Without Reservations

Bienvenue a Brussels

A friend in Hamburg was confused as to why we'd be touching down in Belgium after leaving Hong Kong.

"In German, 'Belgium' literally translates as 'boring,'" she explained.

Well, it was the cheapest point of entry, and this afternoon, I introduced Liz to the joys of Neuhaus chocolates, a treasure I'd sought unsuccessfully in les États-Unis since 1998.

I felt sorry for the sheep queued up out the door for Godiva -- you can buy those in any middling American mall. Neuhaus, on the other hand...

... ah, enough about truffles and pralines -- enjoy the scenery:

A coterie of bikers rolls into the square before St. Katherine's Cathedral -- with a police escort!

The Blue Knights don't look so bad-ass in closeup.


Weekend warriors, the lot of them.


One of the buildings that ring the Grand Place/Grote Markt -- the big plaza in the city's center.


Guild halls around the big market


For Zoe: decaying grandeur on Blvd. Adolphe Max.

Hong Kong: more photos

These images were captured during our second and third days in Kowloon and HK. Enjoy.

HK by night -- still in motion.

Glowing side street viewed from Nathan Road -- pardon the condensation on the lens.


Moving north along Nathan Road


Street hawker touting a restaurant in Kowloon's Night Market


For Walter III and Bonnie: This statue was commissioned by the Kowloon Rotary Club.


A junk bobbing in Victoria Harbor near Central Station.


Fishing in the harbor -- for plastic trash.


International Financial Center 2, flanked by ferry terminal clock tower.


Looking down at HK from Peak Road.


A closer look at the reservoir.


The very lap of luxury -- rooms with a view, indeed.


Unreal estate.


Someone's future corner office -- and yes, that's bamboo scaffolding he's perched on.


Can you see how a person might get a little overwhelmed walking these streets?


Hong Kong: Still under construction.

"Hong Kong is crazy."

Three days in Hong Kong was either not enough, or too much.

Everything moves faster in HK -- ants on the sidewalk, traffic signals, subways. I'm nearly certain that the escalators rise and fall faster, which is okay by me. (Please, folks -- stand to the right, walk on the left.)

Before we left San Francisco, a former office mate shared some photos of his visit to HK some years back, posted to his proto-blog. The dude in question is a cool customer not given to hyperbole. If something's totally amazing, he would deem it "cool." If something sucked, he'd say, "it wasn't so great."

I distinctly recall him saying, "Hong Kong is crazy," a statement that should have left a deeper impression.

Here on the ground, there were times when I felt distinctly overwhelmed. Sensory overload induced by narrow streets, choked sidewalks, and vertigo-inducing skyscrapers, many still clad in bamboo scaffolding.

(How the hell do you build an 800-foot tall (or higher) building with bamboo chutes and ladders? I'm all in favor of renewable resources, but I feel uneasy in bamboo lawn furniture; the notion of working forty stories above the sidewalk atop some sturdy weeds is beyond me.)

I was aware that we were going to a noisy, crowded place with plenty of tall buildings, places to shop, diverse crowds, and more places to shop. As I said before: New York on steroids -- with perhaps a fistful of amphetamines washed down with several cans of Red Bull.

HK is be the most condensed place I've ever seen; I wanted to drop it into a giant stockpot, add three equivalent portions of real estate, and stir. There were more people and buildings than seemed likely or possible, with more arriving everyday. Each time we turned a corner, there was the dust and noise of another construction site, another shuttle bus disgorging businessmen with briefcases and bargain-minded tourists.

The main benefit of the hurlyburly was that, for the first time since we'd arrived in Asia, I didn't feel like the star of "The Walter Show." Alone and together, Liz and I had drawn a great deal of attention in India, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. In Hong Kong, we were merely part of a crowd; the only second looks we got were from those who wished to sell us something.

People come to Hong Kong to do business and/or to spend money, but not a lot else besides. In the airport and around town, colorful banners proclaimed that we'd arrived during some sort of "Shopping Festival," which seemed entirely redundant. Imagine touching down at McCarran International in Las Vegas to see signs promoting "Gambling Days," or some such thing.

In Vietnam, I'd noticed that many homes had walls around them, whether the abodes within were humble or grand. Some of these fences were even topped with jagged shards of glass set in cement. "People really take personal property seriously here," I'd quipped to Liz while pocketing another stack of discounted Hollywood product. "Intellectual property, not so much."

This offhand comment was driven home in HK. Storefronts and touts boldly offered knock-off Rolexes, Vuitton bags and Chanel thotchkes, often in the literal shadows of high-end stores vending the real McCoy -- or Burberry, if you prefer.

"Copy watch, copy watch?" suggested vendor after vendor. A negative head-shake from me, and they'd turn their attention to Liz: "Handbag, madam?" Nearly all the touts we saw, interestingly enough, appeared to be of Indian descent. We stopped in one store selling DVDs of movies that had premiered in the past few days. It was crowded with locals and tourists alike.

Realizing that it was our last stop in Asia -- the final place on our itinerary where weak dollars are relatively robust -- I felt pressured to shop for family. Prowling Kowloon's Night Market, I kicked myself for not spending more in India and Cambodia. We saw many of the same goods for sale, just at higher prices. I got burned buying three DVDs there -- one summer blockbuster was in Russian with poor English subtitles, another refused to play in the iBook's disc drive.

The third movie simply sucked.

I know Western brands seek to protect their multibillion-dollar investments, but the rationale for expending vast resources to stem the trade in knock-offs escapes me. Counterfeiters selling fake watches or handbags for ten bucks (Hong Kong dollars, mind you) encourage consumerism and make materialistic dreams accessible to everyone. I do wonder how it plays out when a woman with a fake Louis Vuitton clutch goes into the real LV store seeking a replacement or addition to her ensemble.

Does the salesclerk acknowledge that the customer is cradling a nasty impostor between elbow and breast, or do they simply hold their nose and "act as if?" I must get hold of an employee handbook for Vuitton employees.

When we'd added Hong Kong to our itinerary, I instantly had a desire to buy a bespoke shirt. I'm not a clothes horse, but owning a piece of custom-tailored clothing has always appealed to me. There were aggressive touts for tailors on almost every block, thrusting cards into my hand, sometimes matching our stride for several yards in attempts to hustle me into the shops for which they shilled so energetically.

I went along once or twice, but we were usually on our way to a destination. Once inside, I'd cursorily examine a few bolts of cotton and inquire about price before asking for a card and making an empty promise to pop in on our way back. Running solo errands the day before we left, I stopped into a quiet storefront and asked about a shirt. Liz had persuaded me not to get two: "If one doesn't fit or if it's poorly made, you'll still be on the hook to purchase both."

A brusque tailor took my measurements in less than a minute, which didn't bolster my confidence. Still, I gave him a 66% deposit and left with a receipt, along with his promise that the shirt would be ready after 3 p.m. the next day.

Reluctant to add even one extra gram to my 12-kilo backpack, we stopped by HK's General Post Office our last day to send some items home. The process was far more straightforward than in India or Vietnam. No need to find a package-wallah to sew items into a linen bag before sealing it with plastic, no declaration forms to be filled out in triplicate. I purchased a cardboard box and some bubble wrap, sealed the parcel with tape, had it weighed and insured, and was on my way.

We'd planned a ferry ride to Lantau Island to take in a giant Golden Buddha, but time was running short. We had an evening flight to Brussels via Istanbul, and I still had a shirt to retrieve -- and then there was the 70-minute trip to the airport.

Liz suggested that we taxi into the hills above Hong Kong to take in some views, so we cabbed up Peak Road, where I expected to arrive in a park or natural vista. Climbing the mountain, and noting the luxury high-rise apartments behind wrought-iron gates, Liz remarked that it was if someone had stacked Pacific Heights atop Telegraph Hill.

My ears popped just as I looked out the window and realized we were slightly higher than the tallest skyscrapers fringing Victoria Harbor. Instead of a grassy vista, we exited the cab in the underground garage of a shopping mall. We rode escalators up -- past a Ronald McDonald in a deep bow, past $7 latte stalls -- finally arriving at the observation deck.

We wandered about for a few minutes, taking in the 270-degree view. Giant container ships looked like toys; the luxury hotels and homes seemed more suited for a Monopoly board. Our view towards Kowloon was interrupted by a new shopping mall under construction; much to the consternation of the "View Cafe" beneath our feet, I'm sure.

Noting the time, we headed back to the garage and took a taxi back to Central Station and caught the subway back to our nabe in Kowloon across the Harbor. Liz claimed our luggage and a spot in the air-con lobby to wait for the hotel's shuttle bus while I dashed back into the heat and humidity to pick up my custom shirt, the last item on my to-do list.

I returned 20 minutes later, drenched in perspiration. I rehydrated with a cold drink and cooled off in an club chair.

We were riding the shuttle bus when I realized that the urgent tone that had been ringing in my ears for three days was finally stilled.

Hong Kong: first-day photos

We arrived here yesterday, and slept in quite late today. Still, we were out and about: running errands, changing plane tickets and finding food, not to mention some sweet bargains. Didja know that Hong Kong is a duty-free zone?

This place is like New York on steroids, but more on that later. In the meantime, here are some pics:

Images of Vietnam

We flew out of Ho Chi Minh City two days ago, but feast your eyes on these:

While the women plant rice in the foreground, the guys behind them are fishing -- with the aid of a car battery and two electrical leads.

The second rice planting of the year -- note the cemetary and pagoda in the b.g.


Fishing with a DieHard seems like easier work than stoop labor.


Rice shoots are grown at home -- and then meticulously transplanted to the paddies.


This farm grows everything from mint to pumpkins.


Pagoda dog in Haiphong


A phoenix riding a tortoise in the pagoda's courtyard


Golden Buddha holding a cup of water and a tree branch


Detail of pagoda roof


This pagoda dates to the 11th century.


A happy Buddha indicates good fortune and a bright future.


A more contemplative Buddha beneath a bodhi tree.


Behind this gate reside the stupas (graves) of notable abbots.


A frangipani flower -- one of the most heavenly scents in the world.


One of the pagoda's caretakers.


Taking a moment to cool off and reflect.


Bicyclist in Haiphong City


Socialist art -- and some curious passers-by.


A food vendor braves traffic in Ho Chi Minh City.


The abundance of scooters seems somewhat counter-revolutionary, but I'm just a visitor.

Halong Bay: photos

Halong Bay

Do not dwell in the past.
Do not dream of the future.
Concentrate the mind on the
present moment.

What's with Walter? What is he, Buddhist?

Well, no. But I did have a singularly moving experience a few days ago. For the first time in a while, I found myself firmly rooted in the here-and-now. I wasn't ruminating about the Vietnam War, perceived racism, or whether I'd remembered to auto-pay my cell phone service in San Francisco.

I was in Halong Bay, Vietnam.

A near-silent driver, Hiro, and our loquacious tour guide, Mr. Cham, retrieved us from our hotel in Hanoi and stowed us and our luggage in the back of a cavernous SUV. Hemmed in by moto-scooters that buzzed around us like aggro dragonflies, we finally crossed the Red River and left the city behind. Even while traversing the bridge, we progressed through traffic nearly twice as fast as chilled molasses.

There wasn't time to be bored; Cham's patter was non-stop, and there was much to see. Superficial observation #12: every square inch of Vietnam is in use. As part of free market reforms rolled out after the USSR imploded, rural people each received about 400 square meters of land.

I don't know how much food a person can get out of 400 sq. meters, but other than a small plot with a sign warning against land mines, I didn't see a single fallow field. Paddies stretched to the horizon, and there were women in conical hats everywhere. Some planted green rice shoots in methodical rows or urged on a water buffalo that towed a plow through knee-deep mud. Others merely used hands and hoes to work their land.

Cham explained that we were more likely to see women in the fields doing this stoop labor because men have "very weak backs." I was a mite surprised to hear such blatant sexism from a man who fought an insurgent war to "liberate" and "unite" his country, but these notions die hard, I guess.

My father was in ROTC in the sixties, but marriage and children kept him Stateside. Had he been dispatched here to defend, um, democracy(?), Cham, a Viet Cong communications officer, would have been looking for him. And not to give him a guided tour or a history lesson.

The past is past. Now, Cham makes a living ferrying Westerners like me and Liz around his country, and we give him greenbacks in return.

Although the high-speed tourist buses passing us on the two-lane roads made me reach for the Jesus handle a few times, the drive to Halong was relaxing. Cham helped us wrap our tongues around the six (count 'em, six) tonal sounds in his language, filled us in on ancient and recent history, and pointed out memorial after memorial commemorating Vietnamese patriots.

It's monsoon season, so the irrigation ditches by the side of the road were filled with ducks, blooming lotuses and lounging buffaloes. Many entrepreneurial folks had dug out their small front yards to create ponds where they raised ducks and catfish. We also saw scores of lavish French Colonial-style villas, many still under construction.

It was explained that the villas most likely belonged to party officials who'd cobbled together joint ventures with foreign investors -- a seaside hotel or casino built with Hong Kong dollars, perhaps a new bridge funded by Japanese yen. One of the largest villas was gaudy by any standard: flamingo-pink with ornate porticos and gables, three front-facing balconies with ocean views, and a large Vietnamese flag flapping atop a 40-foot pole.

Finally, we arrived at the Halong City docks and boarded our boat. We were the only passengers on a junk that could have easily accommodated thirty. The small crew was attentive, but for the most part, they busied themselves with a noisy card game; the captain divided his attentions between navigating and flirting with our pretty young hostess.

There are more than 3000 islands in Halong Bay. Legend says that a dragon who lived inland created the tree-topped, jutting limestone towers thousands of years ago when it returned to the coast from the ocean -- its tail leaving deep impressions that filled in with water. Today, the islands are a natural buffer from the South China Sea, leaving the deep, green bay calm and still, disturbed only by tourist/fishing boats.

We cast off and pulled away from the docks. The fat, gray clouds we'd seen through the windshield dissipated almost on cue once the diesels cranked up. Our first stop was Han Sung Sot, a cave discovered only 20 years ago; it had been hidden for millennia by an overgrowth of plum trees.

The caves were spectacular and tacky -- Carlsbad Caverns meets Las Vegas. Myriad rock formations were garishly lit by pink, green and red fluorescents -- they'd even inserted two red bulbs into the sockets of one spectacular pile of mineral drippings to affirm that the formation really does resemble a dragon. The caves were impressive, though I don't think our species has a particular knack for embellishing nature. Cham pointed out a lingam-shaped formation lit in pink, eliciting a polite giggle from Liz.

Outside and back aboard the junk, it was, as my father is fond of saying, "all good."

I was momentarily distracted from the incredible views by a meal that I can only describe as a seafood feast: fresh jumbo prawns, steamed crab, squid salad, broiled snapper, spring rolls and river spinach. Tasting these treats, it wasn't a stretch to imagine that our food had been swimming beneath us just a few hours before. The hostess sidled in next to Liz to help her crack crab and shell shrimp. Between and during courses, one of us would beeline for the bow, camera in hand.

After our hostess expertly filleted the snapper, Liz took a bite and looked at me with a can you believe? glance. I just smiled and shook my head. Fortunate, we are.

So much to see, but I never felt a sense of urgency -- just a calmness that bordered on serenity. It's a unique feeling to be somewhere, look around, and realize that I'm inside a moment that I'll never forget. As ever, I feel incapable of truly expressing what it was like to be there -- to leisurely cruise around skyscraping escarpments forced from the sea floor and covered in lush green, butterflies playing past and feeling a gentle sea breeze.

It matters not at all whether the islands were created by seismic forces or a dragon bound for home. They are magical.

Several times, the captain stilled the motors so we could drift past some spectacular islands. Cham pointed out one that looked like a duck, another that closely resembled a bald monk, deep in meditation. I got a few few good snaps, but after a while, I started recording with my senses and put down the camera.

Tipping is not customary in Vietnam. Still, Liz and I have paid tribute to good service during our time here. Near the end of the cruise, we conferred to determine an appropriate amount, given the extraordinary day and its profound effect on our on our shared memory.

I extracted some dong from my wallet and folded it under a piece of hotel note paper after jotting:

Ong qua tu-te doi voi toi. = You are very kind to me.

We sat in front, watching Halong City grow larger as we meandered through straits that moved us in and out of shadows the size of football fields. In my peripheral vision, I noticed the busboy peering curiously at the note tucked under the bud vase.

He beckoned to one of his colleagues, and the two conferred in hasty Vietnamese, clearly confused. The first guy motioned me over and pointed to the note and bills.

"What is?" he asked.

I explained that we were grateful to the crew for the attention and excellent service. Judging from his blank expression, the clarification didn't cut any ice. I motioned Cham over, and he picked up the paper and read the line I'd copied out of our phrase book, nodding.

"Ah! Very nice," he said, smiling.

"Could you please explain that we really appreciate them for taking such excellent care of us -- and that we wanted to say 'thank you' by leaving a tip?"

He conversed quickly with the two crew members, and then turned back with a broader smile.

"They were confused -- you see, the bottle of wine with your lunch cost $15, and that --" he pointed at the tip -- "won't pay for it."

Me, Liz and Cham enjoyed a hearty, literal laugh at our own expense. We fished out the additional cash and handed it to one of the crew.

"Cam on em," said Liz. "Thank you."

We must have sailed the bay for two, perhaps three hours. I lost all sense of time. On approach to the pier, I didn't feel a pang of regret or wistfulness; just as surely as the meal we'd eaten, I have Halong Bay under my belt.

This was either the fourth or fifth World Heritage site we've seen, but it was unlike any of the previous destinations. It wasn't hewn by human hands at the behest of a megalomaniacal ruler, nor was it created as a center for worship, trade or culture.

It's just there, because sometimes, nature is incredibly generous. If you have an opportunity to see it for yourself, take it. It's like nowhere else on Earth.

Vieux Quartier de Ha Noi, avec captions.

View from 15th floor of the Hanoi Sheraton

Looking down "Onion Street" in the Old Quarter


French colonial architecture persists in Hanoi


The Red Pagoda on the lake near our hotel


A local and two tourists taking a break


Crossing the street? Walk slowly, and keep your wits about you.


Moto-taxi drivers gossiping in the shade


Everyone in Hanoi owns a scooter, or is saving to buy one.


Bored salesgirls biding their time at the market

War memorial commemorating victory over the Japanese


The old east (?) gate to the Old Quarter


Bienvenue, etranger!


Another shot of the gate


The iceman is on the job.


Bamboo mats and screens for sale: the stares are gratis.


Chilling on his scooter


More scooters than cars. Caveat pedestrian!


Each street in the Old Quarter is named for a good or service.


Two girls in an alley, pushing a bike.

Hanoi's Old Quarter: spectator or spectacle?

Liz has been laid low (but is recovering nicely) from another cold caught aboard an airplane, so we've stepped back from our more audacious plans to wander in a southerly direction toward Ho Chi Minh City. Instead, we're taking a 1.5-day tour to Ha Long Bay tomorrow.

After that, we'll return to Hanoi and fly to HCMC for our hop to Hong Kong.

We burned some shoe leather finding the street where the tour booking office was located. The directions were vague, but we asked four different folks and managed to triangulate the location after a long, long walk.

Liz was a wee bit woozy from heat and le grippe, but we're all set. A vehicle will pick us up tomorrow at 0900 for a two-hour drive to the coast. The task behind us, we immediately found a cafe and fortified ourselves with beer and spicy food.



Pho Hang Hanh (Onion Street)

Speaking for myself, I feel less welcome here than I have elsewhere in Asia. There are very few people of African descent walking around, which means that I am, in every possible sense, The Other. I get many stares and glares, and though I might be imagining this, more than one moto-taxi driver has looked at me before turning his head and spitting in my path.

Part of me wonders if their perception of black people has been (in)formed by Western media -- it's far more virulent than SARS. If you only see us on TV and in movies, I can't imagine what you'd assume when one of us is walking down the street or peers into your shop for a quick browse.

I don't know these folks, and they don't know me, but I have to wonder what's on their minds when I walk past and someone jabs their friend with a sense of urgency to make sure they don't miss me. In India, the staring seemed, I dunno, more benign. I generally sensed curiosity, not judgement or scrutiny. Here, it's taken on a different tone, but I can't read minds -- or faces, it seems.



Cua O Quan Chuong (Old East Gate)

I can read books with alacrity, most recently, "The Girl In the Picture," a biography of Kim Phuc -- at age 9, she was famously photographed fleeing her hamlet after a poorly-coordinated napalm attack burned 30-40% of her body.

I read the first half tonight, and I'll finish it tomorrow before plunging into "The Quiet American." Part of me wonders why I choose to delve into the not-so-distant, painful past, particularly when there are so many delights to be found in the here and now; the cuisine, fine silks and crafts, and sprawling markets that contain everything you could want or need.

(I don't think we'll ever see a Wal-Mart in Vietnam, but who knows? Maybe they'll catch on if they can sell fermented fish paste, durian fruits and freshwater eels. All for low, everyday prices, of course.)

Early this morning, I sought out a vendor who gladly traded me a kg of fresh lychee in return for 10,000 dong -- less than a buck. They're in the mini-fridge, and I've yet to taste one. Instead, I've been reading about my country's shameful contribution to a brutal civil war, the terror of peasants trapped between guerillas and uniformed soldiers, and a girl (now a woman) whose skin is the organic equivalent of Picasso's Guernica.

I purchased the books referenced above from a street vendor -- a gangly youth who said he hailed from Ha Long and seemed to be very excited to meet me. He said I reminded him of his English teacher, a man from "Chay-ka-go." For this particular teen, I surmised that my skin tone made me more approachable.

Tomorrow, we're off to placid beaches, a guided boat tour of the coastal islands and some quiet time. There are many more scooters than automobiles in Hanoi, and I'd rather play "chicken" with a guy walking down a beach than a kid with 150ccs of engine and attitude.

More photos tomorrow, hopefully. I saw a woman with two baskets full of dragonfruit, and I wasn't sure whether I wanted to photograph them or eat one on the spot. I chose "none of the above," as we were in a rush.

Winding up, here's something that was a little too on the nose: I revisted a DVD store that purveys, ah, unauthorized copies of recently released films. Three for $3.50, which is about what most of what Hollywood's output is worth, let's be honest.

When I walked into the small shop this afternoon, I tuned out the blaring action film booming over the speakers until my head involuntarily turned when I heard:

"If I say it's safe to surf this beach, Captain, then it's safe to surf this beach. I mean, I'm not afraid to surf this place, I'll surf this whole fucking place!"

Yeah. "Apocalypse Now."

Random Memories - Cambodia

[Preface: Yick. I've been sick since last night. Fever that comes and goes, a mean cough, plus my nose is running nonstop. Whine. Okay, enough whining. Time for blogging.]

The past eight days have left me dang near speechless. The best I can do is give you some random memories from our time in Cambodia (and first glimpses of Vietnam). I don't claim to have any answers or deep insights, just observations...

I remember:

Hout, who drove us around the temples of Angkor Wat, then back to Phnom Penh when we decided to see the countryside instead of returning by boat. His shy, polite, solicitous manner with us, but very (I suppose?) Cambodian sense of humor with others. One example: A tiny boy was trying to sell me woven-grass bangles outside one temple, ten for a dollar. The boy counted the bangles "one, two, three..." Hout counted along "four, five, six" and, laughing, jerked the boy's shorts to the ground, leaving him bare from the waist down. A few moments later the boy, appearing enraged, snuck around and punched our driver in the stomach. Then both man and boy laughed heartily.

This kind of physical horseplay seemed common in rural Cambodia. Walter even got a playful smack on the behind with a conical straw hat from an old woman resting in the shade by a temple doorway, accompanied by some comment in Khmer. Dunno what it meant, but it got a big laugh from folks, including an indulgent chuckle from the ever-diplomatic W.

I remember...

The mercurial temperament of so many Cambodians we met (adults and children). Quick to laughter, equally quick to anger. My expectations of an Asian culture that values "face" -- in the (certainly limited) way I've learned to understand it -- were smashed pretty quickly. Scariest for me was watching a teenaged street kid flip into rage-mode. The books I'd been reading (see below) made it waaaaay too easy for me to imagine him in black pajamas and a red-and-white kraama, holding a weapon.

Asking Hout about his family and hearing that he and his mother were all who were left. "Pol Pot killed my father," is how he put it. He was born before the Khmer Rouge fell, but was lucky enough to survive nonetheless. Now he's driving folks like us, supporting his mother, and saving up to return to university in Phnom Penh. I wish him all the luck (and rich tourists) in the world.

Our waiter at Veijo Tonle restaurant, on the riverfront in Phnom Penh. I don't know how he would spell his name in our alphabet, but phonetically it sounds like "EE-ah". He spent most of our leisurely meal hanging out near our table, quizzing us on our Khmer, leaning in to read Walter's phrasebook, laughing with us at our many mistakes, and coming back with pop quizzes after he'd taken care of other customers. The food was excellent, but the language lessons and the social interaction really made the evening.

The stares, of course. Not as eager and unabashed as Indian stares, but stares nonetheless. Stares that almost never turned to smiles, unless they came from a vendor or tout.

The endlessly, painfully, hard/sad faces of so many women over 40. There were men too, of course, but mostly I remember the women's faces. (Also realize that there just are fewer men over 40 around.)

Kim and Ty -- both maybe around eight years old -- outside Angkor Wat, who made me memorize their names, and cajoled me into buying soft drinks and water after we'd returned from our exploration. An older boy joined them after they'd cornered my side of the car (other kids were busy working Walter's side) and I got another glimpse of the confusing smiles-to-anger flip after I returned and agreed to buy drinks from the girls, but wouldn't come buy a football (a football?? do those really sell well outside temples??) from him.

I remember the S-21 prison, of course. But Walter's already written about that -- and better than I could.

The short, chubby 20-something Australian at our last hotel in Phnom Penh, picking up a few bills from the brick-sized wad in his safe-deposit box. The tiny hooker on his arm (who looked all of 15 -- the age of consent) trying to convince him to pay part of her fee. With her low insistent murmur, "I go with you yesterday, I go with you today, you pay me some now, you pay me some..." she sounded just like some of the book-selling girls on the riverfront. (I suspect and fear that in a few years, the book-selling girls will grow up to take her place, actually. They told us they went to school, but Hout seemed to doubt this story when we asked him later.)

Lovely N, who managed one hotel we stayed at. Her fella (yet another big friendly Australian) owned the place and seemed to spend his days out front chatting with friends and guests. We can guess how they met, and you've certainly heard judgments from us about sex tourists, but I can't not say that these two seemed genuinely happy together. The place was under-staffed, so N was on the run (often literally) the whole time we were there. As I was checking us out she showed me some of her favorite pens, and outed herself as a fellow pen fanatic. I quickly pulled one of my prettiest pens out of my bag and presented it as an unexpected gift. She seemed tickled.

The jewelry sellers in the heart of the central market -- far from the fish smells, where the air is cool and a real ceiling (not just plastic tarps) keeps the weather out. Young women all, fine featured and slender, they'd lightened their skin with some combination of bleaching cream and makeup to about the color of printer paper. I bargained for a small jade buddha pendant. Fat buddha, old jade, not very delicately carved. He seemed right, somehow.

The books I read in our hotel rooms at night, trying to wrap my head around what had happened in Cambodia. The titles and authors are from memory (books already given away), so there'll be mistakes, I'm sure. I'll add links if I have time.

- Off the Rails in Phnom Penh -- Guns, Girls and Ganja, a "cult classic" about westerners who came to Cambodia in the mid-nineties to take advantage of the (then legal) marijuana, two-dollar prostitutes, easy access to heroin, and other, uh, advantages this impoverished and struggling country had to offer to anyone who wanted to make easy money teaching English a few hours a day. After the political shifts in 1997, most of this particular expat crew has moved on. Latin America was apparently a popular destination.

- Children of the Killing Fields Dozens and dozens of first-person accounts of life under the Khmer Rouge. Universally, the stories involved grueling hours of work on maybe 100 calories per day. Families shredded: by force, by disease, by starvation, by execution.

- First They Killed My Father A first-person account by a woman who was maybe six years old in 1975 when Phnom Penh was evacuated. She survived and eventually emigrated to the United States, but not before watching many of her family die. Her account of learning to hate -- truly hate -- is unforgettable and chilling.

- When Broken Glass Floats, by Chanrithy Him. Another first-person account by a survivor, and probably the most vivid of the lot. A haunting, haunting book. The author now lives in Oregon.

- Voices from S-21 Since almost nobody survived S-21, the "voices" are, er, limited. This was a pretty dry accounting of the operation of S-21, and the criminals who operated it. Many of these people, I believe, are still alive, well, and unprosecuted.

Now we're in Vietnam, and I'm assembling a whole new set of impressions and memories. First funny memory (remember, I'm not doing much today, with the fever and the sick and stuff) is after our short walk together.

Me: Huh. Vietnamese people don't really stare like people in other countries we've been to recently. They mostly kinda peek at you.

Walter: Huh? I got plenty of stares. From plenty of people.

Heh. I guess everything's subjective, isn't it?

Sang nay, Hanoi.

Good thing we left Cambodia when we did. Yesterday, updating the blog from our hotel's lobby, I was this close to getting confrontational with one or two of the many obvious Western sex tourists who were enjoying leisurely breakfasts between "dates." I actually found the hotel's roaches less distasteful.

Our tickets said we were booked on Thai Airways, but after some confusion, we learned that we were actually flying via Vietnam Airlines. After an extended wait in the airport lounge at Ho Chi Minh City, our (delayed) connecting flight brought us into Hanoi just one hour late.

Fruit bowl at the Sheraton. I think that crazy one is Dragonfruit.

I was expecting something different from a state-run airline; but the flight crew was friendly and engaging, mirror opposites of the dour civil servants I've encountered everywhere. On approach, the LCD screen that displays emergency procedures or the plane's flight path/stats switched over to the pilot's POV in the cockpit. Very neat.

Liz, an uber-maven at collecting points for this and credits for that, used her acumen to secure last night's stay at the plush but character-free Hanoi Sheraton. It was quite comfy, but it was far from the city center. Multinational hotel chains are all too similar. Standing in the vast lobby, I felt like I could have been in Cancun or Wichita, if not for all the Asian faces.

We checked out at 1300 and took a cab straight to the Trang An Hotel, here in Hanoi's Old Quarter. Liz caught a cold during one of our flights, so we walked once around the block before I escorted her beautiful, congested self back to the hotel and explored the environs on my own.

I had a general sense of where our hotel was, and kept their business card in my shirt pocket, in case I needed to ask directions later. I had plenty of daylight, so I just wandered, almost purposefully getting lost in the narrow streets and alleys.

Most of the buildings here max out at three stories, and the French colonial architecture has endured. I can see why France tried for a few hundred years to keep this place under its thumb; it's gorgeous.

As ever, people stared at me wherever I went, and moto-taxi drivers did their best to convince me that walking was foolish when I could have been riding.

This neighborhood is an exercise in free enterprise -- every storefront is crammed with goods and services -- everything from raw silk to custom tailors to scooter repair. Some streets had a speciality -- the fishmongers' row was a pungent place, indeed.

View from the 15th floor of Hanoi Sheraton

I ducked into a cafe to get out of the heat and ordered an iced coffee with milk. I nursed the drink and perused my Southeast Asia phrasebook, trying hard to get the many tonal sounds down. It'll take me more than a week to get them right, but I'm afraid that's all the time we have here.

I settled up and stepped out on the sidewalk to get my bearings. A woman selling fruit grabbed my hand and pressed a strange-looking object into my palm. A small, red spiky thing. I made polite protestations that I really didn't want to buy, and was disappointed that I hadn't come across the Vietnamese phrase for "no, thank you."

She peeled half the spiny skin away, revealing a shiny white lump. She motioned for me to take a bite.

Have you ever had fresh lychee before? I hadn't. I'd only had the canned variety, which has mostly texture, not flavor. This was entirely different. Light, sweet, but not cloying: succulent. Needless to say, she made a sale, and I walked away with a small bag of the exotic fruit.

I found my way back to the hotel after a couple of hours, my shirt soaked through.

Liz was low-energy, but greeted me with a kiss. I described my wanderings, including the weird teenager with something to prove who verbally accosted me at a nearby market.

Maybe you score points with the other kids by getting in the face of Western tourists, I don't know. He'd asked me a question (I guess) in Vietnamese a few times. I looked back, confused. "Sorry. I don't understand you."

He jumped up and down and waved his arms wildly. "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry! Excuse me, excuse!"

I guess he meant to ape me until he provoked a negative response, but I refused to play along. I'm familiar with the concept of "face," and I like to keep mine when I can.

"Okay. See you later," I said, and was on my merry way. He kept up the mimicry until I was out of earshot, but I figured anyone who witnessed the scene would probably perceive him as the one who'd lost face.

It wasn't until I was changing out of my sweaty clothes that I realized this was the first and only day since we've left home forty-odd days ago that no one had begged me for money. Not a soul.

I know that doesn't mean there's no poverty in Vietnam, but it must mean something. Sorry for the half-baked observation; I'm still a little dehydrated.

Photos: Phnom Penh/Angkor Wat

Liz: Even with just thumbnails, this is a huge page. We'll let y'all click through when you have the bandwidth.

Walter: We have to catch a flight to Hanoi in thirty minutes, so we don't have time to caption each image individually. I'm pretty sure Liz has arranged them chronologically, so you'll start out with Phnom Penh, then a few pics snapped from the speedboat north to Siem Reap, and finally, the incredible temples at Angkor Wat.

Juab kh'nia th'ngay krao-y! (See you later!)

Click the thumbnails for large versions, please.
We couldn't bear to cull as many photos this time.

Tonle Sap River	Phnom Penh in the rain	Boat to Siem Reap
	Back page of our hotel-room tourist guide(!)	Temple in Siem Reap
Temple Detail	One of Many Faces
	Our most excellent driver, Mr. Heng Hout of Siem Reap. (855) 12 70 70 19/12 52 50 20

Sketches of Kampuchea

We're leaving tomorrow afternoon on a flight to Hanoi, and I can't say I'm sorry to leave Cambodia -- despite the friendly people we met and the places we were fortunate enough to have seen.

I expect Vietnam will show us its beauty and scars as well, but it will be different. After all, the generation before mine engaged them in a pointless war, and it's fresh in everyone's memory, I'm sure.

Skipping backward...

After our first three nights in Phnom Penh, we took a (cramped, poorly ventilated) speedboat up river to Siem Reap -- the province that contains Angkor Wat, the fabled, vast temples built between the 0800's and the 1300s.

The boat was dark and claustrophobia-inducing, so I wended my way through the French family that had colonized the port-side door to step out on deck. We were roaring up the Tonle Sap at a good clip, which explains the poor quality of the few photos I managed to snap. I needed my shooting hand to cling to the rail as we skittered across the water.

For a moment, I was reminded of Martin Sheen's character in Apocalypse Now, standing in the prow of a swift boat that would propel him into the heart of darkness. Obviously, I watch too many movies, and to be honest, I was purposefully filling my head with empty culture calories after our visit to S-21; a vain effort to lose the bitterness I've been toting around.

The river views included technicolor pagodas and weathered homes on stilts, along with fishermen casting nets, and kids running down the muddy banks to wave at us. I waved back every time. Sometimes, I'd wave first, and I was always greeted with a smile.

I can't imagine what I looked like to the folks going about their business on the river. A big, black American, wearing wrap-around Ray-Bans and a multi-colored kramaa, the traditional Khmer scarf. Both items were purchased the previous day for less than $5 at PP's Central Market, the Psar Thmai.

Standing up there, feeling the spray on my forehead, I felt sort of bad-ass. I must have looked the part, as the francophones and Korean tourists cleared out, leaving plenty of space for me.

After five hours, the boat let us off at a wobbly pier, and I was delighted by the official greeter at the port of Siem Reap -- a small boy seated lotus-style in a large plastic bucket.

He bobbed alongside after we dropped anchor, using a weathered plank as an oar, smiling and waving excitedly. Carefully, we transferred ourselves and our bags into a longtail boat that brought us up a narrow estuary that was quite well-populated. Not the shoreline, mind you -- the river itself.

Not exactly boats, but homes bearing all the signs of human habitation. Folks sleeping in hammocks, chimneys smoking, guys playing cards on the porch of a general store, children chasing tiny toy boats downstream, women returning from market with plastic bags filled with fruit & veg, Cokes and Lay's chips. Even a boat full of schoolgirls in uniform, paddling home.

I saw more than a few flickering TV screens on these houseboats, and several had satellite hookups on the roof. We passed half-submerged bamboo fences pushed down into the silt -- our guide explained that fishermen store their catches in these corrals until they have enough to take to market. I drank it all in, glad to see a sense of superficial normalcy.

We stayed in Siem Reap for two nights in a hotel about a 100 yards from the goings-on in the town proper. I wandered through their town market, marveling at everything from the recently renamed "Darlie" toothpaste on sale to the fried grasshoppers and crickets available for snacking. As I browsed the fishmonger's aisle, a particularly desperate catfish made a run for it and flopped out of the tank directly in my path.

The fish's owner looked at me with eyes full of embarrassment or annoyance, I'm not sure which. I stooped to pick up her slippery runaway and dropped him back in the tank, much to the amusement of everyone who had a view of the scene. I laughed, too.

I successfully avoided the hard-driving girls selling books (yes, they have them in Siem Reap, too), gave some rials to unlucky victims of land mines, and found the slowest Internet cafe in Asia before wandering back to the hotel. Along the way, I took a side street that led me into a residential area.

Growing up black and middle-class, I've grown used to being the only chip in the cookie. But walking down a quiet street in Siem Reap on a Friday afternoon was something else entirely. Children ceased their play to run out into the street for a closer look.

A woman selling sodas and cigarettes from her front door stopped in the middle of a transaction and tugged her customer's arm to make sure she got a good look at me. I had traded the kramaa for the floppy hat with a very wide brim, but kept the shades.

I was, however briefly, a celebrity.

The last time I was aware of being the object of that much attention was several years ago in a previous life. I had a job producing "content," whatever the hell that is, for a major Web portal. As a result, I often flew to LA to have sometimes fruitful and often pointless meetings with executives at older media companies who were fearful and ignorant about this new Internet "thingy."

After one of these meetings, I was standing at a gate in LAX, waiting for the United Shuttle to SFO, and I realized that people were doing that thing they do when they see someone who might be important. Speaking in conspiratorial tones, pointing -- making, then breaking eye contact. I was also wearing sunglasses that day, along with a recently purchased suit that had hoovered up most of my savings.

That day in the airport, I looked around to see if there was some big star waiting at the gate behind me, but quickly realized that they were looking at me. Silly rabbits. Important people talk on cell phones, not pay phones. Nevertheless, I basked in the glow of the uncertain attention. Most scrutiny thrown my way is from nervous shopkeepers and women who clutch their purses just a little tighter when they see me on the sidewalk.

So, I was feeling quite lighthearted when I reached the end of that dusty street and turned back towards town. Whatever assumptions those residents had made about me, I knew I'd be the topic of conversation at the dinner table, or on the walk to school or work the next day: "Did you see the big, black man walking down the street yesterday? What was that about?"

More about Angkor Wat later, when Liz and I have had some sleep. We have a ton of photos to share, but she's worked out a scheme where you can click a thumbnail to get to a larger image -- so no kvetching from you dial-up kids out there.

Right now, I hafta get to the lobby and plug into the Internet thingy so I can find a hotel in Hanoi. Without reservations, indeed.

This wasn't a terribly momentous post, and I appreciate you for reading it. I just wanted to make sure no one got the impression that Liz and I spent our week in Cambodia thinking solely of this country's dark, recent past. We've had some fun, strange, unexpected moments here, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that the last week's changed me in some way I don't fully understand.

Tuol Sleng (S-21)

One of the reasons I was especially curious about visiting Southeast Asia is because I wanted to see first-hand what life was like here -- particularly after the 1960s, when the US was obsessed with stopping communism anywhere it reared its head.

A (very) little history lesson: One of Nixon's national security advisors -- you know, the one with the gravelly accent who won a Nobel Peace Prize? -- came up with the notion that since the Viet Cong were using Cambodia as a staging area for attacks, we should carpet-bomb the place back to the Bronze Age.

This policy had the unfortunate effect of destabilizing the country and causing its population to live in fear. As a result, a group calling themselves the Khmer Rouge was able to recruit (by hook and by crook) "volunteers" who would, among other things, repel foreign invaders, create a society based on equality, and turn Cambodia into an agrarian utopia.

Many Cambodians signed up, but it got ugly fast. When 1975 came around and they'd finally seized the capital, they evacuated the city -- not for safety's sake -- but because cities, technology and the like were contrary to their belief system. "Year Zero," they called it. They were going to revert the country to its mythical past, with everyone -- like it or not -- working the land, regardless of education or expertise.

The day they took possession of the city, it was divided into four sectors. Whomever happened to be in the northern sector of Phnom Penh was forced to a labor camp in the north. Those working or living near our hotel were marched to the east, and so forth. Many never saw their families again.

Recruitment methods were harsh and dissent was not tolerated. If you had a degree, wore a wristwatch, lived in a city, or had perhaps visited a city, you were fair game for killing, or perhaps a work camp where you and yours could starve slowly, die of a preventable disease, or be bludgeoned to death, as bullets were precious.

If you've seen The Killing Fields, you have some idea of what I'm on about. I saw the film in 1984 when it first came out. I recall repeatedly having to remind my teenaged intellect that this was a true story. The image of a man creeping through rice paddies by night, stumbling over half-buried bones, and throwing himself under rotting corpses as camouflage was pure horror show.

Sociologists and politicians still can't agree-- three million dead. Two million. One-and-a-half-million. The fact is, everyone lost someone.

Liz has read a number of first-person accounts about the Khmer Rouge rule between 1975 and 1979. Since then, she's been uncharacteristically quiet, pensive.

I had an idea about the genocide. An idea.

Like I have an idea that Neil Armstrong was the first to walk on the moon, or that a handful of loose change flung from the Empire State's observation deck might maim people strolling down Fifth Avenue. These are abstract notions that one doesn't witness directly, and so, they lack a certain heft. I've never found myself on the moon, and I used my quarters atop the Empire State to look out at the New Jersey Palisades.

But here we are in Cambodia, where the bloody past is with you every step of the way, unless you choose to live in a bubble and surround yourself with young, inward-looking backpackers who think they've "discovered" Cambodia, or good-time Westerners in search of a "massage" or "date."

Liz and I decided to visit the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, formerly known as S-21 prison. We killed time before the museum reopened at 2:30 by browsing the sprawling Central Market complex -- "Blade Runner" meets Wal-Mart.

According to the official brochure, tuol "means the ground that is higher in level than that around it." Sleng can mean either "supplying guilt," "bearing poison," or "enemy of disease." To sum up:

"...we can see that Tuol Sleng literally means a poisonous hill or a place on a mound to keep those who bear or supply guilt."

Between 14,000 and 17,000 people passed through Tuol Sleng.

Fourteen survived.

It was once a high school. That's apparent when you pass through the gate; three-story buildings built around courtyards with trees in a residential neighborhood. Corrugated iron still rings part of the perimeter, as does the concertina wire -- it's no longer electrified, however.

Naive me; I was worried about Liz's reaction to the place. She's one of the three most sensitive, most loving people I've ever known, and I wasn't sure she'd wear it well. I should have given her more credit. I should have worried about myself.

Before we started this trip, I eyed every destination carefully, telling myself, if they can live it, I can stand to look at it. Tuol Sleng was the true test, and I didn't fail; I'll give myself a "C minus"

Before I take you inside Tuol Sleng, please review the rules:

1. You must answer accordingly to my questions. Do not turn them away.

2. Do not try to hide the facts by making pretexts of this and that. You are strictly prohibited to contest me.

3. Do not be a fool for you are a chap who dares to thwart the revolution.

4. You must immediately answer my questions without wasting time to reflect.

5. Do not tell me about either your immoralities or the revolution.

6. While getting lashes or electrocution you must not cry at all.

7. Do nothing. Sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something, you must do it straight away without protesting.

8. Do not make pretexts about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your jaw of traitor.

9. If you do not follow all the above rules, you shall get many lashes of electric wire.

10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.

We familiarized ourselves with the guidelines before stepping inside the first structure. Building A is kept pretty much as it was when the Vietnamese liberated Cambodia from the brutal Khmer Rouge regime. Each room has a large b&w photo of what was discovered there. The first photo displayed a corpse chained to a mattress spring, a length of steel bar about a meter long with a U-shape attached to the frame.

The U-bend was only a few inches across, so I had no idea what it was for until later -- these were leg irons. Leg irons that would only have fit small, undernourished people.

We went through each classroom-cum-cell in the building, each more horrific than the next. It was a warm day, so I didn't draw much attention by blotting my eyes with a bandanna repeatedly. Each room had a makeshift toilet; a plastic bucket, and a metal bucket. The metal buckets were ammo boxes, American made -- the English was still legible, though the bottom had rusted through most of the boxes.

One room to the next, each daring you to look away. A bare mattress frame, a large photo documenting what was found. Dark stains on the tile grout near the beds.

I'm overly empathetic, and I know this. It's made my life difficult at times, particularly at work, or while living in cities. I've never been very successful at avoiding pain, not even the pain of others. But my head was filled with the screams of the dead. I'd go into a room, walk past a photo and stare out the window at the messy courtyard out back, covered with palm trees and trash piles before turning around to take it all in.

The screams grew louder. Nearly unbearable. I wanted to scream myself, but to what end? The interrogators had long since ceased their work. Those tortured souls were no longer in pain, even if they weren't at peace. Through several rooms, I held my kerchief to my mouth, afraid that I'd cry out, regardless.

There was one dissonant distraction; behind Building A, several bored taxi drivers were lawn bowling. I'd see one make a pitch and hear a ball roll across leaves or along the side of the building, preceding a noise of either disappointment or triumph. For a time, it displaced the wails of torment that rang in my ears. For a short time.

Building B was a gallery of mug shots of those who'd been processed through S-21. There were thousands of photos on display, segregated by gender. Like most genocidal maniacs, the Khmer Rouge were excellent record-keepers.

Each prisoner was assigned a number, and many of the photos were dated with plastic letters or a small chalkboard held by the inmate, just like the mug shots you see on the news when a celeb goes bad.

I noticed a slew of photos dated 12/10/78, 4 days before my ninth birthday. I thought to myself, what was I doing then? Thinking about potential gifts and looking forward to being the center of attention for a day, no doubt. Probably envisioning to a trip to Spartacus, our town's only Greek restaurant, or a new slide for my View-Master.

Being a child, in other words.

I paced the galleries, studying each photo closely. I don't really know, but I think I know: these people knew what lay ahead. They knew they would die after being tortured for no good reason, for false information that would be torn out with the most excruciating pain imaginable. I won't go into detail regarding the interrogation techniques. Imagine the worst things that one human being could do to another, and it likely happened there.

Some of the photos show women holding infants. I read later that the babies were usually torn from their arms and killed in front of them. Some photos show resignation, defiance, one subject even offered a lopsided grin, as if he thought he could forge a rapport with his soon-to-be inquisitors and work out the obvious misunderstanding that brought him here.

As I understand it, much of the "interrogation" work was left to child soldiers. You needn't re-read "Lord of the Flies" or review the Stanford Prison Experiment to understand what monsters people can become when you give them a modicum of power over others. Observe any playground or gym class and you'll see one child (or a group) doing their best to make another cry or feel afraid.

Now, picture those bullies with AK-47s, stripped electrical wires and bamboo canes -- and no one to check their behavior. Imagine your life in their hands.

Welcome to Tuol Sleng.

We weaved silently through the photo galleries which filled the entire first floor of Building B. Pictures were mounted on both sides of white plywood stands from about waist to eye level behind glass. I wandered the aisles slowly, feeling a little unsteady. One foot in front of the other. If they could live it, you can look at it.

I turned a corner, and a sob escaped me. One gallery was filled with the faces of children ten years old, or even younger. Liz said when she turned the same corner, "it was like a hard punch in the gut."

Can anyone tell me what threat children represented to the Khmer Rouge or their goals? I didn't think so.

We'd turned down the offer of a tour guide. Not for the expense, but because we didn't want to feel rushed. We wanted to contemplate, reflect on what Cambodians had done to other Cambodians in the name of -- well, that's just it. I can't tell you why these things happened, other than to say that the KR perceived the unlucky inmates of S-21 as obstacles or intelligence assets that needed to be cracked open and then destroyed.

Some of the faces repeated. Each prisoner had a numbered tag safety-pinned to their shirt. Inmate 404's eyes were bulging with terror when his photo was taken. You could tell other inmates hadn't gone easily -- busted lips, bloody noses, the clear mark of something blunt that had creased a forehead or cheekbone. Number 17 had his tag literally pinned to his bare chest. Several women held infants.

To me, their eyes all said, "please," even the ones that tried to look cocksure.

Please don't torture me/Please don't kill me/Please don't kill my family, my baby

Please

Several groups came and went as we studied the faces. A loud gaggle of Japanese tourists swept through, creating a din in the gallery. I stood in a quiet corner and waited for them to pass. They paused to hear a few paragraphs from their guide before blazing through. Eurotourists with cameras angled to take snaps of the inmates' photos, making sure not to get any reflection off the glass.

Liz and I had decided individually not to bring our cameras. I wouldn't have brought an Instamatic to Auschwitz or Bergen-Belsen either. It didn't seem appropriate, and I had a notion that the images would stay with me for a bad, long while.

At times, I'd study a tile on the floor or another bit of nothing to take my mind off the horror we were walking through. Amongst the photos, the most "alive" entity I discovered was the skeleton of an unfortunate gecko who'd gotten trapped behind the glass.

As I recall, Building C had tiny brick cells (0.8 X 2 meters), as well as wooden cells not much larger. The brick cells had chains sunken into the concrete floor, but the wooden hovels closed with merely a bolt and latch. One of the upper floors had a then-and-now photo gallery of "combatants" (KR members), victims, and perpetrators (those who organized and managed S21).

The victims' stories were related by surviving members of their families; none were pleasant, and many of them still held hope that their missing husbands and sons were still alive. One woman had paid 60,000 rials to a fortune teller to learn her son's destiny.

Interviewed and photographed nearly 25 years after S-21 closed, many combatants seemed quite casual about their time in Tuol Sleng and the "work" they'd performed, indicating that if they hadn't done it, someone else would have, and besides, they'd have been killed had they refused the Khmer Rouge. One combatant expressed disdain for her KR leaders, accusing them of being mean and petty because she once lost a knife and was reprimanded.

The perpetrators continue to deny their knowledge or participation in the atrocities that occurred in this quiet Phnom Penh neighborhood, despite the documentation and the body counts. Despite the unnatural lives they lived, many of them died at home of old age; comfortable, safe, perhaps even surrounded by family. The few that remain may one day be brought to trial. Or not.

I looked through the guest comment binders left near most of the exhibitions. As I expected, Americans were poorly represented, with only a smattering of comments from my countrymen/women in the last several weeks. One phrase appeared repeatedly in several different languages, but here's the French: "Il n'ya pa des mots..."

There are no words...

In "The Brothers Karamazov," one of the main characters recounts the rape, pillage and torture a conquering force inflicts on the losers after a battle, concluding:

...no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, artistically cruel.

One of the final rooms we examined displayed the actual instruments of torture inside dusty, cobwebbed display cases. Lengths of wire, hoses, wicker canes. Along the walls were crude but highly effective color paintings of how these items were used, but the one that stopped me cold was a wooden box once filled with water.

To employ the device, bind the victim's arms, tie him to a board or ramp, then submerge his head in water until he's certain that drowning is imminent. Then, pull him out in the nick of time, in the hopes that a glimpse of death will loosen his tongue.

It's called "waterboarding," and US Attorney General Alberto Gonzales has authorized its use against people held at Guantanamo Bay and in Abu Ghraib Prison.

Phnom Penh

I'm aware that this blog hasn't been updated for several days. Call it travel fatigue, call it laziness, but the plain fact is that I'm having trouble processing the things I see and learn about Cambodia, and so writing about them presents a whole range of challenges.

We arrived from Bankgok on the 12th, and other than a silly mix-up at Passport Control (they don't take traveler's checks or credit cards, just $20 American), our visit here has been problem-free. Logistically, anyway.

We started with three days and three nights in a bar/restaurant/hotel on Sisowath Quay, a riverfront street that runs along the Tonle Sap, Cambodia's longest river. The Tonle Sap meets the Mekong a few kilometers south of our hotel -- during the rainy season (now), the more forceful Mekong causes the Tonle Sap to reverse direction. (I'm not sure how interesting that tidbit is to most of you, but it's one of those info nuggets that tends to stay with me.)

We wandered up and down Sisowath Quay, checking out restaurants and cafes, and venturing into side streets where we'd stumble across second-hand bookstores and other places of interest, such as the Royal Palace and a couple of wats that looked shiny and new.

I was the recipient of many long, hard stares, which could have meant any number of things. Young kids are drawn to me because they're curious. "You have skin like me!" is an exclamation I've heard from more than one cheerful kid. I usually hold my forearm next to their tawny skin, and they generally look at me with wonder, smiling broadly.

"Where you from?" asked one boy.

"America -- California," I replied.

He scratched his chin and cocked his head, skeptical. "No, I think you from Africa."

Then there are the older folks -- mainly women in their forties and fifties. They give me very sour looks -- the Evil Eye, as I've heard it referred to in India, and even back on Long Island. I decided to stop speculating about whether I resembled an unsavory GI from thirty-five years ago, or an overpaid and lazy UN worker from the 1990s who did little more than frequent brothels and spread venereal disease, courtesy his bloated per diem.

Either way, I drew scrutiny. To many men, I was just a potential mark walking the gauntlet of moto-taxis, cyclo-rickshaws and tuk-tuks, each one eager to take me the three blocks between me and my destination. For a nominal fee, of course.

Like everywhere else we've been, the children are beautiful and intelligent.

By dusk, you're likely to see many Phnom Penh city kids selling secondhand books from plastic shopping baskets, the sort you see stacked by the entrance to your local supermarket. Most of the books are about Cambodia and thereabouts -- tourist fare. We took revenge on the asshats at Lonely Planet by purchasing a knockoff of their Vietnam guide. You can tell it's counterfeit by the misspellings on the back cover and the slightly blurry lithography throughout.

The girls use wiles and wit to make a sale; the boys have less finesse. Girls do their best to extract promises of future sales, keenly aware that the farang just wants to avoid an awkward confrontation with a prepubescent, highly mobile retailer who refuses to take "te aw kohn (no, thank you) for an answer.

She knows you have some money; you're a Westerner in Cambodia. That means you have means, and she will charm, hound, cajole, joke, scowl and pester you until she gets what she wants, or is satisfied that your will to hold on to a few precious greenbacks outweighs your guilty need to hand her some loot so she'll annoy the next person.

Liz purchased a few books from one girl in particular and promised to come back the next day for more. Me, I'm harder to pin down when it comes to transactions of this type. I refuse to make promises, once even holding up a plastic bag that contained two second-hand pulp novels.

"See, I have two books already. I don't need any more books -- te aw kohn," I said to one cute little sharpie.

"You have two books?" She made a moue and furrowed her brow. "How long it take you to read two books?"

"I'm a pretty fast reader, so one a day," I replied. I had a creeping sense of unease.

"Fine. So you read one book tonight, give to your wife, and then you come back tomorrow and buy from me."

I stood there, trying to keep my jaw from going slack. She didn't bat an eye. This was all business for her; and perhaps a measure of survival as well.

"You are very smart. Good business woman," I told her.

She nodded as if I'd pointed out that the sky is blue and water is wet.

I got away that time, but when they saw me and Liz walking along Sisowath Quay in the evenings, they would swarm us. Our last night there, we were walking back from the Western Union office (no ATMs in Cambodia!), and the gaggle of pre-teen booksmiths circled Liz, stopping us dead on the sidewalk.

I glanced back at Liz to say, you okay? She smiled an affirmative and gave me a nod, so I walked one block down to a restaurant near our hotel to order some take-out. I've seen her deal with street children -- beggars, touts, vendors -- all over Southeast Asia, and I've yet to see her lose patience or once fail to see their humanity.

I met her back at the hotel later with steaming rice noodles with seafood and a Cambodian pizza (plenty of prawns, basil and chili oil), and she was a little miffed. In Liz terms, that translates to mightily pissed. A few kids got very aggressive with her once they saw that she was fulfilling her promise to the one particular girl she'd agreed to purchase from a day earlier. One boy kept hitting her and called her rude names for "forgetting" the identical promise she'd made to him.

This didn't please me at all, but there's plenty of things about Cambodia that make me uncomfortable. Like the developmentally disabled boy who weaves through the sidewalk cafes after dark selling copies of that morning's newspaper, or the two kids who sit balefully outside restaurants, staring at the diners.

The latter duo is comprised of a able-bodied child of 9 or so who's trundling his armless, limbless friend around in a makeshift wheelchair. And what am I supposed to do, ignore them? How about the fortyish fellow missing an arm and his right leg above the knee who holds out a tattered Yankees cap and says, "please, sir?" It's hard to take them in and casually let your eyes flick back to a laminated menu:

"Hmm, shall I order the pork fried rice, or the fried Mekong fish with basil and spinach?"

One evening we were out for a drink in front of our hotel, just after rush hour's parade of diesel exhaust, road dust and scooter after scooter crowded with three, four, and sometimes five passengers. I suggested that we take a table indoors, but Liz was more content to sit outside and watch the world. I didn't make a big deal out of it, and we ordered cocktails.

Just then, a young man who'd been waiting for our waitress to go away came to our table with a box and some brushes, offering to shine our shoes. We're both wearing sport sandals, BTW -- nylon and rubber construction, waterproof. He crouched down by our feet at the table to show us the dirt he could clean away with his oily brushes, then plucked at a stray strand of elastic on my shoe, indicating that he could "repair" it with his thick needle and some black fishing line.

I declined. Politely, insistently. "Te, te. Sohm to. Te." No, no. Excuse me/sorry. No.

After a few minutes, he got up and wandered down the quay in search of other customers. I felt his disappointment and half-wished I'd toted some scuffed oxfords or wing-tips around the globe so I could throw some business his way.

I arched my eyebrows at Liz. Can we go inside now? She didn't argue, and we reseated ourselves.

Here's the thing about Cambodia: everyone works (much harder than you are, any of you) at whatever they can do to earn. The girl selling counterfeit Lonely Planet guides gets a small take of her day's sales. If any.

The guy slouching in the doorway of the massage parlor receives a percentage of each handjob he steers their way. The skinny young women laughing at jokes they don't understand while squirming in the paunchy lap of a fortysomething, swinish Australian isn't there because he's such good company. There just aren't a lot of great options.

Even if you work in a hotel's bar/restaurant, the customers will still handle you like a B-girl with "affectionate, playful" grabs and gropes, but you'll smile back, if you want to keep your job. I didn't see too many lazy people in Phnom Penh, even if I didn't care for how they made a living.

There have been poor people everywhere we've been, but Khmer folks strike me as a particularly industrious lot. Some pump gasoline by hand at the side of the road out of a 40-gallon steel drum, some work in food stalls. I saw a tiny boy our last day in Phnom Penh pushing a three-wheeled ice cream cart down the quay.

I watched from the balcony as he put all his weight on the handlebars just to lift the front wheel over the curb, before using his shoulders to boost the rear wheels over with his remaining strength. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, and then wheeled his frozen treats down the river walk, calling out in a high voice to anyone who wanted to buy.

I had the fleeting thought that this child was representative of Cambodia's past, present and future -- an impoverished people struggling under a heavy load who will do what they must to live through another day.

Photos: Ko Phi Phi Don

Dangling feet on the ferry from Phuket to Koh Phi Phi Don

Reua haang yao (this longtail was the "taxi" to/from our hotel)


Hat Hin Khom at dusk. As the kid from Utah next to us on the longtail said, "We have arrived!"


Orchids are so abundant in Thailand, they're used to garnish cocktails. So much nicer than a paper umbrella.


Lovely, no?


Folks enjoying the oh-so-blue water


Longtail with passengers.


Reconstruction.


Tom works at the Legacy pancake stand across from this 'net Cafe


Hanging out at "Hippie's" restaurant


Just a lampshade installed at the Bayview Hotel. Walter found one identical to it submerged about 50 yards offshore.


Flora and Fauna


View from our bungalow at the Bayview


Staff at the Bayview Resort


Beach dog enjoying the view from the Bayview lobby. As Mr. Victor said,"I love the view from my office."

Wading in: 3 days on Ko Phi Phi Don

Day One

After my misadventure on Kata beach earlier in the week, I had some concerns about going back into the water. I needn't have worried; the water around Ko Phi-Phi Don is as peaceful as the island it surrounds and the folks who inhabit the place.

The Bayview Hotel is about 500 meters east of Ton Sai Village, a narrow strip of land that connects the west side of the island (Ko Nok) to the east (Ko Noi). We chose wisely, as Hippies Bar & Restaurant was a short stroll down the beach, but far enough away so that our windows didn't reverberate to the thumpa-thumpa of the kids' crazy music.

The stretch of beach by our hotel is Hat Hin Khom, where the water is quite shallow. We waded out a few hundred yards at low tide and were surprised to find ourselves only waist-deep in the warm water. As I said to Liz, "I wish our bathtub in San Francisco would retain heat this well."

It was dusk, and the sunlight was fading fast -- faster still after a pewter cloud moved in. I saw the rain before I felt it; the limestone cliffs at the far end of the harbor faded like someone had just turned down the island's brightness setting on a console.

"Here it comes," I said, a second before it reached us. The sensation was remarkable -- standing in water warm enough to bathe in while being hammered by cold, hard rain that stung our faces. A stiff wind blew the downpour sideways, and though we both wore sunglasses, we still had to deflect the water with cupped hands to see or talk.

The beach kids absorbing and enjoying the UV radiation collected their paperbacks and towels before scuttling for cover. I'm sure more than one onlooker wondered what the hell we were doing out there in the rain -- but I didn't come to Phi Phi to use Ban de Soleil. I came here for the waters, as a brilliant man once wrote.

Day Two

Liz took me snorkeling for the first time. She seemed surprised to learn that I'd never done it before. For 100b, we rented two masks and set out to see what lay beneath Hat Hin Khom. She gave me the basics -- hand signals, spit in your mask to keep the lenses from fogging, etc. The tide was coming in, so I was somewhat dispirited at first by the poor visibility.

Turbidity, divers call it. I had an inauspicious start -- churning my legs to keep up with dolphin-like Liz, who used only her hands to propel herself smoothly forward. For the first half-hour, I was all too aware of the sound of my own breath, the burning of salt water in sinuses, and a grim feeling that I should have been having more fun.

Eventually, we reached the reef past our hotel, and the water calmed a bit. There were no other swimmers, no reu haang yao and their big-block motors, just us and the sea. I grew accustomed to expelling air through my nose to clear the mask, and much to my surprise, I began to enjoy myself immensely.

Mostly, we floated with faces down, several meters apart. I grudgingly accepted that my facial hair prevented the mask from making a tight seal, and removed it every ten minutes to let it drain. Now and then, one of us would beckon to the other, and we'd hold hands while hovering over a particularly interesting fish condo in a sunken boat hull or a large outcropping of coral.

A marvelous time was had by all, except for one curmudgeonly sea creature: I was sitting in the shallows, trying to spot Liz's orange snorkel or the soles of her sport sandals, when I felt a sharp pinch on my posterior: the crab equivalent of "You kids stay off my lawn!" Coulda been worse -- there were plenty of sea urchins that would have greeted me even less hospitably.

After re-hydrating and comparing sunburns, we found an Internet cafe our last night on Phi Phi to revise our travel plans to Bangkok. After the bait-and-switch 17-hour bus, Liz elected to get us back to BKK via Thai Airways. Total flying time: 1 hour, 20 minutes.

While she struggled with a wonky hotel reservation Web site, I sat at a pancake stand across from the 'net cafe where I had a chance to meet and speak with the staff. They were all chao naam -- indigenous to the island -- and were very friendly and open, each wanting to practice his English. I cursed myself more than once for leaving my phrase book back in the room.

Several customers came and went, but it was a rather slow night, so I had an opportunity to engage in real conversations; comparing Khao San Road to Haight-Ashbury, the distinctions between the American people and the American government. I was glad to to learn that I'm not the only person in Thailand who's grossed out by the flesh peddling.

The shack where they prepared pancakes, smoothies and sandwiches was small, and they had only a few tables. Still, they're located on a well-traversed path along the beach, so they stacked some baht while I waited for Liz to wrestle a confirmation out of the hotel's ever-crashing Web site.

The owner explained to me that he'd first opened in late November, just a month before the Boxing Day tsunami. His restaurant had been much larger, he said, gesturing to an open expanse behind a cinder-block wall. Since this was a new business, he was in the habit of staying open until dawn to maximize profits.

He'd had three hours' sleep that day when a friend pounded on his door around 1030 to tell him that the wave was coming, and that they should run, run, run. He nodded vaguely toward a hill behind the village.

I'd never asked anyone on Phi Phi about the tsunami, but he'd initiated the conversation.

"And when you came back?" I asked.

"Gone." He slapped at a mosquito. "I come back. Tables, chairs, cooking, everything gone."

"How high was the water?"

He nodded upwards at a tree with a crown about twenty-five feet above his shack that provided shade for his daylight clientele. "When I come back, many fish in nets, up there."

Two smoothie-seeking Australians arrived at that point, so the dialogue was cut short. I wasn't keen on asking much more, to be honest. After doling out the fruit shakes, he came back and complained with a quiet bitterness about the Thai government, and its lack of action. The tone conveyed frustration and resignation.

"They give 5000 baht. That's all." He got up again to serve another customer, this time an extremely drunk sunburned tourist who was screaming and slurring the lyrics of a song playing over the PA at Hippies Restaurant, a good 20 meters away.

Thailand's government has refused additional international aid, but it's also been extremely slow to respond to people on Phi Phi and elsewhere whose homes and places of work were damaged or destroyed. While I was hunting down accommodations on Phi Phi, I saw a note posted on a Web site for a now-defunct hotel that expressed the owner's frustration with Thai officials, and thanked his past customers.

Local scuttlebutt is that the central government is dragging its feet and waiting out the small operators so they'll finally give up. Once that happens, Phi Phi will be wide open for development by multinational hotel chains. Just a rumor, but it has the ring of truth.

I spent about two hours chatting with the rest of the food stall's staff -- practicing my Thai, and helping them with their English. A science teacher from Austin sat down, and they engaged her as well.

It was quite amusing -- the science teacher and I would speak in halting Thai and slow English to the guys, they'd discuss amongst themselves in their native tongue at jet speed, and then Ms. Wizard and I would speak in rapid-fire English to each other.

Liz wasn't able to make the Web site work, so we gave up the ghost and ate freshly grilled chicken and fish from a stall in Ton Sai across from a disco blaring techno-salsa music. I came back to the table with some barbecued squid and stopped for a second.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Turn around," I said. There was a snazzy, newish-looking speedboat with a fancy paint job up beached on the rocks along the seawall behind our table, a gaping hole smashed in its keel.

She gave it the once-over. "I thought it was just up here being for repairs, but I guess..." she trailed off.

You won't find any photos of tsunami damage here. The first day we arrived, I saw two Japanese women standing on the beach facing the husk of a washed-out hotel, moving back and forth to find the best vantage point for the photo. I shuddered (literally) and kept walking. For them, I suppose the trip wouldn't have been complete without such an image to show friends and family.

I didn't come here to see the damage. Everyone with basic cable knows how badly this place was hit. I came here seeking beauty and relaxation, not gory photos for the folks at home.

Day Three

Our last morning on Phi Phi. I was out earlier than usual in search of an ATM and breakfast. The first cash machine I spotted clearly predated the deluge, propped up in an alley between two buildings, plastic and metal guts spilling out into the sunlight. A skinny beach cat crawled out from under, startling us both.

I went further into Ton Sai to locate a working ATM. There aren't too many on the island these days.

Walking back with breakfast and bevvies, I passed the science teacher, who was headed for the beach.

"Hello, Mr. San Francisco," she smiled.

"Howdy, Ms. Austin," I replied in kind.

Breakfast was incredible: hot rice porridge seasoned with ginger, garlic, basil and lemongrass. Mine had tender chunks of kung -- kai for the lady. We sprawled out on the bed and spooned it out of plastic bags (over a folded bath towel).

Later that afternoon, a longtail took us from the hotel back to the pier, where we boarded a boat to Krabi and stayed at an entirely non-descript hotel that was clearly chagrined to have two backpackers wearing sandy sport sandals in their immaculate lobby.

We nursed our respective sunburns, rejected "A River Runs Through It" on hotel TV for our respective good books, and then slept in good and late before it was time to go to the airport. Our flight touched down in BKK about 3 hours ago.

Since we have less than 12 hours before flying to Kampuchea (Cambodia), we decided that we'd stick it out in Hippie Central (Khao San Road), as it's close to food, broadband and late-night amenities. Sanuk dii!

We'll stagger out tomorrow around 0600 to head for the airport.

Sawat-dii khap, prathet thai.

Khawp khun maak khap.

Kata -> Phi Phi

Three days on Kata beach were wonderful, but we were determined not to get "stuck" anywhere in Southern Thailand, regardless of comfort or circumstance.

The only sour note: an insistent riptide that was fixated on pulling me into the shipping lanes of the Andaman Sea. There was a moment when I was bobbing like a cork, watching the land recede, and having the conscious thought, "don't panic." After fighting my way back in with some help from a boogie board, I staggered back to the bamboo surf shack and its bronzed Aussie proprietor.

"How was it, mate?"

"Mental!" I replied.



Reua haang yao on Phi Phi beach

He threw back his head and laughed. I walked my sore self back to the hotel, determined to exact revenge on the sea in some form. A lobster will meet its destiny at my hands shortly. I will feel no guilt.

Lonely Planet: Thailand was published pre-tsunami, so we were fairly on our own when it came to finding destinations and accommodation in and around Phuket and Krabi. We burned off more than a few hundred baht doing research in the Internet center of the Orchidacea Hotel. I'll give the LP folks this much credit for augmenting their coverage with a PDF file on their Web site that had some current information.

I found myself browsing Web sites for hotels that no longer existed. Others had managed to update their sites to reflect whether they were fully or partially operational.

There was still my Southern Thailand travel of "chill", which I felt a strong need to heed. India was fascinating and wonderful, but not exactly relaxing. Bangkok offers a different sort of sensory overload -- imagine making the leap from Kolkata's colonial decay to bustling prosperity in a gleaming city that celebrates materialism. A lot to absorb, though I don't regret a single moment.

We were ever mindful that Phi Phi bore the brunt of the tsunami's devastation; Liz came back from the 'net center with the iBook open to a Sheraton in Krabi on the mainland, 28 km away. We were both torn about "imposing" ourselves on Phi Phi, even though all we'd heard indicated that hotel operators and local businesses were now seeking the return of tourists, not emergency aid.

I showed her several hotels on Ko Phi Phi that were back in action, so we forgot the Sheraton and booked three nights at the Bayview Hotel, just a short walk from the main village. "Chill" for us meant not staying in the seaside equivalent of Khao San Road.

A very scatterbrained woman in a travel office attached to the hotel booked us passage on a boat to Phi Phi -- a 2.5-hour tour. Renting our own speedboat would have been faster, but it's not an option during the off-season, and certainly not with the threat of monsoon rains and the waves they bring.

We checked out and cooled our heels in the hotel lobby, where a skeevy Swedish drifter regaled Liz with tales of how he'd been forced to live on a few baht for several days after some problem with his credit cards. At first, he blamed the problem on a stray magnetic field, then he flipped the script, alleging that a Bangkok store had grifted him by maxing out his card.

He sensed that she's not an easy mark, and gave up the ghost and made his departure shortly after I joined her on the couch. If you're going to scam tourists, I imagine you'd have an easier time of it during the high season, but I hate to tell anyone how to do their job.

A bus picked us up at 1315 and brought us to the dock in Phuket in plenty of time to make our departure at 1430. Thanks to some greasy eggs and bacon, I was queasy before we weighed anchor. After several minutes of rocking and rolling in the choppy harbor, I asked Liz to exchange seats with me so I could be on the aisle.

Landlubbers be advised: there's less relative motion in the center of a boat, so if you're lacking Dramamine, move to the middle and keep your eyes on a fixed point.

Everywhere we go in Thailand, we seem to be with the same crowd: eager twentysomethings and middle-aged farangs with their "dates."

There were several people making frequent trips down the aisle from fore to aft, most of them green around the gills, as they say. I plugged in my iPod and closed my eyes, blocking out the thrum of the diesel engines with Creedence Clearwater Revival.

After "Suzie Q" and "Born on the Bayou," I opened my eyes during "Proud Mary," having found my happy place. Limestone islands topped with lush green began to appear, one after the other.

Closer to port, a female crew member asked us which hotel we were headed for.

"Bayview," Liz replied.

The crew woman screwed up her face, as if she was trying to remember something vaguely important. "Ah, if it's high tide when we arrive..."

We nodded our understanding...

"...then you need to hire longtail boat to get to Bayview."

The three of us exchanged glances. This was news. What else would we find when we arrived?

The beach appeared navigable in guidebooks, and there was a narrow strip of white sand encircling the ao when we arrived at the Phi Phi jetty. There was also a skinny young man holding up a sign for Bayiew hotel guests. Fully divorced from my expectations, we stood on the dock behind him and looked down into the water. Back home, piers are grotty places with pools of diesel and cigarette butts floating past.

Here, I saw a school of zebra fish and hundreds of other silvery things I didn't recognize.

After the other Bayview guests disembarked, he led us down to the beach from the pier to a reua haang yao. Two young women climbed aboard with bags of bread, baskets of eggs, and cartons of Frito-Lay products.

We hiked up our pantlegs and waded into the water. Our guide loaded our bags in the front, and stowed the two most substantial Americans in the back as a counterbalance. The only other passengers were trio from Utah who'd been peregrinating through Northeast Asia, and they were as wowed as we were.

The longtail took us back out into the harbor and made a wide loop before heading into shore. A casual look over the side made the indirect route obvious; there were coral reefs just under the water. The guide who'd loaded us in scampered cat-like along a three-inch wide railing to stand in the prow and shout directions to the man in back who had his hand on the rudder.

The motor cut out about fifty yards from shore, and we drifted in until we nosed into a sandbar. We got out as gracefully as possible and grabbed our packs, wading toward the reception desk with our bags balanced on our heads.

Once we were on firmer sand, I quipped, "best hotel arrival. Ever."

The front desk was staffed solely by Mr. Victor, a European in his thirties whose accent Liz couldn't place. He explained with sadness and regret that the hotel was not fully operational. Electricity is available between 1300 and 1600, and between 1800 and 0900.

"Also, the water might be slightly discolored," he noted, as the supply of fresh water (which was never copious) was reduced by tsunami damage.

I could be projecting, but there was palpable grief in this man. I wondered instantly how many of his co-workers had perished in the deluge. He had the air of a soldier who refused to lay down his gun, despite the heavy casualties his unit incurred.

Without meaning to sound or be patronizing, I tipped everyone who performed a service -- the boat operator, the porter who carried Liz's bag. These people have been through a living hell I can't even begin to imagine. A hotel next door to the Bayview is no more, though its shell remains.

I regarded the husk of a building and TV memories I'd suppressed flooded my mind. The terror, the panic, the destruction.

But time isn't standing still on Phi Phi. Restaurant staff are just as friendly/abrupt, attentive/apathetic as anywhere we've been. People walk around with the posture of people on the job, joking with colleagues, smiling at customers, taking orders to and from the kitchen.

Long story, short: life goes on.

Right now, Liz is out enjoying the water. I'm going to finish my second Singha and head into the village to find an Internet cafe where I can post this, as well as the few photos I took on the way over.

After that, back to the room so I can lock up all this tech, and then take a dip myself.

Photo catchup: Agra, Kolkata, Bangkok

Thailand is go, go, go. At least until we found ourselves down here in the south, where the food and views and beach and pool have made us a little lazy regarding content uploads. Sorry for slacking.

In any event, here are some images that will bring you up to speed. More after the jump...

Obligatory photo of The Taj Mahal. Setting my impressions aside for a moment, the initial view is quite stunning.

Steps at the Taj, supposedly carved from one huge chunk of marble


Stones and Marble -- detail on the outside


Touching the pieta dura


Screens carved from individual slabs of marble at the entrance to the mausoleum


More intricate detail


Marble detail


The plaza surrounding the mausoleum has borne the weight and wear of millions of visitors over several hundred years.


Zoom on a minaret


Joseph tells Liz about the Mosque as families stroll past


Happy tourists


View into the guesthouse (which faces, and is identical to, the mo