This is a much delayed review of an excellent restaurant from someone who isn't a reviewer. My friend Kathryn from San Francisco, many of you may remember me talking about, came out to visit me here in Podunkville. She came here for business in Kansas City then came on out to see me. Actually, she really wanted to go to the Drugstore she's heard so much of from me and publications I brought her.
We started with a couple of delicious cocktails that the Drugstore is known for. This time Jay Beavers was our fabulous barkeep. I had a Silver Elder made with Tanqueray gin, house infused vanilla vodka, elderflower, fresh squeezed lemon and lime juice, and egg white. Kathryn had a Hothouse Flower made with chamomile infused bourbon, muddled lemon, smoked honey, soda water, and house hop bitters. As I've said before the bitters and infusions are homemade.
After the orders were given we were offered an amuse bouche. These small appetite teasers are different every night and offered to every customer. Tonight it was a tiny striper bass risotto cake. I could have eaten five. Jonathan also gave us two house made infused vermouths made with an amontillado sherry, brandy, rosemary and 40 other ingredients! It was delicious and paired well with the amuse bouche.
We shared the pig heart saute. I get this almost every time I come. It's made with shitake mushrooms, baby bok choy and a peppery pan sauce. This dish is a great example of the umami taste. On this night it was a little heavier on the pepper side. You have to like pepper, as I do, or tell them to go light on it. We each chose the recommended spicy Feraud Brunel Rasteau.
For a salad you can't go wrong with the curly endive. Lardo/lardon is there anything better? What makes this better is the smoked trout roe and truffle oil along with the breaded soft boiled egg. Try breading a soft boiled egg and then frying it and you'll know how hard it is do this. Our wine pairing with the salad was a Tavel rose. You couldn't go wrong with that pairing either.
Kathryn was going to order the fried rabbit with mashed potatoes an ode to Route 66, which in the day travelers would see advertised all through southern Missouri. It was tempting but Jonathan told Kathryn she would probably not get the Majinola American Kobe beef in California unless she went to Chez Panisse. Alice Waters has to have the same beef shipped to her but Jonathan has only a few miles to get it.
Anyone who says grass fed beef doesn't have the fat feel that corn fed has is an idiot and I don't even know why I brought it up. This meat melts in your mouth. We were supposed to be sharing but I didn't blame Kathryn for wanting it all for herself. She did let me have a couple of bites and of course since I live here I can have it easily again. The beef as it was would have been perfect by itself but Jonathan served it with caramelized shallots, Maytag blue cheese and smoked honey (they do it in their smoker). It was served on top of a sweet potato/parsnip, Brussels sprouts/caramelized onion saute with a fig/clover flower gastrique. Is your mouth watering? The Summers cabernet sauvignon was the perfect pairing.
I never can resist the local freshwater Striper Bass which this time was served with smoked tomato, Berkshire bacon, lemon confit cream and (Yea!) was on top of that yummy bass risotto cake. My wine pairing was the luscious Vina Mein Ribeiro.
With all this food you usually can't think about bread but you'd be missing out if you didn't eat Camile's (Jonathan's wife and needed partner) absolutely delicious bread. It comes with the local Shatto Farms fresh butter.
Would you believe we still had dessert? A deconstructed basil champagne sorbet with little cocoa tuiles and sour cherry glee . We scraped the plate. Now Kathryn wants to come back and bring her husband, Nick. I hope she does.
www.drugstorerestaurant.com
Monday, March 15, 2010
Not My Story
Since nothing is going on in my life I've decided to give you this story my boyfriend, Jeff, sent me. He just finished the Iron Man Triathlon in Haikou, China. I only did a little editing.
I survived the race. I got up at 4:00 am where the hotel gave everyone who was participating in the race a free breakfast. Two nights prior, at the exclusive hotel, they held a banquet for the Ironman participants. Unfortunately, many of them got food poisoning. One guy stood up at the table in the early hours and collapsed. I had met a couple from Singapore. Chong is a teacher and his wife is an airline hostess. Chong felt sick and was up all night. He went to the starting place and practiced one lap and couldn't go any further. Fortunately, instead of dining at the Ironman banquet I had dinner with the operator who did a lot of translating for me. We ate traditional Chinese food, including duck neck. It was a very good dinner and my stomach did well with it.
As for the race, the swim course was going well and I predicted my pace would get me out of the water after 1 hour, 45 minutes. It's a four lap course and after each lap we had to run on the beach and then back out into the water. On my final leg of the 3rd lap I missed the beach by 30 yards from the get out point, so I had to keep swimming up. I wondered why it was taking me longer. Something should have drawn suspicion. On the fourth lap I began to swim up river to the first buoy and after some time, I raised my head to get my sightings and realized I hardly moved to it at all. I had to keep swimming. The progress seemed to be a fight and I realized that the tide in the river had changed. I had to struggle for every inch. It had been taking me 25 minutes to do each lap but it now took 25 minutes to reach the first buoy. Fear set in as I realized that I might not make it to the end by the 2 hours 20 minute cut off time. I made it in 2 hours and nine minutes. The only comical part was the announcer who seemed to be well aware of the Bay Area. Every time I reached the beach he would announce where I was from and gave the crowd more information about how close I was to Napa Valley and San Francisco. This made me laugh.
With the swim section done it was off onto the bike. During the start of the swim we waited in line in intervals of five and I was standing next to an Aussie who had done over 30 Iron Men. He gave me much needed advice as we stepped closer to the water's edge. He told me, being my first Ironman, not to overdo it on the bike. The goal for the first one was to only finish because of the vast amount of unknowns that will occur later in the race. His advice was if you think you should move up to a larger chain ring, don't do it. You should save your legs especially since I didn't have a tri-bike.
The bike section was good but then the heat started climbing up with severe cross and head winds that made it a struggle. The best part of the race was riding through the ancient villages, where children were shouting words of encouragement. I was saying thank you and hello in Chinese every time I could, which brings me to another observation.
The other riders just seemed to ride through the two villages with their heads down and not pay any notice to the local support. With the exception of a few, most of the Ironmen people I met were not exactly friendly. In fact, most were complete assholes. When I would run into them in the hotel they would just look you up and down to check out your fitness and whether you were really a competitor. I don't think I, my bike, or my helmet really measured up. If asked what other Ironmen events I had completed, there was always hesitation on their part and then some comment like, "Do you know what you're really getting into in this race?" Like I said, assholes. Chong, who had done a few, explained to me that this is was an important event in the Ironman world. Only 500 were doing this one and it would increase their chances to gain entrance to the famed Kona event if they could beat the competitors of their age group.
I took the Aussie's advice and didn't over do it on the bike, so I'd have some strength left in my legs for the marathon section. Maybe my lack of understanding this helped me, but little did I know what lay ahead after the cumulative hours of pushing myself. I felt good, even with the heat and humidity rising in the late afternoon. I assumed it would cool down, which it did. I did not realize the humidity would just keep climbing, but still the first eight miles went well and there was nothing to indicate the pain that would follow.
And did it follow! Now the pavement was hot and my feet absorbed the heat. I felt I was running across coals. I was soaked head to toe from my own sweat but at every aide station I was taking in more Gatorade and Gu gel. It wasn't long before my stomach felt like it couldn't take more of these super sweet energy supplements, but I needed the calories. My feet now were all blistered from the young, enthusiastic volunteers at the aide stations pouring cold water over me in their attempts to cool me down. Then the cramping of legs started, plus the cramping in my stomach which was telling me to eat real food.
My strategy was to walk to the aide station then run to save my legs. Every 15 minutes I had to stop and massage the cramps in my legs. My muscles felt like they were on fire. I could feel the pain all the way down to my core. I thought I could walk part of it, but looking at my watch I knew I would have to keep on running or else not make it by the 12 o'clock cut off time. The avenue was cleared of traffic and police stood at every corner. A pretty stoic group of people. The hardest part of the course was getting just to the outside of the finish line where the party was going on and hear everyone cheering for the finishers. There I was instructed to turn around and go back. Talk about the ultimate in rejection. An Aussie, next to me, said so too, "Oh Mate, this breaks my heart." We continued back to where we started. The night just got longer and longer and the pain was so intense at this point I just want to scream. I arrived at one aide station where I had a hard time standing, unless I was leaning against the table. A Chinese doctor pulled out warm saline fluid for me to drink.
As I turned at the loop with eight miles to go I had to keep telling myself to keep going. When I got closer to the finish, the last mile weaved through the older section of town. Thousands were out watching and it seemed like China town on steroids. A young college student named King who studied English and was a race official on a motor scooter took it upon himself to get me through the last five miles. He rode slowly next to me handing me Gatorade to drink and pouring water over my head. I felt like I was in a frying pan. I guess because of all the buildings, the humidity gets trapped so it also felt like the Amazon rain forest. King stayed with me and kept up his words of encouragement, "We can do this Jeff, keep going." I know I had to be polite but I was thinking, well, of course, you're on the stupid motor scooter and I can't even feel my feet or legs anymore. Even the stoic police were now verbalizing comments. I think all the observers on the streets, liked watching the winners going through but they also liked watching the ones that might not make it, sort of like a crash in Nascar auto racing. They were waiting for someone to crash and burn. Of course, the children buoyed my spirits running along with me. Well actually, walking fast at this point next to me. I can't even count how many times I was saying thank you, thank you.
The ending felt surreal, King told me between the two buildings was the bridge and the finish line. At 11:35 pm and 25 minutes before the cut off time, I arrived. They held up the ribbon for me at the finish line to go through. I don't have the words to describe how I felt. To go so deep within myself to keep fighting became a new place where I have never gone before. They grabbed my arms and then escorted me to the medical tent where a doctor examined me. He laid me down on a cot and stuck an IV needle in me. After about 30 minutes I could start moving again and it was finally over. Chong had told me at breakfast, "Enjoy the race and enjoy the pain." Now I know what he was talking about.
Looking at the results today, I assumed I was almost dead last, but I was at the top 60 percent of my age group. This made no sense to me. Looking closer, the ones after me did not finish, including 40 percent of the pros. So even though I felt like a turtle, I did make it. That put a grin on my face today.
I survived the race. I got up at 4:00 am where the hotel gave everyone who was participating in the race a free breakfast. Two nights prior, at the exclusive hotel, they held a banquet for the Ironman participants. Unfortunately, many of them got food poisoning. One guy stood up at the table in the early hours and collapsed. I had met a couple from Singapore. Chong is a teacher and his wife is an airline hostess. Chong felt sick and was up all night. He went to the starting place and practiced one lap and couldn't go any further. Fortunately, instead of dining at the Ironman banquet I had dinner with the operator who did a lot of translating for me. We ate traditional Chinese food, including duck neck. It was a very good dinner and my stomach did well with it.
As for the race, the swim course was going well and I predicted my pace would get me out of the water after 1 hour, 45 minutes. It's a four lap course and after each lap we had to run on the beach and then back out into the water. On my final leg of the 3rd lap I missed the beach by 30 yards from the get out point, so I had to keep swimming up. I wondered why it was taking me longer. Something should have drawn suspicion. On the fourth lap I began to swim up river to the first buoy and after some time, I raised my head to get my sightings and realized I hardly moved to it at all. I had to keep swimming. The progress seemed to be a fight and I realized that the tide in the river had changed. I had to struggle for every inch. It had been taking me 25 minutes to do each lap but it now took 25 minutes to reach the first buoy. Fear set in as I realized that I might not make it to the end by the 2 hours 20 minute cut off time. I made it in 2 hours and nine minutes. The only comical part was the announcer who seemed to be well aware of the Bay Area. Every time I reached the beach he would announce where I was from and gave the crowd more information about how close I was to Napa Valley and San Francisco. This made me laugh.
With the swim section done it was off onto the bike. During the start of the swim we waited in line in intervals of five and I was standing next to an Aussie who had done over 30 Iron Men. He gave me much needed advice as we stepped closer to the water's edge. He told me, being my first Ironman, not to overdo it on the bike. The goal for the first one was to only finish because of the vast amount of unknowns that will occur later in the race. His advice was if you think you should move up to a larger chain ring, don't do it. You should save your legs especially since I didn't have a tri-bike.
The bike section was good but then the heat started climbing up with severe cross and head winds that made it a struggle. The best part of the race was riding through the ancient villages, where children were shouting words of encouragement. I was saying thank you and hello in Chinese every time I could, which brings me to another observation.
The other riders just seemed to ride through the two villages with their heads down and not pay any notice to the local support. With the exception of a few, most of the Ironmen people I met were not exactly friendly. In fact, most were complete assholes. When I would run into them in the hotel they would just look you up and down to check out your fitness and whether you were really a competitor. I don't think I, my bike, or my helmet really measured up. If asked what other Ironmen events I had completed, there was always hesitation on their part and then some comment like, "Do you know what you're really getting into in this race?" Like I said, assholes. Chong, who had done a few, explained to me that this is was an important event in the Ironman world. Only 500 were doing this one and it would increase their chances to gain entrance to the famed Kona event if they could beat the competitors of their age group.
I took the Aussie's advice and didn't over do it on the bike, so I'd have some strength left in my legs for the marathon section. Maybe my lack of understanding this helped me, but little did I know what lay ahead after the cumulative hours of pushing myself. I felt good, even with the heat and humidity rising in the late afternoon. I assumed it would cool down, which it did. I did not realize the humidity would just keep climbing, but still the first eight miles went well and there was nothing to indicate the pain that would follow.
And did it follow! Now the pavement was hot and my feet absorbed the heat. I felt I was running across coals. I was soaked head to toe from my own sweat but at every aide station I was taking in more Gatorade and Gu gel. It wasn't long before my stomach felt like it couldn't take more of these super sweet energy supplements, but I needed the calories. My feet now were all blistered from the young, enthusiastic volunteers at the aide stations pouring cold water over me in their attempts to cool me down. Then the cramping of legs started, plus the cramping in my stomach which was telling me to eat real food.
My strategy was to walk to the aide station then run to save my legs. Every 15 minutes I had to stop and massage the cramps in my legs. My muscles felt like they were on fire. I could feel the pain all the way down to my core. I thought I could walk part of it, but looking at my watch I knew I would have to keep on running or else not make it by the 12 o'clock cut off time. The avenue was cleared of traffic and police stood at every corner. A pretty stoic group of people. The hardest part of the course was getting just to the outside of the finish line where the party was going on and hear everyone cheering for the finishers. There I was instructed to turn around and go back. Talk about the ultimate in rejection. An Aussie, next to me, said so too, "Oh Mate, this breaks my heart." We continued back to where we started. The night just got longer and longer and the pain was so intense at this point I just want to scream. I arrived at one aide station where I had a hard time standing, unless I was leaning against the table. A Chinese doctor pulled out warm saline fluid for me to drink.
As I turned at the loop with eight miles to go I had to keep telling myself to keep going. When I got closer to the finish, the last mile weaved through the older section of town. Thousands were out watching and it seemed like China town on steroids. A young college student named King who studied English and was a race official on a motor scooter took it upon himself to get me through the last five miles. He rode slowly next to me handing me Gatorade to drink and pouring water over my head. I felt like I was in a frying pan. I guess because of all the buildings, the humidity gets trapped so it also felt like the Amazon rain forest. King stayed with me and kept up his words of encouragement, "We can do this Jeff, keep going." I know I had to be polite but I was thinking, well, of course, you're on the stupid motor scooter and I can't even feel my feet or legs anymore. Even the stoic police were now verbalizing comments. I think all the observers on the streets, liked watching the winners going through but they also liked watching the ones that might not make it, sort of like a crash in Nascar auto racing. They were waiting for someone to crash and burn. Of course, the children buoyed my spirits running along with me. Well actually, walking fast at this point next to me. I can't even count how many times I was saying thank you, thank you.
The ending felt surreal, King told me between the two buildings was the bridge and the finish line. At 11:35 pm and 25 minutes before the cut off time, I arrived. They held up the ribbon for me at the finish line to go through. I don't have the words to describe how I felt. To go so deep within myself to keep fighting became a new place where I have never gone before. They grabbed my arms and then escorted me to the medical tent where a doctor examined me. He laid me down on a cot and stuck an IV needle in me. After about 30 minutes I could start moving again and it was finally over. Chong had told me at breakfast, "Enjoy the race and enjoy the pain." Now I know what he was talking about.
Looking at the results today, I assumed I was almost dead last, but I was at the top 60 percent of my age group. This made no sense to me. Looking closer, the ones after me did not finish, including 40 percent of the pros. So even though I felt like a turtle, I did make it. That put a grin on my face today.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Outrageous Drinks
Over the last month or so I've had some delicious drinks at the Justus Drugstore Store. Mixologist Chris Conatser is amazingly good. He majored in botany and this is why he is so fantastic at making drinks. He knows his herbs and he knows organic is the best way to go.
I'm ashamed that I once described one of Chris's drinks as just an infused vodka concoction. It was a blueberry infused vodka with orange and lemon juice, orange bitters, and sparkling water. The restaurant has many house infused liquors and homemade aromatic bitters.
I love the celery foam. I'm sure my brother would reprimand me but foams remind me of what a savory aerosol wiped cream in various favors would taste like — in this case celery. Chris made me an Applejack, St. Germaine Elderflower Liqueur, homemade dry vermouth drink with this celery foam. Forgive me because Rachael Ray annoys me but "Yum Oh". Another similar one to the previous and just as yummy, but with gin, Applejack, lemon juice, homemade grenadine and that delicious celery foam. Oh god what would I do without his and wife's restaurant here? Well, I wouldn't be here without my head in the oven.
I've just mentioned the cocktails, not the painstakingly picked wines that go with the entrees as if E-Harmony was involved.
There will be more on this later, in the meantime: www.drugstorerestaurant.com
I'm ashamed that I once described one of Chris's drinks as just an infused vodka concoction. It was a blueberry infused vodka with orange and lemon juice, orange bitters, and sparkling water. The restaurant has many house infused liquors and homemade aromatic bitters.
I love the celery foam. I'm sure my brother would reprimand me but foams remind me of what a savory aerosol wiped cream in various favors would taste like — in this case celery. Chris made me an Applejack, St. Germaine Elderflower Liqueur, homemade dry vermouth drink with this celery foam. Forgive me because Rachael Ray annoys me but "Yum Oh". Another similar one to the previous and just as yummy, but with gin, Applejack, lemon juice, homemade grenadine and that delicious celery foam. Oh god what would I do without his and wife's restaurant here? Well, I wouldn't be here without my head in the oven.
I've just mentioned the cocktails, not the painstakingly picked wines that go with the entrees as if E-Harmony was involved.
There will be more on this later, in the meantime: www.drugstorerestaurant.com
Friday, January 22, 2010
The Last Word
I had planned on going back to Turkey to see Emino. I knew I shouldn't. I knew it would make matters worse. But there was nothing else going on in my life. I knew Podunkville would be depressing and I would need a drug to make me feel better. That drug would be sex.
In the meantime, while looking for a college girlfriend I found one of my best friends instead. We had biked together. We hiked together. We went on trip together. We saw concerts together. We read the same books, shared the same views. I went to his wedding. Then I went to Asia for a year and he moved to another state. As I thought his marriage didn't last. I couldn't be happier and neither could he. We're making plans to stay together. Although at the moment he's on the coast and I'm in Podunkville. The obvious (sex) isn't happening, but to some people this doesn't seem to make a difference. I guess it's the thought that counts and the double standard.
Thanks to a little investigation through Facebook, Emino got wind of this. He emailed me from Indonesia. "I am fucking little girls. How do you like that?" There were more hurtful words that made me immediately take his name off Facebook and Yahoo Messenger. "Thank you, I thought, for making me see what an asshole you are!"
I guess he thought it was alright he fucked others, but not if I did. He could have ended this in a nice way, if he wasn't such a liar. He could have been honest in the beginning and not just with me. But I had the ace of spades. I had Jennifer phone number. When Emino was trying to get a visa to the States, Jennifer had written a letter in his behalf. Emino showed it to me and when he went to work I copied down her number. I figured it would come in handy some day.
I called her. As I've told you before, she knew nothing about me or any of the others. What I didn't know was that she was just there this past December. While I was there in November he had torn up a love letter Jennifer had given him and a picture of the two of them together. He had told me that I was the only woman in his life now. (Although, I still knew he would eventually marry a Kurdish virgin.)
But Jennifer was more shocked. She was shocked that I knew so much about him. I told her he was in Indonesia at the moment - a place she didn't want him to go. I told her I could send her intimate pictures and emails he sent me telling me how much he missed and loved me. She wished I had told her sooner. She said we should fly there together to confront him- remember she works for Delta. I like her, but I don't want to see him again.
After I got off the phone I emailed Emino and told him what I did. "Have a good life." He should have known better than to mess with a woman that has an imaginary machine gun."
In the meantime, while looking for a college girlfriend I found one of my best friends instead. We had biked together. We hiked together. We went on trip together. We saw concerts together. We read the same books, shared the same views. I went to his wedding. Then I went to Asia for a year and he moved to another state. As I thought his marriage didn't last. I couldn't be happier and neither could he. We're making plans to stay together. Although at the moment he's on the coast and I'm in Podunkville. The obvious (sex) isn't happening, but to some people this doesn't seem to make a difference. I guess it's the thought that counts and the double standard.
Thanks to a little investigation through Facebook, Emino got wind of this. He emailed me from Indonesia. "I am fucking little girls. How do you like that?" There were more hurtful words that made me immediately take his name off Facebook and Yahoo Messenger. "Thank you, I thought, for making me see what an asshole you are!"
I guess he thought it was alright he fucked others, but not if I did. He could have ended this in a nice way, if he wasn't such a liar. He could have been honest in the beginning and not just with me. But I had the ace of spades. I had Jennifer phone number. When Emino was trying to get a visa to the States, Jennifer had written a letter in his behalf. Emino showed it to me and when he went to work I copied down her number. I figured it would come in handy some day.
I called her. As I've told you before, she knew nothing about me or any of the others. What I didn't know was that she was just there this past December. While I was there in November he had torn up a love letter Jennifer had given him and a picture of the two of them together. He had told me that I was the only woman in his life now. (Although, I still knew he would eventually marry a Kurdish virgin.)
But Jennifer was more shocked. She was shocked that I knew so much about him. I told her he was in Indonesia at the moment - a place she didn't want him to go. I told her I could send her intimate pictures and emails he sent me telling me how much he missed and loved me. She wished I had told her sooner. She said we should fly there together to confront him- remember she works for Delta. I like her, but I don't want to see him again.
After I got off the phone I emailed Emino and told him what I did. "Have a good life." He should have known better than to mess with a woman that has an imaginary machine gun."
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Just Yachting
I thought I was the only one in Chau Doc, but after I walked out of the internet cafe I saw other travelers. I wasn't the only one. Not only was I not the only one, but there was a hotel in Chau Doc that charged over $100. I don’t know why anyone would stay there when for only $11 they could get an a/c room overlooking the market which was a constant source of amusement. I watched people put together their makeshift kitchens and then saw restaurants suddenly emerge. I even had HBO - not quite as entertaining as the market. I did end up having a Mai Tai for $5 at this hotel. This was my birthday present after riding the bike through villages surrounded by rice paddies and climbing Sam Mountain. My friend, David, told me it’s an acronym Surface to Air Missile.
The next morning I went to the bus station and took the worst bus I've taken so far on this trip. One of those buses where I felt filthy before we even left. As a foreigner I paid double for this luxury as the prices were blatantly displayed. Still I was in good spirits. All I had to do was imagine of a couple of my friends sitting on this same bus.
There were two seats on each side of the aisle, which actually sat three. I was lucky and had a cute young mother and her beautiful, doll like, daughter for seat mates. Everyone had brought their breakfast with them and the scrapes were dumped on the floor along kids' pee because they couldn't wait until we stopped. When we did stop for a toilet break it was another one of these cement platforms in the back of the cafe. There were no walls but, at least, there was a slight incline so you weren't totally splatter when you went. The bottom of my shoes and everyone else became wet. We tracked them back to the bus.
Arriving at the bus station in Ha Tien was like arriving anywhere, you're immediately met with a dozen of 'se om' drivers (motorcycle taxis). These drivers are not just for the foreigners but for all. Of course, foreigners are a prize because they can charge them more. They are shocked and happy to see me. Who's going to get the prize?
I fought my way through. I was going to walk across the bridge, I had read about, to the hotel where I wanted to stay. The bridge wasn't there. It collapsed four months ago. I found this out after walking through deep mud. There waiting for me to return was Cuong (same name, different person from up north). He won me over by asking me what I wanted to pay. Yes, he spoke English. He looked like a Vietnamese Tony Bourdain, which as you all know, was another plus.
I was most definitely the only traveler in Ha Tien that day and most days. Travelers going to Phu Quoc skip Ha Tien (which is off the main road and why I had to take a local bus) to take the speeder boats from Rach Gia.
Cuong caught up with me later for a motorbike ride. We rode around the countryside to see the cave where the Kymer Rouge slaughtered 130 Vietnamese and to some beautiful pagodas where Budhist monks still lived. Again, he asked me what I wanted to pay. This guy was sharp.
I enjoyed my afternoon with him and I trusted him, which was what he wanted. He asked me if I had a ticket to Phu Quoc Island. I didn't have a ticket yet, but I booked a reservation (no payment or credit card) from Rach Gia. "You don't need to go all the way to Rach Gia . You can take a hydrofoil from Ba Hon." I didn't believe him, but told him I'd think about it and would tell him tomorrow. In the meantime I asked around and every local told me not to take the boat from Ba Hon. Lonely Planet, my guide book, said the boats from Ha Tien (not far from Ba Hon) were not seaworthy, dodgy at best. It also said there were known pirates on that route. Well, as Cuong said, the boat wasn't leaving from Ha Tien. I was sure that made all the difference in the world - Not!
The next morning there was Cuong waiting four me. I told him I was not going to Ba Hon. He could take me to the bus station so I could go to Rach Gia. He still tried to convince me. "Cheaper/faster, all the Vietnamese tourists take this boat." Suddenly I changed my mind. What the hell. When have I listened before? It's not the first time I've ignored advice.
Lonely Planet also said the road from Chau Doc to Ha Tien has had reports of bandits, which was another reason travelers didn't come here. I took a chance coming here and now I was basically hitchhiking with over $500 in cash on the same stretch of road with someone I only trusted because of the Tony Bourdain similarity.
We pulled into Ba Hon 20k away from Ha Tien. It's a little fishing village where I expect very few and I mean very few foreigners have gone. Who could be as naïve, as stupid, as masochistic as me? Cuong showed me the boat. As I thought, it was a fishing boat and not a hydrofoil. It was a fishing boat that looked like it was carrying refuges - refuges and goats! So Cuong showed me the boat but I couldn't get on. I was sure the boat owner already had his limit of passengers - all of this was suspect. There were passengers packed on the boat already. The boat had to be checked out with the harbor patrol police before the boat owner could leave the harbor. He didn't want me on the boat, for sure, until after they had done this. Cuong then took me back towards Ha Tien. I didn't know what was going on or why I was going along with it!
We went to this small cafe off the side of the road and next to the water. There were a few other locals there and three motorcycles. I had to pay the woman at the cafe a price that was only slightly less than if I had taken the hydrofoil from Rach Gia. I knew I was being ripped off. I was only doing this for the adventure. I forked over the money. I already gave Cuong money for taking me here. I knew he's getting a cut. I told him that I hoped he was getting a big commission.
This little crew and three motorcycles (the boat already had two other motorcycles on it) go off - down and across a bamboo slotted bridge and on trail to an outrigger canoe. Someone else was getting a cut. Hidden in the mangrove we loaded up the three bikes and ourselves.
I'd been laughing up until now, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Now I looked at Cuong one last time. Tears were forming in my eyes. "I hope you're honest with me. I won't be hurt?" He turned and walked away.
The outrigger went out in the bay and waited. The fishing boat came after being cleared with the patrol. It was a chore loading the motorcycles onto the deck. We were finally off and I constantly scanned the water for places I could swim to. I was taking my money with me if I had to suddenly leave this boat. If I couldn't have it no one would. But before I even scanned the ocean I had to plug up my ears with my indispensable earplugs. The engine was deafening. No one talked, they just made motions.
I felt like a refuge. This was not a boat you could walk around on, play cards on a table or drink a beer. In the center of the deck were two low levels that you had to crawl into and sit. In this case, I was glad I was short. I could sit up straight. I sat next to the captain as did just about every one else who was on the upper level, because the space was so small.
You couldn't walk around on the deck unless you held onto something with dear life or you'd be thrown off the boat. Anyway, it was covered with the goats and the motorcycles that were tied down. The toilet was a hole in the deck that was surrounded with flimsy tarp. I couldn't imagine using it - trying to open the flapping tarp and go as the boat was rocking all over the place. I was too nervous to go, anyway.
Most of the time, I could see tiny islands and occasionally another lone fishing boat. The sky was blue but it was very windy. The waves were huge and at one point, of course, when there were no islands or other boats the crew looked extremely concerned as we were being tossed about. Anyone who was sleeping was now wide awake. Everyone was alert and rigid.
I was using two life jackets as pillows. There were five more hanging and tied up. I had difficulty untying the two. There were also two kid sized life preservers. That made nine. There were over 40 of us on the boat, not including the goats.
Well, we made it, but Cuong was definitely not honest on this one detail. It didn't take just three hours. It took six counting the skiff ride. About an hour before landing one of the crew members went around and collected the money. It seemed
awkward and tense as the other passengers doled over their money and nothing else was asked from me. I thought for sure he'd ask for more. I had to hand it to them they could have demanded it, but didn't.
It was so windy the boat had problems tying up on the long pier. All the 'se om' drivers were waiting on the pier. When one spotted me he jumped on. I ignored him. The boat was never closer than three feet from the pier. All these 'se om' drivers had their hands out to help me - to help themselves. I had to jump and push them away at the same time. I didn't stay to watch them unload the bikes and the goats. I don't how they did it. I charged through the sea of 'se oms' to get some air, though I knew I'd have to pick one.
I also knew where I wanted to go but the driver didn't want to go there. He wanted to go where he'd get a commission. When we finally got to where I wanted to go the driver demanded more money for taking me to those other places
I was exhausted and I'd had it with being taken advantage of. The room wasn't anywhere near as nice as what I'd been paying. This time I couldn't hold back, I started to cry.
I ordered a beer, put my swimsuit on, and dove in the ocean. After a few strokes I was in total bliss.
The next morning I went to the bus station and took the worst bus I've taken so far on this trip. One of those buses where I felt filthy before we even left. As a foreigner I paid double for this luxury as the prices were blatantly displayed. Still I was in good spirits. All I had to do was imagine of a couple of my friends sitting on this same bus.
There were two seats on each side of the aisle, which actually sat three. I was lucky and had a cute young mother and her beautiful, doll like, daughter for seat mates. Everyone had brought their breakfast with them and the scrapes were dumped on the floor along kids' pee because they couldn't wait until we stopped. When we did stop for a toilet break it was another one of these cement platforms in the back of the cafe. There were no walls but, at least, there was a slight incline so you weren't totally splatter when you went. The bottom of my shoes and everyone else became wet. We tracked them back to the bus.
Arriving at the bus station in Ha Tien was like arriving anywhere, you're immediately met with a dozen of 'se om' drivers (motorcycle taxis). These drivers are not just for the foreigners but for all. Of course, foreigners are a prize because they can charge them more. They are shocked and happy to see me. Who's going to get the prize?
I fought my way through. I was going to walk across the bridge, I had read about, to the hotel where I wanted to stay. The bridge wasn't there. It collapsed four months ago. I found this out after walking through deep mud. There waiting for me to return was Cuong (same name, different person from up north). He won me over by asking me what I wanted to pay. Yes, he spoke English. He looked like a Vietnamese Tony Bourdain, which as you all know, was another plus.
I was most definitely the only traveler in Ha Tien that day and most days. Travelers going to Phu Quoc skip Ha Tien (which is off the main road and why I had to take a local bus) to take the speeder boats from Rach Gia.
Cuong caught up with me later for a motorbike ride. We rode around the countryside to see the cave where the Kymer Rouge slaughtered 130 Vietnamese and to some beautiful pagodas where Budhist monks still lived. Again, he asked me what I wanted to pay. This guy was sharp.
I enjoyed my afternoon with him and I trusted him, which was what he wanted. He asked me if I had a ticket to Phu Quoc Island. I didn't have a ticket yet, but I booked a reservation (no payment or credit card) from Rach Gia. "You don't need to go all the way to Rach Gia . You can take a hydrofoil from Ba Hon." I didn't believe him, but told him I'd think about it and would tell him tomorrow. In the meantime I asked around and every local told me not to take the boat from Ba Hon. Lonely Planet, my guide book, said the boats from Ha Tien (not far from Ba Hon) were not seaworthy, dodgy at best. It also said there were known pirates on that route. Well, as Cuong said, the boat wasn't leaving from Ha Tien. I was sure that made all the difference in the world - Not!
The next morning there was Cuong waiting four me. I told him I was not going to Ba Hon. He could take me to the bus station so I could go to Rach Gia. He still tried to convince me. "Cheaper/faster, all the Vietnamese tourists take this boat." Suddenly I changed my mind. What the hell. When have I listened before? It's not the first time I've ignored advice.
Lonely Planet also said the road from Chau Doc to Ha Tien has had reports of bandits, which was another reason travelers didn't come here. I took a chance coming here and now I was basically hitchhiking with over $500 in cash on the same stretch of road with someone I only trusted because of the Tony Bourdain similarity.
We pulled into Ba Hon 20k away from Ha Tien. It's a little fishing village where I expect very few and I mean very few foreigners have gone. Who could be as naïve, as stupid, as masochistic as me? Cuong showed me the boat. As I thought, it was a fishing boat and not a hydrofoil. It was a fishing boat that looked like it was carrying refuges - refuges and goats! So Cuong showed me the boat but I couldn't get on. I was sure the boat owner already had his limit of passengers - all of this was suspect. There were passengers packed on the boat already. The boat had to be checked out with the harbor patrol police before the boat owner could leave the harbor. He didn't want me on the boat, for sure, until after they had done this. Cuong then took me back towards Ha Tien. I didn't know what was going on or why I was going along with it!
We went to this small cafe off the side of the road and next to the water. There were a few other locals there and three motorcycles. I had to pay the woman at the cafe a price that was only slightly less than if I had taken the hydrofoil from Rach Gia. I knew I was being ripped off. I was only doing this for the adventure. I forked over the money. I already gave Cuong money for taking me here. I knew he's getting a cut. I told him that I hoped he was getting a big commission.
This little crew and three motorcycles (the boat already had two other motorcycles on it) go off - down and across a bamboo slotted bridge and on trail to an outrigger canoe. Someone else was getting a cut. Hidden in the mangrove we loaded up the three bikes and ourselves.
I'd been laughing up until now, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Now I looked at Cuong one last time. Tears were forming in my eyes. "I hope you're honest with me. I won't be hurt?" He turned and walked away.
The outrigger went out in the bay and waited. The fishing boat came after being cleared with the patrol. It was a chore loading the motorcycles onto the deck. We were finally off and I constantly scanned the water for places I could swim to. I was taking my money with me if I had to suddenly leave this boat. If I couldn't have it no one would. But before I even scanned the ocean I had to plug up my ears with my indispensable earplugs. The engine was deafening. No one talked, they just made motions.
I felt like a refuge. This was not a boat you could walk around on, play cards on a table or drink a beer. In the center of the deck were two low levels that you had to crawl into and sit. In this case, I was glad I was short. I could sit up straight. I sat next to the captain as did just about every one else who was on the upper level, because the space was so small.
You couldn't walk around on the deck unless you held onto something with dear life or you'd be thrown off the boat. Anyway, it was covered with the goats and the motorcycles that were tied down. The toilet was a hole in the deck that was surrounded with flimsy tarp. I couldn't imagine using it - trying to open the flapping tarp and go as the boat was rocking all over the place. I was too nervous to go, anyway.
Most of the time, I could see tiny islands and occasionally another lone fishing boat. The sky was blue but it was very windy. The waves were huge and at one point, of course, when there were no islands or other boats the crew looked extremely concerned as we were being tossed about. Anyone who was sleeping was now wide awake. Everyone was alert and rigid.
I was using two life jackets as pillows. There were five more hanging and tied up. I had difficulty untying the two. There were also two kid sized life preservers. That made nine. There were over 40 of us on the boat, not including the goats.
Well, we made it, but Cuong was definitely not honest on this one detail. It didn't take just three hours. It took six counting the skiff ride. About an hour before landing one of the crew members went around and collected the money. It seemed
awkward and tense as the other passengers doled over their money and nothing else was asked from me. I thought for sure he'd ask for more. I had to hand it to them they could have demanded it, but didn't.
It was so windy the boat had problems tying up on the long pier. All the 'se om' drivers were waiting on the pier. When one spotted me he jumped on. I ignored him. The boat was never closer than three feet from the pier. All these 'se om' drivers had their hands out to help me - to help themselves. I had to jump and push them away at the same time. I didn't stay to watch them unload the bikes and the goats. I don't how they did it. I charged through the sea of 'se oms' to get some air, though I knew I'd have to pick one.
I also knew where I wanted to go but the driver didn't want to go there. He wanted to go where he'd get a commission. When we finally got to where I wanted to go the driver demanded more money for taking me to those other places
I was exhausted and I'd had it with being taken advantage of. The room wasn't anywhere near as nice as what I'd been paying. This time I couldn't hold back, I started to cry.
I ordered a beer, put my swimsuit on, and dove in the ocean. After a few strokes I was in total bliss.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Market Day in Sapa
Saturday's the big festival day here in Sapa: parade, sacrificial foods, kids dressed in traditional costumes, dragons, and a theater group to boot. It's a perfect time for me to get out of town! I high tail it down to Cat Cat village. It's not named for cats. I don't know the Vietnamese word for cats. Although I guess I should so I won't be eating it. I'm the only Westerner and practically the only person which suits me fine. It's scenic and that's all I care about: rice paddies and locals carrying loads of wood in baskets on their backs, swing bridges and waterfalls. A few hours later as I'm drudging up the hill back to Sapa I see a mini bus full of tourists getting out. Their tour leader is handing them water bottles and he gives me one as I pass: "Cam on!" Thank you, just what I needed!
I'm wearing jeans. Yes jeans. Do as I say and not as I do. Since I'm the inveterate traveler people assume I'm an expert and I should be. Do not, do not bring jeans I have said. Heavy, hot, can't be wash by hand, and take forever to dry. But I was packing for two trips: one that was much cooler, and I had a washer/dryer at my disposal. I wasn't that attached to these and I kept thinking I would dump them somewhere. But they've come in handy here in Sapa at 1500 meters. One thing you can say about jeans is that it takes a long time before they look dirty. My legs start itching before then and that's what they've been doing. In the old days (dumber days) I would wash everything by hand, usually with all the other local women down by the river or whatever other water source. Yes, I did my share of mucking up the environment.
Now I hand it over to someone else to do, which reminds me of Spain. I wanted this man at the laundry mat to wash all my stuff except my underwear. I ask him as I hold open my bag of panties, "Es posible tener un poco sopa? I thought I was asking for soap so I could wash my underwear myself. But I was asking him for soup. Could you put some soup in my bag of panties? It came to me pretty quickly when I saw the look on his face. I should have said jabon not sopa.
The next day is Sunday and it seems like all the tourists are loading up in the mini buses to go to the fabulous Bac Ha market. Guess where I'm going? Ta Phin. Again beautiful countryside: green jutting mountains, terraced land, lots of water buffalo with children riding them. The first person I meet is Ma Mai a pretty Red Dzao hill tribe woman. She speaks decent English and becomes my free guide taking me to places I really don't care about and to show my appreciation I buy something from her I really don't want.
My thrill for the day is the motor scooter ride back. I had planned on walking there and catching a scooter back. The scooter guys here remind me of the kids on Haight Street selling buds. Motor bike, motor bike, motor bike like they're selling drugs and of all the scooters I could've have taken I pick one that's already loaded down with a three foot wooden rack and a five gallon plastic container of gasoline. What was I thinking? I was thinking he was going to drop those off quickly and we'd be on our way to Sapa 17kms away. But no he's taking those to Sapa. He puts the gasoline container between his legs and holds the rack with his one hand. He doesn't trust me to hold it. The other hand he steers around the mountain curves, the bumps, the people, dogs and other scooters. I just scream "Hati Hati!" over and over again, which is Indonesian for "be careful". Of course, he doesn't know Indonesian but he didn't know English either. He pulled over three times to discuss nothing - just both of us talking excitedly. I thought it was about money but when we finally arrived back in Sapa he seemed happy about the $1.25 I gave him and I gather through his motions of patting his seat behind him and pointing to his mouth he opened and closed that he wanted to buy me lunch. I'm sure I passed up another golden opportunity of eating a cat.
I'm wearing jeans. Yes jeans. Do as I say and not as I do. Since I'm the inveterate traveler people assume I'm an expert and I should be. Do not, do not bring jeans I have said. Heavy, hot, can't be wash by hand, and take forever to dry. But I was packing for two trips: one that was much cooler, and I had a washer/dryer at my disposal. I wasn't that attached to these and I kept thinking I would dump them somewhere. But they've come in handy here in Sapa at 1500 meters. One thing you can say about jeans is that it takes a long time before they look dirty. My legs start itching before then and that's what they've been doing. In the old days (dumber days) I would wash everything by hand, usually with all the other local women down by the river or whatever other water source. Yes, I did my share of mucking up the environment.
Now I hand it over to someone else to do, which reminds me of Spain. I wanted this man at the laundry mat to wash all my stuff except my underwear. I ask him as I hold open my bag of panties, "Es posible tener un poco sopa? I thought I was asking for soap so I could wash my underwear myself. But I was asking him for soup. Could you put some soup in my bag of panties? It came to me pretty quickly when I saw the look on his face. I should have said jabon not sopa.
The next day is Sunday and it seems like all the tourists are loading up in the mini buses to go to the fabulous Bac Ha market. Guess where I'm going? Ta Phin. Again beautiful countryside: green jutting mountains, terraced land, lots of water buffalo with children riding them. The first person I meet is Ma Mai a pretty Red Dzao hill tribe woman. She speaks decent English and becomes my free guide taking me to places I really don't care about and to show my appreciation I buy something from her I really don't want.
My thrill for the day is the motor scooter ride back. I had planned on walking there and catching a scooter back. The scooter guys here remind me of the kids on Haight Street selling buds. Motor bike, motor bike, motor bike like they're selling drugs and of all the scooters I could've have taken I pick one that's already loaded down with a three foot wooden rack and a five gallon plastic container of gasoline. What was I thinking? I was thinking he was going to drop those off quickly and we'd be on our way to Sapa 17kms away. But no he's taking those to Sapa. He puts the gasoline container between his legs and holds the rack with his one hand. He doesn't trust me to hold it. The other hand he steers around the mountain curves, the bumps, the people, dogs and other scooters. I just scream "Hati Hati!" over and over again, which is Indonesian for "be careful". Of course, he doesn't know Indonesian but he didn't know English either. He pulled over three times to discuss nothing - just both of us talking excitedly. I thought it was about money but when we finally arrived back in Sapa he seemed happy about the $1.25 I gave him and I gather through his motions of patting his seat behind him and pointing to his mouth he opened and closed that he wanted to buy me lunch. I'm sure I passed up another golden opportunity of eating a cat.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Albania Border
It’s the 30 percent of pleasure, which seems like a 100 percent - that’s what makes me love travel. I can then forget about the 70 percent of torture. All I need for an attitude adjustment is a hike and in this case it was a hike up to this castle in Kotor. After that everything was fine.
Sometimes decisions are made for you. I had planned on going on down to Albania. I wanted to take the scenic southern coastal route but last year the border wasn't open there. Supposedly it was now. The northern route passed through an uninteresting city. But from that city I could make a choice: either I go to the mountains to the north or Albania to the south.
When I got to the bus station at 7 am the bus going the northern route to Podgorica was pulling up. A pit of a city, from what I heard, but the one with two choices. I was afraid to chance the southern route, so I hopped on.
A couple of hours later I was in Podgorica and the taxi drivers immediately swarmed around me, "Taxi, taxi, taxi" Even when I said no emphatically.
I asked the reservationist what time the bus to Durimtor, the national park, left.” In four hours”, he said.
"Taxi, taxi, taxi" the drivers kept calling. I don't want to be in this station for four hours and have to listen to that.
"What time does the bus to Albania leave?"
"There's no bus to Albania. You have to take a taxi to the border." I turned and a taxi driver with no teeth gave me a big grin.
"Aren't you happy? Well, not so quick buddy." I smirked.
The taxi ride to the border is 20 euros (about $23). I am not going to go to the border then have to take another Albanian taxi ride to the next closest town, if even.
Thinking is hard when I’m pressured. "What time does the bus to Niksic leave?"
"In five minutes." Niksic is a city on the way to Durmitor. I might have to wait for the same bus that will leave here in four hours, but at least I won't be surrounded by taxi drivers. I jump on.
About an hour later and not half way we are in Niksic. Brother, is this podunk! No one speaks English, although basically no one in Podgorica did either. Montenegro uses the Cyrillic alphabet, so I can't makes sense of any words.
I thought I would use the toilet. I don't mind the Indonesian squat style but this one was disgustingly dirty. Two Roma children sat out front wanting money to use it. I was not that desperate and if I was I'd go behind anything else. I scanned the area for a substitution.
In the restaurant no one knew what I was saying. Fortunately, my guide book had Durmitor written in Cyrillic so they knew where I wanted to go. There was a mini bus leaving in 15 minutes. Great! I wouldn't have to wait for the the bus coming from Podgorica.
Okay 15 minutes - I had time for a coffee. But every time I said anything the waiter held up a beer. No, I didn't want a beer. When I pointed to a man with coffee, the waiter still held up a beer. Finally, I got a coffee. It looked like mud and tasted worst.
"Aye Yi Yi!" I made a face "This will keep me up for a week!" I asked for sugar, and the waiter held up a beer. I made a face every time I took a sip and this was all very funny.
Then we were off. There were four passengers. On the way a few got on and a few got off. The driver also picked up a carton of cigarettes on the way. He kept looking at them. Amazingly, no one smoked. It was a very winding road. I wasn't sick but this time I had a plastic bag - just in case. On that last mountain trip, when I thought I might throw up, I didn't have one. I will not be without a plastic bag again.
I was fine but an old lady threw up. She had a plastic bag. She was mad at the driver because from what I gathered we were taking a detour and this road was rougher and had even more twists. Well, it was a detour. The driver stopped by the side of the road and gave this woman the carton of cigs. No money was exchanged. We went on and then this teenage kid threw up. He threw up right behind the driver and he had no plastic bag. I was glad I was sitting by the window and I got a lot of air.
At last we got to Durmitor. The mountains were just what I needed. I have so many pictures of mountains if you shuttled them I probably couldn't tell which one it was. After hiking for four days I was ready to leave.
I got a ride with two Norwegians, who had a rented car, to the larger town of Mojkovac. They would go south from there and I would get a direct bus to Nis, where I could see the remaining 58 of 982 Serbian heads that the Turks scalped and embedded in a monument. The Turks did this to show their victory two hundred years ago. (Oh those nice Turks!) Nis was also not far from the Bulgarian border. I was by passing Albanian for now.
Everything was fine until once we were in Mojkovac I learned that the bus to Nis would not leave for another four hours. It would take at least another five to get there. It was 2:30 then. I decided to stay in Mojkovac and take the bus that left the next morning at 9 am. But there was one problem. There were no hotels or private rooms in town. There was one hotel 4km away. The Norwegians drove me there.
If it weren't for them I would have stayed at that bus station and waited. I was so glad I didn't have to. I loved this hotel. Beautiful setting, great food – it was a place where the locals went for a special occasion, but really inexpensive for me. It cost me 10 euros for one of the best rooms I've ever had and I'm treated like a queen. I walked around the bucolic countryside and bought wild strawberries from some children. I was pretty happy.
The next morning an employee drove me to town to catch the bus to Nis. The bus route followed a canyon most of the way. It also followed the border of Kosovo, which I was not allowed to enter. The bus was stopped by Serbian police a couple of times. Other than that, it was a comfortable bus ride with few people. I sat on one side and then the other depending on the view, which was spectacular.
Sometimes decisions are made for you. I had planned on going on down to Albania. I wanted to take the scenic southern coastal route but last year the border wasn't open there. Supposedly it was now. The northern route passed through an uninteresting city. But from that city I could make a choice: either I go to the mountains to the north or Albania to the south.
When I got to the bus station at 7 am the bus going the northern route to Podgorica was pulling up. A pit of a city, from what I heard, but the one with two choices. I was afraid to chance the southern route, so I hopped on.
A couple of hours later I was in Podgorica and the taxi drivers immediately swarmed around me, "Taxi, taxi, taxi" Even when I said no emphatically.
I asked the reservationist what time the bus to Durimtor, the national park, left.” In four hours”, he said.
"Taxi, taxi, taxi" the drivers kept calling. I don't want to be in this station for four hours and have to listen to that.
"What time does the bus to Albania leave?"
"There's no bus to Albania. You have to take a taxi to the border." I turned and a taxi driver with no teeth gave me a big grin.
"Aren't you happy? Well, not so quick buddy." I smirked.
The taxi ride to the border is 20 euros (about $23). I am not going to go to the border then have to take another Albanian taxi ride to the next closest town, if even.
Thinking is hard when I’m pressured. "What time does the bus to Niksic leave?"
"In five minutes." Niksic is a city on the way to Durmitor. I might have to wait for the same bus that will leave here in four hours, but at least I won't be surrounded by taxi drivers. I jump on.
About an hour later and not half way we are in Niksic. Brother, is this podunk! No one speaks English, although basically no one in Podgorica did either. Montenegro uses the Cyrillic alphabet, so I can't makes sense of any words.
I thought I would use the toilet. I don't mind the Indonesian squat style but this one was disgustingly dirty. Two Roma children sat out front wanting money to use it. I was not that desperate and if I was I'd go behind anything else. I scanned the area for a substitution.
In the restaurant no one knew what I was saying. Fortunately, my guide book had Durmitor written in Cyrillic so they knew where I wanted to go. There was a mini bus leaving in 15 minutes. Great! I wouldn't have to wait for the the bus coming from Podgorica.
Okay 15 minutes - I had time for a coffee. But every time I said anything the waiter held up a beer. No, I didn't want a beer. When I pointed to a man with coffee, the waiter still held up a beer. Finally, I got a coffee. It looked like mud and tasted worst.
"Aye Yi Yi!" I made a face "This will keep me up for a week!" I asked for sugar, and the waiter held up a beer. I made a face every time I took a sip and this was all very funny.
Then we were off. There were four passengers. On the way a few got on and a few got off. The driver also picked up a carton of cigarettes on the way. He kept looking at them. Amazingly, no one smoked. It was a very winding road. I wasn't sick but this time I had a plastic bag - just in case. On that last mountain trip, when I thought I might throw up, I didn't have one. I will not be without a plastic bag again.
I was fine but an old lady threw up. She had a plastic bag. She was mad at the driver because from what I gathered we were taking a detour and this road was rougher and had even more twists. Well, it was a detour. The driver stopped by the side of the road and gave this woman the carton of cigs. No money was exchanged. We went on and then this teenage kid threw up. He threw up right behind the driver and he had no plastic bag. I was glad I was sitting by the window and I got a lot of air.
At last we got to Durmitor. The mountains were just what I needed. I have so many pictures of mountains if you shuttled them I probably couldn't tell which one it was. After hiking for four days I was ready to leave.
I got a ride with two Norwegians, who had a rented car, to the larger town of Mojkovac. They would go south from there and I would get a direct bus to Nis, where I could see the remaining 58 of 982 Serbian heads that the Turks scalped and embedded in a monument. The Turks did this to show their victory two hundred years ago. (Oh those nice Turks!) Nis was also not far from the Bulgarian border. I was by passing Albanian for now.
Everything was fine until once we were in Mojkovac I learned that the bus to Nis would not leave for another four hours. It would take at least another five to get there. It was 2:30 then. I decided to stay in Mojkovac and take the bus that left the next morning at 9 am. But there was one problem. There were no hotels or private rooms in town. There was one hotel 4km away. The Norwegians drove me there.
If it weren't for them I would have stayed at that bus station and waited. I was so glad I didn't have to. I loved this hotel. Beautiful setting, great food – it was a place where the locals went for a special occasion, but really inexpensive for me. It cost me 10 euros for one of the best rooms I've ever had and I'm treated like a queen. I walked around the bucolic countryside and bought wild strawberries from some children. I was pretty happy.
The next morning an employee drove me to town to catch the bus to Nis. The bus route followed a canyon most of the way. It also followed the border of Kosovo, which I was not allowed to enter. The bus was stopped by Serbian police a couple of times. Other than that, it was a comfortable bus ride with few people. I sat on one side and then the other depending on the view, which was spectacular.
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