<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159</id><updated>2012-02-16T05:28:23.297-08:00</updated><category term='contest'/><category term='Vietnam'/><category term='tropical'/><category term='yak'/><category term='Cambodia'/><category term='animals'/><category term='Kerala'/><category term='babies'/><category term='jungle'/><category term='China'/><category term='gorges'/><category term='bugs'/><category term='dragons'/><category term='Beijing'/><category term='beach'/><category term='orphanage'/><category term='Christmas'/><category term='buffalo'/><category term='sumo'/><category term='Himalayas'/><category term='Nepal'/><category term='bounce house'/><category term='trip'/><category term='Andaman'/><category term='two-year-old'/><category term='Australia'/><category term='travel'/><category term='ethnic minorities'/><category term='Indonesia'/><category term='Bali'/><category term='Japan'/><category term='zen'/><category term='Tibet'/><category term='islands'/><category term='fear'/><category term='mountains'/><category term='driving'/><category term='India'/><category term='packing list'/><category term='Laos'/><category term='Thailand'/><category term='trekking'/><category term='temples'/><title type='text'>olivertheworld</title><subtitle type='html'>A mom, a dad, a little boy and girl.  The whole, wide world</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>24</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-1711348678206028470</id><published>2010-07-21T00:45:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-07-21T02:05:45.138-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='tropical'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Australia'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='animals'/><title type='text'>Queensland Cowboys</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEa1g3iUtWI/AAAAAAAAVjw/KJl4et3KVDw/s1600/P1050695.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEa1g3iUtWI/AAAAAAAAVjw/KJl4et3KVDw/s200/P1050695.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496279971520623970" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;April 10 - May 8&lt;br /&gt;Queensland, Australia&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Through the dense understory of fan palms and fig vines, there, right there in front of us, was the unmistakable blue skin, red wattle and bright black eyes of Australia’s largest flightless bird: the &lt;a href="http://australian-animals.net/casso.htm"&gt;cassowary&lt;/a&gt;. In &lt;strong&gt;Daintree National Park&lt;/strong&gt;, Far North Queensland, we were visiting the ancient and sacred realm of Australia’s Wet Tropics. Here much of the flora and fauna are vestigial throwbacks to &lt;a href="http://www.palaeos.com/Earth/Geography/Gondwana.htm"&gt;Gondwana&lt;/a&gt;, the 550 million year-old super-continent that once sutured together the landmasses of the entire southern hemisphere. The cassowary is such a primitive specie that its survival rate in the wild has sadly earned it a spot on the endangered species list, and conservationists insist that only 1,200 to 1,500 remain in the world. But there we were, Oliver, Ryan and I, winding our way slowly through the forest at dusk, and in our path was this incredible animal. Here in Jindalba, the “Place of the Spirits”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And there were two of them! It was Ollie who first spied the chick fossicking about in the ferns near the adult bird’s enormous feet. I reached to give Ryan’s hand a squeeze; it is the father cassowary who raises the chicks on his own from the time they hatch until the moment they make there way into the forest alone. After a couple of attempts to take a photo in the near darkness, we slowly inched away from the little family, mindful of the cassowary’s blunt talons and powerful legs. I smiled later that night when the attendant at our campground gasped at our report. Only the very lucky few have ever glimpsed a cassowary in the wild. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We quickly learned that meeting nature head on was what Queensland was all about. There were &lt;a href="http://www.fraserisland.net/"&gt;vast sand islands &lt;/a&gt;where one could sleep alongside wild dingoes, waterfall-pocked gorges that spilled into crocodile-infested waterways, and eucalypt-fringed highways where koalas clustered overhead. Before long, we were on board a vessel that would ferry us out to one of the country’s most important national treasures (at least in terms of its implication to Australia‘s GDP): the &lt;strong&gt;Great Barrier Reef&lt;/strong&gt;. Despite being jostled by the ship’s cargo of eager 19 to 25 year olds, even Ollie managed to sneak a peak at a family of “Nemos” sheltering in an anemone, and for several hours he paddled to and fro over the spectacular coral formations, trussed up in a protective &lt;a href="http://www.stingersuits.com/"&gt;stinger suit &lt;/a&gt;and a pee-wee sized life jacket. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our first port of call in Eastern Australian was &lt;strong&gt;Cairns&lt;/strong&gt;, where we briefly stewed in the pheromonal confines of the notorious backpacker hub. A multicultural influx of young travelers converged here in the city’s plethora of travel agencies and riotous bars, and for a moment we too were caught up in the flurry of the budget traveler’s mindset. In fact, we very nearly purchased a twenty year-old Camry with 200,000 miles from two German girls who had used the poor thing to circumnavigate the country twice. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Instead we discovered a small Australian company called Jucy that ran a backpacker-friendly business around kitting out their fleet of Toyota minivans with slide-out mattresses, portable DVD players, on-board propane stoves, battery-powered coolers and buckets of electric green paint. As we had learned in Perth, renting a full-scale motor home would prove to be prohibitively expensive, but we still needed an option that would allow us to tether a child’s car seat somewhere in the back. &lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEazFDkuiSI/AAAAAAAAVjg/bog5V86xas0/s1600/P1050268.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEazFDkuiSI/AAAAAAAAVjg/bog5V86xas0/s200/P1050268.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496277294692337954" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;And we were strangely drawn to Jucy’s multi-passenger model, the &lt;a href="http://www.jucy.com.au/jucy-choppa.asp"&gt;Choppa&lt;/a&gt;, where in addition to the pull-out mattress inside the car, a pod-shaped device on the roof opened into a fully-enclosed tent that could easily sleep two. Painted across the pod in a saucy cursive were the words: “The Penthouse”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Outside the rental office, I snapped together the small ladder that was included, rested it against the side of the car and prepared to head up top for an inspection. “I think at one point my parents thought about buying one of those clamshell things. To help the kids get all their gear up to college. Leave it to the Australians to attach some vinyl panels and market it as budget accommodation.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As ridiculous as we looked in our purple and green monstrosity, we were back on the road, and miles of tropical coastline spread out in front of us. Twenty kilometers out of Cairns, our first stop was the rain forested town of &lt;strong&gt;Kuranda &lt;/strong&gt;where we attempted to visit a hospital for injured &lt;a href="http://www.gokids.com.au/news/sp_sep_fox3.jpg"&gt;flying foxes&lt;/a&gt;. The large bats are endemic to Australia’s tropics, where they alight in massive numbers in the boughs of native fruit trees, only to squawk and squeal the night away. Sadly, we were turned away at the door on account of our bad timing, so we ambled through the small town, purchased an ice cream for Ollie, and returned to our van…only to discover a flat tire the front passenger side. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Neither Ryan nor I had a clue what to do. Amidst the cookery and cutlery, the blankets and pillows and sheets and towels, the fold-out picnic tables and chairs and all the other crap that had been thrown in…where could the jack be found? And the spare? How could this possibly have happened TWENTY KILOMETERS away from the rental office? We traded frustrated glances; surely we could have walked all the way up to Kuranda with lesser incident. Needless to say, we managed to locate all the right tools, and Ryan and I was very nearly finished with the change when a gruff Aboriginal fellow passing by insisted that what I was doing could scarcely be considered “woman’s work”, and he finished off what had taken me three-quarters of an hour in no less than sixty seconds. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Once our campa’ was again roadworthy, we sped away from the coast, deep into the &lt;strong&gt;Atherton Tablelands &lt;/strong&gt;where tropical dairy farmers grazed their stock alongside banana groves and rainforested ravines, from which gorgeous waterfalls tumbled over rainbows of spray. Ollie eagerly stripped down to his birthday suit to test the waters in the clear pool below the spectacular Millaa Millaa Falls, and, after donning his clothes again, escorted an elderly Chinese tourist around mud puddles so she could take in the sight from the viewing platform. I suppose he had the intuition that his good behavior would surely be rewarded at one of the many local cheeseries, where, every so often, one of the proprietors specialized in artisanal ice creams. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Further south we drove several miles to the foothills of the Misty Mountains outside of &lt;strong&gt;Tully&lt;/strong&gt;, a small town that is famous for its record-setting annual rainfall (in 1950, it received nearly 24 feet). A fast-flowing river passed through the gorge near out campsite and was heavily signposted with no swimming advisories due to recent crocodile sightings. This probably should have been reason enough for us to set up camp elsewhere, but it wasn’t until dusk began to creep through the trees that I began to consider our situation. We had received words of warning about the &lt;a href="http://australian-animals.net/croc.htm"&gt;“salties”&lt;/a&gt; ever since we’d set foot in this country, and truly, tales of their ferocity and penchant for taking wandering toddlers seemed to be on the tip of every Australian’s tongue. At a wildlife sanctuary we had visited along the way, Ryan had come away with a wealth of native animal trivia, including the ominous knowledge that crocs were capable of swimming hundreds of miles inland up freshwater rivers and streams (and incidentally, were immune to HIV). I began to grow uneasy. What if one of us had to run to the toilet in the dark? We were well off the grid out here…there was no electricity, nor had there been a sign of another human presence for miles. Then again, there was a creepy, abandoned hydroelectric plant just down the road…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then the cane toads came out. Australia’s most infamous invasive specie was introduced in the early part of the 20th century by Queensland sugar cane farmers who had mistakenly put stock in the creature’s rumored ability to catch and consume the native beetles that were devouring their crops. Not only were the farmers dead wrong (the toads proved unable to leap into the cane where the beetles were found), but they were entirely responsible for setting into motion one of Australia’s most devastating ecological phenomena. Cane toads are deadly poisonous during every stage of their life cycle, and have decimated populations of indigenous animals that have figured them for part of the food chain. Since their introduction, they have proliferated throughout the country, and millions of dollars have been earmarked by the government to control their numbers, with every effort proving to be a failure to date. Here at our quiet, dark, Queensland Park Service campsite, there were thousands of these creatures; suddenly materializing in the grass all around us like little, warty apparitions. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ollie darted out at one near my feet. “Frog! I catch him!” Ryan strong-armed Ollie in the nick of time, lifting him clear off the ground and back into the van. My eyes were as large as saucers in the darkness, and I might have been hyperventilating at that point. Then I started to hear strange noises emanating from the forest surrounding us. Curlews are a long-legged marsh bird whose cry sounds uncannily like a woman weeping, a fact which I was aware of that night in Tully, though it made no difference at the time. We needed to leave, and we needed to leave right then. Wordlessly, Ryan packed up the van, strapped Ollie into his seat, and in seconds we were off. We spent the remainder of that dreadful night forty miles away in a caravan park in Mission Beach.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;In the massive &lt;strong&gt;Tyto wetlands &lt;/strong&gt;outside Ingham, &lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEa0RcIp3tI/AAAAAAAAVjo/kzybxTieaCA/s1600/P1050613.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEa0RcIp3tI/AAAAAAAAVjo/kzybxTieaCA/s200/P1050613.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496278606955536082" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;we came face to face with hundreds of grazing &lt;a href="http://www.anhs.com.au/agile_wallaby.htm"&gt;Agile Wallabies&lt;/a&gt;, and Oliver was equally intrigued by the joeys in their mothers’ pouches as they appeared to be by our toddler in a child-carrier backpack. At &lt;strong&gt;Wallaman Falls&lt;/strong&gt;, the highest in Australia, we braved the humidity and slid down 900 feet via a winding path through the bush to the base of the falls. In &lt;strong&gt;Paluma Range National Park&lt;/strong&gt;, we were so bewitched by the clear mineral pools that we skinny-dipped the afternoon away and kept an eye to the shallows for platypus foraging along the banks. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So much of Queensland’s warm, wet, rough and romantic appeal lay along its unsealed roads and random rainforest hikes, but there was also the more commercial pursuits one could indulge oneself in, and we figured, if we were going to follow the crowds for once, we would follow them out into the &lt;strong&gt;Whitsunday Islands&lt;/strong&gt;. Airlie Beach smacked of the same hedonistic ambiance as Cairns, and signs throughout town advertised stand-by rates for two-day booze cruises that promised to take in all the sites. We opted for something more akin to a water taxi, and were genuinely impressed by Whitehaven Beach’s signature vanilla-sand swirls against an ultramarine tide. We passed a very awkward night in the gaudy grounds of the disneylandish &lt;a href="http://www.daydreamisland.com/"&gt;Daydream Island&lt;/a&gt;, but the following morning spent at the helm of the resort’s rented Hobie catamaran made the entire experience worthwhile. Sailing the Whitsundays could be checked off the list.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The spectacular &lt;strong&gt;Carnarvon Gorge&lt;/strong&gt; was the last remote leg of our travels in Queensland, and to reach it, we trekked far into the Great Dividing Range that cleaves Australia’s eastern coastal region from the vast expanse of bone-dry hinterlands. The 600 foot high gorge is famous for its centuries-old Aboriginal rock art, and all along the ten mile hike, various detours led us into water-sculpted canyons, mossy culverts, and crevasses that opened into ecological microcosms that had spent an eternity of time hidden behind curtains of stone. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We skipped through &lt;strong&gt;Brisbane’s&lt;/strong&gt; balmy South Bank riverfront in the blink of an eye and paused for an evening over a plate of Shanghai soup dumplings on Little Stanley Street. In the first week of May, Ollie and I counted the Grey Nurse Sharks that resided at the Sunshine Coast’s Underwater World and doled out cracked corn to kangaroos at Steve Irwin’s Australia Zoo. Ryan was showing the first signs of a major gastrointestinal illness and was forced to sit out the fun for a day or so. A month later, and only after all three of us had cross-contaminated each other, we would learn he had picked up &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cryptosporidium_parvum"&gt;cryptosporidium &lt;/a&gt;from a contaminated water supply. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Queensland’s bright lights focused to a point on the &lt;strong&gt;Gold Coast&lt;/strong&gt;, and by day, we took refuge from the crowds along the southern beaches. In the quiet hamlets of Burleigh Heads and Coolangatta, we watched surfers ride the legendary break at &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snapper_Rocks"&gt;Snapper Rocks&lt;/a&gt;. As Ollie dug holes in the sand that he insisted would lead him back to China, I pondered the presence of an undertow beneath the whitewash of the receding waves. Beyond, north, back the way we had come, the silhouette of Surfer’s Paradise hung like a pendant on the horizon; the strange, dark buildings standing in relief against a waning day.&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEa3xTUe2gI/AAAAAAAAVj4/O4HMZdAAREo/s1600/P1060314.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEa3xTUe2gI/AAAAAAAAVj4/O4HMZdAAREo/s200/P1060314.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496282452879923714" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Daintree’s Cape Tribulation beach was figuratively millions of miles away from where we stood, a month later, in the glow of Australia’s most ostentatious coastline. In the morning, we were gone.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-1711348678206028470?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/1711348678206028470/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=1711348678206028470&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/1711348678206028470'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/1711348678206028470'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/07/queensland-cowboys.html' title='Queensland Cowboys'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TEa1g3iUtWI/AAAAAAAAVjw/KJl4et3KVDw/s72-c/P1050695.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-6288437507797861220</id><published>2010-06-24T04:57:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-24T05:22:17.957-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='gorges'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Australia'/><title type='text'>The Red Road Through the Never Never</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNKg1xTIfI/AAAAAAAATPw/V6kIXmhIZvw/s1600/P1040597.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNKg1xTIfI/AAAAAAAATPw/V6kIXmhIZvw/s200/P1040597.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486310699117519346" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Karijini National Park, Western Australia &lt;br /&gt;March 30 - April 3&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ryan was beginning to think he was going blind.  It was approaching four in the afternoon, and he had been behind the wheel since seven in the morning, with one stop at a fly-bitten outback roadhouse for over-priced gasoline and a couple of meat pies.  The UV index was probably comparable to that in outer space and, in the backseat, Ollie had been babbling to himself incoherently for the past 150 miles.  Ryan had been  seeing black spots floating in his periphery, and they weren’t just the hundreds of roadside kangaroo carcasses that had met their demise in the headlights of a oncoming road train.  With two or three trailers in tow, these mechanical monsters often reached 150 feet in length, and they regularly plied the two-lane, shoulderless highways after dusk.  Of course they didn’t brake for anyone or anything, least of all the six-foot reds that tended to hop right onto their strip of bitumen. Avoiding them, and their accompanying shower of windshield-shattering gravel, was reason enough to stay off the roads once the sun went down.  The locals were fond of reminding us that if the big trucks didn’t get us, the ‘roos most certainly would. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It’s the thought of one of these animals plowing through our windshield that causes me to continually glance up in the rearview mirror to check the angle of the sun.  It’s going on 5:30pm now, and we are losing our light.  The glimmer that had entered Ryan’s eye when we pulled into the filling station in Paraburdoo had long since vanished when the attendant informed us that we still had another 130 kilometers to Tom Price, the gateway town to our next destination: Karijini National Park.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was a place neither Ryan nor I had ever heard of when we arrived in Australia. But when the creep travel agent in Perth matter-of-factly described Karijini as one of the least known but most spectacular of Australia’s destinations, and then brandished a photo from his recent trip there, our interest was piqued.  His print depicted some kind of red planet full of gorges, subterranean green rivers and strange plant-life.  And curiously, there didn’t appear to be any other people!  In other words, it seemed to precisely figure as that wild image of Australiana that  people from far faraway lands tend to maintain within their collective conscious.  At least to us, Karijini was the proverbial “Outback”.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Entering that place as the last ribbons of sunlight snaked across the cinnamon-earth was as if an ancient Aboriginal Dreamtime tale had breathed life into the bush all around us.  Ocher-hued spinefex grew in round, bristly tussocks and appeared as if they had emerged from the pages of Robert Louis Stevenson.  Ghost gum trees rose from the ground like graceful bony fingers to grasp an amethyst sky. I dubbed them “Venus Trees”, as their white limbs called to mind Botticelli’s famous subject.  Where her arm bends to sweep aside a tendril of sea foam hair, the delicate fold of skin yielding to skin is the same subtle, feminine ripple in the bark where a branch diverged from another.  In the distance, Mount Bruce cut a figure in a shade of plum and vibrated above the heat-halo that lay across the land like an electric blanket. We slept that night in the bush beneath a full moon, and dingoes cried from out in the desert until the dawn came, lighting everything in a trail of fire all over again.    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the Karijini’s calling card was not necessarily its horizon.  400 feet below us, jagged gorges split the earth like shards in a pane of glass, and underground rivers welled from their depths to run through the canyons like primordial arterial blood. This sparsely populated and semi-arid region of  far Northwestern Australia is steeped in Aboriginal creationist mythology, which describes a &lt;a href="http://www.warluway.com.au/"&gt;Dreamtime serpent&lt;/a&gt; that emerged from the sea and slithered across the land, forming great rivers and pools as he went. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Geologically, Karijini was once an ancient seabed that was formed by layers of fine-grained sediment that over the course of hundreds of millions of years, became a composite of iron ore and silicate.  As Western Australia became an increasingly arid region, the gorges were created when a sharp drop in sea level caused the rivers to down-cut rapidly. The 2,500 million year-old geological formation had a spirit all of its own; the red and gray and blue-layered rock had seen a long and particularly violent history, and it was as if the lucid bluegreen pools that welled up inside were a salve for wounds that ran as deep and brutal as the fiery core. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kalamina was our first gorge, and it was in its center that we stood, on top of an impossibly smooth plane of ferrous rock and gazed up along the ancient cliffs.&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNK-or1IyI/AAAAAAAATP4/iLYE3cnNZNE/s1600/P1040434.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNK-or1IyI/AAAAAAAATP4/iLYE3cnNZNE/s200/P1040434.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486311211000996642" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Their bandy sides were rubbed as soft as soap by rivers that had flowed past for millions of years. With Ollie strapped tightly to Ryan’s shoulders, we scrambled down Knox gorge’s scree-covered slope which might as well have been covered in metallic shrapnel.  Once at the bottom, we set Ollie down in a dew-drop of a canyon pool, where he paddled in its translucence as Ryan and I took turns leaping from the ledges above.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eight long hours after gorge-trekking, we returned to our campsite only to discover that a particularly strong desert wind had, at some point earlier in the day, sheared two of our tent poles neatly in half.  Our campsite lay in tatters and appeared as if a rogue elephant had run through it, with our camp chairs, table and little gas cooker strewn every which way into the surrounding spinefex.  That night the three of us bedded down in the back of our minivan, where a free-for-all competition for the most elbow room kept each of us grumbling into the very early hours.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following morning, we woke with sour dispositions and a flat car battery.  All were cured after several mugs of instant coffee, and before long, we were back on the plain and into Dales Gorge, a tremendous hike that led us from the spectacular Fern Pool, past the Fortescue Falls, and finally to the Circular Pool, where Banyjima, Yinhawangka and Kurrama Aborigines once frequented, seeking everlasting life.  Here we discovered tiny waterfalls that, heated on land by the sun, ran in warm rivulets down the canyon walls.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In Weano Gorge, we traipsed after a rough-and-tumble family from Karratha as they led us down a narrow track to Handrail Pool.  This waterhole’s namesake was owed to the treacherous manner in which a visitor makes their approach to the pool, via a bolted-in handrail one is instructed to grasp as they step backward off a ledge that drops thirty feet into the pool below. &lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNNa3BcwxI/AAAAAAAATQI/LQkv2NZwOwg/s1600/P1040520.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNNa3BcwxI/AAAAAAAATQI/LQkv2NZwOwg/s200/P1040520.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486313894909362962" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;At the end of the rail, one belays themselves down the remaining 12 feet with the aid of old, knotted rope that was tied to the end the handrail.  Understandably, at this juncture, the track transitions from a level 4 grade (“only attempt if you’ve packed a well-stocked first aid kit“) to level  5 (“you will most certainly die attempting this, the DOC entreats you to reconsider your route“).  As luck would have it, one of the Karrathans was carrying his own 27 month-old son down to the pool, and he made the descent look like a walk in the park.  “You put one foot ‘ere, and then the otha’ ’ere, hands down the rope, and she’ll be right! No worries, mate! Give er‘ a go!”  This was Western Australia after all, and the people were cut from the same hard earth that they stood on.  But we reckoned, if they could do it, so could we.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We left Karijini breathless and besmirched in red dust.  It had found its way everywhere and onto and into everything; from the console of our car, to the creases of our oily, rusty grins, into the corners of our eyes and the backs of our knees.  From here the Pilbara was wide open and without a spot of civilization for more than 80 miles.  We sped off with the specter of Mount Bruce and the Hammersley Range in our rearview, the light falling delicate and mauve across the dusty quilt an eternity of time had stitched into this remote corner of the earth.&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNMc2LS7hI/AAAAAAAATQA/wak-6TT0FdM/s1600/P1040715.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNMc2LS7hI/AAAAAAAATQA/wak-6TT0FdM/s200/P1040715.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486312829530336786" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-6288437507797861220?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/6288437507797861220/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=6288437507797861220&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/6288437507797861220'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/6288437507797861220'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/06/red-road-through-never-never.html' title='The Red Road Through the Never Never'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TCNKg1xTIfI/AAAAAAAATPw/V6kIXmhIZvw/s72-c/P1040597.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-8473465652758320518</id><published>2010-06-11T03:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-11T03:51:16.213-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='beach'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Australia'/><title type='text'>One Eye to the Indian Ocean</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBIPpGwv9bI/AAAAAAAASrA/dvIZUqIkS4I/s1600/P1030833.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBIPpGwv9bI/AAAAAAAASrA/dvIZUqIkS4I/s200/P1030833.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481460895327450546" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Kalbarri and Coral Coast, Western Australia&lt;br /&gt;March 21 - 29&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At long last, we emerge from the island continent of Australia. With some 5,096 road miles logged, it seemed fitting that we were rendered incommunicado for nearly all of two months.  After all, with fewer than 21 million people spread over 3.5 million square miles, which equates to about 6 people per square mile (compared to the United States at 76:1 and New York City at  71,201:1), a wireless signal was often hard to come by.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our original intentions of how to tackle such a massive country began as I suppose they all do: we wanted to see it all.  Beginning in Perth, we planned to travel due north up the western Coral Coast and bank east through Broome, onward to the Top End and the mystical terra incognita of the Kimberly.  Through the bush we might then dog-leg to the Red Center where we could take in Uluru (Ayer’s Rock) and the MacDonnell Range that runs ram-rod through heart of the outback.   Onward then to Southern Australia, loop through Adelaide and Melbourne, and curl up the east coast through New South Wales.  The beaches of the south trickle up to rainforest of tropical Queensland, and there we would conclude our adventure, nine weeks later.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cue a chorus of laughter.  Having confessed our initial plans, I might as well inform you that our itinerary would prove to be as ambitious as attempting to drive from the UK clear to China, and then BACK, in the span of a school holiday.  Needless to say, we were in for a rude awakening…one should NEVER underestimate the distances in Australia.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our adventure began auspiciously enough.  We arrived in Perth off a red-eye from Denpasar, Bali at approximately 5:00am, slap-happy and exhausted after a four hour flight that had somehow managed to cheat us out of a night of rest.  Sunburned and startled by the first temperate breezes we had experienced in more than seven months of traveling, we realized that we had landed squarely in the start of Australia’s autumn.  50 minutes later when we pulled up at the ramshackle pub/nightclub/hotel that was wedged right up against the Indian Ocean, we were sadly informed that our room was occupied for the night, and that we would have to wait at least until dawn for the first guest to check out.  Oliver was already comatose and sprawled out (un)comfortably over our backpacks, so Ryan and I scuttled off to the breakfast room where we cursed our lack of common sense and set up in dark corner to wait.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Over the course of the next several days, we did what we do best, which is casing a city.  We rode the bus from Scarborough Beach downtown, navigated rail links and perused travel brochures over Styrofoam cartons heaped high with fish and chips. We replenished our supplies, got haircuts and contemplated purchasing a vehicle from the local backpacker‘s auto market.  Oliver attempted to take up kite surfing from a fellow who had tethered his to a rail and turned his back, and in the nick of time we intervened before he was carried off to Papua New Guinea. Everywhere we went, we paid through the nose in Australia’s most expensive city, and when we complained, we were constantly reminded of exactly how far away we were from the rest of civilization.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the third day, we were robbed us of nearly $400 USD by an unassuming guy working at a travel agency.  He seemed honest enough at the time, and we took his word when he told us that we would surely perish if we attempted to see as much of Australia as we intended to in the time we had allotted.  On the spot, we agreed to rent a Toyota HiAce (essentially a miniature motor home) for sixteen days in Western Australia, and subsequent 35 days on the East Coast. Given that the Northern Territory was still experiencing The Wet, its “suicide season”, it was implausible to consider driving through the center; we  would fly instead to Cairns and book our tickets onward to New Zealand out of Melbourne after completing our road trip.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following day, we were ready to begin!  Perth’s glorious sunsets were permanently emblazoned in our minds, but the superfluous tattoos, Sunday Sessions and bums passed out in the drive-thru lanes of the alcoholic retail outlets were indeed more than we had reckoned for.  We yearned for the road.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But our camper, with its onboard gas cooker and twin berths, its pull-out couches and cute campervan-ish cabinetry, never materialized.  In a terrible oversight, our travel agent had neglected to inform us that these vehicles lacked an extra seatbelt required to strap in a toddler, so the game was off.  We were devastated.  Images of us boarding Grayhound buses every day for the next two months terrified us, and the idea of joining a backpacker tour group alongside seventy nineteen year-olds whose soul aim was to drink the country dry was out of the question.  Naturally, when a small husband-and-wife &lt;a href="http://ozpodscampers.com.au/"&gt;outfit &lt;/a&gt;contacted us about their kitted out minivans, we jumped at the opportunity.  We never ended up seeing the refund for our cancelled 35 day rental on the East Coast.  A nice score for that creep in Perth.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is how we found ourselves traveling nearly 3,000 miles through some of Australia’s most unforgiving and isolated terrain: in a van, with a cooler full of ice, and a tent.  First stop was Nambung National Park, home of the eerie Pinnacles rock formations.&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBISO-_m5fI/AAAAAAAASrI/IuLn3jcoGiE/s1600/P1030943.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBISO-_m5fI/AAAAAAAASrI/IuLn3jcoGiE/s200/P1030943.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481463745100572146" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;The origin of these standing structures continue to be shrouded in mystery; most scientific sources allege that the limestone jutting from the desert floor was formed when compacted seashells calcified into craggy columns with help from the elements.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following morning, I awoke with a start in the pre-dawn darkness.  Ryan must have been gnashing his teeth in a dream, or perhaps it was Ollie to my left, smacking his lips while still sound asleep.  I peered down at both of them, the light from the waning ¾ moon illuminating our tent in the otherwise total darkness characteristic of this remote part of Western Australia.  Both were sleeping soundly, Ollie trailing a thin sliver of moonlit drool across his camp mat.  Just then I turned to look out the window toward the Murchison River that flowed past our campsite to where it met the Indian Ocean at a small estuary.  There, beyond our pair of flattened camping chairs stood a enormous red kangaroo, his wooly coat the precise hue of the red clay that formed his home.  He dialed his ears forward and blinked out of the darkness at me, contemplating the level of threat I warranted, there in my tent.  In a moment he hobbled forward and resumed clipping back the grass that grew up in vulnerable tufts around our tent pins.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here in the Kalbarri, some 430 miles away from Perth , we were guests in the big red’s country.&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBISPTeav0I/AAAAAAAASrQ/gm0xl80gPko/s1600/P1040030.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBISPTeav0I/AAAAAAAASrQ/gm0xl80gPko/s200/P1040030.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481463750598508354" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;At sunset on the day of our arrival, we entered town via the coastal cliffs that rose up from the sea 300 feet or more, and gave the appearance that they spared all of Australia from the wrath of the ocean with their embattled, wave-lashed rocks.  The following day we undertook our first “bushwalk”, a five mile loop through sandstone gorges that cut through the interior.  We passed “Nature’s Window”, a fantastic layered rock formation that seemed to hint at the sublime decorating instincts of a Higher Power, as it perfectly framed the river below.  Heading north via the Brand, an endless, two-laned road that carried us up the coast, strange, scrubby banksia growing alongside resembled bushes covered in bottlebrushes.  Ryan pointed out one that appeared as if it had sprouted a crop of corndogs and I noticed a haystack-looking thing that was crowned with an enormous phallic-looking stamen.&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBISP2rtB9I/AAAAAAAASrY/g-Y7jgZ7x0U/s1600/P1040047.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBISP2rtB9I/AAAAAAAASrY/g-Y7jgZ7x0U/s200/P1040047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481463760049473490" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Truly the most well-hung plant I have ever seen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the Coral Coast, so named for the location of the stunning &lt;a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/gallery/2008/feb/15/adventure?picture=332536640"&gt;Ningaloo Marine Park&lt;/a&gt;, a barrier reef  that could give its East Coast alternate a true run for its money, we started to feel the heat.  While Ryan and I set off to investigate the &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stromatolite"&gt;stromatolites &lt;/a&gt;of Hamelin Pool (ancient organisms believed to have played a critical role in the formation of the earth’s atmosphere), Oliver made like the kangaroos do in the middle of the day and scuttled under a cluster of mulga brush to escape the UV.  We made it up to him by traversing the entire length of World Heritage-listed Shark Bay to visit the famous wild dolphins of Monkey Mia.  Like clockwork, a small pod of females swam to the beach every morning at 9am for a twice-daily fish feed.  Ollie was lucky enough to be selected out of a sea of onlookers on both visits, and on the second go-round, he was slightly less terrified so as to be able to drop the fish from five feet above the ground where he was holding fast to my neck.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The final 100 mile coastal stretch brought us all the way to the remote northern tip of the continent, where a small town called Exmouth had achieved notoriety over the years due to the arrival of one very special visitor: the whale shark.  Shortly after the first coral spawning of the year (May to July), the enormous filter-feeders regularly ply the waters surrounding Ningaloo to feed on plankton and other small fish unfortunate enough to swim within the trajectory of their enormous mouths.  For an exorbitant amount of cash and confirmation that this would be the ONLY Mother‘s Day gift I should expect to receive, Saint Ryan procured me a spot on one of the local shark‘n‘dive boats, and kindly ferried Oliver off to one of the quiet, turquoise beaches in Cape Range National Park so that I might have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to swim alongside the largest fish in the sea.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For the next six hours, twenty lucky participants rotated in and out of the water with snorkel and fins at the ready.&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBIU2LgGS7I/AAAAAAAASrw/DKMGi4o8Nog/s1600/kate+wedding+-+whaleshark+feb-march+31.2010+085.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBIU2LgGS7I/AAAAAAAASrw/DKMGi4o8Nog/s200/kate+wedding+-+whaleshark+feb-march+31.2010+085.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481466617496226738" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I summoned every muscle in my body to keep pace with the giant, forever mindful of the sweep-radius of its enormous tail and the creature’s curious inclination to every so often turn its head toward the swimmers fanning out from its flanks.  On one such dive, my heart leapt into my throat as a nearly 30 foot long whale shark surfaced between the group of eight of us.  The phrase “once-in-a-lifetime” is one I tend to  find far to fatalistic for my taste, but when that animal rose from a distant speck deep in the fathomless azure depths below to swim beside us, its vast form a dappled mirror to the sky, I could have held my breath forever.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-8473465652758320518?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/8473465652758320518/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=8473465652758320518&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/8473465652758320518'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/8473465652758320518'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/06/one-eye-to-indian-ocean.html' title='One Eye to the Indian Ocean'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/TBIPpGwv9bI/AAAAAAAASrA/dvIZUqIkS4I/s72-c/P1030833.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-4693175228840288546</id><published>2010-03-24T07:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-24T09:59:04.543-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='beach'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='fear'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Bali'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Indonesia'/><title type='text'>End of the Line</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S6pCiJFC_fI/AAAAAAAAMd4/Ok09JNiY5oo/s1600/P1030464.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S6pCiJFC_fI/AAAAAAAAMd4/Ok09JNiY5oo/s200/P1030464.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452243453205478898" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bali, Indonesia  February 26 - March 20&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All of the sudden, it seemed perfectly fitting that we would end our seven month tour throughout Asia right where we were, in Bali.  I tried not to tell myself that it was because we were exhausted.  That after barreling through China, India, the Himalayas, Southeast Asia and part of the Indonesian archipelago, the somnolent beaches of the far eastern coast and the graceful greenery of the interior were successfully lulling us into a deep, enervated state that tended to affect most long-term travelers at some point in their journey. This fact was becoming all too apparent to Ryan and I, and when it came time to decide whether or not to renew our Indonesian visas for another thirty days, it seemed the decision had already been made for us.  Sulawesi was just too many boat rides away…as was Kalimantan, Sumatra, and the rest of Nusa Tenggara.  And never mind the fact that the entire island was redolent of the gorgeous frangipani that magically managed to bloom outside the windows of nearly every hotel and losmen.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then, while in a salty beachside café near the off-shore wreck of the USAT Liberty, I saw my justification for it all.  In the 18th century, a British naturalist (and a contemporary of Darwin) by the name of Sir Alfred Russell Wallace determined that there existed an (imaginary) zoological boundary that divided the eco-zones of Asia and Australia.  The “&lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wallace_Line"&gt;Wallace Line&lt;/a&gt;” cut neatly down the Lombok Strait, thus demarcating Bali to the east (Asia) and Lombok to the west (Australia).  Despite the relatively short distance between the two islands (35 kilometers), Wallace observed that the deep channel between the two formed a natural water barrier that existed even when sea levels were lower during the Ice Age, and prevented the local flora and fauna from commingling or cross-pollinating for more than 50 million years.  Anyone who’s ever visited both islands can agree that Bali, with its million shades of green, and Lombok, with its dusty moonscapes, are horses of vastly different colors.  This was reason enough to me. After all my fretting about our inadequacies as travelers, we unanimously agreed that Bali was it: the official boundary marking the end of Asia.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Despite it all, we quite capably filled 20 days on Bali with equal measures of adventure and time spent unconscious in a pool chair. After several days in the somewhat self-important artist’s enclave of Ubud, we fled the humidity for the higher ground of Gunung Batur, one of Bali’s three active volcanoes.  Along the way, women wrapped in batik balancing towering offerings of rice, fruit and smoldering sticks of incense on their heads, outnumbered the passing motorbikes.   Rice terraces in shades of electric green formed vast geometrical compositions that took our breath away as we sped past on our motorbike, and coconut palms caught the waning sunlight, which, with streaks of gold, fused the dark, lustrous green of their outer fronds with the silver-blue-gray of the stormy late afternoon sky.  Near Penelokan, whose name means “beautiful view”, we savored fresh-from-the-tree passion fruits, rambutan, mangosteen, sakan (snake fruit), and sharply acidic tangerines at a small road-side stand with the specter of Batur just around the bend.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Arcing around the Northern Coast, we stopped along the black, volcanic sands of Lovina, and from the edge of our hotel’s infinity pool, we watched each evening as the sun slipped gracefully into the glassy stillness of the Savu Sea.  One day, we ventured further afield by motorbike, in search of durian, lovingly nicknamed the “Ass Fruit” by many western travelers.  We found a woman selling it by the outskirts of town, and for the equivalent of a dollar, we were soon sinking our teeth into the infamously putrid-smelling flesh. This was an experience I had been looking forward to ever since I arrived in South East Asia, and I was intrigued by descriptions I had read of the fruit, including British novelist Anthony Burgess, who likened the experience to “consuming vanilla custard while sitting on a latrine”.  Sure enough, the durian was indeed creamy with a consistency roughly akin to a ripe avocado, and there was a subtle sweetness there as well. But for some reason (perhaps our durian was past its prime), the thing went down with an odd curry-like aftertaste that foreshadowed the horror to come.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back on our bike, Ryan turned up a steep track that led up a ridge we guessed would make for a brilliant vista over the black coast.  From where we were, the long, unbroken ridge rose darkly and resembled the crest of a wave before it broke and crumbled into the verdant wash of rice paddy that appeared to eddy before the hills all the way down to the coast.   Small, thatched huts where villagers took respite from the sun during harvest became scraps of tidal spindrift amidst a sea of green.   When the sun began to list at an angle to the earth, we decided to pluck our way gingerly back down the hillside, Ryan struggling to balance the bike around hairpin bends without turning us all out in the volcanic gravel that dusted the sides of the narrow road.   A fellow from the hillside village caught up with us and gave us a characteristic Balinese grin.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“You from Australia, yes?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The durian was performing elaborate flip-flops along my digestive track now, unsure of whether or not it would continue along its trajectory or instead reverse its direction entirely.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“U…U…U.S.A.  We’re from the U.S.A.” I stammered.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;From the back of his motorbike, the fellow introduced himself as Nyoman (in Bali, all people named Nyoman are the third child born in a family), and proceeded to tell us that he had an older brother working on a cruise ship in the United States.  Had we heard of Carnival Cruise Lines?  We learned that Nyoman himself lived with his parents in the village of Tigawasa (although he had ambitions to work in a hotel in Lovina), and was off to visit his other older brother in Amlapura where everyone was celebrating his niece’s birthday, who may or may not be Oliver’s age.  My face was a picture of earnestness and terror as I endeavored to answer his question, and I couldn‘t help but wonder whether this fellow‘s curiosity was piqued enough for him to stick around assuming the three of us plummeted off the side of the road and into the ravine below. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Needless to say, Ryan managed to bring us down intact.  The durian was coming up on me in baleful bursts of gas that surely had the power to rouse Lovina’s ancestral spirits, but we were alive, and ready to move on to our next destination along the coast, Amed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Beautiful Amed is one of Bali’s sleepiest touristed coastal towns.  When we arrived squarely in the middle of the off-season, we were able to secure a room in the swishest hotel in town which overlooked the sea, had satellite TV, air-conditioning, free breakfast and the softest beds we had enjoyed in months; all to the tune of a little more than $50 USD a night.  In other words, for less than the price of the grimiest hostel in Australia, we took every opportunity to indulge our weary souls for the next several days, right down to the $10 USD Balinese massages we suffered through on the gazebo overlooking the beach at sunset.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our time in Amed was our saltwater pearl; precious, hard to come by, and more beautiful than words can describe.  From our outdoor shower set within a private garden, the intoxicating perfume of night jasmine drifted in on the salt air while the Southern Cross glimmered distantly from a swathe of stars above.  Directly behind us, a volcanic mountainscape rose up violet at dusk and emerald during the day; at its southeastern horizon, Mount Agung tumbled sharply down to the sea and formed smooth black pebbled beaches that hissed like rain on a roof as they were carried back and forth by the tide.  Near a WWII wreck, we swam headfirst into a juvenile barracuda and spiraled in a vortex of giant trevally as they schooled around the wreck of the USAT Liberty.   We rode our motorbike every day up and down the tiny coastal road that plied the surrounding cliffs where below us, fishermen’s junkung (trimeran sailboats) lined the beaches that opened to spectacular coral terraces glittering in the late afternoon sunlight.  By the limpid sea, Ollie tried to futilely to skip rocks with Ryan, and hurled enormous handfuls of hot, black pumice into the sea.  Our son’s hair had again grown into the flaxen tendrils that I am so averse to cut away, and Ryan was brown and lean and sharp from the sun and a diet of rice and fresh fish.  Here we simply escaped time; we became as much a part of our surroundings as the man who drove his ox in his fields, or as the small peeper frogs that called to one another from the little saltwater inlets that ran deep into the countryside.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Several days later, we rustled ourselves along to Sanur, a popular strand of beach in the South East nearing Kuta and the hordes of other travelers.  Here we planned to sit tight through &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nyepi"&gt;Nyepi&lt;/a&gt;, the "Day of Silence" that marks Bali's Lunar New Year. For a period of twenty-four hours, every individual taking refuge on Bali’s shores was expected to observe strict rules in accordance with holiday, which included no working, no entertainment or pleasure, no traveling, and limited use of electricity.   &lt;br /&gt;The night before was a sort of Balinese Halloween, where villagers marched out their “ogoh-ogoh“, massive papier-mâché statues of demons engaged in various malicious activities.  The sculptures are meant to represent the subversive and wicked tendencies of humankind, and it is the very essence of Nyepi that these effigies be burnt or otherwise destroyed at the stoke of midnight on the New Year. The parade of creatures made for fantastic theater, although Oliver might have disagreed.  From his perch on top of Ryan’s shoulders, he could see the ogoh-ogoh advancing through the crowds, and his shrieks hit such an octave that they startled the German tour group all the way on the other side of the street.&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S6pEWvbR1ZI/AAAAAAAAMeA/1iTNpKHOaJs/s1600/P1030558.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S6pEWvbR1ZI/AAAAAAAAMeA/1iTNpKHOaJs/s200/P1030558.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452245456364098962" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following day for more than seven hours, Ollie frolicked in the pool and scrambled like a monkey on fire all over the hotel compound, accompanied by his sweethearts, a ten-year-old Dutch girl named Yanu and two-year-old Aussie, Grace.  When the lights started to flicker off at six, Yanu could barely keep her head up through dinner, and Grace had long since gone to bed.  Ollie was, once again, the last man standing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We whiled away our last three nights in Asia on &lt;a href="http://wikitravel.org/en/Nusa_Lembongan"&gt;Nusa Lembongan&lt;/a&gt;, a tiny island to the southeast.  From the cliffs overlooking a rollicking, wave tossed, turquoise bay, it seemed suitable to end here on this corner of the earth where we could slip out of our walking shoes for a time and stare at the sea.  There, beyond the strait that separated this land from another; one vastly different, forever a world away.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-4693175228840288546?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/4693175228840288546/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=4693175228840288546&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4693175228840288546'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4693175228840288546'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/03/end-of-line.html' title='End of the Line'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S6pCiJFC_fI/AAAAAAAAMd4/Ok09JNiY5oo/s72-c/P1030464.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-1098550665845775925</id><published>2010-02-27T07:35:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-27T08:02:20.962-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bounce house'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='two-year-old'/><title type='text'>Under Pressure</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S4k_tAnbwLI/AAAAAAAAMdY/eVp7CxomRIQ/s1600-h/P1010630.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S4k_tAnbwLI/AAAAAAAAMdY/eVp7CxomRIQ/s200/P1010630.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442951667146014898" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;For those concerned readers of ours who may have come under the impression that our little traveling band’s definition of a pastime these days solely consists of the following activities in any particular order; A) scaling treacherous mountain ranges in their tourist off-season, B) traversing the uncharted forests surrounding contested international borders, or C) circumambulating Buddhist temples until the soles of our Rainbow sandals have worn down to nubs; well, I entreat you to think otherwise.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Throughout these months abroad, Oliver has found unique ways to remind us time and time again that he is &lt;em&gt;still a two-year-old&lt;/em&gt;.  A &lt;em&gt;two-year-old &lt;/em&gt;who poops in his shorts the second we foolishly assume he is mature enough to go without a diaper, a &lt;em&gt;two-year-old&lt;/em&gt; who barrels through airport customs lines despite the cadre of officers shouting at him to stop, a &lt;em&gt;two-year-old &lt;/em&gt;who throws gut-wrenching tantrums on public buses in rural China while Ryan and I are wedged between sour-faced, spitting Naxi grandmothers.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More often than not, Ryan and I  have found ourselves stripped and deprived of many of the useful (read: CRITICAL) crutches most parents depend on during their children’s early years (i.e. highchairs, cribs, babysitters, spoons, bathtubs, washing machines and occasionally hot water), and as such, we have been forced to consider alternate means to cajole our son into doing whatever thing he doesn’t exactly have a mind for doing, such as sitting through a meal or going to bed before 1am.  And while the methods we’ve devised are equal parts ingenious and…shall we say…untraditional, that is another subject best explored at another time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But how best to address Ollie’s signature unrelenting energy?  His never-ending, indefatigable drive to run and keep running, to jump on hotel lobby furniture, or to maraud the kitchens of restaurants we dine in in search of their freezer (it is, after all, where they tend to keep the ice cream).  Ryan or I frequently pull muscles in our efforts to catch him as he vaults from the plinths of Buddhist stupas as horrified UNESCO officers watch from below. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some would call us bad parents. Some might say that we are just desperately out of shape. But one should consider that Oliver is equal parts Ryan and Emily; which is to say that he combines my husband’s athleticism and whip-crack mental powers with my precociousness and penchant for living a little too close to the edge. Add to all of this the occasional petulance that is the calling card of any two-year-old and a measure of large, watery blue eyes that could charm the pants off a South American dictator.  This is Oliver. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fortunately for us, Asia is full of children. Children of all kinds; big, small, chubby, malnourished, educated, isolated, wealthy, desperately poor. H’mong children, Akha, Karen, Khmu, Dayak, Malay, Sundanese, Kinh, Khmer, Han, Tibetan, Uygur, Brahman, Tamang, Gurung, Tharu.  Muslim children draped coyly in white hijabs.  Children from the highlands of Laos, naked from the waist down and professing animist beliefs in the spirits that inhabit the forest.  Children in Singapore clutching Smart Phones and children in Northern India, nearly four years old but still nursing from their mothers, seeking nourishment. Oliver has never met one of them that he did not like, aside from perhaps the sweet little French-Canadian toddler that yanked his hair on the overnight train from Vientiane to Bangkok.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;We have quickly learned that in this part of the world, where there are children (which is everywhere) one can almost always find some form of diversion for the little ones.  Regardless of the average income of the local population, nearly every city we’ve visited hosts a festival, night market or at the very least, a small pedestrian footpath that leads us by a slide or a swing.  And no matter how decrepit the equipment, Ollie always has a go at it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In China, he was serenaded by the toy train whistle at Dianchi Park in Kuming and attempted to sink a little kid’s paddleboat in Xi‘an. In Rach Gia, Vietnam, he frolicked alongside the silty tendrils of the Mekong Delta and sat astride a peacock on a hand-pushed carousel. &lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S4lBx8KeeZI/AAAAAAAAMdo/QYpvyu7s59A/s1600-h/IMG_2007.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S4lBx8KeeZI/AAAAAAAAMdo/QYpvyu7s59A/s200/IMG_2007.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442953950873418130" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; In the south-Indian hill station of Ooty, we visited “Jolly World”, which might best be described as the place where Disney rides are banished to in the event that they ever maim someone in the United States. In Siem Reap, we rang in the Mid-Autumn Festival amidst the smoking generators used to power a contraption that twirled tricycles suspended from oversized coat hangers. In Singapore, we spent an entire mind-numbing afternoon marooned on the island of Sentosa where children from all over the world galloped from one overpriced attraction to the next. And of course there have been the zoos, the acquariums, the night safaris and the tiger and elephant breeding centers.  On a Tuesday morning in Vientiane, Oliver had an entire water park all to himself. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the single greatest fail-safe we’ve most consistently relied upon to channel Ollie’s energy has been that most sacred totem of youth: THE BOUNCE HOUSE. Ollie’s affection for the “Bouncey Castle” or “Moon Jump” as it is alternatively called, knows no end.  Like some Pavlovian creature, he hyperventilates at the alliterative repetition of vowels and begins wildly gesticulating at any large, colorful, synthetic-looking structure spotted by the side of the road.  He becomes stark, raving mad at the sight of a windsock, and even passersby wearing vinyl pants have caught his eye.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While this inflatable form of entertainment is no stranger to folks in the United States, the tendency for these things to reach phenomenal proportions sits squarely within Asia. Driving through the rural countryside in northern Thailand, we encountered one specimen that loomed as large as half a football field.  I found that it quite resembled some kind of Technicolor mosque, in that a twenty-foot slide spiraled down from twin minarets that jiggled in the dusk as a stream of children flung themselves from its heights.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The sheer proliferation of the bounce house throughout Asia seems fitting with the dense populous. Every mall from Bangkok to Kuala Lumpur features a “kid zone”, replete with a ball-pit, climbing maze, video arcade, and of course, a bounce house.  Just the other afternoon, at the Marlioboro Mall in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, Oliver nearly blew a fuse as the primary colors came into view when we rounded the corner from the escalator bay. As our son ricocheted around, Ryan and I stared vacantly off into the far reaches of the adjoining food court and let the few moments of peace wash over us amid the din coming from the air hockey tables and karaoke stalls. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is always the local child that collapses in hysterics as they are stripped of their shoes and shoved through the gate by their parents.  I can somewhat sympathize with these kids who perhaps view the entire experience as if they are being  thrust into some kind of pulsating padded cell.  This concept never seems to occur to Oliver, whose eyes practically roll back into his head with delirious pleasure every time he slams face-first into an outer wall or is clothes-lined by another bigger kid.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At times Ryan or I are jolted out of our stupors by an attendant whose frantic signaling suggests that Ollie has been discovered somewhere in the bounce house putting the sleeper hold on some hapless kid.  At that point, Ryan, who between the two of us is usually the one wearing socks, is sent in after him.  Oliver reverts to a seething, kicking, snarling mass; something akin to a cross between a pit viper and a rabid koala bear, and when Ryan finally hauls him out under his arm, I remind him that the Catholics a likely considering him a candidate for canonization. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our evening at Malioboro concluded on a similar dramatic note.  After climbing six feet up a flight of wobbly steps, Oliver surveyed his small crowd of onlookers and a wild little grin crept across his face. Muslim grandmothers gasped in unison as he triumphantly swan-dove into the ball-pit below, sending a small tidal wave of colorful plastic into the air as shrieks carried around the room.  Having made a trip to the bathroom, I had missed all of the theatrics, though I arrived in time to see Ryan hurling threats at Ollie though the yellow, inflated columns, lest he ever pull a stunt like that again.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Needless to say, we all slept well that night.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-1098550665845775925?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/1098550665845775925/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=1098550665845775925&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/1098550665845775925'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/1098550665845775925'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/02/under-pressure.html' title='Under Pressure'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S4k_tAnbwLI/AAAAAAAAMdY/eVp7CxomRIQ/s72-c/P1010630.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-5038103686329986339</id><published>2010-02-06T08:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-06T08:48:40.727-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='trekking'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='jungle'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Laos'/><title type='text'>Unleashed On Laos</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S22dJlpfplI/AAAAAAAAMXw/i-5FfbHSsxU/s1600-h/P1010872.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S22dJlpfplI/AAAAAAAAMXw/i-5FfbHSsxU/s200/P1010872.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435173113356592722" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Luang Namtha Province, Northern Laos&lt;br /&gt;Jan 27th - 31st&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Half a dozen kilometers outside of the town of Luang Nam Tha in northern Laos, Oliver stood in the patchy light that pricked through the rattan thatch roof of a Lenten communal hut and was surrounded by more than twenty of the village children. Some of them gawked in disbelief at the straw-haired ragamuffin in their midst, perhaps incredulous that such an impossibly tall baby appeared to have so much trouble standing still. Others giggled each time he tripped over his own two feet, literally falling victim to his long, wobbly legs and oversized, knobby knees.  A cluster of mothers, barely more than girls themselves, slapped their thighs and howled with laughter, and occasionally one stepped forward to affectionately brush Ollie’s cheek.  They spoke an ancient Tibeto-Burman dialect that was entirely different from the bits of Lao I’d managed to decipher in the market.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ryan finally interrupted our son’s slapstick routine to pass an apple that had been stashed away in our daypack. I followed his lead and seized the opportunity to make this a teachable moment.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Hey, Ol, that little guy over there looks like he would really like a bite of your apple.  Why don’t you go over and share with him?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so Oliver proceeded around the room with an outstretched arm and a partially munched piece of fruit.  When approached, some of the kids retreated to the indigo-dyed folds of their mother’s tunics, but a handful of the older children stepped forward to look Ollie squarely in the eye. To the smallest child, a little girl of barely more than a year, Ollie squatted on his haunches and cocked his head quizzically.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“You wanna bite ah dis apple?”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In a few moments, he was off again, dashing past the old pot-bellied sow and her trio of piglets rooting around in the dirt outside, and right through a mother hen’s brood of molting adolescent chicks.  When I finally emerged from the hut, I found him clear across the village at the foot of a small hill, again surrounded by more than half the inhabitants.  This time, he was stark naked and swirling around like a dervish in an enormous mud puddle that most likely belonged to the aforementioned family of pigs. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The ensuing scene was pure ‘golden-era’ stock comedy, as I chased him through and around the mud, all the while slipping on clusters of wet hay and trampled grass, barely able to keep my own balance.  Lubricated by the grime, Oliver inevitably wriggled free each time I grasped an arm or a leg, and soon the entire village had gathered to watch and cheer on my effort to subdue our son’s naughtiness.   I finally caught him in the end, and one of the old patriarchs nearly busted a seam as he helped pour river water from a gourd over Ollie’s head as I gave him a thorough scrubbing.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was our third day in this famously quiet country where the pace of life proceeds as slowly and deliberately as the course of the Mekong during the dry season.  Entering Laos through the northern Thai border of Huay Xia, we shied away from falling lock-step into the path of other travelers winding their way two days down the river to beckoning Luang Prabang, and instead forged north, deep into the forest.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At its heart, Laos stands starkly apart from its sophisticated neighbor to the west, Thailand. Families still squat in the dirt around a fire for their dinners as they have for centuries, and nimble-footed men from bamboo and rattan villages still ply the forest with their machetes in search of wild edibles that have no translated English names. We followed two of these men, both naturally soft-spoken H’mong, for two days through the &lt;a href="http://www.theboatlanding.laopdr.com/npa.html"&gt;Nam Ha &lt;/a&gt;wilderness.  Wild-eyed and breathless, we walked for hours through a mosaic of habitats; mature evergreen forest, deciduous broadleaf woodlands, and sky-high clusters of giant bamboo that bent like the great, green arches of a mountain cathedral over our solemn heads.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The recent Chinese incursion into the north of Laos has brought new roads and construction crews to the mountain towns, and from a clearing along a ridge on our first day, we saw tremendous swathes of land where the forest had been razed and replaced by fledgling rubber tree groves, a principal raw material export.  Sing, our sole English-speaking guide, explained how nearly everything pulled from the forest; be it timber, wild cardamom, or even the endangered muntjac deer, was consumed by China.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The path for the most part could scarcely be called one at all.  Sing and Chi crisscrossed us through the Nam La River several times and led us steeply up the banks to an indistinguishable trail that villagers used to bisect the forest on either mountain.  Very often we found ourselves negotiating mind-numbingly steep grades as our guides took us sharply up and down between the peaks. Suddenly, we were able to consider the switchback trail design of the Annapurna Circuit quite objectively, as merciful turning areas on the trail were nowhere to be found in this part of Laos.  In the severest segments, carved out toe-holds beneath clumps of damp, fallen leaves and dangling vines were all that prevented us from tumbling off the side of the trail. In the face of all our efforts, our tiny Lao guides floated along the path like the vaporous mountain spirits that they worshipped, and aside from their birdcalls, they seldom made a sound.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Camp for the night was a small, open-air bamboo and banana-thatch affair at the foot of the mountain close to where the Nam La spilled off a cliff.  The forest faced us from across the river and hemmed us in on our left, right and back sides. Any approach to or away from our camp required a steep climb from our little grotto up one of the surrounding mountains. As the light crept away, Sing and Chi scuttled around, procuring vegetables from the forest and mincing buffalo meat purchased from the market the prior day.  Ryan and I worked to fetch shards of bamboo in an effort to build up the fire in preparation for the long, cold night that lay in front of us.&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S22ZyYFV_iI/AAAAAAAAMWk/Uw7hRnQdm8U/s1600-h/P1010821.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S22ZyYFV_iI/AAAAAAAAMWk/Uw7hRnQdm8U/s200/P1010821.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435169416043429410" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After a remarkably good dinner of laap (spicy Lao meat salad), kaeng pak (Chinese kale soup), and sticky rice, our guides stripped to their skivvies and wandered off to spear tiny river fish by flashlight.  Chi spitted a frog he had caught near the waterfall, and before we tucked Ollie away in the hut for the night, all three of us tasted frog legs for the first time, roasted over an open fire.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As our guides turned in, Ryan and I walked down towards the Nam La and watched the full moon rise directly above us in a clear sky between the mountains.  The small clearing where we camped was flooded in shades of blue and white and the river glittered from its clear depths where the moon caught the smooth river stones and caused them to glow. Before us, on the opposite bank, the jungle stood by darkly and heaved animal sighs as its denizens came to life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Under layers of blankets we shivered as the temperature plummeted close to freezing.  We slept in intervals, both of us regularly waking to see that Ollie was properly covered, or starting at the sound of a mouse burrowing in the banana leaves over our heads.  Our sleep was buffeted by the sound of the Nam La rushing onward to where it met the Nam Tha, a tributary off the mighty Mekong.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following morning we were fed and up the mountain before nine.  The early light filtered through the jungle canopy and illuminated the dried, yellow undersides of fallen leaves strewn across our path.  Tall purple flowers resembling lavender lined the trail and perfumed the air.  Our guide doubled a saw palm leaf in his hand, blew across it sharply and mimicked the call of a young Sambar Deer to its mother.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ryan took the opportunity to offload the nearly 24 kilos of Oliver and child carrier on his back at points where the path was more negotiable, and Ollie, clutching his ‘rod and staff’ (a tiny walking stick and an enormous banana leaf), didn’t hesitate to blaze a trail.  It is something to see your 30 month old son run care-free through the forests of Northern Laos. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our adventure concluded with Ollie’s antics in the Lenten village.  At the end of our trek, Sing welcomed us into his home in Had Yao village to meet his wife and two little girls. Ollie was fitted in snappy H’mong attire for a photo op with the family, and again, nearly the entire village turned out to look on. Over dinner, Sing bashfully told us that we were the first foreigners he had ever welcomed into his home, and as we cooed over daughters, it was clear that he could barely conceal his pride.  As the shadows grew long into the evening and the laughter of the village children floated back to us, Sing informed us that most of the surrounding villages had never seen a Western child before. I glanced up at Ollie and Ryan; Ryan tickled Ollie’s bare feet as the little guy blew raspberries in his ear.  I laughed and agreed with Sing. I could be wrong, but it would be a long time before Northern Laos saw anything quite like the three of us again.&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S22a7BAzQSI/AAAAAAAAMWs/9oTu9uEWfK4/s1600-h/P1010887.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S22a7BAzQSI/AAAAAAAAMWs/9oTu9uEWfK4/s200/P1010887.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435170663980810530" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-5038103686329986339?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/5038103686329986339/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=5038103686329986339&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/5038103686329986339'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/5038103686329986339'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/02/unleashed-on-laos.html' title='Unleashed On Laos'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S22dJlpfplI/AAAAAAAAMXw/i-5FfbHSsxU/s72-c/P1010872.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-1521718928000237529</id><published>2010-01-21T09:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-21T10:08:54.984-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='India'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='driving'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='fear'/><title type='text'>Devil in the Details</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iW_bFsTSI/AAAAAAAALnQ/RNpIlC1aHpk/s1600-h/IMG_4459.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iW_bFsTSI/AAAAAAAALnQ/RNpIlC1aHpk/s200/IMG_4459.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429255367142690082" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Rajasthan and Northern India, December 7-21&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So many things have been said about India. Prior to our departure, a cacophony of voices expounded the horrors we would surely encounter in the Subcontinent. Per Dr. Brennock, retired infectious disease pathologist-extraordinaire and Mission Viejo’s talking head on travel medicine, India was reason alone for Ollie’s costly rabies vaccinations and Ryan’s and my diphtheria and Hep A boosters. It was for India that we continued to shoulder our arsenal of azithromyacin and ciprofloxin, hydration powders and loperamide. So great was my fear of the bacteria and contaminants I guessed I would encounter that I endeavored to quit my deeply ingrained lifetime habit of nail biting, and succeeded. Before we left, my sister and her boyfriend sent us off with a battery-powered child locator device in the event Ollie was pulled away from us by India’s seething masses. And despite the extra weight, I packed several long-sleeved shirts and floor-length skirts so as not to draw attention to myself in a county where a woman’s modesty was tantamount. More than anything else, I fretted night after night over just the prospect of bringing a child to India; and was sick to my stomach for this same reason the night before we flew out of Kathmandu. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But there was also the prospect of enlightenment. The Rastafarian-cum-saddhu-wannabes who crowded the buses out of Chitwan across the border and rode down the length of the Ganges to Varanasi were after it. The French and Israeli kids in tattered packs and baggy cotton homespun trousers crowding the travel operators in Kathmandu where they purchased train tickets bound for Gorakphur while positively reeking of ganja; well, they wanted it, too. If you listened to them, India was the true turning point in all our journeys, the axis upon which our perceptions would forever revolve upon. India could change a man, assuming you could pass through her shadow and emerge alive on the other side. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;These are the kinds of things foreigners tend to think about and say before they come to India. These are the kinds of things that cross their minds before they arrive in… say, Bangalore. But that is another story. This story is about the time we spent in the North, the hammered-gold, wheezing heart of India.&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iXdJe-XUI/AAAAAAAALnY/1Q78dO3l4Hg/s1600-h/IMG_4287.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iXdJe-XUI/AAAAAAAALnY/1Q78dO3l4Hg/s200/IMG_4287.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429255877812968770" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Consider my surprise when we first touched down in Delhi. Driving down the green beltway that links the city to the airport, the first thing we encountered was India’s highest caste. Squinting through their tinted windows, Ryan and I watched children texting from the backseats of their shiny Tata SUVs, their Ray Ban- clad fathers shouting into their mobiles and their mothers, also in the backseat, in the most elaborate silk saris. Always there was a driver. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We stayed with a couple of hucksters running a half-way decent hostel/travel agency in Karol Bagh. As we soon learned, the Delhites could be the worst of the snake-oil salesmen, and no sooner had we dropped our bags were these two arranging to pack us off to some commission-paying houseboat far in the outer reaches of Srinagar. We politely declined and set out to explore the city on our own.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Delhi has a number of fantastic sights that anyone who makes a business in carting around foreigners will laugh at you for wanting to see. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Why go see the Red Fort? The real one is in Agra!” &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Humayun’s Tomb? The Taj Mahal is much better!”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we did what anyone would do in our shoes and left. Neither Ryan nor I had the mettle to get behind a wheel in this country where so many cows and children darted in front of your car, so we hired Daulat, a capable and quiet man from Himachal Pradesh, to take us deep into the desert. That morning, as the vegetable man trundled by with his cart of shallots and fava beans and the campfires of street families huddled behind nylon sheet shelters trailed thin plumes of ash, we sped out of Delhi’s alleyways and headed deep into Rajasthan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We crossed the &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shekhawati"&gt;Shekhawati &lt;/a&gt;in the first day and made camp with Tony, the grandson of a Maharaja who made a business of renting his &lt;a href="http://mandawahotels.com/jainiwas_intro.shtml"&gt;family’s hunting lodge &lt;/a&gt;to foreigners that found themselves in Mandawa for the night. Ever since 1971 when Indira Gandhi eradicated the privy purses of the Rajs, the caste has hunkered down deeply into the tourism business, renting rooms in converted heritage hotels that were once grand estates or charging admission to national landmarks and funneling the profits into massive family trusts. Around a campfire, Tony served us a curry made with, of all things, a porcupine he had shot out in the bush earlier that day. Due to the language barrier, the animal’s identity was not entirely revealed to us until after we had finished our meal, and for hours afterward, I stared blankly at the ceiling in our room. A maharaja, one of the “great kings” of India’s princely states, just served us…porcupine. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That was the moment we realized that everything in this part of India could come for a price. For the right amount of rupees, beautifully frescoed havelis that had been retrofitted with the proper plumbing could now sleep two comfortably for the night. Anything could be hired for the journey; camel caravans, Marwari horses, even the fanciful “Palaces on Wheels”, luxury train cars commisioned by the Rajputs in the heyday of their rule. For a million U.S. dollars, every courtyard in Udaipur’s City Palace could be roped off and strung with lights and parasols for a wedding or other grand event. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Though we operated on a far more humble budget, that didn’t seem to stop the hawkers. With the light-skinned “Angrezi” (literally, English), the almighty dollar was implicit, and everyone was in on the game, from the rickshaw drivers to the ticket-takers at the national monuments where the foreigner is charged four times the local rate. Ollie, for his part, didn’t make things any easier. Left to his own devices, he barreled through every merchant’s open door, sending glasses of chai skittering across the room before he launched himself headlong into piles of folded saris on the floor.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;India pulled us in fast and hard. As we drove from Jaisalmer to Jodphur, I saw out of the corner of my eye a wandering ascetic setting off into the Thar desert, clutching only a small bundle wrapped in white cloth. In Jaipur, I stepped out of the car right in front of a Muslim fellow who had just finished urinating off to the side of the road and was &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tayammum"&gt;wiping himself carefully with a rock&lt;/a&gt;, lest any stray drop touch his clothes. In Jodphur, a crowd gathered to watch Ollie get a trim from a sidewalk barber, and local children pursued us from a distance through the vegetable market, giggling furtively from the shadows cast from the bare light bulbs swinging overhead. Outside of Delhi, women in saffron, scarlet and magenta waved from fields of brilliant mustard. In the desert towns, they stooped over their treasure troves of silver and meenakari, beckoning slyly from behind dancing kohl-rimmed eyes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Sister, come see.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Come see, come see.&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iWMtHXvaI/AAAAAAAALnI/E4LpXXHtKhY/s1600-h/IMG_4399.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iWMtHXvaI/AAAAAAAALnI/E4LpXXHtKhY/s200/IMG_4399.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429254495808241058" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Everything had to be touched, savored, examined under a magnifying glass, always over a cup of chai. During a twelve-day whistle-stop tour of Rajasthan, we begged, bartered and haggled our way through eight cities and one desert outpost, were off-loaded countless times at commision-generating jewelry stores and wood-block printing workshops, and were solicited by everyone with a trinket to sell, a frescoed wall to see, or a camel to ride. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And there was the poverty. Only four Indian states have a lower poverty rate than Rajasthan. An impossibly small child clung to his mother’s breast as she weighed okra for a customer in the market. A boy in rags banged a small drum and sang folk songs for visitors to the sand dunes outside Khuri. A troop of children offering service as guides were always there to meet us at any spot possessing no more than a lick of history. In Jaipur, a kid in high school selling puppets conversed with me in six languages fluently, saying he needed money for pens and paper. In Uttar Pradesh it was more palpable; throngs of people clustered around roadside trash fires as mist set in for the night and their livestock stood in silent circles around them, silently chewing cardboard scraps and discarded plastic. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We stove not to harden ourselves to this country as many travelers tend to do. We became more patient, waiting for each place to reveal itself to us slowly through both its beauty and its pain. We learned to move efficiently and wordlessly away from the touts and hawkers, and we gave more than a little everyday to someone who needed it. I stopped raising my eyes to every individual who stared, stopped worrying about hemlines and long sleeves. Perhaps it’s a silly and somewhat irreverent analogy, but we became not unlike the quiet and wide-eyed cows that endlessly meandered through the bazaars at night; frequently herded in one direction or another, occasionally harried or shooed away, sometimes offered a treat or two, always sticking our noses into anything that looked interesting. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the north of India, the devil resided in the details. We never once lost sight of Oliver, but we lost ourselves on the ramparts of Meherangarh Fort as the kerosene lamps in Blue City flickered on at sunset. We followed wedding processions through bustling towns and wandered outside under a swathe of stars far beyond the reach of street lights near the border of Pakistan. In Bikaner, Ollie pirouetted himself into a frenzy dancing the &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghoomar"&gt;Ghoomar &lt;/a&gt;in a hotel lobby. Ryan, in serious pursuit of the purified state Ayurvedic massage was purported to induce, was instead nearly drowned in baby oil while having his nipples caressed by a heavyset fellow in Udaipur. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Despite my precautions, India did indeed get under our fingernails, much in the same way that it was mainlined straight into our collective conscious. At the end of thirty days, though we couldn’t spit betel-quid as well as the municipal bus drivers, we managed after all to emerge on the other side of the Subcontinent with more than just a photo of the Taj Mahal to prove it.&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iX51eKdxI/AAAAAAAALng/7aW3r82cS7g/s1600-h/IMG_4857.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iX51eKdxI/AAAAAAAALng/7aW3r82cS7g/s200/IMG_4857.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429256370657064722" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-1521718928000237529?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/1521718928000237529/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=1521718928000237529&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/1521718928000237529'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/1521718928000237529'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/01/devil-in-details.html' title='Devil in the Details'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S1iW_bFsTSI/AAAAAAAALnQ/RNpIlC1aHpk/s72-c/IMG_4459.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-8204115394194940736</id><published>2010-01-09T08:11:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-09T08:45:57.495-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Kerala'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='India'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Christmas'/><title type='text'>A Christmas in Kerala</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0ivhLJhhCI/AAAAAAAAJq8/8gGgGCCJOdA/s1600-h/IMG_4927.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0ivhLJhhCI/AAAAAAAAJq8/8gGgGCCJOdA/s200/IMG_4927.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424778735631041570" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Fort Cochin and Allepy, India&lt;br /&gt;Christmas 2009&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is Ryan and I want to wish everyone a good evening from Bangalore, India. Ollie is in our hotel room playing with the new toys that Santa brought him for Christmas and Emy is wearing an Ayurvedic green mud mask that she discovered really helps purify her face (every time she wears it she scares Ollie to death as he thinks she is a monster). I have decided to exit stage left and am sitting on a very comfortable couch in the South Park Hotel, listening to the various sounds from the Gandhi Bazaar below, including auto-rickshaws, feral dogs, blaring TVs, honking horns, chai wallahs and the like.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Over the past 29 days, we have experienced two nights in New Delhi; an amazing twelve day tour through Rajasthan - the cultural heart of India; a two day drive from Bangalore to Fort Cochin with a young Indian fellow who had no idea where he was going and who was a little heavy on the gear shifting; a five day respite in Fort Cochin for Christmas; two nights in Alleppey where we took a canoe out into the ‘&lt;a href="http://www.alleppeybackwaters.com/"&gt;back waters&lt;/a&gt;‘; two nights in Ooty - the South’s most famous hill station where Emy, Ollie and I rode horses through the majestic hillside (I managed to make my horse trot a few times, but that was about it); &lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0iw3Xe3_gI/AAAAAAAAJrU/qWpj5xVCXtQ/s1600-h/IMG_5151.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0iw3Xe3_gI/AAAAAAAAJrU/qWpj5xVCXtQ/s200/IMG_5151.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424780216410570242" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;two nights in Mysore for New Year’s where we went to the zoo, were charged the equivalent of $20 US dollars for one dirty martini because they charged us for the 30 ml of vermouth (just to clarify, this was Emily’s New Year’s Eve drink; I of course celebrated with a club soda and a chocolate brownie); four nights in Bangalore where we saw Avatar twice (2-D and 3-D), caught up with a few sloth bears and rescued circus lions in Bannerghatta Biological Park; and generally tried to get our feet back underneath us for the next six or seven remaining months of our trip.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While there is a lot to say about India, I am going to focus on Christmas and Emy will write about the rest. Even though Emily was slightly homesick and longed to be home for the holidays, we had a wonderful time over Christmas. Our travels took us to historic and picturesque Fort Cochin, a small town in southern India’s state of Kerala that was discovered by Vasco de Gama in the 1500s and cultivated by the Christian Portuguese and the Jewish settlers (there is a section of Fort Cochin that we visited that is called ‘Jew Town’ and seeing that I am an honorary member of the tribe, we were warmly received). Within Southern India, and Kerala in particular, there are small but ardent pockets of Syrian Christians, people who first heard the gospels from St. Thomas himself nearly two thousand years ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The ride to Fort Cochin was not the most pleasant as our driver did not know how to drive a stick shift and had no idea how to navigate the way down from Karnataka to Tamil Nadu on into Kerala. As accurate road maps of India do not seem to exist (or at least our driver did not come equipped with one), we stopped 50-plus times to ask different folks how to get there. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As we approached our destination, a hotel Emy had reserved months in advance while we were still in California, I started to get a little uneasy as it appeared to be located in a rather dodgy part of town. When she made the reservation from the States, Emily was told that the hotel was located in Fort Cochin, but we soon discovered that it was in fact 25 kilometers away and actually located in Ernakulam, a raucous and somewhat seedy transport hub that was heavy on neon lights and indoor bazaars, but light on charm. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The hotel was a cavernous restored mansion that lacked any kind of climate control and was positively bursting with chintzy Christian décor. While sweltering in the front parlor as the proprietor checked our passports, porcelain statues of the entire canon of saints peered at us from all corners of the room. Behind the dining room table, an enormous Technicolor version of the Last Supper was rendered in stained glass. Once in our room, we discovered a cockroach the size of my size twelve shoes crawling up our curtains and a gecko reclining near the bed.  Needless to say, Emily and I quickly decided that we needed to make a break for it.  We packed up Ollie and set out to find Fort Cochin and hopefully a new place to stay. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Instead of taking the ferry boat over, we jumped on the local bus and 75 minutes later, we arrived at Fort Cochin. Fort Cochin is a beautiful place right on the Arabian Sea.  &lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0ivvz3Z44I/AAAAAAAAJrE/JXtxId7-Oug/s1600-h/IMG_4881.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0ivvz3Z44I/AAAAAAAAJrE/JXtxId7-Oug/s200/IMG_4881.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424778987079066498" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Huge cantilevered Chinese fishing nets lined the water and the town had an air of friendliness that we had not felt up to this point during our travels through India. While we had a reservation for three nights back in Ernakulam, Emily and I both knew that we had to move and we luckily came across a lovely place called Victory Dawn that still had availability. We immediately booked four nights and hired an auto-rickshaw to take us back to the mainland so we could grab our bags and hightail it out of there. Needless to say, Emily and I were both nervous as we had never backed out of a hotel reservation before and we had no idea how the owner would take our departure. I had never even dined and dashed as a kid, but I suspect Emily might have in her young, rebellious ‘raving’ days.  When we arrived, we told the rickshaw driver to keep his engine on as the next few things were going to happen very quickly. Luckily, we were given our passports back by an unsuspecting worker at the hotel (we learned a valuable lesson that you always give photocopies of your passport and never the original) and three minutes later, in a never-before-seen maneuver, Emily and Ollie dashed back to the rickshaw while I explained to the proprietor that Ollie had quite suddenly and mysteriously become gravely ill. She insisted that we pay, but I kindly told her that it was not going to happen and I abruptly left.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Exasperated and out of breath, Emy and I looked at each other once in the rickshaw and laughed. Those feelings of longing for home suddenly vanished as we both knew that our home was each other and these little adventures were what made life worth living.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After Bonnie and Clyde made a run for it from our first hotel, we had a wonderful Christmas, just the three of us in Fort Cochin. We decided to splurge and go to an all-you-can-eat PLATED Christmas Eve dinner that cost about $60 USD, our most expensive dinner to date. We were able to order anything and as much as we wanted from the menu, so we went ‘Rauch style’ and ordered four main courses to start, which included stuffed turkey, garlic prawns, a seafood platter, broccoli soup, pork loin with maple syrup, and more.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While we thought Ollie had managed to kick the bug that had been plaguing him throughout our last days in Rajasthan, we were sorely mistaken. After packing down a plate of fried calamari and with his toy auto-rickshaw in hand, the little guy started wobbling like a punch drunk sailor and proceeded to barf. Luckily, Emily jumped up like a fox, held her hand over his mouth and sprinted to the front door.  On Christmas Eve, dressed in our finest (read: cleanest) attire, we held Ollie’s head up as he puked all over the doormat in front of the fanciest hotel in Fort Cochin.  Needless to say, our little rock star was not quite as popular as he was before we sat down to dinner and our all-you-can-eat plated dinner ended abruptly without us even being able to pocket any leftovers.  I can hear my father’s voice chastising me now (love you, Dad). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After our lovely Christmas Eve dinner, Emily made a midnight mass service at the 400 year old Santa Cruz Basilica where the bishop of Kerala gave the sermon in both English and Malayalam, the local language. I had the good pleasure of staying home with a sickly Ollie and getting our hotel room ready for Santa. While Oliver is not quite old enough to understand the concept of Santa Claus, every time he saw Santa on the streets I told him to yell, “Hey Santa, I want toys for Christmas!” It was rather hilarious as, just like the good soldier he is, he yelled that each and every time he saw anybody with a white beard, even those that looked like ‘dirty wizards‘. On Christmas morning, Ollie ran around our hotel room saying “open this one, open this one.” He was so excited by the trucks, miniature rickshaw, motorcycle, balloons, bongo drum and other small gifts that Emy and I smiled for days to come, although he has now lost two of his new toys and has thoroughly destroyed most of the rest of them. Despite his obvious enthusiasm for the gifts, for the first time he started to show an inkling of understanding of the true meaning of Christmas, and became solemn when he saw the small crèche in the vestibule of St. Francis church.  After looking on for a minute or two, he quietly sang his version of Happy Birthday to the Christ child.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Christmas for Emy and I was not about the gifts, nor the location, but it was about being able to share the time together. As we held each other’s hands and looked into each other’s eyes, the gift that we were given this Christmas could not be un-wrapped. That gift is still with us today as it the love that we have for each other and the daily reminder that it is not where we go or what we see, but that we are DOING IT TOGETHER.&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0iwlh_mdvI/AAAAAAAAJrM/DeuKLOit240/s1600-h/IMG_4967.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0iwlh_mdvI/AAAAAAAAJrM/DeuKLOit240/s200/IMG_4967.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424779909994542834" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;May the New Year bring you and your families only life’s greatest blessings. Try to remind yourselves each and everyday that life is about the moments and you have to give it back in order to receive it. Grab your significant other and children and remind them how special they are to you. Take your kids to the park tomorrow or get off work early on Friday and walk down to the beach. Life is about the moments so try to embrace every one of them and do not put off until tomorrow the love you can give today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;More than ever, the time in India has helped me become more patient and has re-focused me on all of the blessings that I have been given. I feel extremely blessed for Emy, as our relationship continues to grow stronger, and Ollie, who is as popular with the locals as ever, and this time that we have to spend together. I am eternally thankful for my sobriety and for the second chance that God has given to me. India is a country where it is difficult to take a breath, but once you have a moment to reflect, it is hard not to feel a sense of peace and joy for all that we have been given.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We are almost to the half way point of our trip. While we were going to head to Mumbai and on to Singapore, Bali, Northern Thailand, Laos, Australia, New Zealand and then Fiji, we decided that the 24 hour overnight train ride from Bangalore to Mumbai was more than we could handle so we are now flying from Bangalore to Bangkok to do 17 days in Northern Thailand, 17 days in Laos, 10 days in Kuala Lumpur and Malaysia, and then 4-5 days in Singapore and 30 days in Bali/Indonesia. We now tentatively plan to be in Australia by the end of March and will most likely not be back in California until late July/middle of August.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stay Tuned. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-8204115394194940736?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/8204115394194940736/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=8204115394194940736&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/8204115394194940736'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/8204115394194940736'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2010/01/christmas-in-kerala.html' title='A Christmas in Kerala'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/S0ivhLJhhCI/AAAAAAAAJq8/8gGgGCCJOdA/s72-c/IMG_4927.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-6004640036451941840</id><published>2009-12-23T11:50:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-24T01:37:49.717-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='trekking'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='mountains'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Nepal'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Himalayas'/><title type='text'>The Obstacle Is The Path</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzJ1AY724DI/AAAAAAAAIDk/bngu_8dw0Ts/s1600-h/IMG_3603.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzJ1AY724DI/AAAAAAAAIDk/bngu_8dw0Ts/s200/IMG_3603.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418521951234089010" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Annapurna, Nepal &lt;br /&gt;November 24 - December 1&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With our suntans only just beginning to peel from our week in Thailand’s south, we arrived in Nepal, the highest country in the world, if you don’t include Tibet.  Katmandu’s (or “Captain Do” as Ollie would say) dusty warrens spiraled outward from Durbar Square, and amid teak pagodas and smoking saddhus, we glimpsed the sacred Kumari, a three-year old “living goddess” who lives cloistered away in a dark courtyard. Like all other Nepalis, we quickly became accustomed to sipping tea by candlelight when at 6:30pm sharp, all the lights across the country went out in a government-backed effort to conserve the country’s feeble power grid. We stumbled around this city for a few days, slipping in and out of the small tourist enclave that is Thamel, where we dodged touts offering deals on rip-off North Face gear, until I came down with a particularly nasty bout of  hemorrhagic conjunctivitis from the dust billowing up in the streets.  For a little more than a  pocket of loose change, I saw one of the country’s top opthamological surgeons at an NGO and was prescribed a regimen of drops and ointments.  Red-eyed and resolute, we set out west for Pokhara and the gateway to the Annapurna range.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Like many travelers who aim to trek in the Himalaya, we outfitted ourselves with a guide and porter.  Bhimsen (the guide) and Bharat (the porter) were both men from the hills and therefore lacking all the flash of their Kathmandu brothers.  Bhimsen in particular had a gentle way with Oliver. Already a father of two, he forever scanned our perimeter and caught Ollie once when he decided to leap off a flight of granite steps. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Day 1:&lt;/strong&gt; We departed Pokhara for Nayapul via local bus.  When asked, Bhimsen confided that tourists almost never choose to travel this way and always opt instead to pay a private taxi $15 for the 1.5 hour long ride through the mountains.  Indeed, nearly an hour into the trip and we were still in the outskirts of Pokhara, picking up locals bearing porter’s baskets and tump lines, barrels of fish and cardboard boxes containing everything but the kitchen sink.  The seats were barely bolted to the floor and we rocked back and forth wildly as the bus swerved around hairpin turns in the mountain.  Goofy Bollywood tunes trickled out of a tinny speaker bubblegum-glued over the driver’s seat.  As is his custom, Oliver pooped his pants roughly four minutes into the ride and Ryan and I were buffeted by the awful-smelling breeze that blew from the bus window to Ollie‘s pants and straight up to our faces.  All the while, various mountain people boarded and disembarked; Magyars, Gurungs, Tamangs, and Thakalis.  The Hindus of Kathmandu gave way to the Tibetan-looking people of the hills. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally we arrived and set out, making our way for the village of Tikkhedhunga where we would spend our first night on trail.  The path was loosely paved with large granite slabs and we brushed shoulders with errant water buffalo, goats and caravans of pack ponies.  Ollie saluted approaching men and animals alike with a spirited “Namas-te!“ and the late-autumn sun was soft and warm on fields of winter barley.  With the snowfields of sacred Macchapuchare before us, the path through the valley and foothills was exhilarating.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two hours in, we encounterd a British Ghorka returning for the first time in 14 years to his home village.  The Ghorkas are a famous and feared sect of highly trained Nepali soldiers who, under King Malla’s reign in the 18th century, united Nepal’s separate warring states and forced the adoption of the Newari official language.  During the Indian Uprising in the 19th century, they became mercenaries of the British Army, and with their curved Kukri daggers, they silenced many a Sepoy.  In recent times, the Ghorkas form an elite foreign legion of the British military, and many earn their citizenship and their fortunes abroad.  In the mountains, many bridges, guesthouses and water conduits are Ghorka-financed, and it was clear that this fellow was a patron to his village. He and his family were met by group of musicians and, as we marched alongside in awe, the panche baja escorted them all the way to his homecoming. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Day 2:&lt;/strong&gt; Full of muesli and banana pancakes, we set out for eight hours of our first day of strenuous hiking.  Before the day’s end, we would climb nearly 4,264 feet for an elevation of  9,020 feet in the mountain village of Ghorepani.  We began ascending the moment we stepped outside. Step by careful step, we made our way to Ulleri, where views of Annapurna South and Huinchuli stretched vertically in front of us.  The snow mountains appeared so close through the hills; swirls of snow blown off of their summits formed wispy halos around their peaks.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We climbed another few hundred meters and passed through a cloud forest.  Ollie maintained a sharp lookout for tigers, and I could barely keep my imagination from ricocheting off the next tree;  visions of yeti and snow leopards leaping from behind the moss-dripping, mist shrouded woods occupied my every thought.  We continued following the Pancha River as it ran in rivulets down the mountain and spilled over stones into cold, clear pools below. Ollie, whose energy was unflagging, was carefully monitored for signs of AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness), though he never showed signs of exhaustion or breathlessness.  Those were left to us!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzJ1SVltyTI/AAAAAAAAIDs/CO76r030ZDk/s1600-h/IMG_3524.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzJ1SVltyTI/AAAAAAAAIDs/CO76r030ZDk/s200/IMG_3524.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418522259573557554" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;After nearly four grueling miles and 3,936 feet uphill, we arrived in Ghorepani, a trekkers’ outpost where five or six teahouses advertised hot showers and chicken dinners.  As it was already Thanksgiving for us, we of course opted for the latter, which was served with fresh steamed mountain vegetables and mashed potatoes topped with yak cheese. Harkening back to the Thanksgiving dinners I used to share with Italian family friends in Connecticut, we ordered Ollie a plate of lasagna which he polished off like a champ.  And though it could never hold a candle to my mother’s special recipe, we put away a enormous slice of apple pie in the grand spirit of the holiday.  We ended the evening curled up like bears in a winter’s den, piled high with blankets, jackets, wool caps and socks against the cold. Our sore muscles would be tested again early the following morning when we rise at 4:30 AM to see the sunrise light the Annapurna range from the vantage point on Poon Hill.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Day 3:&lt;/strong&gt;  Up before dawn with Bhimsen’s 4:45am knock at our door.  I made the executive decision to leave Ollie sound asleep in our room where I knew he would remain safe and warm until our return.  For extra assurance, Bhimsen asked our porter if he wouldn’t mind keeping an eye and an ear open after 6:00am when Ollie is likely to stir.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5:00am, out the door.  As families across the United States sat down to their Thanksgiving dinners, Ryan and I began the 1,476 foot climb up Poon Hill in complete darkness and bone-chilling cold.  Twenty minutes into the ascent, I felt a blast of frigid air as we rounded the eastern side of the hill and I falsely assumed we must be nearing the summit.  In actuality, we were not even at the half-way point.  The approaching sunrise formed a scarlet meridian in the eastern sky towards Kathmandu and we continued ever upwards under the faint beam of my pocket flashlight.  Japanese, Germans, Finns, Spaniards and all other bleary-eyed travelers from far-away lands formed a silent caravan up the hill, all making the same pilgrimage to witness the day break over the snow mountains.  Near the summit, we passed a woman covered in sweat, shivering violently and slurring her speech; all symptoms of AMS.  As they rushed her down to a lower elevation, her party shined a flashlight in her eyes and forced her to drink water.   &lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;Nearing 6:00am, the Annapurna range comes to life.  Plumes of snow silently lift off Annapurna South and the sun’s first rays arc off its eastern face, bathing it in a rose-gold light. Behind, on the far side of the Sanctuary, Annapurna I, the goliath of the range at 26,700 feet, is already illuminated.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My eyes scan to the west.  Tilicho, Nilgiri, and finally the great Dhalagiri rise over the ravine of the dark and wild Kali Gandaki and lord over Nepal’s far western frontier.  Broad ridges and glittering snowfields flank either side of Dhalagiri, and the mountain ensures few travelers venture farther beyond.  Returning east again, there is Nepal’s holiest mountain. &lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzM10aRkkoI/AAAAAAAAID0/v8gOM6Fkl0E/s1600-h/IMG_3621.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzM10aRkkoI/AAAAAAAAID0/v8gOM6Fkl0E/s200/IMG_3621.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418733951179330178" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;The razor’s edge of Macchapuchare (the “Fishtail”) is so steep that its peak holds hardly any snow.   Even with cold-numbed toes, it is nearly impossible not to be awe-struck while in the company of these giants.  Across all the eastern faces, the snow mountains shift their shade of pre-dawn periwinkle blue to lavender, then to rose-pink and finally to gold.  The layer of mist floating above the escarpment below appears to be made from sacred elements of ether and water, and they form an atmospheric gossamer fit to dress these high kings. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Day 4:&lt;/strong&gt; 8,528 feet above sea level, and the cloud forest was clear in the morning light.  A troop of Himalayan gray langurs stopped to watch us pass and followed us for a bit from the treetops, their silver coats and wide-eyed black and white faces melding in and out of the shadows.  We picked our way gingerly down the mountain, testing for loose stones and gravel that would not hold a boot.  With our calves throbbing and ACLs near their breaking point, we moved far slower and less gracefully than the 10,000 pounds of water buffalo family that preceded us.  Along the path we paused to catch our breath at small Gurung-owned teahouses that perch along the mountainside where they gaze down into the Kimrong Valley. Ollie was fond of pulling the blooms off the clusters of marigolds that adorn the lodges.  Following the protocol taught to him by a friendly young lama in Kathmandu’s Swayambunanth Temple, he plucked the petals from the flower and attempted to scatter them in Ryan’s hair.  His mountain blessing only slightly missed home; from where he sat in the carrier on Ryan’s back, most of the petals slipped right down the back of Ryan’s shirt.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We made Chomrong by 4:00pm and unanimously decided that baths were in order.  Ryan absconded to the little shower stall first, but before Ollie and I can gather up our toiletries, a fleet of grimy trekkers stepped in front of us.  I was doubtful the 300liter tank would enough to spare, and therefore relieved when Ollie and I managed to capture ten minutes’ worth of  hot water.  We emerged into the dusk, bellies rumbling with hunger and still steaming from the heat.  Once under blankets and full of a hearty dinner (among other things, we enjoyed a Snickers Roll, a fried dough pocket containing the mashed and melted candy bar; famous on the Annapurna Circuit), we soon drift off.  In my dreams I returned again to the snow mountains, the fields, forests, rivers and streams.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Day 5:&lt;/strong&gt;  Up early as we planned to change the itinerary today.  Per Ryan, we would roll through our designated camp site this afternoon and continue on towards Pothana, all in about a seven hour hike.  But first a requisite stop at the Jinnu Hot Springs, a natural mineral bath at the banks of the Modi Khola.  While our guide and porter stripped down to their skivvies, washed clothes and paddled about, Ryan and I rolled up our pant legs and soaked our tired muscles.  Ollie took the experience one step further, strips naked and launches himself into the center of the action.  The serenity and spiritual element of our Nepali “onsen” is shattered when, 45 minutes later, we pried a screeching Oliver out of the spring and forced him into the chilly morning air. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back on trail and no stopping until Landruk for lunch.  Tempers were a bit short, and our porter’s grumbling over the extra mileage was not lost on us. Towards the village, I stopped to take photos of the rice terraces and as a result become separated from the group. Frustrated at first, I cursed my fellow travelers (one in particular), but soon shook off my grudge and reveled in the silence.  The rhythm of the mountain dwellers was hypnotic; the cool, quiet air punctuated only by the sound of elderly villagers threshing millet and the occasional child calling after a water buffalo as it wandered down the hillside.    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Shortly before dusk, we reached Deurali and Bhimsen pulled the plug. Here we were only a few kilometers away from Pothana but our porter would walk no further.  Just as well by me; I’d kept pace for five days straight and couldn’t force the extra 45 minutes if I tried. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Deurali is a one-goat village perched on a pass between two hills and surrounded by dense alpine forest.  There hadn’t been a sign of electricity or running water since Landruk, so we finished our supper of chapati and noodles by candlelight and turned in early.  While Ollie slept soundly, Ryan and I were kept awake throughout the night by eerie screams coming from the forest all around us.  We were informed the following morning that the calls were made by some indigenous owl, but to this day I am convinced that no mortal creature could have made those sounds that night.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Day 6:&lt;/strong&gt; The previous evening, Ollie befriended Kancha, the local three-year old, and I couldn’t help but notice the little boy had but three toys to his name; a 99 cent wind-up frog, a rickety three-wheeled wooden car and a baby rattle.  Understandably, Kancha became immediately enamored with Ollie’s small collection of trucks, so I decided we would endeavor to leave one behind in the morning. This was no easy task.  In parting with “Orange Truck”, Oliver screamed and cried as if he was losing a limb. In our travels, we can only afford to carry along the smallest collection of toys, including a couple of dog-eared soft-cover Read to Me books, some washable markers, a faded plastic zebra and (the crown jewel), a set of rubber Tonka trucks.  Every so often, the toy chest shrinks in number as a result of a book left behind on a bus, a truck that fell out of a hand while we weren’t paying attention, and even a Thomas train that disappeared down a sewer drain in Bangkok.  Ollie is acutely aware of this, and his anxiety over being left toy-less is high.  Despite this, once back on the trail and with his tears dried, he acknowledged his sacrifice for what it was.  “Kancha no have any orange trucks in the mountains. Only water buffalo”. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As we drew closer to Pokhara, the charming mountain town that serves as the base for nearly all treks into the Annapurna, we crossed paths with a number day trippers heading out of the valley in the direction we had just come. I asked Bhimsen if he was encouraged by the number of tourists so late in the season, and he reminded me of the number of trekking operators stationed in Katmandu (700!!!).  His hopes of leading another group were slim. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After skirting several of Pokhara’s surrounding foothills, we arrived in the village of Naudanda where we encountered the first paved road we’d seen in six days.  The honking horns of overflowing Tata buses startled us in our tracks, and in a moment’s time we were blanketed in the insidious clouds of dust from the  traffic as it passed us by. In Sarangkot where we finished our trek, we overlooked Pokhara and watched quietly as the lights across the city came on, sending their glittering reflections into Phewa Lake.  From our place on the hill, the road back to Kathmandu was shimmering and serpentine as wound its way east towards the setting sun. It was beautiful, and like all night-city views, enigmatic.  But to the west, the real treasure, the memory indelible in my mind.&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzJ0y2-N4eI/AAAAAAAAIDc/U7j9Tv1-Plw/s1600-h/IMG_3567.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzJ0y2-N4eI/AAAAAAAAIDc/U7j9Tv1-Plw/s200/IMG_3567.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418521718778880482" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;The Annapurnas (I, II, III, IV and South) all visible, stood in snowy silence as the sun drew away and dusk enveloped them in pale purple robes.  I see them resplendent like this only once more as we fly from Kathmandu to Delhi.  From the plane, the mountains rise up from the patchwork of the valley floor and meet me at eye level, twenty-five thousand feet in the air. They hold court over the clouds and, from where I sit, they appear inseparable from the sky itself; white and ethereal, floating over the earth.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-6004640036451941840?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/6004640036451941840/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=6004640036451941840&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/6004640036451941840'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/6004640036451941840'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/12/obstacle-is-path.html' title='The Obstacle Is The Path'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SzJ1AY724DI/AAAAAAAAIDk/bngu_8dw0Ts/s72-c/IMG_3603.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-7328237382574924512</id><published>2009-11-17T08:09:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-17T08:31:53.216-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Andaman'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Thailand'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='islands'/><title type='text'>Learning to Swim</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SwLMZRse68I/AAAAAAAAHAI/kdz-Oz0EIOc/s1600/IMG_3229.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SwLMZRse68I/AAAAAAAAHAI/kdz-Oz0EIOc/s200/IMG_3229.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405107237416790978" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Southern Thailand and Islands (Ko Lanta, Ko Kradan, Ko Muk, Ko Ngai, Ko Rok) &lt;br /&gt;November 6 - 18 &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oliver is a good kid.  When he laughs, his eyes are like Ryan’s, twisting up into happy crescents. His nose crinkles in his sunburned face as did my sister’s during the long, humid New England summers of our childhood, and his hair has long since grown back into the fine, sandy fringe that he wore around San Clemente. We frequently find him following German families on holiday around the beaches; for all intents and purposes resembling one of their own; the last little duckling at the end of a squawking, scattered brood.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today he is adrift in the Andaman Sea. In the center of a cluster of islands not far from Trang town in Southern Thailand and nearer still to the border of Eastern Malaysia, we have found the garden isle of Koh Kradan.  The reef-studded waters surrounding the island alternate between four different shades, one of which is a limpid mineral blue that matches Ollie’s irises when he’s been in the salt water for the better part of the day.  The Hat Chao Mai National Park begins at the shoreline with centuries-old long needled pines and stretches the length of the island.  Swallows flit between the spare bamboo huts tucked here there along the beach and remind me of home and the mission in San Juan Capistrano where the birds’ springtime migration has been celebrated for hundreds of years.  All through the night, fruit bats with three-foot wingspans chatter and squeal in the trees. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Twenty yards from where Oliver chases after minnows in waist-deep water, a corl reef plays host to angelfish, giant clams, damselfish, wrasse, parrotfish, squirrelfish, moray eel and juvenile barracuda. Each day in the late afternoon, lavender-blue cumulus clouds roll south towards us, the atmosphere becomes charged, a light rain falls and a distant thunder is heard. In an hour, the “storm” moves on and is replaced with a rainbow that spans the length of the channel between Kradan and its neighboring island, Ko Muk.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ryan and I can scarcely believe that Oliver is the same little boy we left home with eleven weeks ago.  He fearlessly bounds into the sea at any opportunity, furiously paddling, kicking and inhaling mouthfuls of water at a time.  Though he hasn’t yet gotten his hands around that mysterious business of maintaining buoyancy and still positions himself far too vertically to actually float, he has learned to love the sea.  Understandably so, as the waters of the Andaman are like a temperate bath and far more gentle than the surf we left in California.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Earlier, we motored to Morakot (Emerald) Cave on Muk Island, where an intricate network of sea tunnels lead deep into the karst and finally end at an enclosed lagoon.  A perfect microcosm, the lagoon opens to the sky above and therefore supports all manner of life.  Lush greenery growing up the sides of the rock gives shelter to snakes, fishing eagles and the odd macaque, while a sliver of white-sand beach recalls Robinson Crusoe.  Despite being a popular stop for tours, the journey calls for a daunting 250 foot swim through the pitch dark and is not for the faint of heart.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But Ollie still managed it.  Wearing a lifejacket upside down like an enormous diaper, he was able to keep his head out of the water while kicking and paddling.  Eyes wide and shining like stars, he soundlessly swam into the darkness with Ryan and I solidly clutching a strap here, an arm there.  Echoes and shrieks carried out over the water and the low ceiling as the swimmers ahead of us bumped up against each other, and the noises gave me a start.  But as the first glimmer of light pointed the way to the lagoon, I looked over at Ollie’s face, and there was a grin from ear to ear! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But anyone who knows our family also knows that Oliver has tested the limits of his abilities long since before he could walk.  It comes as no surprise to us that he should want to leap from a boat deck into the open sea, snorkel and mask in hand.  Nor are we jilted when he grasps a stick the length of his little body and sets off into the forest in search of cobras.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What does tend to catch me off guard is the passage of time while we are out in the world.  Perhaps it’s the &lt;a href="http://www.dhammadana.org/en/dhamma/3_characteristics/anicca.htm"&gt;Buddhist influence&lt;/a&gt; throughout the region, or our utter lack of timepieces and calendars. Whatever the cause, here and there I am taken aback by the total transience of this experience and of Oliver’s own growth.  Amidst piles of sand, he babbles his ABCs and provides an accurate count of the number of long tail boats on the horizon each morning.  Unabashedly he introduces himself to every friendly face, gives an account of the highlights of his day (“eat ice cream for breakfast”), and concludes with a big round-the-neck hug.  His legs are now nearly half as long as my own and his face has begun to sharpen and take on greater depth compared to the round chubbiness of his infancy.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But in another instant, our gregarious, outspoken little boy retreats back into the netherworld of the two-year old, and Ryan and I run and duck for cover.  Certain days are far tougher on the spirits than others, but in those moments, it helps to think again that all things pass. Indeed, all things, if not accepted and treasured for the moments in time that they occupy, are lost.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-7328237382574924512?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/7328237382574924512/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=7328237382574924512&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/7328237382574924512'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/7328237382574924512'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/11/learning-to-swim.html' title='Learning to Swim'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SwLMZRse68I/AAAAAAAAHAI/kdz-Oz0EIOc/s72-c/IMG_3229.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-9145174222542042066</id><published>2009-11-06T06:59:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-06T07:33:31.385-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Cambodia'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='orphanage'/><title type='text'>A Day to Remember</title><content type='html'>Kep and Kampot, Cambodia, October 25 - 30 &lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SvQ7ZrvfyAI/AAAAAAAAFxU/ZmzmWTjiy8U/s1600-h/IMG_2370.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SvQ7ZrvfyAI/AAAAAAAAFxU/ZmzmWTjiy8U/s200/IMG_2370.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401007165548775426" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is Ryan and I want to wish everyone a good evening from Siem Reap, Cambodia. We just finished dinner (I had Lok Lak, a delicious meat dish on top of a fried egg and Emily had Amok D‘trey, a river fish braised in coconut sauce. Emily is showering, Ollie is lying on a make-shift bed we put together for him on the floor (he keeps saying “kiss monkey good night”) and I am sitting at the computer trying to best describe what a wonderful day we had a few days back.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;First, as Emily has so adeptly described in her past entries, we liked China, we really liked Vietnam, but we ABSOLUTELY LOVE CAMBODIA (unfortunately, we only have nine days to spend here, although we will most likely come back in the February time frame after we visit Laos). Also, for those hardcore travelers who have been told that you can not cross at the Ha Tien, Vietnam border,  it is totally untrue. We took a ferry from Phu Quoc Island to Ha Tien, and with the help of Ha Tien Tours (and a police officer who rode a motorbike up to sign our Visas), we got our Cambodian stamp crossed at Prek Chak.  In your face, Lonely Planet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While we have had almost no rain this entire ten weeks through Asia (a minor miracle), it was pouring as we crossed over the border with a lovely couple from the UK. Our first destination in Cambodia was Kep, probably the best ‘kept’ secret on the trip so far. There are only 4,000 people living in this sleepy, French colonial beach town. Kep has some of the best &lt;a href="http://travel.nytimes.com/travel/guides/asia/cambodia/kampot-and-kep/74563/kimly/restaurant-detail.html"&gt;seafood &lt;/a&gt;in Cambodia, the friendliest people we have met on our trip so far (if anyone is going to Kep, please find Mr. Phary, who is the best tuk tuk driver in town), and the most beautiful rice fields, Brahma cows and jungle-covered mountain terrain that we have ever seen.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After spending two nights at the &lt;a href="http://www.keplodge.com/"&gt;Kep Lodge&lt;/a&gt;, a lovely place tucked away in the Kep National Park,  (which by the way is where Emily and I surprised a cobra while he was eating a frog; and yes, Emily did try to move it with a stick), we headed to Kampot with our trusty tuk tuk driver, Mr. Phary. On our way, we decided to stop at the Sela Phnom Chhnogk caves and upon arriving , we had no less than seven Cambodian kids run up to our tuk tuk and offer to be our guide. As five of the young boys carried Ollie up 203 stairs to the caves (two to his feet, two to his arms and one to his belly), Emily and I spoke with Eeon and Sunh, a couple of the older boys who were in the group. &lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SvQ8nf4v4HI/AAAAAAAAFxc/pt31DBw4KvA/s1600-h/IMG_2337.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SvQ8nf4v4HI/AAAAAAAAFxc/pt31DBw4KvA/s200/IMG_2337.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5401008502396149874" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For those of you who don’t know much about Cambodian history, I should probably interject a little here. From 1975 to 1979, a radical communism, conceived by Saloth Sar aka Pol Pot, spread over Cambodia and was known as the Khmer Rouge. In four years time, Pol Pot and his communist guerrillas had exterminated somewhere between one and three million Cambodians.  Remember, there are only 11 million people living in Cambodia today and there were only seven million in the late ‘70s (do the math; 20% of the population was eliminated).  Among those targeted were intellectuals, farmers, writers, teachers, and more.  Anyone who spoke even a tiny bit of English or French were also singled out by the Khmer Rouge and everyone who managed to survive was forced into the countryside to work as slaves in the fields.  After speaking to more people in Cambodia it has become clear that King Norodom Sihanouk (the former king of Cambodia), China, the United States and the Viet Cong played significant &lt;a href="http://ki-media.blogspot.com/2009/09/many-factors-led-to-khmer-rouge-rise.html"&gt;roles &lt;/a&gt;in the destruction as well. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The historical significance of these caves is that there were thousands of bodies here until a few years ago when they were finally given their proper burial. On the way down the hillside, there is a clearing where 20 to 30 skeletons lie in a simple stupa, as these people were not able to be identified. Almost everyone you come into contact with in Cambodia was profoundly affected by the genocide (one of the boys on our tour had his uncle killed by the Khmer Rouge and Mr. Phary lost both an aunt and uncle). While we had a wonderful time interacting with our guides, it was a sobering reminder of the atrocity that rang through Cambodia just 30 years ago.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following day in Kampot was truly a day to remember. Emily and I decided to visit the ASPECA Orphanage just on the outskirts of town. To prepare, we bought some sundry items, put together some clothes of Ollie’s he had outgrown (he has shot up another couple of inches since we left the States) and bought some food, candy, etc. Upon arriving at ASPECA, we had no idea what to expect as Ben, the amicable owner of Mea Culpa (another outstanding guest house), called Mr. Souvanny, the director of the orphanage, just an hour earlier to let him know we were coming. ASPECA Orphanage shelters 65 children and has an out-reach program where it helps feed another 120 kids in the surrounding countryside. In Cambodia, the majority of orphanages do not receive any government funding and hence, the $95,000 per year it takes to keep the ASPECA orphanage up and running is donated primarily from private grants, most of them from foreigners.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After spending time with Mr. Souvanny and Seima, a brilliant English-speaking “graduate“ of the orphanage, Emily and I played volleyball with the kids, read books to them, played cards, and spent a lovely afternoon interacting with all of them. These kids clearly longed for somebody to hold onto as the majority of the youngsters would come up and hold my hand, put their arms around me, and were genuinely giving and seeking affection. The entire time we were there, Ollie ran around like a crazed monkey. He quickly became the official mascot and the kids took turns holding him, playing with him and chasing him around and teaching him the names of various animals in Khmer (&lt;em&gt;kong kaip &lt;/em&gt;= frog, &lt;em&gt;chhmao &lt;/em&gt;= cat, &lt;em&gt;dum brrai&lt;/em&gt; = elephant). &lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;At the end of the day, we commissioned Ben at Mea Culpa to fire up his wood-burning oven, and he delivered sixteen large cheese and pepperoni pizzas, enough for everyone to have two big slices.  Not a single child at ASPECA had ever tasted pizza before, and Seima had only read about it in one of his English textbooks.  Needless to say, the pies were devoured in minutes, and our pizza party was a resounding success. Savonney lined the kids up and they sang a few songs and Ollie did fancy feet for them (this is Ollie's funky chicken dancing moves). Once the kids were allowed to eat, they stood in line (unlike the States, not one person pushed in front or tried to get a bigger piece) and everyone of them said thank you, put their hands together and bowed graciously. Their eyes lit up like stars and they kept saying "good, good."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The gift that Emily and I were given will stay with us forever. For years I have been a person that has said, "I would love to start an orphanage, work with needy children or just do something worthwhile." The reality is that I was a big talker and never made any definitive steps to make this dream a reality. For all of you that talk a big game like me, go find a place to sit with the elderly, play with kids at an orphanage, tutor a young child whose parents are in need. I can promise you that your heart will be filled with joy and all of the problems and 'fear based reality' that we succumb to will quickly fade away.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Emily and I have never seen more smiles, heard more genuine “thank you’s” and received more hugs and kisses than we did that day. While we did donate rice (250kg that can feed the orphanage for 10 days), a little money and a few other things to the orphanage, the real beneficiaries were Emily, Ollie and I. One of the tenants of my sobriety is that you have to give it away to keep it and for me, that message resonated at the orphanage. Emily, Ollie and I have been truly blessed and we are grateful for all that God has given us; but what we are realizing (much to the chagrin of our parents once they read this post, as we are already planning our next adventure which will be a year or more volunteer program at an orphanage) is that the world is as small or as large as you make it. Whether it is sobriety, love, kindness, serenity, or anything else meaningful, you really have to first give it away in order to keep it. Try it. I can promise you that Emily and I will never be the same.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-9145174222542042066?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/9145174222542042066/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=9145174222542042066&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/9145174222542042066'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/9145174222542042066'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/11/day-to-remember.html' title='A Day to Remember'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SvQ7ZrvfyAI/AAAAAAAAFxU/ZmzmWTjiy8U/s72-c/IMG_2370.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-279032351724291549</id><published>2009-11-02T08:21:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-02T08:39:41.046-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Vietnam'/><title type='text'>Nam Việt</title><content type='html'>Throughout October, Ryan, Ollie and I traveled Vietnam from nose to tail.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8I73-lYmI/AAAAAAAAFws/xIftuDVZgtc/s1600-h/IMG_1236.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8I73-lYmI/AAAAAAAAFws/xIftuDVZgtc/s200/IMG_1236.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399544302972265058" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;In the &lt;strong&gt;North&lt;/strong&gt;, we saw clouds reflected in the rice terrace pools outside Sa Pa and watched the moon rise over the spines of  “dragons” sleeping in Ha Long Bay.  Hanoi’s old merchants’ quarters burst at the seams in early October as the young and old took to the streets surrounding Hoàn Kiếm Lake with red silk lanterns held aloft during the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Favorite Northern Vietnamese dishes: &lt;br /&gt;Chả cá Lã Vọng - turmeric-dusted whitefish fried tableside and accompanied by fresh dill, scallions, basil, peanuts, cilantro, and chile sauce, along with a tangle of vermicelli. The best versions are on Cha Ca Street in Hanoi.&lt;br /&gt;Chả giò - deep fried pork spring rolls served with tangy nước mắm (fish sauce) and chili &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ollie’s favorite Northern Vietnamese dish: french fries&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8JfSAYLGI/AAAAAAAAFw0/zEtkehT5FQU/s1600-h/IMG_1770.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8JfSAYLGI/AAAAAAAAFw0/zEtkehT5FQU/s200/IMG_1770.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399544911254531170" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;In &lt;strong&gt;Central &lt;/strong&gt;Vietnam, the air along the ancient river in Hue smelled of incense while the bullet-riddled imperial city concealed the specters the French and American wars.  In sweet Hoi An, cheerful cries sang out from seamstresses in tailor shops, and along Cua Dai all the way to the beach were frangipani blossoms and fruit stalls.  School girls in white ao dais floated on the breeze. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Favorite Central Vietnamese dishes: &lt;br /&gt;Bánh khoái - Crispy egg pancake with shrimp, pork, bean sprouts, mint, fig, star fruit and topped with a sesame-peanut sauce (Hue)&lt;br /&gt;Mục Tai Chánh  - squid marinated in lemon juice (Hue)&lt;br /&gt;Cao lầu Noodles - thick udon-style noodle with pork rind croutons, lime, mint and shrimp in a beef broth (Hoi An)&lt;br /&gt;Bánh Bao Bánh Vac - (white rose dumpling) - steamed shrimp dumpling bunched up to look like a rose served with fish sauce (Hoi An)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ollie’s favorite Central Vietnamese dish: french fries&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the &lt;strong&gt;South&lt;/strong&gt;, Saigon’s traffic rotaries bristled with motorbikes traveling in different directions all at once.  Expats in many shapes and colors marched up and down the boulevard past the Rex and Palace Hotels, around the department stores and Bvulgari ads with their young children in tow.  We shared steaming bowls of pho for dinner every night, piled high with bean sprouts, lime, basil, chili and hoisin.    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8J9mlS9MI/AAAAAAAAFw8/3gHPW2dQmvc/s1600-h/IMG_1862.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8J9mlS9MI/AAAAAAAAFw8/3gHPW2dQmvc/s200/IMG_1862.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399545432174163138" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Rice a thousand different ways in the &lt;strong&gt;Mekong delta&lt;/strong&gt;.  Up and down the river were boats towing the husks for fuel; their painted-on eyes forming consternating glares once used to ward off crocodiles that had been  hunted down to nothing long ago.  Within the flooded delta, coconut palms arced over the swollen waterways and sampans plied the canals bearing heaps of dragon fruit, pineapple and sweet potato off to the floating markets Cai Bei and Cần Thơ.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Favorite Southern Vietnamese dishes: &lt;br /&gt;Cá Kho Tộ -  river fish braised in a clay pot&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://novaclutch.typepad.com/novaclutch/2008/01/i-thought-i-wou.html"&gt;Coconut toffee&lt;/a&gt; and sweet puffed rice cakes held together with condensed milk, cane sugar, coconut flakes, ginger and chopped peanuts&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ollie’s favorite Southern Vietnamese dish: french fries, coconut toffee and sweet puffed rice cakes&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8KobKB9FI/AAAAAAAAFxE/B4SkC39fE5Q/s1600-h/IMG_2090.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8KobKB9FI/AAAAAAAAFxE/B4SkC39fE5Q/s200/IMG_2090.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399546167841387602" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Phu Quoc&lt;/strong&gt;, Vietnam’s island treasure is a small scattering of village folk on red earth roads.  On the windward side was a long beach that looked at the sun as it fell into the Gulf of Thailand; in another place was sand so white and water so clear that one would shield their eyes from below.   Men dove for pearls off the coast and green peppercorn plantations marked the edge of town.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the end of the month, we broke all the written rules and bee-lined for the most remote border crossing Vietnam shares with the Cambodian coast.  In the town of Ha Tien, contrary to Lonely Planet, money does indeed buy you your Cambodian visa and in no time we were off, leaving the mighty river and her people behind in the last of the wet season’s afternoon downpours.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-279032351724291549?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/279032351724291549/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=279032351724291549&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/279032351724291549'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/279032351724291549'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/11/nam-viet.html' title='Nam Việt'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Su8I73-lYmI/AAAAAAAAFws/xIftuDVZgtc/s72-c/IMG_1236.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-6051338803837752504</id><published>2009-10-28T07:19:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-28T07:40:56.112-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='ethnic minorities'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Vietnam'/><title type='text'>Hill Tribes</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SuhU71xjd5I/AAAAAAAAFo0/K8Qv3oQN6IE/s1600-h/IMG_1501.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SuhU71xjd5I/AAAAAAAAFo0/K8Qv3oQN6IE/s200/IMG_1501.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397657540427478930" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sapa - Lao Chai - Ta Van - Giang Ta Chai - Sapa , North Vietnam&lt;br /&gt;October 7 - 9&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Lovely jubley!”  The cockney slang for “awesome” came from neither of the two good- looking Brits sitting across from me.  Like mine, their surprised faces broke into enormous grins as they watched  23 year-old Thom, a young woman belonging to the &lt;a href="http://www.virtourist.com/asia/vietnam/sapa/05.htm"&gt;Black Hmong &lt;/a&gt;minority indigenous to the rice terrace region outside of Sapa in North Vietnam, pass a shot glass full of potent rice wine to the Kiwi sitting at my left.  Poor Meredith, the hapless New Zealander, was on her fourth or fifth shot in as many minutes as our game of Egyptian Rat Screw (or something similar to it) flew clockwise around the table at a maddening pace.  I hesitate to call the evening’s form of entertainment the perfect antidote to a long day of hiking through the outlying villages.   But it was intriguing to see this mountain girl, dressed in traditional embroidered indigo wraps and heavy home-forged silver jewelry, hassle the handful of Westerners seated around the communal table.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The trip to Sapa, however, did not begin so auspiciously.  I began to sense that the gods of travel had turned their back on me shortly after we left Hanoi’s motorbike-clogged streets the prior evening.  Ryan and I had finally had our first real tiff and were not speaking for the moment, save to curse at each other.  And even at 9:30pm, Ollie refused to settle down, instead preferring to inspect every train carriage sitting at Hanoi Central Station.  Once we’d found our train and its assigned berth, we discovered that Ryan was a good six inches too long for his bunk, which required him to lie at a very difficult angle. As with the overnight from Beijing to Shanghai, Ollie would be my bunkmate, which meant I could look forward to a long night of flip-flopping and flailing fists.  But the fates truly aligned when we realized we had been assigned a berth directly behind the engine room. At around 3:00am, the rattling and droning of the engine works finally had an anesthetic effect on me; my brain had vibrated so much inside my head that even the occasional kick to the face from Ollie went completely unnoticed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Eight hours after pulling out of Hanoi, we arrived in Lao Chai, a small transfer town snuggled up to the Chinese border.  Still exhausted from our evening with the centipede in Ha Long Bay, I could scarcely envision myself crawling off  the train in the pre-dawn darkness and over to the sidewalk for a roadside ca phe sua (coffee with sweetened condensed milk).  The prospect of hiking through the hills for the next two days seemed absolutely inconceivable. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But trek, we did. Shortly after our arrival, we were met by a fleet of Black Hmong girls, their souvenir baskets at the ready.  Their English was impeccable and it was clear that the past decade of Western tourism in their homeland had taught them much.  Sao, our guide, spoke with an Australian accent and made frequent stops to chat on her iPhone.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Despite the tourism, this was a region living well below Vietnam’s poverty line. Most of the ethnic minority families subsisted on rice and corn farming and the proceeds from the small embroidered handicrafts sold by women along the tourist track.  “You buy from me?” was a phrase that echoed up and down the river-traced valleys, and we came away more little ribbon bracelets than we ever could have imagined.    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Despite the hawkers and convoys of Western tourists, the vistas were exquisite.  Tendrils of mist snaked between the hills and occasionally melted away to reveal sculptured rice terraces where water buffalos and snowy white ducks pruned back the spent stalks that had been left after the harvest.  Between the hillsides, &lt;a href="http://www.virtourist.com/asia/vietnam/sapa/04.htm"&gt;Red Dzao &lt;/a&gt;women shuttled back and forth from village to village, their tasseled red headdresses brilliant spots of color against the landscape.  Young Hmong girls whose grandmothers had woven ornate baby papooses each tried their luck at harnessing Ollie to my back with the intricate network of cloth and well-placed knots, to no avail.  One small girl shook her head at Ollie’s unwillingness to cooperate.  “Maybe you have one more baby; this one too big and crazy.  Maybe nice girl. Then you buy from me?”&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-6051338803837752504?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/6051338803837752504/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=6051338803837752504&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/6051338803837752504'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/6051338803837752504'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/10/hill-tribes.html' title='Hill Tribes'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SuhU71xjd5I/AAAAAAAAFo0/K8Qv3oQN6IE/s72-c/IMG_1501.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-5897788888472322394</id><published>2009-10-16T10:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T11:09:52.750-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bugs'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='dragons'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Vietnam'/><title type='text'>Beasts of the Bay</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sti1lJkzaPI/AAAAAAAAD8A/N_MSBESuXek/s1600-h/IMG_1273.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sti1lJkzaPI/AAAAAAAAD8A/N_MSBESuXek/s200/IMG_1273.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393260203606239474" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Ha Long Bay, Vietnam&lt;br /&gt;October 5 - 7&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In North Vietnam, legend tells of a family of dragons that, many years ago, descended upon the country to protect her people from the legions of invading Chinese and Mongolians.  The dragons spit enormous pearls upon the earth, demolishing the enemy and sparing the peace-loving Vietnamese people.  After the wars, the dragons were reputed to have grown so fond of the country that they made their homes in the green waters of the Gulf of Tonkin, and so formed the archipelago of Ha Long;  “The Dragon that Descends to the Sea”.  Indeed, the jungle-covered ridges of the Karst mountains jutting out of the sea unmistakably resemble sleeping beasts, and in this stunning landscape of tepid waters and glittering limestone caves, reality and mythology inextricably become one. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We spent our first day cruising out from the coast aboard an ancient Chinese &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junk_(ship)"&gt;junk&lt;/a&gt;.  The enormous teak wood boat was lavishly decorated with intricate carvings and crowded with white-linen draped table tops. For lunch and dinner we were served plate after plate of seafood that had only just been harvested from the bay. The junks themselves resembled dragons in their own right; when unfurled, the diagonal battens in their orange sails made them look as though they had sprouted enormous bat wings. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We anchored that night just outside the protected part of the bay amongst a crowd of other junks where our deck and cabin lights formed a softly twinkling constellation in the water.  The entire archipelago is a UNESCO world heritage site and all tours adhered to a set of guidelines that included our designated mooring.  Several folks took turns vaulting off the decks of the boat, and even a howling Oliver was dipped in over the starboard side.    &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following afternoon, we kayaked up close to the mountains and peered into the network of caves the sea had carved into the limestone.  On some islands, the water had bored archways clear through the stone and we were able to paddle through as bats squealed in the darkness overhead.  Ryan, Ollie and I shared a double kayak and, in his typical fashion, Oliver attempted to commandeer the entire operation. With Ryan’s help, he proved to be an astute paddler, until the rocking motion and three inches of warm water our boat had taken on marinated him into a deep sleep.&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sti2BClUwhI/AAAAAAAAD8I/Wguo7SOsfs8/s1600-h/IMG_1296.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sti2BClUwhI/AAAAAAAAD8I/Wguo7SOsfs8/s200/IMG_1296.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393260682765713938" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The second night was passed in a small bamboo bungalow perched on stilts just a few feet above the sand.  We had elected to visit a private island where, along with fourteen other folks, we were treated to a barbeque dinner on the beach.  Over the 48 hours of our tour, Ollie had developed an infatuation with Sarah, a charming, well-spoken and very pretty Aussie girl who was about nine years his senior.  He followed her around like a little duckling, begging to be held and finally confessing that he loved her on our last night on the island.  Both Sarah and her older brother Michael, along with their parents, Andy and Jane, had us outdone.  Ryan and I were simply yesterday’s news.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ha Long had lived up to the hype.  The sublime scenery, unique and authentic mode of transport, and delicious cuisine was every bit as described.  However, our enchantment came to an abrupt end on the island near midnight, approximately an hour and a half into our last night of rest.  Ryan felt an odd tickling sensation on his arm and in the blue glow of our mosquito zapper, he glimpsed the outline of something slithering past us on the bed.  He leapt up, hit the lights and I practically hit the room screaming in terror.  Crossing our bed in its sickly serpentine way was a dark-red &lt;a href="http://www.petbugs.com/caresheets/S-subspinipes.html"&gt;centipede&lt;/a&gt;, measuring half a foot in length!! The critter’s girth alone could have qualified it as an extra in Jurassic Park.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ryan and I spent the following 45 minutes chasing it all over the room and shouting at each other to “kill it”, “just catch it in this beach towel, for the love of Christ”, and “it’s too big for any of that crap, dammit!” Eventually it skittered under the floorboards where I was convinced it would lurk in the shadows and wait for the next opportune moment to crawl into our bed again.  While Ollie slept soundly  in the next bed, Ryan and I past the remainder of the night napping fitfully in 35 minute increments, with one eye always open and all the lights on.  Welcome to Vietnam!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-5897788888472322394?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/5897788888472322394/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=5897788888472322394&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/5897788888472322394'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/5897788888472322394'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/10/beasts-of-bay.html' title='Beasts of the Bay'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sti1lJkzaPI/AAAAAAAAD8A/N_MSBESuXek/s72-c/IMG_1273.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-4381665261456098431</id><published>2009-10-12T09:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-12T10:08:02.338-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='China'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='buffalo'/><title type='text'>River Town</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/StNiVIk93jI/AAAAAAAACTY/-PxijzY3t4k/s1600-h/IMG_1077.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/StNiVIk93jI/AAAAAAAACTY/-PxijzY3t4k/s320/IMG_1077.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391761294111923762" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yangshuo, Guangxi Province, China&lt;br /&gt;September 20 - 24&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Reflecting on the past month spent in China, I am preparing to put pen to paper but am suddenly compelled to give up my seat to a family of water buffalo passing by the river’s edge.  Ryan and I jump up in unison, a squealing, lunging Oliver is hoisted to Ryan’s shoulders, and we stand rigid and silent, as if an convoy of the PLA were passing in our midst.  Really we are just taken aback by the HUGENESS of these animals, their backs the color of the riverbank and sloping horns seemingly hewn out of the same limestone that forms the karst peaks that swell upwards from the countryside.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our fifth day in this southern gateway to rural China is passed, other than the buffalo sighting, uneventfully.  The locusts’ hum and occasional roosters crow is interrupted only by the rumbling of the tiny outboard engines propped tenuously off the ends of the local fishermen’s bamboo rafts.  The sound is oddly reminiscent of the weed-wacker Ryan once used forever ago to edge our lawn in San Clemente.  Ollie, naked other than the film of sand covering his lower half, alternates between splashing around in the Li River and chasing the stray chickens away from our little campsite.  This is one of the few days of rest we’ve had during our trip thus far, and I am thoroughly enjoying it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Earlier in the week we made the mistake of stopping for two nights in Guilin before moving on to Yangshuo and the countryside.  The heat and humidity were at their most oppressive and the city seemed to cater at full tilt to the ubiquitous hordes of Chinese tourists.  Night markets chockablock with jade bracelets and buffalo horn combs throbbed from dusk until the early morning hours.  Ollie had come down with a cough from the recent temperature change (Shangri-La to Guilin), so we took the opportunity to hide out in our little room for the majority of 18 hours before we made our way south.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yangshuo was easily reached by a bus from Guilin, and soon we found ourselves surrounded by craggy karst mountains and two winding, green rivers.  The best way to travel in Yangshuo and its surrounds was on two wheels, and fortunately for us, the proprietor of our guesthouse lent us her daughter’s bicycle seat.  The tiny thing was nothing more than a miniature wicker chair that we tethered to the back of Ryan’s bicycle basket.  I had brought along a length of webbing and a clip just for this purpose, and before long, Ollie was secured directly behind Ryan’s butt.  At a top cruising speed of five miles per hour, we took to the countryside, bouncing to and from little farms along cow paths that were etched around the perimeters of  rice paddies.  Ryan and Oliver surprised a mother cow and her calf and were chased for 25 yards before the attending farmer’s cries to come back were finally heeded.  We must have ridden down muddy, four-foot wide paths for twelve miles or more that day; to and from the Dragon Bridge, and by dinnertime, the emerald hues of the rice paddies, lotus ponds and fields of sugarcane had become a technicolor blur. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The following day, we hiked to Moon Hill, a mountain whose fame was attributed to the unusual formation in the karst which resembles a round Chinese moon gate.  Ollie spied rock climbers scaling the sheer cliff face and decided that going up might be something he’d like to try.  Unfortunately for him, my belayer’s license had long since expired.     &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On our third day, we decided to buck our traditional routine of  DIY, and we joined a tour that took us on a bamboo raft down the Yulong River.  While entertaining, this was perhaps the low of our trip, as souvenir hawkers plied the river and took every opportunity to inform us that we should treat our raft operator to a beer, which they would happily provide us with.  When we refused out of principle (we were going down river and over waterfalls on a bamboo raft, after all), he stopped us in mid-river, bought himself a bottle and took his twenty minute lunch break.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back to today and our lazy afternoon of the riverbank.  Mist begins to fill in around the edge of the river and a fisherman stoops over his raft to reel a net slowly back into his boat.  The sun dips behind Nine Horse Fresco Hill, now purple in the half-light, and for a second, the rarest of all things happens: time stops in China.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-4381665261456098431?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/4381665261456098431/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=4381665261456098431&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4381665261456098431'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4381665261456098431'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/10/river-town.html' title='River Town'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/StNiVIk93jI/AAAAAAAACTY/-PxijzY3t4k/s72-c/IMG_1077.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-2732371934554145875</id><published>2009-10-06T06:01:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-06T06:18:44.866-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Tibet'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='yak'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='China'/><title type='text'>The Good Earth</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SstDlt8_O8I/AAAAAAAACKY/etfBoZabr7U/s1600-h/IMG_0683.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SstDlt8_O8I/AAAAAAAACKY/etfBoZabr7U/s200/IMG_0683.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389475694348549058" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Zhongdian, Yunnan Province, China&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Without hesitating to shake the granite out of our shoes, we had hopped a local bus from Qiatou and the vistas of Tiger Leaping Gorge to press on north to the very brink of the Yunnan and the frontier it shared with the Tibetan plateau.  Zhongdian, or “Shangri-La” as the local had dubiously renamed it for marketing purposes, was as close to Tibet as Team Rauch would get to China’s Wild West.  With the 60th Anniversary of the People’s Republic only weeks away, the Party was reputed to be taking few chances with foreigners wandering into political hot zones.  We acknowledged the greater risk for protests in areas like Tibet, which invariably would be followed with a severe government response.  Such had already been the case in Xinjiang, China’s westernmost province, where Uyghurs, a Muslim ethnic minority, were at odds with the police over a series of hypodermic syringe stabbings.  Given the timing, we opted to leave Lhasa for another visit.&lt;br /&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;At some point in during an uphill haul though mountain passes; perhaps during a forced stop when our bus overheated, we noticed the temperature begin to drop. At a certain elevation, the terraced corn rows and emerald patchwork of village farms gave way to valleys of scrub grass below a brilliant blue sky.  The late afternoon sunlight, no longer filtered through the Yangtze’s mist, had a pitch-perfect clarity, and cast long shadows.  And there, ambling along the side of the road, Oliver saw it first.  A yak heralded our arrival; its long matted hair, humped withers, and clear-toned mountain bell at its throat.        &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Zhongdian was similar to other Chinese cities of historical significance that we had visited. The new city’s urban sprawl surrounded the Old Town, which itself was a network of cobbled streets connecting the town square with the main temple.   Strings of brightly colored prayer flags adorned the town and an enormous golden prayer wheel presided on a hill overlooking the city.  To the North, the Songzanlin lamasery, home to 400 monks, was second in size only to Potala in Lhasa.  All around the city, small Tibetan farmsteads cultivated millet and livestock (yak, cows, sheep, pigs and chickens).  Beyond, the mountains shadowed their golden fields and gravel roads.  We slurped on yak hot pot in the brisk evenings and cycled through fields where small children chased after us, shouting “hello!” and “today is Tuesday!” in English.     &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every night at 6PM sharp, turned out for dancing in the old town square to folk tunes played over a loud speaker, and after watching (and a little partaking) we would retire to our inn where the owner kept a traditional furnace burning in the center of the common room.  We took the opportunity to break out Oliver’s long sleeves (no stains yet!), but he still managed to come away with a cold after a few days.  On one particular evening, he took turns adopting several of the local grandmothers who came to watch the dancing in the evenings.  He situated himself at the center of the dancers in the middle of the square, an ran shrieking in circles, nearly toppling a few who weren’t watching their step, only to barrel through the crowd to fall at the heavy, brightly embroidered skirts of the grandmothers.  In this odd way, he charmed the locals, and in a matter of time, he had a cadre of local Tibetan kids sharing with him in the fun.  At one point, one of his little pals took a break to squat in the middle of the square and relieve himself of some serious business.  Ollie studied both him and the business for a second or two, laughed hysterically, and then nearly vaulted feet first into his pal’s deposit.  The grandmothers were less excited to see him on that go around.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Though geographically we were still well within a Chinese province, we might as well have been within the nearby and very arbitrary boundary of the Tibetan Autonomous Region (TAR).    Here, smiles were easy to come by, folks laughed a little more, and a well-placed “Tashi delek” (hello in Tibetan) got us a lot farther than “Nihao”.  Perhaps in a few months when our trip finds us in Nepal, we’ll give Tibet another run, this time coming from the back door.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-2732371934554145875?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/2732371934554145875/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=2732371934554145875&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/2732371934554145875'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/2732371934554145875'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/10/good-earth.html' title='The Good Earth'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SstDlt8_O8I/AAAAAAAACKY/etfBoZabr7U/s72-c/IMG_0683.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-4113144767274499046</id><published>2009-09-23T08:23:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-25T03:18:02.722-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Tiger Leaping aka ‘Face Plant’ Gorge</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SryYzWR3GhI/AAAAAAAACJc/SgO9jVHSvFk/s1600-h/IMG_0529.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SryYzWR3GhI/AAAAAAAACJc/SgO9jVHSvFk/s200/IMG_0529.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385347262349515282" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;Good evening from Yangshuo, Guangxi Province, China. This is actually Ryan as Emily just went across the street to get some snacks and to check out the activities at the massage parlors that line our street.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Yes, our hotel is situated within the "red light" district, but we are only paying 60 RMB per night, or roughly $9USD. Can't complain. Yesterday when I asked the nice, scantly clothed lady on the leather couch how much for a foot massage, she told me to go pound sand.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I guess the fact that I had Ollie on my shoulders did not get her excited about me as a prospect. Speaking of Ollie, he is snoring like his PaPa (love you Dad) on the bed next to me.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;His breathing and lullaby music are helping to drown out the cat calls from outside our window, and he is simply beat from riding on a Chinese bike seat for seven hours today. &lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;As I sit here typing, I am filled with a sense of peace and serenity that is truly a gift from God as today, and this trip thus far, have been absolutely amazing. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;We biked roughly 25 kilometers throughout the countryside and saw cozy little villages, colors that you can only dream of, water buffalo, farmers working in the fields, and to top it all off, a baby cow chased Ollie and me for a good 25 yards. There are many parts of China that have been overrun by the machine, but there are still a few places where you can actually hear yourself think and the beauty is second to none.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;Before I go back in time to our experience in Yunnan Province hiking Tiger Leaping Gorge (the highlight and lowlight of our trip thus far), I have to circle back to my one and only post before we left. As you might remember, before leaving on this trip, I had a lot of fear for numerous reasons. I am extremely happy to say that the trip so far has surpassed my wildest dreams. Emily, besides being a wonderful wife and best friend, is an amazing travel partner; although her tendency to never admit when she is wrong has certainly carried over into our travels. Ollie has been relatively well behaved, but he has definitely had his moments.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;He is literally treated like royalty here and it has only accentuated his terrible twos. &lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;While everything has not gone perfectly, the time spent with Emy and Ollie has been second to none. It is not the sights that you see when you travel, but who you see them with that matters. For those of you that work day and night like I used to or who don't put family first, I highly recommend that you re-connect with the people closest to you as you don't have to be in a remote corner of China to tell your wife and kids, or anyone else for that matter, that you love them.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;Back to Tiger Leaping Gorge, or Hutia Xia, as the locals call it. While the bus ride was not the most enjoyable, Tiger Leaping was well worth the pain. We took a five hour bus ride from Dali, another picturesque city, to Qiaotou, the jumping-off point. On the bus ride, two Chinese men behind us hocked loogies (a national pastime) for the entire trip and the driver chain smoked and passed cars on a two-lane mountain road as if he was Mario Andretti. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;To add insult to injury, Oliver pooped his pants early in the ride, as is his tendency whenever we board a bus/plane/etc., and there were only so many times that we could convince him to stay in his seat or else the "monsters" were going to get him.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;Upon arriving to Tiger Leaping Gorge (one of the deepest river gorges in the world), we located Jane's GuestHouse, a place to store bags and get some lunch before we headed out. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Perhaps not too long ago, Jane was better known as Jim, and I have to admit, this was my first encounter with a Chinese transvestite on PRC soil.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Emy and I clearly did not know that we had nearly a 30 kilometer, 9,000 foot ascent ahead of us, so we each ordered greasy omelets for lunch. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;While eating, we met two lovely folks, Toby and Collette (Cola as Ollie called her) who were our hiking buddies for the majority of the two days.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;If you two happen to be reading our blog, we miss you and are sorry we did not get to say good bye in Shangri-La. While I am not terribly proud, it is worth noting that at Jane's, Emily and I finally, and out of dire necessity, gave up our squat toilet-virginities,&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;as we had both religiously avoided doing a #2 in this manner up until that point. &lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;Almost immediately, the scenery was breathtaking. The only thing I have seen that rivaled the beauty of Tiger Leaping was perhaps Lake Victoria/Louise up in Banff during our honeymoon. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;For those that aren't familiar with the Tiger Leaping Gorge, it is where the Yangzi River flows through the Haba Shan and Yulong Xueshan mountain ranges.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;To the west is Myanmar and to the north are Tibet and the source of the MeKong.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3"&gt;&lt;font face="Calibri"&gt;Needless to say, the hike was extremely difficult as I had Ollie on my back who now weighs over 35 lbs, and Emy had a pretty heavy backpack on as well.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;In fact, she became so dehydrated and light-headed in the searing heat of the mid-afternoon sun that we had to stop a number of times. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;After the first two brutally hot hours, we stopped at a small Naxi family's home, Emily re-hydrated and we were ready to go, although I still had no idea that the next four hours would be even more grueling than the first two.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;The 28 Bends, as this part of the hike was called, consisted of what felt more like thirty narrow, granite- strewn, tree-root-snarled, near-vertical hairpin turns along a path that could barely accommodate one person at a time. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;By the time we made the Tea Horse, another lovely Naxi guest house in the mountains, we were tired and could barely put one foot in front of the other, but we both knew we had just seen natural beauty that is unparalleled.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;It saddens me to say the Chinese government is contemplating building a major dam for hydro-power right within the Gorge, so it is unlikely that it will be around in the next couple of years.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;While getting out of bed the second morning was not easy, Emy, Ollie and I said goodbye to our wonderful Naxi-mama host and hit the trail again at roughly ten in the morning. Little did we know that thirty minutes into the second day I would trip and fall flat on my face.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Luckily, Ollie came away with only one minor scratch, but I was not that fortunate. Blood gushed from where my head had connected with the sharp granite and I had tweaked my ankle pretty badly. While I did not necessarily think so at the time, I came away from the fall a very lucky person; if I had tumbled off the cliff, it would have been game over for me and Ollie. Thankfully, we met a handful of other hikers about 45 minutes down the road who gave me a bandage and helped patch me up.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;After the fall, we still had a four hour hike that traversed beautiful waterfalls and made a dramatic descent to the bottom of the Gorge. Emy was quite the sport as she carried Ollie after my fall and navigated the terrain like a regular pro, unlike her sad husband who should clearly wear a helmet at all times. After finishing the hike and being the brain surgeons that we are, Emily and I decided to walk another thirty minutes to the lovely town of Walnut Garden.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;As the sun was going down, we made our next critical error.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Rather than retiring to our rooms to clean up and collapse on our beds as most would do after hiking the Gorge, we instead turned off the trail and hiked another two hours through corn, squash, and pumpkin fields in an effort to get down to the water's edge.&lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Along the way, we swatted away spiders the size of my hand (the entire hike Ollie kept screaming "huge spiders going to get you!"). Unfortunately, we never made it as it was getting dark and we soon lost the trail.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;The next day we had to get back to the beginning of the Gorge in order to catch a bus onward to Shangri-La. &lt;span style="mso-spacerun: yes"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;The taxi ride down was even scarier than the hike as there was no guard rail and there were rocks all over the road which clearly indicated recent landslides. On one occasion, a truck coming from the opposite direction passed by us with little more than a foot from the edge of the cliff. While again I am not proud, I was petrified and needed to relieve myself once we made it back to Jane's.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;The hike and fall through Tiger Leaping Gorge was a memorable experience that I will hold onto (like Emy and Ollie) for many years to come.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-4113144767274499046?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/4113144767274499046/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=4113144767274499046&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4113144767274499046'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4113144767274499046'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/09/tiger-leaping-aka-face-plant-gorge.html' title='Tiger Leaping aka ‘Face Plant’ Gorge'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SryYzWR3GhI/AAAAAAAACJc/SgO9jVHSvFk/s72-c/IMG_0529.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-4811959549217654383</id><published>2009-09-19T09:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-19T09:38:00.204-07:00</updated><title type='text'>True Grit</title><content type='html'>&lt;div class="gmail_quote"&gt; &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;Every morning I woke up in Shanghai, I could taste the city between my teeth.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Every night, clouds of dust and pulverized concrete would rise all the way to our room on the ninth floor of the Broadway Mansions Hotel, and by one in the afternoon, Ryan was rubbing his eyes and we were brushing the grit out of Ollie's hair.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;More so than any other city we visited in China, Shanghai was re-inventing, and often times, one-upping itself on every block.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;The towering sentinels of Pudong's new city (the Pearl TV Tower, the Jin Miao Building, the World Financial) would soon find themselves in the shadow of the 600 meter&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Shanghai Tower, whose concrete&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;foundation was only just being poured.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;And we were denied the quintessential Shanghai experience: a stroll along the Bund.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Across the river, the historic strip of early 20&lt;sup&gt;th&lt;/sup&gt; century Art Deco buildings was inaccessible, as the riverfront promenade was under construction and blockaded by 20 foot walls. I kept thinking back to the half-finished and empty lots of foreclosed businesses and homes in the United States.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;In San Clemente, contractors and construction workers complained of slow business, people's reluctance to build and the general malaise of the economy.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Here in Shanghai, and in China all around, massive amounts of government dollars were earmarked for construction, and a new city was growing before our eyes.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"&gt;&lt;font size="3"&gt;&lt;font face="Calibri"&gt;Shanghai's version of the" big dig" was fueled by its ambitions in front of the upcoming World Expo, taking place in October 2010.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;The event was on the tip of every Shanghaier's tongue, and several times we were met with quizzical looks when we explained that we were not planning to be present in the city at that time.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;It was indeed an important moment in Chinese history. &lt;span&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Combined with the approach of the 60&lt;sup&gt;th&lt;/sup&gt; anniversary of the founding of the People's Republic (October 2009), the Expo only added to the Olympic-like fervor within the big cities. &lt;span&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"&gt;&lt;font size="3" face="Calibri"&gt;Our highlights from Shanghai:&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"&gt;&lt;font size="3"&gt;&lt;font face="Calibri"&gt;&lt;b&gt;The Bund Sightseeing Tunnel and Antarctic Expedition Museum:&lt;/b&gt; This creepy, hallucinogenic experience took us under the Huangpu River from the Bund to Pudong via a glowing, pulsating, &lt;i&gt;chanting&lt;/i&gt; tunnel ride.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;We then plodded through a very random exhibit where badly taxidermied animals and indistinguishable creatures pickled in formaldehyde were on display.&lt;span&gt;   &lt;/span&gt;Next time, we will just take a taxi over the bridge.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"&gt;&lt;font size="3"&gt;&lt;font face="Calibri"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Pit-stop at the Park Hyatt, Pudong.&lt;/b&gt;&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;The attendants were asking 150 quai to go up 494M (101&lt;sup&gt;st&lt;/sup&gt; floor) in the towering World Financial building, so we opted instead for the 86&lt;sup&gt;th&lt;/sup&gt; floor where we took in the free view and the obligatory 100 quai bottle of Perrier. Ollie capped the experience by plunging face first into their dessert cart, for which we were rewarded with a complimentary plate of tea cookies.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"&gt;&lt;font size="3"&gt;&lt;font face="Calibri"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Yuyuan Old Town Baazar.&lt;/b&gt; Apart from the 23&lt;sup&gt;rd&lt;/sup&gt; century pace that is most of Shanghai, there is an older part of the city that actually anchors it to the rest of China.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Here we encountered the hordes of Chinese tourists who were aghast that we would not be attending the Expo, but would still very much like their photo-op with Oliver. I waited patiently in line for Shanghai's famous NanXiang soup dumplings, and nearly ripped some woman's face off when she tried to butt in front of me.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I had less luck at the Food Bazaar, where the dishes on display looked a great deal better than they tasted.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;I had a fleeting urge to sample chicken feet in brown sauce, which I was able to overcome.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt;  &lt;p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt"&gt;&lt;font size="3"&gt;&lt;font face="Calibri"&gt;&lt;b&gt;Hunting for Diapers in the French Concession.&lt;/b&gt;&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;First of all, Chinese kids seldom wear diapers.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Their mothers employ the ass-flap method of potty training, which basically enables their children to bend over and drop a load on the sidewalk when and wherever the mood strikes them.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Second of all, the Chinese kids who DO wear diapers all have tiny butts.&lt;span&gt;  &lt;/span&gt;Ryan and I canvassed the entire French Concession district for lard-butt size, and finally lucked out at an underground grocery store that seemed to cater to foreigners and their big-bootied children.&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/font&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;br clear="all"&gt;Emily Rauch&lt;br&gt;H: 949-498-1128&lt;br&gt;C: 917-523-1340&lt;br&gt;&lt;a href="mailto:ameliajohnson@gmail.com" target="_blank"&gt;ameliajohnson@gmail.com&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br&gt; &lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-4811959549217654383?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/4811959549217654383/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=4811959549217654383&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4811959549217654383'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/4811959549217654383'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/09/true-grit.html' title='True Grit'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-299188802282525050</id><published>2009-09-08T08:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-08T08:41:32.909-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='babies'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Beijing'/><title type='text'>Almost Famous</title><content type='html'>Beijing; August 26-31.  Passing through the infrared body temperature sensors at the airport, I glanced back at Ryan with an enormous, loopy grin.  The State Department emails I had been receiving for weeks that warned of potential quarantine in frightening Chinese sick houses, families separated, children shown no mercy; had melted away.  We were in China, and moreover, we were in the center of the Chinese universe: Beijing.   &lt;br /&gt;The day had begun auspiciously enough.  After a series of miscalculations that had led to too late of a start out of Osaka, we made our international flight by minutes. The three of us, hot and stinking more powerfully than a high school track team, collapsed in our seats and counted our blessings that we had the foresight to arrange for a taxi to meet us at baggage upon our arrival in China.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Beginning with our ride home, Beijing presented itself as a city of enormous contrast.  Here the vestiges of thousand-year old Chinese dynasties shared real estate with Mao’s legacy.  Inside the hutongs (narrow alley ways that were constantly plied by bicycles and moto-rickshaws) numerous southern-facing (good feng-shui) courtyard homes that were several hundred years old brushed elbows with shopping malls and Bank of China branches.  In the past 30 years, absolutely everything had been retrofitted to accommodate the country’s opening and move toward free market economics.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We spent our first day walking from our courtyard to the (in)famous Tiananmen Square. Xidan Beidajie began a small tree-lined street that was dotted left and right with hutong and dumpling houses.  But approaching the Square, it haphazardly gave way to a massive shopping complex, replete with aerial catwalks, escalators, Sephoras and H&amp;Ms.  Oceans of young Beijingers poured out of the shopping mall high rises, flashing knock-off Ray Ban’s and Christina Aguilera tee shirts. The buildings could have either been 30 years or thrown up yesterday.  The cheap construction materials, tacky facades and countless discount bridal boutiques conjured images of Flatbush Avenue or downtown Santa Ana.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As the Chairman’s face came into view lording over the Gates of Heavenly Peace, a small child tottered up to Oliver in his stroller.  Perhaps he was a Beijinger out for a stroll with his parents, but more likely he was from an outlying province and had made the pilgrimage to the capital for the first time with his parents.  As he babbled nonsensically back and forth with our son, a crowd of passersby gathered around us, with Ollie at the epicenter.  Cameras flashed, and person after person stooped to have their picture taken with our son.  Someone thrust a small Chinese flag in Ollie’s hands and the crowd roared with delight.  Older women wanted to pick him up and have their photo op taken cheek to cheek.  Middle aged men wanted to be slapped five.  Young women with their babies clustered around and, one after another, they pushed their own toddlers forward to stand next to Oliver.  Most of the children stood a good head and shoulders shorter than Ollie, and they screamed in terror when he stooped down to good-naturedly shout “NIIIIIHAO!” in their faces. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This scenario played out identically nearly everywhere we went in Beijing.  At the Lama Temple, there was a crowd of 50 or more.  We clung to the outskirts of the Summer Palace, visiting the furthest outlying temples in an effort to hide from the hordes stamping around Lake Kunming.  In Beihai Park, we were quick to board a battery-powered boat where we enjoyed our Sunday afternoon peacefully from the middle of the lake.  And in the Forbidden City, a kind young woman from Guangdong explained to me in her best English that he was “so lovely” with his “gold hair and blue eyes”.  Throughout it all, Ryan and I were given less than a second of airtime, and we resolved ourselves to patiently mind our places in Oliver’s long shadow. &lt;br /&gt;Here are a few more highlights from our memorable week in Beijing:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-Ollie dropping a deuce in his pants five minutes into a three hour bus ride on the way home from scaling the Great Wall (the entire bus stank like a Chinese squat toilet).&lt;br /&gt;-Cooking class with Candice Lee!!! One of my best friend’s from college younger sister is teaching a wonderful English-speaking Chinese cooking class.  It was here that I discovered my love for Sichuan pepper in broad bean paste.  &lt;br /&gt;-Restraining Oliver throughout an entire Chinese acrobat performance.  As he was shouting and doing his best to squirm his way out of my grip, I had visions of dozens of whirling plates crashing to the ground.&lt;br /&gt;-Enduring an eleven-hour overnight train ride from Beijing to Shanghai and attempting to sleep between Oliver, who flopped around like a mackerel, and a heavy-set Chinese gentleman who could have blown the roof off the train with his snoring.&lt;br /&gt;-Scraping dark brown boogers out of our nose every night and knowing that the air quality and sands blown down from the Gobi were taking their toll.  Time to get moving!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-299188802282525050?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/299188802282525050/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=299188802282525050&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/299188802282525050'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/299188802282525050'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/09/almost-famous.html' title='Almost Famous'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-5284319879146200128</id><published>2009-08-28T09:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-28T09:08:46.460-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='temples'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='sumo'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='zen'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Japan'/><title type='text'>The Zen Killer</title><content type='html'>Within the rectangular garden at Ryoanji Temple, the fifteen rocks and meticulously groomed white gravel represent the “quintessence of Zen art”.   Arranged in no particular formation by a nameless monk in the 15th century, the brochure suggests each visitor “find out for himself what the garden signifies”, and millions of miniature rock gardens in psychiatrists’ waiting rooms around the world are called to mind.&lt;br /&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;Enter Oliver Rauch, aka “the Zen Killer”.  Maybe it was the sugary confections he’d been subsisting on ever since we arrived in Tokyo or the half-dozen stops for Coke Zero we’d made at every vending machine on the Temple Trail in Kyoto.  Whatever it was, it was enough to give us the boot.  With a curt “domo arigato” and a swift “sayonara” in the pants, Ollie, Ryan and I were ejected from Zen.&lt;br /&gt;  &lt;br /&gt;But it was our ninth or tenth temple that day and Ryan and I were slap-happy and sure of ourselves.  After all, wasn’t the man who found peace amidst chaos, serenity within disorder, he who had attained Zen?  We probably weren’t quite there yet, but considering how our eight days in Japan had progressed, we sure felt close.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The twelve hour flight went off without a hitch.  Ollie, who sat in his own seat the entire way (a phrase which will likely never be used describe his behavior again) was intrigued with Disney videos in Japanese while I panicked about the upcoming prospect of navigating Tokyo rush hour traffic shouldering two 50 lbs packs.  Needless to say, we made it to our crash site, an austere but comfortable enough business hotel in the neon-streaming Shinjuku district.  We spent the following eight days moving about Japan at break-neck speed and turning out 14 hour days.  With two days in Tokyo, two more in Kyoto, two in Hiroshima (one of those in Miyajima), one in Nara and one in Osaka, there wasn’t much of a margin for error.  Fortunately for us, Japan runs like clockwork, and as we were whisked off via bullet train to all corners of the country.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here are some of our highlights:&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Watching Ollie ogle enormous whale sharks, hammerheads, sunfish, manta rays and an assortment of other marine life in the 5,200 ton tank at the Osaka Aquarium.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;Making the 2.5 hour descent through the primeval forest that covers Mt. Misen on Miyajima.  It was here that Ryan earned his “Sherpa of the Year” badge, as he carried a sleeping Oliver down the entire way (535M!!!).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chasing apprentice sumo wrestlers down side streets on Tokyo's Ryogoku district, only to corner them in a McDonald's where we finally got our photo op.  Sumo wrestlers evidently are fond of the "Tamago Double Mac" (a Big Mac with a fried egg on top). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Collapsing on the tatami mats at Shoren-in at the end of our aggressive two-day temple trek through the backstreets of Kyoto.   Onlookers sipped their matcha disdainfully and raised their eyebrows as Ollie hollered at the koi swimming by in the garden pools.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fending off deer in Narakoen.  Threatening Ollie that if he wasn’t a good boy, we would feed him to said deer. &lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;Tucking in to a supper of Hiroshima’s famous okonomiyaki, a grilled pancake containing a variety of ingredients such as shrimp, bacon, cabbage, soba noodles, soy sauce, green onion and bonito flakes.  Japanese soul food at its finest.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Helping Ollie experiment with the local language.  “Moshi-moshi” now figures prominently in his vocabulary.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We only just arrived in Beijing yesterday, but already Japan’s verdant hills, temple cisterns and curving clay rooftops are becoming distant memories; giving way to our new city’s blistering heat and jostling hutongs.   Rest assured, the Zen we’ve found along the way is coming with us!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-5284319879146200128?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/5284319879146200128/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=5284319879146200128&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/5284319879146200128'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/5284319879146200128'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/08/zen-killer.html' title='The Zen Killer'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-714252119493744426</id><published>2009-08-11T23:12:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-11T23:22:47.143-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Other Side of the Coin</title><content type='html'>By a Slightly Petrified Ryan&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't get me wrong. As I sit here, I feel very blessed that we have the opportunity to travel and see the world for the next 11 months. That said, for the past week I have been wracked with the kind of anxiety that makes a person’s stomach feel as if it’s being turned inside out and their brain set to a high speed spin cycle. Lately, I find myself panting more often than I care to admit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I nervous because our two year old son is more destructive than a tornado? NO QUESTION.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I scared that I will not get a good night sleep for a year as Ollie thrashes around like a school of piranhas in a bed all three of us will share? CLEARLY.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I on edge that I have had a recurring stomach pain for years and that I will probably require diaper changes more often than Ollie? CERTAINLY.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I a little off because I made the decision not to get life insurance on my wife? YES, AS THERE ARE ABOUT 3 MILLION MORE REASONS FOR HER TO LEAVE ME STRANDED ON A STREET CORNER IN NEW DELI THAN VICE VERSA.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do the constant questions/concerns from family and friends have me thinking a little more than usual? ABSOLUTELY and YES WE HAVE A TRACKING SYSTEM FOR OLLIE (thank you Olivia and Dan), A HARNESS AND LEASH (anything more could only be found at a pet store that services wild boars), and AN IDENTIFICATION BRACELET THAT WOULD MAKE THE ARMED FORCES PROUD.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does the fact that I have been sober for almost 32 months weigh on me as I will have to re-construct the people, places and things that have helped in my recovery thus far? THIS IS ON MY MIND OFTEN AS MY SOBRIETY IS THE THING (BESIDES EMILY AND OLLIE) IN MY LIFE THAT I VALUE THE MOST.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The list could go on and on. So at this juncture I must reflect and ask myself, “how did I get in this predicament?” Well, for all of you men out there that are married to women like my Emy who suffer from a rare form of early on-set dementia (Dory in Finding Nemo has a better short-term memory than she does), my condolences in advance.  While Emy/Dory can’t remember the mundane things, she vividly recalls a conversation we had three years ago (yes, I was still drinking at the time) when I told her that I wanted to pick up and travel the world. Clearly, I have only myself to blame, as on this particular date, I must have been trying a little too hard to win her over (and no, this night did not lead to the gift that keeps on giving, aka Ollie).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What can I do? The plane tickets are paid for, the travel insurance purchased, our house has been rented, the rabies shots have been administered, and Olivertheworld is alive and well. All I can do now is sit and reflect on what might have been. There is absolutely no question in my mind that it would have been much easier (and cheaper) to buy Emy the mini-donkey that she has always wanted or even install a petting farm in our backyard.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I bring this to a close, I am constantly reminded of what I have learned over the past 32 months. By the grace of God, I have been given a gift and this gift has to be enjoyed and cherished one day at a time. A prayer comes to mind that I say to myself quite often and has gotten me through situations that will likely prove much more difficult than a 17 hour bus ride through the South of India. . . . .&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change (the fact the three-ringed circus is leaving town on Monday)…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The courage to change the things I can (the amount of Benadryl I will have Ollie choke down on our 16 hour flight to Japan)…&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And the wisdom to know the difference (when I cancel the three night hostel stay and upgrade the Bad News Bears to a 2-star hotel with a working shower).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While there is no question that Emy and I are totally nuts, I love my life and feel eternally grateful for all that I have been given. Afterall, for 13 years I was chained to a desk and had absolutely no perspective or balance.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will take the anxiety any day as at least today I know that I am alive.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-714252119493744426?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/714252119493744426/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=714252119493744426&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/714252119493744426'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/714252119493744426'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/08/other-side-of-coin.html' title='The Other Side of the Coin'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-2638149485721805250</id><published>2009-07-28T13:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-01T18:02:47.519-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='packing list'/><title type='text'>Fashionably Light</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SnTjiad61fI/AAAAAAAAAQM/38SPZHfhDWE/s1600-h/017.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 124px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365163236464973298" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SnTjiad61fI/AAAAAAAAAQM/38SPZHfhDWE/s400/017.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I read the other day that backpackers tend to suffer from two afflictions more so than from anything else. The first is the inevitable traveller's diarrhea (aka Delhi Belly, Rangoon Runs, Tokyo Trots, Montezuma's Revenge, etc), for which we have enough ciprofloxacin, azithromycin and loperamide to plug a hole in the Hoover Dam. The second ailment seems so much more sinister to me, perhaps due to its being &lt;em&gt;orthopedic&lt;/em&gt; in nature, or that it conjures images of spasming nerves and me lying prostrate in a city street, writhing in pain. &lt;a href="http://www.webmd.com/back-pain/tc/herniated-disc-topic-overview"&gt;A herniated disc!&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All things considered, I've had enough sciatic nerve pain from my third trimester with Oliver to last me a lifetime, so I have resolved to make this simple for Ryan and I. &lt;em&gt;We are traveling light.&lt;/em&gt; Throughout the next couple of posts, I will attempt to describe how we've settled/are settling on what will make the cut for our upcoming year on the road. First, the clothes!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Em's Stuff&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.backcountry.com/outdoorgear/prAna-Convertible-Pant-Womens/PRA0371M.html"&gt;2 pairs butt-flattering convertible pants &lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1 pair Puma sweatpants&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 pair quick-dry shorts&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;4 tank tops&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;4 t-shirts (quick-dry/antimicrobial)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.sportsauthority.com/sm---pi-3452635.html"&gt;2-in-1 skirt/strapless dress in black&lt;/a&gt; (a brilliant find at Sports Authority)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;3 long sleeve quick-dry shirts&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.cabelas.com/p-0061909916266a.shtml"&gt;light-weight plaid shirt&lt;/a&gt; (v.nice w/Puma)&lt;br /&gt;lightweight fleece jacket&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Marmot Precip jacket (keeps the monsoon out, I hope)&lt;br /&gt;6 pairs underwear &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 bra, 1 sports bra&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 bikini (I have been known to substitute my underwear for bikini bottoms)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;3 pairs hiking socks&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.rei.com/product/747167"&gt;Keen Arroyo shoes (amphibious!!)&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Rainbow sandals &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 bandanna&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Ry's Stuff:&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2 pairs REI convertible pants&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2 pairs swim shorts&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;1 pair Nike sweatpants&lt;br /&gt;4 t-shirts (quick-dry/antimicrobial)&lt;br /&gt;3 long sleeve quick-dry shirts&lt;br /&gt;light-weight plaid shirt&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;lightweight fleece jacket (because it gets chilly in the Himalayas)&lt;br /&gt;GORE-TEX raincoat&lt;br /&gt;5 pairs boxers (I begged him to buy antimicrobial, he would not listen, now we will all suffer)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;4 pairs hiking socks&lt;br /&gt;Keen Arroyo shoes&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Rainbow sandals&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Ollie's Stuff&lt;/strong&gt; (everything is lightweight, quick-drying, antimicrobial, and appeared indestructible to me when I purchased it)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.landsend.com/pp/TrekkerPants~199200_1189.html?bcc=y&amp;amp;action=order_more&amp;amp;sku_0=::DRC&amp;amp;CM_MERCH=SRCH_00001&amp;amp;origin=search"&gt;2 pairs trekker pants&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2 pair running pants&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;3 pairs swim shorts&lt;br /&gt;4 t-shirts &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.landsend.com/pp/LongSleeveTrekkerTshirt-61598_199210_1189.html?CM_MERCH=PGGT_1_from_0000035064_to_0000046215"&gt;3 long sleeves&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.moosejaw.com/moosejaw/shop/product_The-North-Face-Boy-s-TKA-100-Glacier-1/4-Zip-Top_10082898____?cm_mmc=CSE-_-GoogleBase-_-na-_-The-North-Face-Boy-s-TKA-100-Glacier-1/4-Zip-Top&amp;amp;ad_id=GoogleBase"&gt;NF lightweight fleece jacket&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Marmot Precip jacket (Ollie &amp;amp; I match!)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;4 pairs socks&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2 pairs long sleeve pj's&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;2 pairs short sleeve pj's&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Keen Arroyo shoes (all three of us will be sporting these bad boys)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-2638149485721805250?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/2638149485721805250/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=2638149485721805250&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/2638149485721805250'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/2638149485721805250'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/07/fashionably-light.html' title='Fashionably Light'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SnTjiad61fI/AAAAAAAAAQM/38SPZHfhDWE/s72-c/017.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-2486998076243421060</id><published>2009-07-22T13:42:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-22T18:06:17.980-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='contest'/><title type='text'>Credit Where Credit is Due</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="left"&gt;Before getting underway, I'd like to give credit to the very good friend of mine who came up with the title of our blog. If it weren't for the creative genius of &lt;strong&gt;Ms. Ruchi Gupta &lt;/strong&gt;(who coincidentally works for a large advertising house), Olivertheworld might otherwise have come to be known as EatenbyMonkeys.com or worse, Dysentery'r'us.com. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;Ms. Gupta and Ms. Boop, San Clemente 2008&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SmeEr5lEP2I/AAAAAAAAAMc/E7j56heHgtc/s1600-h/IMG_1545.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 205px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 157px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361399771133394786" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SmeEr5lEP2I/AAAAAAAAAMc/E7j56heHgtc/s200/IMG_1545.JPG" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;As the winner, Ruchi will receive the left-over toiletries stashed underneath the sink in our master bedroom that we're unable to pack with us on our trip. Thank you, Ruchi and congratulations!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Per my promise, listed below is a selection of the entries that were submitted, each one of them brilliant in their own right. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:60;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:60;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:60;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;dontstealmybaby.com&lt;br /&gt;momanddadcametoo.com&lt;br /&gt;havetoddlerwilltravel.com&lt;br /&gt;oliverstwistedtravels.com &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;momdontforgetme.com &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Rauchs-trek.com &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;PacificRimTour09.com &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Asia-trek.com &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;WheresOliver.com &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;globetoddler.com &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;dontmakemeeatbung.com&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-2486998076243421060?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/2486998076243421060/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=2486998076243421060&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/2486998076243421060'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/2486998076243421060'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/07/credit-where-credit-is-due.html' title='Credit Where Credit is Due'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/SmeEr5lEP2I/AAAAAAAAAMc/E7j56heHgtc/s72-c/IMG_1545.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6336862232960531159.post-7750320291082552830</id><published>2009-06-12T00:19:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-17T12:17:32.952-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='trip'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='two-year-old'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='travel'/><title type='text'>Countdown</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sl6HagaAYhI/AAAAAAAAAHc/HoMYYUQzaqQ/s1600-h/Family.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 222px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 179px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358869496062829074" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sl6HagaAYhI/AAAAAAAAAHc/HoMYYUQzaqQ/s320/Family.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Please accept my apology when I tell you that I haven't channeled a writerly thought in now nearly a decade. In fact, it is with distinct physical discomfort that I sit alone tonight, in the darkened kitchen nearing 2AM, banging away at this keyboard in what is now my seventh effort to get this damned &lt;em&gt;blog &lt;/em&gt;(guttural moaning) off the ground and onto the screen. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But rest assured, I feel I have a good enough reason for putting myself through all this in the first place. In exactly 31 days, my husband, Ryan, and I will lock up the house, strap on packs and jet off across the Pacific for Tokyo, where we will begin nearly a year-long voyage all around the Eastern Hemisphere. August 2009 Japan-China-Vietnam-Cambodia-Thailand-Laos-Nepal-India-Singapore-Indonesia-Australia-New Zealand-Fiji June 2010. Even with the countless months of preparation that have already been logged, this is undoubtedly the most ambitious backpacking adventure I've ever undertaken. And for his part, Ryan's prior travel experience by and large consists of tent-camping with his parents 20 years ago, followed by the five-star hotels of his former career as a Wall Street research analyst. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;And then of course there's the Ollie-factor. Our son, Oliver, two-years old on August 2nd, will be riding shotgun &lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;all the way&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So here it is. The most efficient mode of communication I could dream up to chronicle this period of our lives. Want to see if a rambunctious two-year old can ride a camel with the best of them in Rajasthan? How about what a ryokan (traditional Japanese-style lodging, characterized by paper walls) looks like after Hurricane Rauch passes through? Stay tuned, folks. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The question remains: why? Why indeed? As Baudelaire once said, the 'true travellers are those who leave for the sake of leaving itself...and who, without knowing why, are always saying: Let's go!" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/6336862232960531159-7750320291082552830?l=www.olivertheworld.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/feeds/7750320291082552830/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=6336862232960531159&amp;postID=7750320291082552830&amp;isPopup=true' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/7750320291082552830'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6336862232960531159/posts/default/7750320291082552830'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.olivertheworld.com/2009/06/bla.html' title='Countdown'/><author><name>Amelia Rauch</name><uri>https://profiles.google.com/105463399400212656816</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='//lh6.googleusercontent.com/-qeWYlNM41SM/AAAAAAAAAAI/AAAAAAAAAAA/KhlTcMougLs/s512-c/photo.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GA20avd2EQA/Sl6HagaAYhI/AAAAAAAAAHc/HoMYYUQzaqQ/s72-c/Family.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry></feed>
