Southeast Asia -- Raw and in Your Face

This is the first in a series of five stories dealing with several month-long trips to Southeast Asia between 2004 and 2010.

Southeast Asia is a place of stark contrasts -- rich and poor, ancient and modern, serenity and violence.

That's part of the attraction of the region. And, while most visitors spend their time in search of beaches, bars, and Buddhist shrines, the tourist trail also leads to some sites where the main attractions are misery and death.

In Cambodia, that road leads to the Choeung Ek “killing fields” and the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, where a simple high school in Phnom Penh was turned into the notorious Security Prison 21 (commonly known as S-21).

Cambodia got caught up in its own revolution during the Vietnam War and fell to ultra-Communist Khmer Rouge forces in 1975, the same year the South Vietnamese government was finally overrun by the combined military might of North Vietnam and the Viet Cong. Led by Pol Pot, the Khmer Rouge restarted the historical clock at “Year Zero” and sought to return Cambodia to an agrarian economy. During the next four years, they managed to murder and starve to death an estimated 3 million people.

In one relatively small cog of that killing machine, an estimated 17,000 doctors, teachers, engineers, students, monks, and former supporters of the previous Lon Nol regime were systematically interrogated, tortured, and killed at the former Chao Ponhea Yat High School. Originally, the bodies were buried nearby. But, when they ran out of room, it became standard policy that after two or three months at S-21, the prisoners would be marched nine miles out to Choeung Ek and dispatched with pickaxes, iron bars, or machetes. There were 12 known S-21 survivors. I believe four of them were still alive around the time I first visited Cambodia in 2007.

It was the Vietnamese Army that finally put an end to the Khmer Rouge. They went in and kicked out Pol Pot, installing a kinder, gentler one-party Communist government. In the process, they stumbled upon S-21 and numerous mass gravesites that were later made famous in the 1984 movie “The Killing Fields.” The film, by the way, won three Academy Awards, including one for Haing Ngor, a Cambodian doctor who portrayed his own real-life events during Khmer Rouge nightmare.

Today, the Choeung Ek killing field is a little Disneyland of death. You pay a small price and get to wander around a dusty spot where several of the burial pits were excavated. Signs tell you 80 people were unearthed here; 120 were found there. As you look in the holes in the ground, you notice bits of old clothing mixed in with the soil.

There’s a memorial in the center of the site. Inside are hundreds, maybe thousands of human skulls. If you want to, you can buy some incense to honor the dead. There’s also a souvenir shop. All in all, it’s a pretty depressing locale.

But, if you really want to give yourself a case of the willies, head out to S-21. That place is just plain creepy.

Other than burying the bodies that were still tied to the rusting bed frames where they were tortured to death, not much has changed since the prison was abandoned as the Vietnamese Army approached. Oh, there are some photographs of victims on the walls, along with their life stories. And, there are some interesting paintings depicting daily life at the prison. But, basically, the place has just been disinfected and opened as a museum.

You can stand in the wooden enclosures (about the size of a dressing room at a typical clothing store) that served as cells for the prisoners. You can peer into the dusty rooms where detailed dossiers were compiled for each prisoner – complete with confession and an often-expansive list of other “counter-revolutionaries” the person knew. You can even examine some of the torture tools used to extract those confessions.

In fact, the whole place could be up and running again in no time at all.

Vietnam is a different story. There, the government is still celebrating their victory over a variety of foes, including the United States.

Nowhere is this more evident than at the Cu Chi tunnel complex, about a two-hour bus ride out of central Ho Chi Minh City. The Cu Chi area has a long history of resistance, and its sandy soil has been used to hide guerilla soldiers since at least the 1880s when the Vietnamese were fighting the French. By the late 1940s, the system really started to expand, and, by 1965, when the U.S. military got heavily involved, there were some 75 miles of interconnected tunnels that housed hospitals, kitchens, workshops, and sleeping areas.

I visited the tunnels in 2010, and according to my tour guide, Duc, the Americans first happened upon the Cu Chi complex when an officer’s hunting dog sniffed out one of the tunnel ventilation shafts disguised in a termite mound. True or not, by early 1966, U.S. B-52 bombers had turned the surface of the region from a lush jungle and farming community into a pockmarked moonscape. And, with the help of some 8,000 troops from the U.S. 1st Infantry Division and the 173rd Airborne Brigade, along with members of the 1st Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment, “Operation Crimp” began a systematic effort to eradicate the underground military complex.

Unfortunately, for the American military, they vastly underestimated the size and sophistication of the tunnel system. When they would find one of the tiny, concealed openings, they would toss in a grenade and pour water or gas into the hole. Some of the Cu Chi fighters would be killed, but others would flee to a different part of the complex.

A year later, the U.S. military tried another push, this time with 30,000 troops and the addition of “tunnel rats,” soldiers of small stature who crawled into the cramped, twisting tunnels, armed with guns, knives, flashlights, and balls of string (so they could find their way back out). This deadly cat-and-mouse game continued until the Americans finally pulled out in the early ‘70s.

Today, the region is home to rubber tree plantations, small farms, and a national historical site, complete with original and “tourist” (slightly enlarged and partially lighted) tunnels, samples of dozens of inventive booby traps, and a firing range (where you can try your hand at firing an AK-47, an M-16, or, even, an M-60 machine gun).

Groups of tourists stop to view the remnants of an American tank and listen to their guide proudly explain how the Viet Cong would build booby traps using simple bamboo spears coated with a combination of scorpion and cobra toxins. "They would stick the American soldiers and it was Bye, Bye Miss American Pie," according to Duc.

Considering the numbers of persons on both sides who died in the region, I found the whole process a bit gruesome. But, that's Southeast Asia -- served raw and in your face.

On the Road to Thailand

One nice thing about teaching at a Chinese university, is they pretty much take off all of January for Spring Holiday.

It doesn't seem to matter that it's the dead of winter. It's spring break, and everyone races to get train tickets to go somethere, usually home.

For me, in early 2004, after spending five months in Hunan Province, I was in desperate need of some sun, surf, and recreation.

Somewhere along my trails in Zhangjiajie, I met up with a young man who was trying to break into the travel agent business. So, I put myself in his hands and told him to get me to Thailand at a price I could afford.

Now, doing business in China is different than in the U.S. (lots of "trust me, no problem" and very little accompanying paperwork), and that caused me some apprehension. But, he came through with flying colors, going above and beyond the call of duty in the process.

Eventually, he drove me to the local train station and found a friend of his who was going to Kunming (the City of Eternal Spring) in Southeastern China, where I was to catch a flight to Bangkok. We buddied up for the more-than-24-hour trip, and he made sure I didn't get lost when we had to change trains.

Even today with the huge influx of personal automobiles, traveling by rail is how most people get around in China. (It's common when you ask how far away a place is to get an answer not in kilometers or miles but in how long it takes to get there by train.)

However, railroad travel, especially during vacation periods, is a daunting experience for the uninitiated.

For what it's worth, I prefer purchasing a "hard sleeper" ticket on the bottom bunk for any long trip. "Soft sleepers" are more private, but they can be rather confining and stuffy.

The hard sleepers are pretty much universally two rows of three-level bunk beds per compartment. There's not a lot of room (I'm almost 6-foot-3), but, if you're not too tall, it's fairly comfortable.

Be sure to carry some food and drink with you. You can buy meals and snacks on the train, but the selection is usually pretty slim and often consists of items most Westerners haven't developed a taste for -- like chicken claws. Not chicken legs or wings, mind you, but claws. (Now I tried just about everything in China, including fried grubs and mountain rock frog. I even found a rooster's head in my hot pot one day and didn't blink an eye. But, gnawing on a claw was beyond me. I know ... I know. It's probably better for me than Chicken McNuggets but I just couldn't.)

All in all, the train system is pretty good, and I got to see some scenery that I wouldn't have otherwise. But, it's rather tiring, and I caught quite a cold on my way east. (That later became a problem, because it was during the SARS scare, and the airports had heat-sensing equipment to see if passengers were running a fever. I wasn't going to be kept out of Thailand. So, I poured cold water over my head and managed to choke down my cough while telling the airport screening personnel I felt just fine.)

Kunming, by the way, is a great city to hang out and spend a few days -- mild weather, a beautiful, up-scale lake area, and a place where you can buy Italian food or hit the local KFC. The only drawbacks were that it took me forever to find an Internet cafe, and crossing virtually any street involved a 50/50 chance of being run over. (I actually did see one man on a bicycle bump a female rider, sending her crashing full-speed into a fruit stand. He didn't even look back.)

Well, eventually, I did make it to the airport in Kunming and took a Thai Airways flight to the Land of Smiles, where I met up with Kim, a Peace Corps worker who was finishing out her service in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan.

The picture, at right, is of her at the presidential palace in Bangkok. Notice she's wearing a Turkmen-style dress, pretty much the national uniform for women in that country.

The picture at the top of this post is of Ko Samui, where we spent a few days relaxing and swapping stories about Central Asia.

Fear and Loathing in the Land of Smiles

First time visitors are never  quite ready for Bangkok -- hot, smoggy, busy, crowded, frustrating, exciting, exotic, and sexy.

Turns out my first hotel (that I had arranged via Internet from China at about $18 a night) was in the middle of a massage parlour district catering almost exclusively to Japanese businessmen and tourists.

Unless you've been there, it's difficult to imagine an upscale building the size of a Las Vegas casino that, other than serve drinks and a few side dishes, is simply an enormous bath and brothel. There are plenty of web postings about the services offered there. But, even if you're not in the market for sex, it's something worth seeing -- dozens of women in evening attire or bathing suits lounging behind a glass enclosure (much like looking in a fish bowl), while the male clientele relax before announcing to an employee that they have selected number so-and-so.

I stuck my head in one of the largest establishments, Caesar's, but didn't even stay for a drink. Being of European ancestry, I got the feeling I wasn't particularly welcome, anyway.

For Westerners, there are three major sex districts, of which I walked through two -- Soi Cowboy and Nana Plaza. Again, it's something worth seeing, whether you approve or disapprove.

Bangkok, however, is long past its heyday as a sex-tourist destination for American servicemen on leave from Vietnam. Now, it's a bustling commercial center bursting at the seams from rapid and, often, uncontrolled growth.

When I first started to travel around the city it seemed pretty much impossible to get from point A to point B. I tried the local transit system and promptly got lost in a maze of interconnecting buses, some with air conditioning, some without, and all crammed to the point that you didn't worry about pickpockets, because even they were jammed in too closely to work.

But, as time went on, I slowly experimented with tuk-tuks, land taxis, water taxis, the Skyway, and the subway. Eventually, I found it pretty easy to get around.

Of course, I made my pilgrimage to the backpacker's haven around Koh San Road. But, I found it too dirty, congested, and youth-oriented for my tastes. After a while I moved out of the main tourist areas, finding small guest houses that were quieter, cheaper, and generally filled with more interesting people.

I still visited the major religious shrines and tourist attractions. But, my best times were had wandering the streets for hours at a time and just running into things I hadn't planned on.

One day that will always stick in my mind was when I came upon the Bangkok Zoo. As far as animal attractions go, it was nice, but nothing special.

I strolled through their grounds for about 90 minutes before noticing that an island on a big lake there contained some monitor lizards -- those dragon-like reptiles that passed for dinosaurs in 1950s B movies.

Well, I had never seen one before that wasn't behind glass. So, I found it rather interesting from a distance of 50 yards. Then, I noticed a couple were swimming in the water only about 25 yards away. That was even more interesting!

After a few minutes of watching the animals, I felt something step on my foot. I looked down, and there was a 5- or 6-foot lizard staring back at me and licking its chops!!! I let out a scream like a little girl and had to thump on chest to get my heart beating again.

But, enough of fear and loathing in Bangkok. (For those of you who aren't familiar with Hunter Thompson, I apologize.)

Eventually, I visited a number of the islands in the Gulf of Thailand and managed to get sand between my toes and to suffer some world-class sunburns.

I even hung out in Pattaya, another destination mixing sand and sex.

The picture above was taken from a Pattaya Starbucks, where I often spent my mornings relaxing on their outdoor veranda and listening to the mix of languages from tourists and locals who came in to indulge their caffeine cravings.

In Search of Lara Croft

After finishing up the 2004 spring semester at Jishou University in China, I headed back to U.S. and resumed my regular work as public relations consultant and poker player.

It quickly became apparent that Texas hold 'em had become immensely popular during my time overseas. (It was on television and everything.) Having supplemented my earnings for some 30 years by playing poker in my spare time, suddenly it seemed there were no-limit hold 'em players under every rock.

The influx of relatively inexperienced players allowed me to fix up the house a bit and, still, save for another overseas trip.

I set my sights on Angkor Wat in Cambodia, the ruins featured in the movie Lara Croft Tomb Raider.

In February of 2007, my unbelievably understanding wife gave her blessing, and I took off for a month or so of traveling around Southeast Asia, with really only one spot that was a "must-see."

After surfing the Internet for a couple of days, I selected a round-trip from from San Francisco to Bangkok with EVA Airlines. If I recall correctly, the price was $762. On the way over, there was one of those strange layovers in Taiwan where there's a terribly long wait, but it isn't long enough to get a hotel room. Otherwise, it was great (aside from the fact that after about 10 hours in the air, I'm ready to scream.)

As much as I enjoy mainland China, EVA, the Taiwan-based airline, has it hands down over China Air. (Just my opinion.)

In any case, I did have fun when a stewardess asked me if I wanted chicken or fish for dinner and I replied in Mandarin. She did a doubletake, then recovered, and continued the conversation in Chinese. Fortunately, we stuck to food topics. So, we were able to communicate fairly effectively.

But, back to the topic at hand -- getting to Cambodia.

I thought I had a pretty good plan. I had read about the Thai-Cambodia border crossings (in the north and in the south) and figured I would take advantage of one of the many "visa-run" excursions out of Pattaya.

Americans, as well as foreigners from certain other countries, can visit Thailand for 30 days by simply showing their passport. But, after that, they must leave the country and re-enter to stay for another month. (By the way, this is getting more and more complicated as the Land of Smiles is constantly tinkering with the rules.)

Many ex-pats use this travel ritual for years, spending an hour or two in Cambodia before returning to Thailand.

Well, I booked a visa run and planned to simply stay in Cambodia and catch a bus or taxi to Siem Reap, the town next to the Angkor Wat temple complex.

Ah, the adventure of travel! Turns out I was dropped off at an immigration checkpoint in the middle of nowhere. There was a gas station comprised of a folding card table with some empty Pepsi and Sprite bottles filled with petrol, a dusty fruit stand, and a lone taxicab with a broken front windshield and five Cambodians already sandwiched into the rear seat. Somehow, I managed to communicate that I wanted to rent the entire front seat and travel to Batambang.

During all my travels, that ride was the first time I actually thought there was a good chance I was going to die -- breakneck speed; no paved roads; clumps of oxen, bicyclists, and children; and dust that reduced visibility to a few feet ... not to mention the occasional sign about an uncleared minefield. I actually gave myself the last rites, and I'm not even Catholic.

But, miracle upon miracle, we made it to our destination. And, as luck stayed with me, I found another taxi going to Siem Reap.

Same roads, same dust, same speed, same road hazards, and same seating arrangements, but, one huge surprise -- a passenger who spoke English. Halfway through the trip, we stopped at a village, and I heard a voice ask, "Would you like to pass urine?" Well, the answer was, "Yes." Turns out the guy had just opened an English school in Cambodia, and he offered me a job on the spot. I politely declined, noting I was only on vacation.

So, getting on with the story, we made it to Siem Reap just as night fell (thank God), and I found accommodations at an unbelievably nice guest house that's been an institution there for years -- Smiley's.

I can't say enough nice things about it. You have to see the place for yourself. I think it was $13 a night (everyone prefers American dollars to the local currency), and there's no reason to eat anywhere else. They have just great food, and they simply add the cheap prices to your room bill.

When I got up the next day to plan my sightseeing, I ran into Tuey the Tuk-tuk Driver (pictured at right), who took me anywhere I wanted to go and even acted as a bit of a tour guide for the princely sum of $10 a day.

The wats are just a short drive out of town. You can get a three-day pass (I believe it's still $40 -- the money is used to help restore and preserve the ruins). I had seen what I wanted after two days. But, you can easily spend three days there and not get bored.

The ruins are magnificent, and you can simply wander around them to your heart's content. The only places you can't go are where the shrines are unstable.

When you want to return to Thailand, it's a simple process to buy a bus ticket. Although, once you transfer at the border, things can sometimes get a bit tricky. Just stand your ground and refuse to pay more if you've already paid for your fare.

Elephant Rides and Other Delights

When I first started my overseas journeys, I looked upon everyone involved in organized tours as cattle who wouldn't know a real-life travel experience if they tripped over one. Age has mellowed my opinion.

While I still prefer to stumble along, blindly, discovering things at my own pace, I've learned to appreciate there are certain things you need a little bit of help with -- such as booking an elephant ride, rather than simply lassoing one of the beasts in the wild and heading off bareback into the jungle.

In 2010, during my fourth trip to Southeast Asia, I finally overcame my prejudice against tours and booked an all-day excursion out of Chiang Mai. The Thais have been catering to tourists for years and have got things like this down to a science.

For around $30, someone will pick you up (possibly on time) at your hotel and shuttle you to a mini bus for your trip into hinterlands. My group was a typical mish-mash of international tourists -- a couple of French, a few Japanese, a German couple, and Keevan, another aging American survivor of the 60s.

After riding for about 90 minutes, we reached a jungle village where a group of ethnic Burmese, called White Karen, eked out a living growing crops, raising their own livestock, and handcrafting scarves and jewelry to sell to tourists like us. The term White Karen comes from the fact that girls wear white until they marry, at which time they can wear more colorful garb. Our tour guide noted he'd never seen a female past puberty wearing white, explaining that without television, there wasn't much else to do at night. As a result, the marrying age was quite young.

After wandering around for a while, trying not to upset the local piglets that were tethered below each home, we took off on a trek through the rice paddies and along a surprisingly clean mountain river. Eventually, we reached a waterfall and rested while the braver of us took a dip in the ice-cold swimming hole.

Next on the agenda was the elephant ride. Having never been on a pachyderm before, I wasn't sure exactly what I was supposed to do, neither did my riding partner, Keevan.

Other than buying a bunch of bananas to try and get on the good side of our ride, we just walked down a wooden platform and stepped right out onto the elephant. Now, let me assure you, while we weren't much of a burden to the animal, it surely knew we were there. Every few steps, she would bend her trunk back up over her head and aggressively prod us for a banana. If we balked, the animal immediately stopped and blew warm, elephant spit/snot over the both of us. Needless to say, we kept chucking bananas her way as long as we could.

It didn't help when a small, riderless elephant snuck up behind us (you wouldn't think that was possible) and grabbed Keevan's bunch of bananas. While I was laughing at Keevan's shocked look at being stripped of his fruit, something strong and warm grabbed at my ... well, to be honest, my crotch. Nothing really gets your attention like having an elephant mistake your manhood for a quick snack.

The last segment of the trip was a relaxing ride down the Mae Wang River on a bamboo raft. The best part was that the slowly sinking raft rode so low in the water it provided cooling relief for any swelling related to the afore-mentioned incident.

Finding a Job in China

This is the first in a series of six postings about my experiences in the People's Republic of China, where I taught for a year at a university in Hunan Province and for three months at various elementary schools in Shanghai.

If you really want to experience a country, it's my firm belief that you have to live there.

In the summer of 2003, with my son still off at college, I was getting itchy feet, having returned from my Peace Corps service in Turkmenistan, where I taught English at what passed for the country's premier language institute.

The Peace Corps does some wonderful work, but preparing people to become accomplished language teachers is relatively low on their list of priorities.

So, when I returned to the U.S., I took some correspondence courses to pick up a couple of international teaching certificates and hone my educational skills.

With my teaching experience and newly earned paperwork in hand, I set out to find a university-level teaching assignment overseas.

For any of you who have searched the web through sites such as Dave's ESL Cafe, you're well aware that probably the easiest place to land a job is in the People's Republic of China. Often the requirements are any college degree, coupled with a sense of adventure and the willingness to work outside one of the major metropolitan areas.

I posted my resume' at Dave's and got dozens and dozens of responses, including some offering me a job on the spot.

Nevertheless, I took my time and, after talking with the head of foreign recruitment at Jishou University and looking at the incredible pictures of Zhangjiajie National Park, accepted a position in Hunan Province.

For those of you who aren't familiar with hunting for teaching jobs in the PRC, let me point out at this time that it's much better to deal directly with the school where you are thinking of working. There's a whole recruitment industry out there that takes a cut for snagging unwary foreigners -- not to mention the private English language schools that will work you to death if you're not careful.

In any case, I exchanged some e-mails with a Canadian woman who worked there the previous year and got a pretty good idea of what was in store for me.

This, by no means meant that everything went smoothly. Among other things, I nearly bought plane tickets to the wrong city, because I was pronouncing my destination so poorly. And, of course, just navigating the airports once you make it to the mainland is a bit of a terror for someone who could say hello and count to three in Chinese.

To top it off, the person who was supposed to pick me up at the airport once I made it to Zhangjiajie thought I was arriving on a flight the next day (even though I e-mailed them several times). So, I arrived just as the airport was closing for the night, with no help in sight and not a soul around who could speak English.

Eventually, I managed to purchase a bus ticket and made it into the city, where some helpful people pushed me off the bus in front of what apparently was an all-night travel agency. I had a piece of faxed correspondence with the university's logo on it. So, someone phoned the school, and, eventually, a driver came to pick me up.

I was deposited at a hotel and told someone would contact me the next day. The accommodations were fine -- kind of a Motel 6 with tile floors, instead of carpet, and roosters making noise outside, instead of teenagers drinking.

In the morning, I started learing Chinese and managed to order some noodle soup and tea. The adventure had begun.

Getting Settled in Hunan Province

Jishou University, not surprisingly, is located in Jishou City. But, in the fall of 2003, they moved their foreign language students a couple of hours train ride to the south, where they shared a campus with Zhangjiajie College.

I was assigned three classes, each with about 40 first-year English majors (ages 18-20), and given the flexibility to pretty much make up my own lesson plans.

At this point in their education, most of the students had studied the language for five to seven years, but few, if any, had ever had the opportunity to talk with a native English speaker.

Naturally, they were a bit shy, at first. Every experience in their schooling had conditioned them to listen quietly to the teacher and repeat words and phrases when directed.

My teaching style, coupled with my outgoing personality, must have been quite a shock the first few weeks. I wanted them to communicate and not to worry about mistakes. If I could figure out what they were trying to say, and they could understand me, I called that a victory.

Sometimes, I would challenge them to speak with me in English, while I tried to speak in Mandarin. I really think this made them feel more comfortable when they made mistakes in pronunciation or grammar.

By the way, I should probably note at this point what I saw as one of the most profound differences between Chinese and American students.

Now, let me preface this by saying that my Chinese students were some of the brightest, talented, and most hardworking individuals I could imagine. Nevertheless, there was one skill nearly everyone I met in Central China lacked -- the ability to guess.

I noticed this one day after being particularly frustrated trying to get a campus cafeteria worker to scramble an egg in with my vegetables. The Mandarin word for egg is "dan." As with pretty much all Chinese words, you have at least four ways to pronounce it, all with different meanings that can be further complicated by the way in which it is used. (For example, saying, "I want to go to the train station," is the same as, "I want to have sex with the train station" -- just a different tone on the verb.)

In any case, to get my egg, I was eventually reduced to squawking like a chicken and pretending to pull something out of my rear end. Finally, I managed to get my point across, much to the lasting amusement of the campus culinary staff. But, I remember thinking, "If the pronunciation is pretty close, and you're in a kitchen, well, take a guess." (Same thing happened when I was walking with Chinese friends and practicing my directions. I would say, "Go left," and everyone understood. Then, I would say, "Go right," and not get the tone correct, and there was no understanding whatsoever of what I was trying to express.)

So, I went back to my students and tried an experiment. I said, "I will speak in Russian, and you answer in English." The standard response was, "I don't speak Russian." I would say, "I know. See if you can guess my meaning."

I would say, "Menya zavoot Lance (my name)," pointing to myself. Then I would say, "Kak vas zavoot?," pointing to them. I'm still not sure why only one in a hundred could figure that out.

By now, you're probably wondering who the pretty Chinese woman in the picture is. Her English name's Scarlette, and, at the time, she was a teacher at Zhangjiajie College. We had long conversations about everything from politics to relationships, and she became my best friend during my nine-month stay in Hunan Province.

She has since married and moved to Guanzhou where she gave birth to her first child.

The Students

A couple of weeks into the fall semester, I really began to feel at home in China.

I had managed to learn enough Mandarin to order simple foods and to tell cooks that I didn't want any of the hot peppers that are so common in just about everything that's eaten in Hunan Province. I'd even gotten pretty good at traveling around the city either by foot or by flagging down one of the little blue vans that served as taxis.

Also, I'd moved into my permanent apartment on the Zhangjiajie campus and settled in. The accommodations, while fairly basic, were more than adequate -- with a nice bathroom, a heating and air-conditioning unit, my own bottled water supply, a refrigerator, and a new Chinese-made computer with high-speed internet access. (The only problem was that the operating system was in Mandarin. So, I had to remember where commands were on the English version of Windows.)

More importantly, though, I was starting to get to know my students.

I just can't overstate how much fun it was watching them come out of their shells and express themselves. (Likewise, I can't stress enough how comforting it was to share experiences with the other educators from Britain, Canada, Australia, France, Japan, and America.)

Each and every one of my students was a joy to get to know. Although, I must admit, I had a horrible time remembering their Chinese names. Fortunately, for me, we used English ones in class.

Most of them already had Western names picked out -- sounds that easily rolled off my tongue and stuck in my mind: Linda, Constantine, Cynthia, Agnes, Vera, and Philip. Others were a bit more unusual -- Gobby, Smile, and Bean Soup. Some didn't have English names, so, I gave them ones. Often, it was a simple process. You just looked at someone and knew they were a Jasmine or a Jade. Others, I named after my friends and family.

As the year progressed, we shared hopes and dreams and lots and lots of laughs.

At the close of my teaching year, each class gave me something to remember them by. Perhaps the momento I most cherish was a notebook in which each student wrote a message (sometimes in both English and Chinese) and included something personal -- a poem, a drawing, a butterfly, and, in one case, Mandarin characters made out of their hair and glued to the page.

Here's a sampling of their writings:

Philip -- "I just want to say: Though you and I are in different ages, or maybe the different generation, sometimes you look like my father or grandfather. I think the truth is we are best friends. Aren't we? ... Your class is the only thing interest me. The wonderful games, funny play, exciting dance. I said to myself: I must not be down. I should be optimistic, like you. So you can imagine what an important place you mean to me."

Cynthia -- "As for your wife and son, from your words during our classes, we know that it's a wonderful and happy family. I really admire your son has such a father, who can sit down with him and talk with him about (anything, including) sex, when he's old enough, who can advise, but never force, when there is a quarrel."

Jasmine -- "Now, in my mind, a kind of complex feeling is existing -- sadness, because you're leaving us; memory for beautiful days which have passed; wishes for our happy future. ... You are a good joke player. Allow me to use lovely to describe you. Sometimes you looked like a child, so cute and bright."

Gerald -- "Thank you very much. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support and help. Also, thank you very much for introducing Ruthie, who is now my girlfriend to me. I'll cherish this emotion between us. ... She is kind and generous. We have many things in common. If not for you, I would not have such a romantic experience."

Shopping for Dog and Such

It doesn't take long living in a foreign country to get down to the basics, and there is nothing more basic than food.

While there are some choices that will strike many Westerners as odd, such as these tasty items (pictured at right) we found on the streets of Zhangjiajie, food is plentiful, healthy, and generally exciting in Hunan Province and all of China.

If you like fruits and vegetables, you're in for a real treat. And, if you like your spices, you'll be in heaven.

Yes, supermarkets with marked prices that are easy to understand are starting to make inroads throughout the PRC. But, most people still get the bulk of their diet from the ever-present street stalls selling produce apparently picked that morning. You have your choice of vegetables, and apples, pears, melons, bananas, as well as a variety of exotic fruit, that seems to always be in season.

Shopping, of course, is an adventure by Western standards. And, it's a big advantage to know what something is supposed to cost before you get to the bargaining stage. (If you have a guide or friend to help you, it's a piece of cake. Otherwise, you can hang around and try to figure out what others paid and hand the salesperson the same amount.)

Fortunately, relatively simple hand signals accompany numbers in China. So, even if you can't pronounce the numbers properly, you can motion with your fingers how many yuan (about 12 cents back then) you're willing to pay.

One (yi) can be accompanied by simply holding up your index finger. Then, two (er) by adding your middle finger. Just keep adding fingers for three (san), four (si), and your thumb for five (wu). Six (liu) is the thumb and pinky finger; seven (qi) is kind of like making a hand puppet with your thumb opposing the other four fingers; eight (ba) uses your thumb and index finger in kind of a reverse "loser" sign; nine (jiu) is a curled index finger, and 10 (shi) uses both index fingers to make a cross, like you are warding off a vampire.

Naturally, there are tones involved, and the Pinyin English letters used to approximate sounds for Chinese characters don't always have the sounds a native English speaker would expect. But, that's part of the challenge.

As with much of the world, whenever you're the outsider, there are people who will try to take advantage of you. Again, that's part of the learning curve.

I recall two times, in particular -- one funny and one that could have been problematical -- where people tried to overcharge me.

The first was after I had been there only a couple of days.

There are shoe shine vendors on many corners, and I stopped before an older woman and asked how much it cost (Duoshao qian?) She replied that is was one yuan.

So, she did her job and then asked for two yuan. I offered her one, and she pointed to each shoe, in turn, and said, "Yi yuan, hu yi yuan." I laughed, and, then, she laughed. It was worth a try on her part.

The other time happened after a fellow foreign teacher and I had several vegetable dishes at one of the street restaurants (which, by the way, are excellent and never once made me ill during my nine months in Zhangjiajie).

When it came time to pay the bill, the owner told us it was about three times what it should have been. I got a bit huffy and put my foot down. As we argued, a crowd grew.

Fortunately, I never found out if I would have risked jail over a dollar or two, because one of my students wandered by and smoothed things out. I agreed to pay a rather high price for the meal, but only about half of what he was asking. I then made a big show out of telling the onlookers how good the food was. So, everyone saved face.

Killer Insects and Shanghai Blues

In February 2004, I returned from vacationing in Thailand to resume teaching the three groups of freshman English majors at the Jishou University campus in Zhangjiajie. Pictured below is Class 3.

The second semester was even better than the first, as I continued to get to know my students, and they continued to share more and more of themselves with me. In addition, I picked up a class at Zhangjiajie College and another at a nearby technical college.

I was also gaining a bit more confidence in my Chinese language skills (limited as they were) and would often venture into the city at night, checking out the bars, and, sometimes, playing liar's dice with the locals. (As long as you could count in Chinese, you could play at least that game.)

One night, while out with a young American teacher named Zach, we ran across a couple of young ladies who joined us for some tea at Forest of Flowers, one of our favorite hangouts that happened to have the plushest restrooms in town!

Since Zach spoke Mandarin fluently (and eventually married a Taiwanese girl), the conversation blossomed. Eventually, one of the young ladies invited us to have lunch the next day at the home of her parents.

It took the four of us a long bus ride and a precarious journey by truck to make it to girl's home village. But, it was well worth it. We dined on pork, rice, vegetables, and plain old moonshine -- all raised, grown, or processed within 25 yards of the house.

After lunch, we took a hike through the mountains, with the girls pointing out local flora and fauna.

Maybe 30 minutes into the trek, I noticed a large preying mantis and coaxed it onto my finger. When I showed it to the girls, much to my surprise, one of them immediately swatted it from my hand and stepped on it -- grinding it under her foot.

Then, she grabbed a stick and started stirring it in the insect's guts.

After a moment, something long, thin, black, and ominous-looking wrapped itself around the twig. Before smashing the thing with a rock, she explained (with Zach translating) that insects in the region often were infected with a parasite that could eat its way into your finger, causing you to lose it. Yuck!

The experience gave me a whole new appreciation of the knowledge of locals.

As the school year wound to a close, it brought with it a great sadness. But, by then, I was yearning to see my wife and son, who had just finished his second year at college.

By June, I was back in the good ol' U.S.A.

And, by August, I was already thinking about making "one last teaching trip overseas."

To cut to the chase, I ended up accepting a job teaching youngsters in Shanghai in the fall of 2004.

What a city!

I ended up getting an apartment in a working-class section of Pudong (across the river from Shanghai proper).

The metropolitan area is busy and beautiful. But, it didn't take me long to realize I just wasn't made for the big city.

Also, I overestimated my patience dealing with first graders.

The highlight of my three-month stay there was getting to know Mini -- one of Scarlette's friends. Pictured at left, she is aptly named, topping out at maybe 90 pounds. But, Mini is the proverbial ball of fire.

We only got to know each other a short while, but we've stayed in contact by e-mail and Facebook, and I wouldn't be surprised to run into her in the States after she's conquered the world of business.

The Friendly Welsh Witch (her words, not mine)

Hunan Province has a pull on those who have spent time there.

The picture at left is of Beverly (one of the teachers I worked with at Jishou University's language school at Zhangjiajie) and Phoebe (Li Tan, or Tan Li -- depending on which day it is), who served as our liaison with the university's administration.

Beverly, a Welsh lass or Welsh witch (her words), has returned numerous times to visit with students and staff there. On her latest trip, she and Phoebe went to Zhangjiajie National Park and took the tram up to one of the highest points.

The picture at right is looking down on the winding road leading up to the park. Notice the air quality. While the park can be shrouded in mist during the winter, this picture was taken at mid-day during the summer.

I remember one of my students looking at similar air quality from the third story of a university building and noting, "It's very foggy today."

"No," I replied. "That isn't fog." Burning coal and minimal regulations for factories has really taken its toll on Chinese air clarity and quality.

Of course, indoor air pollution (as in smoking) can also be a problem in the People's Republic of China. In the picture below, Beverly is seen lighting up a mouthful of cigarettes during her end-of-year party at a karaoke bar in Zhangjiajie.

While she might not have set the best of standards for her students when it came to drinking and smoking, her enthusiasm and wit in the classroom were always of the highest quality.

Beverly continues travel the globe and has finally found her soulmate in the process. She is one of those persons I defer to when it comes to travel experiences. Bev has pretty much been everywhere and has made friends all along the way.

Once, when interviewing for one of her teaching jobs, she was asked if she liked children. "I really do," she replied, "but, I don't think I could eat a whole one." She got the job anyway.

Signing Up

This is the first in a series of six posts about how I joined the Peace Corps in the summer of 2002 and ended up in Turkmenistan, one of the old Soviet republics nestled between Iran, Afghanistan, and Uzbekistan in Central Asia.

I was nearing the end of administering a community college grant project in the spring of 2002 and decided to try and fulfill my lifelong dream of serving in the Peace Corps, although I was well past the typical post-college age of a volunteer.

After doing some Internet research and discussing the idea with my wife, I decided to see if I could get a posting in Russia.

I started the long application process and enrolled in a Russian-language course at the school where I was working. I had previously set aside at least what I thought was enough money to augment the financial needs of my wife (who works full time) and my son (who was attending school on a combination of athletic and academic scholarships, parental help, some part-time work, and a small educational loan).

It's probably worth pointing out at this time, that while older persons are not discouraged from Peace Corps service, the application process becomes rather more complicated the more "life experience" you have.

Health questions alone create lots of stumbling blocks, assuming you answer them honestly. If you've ever had a cough that lasted for more than a few days -- you're headed for a chest x-ray. If you've ever talked to a mental health professional for any reason (even to support your loved ones) -- you've got to track them down and have them submit a letter that you're not crazy.

Fortunately, I was in pretty good physcial shape and had no criminal history. But, I can imagine what a mess it would have been if I had been arrested as a kid for some minor offense.

In any case, I waded through the paperwork and finally got my interview (by phone) with a real recruiter, where we discussed assignment options. As it turned out, the timing would be perfect for me to enter the program for Eastern Russia. (Russia is so big it was split into two divisions, with the one I was headed for operating out of Vladivostok.)

I was in heaven and started reading the English-language version of the Vladivostok Times -- new factory opens; criminals slaughter police/business owners/family of business owners, family of police; and my favorite, "First Siberian Tiger Attack of the Season."

Then, things got a bit dicey. The Russians were pretty sensitive about being considered a "developing country" and started to balk about letting in a new group of Peace Corps workers. This was followed by complaints that many of the volunteers weren't really qualified to do their jobs (something I learned to have some appreciation for). Finally, there were the fears that Peace Corps workers were really spies working for the CIA.

So, after I had given notice at my job and after they had already sent me a plane ticket for the trip, the Peace Corps began delaying my starting date -- usually a week or two at a time.

Meanwhile, as the summer slipped by, I missed out on other options, such as serving in Ukraine.

At one point, the Russian government went over the background information on the volunteers scheduled to serve and said they only wanted a handful of them. I was one of those they picked. So, I figured it was a done deal.

But, as time wore on, it became apparent to me that Russia was never going to allow in a new group of Peace Corps volunteers.

So, I called back my friendly recruiter and asked him if he had any country where I might be able to use the little Russian I had learned.

I got offered several of the "...stan" countries that used to comprise the southern border of the old Soviet Union, and I picked Turkmenistan, because it seemed the most interesting -- primarily because of its enigmatic leader Saparmyrat Turkmenbashi The Great.

The pictures at top right are my Peace Corps identity cards in Russian and Turkmen, and, along with my U.S. passport, allowed me as much freedom as is possible in that strange desert country.

First Week in the Peace Corps

Finally, near the end of summer in 2002, all the Peace Corps workers who were headed to Turkmenistan flew into Chicago for a couple of days of orientation.

I remember making it to the hotel and seeing if I could guess which of the guests were my fellow Peace Corps workers.

We were assigned rooms and roommates (mine was Jay, a philosophy major with guitar in hand). Soon, we met the others, and, much to my surprise, I was not the oldest (although I was the eldest male -- a position that carried a certain amount of stature in the culture where we were heading).

It was quite a mixed bag of personalities, and people quickly began to interact and find others with common interests or personalities. Of course the young men and women also started to check each other other out for possible romantic matches in the weeks and months ahead.

To my surprise, there was another Lance in the group, and I soon became known as "Papa Lance."

When it came time to head to Turkmenistan, he and I became the official travel leaders, responsible for making sure everyone got on board and made our connecting flight.

We were also the first two off the plane when it landed in Ashgabat. I remember the first thing "young" Lance did was walk over to the drinking fountain and take a big swig of the unfiltered water that was the downfall of so many of the volunteers. Lance, however, seemed to have an iron stomach and survived numerous gastric adventures in the coming months. (He would often be the first to try some local food. Then, the rest of us would wait a day or two to see if he survived.)

After a grueling flight, we were greeted at the Ashgabat airport by a skeleton crew of volunteers who had been there preparing for our arrival. All Peace Corps workers had been evacuated from the country after 9/11, and we were the first full legion of volunteers to come back.

That night, we headed out to what passed for a resort area outside of the Turkmenistan capital. It was there, at "Camp Chuli," where we started our language and cultural training and got our first experiences with Turkmen toilet facilities.

The picture at the top of this post was taken at the camp during a mock Turkmen wedding. The women in the foreground are wearing typical Turkmen dresses and colorful scarves that reflect their ethnic tribes.

The first few days at the camp were both exciting and difficult, as I struggled through Turkmen language lessons. But, by the fourth day, they selected a small group of us to study Russian, because we were going to be stationed in either Ashgabat or Turkmenbashy, where it was generally easier to get by speaking Russian. Since I at least knew how to read the Cyrillic alphabet and pronounce a few words, I was suddenly a language god.

Several of the volunteers had a natural talent for languages, however, and it didn't take them long to bypass what limited skills I had.

One story from Chuli that I'll alway remember involved a night guard stationed at the camp. (What they were guarding, I was never able to figure out.)

In any case, one evening, as I lay sleepless in the heat and worrying about the stinging and biting insects that infested our sleeping quarters, I got up to take a walk and ended up talking with one of the guards. (Turns out he was a third-year student at the Azady Languages Institute where I was later assigned to teach.)

He said I should be very careful because there were some dangerous spiders in Turkmenistan. "There are black ones with little red spots on their stomachs, and, if they bite you, you can die," he warned. I told him we had lots of black widows where I lived in northern California.

Not to be outdone, he then said there were brown spiders that hide under toilet seats and, "If they bit you, you can die." I said we have brown recluse spiders in America that can do the same thing.

Visibily irritated, he said, "We also have the Varan!," extending his fingers as wide as they would go.

"Big spiders?" I asked, "like tarantulas?"

"No," he said. "Tarantulas are small. Varan is BIG, and it will chase you. If it bites you, you will die! Never turn your back on Varan."

About this time, Ian, a volunteer who had been listening wide-eyed to the conversation, nervously asked, "Are they around here?"

"Oh, no," the guard reassured him. "They are in the desert. ... Well, SOMETIMES they come here."

It didn't take long for the story about the giant, killer spiders to spread around camp.

I spent several months wondering if the guard was pulling my leg until someone finally explained to me that the guard wasn't talking about another spider, but about a giant desert lizard.

Life in Paradise

Being a Peace Corps trainee is not the same as being a Peace Corp volunteer -- you've got to earn the title.

After a week of in-country orientation, we were shipped off on the bus from hell (it must have been 140 degrees inside) to meet our training-host families.

I ended with up Alya (a divorced mother of one) and her pretty teenage daughter, Christina (who spoke English very well.)

They lived in Bezmein, a dry and bleak collection of old Soviet-style apartments near Ashgabat that seemed to cry out, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." (The city was later renamed Abadan -- Paradise in Turkmen -- a misnomer if there ever was one.)

The picture at right is of the view from my bedroom window looking out onto the dirt street that acted as playground, soccer field, and communal bakery.

Now, up to the time I met Alya and Christina (ethnic Russians), all my cultural training was focused on Turkmen traditions and customs.

Turns out not much of that applied to the minority Russian population, most of whom felt they had been abandoned by the former Soviet Union. Which, of course, was true.

When Mother Russia gave up the Cold War and said goodbye to the "...stan" countries, millions of Russians, who represented the majority of the educational elite of those nations, were left out in the rain. Furthermore, the locals, who for 75 years had been forced to appreciate everything Russian, returned the favor with a vengeance when they took power.

Many of those who traced their roots back to Russia, however, desperately dug in their heels and tried to hold on to some of their old ways, by clinging to their music, literary traditions, language, and vodka. They were also much more open to Western ideas and culture.

In any case, as I entered Alya and Christina's apartment, I was greeted by Cindy Crawford and Britney Spears posters, giving me a clue that my experience was going to differ from most of the Peace Corps trainees, who were destined for the desert.

I spent the next six weeks or so living with these two Turkmen/Russians and learning how to survive in my new environment. During this time, I also started teaching at School No. 7, where they taught Russian children in the morning and Turkmen children in the afternoon.

(It's my understanding that the elementary school has since switched entirely to the Turkmen language, as part of the government's push to reduce and eliminate Russian influences.
During my time in Bezmein, I learned the many uses of vodka (including trying to cure a cold by soaking a rag in it and wrapping it around your neck at bedtime), how to bargain at the open-air markets, how to hail a taxi, and what foods my stomach would and would not accept.

I also learned what "projectile vomiting" really was and came to an entirely new understanding of the word "diarrhea." At one point, I dropped about 30 pounds in a week when I came down with dysentery.

More importantly, I also learned how to simply enjoy a cup of tea and relearned how to laugh until it hurt, even when I wasn't entirely sure what I was laughing about.

It will probably lose something in the translation (humor usually does), but I'll always remember one night when were were sharing photo albums. (One of the few things I could do at that point in Russian was point to pictures and say, "This is my dog. This is my wife. This is my house. This is my friend. This is my car.")

At one point, Christina showed me a picture and asked in English if I could tell what it was. There were some people in the background and a colorful pile of material in the foreground, kind of in the shape of a small haystack.

I said I didn't know, and Christina asked me to guess. "I'm not sure," I said in English. "Maybe it's a goat under a blanket."

Well, the daughter fell off her chair laughing, which started the mother and I laughing, with the mom yelling, "Sto, sto?" and me yelling "What, what?" The longer Christina laughed, the funnier it became, until none of the three of us could breathe, much less speak.

Turns out that the goat under a blanket was a view of Alya's behind as she bent over to pick something off the floor.

My Host Family

After being sworn in as an official Peace Corps volunteer, I finally moved into the big city (Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan) in the fall of 2002 and took up residence with my permanent host family.

Now, I'm sure just about every Peace Corps worker loves their host family members. But, even among the other volunteers, it was widely accepted that I had won the lottery.

The above picture shows five of the family members: Yakub, the petro-chemical engineering student who had spent two summers at Oxford University; Gulshat, the piano-playing imp who was the youngest of the three daughters; Selbi, the next oldest sister who was attending boarding school in Mary; Russell (I have no idea how he got that name) who was the son of the eldest, married daughter (who did not live at the home); and Djeren, the medically trained mother.

Djuma, the father, was in St. Petersburg, Russia, at the time.

Now, if your personality doesn't mesh well with your host family, I can imagine that two years of Peace Corps service would seem very long, indeed. But, I want to take this post to just begin to try and explain how incredibly nice my family was.

First off, they took me into their home without reservation. From the moment we met, I was part of their family. We laughed together, ate together, and drank an awful lot of green tea together.

I became particularly attached to Yakub, who, at 20, was just a bit older than my son. He seemed to accept me as an equal, unlike many people that age who aren't sure exactly what to do with someone in their 50s.

Shortly after I moved in, he introduced me to his buddies, and we went out for a night on the town. For some reason, his friends had taken on American-styled nicknames and were known as "L.A.," "Biggie," and "The Fist."

We went out to the "ABC" nightclub (that didn't even get going until midnight) and drank and danced until dawn. When Yakub and I wandered in about 8 a.m., Djeren gave us a look that didn't need translation -- both her children had been naughty.

One thing that was a constant in the household was the love of learning.

The home was literally littered with books -- all topics, all languages. And, above the breakfast table, there was an erasable whiteboard always filled with English/Russian words and phrases to help all of us communicate better.

Every mealtime was an opportunity for language lessons, and it was not uncommon for someone to start a sentence in one language and finish it in another.

Poor Yakub was often hijacked by Djuma and I to be our translator as we talked for hours about science, politics, culture, and the arts.

It's important to remember that discussions like that were rare in Turkmenistan, where open conversations with foreigners, or even fellow country members, were discouraged, to say the least. But, my talks with Djuma were about as honest and direct as you could get.

The second war with Iraq was going on while I was there, and I remember talking with him at length about Russian television newsmen reporting that U.S. forces were deliberately targeting hospital, mosques, and schools.

I probably should mention at this point that the family members were Suni Muslims. Pretty much all Turkmen are. But, never once did I feel excluded or shunned because I was of a different faith.

In fact, Yakub took me to the largest mosque in Ashgabat, where I prayed according to my custom.

As for Djeren, I have nothing but respect. And, aside from my mother, she made the best soup in the world.

When I told her I had to cut my stay short and return to America, she cried, and so did I.

Communication with them (I'm pretty much an e-mail type of guy) has been difficult since my departure.

If you ever see this post -- I love you guys and will never forget you.

P.S. Thanks Selbi for the cool picture of Turkmen family life. As you can see, I've kept it as a remembrance of my time in Ashbabat.

Teaching in Ashgabat

Much has been said about the crumbling education system of Turkmenistan, where elementary and high school education has been cut from 10 years to nine, and I'll try not to rehash that.

Instead this post will deal with my time teaching English at the Azady World Languages Institute in Ashgabat, starting in the fall of 2002. Azady was know as the "premier foreign language school" in the country and had recently taken over most of the English studies from Ashgabat University.

The above picture is of the main entrance to Azady, a sprawling complex that included several buildings, one or two state-of-the-art classrooms (where students generally weren't allowed), and lots of old, drab cubicles with chalkboards you couldn't write on and chairs that might or might not hold your weight.

The strength of an educational system, of course, is not determined by the opulence of the school buildings. But, considering all the new construction that as going on in the capital, it was indication of the priority education received in the country.

I took over two classes of 17-to-19-year-olds who were being taught by a highly qualified English as a Foreign Language (EFL) teacher who was working under a special U.S. government contract. His real job, however, which I freed him up to do, was to work with the teachers there.

Unfortunately, by the time I arrived, he was already pretty burned out on the assignment, believing that the school really didn't want to improve. He was right. But, when I got there, I was still incredibly optimistic and excited by the concept of teaching and had not yet become a cynic.

In any case, it's not my desire or purpose to rewrite the education laws of Turkmenistan, simply to sort out a few of my impressions on paper (well, cyberspace) and give my readers an inkling of what it was like living and working in this admittedly strange corner of Central Asia.

So, back to the story ... I took over two rather small groups of students, 104-A and 105-B. The first class had nine students: Suray, Margarid, Laily, Murat, Begench, Azat, Maysa, Jennet, and Ejesh. The second group had 10 students: Kakajan, Deryaguly, Arslan, Kurban, Assasapar, Bahar, Chynar, Lyubov, Bairam, and Irana. At right is a picture of two of girls (Maysa and Jennet) in 104-A.

Surprisingly, the small class sizes didn't lend themselves to building terribly strong relationships, partly because the English-language skills were generally pretty low and partly because the free exchanges of ideas (or, even, close friendships with foreigners) could get you into trouble in Turkmenistan.

The one exception was Lyubov, a student from 105-B, who earned a scholarship to study in America and has since earned a degree in psychology, gotten a job, and married to a fine young man here in the U.S.
A few quick stories from my time at Azady:

The first is when one of the local teachers, Gulshat (It means beautiful flower in Turkmen) offered me a cup of tea one day. I pointed out that I had just consumed a full pot and was no longer thirsty. She looked at me like I was socially retarded and pointedly explained, "It's my job to offer tea. It's your job to drink it!"

The second is from my student Murat. We had been working for several days on adjectives to describe clothing and decided to try out our skills by getting out of the classroom and walking around the block. I would point to someone on the street, and a student would try and explain what they were wearing. (Example: He is wearing a big, black leather coat.)

Well, there was this girl walking toward us, and I asked Murat to describe her clothing. (It should be pointed out at this point that the Russian girls often dressed quite differently from their conservative Turkmen counterparts.)

Murat said, "She is wearing a skirt." I told him he was correct, but that I wanted more details. As she got closer, he continued, "She is wearing a short, blue skirt." I told him that was much better, but that I wanted even more details, expecting him to describe her blouse or shoes.

"She is wearing a very tight, very short, very sexy dark blue skirt." Well, I sure couldn't argue. He had described it to a tee.

The final story is of one of my most embarrassing teaching moments and one that I wish I could do over. It involved Ejesh, a very shy girl who was just beginning to break out of her shell and speak in class.

It was a warm day, and the students were particularly unfocused. I had been working on modal verbs, or some such thing, and was getting a bit frustrated when the students kept making the same mistakes over and over.

"I'm going to throw this at the next person who gets this wrong," I announced, brandishing an inch-long piece of white chalk. Well, I called on Ejesh, and, sure enough, she got it wrong.

So, I gently tossed the chalk in her direction, and it did a swan dive down the bodice of her Turkmen dress. She immediately turned red and ran from the room. I could have shot myself. It took a week before she spoke in class again.

Job Application

Just about everything you can find on the Internet paints a pretty dismal picture of life in Turkmenistan. And, unfortunately, much, if not all of it, is true.

Nevertheless, now that I've been gone for several years, I find myself yearning to return, at least for a while.

Very early in my stay there, one of the resident Peace Corps cynics dubbed Ashgabat "Stalin's Disneyland," and the phrase has stuck in my mind since.

It's a city of Soviet-styled concrete, covered up with neon, fountains, slogans, and monuments -- a place of vast contradictions that mirror life throughout the country: Laughter and sadness, wealth and grinding poverty, beautiful vistas and a land where family pets are thrown out with the trash ... a place where merchants will try and cheat foreigners, but who will return the odd penny if a mistake is made giving change.

Nevertheless, for me, the positives outweigh the negatives, and Turkmenistan calls out to me in my dreams.

I just can't get rid of the idea that if I returned and somehow got the ear of Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedov, the successor to Saparmurat Niyazov, "The Turkmenbashi," I could make a positive difference.

By trade, I'm a poker player and a public relations consultant who has done more than my fair share of "spin" when it comes to bad situations. My best PR clients, however, are ones who will accept advice on how to keep out of trouble in the first place, and that's what I would love to do in Turkmenistan.

So, even though the chances run from zero to less than zero, consider this post a personal job application to the Turkmen leadership.



WANTED: A position of responsibility where I could advise government agencies on ways to modernize education, bring healthcare into the 21st Century, improve international relations, and increase foreign investment. (How's that for an ambitious dream job?)

Actually, it wouldn't be all that tough. Most of the choices are no-brainers.

Education: I've read the Niyazov's Ruhnama. It has some very inspirational parts and some nice poetry. It's unique to Turkmenistan, and all students should read it; it's part of their culture. But, come on, it's not a text book, and it certainly won't prepare your countrymen for working in e-commerce. Same goes for language. Yes, all your residents should learn Turkmen; it's your national language. But, they also need Russian or English to compete in the global marketplace.

Tourism: Turkmenistan has unique cultural and historical aspects that many people would love to see. But, they're not going to come if they are treated as some sort of security threat that has to be constantly watched. Really ... there is very little worth spying on, and, judging by the Internet, the present system isn't winning a lot of friends.

Healthcare: If you had to fly in doctors from Germany to treat the former ailing president, what does that say about medical facilities for everyone else in the country? And, while we're on the subject, what's up with closing the hospitals outside of Ashgabat and using military personnel to replace medical professionals? Finally, accept the fact that a country with as many intravenous drug users and prostitutes as you have either already has a big problem with AIDS or is headed in that direction. At the very least, open some sort of free no-questions-asked blood-screening clinic for your "night butterflies."

Image: Wasn't it a bit embarrassing when Niyazov was in charge that every year he made the top 10 list of countries with the World's Worst Leaders? It's time for a change. Just allowing a few Internet cafes to open would do the trick.
Well, do you think there's any chance I can get the job? Just post your response on this site.

How I Almost Broke the Venus de Milo

This is the first in a series of five stories about my first overseas trip during the summer of '69. I was 18 years old at the time, and, for three months, my three best friends and I hitchhiked around Europe and managed to grow up a bit in the process.

The whole idea for the trip started with the youngest of the four of us -- Kent. He was still in high school, while the rest of us (myself, Eric, and Frank) were college freshmen.

It was a time of changes, not only for us teenagers growing into men, but for the nation as a whole. Country Joe and the Fish was on the radio; the smell of marijuana was in the air, and anti-war protesters were in the streets.

Three of us worked together in a Sunnyvale restaurant, and all of us had known each other since elementary school.

The plan was simple: Get the cheapest air flight we could to England and, then, see Europe on our budget of about $3 a day. (I actually came back with a couple of bucks in my pocket.)

Well, we found a round-trip charter flight for just under $300 each, bought backpacks, told our parents, and got our passports. (Mine is shown above. By the way, if you look closely enough you can see the moustache I was trying to grow at the time. At least, I think you can.)

On Tuesday, June 17, 1969, Kent, Eric, and I took off from the Oakland Airport. (Frank followed a week or so later). After nearly 12 hours in the air, we landed outside of London and were greeted by Keith, a WWII buddy of Kent's father. Thanks heavens for that! We couldn't even decipher the British accent. Keith drove us into London with the intention of showing us a few of the sights and then leaving us at a youth hostel or cheap hotel.

You see, while we wanted to see England and Europe, we hadn't made any plans about what to do once we actually got there.

In any case, Keith quickly realized we would be lost in the crowd and took pity on us, driving us back to his home, a goodly drive north of London, and letting us settle in for a day or two before beginning our adventure on the road.

My diary entry from that first day reads, in part: "The driving in London isn't real! All sports cars zipping around ... I was scared to death. Keith took us to a pub -- we had steak-and-kidney pie and a beer! Then, we drove to Petersborough, because the money and the pace in London were too much."

Keith's home town, population about 40,000, gave us a chance to catch some sleep and make some sort of plans.

During the coming weeks and months, we managed to lose weight and gain confidence as we set out on our own. I ended up traveling through England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, Denmark, Austria, Italy, Liechtenstein, Switzerland, and France.

Oh, and while in Paris, I almost broke the Venus de Milo.

It was a windy and rainy day that I first stepped into France's most famous art museum -- the Louvre.

I wore a U.S. Army coat to ward off the cold and, as always, carried my aluminum-frame backpack (something that would never be allowed inside the museum in these terrorist-conscious days).

The museum had very few visitors that dreary day, and I was often alone in its seemingly endless hallways and rooms. I don't recall even seeing a single security guard on duty.

I was having great fun. But, not being much of an art student, I couldn't identify much of what I saw.

While walking through one seemingly abandoned room, I noticed a glass case with some broken bits of marble.

Much to my wonderment, I saw a label in English declaring the shattered bits of stone were actually fingers of the Venus de Milo.

I was in culture shock! I was really looking at pieces of that famous Roman statue of the goddess of love!

Transfixed by the fact I was staring history in the face, I failed to notice that the actual Venus de Milo was right in front of me, cordoned off with those poles and ropes they use in banks to funnel their customers to the tellers.

In any case, there was an opening in the roped-off area around the statue, and I walked right through -- still staring at the glass case with the marble bits.

BAM! I ran headlong into the statue, hard enough to see stars.

As I looked up and realized I had just crashed into the Venus de Milo, I got one of the greatest scares of my life. I still don't know if it really happened, or it was simply the aftereffect of cracking my skull on the statue's thigh.

But, I swear I saw the statue rock slightly back and forth.

Can't imagine how my life would have gone if the thing had actually fallen over.

Innocents Abroad and Letters Home

It's difficult to understate how generally unprepared we were for our first real adventure on our own.

I, at least, was able to figure out how the money worked (pounds, quids, shillings, pence, etc.), but there was no doubt we were strangers in a strange land at a strange time (the summer of '69).

Things as simple as ordering a coffee with cream ("white coffee") or finding the bathroom ("the W.C.") threw us for a loop.

And, as for our planned manner of transportation -- hitchhiking, I think Kent (pictured at left in this picture with a palace guard) was the only one who had actually stuck out his thumb on a highway before. (Eric is shown on the far right, and I'm the dorky one in the middle with the ridiculous, striped short-sleve shirt.)

Nevertheless, we were young and didn't know, yet, how little we knew and how out of place we looked.

While it's tempting to recall each journey, I'll stick to several stories during that time that highlight some of the recurring themes of our trip.

Probably, the thing that most sticks in my mind after all these years was the total sense of discovery. Every time we turned a corner there was something we had never seen, tasted, heard, or touched before.

Just drinking milk out of a plastic bag, instead of a waxed-paper carton, was new and exciting. (The picture below was taken by Frank shortly after we took the ferry from England to Belgium.)



At this point in our journey, we were still a bit anxious about traveling alone, and we tended to split up into groups of two and meet at a youth hostel in the evening. It didn't take long, however, for all of us to gain the confidence to strike out on our own. If nothing else, it made for more stories to swap when we did get together.

By the way, do teenagers still hitchhike through Europe? If you have stories or pictures, send me a link about your experiences.

Well, on to the story for this posting. It's about letters home. I had just finished my first year as a journalism major and would write these long letters home to my mother and to two young ladies I kind of thought of as girlfriends. Eric and Frank, likewise, were writers of sorts. The written word, however, was not Kent's best friend.

Since my mother and his knew each other, mine would call up Kent's mom and read her my letters. But, Kent's mom kept waiting and waiting each day at the mailbox.

He finally got around to sending her a postcard when we made it to The Netherlands.

While I don't have the letter in front of me, I think I can recall the entire message: "Dear Mom, I'm in Amsterdam. They have legalized drugs and prostitution here. Having a wonderful time. Your son, Kent."

Hitchhiking Blind in Italy

There's something strange about looking back at pictures of yourself when you were 18.

But, that's me, more than 40 years ago, atop the Tower of Pisa on a warm August day.

A few minutes after this picture was taken, Kent and I climbed down the narrow steps and fell asleep in the shadow of the famous leaning monument.

At some point, two beautiful blondes shook us at least partially awake and asked if we wanted to team up in groups of two and travel with them to Spain. We mumbled something about heading to Rome to meet up with Frank and Eric and continued our nap.

When we got around to really waking up, I turned to Kent and said, "I had the strangest dream in which we turned down a chance to be with these two babes."

Shaking his head, Kent replied, "I had the same dream. I think it really happened."

Well, sometimes you get lucky, and sometimes you don't.

As for me, I had my share of luck, both good and bad, as I hitchhiked northern Italy -- BLIND -- during the previous couple of days.

The story started on a warm and humid day as I walked the length of a long bridge out of Venice. I wasn't having any luck catching a ride. So, I sat down to take a rest.

There were a bunch of ceramic tiles discarded by the roadway, and I amused myself by using them to make a sign in the dirt. Can't remember what I was trying to say, but it was probably something like, "Pick Me Up," or something to that effect.

In any case, a big truck rolled by, and I turned at just the wrong time to look.

A bunch of dirt and bits of gravel kicked up by the passing rig flew into my eyes, blinding me on the spot.

It hurt, too. Even with my eyes closed, the slightest movement felt like someone was grinding a boot into my eye sockets.

I tried to wash my eyes with water I was carrying, but it didn't do much good. So, I tied a moistened handkerchief around my eyes and decided to try and hitchhike out of there.

I carefully edged my way toward the road and stuck out my thumb. Much to my amazement, I soon heard a car pull to a stop, and, holding my arms out in front of me like a Frankenstein parody, I stumbled toward the vehicle.

The driver asked me something in Italian, and I responded, "Prego," or some such thing before opening the passenger door and getting in.

That pretty much ended our conversation for the next couple of hours, as he drove across the width of Italy. Of course, I didn't know where I was heading -- not being able to see. But, at least I was out of the sun and going somewhere.

Finally, he got to his destination and prodded me to get out of the car. I could hear and smell a nearby market, and I managed to buy some fruit and get something to drink, before sitting down beside a tree to figure out what to do next.

Well, fortune smiled on me when I heard a voice, in English, ask, "Do you need some help?"

That would be a big YES!

The person (again I never saw him) took me to a hospital where they flushed my eyes and checked them for damage before putting some sort of salve on them and covering them with bandages.

The only complication was that I was blind again. In English, they told me to return the next morning, and I felt my way back out of the hospital. I managed to buy some more food and, eventually, wandered into someone's open garage.

I just rolled out my sleeping bag and figured that if I wasn't shot as a trespasser, the worst that would happen was that I would be arrested. And, frankly, spending the night in jail didn't seem all that bad.

At some point during the night, the owner started to park his car in the garage, and I remember hearing a lot of surprised and kind of angry Italian voices. But, I just rolled to one side, and he let me be.

In the morning, I retraced my steps to the hospital, where they flushed my eyes again. This time they only bandaged one eye. I was terrified there was going to be a big bill for their services, but they just wished me good luck and sent me on my way.

As I was hitchhiking out of town, I ran into Kent (we had somehow ended up in the same town at the same time), and we headed off to Pisa together.

My Life With the IRA

As the summer wore on, the four of us spent less and less time together.

In fact, when I was supposed to meet up with my buddies in Paris, I was actually in Ireland getting a crash course in local politics.

To give you an idea about how much I DIDN'T KNOW about Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland in 1969, read the following story:

I had just turned 19, and a fellow backpacker gave me a boiled goose egg to celebrate the event. Otherwise it went pretty much unnoticed.

If only my attire had, as well. Having been in London a day or two earlier (and nearing my return date), I had splurged and actually purchased a souvenir -- a scarf done up in the colors and design of the Union Jack, the flag of Great Britain.

Now, that was relatively cool while I was in England. But, it was nothing short of a wearing a bull's-eye in Ireland. (Imagine wearing a swastika in Israel or a Confederate flag or a KKK hood in Watts.)

I was sporting the scarf as I disembarked in Dublin before dawn in late August and started hitchhiking out of the city.

Considering the Union Jack I had around my neck, I was fortunate to be picked up by an English tourist who was driving north with his wife and teenage daughter.

At this point, I was blissfully unaware that there was ANY conflict going on within the Emerald Isle. But, I was destined to learn.

As we headed north, we exchanged pleasantries. And, after a while, he asked if I minded stopping for a few moments at a local pub. Naturally, I said there wasn't a problem, and at the next exit, he turned off the main road and quickly found a tavern.

The females went somewhere (I never asked) and us guys went into the pub.

"Have you tried the local brew?," he inquired. I responded in the negative, and he graciously took it upon himself to order me a Guinness.

Now, I must tell you that this rather stout brew is a bit of an acquired taste. Nevertheless, I was up to the challenge and managed to down a pint of the potent beverage.

Then, it was back into the car and on the road. After a short while, he asked if I minded another quick stop, and, of course, I agreed. Another pub and another pint of Guinness and we were on the road again. But, by this time, I was having a bit of trouble concentrating.

The quick stops were repeated several more times before reaching Northern Ireland.

Eventually, he said it was the end of the line, and he dropped me off somewhere along the Falls Road in Dublin.

By then, I was quite drunk, but still alert enough to notice that things were a bit unusual from my perspective. For one thing, the policemen were carrying machine guns, and, for another, most of the side streets were blocked with still-smoking burned-out cars fortified with broken pieces of concrete and asphalt.

Oh, and, on one side of the street Union Jacks hung from the windows, and on the other side hung flags of the Republic of Ireland.

Being pretty much unable to walk straight, I manged to stagger back and forth between the two sides of the street until I came to a Catholic church where I sat down on the steps and tried to keep the world from spinning.

Eventually, a man walked up to me and said in a thick Irish brogue, "I'm going to assume you have absolutely no idea what you're doing." I told him he was quite correct, and he led me to a nearby home where I was fixed a meal and allowed to sleep until I sobered up.

When I awoke and could finally begin to reason, the Irish Republican Army (IRA) supporters who lived there explained to me the rules of war in Belfast and how dangerous it was passing between Catholic and Protestant sections of the city.

I got to know that family well and gained some understanding of and sympathy for their plight.

One evening, I even manned one of the barricades, where volunteers stayed awake all night to watch for persons who might want to do harm to the people who lived nearby. (The night before my watch, someone had hijacked a gasoline truck, set it on fire, and rammed it into several houses, burning them to the ground.)

It's way beyond the scope of this blog to adequately explain the issues involved in that conflict. Suffice it to say that it was a long and bitter struggle that didn't do anyone much good. Eventually, a peace treaty was hammered out.

But, just to be on the safe side, if I ever make it back there, I'll leave the scarf at home.