Blog |

Pattani

Tue, 31 Jan 2023 23:43:22 +0700

I got on the road around 6:30am, with some light drizzle. There was a little traffic out of town, but I soon turned on to a rural route at Yi-Ngo District.

A wet start

Downtown Yi-Ngo ยี่งอ (Pattani Malay: ยือรีงา), population 10,000

This was my first time in a really local area, and people seemed really surprised to see me. There were may shouts of “Hey you!” and “Hello!” along with plenty of smiles. Some people pulled up beside me on their scooters to ask where I was from and how long I’ve been in Thailand. I’ve heard from others that Thai is not spoken much in these parts—there are many people who are fluent only in Patani Melayu.

The town gates give a friendly hello. Jawi script, based on the Arabic script, is traditionally used to write the Patani Melayu

A country mosque

A fellow cyclist

After a few villages and country mosques, I made it to my first destination: 300 Years Mosque (Taloh-Manoh Mosque or Wadil-Husen Mosque). I’ve heard that the mosque will be 400 years old next year. It incorporates Chinese, Malay, and Thai elements in its construction and uses no nails or screws, but rather wooden bolts and pins.

The 300 Years Mosque, Wadil-Husen Mosque, มัสยิดวาดี อัล ฮูเซ็น, completed in 1634

The 300 Years Mosque

I hopped on Highway 42, one of the main thoroughfares in the Deep South, connecting Bangkok to Malaysia. The left shoulder was pretty wide, giving some space for slow-moving vehicles, but the traffic whizzed by fast and close, and there were scooters constantly traveling in the opposite direction to reach a turnaround in the median. It was always a relief to get off that.

Some interesting architecture at a goldsmith’s

Crossing over the Koh Toh Canal, I was in Pattani Province.

Welcome to Pattani Province. The sign celebrates the province’s Malay, Thai, and Chinese heritage.

I stopped for breakfast at a small shop, had some fish and rice for 20 baht. A little spicy, but not too bad.

I passed through Sai Buri, a fishing town that was once one of the seven Pattani Provinces (there’s even a Sai Buri Street in Songkhla).

There was an old palace there, and a sign said to call Mr. So-and-So to see the inside, and it didn’t seem like anyone was there.

The palace in Sai Buri.

Taking the coastal Highway 4157, I had great views of the Gulf of Thailand on my right. At the small town of บ้านน้ำบ่อ Ban Nam Bo, I saw many scooters parked and heard a lot of noise near a community center and fairground. I pulled off to see what was happening and met a police officer at the gate. He saluted me and pointed to the ground. I thought he wanted me to dismount and park my bike there, but actually he was pointing to a slice of watermelon that he wanted to give me. I thanked him and pushed my bike into the festival while munching on a slice.

Children’s festival.

There were hundreds of parents and children, loudspeakers, food stalls, games, and kids’ attractions. Many people surrounded me and started talking to me, but very few spoke English. Eventually I met Mr. Sue and Mrs. G, who I think were in charge. They gave me a drink and offered me food. They told me it was a children’s festival.

Children’s festival.

Children’s festival drinks. From left to right, orange, corn, and grape. Never would have guessed.

Children’s festival.

With Mr. Sue at the children’s festival.

Beaches

หาดแฆแฆ Khae Khae (Pronounced "KK") Beach, a justly famous area attraction. The whole beach was covered with these cool stones.

หาดปะนาเระ Panare Beach, another famous one. The neighboring town of Panare looked interesting, but not enough time.

One of the foods on my checklist was pisang goreng, or fried bananas. A woman at stall gave me a huge bag of them along with some fried sweet potatoes for free.

หาดปะนาเระ Panare Beach, holding the pisang goreng.

หาดปะนาเระ Panare Beach

Krue Se Mosque

มัสยิดกรือเซะ Masjid Kerisek/Krue Se Mosque

I made it to Pattani, checked in to a new and comfortable hotel, and then went into town for some dinner.

Narathiwat

Mon, 30 Jan 2023 23:54:08 +0700

Meaung Narathiwat (or Menara in Pattani Melayu) is the capital of the eponymous Southern province bordering Malaysia. The town has about 40,000 inhabitants and is around 85% Melayu Muslim.

I picked this place because it was at the bottom of Thailand. In my previous two trips, I went North (Chiang Mai, Lamphun, Nan), and this time I wanted to see what was in the South. (Yala Province has the brand new Betong International Airport, but there currently aren’t any flights.)

NAW

We landed at Narathiwat Airport (NAW) in light rain. Two sets of boarding stairs pulled up, and we deplaned and walked from the parking apron across the tarmac to terminal, supplied with umbrellas.

Narathiwat Airport, ท่าอากาศยานนราธิวาส

My bicycle came back intact on the luggage carousel, and I bought an 80 baht “limousine” ticket (actually a ) for the 18km ride to the Imperial Narathiwat.

80 baht to town

After putting my bike together, I took it across the street to Ikhlas Cycle for a final tune-up to make sure it was roadworthy for the tour.

20 baht for the tune-up

My first order of business was to ship my bike bag that I had brought on the airplane and a few things I wouldn’t need on my ride. I went to the post office, bought a box, and mailed it ahead to the hostel in Songkhla. Surprisingly, everything went smoothly and it arrived the next day.

Mailing my bike bag from Narathiwat Post Office

Across the street was the excellent Narathiwat Museum. A lot of the information was in English, and I spent a few hours there. The lower level was about the history and area of Narathiwat Province, and the upper level was dedicated to the Thai Royal Family.

At the museum entrance

The teacher told everyone (in Thai) to say hello to me. I was surprised.

I saw some coin-operated washing machines last night outside a shop, and used one to wash my clothes this morning. One load was 20 baht, but the lady told me there was no dryer. It started raining heavily, so I waited most of it out in an excellent coffee shop a couple blocks away. I used Google Translate to decode find what I wanted from menu, then copied the Thai text to the order slip.

Coin-operated washing machines

At the Rim Khuean Market ริมเขื่อนมาร์เก็ต, I met an industrial engineer named Abdul who used to live in Sydney, Australia. He seemed happy to use his English after many years. He told me about picking up a Siberian hitchhiker and dropping him off at a temple at the Malaysian border, as the traveler was solely relying on free rides and accommodation. He also met a Frenchman who was walking the world, on his way to Myanmar, Bangladesh, India, and eventually back to France.

Abdul

Rim Khuean Market ริมเขื่อนมาร์เก็ต

Market scene

He told me now that the troubles have subsided, there was a great demand for English, but there was no English school in the province. I asked him if there were any foreigners living here, and he mentioned a couple Africans and people from the former Soviet Union who were playing for the Nara United soccer team.

I thought monsoon season would have been over, but it’s been raining since I landed yesterday, sometimes very heavily. Both days it stopped in the mid-afternoon, so I had a chance to sightsee between showers, but it was difficult to stay dry in the sudden downpours, hopping around under shop awnings.

Many people smile and say hello to me. I haven’t seen any other Westerner here, and judging by the guestbook at the city museum, there aren’t many who make it this way.

Friendly smiles

I met a poet and musician who confessed he talked a lot and ran the Southern Coffee café next to my hotel. His wife and sister-in-law (a journalist) also talked a lot, but he said he was a glad they didn’t speak English because then we would really be in trouble.

Southern Coffee

He had shelves of books, a good collection. He wanted the shop to be a place not where customers take Instagram photos, but a community center where people talk about ideas. I asked him about local writers, and he recommended Zakariya Amataya, Thailand’s first Muslim to win the prestigious Southeast Asian Writers Award ( ). He also showed me his own English poetry and played some music he recorded.

A well-stocked shelf

Many people here ask me what I think of Narathiwat and the troubles. To be honest, I don’t know a lot about the conflict, and hadn’t heard much about it other than warnings to stay away. Over the past two or three years, the number of incidents has neared zero, according to . It seems that things are safe again, and that is what everyone is telling me.

There are some checkpoints, but most are unmanned. The soldiers don’t seem to be stopping anyone, and they don’t give me a second glance. Some checkpoints still have sandbags and barricades.

Beach

Looks like a scene from an Aphex Twin video

Boats

Test Ride

I rode out to the

In the morning, I’m hoping it won’t be raining so I can see the “300 Year-old Mosque,” which is actually more than 400 years old. I don’t think I can go inside, but it looks like it will be good from the outside too.

I’m a little sad to leave Narathiwat. Two days isn’t enough time. A lot of the interesting details are easy to overlook, and there is a quiet subtlety to the place. I am looking forward to Pattani tomorrow though, and am hoping for a good ride.

Narathiwat Food

First meal. This place was popular with students. Not so spicy.

Not so spicy.

Narathiwat City Scenes

Bangkok: Day 1

Thu, 26 Jan 2023 23:10:27 +0700

I woke up early and took the BTS Skytrain two stops. The Changchun Railway Vehicles train was clean and had announcements in Thai and English. Nearly everyone was wearing a mask.

Getting off at ชิดลม Chit Lom Station, I climbed down the steps and walked along Sukhumvit Road, named after the fifth chief of the Department of Highways, and supposedly one of the longest boulevards in the world, reaching almost to the Cambodian border.

Sukhumvit Skyline

At the busy Ratchaprasong intersection, there was a large hotel and a shrine. The Erawan Shrine, or formally, the Thao Maha Phrom Shrine (ศาลท้าวมหาพรหม), dates from the 1950s when one of the first modern hotels was being built by the state. The hotel’s construction encountered multiple difficulties: worker injuries, cost overruns, delays, a lost shipload of Italian marble. An astrologer was consulted and said that the date the hotel was constructed was an inauspicious one, and to placate the gods, there should be a shrine built on this corner.

Erawan Shrine

The shrine is dedicated to Phra Phrom (พระพรหม, Brahmā), the Hindu creator deity, but worshiped as part of the Buddhist pantheon. There were musicians and dancers, hired to thank the four-faced deity for answered prayers, and lots of marigolds. I read somewhere that incense and candles are now prohibited for the safety and welfare of worshipers.

Erawan Shrine

Prha Narai Song Suban (พระนารายณ์, Narayana) on Garuda. Suggested offerings at the shrine are nine incense sticks, two candle sticks, fresh flowers, olibanum, beverages, and fruit.

After that, it was shirt-making time with Warzone. I think he had six shirts made. The quality of fabric seemed good, service was great, and the final product looked all right. Much cheaper than a custom shirt in Japan; I think it came to about ¥5000 per shirt. Apparently Steven Seagal shopped here too.

Sikh ownership

Bangkok Scenes

NGO→BKK 🛫

Wed, 25 Jan 2023 23:04:55 +0700

For a bike/conference trip I wanted to pack light. One bag for my bicycle, 22kg. There was surprisingly a lot of space in there, so I could throw in some extras, including a pannier and rear rack for my ride. The other bag is a small hydration daypack that I use for commuting.

Packing light ultimately involved me standing outside in a short sleeve shirt in the snow, searching for a taxi I reserved but never came. A second bout with snow flurries came at Kanayama Station, where a train delay found me standing on the station platform on the coldest day of the year.

Arriving at Chūbu Centrair International Airport

Wondering if we’re going to leave on time

The flight was delayed as the runway was closed. Great blasts of hot glycol and water sprayed against the fuselage while the plows cleared the runway of snow. I’m glad that Yuka convinced me to don a fleece before going out.

Vestergaard Elephant BETA deicing a neighboring plane

Waiting to takeoff

Warmer climes

Into Bangkok. The taxi driver from Khon Kaen used Google translate to joke with me if what was in my big bike bag was a gift for a girl.

Sukhumavit Soi 11. People from all over the world, mostly Indians, Arabs, Africans, jostling for space on the crowded sidewalk. It’s a circus, it’s loud, but interesting for people watching and seems safe. Surprisingly there is not much hassle, at least when you’re not standing around. Lots of street food, bars, touts, motorcycles, music, languages.

So far, som tam (ส้มตำ sôm dtam, green papaya salad), sticky rice, and fruit.

New Year's Ride through Yaotsu

Tue, 10 Jan 2023 13:21:22 +0900

A new year’s ride from Ena to Tajimi. We rode the Chuo Line up to 武並駅 Takenami Station, and were a bit worried to find frost on the ground. Snow and ice necessitated a slow, steep decent to the Kiso River. The temperature was around -3℃.

武並橋/View from the Takenami Bridge

After a short break at a rural fire station, we started our climb up to 坂折棚田 the Sakaori Terraced Rice Fields (Sakaori literally means “folded hills”), at around 500m. There was a New Year’s celebration going on at the shrine here, hence the どんど焼き dondoyaki, the purifying spiritual bonfire.

坂折棚田 the Sakaori Terraced Rice Fields

After this, the climb intensified, topping out around 700m, and some grades of over 13%. A lot of snow on the ground. I felt a little pain in my knees from the cold.

The downhill on National Highway 418 was pretty good, with smooth, wide roads and little traffic. A tunnel spit us out on the 462m-long rigid-frame 新旅足橋 Shin-Tabisoko Bridge (2010), which also happens to be the place of the highest bungee jump in Japan, 220m above the Tabisoko Gorge. I tried looking over the edge while crossing the bridge, but it was a little nerve-racking.

The Shin-Tabisoko Bridge, looking down into the eponymous gorge

From there, it was down, down, down to the retro downtown of 八百津町 Yaotsu, and across the Yaotsu Bridge and Kiso River once again. After a few long tunnels and rolling hills through 御嵩町 Mitake Town and 可児市 Kani, we made it to Tajimi Station for a well-earned okonomiyaki.

Wチーズお好み焼き "W Cheese" Okinomiyaki. The "W" apparently stood for quadruple cheese.

After lunch and packing up our bikes at the station for the train, a punctilious station master chased us down and made us remove our bicycle saddles before boarding the train. This required groping around for packed tools and moving bike parts around in not-so-ideal conditions (i.e., the middle of a busy train station). Technically, it’s the rule, but that’s the first time I’ve been called out for it in a decade of rinko-cycling across Japan.

Toyota ride

Sun, 10 Oct 2021 06:54:21 +0900

I put in a good 30km on Thursday meeting CBC and riding out to his new place, mainly along an old commute route. I was a little spent from all the climbs in Nakatsugawa the previous day, but managed nonetheless. We tried out a pizza place nearby run by a Brazilian family. I left my bike at the station and went back on Friday to retrieve it, tracing my old Friday commute path along the Tempaku River. Friday afternoon traffic in Nagoya reminded me I should have gotten on the road earlier.

Nakatsugawa

Wed, 06 Oct 2021 20:46:50 +0900

A bit of a later start than I hoped for, and I was off to Nakatsugawa by the Chuo Line. My original intention was to climb past Chubu Gakuin University on 413 and descend to Agi, but after a significant climb, a warning sign blocked the road due to a landslide. I checked the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport, and Tourism's (MLIT) website, and the road is out of commission for the foreseeable future.

Back into town, I found the old , and traced it between Nakatsugawa-juku and Ochiai-juku. There were some extremely steep climbs that had me pushing my bike.

Some of the views were great though. I didn't have the time or energy (it was 31°C today) to make it over the pass to Magome-juku; I'll have to wait until next time.

The road was well-marked and dotted with historical signage. This spot was a collection of Buddhas that were found along the way, along with descriptions and resting benches.

This was my first time on the Nakasendo. It is obvious that the locals take a lot of pride in it and have kept at least this section very well-maintained. Here is a pedestrian underpass crossing National Route 19.

I'll remember to reapply more sunscreen next time.

Tokai

Tue, 05 Oct 2021 21:34:26 +0900

No pictures today.

I was planning to ride to the bottom of the , but I had to go through some hairy stuff beforehand. The first tricky part was navigating Otsu-dori, which is usually pretty manageable, and was until I got past Atsuta Shrine. Then the trucks started, and I veered right when I should have gone straight, ending up in the port district, the largest and busiest trading port in Japan. Truck traffic was very heavy, and I hesitated at one intersection, wondering if I should cross over a pedestrian overpass or not.

Somehow I shifted into the spokes, jamming the chain behind the sprockets. It took a lot of work to dig it out. The sun was blazing and there was no shade, only relentless traffic on all sides. Once I extracted the chain, I had a hard time getting the wheel back on, and the chain was hopelessly tangled. No taxis in the area, and every nearby bike store was closed on Tuesdays for some reason. After about an hour or so, I bagged up my bike and started hauling it to the nearest train station, a few kilometers away.

I got lots of stares from oncoming traffic, and the scenery was not the best. I made it back home around 3 after dropping my bike off. It's back in commission now, and ready for another adventure tomorrow, possibly to another National Treasure or two.

Mikawa Bike Ride

Mon, 04 Oct 2021 00:00:00 +0000

I rode the JR Tokaido line out to Okazaki today, and headed toward Nishio. The ride today was completely flat, and it was warm and sunny. I had a low battery on my phone, so I conserved power by following the main roads. Traffic was not too heavy, the roads were wide, and I was surrounded by farmland all day. There were plenty of stoplights.

I made it to 金蓮寺 Konren-ji, home of Aichi’s oldest wooden building 弥陀堂 Amitabha (Buddha) Hall, and one of Aichi’s three national treasures (the other two are in Inuyama).

a wooden Amitabha Triad, dating from the Kamakura Period (1185–1333)

I was greeted with a cup of tea, and a monk explained the history of the area. He recommended some other famous sites. There are many temples in the vicinity. Inside the main building, there were illustrated Meiji-era boards of local youth being sent off to war.

The 御朱印 temple’s seal stamp. The image on the left is 国宝弥陀堂 kokuhō midadō "National Treasure Amitabha Hall" stylized to look like a smiling Amitabha Buddha.

There were many temples and historical sites in the precinct.

I crossed the Yahagi River and was in Hekinan. There were tall silos, great ships smelled like grain.

The purpose for my visit here was to investigate the , Japan’s first (1973) tunnel that used pre-fabricated box culverts that were buried under the sea. It connects the East Wharf of the Kinuura Port in Hekinan（碧南市東埠頭）with Handa’s Central Wharf（半田市衣浦港の中央ふ頭）. The pedestrian/bike tunnel plays an AM radio station as you descend the 11 flights of stairs. I think the sign said the length was 480m.

衣浦トンネル（歩行者・自転車用トンネル）Kinuura Tunnel (1973)

Overview of the crossing

Kampong Thom to Siem Reap

Wed, 10 Feb 2016 23:03:36 +0900

Kampong Thom is approximately halfway between Phnom Penh and Siem Reap. An early morning departure from the town had me admiring the architecture downtown and the potted plants on the balconies.

I liked the architecture in downtown Kampong Thom.

Mission accomplished. After yesterday’s gobbledygook, I am happy to report that Cambodian National Highway 6 was of a gentler sort, and much of it was as smooth as glass.

The village gates. These entrances were common sights.

This style of house was really common north of the Tonlé Sap. I liked the banisters going up to the front door.

We met some fellow cycle tourists going the opposite direction, all the way from Johor, Malaysia (next to Singapore). They were on their way to Vietnam or even Laos. They had their ASEAN passports, so no worries about visas in this neck of the woods. We shared information about what to expect with road conditions. It sounded fine to Siem Reap.

Malaysian cyclists.

Cambodians are really gentle and shy people, watching you without staring. They are invariably drawn to my bicycle, in a country where utility bikes predominate and road bikes are scarce. As soon as I start tinkering on my bike, a crowd emerges. Plenty of help.

Khmer Language

The Khmer language is unique in Southeast Asia as it is not a tonal language. It makes up for it with a plethora of consonant clusters and a cornucopia of vowels. How can a language of such short words have so many sounds?

People are really appreciative of efforts to learn Khmer. Grammatically, it’s quite simple, so there’s no excuse for not speaking a few simple sentences when you come to Cambodia.

Lunch was quite good today, perhaps the best food I’ve had here, and only $1.25. I don’t know the market town’s name, but I asked for something vegetarian, and they brought me a vegetable stir-fry that included pineapple. Another thing that has surprised me about Cambodia is that the food is not spicy–the chili sauce bottle at the table is always mild. Khmer people prefer black pepper to the chili pepper.

Lunch in market town.

View from the table.

We rode past a wedding and two funerals today. For both, they set up loudspeakers and broadcast sutras and/or music to let the neighborhood know. We were invited into a wedding for a beer, but we had 100 miles to go today, and we had to make it to Siem Reap.

Cambodian wedding reception.

Cambodian wedding reception. I think the bride and groom are on the left.

By the way, we made it all the way around the Tonlé Sap. Mission accomplished. 成功です。疲れました。おやすみなさい。

Made it all 723km around. With Masuda-sensei and our support driver.

"Kingdom Breweries is a Cambodian craft beer brewery company that was founded in 2009. It is the largest craft brewery in Southeast Asia, serving as a backend production hub for over 30 craft brewers in Thailand, Hong Kong, Singapore and the Philippines."

After a week in the hinterland, Siem Reap seemed like a circus. I almost got hit by an off-duty ambulance. The city is adjacent to Angkor, so the entire economy is based on tourism, for better or for worse. The next morning, I took it easy and rode around the villages surrounding Siem Reap, and it was back to normal.

Oudong to Kampong Thom

Tue, 09 Feb 2016 23:39:03 +0700

Day 6: Oudong to Kampong Thom 140km/87 miles

The hardest day so far. I awoke to the call for prayers playing on loudspeakers at the minaret across the road starting at 4:30.

Garment factory workers streamed by, packed like sardines in the back of in the back of trucks on their way to Phnom Penh.

On the way to work

We crossed the Tonlé Sap River on the Prek Kdam Bridge out of Kandal Province then fought a tough headwind for the first two hours.

Crossing the Tonlé Sap River. The river reverses course during the rainy season as the Mekong swells, filling up the lake. In the dry season, the lake empties out back into the Mekong.

Crossing the 981m Prek Kdam Bridge (2010) over Tonlé Sap River.

Entering Kampong Cham. កំពង់ចាម [kɑmpɔŋ caːm] Kampong Cham means "Port of the Chams."

After crossing the river, we entered Kampong Cham Province and joined National Highway 6. The road was well-paved at this point.

So far, National Highway 6 road was good.

Smooth tarmac

Many Cham or Champa People (Cham: ꨂꨣꩃ ꨌꩌꨛꨩ, Urang Campa), practice an indiginized form of Shi’a Islam or an indiginized form of Hinduism. Mosques were more common in this area.

Every stop is interesting. We met two young Cambodian English teachers at a tiny noodle restaurant. The TV was blasting a kungfu movie dubbed in Khmer (a popular genre here). We had a nice chat about their lives, from what I could hear (the TV was LOUD). It seems that more people speak English the closer to Phnom Penh you get.

ស្គន់ Skun

Skun or Skoun is a busy market town at the intersection of National Highways 6 and 7. “A-ping” tarantulas, are a local delicacy here, tossed in MSG, sugar, and salt and fried with garlic. I tried a couple but Masuda-sensei declined. The legs were crispy, but the head and body had soft white meat inside. Some other bugs were on sale as well.

Dirt Roads

From here, the road got worse. The pavement was patched, pitted, and inconsistent. I felt like I was riding on a jackhammer. Then the pavement disappeared. It was a packed dirt road from now on. Yes, this is National Highway 6, the main highway connecting Cambodia’s two largest cities. Semi trucks and buses flew by, kicking up so much dust that cars had their headlights on in the middle of the day. This continued for a long, long time. I saw a truck spraying water from a questionable source to mitigate the dust, but it was hot and the dirt dried out quickly.

National Highway 6 in February 2016

Outside សន្ទុក Santuk

We had lunch in a village along the highway. There was garbage all over the entire town. Flies everywhere. I saw man buy a bottle of water from a vendor, drink it, then throw the empty bottle on the ground in front of him. Apparently, many people did the same. The restaurant we ate at had discarded napkins under every table and refuse out front.

Finally we reached pavement again. We took a break at a gas station. The woman said she could speak French, but not English. She brought us some chairs, a couple bottles of water, mangoes, and starfruit.

We were grateful for her hospitality.

People from tropical countries have amazing knife skills when it comes to fruit.

Our support driver carving up some mangoes. We dipped them a palm sugar/salt mix.

Mangoes

This break and the Khmer hospitality was a blessing that sustained me to the Steung Sen River and the provincial capital of Kampong Thom, reaching there before dusk.

Made it to the hotel in ក្រុងកំពង់ធំ Kampong Thom ("Great Port"), sometimes labeled ស្ទឹងសែន Stueng Saen "River of Soldiers" Sanskrit: sena (सेना), after the eponymous river that flows through it.

Oudong

Mon, 08 Feb 2016 23:55:49 +0700

Leaving Pursat early in the morning.

Entering ខេត្តកំពង់ឆ្នាំង Kampong Chhnang Province. Kampong Chhnang means "Port of Pottery"

Stopped in a small town in ខេត្តកំពង់ឆ្នាំង Kampong Chhnang Province. The provincial slogan is sweet pomelos, delicious rice, beautiful young ladies. While looking for some breakfast, a small man came up to me and started speaking colloquial American English. He recommended a place: “Ovah deh. Ovah deh. I eat deh every day.” I did not expect to hear a Boston accent in such a place. We had a chat with him and I filmed a short interview. He was the most dynamic character that I have met on this trip.

Collecting alms in the morning. Many boys are temporarily ordained and serve as monks, usually less than a year.

Entering Kampong Speu កំពង់ស្ពឺ

\[kɑmpɔŋ spɨː\]

Province. The meaning is "Port of Starfruit".

We stopped at a roadside stand for some coconut juice where an elderly Muslim woman hacked open coconuts with a machete. She was also baking something like cupcakes using a clay pot with charcoal burning above and below, but could not get the right temperature on both sides. She ended up burning the batch a couple times.

Charcoal-fired Cambodian cupcakes

ក្រខុប [krɑkʰop], governor’s plum/Madagascar plum/Indian plum/ramontchi, Flacourtia indica

Stopping for some coconut water

It was Chinese New Year, and we ended up with front row seats at a gas station. A touring dragon dance group was performing for the owner. She put red envelopes in the dragons’ mouths.

Today’s goal was ឧដុង្គ Oudong, the old capital of Cambodia from 1618–1866, about 35km northwest of the modern national capital of Phnom Penh. According to Wikipedia, the city’s name is derived from the Sanskrit word “uttuṅga” (Sanskrit: उत्तुङ्ग), meaning tall, which probably refers to the mountain.

The manager at the guesthouse leaned English at a pagoda from a monk. He showed us our rooms. They said “VIP” next to the room number above the doors and on the keys. The rooms cost $15.

VIP Rooms.

The support car driver from Pursat and I were really curious about this kind of fishing.

At the top of ភ្នំឧដុង្គ (Phnom Oudong) Oudong Mountain, the whole surrounding plain was visible. The Buddha here mysteriously faces north rather than east. Some think it is an homage to the older capital at Angkor, looking back toward the ancient capital across the Tonlé Sap.

Stupa on top of Phnom Oudong. This is a tentative World Heritage Site

On top of Phnom Oudong

Lowering the ទង់ជាតិកម្ពុជា Tóngchéatĕ Kâmpŭchea [tɔŋciət kampuciə] Cambodian flag at sunset on Phnom Oudong. The Cambodian flag is one of only four state flags (along with Portugal, San Marino, and Spain) to feature a building.

At the summit, I met a man from Chongqing who invited me for a Chinese New Year celebration, but I had to decline as I had 140km to ride on February 9th.

Decked out in red for Chinese New Year.

The chili sauce was always mild, quite a bit different from other countries in Southeast Asia.

Kampong Luong

Sun, 07 Feb 2016 23:49:11 +0700

After the visit to the past and future well recipients, we drove a Toyota HiLux (aka Tacoma) truck out to Kampong Luong (កំពង់លួង), a floating village on the Tonlé Sap. As the place name suggests, most of the inhabitants were Vietnamese. I saw a school, a church, a barbershop, and a karaoke parlor. It didn’t seem to get many foreign visitors, judging from the police ledger book I had to sign before going out on the water.

Kampong Luong

I saw a lot of written Vietnamese. Obviously, it was harder to talk to people. When something happened, like a boat bumping into someone’s house, neighbors would instantly relay the information between houses.

A floating market

A supermarket. This was around Chinese New Year, a holiday that is celebrated in Cambodia as well.

Billiard hall

A gas station

At the Fair

After that, back on land, we stopped at a local fair. I always enjoy these kinds of fairs in foreign countries, as the atmosphere is grounded in something so universal, but it’s easy to see the local nuance, and a fun way to meet local people.

At the fair

Snacks at the fair.

Angkor Beer was about 50¢ a can.

ពងទាកូន or paung tea kaun, otherwise known as balut, is a fertilized developing egg embryo that is boiled or steamed and eaten from the shell. It is usually incubated for 18–20 days. The father gave me a beer, but I politely declined the balut.

Games and prizes at the fair

A kind of rolled crèpe that was popular with kids.

Riding into the sunset on the Highway 5 back to Pursat

Pursat, Part 2

Sun, 07 Feb 2016 23:39:11 +0700

Day 4

This is the purpose of this cycle tour. We got in a truck and went down a rough road, about 40km into the countryside. The houses got simpler and red dust from the road covered the trees and the fields. The land had once been jungle, but it was cleared and the land titles were given by the government to poor farmers.

We finally reached our destination, and were greeted by a smiling family. Their house was surrounded by a beautiful garden. This was all thanks to a well provided by Hope International Development Agency. The mother said before they got their well, she was in tears every day, exhausted and sick from the hours of fetching water from a dirty stream. She had to send her son to live in a temple as she did not have enough food to give him.

Now, instead of a thatched roof house, she has her own sturdy home and can sell her fruits and vegetables at the market. Her children can go to school. Her life was completely changed by having the basic need of clean water met. Although they were still very poor by most measures, their quality of life improved exponentially.

We them visited two families who were scheduled to receive their wells this year. They were truly living on the edge. They could not smile. The children were sick and could not go to school as they were needed to work at home. Their land was completely barren. The mother spent two or three hours a day carrying water back. They only had rice to eat. I have never seen such terrible poverty.

These two families are not so different, although their life conditions are different by several orders of magnitude. I was attracted to this project because clean water is so basic and so fundamental to life that without it, the struggle just to survive overpowers anything that we can relate to as living a life.

Battambang to Pursat

Sat, 06 Feb 2016 23:52:03 +0700

Day 3: Battambang to Pursat 106km/65 miles

We started at 6, in the dark. Breakfast was rice noodles at a country market. Mangoes for a dollar a kilo (2.2 lbs). I bought a baguette with jam for 25¢.

The landscape became more jungle-like and the people more outgoing. Children shouted hello from the side of the road or from houses behind the bushes 50 yards back, and people smiled more often.

A Westerner passed me. He was drafting behind a tractor pulling sacks of rice. The guys on top of the bags were relaying to the driver to keep a decent pace so the cyclist could trail them. I accelerated and caught up with him, cruising at speed and very little effort. He was casually sipping a Coca Cola. We chatted for a minute; he was from France and on his way to Phnom Penh. I realized I was leaving Masuda-sensei far behind, so I let them continue on.

Crossing into Pursat Province. ពោធិ៍សាត់ [poːsat] Pursat means "floating banyan." According to Wikipedia, the root word ពោធិ៍- Poŭthĭ [poː], a Khmer word derived from the Sanskrit and Pali word for the bodhi (बोधि) tree (which is where the Buddha became enlightened), and -សាត់ săt [sat] which comes from the Khmer word រសាត់ rôsăt [rɔːsat] meaning "to float."

We checked into the KM Hotel in downtown Pursat. Rooms with a pool and river view for just $18. I asked someone why it was so cheap. She said she didn’t know the English word, but it was probably because of “washing black money.” Nevertheless, I was glad we were staying here two nights. Some Cambodian Americans were down by the pool blasting Little Richard and Chuck Berry. Later, I saw an American exercise equipment infomercial dubbed in Khmer on TV.

View from my room of the KM Hotel pool and the Pursat River

Next door to the KM Hotel

Sisophon to Battambang

Fri, 05 Feb 2016 23:34:03 +0700

Leaving Sisophon at daybreak

We left the Nasa Hotel in Sisophon at daybreak. The scenery became more lush as we continued south. I was happy to have some shade. Breakfast was fried rice and soup at a roadside restaurant, along with a stick of roasted bamboo stuffed with sticky rice, coconut, dried fruit, and sugar.

ក្រឡាន kralan, glutionous rice in roasted bamboo. It also had beans, coconut milk, grated coconut, and palm sugar.

We passed a wedding procession. The parade streamed down the side of the nation’s busiest highway (two lanes) to a wedding venue. A photographer was lining up the parents outside the front door. Cambodian fashion is serious business when it comes to wedding attire.

One thing I was concerned about when planning a cycling trip in Cambodia was the quality of roadside toilets. Every one I have seen, even behind the most humble house, is immaculately clean. They are of the squatter variety, with a water reservoir and a bucket to flush it. Masuda-sensei told me that he saw one man taking his shoes off to clean it.

On one pit stop, we had some fresh coconut juice and were invited into a family’s home. The mother went out back and took a long pole with a net on the end and pulled down a few sugar apples. They were delicious. Sugar apples, along with lychees, tamarinds, coconut, and tiny bananas have been my favorite fruits on this trip.

Picking ទៀប (tiep) sweetsop/custard apple/sugar-apple/Annona squamosa

I saw a roadside vendor selling barbecued rat. We stopped to talk with her. Behind her was a thatched roof hut where locals can buy beer and chow down. Our guide said he had never tried it, but our driver said he was a big fan. They catch the rats in the rice paddies. Some were quite large. Masuda-sensei asked the vendor why she was wearing a red sweater. She said that red was her favorite color.

Grilled ricefield rat

Grilled ricefield rat. The platform and thatched roof hut in the back is where men knock back spirits and enjoy.

We reached Battambang at noon. It’s Cambodia’s second city and it retains a French colonial atmosphere with the old Art Deco buildings and riverside promenade. It would have been nice to spend a couple more days there. At the restaurant next to my hotel, they were playing a Khmer version of “Achy Breaky Heart.”

Beer is often sold with ice. The pitcher was just $1.50 if I remember right.

Downtown Battambang, along the Sangker River

Checking in to the hotel, I spoke to a fellow American for the first time in a while. He said he was from Northern Michigan. I asked if he was a Yooper (from the Upper Peninsula, aka, the U.P.). He laughed and said not quite; he was a Troll. Sometimes you have to go to Southeast Asia to learn about the Midwest of America.

A gas station, also selling coconuts and riding gloves

ផ្សារធំបាត់ដំបង Pasar Nat Battambang Central Market.

This Art Deco central market was built in the 1930s under the French Public Works Department, French architect Jean Desbois and engineer Louis Chauchon, the same people responsible for Phnom Penh Central Market and Ban Thanh Market in Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam. It was similar to the Central Market in Pursat as well. Read more about it at .

Snacks at ភ្នំសំពៅ Phnom Sampeau 762m/2500ft, also spelled Phnom Sampov

Surrounding fields from Phnom Sampeau

ស្វាត្រោស Northern pig-tailed macaque (Macaca leonina) at Phnom Sampeau

នរក [nɔrʊək], (Sanskrit: नरक Naraka, Pali: 𑀦𑀺𑀭𑀬 Niraya) Buddhist hell

ចេតិយ chedei, or stupa at Phnom Sampeau

Siem Reap to Sisophon

Fri, 05 Feb 2016 08:11:03 +0700

Departing Siem Reap

A shot with our guide (left) and support driver (right). They were both pros.

We started out from Siem Reap along Highway 6 around 7am. Streaming into the opposite direction were thousands of scooters and bicycles, their riders in the way to work or school. As we got further away from Siem Reap, the traffic thinned out and more people waved and shouted, “Hello!” The scenery is flat, dusty, and hot. Some tall coconut trees or occasional hill dot the horizon. Village and temple entrances are marked with elaborate gates that travel down a red dirt path.

Crossing into បន្ទាយមានជ័យ Banteay Meanchey Province. Banteay Meanchey means “Fortress of Victory.”

My deepest impression yesterday happened in a small village by the highway. I saw an interesting temple and we decided to stop and take a look. I doubt few, if any foreigners had been here. A woman passing by struck up a conversation with us. I was immediately struck by her smile and quiet strength.

She told us she was taking some food and drinks to a sick man who lives nearby. She invited us to visit him. He was only 35 years old, and his legs were covered in sores. He could not walk or speak or even sit up, so he lived on a mat on the ground in a shed. He had no family, so this woman with a big smile took care of him every day. She said that he became that way just a year ago. As for her life, her husband had run away to Thailand, leaving her alone with her two children. She was thankful for our visit and had sincere answers for all our questions. I was amazed by her positive attitude and confidence, although she faced so much hardship in her life.

After biking 106km, we arrived in សិរីសោភ័ណ Serei Saophoan (commonly known by the Thai pronunciation Sisophon), a market town at the junction of Cambodia’s two biggest highways. The name means “glorious and auspicious” in Khmer. According to Wikipedia, សិរិ Serei is derived from the Sanskrit word śrī (श्री) meaning “glorious”, and សោភ័ណ Saophoan is derived from the Sanskrit word śubha (शुभ) meaning “auspicious.” The town is also known as Svay, which means mango in the Khmer language. Our guide wasn’t sure why. This is the capital of បន្ទាយមានជ័យ Banteay Meanchey Province, which means “Fortress of Victory.” This land has changed hands between Cambodia and Thailand many times throughout the centuries.

Beer in the hotel room.

Sisophon at night.

Getting ready for Chinese New Year.

A Chinese shrine in the hotel lobby.

Today it’s off to another delightfully named place, Battambang.

Goodbye, England

Thu, 07 Jun 2001 00:00:00 +0000

Hello all,

Coming back from my trip to Morocco, I realized that I had a significant stash of educational responsibilities to complete in the two weeks remaining. Once that was out of the way, all of the sudden the semester was over. Then Bridget came to visit, and 48 hours later we were off to Italy.

Then Slovenia.

Then Croatia.

Then back to Italy.

Then Greece.

Now I’m back in England, picking up a few things I left behind and taking a overnight ferry to Dublin, where a plane will be waiting tomorrow morning to take me home.

It’s been a good six months or so, and now it feels like i’m finally getting the hang of England. But now it’s time to leave.

Although I’m not overly patriotic, the United States of America has had a 21 year head-start to seep its way into my blood. Upon arrival, one of the first things I noticed was that curry and chips (which aren’t really chips – they’re French fries), Yorkshire pudding (which isn’t really anything close to pudding), and the strangely named beef tomato (which is quite suitable for vegetarians) don’t hold their sway against corn on the cob or homemade chips & salsa or apple pie. For me, at least. You’re still more likely to find me listening to Robert Johnson or Duke Ellington than Orbital or the Stereophonics. It’s more of a force of habit than a matter of choice. As much as I try, I can’t completely adjust or blend into British culture – something in me is still very American, something that’s a part of me and can’t be shaken free.

When i was in Ljubljana, I saw a license plate that read, “America have no fear – Slovenia stands behind you.” I have come to realize that I’m from a nation that does not really hold any boundaries. Ask me where Slovenia ends, and I can more or less show you on a map. Ask me where “America” ends, and I can’t really say. Our films, our music, our sports-team logos, our soft drinks flood the world from Marrakech to Zagreb. This isn’t always a good thing, but it has allowed me to receive a more “knowing” reception from other peoples, be it positive or negative, informed or misinformed.

But now i must return to the core of this far-reaching land, and stare in awe at things that have passed below my field of vision before. We Americans tend to do things in such a big way that the smaller, perhaps more important, definitely more charming things in life can go unnoticed. Although Iowa is not one of the more exciting places in the world, I realize that I’m in the midst of many profound things I have never bothered to investigate or visit. The Field of Dreams is only about an hour from my home and the Effigy National Monument is just past that. Iowa is full of phenomenal natural wonders, from the Loess Hills to the Mississippi River to acres and acres of untamed wild prairie land, that dazzled the eyes of my European ancestors before me. These are places that *have* interested me, but my procrastinator side has frequently won out. We often tend to ignore the treasures so close to our homes, thinking we can see them anytime, but somehow never do.

And these “treasures” I’m speaking of aren’t just places.

I surely will miss England. It will mostly be the treasures of its people, but the sites, the humor, the BBC documentaries, the history, (forgive me British friends but the “quaintness” too), etc., etc., etc. are without equal anywhere else in the universe. It has probably been the greatest learning experience of my life.

But now, returning home, with a new president in office since I left…in a country that’s always reinventing itself…I’m bound for a few surprises.

I’m sure that new adventures are on their way, unfolding at every moment.

Ryan

P.S. I hope to hear from all of you soon about your adventures, wherever you may be….

Toward the Unknown Region

Fri, 30 Mar 2001 00:00:00 +0000

As-salam ‘alaykum (peace be with you).

As promised, I made it to Cream last weekend, but my other intended outdoor excursions were brought to a halt due to lack of transportation and a nifty virus called foot-and-mouth disease.

Cream was a massive experience, especially since I don’t like dressing up in monkey suits for anything and I don’t particularly enjoy the repetitive drum-&-bass loops commonly found in techno. Fortunately, the bouncers let me in this time (I made sure to look decent since I had already paid £13 for a ticket which must be prebooked and £9 in transportation to/from Ormskirk). There were some very fashionably-dressed people in line in front of me who had admission #4000-something-or-other on their printed on their tickets. Besides some big concerts and sporting events, I’ve never been an area with so many people. And this is a weekly affair for many.

All entrants are subject to search. I had my camera confiscated, my pockets checked, and my shoes temporarily removed just in case I was carrying any contraband. Cream wasn’t as enormous as I’d thought it would be–it was about the same size as another club I’d been to called Tokyo Joe’s in Preston. But the laser effects, the largest mirror ball ever probably made, and the light shows put the rest all to shame. I can’t begin to describe the visual effects that this place has to offer (that’s not even including what many people wear).

There was a VIP area above the main dance floor–as some of my British friends pointed out to me–with some celebrities from British soaps, some soccer players, and other miscellaneous rich-&-famous. They didn’t really dance or do anything worthy of celebration…in my humble opinion it was more about them paying loads to have the privilege to look down on us commoners, we who incidentally appeared to be having much more fun.

I hate(d) techno music. This is mainly due to my poor experience to the genre, living in a culture where music with “real” instruments is preferred. Anything that I have had access to in the past reflected this neglected-stepchild mentality. I’m a convert now. This music in its natural environment–a sea of thousands expressing themselves in sweat-drenched waves, rolling and falling back in time to the thumps of four-foot speakers under complex geometric patterns of lights–it’s something to behold. My ears hurt and the bass pounding into my chest felt like it was offsetting my heartbeat, but it was an experience I will remember for the rest of my life.

Some people were obviously on hallucinogenic drugs–it was usually the ones with their shirts off, sweating profusely but not really moving enough to exert themselves in any way–but most were just as taken aback as I was. I was repeatedly asked if I had any ecstasy to sell, but unfortunately it was a line of trade I hadn’t pursued in my college studies. I met lots of interesting people from South Africa, Australia, and all parts of the world, and ended up with another American friend talking to people who happened to be from ye jolly olde VIP Area. Don’t ask me who they were though–I’d have no idea anyway.

The DJs in massive clubs like this are true musicians. I was amazed by the way they could spin records and fall in and out of fascinating patterns like it was a piece of organic material rather than the notorious robotic boom-thumps. Every song blended into the next seamlessly–usually after an “exploratory” period where sounds melted away and came back, rolling like waves of digitized water in and out of recognition and cyberspace and static and void…then instantly snapping back into a danceable pattern, where you would associate the now familiar song like the face of an old friend. But it wouldn’t end there–no, the good DJs wouldn’t let you off that easy. Once the tune would enter the realm of comprehension, it would shape and morph itself into another new song of completely different character.

I honestly think that Beethoven would be proud.

For some reason the sun came out for just a little bit on Wednesday. I took advantage of it and went down to Liverpool and had a walk around downtown and explored the campus of Liverpool John Moores University. It was fascinating to me because it was a beautiful campus in a great setting, perfectly balanced on each side by Liverpool’s massive cathedrals and right across the street was the Liverpool Royal Philharmonic Hall. There was a concert that night and I got in as a student for £3.

This musical experience was obviously quite different from Saturday night’s, although Cream is just a few blocks away. The Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra played with the Chorus for the first part (Vaughn Williams set Waltman’s “Toward the Unknown Region” to music–fantastic).

Darest thou now O soul,

Walk out with me toward the unknown region,

Where neither ground is for the feet nor any path to follow.

No map there, no guide,

Nor voice sounding, nor touch of human hand,

Nor face with blooming flesh, nor lips, nor eyes, are in that land.

I know it not O soul,

Nor dost thou, all is a blank before us,

All waits undreamed of in that region, that inaccessible land.

Till when the ties loosen,

All but the ties eternal, time and space,

Nor darkness, gravitation, sense, nor any bounds bounding us.

Then we burst forth, we float,

In time and space O soul, prepared for them,

Equal, equipt at last, (O joy! O fruit of all!) them to fulfil O soul.

The second half of the concert was Mahler’s Sixth Symphony. It was great, although it lasted over an hour, and I especially enjoyed the swirling tensions in the fourth movement. There are three times in the final movement which call for a percussionist to pick up a five-foot wooden hammer and slam it down on the stage. Apparently, Mahler was superstitious and the program notes said that he removed the third hammer strike for reasons other than musical. Many times nowadays, this final hammer blow is added in.

The effect was profound and electricity hung in the air as we all anticipated the final blow toward the finale. The percussionist lifted the hammer like he was John Henry and the whole audience braced themselves in anticipation and tension. He swung it down, but stopped short of hitting anything. He quietly put down the instrument and left the stage, creating a profound effect that achieved even a greater level than Mahler probably would have intended. It was an ingenious way to respect both the music and the composer. (And to comment on WWIII???) Plus the conductor, Jun’ichi Hirokami, was a small man of large cartoon-like animation and intensity…at times it was more fun to watch what he was getting out of the musical experience than to actually listen.

Now that I am officially on spring break, I am taking time to write some papers and trying my best to fight a cold that’s coming on at the most inopportune of times. I have 25 days to spend, to relax, to learn. I’m going to take advantage of an ideal opportunity: a country that has much to offer in the way of geographic proximity, my small budget, cultural experiences, and sun…heat…beaches…mountains. On Sunday night, I’m flying to Málaga, Spain, where I’ll spend the night and the next morning meet up with my friend Nicolas from Boston. From there (well, actually Algeciras), we’ll embark for the world’s longest short trip–the ferry ride across the Straights of Gibraltar from Spain to Morocco. I spent a few days in al-Magreb (“the land furthest west of the setting sun”) last summer and was blown away by what it had to offer. The transition itself is mind-boggling. Going from a first-world, Roman Catholic, industrialized nation to a third-world, Muslim, largely agrarian society. Our first destination is Marrakech, the city of flying carpets, snake charmers, open air markets, spices, bright colors, and bright sunny skies (86F today…that’s almost 30 degrees centigrade).

There’s a misconception among people I’ve spoken with that Morocco is a dangerous land full of drugs and bandits and uncivilized heathens. Yes, it is cheap and not as technologically advanced as we are (around $2 a night for a hotel, $1 for a restaurant meal, etc.), but the people are incredibly hospitable and it’s actually safer than any Western European country…definitely safer than the US. If you don’t believe me, I recommend reading up about it and you’ll feel much more confident. Aside from the occasional pesky hustler, there aren’t really any problems (health-wise, cultural, etc.). I would even argue that in some ways it’s morally advanced in comparison to the Western world. So no worrying!

My loose itinerary includes Marrakech, Essaouria (a beach resort town on the Atlantic coast…it will be only the fourth visit to the beach in my life), Ouarzazate (a mountain area full of Berber tribes and villages), M’hamid (on the edge of the Sahara desert). I hope to drink lots of sweet mint tea, eat plenty of couscous and tajine, and see the sun again. Other things I will do if given the chance include a camel trek through the desert and a visit to the hammam, a.k.a. Turkish bath–a steam room and deep massage given by muscle-bound experts. I am very excited and trying my best to fight off the Romantic concept of the Oriental world–all those Casablanca, Lawrence of Arabia, and English Patient preconceptions are clouding my thoughts. Internet access is widely available, so I’m sure you’ll be getting at least some play-by-play commentary.

Lately I have been fighting this hyper-Romantic “Mystery of Life” ideal and trying to replace it with a much more rewarding “Magic of Life” approach. I want free myself, to allow myself to have things happen rather than going about trying to create things (which are ultimately based on my distorted outlooks and prejudices). Morocco should be beneficial in this respect–I’ve always wanted a nice dose of the exotic (i.e., a reality check: all of us are pretty much the same at heart) to give me some perspective.

So it’s off to Northern Africa once again, and hopefully I’ll come back with a richer soul.

Until then,

Ma’ as-salama (go without fear).

Ryan

Stuck in Lancashire

Tue, 20 Mar 2001 00:00:00 +0000

I took it easy last weekend and stayed relatively put. Although my days weren’t as extensively packed as my previous few weekends have been, it was nice for a change. Plus i have a 25-day spring break looming on the horizon (at the end of next week).

On Friday, I hopped on the train and took the 20-minute journey south to Liverpool, where I was going to check out the Walker Art Gallery. Unfortunately, it’s only open on weekends until May. So I went next door to the Liverpool Museum. That’s the funny thing about Britain–its abundance of museums means you’re always next door to another museum. Just don’t go in the museums that are marked “Private” or “Ladies”–these seem to be temporarily closed to the general public. Although most highlight the perfections of cutlery, silverware, and porcelain, there are quite a few gems in every town. However, these gems are not always consistent. For example, in Chester, there’s the Grosvenor Museum which has Roman tombstones, portraits, and silver dishes on display. I’m not sure if the curator has eclectic tastes or is raiding charity shops. In the crypt of York Minster–alongside the spot where Constantine was crowned Emperor of Rome and the tombs of many great men from Norman times onwards, there’s a large display of silver dishes and cups.

The same goes with the Liverpool Museum. Although strangely absent of silver dishes and cups, there was everything from electronic music to what “commoner” life was like in ancient Greece, Egypt, and Roman artifacts to the British space program (which I had no idea existed). The best part of this experience was that I only paid £1.50, which also gets me into seven other museums in town as many times as I want for the next 12 months.

I also paid another visit to the Tate Gallery Liverpool, which never ceases to amaze me. Although the things I wanted to see again were all circulated with new paintings and sculptures, I have a new urge to return again. Especially since it’s free. The Pound Sterling remains 50% stronger than the U.S. Dollar, but 0 x 1.5 = 0, which I like very much.

Saturday was St. Patrick’s Day. I did not make the trip to Ireland, unfortunately, but did the next best thing. Liverpool has the largest Irish population in Britain (I think it’s due to its geographical location and industrial past…but I might be wrong). I met some Irish guys from my hall at an Irish pub for the fabled £1 pint of Guinness. It was really £2.50, which is outrageous. It didn’t even have a shamrock carved in the foam, something you’d expect for £2.50. We ended up visiting three or four pubs and I watched my British & Irish friends fork out pound after pound and fade into incoherence and near bankruptcy. I didn’t have the cash for the St. Patty’s Day Extortion Rate, so I made well sure to enjoy my Guinness drop by drop.

Supposedly, Ormskirk is situated near some incredible walking trails (waterfalls, ponds, woods, hills), but all I could find is a “nature reserve” down the road from the college called Ruff Wood. After a total view of the park which took a dazzling 15 minutes, I appropriately renamed it “Ruff Piece of Wood.” I have higher aspirations for the glorified vistas of West Lancashire next weekend. I WILL find the waterfalls, even if they’re only two feet high (I have a gnawing feeling).

I have also bought tickets for Saturday night to a world-famous club in Liverpool called Cream. Supposedly, it’s a Saturday night favorite among British celebrities and 4,000 - 6,000 other, less famous people. It will be an interesting experience as I have never been fully exposed to the rigors of pure, nosebleed techno music or a culture that enjoys it and incessant, oftentimes pill-induced dancing. As long as there’s a place to sit and watch people–and a place to momentarily find a retreat from the monotonous drum-&-bass–I should be all right.

Amsterdam

Tue, 13 Mar 2001 00:00:00 +0000

I stepped off the bus and nearly got plowed over by a woman on a bicycle. I didn’t see her at first–my back was to her–but i did hear a tinny, incessant ringing of a bell, a far-off sound like something you’d find in a stuffy library. It kept chiming and sounded somewhat near, so I turned around and saw a woman on a bicycle, still ringing the bell and looking rather annoyed. She didn’t say anything or even attempt to–she kept ringing the bell in a rhythm that resembled High Germanic-based language speech patterns as if her voice box was surgically removed and placed on the bicycle handlebars. Apparently, “Ring, ring-rr-ringggggg” means the Dutch equivalent of “Get out of my way or I’ll run you over.”

Finally someone pointed out to me that it wasn’t the sidewalk I was standing on. I thought I was on the sidewalk, safe from the onslaught of traffic, but apparently I had a couple feet more to the left before I would be on the designated pedestrian area. I was standing in the middle of a bicycle highway. My life flashed before my eyes as I nearly avoided a permanent tattoo of my visit to Amsterdam: a 2" wide black rubber line–tire treads and all–across my forehead.

I looked around (from the real sidewalk this time) and saw a mad rush of bicycles scurrying down the streets, across the canals, and avoiding other unsuspecting pedestrians like it was a high art form or an Olympic sport. Bicycles were chained over bridges, creatively installed in buildings, anything that would keep them intact until their next use. It was clear who had the right of way in this city.

There was a little motor traffic of course, since Amsterdam is a city of three quarters of a million, but the tram and bikes cut down on it significantly to make it seem clean, relaxed, and quiet. A series of symmetrical canals cut through the center (apparently, it’s possible to navigate the town via boat, but I didn’t have the money for that option)…narrow, multicolored, multi-storied buildings sprung up next to each other in amazing consistency. The beauty of this town was incredible (although I’m still partial to Bath).

I think the best part of the city was the museums. There was a massive Van Gogh Museum and ten minutes later, you’d stumble on the Rijksmuseum (Dutch art and Dutch history), one that took me hours and hours to go through. For the more sophisticated tastes (which are not my own), apparently there’s a Hashish en Marihuana Museum, the Erotic Museum, the Sexmuseum, the Tattoomuseum, etc.

Wherever we went, we were greeted in perfect English–even though there’s Dutch blood in me, I guess I don’t look Dutch enough. I didn’t have to open my mouth before a Dutch person would start talking in almost unaccented, conversational English. And things were much cheaper than they are in the UK, something I like very much.

Now I’m sure you’ve all heard about how everything is legal in the Netherlands. This isn’t really true. The police choose not to prosecute soft drugs (cannabis, psilocybe mushrooms, peyote, mescaline, things like that), which explains the existence of “coffee shops” that don’t just sell coffee and “smart shops” that don’t really make you any smarter. Prostitution is another thing that is technically legal, where you can walk up and down the Red Light District and look at women degrading themselves in windows, waiting to be bought. Although it’s their own initiative that *usually* puts them there and I can’t complain about that, it didn’t leave me feeling any better about humanity…wondering if it would be a happier world if they put their minds to use rather than their bodies. Not especially the greatest feeling in the world.

I also read that euthanasia is now legal in the Netherlands but didn’t see any suicide shops, for those of you who were wondering.

It would be safe to say that Amsterdam is a fairly liberal city, but they do it with grace and order, where human desires are met (for the most part) with moderation and class. Although my tour through the Red Light District was constantly interrupted by pushers on the street offering ecstasy, crack, cocaine, whatever, I still felt very safe and saw that no, the world was not coming to an end. At least because of this.

I think I’m going to take it easy next weekend and go walking through western Lancashire.

Ryan

London

Thu, 08 Mar 2001 00:00:00 +0000

Last weekend, i stepped off the Virgin direct line from Liverpool Lime Street to London, the capital of the largest empire the world has ever known. In many ways, London today seems to wear this title very well, very effortlessly, although the United Kingdom isn’t really that united (an IRA bomb went off outside BBC headquarters when i was there) nor is it really a kingdom (not much of a queen-dom either). On the other hand, London can seem like less of a capital of this great nation than a nation in its own right.

I tried to pack my short time there with as many experiences as possible. I saw my first musical last Friday night–Les Miserables, which was pretty phenomenal. The actors used a rotating stage, a brilliant idea as it blended together the illusion of distance, various special effects, and scene changes seamlessly. Watching the characters running in circles also made me think of how the French Revolutionary probably felt–getting dizzy but not really getting anywhere else.

I also saw the typical tourist sites of Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament (of which Big Ben is part of), St. Paul’s Cathedral (from the dome of this masterpiece you can see the whole city, believe it or not), Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Soho, Chinatown, parts of the West End, etc. Since i’ve never been to such a city of massive importance and universal recognition (well, besides Sioux City, Iowa), these sites seemed almost surreal…like I was living in a post card.

I also realized that although I’ve been speaking English all my life (or a language similar to it), I still don’t know how to pronounce many place names from the motherland of my mother tongue. For example, Leicester Square is pronounced “lester” and Gloucester is “gloster.” Warwick is “warrick” and Norwich is “norridge.” Grosvenor is obviously “grove-ner.” Edinburgh doesn’t sound similar to Pittsburgh–no, it’s closer to Edinbruh. If you can understand the look of fear I got the other day when I saw Vegetable Au Poivre on the menu and tried to pronounce it, that’s one thing. But take me out of the lunchroom and into the country where everyone assumes to speak English and I can’t understand anything that’s going on…well, it’s a disorienting feeling.

There are plenty of times where I don’t have a clue about what’s going on around me, and that’s just at home. But here in England–where the language and culture are so much different and where people drive on the wrong side of the road–I can feel absolutely lost. We went out to a club in Piccadilly Circus on Saturday. I’ve been here long enough to know that it’s expected to dress up when you go out–an alien visitor might think the British go to church three to seven nights a week, dressed in their Sunday best–so I tried my best to blend in and look somewhat presentable.

I knew that at this particular club, there was no admission fee since it was before 10 p.m. But for some reason there were three bouncers standing outside stopping people. I wasn’t sure if it was for security purposes or because British people love standing in lines. When we finally got to the front, my friends were waved in but one bouncer took interest in me. He looked me up and down like I was on display. After a few seconds, he said I was refused admission. Why? “Too casual.” He turned away before I could say anything.

Now I know it’s not my place to comment on other cultures, be it British or the generic, world-wide club culture, but does it really make sense to do this? Of course, to a certain extent–it makes economic sense to attract a certain upscale, classy clientele. Maybe I was upset because I made an actual effort to look nice and someone told me that I didn’t. Maybe it’s the Thoreau I read on the train on the way down ("

\[I\]

f my jacket and trousers, my hat and shoes, are fit to worship God in, they will do; will they not?"). Maybe it’s the fact that we call ourselves an advanced society but pay people good money to stand outside and openly judge and discriminate–and call it acceptable practice.

But we went to another club next door where I had lots of fun. And they had San Miguel cerveza española too.

The highlights of London for me were the National Gallery, the British Museum, and Speakers Corner. I can’t say I saw the entire National Gallery since it could easily consume the better part of three days. From what I did see, I can only say that I hope to go back (Raphael to Da Vinci to Rembrandt to Velázquez to Cézanne etc., etc., etc.). The British Museum is equally as massive, equally as free. I saw some of the Egyptian rooms: mummies, sarcophagi, 30 ft. statues erected by Ramses II…some of the North/South Amerindian artifacts…a little of the sub-Saharan African treasures. Apparently the Rosetta Stone is in there (among other things, of course), but I’d get lost trying to find it. My visit to those three exhibits were rushed and found myself again asking for three days to sufficiently explore what it had to offer. You can see how massive London is when you can spend nearly a week in just two of its buildings.

Sundays are a good day to be in London, especially in Hyde Park. The park is full of countless recreational soccer games inspired by Saturday’s professional matches and visitors out for a quiet stroll. One particular corner in Hyde Park is known throughout the world as Speakers Corner, a testament to free speech, where people have packed the sidewalk with soapboxes, crates, and stepladders for over 150 years. Every Sunday you can come and listen to a myriad of ideas or offer something to say yourself. From my experience, I realized that I don’t have a lot of relevant things to say, so I decided to listen.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting–the place has been host to such minds as Karl Marx, V.I. Lenin, and George Orwell–but things always have a way of turning out to be different from what you’d ever imagine. I walked into an uproar. People on stepladders were shouting on all sides of me. “Repent or Die!”, “Israel is committing the new holocaust!”, “Mohammed is God’s Prophet!”. People in the crowds were shouting back at the speakers, shouting at each other. Impromptu circles were formed where the audience were discussing their philosophical differences with each other at heightened decibels. In many ways, it was awful. But in many ways it was so good.

It such a volatile atmosphere, the police presence was comforting–it was clear evidence that these arguments can easily grow out of control and fists can be thrown at any moment. One man was doing his thesis on Islam and discussed what he saw as fundamental flaws in Christianity. He was heckled disrespectfully by devout-looking men I assumed to be Christian. “Jesus saves! He is the only way!” Another man, two speakers down, spoke about what he saw as contradictions in Mohammed’s word and the fundamental flaws in Islam. He was heckled by what I perceived to be Muslims: “Islam is here to stay. Love it or leave it!” “God cannot be man!” No one seemed that eager to listen. Everyone seemed bent on solving these problems that instant, things that have plagued humanity for at least 2000 years.

Other interesting speakers included messages about the evils of capitalism, the necessity of atheism, the Palestinian plight, the New Jerusalem in Nigeria, and tales of government conspiracy. It was fascinating for me that in such a small place in a corner of a London park, people take time out of their days to come and listen to the questions and answers plaguing our world today. Although I would argue that some people get more out of the experience than others (“You’re WRONG!!” “No, YOU’RE wrong!” “You’re wrong!” “What was it we were talking about again?”), I think making some semblance of minimal effort to listen to what someone else has to say changes you into a more educated person, even if ever so slightly. Of course, some speakers have misguided intentions to bring others to commit negative, destructive actions…but learning to discern from these and them is an important lesson in itself.

You can read more about this fascinating place here:

I think the thing I liked about London the most is the fact that I must visit it again.

…But tonight, it’s off to Amsterdam.

Ryan

More about England

Tue, 27 Feb 2001 00:00:00 +0000

Last week, the UK government discovered a highly contagious virus in some pigs in the southeast (County Essex) called foot and mouth disease. In the past few days, there have been reports of the disease spreading all over the country and even a few in France. This incident has put a ban on all movement of domesticated animals for the next seven days. National parks, zoos, and slaughterhouses are all closed until this mess gets sorted out. There will be no importing or exporting of meat products during this ban. If there is any sort of panic (i.e., people stocking up on meat), the entire country will have a food shortage. Entire generation-spanning farms are going under as many farmers are still struggling to cope after the mad cow outbreak five years ago.

With the prospect of a food (well, meat if that counts as food–many apologies to my non-vegetarian friends) shortage, I realize that I have been experiencing many new situations you would never find at home in the US. For example, there was a “marking action” at the beginning of the semester where union professors refused to give last semester’s results to the students. This Thursday there’s a national, organized student walkout to protest the cost of higher education in the UK (I find it hard to agree with since I’m paying over 1350% more a year for education than they are–but their intentions are good). The atmosphere is definitely electric and with the new elections coming up any time…who knows what’s going to happen.

Anyway, enough about politics–let’s talk fun. This weekend I did more than I should have (meaning I spent more than I should have) and visited Llandudno, Bangor, and Llanberis (near Mt. Snowdon and Dolbadarn Castle) in North Wales; Shrewsbury; Salisbury; Stonehenge; and Bath. Yeah, it’s crazy–I know.

Northern Wales is probably the most beautiful part of Britain I’ve seen so far. It doesn’t rain as much as in the Lake District…the hills and valleys are littered with tourist-free castles in their natural, unspoiled atmosphere…and the pace of life is laid-back and easy-going.

Signs are posted in Welsh and in English. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Welsh, you’ve never seen anything like it. Hearing it spoken on street is a beautiful thing but in writing it tends to look awkward to those who have never seen anything Welsh other than the name Lloyd.

“Prynhawn da. Ydych chi’n siarad saesneg? Beth ydy’ch henw chi? Dydw i ddim yn deall. Da boch chi, hwyl fawr.”

Walking alongside the beach in Llandudno, I saw a sign that had fallen on the ground. It was in Welsh and English. It was about not letting your dog foul on the beach. If it does, clean it up. It’s proudly on display in my room here in Ormskirk if any of you want to see it.

Ble mae’r toiled?

After seeing stunning vistas and having castles in the middle of nowhere all to ourselves explore, we took a train down to Shrewsbury and spent the night. In many ways, the town reminded me of Chester with the half-timbered, half-falling-over Tudor-style houses. After that, we went down to Salisbury, visited the cathedral, accidentally got locked in the cathedral close. All the hostels in Salisbury were full and we finally found a pub with rooms to rent upstairs. That night in the pub we met some very…umm, excited men from Southampton. They were in some sort of band and the singer was anxious to make up ditties about anyone he met. He thought the guy I was with looked like Brad Pitt.

Brad and Ryan,

Brad and Ryan from the USA!

\[Hey, my name is Greg, not Brad!\]

Brad and Ryan from the USA

They came over on a big white plane

If it wasn’t Virgin it’s all the same

Brad and Ryan from the USA!

Then he started singing about his vertically challenged friend:

Although he’s only 4 foot 3

\[Hey, I'm 5 foot 3!\]

Although he’s only 4 foot 3

He’s a father of a boy and girl, you see.

Ad nauseum. It was great stuff and something I’ll never forget. If you want me to, I can sing it…I doubt the guy even remembered singing in the first place, much less taking out a copyright.

Stonehenge was an experience. I tried hard to ignore the droves of tourists, the two highways that cut right next to the rocks and the giftshop directly next to it selling “Stonehenge tea” and “Rock cakes.” Apparently the government is in the process of allocating funds to move the roads out of sight, move the visitor’s center far, far away, and give tourists access to the 400 acre area. Some much needed ambiance. Although it’s an incredible engineering achievement of early humanity, I don’t think I’ll be going back until some major redesign of the area is completed.

On Sunday and Monday, we visited the ancient town of Bath. It’s called that because early Romans smelled so bad that the original Britons threw them in the hot springs that are under the city. Actually, that’s not true…I just made that up.

In truth, the city is one of the most architecturally perfect cities in the world and the Georgian honey-colored buildings look brilliant in the setting sun. There are terraced waterfalls through the river that flows through town and massive, sprawling buildings that inspired me. I’m not one to usually be inspired by buildings. It was a blessed change from multitudes of ugly, concrete, post-WWII city centers that curse this country in many towns.

Bath is also a thriving music and arts center, so I had a wonderful time taking in the sights and sounds.

And tastes.

We were walking past a big building with a sign outside that said, “Today: Indian Food Tasting Party for Indian Earthquake Relief.” For those of you who don’t know, Indian food is the way to this man’s heart. And it was for a good cause! I was inside a heartbeat. All of the sudden, I was surrounded by a horde of women in bright-colored saris, all putting food on my plate. “You must try this.” “This has been in the family for generations.” “You can’t eat a proper meal without some of this!” When my plate so full that it was about to break in half, I tried to find a place to sit. No luck. A woman saw me struggling for a seat and came and grabbed me, literally pulling me back to the buffet. “You haven’t had enough!” she said and piled more of her own special recipe on my plate. After I ate all that food (which is more than humanly possible), some women gave me two cartons more of food, “for the road.” It was so good that it was all gone two hours later.

If we only had things like this at home there would be no reason to ever leave.

Ryan

Next week: London, as seen through the eyes of a native.

Overheard on a train: “Next stop, Piccadilly Gardens.”

“Daddy, I have a Piccadilly in my sandwich!”

PS I have heard from many of you who didn’t like/understand my “play.” I am terribly sorry about that and terribly sorry for those who did understand but still didn’t get it. I will try to explain my warped sense of humor if the need arises.

A Week and a Half in England Already!

Wed, 31 Jan 2001 00:00:00 +0000

I have just realized that i come from one of the most misunderstood countries in this world. Contrary to common belief here, no, there are not 52 states in the U.S.; “Friends” is not representative of American life; and I don’t play American football, drive a fast sports car, and have a cheerleader for a girlfriend. Most Britons in this area have never met a living, breathing American—and from the volume of American pop culture that floods their TVs, radios, and cinemas it is obvious where some of these sometimes strange conceptions come from. Except for the 52 states. That just blows my mind.

I have also found that my conceptions of British life were particularly misleading. Although a certain degree reservation is apparent in society, it definitely is not a cold, quiet place. Most people on the streets are glad to give directions and have a little chat about the weather or what it’s like on the other side of the Atlantic or anything else for that matter. In fact, being an American is such a novelty here that I find sometimes when I’m speaking in class everyone will turn around and watch with an overwhelming sense of fascination. It seems to be an outgoing, passionate country which is something not very well represented in our attitudes and understandings of the Brits.

Last Wednesday I ventured down to Liverpool to see what was going on with the Chinese New Year celebrations and met up with some fellow American students at the train station. We made it down to the pier and Albert Dock, stopping at the Tate Gallery of Liverpool to take in some art. The gallery is great, although a bit overbearing. There’s a great representation of Impressionist to modern day British art, along with a floor dedicated to contemporary American art. On the third floor is a collage exhibition by Peter Blake (think the album cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band) which chronicles the history of collage, outlining its powers to comment on political and social situations along with quite a few works by Blake himself (along with a couple of things done by Paul McCartney, which I didn’t really like that much). McCartney recorded a CD especially for the exhibition as a kind of a soundtrack. Great stuff.

I made it down to the red sandstone Anglican cathedral which was completed in 1978. It was massive but lacking the history of some of the other cathedrals in this country. I finally found my way to Chinatown but found nothing going on, ate a Cantonese meal of questionable quality (and worse results) and came back to Ormskirk.

Last weekend i went down to both Chester and Manchester, one being a beautiful city full of Roman and medieval history and the other an homage to the Industrial Revolution and bad city planning. Chester is an incredible place, full of Roman relics (a full wall around the city, an amphitheater) and two-tier Tudor architecture. Most of the cathedral was built in the 1200s and stone caskets are on display (among a great deal of other relics) from the 1100s. There was a great sense of ambiance and spirituality here that was lacking in Liverpool’s Anglican cathedral, although Chester’s was quite smaller. I also found a museum that had some great displays of Roman life in Chester with quite a few perfectly intact tombstones that were found in the city walls during renovations.

In Manchester we stayed with a friend who lived at home with his parents so I got to experience a great deal of English culture that is lacking in the dorms. And tea and crumpets. There was a large Chinese New Year celebration on Sunday, with kung-fu demonstrations, t’ai chi, a dragon, and deafening fireworks. Chinatown was packed and the festivities were a bit disappointing. I managed to stay in the spirit of things and catch a Chinese movie called Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. This, on the other hand, was far from disappointing. Although the whole movie is in Mandarin and there’s subtitles (which can get distracting), it’s still an incredible film and very much worth seeing.

I have the dream schedule here at Edge Hill—no Thursday afternoon classes, no classes Friday, and no classes Monday, which gives me a lot of flexibility with my weekends. The only hard part is deciding with place to go. I think I may stick around Ormskirk this weekend and make a few daytrips to get acquainted with Liverpool (the nearest big city) and maybe even make it up to Blackpool and Lancaster. Who knows…I still have a day to decide.

Well, I think that’s about it for now. More to come soon.

Ryan Barnes

Ye Jolly Olde England

Mon, 22 Jan 2001 00:00:00 +0000

INVENTORY

Item 1:

Wallet containing, among other things–
US$300
£40 Irish
Credit card
ATM card
Driver’s license

Item 2:

Pair of pants with ~ £18 Irish in a pocket

I decided to make a side trip in Dublin, Ireland before I began my studies here at Edge Hill College in England. So Thursday morning I awoke to the first of my four day excursion well rested in the Dublin International Youth Hostel. However, one of two items I listed above missing.

…

I would much rather be walking around Dublin in my boxers and missing £18, but unfortunately it’s the other way around.

Although my day was slightly tainted because of the theft, I managed to get by, finding many free sites in the city center and sneaking past distracted cathedral workers. I can’t say the meals were excellent or my spirits the highest in a strange, foreign land by myself with very little money (if you’d even call it that), but I did have an excellent time. Considering the circumstances.

The literary history of Ireland is profound and Dublin’s museums (The James Joyce Centre, The James Joyce Museum, Irish Writers’ Centre) give due justice to this great tradition. I also stumbled upon some incredible art galleries (for example, blindly running into a well-hidden H.L. Lane Museum and finding Degas’s L’Absinthe inside). The Book of Kells was beyond my budget, but the rest of Trinity College was free, as was Dublin Castle, Temple Bar (a large pedestrian historic area), and the Chester Beatty Library (whose collection has even more than just original papyrus scrolls of all four Gospels, ancient religious artifacts from all major world traditions, and books from medieval times).

By the end of the trip, I was able to see possibly more than I would have if I had the money, maybe even a value of personal enrichment that exceeds $350. But I don’t want to think about it just yet–it’s still a touchy subject. Right before I left Ireland I even managed to scrape up my final pence for a pint of Guinness on the River Liffey (and yes, it does taste even better in Dublin for some reason).

I arrived in Ormskirk, England, the other day and college food has never tasted so good, especially after five days without a decent, full meal (unless you have a peculiar taste for water, an apple, cheese and a small loaf of bread every day from the market).

I think my replacement credit card arrives either today or tomorrow and will be relieved when it comes. England is a terrific place so far, but money would be nice.

Well, I’m off for now and once England settles in a bit I’ll write more. Don’t anyone tell my family about this escapade just yet….

Ryan Barnes

Overheard:

English guy at a club: The American is rapping in the correct manner, would you say?