Old people hanging around Tirana

Prologue

London

I‘m back from my recent wanderings. Back while I was still on the ship, Tim, a friend of mine that I have only met and travelled with once, emailed me and asked what I was doing for the summer. I remember saying I don’t know and I don’t think I could see that far ahead yet. It was probably somewhere in February 09, and I was still working on the MV CE-the worst ship that I’ve ever been on. I was still in the midst of my depressing existence, not exactly enjoying life onboard. Every time, I would look longingly at the waves and wished it provided answers of some sort. I know I couldn’t be truly happy until I get off the ship. Tim said that he may travel around the Balkans and I said I’d join him once my contract finishes. “Cheap flights from British Airways to Tirana. 104 GBP,” he said. Tirana? Where in world is Tirana? I didn’t even know but the more obscure the names are, the more I like the sound of it. It turned out that Tirana is the capital of Albania.

Flags of Albania

When I told Moreno, Francesca and Roby, my closest Italian colleagues that I’d be embarking on a trip, somewhere around Eastern Europe, with an open-ended itinerary that would start from Tirana, they literally went speechless. I’ve never seen speechless Italians before. Their faces were a combination of horror, fear and disbelief. It was the most comical expression that I’ve ever witnessed. And then, Roby opened his mouth slowly and bellowed the longest ‘No’…. that I’ve ever heard. He went on to give me ten reasons why I shouldn’t visit Albania and it included rationales like: Albanians are thieves and they’re dangerous; they create a lot of problems in Italy for the locals; Albanians will kidnap and rape you… and etc. Moreno wagged his finger and blatantly called me crazy.

However, despite their ignorance and their contentment to not budge from their warped bubble of perspectives, I knew that they were merely concerned. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop me from buying a one-way ticket to Tirana. The flight to Tirana would leave from Gatwick Airport, London, on the 24th of June, 2009.

As I was literally stuck on the ship till June 21st, I didn’t have much time to research about the region or find out whether I need visas for these countries. There was a rough plan about the places we should cover but no just no itinerary at the point of departure. Tim said, wait and see. I said, we play by ear.

I didn’t even have time to worry about how travelling with Tim would be like, after not really staying in touch for these past two years. Tim was a friend of Steve’s. He was introduced to me because of his extensive knowledge about teaching ESL in various parts of the world. I have utmost respect for his decision to quit his high-flying lifestyle in England, to become a professional ESL tutor. We met in Perhentian Islands, Malaysia, two and a half years ago (thinking about it now…) and we travelled from there to Bangkok together. I’d shuddered at some snippets of our time together because I remember him as very judgmental, harsh, critical and brutally honest. But he was also very intelligent, interesting, generous, opinionated, kind but brutally honest.

21.06.2009-27.07.2009 (Together)

• Albania
• Montenegro
• Kosovo
• Macedonia
• Bulgaria
• Romania

27.07.2009-06.08.2009 (Solo)

• Turkey

Somewhere between Bulgaria and Romania, Tim visited Serbia on his own while I went on to Ploiesti, Romania, to visit Valentin for five days. It was difficult to get a Serbian visa while being on the road and I didn’t think it was worth it. Tim stayed back in Sofia, Bulgaria after because he found love. As for me, I plodded on because I was happy to travel solo again. I went on to find my own love in Istanbul, Turkey.

The next few entries would be chapters of each country that I’ve been to and its highlights. I’d try to make it as concise, as interesting and as profound as possible.

Fort in Kotor Bay, Montenegro

Pushing Tim into the freezing lake in Sveti Naum Monastery, Macedonia

Partying it up with my English bodyguards (ex-PARAS) in a bar in Pristina, Kosovo

Sibiu, Romania

Pristina reborn, ten years after the bloody battle with Serbians

Bâlea Lake situated at 2,034 m of altitude in the Făgăraş Mountains, in central Romania, in Sibiu

We watched Palermo Shooting by Wim Wenders in a cinema with communist deco in Sofia, Bulgaria

Riding on a rickety Ferriswheel in a retro themepark in Istanbul with Nick

Acknowledgments

1. Grazie Mille to Tim for being the first to initiate this journey and for being a muse, an inspiration, a critic and a friend. If there’s anything that I learned from you, is the fact that no one can make you feel bad without your consent. Un abbraccio to you for your thick and outdated Lonely Planet Eastern Europe guidebook. Without it, we might find ourselves more lost than we already were.
2. Hugs to the two big boys, Colin and Rick (ex-British Paratroopers) that I met in Pristina, Kosovo. Thank you for making me and treating me like a Malaysian Princess. I wonder if things would be different if I’ve stayed on for another day.
3. A million kisses to Tsveti, my Bulgarian CS host(ess) who commanded us to make ourselves at home while we were in Sofia. Like a sister that I never had, she took care of me without being obliged to. Sofia won’t be the same without her.
4. Cheers to Valentin, his friends(Bogdan and brother, Luiza) and his family, Ovidiu and his family and friends (Tibi and Gabby) for showing us the true Romanian hospitality. I will not forget the day where Ovi and Tibi, drove all the way down to Brasov to pick us up and then took us around Transylvania till 11pm. Or how Ovi’s mum had cooked us meals but we never eat them on time.
5. Thanks to all our CS hosts in Romania (Tia & Frank), Kai and Kemal (Istanbul) and the lovely travelers that I’ve met along the way (Alex, Juliana, July, the Swedish guys, the Australian girl, Giulia & Niccolo, Iacopo, Riccardo, Jacobo, Ivan, Ester, the French couple, Sondes, Melahat, Jet Set Zero crew: Jen, Rob and their CS guests) and whoever that I’ve failed to mention but nonetheless not forgotten.
6. Most of all, tanti bacini to Nick, the treasure that was awarded to me at the end of my travels. His kindness and love have provided me with a shelter over my head in Istanbul, endless interesting conversations, necessary intake of good food and alcohol and a sanctuary to be who I am.

I didn’t make it to Amsterdam. Everything happened too quickly. I had many things to settle like library books, writing assignments, my novel, people to catch up with before I go and all those sorts. I was also hosting Ken, a CouchSurfer who has dabbled in almost everything from race cars to producing films and things just escalated from there.

Nov 6-9: Cork, Ireland

“All tales of youth involve a large measure of folly…” begins Bill Barich in his essay and I must say, I can easily attest to that.

Last Friday, I found myself out in London’s cold, under a dimly lit bus stop, waiting for N381 to come. After countless of clicking and changing itineraries on the Transport for London homepage, it was prescribed that I should take night bus N381to Parliament Square and then change for bus N44 that would take me directly to Victoria Coach Station. From there, I would be able to board the 3.30 am National Express coach that was supposed to take me to Gatwick Airport. And I was meant to check in at 4.20am and board the plane at 6.20 am for Amsterdam. And as luck would have it, if I don’t catch this 381, the rest of the plan can go to hell.

The clock ticked and minutes passed, still I saw no sign of N381. It was already 2.15 am and I wasn’t alone. Another man hidden under the shadows, stood close to the bus stop but away from the lights. My heart beat a little faster, wishing the bus would come. I started contemplating options. Perhaps I should take a taxi. It shouldn’t cost me more than 10 pounds to get to Victoria Coach Station but first, how do I take one. Should I call for one or should I simply flag one down? Being a foreigner in a country is difficult-you are not bestowed with innate knowledge of a local. Being a foreigner means even to take a mere taxi, you have to learn how to do it the right way. Anyway, whilst I was going through a series of choices, I saw the headlights of a double decker approaching. My near-sighted vision had me asking the man in the shadows. He stepped into the light and told me it was N47. He looked nice but blast the bus services, I needed the bloody N381.

-Where do you have to go?

-Victoria Coach Station.

-Oh no, but that’s C10!

-I know, but C10’s services terminates after 1am. And I’ve got a damn flight to catch.

I got on the bus and asked the bus driver for my predicament. It seemed like N47 would take me to a bus stop near Trafalgar Square and then from there, I could board N44 to Victoria Coach Station. Shivering in the cold, I could only board the bus happily, hoping that N44 would also come in time.

***

Schipol Airport welcomed me with a cafe latte from Starbucks. I was worn out, thoroughly beat, and after being sleep deprived for the last 36 hours, I could only bless the coffee company that stands for American Imperialism with gratitude. As the first shot of caffeine drenched my blood stream, I shrugged my fatigue off and set off to find my way to Teun’s place.

I continue to be amazed at my tenacity to meeting and drinking with him again. Last summer was a glorious period of sunshine, alcohol and drama. Friendships were formed, the heart was lifted, broken and then lifted again. When Teun proudly shared with me his personal anecdotes of his life and in the city that everything took place, I thought it sounded like a kingdom of treausres-only crazy miracles can happen here. I vowed to see it, and I did, last summer. I lived and breathed the city, through Teun and his mates, which now became my mates too. Now, I was back for  30 hours, ready to relive history.

Tram 5 took me right into the heart of Museumplein (Museum Square). The city basked under warm golden rays last summer but now, it looked a little intimidating with ominous clouds hanging in the background. Perhaps it was too early. I walked across the sprawling park, in front of the Rijksmuseum and past the underground Albert Heijn supermarket, tasting the biting cold and admiring the Dutch early birds who were already playing frisbee with their dogs. Despite the greyness, the grass was in tender green, covered with spots of fresh dew.

The way leading to Teun’s place was familiar; it felt like going home. I just had to find the canal, the Ruysdaelkade street, and it would lead me to the green telephone booth outside Marjan’s Tiller Gallerie and Teun’s studio apartment is just two floors above it. As winding through a series of streets that are named after artists like Johannes Vermeerstraat, I arrived at Hobbemakade which is right opposite Ruysdaelkade (yes, Ruysdael is famous for his Dutch light paintings). Amsterdam is a city of details; it’s the little things in the pictures that makes the entire portrait ‘gezellig’, a feeling of cosiness or a sense of belonging. It’s like, if that cat wasn’t sleeping on the window pane, it would have changed the entire picture.

I saw two ducks, walking clumsily along the canal….a dark blue boat…..black and white bicycles leaning against walls that are covered with wild ivy and climbing vines…perfect postcard views, except for the fact that my photographic skills are too meagre to capture that momentary expression.

I crossed the ‘Spronken Bridge’, a bridge in front of Teun’s place that hasn’t been named and he wanted it named after his family and slowly, in great relief and triumph, I rung his doorbell. The white door buzzed open and I climbed up the familiar narrow stairway. The steps were cluttered with newspapers, letters and sales brochures, just like how it always was a year ago.

-HOIIII!!

-Heya!!!

And I jumped into Teun’s arms as we embraced and he held me up high, like how a father holds a child. Teun’s towering figure of 6 ft 6 (200cm) made it difficult for conventional hugging hence such extreme measures of affection must be taken. I pushed open his apartment door and walked into the narrow space that I once shared with him last summer. Everything was the same; everything was in place.

***

From GoBudgetTravel

Links to the articles that I mentioned earlier. Read Iyer’s article your own risk because he’s known for verbosity!

WHY WE TRAVEL : http://www.goliards.net/Why%20We%20Travel.htm

Damn! There ain’t a proper link to William Sutcliffe’s : Everyone loves to love backpackers, so here’s the copy and paste version.

EVERYONE LOVES TO HATE BACKPACKERS (by William Sutcliffe)

EVERYONE loves to hate backpackers. Even people like me, who have spent months of their lives backpacking, hate backpackers. Why should this be? Let’s start with the uniform.
However wealthy a backpacker is (and let’s face it, this is hardly a rickshaw fare. Then we come to guide books. The Lonely Planet and Rough Guide series are treated with reverence by most backpackers, not just as a source of information but as a talisman representing the holiday they intend to have. No one has helped them choose what to do. No one has organised their trip for them. They are independent.

Few backpackers see the irony in these constant professions of independence, while they tour around huge countries following the same minutely selective routes picked out by the author of one (or perhaps two) guide books used by every single traveller in their area.

This is the real purpose served by the Lonely Planet series: not to allow you to find your way to unique and undiscovered places, but rather the opposite – to give you security in the knowledge that, wherever you go, you can take a book out of your backpack and look up where all the other travellers are hanging out.

This, to me, is the most disturbing aspect of backpacking. The desperation with which most “independent travellers” cling to one another, aided by their guide books, sums up the spirit of contemporary travel. Distant strongholds of the western leisure industry are being set up in spectacular locations, catering specifically to the tastes of western backpackers: in particular drug-taking, white-water rafting, bungee jumping and trekking. Most backpackers, it seems, are less interested in new experiences than in familiar experiences in exotic places.

The authors of these guide books create a travellers’ circuit of approved hotels which conform to rigid demands. Incense in the lobby, scruffy sofas in a courtyard and banana pancakes on the breakfast menu are compulsory. In a bizarre form of apartheid, most travellers stay in these hotels, which cater exclusively for westerners, and often specifically exclude locals (other than servants).

While business travellers in the East stay in up-market hotels used by people of all races, backpackers insist on staying in this style of pseudo-down-at-heel hostel used only by whites under a certain age on a certain kind of trip. A London banker staying at the Holiday Inn in Delhi is more likely to mix with Indians than a backpacker at the Yogi Lodge in Varanasi.

Such is the power of the guide book writers that if the Lonely Planet’s top recommendation in a particular town is say, the Rainbow Lodge, backpackers will be greeted at the railway station by hordes of rickshaw men who already know where they want to go. These drivers will often then take them to unpleasant, badly located hostels which have been renamed the Rainbow Lodge and offer a commission to enterprising rickshaw men.

Long arguments ensue, and it is not uncommon to be driven to several Rainbow Lodges before you are eventually taken to the perpetually full, non-commission-offering original. You can tell it is the right one by the scruffy sofa in the courtyard, the incense in the lobby and the banana pancakes on the menu. Moreover, all the guests will be white westerners.

Ask backpackers why they are happy in hotels with such glaring racial exclusivity, and they will all give the same answer: “It’s cool here. You don’t get hassled.” Which leads me to “hassle”. Backpackers are obsessed with the idea that, wherever they go, they get unfairly hassled. This “hassle” usually takes the form of local shopkeepers trying to make them buy things. Given that all contact with locals, other than the purely commercial, has as good as been wiped out by the traveller lifestyle, this seems a bizarre complaint – as if even outside the confines of their exclusive hotels they expect the locals to steer clear – as if any intrusion on their western privacy is an offence.

For those travellers who simply can’t bear the attentions of big-city salesmen, there are always the backpackers’ retreats: places like Manali, Ajmer, Goa and Kovalam, where entire towns are devoted to servicing the whims of these fearless adventurers. These resorts are proliferating throughout the Third World, and will turn up every few pages in most guide books as places for “a little R&R from the rigours of travel”. In some of these resorts, such as Goa, backpackers might have to suffer the intrusion of package tourists on two-week beach holidays. Of course, backpackers can’t be expected to mix with these “holiday-makers”, and will do everything they can to steer clear of anyone who might have to spend the rest of the year working for a living.

Travel has become a compulsory hoop for middle-class youths to jump through. Many British universities now explicitly prefer students who have had a year off for their “extra maturity”, and Gap Year travel plans feature on most university applications. Completed trips subsequently appear on many graduates’ CVs.

Travel is thought to demonstrate initiative, independence, strength of character and numerous other attributes desirable to universities and employers. As a result, backpacking through Asia or Africa has transformed itself from an act of rebellion into an act of conformity. Society as a whole seems adamant that Travel Is Good For You – that you somehow are not a real person unless you have suffered from diarrhoea on a Turkish bus or been mugged in a Bangkok backstreet. Travel is popularly perceived as an inevitable stage of personal growth for the middle classes. Although many of us have backpacked, and have enjoyed it, few can look back on the experience without a twinge of shame. I myself was a culprit of every one of the classic backpacker sins (yes, including the clothes) as a middle-class 19-year-old on a Year Off in India. Although I am pleased that I did the trip, I feel deeply sorry for the people who had to put up with me, not to mention nauseous embarrassment. If I could go back and give a tip to all the rickshaw drivers I haggled with, I would.

© The Sunday Telegraph Are You Experienced?, William Sutcliffe’s novel about backpackers, is published by Penguin

Stephane Grenier

Stephane is my favourite moto driver. The night before we went to Bach Ninh for the ‘Jellyfish Festival’, he said, “Cheap-cheap moto. Tomorrow, I drive, you sit behind.” The arrangement continued when we went on a 3 days motobiking adventure to Mai Chau.

On our way to Bach Ninh for the “Jellyfish Festival”

He’s also the one who lifted me from the toilet and put me safely back to bed, when I got too drunk again. He became my partner in crime for food. Every morning, unknowingly, we’d wait for each other in the reception and when we see each other, either one of us will say, “Breakfast?” (Even after he moved to another hotel with his mum).

We’d sneak out for a pizza simply because people would laugh at us for doing it in Vietnam. He agrees to go for a pasta buffet with me simply because I craved for it. He’d finish up my food all the time because he knows I got a small stomach. We’d tease each other relentlessly. He’d push me into the pool,trip me, make me touch ice-cream to my nose, and then sticks out his tongue at me. When I avenged for my humiliation (I tugged the rubberband that held hislong, blond hair) he said nothing. When I gave him back the band, he said, keep it-it has some strands of my hair on it. It’s true. The black band is still on mywrist till this day, and of course, with some strands of his hair tangled on it.

Sharing sticky rice with coconut by the lake

We played bubble bubble at Bach Ninh

I must admit that I did have a crush on Stephane. Who wouldn’t-he’s too beautiful to behold! His features, a combination of his French and German genes, is exquisite. A heart-shaped face, a strong jaw, and perfect well-shaped lips. He usually keeps a slight hint of beard, macho without being scruffy looking. And you have to see his eyes! You’d get lost in his huge Dom Perignon coloured irises and those very long eyelashes that gently flutter whenever he blinks. Long blond hair tied in black bands, he tried to grow them into dreadlocks but unsuccessful-his hair’s too silky.

Apart from that, Stephane is a quiet man, an enigma. It could be the language barrier but we both got along great all the same. He shared with me his dreams to become a photojournalist while showing me some black and white images that he took in New York, his travelling adventures in Australia, his life in Paris when he was a driver for a VIP and some childhood tales. He’s the only son and the baby of the family, but behaves like a man who takes care of his two elder sisters and his mother well. He’s a man of strong will as he started to stop smoking in Vietnam (not an easy place to do so) and a man of moderation-when he’s tipsy and stoned, he’d stop.

By the spring at Mai Chau-Stephane and Guillaume

So we traded lessons of life and in philosophy, we both watched the river flow just like how Siddharta in Herman Hesse’s best-selling book did, and man, did we share an amazing friendship that grew through the little day-to-day events that we always take for granted.

The philosophical Stephane

“If you’re in Paris, call on me. If you’re in Germany, stay with me and I’d show you Blackforest-the smell of the forest-ahhhh, so good!”

Pip’s apartment

In a very cool cafe called Shades of Retro, Thong Lor

And as we suckle and chew the bits and pieces of seafood, she’d say suddenly, “Do you know wintermelon in Thai is called Fuck? And oh, when I was in London’s boarding school, I make sure I have a tub of seafood sauce with me. Screw cheese and farang food-all I need is spicy and sour seafood sauce!”

Mike had the opportunity to couchsurf with Pip too. I asked Pip if Mike could stay over when he gets back from Koh Samui and Pip responded with a: “If your friend doesn’t mind the floor, I’m alright with it.” Well, even I don’t mind the floor, so I doubt Mike will. Besides, Pip gave him a very comfortable pillow and had him sleep on a thick duvet. He even got a stuff dog for company-how’s that for trying to make you feel at home?

Mike and his puffy pillow

Anyway, I think I’ve got enough of ice-creams and watching DVDs. Heather (also I met her in Hanoi!) lent me 200 pounds so that I can get by in Europe. I got my tickets reconfirmed. This time, there should be no mistake.

Amsterdam, 4 July 2007, 1.30 am.
Flying on Egypt Air.

Wish me luck. And yes, I’d probably just have only 200-300 pounds with me for the journey.

US on a biking adventure to Mai Chau village (Week 3 in Hanoi)

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 2: SOUL MATES, GREAT MATES AND LOVERS

Like every other tourist, I had a love-hate relationship with Hanoi. But what I disliked about Hanoi, I made it up by liking the people that I met there. Sadly, it wasn’t the locals that I’ve come to love. It was my dorm mates and the people whom I bonded with in Hanoi Spirit House.

HANOI SPIRIT HOUSE

“Ying, I can’t believe you’re finally leaving this Friday. You’ve been here for close to a month and you never show signs of detaching yourself from this place, ” Mike said, shaking his head in disbelief. ” I really think you won’t be able to leave. We’d make you miss your bus anyway.” I gave the 34 year old Austrian architect a playful jab in his ribs, clinked our cold beer glasses together and then grinned. I felt secretly touched by his words. I knew my presence had made a difference just like how theirs had.

I knew Hanoi had been good to me, and at that time, I knew I would leave with a heavy heart.
I did. As the mini-van slowly drove away from Hang Be street, the image of my friends waving faded into the setting sun. Kathrin kissed me on my cheeks and held me for the longest time. Pete, Van and Niccola took turns to hug me before. Pierrick kissed my cheeks and muttered some words about how happy he was to see me go but didn’t mean it. Mike hugged me hard and reminded me that we’d be meeting up again in Bangkok. Some of these people were with me for the entire time, while some just got to know me over the last two weeks, but I didn’t want to say goodbye to either. I wasn’t good at saying goodbyes. When Rob, Sam, Ezequiel and Heather left 2 weeks ago, I almost cried. Then, Stephane. Then, Guillaume. Then, Ed.

The ones who were left… It was my last goodbye to them
L-R: Niccola, Van, Ying, Pete, Pierrick, Kathrin and Mike

WHO, WHAT, WHERE
It all started with Ed, who persuaded me to stay in the dorms with him at Hanoi Spirit House. At that time, there were 2 dorm rooms. Each room had 3 beds: a double-decker and a single. It was rudimentary but for USD 3, we couldn’t complain. Through the legendary dorm room 203, the one I stayed in for at least 2 weeks, I met the greatest people ever: Hakan from Sweden and Sam from England.

ROOM 203

The greatest dorm mates ever: Hakan and Sam

The first few parties we had on the top bunk

After that, we were moved to a bigger and newer dorm. It has 12 bunk beds; each bed as an individual wall fan. 6 on one side, 6 on the other: girls and guys were seperated into two sides. There were two bathrooms but no windows. At that time, we were very excited to be sharing one huge room together. Some came and went, while some lingered on. Some of these people made it to the deepest chambers of my memories while some didn’t. Those who did are: Stephane from France, Kirk from US, Heather from England, Kathrin from Germany, Michael from Austria, Pierrick from Quebec, and Freddie from England. Through Ed and Guillaume, we also got to know Van from Canada and Niccolas from France.

The new big dorm

The crazy ass boozing parties we had in the big dorm

However, during my final week in Hanoi, Freddie had a huge row with the staff in Hanoi Spirit House. The staff was undeniably rude and when he couldn’t us to do what he wanted, he turned violent. He smacked Freddie, punched her lightly and eventually pushed her down the stairs. What a scandal! The entire denizen of Hang Be street gathered around to watch us screaming and threatening him. There were a lot of screams and shouts. Everyone just gaped. No one took us seriously however. The police came, questioned the staff in Vietnamese and then left. We checked out immediately, shook the staff off when he demanded us to pay (what the hell-you smacked us and asked us to check out and now you want us to pay?) and moved over next door. Turned out that the dorm next door was better. We had a 4 room dorm that fits all of us perfectly. Pete and Kathrin shared a room instead. In the end, it all worked out. We paid USD 2.5 per bed, enjoyed one of the most amazing views from the top and even the room even had free wi-fi!

ZAED AZNAM: Always smiling and cheerful

Do you still remember Ed? I wrote about him in one of my very first few entries. He was to be my travelling partner, but in the end, we parted ways because we both wanted to see other things. Nonetheless, parting ways doesn’t mean putting an end to our friendship. Instead, it further inspires us to stay in touch so that we consistently know what each other is doing. And so when I arrive in Hanoi, Ed gave me the biggest hug ever! It felt so good to see a familiar face! Someone who understands you in depth, without having to communicate through words. While Hanoi may be one of the best times in my life, it’s also one of the hardest. Again, I was faced with crossroads and am forced to choose one fork. I remember the both of us taking long walks by the river and to the one and only second-hand English bookshop in Hanoi. He relentlessly try to drill into my head some sense-what travelling is all about. I remember him telling me that I shouldn’t allow money to govern my plans. Again and again, he instilled confidence in me and made me believe in myself. There are times when I floundered in the dark, but Ed’s always there to shine the torch. Even though there are days when we hung out with different people, it was just soothing, knowing that he’s around. I remember one day, when he was so very down, and he doesn’t know where to go-home? China? Thailand? He didn’t have much money and he had to work at the Malaysian restaurant every night just so that he can buy a ticket to move on. Eventually, we both decided that he should push on to China and he did. Now he’s having a dandy time in China, despite having only RM50! Thanks to Ed, I changed my perception on cheap travel. You can truly travel-travel in ways to lose and find yourself, through hardships and the lessons you learn on the way-and your only true wealth then, is time and an open mind. Nothing else matters. You still can be happy on the road, without money or many assets. Money can be earned, but perspectives can’t be bought.

We Love Our Vodka!! (Ying, Ed and Guillaume)

I was plain sober while Ed’s bordering on the tipsy meter, near Hoan Kiem Lake.

KATHRIN KLEIN

Kathrin Klein, is definitely not klein (small in German). Yet, she’s very attracted to small people, namely: me. Every morning, when we meet up for breakfast or for a cuppa, she’d tug at me and clasp me tightly to her bosom, murmuring, “Ach Ying-so klein!” Sometimes, she’d plant kisses on my cheeks, sometimes a pinch or two on my cheeks.

A very attractive German lass, she’s one who feeds on life. She’s always on the high regardless how good or bad the situation may turn out. She laughs at the world and at herself, living the good life just the way she wants it to be.

“Remember, if you want to have sex, go ahead. As long as you enjoy yourself and know of the consequences, then go for it. But if your gut feel says no, then don’t do it. But don’t NOT do it, just because you think that the man will find you disposable at whim. Think of it the other way round. Besides, who needs men anyway?”

It’s difficult to resist Kathrin’s charms. She’s so bubbly and lovable, that both men and women love her. Her spirit is beautiful and it shows.

We first met in Hanoi Spirit House’s bar. We were half-way through Ring Of Fire, a drinking card game when Sam, saw Kathrin at the computer. Sam invited her over to the bar counter-the more the merrier, he said. I remember feeling a tinsy winsy bit of jealousy, simply because I didn’t want to have another person in the group. We were good as it is already-Rob, Sam and Prince. Besides, she’s really pretty. Surely, she’d be the centre of attention, I thought.

But she turned out to be really fun. And then when I puked all over the bar (I pulled out the King and was forced to slam down a Tequila + Red Bull + Vodka + Beer) she helped me to the room. Rob came after, looking worried. “Take care of her,” Kathrin said.

The next few days, we became fast friends and then best of friends.

Together, we twirled, swished our skirts, sang, hugged, kissed, laughed, sneered, shouted, ate, drank, swore, whispered, sang again, skipped, jumped and squealed.

I saw her riding on her highs but also remember having to reach out. I remember sitting with her, sponging her hot forehead when she was down with a 40 degree fever. Michael and I hunted for banana porridge for her. I held her hand when she rambles softly in German, in her sleep. I watched her tears fall, when she found out that her lover may be cheating on her.

Ach, Kathrin! I will miss you so much. India will love you as much as we do. See you in Frankfurt next year!

Kathrin and Ying-the best of pals in Hanoi

Kathrin having fun in the rain while we were on our way to Mai Chau village

THE BALCONY FROM ‘THE SECRET CAFE’

POST-HANOI THOUGHTS 1: Introduction
A while ago, after an aimless wander around the cities of Indo-China, trekking on without a purpose to breathtaking landscapes where the Mekong River meanders, I succumbed to physical and mental exhaustion. What took the heaviest toll on me was, spiritually, I wasn’t fulfilled-something that I didn’t expect. Travelling was meant to inspire and illuminate. It was supposed to reveal to you the meaning of life. Growing tired of talking to people, enduring indifference to people and places,and having your senses numbed with fatigue as you sit in a rickety old bus that rumbles down the dirt road ain’t part of the plan. For quite some time, I really didn’t know what to do with myself. While I was munching down croissants in an overtly touristic pattisserie in Vang Vieng, one that plays Friends reruns everyday on its 27-inch screen, I thought about Ed. I received an email from him recently and he told me that he has managed to find a job in a Malaysian restaurant in Hanoi. He was being paid USD10 a day, but that’s more than enough for him to survive, he wrote. Dorm beds only cost USD 3 and as he lived off cheap Pho Bo (the infamous Vietnamese beef noodles) and Maggi Instant Noodles, he could actually save up a little before moving on. It then suddenly dawned me that I was tired of warming up to strangers. What I really want to see is a familiar face, and have conversations without having to start with all the backpacker interrogation bullshit. Also, I thought about the chances of securing myself an English Teaching job over there might be a tad easier with the contacts that Mr. Callerame passed to me.

So, without another minute of hesitation, I bought myself a 24-hour bus ticket from Vang Vieng to Hanoi.

The journey was unpleasant and terrifying, made worse by a whining Australian who was also in the same bus as I was. Sure, I wasn’t enjoying myself either, but complaining about it doesn’t help either.

Anyway, after a day, I found myself in the Old Quarters of Hanoi, the 36 streets where tourists hang out. Secret cafes, hidden behind luggage sho facades were waiting to be discovered. Shops spilled souveneir wares and colourful kitsch. Every corner is punctuated with either a coffee shop or a noodle stall. The narrow streets held haphazard buildings together. You’d see a French window open, and underneath that hanging Bougainvillea branches is an old Vietnamese man in a white singlet, cooing animatedly into a birdcage. The architecture is a mixture of French and Vietnamese. The walls are always vibrantly painted with hues of pastel yellow, blue or pink. Nothing speaks of mundane. Fresh bagguettes are sold on the streets. Old ladies sit on very small wooden stools outside the shops, fanning themselves while motorcycles honk and beep as they glide by. Backpackers and friendly locals bond over cheap watered down beers at Bia Hoi Corner, the notorious hangout place for foreigners. Shaded boulevards, accessible public parks and the shimmering Hoan Kiem Lake-every nook and cranny of Hanoi screams a postcard cliche.

It used to be a French colony and maybe that’s why this city still speaks the language of love-or for me at least.

YING AND ED IN HANOI-IN FRONT OF A PROPOGANDA POSTER

For me, life took a very interesting turn in Hanoi. Hanoi changed me in ways that I couldn’t fathom.

30 days later, I’m not the same person again. I felt completely recharged when I left Hanoi. My heart burst wide open and my head filled to brim with ideas. I was no longer tied down by ideas of money and the lack of it. I was no longer tied down with conventions and traditions. I was inspired, and most of all, I was free.