10. Sitting on the roof of a public bus with your arm around a (disturbingly nonchalant) goat and a chicken in your lap will make any other public transportation seem extraordinarily boring.

Very important lessons, all of them.

-Jodi

The post Best of: Boats, Buses and Ferries in Indonesia appeared first on Legal Nomads.

Some of these small quirks and funny moments from the Philippines need to be shared.

Among them:

1. Motorbike disbelief. I have rented a motorbike on every island I have visited (with the exception of Negros Occidental) and every single time the locals are truly flabbergasted that I am a white woman riding by myself. Even if we are in a group of other tourists, the fact that I am on my own bike and not on the back of a man’s bike just blows their minds. Extra shock factor: driving the bike with a guy on the back. Unthinkable.

When renting the motorcycle, the following cycle of awesomeness ensues every single time:

Me: Hi, I’d like to rent a moto for the day, please. (Or, because Tagalog doesn’t actually have words like “the” or “a” built into most sentences – “Moto, me. thank you”).

Them: Hi, where are you from?

Me: Canada. I’d like a moto?

Them (slowly): Ma’am? A moto for you and…….? (trails off confusedly)

Me (with emphasis): Just for me, thanks. I am only one.

Them: And you…know how to ride these (gesturing in panic at his motorbikes)?

Me: Yes, I have ridden many times alone. I do not need lessons. I will be careful.

Them: Ok, but then I now show you how to turn on a motorbike, ok? I will teach you.

Me: Thank you, but I already know how. Let me show you.

(I take the keys, drive around the corner and back and flash a smile)

Them: Ma’am? Why are you so brave?

Add to this infinite loop of dialogue the fact that jaws drop repeatedly when I drive by people at the side of the road, or stop in a town to buy supplies.

Me, my moto and a random cow near El Nido:

2. Roosters. I know I went into the whole rooster-mania in my Welcome to the Philippines post, but it merits a mention because I still find humour in the roosterism, despite already being here for several months. Buses, cars, vans, planes, restaurants – you name it, and there is a rooster waiting patiently to crow your ear off. People here are astounded when I have a restless night sleep because of the karaoke bar next door or the dogs barking down the street. Why? Because they all sleep like logs since they grew up surrounded by screaming fowl with messed up circadian rhythms. I keep taking pictures of roosters in public places – the locals find this confusing, since roosters are everywhere – and my mirth shows no signs of abating. I can’t stand the cockfighting, but the omnipresence of roosters makes me smile.

Rooster on Cudugnon Peninsula in Palawan:

3. Underhanded Plays on Words. Speaking of roosters, the Philippines is brimming with opportunities for sly vulgarity. Receipts for juices read “ass juice” instead of assorted, and people will order just that (“Hi, 12 ass juices, please”). One of El Nido’s general merchandise stores is called the F. U. Store, which has spawned a ghastly amount of immaturity from yours truly (Me: What store sells wine again? Them: The FU Store. Me: The what? Them: FU! FU! I will show you FU. Rinse. Repeat.) There is the current polemic surrounding the potential Constitutional Assembly amendment to the constitution – abbreviated, of course, as Con-Ass. And, in a class unto themselves there are the roosters. While they are “manok” in Tagalog, people generally just call them cocks. So you can imagine that, for a dirty group of Western tourists, it is impossible to ignore the magnitude of possibilities that a country full of roosters would manifest. From the seemingly innocuous (“Wow, that’s huge cock you’ve got there”) to the flattery (“You truly have a great looking cock”) this country provides endless options for those with 14-year old sensibilities. Yes, I happen to be one of those people.

4. Tanduay Rum. I should add that this is not a moment, but many threads of drunken conversation and karaoke, woven together into a bright, colourful tapestry. That’s not to say that I’ve been drinking my way through the Philippines; to the contrary, traveling alone means that I am extremely conservative about my alcohol consumption, for obvious reasons. But Tanduay – a Pinoy rum that originated in the sugar cane fields of Panay in and whose name translates into tandugay, meaning ‘low-lying land’ in old Tagalog – is the perfect ice breaker for any situation. A table of strangers quickly becomes a table of friends over a bottle of Tanduay and what was a quiet evening turns into a karaoke sing-off and an onslaught of eager questions about Canada. A litre of Tanduay is cheaper than a litre of water, so to say that the Philippines is awash in tawny rum wouldn’t be an exaggeration.

El Nido’s “FU Store”; Tanduay in all its golden glory:

5. The sheer magnitude of children screaming after at you when you walk/drive/bike by. Not only do they all clamour at the side of the road, screaming hello or “hello friend!”, they won’t stop screaming until you answer them. Responding means the cycle continues, with them chasing your bike/car/you down the street and giggling the whole way. The children here are both plentiful and painfully cute, so it is impossible not to walk around with a big smile on your face when confronted with such disarming friendliness. In El Nido, there is no dearth of toddlers about and now that they know me (and my name) I have a pied-piperesque trail of smiles and hellos wherever I go. Of course, the fact that I often buy them cookies at the bakery certainly adds to their desire to shadow my every move about town.

Me and Alexa, the imp that she is:

6. Sample sizes of everything. I happen to love the travel size aisle at the pharmacy, and I happen to know I am not alone in my affection for tiny toiletries (I am talking to you, Cheryl). Imagine my joy, then, upon visiting a Pinoy supermarket for the first time: everything is in a small size. Everything. My brother doesn’t need to resort to imagining my happiness, since he was with me in Tagbilaran, calling after me in alarm as I bolted from aisle to aisle exclaiming “ALL small sizes! ALL!” and giggling like an idiot. From shampoos, to baby powders, to soaps, to cigarettes (sold in twos or fours), this entire country is built to stock up on travel essentials if you are backpacking around. It is important to note that these sample sizes exist due to the unfortunate reality that most Filipinos cannot afford the full container, let alone the jumbo/family sizes you would encounter in North America. In El Nido, sample sizes of everything hang from the rafters in each of the corner stores and supermarkets.

From the corner store at the end of Serena street:

7. Power Ballads. This country? Obsessed with 80s power ballads and those particularly slow, terrifyingly sad songs of the 90s. Songs I have heard more times than I can count: Total Eclipse of the Heart, Everything I Do, I Do it for You, Hello, Memories (from Cats), Bed of Roses, Hero and – straddling the 70s and 80s – anything by Air Supply. These are blasted, at full volume, on jeepneys, public buses, in the tricycles, on the street. While you want to cut your ears off for the first month, eventually the sheer persistence of these ballads works through the hard, stubborn core of your resistance and you find yourself shamefully singing along, every single time.

8. “It’s ok.” It’s hard to believe that two simple words can cause such a rash of confusion. “It’s ok” here means everything from “yes” to “no” to “don’t even think about it” – with absolutely no way of knowing which one is intended in a particular situation. From asking someone if they want something (response:”It’s ok!”) to asking if you can go somewhere (“It’s ok!”) to asking whether anyone was hurt when the tricycle bashed into the pile of mangoes across the way (“It’s ok!”) you would think that you’d be able to discern the appropriate sentiment given the context – but you absolutely cannot. To make matters more fun, most people don’t just say “It’s ok” once, they repeat it 3 or 4 times (“it’sokit’sokit’sok”), often enough that even the myna birds have learned to mimic the expression perfectly. After almost 4 months in the Philippines, I’ve been saying “it’s ok” myself at least a few times a day.

9. Whispering. Or, more precisely, the fact that no one here knows how to whisper. At night, on boats or buses, in hotels or restaurants – regardless of where you are or how tired you might be, no one cares. In fact, they will speak at the top of their voices and then remain entirely confused when you stumble out of your room and groggily ask them to keep it down. “Keep it….down?” is the usual answer. Yes, down. Your voice. QUIET. But it’s all to no avail. As I’ve said above, in a culture that grows up with roosters crowing at all hours of the night and dogs fighting outside the window, the concept of peace and quiet is entirely foreign. Everything becomes white noise to the Filipinos, and such a talent for muting out the sharp noises of the night is hard to come by in most tourists. I am very jealous.

10. Eden Cheese. Sold by Kraft (of course) and wrapped in foil and a bright blue rectangular package that resembles cream cheese bricks back home, Eden Cheese is made of enough synthetics and random preservatives that it is practically indestructible. You can leave it out in the sun for hours, try and melt it for a sandwich, shred it in the hopes that it won’t taste like processed cardboard – but it is totally futile. Unrefrigerated, infrangible, unbelievable: Eden cheese is like the Rasputin of Pinoy foods, and deserves its own paragraph because in many islands and towns it is the only cheese you can buy. El Nido is one such town, and at 42 pesos (under $1) per block, it’s omnipresent. I’ve learnt to appreciate Eden Cheese’s total and blatant unwillingness to be like other cheeses, but I can’t say I enjoy the taste of soggy, sticky plastic.

* * *

I’m gearing up to leave El Nido in a few days, and plan on doing one more post about this wonderful place before posting a very late entry on Northern Luzon, including the rice terraces of Banaue and Batad and the caves and good eats in Sagada. All these quirks are just additional layers of fun on an already beautiful place.

-Jodi

The post Top 10 Philippine Quirks appeared first on Legal Nomads.

The Philippines consists of over 7,107 islands nestled between the South China Sea to the East and the Philippine Sea to the West, including some 1500 that are too small to be named. From what I’ve experienced thus far, it is well beyond the backpacker trails of South East Asia – most days pass by without spotting another tourist at all. The landscape is somewhat overwhelming, even to a seasoned traveler: you can choose between limestone beaches (like those of Rai Leh in Thailand), lush jungles, swaying, vibrant coral reefs and deep, damp bat caves.

The beautiful Apo Island:

While archaeological digs have uncovered the existence of humans on Palawan from 50,000 BC, Ferdinand Magellan claimed the land for Spain in 1521, in blissful disregard for the people who had been living there for thousands of years. King Phillip II established Manila as the capital of the Spanish East Indies in 1571, which lasted through the end of the 19th century, when Spain ceded the Philippines to the United States in 1899, at the end of the Spanish-American war. What followed was several more years of unhappy colonial rule (this time by the Americans), until 1935, when the country was converted into a Commonwealth. Unfortunately for them, this change in status did not last long: the country was occupied by the Japanese during WWII. Filipino troops allied with the Americans to defeat the Japanese in 1944, and the Philippines was granted full independence on July 4, 1946.

Given that the Philippines was colonized by Spain and the USA, but is located in the heart of the tropics, several things stand out as being quite a bit different from where I’ve just been:

1) Garbage is everywhere here. Other than a few towns that have cracked down on littering (Puerto Princessa, Hinoba An, etc) the streams and streets are cluttered with plastic and remnants of meals. People throw litter out the windows from buses and tricycles, without hesitation.

2) For a tropical climate, there is far less fruit than I expected. I’ve found are bananas and mangos, and the occasional mangosteen. Otherwise, slim pickings. Some apples, on a good day. I have, however, discovered that coconut and peanut together make a mean, mean fruit shake.

3) I l hate to say it, but I am not a fan of the food here. There are almost no vegetables, other than kangkong (swamp cabbage) and green cabbage, and meals are mainly meat and rice or meat and noodles and with many tasty varieties thereof. A saving grace: there are a ton of roast chicken or roast pork roadside stands, each of which are juicy and crunchy and delicious, and there is Halo-Halo (see below) everywhere. Food is otherwise filling and tasty, but not exciting. I dream of spicy green curry with coconut milk.

4) Everything is sweetened. Coffee, tea, ube snacks, cakes, muffins – everything here has a ton of sugar added. No such thing as whole wheat bread either: you get white bread, with sugar baked in, dripping with sweetness. I’ve stuck to rice and eggs for breakfast, which happens to be delicious.

5) Halo-halo is the dessert of champions. Halo-halo (pronounced hallo-hallo) is a mishmash of all things goopy and crunchy in a plastic bowl. Start with crushed ice, add milk, coconut pulp from a young coconut, fruit gelatin, sweet flan, a scoop of ube ice cream and top it off with corn flakes and voila! you’ve got halo-halo. The perfect mixture of anything you might crave on a hot, sticky day, it has proved a great way to duck in and get some air conditioning and ice cream in the middle of the afternoon.

6) Asking someone for directions is not straightforward. Most tourists here say you need to ask three separate people, then go with the majority. You are, however, at risk for the Noncommittal Head Nod (see below) when asking.

7) The Noncommittal Head Nod is a likely response to anything you ask. It is a half nod with a refusal to make prolonged eye contact. It either says “I have no idea what you are saying, little girl” or “I will not make this easy for you” or “I don’t want to break it to you that you are totally going in the wrong direction.”

8) At 3pm in the bigger cities, the stores stop playing radio pop and instead a prayer comes on the loudspeaker thanking God for life, meals, etc. Everyone stops and listens and then crosses themselves and looks up at the sky (presumably, at God) at the end. I first discovered this because I walked into the supermarket and started shopping, only to look around slowly, in panic, when I realized no one else was moving. For a spit second I actually thought time and space had hiccuped, but no – it was God.

9) Women here do not ride motorbikes, unlike elsewhere in Asia. Thus, when I rented my own bike it felt as though I was in a parade. People were screaming and jumping and waving and yelling “HELLO FRIEND!” as I rode by. Good for the ego, bad for womankind.

10) When you meet a new Filipino, the following three questions are asked, almost immediately and in the exact order I’ve written:
- Do you have a husband? or Are you only one?
- How old are you?
- Where are you from?
- Why are you alone? Where is your husband? Why don’t you have one? WHY ARE YOU ALONE?
I’ve been told by several Filipinos they cannot even imagine traveling to an unknown country without a guide or group, and it appears that people are genuinely concerned that I am alone and/or that I have not yet managed to land a husband.

11) The children here are both painfully adorable and absurdly friendly. Case in point: I sat on White Island off of Camiguin whilst Cale went scuba diving and the next thing I knew I had 20 kids all about 3 inches from my face, yelling “Hello friend!! Why are you here? Where is your husband? Where are you from?”. They were more than happy to pose with Potato.

12) While they have minivans and tricycles here, they also have jeepneys, a jeep-van hybrid, gaudily decorated and packed full of people. And I mean PACKED: even when you think the jeepney can’t fit anymore people, it can and will and does. The record: 34 people in the jeepney with 5 more on top and several others hanging off the back. This does not include the chickens on the roof, either. Normal capacity for said jeepney? 12 people.

Jeepney in Mambajao, the capital of Camiguin:

13) Cockfighting not only legal, but a source of national pride. Riding into towns you see “Derby” schedules posted outside the city limits (with rooster names like “Ringo” and “Elmo” and “Karl”, listed in order of fighting). Riding on public buses you will see tons of mini teepees in the grass you are passing by, and under each teepee an irate rooster. Thus: roosters crow almost every minute of every day, and are brought in little cardboard boxes with handles and holes on every mode of public transportation, from buses to jeepneys (see above) to boats.

Rooster inside!

14) Pinoys are obsessed with their cell phones. There is cell coverage throughout the islands, and most hotels or hostels request that you text them to make a reservation, going so far as to complain that you didn’t text when you actually call them. Most bus rides are punctuated with the beeps and rings and sounds of text message notifications, and people walk down the street either texting someone or listening to their phones. When a fellow traveler noted that they never bothered to get a Filipino SIM card, our hostel owner was aghast, wanting to know how one could get by without a mobile phone to be a guide.

Note that these are merely from my month down in the Visayas and north of here – like the mountains surrounding Banaue and Sagada – might differ entirely. thought it might be interesting to type these out quickly and share, since the contrast of this country to some of others is fascinating. Thus far, I’ve really enjoyed being here and the friendliness and open smiles of the people I have met. This country is known for its helpful, kind and inviting locals, and the reputation seems well-deserved. It is fun being a one-woman show traipsing through buses and ferries and towns, where children pull their parents out of stores to point at you and yell an enthusiastic hello. And I am really looking forward to exploring the rest of the geography of this place; the mountains, beaches and landscapes have so far been some of the nicest I have ever seen.

I’m off to Palawan now, but will update on the Visayas soon!
-Jodi

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