Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Where have you been?

A quick roadside stop at the Tropic of Capricorn, headed north. I myself am a Capricorn, after all.



Ok, it's been a little while since I last wrote. This is because I had a whirlwind trip to Malaysia where there has not been time to think, a quick 48 hours in Singapore where a cheetah hissed at me (I hissed back) and then a midnight shot down to Perth, Western Australia.


Hsssss! Has Will finally met his hissing match in the Singapore Zoo?

We arrived and quickly started pursuit of a car for our Australia adventure. Australia is like America in the sense that it is impossible or very expensive to see the place without having a car.

I had previously decided that I would never, ever ever have a sport utility, however, the realities of the Australian outback made clear that some sort of four wheel drive vehicle was in order. And as my friend Sam's dad says, nothing exceeds like excess! As a result, we ended up with a pretty sizeable Nissan Patrol 4wd. It's actually pretty sweet, and a lot of the time I find myself having flashbacks to my time spent living on our converted school bus, Schoolie, back in America.

Everyone, Meet The Camel.

The Camel crossing Yardie Creek. We consulted a long time before we did this as the crossing is in the tidal zone and the bottom is soft sand.

I outfitted the back of the car so that it has a bed, tons of storage, two spare tires, enough camp equipment for 4 or 5 people and 60 liters of extra fuel. Trust me, this all comes in handy, as we shall see.

My travel companions are Paula (my girlfriend) and two backpacker girls we found using the informal bulletin board network at the youth hostels around Perth, Marilyn and Tracy.

Left to Right: Paula, Marilyn and Tracy at a lighthouse. They are actually hiding right now from a dive-bombing raven.

Tracy is the kind of British girl you might not expect to find in Australia, honestly. She started off being a bit nervous when we do things that are a bit against the rules, like illegally camping or walking off of approved trails. Though I imagine having to go anywhere with me can be an adventure and Tracy is ready for anything- after teatime, that is (she is English after all). Good for her.

If Tracy is quiet, reserved and law abiding, Marilyn is her opposite. A French girl who grew up in Africa for half of her life, she seems to have the attitude that rules are made to be broken, or at least ignored when no one is looking. If I ask the girls ‘do you think it’s ok if…?’ Marilyn will almost always reply with the French ‘pffft’ followed by ‘Will iz fine to do zis.’ I know I write her accent like I just picked up a copy of Writing Stereotype Dialog for Dummies, but I swear to you she sounds this way. I can be a bit too serious about things, and she helps to lighten the mood in the car.

I like our random little mix of people in the car. I think about if we had actually come when we were initially supposed to, how different everything would be- different car, different travel partners, perhaps even a different route.

One night at a 24 hour campsite, we share our fire and wine with a young Swiss couple. They are traveling by rented 4x4 van, but it is costing them $3400 for three weeks. Relatively speaking, we are getting a bargain. In the morning, we make a bit of chitchat over tea and they say that they had strange dreams last night. I tell them I gad dreams, but they just involved doing things around the camp like collecting firewood and going to the composting toilets. “Ah so here we are and your dreams come true” he tells me. I reflect on this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose they do.”
When we have dreams of travels and adventures, we often imagine the breathtaking sunset vistas we will see, but we ignore the more common experiences like making camp with new friends and stopping for a roadside picnic while a kangaroo watches you.

Driving out to set up camp, we joked about if we accidentally hit an animal if we should stop to collect it as food. I was cruising a conservative eighty Km/h and not more than half a kilometer down the road, a kangaroo stood in the center of the road. I did not have time to stop before it jumped at the side of the car. As according to plan, I did not swerve. Fortunately, the roo just grazed the rear mudguard, so no damage was done to us or the car. Later, after we stopped to set up camp off a sandy trail, I look for blood on the car, but I find none, so hopefully the poor thing was ok. Driving back the next morning, I saw no roadkill.

Continuing on, we stopped for a dip in a stock tank that is fed by a brackish artesian hot spring at the site of an old sheep shearing station. The scene just seems so unlikely when described, but after a week away from showers it felt very right indeed. In the Francaise Peron national park, there are a series of very red, very sandy tracks that stretch on for ages and lead to some of the most remote beaches I have ever encountered. Where the land meets the sea, a dramatic change takes place as the coffee ground red brown sand of West Australia disappears into a white shell beach. Granted, it is the off-season, but there were just one other set of people camping there, also foreign tourists.

Donde hay termales, hay Will (Where there are hotsprings, There is Will)

On the sand track in, we got a little stuck because our tires were a little too high in pressure and our extra LPG fuel tank rides a bit low. Fortunately, after a few minutes a couple of other 4x4’s arrived driven by men of that sort of indeterminate old age range that you get with country folk. These are the kind of guys who look weathered at fifty but pretty much stay the same way until they die so that by the time they are eighty, they are looking pretty good by comparison. Incidentally, my grandfather, Bruce was a guy like that- fifty until his dying days.

Ocean and Red Cliffs at Francois Peron National Park, Western Australia. (Click to enlarge, it's worth it)


After much experienced offroader consultation and generally bullshitting with the older guys, it was determined that the best course of action would be to push the car backward down the track. All three girls from our car plus the two wives from the helper cars stood shoulder to shoulder and grabbed a hold of the roo bar to begin pushing. One of the old timers approached them, contemplated the scene for a minute and said, “whose bottom do a push on?” with a wry smile.
We were unstuck again in no time.

As we left, one old guy appraised me and said, “you’re not a bad rooster in that henhouse.” Whatever that meant.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Crash

The view from our 'Hotel Crazy Guy' It's amazing at all times of the day, but especially at Sunset. Labuanbajo, Flores.

I am on the Indonesian island of Flores.

Everyone stares at me, no matter where I go.

There is a crazy (or possibly just retarded) 21 year old handcuffed to a bed in the house next to our hotel who makes 'da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da' noises all day and into the night continuously.

It's very hard to arrange transportation and I never seem to know what is going on.

We all spent a few days viewing Komodo dragons and snorkeling in some of the most wonderful waters I have seen. We took leave of Lauren, Zubeyir and Lindsay who were bound for Bali and thought we would hire a car to get across the island. With five of us, it seemed like a reasonable proposition.

Of course, I have noticed a negative correlation with reasonable propositions and occurrence of the phrase 'not possible' wherever I go in the world. And this is a not possible part of the world.

Me and my sister with some pretty lazy Komodo Dragons. Not that I am being judgmental...

We bargained for a car and driver for the next week. One deal came together then fell apart. One driver demanded all $200 for the week upfront. No Way. Another man kept injecting himself into every attempted transaction until my sister sent him away because when he was around, everything seemed worse. Finally we struck a deal with a driver, Hermans to take us and we were off.

Flores, like much of Indonesia is volcanic- really recently volcanic in fact. Time has not had the chance to flatten out the youthful exuberance of a geologically active island. Roads are narrow, steep and winding all at once. Our diminutive driver could not see over the irresponsibly placed strip of tinting that covered the bottom third of the windshield and thus we had many hair raising brushes with the mountain as night fell and visibility reduced to the domain of pathetic. At this point, you might expect that I tell you we had an accident. I was expecting that myself, but no, it was not to be until later.


Creepy shrine-like thing of Komodo Dragon leftovers. (Deer and Monkey). Rinca Island.

Instead, we got to our hotel safely and checked in for the night. It was not until the next afternoon, just minutes after lunch that the course of events would change for the real worse.

It is amazing to take a moment- an instant in time- and freeze it in your mind, rewinding it and seeing just how easily things could have been different. It's so simple that we could have stopped to buy a soda at a store, or left behind something at a stop and gone back for it. Or even paying the bill with exact change and getting on the road again an half minute earlier. Any one of these, or an one of an infinite number of other changes to time would have prevented us from colliding with a motorbike carrying two Indonesian men and a sack of rice. If almost anything had been different, I would not have looked down at my ipod and felt the crush of metal and plastic only an instant later. If I had just gone to the bathroom, we would not have loaded the delirious man with a huge patch flesh hanging from his leg into our car to take him back to the clinic 2 km away.

It was not our driver's fault. He was on the correct side of the road, taking the left turn around the corner slowly. It was just pure bad luck that the guy on the motor scooter hit us, but it really changed lives. We got the two damaged men to the clinic and the doctor on call sewed the enormous wound up. Of course, no effort was taken to repair what must have been serious damage to the muscles and ligaments that will ultimately cripple the man- there just aren't resources for that or the expertise on this island.

At the clinic, people started to gather. We are in a town where there is not much to do, so all the people doing all that nothing gravitated to the clinic grounds. At first it was 10, then 20, then 30 then it was 50 or 60 people all huddled around us staring.

Just staring.

It was creepy in a way that I don't think I can explain to someone who has not seen it. We moved to our scratched hired car to retrieve our bags. They followed us, silently, without expression. We decided it would be best to get out of town. We left on the next bus that came through town and were glad to be rid of the whole mess.

Chapter 2.

One of the deal-clinchers for my sister in deciding to come to Indonesia as opposed to somewhere else was a particularly fabulous volcano with three lakes at the summit, each a different color. So it was to Kelimutu that we continued on towards.



I get to play dress up for reasons that are not clear to me with a hawker at the summit of Kelimutu just after sunrise.

Sorry if the rest of the story is not so dramatic. We ended up at the lovely town of Moni and went to the top of a truly magnificent volcano at 4:30 in the morning to catch yet another mountaintop sunrise.

One of the lakes of Kelimutu. Just beyond this lake is a darker green one. The pH is an incredible .37 (extremely acidic). In case that doesn't mean anything to you, this lake is probably about like condensed battery acid. It would kill anyone who got in it.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Lousy Thieving....

So, I am a bit bummed out because for the first time in all of my travels, I was robbed of something other than a decoy wallet.
Good news is, it wasn't irreplaceable. Bad news is, the theft included my computer's power cord. (WTF?)
This is troubling because at the moment, I am precisely in the middle of nowhere in Indonesia, closer to Australia than I am to Jakarta- closer to timelessness than the information age- and certainly nowhere near a Mac store. Now I have an extremely well designed, state of the art, 3.6 pound $1000 backpack ballast.
I know it might seem like, hey man, you are at the beach, you should just chill out! Why don't you go to Komodo Island and see some giant reptiles? Well, I will do that, but dammit, I want to use photoshop...
grumble grumble
Being gone this long, I realize that I really like having a couple of things that make anyplace home for me, and the computer was a big part of that.

Ok, aside from the temporary loss in faith in humanity that is inevitable from being robbed, I am happy because I am with a huge crew- Paula, Arturo, Alex (my sister) Lindsay and Lauren Harrell, Julie, and Zubeyir. It's pretty sweet to have such a big crew. Aside from causing huge crowds of very bored locals to form around us whenever we go anywhere with backpacks, it's entertaining to have so many friends around. I don't really know how it worked out this way, but I am glad that it did!

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Sweet Mantis Video


Above: A praying mantis chows down on a beetle. Caught on tape!

I am in KL, Malaysia right now on my way to Indonesia to see my sister and a bunch of friends. I expect to visit among other things, the Komodo Island (and its famed Komodo Dragon monitor lizards), volcanoes and additional sweet beaches. But until then, I am in Kuala Lumpur, which is arguably the world's largest shopping complex. For anyone who maintains the bizarre notion that conspicuous consumption is a western or American failing, please take note: you have seen nothing until you have seen KL.

It's actually disgusting, and I have been to Beverly Hills.

I mean, how many Cartiers does one need? Apparently quite a lot, and not only that, one needs access to such fineries at multiple locations within walking distance of one another. On a related side note, I think that Luis Vuitton is really pretty ugly stuff.

Anyway, please enjoy this sweet Praying Mantis video that I shot the other night in Thailand outside my room.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Are you disappointed?

Why be sad about tiny images? Click above to see the Himalayas in all their glory!

Something that I am not completely excited about in Blogger (the site you are on right now) is that my sweet travel photos are tiny....

Well, if you ever want to see more detail, just click on the picture and make it big! Easy as 1-2..

Friday, May 1, 2009

Burma and the Water Festival

A street kid who hung around our guesthouse. He didn't beg really, but would accompany us out and sometimes we would buy him food.

Burma is the sort of place that, upon arrival, you are left with the feeling that you have made a mistake. The error is not one of having come there, but one of having not come there sooner and for long enough. I was feeling pinched for time in the timeless Yangon upon arrival with three weeks still to go.

A view of some of the temples of Bagan (more on this later)

Although the internet and TV have finally (and pretty recently) come to this very isolated country, it still maintains its own pace and time in the universe. At times, it is perfectly in sync with the rest of the world and at others I feel as if I am in a Rudyard Kipling novel. DVDs are sold by the truckload in the market right next to a man who polishes brass by hand on a cloth on the sidewalk. My beard has grown long and neglected, so I pop into a dirt-floor barber’s shop (which is directly across from the Samsung showroom filled with new flatscreen TVs and freezers) and treat myself to a 20-cent trim. The young male barber works cleanly and precisely with his scissors, frequently snip-snipping them for added flourish when they are nowhere near my beard, and makes me perfect in the length of two Celine Dion songs.

Later, when I was preparing to leave the country, I stop by again to get spruced up. The same young man trims me, but this time the power is out and a storm is coming. While he works by the light of a dim LED desklamp with hand-operated antique trimmers, the rain kicks up. I don't notice at first due to the dim conditions, but water is flowing into- no, through- the shop. The sewer has overflowed somewhere deeper in the block of buildings and now a small river is escaping to the street right through the lean-to shop. Cockroachs, mosquitos and some some alarmingly large red centipedes come up from somewhere below my feet to avoid the rising black water to seek shelter on the wall in front of me. The barber works on, ankle deep in the streaming tributary. He gets me a stool to put my feet on. He finishes and I pay my 20 cents, grudgingly dropping my feet into the filthy torrent. I walk home in the rain because I just want to get clean.

A tin-roof Buddhist monastery where we slept.

When I was doing a bit of research on Burma in Bangkok to prepare for our arrival, I saw that the weather forecast for Mandalay was to top 107 degrees. Slightly concerned by this fact, I packed as little as possible in my bag so that at least I wouldn’t have too much to lug around in Bikram-yoga heat. I was in for a pleasant surprise when we arrived in Burma- the Burmese New Year was about to begin. Normally I think festivals are over rated. Either you get some sappy made-for-tourists ethnic dance routine or, frankly, you (the common tourist) are not invited into the Byzantine rituals of the locale. This is certainly not the case in Burma. New Year is one part street party, one part music festival and one part water park. Little boys, young women, old men- everyone produces buckets of water to dump on everyone else. Southeast Asia knows a thing or two about fantastic quantities of water from above, so believe me when I say the days are wet. The idea is that it cleans the bad luck of the past year, but I less than secretly suspect it has a lot more to do with just having a good time. After all, if water is to wash away bad luck, what is all of the whiskey for?

Arturo takes a break from all the action in Burma at a tea shop. Ok, it's true, we spent at least half of our waking hours in tea shops...

Everyone is invited (a little too enthusiastically, sometimes) and if it is a show for tourists, it would have to go down as the most ingeniously executed tourist show of all time for we foreigners, as always, are few and far between in Burma.

Arturo asked the question: ‘Where is the line between homosexuality and simple aggressive fun?’ I still don't know the answer to that one. In their enthusiasm, many elated Burmese guys pull us by the wrists into the street, in front of the stage where bands played and dozens of volunteers spray endless quantities of water on the parading traffic and revelers. We would dance there in strange waltzes, jigs and water stomping dances in the inches-deep accumulated water in the streets. If I could describe Burmese music, it would be like this: Burma is a country that has lost the words to a comprehensive collection of American hit songs from the past 4 decades and is perfectly happy to just make them up. Nearly every song is familiar, but sung in Burmese and many people you talk to don’t even realize that these are not the originals.

Strangely, for a country strongly affected by the monsoons, Burma's roads love becoming small lakes.

As foreigners, we are almost like visiting dignitaries and manage to get into all the VIP water spraying stations. We get up on the large stage and are handed firehoses. I open it up on the dancers and open top trucks and jeeps bursting with people which are trawling the grand avenue in front of us. It is a serious amount of water and joining me are dozens of others dowsing the revelers below as the band plays on to our left. A helmeted police officer tries to make sense of the scene and direct traffic to move along as there is a jam waiting to be sprayed for at least an hour behind them. It is so crowded that even though the street is six lanes across plus a generous median, I have difficulty passing through.

Miles of smiles- People are really happy about the water festival. I mean it.

At six pm, the festivities promptly draw to a close for the day. This is fine by me, since the guys are getting a little drunk and rowdy. We start walking back to the hotel and a young boy, perhaps five years old, spots me. He is holding a jug of water, and I am holding nothing except a towering stature over him. He starts toward me with the jug, and playfully, I start toward him with mock bravado. I lunge straight for him with my arms high above my head. The kid howls and diverts off to the side with a comical timing, I could not have scripted something better. A policeman looking on cracks a smile and reveals his red and deeply rotted betel nut stained teeth.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Cambodia

Clothes unearthed form a mass grace at the killing fields near Phnom Penh

My abbreviated loop from Laos through Vietnam and back to Thailand has brought me necessarily through Cambodia. I am not here for long.

In the capital of Phnom Penh, my little backpacker ghetto du jour is situated along what I will call a “little lake,” for lack of a better term (though a better term might be swamp). It’s pretty laid-back, with wooden guesthouses hanging above the mosquito-laden waters. It’s not a Thai paradise beach, but it is far more relaxing than one would expect from an Asian capital.

In my little world on the lakeside, everyone I meet on the street has exactly three things to offer me - a room, a ride on their scooter, or drugs. The first two of these things are usually said out loud, the last one under their breath as I pass by. I walk to breakfast and someone from behind me hisses “you looking for something?” At nine in the morning, I assure my new ten-step escort that the most exotic thing I am searching for is a mango. As if the innuendo was not perfectly clear, he continues with me for some predetermined distance extolling the virtues of his (I’m sure) quality product and assuring me that his ‘stuff is the best one.’

I can’t blame Cambodia for its lack of economic sophistication. It endured probably the worst genocide in the last century, yet the atrocity is not well-known. For those of not up to speed on their Cambodian history, let me offer a quick primer:

First, the French colonize Southeast Asian country(s). Then the French split, and the American war in Vietnam spills over disastrously into Cambodia. Country is destabilized and group of psychotic whack jobs (Khmer Rouge) come to power and kill half the population for no reason. They get testy with Vietnam and attack its border. Vietnam responds by invading Cambodia and deposes the crazies. World learns of atrocities, but does nothing to help. Got it? Good.

'They have human form but their hearts are demon's hearts...' -Killing Fields Memorial

So this is how I find myself at a horrible place called Tuol Sleng. We are taught in schools that the worst, most inhumane people ever born were the Nazis. Having seen the activities of the Khmer Rouge, however, I am no longer so sure about that.

Skulls of two victims of the Khmer Rouge. There are 9000 at this pagoda alone.

Everything in the world was turned upside down under the rule of the Khmer Rouge (KR). Education, art and even eyeglasses were banished; these were seen as signs of the elite that must be eliminated. The KR was going to establish a ‘perfect’ egalitarian peasant state where everyone would work in the fields together in harmony. Phnom Penh was evacuated -- the ‘soft urban parasites’ were sent to the country to learn the virtues of hard work in the rice fields. Most were worked nearly to death. When they were too weak to produce one more grain of rice, they were taken to pits in the red, red earth and cracked on the head with a piece of iron. Tuol High School was covered in barbed wire and became Tuol Sleng (S-21) prison where the most horrible tortures were used to extract false confessions.
Chain, gruel pan and ammo-box toilet in a cell at Tuol Sleng

Being at the prison, I am struck by the immediacy of the place. I am walking in the very places that unimaginable atrocities took place. I feel like I am in a dream. The place is haunting, and probably haunted. Photos of tortured victims shackled to iron beds are displayed in the very rooms where the photos were taken. The beds and shackles are still there.

By starving, torturing or clubbing the inmates to death, the KR hoped to spare their precious bullets. One thing they did expend their time and resources on was documentation. Each man woman and child was photographed, usually in a chair with their hands bound behind them. They made exhaustive archives of the victims like twisted librarians.


My Visit to the Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng

The other tourists and I don’t exchange greetings or smiles. We glide silently through building after building. It’s as if we are all ghosts moving through this torture-school. My eyes are down as others approach; the shame of this genocide belongs to the whole world.

In contrast to the propaganda-laden Vietnamese war museums, there is little interpretation here. There really is no need for it. A crazy group of ideologues ruthlessly and pointlessly murdered three million of their own innocent people. What must really be said about a mass grave or the bloody photo of a torture victim?

The Khmer Rouge often took photos after they had exterminated their victims through torture.

Being in Vietnam had been a jarring experience for the brutality and senselessness of a war with America. The paranoid and insane KR managed to kill just as many of their own people as were killed in Vietnam. But they did it unassisted, and in less than a third of the time.

Several floors are devoted to the photographs taken by the KR at the complex. The portraits show a surprising range of expressions. The photos have no names, just numbered tags pinned to their shirts to give me a clue to their identities. #401 has sad eyes. #349 leans forward as if inspecting the camera. #404, an older man, is simply terrified. Another one looks imploringly through 30 years of time. It could have been taken yesterday. They all could be in the other room.
Prisoner #404

There are rows upon rows of faces, the ghostly remnants of three insane years where the world stood by as an entire country was transformed into hell. I want to take pictures of all the photos of the prisoners. I want everyone to see these gentle, innocent faces. I want to believe that some of them escaped to survive and find something other than this.

But I know that it’s not true and after many rooms of pictures I can’t look anymore.

All of the people photographed in the Tuol Sleng prison were executed by the Khmer Rouge.



There are just too many faces silently staring at me.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Cu Chi Tunnels


What's inside the ground? Oh, it's Will!

Having visited the Cu Chi tunnels outside Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City), I have no doubt as to why America was defeated in Vietnam.

The Vietcong built hundreds of kilometers of tunnels. That is what I am popping out of in the video. They were narrow, dark and scary. Most Americans couldn't even fit into one. Many of the tunnel entrances were fakes with booby traps inside of them. It must have been a nightmare to be a soldier there.

We had massive firepower. The Vietnamese had massive ingenuity. They re-manufactured our bombs and other military detritus into dangerous booby traps- pits full of barbed hooks that maimed and slowed our troops. And these traps are really nasty. Imagine walking through a jungle or rice field, your face dripping sweat into your eyes. You are scanning the horizon for enemy soldiers. Of course, they look just like everyone else, so this isn't very effective. All of a sudden, your weapon and pack laiden body just drops through a hole in the ground. A swiveling peice of "ground" has just given way and you now find yourself in a pit with barbed metal spikes sticking into you. That is bad enough, but what is worse is that because they are barbed, you can't pull them out without tearing your flesh and skin further. And on top of all that, there are spikes also facing inward so that if you just pulled your foot out, you would ram it ino even more spikes. You have to be dug out and this takes hours.

We had bomber aircraft. They took our unexploded bombs or ordinances (UXO) and carefully, painstakingly cuth them open with hand tools to rebuild them into anti-tank landmines. They marked these mines and moved them around as the battlefield changed shape.

The biggest asset the Vietcong had was a home field advantage. They blended in with the population- no they were the local population in many cases and they had a lot of support. We bombed and killed and tortured and mutilated and deforested the South of Vietnam, and naturally, the villagers who bore the brunt of this abuse didn't seem to agree with the 'destroy a village to save it' philosphy.

The thing that strikes me most now, was how stupid the conflict was. A cruel dictator, Diem governed the south. We supported him (as had the French before they split and left us holding the bag) as he oppressed his own people and the anti-Diem movement grew. Deim's (and our) repression and exclusion of the communists probably falsly added to their stature as is often the case with insurgents. (There is a strong parallel here with groups such as the Taliban or the Iranianian revolution- while they fought the corrupt power structure they were cheered on bny the people. When they got to power, they ended up being as bad or worse than those they replaced.)

In the rice fields of Vietnam, I feel like it could be 1965 -or 1865 for that matter- and it seems so foolish that these power men in Washinton were scaring us into an idiotic war with this communist threat. I sit in the emerald green rice fields and watch a man in simple clothes and a cone shaped hat tend to his field and think 'is this the Vietnam the American government was so afraid of?'

Sunday, March 22, 2009

The Ho Chi Minh Experience*

Workers pull weeds in front of the massive Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum and Theme Park* in Hanoi, Vietnam.

Thanks to Vietnam, I can now check visiting one of the great communist propaganda mausoleums of the world off my to-do list.

Ho Chi Minh (his nom de guerre meaning “Bringer of Light”) was the revolutionary leader of Vietnam’s struggle against the French, and after America got suckered into their lost war, America and the unpopular South Vietnamese government it supported.

Much has been written about this legendary figure, and I do encourage readers to check out more about him. What struck me, while visiting him in his final resting place though, was the amazing contrast between his life and death.

A simple man of great conviction to freeing the Vietnamese people, he lived in spartan dwellings and, by all accounts was humble and thoughtful. I believe it.

Uncle Ho, as the Vietnamese sometimes refer to him, has a statue, street and museum in his honor in basically any town of any size. In Hanoi, there is an enormous citadel devoted to him where he is kept. You see, even though he died in 1969, he is still on display in all his low light glory, tucked into blankets and incongruously wearing a suit, embalmed for as long as it is useful for the powers that be in Vietnam to have him there.

He had wanted to be cremated and spread across Vietnam. He said that it was a waste of farmland to build funeral monuments, as is the Vietnamese tradition. His wishes notwithstanding, he spends 9 months of the year on display and 3 months ‘vacationing’ in Russia where the world experts on dead communist leader preservation give him an embalmers’ spa treatment.

Unlike most other cultural attractions in Vietnam, it is free to see Ho and anything related to him. I suppose you can think of it as propaganda supported activity, similar to google’s ad supported services.

I waited in line for about an hour to see him. Guards in perfectly pressed uniforms ensured (twice) that no one had cameras or cell phones in the building. They hushed us so as to ensure the proper reverence for a man of his stature. The line moved into a massive granite cube, up some stairs and around Ho on three sides before spitting us out into a wonderland of Ho-artifacts.

I have to say, it was impressive to be in the room with such an important figure in our modern history. It was also, frankly, a little creepy.


On my way to the garage of one of the greatest men of the last century

Outside, the Zen-landscaped, park-like setting is dotted with ‘do not enter’ signs directing the visitor in a seemingly random and sometimes discontinuous path. It was actually quite a lot like a theme park, except instead of rides called ‘Twister Coaster’ or whatever there are things like ‘Garage of Ho Chi Minh’s Used Cars’ and ‘Ho Chi Minh’s Wooden Stilt House’ and, of course ‘Giant Hideous Stone Cube Containing Small Dead Man.’ Think Six Flags with bayonets, honor guard and a VIP corpse.

Uncle Ho's Cabin: A no-frills office in his two room house. Note the Karl Marx portrait above the desk.

So there it is: a simple two-room wooden house with a couple bookshelves and pictures of Communist greats where he lived compared with a cold grey monolith where people come to worship his body. Honestly, it is hard to reconcile the Ho Chi Minh of life with the Ho Chi Minh of death.

Random P.S.: If, within just a generation, such an exaggerated representation can be made of a modest man, I really have to wonder how realistic our centuries-old views of other great people of history, like leaders and especially religious figures can possibly be.

*There is not really a theme park about Ho Chi Minh at his mausoleum. I totally made that up. But if there were, it would be called 'The Ho Chi Minh EXPERIENCE'

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Vietnamese Trains: India, take note.

Detail from a burial tomb near Hue, Vietnam. Vietnam is set to bury India in tourist savvy.

India would really like to attract 10 million tourists by 2010. At least, that’s what I read in the newspaper in Bangalore in an article bemoaning the drop in tourism in the wake of the Mumbai terrorist attacks.

Well, India, I don’t know what to tell you to attract more tourists, but I have a few constructive ideas for how to get them to come back. First, we must look to Vietnam.

Seriously.

Vietnam and India share some significant features. They were both recently European colonies that became free from their masters after protracted struggles. Vietnam gained independence from France in 1954, only to be invaded by America shortly thereafter, while India threw off the British yoke in 1947. They are both poor and have many, many uneducated people. Both cover large distances- India is of course larger, but Vietnam is very long for it’s size, extending at least 2000 km down the edge of the coast. Both have large relative populations and high population density. I might add that they are also both inordinately fond of rice.

So how do they stack up in the tourist experience? Let’s look at the train system.

Recently, I booked some tickets from Hanoi to Hue, an overnight trip of 624 km. At the station, the normal sleeper class was full due to some holiday weekend, and because of our timetable, we happened to be moving during that weekend. Having been disappointed by the patient Vietnamese woman behind the glass, I looked down the plain-jane government counters to the end of the row where I saw a colorful sign for a high-end tourist train run by a company called Livitrans. This service, which attaches privately run train cars onto the publicly run train, cost slightly more than the normal first class service, but only by about 5%.

The beds are clean, the compartments private. Everything works, from the lights to the locking cabin door. The chains that hold up the top bunks are even wrapped in crushed-red velvet fabric. The mattresses are comfortable and clean and there are recessed halogen lamps that give a modern, sophisticated and comfortable feel. There is even convincing faux-wood paneling. The bathroom is spotless. An attendant (one per car) brings us jasmine green tea served in our own ceramic cups. There is a trashcan. It’s very comfortable. It is nothing like an Indian train.

Just try to get India to be this coordinated...

I have to say that I do love riding the rails in India. If I didn’t I might not take the time to write this. However, some improvements could definitely be made. Take cleaning, for example. It is done in Vietnam in a coordinated manner, but in India it is haphazard at best. I was once on a particularly filthy and electrically unfunctional Indian train and I was actually shocked to discover that it had been completely remanufactured less than a year prior. There are cleaning contracts awarded in the Indian system, but I think most of the money ends up getting skimmed off so not a lot happens. India has a throng of people who need jobs and could be converted into an army of cleaners for not very much money. Instead, there is an army of beggars- polio victims with twisted legs, people with terrible industrial accident birth defects, etc- who come through sweeping the coach of some detritus. This should not happen.

I applaud India’s online rail booking system- it is efficient and effective- though it is pretty clunky to operate. It’s functional if not pretty, so high marks for that one.

To be sure, Vietnam has some advantages over India in the organization department. Vietnam is a monoparty country that is at least nominally communist. It has a long history of pulling together as a nation for a common cause, defeating invading Chinese armies 13 times in the past 900 years (including 1979), which implies a level of organizational ability. India has never, to my knowledge, rebuffed any major onslaught from anywhere- they just don’t seem to care. India is a democracy, which is incredible if you try to imagine a process by which a billion people could ever manage to make anything happen. But still, a country that has tested an atomic bomb should be capable of clean bed linens.

The larger context here is that in order for India to be taken seriously by tourists from the developed world, there are certain standards that must be met. Cleanliness and quality in transportation is one. Fairness and transparency is another. I read that the Vietnamese government had previously exacted a harsh four-times ‘foreigner tariff’ on their trains, but they dropped it. Now everyone pays the same price. This is also true of Indian trains, but all government monuments, such as the Taj Mahal, charge foreigners 10-20 times more than locals. Now, with an official government attitude of discrimination and price gouging based on country of origin, it is little surprise that India is home to some of the world’s most unscrupulous and nasty tourist scammers. If the government would like to lead by example, perhaps singling out non-locals isn’t the best way to encourage a welcoming environment!

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Notes from the Mekong

Laotian boy plays at a Buddhist Wat (temple)

‘My friend is having a birthday- we are making a party!’ Toby announces as he pops onto our wooden river-view balcony.

There are hastily patched electrical wires hanging across our porch, which we have ducked for the past two days. The wires are exposed and constantly at risk of arcing together, sending a bright green flare into the night. Somehow, the wires sneak through Toby’s dreadlocks and spark against his skin.

‘Yeah, that one is live’ I say, nodding to the neighbor’s porch light. The light flickers as Toby touches the bare wires again then yanks his fingers away. ‘Not too bad- maybe only 120 volts or something,’ in his very German-accented English.

We had met Toby on the songthaew (a truck with two rows of benches- literally ‘two rows’) ride to Ban Nakasan, the jumping-off point to the island Don Det where we were to reside. He has been on Don Det, our little emerald rice paddy island for six weeks so far. When we follow him to the party, he speaks in Lao to nearly everyone we meet, though he is having pretty much the same conversation again and again, presumably about the local spirit called lao lao that has intoxicated him. Toby is all natural threads and has a fascination with the conceptual simplicity of the laidback river island life.

He leads us to a bar where a sitting table of ten or so travelers is drinking and rolling cigarettes and grooving to sci-trance. Out of the din, Radish, an improbably skinny Gujurati-Canadian girl with dreadlocks and a layered, shimmering hippie skirt grabs Toby’s hand and says something about the indigo aura people and how glad she is that he knows about them.

The bar closes and the party moves to the nearby beachhead where electrical poles lay stacked. The promise of consistent electricity looms above us like the moon, but for now lights are out at 9 PM and from there it is all candles and conversation. Soon, I think, there will be video bars showing American movies and programs all night long, but tonight there is a campfire on the sand and guitars have been produced and everything is perfect.

After the circle around the campfire broke up, we found ourselves walking down the moonlight dirt path behind another group. A tall, blonde, curly haired Scandinavian plays guitar and the synchronic sound of our collective flip-flops keeps the time of a rendition of ‘Free Falling’ by Tom Petty that he sings so sweetly you would never expect from a 6’4” Viking descendent.

Don Det is a special place. Locals still live there because it just happens to be where they live. They raise their chickens among the modest wood and thatch bungalows and children come home from school at noon in their tidy uniforms to the family-run restaurant that also serves as the place to do homework. The island’s metronome is the sway of hammocks whose western occupants gaze for hours at the Mekong. It is the archetype of a perfect escape from everything for those of us fortunate to experience it now, before things change too much.

All too often, a place that was enchanting and magical loses its luster once workers arrive en masse to some palm tree island to resentfully serve cheap drinks to tourists. For now though, the Lao villagers have not grown jaded by these strange visitors and it is common for a group of Lao men to wave you down on the street to join them on a log in a clearing for a drink.

Sun sets over the Mekong River. View from our balcony, seriously.

New Crew!

I am pleased to announce that Paula and I have met up with Artie and Rebecca in Laos! After much theorizing as to whether the universe would align to see us in the same far-off country at the same time, we have once again shown email to an effective tool for finding people!

We have also been spending quality time at waterfalls and caves.

Will in Cave

Will with Dragonfly

Pretty Waterfall with no obvious subject

Friday, March 6, 2009

A little movie

When I was in Nepal, I was invited to record a surgery at a local hospital who has a connection to Boulder. I could not expect to get such amazing access in America to something like this, but in Nepal, somethings are actually easier, believe it or not! Here is my edited video I made. Please note that it is a graphic video of a medical procedure, FYI.



Attack By Bull

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Quick observation- travel semantics

The word "canal" sounds way more romantic than the phrase "open sewer"

I have officially been traveling in the developing world for too long.

Monday, February 2, 2009

Will, King of the Monkeys

“This isn’t going to work.” Paula said very matter-of-factly. “There’s a monkey blocking my way.” She said it as if she was talking about a traffic jam or a long line at the grocery store. (I guess we are just getting used to everything at this point.)

Paula was attempting to deliver some leftover shrimp and fried egg to a pregnant cat that she had befriended at our bungalow in Tonsai, Thailand. Unfortunately for her, the monkeys had other ambitions on the snacks.

“There was a big monkey right on the path, so I tried to go around our bungalow, but it darted around the side and intercepted me,” she said. “Why are you laughing?”

I am fascinated at how monkeys, from quite a distance away, can tell when someone is carrying food. They have such one-track minds.

“Ok. Let’s go,” I told her, smugly getting up from my beach-strung hammock. “We’ll get past the monkeys.”

We neared our bungalows and caught wind of an unexpected sight. The lone monkey had multiplied into a full troupe of monkeys – papa monkey, mama monkey, twin baby monkeys, cousin Earl the monkey. And believe me, they were causing havoc. A small female perched on our railing eating a banana peel that we had discarded, apparently unafraid of fulfilling every monkey stereotype. Another small monkey fished the remaining crumbs from a neighbors’ Pringles can as the neighbor looked on helplessly.

I have never taken a primate behavior class, but I have hung around enough bars in a college town to know how to make a dominant male behavior display, so I knew what to do.

I bared my teeth at the largest monkey I could find. Paula, meanwhile, coaxed the pregnant cat to a nearby bungalow. As the monkeys attempted to follow her, I held them at bay by making sustained eye contact, hissing and showing my incisors as needed. As ludicrous as this sounds, it worked. Paula was able to feed the cat in relative peace while I battled the monkeys.

What has my life come to?

Why Indian Men won't marry you... You'll leave him!

“ Indian men like to have European girlfriends, but for a wife, they want an Indian woman. If you beat a western woman, she will leave you! Indian woman stands by her husband.”

The Indian man at the next table had seemed nice enough, and I could not totally believe what I was hearing. I wanted to think that he was talking about Indian men in the general sense, but he had just finished telling us that he has had European girlfriends but when he gets married, it will be to an Indian woman.

I am aware of the problems with domestic violence that is pandemic in India. I am aware of the bride burning when a man or his family feel that they have not collected enough dowry. In the abstract, I know that these problems, which are almost unimaginable to me in the scope of their cruelty and prevalence, exist in a theoretical way in India.

But to hear the acceptance of this cruelty expressed as a virtue of Indian womanhood still left me shocked.

Part of me wanted to say, “what the hell is wrong with you?” to all the men in India. I wanted to blame such vile behavior on basic ignorance, but the man sitting before me spoke English well and was apparently worldly enough to attract a female western friend. If he were just a stupid bumpkin, I could reconcile him also being a viscous wife beater. But he was not.

I think Indian men just have a keen sense of bargaining position (and are also maybe a little cruel and ignorant as well). Let me explain.

You might think ‘if Indian women are suffering so much abuse at the hands of these guys, why don’t they leave them? I mean, a guy hits you for bringing his dinner out a little too cold because you were bullshitting with your friends for hours, who wouldn’t up and split?’ That is what I though anyway, but realized I was examining the problem from an American viewpoint.

Consider this: In India, divorce is extremely uncommon. It’s not that there are just no marital problems- it’s that a female divorcee’s options are, to put it generously, very limited. A divorced woman (or even a widow, for that matter) will find it difficult, if not impossible to find a new husband. Women are expected and presumed to be virgins before marriage; so obviously, a woman who is getting remarried can not be virginal.

What’s the big deal about not having a husband? For a woman in India, she probably got less education than her brothers and also has much worse or nonexistent job opportunities if she were to strike out on her own.

Long story short- a man knows he can beat her as much as he wants because any amount of abuse is better than being out in the streets. Trust me, almost anything is better than being on Indian streets.

I don’t know how much times are changing, but I did see an article in an Indian Cosmo-style women’s magazine that had a long ‘ask the experts’ section about domestic abuse.
All of the segments either congratulated women who had left their abusive husbands in spite of the problems (usually returning to abnormally supportive parents) or encouraging women in bad relationships to leave them.

While I was pleased to see this as a positive sign, I definitely would not pronounce widespread barbaric treatment of women in India to be dead and buried.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

The Inauguration- Live from Bangkok

Not long ago it was en vogue to be a cynic. Green Party presidential candidate Ralph Nader liked to confabulate Republican and Democrat into “Republocrat,” signifying that there was no real difference between the two parties.

I must admit that I was a cynic.

I watched Obama’s inauguration from an internet café in Bangkok. I did not have any sound on the computer, yet I watched and for the first time in my life, I was moist-eyed because of a political event.

Now, I will not claim that Democratic President Obama will live up to the high expectations the nation has for him. The truth is, we are in a position more perilous than at any other time in my life. We once took pride in education, science and developing great inventions. Times got good - the best the world has ever seen - and we slacked off a bit. Like amnesiacs on a cruise ship, we gorged at the buffet morning noon and night, forgetting how we had gotten to the enviable holiday and not aware of the cost on our credit card that we would have to pay when we got back to the real world. We are standing at a momentous crossroads. The first path returns us to work after a long economic and social holiday and the other path rides our past achievements until they have finished rusting away.

America became very wealthy and became the envy of the world. Love us or hate us, people from around the world pretty much all agree that they would love to be Americans themselves. Give an American-flag-burning member of Hamas a work visa and I guarantee you he will be on the next flight over and driving a New York taxi within a week.

America is hard to define. One could not reasonably point to anything that makes a person ‘American’ except this: the fundamental desire to make something better. As a result, we have attracted -- and, I hope will continue to attract -- the best from around the world who want to do something.

And ultimately, this is what is great about America. In one election cycle, the voters can refute the greedy cynicism that represented the Bush presidency and return to the greater principles upon which we are ultimately successful. Maybe Obama can’t fix everything wrong with our country. That’s ok. Obama’s election is important, but not as important as what his election represents: America has decided to make things better again.


Wednesday, January 21, 2009

No, we can't

As the story goes, waffle cones were invented at a world’s fair when an ice-cream seller ran out of sugar cones and, thinking quickly, started rolling waffles which he turned into makeshift cones. Newly elected President Barack Obama’s campaign slogan was ‘Yes, We Can.’ What do these two stories have in common?

Neither would ever happen in India. You see, I was just eating at a restaurant which sells a tasty snack called a dosa. The type that I (and many other Indians) like is called a masala dosa. Of course, the restaurant had stopped making the masala filling earlier and had, predictably run out of it. If it were the world’s fair, the enterprising restaurateur might have made a substitution and created a new product that would endure for generations, not to mention boost his immediate sales. But, no, it is India, so they are just out, as they probably run out every day. It is India, so given another chance, they reconfirm my long-held theory that India’s motto is ‘not possible’ or, translated to American English, ‘No, We Can’t.’

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Obama's Inaugural Address

In case you missed it...

My fellow citizens:

I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often, the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forebearers, and true to our founding documents.

So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land -- a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America: They will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn-out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of shortcuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the fainthearted -- for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things -- some celebrated, but more often men and women obscure in their labor -- who have carried us up the long, rugged path toward prosperity and freedom.

For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.

For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.

For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn.

Time and again, these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.

This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions -- that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.

For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act -- not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age. All this we can do. And all this we will do.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions -- who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them -- that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works -- whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. And those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account -- to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day -- because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control -- and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart -- not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake. And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: Know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.

We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort -- even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus -- and nonbelievers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect. To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West: Know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us today, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment -- a moment that will define a generation -- it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends -- hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism -- these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility -- a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation and the world; duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

This is the source of our confidence -- the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed -- why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent Mall, and why a man whose father less than 60 years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

"Let it be told to the future world ... that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive... that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it]."

America. In the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested, we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back, nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.