Luang Prabang

LUANG PRABANG, Laos - Luang Prabang is a quiet colonial town at the confluence of the Mekong and Nam Khan rivers. It was a great place to do very little for a couple days.

Young monks walk to a temple after collecting alms as children beg for food.

Mekong River, Luang Prabang.

Luang Prabang from a hilltop temple.

Death of a bus

Pork buns, breakfast of champions.

Bus with a view.

If we bang on it long enough, it will all magically work out.

Tasty side-of-the-road snacks.

Mountain pattern baldness.

LUANG PRABANG, Laos - If you're in a rush traveling through Laos, chances are your head is about to explode. There's also a good chance your bus engine will follow suit.

I read all the warnings about how slow the road is in Laos, made a point of making no firm plans on no firm date, and boarded a bus last serviced during The Secret War, before it was hit by a cluster bomb. As the flatlands of Ventiane gave way the sparsely populated mountains of the north, we crawled by karst limestone cliffs, verdant jungle, and terraced rice paddies. As we creaked up and around each hairpin curve, I was mesmerized by the view, finding it hard to complain about the slow pace. As I stared dreamily out the window, the boy next to me vomited into a plastic bag.

There are few people in Laos (less than seven million), a country about the same size as neighboring Vietnam, which has a population more than 10 times as big. As we drove through the mountains, the jungle was only occasionally interrupted by a clutch of thatch-roof huts and a vegetable stand here and there. At one point a massive gray snake crossed the road, slithering by in time and disappearing into an unruly tangle of green.

The country does have a bit of a mountain pattern baldness problem, though, with the lush greenery broken up here and there by large patches of brown covered by a blackened, stumpy stubble, the legacy of slash and burn agriculture.

To give us an even better appreciation of the surroundings, something important under the bus melted down about three hours into an 11-hour journey. We pulled over in a tiny village perched high on a mountain and I watched as the attendants raised the bus using a jack that looked about the right size for a Mini and an assortment of oddly-sized pieces of wood. They then very bravely got under the bus to stridently and pointlessly bang away on the undercarriage with a sledgehammer.

I watched chickens and pigs run back and forth noisily, admired the view, and reveled in the fact that I had nowhere to be. The locals pointed and smiled at the only western passenger and we made the most basic small talk in gestures and their very limited English.

An hour later we all pretended the bus was fixed, got back on and headed back into the mountains, bouncing over the cratered road and breaking down again as we hit a junction in a town about 30 minutes away. Fortunately there was a food market, so we all got a snack, many of the Laos chowing down on fertilised duck eggs.

Back on the road again, we made it an astonishing one hour before I heard the ping of metal on concrete and felt a sickening wobble from the back right wheel. We came to an abrupt halt in the middle of nowhere, just after a hairpin curve, but fortunately my legs were already crushed against the seat in front of me, so I avoided smashing my face when the driver slammed on the brakes. One of the attendants went sprinting up the road, returning with a sheepish grin and a piece of the axle in his hand.

Finally, they declared the bus dead and another one came to rescue us, taking us the rest of the way to the sleepy, colonial town of Luang Prabang without further incident.

Bad boy

Sunset on the Mekong, Ventiane.

The Ban Anou night market in Ventiane.

The weirdness of the Buddha Park, about 25 km outside of Ventiane. Created by a religious eccentric, it's a mish-mash of Buddhist and Hindu symbols. When I asked at the local bus station for the bus to the 'Buddha Park' (none of the buses have English signs) the man heard 'Border' instead of 'Buddha' so I ended up at the border from where I had just came the day before. I eventually got on the right bus.

VENTIANE, Laos - We're five hours late by the time the overnight train from Bangkok pulls up to the Lao People's Democratic Republic border. There were many unexplained stops in the middle of rice paddies and at one stage we actually went backwards for 15 minutes.

A border crossing known for hassles and overcharging goes smoothly. An Australian mother and daughter behind me in line are freaking out because they don't have the requisite photo 'required' and I assure them that if they have money, everything is negotiable. Of course they get in, for an extra $1. It's the kind of border crossing that gives me the feeling that you could write 'serial killer' under 'occupation' and still get in for an extra dollar.

One tuk-tuk ride later and I'm in the capital, Ventiane (pronounced wen-chan, but after I thoroughly confuse every Westerner I talk to prounouncing it this way, I drop my pretensions) and in another embassy-visa bind. It's Friday at 3:15 p.m., I have no hotel and the Vietnamese embassy closes at 4 p.m. and doesn't open again until Monday. I do not want to spend four days in the capital, but it's my last chance to get my Vietnam visa, which they don't issue at the border.

Quickly I find a place to stash my stuff, sprint out to find a tuk-tuk and get to the embassy at 3:45 p.m. I wait in line, get to the window with 10 minutes to spare, tell a tired-looking clerk I need a visa and, to my surprise, he asks, 'Same day?'

I look at the non-existent watch on my wrist and back at him in astonishment. 'Today?'

'Yeah, sure.'

I hand over my documents, he goes into a back room, barks out something in harsh Vietnamese, I hear the sweet thud of stamp hitting passport and he comes back in less than five minutes with my visa. Say what you will about communist bureaucracy, I challenge you to find another embassy anywhere that can do that.

After my shocking victory, I treat myself to dinner at a night food market recommended by some fellow travellers. I arrive to a bustling jam of stalls set up nightly in a strip-mall parking lot, with just about anything you could want or be revolted by, including pigs head and chicken beak. Amid the unsavory parts of otherwise delectable animals, though, is some of the most underrated food in Southeast Asia.

For the princely sum of $3, I emerge with heaping plastic bags full of crispy, fatty, duck, lemongrass sausages, spicy ground pork, and rice. I quickly realize I've ordered too much; I eat it all.

Later, while enjoying an evening Beer Lao and perusing my travel guide on a bench outside my hotel, a hooker approaches. 'What you want?' she asks slyly.

'No thanks, just reading my book tonight,' I say, trying to be polite.

She ignores this and sits down next to me.

'What you want?'

'No really, I don't want anything. I just want to read my book.'

She will not take no for answer.

'No, you tell me what you want.'

'Look I'm trying to read my book, so go away. I don't want anything and you're bothering me. Go. Away.'

She gets up, pouting, looks at me disapproving and, wagging her finger at me, says, 'You bad boy. You bad boy,' before shimmying away.

Well, I suppose she got one thing right.

Ping pong with the Burmese embassy

This has nothing to do with the post, except that I think it captures the spirit of Bangkok. It was campaign season when I was there and this party insists that if you don't vote against something, this monkey will kick your ass.

BANGKOK - Bangkok is a city with clean streets, a dirty soul, and a spicy tongue.

Hookers patrol next to ornate ancient temples and well-suited businessmen walk by sex tourists who refuse to wear sleeves, and British gap-year-students-gone-wild shuttle between fast-food joints and ping pong shows, emerging from the latter with no more money for Big Macs.

"Hey you! Where you go?" yell the tuk-tuk divers, ready with a price triple the going rate.*

"Ping pong show? Lady show, ladyboy? Hashish, opium?" the touts leer.

One middle-aged Thai man actually thanked me for the Vietnam War. He thought Thailand would be communist without it. Now that was a first.

But two blocks off the tourist apocalypse that is Khao San Road, with its badly behaved westerners and enabling thriving food markets set up every evening with carts hawking everything from spicy minced pork, to spring rolls, to intestines, to crickets (great crunchy beer snack). It rivals India for food and like India, it's tough to spend more than $3 for a feast.

I'm in Bangkok waiting on my Burma visa and I get in at the perfect time to get stuck - Thursday after the embassy has closed. With a three-business-day wait and the embassy closed for the weekend, it means six days in the city. So I do what comes naturally and start eating my way through the city.

Fortunately I have a good guide, as a chef I had met on the trail in Nepal happens to be in Bangkok and I follow him around for three nights to spots he has meticulously researched and that I never would have found. We eat spicy liver strips, papaya salad, crunchy lemony tripe (the first I've ever enjoyed), fishball soup, ground pork with basil, and plenty of spicy, coconut curries.

Food odyssey over, it is time to head to the embassy. The Burmese clerk is so friendly to me, I think for sure I have been approved. He looks through the passports, holds mine up with a smile.

"Is this you Mr. Druzin?"

"Yes sir."

"OK, please wait here for just a moment."

He comes back, hands me back my $30 and my passport, and still very genial, says, "I'm sorry, sir, we are not able to issue you a visa to Myanmar at this time."

Apparently the military junta has discovered Google. Journalists not welcome.

Since I'm not looking for a lady show, ladyboy, or even ladyfingers, I get the hell out of Bangkok and head north to Laos.

*I think I've mentioned before, but tuk-tuks are basically scooters pulling a wagon with benches for passengers. Their drivers are consistently the least honest people in any Asian country.

The yak and the yeti part IV: notes from the Annapurna Circuit

Dawn at 15,000 feet.

 Blue sheep.

Maybe a third of the way up and not a whole lot going on in my brain at this point.

More pretty pictures of big mountains. Not pictured, me wheezing for air.

I don't know how Connie had the energy for that kind of display, but this is the top. The sign reads "Congratulations for the success."

A prayer flag elevation bump for the Thorong La Pass, plus mysterious prayer jeans. Not sure if that means someone descended pantless.

Lonely descent into the desert.

TREK DIARY DAY 10: Take a pass (Thorong Phedi to Thorong La Pass to Muktinath, 14,982 to 17,872 then all the way down to 12,540)

THORONG PHEDI - Wake up is at 4:30 for this, the longest and hardest of days, and the sky has just shed its black cloak for the first deep blue of morning. It's well below freezing and no one has slept well but we are relieved to see just a dusting of snow on the ground and clear skies.

We drag our feet, grab a snack, find more reasons to delay and finally face the mountain.

After nine days of ceaseless trekking everyone in our loosely affiliated group is in peak shape, but all of that work is beaten down by the altitude. It is hard enough to breath just standing around at 15,000 feet; it feels impossible when heading uphill. Each unsatifsfying breath pierces my throat. It is the day of many breaks.

Our destination is the Thorong La Pass and the route is as stunning as it is unforgiving. A steep, loose rock trail takes us to vistas of fortress-like glaciers and triangular peaks high above us, shimmering in the oxygen-starved air. Just getting my camera out of its bag seems a devastating waste of energy.

Up and up we stumble until we're simply zombie-walking in silence, thinking, 'One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other.' I'm so far inside my own brain at this point that a snow leopard could stage a full frontal assault and I wouldn't notice untl claw met jugular. The fact that this actually crossed my mind at the time tells you how high I was on thin air.

Altitude squeezes your brain, your muscles, your innards. Every internal organ seems to be begging you to turn around. It also squeezes your bowels. There's nowhere to hide this far above treeline so I have to squat over a boulder. Two trekkers look my way from a highpoint across the valley. At this point I simply don't care.

I have to keep reminding myself to look up, appreciate where I am. Fortunately I do and we see a herd of blue sheep, two males butting heads, unfazed by the elevation, which is infuriating. I make a note to order blue sheep on my next trek if I ever see it on the menu.

Suddenly there's the flapping of prayer flags in the distance and the outline of a stone building. We've reached the pass.

There we find an absurdely large tangle of prayer flags hung around a wooden sign congratulating us on our fortitude, one greasy pair of prayer jeans, and numerous plastic water bottles left by people who should be throttled and made to climb the pass naked in mid-January while being chased uphill by rabid yaks.

We take a few minutes to admire our accomplishment and the view, snap a few photos, and then it's time to descend to saner altitudes where humans can breathe.

Down we go through one of the world's highest deserts, a silent, lonely, haunting strech of trail, where our only companions are a few hardy vultures eyeing us hopefully. We see no one for two hours while bouncing down the knee-buckling trail amid a barren, white-capped tan landscape. The silence is broken by a rumble and Connie and I wheel around to see a massive glacier split, causing an avalanche. After a few seconds admiring the snow and Volkswagen-size chunks of ice tumbling down the mountain I realize it's close enough to be concerned, so we duck behind a boulder, but it never reaches us.

For more than 5,000 vertical feet we descend, passing only a couple mule trains and a hopelessly unprepared Russian heading up dangerously late in the day. Finally we get to the religious pilgrimage site of Muktinath. It's clogged with Indian religious tourists and the scooter and jeep traffic is jarring after the peace of our roadless trails.

Riverside hot springs? Yes, please.

One way to get across the river. Not pictured: nasty rapids, just downstream.

TREK DIARY DAY 11-12: Good karma = hot springs and cold beer at the end of the road (Muktinath to Tatopani, 12,540 ft to 3,960 ft)

MUKTINATH – We’ve reached the section of the Annapurna circuit where the government has recently built a road, leaving us a choice: keep walking along the dusty, highly trafficked track, or take a jeep and skip it. We choose the latter.

We grudgingly accept extortion prices for the jeep (not much choice) and start bouncing down the hairpin curves, peering over sheer drop offs of over one thousand feet. Buddhists believe in karma, the idea that past deeds will determine what happens to you next. In essence they believe that if you’re going to get struck by lightning, you’re going to get struck by lightning, if the jeep goes off the mountain, it was going to happen, etc. Unfortunately Nepalis drive like everything is predetermined, passing on blind curves with abandon and paying little heed to gear shifting on tight corners.

A quick survey of the group of 11 trekkers in the jeep revealed that 10 were unemployed and the other was a prosecutor from San Francisco. I came up with a headline: “California prosecutor, 10 vagrants, killed in jeep plunge disaster.”

Eventually we have to switch to a bus, whose driver has a similarly karmic attitude toward the road. At one point we are driving in a river. We shudder along for several hours before dropping into the jungle oasis of Tatopani, where our spirits and muscles are soothed by hot springs and cold beer. It is so relaxing and peaceful, we spend another blissful day there doing absolutely nothing, retreating to the hot springs once more for a beer in the evening.

View of Dhaulagiri (26,795 ft), the world's seventh highest peak, from our hotel room.

TREK DIARY DAY 13: Stairway to Kevin (Tatopani to Gorepani, 3,960 ft to 9,570 ft)

TATOPANI – Climbing up more than a vertical mile sounds doable until you’ve already trudged 3,000 feet up through sticky, cloying jungle air, over boot-sucking mud, and realize that you’re only halfway there.

Early monsoon rains have halted just in time for us to hit the trail for our last two days, a dizzying climb and descent to and from the famed Poon Hill (yes, it’s really called that). The path is nearly vertical, essentially one giant staircase, and the up seems to wind up forever. It is slow going toward the top. A cow passes us.

As we get higher we see an oddly juxtaposed snowfield that runs down to the jungle - a reminder of how high we've climbed in one day. When we pull into Gorepani, our resting place for the night at the base of Poon Hill, we are blasted, and in no mood to go hotel hopping. We run into our much faster friend, Kevin, who has been there about 30 minutes and has graciously booked us a room, saving us the trouble. At the tea house we are greeted with a perfect view from our room of the snowy, bloated pyramid of Dhaulagiri, the seventh highest peak in the world and one of several in its class dominating the skyline. A view of the sunset over the world's highest peaks eases the aches.

Maturity.

I envied this baby's leisure.

Lizards always seem to pose perfectly on the edge of a rock.

It was brutal, but beautiful.

TREK DIARY DAY 14: Bound feet and a blind finish (Gorepani to Poon Hill to Naya Pul, 9,579 ft to 10,593 ft to 3,531 ft)

GOREPANI – Morning comes much too early, with a 4:30 a.m. wake up to climb hilariously named Poon Hill for a sunrise panoramic view of some of the highest peaks in the world. We trudge by headlamp, the 900 vertical feet and are rewarded with a crystal clear view and predictably overpriced coffee.

It’s an idyllic start to a hellish last day.

After Poon Hill we start our final descent back to civilization, a joint-shredding 6,000-vertical-foot staircase in broiling jungle heat. My slightly-too-small shoes are coming back to haunt me now, crushing my toes against the front with each step down, and towards the end of the descent I think I know what it feels like to have bound feet. It is difficult properly appreciate the radiant green foliage, pristine jungle creeks, and tumbling waterfalls.

An hour and half from the finish, a screw pops out of my glasses, sending a lens hurtling to the earth. Having neither the energy or clean hands to put in contacts, I finish the trek in a blur of greens and browns. It's been days since I showered, the same since I changed my shirt, and the entire trek since I shaved. I'm half-blind and crippled, smell like a yak and look like a yeti, but I'm victorious. The Annapurna Circuit is in the bag and even in my weakened state I'm able to get our cab ride back for a third of the absurd original asking price - perhaps the cave lama threw in an extra bargaining blessing for my generous donation.

TREK STATS:

Elevation gain (start point to the pass): 15,265 feet to Thorong La Pass, plus another 6,600 feet to Poon Hill.

Low point: 2,508 feet

High point: 17,872

Distance: 150 km

Squat toilets: yes

Yetis spotted: 0

The yak and the yeti part III: notes from the Annapurna Circuit

I don't remember ever being this excited to go to school.

A blessing from the lama - for a price.

Sure, he's lived in this cave for 42 years ...

...but he has a hell of a view (our hike to him started from near that lake).

TREK DIARY DAY 7: Into thin air (Humde to Manang, 11,145 ft to 11,682 ft.)

HUMDE - My beard is coming along nicely and just in time as the temperature is plunging with each climb, the blue-white hanging glaciers of the high Himalaya getting ever closer. Sick of the parade of boring food we've been eating for a week, I make breakfast a chocolate pancake and vow to eat sweets all day. In the thinning air, apparently I am regressing back to elementary school.

As we make the short, lonely climb toward Manang, a stiff cold wind tears through the mountains unabated and the vegetation falls away as we cross into the yak elevations and never-summer valleys of the high Himalaya. If I had to name a favorite domesticated animal, it would have to be the stubborn, shaggy, sullen-looking stalwart of some of the most brutal terrain and winters on earth (they're good eating, too). The yak looks like a creature left marooned in an alien time period, more at home in the Ice Age, climbing higher and higher into the mountains to chase an endless winter.

Soon we pass Brugha, a Buddhist center, with stupas*, massive prayer wheels, and an imposing cliffside monastery. Next and final stop is Manang, which seems precariously perched in the shadow of the massive (and quickly melting) Gangapurna glacier to one side and a towering band of cliffs on the other. By this point in the afteroon the winds have reached hurricane levels. Prayer flags are flapping madly, threatening to tear apart, windows are rattling, doors flying open, and the sky thickening with clouds that seeem in a hurry.

After dropping our packs, we take shelter in a bakery. Lunch is an apple crumble that actually approximates apple crumble. I am euphoric.

This is the crucial acclimatization zone, where our bodies must adjust for the final push up the (nearly)18,000-foot Thorong La Pass or risk altitude sickness, so a group of us plans a 1,500 foot climb up to see a Buddhist lama, or holy man ("Climb high, sleep low" is the mountaineers mantra, as gaining elevation and then sleeping lower helps you adjust to the altitude).

Exhausted, out of breath from the elevation, and freezing, as my sweat has been turned to a frigid sheen by the winter winds, I stumble into the lama's cave. His weathered face has the impassive, impenetrable gaze I have come to know in Nepal, a country that would produce the world's greatest poker players if they ever took up the game.

He is 95 years old and has lived in this dank cave clinging to the side of a mountain above 13,000 feet for 42 years. He put a colorful twine necklace around my neck, said a prayer for my safe passage over the Thorong La, put some kind of cardboard box to my head, and thrust his donation box forward.

We had tea and I asked him questions through an elderly nun, who is his only companion. He answered but, again, I couldn't tell if he was thinking, "Please get the hell out of my cave" or "Thank you for showing interest in my life and work."

For all of the isolation, loneliness, and discomfort he must experience, his digs have one thing going for them: the most incredible front-yard view I've ever seen.

Back down in town, thoroughly wiped out, we all treat ourselves to a movie about people dying excruciating deaths in the Himalaya. It is the comically cheeseball made-for-tv movie version of Into Thin Air and we watch it in a basement theater on yak-hide benches, with the villagers who run the place serving tea and popcorn. This ranks as perhaps my best film experience of all time.

*A stupa is a mound-like structure containing Buddhist relics.

TREK DIARY DAY 8: Day of the Jackal (Manang to Yak Karka, 11,682 ft to 13,365 ft)

The views were stunning, the air crisp, as we confidently headed out in completely the wrong direction.

I know, Joe, way too much space up top.

The jackal.

MANANG - Breathing is now getting difficult, but there's plenty of excuses to stop and rest as the views change from serene to mind-blowing. A jackal runs through a horse pasture below us followed by a watchful vulture and a Nepali guide we run into incorrectly identifies it as a fox. I have learned quickly that local guides will always answer your question, and almost always incorrectly. He is one of maybe eight people we see in six hours of trekking that day.

We've spent the first 45 minutes of the day on a gorgeous, perilous trail full of landslides and sweeping vistas. Unfortunately we've been going the wrong way. Had we not run into another lost traveler who wised up, we may still be on the trail, admiring the scenery, wondering when we'll ever get to the next town.

We are greeted in Yak Karka by a dour hotel owner who yells at her customers before they are through the door and demands that we eat every meal at her place, but our friends are staying there and we like the company, so we stay. We make sure to eat lunch at a local rival's restaurant.

The night is the coldest yet (as it will be every night until the pass) and the sullen woman refuses repeated requests to start a fire in the dining room's wood stove. I shiver over my yak burger and Connie digs in to a lasagna disaster that ranks as the most unappealing meal of the trip.

TREK DIARY DAY 9: The Cooler (Yak Karka to Thorong Phedi, 13,365 ft to 14,982 ft)

I challenge you to come up with a cooler domesticated animal than the yak.

A bad omen...

...and a frigid, snowy night.

YAK KARKA - Wildlife has been sparse and I'm anxious to see blue sheep, bighorn-like wild sheep that live at dizzying elevations, are prey to the mystical snow leopard, and play a leading role in the brilliant book on the Himalaya named after said predator.

A Nepali guide assures me 'No one sees blue sheep on this trail.' Thirty minutes later, a fellow trekker we've befriended spots a large herd across the valley. Farther down the trail another herd, much closer this time, sends rocks hurtling down the trail toward us in an area infamous for landslides. No one ever sees blue sheep on this trail.

The sheep are a welcome bit of life in a grimly beautiful landscape of gray scree and the remains of mountainsides ripped apart by avalanches of rock. Our chatty group gets progressively silent as we climb and the oxygen is stripped from the air. The next stop is the last before our final push for the pass and we are nervous. Altitude sickness is on the brain, so to speak.

We pull into Thorong Phedi, a fortress-like dark stone enclave clinging to a windswept cliffside. One of the first things we see is an Israeli girl, barely able to walk, being carried to a helicopter for a medical evacuation. She had severe altitude sickness.

A chilly, overcast day, turns into a frigid, snowy night. This is summer here, but the fat flakes are coming down hard. A few of us shiver over a game of poker and I lose 70 rupees. One of our new friends gets diarrhea and starts puking but insists it's food and not altitude. He won't be talked out of the pass.

Bed time is 8 and no one sleeps well.

Stray photos from Trek Part 2

Had technical issues, but here are the photos that vanished from the last Himalaya post. Next real post coming soon.

A warning to any yaks who get funny ideas.

Nepali kitchen, Bhratang.

Switching on the reading light, Bhratang.

Don't forget to flush.

This goat did not want to be walked, but I suppose better to be a pet than stew.

.

Prayer wheels, Pisang.