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Monthly Archives: March 2010
Like Grand Central Station … if Laos had trains
Our house sits on a main road through Thongkang Village in Vientiane. Directly across from our gate is a collection of vendors selling fruit, vegetables, dried fish, grilled meat, clothes, coffee, fruit shakes, sticky rice, air for your bike tires, eggs, toiletries and other sundries.
It’s a real hot spot.
We often open our gate to see parked tuk-tuks with drivers napping in the back, cars left running while their owners grab some lunch, schoolchildren in uniform purchasing icy drinks on a hot day, stray dogs scrounging for scraps and other activity.
Once a truck-o-monks pulled up with a huge gold Buddha draped in Christmas lights and blasting music. Villagers scrambled out to throw money at it.
Today, I heard drums and singing so I wandered out to find this crew. They might be representatives of the village temple. Not sure. (Yeah, the composition is pretty lame. I snapped it too quickly.)
Again, the locals were dropping money in the silver pot. So I stood in line and did the same. The lady with the glasses tied an orange string around my wrist and rattled off what I think was a blessing. As I dropped my 5,000-kip note (about 60 cents) into the pot, I saw the pile of other bills and realized I was giving about 10 times the usual donation. Rookie mistake. Maybe my blessing was actually the Lao version of “Sucka!”
Oh, notice the jackets and hats? That’s because today’s high is a bone-chilling 85F/29C degrees. When you’re used to temps in the 100s, you gotta bundle up on days like this.
Lovin’ the Lantern Bug
Sitting under my mango tree a few weeks ago, I looked up to see this guy on a branch. I ran inside to get my camera, shrieking for Tony the whole time.
I had to balance with one foot on my patio table and one foot braced against the tree to get a close enough shot, and I was scared the whole time that the bizarre bug would suddenly attack my face or blast venom from its freaky nose. Fortunately, it just sat there. Later that evening it was gone, and we’ve never seen it or any of its ilk again.
I’ve been trying to find out the name of that strange yard guest, but when I did a Google image search of “laos insects,” the results featured mainly edible market fare. Today, I gave it another whirl. I entered “Laos insect long nose.” Score!
Turns out our little visitor is known as Pyrops candelaria, although his friends call him Lantern Bug.
Here’s some info from the Lantern Bug website:
The lantern bug can grow from 1.5 to 3 inches long from head to thorax and has a wingspan of about 2 to 2.5 inches wide, depending on the species. It has a long beak, called its rostrum, which it uses to suck the juice out flowers and fruits. The lantern bug is an herbivore. Lantern bugs are called thus because of their bright usually contrasting colors. Their actual coloring varies for each genus but the colors are bright enough for them to earn their name, despite the fact that no lantern bug actually emits any light at all.
Feelings About Footy
Working overseas with a diverse group of colleagues is a sure-fire way to discover how little you know.
Oh, I thought I knew about football. Kids (usually boys) play it in high school, decked out in lots of protective gear. After graduation, it becomes a spectator sport associated with terms such as “first down” and “10 yards to go” and “touchdown.”
Teaching abroad, I quickly found out that my understanding of “football” was limited to “American football,” a virtual nonentity beyond U.S. borders.
In Turkey, I learned that “football” meant “soccer.” Round ball, no downs, no yards, no hands, no pads. You score a goal, not a touchdown.
In China, I met quite a few Australians and New Zealanders for whom “football” meant rugby. Elliptical ball, forward kicking, backward passing, no protective gear. You score a try.
Now here we are in Laos, and I went to my first Australian Rules football game yesterday. This “football” was the most unfamiliar one yet. Oval field and ball. Lots and lots of running, bouncing the ball every few steps, passing with a volleyball-esque fist pop, four goalposts, brutal tackling (again, no protection; we Americans are such wussies). You score a goal or a behind.
Our local team, the Lao Elephants, had never trained together, and I heard that some of the guys were playing the sport for the first time. Their opponents, the Vietnam Swans, were a bit intimidating with their flashy uniforms and organized warm-up drills.
Aussie friends Kimbra and Simon sent their tips from Shanghai:
Our advice for the footy is swear a lot, call out “oh come on” a lot, call out “too high” a lot, call out “held ball” a lot, call out “ball” a lot and, when the player on the opposite team needs to concentrate, call out “chewy on your boot.”
I particularly liked that last one, although I didn’t understand it. I tried it out at a pub the night before the game … except that I botched it and said, “Chew on your booty!” The Australians at the pub assured me this was NOT something to yell at the game. After checking my e-mail again, I got the phrase right, and I was informed that it refers to “chewy” aka “chewing gum” being stuck on an opposing player’s “boot” aka “shoe,” thus mocking his inability to run. So much to learn, so little time.
My sports-flunky take on Aussie Rules: Like I do with most sporting events, I tended to chat with fellow spectators more than actually watch the game, and despite patient explanations from those around me, I couldn’t really follow the action or make any sense of the scorekeeping. However, I found it fast, exciting and entertaining. That’s more than I can say for American football.
For me, though, “footy” is still just a sock.
You might recognize a couple of the guys from the Team Dai photos. Pauly (back row, far left) and Paa (second row, far left) were on the support crew, and Adam (back, third from right) cycled with the team.
The nurse who usually attends these games apparently couldn’t make it. Ingrid, who works for ElefantAsia was put in charge, so she brought along an elephant first aid kit that they distribute to mahouts (elephant caretakers/trainers).
A possible explanation for the Vietnam team’s triumph.
Team Dai Route Map
Here’s a roughly drawn map of Team Dai‘s route.
Day 1: Purple
Day 2: Red
Day 3: Green
View Team Dai 2010 in a larger map
Team Dai 2010 – A Few Final Thoughts…
Amazingly we experienced very few casualties – human or mechanical. Every bike and every rider made it to the finish line, not necessarily in top form, but that didn’t matter. Over three days, we had a total of four flat tires, fortunately belonging to riders who – unlike me – knew how to fix them. Several of us had problems with our gears and chains. My chain fell off repeatedly on that last day, and I often had to turn back down mid-hill to get all the parts working again before tackling the ascent. One rider, Nanny, actually had to get off her bike and manually move the chain if she wanted to shift gears. As we wrapped up our ride, Nanny turned to me and said, “Well, I think we learned a valuable lesson about buying cheap, crappy bikes!” Ain’t that the truth?!
Physically, I’m a wreck. In addition to the predictable sore muscles, windburn and chafing, I’m also black and blue. No, I didn’t fall off my bike. But I DID fall down a short flight of stairs at the first hotel. I didn’t trip; I just toppled over backwards and banged up my elbow and leg. I also sustained some minor injuries the morning after we arrived in Phonsavanh, when we visited the Plain of Jars. How can you visit human-sized jars and not feel compelled to climb inside one? I scraped up my knees pretty badly. Serves me right. On the way out of the archeological site, we saw a big sign warning tourists not to climb all over the jars.
As my sister Megan said so supportively this morning, “No offense, but I just can’t believe YOU did it.” I’m not offended because I, too, can’t believe it. In January, when we started training in earnest, I doubted my ability to complete the three-day ride, and that nagging insecurity plagued me right up until we arrived at the ice-cream shop in Phonsavanh. For some riders in our group, athletic challenges are a drug, and maybe their sense of accomplishment was muted by so many other similar ones. For me, this was most likely a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I’m savoring it.
Team Dai held a promotional event Friday at the COPE Visitor Center here in Vientiane to present the big prop “check” to our three beneficiaries: COPE, Handicap International, and Deak Kum Pa Orphanage. Through private donations and raffle ticket sales, we raised more than $17,000. If you visit the Team Dai website, you can see a list of all the private donors. On that list of 122 people, I can proudly claim a disproportionate 15 friends and family members. I feel deeply grateful for your generosity and heart-felt support. Thank you so much!
Posing with the big check.
Drawing the raffle tickets. That’s a mobile made from the “bombies” at the COPE Visitor Center.
One of our riders, Mark, won the Amazon gift certificate.
Last night, we had a big celebration at the Mekong-side home of team member Jeremy. Grete couldn’t make it, but she sent a box of chocolates, including big chocolate letters spelling out “TEAM DAI.”
Our fearless leader, Wil, is moving back to Australia, but Maurice has agreed to take over the helm for next year. I’ve thought a lot about whether I’ll do it again. Most likely, I’ll find another obsession. That’s the way I work. But it sure was a wild ride!
Phonsavanh Tour & Homeward Bound
Our three-day bicycle trek ultimately dropped us in Xieng Khuang Province, which is generally known for two things: unexploded ordnance (UXO) and the Plain of Jars.
Here’s what the Lonely Planet guidebook says about UXO in Xieng Khuang:
Unexploded munitions, mortar shells, white phosphorus canisters (used to mark bomb targets), land mines and cluster bombs of French, Chinese, American, Russian and Vietnamese manufacture left behind by nearly 100 years of warfare have affected up to half of the population in terms of land deprivation and accidental injury or death. A preponderance of the reported UXO accidents that have occurred in Xieng Khuan happened during the first five years immediately following the end of the war, when many villagers returned to areas of the province they had evactuated years earlier. Today about 40% of the estimated 60 casualties per year are children, who continue to play with found UXO – especially the harmless-looking, ball-shaped ‘bomb light units’ (BLUs, or bombies) left behind by cluster bombs – in spite of warnings. Hunters also open or attempt to open UXO to extract gunpowder and steel pellets for their long-barrelled muskets – a risky ploy that has claimed many casualties. Several groups are working steadily to clear the province of UXO, including the Lao National UXO Programme (UXO Lao), financed by a UN trust fund that has significantly increased the availability of multilateral aid for this purpose.
I took these shots at a UXO visitors center.
We had a few spare hours before our flight back to Vientiane on Tuesday, so we hired a couple vans to take us out to see the Plain of Jars. The 2,000-year-old stone jars are scattered across several areas on the outskirts of Phonsavanh and remain a mystery. Were they used for human burial? Wine fermentation? Rice storage? Nobody knows for sure.
The UXO has to be cleared before they can excavate the jars.
Here’s a marker at one Plain of Jars site that shows the area has been cleared of UXO.
Nina (from the UK), Nanny, me, Julie. Nanny and Julie are both from my mom’s neck of the woods in Philadelphia. Small world!
Oops, my bad.
After a quick lunch, we headed to the bustling Phonsavanh Airport and caught our flight home.
Team Dai 2010 – Day THREE – Are We There Yet?
Day Three
Despite my muscles screaming in protest, I somehow mustered enthusiasm comparable to our first day’s adrenaline rush. Maybe it was the knowledge that it would all be over soon. Maybe it was the promise that the last 35 kilometers would be flat (which turned out to be a massive lie). Maybe it was the chocolate. For whatever reason, this was an awesome day.
The highlight was an extremely long downhill switchback (reported to be around 20+ kilometers/12+ miles) through lush forest and flowering trees. Few vehicles invaded my zen, but I did freak myself out when I looked down at my bike computer to realize I was zooming along at 53 kmh (32 mph) just before a sharp gravelly bend in the road. Reality check. Brakes. All was good.
The hills never really stopped, but we had a tailwind most of the time, and I felt re-energized every time I crested the top and sped back down.
We broke for lunch at the only restaurant around, but unfortunately it had closed. We sat on its shady deck overlooking a murky pond. More fruit. More chocolate. More granola bars. More motivation to get to the end of this day and eat a real meal. At the end of our break, I headed to the restroom, and when I emerged everyone was gone. I took up the rear with Wil, our wonderful coach and organizer, who always hung back to make sure we didn’t leave anyone behind. I rode hard to try to catch up, but I didn’t reach the team till the next rest stop. I wasn’t the only one who’d been ditched during bathroom breaks, so I didn’t take it personally. The end was in sight, and we were all very excited.
After another 15 kilometers, we regrouped to ride the last stretch together. The van led for a while, blasting “Eye of the Tiger” from the stereo. Finally, we arrived in Phonsavanh! Just a bit further, and we stopped at an ice cream shop (owned by a rider’s colleague’s family) for hugs of jubilation, as well as ice cream, French fries and beer.
After celebrating our success, it was painful to get back on the bike for the short ride to our hotel, particularly because our hotel – the lovely Auberge – was perched at the top of a HILL. As usual, I felt no shame walking my bike up the steep path, and I stepped, rather than rode, across the “finish line” with a wave and a whoop.
Thick with pine trees and overlooking the valley, the hotel’s property felt like an upscale campsite. After a decadently long shower, I joined the others for cocktails on the restaurant balcony. Later we enjoyed a three-course French-style dinner and laughed about the funny moments along our journey. All the new riders were given nicknames. Claiming that I always seemed to look clean and rarin’ to go, they dubbed me “Fresh.” What an illusion I pulled off!
Julie and Lieven raked in some donations on a dare: 20 minutes of riding with her in a Borat costume and him in his underpants. What troopers!
Scenes from today’s ride.
Peggy (who rode with us on a motorcycle) must have taken this shot when she stopped for gas. I love it!
This couple from London was staying at our guesthouse in Phou Khoun. They’re riding all over Thailand, Laos and Vietnam WITHOUT support vehicles. Ugh!
Almost there!
Mmmmm … beer. And ice cream. And French fries.
Stretching at the ice-cream shop.
Our lovely cabin at the Auberge hotel.
The view from our cabin.
Our bikes were loaded and ready to head home in the morning.
Cocktails on the deck, followed by fancy schmancy dinner! The pink flowers came from Maurice, a French rider, in honor of International Women’s Day. He gave them to us in the morning as we were lining up to leave Phou Khoun, and we ladies rode with them all day stuck on our helmets, bikes or jerseys.
Team Dai 2010 Ride – Day TWO – Hills of Hell
Day Two
I had been dreading this day since I first heard of Team Dai. Riders from the two previous years told horror stories about the road between Vang Vieng and Phou Koun. “Oh sure, you don’t ride as many kilometers that day,” they’d say in hushed voices, “but it’s straight up the whole way. It’s hell. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
No lie.
Although we rode fewer than 100 kilometers (62 miles), we pedaled from an elevation of about 260 meters (850 feet) to an elevation of about 1,300 meters (4,265 feet). These hills didn’t roll. There were no memorable moments of gratitude for the blessed descents. The road just wound up and up and up, and as the day wore on, the temperature did the same.
I cranked my “bike playlist” on my little iPod shuffle, but many times I couldn’t even stay in the saddle for one whole song. I had to stop at the roadside, catch my breath and slam some warm water (enriched with Royal-D, an orange-flavored electrolyte mix that we all grew to despise). With sweat pouring down my limbs (and every crack and crevice on my body), I was exhausted, overheated, chafed, and unbelievably cranky for most of the day.
Already deflated by the endless climb, my spirits took another hit when we rolled through several areas where fires raged on the hillsides. Slash-and-burn agriculture had blackened the mountains and the sad faces of the children lining the roads. Sometimes the flames licked out from the roadside ditches, heating my skin as I choked on the smoke-filled air. At the end of the day, I actually brushed cinders out of my teeth. Maybe I was projecting my own misery, but I felt a palpable desperation in these displaced tribal people.
I only had one reason to live this day: chocolate. Grete, a cyclist from Belgium, runs a catering company, bakery and gourmet food shop in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Her husband’s work brought them to Laos, where she sells her elegant Belgian chocolates. Grete whipped up a special collection just for Team Dai, and these chocolates were, for much of this agonizing second day, my only motivation to keep moving. At each rest stop, the support crew opened the cooler and pulled out boxes of the most incredible delicacies I’ve ever tasted – candied ginger coated with dark chocolate, crispy balls of milk chocolate with a center of gooey goodness, hard chocolate bars perfectly complemented by a fruity-grainy topping. Grete also donated the white jerseys we wore on this day.
As I neared the end of the day’s torture, I heard cheers from a hilltop restaurant, where faster team members waited for the rest of us. But I had long ago tossed all pride off the side of that mountain. I eagerly hopped off my bike and pushed it for the last 10 minutes. At the restaurant, we stared out over the valley at the winding road that had brought us to the top. “Are we insane?” we asked.
Phou Khoun isn’t a typical stopover for tourists in Laos, so the little town was poorly equipped for our group. We took most of the rooms at local guesthouses and then met for dinner. My roommate for the trip was Tina, a Swede who has a couple kids at our school. We took turns using the one washroom, where the “bath” involved filling a bucket with cold water and dumping it on yourself. The thought of getting up to ride again the next morning nearly brought me to tears.
Posing after a rest break outside of Vang Vieng.
Scenes along the route.
Slashing and burning.
JJ changes a flat tire while the local fan club cheers.
Pant … pant … pant … rest stop!
Posing at the top with Grete’s chocolate.
The restaurant owner at the top of the hill had Team Dai photos from LAST YEAR’S visit!
Looking back at the godforsaken road we took up the mountain.
We made it to Phou Koun! Hanging out at the town’s roundabout.
Chillin’ in our guesthouse “lounge.”
Team Dai 2010 Ride – Day ONE – Vang Vieng or Bust!
It’s the weekend, and I’m only just starting to feel like myself again. After cycling for three days, my abdominal muscles apparently locked in a crunch position and my hamstrings simply went on strike. We got back to Vientiane Tuesday afternoon, and I spent the rest of my week’s vacation lolling around the house, occasionally getting out of bed or off the sofa to get a snack. A few sun salutations this afternoon stretched out my tortured muscles, and I finally feel ready to revisit the Team Dai ride. So here goes, in bits and pieces.
Day One
Dressed in our orange Team Dai jerseys with the flashy “Ban Cluster Bombs” design, we gathered at 5 a.m. last Saturday near the statue of Fa Ngum. The 14th-century warlord watched us line up in the dark, click on our flashing lights and take off in an adrenalin-pumped pack. Twenty-six riders rolled out of town, followed by a van carrying our overnight bags and a flatbed truck stocked with water and snacks.
Every 25 kilometers or so, we stopped for a short rest break. Our wonderful support crew always waved us over to the side of the road, where they offered cut-up fruit, granola bars, water and other treats.
The first part of today’s ride was flat and cool with scenery typical of our weekend training rides: rice paddies, farms, villages and water buffalo. Then we hit the rolling hills. My body put up a little bit of a fight, but the great thing about rolling hills is they roll up but they also roll down. Every downhill stretch was a little gift, and my excitement to have this long-awaited ride under way kept me going.
A highlight of this first day – and ultimately, the entire trip – was the turnout in the villages. As our group swept through, it seemed everyone came out to greet us. Women sat in clusters, chatting, weaving baskets, pounding rice, feeding babies, always working. Men took a break from building, patching, hauling, digging. Hunched-over elderly villagers shuffled by or crouched in the shade. Everyone waved and laughed with a big, “Sabaidee!” But the children ensured that a smile stayed plastered on my face all day, coating my lips and teeth with dust. The kids, some carrying younger siblings, ran into the road, jumping up and down and screaming with anticipation, holding out their hands for us to slap and cheering as we zipped by.
Just for kicks, I tried to keep track of everything that wandered in to our path, forcing us to slow down: dogs, cats, goats, cows, chickens (one with a whole passel of chicks that zig-zagged erratically, barely escaping with their lives), an enormous hog with several piglets, a guy hauling a thick bundle of long bamboo poles, families of stair-stepped children heading out to work in the rice fields with proportionally sized baskets on their backs, and so on.
Our destination was Vang Vieng, the backpacker Mecca of Laos, on the banks of the Nam Song river. There was no time for kayaking, rafting, tubing or rock climbing, but we did enjoy hot showers, a nice riverside dinner at our hotel and a big western breakfast the next morning.
We racked up about 167 kilometers (103 miles) this day!
* Disclaimer: Most photos I post about our ride were NOT taken by me! I have to credit the other riders and support crew, especially Peggy, a cyclist who fell sick and couldn’t ride so she made the trip by motorcycle.
Paany checks off the attendance list as we prepare to head out of Vientiane.
Paany’s wife, Linda, helped with the support crew the first day and took some photos from the truck.
I loved riding in the pack!
Lunch break.
You know something’s off when you get excited that it’s “only” 96 kilometers to your destination! That’s me and my roommate for the trip, Tina.
My sporty prescription sunglasses broke a few days before our ride, so I had to wear my fake Chanel glasses from China. I was a little self-conscious till I realized Nicolette’s were even more fabulous. Rhinestones, baby!
This is Bruno, a serious biker from France who heard about our ride and tagged along “just for fun.”
Still feeling chipper!
One of many roadside cheering sections.
Pulling in to Vang Vieng – we made it! Tina and I sprinted to the front just for the photo. Usually we hung back and took advantage of the draft.
The view from our hotel’s restaurant deck.
