Bosnia, like a boss

After a perfect couple of days in Split, Croatia (which mostly consisted of going to the pebble beach, eating massive portions of things, walking, heating up left-overs, and tasting all the different kinds of ice-cream, and taking advantage of our disco ball), my brother and I hopped on a hot, over-crowded minibus to Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Labour Day dance party at the beach, Split. It hasn’t been that hot or sunny since.

Having grown up with daily news of the Bosnian war, I was eager to see the country as it is, not as it is was in my head in 1994.

Although Mostar is a city still divided (and visibly so), the beauty we found in its streets, surroundings and people (greeted at a hostel with freshly-baked bread, homemade iced tea and a bunch of markers with which to draw? my idea of coming home), overshadowed the shelled out buildings and parks-turned-into-cemeteries-where-all-the-graves-date-from-1993.

Pocitelj, an ancient fortified town on the river Neretva.

Kravice Waterfalls. Pretty and pretty cold. Got funny looks for jumping in. But it was so blue! And sunny!

Coffee, done right: strong and muddy at the bottom. So as not to stir up sludge, just dip your sugar cube in the coffee, bite of a bit and then take a sip.

Beautiful Bosnia, view from high up.

After a couple of beautiful days in cozy, pretty, coffee-fuelled, bullet-marked Mostar, we took the train to Sarajevo. Sarajevo, a city that, in my mind, has carried heavy baggage.

We did learn lots about the siege and the genocide, but also about the 1984 Olympics, also about how the city is pretty and edgy and has a cool (but rainy) vibe.

Cafes line the streets and squares and people siat in them all day and night, drinking and smoking.

A street in the old part of the city, Sarajevo.

A street, seen from above (from a little café at the top of a hotel).

Girls smoking, Sarajevo.

They smoke a lot and everywhere. I’m almost used to it. What I’m not used to yet are cars driving on the right side of the street.

Arriving in Europe, arriving half-way home

It was too hot. I thought about going to Thailand after India, but I was too hot. My body needed a break. I wanted to be able to wear a t-shirt for 2 days in a row rather than have to change my sweaty tops a few times a day.

So after finding a cheap(ish) flight home from Bangalore via London (with a 3 month lay-over) and seeing on Facebook that my brother was on his way to Croatia, the plan was made.

Arriving at Heathrow was like arriving home. So familiar. I knew which over-priced sandwich to buy at Costa’s and where to catch the bus. I hopped on the cleanest, most high-tech coach I’ve ever seen and slept all the way to my friend‘s house in the type of village you’d imagine an English village to be.

Time enough for a catch up, hot shower (and brushing my teeth with tap water!), a chill in the cold Spring air, and then it was back to the bus in the middle of the night, off to another airport for another flight.

When I arrived in Split, Croatia, I ran into my brother on the street. We had pizza at a cafe in the sun and found out our hostel room had a disco ball.

I was going to like it here.

My brother dancing in our amazing hostel room.

A bit of theatre in India

As part of pretending that I’m still somewhat being productive on my trip around the world, I’m trying to see at least one play in each country that I visit. This gives the impression that I’m doing research and getting inspired for future projects.

Weirdly, I’ve been more successful in my non-mission of eating a burger in each place I visit (there will be a burger round-up in August).

After a failed attempt to see a play in Cambodia (on World Theatre Day of all days!) due to cloudy weather and nausea (thanks, malaria tablets!), I was keen to make up for it in India, a country with strong and vital theatrical traditions. So I saw two plays. Two! I win.

Man applying makeup.

Another man applying different makeup.

In Kochi, I got the chance to take a tourist’s peak into Kathakali, a type of classical dance-drama from the state of Kerala, at a lovely and air conditioned wooden theatre in the old city.

Usually very long (like, 8 hours), they cut and dumbed this one down for tourists, complete with a make-up application demonstration and a quick run-through of the gestures and their meanings. I read the synopsis in two languages and still couldn’t quite follow the plot and my mind wandered a bit.  But I got to see what I’d learned about in my World Theatre course in 2006 in action, so I felt pretty good about that. And the costumes were quite amazing.

In full costume, a type of demon boar.

The boar and the lady.

The main character, being egotistical (spoiler: at the end he’s enlightened and no longer full of ego).

And then, on my last day in India, I was treated to Gasha by the Indian Ensemble Theatre in the beautiful and sleek theatre space Rangashankara in Bangalore.

As the contemporary play was in Urdu, Hindi, and Kashmiri, all I understood that sometimes the two characters were at school (“If you concentrate, you will go far”) and that there was a dead dog at one point.

Though I was completely right on those two points, my friend explained everything to me afterwards and what I thought had been a joyful story of a friendship was quickly revealed to be about the horrors of the political conflicts in Kashmir.

I loved the use of the simple props and quick shift between characters by actors Bhat and Sandeep Shikhar. And the theatre itself made me feel so at home (Torontonians, it was very close to the Dance Theatre). But I guess with a play like this where accents and quick dialogue, it would make sense to understand at least one of the languages spoken…

Because India is colourful

I’ve only just left India and already I miss it. I don’t miss the ridiculous heat (Croatia is the perfect sunny 27 degrees today) but the colours…

Though I did see some spectacular lime green hot pants on the beach in Split today, there’s something about the colours in India.

Boy selling cotton candy on the beach in Pondicherry.

If you’re going to paint your shop or home, better make it pink, blue, green, and striking.

Street art in Kochi

Bougainvillea in Coorg

Creepy puppet doll people

Boat on a beach

Beach games in Mamallapuram

Watermelons: a tasty treat, a fancy feast

Pigments for sale in Mysore

To quote Alanis: “Thank you, India”

I’ve been in India for a month to the day now and the fact that I haven’t even looked at my blog will tell you that I’ve been busy (and without much Wi-Fi). I’ve been busy roaming around the south, sweating from my earlobes, hopping on one night train after the other before fully recovering from the last.

At the beach in Pondicherry.

I’ve been busy finding the sweetest pineapple, lounging on the beach (under a broken Kingfisher umbrella), walking barefoot through old temples and being blessed by elephants (for a coin donation, obviously), learning how to drink beer, cramming myself and my bag (it didn’t seem this big when I left 9 months ago) into public buses, worrying about the length of my sleeves, drinking sweet sweet coffee from street stands and eating eating eating, constantly eating, all the while becoming increasingly obsessed with where one might find air conditioning.

Hanging out the door of a speeding train- the most exhilarating way to see India and get a sunburn on your left foot.

India can seem intimidating, but with friends welcoming me in Chennai, I felt at home instantly. Being with Anu and Uk in their leafy apartment was such a nice break- just being with old friends, just being- and a good breather before my hectic 15-day tour of South India.

We spent a week eating, napping, and buying cushion covers with a brief, luxurious weekend in lovely Pondicherry.

Watching a game of boules in Pondicherry

It was tough saying goodbye even though there were promises of visiting Canada soon. But there wasn’t much time to dwell as I joined my organised tour run by Intrepid.

“Don’t go alone!” everyone warned me when I told them I was going to India. So a tour was booked, expense be damned. Looking back, I would have been fine alone, but there was the comfort of having train tickets booked for me and people I knew around me on said trains.

This is a beach where singing ladies will sell you pineapples.

Being on a tour means you don’t have to think too much about where to go, stay, eat, or catch the bus. It also means you have no choice in where you stay (Dear Mamallapuram, your sweat box of a “hotel” room will always be my own personal version of hell), or how long for (Dear Hampi, two days were not enough, let me stay with you forever).

One advantage of travelling in a group: playing cards on the platform (with a stolen styrofoam box as a table) while waiting for the train.

Being on tour means you are stuck with a group of people, for better or worse. And let me tell you: there was the best and worst in this group. Some made me so happy I didn’t want to let them go, while others frustrated me to tears.

As some British dude told me in a café in Kochi: “You’ve got to let go of fear and live in love” meaning that I shouldn’t let my hatred of stingy negative people affect me, that I shouldn’t let their negativity make me negative. I don’t know about his theory of fear and love being genetically determined, but there was some truth to his peace and love spewings.

Things I learned in southern India:

-Women wear garlands of jasmine in their hair. The smell is intoxicating.

-Your eyes burn from the dust.

-When they tell you a dish is spicy, it’s spicy.

-Everyone, especially locals, will complain about the heat at some point in the day.

-You can learn to speak Russian from an Indian while in Goa.

-I am good at killing mosquitoes with my left hand.

-Riding on the back of a motorcycle (especially one without a horn, reliable breaks, or anything that works, really) is a lesson in letting go, dealing with the fact that this may be it and if you have to die, it might as as well be on the back of a motorbike in India, so hold on and enjoy the thrill. Oh, and you will get fined by the police for something or another.

-The moon seems brighter here.

-They say you will get sick at some point in your travels in India, but turns out the only kind of sick I got here was a cough and cold. That came out of left field.

-There is sugar in everything. And salt in things that should be sweet.

-There is no question that I have to come back. One month is not enough.

Everything here is in full colour.

There are cows everywhere and you get used to it.

So now I’m in Bangalore taking advantage of my friend Ranjini’s hospitality. After 7 years, nothing seems to have changed and we’re back at uni, doing laundry, drinking tea, complaining about guys, and laughing about just about everything.

I love to travel. But leaving people and leaving places is getting harder and harder.

I have always gotten travel sick on buses, in cars, on boats, and I know how to deal with it. This is another kind of travel sickness altogether and turns out there’s no pill for it.

Can’t go wrong in Koh Rong

Because the dusty hustle and bustle of big cities and going up and down those temple stairs in the sun take a lot out of you, sometimes you need to take a vacation from your vacation.

After a ridiculously long bus ride from Siem Reap to Sihanoukville on Cambodia’s coast, we had delicious Indian food and then took a boat to Koh Rong for our island get-away.

As a glimpse into what was waiting for us, the upper deck of the ferry was decked out with mattresses on which sprawled tanned youth boasting about their travels to date.

Turns out this small island is full of backpackers that smoke all day and bum around at the few bars lining the coast. Holly and I splashed out and got a cabin up on top of a hill with a far-off sea view. We had a gecko as an alarm clock and sand in our beds.

We listened to a stoned Turkish guy go on about ecology and not reading anything anymore and German boys gush about their adventures through Asia on motorbikes. A group of friends from the boat, beach, and bar was quickly formed.

On our second day, we walked across the jungle to an isolated beach on the other side, our sweat dropping on the rocks, marking the path for anyone who followed. A dog from the beach (we called him Leo) followed us up down the steep rocks and through the forest.

Smiling through the sweat.

Never have I ever been so happy to see the sea.

This is what greeted us. We stayed in this water all day.

Playing a plastic and feather version of a hacky sack.

We built a fire and watched the big red sun set into the ocean.

As the sky darkened, Holly and I jumped on a fishing boat that brought us through the big waves back to the main beach. We were happy to find that Leo had made his way back safely. The others bravely (insanely) decided to walk back through the dark jungle and we were very relieved (and a bit surprised) that they all arrived, with all their limbs intact.

There was another day or so at the beach, some sun burn, and a lot of pineapple, then it was back to the mainland, back to buses and tuk-tuks and another kind of happiness.

World Stage

I’ve been away from home for almost 9 months now. Strangely, I haven’t felt homesick much. But there are things I miss. Mostly, it’s people (and most often my little nephews), but I also miss eating cereal at 10pm with fresh milk in my pjs, public transit I understand, and knowing where the good second-hand bookstores are.

I also miss things like the great theatre going on back at home. A festival I love and have done for years is World Stage at Harbourfront in Toronto (I clearly remember Enda Walsh’s Disco Pigs starring none other than Cillian Murphy way back in 1998, and being totally in awe of it).

Jo Strømgren Kompani’s A Dance Tribute to the Art of Football (Norway). Photo: Knut Bry

As I travel, I’ve been trying to catch shows in every country I visit, but there’s nothing like having the best of the best from around the world gather in one place.

Between now and the end of May, World Stage will be presenting shows from Norway, Germany, Belgium/Portugal, Canada and the Netherlands.

Beligan/Portuguese duo Pieter Ampe and Guilherme Garrido/CAMPO in Still Standing You. Photo: Phile Deprez

 Up next is A Dance Tribute to the Art of Football (looks seriously awesome) followed by She She Pop & Their Fathers: Testament, Still Standing You, what we are saying and finally KAMP.

KAMP – photo: Herman Helle

For more information on this year’s festival, please check out www.harbourfrontcentre.com/worldstage

If you could go check these out and report back to me, that would be amazing.

A glimpse into Cambodia’s terrifying recent history

Hallway at Tuol Sleng

I didn’t know what to expect in Cambodia- I knew the nightmarish image I’d created as a child hearing about the Khmer Rouge on the CBC wasn’t right: a whole country couldn’t be a red field littered with dead bodies, peppered with temples crumbling under the gunfire of soldiers. And it isn’t.

But it’s impossible to ignore its recent and bloody history. You walk down the riverside of Phnom Penh, looking for some amok, and tuk-tuk drivers, one after the other after the other, will offer to take you to various attractions. “Genocide museum?” “Lady, you go to the killing fields?” There is a full-day tour option of visiting the genocide museum, the killing fields, and then the shooting range. Offered without irony.

Bracing ourselves, we entered Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum.

You feel it right away- the stillness, the heaviness, the quiet, even though it’s smack dab in the middle of busy Phnom Penh.

A former school, the buildings were transformed into a torture prison (or “office S.21″) between 1975 and 1979.  A place for detention, interrogation, torture and killing under the criminal regime of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge.

It is impossible to understand the atrocities committed, the scale… They wanted to create a purely agrarian society and a country with no past. It is estimated that 2 million people were killed- almost a third of the population of Cambodia. 20,000 of them children.

I hope I’ll never understand.

Phys ed equipment in the yard was used as torture instruments. Classrooms turned into cells. Blackboards used to write the rules “while getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.”

Now, some of the rooms are set up like they found them, with shackles and bed frames and a horrible feeling that stopped me from walking in.

Most of the museum is filled with hundreds and hundreds of photographs of the victims, carefully documented. All with the same haircut and uniform.

We had to leave before seeing everything. All those eyes staring back from not so long ago. Little boys with ropes around their necks. Mothers holding babies.

We didn’t make it to the killing fields. This was enough.

But I’m glad to have gone, even though I think I’ll be haunted by the images I saw and the words I read for ever. But this cannot be ignored and it cannot be repeated.

If you want to learn about what happened in this terrifying chapter in human history, please check out www.yale.edu/cgp and www.tuolsleng.com.

Temple tramping in Cambodia

I immediately loved Cambodia. Was it the widely-available baguette that did it? The quick-to-smile people? The insanely sweet pineapple that doesn’t burn your mouth being sold everywhere? The pink toilet paper? Cambodia just felt right. And the pineapple was amazing.

We arrived in Phnom Penh, the bustling capital, and explored the markets and Royal Palace.

We boldly dove right in, trying various things on skewers at the Phnom Penh night market (ok, after some hesitation). We sat on the mats on the hot ground and ate, waved at babies, and stared at all the people.

I don’t want to boast, but I got quite good at crossing the street. If you wait for a break in traffic or for anyone to stop, you’ll spend your entire time in Cambodia on that street corner (although you’d be soon saved by a tuk-tuk driver offering you a lift.)

No- I managed to cross those streets, having faith that the tuk-tuks (Lonely Planet lied- no one calls them remorques), cyclos, cars, and motorbikes would swerve around me. I can count on only one hand the times I thought I would actually die.

We visited the Royal Palace, where I took some artsy-fartsy pictures after being slightly disappointed that 2086 diamonds on a solid gold Buddha don’t actually sparkle that much.

In one of the exhibition rooms in the palace, we stumbled upon someone’s half-finished hat-sewing project.

Our ride up to Siem Reap in a mini-bus driven by a maniac was shared with cell-phone-yakking adults and iPhone-game-playing children. In Cambodia, you only feel the air-con once the sun sets.

We made it in one piece to our air-conditioned room (worth the extra $3). For the second time in a week, I’d booked accommodation for the wrong day. I’ve truly lost track. But there was room amd the next morning, it was off to visit the temples of Angkor- the largest religious monument in the world (400 square km), one of the seven wonders of the world, a UNESCO world heritage site.

Chun, our tuk-tuk driver, greeted us with this lovely sign.

At the temples in Siem Reap. We saw many temples. I’m afraid I travel like a bag of dirty laundry (as my mother would say) and don’t remember which temple is which.

A cool sight for hot eyes- a nice little oasis amidst the temples.

Little girl selling things at Angkor.

I wish we could have bought all the books, magnets, scarves, noise-makers, and cold drinks being sold by children (who insisted they go to school in the morning) around the temples. But we didn’t. One little girl responded to our “sorry, no” by stamping her foot and sputtering “Sorry you don’t buy anything!” I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

The next morning we rose early to greet the sun at Angkor Wat. We’d saved the big temples for the second day. We were already sweating by 6 am.

We were not the only ones who thought seeing the sun rise behind Angkor Wat was a good idea. So much for a serene experience.

Angkor Wat cutting its way out of a lightening sky.

Sunrise at Angkor Wat.

They don’t tell you that some of the hidden corners of these magestic temples smell a bit of urine.

Monk checking out the temples.

Under the Cambodian sun, it’s easy to become templed-out. Luckily, our tuk-tuk offered us a breezy rest between temples (it’s impossible to imagine the vastness of this ancient city before experiencing it). I don’t know how people did the circuit on their bikes. And how they managed to look cooler and fresher than we did. And how did that 70-year-old couple manage all the temple stairs without breaking a sweat when we could barely walk because of our sore muscles? Visiting the temples might make you seriously question your fitness level.

By midday, the crowds of people had descended and took away from our exploration- it’s hard to pretend you’ve discovered something mysterious when you’re being pushed around so people can take a picture.

Luckily, people-watching is a favourite activity and we were entertained by the Russian couple dressed excactly the same (lemon-yellow tank top, bandana, purple elephant pants, and Thai bag) and groups of old ladies posing for pictures where Tomb Raider was filmed.

Many people crammed into a small room in a big temple.

Very colourful people at the temples.

All in all, it was quite an overwhelming, beautiful, eye-opening experience. I would suggest a guide, though that would diminish the thrill of stealthily eavesdropping on other guides and piecing together the history of the sites.

Also suggested while at Angkor Wat: it is advised to meet a couple of nice French guys who are staying at a beautiful hotel that has a pool, as it is possible that they might invite you for a swim after the temples, for which you will forever be grateful.

Malaise in Malaysia

I had a very informative and witty blog post written about my short stint in Malaysia, but my netbook got a virus and it got erased when I took drastic measures. So this is what you get instead:

After Bali, I took a quick flight to Kuala Lumpur (KL to its friends) where Holly was waiting for me (we met in Airlie Beach a few months ago and when her plans fell through, she decided to join me- this is what I love about travelling solo!). We took a taxi- which was as expensive as my flight- to a strange guest house with peeling walls and plastic locks.

Truth be told, Malaysia and I didn’t quite click. It wasn’t unpleasant, but things that happened and things we saw seemed slightly random. Maybe I felt a bit without a goal, and therefore didn’t know how to appreciate where I was.

Also, I was sick for the first week (I think the culprit was the curry dipping sauce that came with breakfast).

Because see, the reason I wanted to go to Malaysia was really to go to Borneo, to go to Borneo to see the rainforest and the weird monkeys with big noses (although I should know better by now about monkeys) and other wildlife from the rickety comfort of a canoe slowly going down the river. See all that before it’s cut down to make way for more palm plantations.

Flight prices rising every day pushed our departure date further and further into our trip, leaving our Borneo time squashed in at the end like an afterthought. Finally, we booked our tickets (fed up because of the 5-fold price increase overnight) only to find out, about 9 hours later, that conflict had errupted in the area. 

It’s hard to know what a situation is like by relying on the media, but pictures of tanks and the fact that a policeman was decapitated were enough for us to scare us into not going. I hear things are settling now, and hopefully that is true- enough killing now, enough.

So we had to improvise. 

Batu Caves, just outside of Kuala Lumpur. I don’t know, I imagined caves (the dark and dank kind). This psychadelic feast was what we were confronted with.

A random 3-dance dance show at the Batu Caves, where the one girl had obviously missed the last rehearsal.

This, next to 12 storey sparkly shopping centres, makes up KL.

Taxi windshields are covered in stickers, which makes me wonder how the drivers can drive.

After KL, we wound up (literally, up the narrow, windy road) in Cameron Highlands, where we had to wear hoodies and jeans and close our window for the cold. It felt good to be cold for a few days. It didn’t feel so good getting up in the mountains, but I’m proud to report another first: tossing cookies in a bus.

Not feeling so well gave us permission to be lazy and book a sightseeing tour that the guide repeatedly told us was boring and that he’d rather be trekking in the jungle.

Beautiful tea plantations in Cameron Highlands. Just enjoy the green and pretty hills. Try not to think about the colonial aspects of the whole operation.

Our tour guide was bored so he made us sit on the jeep.

We went to a bee farm, where huge creepy statues of bees guarded the hives.

Very awesome butterfly farm with sedate butterflies and neato snakes.

I got bitten by a carp outside a Buddhist temple.

Street in the Cameron Highlands.

From the Cameron Highlands, anti-nausea tablets taken, we took the bus to Penang, apparently the Pearl of the Orient. When you call something the Pearl of the Orient, you have to realise that people won’t expect a really busy, bustling, grimy city. Georgetown was nevertheless a great place to visit with lots of street art, history, cheap museums that explain the mix of Muslim, Chinese, and Indian cultures. A great place despite open drains/sewers, absolutely no footpaths anywhere, and strange cinema-going behaviour. We may or may not have spent two evenings in the ice-cold movies seeing teenage-boy-oriented fantasy-adventure films. Ewan McGregor makes a good good guy.

Our guesthouse in Penang was a traditional Chinese house. For some reason, we ended up singing Roxanne every night as we walked home.

From Penang, we took a boat to Langkawi, a nice and expensivo island with a fantastic French bakery, amazing juice, and very suspicious resort security guards that make absolutely sure you’re not going to cut through their resort to get to the beach.

Speaking of random, we were invited to the tail-end of a wedding in Langkawi. We arrived, we ate buffalo and fish, we shook hands with the father of the bride, and then watched as the guys pulled down the tents. The end of a 3-day ceremony.

Our best meal in Malaysia was Moroccan. This was the juice.

Between meals, we found time for beach time.

And sunsets on the beach.

With a few days before our flight for Cambodia, we decided to go to Melaka, a city south of the capiral, accessible from the airport, meaning we didn’t have to go into KL.

Melaka was my favourite city in Malaysia, by far. Probably because its chinatown was so cool, old, charming (our hotel owner’s go-to word).

Pimp my tuk-tuk!

For our last day, we enjoyed the amazing hospitality of Anna and Ali, a wonderfully hilarious couple from Calgary I’d met in Bali. They’d rented a swish apartment for a month (cheaper than hotels in the long run) and let us stay with them and swim in their pool and have cereal for breakfast. They let us watch Minority Report (and explained the entire last half hour of the movie when the TV station decided that they should stop the movie at the climax for news for half an hour), go to the mall with them, and order McDonald’s when the pizza place wouldn’t deliver on a Friday. We couldn’t have left KL happier- they don’t lie when they say it’s the people that make all the difference.

Another thought: whoever said durians smell of garbage but taste lovely was lying. Durians, even when smothered in chocolate, taste the way they smell. Which is awful.