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VIETNAM . CHINA . TAIWAN . PHILIPPINES . MALAYSIA . BRUNEI . SINGAPORE .
THAILAND . LAOS
A 5,000-mile walk through Southeast Asia in an effort to raise funds for
facial-reconstructive surgeries in the developing world.

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What Would Jeremy Lin Do?

April 8, 2015

In Taiwan, Jeremy Lin's face is everywhere.
Talk at Taipei's Google offices

For all of its posturing regarding Taiwan's sovereignty, or lack thereof, China
sends a conflicting message in its airports. My flight to Taiwan from Guangzhou
was considered an international departure. If China's leaders truly considered
Taiwan to be an extension of the mainland, wouldn't all flights thereto depart
from domestic gates?

Taiwan proved no exception to the communication mishaps I experienced in
previous countries. The starting point of my trek down the island began in
Taipei, where I remained for a week before starting south. Graciously, I was put
up by a family I met on CouchSurfing.org for the duration of my stay in the
capital. One of my hosts, Lulu, was an avid athlete who would spontaneously
break into a run when happening upon a hill of any kind. On one such occasion,
while she was in the middle of showing me around her neighborhood, I decided to
trot up the hill with her. According to Lulu, I wasn't running correctly, with
my stride grounded in my heels instead of on the balls of my feet. Dissatisfied
with my running form, she shouted down to me from the top of the hill, "run on
your balls!"

Arriving in Taiwan after two months in China didn't exactly induce culture
shock. On the surface, both countries mostly congrue. It's true, the food may
have been a bit greasier in Taiwan, and the 7-Elevens more numerous (there were
none in China), but to a layman tourist such as myself, no facet of everyday
Taiwanese life was salient enough to set the country apart from its neighbor
across the strait. Except one. The children. Taiwanese children are... well,
chubby. Of the nine countries I explored over the course of my year abroad,
rotund children were characteristic of Taiwan only. I would blame
Westernization, but that would leave me scratching my head in explaining the
Philippines, a nation twice as Americanized as Taiwan, but whose children are
half the size!

In Taiwan, business cards aren't handed out casually and absent-mindedly as they
often are here in the States. There is a very specific protocol, any deviation
from which could result in giving offense. When presenting one's card, the first
step is to face the recipient squarely. From there, the presenter must clasp his
card with both hands as he advances it towards the recipient, but the card
cannot face any which way. Its front side must face upwards, with the text
oriented towards the receiver. At this point, the recipient is expected to
receive the card by securing its bottom edge with both hands and pulling it
towards himself once the presenter lets go. Almost home free, the recipient must
take a symbolic moment to inspect the presenter's card before stowing it in his
pocket. And lastly, accepting someone's business card must always be requited by
offering up one's own card in return.

The timing of a business card exchange is also of note, and it would likely
strike an unaccustomed American as premature. While my experience passing out
and receiving business cards in the US is limited, such gesture usually marks
the end of an interaction in America: "Well, it was nice meeting you. Hey,
here's my card. Feel free to reach out [blah blah blah]..." In Taiwan, cards are
exchanged immediately, sometimes even preempting an introductory handshake.

***

During my brief stopover in Taipei, I was invited to give a talk at three
significant venues: the American Institute of Taiwan (or AIT, the de facto US
embassy), the Rotary Club of Taipei, and Google's Taiwanese headquarters. The
presentation at the AIT was organized by the Institute's public affairs officer,
Sheila Paskman, who managed to recruit a cohort of dynamic Taiwanese youths to
attend. It was a treat to engage an audience so eager to serve humanity. Towards
the back of the room, a formally dressed Western man, who I took to be State
Department personnel, quietly observed the session from afar. After the others
had left, he introduced himself as John Caraccio, the president of World Gym
Taiwan, a national fitness club chain. He had caught wind of my upcoming talk at
the Taipei Rotary Club, where he was a member, and apologized in advance for his
inability to attend. We chatted for a bit longer before going our separate ways,
and I didn't pay him much mind. When I attended the Rotary Club's weekly
luncheon the following day (as usual, grossly underdressed for such a formal
occasion in my ripped cargo shorts and worn out t-shirt), I was flattered by the
record attendance and air of enthusiasm. After giving my talk, the club's
president made an announcement that made my heart stop: the club's collective
donation would be matched by John Caraccio! I couldn't believe it. That a person
could show such unsolicited generosity to a complete stranger is extraordinary
to me. It was one of my life's more humbling experiences. The Rotarians I met
that day ended up donating a combined $3,500, and true to his word, John matched
their contribution days later.

The following morning, two of the club's Rotarians, Jen and William, treated me
to an impressive breakfast buffet. The two were well-to-do Taiwanese locals,
both with teenage children, and our conversations that morning proved
enlightening. Since the time her son was a toddler, Jen had had him enrolled in
one of the capital's international schools, which practice a more Western style
of teaching. When I asked her why, she expressed her lack of faith in
conventional Chinese education. Jen judged the latter to overemphasize rote
memorization and regurgitation, and she considered the enormous pressures placed
on these children at such an early age by their parents and teachers to be
unhealthy. For these reasons, she opted to send her son to an international
school, where she finds the curriculum focuses on self-expression, critical
thinking, and creativity. She drove her point home with an exclamation, "in
Chinese schools, they don't have show-and-tell!"

In this same spirit, William had sent his son to study at a boarding school in
the States. At the time of our conversation, his son was in his senior year
there and on track to start college in the fall. Unlike his peers, however, it
wasn't his son who was braving the grueling application process, but rather
William himself! Evidently, the Taiwanese take helicopter parenting to a whole
new level: William explained how parents applying to colleges on their
children's behalf is the norm in his country. He even wrote his son's
application essays, and he humorously recounted to me how on one occasion, he
was contacted by the dean's office of one of the prospective schools: "Sir,
we're really going to need your son to write his own application essay. We want
to hear why HE wants to attend our university, not why YOU want him to!"

***

NBA point guard, Jeremy Lin, is a national hero in Taiwan. Even though the
professional basketballer was born and raised in the States and has never lived
in Asia, his Taiwanese heritage is reason enough for people there to claim him
as their own. Images of Lin are everywhere. If a tree fell in the forest, and no
one was there to hear it fall, it would still make noise because a poster of
Jeremy Lin would somehow be on display within earshot. On one occasion, I even
came across a framed photograph of his face propped up on a countertop for all
to see in a random coffee shop, and it wasn't even signed. As a side note, I
wasn't surprised to learn that the Mainland Chinese press, conveniently, also
lays claim to the superstar's national heritage, referring to him in their news
stories as "Chinese-American".

***

If I thought the peoples I had encountered before Taiwan sought to maintain a
pale skin complexion, I was wrong. Taiwanese women take the cake. I once spotted
a woman clad in black shoulder-high gloves as she drove past me. Since using an
umbrella to shade one's arms from the sun while driving would be ineffective and
likely dangerous, she wore these arm gloves as a more practical sunblock
solution. Another time, I crossed an elderly lady on her late afternoon jog who
was dressed for the nuclear fallout. Not a square inch of skin exposed, she
sported a wide brim hat, comically large sun glasses that overlapped with a
scarf covering the rest of her face, a windbreaker, gloves, long pants, and
sneakers. Mind you, it was 80 degrees outside!

In contrast, Taiwan's betel nut vendors make their living showing as much skin
as possible. These scandalously clad young ladies leave little to the
imagination as they lure eager men to their roadside stands and sell them Areca
nuts wrapped in Betel leaf, a popular stimulant. The stands are often enclosed
by large glass panes so that the provocative saleswomen manning them be on
display for all to see. Something tells me this retail-based business model may
be supplemented by a less innocent service-based business model, but maybe
not...

***

Barring city-states, Taiwan was by far the most expensive country I trekked
through. Lacking the budget guesthouses I had grown so accustomed to up to that
point (if they existed, they weren't on Google Maps), I resorted back to fending
for myself. This proved more difficult than it had been in West Malaysia. There,
every bathroom boasted a water hose, or at a minimum, a water reservoir and
bucket. This meant that any trip to the john could also afford me an improvised
shower. Taiwan's public restrooms, on the other hand, resembled the West's, and
they featured a roll of toilet paper instead of a water hose. This made daily
hygiene a daily challenge. Also, the shortage of cheap guesthouses meant that I
was back in my tent, but unlike the expansive plantations that had populated
much of Malaysia's roadside and had offered my hasty campsites easy concealment,
Taiwan's roadside proved to be highly urbanized. Dimly lit nooks were harder to
come by there, and seclusion was nearly impossible. When I finally would settle
on a campsite and turn in for the night, I slept with one eye open. The
potential to be spotted was much greater with so many people around and so
little cover, and lying in my tent trying to fall asleep was nerve-racking. What
if I was approached by law enforcement? Or by drunkards looking for trouble?
This mental stress resulted in poor quality sleep, as even the tiniest noises
outside my tent sprang me into alertness throughout the night.

Not every night in Taiwan was spent in my tent, though. Ultimately, I did end up
finding some mid-range hotel rooms along the way where I enjoyed a hot shower
and a good night's rest, and while these stays were certainly more expensive
than the guesthouses of Laos, they didn't break the bank. On one of my first
nights outside of Taipei, I passed an unassuming Taoist temple around sunset and
the guys there ended up letting me crash with them in the basement, which was
air-conditioned, which was awesome.

***

Some Taiwanese homes have very little privacy. Like the storefronts of fashion
boutiques, glass panels make up the walls of many ground floor apartments. And
so, intimate scenes of Taiwanese families lounging in their living rooms,
sipping tea, or watching TV are casually on display to the public. The members
of such households are evidently comfortable with their exposure because their
windows aren't obstructed by any curtains or blinds. The whole thing's basically
a voyeurist fantasyland!


One evening, as I was winding down from the day's walk, I rejoiced when I
discovered a 24-hour McDonalds. This was a lucky find and perfect timing because
it meant an early breakfast the following day when other eateries would still be
closed, and therefore, an earlier start to the day's trek (I always preferred
having food and coffee in me before starting for the day). Hungry and excited at
the prospect of pancakes for breakfast, I returned to the fast food restaurant
at 5am the next morning. The front door was locked. I gestured through the glass
to an employee inside, who approached and explained that they closed every day
between 5am and 6am for cleaning. I was confused and upset (hangry!) by this
policy, which so boldly contradicted the "Open 24 Hours" sign posted under the
golden arches. Still, I killed some time and soon returned to the 23-hour
McDonalds for a feast of hash browns, sausage patties, and hot pancakes
smothered in syrup. The day was looking up again.

As a side note, the trashcans in Taiwanese McDonalds are marvels of modern waste
management. Whereas fast food chains in the States typically offer only
indiscriminatory catch-all trash bins, the waste collection stations of their
Taiwanese counterparts incorporate specific compartments denoting recyclables,
liquids, food scraps, and trash. It was an encouraging sight, and I hope that
American fast food establishments will some day rise to the occasion.

In Taiwan, the garbage trucks drive through the streets blaring ice cream truck
jingles. The craving initially induced by the familiar music quickly dissipated
when I followed the tune to its source for the first time!

The popular Taiwanese donut chain, Mister Donut, was no more effective at
satisfying my sweet tooth than these jingling garbage trucks. I'm no food
critic, and my palate is far from refined, but I can honestly say that their
donuts underwhelmed me in every category: flavor, texture, freshness,
selection... you name it. It is a mystery to me that Mister Donut somehow
manages to remain in business. During my time on the island, I learned that
Krispey Kreme would be expanding into Taiwan with the goal of opening ten stores
by 2018. Watch out, Mister Donut!


Over the course of my last day's hike down Taiwan, I developed a toothache. By
the time I arrived at my final destination in the port city of Kaohsiung, the
pain had only gotten worse, and it became clear to me that I should have it
looked at. I was scheduled to speak at AIT's local office that following
afternoon, where I was told a contingency of local Rotarians would be in
attendance, among others. Being wholly unfamiliar with the city, I emailed Judy
Chang, my point of contact at AIT's office, to ask if she could recommend a
dentist in the area. Within minutes, she replied that one of the Rotarians due
to attend, Dr. Su, was a dentist who had her own private practice. Not only was
Dr. Su available to see me before the presentation that afternoon, but she
insisted that my treatment be free of charge! What are the odds? It was my lucky
day. After examining me in her office, she prescribed me antibiotics and some
much-appreciated pain medication. I was in good shape for that afternoon's
presentation, where I later showered the dentist with my deeply felt gratitude
in my opening remarks, much to her embarrassment!



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February 12, 2013




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Little Trouble in Big China

July 4, 2012

Stop it, China.

I'm beginning to scare the children. Around the time school lets out, it's not
uncommon for me to share the roadside with clusters of kids headed back home
after class. Over the course of a half hour, the mass of schoolchildren will
diffuse and I will end up gaining on a small group of three or four kids, one of
which will turn around and notice me in the distance. Curiosity ensues, and
everyone in the ensemble will begin turning around sporadically to behold their
new pursuer. Once I get into the 30-yard range, they begin running away from me,
stopping once they feel like I'm far enough behind them, and resuming once I
approach again. This pattern usually continues until they turn off the main road
to where their homes presumably are. But on one occasion, a group of kids
stopped walking entirely and waited anxiously on the side of the road for me to
pass them. I could detect the air of panic that had overtaken their
conversation, "Look he's obviously not going to stop following us, and every
time we run away he just keeps catching up, so let's just park ourselves right
here and stare him down as he walks by." I haven't had children run away from me
since that day my mom packed squid as my school lunch.

***

The Chinese know how to build cities. This was my first observation after a
month in Vietnam, where the infrastructure was... dated, to put it charitably.
The amount of construction happening in China right now is unreal; the country
is one big public works project. Not only that, but the Chinese appear to be
future-proofing their cities, building enormous avenues that, while
underutilized today, will undoubtedly fill up as cars continue to become more
affordable to China's growing middle class. Many of these gargantuan avenues are
built on the outskirts of large cities in anticipation of the development to
follow. It was comical to be trekking down a deserted Champs Elysees biding its
time until Paris is built.

Regarding this mass-scale infrastructure investment, I have a feeling the
Chinese have bitten off more than they can chew. Building roads is always fun;
maintaining them, not so much. Landscaping vegetation has already claimed half
the sidewalks along many of these avenues, so if their infrastructure
maintenance looks anything like their grass bed maintenance, those new car
drivers are in for an uncomfortable ride. Speaking of sidewalks, the Chinese
decorate theirs with slippery marble tiles, which are always a joy in the rain
(not).

***

Communication in China had its moments. From my first day in the country, a
pattern emerged in which my interlocutor, upon realizing I couldn't understand
spoken Chinese, would proceed to matter-of-factly write his words down on a
scrap piece of paper, apparently convinced that it was his verbalization that
was throwing me off. I didn't quite know what to make of this. Thais and Laos
certainly never had this impulse, so I expressed my confusion (Confucian?) to
Tien-tien, a local CouchSurfer who put me up in Nanning. He explained that while
there are several varieties of spoken Chinese, the language's written form is
uniform and intelligible to people from all corners of the country. For this
reason, it's actually common for two Chinese from different regions to
communicate via scrap paper. Still, this logic follows that all the store clerks
and guesthouse owners I dealt with along the way who pulled this stunt with me
simply thought of me as a distant Chinaman. "Looks like my compatriot is having
trouble understanding my dialect. I'll try writing it down for him. He must be
from up north or something."

Miscommunications in the realm of sign language occurred, as well. The Chinese
express numbers using a collection of hand signals that have entirely different
connotations in the States. I remember the first time I went to buy something
that cost 6 RMB, and upon asking how much it was, the cashier signaled for me to
"hang loose, bro", recoiling her middle three fingers into her palm and
extending her thumb and pinky into opposite directions. As it turns out,
configuring one's hand as such means "six" in China. Then there was the time an
item cost 10 RMB, and the clerk joined the index fingers of both her hands to
form a cross that she held up to me, "Daemon, be gone!" This gesture means
"ten". Their sign language for the number three was particularly confusing
because Westerners use this same signal to express "zero". Whereas Westerners
focus on the closed loop formed by the joint tips of the index finger and thumb,
and disregard the lingering three fingers that trail behind, the Chinese pay no
heed to this incidental loop, and focus rather on precisely these three fingers,
which amount to "three". It's fascinating that two cultures can have such
diverging perspectives on the same hand signal.

Sometimes, miscommunication came in the form of phrasing. One evening, while I
was making my way through a lively city center, a girl riding past me on a
bicycle turned her head towards me and asked, "Where are you?" Startled that a
complete stranger was going metaphysical on me, I paused, and then answered,
"I'm here." She shook her head in disbelief and rode off. "Wow," I thought,
"That's deep. Where am I, truly? Where are any of us?" It didn't take me long to
realize that this girl was trying to ask me where I was FROM, and most likely
understanding me to reply that I was FROM China, which would account for her
incredulousness.

On another occasion, I was at a Subway restaurant (yes, the Chinese have
Subways), and when it came time to choose toppings, the employee on the other
side of the glass looked up and asked, "Is everything all right?" My default
facial expression tends to be a bit gloomy, so I get this question from time to
time, but her query took me by surprise, nonetheless. "Yes," I assured her,
"thank you for asking." She then proceeded to throw every imaginable variety of
vegetable atop my sandwich. When I motioned for her to stop, she looked
confused. At that moment, I realized that what she had tried to ask was, "Would
you like everything on that?"

A quirky footnote on Chinese speech: the Chinese are constantly saying, "nigga".
From what I've gathered, "nigga" is something of a catchall filler word in
Chinese: our "well...", "like...", "ummmm...", and so it is interjected once or
twice per sentence. It was rather entertaining listening to Asians blurt out
"nigga" to each other every few seconds.

***

I had three run-ins with the Chinese police over the course of my time there.
The first was on my second night in the country. I had wrapped up dinner in a
tiny village at a restaurant, where an assembly of festive elementary school
teachers had invited me to their table and fed me. It was getting late, and I
would soon have to find a place to sleep, so I asked the English teacher for
recommendations. She told me there was a police station just up the road where I
would be allowed to pitch my tent for the night. Not knowing any better, I
followed her instructions. Bad idea. The night officer on duty greeted me
quizzically in the front office, and things snowballed from there. Before long,
phone calls to superiors were being made, English interpreters were being
summoned, passports were being held, reinforcements were being dispatched, and
my innocent slumber party request was turning into quite an ordeal. "But the
nice English teacher lady down the street said--", I bit my tongue. There was no
need to make the situation any more absurd than it already was. Needless to say,
my request was denied, and the night ended 15 miles away at the doorstep of a
seedy hotel, where one of the officers and an interpreter had dropped me off in
a squad car, "Good luck!"

My second encounter with China's finest also occurred at a police station -- the
Zhakouzhen Police Station in Guangxi on March 22nd, to be precise -- but was
much shorter. As I passed the station, I noticed a line of people piled in front
of the entrance, overflowing onto the main road. Wanting to capture this
disconcerting scene, I snapped a photo with my phone. From out of my blind spot,
a man in camouflage fatigues accosted me and escorted me into the front office,
where an officer in dress uniform was waiting. After a minute or two of the
officer pointing to my phone and signaling an emphatic "no", and me playing
dumb, they released me. Why so secretive?

My third experience was more of an observation than a run-in: I got to witness
what a police response in China looks like. I was lunching at a KFC, which were
ubiquitous along my route, when it became clear that the man placing his order
at the counter was losing his temper. He was visibly intoxicated, as were the
two stooges in his entourage, and there was no placating him. The scene
degenerated over the next twenty minutes, and it climaxed when one of the young
man's sidekicks threw his tray at the employees behind the counter from half way
across the dining room. I can only imagine this to be the point at which someone
finally called the police. Enter: the cavalry, another twenty minutes later. The
two 19-year-olds in police uniforms, who arrived on the scene straddling the
same motorcycle, both weighed about 120lbs. They wore cute helmets and were
unarmed, save a baton, which neither seemed vigorous enough to wield. I sat
nervously, praying that a forceful personality might belie their lackluster
appearance, but the intervention was tepid at best. Their strategy was to
continue trying to reason with this band of drunken rabble-rousers inside the
store for another twenty minutes. Finally, they made a half-hearted attempt to
escort the three men outside, when the most fiery of the gang trailed behind and
managed to remain in the store, where he proceeded to aggressively argue with
the manager for another fifteen minutes. On his own accord, the ruffian
eventually stepped outside the building to join the dispassionate officers, who
had been awaiting him there (apparently, they couldn't be bothered to retrieve
him from inside).

For those of you reading this blog who are not from the States, here's how this
scenario would play out in the good ol' U.S. of A. Homeboy would never get
around to showcasing his tray-throwing abilities because the cops would be
called five minutes into the initial quarrel. Five minutes after the call, three
squad cars would arrive, expelling half a dozen corn-bred, beef-fed specimens,
half of whom are veterans of foreign wars, most of whom were varsity
linebackers, and all of whom know how to handle themselves. The officers would
each be armed with a pistol, taser, and can of mace, and from the moment they
stepped through the front doors, the situation would come under their control.
Detecting the suspects' intoxicated state after one or two verbal exchanges, the
policemen would forcefully escort them outside, where two additional squad cars
would have made their way to the scene. After collecting the aggressors' ID
cards and searching the database for arrest warrants in their names, these men
would be fined, driven off to the drunk tank, or both. The American police
officer can be your greatest ally or your worst nightmare.

***

Just as in previous countries I had walked through, the nicer restaurants in
China boasted food photography in their menus. Because I don't read Chinese, I
would depend on these photos to know what I was ordering, which was problematic
because 90% of the time, the dishes that were brought to me looked nothing like
the photo. The most extreme case was a time I ordered a banana split at a UBC
Coffee, a prevalent restaurant chain throughout China. The picture was magical:
a festive bowl bursting at the seams from the generous vanilla, chocolate, and
strawberry scoops that filled it, drowned in rich chocolate sauce and buried
under a heap of whipped cream, pierced with chocolate-filled wafer sticks and
flanked by two hearty banana halves. My mouth watered as I waited with
impatience for this bowl of sin to appear before me. The waiter returned
promptly, tray in hand, but what he produced was of a more modest nature: three
quarter-inch, perpendicularly sliced, morsels of banana topping two barren
scoops of freezer-burned vanilla ice cream. Nothing more. I pointed out the
disparity between the photograph and this naked dessert to my server, who spoke
passable English. "It require some... imagination," he told me!

Retail chocolate in China is so bad. Chocolate candy was altogether absent from
gas stations and convenience stores throughout Laos and Vietnam, so I could only
disparage the lack of chocolate. But in China, chocolate is available; it's just
really bad. I once bought a box of chocolate coins. It was like chewing a clump
of indissolvable brown wax.

Chinese bakeries aren't anything to write home about, either. If Laos is
Southeast Asia's baked goods beacon, China is its bat cave. Options range from
spongy, artificial white bread to spongy, artificial white bread with sugar
grains sprinkled on top, to spongy, artificial white bread topped with
even-more-artificial bits of fruit.

The fast food market in China is alive and well. KFCs are in such high demand
that knock-off restaurants are sprouting up left and right. I came across an
LFC, as well as an MFC, and a cursory online image search reveals an OFC, KFG,
and a KLG! OMG! McDonalds are still a novelty, so instead of being consigned to
interstate exits like they are in the States, they are a booming city center's
crown jewel. Any city I walked through with a population of 1 million+ hosted a
McDonalds on its most prime real estate, and as far as I could tell, the stores
were all brand new. Instead of a pimply 15-year-old and overweight trucker
occupying an otherwise vacant dining room, Chinese McDonalds are lively scenes,
frequented by college students, upper middleclass families, and young couples
out on the town.

I have an unorthodox approach to eating food. When served a plate, I save the
starch for last. I finish the whole burger before helping myself to a fry, the
entire helping of stir-fry prior to starting on my rice, and both eggs benedict
before a bite of sauteed potatoes. Call me quirky, but that's how I eat. In
China, where every dish is accompanied by a bowl of rice, this habit attracted
looks of puzzlement from my onlookers. "What is he waiting for?" I could hear
them thinking, "Perhaps he cannot see the bowl of rice on the table. Maybe he's
never seen rice before. I wonder if he knows he's supposed to eat it." Concerned
samaritans would approach me and nudge the rice bowl closer. Through hand
gestures, I would have to reassure them that the rice would have its turn.

An insightful window into Chinese culture was opened at another UCB Coffee in
Fuzhou. This was my final destination in China, so I was well versed in menus'
unrealistic food portraits by this point. But my low expectations didn't make me
crave ice cream any less, and I found myself in a conundrum. One dessert option
boasted whipped cream, but the ice cream flavors did not tempt me. Another
option had the scoops I desired but whipped cream was not in its description.
Luckily, my server was majoring in English at a local university, so
communicating my request that whipped cream be added to the latter option went
smoothly. "I'll pay extra," I assured him, to which he replied that he would
need to consult his manager. When he returned a few minutes later, the twinkle
in his eye had evaporated, "Sir, I'm sorry; we don't have that computer button
in our system." I stared at him blankly and listened for the hum of a cooling
fan from within his chest cavity. I inspected his waiter uniform for any
protruding hydraulic wires. He seemed human enough. "Well, this is going to
sound crazy, but I'm willing to bet that if you walk through those kitchen doors
and talk to the cooks in person, they'll be able to throw some whipped cream on
there." His countenance showed little promise when he returned from the kitchen
moments later, "Sir, I'm afraid the kitchen manager is gone for the day, but
even if he were here, he would have to call the owner of this branch for
approval." Everything I knew about the world crumbled. The decision to add
whipped cream to a dessert would have to go through the restaurant owner because
they didn't have a button in the computer. My server was very nice, and very
eager to converse with a native English-speaker, so he proceeded to explain how
this highly centralized approach to decision-making was quite common in China.
Those with power flaunt it and feel the need to remind subordinates of their
status on a regular basis. Even the trivial decision to add whipped cream, if
made by a waiter or cook autonomously, could cause an insecure boss to feel
threatened. "Here, someone could get fired over this, maybe just to make an
example of them," my waiter explained. I nursed my Tsing Tsao, grateful to be
from a land where initiative was generally rewarded with a promotion.

***

According Boston Consulting Group's Global Innovation Index, the United States
is among the top ten most innovative countries in the world. China lags behind
in 21st place. Economists can argue all day as to why this is, but the cause is
glaring to me: the Chinese use squat toilets vs. sitting toilets. Think of all
the amazing ideas that have occurred to you over the years while you were on the
john. In the States, pooping is a moment to reflect, and the toilet serves as
the innovation hub of every American household. The only thought that comes to
mind over a squat toilet is the thought of how much more you'd rather be sitting
while doing your business. What was once a half-hour exercise in creative
thinking is now a hit-and-run, as squatting taxes just about every muscle in the
body other than the brain. Mark my words: until sitting-toilets become widely
adopted in China, it can never overtake America on the innovation front.


I don't generally sightsee on days I walk, as making use of my day to cover
ground is a priority, but a massive Buddhist temple snuck up on me one afternoon
a few weeks into crossing China. Its size alone sparked my curiosity, and the
serenity it exuded made it too intriguing to resist. An imposing staircase
linked the temple's distant threshold to the ground before me, and as I ascended
the deserted steps, I felt like Bruce Wayne in the opening scene of Batman
Begins, in which he pilgrimages to a remote ninja temple in the mountains to
seek training. What this movie scene doesn't reveal, however, are the brand new
SUVs parked at the entrance, the free buffet, and sneaker-clad monks texting on
their mobile phones, all of which awaited me at the summit. Any hopes I had of
being greeted with an anachronistic martial arts montage after the climb were
nipped at the bud. The temple was gorgeous, though, and the buffet's spread was
handsome. After leaving a donation, I made my way back down the stairs to resume
trekking. When I later told my father the bit about the monks texting on their
phones, he bellowed, "They're texting Buddha!"


I couldn't find a stick of deodorant in Mainland China to save my life. All I
encountered were sticks of women's antiperspirant and lots of body sprays. No
good ol' Speed Stick or Old Spice.


There is a culture of adventure travel amongst China's youth that was missing in
the previous countries I had traversed. In Thailand, for example, any travellers
riding their bikes up and down the country were foreigners. In China, I
frequently crossed paths with dynamic college students embarked on long-distance
cycling excursions along the coast. I even met a young couple that was walking,
like me! We paused to chat, and they had me sign their adventure banner.


The Chinese government is the most insecure government I've ever come across.
They block just about every website in existence, including Facebook, Twitter,
YouTube, iTunes, Mashable, and Blogspot, among others. Using Google products is
most frustrating. The government will periodically block Google for a couple
minutes at a time every few minutes, which is a pain when you're in the middle
of doing a search or viewing a map. Thankfully, I never had trouble with Gmail.
Certain Wikipedia pages are blocked, too. Incidentally, their article, "List of
websites blocked in the People's Republic of China," is blocked.

Another CouchSurfer, named Gaolin, who put me up in Fuzhou, recounted a story
that reveals to what extent China's national government will go to conceal
truths. Gaolin's father is a municipal civil servant in Fuzhou. Some years ago,
China's president at the time, Jiang Zemin, made a trip out to Fuzhou to climb
Gushan Mountain, a major attraction in the region. Fearing that locals might
approach the president and reveal how grim Fuzhou's economic situation was at
the time, Zemin's staff evacuated inhabitants of the mountain on the day of his
climb and, in their stead, recruited local government employees for the day to
role-play as locals, amongst which was Gaolin's dad. It was just like The Truman
Show, but in real life!

***

Hong Kong was a welcomed break from the Mainland. A fellow Marine, Mike Rice,
and his wife, Ashley, worked at the local US Consulate, and were kind enough to
host me in their downtown pad for the better part of two weeks. This was a
tremendous financial burden lifted from my shoulders, as Hong Kong lodging is
not cheap, and both were great hosts.

The city was a breath of fresh air: uncensored internet, chocolate, coffee,
clean streets, bars that knew how to prepare cocktails, people who spoke
English. Still, I couldn't see myself living there. I'm a pedestrian at heart,
and Hong Kong is the least pedestrian-friendly city I've ever stepped foot in.
It's like walking through an M.C. Escher painting. Sidewalks outright end. This
is not an exaggeration. Literally, you'll be walking along a sidewalk, and it
will end without warning. You'll see where you want to go from where you're
standing, but you'll have no idea how to go about getting there, like Jennifer
Connelly's character in Labyrinth, who can clearly see the Goblin King's castle
in the beginning but has to navigate a maze to reach it. Your only hope is to
retrace your steps in search of some tunnel or underpass or overpass or talking
door knockers that might get you one step closer to your destination. Even in
those rare instances when you can discern a path to your endpoint, there will be
obstacles. You'll have to hurdle sidewalk rails, benches, and landscaping, all
while keeping a watchful eye for police officers all-too-eager to ticket
jaywalkers.

I've never met a breed of city dwellers as obedient to pedestrian protocol as
Hong Kongers. Masses of cutthroat businessmen, veteran financiers, movers and
shakers, kings of the hill, merciless men who clawed their way to the top, tooth
and nail, and who answer to no one, men with booming voices who slap backs, who
eat market share for breakfast and close mergers on their lunch breaks, who
don't get pushed around by anyone and who don't take "no" for an answer; these
men, when confronted by the little red man in the pedestrian traffic light,
become sheep. The fact that there isn't an automobile in sight matters not; they
kneel before this little red man and adhere to his every command. For 70
seconds, their undivided attention, their world, their lives, are his.

Hong Kong's Filipino diaspora is sizeable and ostensibly comprised entirely of
women. Those I came across were either domestic helpers or prostitutes. This
caused me to wonder: obtaining a visa to work as a domestic helper is probably
straight forward enough, but how does one go about obtaining a sex worker visa?

One of the island's most popular attractions is Victoria Peak, or "The Peak" for
short. Towering nearly 2,000 feet above sea level, the summit offers an
impressive cityscape, and the trip came highly recommended by my hosts and other
residents. Completely oblivious to reality, as usual, I envisioned a quaint
mountaintop with a few scattered picnic tables, maybe a winding dirt path or
two. I even went out of my way to pack a sandwich and bottled water beforehand,
just to be safe. My supposition would be rudely shot down. Upon reaching the
top, the trolley pulled in to a ten-story shopping mall, complete with high-end
electronics stores, jewelers, and a Bubba Gump Shrimp Co.! After ten minutes of
escalator hopping, I managed to reach the observation deck, which was gorgeous.
Scattered about the platform are coin operated telescopes, which are great for
getting a closer look at downtown or voyeuring into the living rooms of nearby
households.


Hong Kongers dislike the Mainland Chinese. They consider Mainlanders crass,
pushy, rude, and unrefined. While I can't speak to the former three, I witnessed
acts of implausible crudeness across China. Here are a few sights I beheld in
China that illustrate the Mainlander's sophistication:

People littering like it's their job. There are no reservations or second
thoughts before doing so. Rather, a soiled napkin's rightful place is the
sidewalk or dining room floor.

A customer throwing up at his dinner table. I was dining at an eatery, when a
cacophony of hawking erupted from a nearby table. The owner of these noises was
one gentleman, joined by three others. Though noticeably intoxicated, the men
were sober enough to be holding a conversation. The three joiners carried on,
totally unperturbed by their companion's guttural frenzy, and the hawking man
chimed in between loogies. After some time of this, the man rotated his torso
and proceeded to vomit for a solid five minutes onto the dining room floor, all
while remaining seated at the table. No one seemed to take notice, including his
dinner guests. Afterwards, the vomitter refocused his attention on his guests
and jumped back into the conversation.

A little boy peeing on a complete stranger. Children going pee in public places
is common in China. On one occasion, I witnessed a 5-year-old drop trouser and
begin urinating in the middle of a busy sidewalk so suddenly that his urine
stream actually grazed an innocent bystander. Amazingly, the victim didn't even
break her stride, apparently unaffected by her impromptu golden shower. She
simply turned her head and shot a frustrated glance at the boy's parents, who
were trailing him.

Bands of half-naked taxi drivers. In China, congregations of cabbies will stand
around city streets with their shirts pulled up above their nipples. Far cries
from Abercrombie & Fitch models, these men and their sweaty, tubby tummies were
not the most aesthetic backdrops to my trek.

A man hawking a loogie in a carpeted interior and rubbing it into the carpet
with his shoe. It was disgusting.

A mother forming a toilet seat with her arms in order to house her daughter's
rump while she pooped on the landscaped median of a busy boulevard. She then
wiped her daughter, discarded the toilet paper on the puddle of feces, and
walked away. Dozens of pedestrians walked by this scene as they traversed the
crosswalk, none of them seeming to take notice or react in any way. Toilet-bowl
mom pooping her daughter in the middle of the road, no big deal, just another
day.

Naked homeless men. I came across a nude homeless man on three distinct
occasions, so I can only imagine this to be some kind of trend among the
homeless Chinese. I've seen many homeless men in many different countries
throughout my life, but all were at least minimally clothed. Once again, this
was a very public phenomenon. One man was sitting on the sidewalk, which was
bustling with people, leaning spread-eagle against a tree, enjoying a stalk of
sugar cane, families and children walking by, again not reacting in any way to
this nudist vagabond.

Happy 4th of July, and be grateful you do not live in a country where a hobo's
package is just another part of your daily commute!



[ permalink + comments ]

Good mornin', Vietnam!

April 11, 2012



VTC-14 Hanoi
















I don't generally cry in public, but I did on March 6th. Four days earlier, I
was walking on the side of the road in northeastern Vietnam, making my way
towards the Chinese border, when a gentleman with a severely disfigured face
rode past me on a scooter. I knew from the presentations I give on ICSF's work
that this man suffered from a deformity called Facial Plexiform
Neurofibromatosis, commonly referred to as elephant man syndrome. More
importantly, I knew that this was an affliction Dr. Williams had experience in
correcting. I remembered a taxi ride in Lima, Peru with him back in August
during which he described a notable FPN procedure he had performed on a
Pakistani man.

I slowed to a stop as thoughts bombarded my brain. It just so happened that a
children's hospital less than a hundred miles up the road in the city of Hai
Phong hosts an ICSF medical mission every year, and the 2012 mission was only
two months away. Would Dr. Williams be allowed to operate on an adult at a
children's hospital? Would he have the time to fit this man into the mission's
undoubtedly busy schedule? Would it be appropriate to just walk up to this
gentleman, who had dismounted his scooter at a market across the street, and
bring up his deformity? Would I embarrass him? How would I communicate all of
this to him? Did he even want my help?

I decided to play it cool and cross the street, where the gentleman was browsing
some fish for sale on a market table. I pretended to do the same. As a random
Westerner in a military load-bearing vest browsing a fish market in the middle
of nowhere, I fit right in. After launching the Google Translate app on my
phone, I entered something to the effect of, "I know a doctor who can perform
surgery on your face. Would you be interested in a free surgery?" He was
interested, so I communicated some further details, explaining that the
operation would most likely take place in Hai Phong. We exchanged names (his was
Anh) and numbers, and I told him he would hear from me in a few days with
additional information. Before I left, I made sure to take a headshot so that
Dr. Williams could have an idea of the deformity's severity.

Following our goodbyes, I immediately emailed Dr. Williams a photo of Anh and
asked if he would be able to help him. He replied the following day, assured me
that performing Anh's surgery should not be problem, and asked that I touch base
with his Vietnamese counterpart at the hospital, Dr. Tram, to work out details.
He explained that she spoke very little English, so just to be safe, I logged
onto couchsurfing.org and messaged a handful of English-speaking locals in Hai
Phong to ask if any of them would be able to accompany me to the hospital and
help me impart this recent development to her. A couchsurfer named Phan Giang
promptly replied and volunteered to help me out. Things were shaping up!

I briefed Phan over the phone, and when I got into town she called Dr. Tram to
set up a meeting the following day. Sure enough, the doctor's English was very
broken when we finally met at the hospital in the morning, and I was relieved to
have Phan by my side to translate my English, as well as Dr. Tram's Vietnamese.
I explained everything: why I was in Vietnam, how I knew Dr. Williams, what had
brought me to her hospital, and I asked if she wouldn't mind calling Anh. I gave
her my phone and waited nervously. What if he didn't pick up? What if he hadn't
taken me seriously? What if he thought I was some sort of mean-spirited
prankster and ignored the call? My stomach churned as the number dialed.
Finally, Anh picked up and the doctor greeted him. They began chatting away.
Phan quietly translated as their conversation unfolded. He remembered me, of
course, and after cordialities Dr. Tram began relaying details to him: when and
where the mission would take place, time commitments, whether or not he needed a
ride, and as I listened on, the emotions that had been planted four days earlier
came to a head and burst at the seams. My eyes watered and tears began
uncontrollably tricking down the sides of my face.


On Vietnam:

I should preface the rest of the blog by writing that any observations I make
about "Vietnam" or "the Vietnamese" refer to the thin strip I walked through
mostly-rural northern Vietnam.

Vietnam has the best 3G data coverage of any country I've visited along this
trek so far. Even in the middle of nowhere, my phone somehow managed to access a
3G network.

The Vietnamese government blocks Facebook, but they do so inconsistently. On any
public computers or Wi-Fi hotspots, I was unable to get on the social network,
and yet two of the three major mobile network operators allow subscribers to log
on. One does not. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the countrywide
Facebook block.

Coconuts in Vietnam have no meat. It's the strangest thing. Crack one open, and
you'll be confronted with a hard shell and lots of coconut water, but nothing to
eat!

The plastic chairs and tables that restaurants use in Vietnam are minuscule.
I've skimmed the history books, but the Great Raid of Preschool Cafeterias
appears to have gone undocumented.

I have never encountered a country with as many wedding stores as Vietnam. They
are everywhere. Nuptials must be a national pastime.

Three-wheeled motorbikes were common before Vietnam. The Thais and Laos would
weld bed extensions into their motorcycle frames to forge pickup truck scooters.
The Vietnamese have not taken to this practice, nor do they haul their load by
hitching a trailer to their bikes. Instead, they prefer to balance outlandish
volumes of cargo on two wheels, and the loads are often too heavy and unstable.
I once witnessed a woman halted in the middle of the road because her enormous
bag of rice had become lopsided and caused her to tip over!

Over a hundred miles of my trek up Vietnam were on a road called Highway 1. This
was by far the most hectic stretch of road to date. Just imagine the traffic of
a busy six-lane divided highway in the States. Now take away four lanes, the
median, and the shoulders. Now throw in hundreds of schoolchildren precariously
riding two to a bike. Now throw in the overburdened scooters I mention above and
pedestrians balancing fifty pounds of goods on a bamboo stalk across their
shoulders. Add a thick misty fog, ubiquitous mud, interminable potholes,
construction barricades, heavy equipment spilling onto the road, and a coat of
gunky dust on everything within ten feet of the road. Now run a railroad
parallel to the highway which is inhabited by railway workers when there isn't a
train. Imagine that the two lanes of Highway 1 are only notional, and that the
traffic is often three lanes deep. All three lanes may have one-way traffic one
minute, and the next minute, have one-way traffic in the opposite direction.
Finally, pretend a semi-truck horn is being honked five feet away from your
eardrum every few minutes.

I had my share of preconceived notions before coming to 'Nam, mostly derived
from war movies: conical hats, rice paddies, and hot humid weather. It is true
that the stereotypical hats are worn my most in the countryside, and that the
countryside is composed almost entirely of rice paddies, but what the war movies
don't tell you is that it gets COLD in Vietnam! I actually had to spring for a
fleece, and even with a fleece and my warm-weather sleeping bag, it was too cold
to camp. Luckily, guesthouses, or "Nha Nghi", averaged no more than $10/night.

Pale lager is the only kind of beer I enjoy, and in Vietnam, I discovered the
best pale lager I have ever encountered anywhere in the world in my entire life:
Bia Hoi, or "fresh beer". Sold on street corners across the country, this stuff
is distributed to vendors daily and directly from the brewery. It is hands-down
the freshest beer I have ever tasted, and the price is almost negligible.
Vendors purchase 5-gallon kegs for the equivalent of $7! In NYC, it's not
uncommon for a PINT to cost $7...

According to Wikipedia, most Vietnamese are Buddhist, but I did not catch sight
of a single temple or monk while I was in Vietnam. In Thailand, also a Buddhist
country, temples and monks were everywhere. In Laos, also a communist country,
temples were also common. In Vietnam, I mostly encountered extravagant churches
from the colonial days.

Buildings are very tall and narrow. This makes sense in the larger cities, but
it is very odd to see a ten-foot-wide four-story structure flanked by two rice
paddies. I'm not sure which urban planning policy failure has led to these
monoliths, but their effect is claustrophobic.

Motorbike taxis are everywhere. It is impossible to walk fifteen feet in Vietnam
without being accosted by a motor cabbie. I crunched some numbers, and my rough
calculations reveal that, somehow, seven out of every three Vietnamese men are
employed as motorbike taxi drivers. They are unavoidable. I once got up to pee
in the middle of the night and a cabbie in my bathroom with his motorbike asked
me if I needed a ride. I once dropped my spoon while eating dinner and upon
picking it up, I discovered a cabbie with his motorbike underneath the dining
table: "Taxi?"

I am not a fan of Vietnamese coffee. A dysfunctional marriage between a failed
French press and a broken coffee seep, the brewing contraption is a terrific
flop in human ingenuity. A nine-year-old chimpanzee with a learning disability
could not invent a less efficient apparatus. Grounds are placed inside a metal
filter that is affixed atop each individual cup, an ounce or so of hot water is
poured in, and the brewed coffee drips into the cup... one... drop... at... a...
time. Not only does it take twenty minutes to brew an ounce of coffee, but the
beverage is stone cold by the time it has seeped through the filter.

To make matters worse, coffee is not generally offered in eateries and food is
not generally offered at cafes. So instead of being able to allow the coffee to
brew at the table while I ate breakfast, I would have to eat breakfast at one
place and relocate to a cafe afterwards only to stare for twenty minutes at my
cup as the coffee brewed one... drop... at... a... time...


On the Vietnamese:

The Vietnamese use brooms with very short handles. Sweeping actually requires
them to bend over. It would be very easy to extend the handle with a stalk of
bamboo or something, but they choose not to. My only theory as to why this may
be is as follows: many Vietnamese harvest rice, which requires them to spend
hours on end bent over. Perhaps that habituation has caused them to take solace
in being bent over, and they strive to carry out as many daily chores as
possible in a bent over state.

The Vietnamese eat dogs. People had told me this before I entered the country,
but the tone was always half-joking and I never quite believed them. People have
told me lots of things about the countries I'm passing through, and most don't
come true, so I tend to take such remarks with a grain of salt. Dog food was
turning out to be another example of this until my last week in the country. I
was walking out of a small town I had found a guesthouse in the night before,
and I came across a man unabashedly dressing two dogs on the sidewalk. Part of
me wanted to take a picture, but the other part of me didn't have the heart.

Speaking of odd foods, a lady sat down across the dining table from me with some
hardboiled eggs one day when I was taking a break. She cracked one open, but
instead of producing solidified egg white and a yoke, a dead duck fetus fell
into her bowl. She proceeded to eat the unborn duck with great gusto. It was the
most disgusting sight I had ever beheld in my life. No, I did not try it (sorry,
Anthony Bourdain).

Like most other Southeast Asians I have encountered so far, the Vietnamese
appear to be farsighted. When I pass off my phone to strangers to relay a Google
translation, they always hold the phone as physically far form their faces as
possible.

According to the Vietnamese, every smartphone is an iPhone. In fact, I'm almost
certain "iPhone" is Vietnamese for "smartphone". I carry a Samsung that looks
nothing like an iPhone, but whenever I pull it out, iPhone buzz abounds.

Vietnam is one big pajama party. It is common for Vietnamese women of all ages
to walk out in the streets and through markets, day and night, in their pajamas.
It's pretty cool.

Vietnamese women are very thin. They should give whatever they eat to American
women.

I encountered a rip-off culture in Vietnam that I hadn't encountered anywhere
else on this trek so far. The subtext of an enthusiastic "hello!" from a Thai or
Malaysian was "I am genuinely intrigued to catch sight of a Westerner in these
parts, and I would like to invite you into my home." In Vietnam, "hello!"
usually meant, "You are white, therefor I am going to aggressively sell you a
good or service and intentionally overcharge you in the process."

I seldom observed women smoking in Vietnam, but the men are chimneystacks.

The Vietnamese mindset struck me as more reactive than proactive. Their approach
to house painting is an illustrative example of this. Instead of taking the time
to lay plastic sheeting before painting to protect the floor and furniture, they
get paint everywhere and try to clean it up afterward.

I noticed a reluctance to part-out food in Vietnam. For example, whenever I
encountered a bundle of bananas at a roadside market stall, the vendor would not
allow me to detach two or three bananas from the bunch and buy them
individually. I either had to buy the whole bunch or none at all. This was
particularly obnoxious at restaurants. On one occasion, I had been served a bowl
of noodles, but there was no protein, so after finishing the noodles I ordered
some chicken. Noodles are fairly filling, so I expected the kitchen to have the
good sense to send out a breast or thigh. Instead, they brought me a whole
roasted chicken big enough to feed four people. On another occasion, I was lucky
enough to stumble upon a restaurant with pictures of the food on the menu. I
pointed to a photo that clearly showed a chicken thigh and fries on a plate. Out
came the plate of fries, followed by - you guessed it - an entire roasted
chicken.

The peace hand sign is popular here, and I was often greeted with it. It turns
out that in Vietnam, though, the sign does not stand for peace, but rather for
victory.

It's quite common in Southeast Asia to catch two people on a bicycle. However,
in Vietnam the person sitting on the rear wheel will chip in on the pedaling.
Seeing a bicycle propelled by two pairs of legs simultaneously always made for a
good laugh!

The Vietnamese are bus pukers. Motion sickness is quite common across the
country, and I've never seen anyone puke as nonchalantly as the Vietnamese. They
bring a plastic bag with them on the bus and periodically vomit in it without
any noise or fuss throughout the ride.

Dental hygiene in Vietnam is paltry. I'm not sure how routinely the Vietnamese
brush their teeth, but their grills are wrecked. On the flip side, they take
very good care of their scooters. It is impossible to walk a mile without
spotting someone hosing down their motorbike.

Honking is a way of life for the Vietnamese. They even have customized honks
that make funny noises or cause their honks to fade out in an echo. In any other
part of the world I have visited, the onus is on the pedestrian to look into
oncoming traffic before crossing, or on the driver to check his mirrors before
changing lanes. Not in Vietnam. There, the driver honks to notify another
vehicle that he is passing or to notify a pedestrian that he is coming. In fact,
drivers honk so frequently that their thumbs remain on the horn while they
drive.


On Hanoi:

Traffic congestion in Hanoi is unlike anything I have ever experienced. For the
first time in my life, I actually witnessed a scooter traffic jam. In Bangkok
and other capitals along the way, scooters and mopeds had always been
gridlock-proof, able to snake through halted car traffic. But so congested is
the traffic in Hanoi, and so multitudinous are the scooters, that all-scooter
traffic jams manifest themselves at rush hour.

When the innumerable scooters aren't on the street, they are parked
perpendicularly in unending rows along the narrow sidewalks. This makes using
sidewalks feel more like trailblazing.

I spent two weeks in Hanoi, and it didn't take long to become imbedded into the
expat community. Of the many Western establishments in the capital, most cater
to tourists, so expats in the area gravitate towards the handful of places that
are either unappealing or too expensive for most locals but not on the radar of
most tourists. As a result, the Hanoian expat enjoys ZERO anonymity. It is
outright impossible to have lunch somewhere or grab a drink with a friend
without running into someone you know.

With as great a boon as US Embassy Laos was to the trek's awareness-raising
efforts, I made sure to reach out to US Embassy Vietnam in Hanoi. Thanks to
their stellar Public Affairs Office, I got the opportunity to present at their
American Center, a "free information center providing specialized, accurate and
authoritative information and programming on the United States for the
Vietnamese public." The experience was fulfilling, as it was my first chance on
this trip to present to an audience of locals, as opposed to the mostly-expat
Rotary audiences I had encountered up to that point. Over a hundred college
students showed up for the talk, and they asked lots of questions. I felt like a
rock star when a dozen or so students rushed up to me after the presentation to
take photos!

I also got the chance to meet up with some fellow Marines, who were on embassy
duty. I could not have been more impressed by the current crop of Marines
protecting our country's classified information. They invited me to a going-away
party for one of the Marine Security Guards at their house, and in attendance
was a class of Fulbright Scholars the Marines had befriended in the area. Yes,
you read that correctly. A group of enlisted United States Marines had invited a
dozen or so Fulbright Scholars to hang out with them for the evening. Instead of
banter about sex, drinking, fast cars, and guns, I found myself having
conversations with the Guards about civilian career paths they were considering,
universities they were applying to, and how their experience on embassy duty
would make them valuable assets in their Marine units back home. I was
absolutely blown away.

The best part about Hanoi was the perks! My friend, Amanda, who had been
travelling alongside me since Vientiane, found a contact email for the Hanoi's
American Chamber of Commerce online, so I sent out some feelers. Two days later,
Adam Sitkoff, the Chamber's Executive Director, replied enthusiastically and
invited me to present at their weekly luncheon. I soon learned that Adam was
quite the well-connected expat, and he absolutely spoiled me while I was in
town. He arranged a dinner for me and Amanda with the owner of Don's Bistro, as
well as an overnight cruise on Ha Long Bay, all complimentary! He also took me
out to lunch with some fellow AmChamers and got ahold of the Associated Press,
who took footage of me trekking. As if that weren't enough, he scheduled a
presentation at the Concordia International School, where I got to speak to an
audience of eager middle-schoolers. In short, I'm not sure were I would've been
without Adam!

I got to meet my first Southeast Asian baby with a cleft in Hanoi! The Embassy's
Public Affairs section was able to get me an interview with a local TV station.
The reporter, Vo Thi Thu, had the idea to introduce me to a Vietnamese surgeon,
Dr. Ai, who had founded a cleft charity of his own, osca.org.vn. After
interviewing me and getting some shots of me walking, she took me to the
organization's headquarters, where I got to meet Dr. Ai along with some of the
babies awaiting surgery. It was awesome.

****

Due to a stomach bug I had caught my first night in Vietnam that put me out of
commission for five days, and a longer-than-anticipated stay in Hanoi, I ended
up overstaying my visa by nearly ten days. I was equipped with explanations and
cash when I got to the Chinese border in Mong Cai, anticipating some sort of
reprimand or fine. Much to my delight, the Vietnamese border guards either did
not notice or did not care about my visa expiry, as they waved me through
without a peep. When I entered the duty-free shop sandwiched between Vietnam and
China, I hit the Kit Kat mother load. I'm glad I did, too, as these would be the
last Kit Kat bars I would encounter until Hong Kong...



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Chillpads and saddlebags

February 27, 2012

Leaving Vientiane and taking US Ambassador Karen B. Stewart and Deputy Chief of
Mission Angela Dickey with me!

Hello communism! As I write this, it is occurring to me that the income per
capita has dropped steadily with each subsequent country I've entered. Singapore
($60,000), Malaysia ($15,000), Thailand ($9,000), and Laos ($2,500).

*****

People sometimes ask me how I find the strength to keep walking when the going
gets tough. The answer: I pop in some headphones and crank up the John Williams.
There's nothing quite like the soundtracks of history's most celebrated
blockbusters to transform the often-dull task of walking into a forward march of
epic consequence. The theme song from The Patriot turns polite waves from
roadside shopkeepers into flagellations of praise. When Star Wars' Darth Vader
theme plays, a pedestrian is no longer bending over to pick up a piece of trash,
but bowing down to me as I pass by. A passerby's casual nod against the backdrop
of Schindler's List's melancholic violins becomes a somber nod of discreet
gratitude. And of course, the Indiana Jones melody turns the Rotary Club
lecturer, Winston Fiore, into the tropical explorer, Smile Trekker!

*****

Some Thailand observations:

Thai people are some of the vainest people I've encountered! Countless times, I
have walked into businesses only to find the clerk behind the counter or
attendant behind the desk buried behind a pocket mirror plucking her eyebrows,
reapplying lipstick, or powdering her face. It's not uncommon to catch pairs of
women pulling each other's gray hairs out one at a time in public places. And my
friend, Kim, who teaches English in Bangkok, couldn't get one of her Thai
friends to go out with us one night because his face was sunburnt! I'm trying to
imagine how this same scenario would go over with my friends back home. Friend:
"Hey dude, we're all meeting up at the bar around 9, see you then?" Me: "Aww
man, I'm not gonna make it out tonight." Friend: "What's up? Fallin' behind on
sleep? Catching up on work?" Me: "No, nothing like that. My face is sunburnt."
Friend: (.....)

Left means right. Ask someone for directions, and more often than not, they will
say "left" as they signal with their arms to the right. I have no idea why this
is, but it has happened way too many times for me to consider it coincidence.

The vast majority of Thai girls wear their hair in a bowl cut. At first, I
thought this was by choice, but I later learned that all girls between the ages
of 6 and 15 who attend public schools must sport this coif by law.

Thais don't wear sunglasses. Nor do they sell them. Not sure which came first,
but they could certainly use them! Around sunset, when scooter-borne Thais zoom
past me toward the sun, every last one of them uses their hand as a visor to
protect their eyes, which is one less hand on the handle bars!

Chillpads (see photo below). These things are everywhere. I couldn't tell you
the technical name for this household staple, but I call it a chillpad. It is
the most versatile piece of furniture ever invented. To date, I've seen it used
as a bed, diaper-changing station, dining table, dishwasher, living room,
food-prep area, and front porch, but most of the time it's just used as a place
to chill!

The practice of Islam in Thailand seemed concentrated in two areas along my
route. The first was in the south, and as far as I can remember, the line
between Muslims and Buddhists was rather thin. I woke up one morning and women
were no longer veiled. There was also a small Muslim neighborhood on the
northern outskirts of Bangkok. I don't remember seeing any Muslims north of
Bangkok. Regarding northern Bangkok, the aftermath of the flood was unsettling.
A water damage line three feet above ground marked every vertical surface in
sight.

Thailand is a tourist destination for all kinds of people, but my favorite
demographic are middle-aged white men riding their bicycles cross-country. I had
always heard of this phenomenon, and in conceiving Smile Trek, I made sure to
elect travelling on foot so as not to be too closely associated with these men.
Why? Their saddlebags. Here's my take on saddlebags:

Saddlebags on a horse = supercool, every time
Saddlebags on a motorcycle = pretty cool, as long as they're leather
Saddlebags on a bicycle = not cool, under any circumstances

*****

An episode that took place over and over again in rural northern Thailand:

Shopkeeper: "Hello! What your name?"
Me: "Winston."
Shopkeeper: "Where you come from?"
Me: "America."
Shopkeeper: "Where you go?"
Me: "Laos."

At this point, the shopkeeper invariably pulls out a cellphone and calls
someone. A minute or so into the conversation, the Thai passes me the phone to
talk to whoever's on the other line, presumably someone who speaks better
English to act as a translator. "Hello?" I enquire curiously. The voice replies,
"Hello! What your name? Where you come from? Where you go?"

*****

It's funny to think of the soccer moms I've met back in the States over the
years, who often say things along the lines of, "You don't understand; I have
three kids. I NEED an SUV!" In this part of the world, it's not uncommon to see
families of five on a scooter... with groceries! Pickup trucks are a similar
story. How many people do we all know back home who have pickup trucks that they
don't ever use to pick things up with? In this part of the world, if you've got
a pickup, you're using it at full capacity every trip. In fact, most Thais with
pickup trucks install vertical bed extensions so that they can haul even more
gear than the vehicle was designed for.

*****

I stepped on a snake in northern Thailand. I was walking at night and noticed
what I thought was a bamboo stalk on the road shoulder (this is quite common).
The object was similar in width, straight in structure, and completely
motionless. I ended up stepping on it, and it quickly sprung out from under me.
It was the most terrifying part of the trek so far. What made it terrifying
wasn't the fact that I stepped on a snake, but the fact that I stepped on a
snake that I thought was a stalk of bamboo. Having one's perceived reality so
abruptly betrayed by one's physical reality is absolutely petrifying. Can you
imagine sitting on a fur couch that ends up being a live grizzly? Or stepping
out onto a field of grass that is actually a pond covered in duckweed? This
experience instilled in me a deep respect for Jumanji players.

*****

I saw a Buddhist monk smoking a cigarette the other day, which was odd because I
don't usually think of Buddhist monks as smokers. If I were a tobacco lobbyist,
I would exploit this image for all its worth. I thought of other monks out there
who don't cross my mind. Are there Buddhist monks in prison? If so, what do
these incarcerated monks look like? Hulking muscles and Nirvana tattoos clad in
an orange toga and flip-flops would seem contradictory, but who knows...

*****

Entering Laos from northern Thailand was quite the snafu. I navigate with Google
walking directions, which had been reliable to a T up to that point. How Google
went from infallible accuracy to epic failure in one fell swoop is beyond me,
but that's exactly what happened. Somehow Google Maps displayed, not one, but
FIVE imaginary bridges linking Vientiane to Thailand! One of these was
incorporated in their walking directions from Bangkok to Laos's capital, so when
I got to the river dividing the two countries and could not find the bridge that
was supposed to lead me across, I went through all five stages of grief before
finally hitchhiking to the nearest real bridge (20 miles in the opposite
direction).

It's funny because a half-hour before this discovery, two women in a pickup
truck pulled over to ask me where I was headed. "Laos!" I exclaimed. "You're
going the wrong way," they insisted. "No," I assured them, "there's a bridge
right up ahead." After some time trying to convince me of the opposite, they
finally drove off in disbelief. "Wow," I thought to myself in amazement, "it's
incredible that natives of this very area aren't even aware of the transnational
bridges in their own backyard!"

To be fair, this has been Google's only slipup so far. The other 99% of the
time, I am consistently dumbfounded at their map data's detail. There were
instances in northern Thailand when Google routed me through winding dirt roads
that were barely wide enough for me to brave, let alone a four-wheeled vehicle.
Roads so unsuspecting that I sometimes missed my turn!

*****

My first memory in Laos? Attempting to buckle up in the front seat of a taxi
only to have the cabbie interrupt me. "No need," he assure me. I had never had a
driver discourage me from wearing my seatbelt before. I ended up buckling up,
but the experience was disconcerting.

Other observations:

Boring gas stations. Perhaps due to their capitalist nature, Thailand and
Malaysia were gas station paradises. Like little oases over the course of my
day, the stations boasted convenience stores, restaurants, smoothie stands, air
conditioning, carwashes, spacious bathrooms, and coffee shops. Gas stations in
Laos are unimaginative fuel depots.

No 7/11s. These convenience stores run rampant throughout Singapore, Malaysia,
and Thailand and were Smile Trek mainstays prior to Laos. Normally, this would
not be an issue, but 7/11s were my primary source of Kit Kat bars. My Kit Kat
bar withdrawal since crossing the border has not been pretty.

No road-kill. Thailand must have been the dead dog capital of the world, and I
grew accustomed to these maggot-infested furries keeping me company throughout
the day. It's gotten a lot lonelier since leaving the Kingdom. Regarding live
dogs in Laos, there were much fewer, but those I did encounter were much better
behaved than their Thai counterparts. They rarely even barked, let alone bit.
Not surprisingly, Laos' attitude towards their pets contrasted starkly with the
Thais'. When dogs displayed aggression towards me in Thailand, their owners
would laugh it off. On these infrequent occasions in Laos, the owners would
throw rocks at them!

No fast food. I'm not generally one to complain about this, but fried rice and
noodle soup at every meal can wear on a Westerner, and I welcomed the occasional
pit stop at a KFC throughout Malaysia and Thailand.

Crappy junk food snacks. This might seem redundant, as junk food snacks are
crappy in nature, but the Laos really take empty calories to the next level of
emptiness. Lao chips make a bag of Doritos feel like a five-course meal. The
chips there disintegrate in your mouth before you can even taste them. Try
imagining what Frito-Lay would have to do to their Cheetos to get a 99-cent bag
to cost 15 cents, other than shrink it, and that's how junk food snacks taste
here.

No Rotary Clubs. Presenting to Rotarians along the way had been a big part of my
fundraising efforts. I haven't made much headway in my fundraising goal since
entering the Communist belt.

No more pictures of the King of Thailand! If I never see another photo of this
man for the rest of my life, that will be just fine with me.

*****

Getting my Vietnamese and Lao visas in Bangkok went smoothly. Getting my Chinese
visa there was a different story. China's embassy in Thailand was a zoo. There
were people everywhere, numbers being called, impatient and unhelpful clerks who
didn't speak English, and the lady I dealt with refused to grant me more than 30
days in country. Upset and disheartened, I opted to leave empty-handed, keeping
my fingers crossed that I'd have better luck at their embassy in Laos.

I'm glad I waited. The Chinese embassy in Vientiane was an absolute gem. A 600
square-foot space furnished by a solitary conference table, the embassy was a
far cry from the Bangkok iteration. The kiosks along the far wall were staffed
by two consular officers who spoke an impressive brand of English and who were
more than happy to answer my questions. After all, I was their only customer.
They ended up issuing me a 60-day double-entry visa so that I could spend some
time in Hong Kong and reenter the mainland afterwards to continue trekking.

There was only one problem: the embassy closed at 11:30am. Of all the embassies
I've had to deal with so far, the visa process has been uniform across the
board: visa applications are processed in the mornings, and visas are available
for pick-up in the afternoons. Apparently, the Chinese do things differently.
When I showed up at noon on Friday to pick up my visa, the gates were bolted.
I'd have to wait until Monday to retrieve my passport... or so I thought. Taped
to the entrance was a piece of paper announcing that the embassy would be closed
the entire following week in observation of Chinese New Year. I would have to
wait TEN days before my passport would be available for pick-up! I ended up
trekking for nine days sans passport and catching a bus back the capital that
following Monday.

*****

December 16th, 2011 marked a very memorable day for Smile Trek. That morning, I
woke up to an email from Michael Pryor, the Deputy Public Affairs Officer at US
Embassy Laos. He somehow stumbled upon smiletrek.org. "Many of us here are
really impressed by your commitment," he wrote, "When you reach Laos, I hope
there is some way we can meet up. Maybe some of us from the embassy can even
walk with you for a while! It might help generate some publicity for your
cause." I couldn't believe what I was reading. "Organizations don't reach out to
me," I thought, "I reach out to organizations!" Over the last year, I have
mailed hundreds of letters, sent countless emails, and made innumerable phone
calls to businesses, media outlets, and service clubs in search of a helping
hand, and here was the US STATE DEPARTMENT reaching out to ME with their support
in a heart-shaped box!

Not only did Michael and his colleagues set up a presentation for me at the
embassy and Vientiane International School, but they organized a mini-walk from
the US Embassy to the National Assembly (about two miles), in which a handful of
State Department personnel joined me on my march out of Vientiane, including
Deputy Chief of Mission Angela Dickey and US Ambassador Karen B. Stewart! I will
be forever grateful to Mr. Pryor and US Embassy Laos for all their help and
support.



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Dog bites man

December 31, 2011
Clips from Malaysia

A stray dog bit me the other day, bloody calf and all. Happy New Year from
Bangkok!

I was a day out from the capital and about a mile away from the motel I would be
staying in that night when my phone rings. It's Christopher, a gentleman from
the Rotary Club I had presented at a few days earlier. As I'm talking to him, I
pass a pack of stray dogs that begin barking hysterically. Nothing new here (I
regularly come across strays), but there has yet to be any bark to their bite.
Chris hears the raucous and asks if I'm under attack. "I'm good, man. It's just
a bunch of-", and then I felt a nip at my right calf...

The mutt retreated as I swung my umbrella at his grill, but it was too late. The
bite had broken my skin, and all bets were off. I stopped at a gas station up
the road, where an attendant poured some disinfectant and iodine on the wound. I
cleaned out the lesion with soap and water once I got to the (really odd) motel
and took a scooter taxi to a nearby emergency room for vaccination.

It may be a coincidence that the one time I get bit by a dog is the one time I
happen to be on my mobile phone, but something tells me the canine sensed my
distracted state and took advantage of it to show off for his buddies.

The remarkable thing about a stray dog bite is how disproportionately minor the
injury is to the inconvenience it poses. Once the bite was cleaned up, it looked
no worse than a scrape, but the nurse poked me with eleven needles: one in both
shoulders, one in each forearm, six in the abrasion itself, and a mother-load
injection in my left butt cheek. The ordeal put me back $300, and there are four
follow-up vaccinations required over the next few weeks. The kicker is that this
whole process is precautionary. For all I know, the dog doesn't even have
rabies! For the sake of getting my money's worth, my only hope is that in a
couple months a flock of rabid bats attack me en mass so that I can laugh them
back to their cave!

I might have taken the next day off from walking, but I had been invited to a
cocktail party in downtown Bangkok the following night, and the doctor's note
which undoubtedly advised against strenuous physical activity and alcohol was
written in a language I couldn't understand, so I had every excuse to play dumb.
I felt lightheaded through much of the 29-mile day and had a bout of diarrhea
halfway through. Upon resting, I sat awkwardly with most of my weight shifted
onto my right butt cheek. After some time, my conscience actually made an
appearance: "Whoa there good buddy," he chimed, "You just got bit by a dog, were
given eleven injections, have diarrhea, are feeling light-headed, and will have
walked 29 miles by the day's end. Are you sure you should be heading to a
cocktail party?" Silly cricket. The prospect of finishing my first 1000-mile leg
of the trek at a Bangkoktail party was too grandiose to resist. Besides, what
kind of drama major would I be if I let my health get in the way of theatrics?


One consequence of traveling foreign lands that never gets old is the phenomena
you encounter that would be outright inconceivable in your home country. As I
neared the Thai border over a month ago, I made a pit stop in Kangar, a
Malaysian border city, in hopes of redeeming my ringgit for baht (currency). I
dropped by a handful of banks that dealt currencies from all over the world, but
none sold baht. What a mystery! How on earth was it possible for a bank that
exchanged currency not to sell the currency of a country ten miles away? Could
you imagine a San Diego bank with a currency exchange component not selling
Mexican pesos? It would be unthinkable!

A similar episode ensued when I got to the border. Both sides of the border are
rife with open-air market stalls that sell everything from food to souvenirs to
umbrellas. After crossing over to the Thai side, it occurred to me that I should
find a plug adapter so that I might continue charging my phone over the next few
months. The electronics stalls sold every gadget imaginable: watches, radios,
cables, but apparently it hadn't occurred to any of the merchants, whose
consumer base are people traveling between countries of different prong
standards, to sell the respective adaptor! Unbelievably, it took me crossing
back into Malaysia to finally come by a shop that sold the adapter.

An even stranger instance occurred in Thailand when I came across a coffee shop
along the highway. I was craving a latte, but this was a highway coffee shop, so
I didn't expect lattes any more than I would expect duck a l'orange at a Waffle
House. As I drew nearer, however, I caught sight of two industrial-grade
espresso machines behind the counter, and a latte seemed on the horizon after
all. I ordered. Keeping a watchful eye on the baristas, I became weary when they
began fumbling through cans of condensed bleached corn syrup. "No no," I
protested, "real milk." They stared blankly. After some time of expressing more
and more emphatically a desire for milk, eventually mooing to drive my point
home, the girls' confusion only grew and they finally waved in their boss, who
spoke a little English. He confirmed what I was beginning to suspect: the coffee
shop did not carry cow's milk. I was in utter (udder?) disbelief. In Thailand,
milk is not some rare delicacy that is hard to come by, as it was in Malaysia.
The fridges of any given Thai gas station are stocked to the gills with milk, so
how could such a sleek cafe overlook stocking their own fridges? Moreover, how
is it even possible for an establishment to be sophisticated enough to boast
espresso machines, yet clueless enough to omit milk? I have pondered this
question for some time, and the only answer I've come up with is that the
business was in fact a drug front. Then again, there's always the possibility
that they did have milk but just didn't want to give me any. I imagine a scene
playing out soon after my departure, the baristas turning to each other and
letting out a sigh of relief, "Whew, that was a close one... MILK FIGHT!!" They
begin hosing each other with milk-filled Super Soakers. Their boss bursts in,
laughing hysterically as he chucks grenades of bottled milk at the walls. The
fire sprinkler system is triggered, unleashing gallons of milk from the ceiling.

As I've learned, some of these conundrums have a cultural raison d'etre.
Restaurants in touristy towns often offer bilingual menus, but the English
translations are always riddled with spelling and grammar errors. I dined in one
restaurant where this blunder seemed particularly inexcusable. The place was
relatively new and was called, "Like" with a single thumbs-up as its logo,
clearly a reference to Facebook, which begged the question: how could an
entrepreneur be savvy enough to theme his restaurant around social networking
but not manage to have his menu spell-checked? I thought back on my semesters of
Spanish in college. After writing a paper, I would bring it with me to the
Mexican restaurant down the street, eat lunch, ask my waitress if she wouldn't
mind proofreading it, and leave a generous tip. How had it not occurred to the
owner of this Thai restaurant to approach one of his many English-speaking
tourist patrons in a similar spirit? I posed this question to a friend of mine
who has been living in Thailand for the better part of a year and her answer was
fascinating. Apparently, the cultural norm here precludes this impulse. In
Thailand, she explained, saving face is paramount. The worst thing one can do is
appear incompetent in the eyes of others. "You can ask someone for directions,"
she went on, "and you'll get directions, but they won't necessarily have
anything to do with where you're trying to go." In other words, it's better to
make something up and give the impression that you know what you're talking
about than to draw a blank and look stupid. Sounds like the Marine Corps!


English is much less widely spoken in Thailand than it was in Malaysia. Indeed,
when it comes to communicating here, I often feel more out of place than the
slap bass in Brandy's "The Boy is Mine". "But how will you survive if you don't
speak the language?" concerned Rotarians would ask me before I left for
Southeast Asia, as if my survival depended on explaining the transcendentalist
movement to locals. "Sign language," I would answer, and having passed a
weeklong summer intensive at Marcel Marceau's School of Mime back in high
school, I felt up to the task.

But even sign language has its breakdowns. Come mealtime, gesturing an imaginary
eating utensil to my mouth successively usually works in relaying that I'd like
something to eat. On one occasion, however, the motion prompted my attendant to
ask, "Coffee??" Giving her benefit of doubt, I quickly scanned the immediate
area for patrons spooning coffee into their mouths, but there were none. At this
point, I transitioned to gesture #2, which entails holding my stomach with an
air of desperation and letting out a pained grunt. This worked and I was led to
a table.

Sometimes sign language leads me nowhere. A few weeks ago, I was eating lunch at
a diner, when a woman at an adjacent table eyed me and began spinning her arms
at me as if she was peddling a bicycle with her hands. I took this to mean, "Are
you on a bike?" I responded with my signature move of pretending my index and
middle fingers are legs and walking my hand across the air, "Nope, I'm walking."
Again, she came back with the same gesture but more pronounced, as if to say,
"That's impossible. Surely, you're on a bicycle." I answered again with the
walking hand, but she wouldn't give up and responded even more forcefully with
the same motion, adding a groan for emphasis, which I took to mean, "Listen pal,
do you take me for a prude? Your act might work on the other Thais you've
encountered along the way, but I can see right through it. Now where's the
bike?" I was at a loss. I turned my attention back to my plate and resumed
eating.

Body language isn't as universal as one might think. I remember eating at an
Indian restaurant back in Singapore with my friend, Amanda. I was asking our
waiter some questions about the menu, and he kept responding by wobbling his
head from left to right. In any part of the world I had travelled to up to that
point, this motion had an ambiguous connotation, along the lines of "I'm not
sure" or "I don't know about that." Luckily, Amanda, who had travelled to India
before, stopped me before I lost my temper. She explained that in India, the
head wobble was their head shake, their "no". Thailand has a hand signal that is
no less misleading. As far as I knew, the hand motion to draw someone nearer was
universal, consisting of positioning the palm so that it faces the sky and
repeatedly bending the wrist so that the hand springs up towards the body. In
Thailand, the motion is the exact same but upside down, so that it looks like
someone's waving at you. It's funny to think of all the times I thought I was
waving back at Thais on the road who were actually asking me to come over and
talk to them!


I'll end by enumerating some of the random differences I've noticed between
rural Malaysia and rural Thailand. In this country,

Water is often served in metal cups
Hot water is served after coffee
Fried rice comes with raw cucumber on the side
There are more pickup trucks
The scooters are chicer
They love their king WAY more

Also, upon entering an office, someone's home, or an eatery, it's not uncommon
for your host to abruptly exclaim, "Sit down!" What they're probably trying to
say is, "please, have a seat," but the Thais' coarser English gives the request
an unintended bite that will put a spring in your step! Also commonplace are old
ladies lying on the floor. This occurrence was alarming at first. Indeed, if I
ever walked into an American household and an old lady was just lying in her
street clothes on the living room floor, I would probably call an ambulance. But
here, grandmas just be chillin' on the floor, and I'm not sure what to make of
it. I can state with certainly that it's not for want of furniture, as they will
often be lying down beside a chair or sofa, so I can only deduce that the tile's
cooling effect drives them to the ground. Lastly, upon passing a Buddhist temple
along the highway, it's customary for drivers to salute the shrine with a honk,
but I like to pretend the drivers are in fact showering my efforts in
congratulatory honks and saluting Smile Trek's progress!



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It's the little things...

November 13, 2011



Are there Chinatowns in China? More on this later.

I've almost crossed over into Thailand, so before I put Malaysia behind me, I
should write a word or two about the food here. Like most of my conversations
with locals, food talk is recurring, and the dialogue goes something like this:

"How do you like Malaysia?"

"I like it."

"What do you think of the food?"

"It's good."

Here comes the infallible third question. "Quite spicy, no?" Malaysians take
stalwart pride in their cuisine's spiciness, and I rarely have the heart to tell
them I've eaten hotter dishes at TGI Friday's, so I play along. "Like napalm," I
tell them. This generally elicits a smug smile and nod of satisfaction. Granted,
I'll have to conceive a less inappropriate answer once I get to Vietnam, in the
event the locals there share this gastronomic sentiment. I certainly wouldn't
reply, "Atomically so," to this same question were I traversing Japan...


Refined sugar fuels the Malaysian. It is a force of habit, a bien-entendu, a
fact of life. Malaysians go so far as to add simple syrup to their coconut
water, and their tea makes Sunny Delight taste like distilled water. "Milk"
refers to a pallid, condensed corn syrup that is added to tea/coffee to make it
even sweeter. I learned long ago to simply preface every beverage order with,
"No sugar please," no matter how ridiculous such a request may seem. I once came
across real cow's milk - a rare find - at an eatery and ordered a glass.
"Surely," I naively thought, "I don't need to specify that I don't want
sweetener added to a glass of milk." The glass arrived with a halfinch mound of
sugar grains caked to the bottom. Sometimes, beverages arrive with added sugar
even after my precautionary request. Most likely, this is due to force of habit,
but I like to picture the shopkeep in the back, wittingly adding sugar by the
spoonful, shaking his head as he chuckles to himself, "Silly American, asking
for no sugar in his coffee. He has obviously lost his way, but I will show him
the light."

Of course, this collective sweet-tooth is not without consequence. As of 2006,
11% of Malaysians between the ages of 25 and 64 suffered from diabetes according
to the WHO, and that percent is believed to be even greater today. Public
service announcements inundate the airwaves, supplicating locals to lay off the
sucrose.

Speaking of PSAs, a tip for anyone planning on visiting Malaysia: there is no
such thing as "ice water" here. Ordering "ice water" will only confuse your
attendant and bring on a line of questioning. Here, ice water is referred to as
"skyjuice". While there is a certain logic to this moniker, don't be fooled into
believing you can make up your own variations. Asking for "cow juice" in an
effort to be served real milk will get you nowhere.

Because I'm determined to cover every mile of this journey on foot, I sometimes
end up walking in "no pedestrian" zones (i.e. the bridge connecting Singapore to
Malaysia). I keep my fingers crossed that I don't get arrested. In the event of
a police confrontation, my grand plan is to play dumb because dumb people don't
go to jail.

Most bathrooms here aren't equipped with toilet paper. Instead, patrons are
presented with a water sprout and short hose. At first, I felt like Demolition
Man and the three seashells, but with practice I've mastered the technique.
Please note, the following section is a bit graphic. The key is to lean
backwards on the toilet seat, thus forming a seal between the back of the seat
and your butt cheeks. From there, turn on the water and place your right thumb
on the end of the hose to create some water pressure. Now, the key is to direct
the water spray horizontally, so that it only grazes the target area. Thanks to
the cheek-to-seat seal, the refuse-water will deflect into the back of the
toilet bowl instead of bouncing off the bathroom walls or running down your
legs.

Miscommunications are a daily occurrence here. Locals often ask me my hometown.
For confusion's sake, I tell them I'm from Chicago, which I esteem to be the
city nearest Bloomington, IN with international name-recognition. Reactions
vary:

"Ah Chicago, on the east coast."

"Nope."

Or the other day:

"Ah, Chicago, California."

"Nope. It's in Illinois."

"Ah, ok. So how you like California?"

There are misunderstandings of all types. Last week, I asked a store clerk, "Can
I use your WiFi?" His eyeballs nearly jumped out of their sockets, "Can you use
my WIFE???"

The rainy season has finally arrived, and with it, Murphy's law. Thick black
clouds may billow across every square inch of sky, but taking preemptive cover
only postpones the downpour. Skyjuice doesn't fall until the instant I decide to
begin walking again. A particularly memorable instance occurred a couple weeks
ago. The sky betokened a thunderstorm, as usual, and a long bridge lay ahead of
me. I decided to press on, fingers crossed that I'd come across shelter on the
other side in case of rain. Naturally, the sky fell the minute I reached the
top, and the landscape before me was roofless as far as the eye could see. I
walked for miles, sandwiched between never-ending oil palm plantations. It was
approaching nightfall, I was drenched, and any promise of dinner seemed long
gone. As I began accepting the fact that I'd be camping on yet another
plantation, which I hate doing because they are teeming with mosquitos, a
nondescript road-sign appeared out of nowhere. On it were the words "Teluk Intan
Golf & Country Club" with an arrow pointing down an intersecting backroad.
Through some twisted sense of humor, the gods, having just made my last two
hours a living misery, were now dangling a carrot. With nothing to lose, I took
the hint.

A secret garden unfolded before me: mowed grass, manmade lakes, a swimming pool,
sports cars. I entered the massive building that stood at the head of the
country club. Not only was the house restaurant open for business, but the owner
bought me dinner, let me use the showers, and allowed me to set up camp in the
lobby! I took advantage of the powerful ceiling fans, and my boots, socks, and
clothes were bone dry by the time I hit the road the following morning. It's a
funny thing when such poor fortune is so quickly reversed by good luck.

Being muslim, the majority of women here are veiled to various extents. Shorts
are not allowed, but many women wear pants with long-sleeved shirts. Others
dress more conservatively, in a colorful flowing cloak, but this attempt at
modesty often backfires. These garbs are constructed of very thin silky fabric,
and while they efface bodily shape in most circumstances, their effect is
reversed on scooters. When these women whiz by me on the road, the wind pushes
their robe so snugly against their bodies that it transforms the outfit into a
full-body spandex suit. It's the little things that get me through the day.



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walkING?!!

October 23, 2011

Land of scooters

After over two weeks on the road, I've finally stepped foot in KL. This first
leg of the trek was not the most expedient, as I should have covered the 200
miles in no more than ten days, but unexpected delays are a staple of traveling
on foot. After seven straight days of walking, I managed to catch a cold. A
cold. In Southeast Asia, the land of sweating oneself to sleep. I think the
episode made me realize just how exhausted my body had become. Blisters, rashes,
sun burns, chafing, shin splints... these are a few of my favorite things. How
else could my immune system have become so feeble? I rested at a cheap hotel on
the outskirts of Melaka for a handful of days. I took a few more days off in
Seremban to allow some interminable blisters to heal. And of course, the moment
my feet are finally callused to the shape of their shoes is the moment my
footwear's tread expires, so I've picked up some new boots here in the city that
will hopefully see me through what's left of Malaysia.

I was having some sharp foot pain in Singapore, so my friend, Amanda, who flew
over from Indonesia for a surprise visit, suggested I visit an acupuncturist. I
had never visited a holistic healer, but I wasn't closed to the idea. After all,
what better place to give it a shot than in Singapore, where the streets are
riddled with such practices? I walked into a clinic within eyeshot of where we
happened to be standing, and the acupuncturist took me in. She had me lie down
and began assessing my arch, prodding it with her fingers. Once she had
identified the pain, I asked her if there was anything she could do. She calmly
replied in her thick Mandarin accent, "Yes, I can do acupuncture."

If you're thinking of visiting the Dali exhibit at Singapore's ArtScience
museum, don't. It is void of all substance. I can only imagine what the final
meeting before the exhibition's first showing must have been like. I picture the
think-tank huddled in a conference room, the Head of Procurement hungover and
passed out, drooling onto some document protectors. "Johnson! Pull yourself
together, man. The show opens in a week, how's the collection coming along?" An
utter failure at life, Johnson reluctantly awakens and takes a stab at answering
his boss's question.

"Well, sir, I got us a couple sculptures..."

"Ok. Dali wasn't particularly known for his sculpture, but go on. What paintings
have you gotten us?"

"Well, sir... I didn't actually get us any paintings..."

"You didn't get us any paintings? This is an exhibit featuring Salvador Dali,
one of the world's most famous painters, exclusively and you didn't get us any
paintings??"

"I got us some sketches, mostly doodles from his last decade of senility."

"Sketches?"

"Well, not the originals, sir! Let's be real. I got us prints."

"Prints?? We're putting together a hommage to one of the greatest painters of
all time, and you got us PRINTS?? Of SKETCHES???"


My second night camping on the road proved interesting. As I was lying in my
tent, I heard some rustling in the trees above me. I looked up and descried a
pack of monkeys monkeying around. My impulse was to snatch my shorts from
outside the tent. I've seen Hangover 2. The last thing I need are my shorts
stolen by mischievous apes. Dirty thieving monkeys.

Malaysia is predominantly Muslim. On one occasion, I had the misfortune of
camping relatively close to a mosque. I was rudely awoken at five in the morning
by some preacher dude fanatically chant-singing at the top of his lungs through
loudspeakers. It was a miserable start to the day.

Early into my first week, I started experiencing some chaffing near my crotchal
area. I poked my head in various convenient stores along the roadside in hopes
of scoring some vaseline. While their inventories lacked petroleum jelly, I did
manage to come across some Vick's Vapor Rub. The gel did little to alleviate my
chaffing, but I've never felt fresher down there!

One day, I was walking along the side of the road, as a smile trekker is wont to
do, when a gentleman pulled over on the opposite side of the street. He offered
me a ride. I declined, as usual. And then he asked me where I was from. When I
told him I was from the States, he yelled out to me in broken English, "Steve
Jobs die yesterday." He held a newspaper up to the passenger window, and I ran
over. There was the computer evangelist staring back at me pensively from the
font page. I couldn't believe it.

I do a lot of thinking while I walk. What is the meaning of life? Why do men
have nipples? Why don't women grow a third nipple after giving birth to
triplets? I mostly think about nipples.

I was breakfasting one morning, and a lady who was with her family struck up a
conversation with me. We talked about the trek, the cause, the charity, and she
ended up not only picking up my tab, but making a small donation as well! This
marked Smile Trek's first Malaysian donation.

Locals often ask me what I'm up to. Apparently a westerner walking up to a
roadside eatery donned in a bulky load-bearing vest in middle-of-nowhere rural
Malaysia carrying crutches is not a common scene around here. So I tell them I'm
walking across Southeast Asia. Without fail, they reply, "walkING?!", with
emphasis on the second syllable, as if their incredulousness doesn't kick in
until half way through the word. "Yes, walkING."

I spent one night in a Muslim graveyard. I hadn't intended to, but every once in
a while, you get caught in an urban area when the sun goes down. In towns, where
prospective campsites are few and far between, cemeteries are a godsend. They're
quiet (dead quiet), secluded, dimly lit, and generally unpopular at night. Plus,
what better way to fall asleep than to be surrounded by people who have been
sleeping for a very long time? I was out of there by sunrise.

Tomorrow morning I head for Penang, which will likely be my next stop.



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V is for Visa

September 28, 2011

Office coffee intern? Consider toting your co-workers' joe in a would-be plastic
bag.

I arrived in Singapore late (very late indeed) Sunday night. Awoke Monday
morning in time to make it to the American Embassy by opening. Getting visa page
inserts went smoothly. Dropped my passport off that morning and it was ready for
pickup by 3pm (charged me an arm and a leg, though).

Tuesday morning was spent at the Royal Thai Embassy. Much to my delight, they
only required a single passport photo. On the other hand, I had to produce a
financial statement showing I had over a grand in my bank account. A cyber cafe
equipped with printer was open for business within a stone's throw, so this was
no biggie. Cost of visa was 50 Singapore dollars.

I returned to the Thai Embassy this afternoon for pickup. While this process
went smoothly, two matters of concern have surfaced along the way.

First, while my tourist visa is good for 60 days, the clerk did warn me that
Thai border men could downgrade my stay to a meager fifteen days at their
discretion upon entering Thailand. This is a troubling prospect, to say the
least. Perhaps a persuasive handshake will help sway them?

Second, my visa has been assigned an "enter-by" date of December 26th. While
this is not problematic in the case of Thailand (I will have crossed the border
well over a month prior), countries further down the literal road do come to
mind. I visited the Lao Embassy this afternoon, and from what I gathered (their
English was regrettable), visas must be used within two months of issuance.

Which has me thinking....

Instead of attempting a visa marathon here in Singapore, maybe I can take my
visas as I take my Tsing Taos: one at a time. I'll get my Lao visa in Bangkok,
my Vietnamese visa in Vientiane, my Chinese visa in Ha Noi, and my Taiwanese
visa in Hong Kong...

This said, I will begin the climb up through peninsular Malaysia within a couple
days.



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Baton Rouge - Tampa

August 11, 2011
Clips from Baton Rouge to Tampa
WWL-TV New Orleans





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Houston

August 2, 2011
Spot on KPRC Houston
Clips of our time in Houston





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San Antonio

August 1, 2011
Clips from San Antonio
WOAI-TV





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Austin

July 23, 2011
Smile Trek spot on KXAN Austin News
Clips from Austin

















We had been looking forward to spending time in Austin since our little road
trip kicked off, as Laurent and I had both heard good things, and the city did
not let us down. Sixth street is a mad house... and we went out on a Tuesday.
Dollar shots, ridiculous DJs, mechanical bulls...

Much love to our host, Tracey, whose CouchSurfing cherry we popped. I can't
imagine what it must be like to have us be your first CS experience. She took
every precaution to ensure a good first impression, including an offering of new
toothbrushes and a French coffee press.

Speaking of press, Austin's local NBC affiliate, KXAN, produced the most
thorough piece on Smile Trek to date. Check it out above. Rotary went well.
Austin Cosmopolitan Rotary was by far the youngest group I've presented at, and
Round Rock Rotary served up some BBQ that melted my mind.



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Dallas

July 21, 2011
Clips from Dallas
Spot on WFAA-TV
















After three days of intensive riding, we finally made it to Dallas the night of
July 14th. Smile Trek got a shout-out on the city's local ABC affiliate, and my
talks at Addison and Coppell Rotary went smoothly.

Our ChouchSurfing host, Sarah, showed us a good time, including a night at a
beach-themed bar that had volleyball courts around back. On Saturday afternoon,
we spent some time out on the lake, where Laurent and I had our first
wake-boarding experience.



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Road to Dallas

July 19, 2011
Clips our trip

We spread the ride to Dallas over three days: Tucson to El Paso, El Paso to
Midland, Midland to Dallas. Long days. Lots of hanging around at gas stations.

An oil company in Midland ended up donating $765 on the spot, completely out of
the blue and unsolicited. In this way, the people of Midland convinced me to
return to their fair city in September on my way to Singapore.



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Tucson

July 14, 2011
Our time in Tucson

We arrived in Tucson the evening of Sunday, July 10th. We were greeted by our
CouchSurfing host, Nicole, who showed us to the most comfortable bed I've ever
slept in.

Laurent is usually not an impulse buyer, but he ended up splurging on a MacBook
Pro.

Nicole is a certified Yoga instructor, so Laurent and I tried Yoga for the first
time. If you've never done Yoga, it's not what you think. It's actually very
sweaty and painful.

No press to speak of, but I got to present at Pantano Rotary. The chocolate
moose was tasty.



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Phoenix

July 12, 2011
Smile Trek on Phoenix's Fox 10
Laurent and I on HW-101

Laurent and I rolled into Phoenix late Wednesday night (July 6th). This was our
first long-distance movement, and by the end of the 400-mile ride our hands felt
like Chinese stress balls. To put it bluntly, the ride was a 6-hour blow dryer
marathon. Everything was going smoothly until Laurent's Ducati started losing
power, so we spent the last 45-minutes inching toward Phoenix on the highway's
shoulder.

Our CouchSurfing host, Paige, was kind enough to wait up for us, and we were
greeted with our own private bedroom and bathroom in an apartment complex that
had its own pool, gym, and movie theater. As far as CouchSurfing experiences go,
this is considered a homerun.

I spoke at two Rotary Clubs, including Sun City - Del Sol Rotary, which wrote
ICSF a $240 check on the spot, enough to sponsor one child's surgery. As far as
media, I got a short spot on Fox 10's morning segment, as well as an interview
with Laurent Burgoyne from AZ-TV's "Destination Arizona". The latter segment
will be airing some time in September.



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Los Angeles

July 9, 2011


Rotary Rotary Rotary. Go Go Go. Laurent and I flew in from Indy on the 3rd. He
embarked his motorcycle helmet as carry-on. For those of you considering doing
the same, be prepared for nods of approval from random middle-aged men passing
you by and exclaiming things such as, "Now THAT's carry on!".

We stayed at a friend's in Silverlake, who brought us to a pool party on the
4th. Hotdogs and burgers? Not at an L.A. pool party. Never have I attended a 4th
of July festivity that so casually boasted a spread of homemade Hummus,
Fattoush, and vegetable root chips.

The following day marked my first exposure to Rotary, which left a favorable
first impression. My inaugural presentation at Paramount Rotary was rewarded
with a $565 on-the-spot donation to ICSF, enough to fund over two surgeries.

Three additional clubs in the L.A. area had me as a presenter, which went
smoothly. On the other hand, media outreach was a disaster. Of the ten media
outlets that had initially indicated an interest in helping get Smile Trek some
exposure, only one came through: Cal State Los Angeles.

Professor of Communications Jon Beaupre was able to fit me in for a radio
interview, which should be broadcast some time in September. He certainly did
his homework prior to our meeting, referencing obscure Youtube videos I had
uploaded years ago throughout the interview, and it was a real treat to be in
the hands of such a pro. That's what she... wait, what? nothing.



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News from Afghanistan

June 11, 2011

I followed up with the medical crew regarding the Afghan toddler's cleft repair.
This is from our battalion surgeon:

"Hi everyone....
Hope all are well, especially brothers and sisters still in Afghanistan....
I heard from Master Chief ****** that apparently the family of the cleft lip
patient has left the area where they used to live. To the best of my knowledge,
the surgery was not---has not--- been done thus far. Thank you all and I trust
that if the opportunity re-presents itself to help this boy, that we can pick up
the option for surgery.
V/R
CDR ******"

TAGS
Afghanistan

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The Giving Tea

May 23, 2011
Smile Trek spokeswoman

Yesterday, a group of thoughtful women collectively donated enough money through
the Smile Trek to sponsor a child's surgery. This phenomenon, coined "The Giving
Tea", is a girls' club of sorts (think Free Masons meets Charlie's Angels) that
congregates once a month in a participant's home to socialize, drink tea, and
discuss/benefit a charity of the host's choosing.

Luckily for children living with clefts, my friend, Amanda, is part of a
SoCal-based chapter, and this month was her turn to host. Out of bias, of
course, she elected ICSF, and the "Tea" ended up contributing $271 to the
foundation. Below is a video taken at the event. Thank you, Tea Nymphs!

TAGS
Fundraiser

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Home Stretch

March 15, 2011



I only have a few days left here on this big base in Afghanistan. The logistics
shop has been keeping busy lately, so time has been flying by. As I look back on
my time here, there actually is some local cleft-related news to report.

Back in January, one of our convoy commanders approached me about one of his
recent patrols. He was out getting to know the elders of a nearby village when a
toddler with a cleft lip was brought to his attention. Knowing that I would take
an interest, the sergeant asked me if there was any way we could get this boy
some help. When I mentioned it to our battalion medical officer, he told me he
might be able to coordinate a surgery at a nearby forward operating base
hospital.

The first step was getting the medical officer out to the village in order to
assess the cleft's severity and to take some pictures for his counterparts at
the hospital. It turns out this boy has both a cleft lip AND palate.
Unfortunately, there is no surgeon at the hospital with experience in cleft
palate repair, but one of the doctors there is being relieved in a couple weeks
by a surgeon who participated in "Doctors without Borders" and who has agreed to
perform the surgery. I have his email address as well as the medical officer's
of the battalion relieving us, so I'll stay in touch with them and keep you guys
posted on any progress!

TAGS
Afghanistan

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106%
$75,000
Goal
$79,230
Raised



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