In my lifetime, we’ve gone to war, and won or lost, in a disturbingly recurring pattern: The politicians, responding to world events feel the pressure from former military and patriotic citizens, to do something. A “limited” war seems like a good idea. The military has never seen a war it didn’t like, at least in the beginning; everybody moves up a couple of ranks and the retirement piggy bank grows. The generals always promise a nice clean and short victory. Of course they know better, but are very optimistic. War, no matter how valid, moral, worthwhile, is never as clean and nice as it seems when plotted on maps, satellite images, and stoked by videos from fighter jets and tank turrets.

Citizen Impatience, Politics and Generals at Cross Purposes

The limited war drags on for years, as the enemy adapts to predictable strategies. The cost in both American lives and the economy becomes burdensome to the public and they turn against the war. The politicians, quietly, order the military to scale back the war. Reducing the casualties and saving money are now the main goal, not winning the war. This is about the time the generals figure out that it is not about territory taken or body count, but winning the hearts of the civilians caught in the middle of the war. This is a war that can be won. Of course it’s too late, the play winds painfully down, and the curtain closes on yet another unfortunate outcome for the most powerful military, most powerful country in the world.

Southeast Asian War By Tandem Bicycle

Because of our most recent travels in Asia on our tandem bicycle, I have developed a new interest in the Vietnam War, really the Indochina War of my youth. My draft board called me in 1964. I presented myself, got on a bus and taken for a physical and mental evaluation. I was just out of hospital for a bleeding ulcer. They didn’t know how to cure ulcers in those days, and they knew military food would kill me: 4F. I have always had some survivor’s guilt, partly because I have seen the toll that particular war took on many of the surviving draftees. The vets I have shared this feeling with have said I didn’t miss anything, and to let it go. I think I have. Maybe traveling there, seeing the land and the people involved has had something to do with my coming to terms with those feelings. My appreciation for anyone who fought there is deep. It was one helluva place to have to fight a war.

As Claire and I pedaled, and pushed, our tandem on one of the many branches of the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos, lost in the jungle with the unexploded ordnance from our massive bombing of the trail. We pushed through mud in roads cut deep by thousands of trucks bringing supplies from North Vietnam to the various fronts in South Vietnam and Cambodia. Huge bomb craters are now softened by new growth jungle, but still there, mute reminders to anyone crazy enough to go there.

Fellow traveler on a branch of the Hoh Chi MinhTrail,

Ho Chi Minh Trail, Bombies and B-52s

Wondering if you might step on a 40-year-old anti-personal bombie, still live, tends to sharpen the senses of even the most exhausted sojourner. The jungle trembled with light and dark, produced unseen, unknowable, sounds, imaginings of one of the large cats that survive still. Mostly it was a quiet jungle, far different from how it must have been during the round-the-clock bombing sorties of that time. I wondered at the men who had driven the trucks down this awful track and died there. And I wondered about the men in the B-52s overhead, wondering about the men they were killing below. We dropped as much munitions on little Laos, as in all of WWII. What most Americans don’t know is how many unexploded bombies lie still in the jungle, waiting for a rice farmer’s daughter to turn it accidentally with her foot… They severely limit the use Laotians can get from the land that lay along the Ho Chi Minh trail. At least it’s good for the wildlife.

A Better War? A Belated Look at Vietnam

I recently ran across a book that examines the final years of that war: “A Better War, The Unexamined Victories and Final Tragedy of America’s Last Years in Vietnam“, by Lewis Sorley. It gives a reasoned, analytical, if at times biased, view of the final years when General Creighton Abrams had command.

After we finally found our way out of the jungle to the main road between populated Laos and Vietnam, we spent our final night in Laos in the town of Tchepone. I wish I had known what strategic importance that it had held, how the overgrown Ho Chi Minh Trail we had traversed, had been the center of the most intensive anti-personnel bombing of the war, and the largest incursion by the South Vietnamese Army, with support of American air power. The only reminder of the war are fence posts made from bombs that didn’t explode, or supplemental fuel tanks dropped for the return to base. We did have a bit of trouble finding food, but our first bed in some days made up for that. As with all Laotians, the people were friendly.

Bombs near Tchepone, Laos

Coming To Khe Sanh

We had some concerns about the border crossing into Vietnam. Claire’s passport lists her place of birth as Saigon, Vietnam. Her father was in the foreign service: security. Her birthplace drew a shocked look from one border guard, and a knowing acknowledgement by a second, no doubt noting the year, 1964, the early stages of America’s ramping up of  involvement. Claire and I could have been there at the same time, she as a baby, me as a grunt or maybe a combat photographer if I’d been lucky.

Boat made from jet fuel tanks in the highlands of Vietnam; nice to see our tax dollars still at work.

Generals Abrams and Petraeus

As we pedaled into Vietnam on the infamous Route 9 toward Khe Sanh, the lush undergrowth and steep mountains of the highlands held a beauty that belied the violence it had seen. The jungle heals the wounds of war quickly. I still can’t imagine how we could have conceived that a war in such a place would not drag us in and strangle us. That we did as well as we did is a tribute to the grunts who did their best in impossible conditions. Abrams deserves credit for finally understanding how such a war might be won, or at least brought into stasis as in Korea. Unfortunately our military seems to find a way to hold the good guys in reserve until it’s too late. I see an amazing parallel between Gen. Abrams and Gen. David Petraeus’ view of their own wars.

I’ll make those parallels in a later post. Stay Tuned.

Tibetan Pony

For some reason, in the past week, I have been repeatedly flashing back to this village high in Tibetan Sichuan. I just read a post by a Facebook friend; to paraphrase: “If you want to know where your heart is, look at where your mind goes when it wanders.”

It was the beginning of another physically challenging day, frosty, clear, with wood smoke on the air. But that wasn’t it. The roadhouse we stayed in the night before had a mix of police and interesting locals drinking lots of beer and eating many fascinating dishes. The architecture was beautiful. The temple just before the village seemed to hang, glowing white in the thin air, from a cliff. We almost got lost, nothing new. No. It was something else.

Perhaps it was that we’d been on the road from Chengdu for maybe three weeks,  just Claire and me and Zippy, and of course our little panda, Lucky. This had become our life, pedaling circles all day, spooling out beautiful mountains, exotic people, breathing in the scents of a foreign, but somehow completely welcoming place.

I recently did a monologue about the concept of time, Einstein’s theory, speed of light, that sort of thing, but also how we are all time travelers, every day, traveling into the future. Something about traveling on a bicycle, carrying all you need to live, not knowing exactly where you are going, not knowing where you will sleep, what you will eat, how big the mountain will be, how cold/hot the air, how tired your legs… I of course am failing miserably in this short post to convey the power to infuse me with wonder these journeys gift us. That’s okay. I’ll try again soon.

For now, I just want you to know, that several times a day, I am transported around Earth to a place that infused me with joy, blanketed me with glory, and contributed to a deeply appreciative life. I am so happy, so thankful.

Silly me. The world is falling apart around us, and I am transported, not to escape, but to reaffirm how special a place in the Universe we in habit, and what special properties our bodies and our minds have to allow full appreciation of our brief time here. Into the future we must go, but we can do it with joy and thanksgiving, and the miracle of a multi-dimensional memory.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

First Class Care

Bob:
Yesterday we took a little detour on our way into Lijaing – to the hospital. We crashed. A combination of a long day, with 1200 more meters of climbing, a patch of water laid down by the cooling water of a truck’s brakes, a little bit of clay, and down we went at about 30kph.

Claire was not responding at first and I got her out of traffic carefully, in case any bones were broken (none). I can’t explain how I felt seeing her, barely moving, having trouble hearing me, or answering to her name.  She finally came around, and I got her sitting upright and talking coherently. I checked her eyes for dilation or wandering, and she could focus and had no double vision (we’ve been through this before).

A motorcyclist helped direct traffic as I dragged Zippy to the edge. I started to search for the first aid kit, and by then Claire was thinking clearly enough to tell me where to find it. Before I could start cleaning her abrasions, a van full of police arrived. My first thought was that we were in even more trouble than the crash aftermath, but they were great. “We take you to hospital,” said with authority, had an amazingly calming effect. They commandeered a small pickup, and loaded Zippy in. We wondered if we’d ever see him again, until we saw one of the policemen get into the truck.

Claire:
It’s really frustrating having to admit you need help, but when the police came and said “hospital” I knew we probably should go, even though it meant transporting Zippy some other way, struggling to communicate with doctors or nurses, arriving in an unfamiliar town not under your own power, and worst of all, losing your bearings.

Since I’d lost a minute or two, I had a lot of questions for Bob and it took me a while to come out of the fog that makes you think you’re having a bad dream. I remember knowing we were going down, but that’s all.

At the hospital, we had our scrapes swabbed. They thought my nose might be broken, but I think my glasses just gouged it. I took the hit evenly between shoulder and hip. Bob got it pretty bad on the knee, but it hasn’t swollen. Bob noticed the doctor watching me for signs of brain trauma, and from previous experience, he knew to wake me in the middle of the night to make sure I knew who and where I was. We’re both a little stiff and sore today, so we’ll take an extra day in our three star hotel. (Total hospital bill: $6)

We’ll post our days in the back country soon. Beautiful…

Wisn this sign had been before that curve!

Not that day anyway…

September 24, Litang, Sichuan, China

Claire:
Neither of us slept very well through night with our Tibetan hostesses. We were grateful for a warm, dry place but I fretted about the rain, relieved to hear it stop, only to find it had turned to snow.  The snow stopped long enough for us to get started and we knew we had another 15,000 foot pass to get over, but it was hard to tell our elevation (we don’t have an altimeter on either bike computer).

With the sky socked in and lots more climbing, we were convinced we’d reached the pass even though neither the Tibetans acknowledged it with prayer flags nor the Chinese marked it with a sign. To us it was a pass, so we took photos, made a video and descended. The snow turned wet and the road muddy and we discovered we had more climbing. This time the pass was marked, with flags in one spot and with an official sign a half kilometer away.

For cyclists who know the great 30 to 50 mph descents we have in the western U.S., these are nothing like those. The asphalt is not up to the weight of the heavy trucks and the road is full of ruts and moguls so we have to keep our speed down to 20 kilometers per hour. At one point we were bouncing so much our sleeping bag and Thermarests bounced off into the muck (they were in plastic bags). We reached the end of one long downhill and could see a long climb ahead. My knees were stiff and Bob’s neck and shoulders were worn out from controlling Zippy. Neither one of us wanted to face that climb.

Yesterday, we’d passed what looked like a roadhouse with a big Chinese flag and here at the base of the climb was another one. I walked into what I thought was a restaurant and asked about a room. Yes, they had one, it was a storeroom with two cots: $6. There was no heat, water or electricity, and the short-drop was outside. Zippy’s secure parking spot was the meat locker that was the entryway to our room. Through gestures, the proprietor made it very clear we were to keep the meat locker door closed at all times, I guess to keep the cats and any loose dogs out.

We tried to regain some heat by curling up in bed for a while, then ventured out for dinner. That’s when we finally figured out all the people coming in were road workers; we were staying at a road maintenance camp. We ate what everyone else ate, a big comforting bowl of noodles and sat around the kitchen stove to warm up. I don’t know that it was really so cold, but we were still so chilled that we went to bed huddled together with Lucky in one twin cot with four fluffy comforters on top of us. We slept well in the very cold room; there’s a reason they store the meat there.

Zippy in the meat locker

Bob:
When we awoke it was still raining, spattering the mud puddles of the courtyard with discouraging  regularity. We couldn’t imagine another day of near hypothermia, and more hills and bad roads. But, we didn’t want to stay another day with the road workers, nice as they were, so we packed up our filthy gear and steeled ourselves for the day. By the time we were ready to go, the rain had stopped, and there was even a hint of blue over the first hill. The road workers were spot on with their description of the road ahead, a first on this trip. They told us exactly how many kilometers and how many hills. After a round of photos, we are an oddity wherever we go, particularly in these remote places, and we rolled off to face the first hill.

The three hills were more like small passes than hills, taking from 45 min. to 1.5 hours. The weather went back and forth from threatening to clear, but we stayed dry.

We’ll let the photos tell the rest of the story of our day into the Tibetan city of Litang, on the road to Shangri-la.

On the road to Litang

Tibetan Get Together

Sun on the Tibetan Plateau

Constant Companions

Tibetan Yak Camp

More to come