A Year Around The World

Silky Smooth Seoul

wtarmstrong — Tue, 19 May 2015 19:05:00 GMT

I knelt before my Korean super toilet repeatedly vomiting with such violence that the blood vessels in the corner of my left eye burst open. How could it be, I thought to myself between retches, that my first significant case of food poisoning on this entire trip happened in perhaps the cleanest country I had visited?

Due to the fact that my preconceptions of the Korean Peninsula were largely shaped by M.A.S.H., South Korea initially didn’t even register as a blip on my travel planning Radar (O’Reilly). None of my Hawkeyed trip research ever focused on South Korea. To be Frank (Burns), it just didn’t seem like a tourist destination. Sure man (Potter), I’d known people who’d been to Korea for business or on military deployments, but not for pleasure. So how was it that I found myself Trapped in a John with my Hot Lips, spewing half digested Korean BBQ into a toilet that probably cost more than a used Hyundai? (...Hey, at least I didn’t attempt a B.J. pun).

The tragedy of the Nepalese earthquakes spawned my Korea travels. My original travel plans would have put me in Katmandu just a few days after the first devastating earthquake struck. I am extremely lucky not to have been there at the time, as at one point I unwittingly considered going to Nepal during the very period in which the first quake struck. The earthquakes also changed the travel plans of my good friends from Boston, Mark and Jim. They were supposed to be transiting through Nepal from Tibet at about the same time I was headed for Nepal. Given that we all ended up with holes in our travel itineraries, we decided that Seoul would make a convenient meet up location and we could travel together in Korea for a couple of weeks.

Not only did I get to see my friends, which was fantastic, but I could not have been more wrong about South Korea. The country offers fascinating cities, amazing outdoor activities, well preserved historical sights and clean beaches. All of these are connected by an excellent transportation infrastructure, highlighted by bullet trains that’ll whisk travelers across the small nation in just a few hours.

The best part of Korea is the people. They are extremely friendly, and most of them speak English. It’s one of the few places I’ve been where I don’t feel a bit sheepish admitting that I’m an American when people ask me where I’m from. Perhaps because South Koreans rely so heavily on American troops and American military technology to protect them from the monstrous regime across the 38th parallel, South Koreans seem to genuinely like the United States.

Koreans are also extremely clean, polished and tidy. Especially when it comes to skincare. It seems like every other store in Seoul is a lotion joint. The whole country smells like a Body Shop franchise. As a disturbing corollary, not coincidentally I'm sure, I read while I was in Korea that 20% of Korean women have have undergone plastic surgery (compared to less than 5% in the U.S.).

Furthermore, not to get off on one of my toilet rants again, but Korea really does have the best toilet technology I've seen thus far on the trip.

So, given its sanitary nature, it was pretty shocking that I got sick while in Korea. After an awful night, I seem to have recovered fairly well. As long as my flight out doesn’t go down over the Sea of Japan, my trip to Korea should have a happy ending.

Operation Koh Samui: The Futility of Travel

wtarmstrong — Wed, 29 Apr 2015 23:22:00 GMT

I left my house in Minnesota on December 6 of last year and have pretty much been on the road ever since. I have not set foot in my home country for 116 days, almost one third of a year.

I am currently in Koh Samui, an island in the Gulf of Thailand. I’m here alone for a quiet week at a yoga retreat center. Basically, you get up in the morning, do yoga on a pavilion overlooking a calm strip of beach, then eat some healthy food, do some more yoga, eat some more healthy food and then go to bed, or in my case watch episodes of Better Call Saul that I’ve downloaded to my Mac.

Knowing for some time that I had this comparatively slow eight days on my travel agenda, I anticipated writing a long blog post about all the things I’ve learned thus far during my travels. A list of the subtle nuances between the US and the nations I’ve visited. Entertaining, funny, maybe the sort of thing that gets passed around on the internet among other long term travelers.

I’ve decided not to do that. Instead, I’m going to focus on just one very important lesson that I’ve learned during the longest continuous period of travel I’ve experienced in my life; Travel Doesn’t Really Change You. At least, not in the way that people may lead you to believe. It certainly changes your location. It shakes up your routine a little. It exposes you to experiences that you’d never have at home and people who live nothing like you live. All these things are very positive, and I’d encourage just about anyone to broaden their horizons a bit and see what they can of the world. The world would be a more tolerant place if people were better traveled.

However, don’t set your expectations too high in terms of travel being transformative. You are not going to be a dramatically different person overseas than you are at home, and you are not going to come back from traveling, whether for two weeks or two years, as a completely different person than when you left.

If you are a worrier at home. You’re going to be a worrier when you’re gone and a worrier when you get back. If you are a planner at home, you’ll be a planner on your trip and a planner when you get back. If you’re always running around being active at home, or if you’re the opposite, a person who loves nothing more than to curl up on the couch with a book or TV remote, you’ll be doing those things when you’re away and when you get back. Travel won’t change your core personality, and it certainly won’t make you a better person.

This observation regarding travel’s lack of transformative prowess, isn’t coming from a person who is just four months in to one long long trip (and is perhaps a little homesick). Travel has been a passion of mine for as long as I can remember. My Dad travelled a lot for work when I was a kid. Perhaps it was the perceived exoticism of his trips that set my love of travel in motion. I can clearly remember looking at travel brochures for mountain gorilla trekking in Rwanda when I was about ten. I used to send off for those sort of things in the mail. When I was 16, my Dad took me with him on a business trip to New York City, and being from the midwest, I thought it was about the coolest place in the world.

When I was 18, I joined the Navy. I could have joined any branch of the military, but I specifically chose the Navy because it gave me the greatest opportunity to move around to different locations in the world (plus, as my Grandpa advised me, at least on a ship you have hot food and don’t have to sleep in a wet foxhole).

Like the recruiting posters advertise, I did see the world during my five years in the Navy, or at least a good portion of it. I was stationed in Italy for three years. I was lucky enough to be on a flagship devoted mainly to serving as a taxi service for a high ranking admiral. As a result, rather than going on six months cruises with two short port calls, we jumped from port to port across the Mediterranean and Black Sea, spending just a few days at sea before spending a few more days in places like Greek islands, Istanbul or the French Riviera. Plus, I got to spend about half my time actually living in a small Italian town.

By American standards, the Navy was pretty generous with vacation time. I got thirty days of leave each year, and sixty days during my last year in Italy as a bonus for extending my overseas tour. I took every day of that leave to travel in Europe. I went on multiple 30 day trips using Eurorail passes, took several shorter trips, and went to either Rome or the Naples area on just about every free weekend I had at my home port. Probably much to the detriment of my familial relationships, I never took any of my leave back at home in the states, not even for grandparent funerals. For three years, I never set foot in the U.S.

After the navy, prior to college, I traveled in in Australia, New Zealand and Bali for over three months, just after taking a multi-week road trip across the western US from Texas to Washington State. During college, I used every Spring and Summer break to travel as much as possible. I went to Alaska, the Caribbean, Central and South America. Before attending Law school, I traveled to South Africa. During law school I studied in London. After taking the bar exam, I went to Uganda, finally seeing those mountain gorillas. I spent my honeymoon in Tanzania. I spent my 40th birthday in Patagonia. By Trip Advisor’s count, I have now been to 57 countries.

I am blessed in so many ways to have done all this travel. I have sacrificed for it, definitely financially, probably career wise, and certainly relationship wise. I’ve never had a family of my own, although I wanted one. But I’ve been very lucky to have the time and money to travel like I have. It’s a passion, and I have been able to pursue it, along with photography, which is more than a lot of people can say about their passions.

However, to get back to my original point, travel hasn’t made that much of a difference. It hasn’t made me a more relaxed, more compassionate or even a happier person. For years, up to and including this trip, I thought that I could escape myself and my problems through travel. Rather than digging deep and fixing things that needed to be fixed inside of me, I just focused on the goal of the next destination, or in the past decade or so, the next photograph I could make.

People who know me well know that for years I’ve wanted to make major changes in the way I live my life. People who know me even a little bit well also know that I suffered a pretty significant personal tragedy in the past few years. A major impetus for the trip I’m on now was to put that tragedy behind me, to make those major changes, to reset, to build something new and significant. I wanted to transform as a person.

I’m well into the long journey now, both the physical journey I’m currently on, and the more metaphysical journey that is my life. I’m finally ready to confess that, as much as I wanted it to, travel hasn’t shaped me all that much.

I used to scoff at people who defined their success in life by perceived career success, by how much money they made, by how big their houses were. Yet, I have to admit, in large measure, I’ve defined myself through travel. I was the adventure guy. I was the guy who was always flying off somewhere exotic and seeing amazing things. Could I bag a hundred countries? Visit all seven continents? … Who cares? Gauging your life’s value by how many hours you spent in the office or how many stamps you have in your passport is pretty much the same thing. At the end of it all, the real measure of your life will be the kindness you showed to your family and friends, the respect and dignity with which you treated other living beings, the love you sent out into the world.

Lest you think I’ve come to this line thinking due to the influence of some crazy yoga guru, I haven’t. I’ve hardly been participating in the daily events here or talking to anyone for that matter. I spend almost all of my time alone just contemplating things, thinking about change, loss and rebuilding, and this blog post is where I have arrived.

So I guess the real questions I have for myself are: Have I been the best person I can be, and if not, has all the travel I’ve done helped my progress as a person? Perhaps I’m squandering the precious gift of time I have right now. Instead of traveling, should I stay put in one place, live a simple life and focus on rebuilding solely from within?

I’m sure now that the answer to the first question is no. There is plenty of room for growth in my life, from the way I have treated others to the way I treat myself. The answer to the second question is more difficult. I don’t really know if staying put would help. I’ve never really tried it.

****If you’ve been following my travel blog at all, I’d love to have your comments on this post specifically, either through the blog comment section, through email or through Facebook.***

KL and the state of Asian plumbing.

wtarmstrong — Mon, 20 Apr 2015 03:54:00 GMT

Greetings from glittering Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, or KL as everyone (including all the locals) seem to call it. For the geographically challenged, KL is the capital of Malaysia. The city’s most iconic feature is the Patronas Towers, which from 1998 to 2004 were the tallest buildings in the world, and which remain the largest twin towers standing on the planet. Hard core Sean Connery fans will recall that the Patronas Towers were heavily featured (along with some awe inspiring footage of Katherine Zeta Jones’ spandexed derriere) in the 1999 film Entrapment, the climax of which took place on the sky bridge which connects the two towers some 40 stories from the ground.

But enough about KL. Asian megalopolises like KL, Hong Kong, Singapore and Bangkok are all cites awash in massive shopping malls where a burgeoning Asian middle (and in many cases upper) class seems to shop ceaselessly. Much like big cities in the U.S., their commercialism has made them in many ways indistinguishable.

However, as long as I’ve already broached the subject of posteriors in this post, I’d like to discuss an issue that does distinguish American society from that in Asia. Namely toilets. Now, I’m not talking about the notorious squat toilets which I’m sure are still found all over many poorer areas of Asia, especially China. I think we can all agree that those tend to be repugnant. No. I’m talking about Asian “western style” toilets versus their American counterparts.

First, Asian toilets almost universally have two flusher buttons, one which dispenses a small amount of water for liquid deposits and one which dispenses a full flush for big deposits. Why don’t American toilets adopt that feature? It saves so much water, especially in places like draught ridden California. Second, almost every “western style” toilet I have seen in Asia has a specially designed spray hose taking the place of the nasty toilet brush. Why on earth would you want to scrub offending remains off a toilet bowl with an already soiled multi-use brush, when you could just wash it away with a full powered stream of clean water?

Finally, I know Americans tend to get squeamish and giggly at the thought of using a bidet, but that’s just an ass backward view in my opinion. As a very wise person I know once observed, “If you had poop on your hands, you would’t wipe it off using a dry napkin,” which is essentially what you’re doing when you’re cleaning with toilet paper alone. You need to be washing that stuff off with a solvent like water or soap, and that is exactly what a bidet is designed to do. Many Asian toilets have a bidet already built into them. After you do your duty and wipe up, you just give the area a quick rinse to finish the job.

Now, I’m not even talking about the Japanese and Korean Super toilets. Those things are in an entirely different league. They wash, dry, warm, play music, allow myriad flow adjustments, all sorts of bells and whistles. I’m just talking about the standard “western style” Asian toilet that I see almost every place I visit.

It’s time for America to get on the pot when it comes to personal sanitation standards. We can’t claim to be the cleanest, most technologically advanced nation on earth when we’re still shitting the way we do.

P.S. Check out my new Sri Lanka photos on my photography website www.billarmstrong.photography

Sri Lankan Spotted Fever

wtarmstrong — Wed, 15 Apr 2015 13:25:00 GMT

The safari jeep raced across the red clay track at a speed I would have thought impossible given the pitted, rutted, boulder littered road surface. Every teeth jarring bump we hit made my brick sized camera body with its foot long telephoto lens swing so wildly on its strap that I was sure it would crush my sternum, or worse, my crotch.

This frenzied dash had been initiated by a brief cell phone call received by my safari guide informing him that a leopard had been sighted in a different area by a different guide. Leopards are to Sri Lanka’s Yala National Park what lions are to the Serengeti, or Tigers are to parks in India. They are the apex predator of the eco system. The fabled King of the Jungle. Everyone who goes on safari in Yala wants to see them. The problem is that everyone can.

When I was a young boy, Easter Morning was always marked by an Easter basket hunt. As my brothers and I slept on Easter eve, my parents would stay up late hiding goody filled baskets in ingenious locations throughout our small suburban home. We’d find our baskets tucked into the back of jacket filled closets or hung high in the rafters of the garage. On one memorable Easter, I found my basket hidden in a basement hamper used to store logs for our wood burning fireplace.

I always loved this Easter tradition because you knew there was something awesome waiting for your discovery, but you didn’t know where it was or when you’d find it. Unlike Christmas where all you had to do was look under the tree, Easter required diligence, patience and exploration.

Perhaps this penchant for discovery is why I’ve always been so drawn to exploring the wilderness in hopes of seeing (and photographing) wildlife. Whether I’m hiking through Denali in Alaska, boating down an Amazonian tributary in Ecuador or taking a night drive in a South African game reserve, it’s all just one big treasure hunt. Incredible animals are there, but they are wild, and there is never a guarantee that you’ll see them. Yet with diligence, patience, a large amount of luck (and often a skilled guide) you just might just have a National Geographic moment.

Sadly, much of the safari magic I’ve described is missing from Yala National Park. The animals are definitely present. Elephants forage the plains. Sloth bears prowl the forests. Crocodiles and water buffalos bask in the wetlands. Leopards, not having to compete with bigger cats as they do in Africa and other parts of Asia, are large, confident and often highly visible. Like so many places, the problem with Yala is not the animals. It’s the people. The authorities put absolutely no limit on the number of vehicles that can enter the park on any given day. Consequently, hundreds of vehicles packed with tourists race around the publicly accessible portions of the park every single day, almost all of them are focused on leopards. Many of the so called “safari guides” who lead excursions to Yala have very little knowledge regarding the local wildlife and no particular skill at finding it. Many are just guys who own a jeep and a website. They drive their guests around the park looking for other vehicles that have spotted animals and then they stop at the same place.

Consequently, a jeep safari in Yala often turns out to be the game viewing equivalent of the classic movie It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. The only difference is that rather than Milton Berle, Ethel Merman, Buddy Hackett and Sid Caesar tearing around southern California in a race to find the “The Big W,” in Yala, it’s a cast of German Backpakers, Indian Honeymooners, Japanese tour groups and Sri Lankan extended families racing around southern Sri Lanka in hopes catching a glimpse of a big cat.

When news of a leopard sighting in the park spreads with the lightning speed of modern mobile technology, every jeep in the park heads for the sighting spot as fast as the bumpy roads will allow (and oftentimes faster than they will safely allow). Jeeps careen past each other in forward and reverse. Fender benders are common. Drivers yell and curse. Frustrated tourists shout at other tourists to get out of their way.

The reason that everyone moves so quickly is that they know that if they aren’t among the first jeeps to arrive at a sighting, they’ll be caught in the massive traffic jam of other vehicles all headed to the same location. At one point in Yala, my jeep was surrounded by no less than forty other jeeps all jockeying for position to watch a mother leopard and her three cubs swiftly cross the road. It was certainly not the unspoiled natural paradise of a BBC documentary. Worst of all, the animals people most yearn to see often suffer due to all the unfettered human intrusion. I read that several years ago one of Yala’s leopards died after being run over by a rampaging jeep.

Now, I realize that I am part of the problem. Just like everyone else, I am a tourist hoping to see these majestic creatures in the wild. Granted, I have invested more in camera equipment than most other tourists (using an iPad as your safari camera should be the first thing the park officials ban), and I do hold myself out as a bit nature photographer. However, my presence certainly adds to the overcrowding.

Additionally, I do understand that Sri Lanka is a poor country with a rapidly developing tourist infrastructure following a thirty year civil war. The environment here is just not going to be protected like it would be in much of the world. Nevertheless, I would argue that eco-tourism could be handled much better in Sri Lanka than it is. I have been to places in Africa that are much poorer than Sri Lanka but which have much better regulation of their national parks and reserves. I’ve been on safaris in Africa both on foot and in vehicles where I never saw a single other tourist the entire day. If they can do it in Uganda and Swaziland, among the poorest nations on earth, they should be able to do a better job in Sri Lanka.

I hope this post doesn’t give an overly negative impression of Sri Lanka. It’s a beautiful, diverse nation, that is in many ways much cleaner and better run than other nations I have visited in Asia. In fact, my frenzied trip to Yala was bookended by two extremely relaxed Sri Lankan locations, the beautiful beaches around Unawatuna and the amazingly serene highland tea plantations of the Nuwara Ellia region, both of which I would recommend without hesitation.

Sri Lanka is blessed with some of the most diverse and impressive ecosystems in Asia. It would be a shame to destroy them through mismanagement and unregulated exploitation.

The Dog Days of Bangkok

wtarmstrong — Thu, 9 Apr 2015 15:14:00 GMT

I don’t have a lot of insightful things say about Bangkok. Much like Singapore, it wasn’t a sightseeing stop. After weeks spent in Cambodia and Laos and with weeks in Sri Lanka on the immediate horizon, Bangkok was more of a catch your breath and get things done stop. Therefore, I won’t write about Bangkok right now, especially since I’ll be traveling more extensively in Thailand later in my trip.

Instead, I’m going to write about something a little different. I’ve been traveling for three months now. About half that time has been spent in Southeast Asia. I have observed many things, both strange and beautiful, during my stint in Asia, and I have really enjoyed being immersed in cultures so different from my own . That being said, there is no doubt that many of the memories I have formed during my travels will fade over time. As years pass, place names will be forgotten. One temple will blend into another. People I spent days with may never cross my mind again.

However, there is at least one memory I doubt I’ll forget. A few days ago, I saw a young dog that from a distance looked as though somebody had painted it bright pink. It was only when I drew closer that I realized that the poor creature was suffering from a massive skin infection that reddened his body, leaving only a few patches of scraggly fur.

The plight of stray dogs in this area of the world is heartbreaking. Stray dogs reside in almost almost every village, town and city. They are often semi-feral dogs living at the outskirts of human communities, eking out an existence by feeding on human garbage. They sleep in ditches and busy roads. The majority are wracked with diseases like fleas and worms. Many are injured through accidents or human abuse. They are never spayed or neutered, causing massive overpopulation.

You want to help these dogs, to pet them, hug them or at least scratch behind their ears, but you know you can’t because their rabies rates are so high. The World Health Organization estimates that there are more than 200 million stray dogs worldwide and that every year, 55,000 people die from rabies, mostly due to transmission from rabid dogs.

My best friend in the US recently adopted a shelter dog. When I see the pictures and hear about the joy that dog has brought to his life, it makes me think of how much dogs, and pets in general, contribute to the lives of humans. I know that many of the countries I have visited are extremely poor and that the welfare of animals falls low on the priority list when you’re trying to feed a family. However, we were responsible for domesticating these animals, and I think we owe them a dignified life, free of painful and debilitating deceases, which are often easily preventable.

There are some good nonprofit organizations tasked with protecting our pets. Besides the obvious ones like the Humane Society and the ASPCA, there are organizations like one in Bali called the Bali Animal Welfare Association (www.Bawa.com) that are dedicated to the eradication of rabies in developing nations. I would encourage all my readers to donate to these worthwhile organizations.

Laos After Dark

wtarmstrong — Tue, 31 Mar 2015 04:34:00 GMT

I’ve been mispronouncing Laos my entire life. It wasn’t until I started researching the country as a possible destination for this trip that I learned, it’s Laos like Cow, not Laos like Mouse. Turns out there were many things I didn’t know about Laos.

Sandwiched between Cambodia, Vietnam, China, Thailand and Myanmar, Laos is landlocked, poor, and compared to its neighbors, sparsely populated. It was once known as the “Land of a Million Elephants,” and although Lao’s wild elephants are now deeply threatened, as are the forests they occupy (thanks a lot China), elephants are still represented everywhere in Laotian culture. You can ride them, bathe them or take them home in the form of souvenir wood carvings. You can even buy paper made from bleached elephant dung. Having spent a few minutes riding one of these magnificent animals, I can tell you that such paper is an abundant natural resource.

I spent my week in Laos in and around the old capital city, Luang Prabang. Luang Prabang sits on a peninsula sandwiched between the fast flowing Mekong river and one of its tributaries, the Khan river. Rickety bamboo foot bridges span the rivers, leading from town to small villages where you can purchase locally made handicrafts. The bridges are temporary. They need to be replaced each year after the rainy season floods the Mekong and washes them away.

Luang Prabang is quiet and very clean by southeast Asian standards. You don’t have to worry about falling into massive sidewalk potholes or getting run down by rampaging mopeds. The architecture and cuisine have a distinctly French influence. Baguettes are as common as bowls of rice.

Gilded Temples and monasteries are everywhere in Luang Prabang. I’d guess that Buddhist monks make up a good ten percent of the city’s non-tourist population. Every day at sunrise, hundreds of orange robed monks (some as young as nine) process down the streets receiving alms consisting of sticky rice and other simple foods donated by the local population. It’s fascinating to observe such an ancient ritual in our technology driven age.

There is a strict 12 a.m. curfew in Luang Prabang. By midnight, shops need to be closed, locals need to be in their homes and tourists need to be in their hotels. I haven’t figured out whether this is done as a courtesy to sleep deprived tourists or whether it’s a sinister attempt to keep people from plotting an overthrow of the communist government.

Despite it’s many charms, Luang Prabang has some major food service issues. I don’t know if it’s due to the town’s French colonial past or the current Marxist regime, but restaurant service in Luang Prabang is about the worst I have ever experienced. With the notable exception of a few higher end eateries (kudos to L’Elephant and Tamarind), my dining experiences in Luang Prabang were universally disappointing. Incompetence, apathy and downright rudeness seem ingrained in much of the wait staff. At one place on the main street, our waitress spent the majority of her shift sitting glumly on a motor scooter out in front the the restaurant in full view of all the ignored diners. Almost every place I ate got the orders mixed up, and on more than one occasion, I saw stray dogs roaming freely into the kitchen.

Although my stomach left Laos frustrated, the rest of me was impressed by this small, little known nation.

Cambodia: The Sleeping Lotus

wtarmstrong — Tue, 24 Mar 2015 00:40:00 GMT

These things happened within 12 hours of my arrival in Cambodia: (1) I bribed an immigration official so that we could cut to the front of the long visa stamping line; (2) I went to a pizza restaurant that was out of pizza; (3) I saw a tourist in a grocery store buying baby formula for a begging local woman holding a limp baby (I later found out that this was a common local scam*); (5) There was a massive power outage cutting off power to the entire city, except for those businesses with generators - like the local Hard Rock Cafe; (4) I witnessed a flash mob of zombie dressed Cambodian teens being video taped by a MTV Japan film crew.

Welcome to Cambodia!

If you’re my age or older, when you think of Cambodia you probably think of all the tragedy visited upon the small Southeast Asian nation since the early 1970s. The country was carpet bombed by the U.S. Air Force during the Vietnam War in an attempt to cut off a supply line the North Vietnamese set up in Cambodia. The Khmer Rouge and their infamous leader Pol Pot subsequently took control of the country, and during a five year reign of terror, millions of innocent Cambodians were killed via starvation and outright murder. The entire population of the capital city was forcibly relocated to rural work camps. Money was outlawed. The educated were killed en masse, doctors, teachers, just about anyone who could read, was slaughtered by the Khmer Rouge. One quarter of the entire population died. After that, Vietnam invaded Cambodia, leading to a more than a decade of additional conflict and leaving Cambodia littered with countless land mines. Even today, despite years of mine clearing, children still lose limbs to land mines strewn in rice paddies.

Cambodia’s tragic recent past stands in stark contrast to its ancient glory. Between the 9th and 15th centuries, Cambodia boasted one of the world’s great civilizations, the Khmer empire. Its capital, Angkor, had a population of over a million at a time when London was a city of less than 50,000. The Khmer of that era built the majestic Temples of Angkor, which are widely considered the greatest collection of religious structures ever constructed.

My destination in Cambodia was Siem Reap, the epicenter of Cambodian tourism. Siem Reap is a small river town that serves as the the jumping off point for nearby Angkor Park, home to the Angkor Temples.** It is a dusty, dirty place, filled with emaciated cows and handsome people.

In Siem Reap, you can buy a one, three or seven day pass to Angkor Park. None of these time periods are really sufficient for an in-depth exploration of a park which encompasses a total area larger than Manhattan, but I figured a three day pass would do me just fine. Much more time than that and I’d be apt to get temple burnout. Besides, there are many things to do in the Siem Reap area other than exploring temples, things like visiting a floating village or getting an hour long foot massage for five dollars.

One of my favorite activities in Siem Reap was a guided walk through the village surrounding my hotel. The local villagers were impoverished but proud. They showed off their homes, rice fields public primary school and small medical clinic. One of the most interesting people I met on the tour was a 96 year old woman, the village’s oldest resident by far. Looking at her tiny frame and big eyes, I couldn’t help but think of all of the terrible tragedy she must have witnessed during her lifetime.

The lotus flower is a powerful symbol in Buddhist culture. You see lotus ponds fronting many Cambodian temples. Every night, the lotus recedes into the murky depths of a pond only to emerge and bloom the next day, pristine and beautiful. It’s easy to see why the Cambodians relate to the lotus. Cambodians are a kind and seemingly gentle people. They laugh and smile more than most people I have met. I wish them the best of luck. After the long, dark night they’ve endured, they deserve to bloom.

Footnotes:

*From what I’ve read, the scam works like this. A baby is drugged to look listless. Its mother and a store owner are in cahoots. Feeling sorry for the seemingly sick child, a guilt ridden tourist buys some formula from the store at a highly inflated price and gives it to the mother. The mother later returns the formula and splits the proceeds with the store owner. The formula is then resold, perhaps in the same manner to another unsuspecting tourist.

**People often erroneously refer to the entirety of Angkor Park as Angkor Wat. However, Angkor Wat is just one of many temples that make up Angkor Park. It’s the most famous one, but not the largest. That title is held by nearby Angkor Thom. Angkor Wat is famous because of it’s five massive towers, shaped like closed lotus flowers, which at sunrise reflect off the water of a small lake. Angkor Wat is also distinctive because it is a Hindu temple, in an area dominated but Buddhist Temples.

Singapore: A Vacation from My Vacation.

wtarmstrong — Mon, 16 Mar 2015 00:03:00 GMT

I’d love to tell you many interesting facts and anecdotes about Singapore, but I can’t. The stop in Singapore was not about Singapore, per se. It was about a break from Southeast Asian grit. Laundry. Shopping. Photo editing. Writing. Travel planning. Those were the reasons for the Singapore stop. Oh, and they also have some pretty spectacular food.

The only photo I took during five days in the city was an iPhone shot of a police notice board warning that there had been a bicycle theft in the neighborhood. I found it oddly quaint in a city of 5.5 million people.

I can tell you that Singapore is very clean, very safe, very modern and very efficient. I can hardly convey how nice it is to be able to brush my teeth using water from the sink.

Since this post doesn’t contain many words to read, why not put your eyes to work viewing photos instead? My Borneo photos are now posted on my photo website: www.billarmstrong.photography.

Sabah Safari

wtarmstrong — Fri, 13 Mar 2015 05:04:00 GMT

I am now the proud owner of a pair of emerald green “leech socks.” I’ll get back to those in a bit.

First, a little geography. Borneo is the world’s third largest island. Extra credit if you can name the two larger ones. (Hint: if one of your answers is Australia, you didn’t pay nearly enough attention in the fourth grade). The land mass of Borneo is divided among three nations: Indonesia, Malaysia and the tiny oil rich country of Brunei. I spent ten days on the Malaysian side of Borneo, specifically the Malaysian state of Sabah. Sabah occupies the northwestern tip of Borneo and is home to the highest mountain in Southeast Asia, Mount Kinabalu, which is a peak that tourists often climb. However, I didn't go to Sabah for mountaineering. I went to Sabah for the jungle.

The rainforest in Borneo is a 140 million years old, making it one of the oldest and most ecologically diverse rainforests on the planet. Eons of ripening have produced a thick green stew of towering trees, twisting vines, creeping fungi, uncountable insects, colorful birds and iconic animals. Since only 2007, at least 120 new species heretofore unknown to science have been discovered in Borneo’s rainforests.

Of course, just like most tropical ecosystems throughout the world, the Bornean jungles are severely threatened by humanity. Only relatively small patches of virgin forest remain unlogged, and massive palm oil plantations encroach relentlessly from all sides on even the most pristine areas.

On my travel priority list, I almost always put the wild locations first. Although I love urban areas, they are in no danger of disappearing forever. Ireland will still Ireland when I’m 90, and I’ll happily take a robot guided bus tour to visit Dublin then if I’m still alive. The sad truth is that places like the rainforests of Borneo with all its ecological treasures may very well be gone within a few decades; Hence, my great desire to see (and photograph) them now.

The unquestioned star of the Bornean jungle is the Orangutan, which in the local language means “person of the forest,” an apt name as they are about as close to a person as you’ll find in the animal kingdom. They share over 97% of our DNA and are thought to have an intelligence level equivalent to a four-year-old human child. If you can’t picture these amazing orange apes in your head, or get them confused with our other close relative, the chimpanzee, it may be helpful to think of their roles in various Hollywood films, including King Louie in the Disney version of the Jungle Book, or perhaps Clyde, Clint Eastwood’s sidekick in the 70’s classic Every Which Way But Loose (orits less successful sequel Any Which Way You Can). If you still can’t picture them, just take a look at my website www.billarmstrong.photography in a week or so, and you’ll see photos of the wild orangutans I was lucky enough to photograph in Borneo.

Besides seeing wild orangutans in the rainforest (and several semi-wild orphaned ones at a sanctuary), I saw many other primate specious including the bulbous-nosed proboscis monkey and the tiny, big-eyed Western Tarsier. I also viewed many non-primate species like crocodiles, huge monitor lizards, bearded pigs and amazing birds like the rhinoceros hornbill. One of my most memorable experiences in Sabah was seeing a young pygmy elephant and its mother munching grass by the side of the river. The entire trip was an incredible experience for an animal lover like myself.

Now back to the leech socks. One species that I saw in Borneo but didn’t really fall in love with was the jungle leech. These nasty little suckers hang on to grasses or short plants just waiting for a warm blooded creature to amble by. Much like ticks in the U.S., they will grasp on to your body, find a warm spot, and dig in to feast on your blood until they are engorged. Jungle leeches are crafty too. They can wriggle through the fabric of your boots, pants or regular socks and get to your skin as easily as if you were wearing shorts and flip-flops. That’s why, if you’re planning on trekking around the jungle, you need to buy a pair of leech socks. They are more tightly woven than regular socks. They come up almost to the kneecap and have a draw sting around the top for tight cinching. They seem to come in only white, red or green. In fact, with the addition of an appliqué Santa of Frosty, they’d actually make a pretty decent Christmas stocking.

I should be back in the states by Christmas this year. Maybe I’ll stuff a leech sock or two for my loved ones.

Bali By The Numbers

wtarmstrong — Wed, 4 Mar 2015 00:36:00 GMT

Think of a number between one and ten. Now multiple that number by nine. If the resultant number is a two-digit number, add the first and second digits together (for example, if the number is 72, you add the 7 to the 2 to come up with 9). Now subtract five from whatever number you got. Remember the number you ended up with. Then determine the letter of the alphabet that corresponds to the number you ended up with (example: 1=a, b=2, c=3, ect.). Think of a country that starts with that letter. Think of an animal that starts with the last letter of that country. Finally, think of a fruit that starts with the last letter of that animal.

Did you get an Orange Kangaroo from Denmark? Chances are you did. 98% percent of people do.

I was in junior high when I learned that particular “mind reading” trick, and I thought it was pretty clever at the time. In the week I just spent in Bali, I learned a similar trick.

Just like above, think of another a number between one and ten. Now multiple that number by nine. Just like the above, if the resultant number is a two-digit number, add the first and second digits together. Now subtract five from that number. Now think of the birth order associated with that number (1=1st born, 2=2nd born, ect.) Now think of a baby name, boy or girl.

Did you get a fourth born child named Ketut? If you’re Balinese you did. You had to. Boy or girl, the fourth born chid in a Balinese family is always named Ketut. Since the Balinese tend to have rather large families, there are a lot of Ketuts running around (or more likely riding mopeds around) the streets of Bali. What’s even more fascinating is that the fifth born child always shares the name of the first born child. So you have four children all with set names, and then you start all over again at the beginning.

Of course the mystical island of Bali has a lot more to offer than just odd naming practices. It’s an anomaly in its nation. Indonesia is the most populous Muslim nation on earth (250 million people and counting), but 90% of Bali’s four million inhabitants are Hindu. There are Hindu temples everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Every street corner, household, hotel and rice field seems to have its own temple, and these temples aren’t just ignored relics from a bygone era. Every day, fresh offerings of rice, incense and flowers are brought to the temples by the Balinese people.

Bali has beaches, monkey forests, magnificent rice terraces…. and hordes of Chinese package tourists. I’ve never seen so many Chinese outside of China, and every single one of them seems to be armed with a “selfie stick” for taking endless self portraits in front of everything from palaces to public toilets. If you’re a luddite like me, you may not be familiar with the term “selfie stick.” I wasn’t until this trip. It’s basically a telescoping little pole with a hand grip on one end and something to hold your cell phone (aka camera) on the other end. It extends your reach slightly when you take photos with your phone. Seeing a sea of them directly in your line of vision as you try to watch a traditional Balinese dance performance really enhances the experience.

We spent four nights in Seminyak, the slightly more upscale beach area on the southern part of the island. The hotel was a tranquil oasis in the hubbub of the traffic choked city. The spa at the hotel was amazing, and we took full advantage of it. Massages are very cheap, and very good, in Bali.

The next five nights we stayed just outside the town of Ubud, an amazing little hamlet surrounded by rice paddies that is slowly being strangled by day tourists on tour buses. For my yogi friends, I highly recommend Ubud as a place to deepen your practice, especially the amazing Yoga Barn, which provides excellent instruction, several types of classes and other mindfulness based offerings throughout the day and early evening. They also have a great cafe. One evening, I attended a program at the Yoga Barn called “Sound Medicine,” which was basically a concert performed by four amazingly talented musicians playing a multitude of instruments from around the world, everything from a Senegalese guitar to Tibetan bowls. The best thing about it was that there wasn’t a selfie stick in site. Although, I’d hazard to guess there were some Ketuts in attendance.

Valentine’s Day 2015: Death March of the Penguins

wtarmstrong — Mon, 16 Feb 2015 22:24:00 GMT

In what I hope doesn’t become a habit, I feel compelled to write a second consecutive travel blog entry discussing insects. However, unlike the much adored glow worms (or more accurately glow maggots) discussed in my post of a few days ago, today I turn my attention to the most hated insect New Zealand has to offer, the dreaded sand fly. For those of you unfamiliar with this little monster, first think of a mosquito. Then, make the mosquito small enough to be nearly invisible and take away any buzz that could potentially warn you of its presence. Make its initial bite five times as painful as a mosquito bite, and finally, make the itch last at least twice as long. Now you know the sand fly.

I have had many encounters with sand flies during my five weeks on the south island of New Zealand. I’ve been attacked from the golden sands of Able Tasman to the breezy shores of Lake Wanaka and beyond. Knowing this, you might wonder why we decided to spend Valentine’s Day in a place named Sand Fly Bay.

The answer is, of course, Penguins. Yes, penguins. Perennial winners of the world’s cutest bird contest, and heroes of countless animated programs. Even people who could care less about birds or animals seem to love penguins. And the penguins that inhabit Sand Fly Bay aren’t just any old penguins. They are Yellow Eyed Penguins, one of the most endangered penguin species. Six or so pairs of these rare birds have made their nests high on the steep bluffs of Sand Fly Bay on New Zealand’s Otago Peninsula. If you venture there at the right time and you’re very lucky, you can catch a glimpse of one, and if you’re even more lucky and a photographer like me, who loves photographing wildlife, you might even get a decent photo of one.

Unfortunately, the people who made the map we used to navigate across the Otago Peninsula to Sand Fly Bay, didn’t accurately portray that there are actually two roads that access the area. The first one leads to a trail that will get you down to the beach in five minutes. The second one dumps you at a distant parking lot that requires a multi-kilometer foot slog down a series of steep sand dunes in order to reach the beach. Guess, which one we ended up at? To make matters even worse, because we mistakenly thought we were at the five minute trail, we didn’t bring any water with us. As I skidded down the extremely steep hills of soft sand for over 40 minutes on the way down to the beach, the thought crossed my mind that the march back up was going to be killer, but the allure of the penguins drove me on. Did I get my sought after penguin photograph? You’ll have to check my photo website www.billarmstrong.photography in a few days, after I’ve posted my New Zealand photos, in order to answer that question.

I will tell you that I was right about the walk back up to the car. It was brutal. My hiking boots, which themselves were filled with sand, could find absolutely no purchase on the steep dunes.

For every step I took up the powdery slope, I slipped back half the length of the step. My quads, glutes and hamstrings burned as I struggled upward. My Achilles tendons felt as though they might snap from the awkward pitch of my feet on the loose sand. The great effort made me gasp for air, air which was filled with sand grains from the stiff wind blowing in my face and making the walk all the more difficult. I was so tired and thirsty that I thought I might just drop right there and let the shifting sands entomb me. Using my tripod as a makeshift hiking poll, I finally made it back to the car. By the time I guzzled some water and caught my breath, I realized that I hand’t been bitten by a single sand fly.

Glow Maggots

wtarmstrong — Fri, 13 Feb 2015 07:31:00 GMT

Fun Fact: The Kiwifruit was originally known as the Chinese Gooseberry. It originated in northern China, not New Zealand. In fact, New Zealand isn’t even the world’s top producer of Kiwifruit. That title goes to Italy. The name Kiwifruit was adopted as a marketing ploy by a California fruit importer in the late 1940’s in order to make the fruit sound more palatable to consumers unfamiliar with the furry brown nugget. A similar marketing strategy was employed for Chilean Sea Bass, which was originally named Patagonian Toothfish, and another Red Lobster standby, Orange Roughy, which was originally known as Slimehead.

I bring all of this up because yesterday evening I took a boat across Lake Te Anau to visit the world famous Te Anau Glow Worm Cave. Glow worms are impressive creatures. They latch themselves onto the ceilings of tunnels and caverns, illuminating the otherwise lightless interiors with a form of phosphorescent goo. The glow put off by the goo attracts small insects who get trapped in sticky snare lines also produced by the worms. The worms then consume the hapless bugs. Of course none of the stickiness, death and consumption is actually visible when you visit the caves. To the humans below them, the glowing spots appear as soft green stars dappled across an ink black sky. It’s really a beautiful site and well worth seeing if you’re ever in this part of the world.

However, the glow worms do have a sneaky little secret. They are not worms at all. In fact, they are actually the larval stage of a species of fly. And what do we commonly call larval flies? No. Not fly babies and certainly not worms. We call them Maggots. Those wriggly white disgusting little grubs that feast on all things rotting, from garbage to human flesh. So Glow Worms are really Glow Maggots. Now, Glow Maggots just don’t have the same cutesy appeal of Glow Worms, and I can only guess that at some point some marketing guru figured out that a cute name meant more tourists and more money.

Prior to the Glow Worm cruise, we’d spent about a week in the magnificent area stretching between Queenstown and Fjordland National Park. I’d hiked portions or the amazing Milford track and the impressive Kepler track. For all of you Lord of the Rings Fans (of which I cannot count myself one), we stumbled upon several filming locations from the epic trilogy.

I’ve now reached my final week in New Zealand. As I write this, I’m on the Otago Peninsula near the southeast coastal city of Dunedin. During the next few days I hope to see some of the stunning sea area life this region have to offer, including penguins, seals and albatrosses. I don’t know for sure, but I do suspect that the mighty albatross might also be benefitting from a marketing name. Albatross certainly sounds far more majestic than “extremely large Seagull,” which is all that Albatross truly is.

Middle Age in Middle Earth.

wtarmstrong — Thu, 5 Feb 2015 22:03:00 GMT

I consider myself a youngish 44. I’m not saying I look any younger than I am. Possibly the opposite. But in spirit….I feel younger, or at least act younger than many people my age. I like hanging out with younger people. I’ll get up on an improv stage and run around like an imbecile to elicit a laugh. I’ll get down in the dirt to play with kids or pets. I’ll say inappropriate things. I’ll eat inappropriate foods (e.g. pop tarts slathered with peanut butter). I enjoy staying up late and getting up late. I don’t golf. I could happily live the rest of my life without attending another wine tasting.

Despite, my self-ascribed youthful demeanor, I am simply too old for some things. For instance, I can’t stay up drinking and clubbing until 4am anymore (not that I ever really did much of that). I can’t sleep in dorms at a backpackers. In fact, I can hardly sleep at all if I don’t have a decent mattress and pillows. I can’t see the menu in dark restaurants without reading glasses. I can’t stay on top of every internet meme or new app. I loath selfies and most pop music.

For those of your who don’t know, I visited New Zealand before, about twenty years ago. During that trip, I engaged in several of the adventurous activities for which New Zealand is known. I repelled into a cave and hiked an underground river. I white water rafted over a 7 meter waterfall. I bathed in hot mud pools.

Given my greying hair, stiffening joints and well formed sense of my own mortality, I questioned whether I’d be willing or able to tackle such adventurous pursuits this time around. Well, I’m happy to report that I am, and that I’ve lived to tell the tale.

Two of the greatest highlights of the trip so far occurred in the past few days, and they were both quintessentially New Zealand extreme. First, I went canyoning. Not familiar with that particular sport? It basically involves traveling down a raging, narrow river by any means necessary. You repel (or “abseil” as the call it here) down waterfalls. Zip line across gorges. Cliff jump. Water slide, and essentially just have the best time you can have in a wetsuit and helmet. Second, I took a three hour helicopter flight across the Southern Alps, with the door taken off the helicopter so that I could shoot clear photos of all the spectacular scenery between Mount Aspiring National Park and Milford Sound. It was truly one of the most breathtaking things I have ever done. We zoomed over countless waterfalls pouring out of massive blue glaciers. We landed at a pristine alpine lake, a sprawling mountaintop snowfield and an isolated beach swarming with baby seals. It would take days if not weeks to drive, hike, climb and swim into all of these places, but thanks to the magic of the whirlybird, I was able to access them all in the span of an afternoon.

I’m very blessed to have the time, resources and (even at 44) the physical ability to do such amazing things.

The Death of Betty White

wtarmstrong — Sat, 24 Jan 2015 09:25:00 GMT

I’ve always thought that American auto makers benefit greatly from American rental car companies. I’ve never known anyone who actually owns a Chevrolet Sonic or Buick Verano (I don’t think such models even merit TV commercials). Yet rent a car from a company like Budget or Dollar, and you’ll more than likely be tooling around town in one of these generic, ultra-unhip, American made sedans.

Despite its blandness, the American rental car fleet tends to be low milage and in decent shape. I don’t think I’ve ever rented a car in the U.S. with more than 20,000 miles on it. Such is not the case in New Zealand, at least for cars that cost $25 per day. The car we rented in Christchurch looked like the type of car you’d buy a 16-year-old boy so you’d no longer have to chauffeur him to band practice and his part-time job at Sbarrro, a shabby little boxy hatchback with tiny tires, a broken gas cap, and (as we’d learn several hours into the road trip) a radio that constantly cycled through the stations without ever stopping on any. Due to the 162,000km on her odometer (that’s 101,000 miles to the metrically challenged) and her dirty eggshell like paint job, we immediately dubbed the car “Betty White.” We hoped that like her namesake, our Betty White would be old but strong, at least strong enough to get us around the south island of New Zealand for five weeks.

Alas, our hopes for Betty were not to be realized. As I write this, I am waiting for Betty to be towed back to Christchurch and for a “new” rental car to be delivered. Betty no longer goes in reverse at all, and even when moving forward, she skips gears nearly as often as she skips radio stations.

Though, I am happy to report that New Zealand hasn’t been all busted ankles and blown transmissions. It’s actually been everything I’d hope New Zealand could be, amazing landscapes and friendly people. In a week’s time, we hiked in three National Parks (Abel Tasman, Kahurangi and Nelson Lakes) and swam with Dolphins. Where else can you do that?

So long Betty. You won’t be missed. I just hope your replacement fairs better than Rue McClanahan.

Photos: trip

wtarmstrong — Mon, 19 Jan 2015 16:48:00 GMT

Stumbling Across the Banks Peninsula

wtarmstrong — Sun, 18 Jan 2015 22:15:00 GMT

There is a great scene at the end of the movie Charlie Wilson’s War in which a grizzled CIA agent played Phillip Seymour Hoffman (who was certainly one of the greatest actors of my generation and died way too soon) tells a story about unintended consequences:

There's a little boy and on his 14th birthday he gets a horse... and everybody in the village says, "how wonderful. The boy got a horse.” And the Zen master says, "We'll see." Two years later, the boy falls off the horse, breaks his leg, and everyone in the village says, "How terrible." And the Zen master says, "We'll see." Then, a war breaks out and all the young men have to go off and fight... except the boy can't, because his leg's all messed up. And everybody in the village says, "How wonderful….And the Zen master says, 'We'll see…..”

Travel often unfolds in a similar manner.

On Wednesday we arrived on the south island of New Zealand after a four hour flight from the Cooks. By Friday, I had suffered my first major mishap of the trip, a severely sprained ankle. After spending our arrival night in a Christchurch airport motel, we drove down to the picturesque Banks Peninsula on Thursday morning. There, we stayed at a bed and breakfast located on a working sheep and cattle farm. On Friday morning, the charming couple who ran the farm conducted a mini-tour of the property which included a sheep sheering demonstration and the opportunity for guests to watch as one of the sheep dogs rounded up a flock of sheep and expertly steered it back to the farmer. Following the farm demonstration, we booked an evening tour to see a large penguin colony located on one of the peninsula’s many bays. I was really looking forward to the penguin tour as I hoped it would provide some excellent photo opportunities.

Since we had the afternoon free prior to the penguin tour, we decided to go on a short hike in a nature preserve near the farm. The preserve’s trails were wide, well manicured and relatively flat. Compared to many other hikes I’d done over the years, the one we picked was just a stroll, a way to get a little exercise and take in the views. Not a quarter mile into the hike, while distracted by one such view, I stepped wrong and felt my right ankle fold awkwardly outward. Scorching pain shot through me as I tumbled to the ground clutching my lower leg. For the first minute or so I couldn’t stand under my own power and thought for sure I’d broken something.

I was crushed. I feared that all the outdoor activities I’d looked forward to would have to be cancelled and that perhaps the trip itself might be in jeopardy. Luckily, that now doesn’t appear to be the case. The ankle is still very tender and swollen, but there doesn’t appear to be any trip altering damage. My best uneducated guess is that when I twisted it the ankle joint popped out of its socket and then popped right back in.

Despite the fact that no bones were (apparently) broken, we decided that we’d have to cancel the penguin tour for that evening. I was limping too badly to take it on. That was pretty disappointing, as I love seeing and photographing wildlife, and I’d never seen this species of penguin before.

Our penguin encounter rendered flightless, we decided to drive around the peninsula with my foot elevated on the dash board in an attempt to minimize swelling. While we drove, I mentally lashed myself for hurting myself in such a stupid way.

On a whim, we decided to take a side road to Le Bon Bay, a small inlet that didn’t even merit a full sentence in my Lonely Planet guide. It turned out to be a fortuitous whim. Not only was was bay extremely beautiful and filled with interesting shore birds, we also had it almost to ourselves. Near the bay sat a small cemetery dotted with the lonely graves of early settlers, a perfect place for moody photos, and a perfect reminder of how fortunate I am to be living a life where I can travel the world rather than to be struggling daily simply to avoid being crushed by it’s cruel whims. During our drive back to the farm, as the sun began to set, a full rainbow appeared over the coast, the entire arch clearly visible in the fading golden light of the day.

It turned out that hurting my ankle maybe wasn't such a terrible thing after all. We’ll see……..

They Don’t Play Hockey on Aitutaki (at least as far as I know).

wtarmstrong — Mon, 12 Jan 2015 14:06:00 GMT

I’m a fairly assiduous travel researcher. Prior to a trip, I digest guidebooks, read Trip Advisor reviews and Google images of the destination. As people I’ve travelled with would tell you, part of the reason I do this is that I’m a bit of a travel control freak. I want to know what I’ll be doing and seeing before I go. I’ve never felt comfortable with just just winging it. I’m too afraid that I’ll miss something. Yet, despite my best efforts, the vision of a place I develop through research very seldom matches the reality of a place. Destinations are almost always different than I expected. Sometimes they are far better, sometimes they are far worse, but they almost never match my preconceptions.

I’m happy to report that Aitutaki is an exception to this rule. When I researched Aitutaki, I developed a notion in my mind of an unspoiled island of swaying coconut trees, deserted beaches and a mind blowing blue lagoon. A dot of pristine beauty in an unending sea. An uncommercialized island haven, where the pace is slow, safe and relaxing. Aitutaki is exactly that.

Just a 45 minute prop plane flight from Rarotonga (right next door by Pacific Ocean standards), Aitutaki is like Raro’s younger, prettier (albeit less refined) little sister. Aitutaki’s massive lagoon, fringed with a dozen sandy islands is the envy of this part of the Pacific. We spent the better part of a day exploring the lagoon and its mini-islands via small boat, a real highlight of the trip thus far.

Aitutaki has a population of roughy 1,800. That’s down about 600 people from the census taken about ten years ago. Residents apparently flee Aitutaki (and the rest of the Cooks) for economic opportunities in New Zealand and Australia. Leaving paradise for jobs. It’s a tale told again and again in the developing world. It’s understandable but also sad.

There are no big resorts in Aitutaki. No international franchises. No t-shirt shops. No night life to speak of. In fact, there are few shops to even buy groceries. Which is why I found myself biking several kilometers in the rain just to buy a bottle of hot sauce, only to drop and shatter it within seconds of getting it back to my hotel room. A small price to pay to visit a truly unspoiled place that matches your expectations.

One final note, I’ve gathered some decent photos in the Cooks, but the internet connection here is too slow to upload anything. Keep checking back to my photography website: www.billarmstrong.photography. I’ll get some images up when I have a (hopefully) faster internet connection in New Zealand.

First Stop: Rarotonga

wtarmstrong — Wed, 7 Jan 2015 19:39:00 GMT

Among the first things I noticed upon my arrival in Rarotonga was the abundance of graves. Almost every property we passed on the way from the airport to the hotel contained at least one tombstone. Although many of the graves were clearly quite old, all of them seemed well cared for. Most were painted a gleaming white. Keeping the graves in such pristine condition in the scorching tropical sun must have been a chore, and most likely indicated that citizens of this sparsely populated pacific nation cared deeply for their dead. Either that, or they didn't really have much else to do with their time other than eat. For the other thing that was obvious during our airport transfer was that people here were big. Very big. Think about the line that forms at any given state fair corn dog booth and multiply their girth by power of your average Chili’s crowd. That’ll give you some idea of the obesity crisis in Rarotonga.

The main road that encircles the island is dotted with public service billboards drawing attention the the dangers of diabetes, and I have to say that this seems a far better way to address the obesity epidemic than the American solution, namely, to canvas the country with fast food joints.

But I digress. Back to the graves. According to the airport transfer driver, Cook Islands’ law requires that the dead be buried on their own land rather than in public cemeteries. When I asked what people did if they didn’t own any land, the driver said that people had to lease grave sites from land owners. If the grave lease term ends and the families can’t pay for a lease renewal, the bodies would exhumed. She didn’t elaborate on what happened to the remains at that point. Burial at sea seems like the most likely option.

There is a lot of sea in the Cooks. The nation itself covers an area roughly the size of western Europe. However, about 99% of that area is water. This vast expanse of Pacific Ocean contains only fifteen islands comprising a total land area of less than 16,000 hectares (Side note: I think a hectare is equivalent to couple of acres but I don’t know for sure and the internet connection at my hotel is too slow for me to Google it; My Dad would know). The islands range in population from roughly 20,000 on the main island of Rarotonga to a population of one, presumably lonely soul, on the island of Suwarrow. There are also a couple of uninhabited islands.

From the small slice I’ve seen thus far, the islands are postcard beautiful. Soft white sand beaches. Jungle covered peaks. Bathtub warm lagoons. The colors here are amazingly vibrant. Lush greens and glowing blues. The thick air is sweet with the smell of flowers and the ocean breeze sings in your ears day and night. The hamlet of Muri, where my hotel is located, faces four small islets which you can almost walk to due to the shallowness of the lagoon.

It’s touristy here, but not overwhelmingly so. The prices of goods and lodging are high and selections, especially for food, are slim, which isn’t at all surprising given the difficulty of transporting things to one of the most isolated nations on earth. However, fresh caught fish is a great deal if you buy it at the fish market. In our two days here thus far, we’ve grilled our own fish twice, and it was some of the freshest, best tasting seafood I have ever eaten. At the market, we discovered a species the locals call “Moon Fish.” It is just fantastic simply grilled with a little butter or olive oil. I’ll definitely look for it again when I’m home, assuming I can still remember the first days of the trip a year from now.