The Real Misty Mountains

 

My lips expel a deep breath, and the white mist that follows weaves an ethereal pattern around my face.  It then dissolves into the mist that floats heavily around the quiet mountain side.  I stand at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at the endless procession of stone that marches up into the fog.  The "Soldier's Path" is the toughest way to get up to the legendary Mt. Huashan, and here I find myself standing at its base.

Gloved hand on the railing, I take my first step.  Then I take another step.  And another.  Little do I know that these steps are only the first of thousands to follow.  3999 in fact, and that's just to the North and lowest peak of the mountain.  I press on, winding further up into the milky vapor that seems determined to envelope all those who are braving the climb.

Silhouettes occasionally appear, belonging to others who are attempting the infinite climb.  The blood runs warm through my veins  and I find myself shedding layers.  In spite of the bite in the air, I begin to enjoy the climb and the mystery-movie feel of my surroundings.  But never one to remain complacent, the mistress of the mountain has other ideas.  Icy tentacles have begun to grow over the edges of the stairs, and as I press on, the thin wands become snarls of pure treachery   Concrete is no longer a luxury that I will have, and will instead have to satisfy myself with (literally) walking on thin ice.

Undaunted, I conquer several  hundred more stairs, snapping photos along the way.  Perhaps at this point Mother Mountain realizes that there is no way for her to send me scuttling back down the mountain on my not-so-merry way, and decides to play nice.  Craning my neck sky-wards, I can see the yellowish hue of a nearby mountain, and it's bathed in golden sunlight.  I look back at Jordan, grinning manically.  I hear several joyous exclamations behind him, for other climbers are quickly glimpsing the same sight.


Urged on by this glorious discovery we surge forward, feeling renewed and ever-more determined to reach the first of many summits.  Red cloth ribbons are becoming a more frequent sight as we ascend.  Tied around the chains and railings that line the stairs, their tails undulate in the wind.  Intermingled with these dancing ribbons are golden locks, and in the brilliant sunlight one can see the engravings of Mandarin characters.  In Chinese culture, red is a colour that represents good luck, and each lock on the mountain represents a wish for a loved one's protection and longevity.  Ascending further, it soon becomes clear that the wishes for good luck and protection are endless, as the ribbons and locks continue to grow in amplifying numbers.

The north summit is soon under our feet, and we gaze south towards where we will soon trek.  Mt. Huashan, often compared to a lotus flower by the Chinese, seems to float in the clouds.  From where we stand, it stretches into a gentle dipping bend and then reaches even higher into the heavens.  One can just barely glimpse the Blue Dragon Ridge, a narrow staircase that ebbs atop a ridge, where a fall over either edge would result in a most definitive end.

 

We soon find ourselves winding our way towards the Eastern Peak, where we'll hopefully spend the night in a comfortable guest house.  This particular peak is renown for it's spectacular sunsets, and we have every intention of being there for the next morning's dawn.

Weary from thousands of stairs, we spot a promising building, boasting the name of "The DongFeng Hotel."  It turns out to indeed be accurate when placing the word "hotel" in quotation marks.  After much gesturing and pointing, the man behind the glass check-in counter shows us to a 10 bed dorm room that will set us back about $40 for the night.    To say the room is a disappointment would be a gross understatement.  The floors are littered with bunched-up pieces of garbage and paper, and the "beds" are nothing more than a sheet thrown over the wooden bed frame.

At this point, we decide that we'll spring for a private room, as we've wanted to venture to Mt. Huashan for years, and it will be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  We soon find out that the private rooms are $60... PER PERSON.  We try to explain that even in offering us a discount on this astronomical price, the hotel will still make more than our original payment of $40 for the dorm room.

We are met with naught but a vacant stare. 

A small Chinese girls leads us down to what we are told is a "private first class room."  She fights with the door, slamming her tiny shoulder into the already worn wood, until the door finally gives and opens inwards. 

Immediately, like a sniper to its target, my eyes are drawn to the vast amount of loose dirt that occupies the floor. Except unlike a trained assassin  I don't need a scope with 40x magnification on it to spot the object of my fascination.  Before I can stop myself, the words find themselves pushing at the back of my lips.  They finally spew forth, like lava erupting from an angry mound of rock and stone. 

"Holy s**t!  Is that DIRT on the floor?!?!"  As expected, I receive the usual blank stare in return - a typical result of the language barrier.  However, I'm inclined to think that she does understand the direction of my surprise, as her gaze flits to the floor, in spite of the "couldn't care less" expression that she soon dons. 

Jordan charades a sweeping broom motion, and our host almost rolls her eyes, pushing past us to fetch one.  Upon returning, she half-heartedly sweeps out a few wisps of the dirt mound, and then leaves as quickly as she reappeared, slamming the door behind her.  Only, the door doesn't stay shut.  In fact, it doesn't even seal.  Sitting on the hard beds, we shiver as the wind blows in through the gaping hole beside the door.  It's difficult to look beyond the cobwebs that seem to cover every unoccupied plot of plaster on the walls, and the fresh stains that linger with grotesque clarity on the once-white sheets. 

This is not happening.

Jordan painstakingly looks up the mandarin characters to a phrase, and we present the male host with an iPhone that roughly reads,

"Very sorry.  Room is cold and very dirty.  We would like refund.  Much appreciated."

The man won't even look at us as he counts out the bills, and walks away before we can even express our thanks.  We are immensely grateful that we were able to re-secure our funds, and start the walk back to another guesthouse we had stumbled upon earlier.



                                               *                                *                                   *

We don't detangle ourselves from the sheets early enough to catch the sunrise, but none-the-less, it's a beautiful sunny morning.  A cold bite still lingers in the air, and the wind has yet to cease it's constant quest for recognition.  Excited for the day's adventures, we retrace our footsteps up to the eastern peak.  There we meet a hearty mountain local in feline form.  Meowing hopefully, she follows us around, purring while she rubs up against our hiking pants.  Her eyes closed, she blissfully leans her head into our palms, eager for attention, but even more eager for the prospect of tasty morsels. 

We relent, and setting down our packs, she immediately realizes that she's suckered us in.  More weak tourists have fallen prey to her "angelic" facade.





Finally, the time has come.  After years of image searching and wishful thinking, we are actually going to experience it.

The legendary cliff walk of Mt. Huashan awaits us.  

After a mimed safety "demonstration" from the supervising employee, we find ourselves tugging excitedly at our harnesses.  Seconds later, our "safety guide" has disappeared back to his chair in the sunlight, and we find ourselves alone, staring down at what can only be described as a building attempt at a ladder.  Steel scaffolding has been stuck into the granite cliff walls, and zigzags haphazardly through a vertical crevice   Far below we can see a small ledge, less than a foot wide, which will lead us onward throughout this daring walk.

Sucking in a breath, our lungs full of misty mountain air, we begin the descent.  The first few steps are shaky, and we cling furiously to the cable wires that run along the step holds.  Tensions soon ease however, and I find myself  hanging in precarious perches off of the steel rails, vying for the best camera angle.

Shuffling along the rock ridge, we soon glimpse the sight that has occupied my thoughts for the last several years.  Two ragged looking boards jut out from the face of the mountain.  Twisted and bent nails seem to be the only means of its support, and for a moment I wonder how these planks are able to support a squirrel, let alone a human being.  We find ourselves squealing with delight, and almost dash forward.  Unfortunately, our harnesses deter us from doing any real sort of dashing, and we have to be satisfied with the slow clipping and un-clipping process.

Standing out on the planks, I feel unbelievable blessed.  Not only are we completely alone on the southern peak, but the sun is beaming brilliantly onto our upturned faces, and the yellowed granite wall shelters us from the wind that batters the eastern peak.  We are giddy with delight, giggling as we kick our feet out over the open air, marveling at the sheer drop onto solid rock far below us.

It's impossible to describe the feeling one gets when placed in a situation such as this one.  To close your eyes and breathe the air, it feels as if the entire mysterious essence of the mountain is absorbed into your very being.  Gazing out towards the endless sea of undulating peaks, you feel as if you could prance from summit to summit with one graceful leap.  Such is the height of your appreciation and joy.

My eyes are unable to rest for more than a moment on each wonder that it presented for me.  Finally, I concede defeat, and let them drift closed for one restful moment.  One thought circulates through my mind.

This is what I live for.  

The Good, the Bad, and the Depressing

"This way Sir!  This way lady!"

We can hear the eager shouts of the touts before our feet have even landed on firm ground.  Stepping out of the bus, the cries become even louder.

"This way!  This way!  You must purchase Cambodian visa right now!  No leaving this compound!  You must purchase visa first!"

We shake our heads, quite literally pushing our way through a crowd of men dressed in clean white attire.  They aren't letting us go without a struggle, and continue to paw and pull at us, proclaiming, "I am from Cambodia!  I just want to help you get a visa!  I would never scam you."

Nice try.  This whole operation is a scam.  Jordan and I stick to our guns, and push onwards until we break free of the smothering group.

Shackled up in a guesthouse near the Cambodia border, we marvel at the extent to which people will go to make a quick buck.  It doesn't seem to bother these people, who try and swindle tourists out of every last dime they possess.

For those who have never been to Southeast Asia, the border crossings are a feat to be survived.  They are notorious for scammers and swindlers, all who are intent on obtaining visas (that are either fake or grossly over-priced) for unsuspecting tourists.

Thanks to our new-found French friend, we manage to make it across the border unscathed.  After an interesting taxi ride to Siem Reap, we find ourselves eager to explore what this new country has to offer.

Upon first glance, Cambodia seems to be even poorer than Thailand.  There is less of the beautiful lush grass, and more dusty dirt patches.  Hordes of children mob sweat-soaked tourists, begging for money.  They are tenacious, pushing at the waists of the foreigners, refusing to let them pass until the harassed individual is literally forced to dart away.  Little girls carry around swaddled babies, imploring female visitors to buy them milk and food. Horrifyingly enough, many of these week-old infants are rented from their mothers, to be used as sympathy tools by the beggars.

Siem Reap is a happening little city, with noisy night markets and a beautifully lit river side.  Tourists are welcomed into the city centre known as "Pub Street" where an endless variety of restaurants and bars make their home.  Our dreams each night are a whirl of chaotic activity, filled with a sea of faces that all appear the same.  These faces open their mouths to call out endless streams of the same phrase; "You want tuktuk sir? Hey lady where you go? Tukuk?  Tuktuk... tuktuk...tuktuk..."

Every morning we wake to find that these are not manifestations of our imagination, because exactly four steps from our guesthouse we've already fended off three tuktuk drivers.  Some days, I long for a t-shirt that proclaims, "Don't ask!"

We decide to take in some of the national history, and after a blistering six kilometre walk along the dusty streets, we arrive at the Cambodian War Museum. Rusted shells of once-impressive tanks flank gravel pathways, while rows upon rows of various guns sit upon open shelves.  A Russian helicopter occupies a corner of the plot, its rotor blades stretching into the surrounding foliage.  Close by, a Mig-15 Fighter Jet sits quietly, perhaps yearning for the days in which it raced with astounding speed through the clouds.  Fourteen tanks, eighty-nine guns, and five hundred grenades later, we decide to hail one of the ever-persistent tuktuks back to our guesthouse.

We spend the next three days exploring Angkor Wat, the largest complex of Hindu temples in the world.  Constructed in the 1100's, the temples are enchanting sights to behold.  We rent bicycles for $1.00 a day, and spend our time leisurely exploring all that this World Heritage Sight has to offer.

Stone pillars rise grandly into the sky, their age evident by the blackened portions of decaying rock.  Spires loom proudly above the teeming crowds of tourists, reaching in vain for the overcast skies.  As we explore the vast ruins, we are constantly in awe of the mystery that shrouds these temples.  My favourite sight, Bayon Temple, is as da Vinci was to art: Genius. Magnificent. Wondrous. Inspiring.

We almost find ourselves becoming twisted and lost within the intricate layout of Bayon Temple.  Enclosed courtyards flanked by pillars give way to shrouded side-rooms, while crumbling stairs plummet steeply into secret alcoves.  We find a deserted and hard-to-reach courtyard, and allow ourselves a moment to bask in the sheer weight of this incredible place.  Moss climbs over a set of crumbling stairs, reclaiming man's triumphs back into the earth.  We settled upon these stones, our eyes greedily absorbing every detail in the works around us.  The air is thick; heavy with the history that lives within each of these stones.  I fall silent, and swear that I can feel the breath of this place - ancient but alive.

Occasionally, we catch a glimpse of orange through the winding corridors.  Monks still frequent these passages, and clothed in their sunset coloured robes, they meditate and pray over wands of flickering incense.  Angkor Wat, which is known as "The City of Temples," is the only major historical sight in the world that has been in constant use throughout it's existence.

Soon it is time to say goodbye to Siem Reap and the glorious temples that surround it.  We are about to embark on what is quite possibly the worst bus ride of our lives.  Our assigned seats are at the very rear of the bus, and we soon discover that there is a continual blast of hot air that billows from behind our seats.  It's strong enough that the pitiful excuse for air-conditioning never quite reaches us, and we are reduced to panting like caged animals.   Lucky us, we also happen to be sitting right on top of the engine, which effectively turns the floor under our feet into what feels like a lava bed.  After 25 minutes on the road, our pants are drenched to the point where I can wring buckets of sweat from them.  The heat is so intense that Jordan begins to feel nauseous, and has to excuse himself for fear that he might make a mess.  At one point, I reach under the seat and pull out the occupying pastries.  Where I once thought that bread can't melt, I am now a believer.  What little edible portions of the rolls remain are covered in what I can only describe as "bread sweat."  Mmmm.  Yummy.

300km and 7 hours later, we are almost at the capital city of Phnom Penh.  The road has been decidedly unpredictable, with the main "highway" boasting paved stretches one moment, and giving way to rutted farm roads the next.  As we near our destination, I start to become excited, and I'm pleased that I've managed to maintain a (relatively) good mood throughout this torturous ride.  My resolve is soon tested again however, as the route takes a turn from "bad" to "disastrous."  Where there once was a semblance of a road, there is now nothing but a 20km stretch of pockmarked earth.  The "road" is a series of potholes, many so deep that I strain to see their bottoms.  At the back of the bus, we are being thrown around mercilessly, and clouds of choking dust are occasionally blowing into the bus with desert-storm force.

Retching the dust from our lungs, we finally arrive in Phnom Penh, and eagerly board a tuktuk, aiming for a section of the city that houses many hostels.  After a blissfully cold shower, we fall between the sheets, praying for tuktuk-free dreams.

Over the next several days we visit some of the grimmer attractions that the capital city has to offer.  Before going any further, I should mention that Cambodia was ruled by a communist party known as the "Khmer Rouge" from 1975 to 1979.  Their leader, Pol Pot, was attempting to enforce the policy of social engineering, which ultimately resulted in genocide.

Our first stop is what is known as "The Killing Fields."  This is one of the many sites throughout Cambodia that served as a mass execution ground for prisoners taken by the Khmer Rouge.  Giant holes freckle the earth around the sight - evidence of the graves that served as the final resting place for heaps of bodies that were coldly tossed within.  Prominent amongst the sights is a huge tree, upon which members of the Khmer Rouge army used to hang loud speakers.  These speakers would play classical music, in hopes of blocking out the sounds of moans and screams from the dying.  The last noises that these innocent people would ever hear were the eerie strains of a Cambodian melody.  In the middle of the field sits a small temple.  Rows upon rows of human skulls are stacked within a glass case that occupies its centre.

As if we hadn't yet experienced enough depression, Jordan and I decided to visit the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.  This is where Pol Pot held his innocent victims until they were ordered to be taken to the Killing Fields.  Once a beautiful high school, Tuol Sleng now served as a foreboding prison.  Classrooms were transformed into tiny jail cells, and wooden poles that had once served as exercise devices were used as instruments of torture.  Drops of blood still stain the floors of many of the cells, and razor wire ensnares the balcony railings - a deterrent against suicide.  As we wander through the four buildings that make up the complex, we can't even imagine the hardships of the 5000 prisoners that were held captive here.  Thousands of photographs line the walls, all taken by the Khmer Rogue.  The victims face the camera, and their hands are bound behind their backs.  As we stare into the faces of those who are now gone, we glimpse a range of emotions.  One expression shows defiance in the form of a smile, while sadness brims behind the eyes of another.  Mothers pictured with their infant children stare stonily into the lens, while others look towards their captors - utterly defeated.

One can only spend so much time at this place before feeling completely drained and overwhelmed.  It is with heavy hearts that we silently shuffle out of the gates.  Few words are spoken during the long walk back to our guesthouse.

Made ever grateful for our freedom through the prison visit, we have spent the last little while planning our next set of adventures.  As of this morning, our plane tickets are booked, and we will be flying into China in one week, and Nepal in two weeks!  Mt. Huashan and Mt. Everest await!

Cambodia Fact of the Day:
Even today there are thousands of active land mines that litter the Cambodian countryside.  Each year, farmers and children lose limbs or their lives due to these mines.

Going Pee Pee before Phi Phi

Upon first sight, Koh Phi Phi Is every bit as breathtaking as the photos and stories suggest.  Massive limestone cliffs tower over the clear turquoise waters – eternally silent giants that shelter and protect the island’s beauty and mystery. 

The small ferry spews a cloud of diesel exhaust into the air, and unceremoniously slams into the sides of the pier as the driver docks the boat.  Of course I exercise the worst possible timing, and am in the washroom for the collision.  I’ve just about settled myself in a precarious perch over a squatting style toilet, when  I almost fall into the murky water.  Just then I notice a man on the dock staring in at me through the wide open window.  Awesome.  I slam the window shut, realizing how close I came to following through on the old expression of “getting caught with your pants down.”

The tourists squeeze their way out of the multiple ferries that have just docked, and make their way down a long pier towards land.  We have pre-booked a guest house on the island, and are excited to dump our gear and relax for a spell.  Traveling from place to place in Thailand is effortless in that transferring from ferries, to shuttles, to buses is easy, but the actual rides can be extremely cramped and uncomfortably hot.  We trapse through a slew of market stalls and shops for about fifteen minutes, excited at the prospect of later exploration, and finally reach our final destination.  Dee Dee’s Beach House sits at the edge of the village, and in spite of it’s reasonable price, it sits right on the beach.  (Hence the name!)  Through our booking, we’ve secured the last available room, and are excited when we see that the room looks quite clean and has two large beds.  Two large windows allow the sunlight to pour into the room, and our room is literally the closest one to the beach.  We have only to open our door and take several steps to the right before our toes sink into the sand. 

As is the routine at every guesthouse, we perform a quick sweep for the presence of bedbugs.  That’s

when every joy we have about Dee Dee’s comes crashing down.  I lift up the pillow, and several of the creepy crawlies are sitting right there under the pillow.  I shudder in revulsion and break the news to Jordan.  The owners are sitting in the office across from our room, and through our window they can see us inspecting the beds.  Eventually Jordan informs them of our dilemma and they ask for us to show them.  We comply, and the lady laughs when she sees the few bugs, quite literally squishing them into the sheets with her finger.  We’re a little too grossed out to stay now, and thankfully, the woman offers to refund our room fee.  We’ve barely stepped out the door when she spots two young men approaching the guest house from the beach.  She asks them in a loud voice if they need a room, and when they respond that they do, she immediately pounces, offering them our old room.  Poor souls.  They could be in for an itchy night.

Heading back into town, we realize that there are no shortages of guest houses in the village.  Most of them are situated within the heart of the hubbub, but this suits us just fine.  We inquire at several, before finally settling on one called, “BanThai Guesthouse.”  The lady, Miss Lee, is nuts in the best sort of way.  Perky and chipper, she repeats our names several times, appearing to take a real interest in us.  We shortly realize that this is as much a part of a strategy to upsell us on matters ranging for the number of nights we want to stay, to booking tours with her.  None-the-less, she is still a charming little woman, with a keen sense for business in the ultra-competitive tourist industry.

Our room is located on the top floor, and the stairs that preview  them are nothing short of a miniature workout.  Steep and narrow, they wind upwards into the stifling heat of the third level.  They are so shallow that just over half of my foot can rest upon each stair. (I later learn to walk down the stairs with a slightly sideways gait.)  The once shiny metal handrail that flows along side the stairs  is now cloudy with the fingerprinted grease from sweaty hands and slick sunscreen.  I think better of my initial reaction to grab it.

We are pleased upon entering our room, as it is large and clean.   The mattresses are comfy, and best of all – bedbug free!  The hot water is definitely a tad on the bipolar side, choosing when it does and doesn’t want to make an appearance, but all that matters to us is that we’re able to shower.   An air conditioner juts out from one wall, and as we later find out, has the ability to chill the bones of the devil himself. 

The next day we find ourselves climbing to the several viewpoints that overlook the island.  While the day is overcast, the scenary is spectacular, and we decide to continue on to other remote parts of the island.  We encounter wild monkeys on our trek, and though the intelligent animals look approachable and friendly, we maintain our distance for fear of any nasty monkey bites.  We eventually find ourselves on a remote beach, where the only establishment seems to be a campsite and a small restaurant.  As we wander through the palms towards the set-up, we encounter several signs that proclaim, “NO ISRAELI!” Other words are painted in bright slashes across old tires saying, “We do not serve Israelis! Thank you!”  You think the  owner maybe has something against them? His loss really, as Israeli tourists account for a huge portion of the Thailand tourism.

We eventually decide to make the long walk back to the village, as we are drenched with sweat and are covered in bug bites from our foray through the thick jungle.  That night, we recline against the headboards of our beds and enjoy some of the local market fare, coupled with snacks from the ever-popular 7-11.

The next few days are spent in a lazy fashion, with us strolling around the markets and taking some time to plan our next journey.   We decide that we need to take in some night life while we are here, and Saturday night finds us down at the beach bars.  Loud music blares from the speakers, and two young Thai men swing a large jump rope.  The only catch is that the jump rope is actually on fire.  Giddy young tourists, beers in hand, take turns venturing into the eye of the firey jump rope’s storm.  Some are decent at avoiding the flames – others, not so much.

Eventually this leads into the lighting of another flame fueled activity – the limbo.  Shimmying under the flames, laughing people fight for the title of champion, but alas they are no match for the locals.  Having filled our fun quota for the night, Jordan and I return to our comfortable room, and drift to sleep, the sounds of screaming party-goers and pounding bass rhythms a far-off rumble in the distance.

Of course the highlight of visiting Phi Phi is a trip to Phi Phi Ley, a smaller island that floats just twenty minutes away from the larger island.  It lays claim to the famous Maya Bay, along with many other gorgeous little bays and inlets.  We had originally planned to embark on a tour that offers overnight camping on Maya Bay, but the offer is unavailable because of the low season.  We are informed of another option however, and it sounds equally as exciting.  It is an opportunity to snorkel among the phosphorescence in Maya Bay.  We are intrigued by the sound of this, and with it costing less than half of the camping trip we had originally budgeted for, we decide that it will be a worthy investment. 

A worthy investment it is.  Our boat is a delightful old wooden sea craft, with floor seating on the open top level.  We clamber up the two ladders, and secure a spot near the bow.  Within minutes we are chugging slowly towards our first stop on the itinerary – Monkey Bay.  Aptly named, this bay is apparently home to dozens on monkeys that frequent the beach.  We don’t spot any, but are just as content snorkeling in the clear waters that teem with fish.  At one point, the guides start throwing bread into the water around us, and we shriek as swarms of fish envelop us in frantic clusters.

We later make our way to the smaller island of Phi Phi Ley, turning into a secluded bay.  The driver anchors the boat, and we leap off of the top deck into the inviting waters below.  Swimming to shore, we climb onto the rocks and up a steep staircase that leads into the vast jungles of the island.  Anticipating the famous glimpse of Maya Bay, we trot down a pleasant little path that is well-worn with the footprints of thousands of the same eager visitors.

As we round a bend in the trail, the towering cliffs of Maya Bay make themselves known.  The impressive limestone formations wrap themselves around most of the bay, lending the area of sense of secrecy and seclusion.  The mass jumble of tourists is starting to thin out, and we once again rejoice at the precision timing of our tour.

The next couple of hours seem to pass at lightening speed, as we bask in the exquisiteness of our surroundings.  Finally, our guide gathers us back together, and motions for us to follow him in swimming past some striking rock walls.  It soon becomes apparent that his intended destination is another smaller beach that graces the far side of the bay.  As we stagger up on to the sand, we soon appreciate his reasons, as the sunset from this particular vantage point is without equal.  Clicks from cameras can be heard all around, and as the sun starts to sink behind the cliffs, we see our cheerful little boat, gently rocking in the mouth of the bay.

Our guide then indicates that we are to swim back out to the boat. (Pictured in the sunset photo above)  I admit that I’m a bit taken aback by this, because it’s quite a swim from the beach out to the boat.  Having spent a good deal of my life in the waters of the glorious Shuswap Lake, I’m comfortable with the notion, but can’t imagine everyone else feeling the same.  My thoughts are confirmed when several people proclaim that they are not very strong swimmers.  (Maybe more consideration should have gone into their choice of tour!) 

I’m certainly struggling to breathe normally by the time I haul myself up on to the boat.  The first one back, I plop down on a seat and enjoy watching the numerous dog paddles that emerge from the quickly darkening waters.  Soon people are dragging themselves back onto the deck, and dripping bodies soon congregate on the upper level.  The small workout was apparently enough to incur serious cravings, and it doesn’t take long before half of the vessel’s occupants have lit cigarettes.  I shrink away from the billowing white clouds and watch from the bow of the boat as the glow of burning orange dots fill the darkened sky.

Dinner is announced, and soon we are passing around large bowls of rice, baked potatoes, and freshly cooked fish.  After hours of swimming, the hot food is delicious, and plates are being passed around for seconds. 

Lightening flashes off in the distance, and to me this seems now a habitual nighttime occurance.  Our guide announces that it’s time to snorkel with the glowing plankton.  Many people are nervous about this, and even express disbelief that there will actually be anything worth seeing in the water.  But already I can see snake-like formations of glowing green lights hovering below the water’s surface.  Jordan and I are among the first to jump off of the boat, and our cries of appreciation for the phosphorescent spectacle that surrounds us encourages others to follow.  With our masks on, we see nothing but the black water that shrouds us.  Then we begin to kick our arms and legs, and within moments we are swimming through what looks like a galaxy of green and blue stars.  They are everywhere, floating above and below us – even sometimes clinging to our arms as we step on to the boat. 

The next day marks our intended departure from Phi Phi.  We say goodbye to the beautiful island, and climb aboard the ferry, settling in for the two hour journey back to the mainland.  Once there, we pile into a bus that will take us a Bangkok.  The vehicle is packed with people, and only the top floor seems to hold passengers.  One look and I can already tell that Jordan and I will not be able to sit together.  In a huff, I plod back down the stairs, and look for some other seating.  I see a few people disappear behind a small door beside the washroom and follow them.   Stepping into what can only be a private VIP area, I glance around in appreciation. 

"Hurry, shut the door so no one else sees us!" A German girl proclaims.    

"Do we have to pay extra for this area?" I ask.

"I'm not sure but let's just stay and see if they kick us out."

No one comes to shuffle us out, so once the bus rumbles to life, we lean back and enjoy our surroundings.  Three large couches form a half circle at the front of the room, and behind them sits a large tv.  Jordan and I are sprawled out on two nicely reclined leather seats that face the couches.  For the next several hours, we revel in the luxury that surrounds us, before a small Thai man pokes his head in the door and exclaims that all Bangkok passengers are transferring to another bus.  Darn.

This turns out to be a huge bummer, not only because this bus has no secret little room, but for several other reasons.  We're making our trip down the nighttime highway when suddenly a heart-stopping "BANG" wakes us from restless dozes.  You can hear the exclamations of surprise that resound throughout the coach, and we've soon deduced that the bus has sustained a flat tire.  It takes the employees around an hour to fix the problem, and after they pile back into the bus, we settle back to resume the journey.

Only... the bus won't start.  It coughs and tries to roar into the land of the living, but fails miserably.  We soon hear the clank of tools, and the jabbering shouts of the bus driver and his companions as they try to resolve the problem.  Finally, we find ourselves pulling away from the side of the road, and the coach once again echoes with the breathy snores of the sleeping passengers.

We arrive into the congested nightmare that is Bangkok traffic around 6:30am.  Slowly waking, we peer out into the overcast sky and marvel at the snarl of vehicles that seems to flow from every direction.  Buses full of sleep deprived school kids slowly squeeze into the flow, and scooters squeeze through any space they can.  Then, our bus breaks down.  Again.  Right in the middle of traffic.

The tools come out, but this time, the problem is resolved quicker.  This happens several more times before we finally stagger off of the bus, eager to stretch our legs and find a place to indulge in some real sleep.

Thailand Fact of the Day:
While the coach style buses in this country can be quite comfortable and nice, the bathrooms on board are nothing short of repulsive.  It is a toilet that you would NEVER consider sitting on unless you considered catching some vile disease a part of the cultural experience.  Dirty sewage water floats in the very shallow bowl, as there is no authentic flush system.  To the side of the toilet, there is simply a basin with a bowl in which you are supposed to ladle water into the toilet, eventually causing it to (sort of?) flush.  While back in NZ, I knew that I might encounter circumstances such as these, and purchased a device called a "Sheewee," (allows girls to pee like guys... sounds weird I know) and I am SO THANKFUL that I did.