35,000 Dobras

By Beth

“35,000 dobras????”  Kilson looks at me in disgust. “Can you believe that?”

I'm out getting beers with Kilson and his cousin and they are in absolute shock over the check. The beers at this restaurant in the small oceanside city of Pantufo, in São Tomé, are almost three times the cost of other areas- they ring up for 35,000 dobras each, or a whopping $2.50. I smile, saying nothing. It's not that things are always much cheaper here- they aren't always. But they are most of the time. In the USA where prices are stacked higher and higher in order to benefit the many people who work within the production chain, here in São Tomé things are priced only slightly higher than the cost for which they are purchased or produced. There is little profit. I noticed that when I was living in Portugal, too- you could buy a loaf of bread there for less than 0.50 EUR, when loaves of bread in the USA are $2 or $3 at the very least. But here the prices are even lower.

Well, like, I said, most of the time.

I learned the hard way to bring more clothes- especially clothes for going out- the next time I come back to São Tomé. A simple cotton dress, one of those light summery pieces with little flavor or design that you can pick up at any K-Mart for less than $10, retail here for about 400,000 dobras, or $26. And those are the cheapest dresses I could find.

Imported African wax print, 30,000 Dobras, or $2, per meter

If you want something that actually looks nice, Kilson's mom owns a store in town. The dresses there, something I could pick up at TJ Maxx for $20, cost about 2 million dobras, or $125. Something so shocking I now understand why so many of the poorer women in town wear pieces of fabric tied around their waist- because it's so expensive to do anything else!

You can buy a cerveja nacional, or the locally produced beer, for 10,000 dobras, or about $0.70. For 10,000 dobras you can also buy:

A taxi ride anywhere in the city, provided you don't mind sharing with a car-full of people, which is how they do it here.

A patching on your motorcycle tire and filling of air, which I learned the hard way- but if you're with Kilson, because he knows everyone in town, that's free.

Two cinnamon bun-type pastries at the local padaria

Ten pieces of chewing gum or five lollipops (that are equivalent to Blow-Pops, with gum in the center)
A one-scoop ice cream cone (though let me tell you, the ice cream culture here is depressing)

Palm wine I think we spent about 25,000 Dobras on for a three-gallon jug

For 30,000 dobras, or about $2.10, you can get order a conch appetizer at a restaurant, or about eight small espetadas (shish kabobs). You can successfully eat a filling dinner at a restaurant, consisting of two cervejas nacionais, an appetizer, two entrees and two coffees for about 180,000 dobras, for $12.
Which is why Kilson almost shrieked with delight when, on my last night here, I was paid for teaching the English classes that I thought I was doing for free, leaving us with about 400,000 dobras to spend in one night (because who cares about saving, really?). “We can do ANYTHING,” he said to me with a smile. That night we ate like kings.

The People Working - AND LIVING - in and Around Angkor Wat

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://www.aroundtheworldl.com/
His tiny form flitted past the hole in the stone wall so fast I thought he might be a forest spirit. But then there he was again: sparkling eyes, tiny body in a grubby orange shirt, barefoot... He disappeared again, and I was ten minutes further into the thick jungle path to the next temple when he materialized right beside me.

"Hello lady!" he said with a smile. "This used to be the Grand Palace, almost a thousand years ago. See those big and small pools over there?" I looked, seeing glistening water through the sunlit green foliage. "Big pool for woman, small pool for man. You know why?" I didn't. "One king, many concubines!"
The boy continued his informative chatter by my waist for the next three jungle temples, and to tell the truth I could use the company, as these sites, though extremely famous, were eerily deserted at this time of day. But I suppose I knew the inevitable would come soon enough.
"Do you live here?" I asked, gesturing to the tangled expanse. "Yes, I have no mother and father, so I live with the monks here," he said. "In the afternoons I go to school and learn Khymer, English and Thai." Indeed, his English was excellent.

I neared my meeting point with Sopheak, and so I turned to wish the little one well. When he realized I was leaving, his eyes turned suddenly dead.
"Give me some money for school," he said so quietly and robotically that I could barely hear.

"I'm sorry, but I don't give anyone money at the temples," I said truthfully. Much has been written about how young children are being pulled out of school across Cambodia to shill trinkets to tourists, and to beg for money-- all of which goes right back in the pockets of the unscrupulous adults.

"Give me some money. Just one dollar," the tiny boy intoned, holding out his hands. The dark jungle framed his body, and the incense from the nearby shrine wafted past us.
"Just a dollar. Give me money," he began chanting over and over, following me slower and slower until I reached the road. I could still hear his voice as I climbed into the tuk-tuk. By now, ten more children had surrounded the car, holding out scarves, postcards, flutes.
Every visitor who has been to Angkor Wat will remark on the intensity of the selling and begging. The moment your tuk-tuk or motorcycle pulls up, a hoard of young Cambodians will sprint up, screaming any and every combination of the following: "LADY! You come here, lady! Where you from? I give you good price. Scarf? For your mother? Nice cold drink? Batteries for your camera? Guidebook to Angkor Wat? You buy, you buy from me, okay? Maybe come back later, okay?"

Every visitor has different reactions-- all difficult. If you buy from her, are you supporting an unethical adult? If you buy from him, what happens to the forty children behind him that you don't buy from? The most common and consistent solution is to hold off on giving any money to these children, and rather make a larger donation to a reputable Cambodian organization.
Meeting this little boy, however, I became intensely curious about just who is living in and around Angkor Wat, and where. We know, since it is a working temple with many active shrines, that there are monks here. We also know from the boy that these monks have some orphans in their care.

I asked Sopheak, gesturing to the hundreds of rickety vendor stalls along the temple roads, "Do these people also sleep in the temple grounds?" "Oh no," he replied, "Police don't allow. They pay off police so they can sell here, maybe five dollar a month. But to live they have a village right outside."
I nodded. However, as the day wore on, I began to spot small tents and hammocks hidden in the jungle right behind the more obscure temples. "Are you sure people don't live here?" I asked Sopheak again. "Well," he said, "Sometimes, yes."
Imagine arising in your tattered tent, right under the eighth wonder of the world!

The Angkor Wat complex of temples stretches for miles upon miles, and in between there are villages. Sopheak and I drove nearly an hour straight each way today, and the villages we passed were as beautiful and fascinating as the temples. First, there were the stunningly green rice paddies, shimmering wetly, smattered with water buffalo, rice workers, and tiny children.

Then there were vendor stalls lining the road. So many stalls! Could they possibly sell more than two items a day with all that competition? While they waited the interminable hours for a customer to stop, the families cuddled together under palm roofs, playing with each others' hair and cooking smoky food. Slick naked bodies peeked out of the brown rivers we passed, and half-clothed men worked on engines. Whole families crowded onto mopeds and zoomed by us, the fourth child in the pile sometimes waving with glee.

And the mines. Cambodia is one of the most heavily landmined countries in the world, and thus you must never stray off a beaten path. Sure enough, six jungle patches we passed displayed signs: "Landmine field cleared by Japanese Armed Forces". We saw many group homes for people who had lost limbs in the explosions, signs saying they were funded by German or American organizations. Musical groups formed of amputees grace the paths of many temples.

Of course, not all the Cambodians in and around Angkor Wat are there to sell to tourists! Angkor Wat provides free entrance to any Cambodian national, and thus at least ten percent of the awe-struck temple viewers are from the land itself.
Today we passed a small Cambodian family climbing off their moped, laying out a blanket by the Angkor Wat lakeside, and diving into a rollicking picnic lunch. Beautiful!
"Hey honey, where should we take the kids to eat today?"
"How about in front of the biggest temple in the world?"
"Sounds good to me."

Traveler's Advocacy

By Erica

As some of you may have discovered after reading my bio, I've been traveling for most of my life. I've been through it all: trips with lost luggage, trips with terrible weather, trips with language barriers, trips where I got massively lost, and trips with grossly incompetent companies. There are enough horror stories out there to scare even the bravest of new adventurers, so I'll keep mine to a minimum, but it occurred to me that something that many guidebooks lack is a section on Traveler's Advocacy.
No, it's not a magical organization designed to assist travelers in negotiating reasonable room prices or provide free translation services. Simply put, it's a kind of mindset you grow as you become more experienced with travel- a combination of spine and intuition that allows you to know, among other things, when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, and when to show 'em what you're made of. It's not something that's easily taught, because each person advocates for hirself differently, but there are general guidelines that are applicable to each person's experiences as they globetrot.

The first guideline I'd suggest is work on walking that fine line between nice and spineless. Often when we travel, it's easy to become overwhelmed by the complex array of transportation systems, busy people, and (possibly) strange locales. Add weather complications to the mix, and you've got a perfect recipe for chaos. If traveling between Point A (where you are) and Point B (where you want to be) is so important, it's worth the time and energy to swallow some of your frustration and confusion and be nice to the people who are supposed to facilitate your travel. Being a jerk, which seems to work for some people, only gets most of us to Point C (out on the curb on your ass) and makes the travel employees less pleasant for others to deal with. At the same time, however, it's also worth it to have a spine and advocate for your place in transit. Case in point: when I was stuck in Atlanta for 30 hours, it was because Delta insisted that it needed to board its red carpet customers first. The only reason I ever got put on a flight was because one of the employees recognized me from his earlier shift, 24 hours prior. After 15 hours, with flights running on schedule, it would have been more than reasonable for me to be a little firmer about getting on a plane.

The second guideline I'd suggest is to brush up on your pantomime, or let go of any performance anxiety you might have. If you're in a country where you don't speak the language, you're going to do a lot of dancing around and waving your arms. Alternatively, you can do what my partner did and use Google translate to write notecards in the host language before you leave that have critical phrases such as "I don't speak ______" on them. Regardless, whichever you use, be patient: sign language isn't universal, and it may take a while before you and the person you want to communicate with to settle on the meaning of your gestures. It's worth knowing, too, that in some parts of the world people will use their social networks to translate your madness. On Okinawa, for example, Nick and I failed at pantomime in a little shop and were amazed when the shop owner decided to call her friend, who spoke a tiny amount of English, to translate for us over the phone. Between the friend and the pantomime, it all worked out, and the three of us laughed about it over a cup of tea in the back of her store afterwards.

The third guideline I'm going to pass along, which is less amusing, is to know how to keep yourself (and, if you have any, your stuff) safe wherever you're going. One of my friends told me a story about traveling in Italy, in which his hotel room was burglarized and his replacement stuff was stolen out of his rental car two days later while parked in a friend's driveway. This kind of awareness, about keeping yourself safe, isn't just about knowing where to hide your things, what neighbourhoods to avoid, or having a black belt. It's also about knowing the local resources- laws, police, informal networks- that can support you in case something DOES happen. For my friend, that meant going inside to explain to his friend what had happened; 20 minutes after his friend called some of the neighbours, all of the stuff was returned to his car. Sometimes knowing these resources isn't easy to accomplish in advance, in which case I suggest seeking out other, more experienced travelers or recommended hotel/restaurant/museum guides to offer advice.

Above all, enjoy the adventures and roll with the punches. You're never going to be completely in control of any travel experience, so keep a good sense of humour when things go awry, for as long as you can. Just be ready to put some of that Traveler's Advocacy into practice when you reach an impasse.

Beginnings and Endings

by Lisa

My mission for the evening was simple: to watch football.

You see, it was a Thursday night.  It was also opening day of the 2004-2005 football season, and that night's game was a match-up I was really looking forward to: Tom Brady of my beloved Patriots was facing Peyton Manning and the Colts.  But there was a problem.  I wasn't in Boston.  I was in Springdale, Utah, just south of Zion National Park, and my lodgings for the night were a bare bones private campground.  My tent doesn't have a television.

I asked around, stopping here and there (hotels, outfitters, souvenir shops) along the main road to ask where I might watch the game, and preferably drink some beer and eat dinner while I was at it.  The consensus was clear.

So, shortly before game time, I strolled in to the Bit 'N' Spur, a Mexican restaurant a short way down the road from my campsite, and settled myself on a bar stool.  The (ruggedly adorable) bartender kindly agreed to put the game on one of the televisions, I ordered a drink and some dinner, and dug in to watch the game.

A little while later, an older couple took the stools to my left.  The gentleman heard me zealously rooting for my team, and asked me if I was a Pats fan.  He asked if I was from Boston.  I said yes to both, and introduced myself.  We got to talking.

I explained that I was on a cross country road trip to celebrate graduating from law school and surviving the bar exam before starting my legal career.  He was a just-retired District Attorney from San Diego, on a cross country road trip with his wife, celebrating the end of his legal career.  We got along famously.

His wife, upon hearing that I was traveling solo, immediately asked, "Isn't your mother worried?"  Yes, probably.  "Aren't you scared out here on your own?"  No, not at all.  She told me that she'd chew her fingernails off with worry if her twenty-six year-old daughter took off on a trip alone.  I assured her that it's not that bad, particularly if you pay attention and don't take unnecessary risks.

Her husband jumped back in.  He didn't want to talk about my trip, he wanted to talk about the law. 

Where was I going to practice?  Did I have a specialty?  Where did I go to school?

A few hours later, the game was over (27-24 Pats, thank you very much).  The couple got up from their stools.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," he said, shaking my hand, "and I wish you congratulations on success in law school, and a long and fruitful legal career."

I thanked him.  "Maybe I'll start planning my own retirement road trip," I teased, "since it seems to be working out so well for you."

She shook my hand too.  "Good luck, and call your mother.  As often as possible.  And tell her another mother is worrying about you too."

We said goodnight.  I settled my bill, and returned to my campground.

Mission accomplished, with a little career encouragement thrown in.  A good night, indeed.

Vienna Art

By Megan

The train took two hours longer than expected and really would not have been that bad if we understood what was going on.  And maybe it would have been nice if we had remembered to bring snacks other than our 'Orbit' gum.  But honestly, I did not care a bit that we were drenched in sweat and sleepy, because our train for Wien (Vienna) and I was ready for regal beauty in Mozart's old stomping grounds.

Our first morning in the city- after a night of freak hail storms- was spent in the traditional Viennese style; at brunch.  It was a simple meal with to die for coffee, that was nestled in an adorable vine-covered courtyard.  Young families passed babies off to friends, and older couple read bits of the local paper aloud to each other.

A night at the museum

For some unknown reason, this had become the city of museum visits extraordinaire for me:  I had been to the Prado, enjoyed the best in the mid-west (thank you, Chicago), and fell for Paris.  Wien had become my museum mecca.  I was on a mission to find the Klimt mother load and I was not going to leave the city disappointed.

Step 1:  The Leopold Museum, post-brunch.  The building itself was imposing, let alone their collection.  Room after room was filled with stunning works and tourists from all over the world.  But alas, there were fewer Klimt works than I had been lead to believe.  After the amazing beauty we enjoyed indoors, we took in the sunshine outdoors in the garden, and tried not to be too mischievous.

Outside of the Albertina Palais Museum

We both wanted to visit the opera or potentially the Vienna Boys Choir, but decided that our shabby-chic looks would not quite make the cut, so I instead inquired about common past times in Wien for early June and found out that swimming in the river was quite popular.  So off to the 'beach' we went, bathing suit already on.  The train let us off right near a bank of the river and did not take me long to jump into the river with my travel buddy looking on.  As I swam in the water with the other older gentlemen, I realized where I was-- I was SWIMMING in the Strauss' BLUE DANUBE!  I dried in the sun and thought that my music teachers would be proud.

Step 2: The Albertina Palais Museum.  While my travel partner rested, I went to the Albertina which was beautifully situated in the center of town.  I also remembered enjoying the reduced ticket price for students and the pistachio/nutella gelato I had as a snack.  No Klimts in sight.

A dip in the Danube

Step 3:  The Belvedere Palace.  Finally, I got to see some of Gustav Klimt's expressive works and they did not let me down.  I must have spent 15 minutes enjoying each piece the museum featured until we were both so exhausted that we needed another ice cream, just to keep on going.

Our time in UpEurope was coming to an end, and we were heading back home to Barcelona.  I was even excited to take my exams and finish my time at the university.  Come on paper writing- give me your worst!  Barcelona even smelled better, but I still long for swims in Wien, long walks in Prague, and rhinos in Berlin.

Boleia!

By Beth

“Boleia!” the men shout to me from the sides of the road as I whiz by on my blue Suzuki motorcycle. This is how you flag down a ride when you see a motorcycle taxi go by in São Tomé. But directed to me it is more of a joke, of course- there are no female motorcycle taxi drivers, and certainly no white ones. It makes me smile because the São Tomeans play with me the way an aunt or uncle or cousin would- lightly making fun that, in some ways, makes you feel more at home.

Dany taught me how to ride a motorcycle so that I didn't have to depend on him for rides into town. As someone who never knew

My lovely mota, sans me, because I was uh...the one taking the picture

how to drive a car with a manual transmission, learning to ride a motorcycle took me a minute. I still have trouble starting it sometimes and shifting into first without stalling (for this reason I used to abhor four-way stops, but am slowly getting better at them), especially with someone riding behind me, since they add more weight. But the feeling of being on a motorcycle is freeing. My thighs tighten their grip on the motorcycle's body as if I were riding a horse. I lean forward, turn up the gas, passing palm trees and people selling coconuts and oceans and sand. I love my mota and it serves me well.

Like learning to ride my mota, it also took me a minute to get used to the stares. No one means harm by them, but coming from a place like the USA where people will get into fights with other people that look at them, it's strange to move from invisible to famous. But the worst thing you can do is turn in. In a strange way, São Tomé very much nurtures individuality. You learn to be like, “yup, I'm a white woman, and I ride a motorcycle, and what of it?” Kids pass and they call to me. “Amiga!” They yell. “Branca!” Friend. White woman. Men do the same, or they hiss.

But you don't ignore them. You look at them right in the eye. You say, “Hey there, good afternoon! How are you?” You smile, laugh. You are comfortable with who you are. And they, in turn, are comfortable with you too. You are a part of this community whether you like it or not.

My boyfriend, Kilson, greets every single person he sees. Everyone knows him. He might walk into a room with fifteen people and if ten of them are people he vaguely knows, he will walk around shaking the hand or kissing the cheek of every single one, then introduce himself to the people he does not know yet. Sometimes I think he is a local celebrity. He does not demand respect from people. He gives it out with graceful ease; and, in this way, it comes back to him tenfold.

Like my motorcycle weakness is shifting into first, Kilson's driving weakness is speed bumps. But he doesn't know how to drive a motorcycle, and he's not afraid to admit that he's scared of them. He gives me his baseball cap and sunglasses and I give him my helmet. We're in the middle of the city and he hops on the motorcycle behind me, wearing the helmet, even though 99% of the time it's the driver that wears the helmet in this culture. But then again, 99% of the time it's the man that drives, too. He is a muscular black man hopping onto the back of a white woman's motorcycle, and he's wearing a helmet, and what of it, because he's Kilson and everyone knows him and he is comfortable with himself and because of this he can do absolutely whatever he wants.

Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two (Part 2)!

By AJ

Last month, I focused on the parts of male culture that I saw in South Africa that promoted infidelity and having multiple girlfriends, or cherries (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/27/get-yourself-a-girlfriend-or-two/).  There is more to the story though.  The pressure doesn't just come from other guys, but from some girls too.

Now most women who have traveled abroad will probably have experienced some of the unwanted attention that is a result of a healthy patriarchy.  If you are unfamiliar with this, see: (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/15/shes-with-me/).  One of the reasons this kind of behavior is so alive and well is because a lot of women play into it. The few that don't are mavericks like Mpho (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/10/11/starting-the-conversation/). But there is a story you may not often hear, and that is of the unexpected attention that men sometimes get when traveling abroad.

“Un”wanted Attention
I'd been at my site for almost two months and I was finally beginning to put names to faces.  I had almost all the teachers down but was lost with the 500+ kids at the high school.  Only a few stood out, like Mofokeng, who taught me to herd goats after school, Thabiso, who spoke great English and was teaching me seTswana, and Patience, whose powerful voice led the entire school in song at each morning assembly.  She was a senior and a pretty girl. Each day after school as I walked home, I'd pass her and her group of friends as they chatted.  Patience would always greet me with a big smile.  One day, she called me over to chat.

“KB, when are you going to make us dinner.” (KB was my nickname)
“I think there's a misunderstanding. I'm not making any dinner.”
“Can we come over to visit you then?”
“Umm, I guess so, everyone here knows where I live.”
“Can I spend the night?”
“No no no no...and in fact, maybe you shouldn't come over...”

I hastily beat a retreat down the dusty road.  This was not the first nor the last time I'd turn down such propositions and flirtations.

One instance was more subtle, but far more troubling.  Lerato was a relative of my host family and often came over to help with errands and take care of the babies.  She was one of my early allies as I struggled to master seTswana. She'd often help translate what people were saying in broken English.  One day as we were baby-sitting the two year old Tlotlo, I tried to teach her “Rock, Paper, Scissors.”  After a few minutes she gave up and insisted on showing me a game.  She held out her right hand in a fist.  She wiggled her thumb, and told me to raise it. Then she wiggled her index finger.  Then her thumb again, this time indicating to put it down. And finally she wiggled her index finger again.  As I looked to ask what was next in this game, she gave me a big smile and I looked down again at her hand. “Oh shit...” I thought to myself.  The hand gesture, which some of you may know as sign language for “t”, in South Africa is one of many ways to subtly say, “I want to have sex with you.”  I looked at Lerato with terror in my eyes and shook my head to try to erase any mixed signals I may have unintentionally sent.  It's not that I'm terrified of girls, just that Lerato was 14 at the time.

Unfamiliar territory
From what I've seen, in the world of guys, unless you happen to be a Brad Pitt look alike or the star quarterback, it's unlikely that you'll find girls aggressively hitting on you.  Flirting is an entirely different matter, but most of us are not used to having a girl directly communicate that they want us.  The onus is on the guy to make the first move in general.  When an American guy is then placed into this unfamiliar circumstance where he might have to actually bat away girls, there are many problems that can arise.  Quite honestly, it feels kind of nice for a change and it can be very tempting for a guy alone in a foreign place.  Some lucky ones find meaningful relationships but unfortunately, in most cases, I think the American guy is viewed as an economic rather than an emotional investment.
In places where male promiscuity is boasted about, it's often the case that female virginity and fidelity are highly prized.  This asymmetry shouldn't be mistaken for practice.  If every guy has multiple sexual partners, it's highly unlikely that all the women are sticking to one guy.  When I started my service I was in a long distance relationship.  I thought that the answer that I had a girlfriend would be enough to  end the discussion.  I was taken aback when some girls responded with, “But she is so far away. You need a girlfriend here.”  Another volunteer working in the health sector was told by people in his organization that he should knock up some local girls in order to “leave a remembrance” of himself for them.  Perhaps, as I discussed previously, there should be some kind of menist movement, but the feminist movement still has plenty of work out there globally and more men we get behind it rather than obstructing it, the better.

Shades of Grey
Like so many other issues, the issue of male promiscuity can't be pinned down to one thing alone.  Sometimes there is pressure from both men AND women for guys to be promiscuous. It's not an excuse.  But it's something to think about before demonizing men. Lots of the married male teachers I knew and worked with had stuff going on with women in the village, some even with students.  In some cases, I already didn't get along with them for other reasons and this just added fuel to the fire. In some cases though, it was a tortuous relationship because I knew some of these guys were good people and good teachers but that under a very heavy societal and physical pressure they had made a few choices that were not the best.

When traveling or working abroad, you will occasionally find the guys that are true free thinkers that swim against the patriarchy like the friend I described in my last column.  More often, you will find guys that are doing some things that clash with your sensibilities. Some may be jerks that you want nothing to do with. Others though, may actually be decent people that could be quite helpful.  It's not easy to tell sometimes but it's worth the effort to find out.

Angkor Wat by Sunrise

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://www.aroundtheworldl.com/
At four thirty am, my cellphone alarm exploded me awake in my ridiculous supply attic room (pictured left-- no joke).

Was a torrential lightning storm going to foil my plans like yesterday morning? There are no windows in my supply attic room, so I padlocked the door and barefooted down to the second floor to peer out the grated balcony. Clear! Dark! This meant ten minutes to throw on clothes and meet Sopheak at his tuk-tuk downstairs. Woo hoo!

We hit the road fast, joining a parade of tuk-tuks, bicycles, minibuses, and maxi-buses, all headed for the same glorious destination: Angkor Wat, the biggest temple in the world, at sunrise.
Twenty minutes later, we squealed into the packed, muddy parking area as the first glimmers of sun wavered though. "Run that way!" Sopheak urged in his soft, sweet voice, pointing to the beautiful line of humanity streaming through the gate. "I meet you at the big tree there in two hours!"
Through the giant stone gates I ran, clutching my camera, and easing past Japanese tourists of all ages. A massive stone walkway rolled out beyond the gates, and at the end, the most delicious peaks of architecture pointed up to the dawn sky: Angkor Wat! It's you! Hello! You're gorgeous!!

At first I got confused and ran right in the looming temple itself, but soon realized that the inside the pitch black masterpiece was a dumb location to watch the sunrise. Out again I sprinted, and made straight for the hundreds of enraptured people clustered by the side of the lily-pad kissed lake.

For the next hour and a half, we were awe-struck paparazzi. Each inch more of sun brought fresh gasps of delight and sparkles of flashbulbs. "Ooh yes, that angle there," you could almost hear the Japanese grandfather cooing as he adjusted his giant tripod. "Stunning, honey, stunning-- now just a little more in the light so I can see that graceful curve..." Everyone passed around their cameras to everyone else to take different permutations with and by strangers. Everyone became less strangers and more family, united in the cause of timeless, centuries-old wonder.

Cambodian children and adults milled around the crowd, selling coffee, water, and books. I snapped a photo of a man wearing an Angkor Beer shirt in front of Angkor Wat itself and chuckled. Indeed, one can see from the fact that Cambodians name and shape everything from their beer to their border gate like Angkor Wat that the temple is the absolute pride and joy of their country. The Lonely Plant Guide emphasizes that it was to this heavenly, distant past, that Cambodians clung when Pol Pot was massacring their countrymen and women.

After the sun was fully glowing above the temple, we all began to flow inside. One can basically climb over and up nearly any part of Cambodian temples, and often I would look up in shock to find a tourist way out on an overhang.
The inside of Angkor Wat is breathtaking, boasting ornate carvings on every surface, painstaking sculpture work, and columns, halls, stairs, and turrets to make Cinderella drool.

And yet-- that wasn't even the end. From 7:30 am until one in the afternoon, Sopheak took me and my English lady friends to about fourteen other temples in the "small circuit" of the hundred temple complex. Tomorrow we go back for the "Big Circuit", and the day after to the far-off sections. WOW.
Truly, Ankor Wat deserves its title as the Eighth Wonder of the World!

Silver and Bones

By Megan

I don't know how we figured out the ticket situation at the bus station in Prague, but we ended up on the right bus towards Kutná Hora... without seats.  So my new friend and I sat on the floor and talked like old friends about music, travel and food.  Feet numb from the two hour ride, we made our way to the Sedlec Ossuary, ie. the bone church, after grabbing a quick lunch.
I knew that it would be interesting to visit the church where an estimated 40,000 to 70,000 human remains had been artistically arranged in piles, chandeliers and wall decorations, but I honestly thought it would be more creepy than it was.  To be honest, it was devoid of any energy or emotion.  The Ossuary was creepy because of the sterility of the space and besides, it was really difficult to believe that 40,000+ human remains were stacked around us.
We hiked back into the city center to visit with St. Barbara's gothic church; St. Barbara is the patron saint of miners, apt for this town established on the discovery of silver.  Construction began in 1388, but was not complete until the 1905 (reminds me a bit of a certain Catalan structure, cough Gaudi, cough Sagrada Familia).  The double arched flying buttresses were stunning (flash backs to that middle school architecture class, thank you Mrs. Crumm).
We had a few more hours to kill before the bus picked us up, and as it just so happened, an English language tour of the silver mine was just picking up.  So we joined a group of students traveling with their college professor and donned a plastic helmet and cloth coat.  Playing with our head lamps, we listened hard to decipher our wonderful guide.  She told us that the mine was of 14th century origin and that we would only be on level 1 of 10-12 stories of the mine.  I could hardly keep from laughing when our guide warned us that the tunnel would begin to get much smaller and then we nearly had to crouch through the tiny tunnel- the helmet came in very handy.  She also had all of us turn off our headlamps to simulate what light would have looked like for a minor in the 14-16th century and it was barely enough to see your hand in front of your face.  Yikes!
We casually caught the bus back to the city after the tour to find my travel partner waiting for me at Sir Toby's.  The day ended with a good meal and lots of conversation about our day.  The last leg of our trip, Vienna, loomed just in front of us and we were starting to miss Barcelona.

Culturally Illiterate

By Beth

I set my notebook down on the table in front of the teachers. Today is our day to review the computer program that we have developed, to look at basic computer troubleshooting, and to think about the classes that will pick up after Christmas break. It is Friday, which is when we usually meet up and plan our lessons. It is also my last week in São Tomé e Príncipe and I am trying to leave my teachers self-sufficient, so that they don't need me during the eight months that I will be gone. It is a difficult task and certainly not the best situation- I wish I could stay and lend a hand. But this program is theirs to develop. On their own. If they can do that, I know the future of the One Laptop per Child program here in São Tomé will be in good hands.

“Now,” I say, looking at the five of them. “Before we talk about tomorrow's class, I wanted to go over this guidebook I made for you that will help you troubleshoot any computer problems that you may come across.”

“What class tomorrow?????” The teachers ask me, all five of them. “Don't you remember? We're going on a field trip!”

After about ten minutes of back-and-forth, I realize that we have, once again, hit a cultural speedbump. Last week the teachers and I agreed to take the kids to the beach the following Saturday to celebrate our last day together. I stood beside Miguel as we told the students to bring their computers to class Saturday morning, as we would be leaving for the field trip shortly after.

However, it seems as though my words did not resonate in Miguel. And what I didn't realize is that, it just doesn't work like that here. You either have class, or you go on a class trip. You don't- you can't- do both. So no matter how much you may tell someone otherwise, it's so different to them that it's not even remotely possible that it's true.

Years of culture were acting against me on this Friday in São Tomé. I see some of the teachers getting frustrated with me. Language has bitten me in the butt once again.

Here in São Tomé, I am very happy and have some great friends, but at the same time, I tend to get frustrated and/or offend other people regularly. My Portuguese is solid enough that I really get to know people for their personalities and not as much as a visitor or a foreigner. Yet it's a different world when you're nearly fluent in a language but completely illiterate in the culture. I wonder if it's a double-edged sword to be like this- able to relate to another person perfectly on a linguistic level without knowing their culture. Because when you are able to communicate easily with another person, it is also that much easier to assume they are just like you, culturally. It makes it easier to bicker and fight or to get frustrated.

When you don't speak a language, I think you are often extremely open to different cultures and experiences. You treat it like a game, in a sense. The voice of adventure in you says “go!” But when you speak the language, when you can connect with these people on a different level, not only do you forge deeper relationships, but you also put other relationships at risk. If someone says something that you don't agree with, it hits you square in the eyes and you react relative to your own culture. But if you don't speak the language, you smile because you don't understand anyway.

It's a funny situation when you understand a language but not a culture. I find myself defending my actions often by saying “I'm sorry, I'm just not used to the way you guys do it here because it's not like that in the States!” Sometimes the boys ask me if I want them to give me a ride into town, if I want them to go buy me gas for my motorcycle, or other little tasks. I am used to saying “Sure, but I don't want to impose, so if you don't want to, that's ok.”

And when I say that here, people get angry with me. “Do you want to or not?????” They snap. I don't mean to offend. I try to tell them that in the States, people don't necessarily mean what they say, and you always have to give them a chance to back out of it. But to São Tomeans that's the craziest idea, and something they may never fully understand.

If I didn't speak Portuguese, would there be so many mix-ups, so many misunderstandings? Probably not, because I would go with the flow, a smile on my face. But on the other hand, how well can you know someone without understanding their words? But in an age of not always saying what you mean, is body language enough?

The Cambodian Child Sex Trade

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://AroundTheWorldL.com/

In Phuket, Thailand, I spent some creepy time chatting with womanizing older German men. They all had twenty-something year old Thai girlfriends already, but they had big other plans.
"Every day vee play Poker together," said Hans with a leer, "And vee put money in a pot. Vhen we have a full pot, you know vhat we do?" I didn't know. "Vacation! Cambodia!" he gave a wink. "They haff niiiice young girls there. Very young."
Cambodia is notorious for it's horrific sex trade, most notably, providing older Western tourists with very young girls, and sometimes boys. Upon entering the country, I was slapped with numerous billboards that stated "PROTECT OUR NATIONAL TREASURES," showing a photo of a young Cambodian child. "A CHILD IS ANYONE UNDER 18." said the poster. "It is illegal to sexually exploit a child." At the bottom of the poster, a telephone hotline was provided for bystanders to report sexual wrongdoing.

Today, eating spicy green mango salad in a sun-drenched cafe, I suddenly wished I had written down the hotline. Across from me sat two large, pasty Western men, lecherously feeding Sprite to two EXTREMELY young Cambodian street girls. My breath came faster and my blood churned. What should I do? I glared at the men, scheming a plan.
Then, two more young girls appeared, begging every tourist they met to buy their small trinkets. The two Western men gestured them over. They sat them down at the table with Sprite, gave them crayons and paper, paid the bill, left a stack of money for the four grinning children and walked away.
The girls enjoyed their sodas for a hour, giggling and gossiping, with huge smiles on their faces. I snapped a photo.
Maybe the men came back later to collect favors from the children, but I like to think they actually just wanted to be nice. Sometimes paranoia is necessary, but sometimes people are just sweet.

Moving Abroad? Four Things to Consider

By Erica

On New Year's Day, my brain did something along the lines of the following: "YAY! IN FOUR MONTHS WE'LL BE DONE WITH THE MASTER'S DEGREES AND WE'LL BE MOVING! FOUR MONTHS IS ONLY SIXTEEN WEEKS! THOSE WILL GO BY SO QUICKLY AND WE'LL BE DONE AND I'M SO EXCITED AND OH CRAP THAT MEANS SIXTEEN WEEKS TO WRITE THE DISSERTATION AND PACK UP THE HOUSE AND LEARN ABOUT INTERNATIONAL REGULATIONS AND GET THE CAT OVER THERE AND I NEED VALIUM!!!!!1!" Yes. Even the "1" was present in my thoughts as I began to panic over the enormity of being sixteen weeks away from moving abroad. An independent, semi-permanent move to Germany is a terrifying game of bulls in china shops, the blind leading the blind, and every mixed metaphor you can think of. So to assist all you GoGirls (and Guys and GenderQueers) out there, I've come up with a list of a few things to consider when you're prepping for a move abroad.

THING TO CONSIDER #1: What else is going on in your life? An international move takes a LOT of work and planning, unless you're one of those mythical people who's able to just pick up and relocate without a second thought (and if you are, don't tell me because I'm insanely jealous). Since I'm clearly not one of those, I've sat down and thought about the multiple things I'm juggling in addition to the whole moving process. The three that top the list are finishing graduate school, finding my first full-time professional job, and planning our wedding. Sounds easy on paper (or on

The messiness of my room, packing to go back to Penna, is NOTHING compared to the messiness of my brain!

computer screen), but in reality it bears a strong resemblance to cooking a five-course meal, all at once, on a one-burner stove that's only partially functional. I'm reasonably sure that most people who are preparing to move abroad feel similarly overwhelmed. So look at the things that need to be done that you can do with less effort- it is, after all, the age of convenience! Look into hiring a moving company or getting a membership on an employment website. Check out storage units if you don't want to bring a lot of stuff. See where you can consolidate responsibilities-  it made my day, for example, to discover that my wedding reception venue comes complete with a caterer and vegetarian menu. Think of it like juggling Play-Doh. If you're juggling lots of little balls of dough, that's hard. But if you can squish the balls together to be two or three, it gets a lot easier.

THING TO CONSIDER #2: What are the immigration regulations that concern you? When preparing to move, it's a good idea to have a basic idea of how long you want to live abroad and what you want to be able to do there. Why? Because your rough idea of your abroad-time will affect your immigration status while you're there. Germany, for example, has an excitingly complex system of visas, permits, and residency statuses that's almost impossible to find clearly described anywhere. It ranges from a stamp on your passport, which gets you 90 days in Germany for every 180 days of the year, to the TESA- a work visa that's so highly coveted and hard to get, it must be made out of diamonds. Every country is different, even when they're part of a conglomerate (yes, European Union, I'm talking about you), and in order to be able to have enough time to see and do the things you want, it's a good idea to know what immigration statuses are available and what you need to do to get them. Very few things ruin a life abroad like the threat (or experience) of being deported!

THING TO CONSIDER #3: What's your timeline? Again, unless you're the aforementioned easy-breezy mover, international moves take months of planning. To live and work in an area you generally need a visa; to get a visa, you generally need a job; to get a job, you generally need to know the local requirements for employment and meet their expectations. Same goes for moving. To bring a household over, you need to pack and ship your stuff; to pack and ship your stuff, you need to know packing regulations, customs requirements, duties and tariffs, what's considered contraband, and acceptable box sizes and weight limits; to know these things, it helps to call a moving company. Each step can take a while to complete, and some steps- visas and moving company bookings in particular- require you to be several months ahead of the game. Consider the timeline in light of your one-burner multi-course dinner juggling act, as well: if you're going to move, you're going to have to wrap things up before you leave; if you're going to wrap things up before you leave, you need to have an idea of what needs to be done and how to do it. Think along the lines of "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie," only not nearly as delicious and with more of a mess to clean up.

THING TO CONSIDER #4: Are you really in this alone? Finally, when you start the process of getting ready to move, it can be easy (especially for a type A person like me) to feel like you're responsible for everything and have to handle everything yourself. Cut yourself some slack! Moving abroad is a stressful enough process, psychologically speaking. As with the consideration of what else you have to handle in your life, think about who you can ask for help- but don't think only in terms of hiring moving companies or paying for a slot on jobsearch.com. Can any of your friends, family, or partners help connect you to potential employers, movers, or take on any of the other things in your life? Are any of your friends also infected with the travel bug, and expressing an interest in coming with you (and carrying a bag of your stuff while they're at it)? I was raised, like many of my woman-identified friends, to believe that a strong, independent woman rarely needs t0 ask for help and can handle most anything that's thrown her way. Trust me when I say that this might be one of the situations in which asking for help doesn't make you weak or dependent. If nothing else, you get a chance to spend time with the people you won't be seeing a lot of for the next few years- and it's a great chance for all of you to get caught up in the excitement of the adventures you're going to be having soon!

A Different Kind of Gold

by Lisa

“You ready to strike it rich?” Mike asked, grinning at me from beneath his baseball cap.

“Sure!”  I hoped my tone reflected the enthusiasm I was trying to fake.

Mike had set two plastic buckets upside-down in the creek, and now he instructed me to have a seat on one of them.  I stepped into the creek and felt the chill of the knee-high mountain water rushing around my hip-wader rubber boots.  Cautiously, I sat on the bucket.  It seemed stable enough.  Mike handed me a pan filled with dirt, sat across from me, and showed me how to use the rushing creek water to get rid of most of the clay and sand, and how to swirl the remaining sediment around in the pan to separate out any gold specks.  Patiently, I listened and tried to mimic the circular motions he made with his wrists, all the while wondering how long was long enough to sit there.
Several days earlier, I had arrived at Flynn’s Hidden Hollow Hideaway Cattle & Guest Ranch in Townsend, Montana, for a week of horseback riding, hiking, and enjoying the peace that comes with being miles from the nearest cell phone signal.  The first few days were filled with wonder and magic as I rode all over the mountainside, herded cattle, and learned how to fire a rifle.  The food was good, the setting was breathtaking, and the ranchers were friendly. 

One of the ranchers was Mike, an older man who strode around in full waders (with suspenders) and an ever-present grin.  Mike helped out on the ranch when needed and spent the rest of his time looking for gold on the ranch property.  Throughout the week, Mike had asked me if I wanted him to teach me how to pan for gold.  It seemed a silly endeavor, a tourist trap, and every time I simply shrugged.  The owner of the ranch had mentioned that they didn’t salt the cache, meaning that if I did find any gold it came from the mountains.  The unspoken caution, of course, was that I shouldn’t expect to find anything at all.  Mike was persistent, however, and his grin was so enthusiastic that I finally agreed, in part because I thought it was a small thing I could do to make his day.  I went in thinking that I would be polite for an hour, and then move on to pursuits that were more interesting.

Once I got the hang of the panning, Mike started to ask me questions.  What did I do for a living?  Where was I from?  Did I like the big city?  And so forth.  When I said I was a lawyer, he started asking me questions about famous Supreme Court cases.  I was a little surprised at first, but lulled by the warm sun on my back, the cool water rushing around my boots, and the repetitive, circular motions of my gold pan, I relaxed and we began to talk in earnest.

We talked about the law, mostly.  Mike knew a lot about the law, because he was a gold miner, didn’t want to pay a lawyer very much, and so spent a lot of time researching, asserting, and lobbying for miners’ rights in Montana.  He read cases – new and old – and had taught himself how to analyze statutes, regulations and court decisions.  His interests were broader than mining, however, which is how he knew about many Supreme Court cases that I had never heard of until law school.  He read them for fun.

“If my life had gone differently, I probably would have gone to law school,” Mike said, adjusting his hat and squinting in the sunlight.  He shrugged.  “But it didn’t, so I had to figure it out for myself.”
We talked about life in general.  Mike was a Vietnam vet, and, like so many others, had difficulty readjusting to normal life once he returned to the states.  Despite the difficulties he faced, however, Mike adopted a practical, cheerful outlook and found a life that he enjoyed living: nominally indulging gold fever, but in reality using the gold mining as a way to spend time in the outdoors and dig into the intellectual pursuit – law – for which he was clearly well suited.

As we talked, I forgot about my initial reservations, and the time passed too quickly.  After a couple of hours, I had discovered several tiny flecks of gold from my many pans.  Mike helped me put them into a little vial, which I dutifully pocketed to bring home as a souvenir. 

I thanked Mike for teaching me to pan for gold.  He apologized that I hadn't struck it rich.  He didn’t realize that, in fact, I had.

City Crush- Prague

By Megan

We were in the middle of our 'northern' European trip, enjoying a white peony tea in a shop near Wenceslas Square when I knew- I was in love.  It was as if I had fallen into an Audrey Tautou movie, except my hair was convinced on growing dreadlocks and looking quite wild.  I braided my hair and opened my arms wide ready for an adventure.
Our hostel was adorable (SIR TOBY'S; see my favorites at http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/a-go-girls-guide-to-hosteling/) and filled with several interesting characters.  There was a father introducing his two young sons to hosteling and the charms of Prague, a boy from Singapore who had been backpacking for several weeks, and of course, my new friend Anton from Sweden.  The lady at the DELICIOUS homemade granola breakfast bar giggled when I informed her that the jug of agua was empty.  A helpful guy making pancakes translated my vocabulary slip-up for me with a thumbs up, as a refilled my cup of water.
Prague itself was warm and the tank tops finally started to pull their weight, especially on a walk across Charles Bridge towards the Prague Castle.  I still remember the torture chamber and tiny shop doors of the castle ground, but walking up the stairs to the castle was half of the fun.
The next evening, I went back to the castle with my new friends at night and hiked the stairs with the city lights in the background.  Prague had me swooning in the palm of its hand; romantic vistas, a bohemian style that didn't feel forced, and a music/arts scene so diverse that admirers still enjoy Mucha's art nouveau advertisements.  Speaking to the diversity of the city's arts, my friend and I enjoyed a concert through the Fringe Festival, in a small basement bar, by a Scottish singer/songwriter before walking through the historic Jewish quarters in search of dinner.
Later that night, with a so-so gelato in hand, I watched as the famous astronomical clock let 'death' chime in nine o'clock.  It wasn't too exciting to see, until I learned that it was built in the 1400s and nearly destroyed in WWII.  (Quite the commentary that 'death', represented by a skeleton, ticks away the time especially considering the new year...)

Our next day, we climbed the 'Eiffel' tower, which gave us fantastic views of the city and has very cool double helix stairs.  Then, we went across the city to view a most confusing t.v. tower covered in giant crawling babies.  I still don't get it.  It was decided that one more night in the country was necessary, so my travel partner decided to tour a concentration camp ,while I went with my new bud to Kutná Hora for a day trip.  The next day (and next week's entry) promised to be interesting...

Sempre Fixe

By Beth

Greetings are important in São Tomé. You cannot enter a room without greeting every single person in it, whether it's a handshake, a kiss, a hello, whatever.

Sometimes to save time from having to go and kiss someone you give them a thumbs up. Thumbs up means, "Tudo fixe?" ("fixe" rhymes with "leash", for those who care about pronunciation) or "Everything cool?" And the correct response is to give the person a thumbs up back, which means "sempre fixe" or "always cool". It's like the São Tomé version of pounding it, giving knuckles.
We drive by in our truck en route to the STeP UP office, where I work. As we see people we know, we give them thumbs up. They give thumbs up back. Now they have been appropriately greeted.
I like the phrase "sempre fixe". Everything is cool. Life is good. No worries. It also makes me think of my friend Marvin.

Marvin and I dated for some time back in the States. Now we are very good friends. Marvin is an officer in the Marine Corps and life isn't easy for him. When we stopped dating, he had to move to Oklahoma for artillery training and, a few months later, I went to São Tomé. He didn't like the idea of me doing volunteer work in another country. When I told him originally that I wanted to apply for the Peace Corps (which I didn't end up doing), he would tell me to do things like keep a gun on me at all times. His family is Haitian and I find Haiti to be very much like São Tomé, tropical, in terrible need, but quite friendly, but it still didn't assuage his worry for my safety in Africa. Haiti is much more dangerous...and in that way its similarity to São Tomé makes Marvin nervous...in case it is dangerous, too.

Yet sometime in the next couple of days, he'll be going off to do his own foreign and quite dangerous traveling, to Afghanistan.

I try not to worry about him, but he is a close friend, a brother. I have been following his life from afar, coping along with the rest of America, watching every news program with a knot in my stomach and hoping for just a little more information about what the war brings. I remember the "Semper Fi" sticker he had on his SUV. "Always Faithful," as the Marine Corps says.

There is a point where lives intersect, and often again where lives fork. We have both gone off to our respective battles in different countries, seemingly different worlds. And while I live the life of "Sempre Fixe" Marvin lives the life of "Semper Fi". When I ask someone "tudo fixe?" and hear their response, I say a prayer under my breath. And somehow it comforts me that, even though I cannot give my support in person, we are still connected.

A New Years Review

By Marianne

I've gone through the New Year traditions in a lot of different places. I've seen the fireworks in London, Spain and New York. In Annapolis, Baltimore, Washington DC and Los Angeles. And most recently, in Thailand and Sydney, Australia.

I don't remember too much about my London New Years, I imagine mostly because the last time I was in the UK for January 1, I was ten years old and I don't think I ever did anything particularly noteworthy. Hopefully for January 1, 2011, I'll be back there again to really see what it's like.
I remember in Spain going to a restaurant with my parents and having to eat a grape at each of the 12 strikes of the clock. I was young then too and I have a distinct memory of painful cheeks and almost choking on grapes. Small mouth + 12 grapes = not a good time.

Countdown to 2009 in Koh Pha Ngan

My first New Years in New York City, 1997, I had moved to the country mere weeks before hand. I was still so excited to be living in a place like NYC, so the New Year was pretty great although again, as an 11 year old, I wasn't exactly drinking champagne on a roof in Times Square. This all makes me realise that despite having been in some of the biggest cities in the world, it's not often that I've managed to make it to the 'big night' show that ends up on everyone's television. I'm usually with them in the living room watching the screen.

Well at least I did pretty well the last two years...

For the Millenium, I was 14 years old and had a big girly sleep over with all the girls in my year at school, waiting anxiously (or not so much) to see if the world would indeed end at Y2K. I've been to First Night in Annapolis and seen the US Naval Academy's midnight show, and I've been stuck in plenty of post-midnight traffic.

Last year was certainly my most tropical new year. I watched the countdown to 2009 on Koh Pha Ngan with about 30,000 other people at one of the infamous 'Full Moon' parties (New Years is just as good an excuse, if not better, than an actual full moon for a party after all.). It was the typical backpacker thing to do. Nothing glamorous about it, but certainly the best time I've ever had on a beach, and definitely the 'thing' to do if you happen to be a traveler in Thailand.

My New Years Eve in Sydney

This year, I finally got to see, live, the fireworks that I see every year on television and I spent New Years in the Southern Hemisphere for the first time. I was in one of the first countries to roll in to the new decade and it was definitely above average. Okay, it was fantastic. At about 11 in the morning on December 31, I headed out with a backpack full of good food and cheap wine to meet up with everyone at Thornton Park in Balmain East. It was the perfect spot - not too big, and apparently not too well known, so our group had plenty of room to spread out our blankets, pump up the iPod speakers and get comfortable for our last day of 2009 with a perfect view of Sydney's Harbour Bridge. The show was fantastic. The bridge lit up again and again, with waterfalls of fire, towers of fire, champagne explosions. Everything. After the fireworks, a long journey home and a good sleep what did I do for my first day in 2010? Walked in as a VIP to Space Ibiza's Sydney New Years Day party of course! I danced and partied with the likes of Sam Sparro and Pete Tong until we were kicked out and I struggled to get home without falling asleep to enjoy a nice long lie in. Happy New Year indeed.

The Trap on the Cambodian Border

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://AroundTheWorldL.com/
Part of the reason I stayed so long in Bangkok (besides the wonderful people) was I was terrified to cross the infamous Thailand-Cambodia border at Poipet.

I was right to be scared.
"This is NOT the border," said Thomas. "We asked the tuk-tuk to take us to the Cambodian border and this is NOT the border."
The man in the suit grew exasperated. "This IS the border, sir. Here-- here is my credential." He showed us a badge and a certificate. "Please just fill out these forms, and you can get your Cambodian visa." He again fluttered the official-looking documents at us.
Flo and I didn't know who to believe. The whole five hour bus ride from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet, the two Austrian brothers and I had been comparing the scary research we had done regarding border con artists. I looked at the document. It was stamped with a color seal of the Kingdom of Cambodia, and looked like every other official document I've filled out, with its careful blue and white grid. Twelve other men in suits watched us from across the office.
"This is NOT the border," said Thomas again. "You are trying to get money from us. You don't work for the government."
There was a bustle as the men in suits talked loudly in Khymer and flipped open their cellphones to make calls. The three of us began to believe that maybe we were just being paranoid foreigners. Maybe we were being plain old rude. Ignorant. Flo sat down at the table and picked up a pen. It's not a good idea to upset a government official. Had we just been reading too many horror stories?
Suddenly, the first man in the suit strode back. "Ok, you can go."

"Huh?"
"You can go."
I was aghast. Just like the internet pages had warned, the whole thing-- the official papers, the suits, the badges-- had just been a scam.
We shakily climbed back in the tuk-tuk and glared at the long-haired woman driving. "The BORDER, please," said Thomas. The motor started, and the woman said nothing.
"Consulate," she said, two minutes later, stopping the vehicle. We looked up at the Consulate of Cambodia, and could see new men in suits descending the lawn towards us. "NO!" we said in unison, "THE BORDER. THE ACTUAL BORDER!" The driver stared at us from behind her giant dark glasses, immobile. The heat was sweltering and the three of us barely fit with our backpacks on the tiny, three-wheeled tuk-tuk.
Finally, we were moving down the highway again. I couldn't believe our driver had tried to sell us to sham artists TWICE to earn her paltry commission from them-- but we had been amply warned that this is how it goes.

Ten minutes later, we began to see barbed wire, looming, fence-like buildings, and dozens of men in uniforms. We also saw streams of people on foot with coconut-stacked wheelbarrows and checkered head scarves walking purposefully towards the gaps in the barbed wire. We angrily paid the tuk-tuk driver her undeserved 80 Baht and walked to the sign marked "Foreigners". We got our exit stamp from the real Thai official.
In the nether-world between the two countries, we entered the "Visa on Arrival" booth. The heat and dust were choking, and the lines of coconut wheelbarrow folks continued past us, now joined by dozens of tiny children who shrieked "Hallooo!" and tried to follow us. We filled out the ACTUAL visa application (which looked nothing like the fake one the scam artists had given us), and I walked to the official to pay. "900 Baht," ($25) he said. I handed him two five hundreds. He looked at the money, then at my visa application. "Actually," he said, "1000 Baht." I started to argue, completely paranoid and rattled from our earlier encounter, but Thomas shushed me. "This man actually IS an official," he whispered. "Just let it go. It's three dollars more."
We got on the free shuttle bus to the bus and taxi depot nearby. The bus from the depot to Siem Reap is cheap but takes five hours or more, and often sells you to guesthouses for commission. The taxi takes just two hours and, while the $48 price is exorbitant for Cambodia, most tourists pick it, as it's a worthwhile cost when split among several people.

A tout led us through a throng of loudly talking men to the shabby taxi and we got in, expecting the driver to do the same. Instead, he dove into a ten-minute argument with the throng of men, all of them gesturing wildly. "It's the tourist trade mafia," whispered Thomas. "They are negotiating who gets what share of our money. Did you notice how there is no good public transport to Siem Reap, even though a quality bus would be easy enough to create? The tourist trade mafia keeps it that way so they can charge the crazy taxi fares."
A third man came to our window. "You pay half now, half in Siem Reap," he said. "We need to pay the police." We looked over and suddenly saw a man in a police uniform silently writing on a pad, seemingly presiding over the argument. "Where's our driver?" said Thomas. At last we spotted our diminutive chauffeur, engulfed in the waving arms and loud debate. "When our driver sits down, we'll give you the money," said Thomas. At last the driver came, the money changed hands, and the policeman issued the cab an official-looking certificate for the window.

We were off! Electric green rice fields, pancake flat and laden with dully glinting brown pools... Cattle on the fields and also trotting along the road... Giant blue sky with swollen puffs of white clouds... Tiny towns with rickety shacks and wares sold on dusty platforms... "We're in Cambodia!" I whispered, awe-struck.
Suddenly a rooster crowed, and we stopped short. The rooster turned out to be the driver's cellphone. He answered and began yelling in Khymer. "He's trying to sell us to guest houses for a commission," Thomas whispered. Five minutes later, we were driving again, but throughout the two hours on the road, the rooster would crow again, the phone would ring, and the haggling would continue. Was he calling several guest houses? Tuk-tuk drivers? Touts? Just one and arguing a price? Who knows.

Sure enough, once in Siem Reap, we were greeted by another ten men in possibly-but-likely-not-official attire. An effeminate tout led us to a tuk-tuk, assuring us it would take us the the guesthouse of our desire at no extra cost. At this point, I had no idea who or what to believe, so I just shut down. "Lady!" he said to me, as the tuk-tuk swayed on the rutted road, "You look mad! You mad?" "No," I replied with a smile, "I'm so glad to be here. I'm just tired!" Indeed, I had left my Bangkok hostel at 6am, and it was now five in the evening. All I'd eaten all day was a custard bun and a taro cake at Mo Chit bus station.
We bopped between guest houses (there was confusion with Thomas's reservation), but when we finally walked into one, the tout from our tuk-tuk started yelling angrily at the man helping us with our bags. "What's wrong?" asked Flo. "He's angry at me because our guest house doesn't pay touts commission," said the man. "It's the transportation mafia versus the guesthouse mafia!" whispered Thomas. We were in the middle of a catfight.

So now I'm in a totally weird all-window room on the fourth floor of this pretty house-- and my bathroom is on the first floor. Fifty Baht says this is a former office turned into a guest room for extra cash.
And now to end with two positive notes. One: dinner was DELICIOUS and cost $2.75 for a HUGE plate of Khymer curry, rice, and drinks. Two: I just got an email from a friend of a friend explaining how much she loved working in Cambodia, and how great the people are. These two sweet things are reminders that a few rather rotten scam artists should not sour a tourist on the wonders of a deservedly famous country. Angkor Wat tomorrow!