Traveling the Age Gap

I'm almost 40. I've traveled every year of my life, as the baby, the kid, the teen and the young adult. Then I became a traveling 30-something who still took risks but much more calculated ones than my 20 year-old counterpart; I still slept in cheap bamboo huts, took the bus and did most of my laundry by hand but splurged on a resort from time to time. My style of traveling changed through the years but I still hung out with the younger crowd as much as with a considerably older crowd and everything in between. The point seemed not to seek out people of my own age, but people who shared my passion.

But my world traveling view was shifted in Thailand two months ago. I'm still not sure if it's because I look older, act older or if travel style has changed radically in the younger generations, but for the first time I felt a sharp dividing line between myself and the gap year kids. Yes they have lots of tattoos and piercings but I think that's kind of cool. They drink a lot and so do I on occasion. Actually I don't care much what they do - if they're in Thailand and appreciating and enjoying the culture we should have something in common.

But the dividing line wasn't drawn by me. On a jungle path I pass a very young couple - we are the only people in any direction for maybe a kilometer but they avert their gaze to avoid saying hello. I say "hi," they don't answer. At a bus stop I'm surrounded by two or three converging groups of young travelers going to Krabi, they all chat with each other but I am invisible. I try to say something to join the conversation and they avoid answering. They're a clique that's never met and I'm already the geek. Soon I start noticing that the places I stay are mostly devoid of people under 30 and, although I hate to admit it, this makes me happy. When I do stay at places filled with 20 year-olds they bang doors and make noise all night keeping me awake; they avert eye-contact and make it impossible to make friends.

For a while I thought maybe I just looked like an extreme dork. It's true that a near-40 year-old woman traveling alone is culturally weird to lots of people but I'm gregarious enough to get past that. And these late-teens to early-twenties travelers aren't hanging out with anyone over 25, let alone the severely over the hill like me.

Luckily, my confidence issues were finally put to rest on Ko Phi Phi. I found this great place to stay (Phi Phi Hill) at the far end of Hat Yao. As my (28 year-old) friend and I were walking up the steps we passed a couple who were probably in their early 30s and I asked them how the place was.

"It's great!" the guy said. "No 20 year-olds."

Truck Stops & Penny Slots: An Ode to the American Road Trip

When you live on a small island there's no such thing as a road trip. Driving as far as you can around the two parts of Tahiti's figure eight takes four hours. One reason I wanted to move back to the States was to regain the sense of unlimited space that you can only have on a continent. Landlubbers who grow up with the amount of land Americans take for granted are pre-disposed to get a small dose "island fever" when dropped on a dot in the middle of the ocean. Some people get over it, I never did.

I was reminded of this last Friday when my good friend Dave came to town. Dave is one of the most interesting travelers I know. Growing up, his dad was a Greyhound mechanic so Dave had free bus tickets anywhere Greyhound went. So Dave would take off for weekends or sometimes weeks, riding buses to wherever he felt like going. He met crazy people, geniuses, pretty girls and wanderers and lived off hotdogs and potato chips. As he got older he learned to hop freight trains (he's the only person I know who has really done this) and once he got his own car he became a truck stop aficionado, driving around the States, always on the side of a blue-collar reality. By the time the two of us became friends in our early twenties he'd been to most US states, could tell you strange details of any Greyhound bus station in the nation and had the stinkiest, ugliest little brown car you ever saw ( it had a mouse living in it named it Rudyard).

So it's no surprise that my most memorable and real American road trip was with Dave - we just took off last minute with no idea where we were going.

We started in San Francisco, went north and our first stop was a truck stop near Vacaville. About 90 percent of the patrons in the vinyl-clad parking-lot-sized diner were men, big men in hefty plaid shirts with heaping plates of meat and potato-looking meals in front of them. It was so stereotypical it was nearly shocking. The waitresses had big hair and were probably in their late 40s, every booth was full of chatting big voices or silent loners bent over their pot roast and peas. No one took any notice of Dave and I as we took a booth and ate bacon, eggs and biscuits in gravy. It was like a scene in a movie.

We took similar stops farther north, through Truckee, where we stayed at a friend's place and played in the snow. The next day we went to Reno and Dave taught me the art of playing penny slots - play for pennies and get free booze from the cocktail waitresses who are there to get you drunk so you make bad decisions. I think we worked up to the nickle machines at some point but that's as loose with our cash as we got.

Reno was sharply cold and sadly empty. The half-blinking neon signs and desperate gamblers further painted the gloomy, seedy atmosphere. We ate all you can eat $1.99 buffets and tried to sleep in the stinky car but it was too cold - so we got cheap rooms at Circus Circus.

The next day we headed deeper into Nevada, past whole towns of trailer homes, flat streets with nothing higher than the electric poles and tawny, desolate mountains in the distance. We chugged up to Virginia City, went into a bar where a decent blues band were playing in the middle of the day then went to a cafe next door and drank sarsaparilla with views down the sandy mountain. Then we headed back over the Sierras to the pines and majesty of the forest. This was America, the same America you see in Tarantino flicks, the underbelly of vast spaces, un-glossed and untamed. It's something you can't find anywhere else in the world.

Years later I yearn to make another cheapskate road trip like the one I took with Dave but now I'm older, have a real job, two kids and a busy life so I'm not sure when I'll fit it in. But the road is still there, just waiting for a full tank of gas, and knowing that makes me happy.

Photo by Jasmine Humbert

Southeast Asia: What NOT to Wear

Say you're in your hometown - be that New York, York, Melbourne, Madrid, wherever - and an obviously foreign couple walks by. The very hairy, pot-bellied man is wearing a loincloth with his butt fully exposed and the over-weight, saggy-buxom woman is wearing nothing but a few stripes of neon yellow body paint. The couple walks into a church, stomp in during a service, walk around without smiling and start snapping flash pictures. Are these people cool in their expression of their individuality and are they groovy ambassadors for their culture? They're a bit of a freak show perhaps but not much more.

To a Muslim man in Kota Bahru, Malaysia or an old woman selling fruit at a Thai Wat, this is about what it looks like when foreigners, the guy perhaps with his shirt off, the girl in short shorts and spaghetti straps, come through and tromp through their religious sites like they're a 7-11. Usually I keep quiet about what I think of people's travel style, but these types of travelers seem to be taking over the region more and more - in turn the locals start to dislike tourists and see them only as a depressing means by which to earn a buck.

During my last trip to Thailand I saw countless topless sunbathers on Muslim beaches, bra-less women wearing see-through tops while walking around conservative market towns and shirtless men walking around town. The most depressing moment was at Wat Tham Seua near Krabi Town where nearly every tourist I saw (and there were around 35 to 50 of them) was wearing shorts, tank tops or no shirt at all. Signs had been posted asking visitors to dress conservatively but no one seemed to notice - and of course a monk isn't going to come up to some couple dressed for the beach and give them a piece of his mind. Over and over again I wonder, what are these people thinking? Why do they travel so far only to disrespect the people in the country they're visiting? If they came to party why couldn't they just stay in Patong? And I'm not whining or yelling these questions, I really want to know. I'm stumped.

If you're reading this you're probably the type of person who would think to cover up before entering a foreign place of worship - or at least I hope you are. So thanks for listening to this rant. And if you have any ideas of how to ease this ballooning problem, please leave your comments. Also please share any thoughts you might have. I've heard people argue that they think they should be able to wear whatever they want wherever they want - you know freedom and all. But I'm a staunch believer of travelling light in all sense of the word including my impact on a culture.

PS: My paparazzi photo skills aren't tops but these are all photos from my last trip to Thailand.

Actually, I won't try the live octopus: a lesson in Korean cuisine

Every traveler has that one end-all-be-all thing that tops the list of the most horrible foreign delicacy they can imagine eating. Giant cockroaches were my topper until last March when I went to South Korea and discovered a dish far more distressing.

I was on my way to Thailand and took a three-day stopover in Seoul for fun. A friend put me in touch with Daniel Gray who runs a Seoul nighttime eating and drinking tour (that's so phenomenal it's worth several articles and blog posts, but I'll have to get to that another time) and I lucked out that he was available to take me out last minute. Now I'd heard about Koreans eating live octopus and had a (soon-to-be-proven-false) idea that the creatures were teeny, tiny squirmy things that you'd pop into your mouth like a wriggling grape or cheese puff. Thinking this was my chance to try something really weird and possibly tasty, I asked Dan if we could go to a place that served the live critters.

"Well it's funny you asked," he said. "Because I just took some people to eat some this morning. Let me show you the video."

I don't have Dan's video, but what he showed me on his phone looked a lot like this - but not sideways:



That might have been enough to talk me out of it but then Dan added the cinching detail: several people per year die from eating octopus this way. The tentacles, still moving whether dead or alive, search for escape - something to latch onto - and the nearest something in your mouth is your windpipe. Yup, they can strangle you from the inside. Now seriously, no sushi I can think of is worth risking my life for and a live octopus could only be slimy and chewy - let alone still moving. No my kids won't have to explain to their friends that their crazy mother got suffocated by eating a live octopus in Korea, no matter how much street cred that might garner.

"OK then," I said. "Lets go eat some barbeque."

And that is another story.

Searching for the Perfect Thai Beach

Over seven and a half weeks I visited 23 islands and over a dozen mainland beaches along Thailand's Andaman Coast. My purpose: to update Lonely Planet's Thailand guidebooks. It was of course a pleasure getting to re-visit one of the world's most beautiful regions, but it was also exhausting moving around so fast and often it was disheartening to see how over-run with tourism many places have become. As time went on, the beach of my own personal vacation dreams seemed more and more elusive.

Ko Phi Phi, a strong contender for most stunning island on the planet, is the poster child of my dilemma. The island has been a tourist favorite since the 80s but ironically it was Alex Garland's book The Beach that made it go from busy to spoiled. The film version, starring Leonardo DiCaprio was filmed on Phi Phi and now that site of the mythically quiet strip of perfect white sand in the middle of a national park is descended on daily by hundreds of tourists in uncountable boats. Worse, these tourists toss their cigarette buts and beer cans into the water and are generally loud, drunk, unsmiling and rude to the locals and each other. But if you look over their heads and wear earplugs, the view sure is nice.




The saddest place for me was Ko Lipe that only four and a half years ago (the last time I visited) was still a place where you could find a bamboo shack on the beach for $8, dazzled, conscientious travelers and plenty of empty stretches of beach. Since I was last there, a tourist super highway has been built connecting the two main beaches and every block of beach has a resort built on it. The sea gypsy islanders who were one omnipresent have been cordoned off in a village towards the middle of the island. On the site of my old bamboo bungalows of yesteryear are three concrete resorts. The visitors to Lipe are a cross-section of package tourists and twenty-something flashpackers - a step up from the rowdy sunburned Phi Phi crowd, but degrading quickly just the same.

So when people ask me what beach to go to in Thailand what do I say? Luckily there are still a few places that remain relatively un-crowded but honestly I don't have much hope of them staying that way. Ko Bulone Leh right near Koh Lipe is still mostly owned by locals who run inexpensive bungalows and has beautiful beaches sans rows of beach umbrellas; Ko Jum near Ko Lanta is quiet as can be with long stretches of grey white beach and a lively population of local fisherfolk; Ko Payam near the Myanmar border has seen a lot of development over the past few years but most of it is tucked away in the trees and is locally owned so you hardly notice it's happened - pick between the lively backpacker beach or the quiet and far more beautiful white sand beach to the north.




But it wasn't until the last day of my trip that I found my perfect beach, the place I would actually pay to go to and bring my family. No one has really heard of Ko Phratong and I hope it stays relatively unknown (no, not that many people read my blog). There is no regular transportation and the only resort, The Golden Buddha, is a yoga retreat attracting lovers of peace and quiet. But I wouldn't go to the Golden Buddha. No, I'd go to the totally unknown bamboo thatch huts of a certain motorcycle-riding Thai hippy named Mr Chuio (http://www.mrchuoibarandhut.com). Not only are his bungalows tucked slightly inland from an empty white beach with chalky-blue water and two small beach-laden mini-islands a swimmable distance from shore, but Mr Chuoi's place has style. He propagates rare orchids found around Ko Phratong and hangs them around his "resort." The bungalows are decorated with paper flowers and shell mobiles handmade by the man himself. Then there's his bar. The island is home to a few community based tourism projects and a dive club (at the Golden Buddha) and everyone who's looking knows that fun times are to be had at Mt Chuoi's - nothing loud and obnoxious, just fun. The locals like tourists thanks to the community based tourism and there are all sorts of fun projects to get involved in from turtle conservation to fishing. Yup, this is where I'd like to turn up and stay a few weeks. It's the kind of place where you'd know half the people on the island by the time you left. I'm saving up already. It will be in the next Lonely Planet but Ko Phratong with it's lack tacky T-shirt shops, girly bars and transport isn't likely to attract the tourist throngs too soon.

Alligator Man: Another Weird Detour in Washington State

On our last family road trip to Washington we stumbled on the remote town of Forks, the vampire and werewolf capitol of the world (or at least according to Hollywood). So when we packed up for a weekend of clamming near Long Beach I wasn't expecting our trip to rival the freakiness of our previous sojourn. Enter Alligator Man.

After harvesting a bounty of four razor clams near Cape Disappointment and freezing our a***es off all night in a tent, we decided to warm our spirits with a visit to a little museum a friend told us about that held Alligator Man - a disturbing mummified half-man half-alligator that may or may not be real. After driving through a few abandoned looking towns with "For Sale" signs up everywhere we arrived in Long Beach and to Marsh's Free Museum which was bustling compared with the rest of town, with a full parking lot and people milling around outside. Marsh's itself is more of a store than anything else selling tacky tourist magnets, stickers, seashells and knickknacks. The actual museum is crammed at the back and at first glance looks like a bunch of garage sale fodder.



But we'd heard about Alligator Man and by golly we were going to find him. Past the automated 50s style fortune telling machine and a few taxidermy stuffed animals we found him. He's in a big glass display case, is about four and a half feet long from head to tail and is all black and shriveled like an un-bandaged mummy. The head and upper body probably is from a real human - it's too realistic and well done to be a fake - and the bottom half is obviously from a real alligator. There's no obvious area where you can see that the two have been stuck together - it's a brilliant work of taxidermy if anything else and honestly, it's one of those things that you can't really gauge your emotions on. Did the top human half come from a mummy bought in Egypt way back when? Was someone killed or dug up to make this thing? None of these questions are answered, and Alligator Man just sits there baring his spiky teeth with a half-petrified half-aggressive gape.

The funniest part was that even though the museum was packed and Alligator Man was the star attraction, no one seemed to take any notice of him. People casually walked by, stopped to look then moved on. What was going through these people's heads I can hardly imagine: "oh there's a dead human body sewn together with an alligator," or "oh a real-life mutant alien horror movie creature, how nice." And yet, no one gave him a second glance or seemed to register that they were looking at anything odd.




Elsewhere in the museum is an even less fawned upon but very real shrunken human head and an utterly ignored taxidermy stuffed six-legged calf. Most visitors seemed to be there to shop, stocking up on "Beer, it's what's for breakfast" bumper stickers and candy. The freakish stuff was just a sideshow at the back of a room.

Photos by Jasmine Humbert

Video: Amazing Wildlife of Bako National Park, Borneo

I studied primatology at University so it had been a long-time dream of mine to see proboscis monkeys in the wild. Bako National Park in Sarawak, Borneo, Malaysia, did not disappoint. A proboscis family was out foraging in the mangroves near park headquarters every morning and there was a plethora of other fascinating critters to be seen as well.

Enjoy!




Note: I have a larger article on Bako in the works and I'll post a link once it's been published.

Five Reasons I Love Being a Petite Traveler

When you're little - OK short - people tend to think it's somehow scarier for you to travel, particularly alone. Well I've found that the benefits of being small far out-weigh looking easy to throw aside. Here's what I remember as I stand tall:

I fit in small spaces

Indonesian buses, third class rail cars and United Airlines seats are far from comfortable but I can contort my legs into several different positions as I try to sleep. My recent favorite is stuffing my feet in the magazine pouch on airline seats so I can have a semi-horizontal position even when there are people sitting on either side of me.

I blend in

It helps having dark hair too, but I can go anywhere and people don't notice me (note: I've never been to Scandinavia), I'm just another dark little head in the crowd. Bag snatchers on the prowl don't see me because I'm behind that well-fed couple in the University T-shirts, border guards are nice because I look so un-offensive, local people want to help me because I'm wide-eyed and little like a forest creature.

I can buy clothes and shoes anywhere

Only pair of pants get lost at the laundry? Flip flop blow out? Fell in love with the local dress? Any store anywhere carries my size.


I don't cost much to feed

When my husband joins me on trips my food expenses don't double, they triple. It's like a Honda Civic versus an SUV, I just don't take much fuel to keep chugging. I can drink two beers and it's party time - just think of the savings.


I rarely bump my head on things

The only time I ever almost got knocked out by a blow to the head was in Nepal when I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and hit my head on a door jam. Now that was a short door. I realized then that tall people must have to worry about doors all the time, as well as hanging lights, disco balls, the list goes on.

So I'll take being short, it might not be eye-catching but for my lifestyle that's a good thing. The kind of thrill I felt the first time I sat at the back of an Indonesian bus and could see all the way out the front window, might not happen much in my life but at least I'll get some sleep.

Tuna Wrestling & Shark Frenzies in the Tuamotus

Here's a snippet of daily life I wrote over Christmas in the Tuamotu Archipelago in French Polynesia:

"Mama, Mama look what Papa caught!" my son pulls me out of my chair and outside.

Josh and Heiarii are just pulling up to the dock in the aluminum skiff. Looking into the boat I can see a three-foot glimmering dogtooth tuna laying atop a good sized black trevally and two lagoon fish. Josh is smiling huge and Heiarii who's driving the boat looks happily entranced.

It's a grey 5:45 in the afternoon and the trade winds are blowing hard creating long rolls of swell that jostle the little boat before crashing as waves onto the coral gravel shore. We're in a house perched on a coral head about 100m out from the beach and the drone of the boat's motor is nearly drowned out by the loud surf and the wind rushing over the tin roof. It's chilly in a tropical sort of way, a way that makes you think about putting a T-shirt on over your swimsuit.

As they haul the fish and spear guns up onto the dock, Josh tells me the story of the hunt:

"It was a team effort. I shot the tuna in the jaw then Heiarri saw it was going to get loose so shot it in the side then grabbed it with both arms while it was thrashing and swam it to the surface. There were raira [grey reef sharks] everywhere!" I can see the adrenalin still pumping through Josh's eyes. Heiarii, always humble has a hard time hiding his stoke as well.

"So I bet you really feel like men now eh?" I say with a smile.

"Oh yeah!" Josh and Heiarii laugh and pound their chests.

The dogtooth tuna is so fresh it's still changing colors, it's iridescent silver and light blue skin sullied only by a black trickle of a line I assume is its own blood. It's beautiful with its eyes shining under the grey clouds, a truly majestic animal.

The guys get busy cleaning it and making fillets that we'll make sashimi and poisson cru from for the next several days. Heiarii saves some of the bones to make jewelry. They throw the guts into the water then my son calls me over quickly to the dock.




There are 20 or more sharks in a frenzy just next to the dock - about three feet down from the edge where we're standing. Never in the 20 years I've been hanging out in Ahe have I seen so many sharks in one place. Not only that they're huge, some over six feet, grey reef and black tips hammering into each other and making the water boil with their thrashing tails as they try to nab bits of tuna. We throw the bones in, more sharks come over from out of nowhere and the frenzy intensifies. We're safe up where we are but it's still instinctually petrifying watching them. Not only that but this is where we swim every day. After about half an hour the tuna carcass is licked clean and the lagoon looks peaceful again.

We make sashimi and, with the same fervor as sharks devour our dinner procured by our own hunters of the sea. I'm glad in a way we got to share the bounty. This is a tuna who's life definitely didn't go to waste.

Navigating Ex-pat No-man's Land

To quickly bring you all up to date, I lived in French Polynesia for over 15 years before moving to Portland, OR in the US this last July. It's been our family tradition to spend Christmas and New Years on our Tahitian pearl farm in the remote Tuamotu Archipelago of French Polynesia pretty much for forever, and this year marked both my husband's 40th birthday (January 4th) and our 20 years of togetherness - so despite being broke, we maxed out the credit card and flew to French Polynesia. I guess that's the American way.

If you read my post Masquerading As Americans, you'll see that we didn't exactly feel like we fit in to the US yet. Yeah the cold was a little offsetting but it was the little things, like all our friends being really busy all the time, having too many choices at the grocery store, people writing thank you and Christmas cards and me feeling disorganized and dumb for not having done the same - these details made and still make me feel like an alien in what's supposed to be my country. I don't understand Americans yet - they are really nice and yet totally unavailable. It's a weird mix of 1950s politeness and 1980s it's-all-about-me.

Being back in Tahiti and the Tuamotus over Christmas made me realize that I'm much more at ease in those cultures than in America. This is a little ironic since one of the reason I wanted to move back to the States was because I was tired of always being the "American" and having an accent in French that instantly gives me away. Well now I see that in Tahiti I'm much more the bomb than in the US where I feel sort of kooky. I make an epic poisson cru (see my recipe), can husk a coconut, know all the plants and how to grow them, am not afraid of swimming with sharks and know how to pick out a good French wine from the dodgy selection at the store. I know everyone everywhere, can live in a bikini and I'm immune to mosquito bites. But I'm still the American, not really a part of either culture, but sort of both floating somewhere out in ex-pat no-man's land.

Does this mean I'm moving back to Tahiti? No, not at all. I've never lived in the US in my adult life so I have to give it a shot. If I'm going to be known as "The American" I at least have to know what that means. Plus it's only been six months. I think it will take a few years to adjust and then, we'll see what we want to do from there. The sun will be beckoning us, I think.