"Oh, yea I drive a '73 Mekong Beauty" -


I wish I could say the journey continues from here on out on the back of an elephant. That would only be the half truth, since my dream of becoming a professional mahout only lasted only a few hours. But those few hours could have been one of the highlights of my entire life. I just can’t believed it ever happened. It’s like just waking up from a vivid dream, the memories of it are fresh and firework-ing and just as readily disintegrating into the blackness of your mind: pineapple fields, the Mekong river, golden Buddhas, fresh passion fruit, peptol-bismol, orange robed monks, curries. It’s like slipping out of a dream that surely was real, you flail and strain to return to the fairytale that is Laos, only to wind up tangled in the mosquito net shielding your bed.

But those elephants…

“Sai-ba-dee”. The master mahout bows towards me, in greeting, palms pressed together. The elephants swish their ears and roll their massive eyeballs in the direction of the gaping tour group. It’s me, my parents, four girls from Australia, and twelve elephants, each with their respective mahouts. We’re in one of the famed elephant “villages” in the jungles of Democratic People’s Republic of Laos (yet still communist…). These camps are designed to rescue retired elephants after they are too old to preform any manual labor required from their previous owners (ie: moving giant lumber and balancing on beach balls). Under the elephant-arian practices villages the elephants get to sleep alone in the jungles and enjoy about 200 kilos of sugar cane and pineapple a day. And now us curious humans can then rekindle with these special animals for no sooner than an hour after arriving at the camp, each human is riding bare-back on their new special friend.

We’ve learned some basic commands, the best is the call which gets the elephant to raise their leg allowing the mahout to scale up the side of the animal to it’s neck. For us “baby” mahouts its more like a nervous clawing up the side of a building. Really, pull yourself up by it’s ear? Am I going to hurt it? After some serious giggle fits as the local have to heave us up by our bottoms, we are atop our new buddies. Mine is a 37-year-old girl (all the elephants at this village are female) named Mae Kham. We form a single file line and make our way down to the river (I wish it were true but the elephants don’t hold onto each others’ tail as they walk. I guess I watched too much Jungle Book as a kid). But I was really feeling Mogli-like, wobbling and lurching while straddling Khamilla’s giant neck. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned about falling off; the riders are about 10 feet from the ground and after watching the elephants splinter through sugar cane trunks the thickness of my torso with those feet… well I don’t want to think about it. But I couldn’t help it! And endless stream of nervous laughter rises over and over again from the group as the procession makes sure to itch their pillowed bellies up against the walls of dirt and rock that line the bank of the river. And just like that we’re in the river, scrub brush in hand, bathing our very own personal elephant. Some sharp commands from the mahouts and our elephants dip forward into the water. My dad is up to his waist in the mossy water, his elephant’s trunk and butt stick up into the air. Another one is slapping its trunk over and over again on the rivers surface. Something bounces off my submerged knee. Oh sweet, it’s a giant floating elephant shit. We wash the heads and sides of our girls with industrial grade grout scrubs, although through the coarseness of hairs and tough flesh it’s hard to believe they felt anything. They don’t call it elephant skin for nothing!

The town of Luang Prabang is a peaceful little place. There’s very little traffic and honking. People probably wonder why we cross the street like we’re from Vietnam. The novelty of watching monks in everyday life never wears off. They walk under the shade of their umbrellas and are eager to flash a friendly smile your way. It shows what little I actually think I know about Buddhism: Monks have iPods? Hey, there’s some smoking cigarrettes! That’s not to say that the life of monkhood is a piece of cake. The monks spend most of their day in prayer and study at the monasteries, or wats, and are discouraged to touch women, even their own mothers. Every day they wake up at 3am for more prayer and then head to the streets at sunrise, where the locals (and now the growing tourist population) offer rice and other foods for alms. It’s quite a humbling experience. The procession begins at 6:30am as hundreds of orange-robed monks light up the white pavement in the early morning light, Although they take your offering in silence you know they are grateful.

The actual town of Siem Reap, Cambodia doesn’t do much for me, and I’m not sure if there would even be much there if it were for its proximity to the Angkor complex. As uninteresting as the city is (there’s actually a street called “Pub St.”, which may as well be in Cancun), the world heritage site is pretty much beyond words. We spend a total of 3 long days in the heart of the ancient Khmer empire. Sandstone is the median here, and through the artistic genius of pre-industrial sculptors and the brute strength of elephants, a small city became a architectural phenomena over the course of 600 years. Angkor Wat, the most famous temple in the area, is said to be the larges religious complex on Earth. It’s probably true, the place is huge. One inner wall may span a half of a kilometer and be completely covered in carvings depicting battles, kings, demons, and other Hindi mythologies (for extra credit check out the story of the “Churning of the Sea of Milk“). Asapara dancers are another common motif, something like 1,800 figures in just Angkor Wat, and our tour guide, Tara, seemed to take great interest in their slim and shapely topless bodies.

Another temple, Ta Prohm, is smaller than Angkor Wat and is known for it’s unique fusion to the jungle in which it sits. As birds would fed on fruits from neighboring trees, seeds would drop onto the roofs of the temple and germinate. Fastforward a few hundred years and the roots of the trees (called spung trees) have busted downward through the brickwork and shot hundreds of feet into the air. Roots creep out through the stone work and wind back into the cracks like some angry octopus. Upon arrival to this temple we learned that the first Tomb Raider movie was filmed here, which probably significantly contributes to the hordes of eager tourists: “Blah blah blah (insert language of your choice), Angelina Jolie!, blah blah blah…” and you get the point. A great counterpoint to Ta Prohm, Banteay Srei, is known for it’s amazing state of preservation and it’s absolutely fabulous sandstone carvings. Some of the bas-reliefs (I became an art history major in the course of 3 days!) looked to be up to 8 inches deep. I just can’t believe something like this could ever have been done without machines. Then again, how does laundry get done without drying machines? Ah, the beautiful mysteries of the ages!

Still I think the favorite might be Bayon. Maybe it was the fact that we got there at sunrise and had most of temple to ourselves. The structure has a steep pyramidal shape and comprised of many smaller towers all symmetrically positioned, and each tower has 4 huge stone faces watching out in every direction. As the sun spills down over the hundreds of giant faces my skin begins to prickle, as it is now thinking back to the experience, and I’m just floored by it’s magnificence. Everywhere I turn there’s 6 or so of these peaceful, yet proud, faces watching over me. I felt blessed on the spot.

And as soon as my parents arrived in Hanoi, they are off again, and the team goes their separate ways. But oh the memories that will live on! Together we have mastered the art of crossing the street, squatting on kindergarten stools while eating mysterious foods, butchering Vietnamese, and almost not going absolutely insane when we see a motorbike speeding by with three infants hanging off of it (that’s a tough on to get over). We survived crazy taxi drivers, bouts of food poisoning, motorbike spills (yes, me). We learned that the most special of experiences can happen just outside your front door with a fruit vendor or a haberdasher. They gave me the gift of permission to seek outwards and onwards and I must say that I would not be in Vietnam if it weren’t for them. Mom and Dad: Chuc suc khoe! And may there be many, many more. You’ve touched many more hearts here than just mine. Thank you for doing this with me, for listening, for speaking, for wisdom, and especially for reminding me that I really am young. You have been amazing.


-This is totally us!

I picked my parents up from the airport and within 12 hours my mom is bleeding from the head on the side of the street. OK, so it's a hyperbolic welcome to Ha Noi, but it happens to the best of us... (Mine happened to be the 'Ha Noi Kiss' which is the giant scorch you get from brushing your calf against a hot motorbike muffler). No worries though, within fifteen minutes were back on track (nobody panic, it was just a flesh wound and slight bruise). So the Behr/Alpert gang hits the streets in typical fashion. My mom still taking her shopping very seriously, my dad always looking for a snickers bar, and I am always complaining about how hungry I am (as a chef I have to constantly be tasting, ya know?). But Ha Noi is only our base, sorta our "changing room" for the rock stars that we are. We've been hitting the road quite hard, via train, boat, plane, car. Even motorbike! Here's a taste of 4 course chef's special...

HA LONG
We hit the famous world heritage site within the first few days of my parents arrival. It's a 3 hour bus ride to the China Sea from Ha Noi and it's my first real view of the countryside. Well, the stereotypes are true: rice paddies, water buffalo, conical hats. A lot of it. As the geological phenomena looms in the distance the bus passengers become restless. Upon arrival we wade through a sea of tourists wearing sombreros, carrying guitars, ready for a real Luau. Other's wear the name tags of their tour group, dragging along huge pieces of luggage filled with who knows what (medication and life jackets?). I tense as I imagine what the next few days could be like stuck on a boat with both frat boys and 70 year-old French tour goups.
We finally meet the captain of our boat who takes us to our anchored vessel which will be our home for the next 3 days. We meet the crew, I think seven in total, and sit down to enjoy a pre-voyage drink. The giant motor whirs to life, nobody else gets on the boat... We have an entire 20 meter long boat (that included the giant dragon head on our bow) all to ourselves! Unbelievable!

Life is simple when you are living on a boat, and the only important things we happen to have plentiful: scenery, books, weather, and a backgammon board. The landscape (or seascape?) is beyond words. Limestone karsts ranging from just a few meters wide to full fledged islands dot the 1000 sq mile bay. Although this is pretty much the only scenery it never gets old. The jade colored water it totally swim worthy, even for December, and I take every advantage of this. One night we managed to sneak into the kitchen where the staff was enjoying a fresh meal of lemongrass steamed seas snails (plucked from the rocks only hours before). They were shocked that we wanted to participate and happily opened their circle to us. We squat down on our haunches and attempt to excavate the little morsels of meat ourselves. Eventually it just turned into the crew talking turns scooping out the meat themselves and handing it to us on a toothpick to be dipped in a mixture of salt, chili, and kumquat juice. We must’ve eaten 50 of those guys apiece! A day or so latter we anchor and take the small dingy attached to the back of our boat out to a floating village to buy fresh fish for dinner that night. Another time we spot monkeys on the cliffs, and while it was unfortunate that they only came towards us expecting their daily treat of human-fed white bread, it was still a beautiful sight.

SA PA
The next stop is Sa Pa, located in the Northwestern corner of the country, maybe 50kms from the border of China. We get there by an overnight train (the ONLY way to travel) and arrive at the Lao Cai station just as the dawn breaks where a car is waiting to take us the rest of the way to Sa Pa. The rising sun doesn’t reveal much more than the night since the visibility is maybe 15 meters as we begin the hour long accent into the misty hills. I want to say that I was excited to get some cooler weather after being in the Ha Noi sauna for so long (although I can’t really complain, not yet having experienced the summer time…). But this was cold! Three-layers-and-a-scarf-and-a-beanie cold. Leaving Colorado I wouldn’t have expected this for some time, but I was wrong!
The town of Sa Pa was engulfed in grey clouds, but it still seemed quite active. We visit open air markets selling everything from dog meat to unidentifiable greens and fruits to tobacco pipes and live water buffalo (about 1,000 bucks apiece, or the price of your daughter). We stop at roadside barbeques, the smells of fresh roasted corn, sweet potatoes, chestnuts waft through the fog. Skewered meats drip and sizzle over tiny disposable charcoal stoves. Definitely a great spread of soul warming cuisine. And speaking of warming, our tour guide, Hoang, doesn’t miss a moment to bust out his personal homebrew of plum infused rice wine. The guy literally stores it in a Johnny Walker whiskey bottle and carries it around with him in his jacket pocket. By noon we’ll be 5 shots in (‘OK, time for happy water’, Hoang will say… three times a day).
Although the markets are always a highlight the real treat was seeing the daily life of the minority hill people in the region. Flower Hmong, Black Hmong, and Red Dao are the three indigenous groups in this area. We get a chance to take several treks through their villages and sometimes have the honor of being invited into their houses. It has a very Disneyland feel to it for me… except it’s all real… like walking through a museum that happens to be someone’s home. Mud houses, dirt floors, the works. These people couldn’t be much friendlier, eager to pose for our cameras and show us the process of weaving and dying their colorful traditional garments. They ain’t called Flower Hmong for no reason! Indigo, baby blue, neon pinks and greens are all hand made into clothes, purses, blankets. They are then brought to the giant markets to be sold buy the women, while some garments are kept back home for family use. While the women play gentle hostess and mother in the village, they really turn into quite savage salespeople in the markets. “You buy from me!”, “Very cheap Madame!” “Hey Peter, look at my shop!” (They call every male who’s Western “Peter”). It takes some serious patience to navigate through these markets. My dad had this habit of buying only the used products off the sales women, who looked utterly confused as they handed over their personal tattered purses for the same price of a new one. Hoang is very patient with all of us taking pictures and bargaining for ages over mere pennies… just as long as we get to a place with some plastic seats and a few shot glasses.

HUE
Next we board a plane and head to Central Vietnam. Hue is city with a ton of Vietnamese culture: ancient stone citadels, elaborate mausoleums, and jungly Buddhist temples. Sometimes it was hard to turn a corner and not see ceramic encrusted dragon. Ancestral alters are present in front of every house, offers of fruits, paper money, and shots of moonshine can be seen glowing under candlelight and incense smoke. The first night there we wander into Lac Thanh Restaurant where a deaf-mute man has been serving traditional Central Vietnamese cuisine for years. Mr. Lac, as we call him, could not be a more animated and friendly guy. He brings us a round of beers to show off one of his signature creations: A bottle opener made out of a piece of wood with a bolt and screw, which when set up properly can open three brews with one swift swipe of the hand. We gorge on fried rice pancakes, speckled with bits of shrimp and bean sprouts then hand wrapped in rice paper with green figs and herbs to be finished in a spicy peanut dipping sauce (Banh khoai). There’s grilled mackerel steaks laden with stewed tomatoes, onions and fresh cracked peppercorn (Ca nuong) and the always favorite fresh spring roll (Pho cuon).
The charisma flowing from Mr. Lac is just too much to handle and we are “forced” to plan a tour of the countryside with him the next day. Here’s the kicker: it’s via motorbike. I consider it more of a miracle that we got Mom on as a passenger than having Dad actually be an operator. We awake the next morning to gloom and sporadic rain but we “hog it” nonetheless; Dad and I on our own bikes and my Mom doing her best not to constrict our young guide on another. We take to the countryside, making stops along the Perfume River at army bunkers (we’re not far from the DMZ), up slippery slopes to huge marble Buddha’s erected on hilltops, out across muddy rice paddies where I slip and skid off the “road” twice, and, of course, a stop for coffee. Oh and our guide is named Muoi, which means ten in Vietnamese because he is the tenth to be born in his family. Awesome.

HOI AN
We take a car from Hue over a mountain pass and into the coastal town of Hoi An, where we will spend the remainder of 2009 doing what we do best: Shopping, eating, and walking (and more eating for me, I need 4 meals a day to keep up my figure). Hoi An is a beautiful town which unfortunately is too small for all the tourists it attracts, at least during the time when it’s not at 90% humidity and not flooded by seasonal typhoons. It’s known for it’s colorful lanterns which line the cafes and restaurants dotted along the banks of the river that splits the city into two parts. Seamstresses are to be found everywhere and I took the opportunity to get a few things custom tailored for me at an extremely reasonable price. The food there is quite different than Ha Noi, a bit spicier too which was nice. Cao lao is the traditional noodle of the region, thicker with more texture than the common rice noodle, served with crunchy wonton chips, fresh herbs, and traditionally braised pork, all dressed in a soy-lime style sauce. We spend our days ambling through the streets, catching the shade whenever we can, either over a steamed fish wrapped in a banana leaf, a Campari and soda, or under a covered bridge. New Years Eve is spent over a bottle of wine, cheers-ing many of YOU, talking about life and other minor nonsensicalness.


All in all these have been a fabulous few weeks; check out my newly posted photos! Oh and here's my address in Ha Noi:

Jake Alpert
so 6, ngo 109
Duong Xuan Dieu
Q. Tay Ho - Ha Noi
Vietnam

That should work although I have yet to receive anything besides hand delivered utility bills. So send me some tester postcards! Packages are also great! Please, be rational in your choice of contents, this IS Communism. I'm sure jars of pickles and fly flishing magazines will be just fine though!

LOVE-j