Travel Narratives
November 25th, 2009
 Tibetan Thanksgiving This family took us in, hungry, tired, near hypothermia at nearly 15,000 feet elevation in Tibetan Sichuan, China. We are still thankful.
Thanksgiving is more than a holiday for us. Thanksgiving is a way of life. It is a value we carry with us each day. For that we can thank Claire’s mother Delee. Her life was cut short; we were with her, and it changed the direction of our lives, changed us to the core, forever.
This Thanksgiving finds us well into another adventure, which is not so unusual, but this Thanksgiving is special. We are in Saigon, the city where Delee gave birth to Claire 45 years ago. In the early stages of the conflict that would become known here as The American War; in fearful circumstances, she gave birth to the woman I love, the woman who had made my life wonderful for more than 20 years. I am thankful.
In Asia one is constantly reminded of just how easy we Americans (Australians, Europeans…) have it, what good fortune is ours. Of the five thousand miles we have ridden our tandem in Asia, much of it has been where the lives of the people are a struggle. Most do not separate work and life, they work except when sleeping, and often sleep where they work.
So, as you gather around the turkey and dressing this day, remember the people who have less, and be thankful for where you were born. Send them good wishes, prayers, and a part of yourself, for just a moment this special day. Enjoy, as they would, be thankful this day; and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, be thankful.
November 1st, 2009
This is an experience from China. We decided to hold it for awhile.
We often come across people who want to share their troubles, their very personal stories with us. Perhaps it is because we will pedal out of their lives, and carry part of their burden with us. They are right. This is the first time a person has been so bent to telling us his story, that he ignored or forgot that we could not understand a word he said.
One evening, after a hard day in the saddle, we made our way to the fandian at our small Chinese guest house. A man sat at a short table, on a tiny stool. He was bent and nodding. When he saw us he began to insist that we join him in a drink. He had a bottle of clear liquor on the table, and a full meal, untouched. We politely refused and ordered, but he continued his invitation. The waitress tipped an imaginary bottle behind his back to indicate that he was drunk and to ignore him.
He began a speech of sorts. It included numerous Meiguos, accompanied by thumbs up, meaning he liked America. We politely listened for awhile and said several times, “Wo ting bu dong,” which means “I don’t understand.” This did not deter him and he went on with what increasingly became clear to us, a tale of personal woe.
He was small, middle aged and Han, dressed in his Saturday night black and red athletic shoes, patterned jeans, and what looked like an army jacket, sans patches; perhaps he had been a soldier. As he got deeper into his cups, his emotions found expression in his face and hands. He touched his eyebrow, rubbed his hand from forehead to chin, shook his head. Once he traced a tear coming from his eye with an index finger, and even used it to show him slitting his own throat.
The three employees tried various ways to get him to leave us alone, and laughed quietly when it became obvious that we were trying very hard to understand him and failing.
There was something about the intensity of his emotion that held us. The expression of his being flowed unabated, as he desperately tried to get two lao wai to understand his pain. He needed us to listen. Even if we all knew we could not understand him, he had to tell his story. We had to listen.
Finally he sank lower on his stool as the alcohol began to take control, and we rose to leave. But we had to do one more thing – touch him. We both patted him on the back and told him it would be alright, things would be better. It may have been the first time he had been touched in a long time. It was all we could do. It was the right thing to do. We will remember it for a long time.
October 29th, 2009
 His Shangri-la His Shangri-la is Lao
We stopped in the middle of a four hour mountain climb south of Luang Prabang, for a cold drink and some shade. A man came out of the house next door, and I glanced his way. Nah. He looked farang (Western) but it couldn’t be, this far out of the city, in a tiny village. Something about the way he moved about the house, helped a small boy with his shoes, said he belonged here, lived here.
I saw the beard, the nose, yup, farang. He turned to us and said, “Hello.” We spoke, he in a vaguely European accent with excellent English. He said he was German, and had traveled by bicycle, for five years, around the world. We shared touring stories, favorite places, bicycles. He said we could never make the climb by the end of the day, and the worse one waiting after that. We hoped he was wrong.
I wanted to know how he ended up in Laos, and how long he had been there. I waited. It would come.
He began his story: He got food poisoning in Laos. After five years of bicycle touring around the world, he was stuck in Luang Prabang. Then he met her, and his life changed forever. They married, have two children, and he has been in Laos for seven years. He manages a pig farm for his father-in-law, and the family spends half the week in Luang Prabang, where their children can get an adequate education, and half on the farm.
I asked him if he would ever go back to Germany, take his family. He smiled, “Never.” He is Lao now, family man, farmer, happy, healthy. He found what many would call his Shangri-la. His is real. A beautiful wife, comfortable home, two much loved children. So, for some seekers, Shangri-la becomes more than fantasy, an ideal, but a day to day life, real.
He traveled alone those five years on his bicycle; we know just how many pedal strokes that is. He was searching for something, Shangri-la maybe. He entered Laos from Yunnan China, mythical location of mythical Shangri-la, as we did. He hadn’t found it there, lovely as it is. Food poisoning brought it to him, it brought him love and purpose.
Where he lives is beautiful, very, very beautiful. The people are poor, but they laugh at, and with, we crazy farangs pedaling through their lives. They bathe by the roadside at a cold water stand pipe, and instead of complaining, laugh. They expect little, and appreciate much. Perhaps our German friend, now Lao, saw that, and the light of his love’s eyes, and knew he was home, in Shangri-la.
We didn’t get his name, but he has this site and we hope he will e-mail us. We will publish his name and correct any miss-perceptions. We’d also like him to know we made it to Kiukacham, just before dark. It was our hardest day in Laos.
 Christmas? Now in a Lao Shangri-la
October 29th, 2009
 Lucky and Eeyore on The Plain of Jars We took a bus trip to see some stuff. It was a lot bumpier than Zippy. People were throwing up into little bags. We got there in the dark. There was a rat in our room. It ran across the bed. The next morning we went into the country with some nice people we met at the sleeping place.
There were all these big things made out of rock. In Laos they call the place the Plain of Jars. I got to look at the jars and saw myself in the water. Lorenz and Alex from Germany laughed. The other two nice people from England were Will and Jo. They introduced me to Eeyore. He is in a famous book called Winnie the Pooh, who is a bear. Eeyore is not a bear. He is a donkey. He is the nice people’s traveling companion. Just like me! We had a visit about our travels. He has his own web page. http://travellingeeyore.wordpress.com/ He doesn’t have to share one with his people, like I do.
Then we took the same bus back to Zippy. It was another bouncy, twirly ride in the mountains. It’s a good thing I don’t get bus sick.
The next day Claire got sick. She ate a sandwich with lettuce. Bob threw his lettuce away. She had to go to the bushes. We stopped before the sun was overhead. She was very sick. I was worried. She was worse than the people on the bus. We didn’t know what to do: As Eeyore would say, “Oh well, nothing to be done.”
But, I comforted her. Bob went out to get her sodas, which she couldn’t drink. Bob drank BeerLao to cheer himself up. We both tried to get her to drink, but it didn’t work very well. She went to sleep. This morning she could sip a little. We rode until after noon. We had two stops for cold sodas, and only one for the bushes. Bob kept yelling, “Stop pedaling!” I never heard him say that before. He always says, “Pedal harder!”
The exercise was good because she is better now. She drinks. She is happy to have to pee. We are all happy now. I think we are going to dinner.
 Lucky and His Mirror
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