One day while walking through a Wat in Vientiane, Laos, I encountered a few novice monks. A wat is a Buddhist temple. This particular Wat is quite famous in the area. It is the home of the Great Patriarch of Lao Buddhism and it appears on the seal of the country of Laos. A novice monk is a young man who enters a monastery between the ages of 9 to 11 usually. They study  Buddhism, as well as, other topics including English. If they behave correctly and are not expelled from the monastery they become monks between the ages of 19 and 21. To live and study in this particular wat, is a great honor.

One of the novices, whose name is Vikorn, after the usual questions of "Where are you from?, How do you like Lao?, How long will you be in Lao?, asked me if I could explain some American slang that he had heard often in American movies. I told him that I would try. He asked me the meaning of the word, "fonk". My worst fear had been realized. How the "fonk" do you explain the word "fonk" to a soon to be monk and his friends. I delayed by asking of some examples of how the word was used in the movies. He could not provide any context. I made some suggestions, for example, "fonk you", What the "fonk"?, I even tried "motherfonk". Of course, he answered in the. affirmative to all. 

I explained to Vikorn and his monk buddies that "fonk" was an impolite word for the sex act and that it should not be used in public if at all by novices. My response resulted in some very embarrassed giggling by the young men who covered the faces to hide their embarrassment. It is good to know that people from all parts of the world and all walks of life watch our movies and learn important things about our culture.

One night in Bangkok, my friend Mike and I were walking back to our hotel after dinner. We were taking in all the sights and sounds of the street where so many people live and work after dark because of the midday heat. Most streets and sidewalks are circuses until well after midnight.

On the sidewalk in front of us there was some bottleneck for pedestrians. This is not at all unusual. On the sidewalks, there a multiple businesses, restaurants, clothing stores, bookstores, barbershops, dentists, and a great variety of . The show is endless but walking, while always entertaining, can be a challenge. We worked our way up to the impediment in our way, but not paying much attention. When I was about 5 feet away, I noticed that the sidewalk was blocked by an elephant, something you don't see everyday in Colorado. I mentioned to Mike that there was an elephant in our path. He asked where. I pointed to the elephant. He still could not see it. When he was only a few feet from walking into the elephant, he realized what was in front of him. It takes a special kind of detachment to not notice an elephant close enough to touch. While he is a great travel companion, I don't think I will go on a safari with him.

-In Laos and Cambodia, there are a number of restaurants that serve "happy" pizza. If such a product were to be introduced to the U. S. market, pizza sales would hit new highs.

-In Thailand, they have a mode of public conveyance called "tuk-tuks". The are like a small pickup or rickshaw pulled by a motorcycle. Ever tuk-tuk ride is a great adventure. In Bangkok traffic, you risk your life in them. If the other vehicles don't kill you the exhaust from the infamous traffic will. I was once in the back of a tuk-tuk in a terrible traffic jam, gagging on fumes from a bus next to us when I noticed that the driver and a sign hanging from the roof that said, "Thank you for not smoking".

If you survive a tuk-tuk ride, you can be guaranteed to never be taken where you want to go. You will always be taken where they are paid for delivering you. So, you will see silk stores, jewelry stores, massage parlors, and tailors, when you wanted to go see the Happy Buddha or go to the train station.

-In Thailand, there are many transsexuals and transvestites. They are commonly called ladyboys and are readily accepted by Thais. They are just one of the girls. Some of the most attractive females you see in public are not, which can be disconcerting for those of us from cultures where ladyboys are very uncommon.

My friend, Mike, and I have game we play that is a takeoff on the books for children called, "Where's Waldo?". We call it, "Where's ladyboy"? We have developed the following criteria:

If the woman is taller than 5 feet, 2 inches, she may be a ladyboy;
If the woman has "man hands"(or feet), she may be a ladyboy;
If the woman wears too much makeup, she may be a ladyboy;
If a woman has a pronounced "adams apple", she may be a ladyboy;
If the woman, speaks in a baritone, she may be a ladyboy.

My apologies to any of you that may be transvestites.

A furgon is a mini bus that is the most common form of transportation in Albania. They are not very accessible to tourists because they have no fixed schedule or station. They leave when they are full and the locals know where to find them. But they are very cheap and the fastest way to get from one town to the other, once they get started.

Chicken soup is the code name that Linda Jo and I have for some one for whom the efficacy of their last shower and/or deodorant has expired.

To make my escape from Tirana and Albania, I had intended to take a train to Shkodra. From there, the info was sketchy. I could take a bus or furgon to the border at Han i Hoti and then, if lucky, once in Montengro catch a bus through the mountains to the coast, but no schedules of course. The taxi driver who was taking me to the train in a conversation that was mostly in sign language, pigeon English, Albanian with a pinch of Italian told me the trains were terrible. Rather than the posted 3 hours, it would take 4 or 5. A furgon would have me there in 1 1/2 hours. Since, the furgon would give me more time to plan my next move in Shkodra, it seemed clearly the way to go.

My furgon had 13 people on it. Remember, this is a mini-bus/van. Of the 12 passengers on the furgon, only one was not a gypsy. For those of you wondering, I am not a gypsy. As soon as I was crammed into the side bench seat with no back, the chattering among the gypsies got louder as they furtively and sometimes not so furtively eyed me. I assumed they were dividing up my worldly goods. In the conversations, as they checked me out, I would hear the words: Inglander, Finn, Deutsch, etc. They were trying to determine were I was from. Eventually, the matriarch of the gypsies pokes me and says something that I assumed was an inquiry regarding my country of origin. When I said, "American", the chatter rose to a fever pitch. My guess was they were calculating the size of the ransom I would command. My attempt to diffuse the situation with a little humor, by telling her that I assumed she was from Sweden, failed.

As we traveled along, the odor of chicken soup in the furgon was overwhelming. It was mitigated only by the constant cigarette smoke. Each time, I opened a window, even a crack, a gypsy would poke me and point to the one baby on the bus. Apparently, it was Ok for the baby to be marinated in chicken soup fumes, breathing nothing but secondary smoke, and burst into flames on a warm day, but fresh air would be harmful.

When we get to Shkodra, I am debating leaving my pack and running. Perhaps they will be satisfied with my things and forget about the ransom. All the gypsies get off the bus first to await my exit. The furgon driver signals to me to stay on the furgon while he drives away. He takes me to a friend, who, like all Albanians, except for gypsies, has a Mercedes. The friend for a reasonable fee (to get out of town, any fee would have been acceptable), takes me to Budva on the coast of Montenegro. Apparently, the taxi driver in Tirana told the furgon driver my intended destination.

By the time, the train would have reached Shkodra, I was in a beautiful beach town. My hotel room was large, painted white and blue with a big window that looked directly out on the old walled town and the Med. Today, the travel Gods smiled on me, but I don't think I will be having chicken for dinner.

Bruce Warner talks about his foray into Albania in two pieces. In this one he starts with a bulleted list of historical and cultural bits and pieces the traveler to Albania might want to bear in mind.

Odds And Ends Of Albania

-Albania has been the most backward country in Europe for over 500 years

-King Zog was their only king. He is still venerated even though he left the country with much of their national treasury

-Albania is the only country that was first Stalinist, then Maoist

-Albania was officially an athiest country

-Albania had its own Cultural Revolution sending city bureaucrats and intelligentsia to the fields to become farmers

-As part of their national defense system, they built 700,000 cement bunkers around the country with gun slits. This is one bunker for every 5 people. To put it in perspective, the US would have to build 60,000,000 bunkers to have as many per capita. I am considering buying a lot of these bunkers and turning them into time shares before real estate here booms. I dream of becoming a hole mogul.

-Tirane is the most polluted capital in Europe and the 9th most polluted in the world.

-Their biggest exports are their people (20% of the work force works abroad) and stolen cars(see below)

-Their biggest import is stolen cars. It has been estimated that the Albanian mafia has stolen over 300, 000 cars bringing them to Albania and then sending them to E. Europe and the Mid East. Even though it is a very poor country, it seems as if 75% of the cars are Mercedes.

-Parts of the country still live by the Korun (The Code). It has nearly 1300 separate rules, but honor, family and hospitality are paramount. If a member of their family is injured or insulted a blood-feud can result. The feuds can last until there are no male members of the family left alive. The good news is they are compelled to shower their guest with food, drink and other displays of hospitality. Unfortunately, that means I get all of the goat entrails I can eat washed down with moonshine made from mulberries. If I am killed while a guest, a blood feud must ensue. At least, I will be avenged.

-To make things particularly confusing, they shake their heads side to side for yes and nod it up and down for no. Until I got used to this, I bought 3 cartons of cigarettes, 10 cds of Albanian folk music, and 6 large helium filled Sponge Bob balloons.

Albania Is Worth The Visit In Any Case

Despite all of this, I find the place very amusing. The people are very friendly and are well disposed towards Americans. When I checked into my hotel yesterday, the front desk staff insisted upon looking at my house on Google Earth. Few people speak English, but those that do seem very excited when they find out I am an American. They get very few tourists here, let alone Americans. In fact, I have not identified another tourist here in Tirana. There were a few on the coast, but mostly day trippers from Greece.

They have nice beaches by Euro standards on the coast and things a very cheap. Hotels are $10 to $15 on the water. Transportation is practically free. A bus from one end of the country to another is around $15, although the buses are slow and uncomfortable. The limited train system is even cheaper and more uncomfortable.

That being said, I have planned my escape to the relatively civilized Montegro in the morning. I can’t get any bus info, but I can take a train to a town in the north and then if am lucky a bus to Bar, but no one knows for sure. At least, I will be able to take bus, furgon (overloaded mini bus) or taxi to the border and improvise from there.

(More on furgons soon)



 

(Note-the order of Bruce's articles/letters/observations have been taken out of order because I was not bright enough to put them back IN order!-Patrick the "editor")

When I wrote  last, I had just arrived in Budva, Montenegro, a place to my liking. It has a long beach, rocky of course, and a nice old walled town. (Have any of you ever been on a beach in Europe that was sandy, rather than rocky? If so, where?) My room was large and comfortable with a great view of the old town and the Med. Food and wine were good and cheap. It met all of my essential requirements to be a place in which to linger and linger I did.

I wish I could say the same for Dubrovnik. It is a place that I have wanted to visit for many years and it is worth a visit. You could spend as much as a half a day there; A few hours to see the old town and an evening to go up the hill and see the sunset over the town and the Adriatic. Then I recommend you leave the next morning.

Any town or city worth being referred to as such along the Adriatic Coast has a wall around it. I believe it is because at one time they had a nasty pirate problem. Dubrovnik is certainly the most famous, largest and most picturesque of the genre. Unfortunately, the pirates have returned. They are the towns people. They pillage and plunder the tourist that visit. For example, a small bottle of water can be purchased in any of the towns kiosks for $ 2.50. You can buy the same bottle in the grocery for 30-40 cents. The food seemed abysmal. Without competition the two worst meals that I have had in two months were there. Both were over priced and one was inedible. How do you render a simple pizza margherita inedible? It's simple. You substitute rock salt for the basil. Did they think I wouldn't notice? Dubrovnik has London or Paris prices, but offers old Warsaw Pact quality.

Split was much more to my liking; a real town with real people on the coast north of Dubrovnik. Its old town is built within the walls of the palace that the Roman emperor Diocletian built for his retirement. The size of the palace was 289,000 square. feet. It was good to be the Emperor! As time passed and the palace lapsed into decay, the petty nobles and rich merchants of the late middle ages built their homes within the ruins of the palace. It is quite remarkable and very scenic at night when the city is well lit. It reminded me a little if Avignon, with many small, winding streets opening into piazzas that were packed with cafes.

I rented a little apartment from a local woman. When she took me to the apartment, I was certain that I recognized the area from my last visit to Split. So much so, that the next building was very familiar, but I couldn't place it until after I had paid cash in advance for the apartment. The next building was the public fish market, which became more and more recognizable as the day grew warmer. No problem though, or so I thought, my room had an AC, at night, I will be able to close my windows.

That evening, after a good meal, and a cafe sit in the main piazza. I returned to my room and discovered that the AC didn't work. I had been to the woman's office earlier in the day, but I was certain at that time of night no one would be there, assuming I could even find it again. Do you have any idea how many cats hang out at a fish market at night? Its like a feline night club. I also don't believe that they have programs for neutering cats in Croatia, so more than a few of the cats at the club were in heat. Imagine trying to sleep during a warm night when your bed is in the middle of a large, empty tuna can that is surrounded by a cat orgy. I am thankful that I paid for only one night.

Dubrovnik, the cats and finally the birds helped wean me away from Croatia. After six weeks in the Med, on a variety of beautiful islands and scenic coasts, I was starting to suffer a little separation anxiety. Going to central Europe, leaving behind my Mediterranean diet for beets, cabbage, sausage and beer was not exciting me. I also knew that I would not be seeing another beach until I hit the South China Sea in Vietnam. But the bird broke the spell and helped to send me on my way.

I had just cleaned up for dinner was not out of the apartment for 10 minutes when I became ground zero for a big bird bomb. It was the second time I had been hit on the trip. I have become very adept at avoiding the ubiquitous doggie detritus in many foreign cities, but there is something nefarious about the Euro birds. I have never been hit by a good American bird and know very few that have. Yet, here, I have been targeted twice. Last year, in France, Linda Jo was hit twice within a half hour. I recall laughing at my friend and long time travel companion, Mike, 35 years ago when he was frequently bombed by birds in Europe. I can think of only two threads common to the incidents of bird terror that I have experienced or witnessed. Each time I was in Europe and there was an unpopular war going on at the time. With Mike, it was Vietnam. Linda Jo and I were victims during the War in Iraq. In between these wars, even though I traveled in Europe many times, there were no other incidents of this type. Could Euro birds be political ? Perhaps all Euro birds are doves.

On the the way to Zagreb from Trogir, yet another walled town on the Croatian coast, the bus stopped for lunch in the middle of nowhere and believe me nowhere in Croatia isn't even close to anywhere. The driver announced how long we would be there in Serbo-Croatian. Because my Serbo-Croatian is not what it should be, I thought I should keep the bus in site, so I sat at a table about 20 feet from it. I ordered pomme frites (French fries) and a beer.

  I thought I would enjoy a snack while I caught up on my journal. When I was about half finished with my fries, the driver walked past me heading for the bus. I thought time to go, so I stood immediately, put my journal in my day pack, grabbed a handful of fires, wrapped them in a napkin, took a step toward the bus and saw every traveler's nightmare. The door of the bus closed and the bus started to move. For a moment, I was stunned. The driver or conductor didn't make the usual last call for the destination or even look behind them. They just got in the bus and left. I thought, for a few seconds, that they were simply moving the bus. A thought dispelled when the bus accelerated. When I realized that I was being abandoned. I went in hot pursuit, chasing the bus down the road. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to be mindful of my fries that exploded out of my napkin flying far in every direction as I took off. Fortunately, it was a cool day and few people eating outside or the potato shrapnel may have resulted in casualties. Unfortunately, the bus didn't slow down and my backpack with all of my belongings, but for the contents of my day pack  was on it. Not being prone to panic, I felt I should explore my options before starting to cry.

There were two other buses at the restaurant. The first I could clearly see was not going to Zagreb, but it blocked the second that was loading passengers and about to depart. On closer inspection, I saw the destination was Zagreb. I ran over to the conductor, explained my predicament and received a dumb stare in return. He spoke no English. I showed him the ticket to the bus that just departed and pointed down the road and kept repeating Zagreb. He finally said 150 kuna, which is a much as I had paid for the complete trip to begin with. I explained that I had already paid once and didn't think I should have to pay again, but in any event I was getting on the bus. Perhaps, it was my persuasiveness. It might have been a look of desperation on my face or he may have feared that I had another pomme frite grenade, but he permitted me on the bus and didn't make me pay. When I got on, I told the driver to follow that bus, but I don't think he got it.

We were only about 10 minutes behind my luggage and in hot pursuit. I kept thinking that we might pass the bus or the bus would still be parked at the station when I arrived. I also took a mental inventory of what was in my pack which confirmed that never seeing it again would be very inconvenient. Zagreb, the capital of Croatia, is a relatively large city with a bus station commensurate to its size and status. I am certain that a crazy old, bald guy running from bus to bus was noticed. The bus with my pack was nowhere to be found. Was there another bus station? My optimism was being threatened. I did find the office of the bus company explained my plight to few different people until I found one that understood enough English to help. She told me that my bus had already gone to the garage. That bus didn't linger for long anywhere. She would check with the garage when it arrived to see if my bag was there. She asked me to come back in 10 minutes. I came back in 10 minute increments six times before I was told that they had found my bag. It would be delivered by the next bus out of the garage, which would arrive in an hour and half. I could have kissed the woman, hairy warts and all. I was so thrilled that the thought of waiting in the station longer was no problem at all.

When the bus pulled into the station, my pack was the first thing off. I expressed my thanks to the driver. He motioned for me to wait. He got back on the bus and pulled out my hat that had left to mark my seat. I didn't think there was a chance of seeing it again. I wasn't even concerned about it. He put it on my head backwards while he and his two buddies in the bus laughed and gave me a look that said, "in our day, if you were stupid enough to be left behind, you would be food for the Chetniks". I tried to assume my best military bearing and sternest look to communicate to him that "we leave no one behind". But I fear I looked more like a smirking George Bush talking about, "no child left behind", which was probably more applicable to me. I went quite happily on my way with all of my stuff intact.

Sorry this is so long, but I have been in ober-uber travel mode zipping across Croatia, criss-crossing Hungary and Slovenia, ending up in Warsaw, after spending the better part of 3 days on trains and busses.

-The Chinese may be the worst drivers that I have encountered. Of course, third world driving rules apply, which are that there are no rules, expect the totally unexpected to come at you at any time from any direction. However, the Chinese have taken things a step further and declared open season on pedestrians. You may have heard that life is cheap in Asia. I assure you that this is true if you are a pedestrian. For example, when crossing the street, any place that I have been, drivers will turn behind the walker, so that the car proceeds and the human lives. In China, the driver will regularly turn or change lanes into the path of a pedestrian, which can be disconcerting.

If you are at a crosswalk and you get a green light to cross the street, only about half of the drivers will stop. To make it more hazardous, none of the bus drivers will stop.

You may think that you are safe on a side walk, but cars often will come at you while the driver looks for a convenient place to park or to drop off or pickup passengers. We had as many close calls on a sidewalk as we did on the streets.

-Hotels in China have a lot of preparation to do in anticipation of the Olympics next year. The staff of the hotels that we stayed at inevitably tried to please; however, very few spoke a language other than Chinese, so confusion and complication were inevitable. In Lhasa, we made a few simple requests of the front desk, like can we have vouchers for breakfast that were included in our room rate or did they have the phone number of the CITS office that paid them for our rooms. Each time, we asked a question, they would look at us for awhile, dial the phone, and hand it to us. On the phone, was a polite man, who asked us what we wanted, then instructed us to give the phone back to the person at reception, whom he told what it was that we needed. We never met this man or saw him at the hotel. He was just the voice behind the curtain with whom we must deal to get things done at the hotel. We referred to him as "The Great OZ".

It was quite common in hotels for someone on the hotel staff to knock on your door and then open it and look around. In one hotel, it occurred every day between 5 and 6pm. A woman would knock on the door, use her key to enter the room with a clipboard, apologize and then leave. In other hotels we would get the knock and enter early in the morning or late at night when we would be in bed. I would dead bolt my door to prevent their entry, but my brother had a floor attendant come into his room at 5:30 AM to deliver the days breakfast voucher. She walked in, put the voucher on the desk and left without a word, Twice, after 11 pm, when I was sound asleep, a hotel employee was prevented from entering my room by the dead bolt or chain. Once, I found a breakfast voucher slid in behind the light switch.

If they were not entering our rooms, we would get mysterious late night phone calls. When we would answer, the caller would hang up. We asked a Canadian man in the hotel if he got these calls as well. He said that he did. His Chinese traveling companions explained to him that the hotel staff would sell their guest list to a local "massage service" who would start to call guests when the last hotel manager would leave for the day.

Checking out would often take as much as 20 minutes. Even though the hotels had PCs they would also keep their records manually in ledgers. All paperwork was done in triplicate, then filed. The guest would then be presented with a bill that was indecipherable, unexplainable, and the columns of debits and credits seldom made sense. We just tried to be close when paying the bill.

- At a market one afternoon, I stumbled upon a dog butcher. The set up was similar to the Dumb Friends League. You could view the dogs and make your selection. But rather than taking home a new pet, you took home dinner. This occupation would not be acceptable at home.

-Chinese slit toilets on a moving train can provide a great deal of adventure.

-One afternoon, around the main courtyard of the Potola Palace, which was under repair, we heard the singing of Tibetan songs. We thought that it was probably a demonstration of traditional music by one of the ethnic groups that regularly come into Lhasa from the hinterlands. To our delight, it was the construction crew. Around the roof of the courtyard there were well over 100 people mostly woman in rows of 10 to 20 across and 5 deep, singing, dancing and tapping sticks on the roof. The sticks had pads tied to them. While singing, the dancing and tapping was packing down freshly laid cement. More construction sites should have choreographers.