My first witch

I'm in Siquijor right now, a fairly remote island in the Visayas. It's notorious for the healers who live here, though any Filipino will tell you that they're all actually witches and that you should be staying way the f away. But come on, who's seriously going to listen when there are witches involved?? Especially after loving "The Witches" and "A Wrinkle in Time" as a kid? So after some googling ("best witch in siquijor" doesn't yield much, it turns out) and some advice from my hostel, I took my trusty red scooter and headed into the mountains to go get bewitched. Or, something like that.

I guess I was expecting the surroundings to be filled with gnarly vines, ominous looking trees, maybe some crazy birds of prey stalking around. Nope, it looked pretty much like everywhere else on the island, if not a little better maintained.


These witches have a great eye for landscaping, I thought.

I didn't take a picture of the healer's house because a bunch of family members in wife beaters were just sort of sitting around outside looking decidedly un-magical, but there was literally a sign out front that said "faith healer," along with a bunch of the ailments they could cure listed in misspelled English. I had just assumed that I would be beckoned into the right house by a toothless, old hunchback stroking a blind cat, but this was way easier.

Since I wasn't sick, didn't need a love potion, and didn't want to be "smoked" (the preferred treatment for skin ailments), my healing options were pretty limited.


So I decided to buy a protection amulet, which she is imbuing with extra protection in this picture since she didn't have change for the 500P note I gave her and is thus making an extra 150P from my visit. Clearly I had to ask for some extra joojoo - capitalism spares no one, not even witches.

Moral of the story: witches are really nice! They also have adorable grandchildren, like this kid, who was hanging around the whole time and getting scolded for letting his duck kick at the Virgin Mary statuette.



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Location:My first witch!

A late winter snowfall...

I've been bumming around Manila since Michael left on Saturday, staying with family and soaking up old stories that I normally don't get to hear since I live so far away. I was staying at my Auntie Tess' house, looking at family photos, when I came across the following caption in one of my Lola's albums from the 80's. She had come to visit us in Chicago with my Lolo and a couple of my cousins, and they experienced their first blizzard. I was struck by how lovely and old-school my Lola's prose was:



"The following pictures were taken on the early morning of April 15, 1985, during a late winter snowfall. The snow flurries were thick enough that by mid-morning, the neighborhood, the rooftops..."




"...the streets, trees, etc. were a pretty sight to behold. Notice how Cecil and Cielo enjoyed their first experience with the snow."

On a side note, of course there's a blizzard in Chicago in April. Also, I'm the fat one in the snowsuit.


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dirty hippie alert #5: the shoeless hippie

I realized today that I haven't posted any dirty hippie alerts since India - almost 5 years ago! - and, like manna from the sky, I stumbled upon this guy in the street.

You might argue that that street looks pretty clean, but about two minutes before this guy came walking past, we saw a dog trot by with a distended bowel that I'm certain has made contact with the ground at some point.  If even the most impoverished Filipinos can manage to find 20 pesos to buy a cheap pair of flip flops, so can this guy.  I hope he finds distended dog bowel mushed between his toes later.

How I got over

Happy new year! 2012 may not have been my favorite but when I think of what I want out of a year, I crave balance. Michael and I spent the past 7 days on a boat, sailing around the islands of Palawan, and it was so amazing and healing that it pretty much made up for everything I didn't like about the past year.

This was my last impression of 2012:







And then obviously we ate a lechon, got drunk, and sang a bunch of karaoke in the local village with one of the three families that live there. Totally healing, if you ask me.





Filipino are pretty superstitious, and I'd say that ending one year and starting another on such an awesome note is a pretty good omen.*



*Even if I do still have a minor burn on my calf from being hit by a wayward Roman candle and Michael burned his feet by drunkenly stomping out a small fireworks-induced fire in the forest with his bare feet, it just means that 2013 will be especially fiery and fun, right?



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A Filipina and a white guy walk into a bar...

As excited as I am to be traveling around Asia, I've been dreading the inevitable looks and assumptions that occur when an Asian female is seen with a white guy. When I was traveling in 2008, I had been pretty surprised to see some of the reactions in SE Asia to me just walking down the street with a guy from my hostel. So I knew to expect at least some sideways looks while Michael and I were in town. What I didn't expect was how preemptively crazy I would get in my actions and reactions, and now that Michael has left to go back to Brooklyn, I can actually reflect on why that was the case.

Sure, most people probably/hopefully don't think I'm a prostitute - while there's a lot of that around, Michael definitely doesn't look like the old, fat, ugly bastards who typically hire prostitutes, and my travel wardrobe doesn't usually include glittery heels and makeup - but I think a lot of people still assume that there must be some sort of power imbalance in our relationship. Even if it's clear that I grew up in the US, there must obviously still be some weird dynamics when an Asian woman is involved. So to ensure that Asians everywhere know not only that I'm not a prostitute but that I'm a strong, bad-ass woman who has has equal standing in her relationship, I found myself saying or thinking the following while traveling with Michael:

"Michael! You're walking too far behind me and people are going to think that I'm your tour guide."

"Michael! You're walking too far in front of me and people are going to think that I'm your docile lotus blossom or some other bullshit!!"

"Hey Michael, can you shave tonight? Everyone here shaves except for white guys with prostitutes that they don't care to impress."

"Michael! No PDA's! Unless I initiate, and if I do, you can't do more than what I'm doing."

"Michael! You can't hold all the money otherwise it'll seem like you're my sugar daddy."

Where are my North Face shorts, prostitutes don't wear North Face

hmm I'll sit so that my tattoos face the rest of the restaurant, prostitutes don't have tattoos

Crazy? Yeah. I'm sure that my own inherent neuroses don't help - I am admittedly paranoid that people will think that I'm somehow less Filipino since I married a non-Filipino, and it doesn't help that literally every single Filipino we've met thinks that I'm only half-Filipino. So it's an ongoing struggle to find middle ground and convey, hey I'm Filipino but I'm American, too, and I hopefully got the best parts of both cultures.


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Taipei: #1 in public transportation etiquette

Michael and I have been all over Taipei's subway system since we got here - things are way further apart than we thought they would be and we usually have to take two lines to get anywhere, which entails going up and down escalators and staircases only to walk down long hallways to make the transfer. In addition to the subway, we've been on a cable car, shuttle bus, and high speed rail. So I feel okay saying that it is far more pleasant to share space with a Taiwanese person than with the majority of people riding the NYC subway. Seriously, if New Yorkers and tourists were a little more like the Taiwanese, we'd all be a lot more zen in the morning (though, sadly, there'd probably be no YouTube videos about people eating/fighting/puking/feeding rats/singing inappropriately on the subway).
1) Everyone stands on the right, walks on the left when riding an escalator. Like, every single time.

MIND BLOWN.

They just make it look so easy.
2) Everyone has to get in line to board, which, on a side note, has always been a secret dream of mine. But the best part? No one shoves their way through while people are still getting off the train. Really.

The way that woman's feet stay inside the line reminds me of watching the women's gymnastics floor exercise during the Olympics.

Michael, in line at the high speed rail station. Everyone is even appropriately spaced!
3) What's wrong with this picture?

Answer: absolutely nothing. No one is sitting with their legs splayed out so much that they're going into the next seat (actually, my own husband in the foreground kind of is, which sort of proves this whole thing, no?). No one has their bag on the seat next to them. No one is cutting their nails. This is pretty much what it looked like during EVERY. SINGLE. train ride.
I have to admit, the people watching on the subway here was definitely not as good, but I'd consider giving that up in order to not feel, oh I don't know, murderous on most mornings.
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First awesome meal in Taiwan: 7-11

I had just sort of assumed that the streets of Taipei would be lined with street stalls - probably much like the way foreigners used to think that America was paved with gold - so imagine my surprise when the only place to get food near the railway station at 8am was 7-11. Sure, there were a bunch of Taiwanese people there, but it was still pretty defeating to walk into a place that I normally only frequent when I'm desperate or have the munchies. But as it turns out, Taiwanese 7-11s are fantastic, and I would totally come back willingly and when I'm of sound mind and body.
No taquitos here, son!

The full hot bar:

Um, GENIUS. Definitely tomorrow's breakfast.


Update: I've tried every single flavor of the above sushi sandwiches and they are the last thing I think about at night and the first thing I crave in the mornings. Michael and I have watched two sunrises with these in hand, if that gives you any idea.

Update: These are fucking fantastic, too. New Yorkers, get ready - everything I cook from now on is going to be wrapped in seaweed.


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You know you're on a long-haul flight to Asia when...

...everyone around you has brought their own slippers to change into. And you've had your first Hello Kitty sighting before the plane has even begun flying over Canada. Asia, here I come!




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The most epic squat toilet of all time

I hadn't planned on blogging during this six-week trip that we are taking to South America - the first couple of weeks have been pretty internet-light, and that's before we even get to Bolivia, where I've heard that even heat is a rarity - but then I saw this squat toilet and thought, wellll, there are certain things the world deserves to see.
I have a long, somewhat torrid history with squat toilets (see Squat Toilet: Still Not Owned and even better than set or scrabble, among others), so it's with some degree of certainty that I say that this squat toilet was fucking terrifying. Sure, that picture looks innocent enough - you might argue that, hey, it's far from the tents and at least there's a weighted shower curtain in place to give some semblance of privacy.
Here is what's next door. I visited the toilet for the first time after dark and could not figure out where the oinking was coming from. You know what's not fun? Worrying about a pig charging you when your pants are around your ankles. I was pretty certain that the pig had been in some sort of pen, but in the morning I noticed that there were stone steps leading out of the pen to freedom.
In any case, I can handle a pig. What I can't handle is fearing that I'll fall 15 ft through the planks into a giant cesspool of diarrhea. Which is exactly what happened every time I tried to position my feet onto two wobbly planks of wood balancing precariously on some wobbly logs. Michael actually discovered that the front plank slides back and forth. WTF??

colonialism at its . . .finest?

Luang Prabang is the old French administrative capital in Laos, and I'd heard from scores of people that it is an amazing place to relax for a while -- good food, good strolling, good everything. And I love Marguerite Duras' "The Lover," a story set in 19th century French Indochina that was strikingly beautiful. So I was looking forward to spending some time here. I'll admit, it's stunning -- they did a great job of preserving the old French colonial architecture, and the crumbling buildings set amidst all the overgrown foliage are quite striking and atmospheric. The evenings here are warm and humid and seductive. LPB still has the smoke and street food and motorbikes that all Laotian towns have, and it adds to the sort of romance and adventure of it all. But it's all very . . .French. And it's been stirring my shit up ever since I got here.



This is the first real colonial town I've ever been to. I've been to the Philippines, which was a Spanish colony for 300 years, but it doesn't feel like Spain.  Same with India. It feels like India everywhere you go, and that is the main allure of it. I guess the thing that threw me off about LPB is that everyone enjoys it because of its colonial influence. Laos is all one-road towns and dirt roads and tiny villages, yet here is LPB, a total anomaly in the country. LPB isn't Laos, it's a gorgeous, tropical 19th century French town; a French friend even told me that LPB has better baguettes than Paris. Couples walk arm-in-arm reveling in the beauty of it all, but I just feel like an asshole. It feels too wistful for something that was, in every other respect, horrible. It's pretty hard to reconcile the romantic in me that loves LPB's aesthetic, with the guilt-ridden historian in me that doubts that any joy can be found in colonialism, even symbols of previous colonialism. I don't understand how I'm supposed to forget that the French barged in with total disregard for the Laotians, never integrated into the culture, and created LPB, an unnatural town that was ground zero for their claims to superiority, let alone think that it's all so romantic. Beauty is only skin-deep here.

note: this isn't a post to rag on the French, or imply anything about French people. colonialism wasn't limited to the French, and anyway every world power does horrible things. I mean, come on, I'm from the U.S.!

"oh I miss new york, I can't wait to . . .mmm, is that pad thai?"

I've really been missing NYC, but I have to admit, Thailand is probably one of the best places on earth to forget your woes and distract yourself by means of delicious food. Think of your favorite thai restaurant, then imagine a world where you can find your favorite dishes on every corner, steaming hot and made fresh in about 3 minutes, for about $1. and the best part is that I haven't gotten sick yet (ahem, India). seriously, everytime I think about hopping on a plane back home, I pass a noodle stall and, well, obviously I'm still here.

I swear, every street has some sort of setup that looks like this. how am I supposed to moan and pout about being away from home when there are so many curry stalls to be conquered?

home sweet home

Long-term backpackers are a really cool, interesting bunch. in the same way that I started seeing NYC from a new perspective after being away for so long, I think that being jolted back into the travelling world after a month in my old routine has gotten me thinking about what the common denominator is. I've had the "travelling conversation" (ie where are you from? where have you been? where are you going? why did you leave? etc) with hundreds of people, and the number of stories out there is staggering. but everyone left family, friends and everything else they love and are familiar with, and regardless of the story, it takes a special kind of balls to do that. so they must be searching for something that is, at least temporarily, more urgent. I used to believe I was above all this and that I was just travelling because it was the natural break in my life, but after a month and a half back home in NYC, I think the majority of travellers, including myself, are looking for a place to fit in. a home, or enough time away to be reminded of how great home really is. not that I think people are necessarily aware of this. I only realized that it was home I was truly searching for after I actually came back home to NYC only to leave it again a month and a half later, one of the more painful things I've ever had to do.

I've always raved about NYC to anyone who would listen, but I never really appreciated my life there until I left for places that were completely different, and met people who were on a totally different wavelength. I thought this year would be a scouting trip of sorts, a time to find cities where Michael and I might want to live abroad one day. well, it turns out that I didn't fit in anywhere, and while there are a few places that are so cool I'd definitely live there for a couple of years tops, none of them would ever feel like home. I never achieved "blessed, blessed anonymity" (to quote a friend from India, Matt), and everywhere I went, I felt like an other. in Asia, sometimes I'd get mistaken for Indian or Chinese or Thai and I'd think ahh finally, I'll get treated like a local, but when I started speaking I'd get treated like a tourist anyway. even in the Philippines, my own motherland, I still couldn't blend in like everyone else -- I'd speak the local language and I still couldn't get a break because my accent was all wrong.* I was stoked for Europe, the new melting pot where at least I wouldn't be hassled if I wanted a taxi or went to the market, but I found that there were still issues. Cultural attitudes were pretty disparate from mine, and I was even more aware of how "American" I was. not that anyone's attitude was a bad thing, but you know. I was just different.

so after feeling like a total wandering vagrant without a community for 6 months, mildly distrustful right off the bat and grizzled from getting ripped off/hassled so often, I was pretty apprehensive about getting back to the city I'd originally thought was my home -- after how I'd been treated everywhere else, who knew? but it took exactly an hour for me to get over that apprehension. I was going through NYC passport control, and the border officer was rifling through the pages. He asked me where I'd been, told me that he and his wife had loved Berlin (small talk?! wow!), gave me a big grin (an unnecessary smile?! soo American!), and said, "Welcome home." and in the following 6 weeks that I had in NYC, I was half local, half traveller rediscovering it all. home means something different to everyone, but the combination of Michael, community, Brooklyn, vibe, excitement, food and parties was everything I wanted in a happy life. the city just seemed shinier this time around.

then I left, to finish up travelling. 3 months is a drop in the bucket compared to the year I was away from NYC, but somehow this is more painful. if you love your home, you know what I'm talking about -- you think about it constantly whenever you're not there and can't wait to get back. I had to take a detour through 12 countries to find my way back home, but better late than never.

*(I understand that in these developing countries, the way locals treat tourists is often a matter of necessity. everyone has a family to support, and whatever they're overcharging me is tiny relative to my western dollar. but still, it was hard to reconcile that with a gut feeling that had been instilled in me as a child: treat others the way you'd like to be treated, and everyone should be treated equally.)


aww, Brooklyn. I don't live in any of these houses, but I wish I did.

broke and bipolar

During my time in europe, I have been so careful about not spending too much money, since I still have 4 months of travel ahead of me and europe is unbelievably expensive -- I pretty much live on street food like doner kebabs, dunplings, pierogies, etc., and I couchsurfed in cities where I´d be spending more than 2 days so I could cut down on costs. I've bought a couple of souvenirs for Michael, but that's it. I decided not to go to the taj mahal because it was $25 to get in; similarly, I bypassed the kremlin in moscow because I deemed it too expensive. not to mention the tv tower and jewish museum in berlin, wawel cathedral in krakow, the list goes on and on. granted, I didn´t particularly care about going into these places -- the whole, 'if you've seen one castle, you've seen them all' and 'I'll see them next time' mentality -- but still, I caught a lot of flack for not seeing some of these cultural icons. unfortunately, all of my penny-pinching was blown in about an hour of shopping at 4 of brussels finest chocolatiers and biscuteries.

Belgium is perhaps the chocolate capital of the world, so Michael and I agreed that I should buy a few bars of chocolate for us to try together when we reunite. 'A few bars of chocolate' turned into:
9 mini bars of chocolate in assorted flavors from Neuhaus, the legendary belgian chocolatier;
2 huge bars of chocolate in milk and dark, a pot of praline sauce, and a small box of truffles from Wittemer, the best chocolatier in Brussels as reported by the two belgians who worked at my hostel;
250g of chocolate covered spice cookies, 250g of chocolate almond biscuits, and 100g of florentines from Dandoy, a little biscuterie with awards plastered all around the walls;
2 bars of chocolate in dark and mille feuilles, 2 tubes of chocolate covered pralines in milk and dark, and a small box of assorted chocolate covered pralines from Galler, a trendy boutique chocolatier.

Total for impulsive chocolate binge: €95. the exchange rate is $1.60 to the euro, I think you can do the math.

what went through my mind as I was spending more on chocolate than some families make in a few months? well, nothing, until I had just stepped out of Neuhaus -- it was the 3rd of 4 stops, and afterward I suddenly thought, shit, I think I've already spent €70 on chocolate. my next thought? 'oh but I told michael I'd go to 3 chocolatiers and that biscuiterie didn't count. so far I have Neuhaus as a control, but only one other brand of chocolate to compare it to. onward to Galler!' where I proceeded to blow an additional €25 on chocolate.

when I finally realized the insanity of what I' d done, I called Michael in near-hysterics, alternately flaggelating myself for how foolish I was, lamenting how he couldn't possibly want to marry someone who could spend that much on artesanal chocolate, and scolding him for not being here to stop me from such lapses in judgment.

the lesson here? don't bring your credit card to the chocolate shops of belgium.

(I almost took a picture to post on this blog, but considering how much money I spent, the chocolate takes up embarrassingly little space. tear.)

Auschwitz

I was in Krakow for a couple of days, and I initially thought that I would try to avoid Auschwitz, which is only an hour and a half away. I've been to the Holocaust Museum in DC, so I know what happened and I've seen all of the sad family photographs and personal effects of people who died. and I wasn't sure I'd want to see an actual concentration camp and retrace the footsteps of so many people who suffered - does it get any more depressing than that? but in the end, I was convinced by my roommates at the hostel that, really, it's my duty to go once in life. so I went, and even though I'm glad I did, I never, ever want to go back.

everyone knows about Auschwitz, so I won't bother rehashing the history of the place. and I hope you've seen Schindler's List or something, because I didn't have the heart to take pictures. but the first thing you notice about Auschwitz is that it is huge. logically it should be, but I guess I never thought about the scale of the operation when I learned about it. but it's at least a kilometer long and wide.

the second thing you notice is how quiet it is. Poland is a beautifully green and fertile country that oozes with life, and even on the bus ride to Auschwitz, I was surprised to see how many thriving communities we passed -- I just assumed that everyone would be too freaked out to live anywhere near it, but no, life went on. when you get to Auschwitz, you're dropped off at Auschwitz-I, which has been converted to a museum; to get to Birkenau, the actual concentration camp, you have to either wait for an hourly bus or walk 3km. I walked the 3km and it was one of the quietest walks of my life, despite the fact I was walking on a main road with the occasional car passing by. I just assumed that I was imagining how quiet it was because I was feeling really solemn, but I figured out what it was once I got to Birkenau. Birkenau is, hands-down, the quietest place I've ever been. don't get me wrong, I've been to deserted islands and I was just in mongolia, which is one of the most remote places you can go. I know what quiet sounds like. but what I realized at Birkenau is that life has sound, even if one never stops to notice. It's only once you get to a place as lifeless and awful and unforgiving as Birkenau that you notice how much more quiet a place can get.

for me, it wasn't seeing the old barracks or even the ruins of the crematoriums that finally pounded in the devastation of what happened. it was all of the smaller details that are overlooked in textbooks and museums. like I would walk down a gravel path, and there would be a sign informing me that Jews who were chosen to be sent to the gas chamber immediately upon arrival would be herded down this path. or you can still see a lot of scratchings on the barrack walls made by the prisoners. or the one that really got to me -- Auschwitz has no shade, and it was a pretty hot day, so I veered off the path into the trees to cool off a bit. at one point, I came across a sign saying that when crematoriums were full, women and children used to wait among the trees for their turn to die.

I won't bother trying to analyze Auschwitz any further -- it's a personal experience that is different for everyone, and honestly I think it will take a long, long time to deconstruct everything I felt there. there's not much more to say about Auschwitz except that you should go once in your life, not only to honor the dead, but also to gain a new appreciation on the life you have.

"Uncle!"

I grew up in Chicago, land of slaughterhouses, polish sausages and deep-dish pizzas so unhealthy they will make you cry uncle. and I was raised in a Filipino household, which is all about meat, meat and more meat, with rice to weigh it down in your stomach and vegetables served sort of as an overstewed afterthought. and I love to bake, so much so that I often bake too much and keep the leftovers in the freezer to eat for breakfast. so I like to think that I can hold my own when it comes to fatty, carb-heavy cuisines that lead to obesity and heart disease. however, Lithuanian cuisine has humbled me and my arteries.

I read about these kepta duona in the Lonely Planet, and they described them as "fried bread sticks oozing garlic." so I was envisioning some sort of pan-fried garlic bread, like when you grill a cheese sandwich. well, not really.



not only were they deep-fried so thoroughly that my jaw started hurting from all the chewing, but come on. does it really need to be smothered in cheese? even someone from Wisconsin wouldn't have the nerve to do something so gratuitous. since these are considered beer snacks, I was curious to see what the main courses were like.



this is the infamous zeppelin -- people at my hostel warned me that I would shorten my lifespan considerably if I ate one, and now I see why. it is basically a potato stuffed with minced meat and cream, and then doused in sour cream, butter and bacon bits. now these are all ingredients that I consider ideal in most circumstances, but in these quantities? do Lithuanians have no shame? I don't know if you can tell, but there is a layer of what I think is straight-up lard covering the plate. unbelievably, one zeppelin is considered a half-order -- I nearly threw up watching the woman at the next table eating a full order.

white nights = best insomnia ever

the White Nights are something everyone in st. petersburg looks forward to -- after a long winter where the sun rises at 9am and sets at 2pm, everyone is jonesing for some sun. well, 'some' sun is a bit of an understatement -- when I was there, the sun sort of set for about 2 hours before coming back up again at 3am, and apparently around the summer solstice, the sun stays on the horizon all night long. it's really neat, as long as you have some sleeping pills or nyquil handy -- my circadian rhythms were completely thrown off, and judging by the amount of people strolling the promenades and sitting in cafes, so was everyone else's.


11:45pm, the canals off nevsky prospect


12:15am, the rostral columns


12:30am, the museums across the neva river

what the Lonely Planet doesn't tell you about the trans-siberian

I broke up my trans-siberian journey into 3 different legs -- Beijing:UB, UB:Irkutsk, Irkutsk:Moscow -- and the first 2 trains were pretty tame, as I had expected from reading up on my trusted Lonely Planet. Maybe that's because there's only 1 express train/wk right now that stops off in UB between Beijing-Russia, so naturally it will be filled with westerners, and UB:Irkutsk is relatively short at 28 hours so perhaps that's not enough time to get into the full swing of train dynamics. But my journey from Irkutsk to Moscow was a 3-night/4-day slog through Russia, which afforded me plenty of time to meet/avoid various people on the train as well as curse my Lonely Planet for not better-informing me about what to expect.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the train ride overall -- there is beautiful scenery outside, ample time to read and listen to music, and great people-watching. and I don't think all trains are like this -- 2 of my friends from Irkutsk were on train #1, the Rossiya, which is as tricked out as you can get and costs about $80 more as a result. But if you take a regular express train, you can expect any/all of the following:

1) crazy Mongolian traders: I had no idea these people existed until 4 days ago, perhaps the LP writers lucked out and didn't run into them. the traders buy a load of cheap wares in China (jeans, shirts, tracksuits, blankets, etc), and then get on the train with not only boxes of this stuff, but mannequins for displaying the clothing. the train had been an hour late arriving in Irkutsk from Mongolia, and 2 friends I met on the train told me that it was because the traders took so long getting through Russian customs. apparently most of them pony up some cash for bribing Russian border patrol, but those who come up short are kicked off the train (but not before a lot of screaming and cursing apparently). furthermore, to avoid customs tax, the traders usually distribute their wares to other non-traders throughout the train car (who are also bribed) so that it looks like they have less stuff. if you think there's a lot of bribing going on, just wait.

so once they get across the border, what happens? they sell the clothing on russian train platforms or from the train car during the short 20-min breaks we get every few hours. russians must come to the train station just to shop, because it is mayhem outside and there aren't very many people getting on the train. the traders bribe the provodnitsas so they can sell from the entrance of the train car, so if both doors to your carriage are blocked up by traders, well you're just shit out of luck and you're not going to get outside for fresh air until Moscow.




the traders also bribe the manager of the dining car so they can use the tables to prepare for arrival at each station, i.e. dressing mannequins, taping boxes, etc. and when they're not doing that, they're in the dining car anyway, getting wasted at 10am, chain-smoking, getting into fights, harassing their women, and generally being the source of eye-rolling from Russians all around. I thought the traders were Russian at first and I asked the dining car manager something about whether they live in Moscow, and he was like, "nyet, nyet, mongolian!" and gave me this look as if to say, we might like a bit of the drinky-drinky, but we're not bootleg heathens!

once the train gets to Moscow, the traders don't even get off -- they have tickets to go back to Mongolia on the same train. this repeats itself all summer long apparently, with traders getting off just to buy more stuff.

2) crazy provodnitsas: provodnitsas are the train carriage attendants who are in charge of distributing linens, cleaning bathrooms, and generally insuring your well-being on the train. I was lucky and had 2 really nice provodnitsas who were cool with my requests to borrow a knife, turn down the light, etc. but 2 of my friends in the next carriage over had fascist provodnitsas, who wouldn't let them off the train at stops and continuously locked the women's bathroom in the train car for their exclusive use. my friend Elsa told me a great story about how the provodnitsa was cleaning the bathroom, so she waited in the hallway until the cleaning was done. the provodnitsa noticed her, then locked the door to the bathroom and walked off.

3) lots of roommates: no one gets off the mongolian train carriages since they were mainly full off traders bound for Moscow, but I was in a russian train carriage, which is an entirely different story. most Russians thought I was insane for taking the train instead of just flying to Moscow; they were only on the train for 1 night max. as a result, I went through 12 different roommates in the span of 3 nights, ranging in age from 7 mos. old to mid-80's.

4) russian vs. mongolian train cars: if your journey originates in mongolia, you get on a mongolian train car, and if you start in russia, you get on a russian train car. I didn't think there was much difference until day 2, when it was swelteringly hot in siberia for some reason and none of the windows in the russian train car would open. everyone starts sweating, and when you're on a long-haul train with no showers, that is serious trouble. meanwhile, my friends in the mongolian train car were enjoying nice summery breezes.

5) nonexistent train platform food: I had brought limited provisions with me on the train thinking that it would be easy to find hot station food for at least one meal each day. after all, the LP said that the choice of fresh items on train platforms was excellent, ranging from grilled chicken, dumplings, forest berries, etc. well it turns out that LP is full of shit :) I asked about hot food at all the stops, but most of the them only had kiosks selling more ramen noodles and cookies. of approximately 13 stops between Irkutsk and Moscow, only the following stops had real food:
Zima -- sketchy looking fried pies sitting around at room temp for lord only knows how long, filled with an even more mysterious meat; one of my russian roommates advised avoiding them at all costs, saying they were probably filled with "sausage from cat or dog."
Novosibirsk -- my friends came back with succulent looking pieces of grilled chicken. unfortunately, I had been lounging in the dining car and mongolian traders were blocking both exits, so I couldn't get off the train.
Yekaterinburg -- I don't know if this counts, because I left the station and crossed the street to buy hot meat-filled pastries so technically it wasn't train platform food.

6) time zones: it's already pretty disorienting to go through 3 russian time zones in a day at the beginning of summer, when the sun sets at 10:30pm as it is and you're basically chasing the sun, elongating all your sunsets on the train. not to mention the fact that all trains run on moscow time, but operate on local time -- so if you're looking at your train ticket and it says your train leaves at 10:30 am from Irkutsk, because Irkutsk is 5 hrs ahead of moscow, you should get to the station for 3:30pm. but try going from Ulan Bator in Mongolia to Irkutsk, which is further west since it's in russia, yet you gain an hour's time. huh?

7) almost no westerners: I thought there would be a ton of backpackers on the train from Irkutsk to Moscow. but most people go in the other direction, so there were only 5 of us on the train. so don't go thinking that it's necessarily going to be a travelling hostel, because it might be more like a mongolian barrio :)
Lonely Planet, I am disappointed in you.

hypertension and obesity, here I come

the train journey from Irkutsk to Moscow takes 4 days, 3 nights. part of the fun is the grocery shopping -- at the main supermarket in Irkutsk, you usually see other travellers and debate which bread looks less stale, whether you'll get hepatitis from the apples, how long cheese will last without a refrigerator, etc. but considering the limited selection in siberian supermarkets, in the end, there's really no way to avoid a total junk food binge. this is my booty for the 4 days (and this assumes I'll be eating russian train platform food like dumplings, blintzes, etc.!):



in case you couldn't make out everything, here's a list:

5 bowls of ramen, in assorted beef flavors
4 rolls of bread
jar of nutella
jar of peanut butter
4 bananas
bag of oranges
2 types of chocolate cookies
hazelnut chocolate bar
chocolate pretzels
styrofoam tray of apples
canned peaches
2 bottles of unidentifiable fruit juice
can of peanuts

and to think, I demurred on the bacon flavored pringles because I thought they'd be too unhealthy.

Brehmer, this one's for you

I haven't had a toilet post in over a month (gasp!), but central mongolia's, uh, "toilets" certainly deserve a mention. I'm no stranger to squat toilets (see any number of posts on this), and I've definitely used some outhouses before, but the thing I loved about Mongolian outhouses was the combination of sheer-drop-to-the-bottom and wind velocity that combined for a unique bathroom experience. I never understood why guys liked pissing off cliffs so much until I was pissing into a 20ft. deep hole and the wind was causing a sort of arc-ing effect I'd never had the joy of seeing before. folks, I officially have penis envy.

next time, I'm flying

it takes a notoriously long time to get anywhere in the philippines, esp during typhoon season -- you're already talking about buses to ferries to more buses, and delays throw everything off. Michael and I had to go to Marinduque, the island where my grandmother is from, for a family reunion and both legs of the journey were pretty legendary, and apparently, fairly typical.

Getting to Marinduque went something like this:
1) my parents arranged a door-to-door service that picks you up from your house in Manila, takes you to the pier, gets you on the boat, then drives you to wherever you need to go in Marinduque. my mom, aunt, Michael and I are squished into the backseat of a 15-passenger van. Duration of car ride to pier: 4.5 hours

2) we catch the midnight ferry to Marinduque and it is a serious health and safety hazard. the boat fits maybe 300 but there are about twice that number sitting on the floor, standing on the decks, and squeezing into the bathrooms. life jackets are in a locked cabinet in the back of the boat. meanwhile, the waves are so rough that someone is walking around handing out plastic bags for people to puke in. a little kid is puking next to Michael, and his puke bag keeps swinging against Michael's leg. Duration of ferry ride: 3 hours

3) we finally get to Marinduque -- the car from Manila is parked below deck, and we return to find that the people who chose to stay in the car during the boat ride have puked all over the steps to the car. Duration of car ride to final destination: 1 hour

Trip summary: we left the house in Manila at 7pm only to arrive at the resort in Marinduque at 4am.

Leaving Marinduque:
1) all the ferries were cancelled for the whole time we were in Marinduque, due to bad weather. on the day we are supposed to leave, the ferries decide to run again, mid-afternoon. we race to catch the 4pm ferry, only to miss it by 15 min. the next ferry is at 7pm. Supposed wait time: 2 hrs, 45 min

2) the 7pm ferry finally rolls up at 9pm. Actual wait time: 4 hrs, 45 min

3) ignoring the station master's request to please stay in the waiting room, everyone rushes to the pier. we watch as people, then cars are unloaded. then we watch as locals take a cart (note the singular, not plural form) back and forth to the ferry to unload bags of produce, which keep falling off the cart as it is rolled down the plank. Duration of ridiculously inefficient unloading process: 1 hr

4) finally, all the stupid produce is off the boat. the boat guy gives the signal and people start sprinting up the plank to get the choice seats on the top level, i.e. open-air seating with easy access to balconies in case of puking. Duration of wait to get everyone sorted: 1.5 hr

5) we finally, finally leave, 4 1/2 hrs after we were supposed to. Duration of boat ride back to mainland: 3 hrs

6) we catch a bus back to Manila, and the driver is blasting 80's ballads like "lady in red," "you just don't love me no more," and every phil collins song I've ever heard. Duration of bus ride: 3.5 hours

7) we are dropped off at the bus stop near my cousin's house and walk back, grizzled and disheveled. Duration of walk: 30 min., + 10 min. for the guards to verify that these dirty hippies are, in fact, related to someone in this nice subdivision

Trip summary: we left the resort in Marinduque at 3:30pm, only to arrive at the house in Manila at 6:30am