World Travel Guide Online

We stand in the airport of the only place in the world forbidden to Americans by our own government. My traveling companion, Matt, and I have risked severe fines for aiding the enemy to see what nine presidents since Kennedy have tried to exterminate: Fidel Castro’s Cuba, the communist monster.

What we know about Cuba is mostly iconic: a bearded Fidel in military cap, cigar clenched in his teeth; Che’s bereted imperialist defiant stare; grim jackbooted communist foot-soldiers menacing the populace with bayoneted rifles. The same images as China or the USSR, communists are largely interchangeable, they come from a world most of us haven’t seen outside the pages of Newsweek. Yet from a trip to China in the early 90’s, I know images such as Tiananmen Square don’t tell the whole story.

So here we are. The taxi ride into Havana is unlike a car ride anywhere else in the western hemisphere: the streets teem with pre-1960 American cars, Russian cars, diesel trucks and tractors, Chinese made bicycles, even horse drawn wagons. People stand waiting for rides or walk along the dusty margin of the road. So far no soldiers or tanks, but there are plenty of billboards with political slogans: “We will win” declares one. “We’re doing fine” assures another optimistically while a grey bearded Fidel looks on.

At our hostel, we meet Tom, a gregarious Canadian who’s been here 10 days. Tom has just enough money left to fund accommodations and meals for his remaining three days. He also has a suitcase brimming with packs of disposable razors, old T-shirts and condoms to distribute. He sports his thinning hair in a ponytail and has a distinctive Sikh-like beard he teases out from his jaw into a sharp ridge.

Anxious to wade into the city, we tell Tom we’re hungry and throw ourselves at his mercy. We soon come upon the Prado: the wide tree-lined walkway running down the middle of the street. The restaurant is in a neoclassical palace: a spectacular if dirty glass ceiling, wide marble staircases, classical furniture, a bronze mounted El Cid on a table, sculptures of Greek goddesses adorn the interior courtyard. We feast on lobster and shrimp; extremely reasonably priced by western standards, but still a month’s wages for a local.

The only Cubans in this restaurant are scurrying in and out of the kitchen bearing dishes such as Congri, the traditional black beans and rice. We’re early, other tourists don’t start filing in until later. Soon enough retired white people fill the elegant front room amongst the marble end tables, their images multiply endlessly in the oversized mirrors at either end of the room. After coffee we stroll beneath the leafy canopy of the Prado past the grand inns with their majestic old world architecture and black and white photos of famous past guests.

As we pass the entrance to the pedestrian shopping street, San Rafael, hustlers pounce on Tom. The combination of unemployment and low wages afford people plenty of time and motivation to earn money on the side; a tip can mean a quick week’s pay. Although rebel Americans are relatively rare, plenty of Canadians and Europeans ply these streets handing out trinkets. Tom is well known by the regulars and placating them with promises of later gifts, we hastily move on.

We cut through the Parque Central with its statue of the grandfather of the country, Jose Marti and down a narrow street into Old Havana. Restaurant touts try to lure us in. “Tomorrow night!” they call after us hopefully. To prove we’re not home anymore, we buy cans of beer at a corner stand to sip as we walk. A darkened park crouches next to a hulking old church; inside a small congregation sings, their echoes resonate in the cavernous building. Three and four story buildings stand in various stages of disrepair. Dark beauties with crumbling facades loom next to hollow shells, ornate arches still intact.

As we approach another churchlike building brightly lit by construction lamps, a man in a guard’s uniform steps away from the girl whose neck he has been murmuring into, motioning us to look inside. “It’s a convent. They’ve been renovating it for 10 years,” he says. The nuns will have to continue to wait; it’s nowhere near finished. Over the course of a few blocks the streets become quieter, the buildings less decrepit. A row of cannons buried muzzle down in the cobblestones of the narrow street signals our entry into the oldest area of the city.

Taking the most mysterious street at each intersection, we happen upon Plaza Vieja. The square is dark except for twin restaurants dominating opposing corners, lit only by the ghostly light of the nearly full moon. A large fountain gurgles in the center of the plaza behind a tall wrought iron fence. A traditional Son band serenades diners. The streets are quiet, the buildings dark. A section of the original aqueduct lies open in the street behind a fence like an open, bloodless vein. The buildings of Old Havana have had their restorations completed. The result is an elegant theme park: teeming with tourists by day, abandoned at night.

As if to prove all roads lead to the church, St. Francis of Asis blocks our path. The simple white stucco exterior and characteristic bell tower are identical to the missions built along the California coast. A statue of the founder of the California missions, Father Junipero Serra stands in front, his hand resting protectively on an Indian boy’s shoulder.

I feel a twinge of kinship with this country, like secretly visiting a cousin you’ve never met because of a family feud no one remembers who started. In the center of the elegant Plaza de Armas sits the bookseller’s park. Behind it on the seawall, known as the malecon, the solid Castle of Royal Might stands guard, the oldest colonial fortress in the Americas and home to the Spanish governor for 200 years. Across the harbor the flame of an oil refinery flickers atop its stack, an unintended monument to an unnamed hero.

The malecon is busy. Lacking the money to enjoy the restaurants and bars of the old town, ordinary Cubans share flirtatious conversation, gesturing, laughing, dancing, sipping cheap rum from tetra-packs and enjoying the cool salty breeze at the edge of the sea. Not yet ready to leave the museum-like charm of the old town, we turn our backs on the malecon.

Walking west we run into another band playing to another outdoor restaurant. The show is for the tourists’ benefit, the rhythm infectious. Behind the band stands a building pairing Spanish classical architecture below and modernist elements above. Beside it is a Moorish style fountain, water trickles along a narrow fissure in the cobblestones stretching the entire length of the building before feeding a wedding cake fountain. A man pushes his daughter on a bicycle around the gently splashing sandstone cascade. As we walk along the narrow streets, kids pause in their games to ask for money in an offhand way.

Back at Parque Central we buy another beer from the corner stand, already we’re repeat customers. We cross the Prado, which forms the border between Old Havana and Central Havana and wade through the hustlers on San Rafael. Tom slips one a pack of razors as we move through the crowd. By this point my feet are blistered from the sandals I haven’t worn since the temperature dipped below 70 in Portland, months ago. A dark skinned girl greets us, questions us pleasantly, then begins to tell us of the difficulty of life here and how she needs money for her child. Only a chair and a drink can save me now.

On cue, we find Cabaret Palermo. Hard luck looking patrons perch on stools around the oval bar nursing bottles of beer under the tall ceiling. Loud salsa music booms. The long defunct “cabaret” lies at the end of the bar behind a plywood partition sporting a slogan painted in large letters commemorating the 48th anniversary of the revolution. It’s still the honeymoon phase of the trip: I’m enchanted by its grimy honesty and outdated lines; this is my kind of dive bar. I barely notice the strong odor of concentrated urine.

Our bartender is Michael. Like all service industry workers he wears a white button down short sleeved shirt and black slacks. Michael tells us the government hasn’t gotten around to fixing up this neighborhood, the piles of rubble in front of the numerous ruined buildings of this neighborhood confirm this. Soon we’re surrounded by the bartenders and several patrons; they sense opportunity. We drink rounds.

While waiting for the toilet I chat with a man who guards the door while his lady friend is inside. Unlike the rest of the patrons he’s dressed in casual but elegant clothes; he later turns out to be the boss. The bathroom is horrible. The toilet can’t be flushed – no handle. The concentrated stench is overwhelming. Michael invites us to see the best DJ in Cuba the next night. We promise everyone to meet, then leave and wander the streets towards home. Matt has to pee and we aren’t really yet ready to go to bed. Light and music stream out of a corner doorway. As we pause, unsure if we should poke our heads in and ask to use the bathroom, a chorus of voices rings out, beckoning us inside.

The bright living room holds several curious faces; youngish Cubans sit around the small room on the sofa, chairs are brought in from the table which is visible through the archway in the kitchen. The guest of honor wobbles precariously on her mother’s lap, she holds her gently around the waist: it’s her first birthday party. The loudest man introduces himself in broken English as Abel and proceeds to question us, where are we from? Are we in a casa (hostel) or hotel? Do we want to buy cigars? The older woman curled up in the corner of the sofa is Abel’s mother and the baby’s grandmother. The baby’s father sits silently in a chair behind his wife. The others arrayed around the room are friends from the neighborhood. Abel suggests we make a toast in honor of the baby. We agree emphatically, the catch – no booze in the house.

Thus begins the long journey. My winter-soft feet protest at each step, but I suck it up and hobble on. These streets, so full of activity earlier, are now quiet, the air warm as we go towards the malecon. We walk shoulder to shoulder, talking in pairs. Tom pokes me from time to time, “How do you say motherboard in Spanish?” We cross the wide boulevard separating the colonial neighborhood from the malecon. At an outdoor bar a fresh breeze blows off the straits of Florida. We buy the last of the canned beer, but it’s not enough for everyone in the little sitting room. After finding a second bar closed Abel decides to try our luck on the other side of the neighborhood. My feet curse him.

Back we go, trudging down the darkened streets, talking in a mixture of Spanish, English and hand gestures. By the time we finally find another bar, we’ve finished the ones we originally bought. We replenish and head back to the party. It seems like hours since we left, I’m surprised to find everyone still there, listening to Latino pop and chatting. Red Bucanero brand cans are raised to the baby’s health. I wonder what Cuba will be like by the time she’s old enough to make a toast of her own. We soon trickle back into the darkness to locate our inn, exhausted yet thrilled by Fidel’s Cuba.

Source: bootsnall.com

About three hundred buildings collapse every year in Havana; the city is full of gap sites, disintegrating facades and hollow shells. UNESCO declared the old town (La Habana Vieja) a World Heritage Site in 1982. With so many Spanish colonial buildings in urgent need of repair, it must have been impossible to decide where to start. As you walk around cranes and past boarded up buildings, you see the enormous task that lies ahead. Not all of Havana looks like a building site; its churches, forts, and plazas are in remarkably good condition. One such building, and an impressive place to start exploring the city, is the Capitolio.

Once you’ve walked round this landmark’s palatial corridors, take a seat on the steps outside and watch the world go by as you soak up Havana’s intoxicating atmosphere. Every tenth car that drives by is a 1950’s Cadillac or Buick, although the majority of vehicles appear past their sell-by date, with their trail of exhaust fumes. Above the traffic and the crowded streets are wonderful examples of the city’s more extravagant architecture; balconies full of washing, and white vested old men puffing on cigars.

Three photographers operate vintage box cameras on tripods at the base of the steps. It’s fascinating to watch as they “cut and paste” the photo they have taken of you onto a previously taken shot of the stunning domed roof. They then photograph their forgery and, if you weren’t watching closely, you would believe the end result was exactly what they saw through the lens the first time. For the price of a dollar, you walk away with a miniature black and white photo that looks like you’ve been transported back in time.

Parque Central sits next to the Capitolio; it is the name of a plaza whose shady park is surrounded by grand palaces, many of which are now places of accommodations, such as the Inglaterra. Obispo Street leads you from here into the middle of Old Havana, past old fashioned drug stores such as Johnsons, corner bars and the historical Ambos Mundos and the Florida.

As you explore the old town, you will come across four plazas; all different and equally beautiful. At times the atmosphere in these squares can be Disney-like, but with the average monthly salary being less than $20.00, tourism is the best way for locals to earn much needed cash. It therefore helps to have a good supply of small notes so that you can tip the numerous musicians, buskers and pay for photographs taken with the plaza's colourful characters.

In the Plaza de Armas, you will come across a Che Guevara look-a-like. He poses in front of The Palacio de los Capitanes Generales – a beautiful building that takes up one side of the plaza. Located opposite the entrance is a small palm tree garden surrounded by second hand book stalls, each displaying an almost identical collection of books on the revolution.

A short distance away is Plaza de la Catedral. If you don’t want to be accosted by clowns, cartoonists and ladies dressed like Carmen Miranda holding baskets of plastic flowers, then the courtyard inside the El Patio bar and restaurant with its palms, fountain and birdcages is a more tranquil setting for lunch.

Around the corner from the large mamma, smoking a submarine shaped cigar whilst reading tarot cards, is La Bodeguita del Medio - one of Hemingway’s haunts. It is easy to spot by the crowds of camera wielding tourists taking pictures of the tiny bar crammed full with even more tourists. Much more interesting is the local flea market, located behind the cathedral. Four days a week, you'll find colourful handmade souvenirs.

Plaza de San Francisco is not really a square as it borders the port’s quayside; seems to be the meeting point for the town’s numerous horse drawn carriages offering romantic city tours. It’s here that you will also find the two most photographed ladies in Havana. Dressed in white, these great-grandmothers spend their days smoking cigars on the church steps; for a dollar, you too, can have their picture.

The largest of the plazas is Plaza de Vieja; surprisingly, it’s the least commercial. The plaza and the surrounding buildings appear to have recently been renovated with only two buildings left to be restored. The quietness seems out of place with the hustle and bustle of the rest of the old town, although it was easy to imagine it being surrounded by cafes and bars.

It’s worth stopping in one of these plaza cafes: to study your guidebook, to rest your feet before exploring the streets off the beaten track away from these tourist hot spots. The further away from the main streets you wander, the warmer the smiles that greet you. As you peek through doorways and windows and up at precarious looking balconies, you get a glimpse of what it is like to live in what can only be described as slum conditions. With very little traffic, you can hear canaries singing from behind closed shutters; watch as residents fill buckets with water delivered by hand pulled carts or tankers.

For the tourist, the only evidence you are in a communist country are the unusual queues outside the banks and shops. It doesn’t take long before you notice a distinct lack of locals mixing with you in the bars and restaurants. The discrete use of screening and cordoned off terraces mean the only people inside are tourists drinking Mojitos, smoking Cohibas whilst bouncers stand at the door to keep the locals out. It is, of course, understandable why bar and restaurant owners only want customers who have money to spend. It does create a rather tainted atmosphere, though. At night it’s even more obvious: small crowds gather outside on the streets to listen to the live music. You can’t help but feel slightly guilty at the cost of the drink in your hand.

Cuba, of course, is famous for its cigars; the Real Fábrica de Tabacos Partagás is located behind the Capitolio. The factory has an English speaking tour which costs $10.00 – well worth taking, even if you are a non smoker. An entertaining staff member leads you through each process of cigar making; from separating the bundles of leaves to packing them in beautiful wooden boxes. The tour gives you another glimpse of real life in Havana; the factory employs 500 workers, who each produce on average 170 cigars a day. The speed and skill involved in rolling and packing cigars is fascinating; everything is done by hand with the only modern piece of equipment being the machines that test the air flow of every cigar.

If you are lucky, you will hear or meet the “reader” who sits on a stage in front of the school, like rows of wooden benches. He reads newspapers and novels to the workers. Partagás roll and box cigars for all the famous brands such as Cohiba, Montecristo and Romeo y Julieta. It even has its own school where out of 100, only 25 qualify. You can buy single cigars or boxes of cigars in the shop. They are not cheap, but you know they are the genuine article, as opposed to buying from the touts that hang outside. After a visit to Partagás, you will never again see a cigar without visualising how it is made.

Another way to see beyond the tourist spots is to take a ride in one of Havana’s most touristy form of transportation – an old American 1950’s Buick or Chevrolet. A good place to pick one up is outside the NH Parque Central. Official public transports have blue license plates, and these old cars are no exception. Our driver took us across to the El Morro Fort and the Statue of Christ where we had great views back across the city before driving along the Malecón – the city’s waterfront – avoiding the waves crashing over the sea wall spraying half the road.

Throughout our hour-long tour, we saw more examples of beautiful buildings being restored or about to collapse. Our driver took us as far as Miramar, the district where the embassies are located, in rundown mansions and villas. Another way to experience these historical cars is to take one to the fabulous art deco Nacional de Cuba Hotel, where you can have a pre-dinner cocktail on the garden terrace before heading back into the old town for dinner in a regular taxi – probably a dusty Lada.

Eating in one of the city’s Paladares – restaurants in private homes – is a must. Again, this is a fabulous way to experience how locals live, and a way to escape the restaurants selling Hamburguesa con Queso. The two we tried were totally different; both an adventure. The food was also excellent; a novelty in Havana. You need to pay in cash. Booking is also essential; your concierge will help you, as well as recommend other Paladares to try.

La Guarida was located on the second floor of a derelict apartment building. Climbing the dimly lit stairs and ringing the door bell was nerve racking. What awaited us on the other side of the door, though, was an experience not to be missed. The second Paladare – Doña Carmela – was in the garden of an old villa, in the middle of a housing estate, only served fish. It was the perfect venue for dinner, after you have been to the Cañonazo to witness the firing of the canon which takes place every evening.

The nightlife in Havana is aimed at the tourist, slightly old-fashioned with venues such as Tropicana, Le Parisien and Havana Café, ideal if you are happy to watch scantily clad ladies doing versions of the rumba all night. A better option is La Casa de la Musica located on Avenue de Italia (Galiano). It looks like an old run down cinema. Here you can listen daily to salsa or jazz between 4:00 and 7:00 p.m., or between 10:00 and 4.30 a.m. It's worthwhile checking before you go; we turned up on a day it was closed for a private function. We also discovered modern flamenco music and dancing at the El Mesón de la Flota, a restaurant just off the Plaza Vieja on Calle Mercaderes.

Havana is the city that everyone wants to go to before it changes – before the death of Castro and communism; before the U.S. trade embargo is lifted, and before it becomes too commercial. A lot needs to change before Havana can once again be one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Hopefully, tourists and Cubans will then sit in the plaza’s cafes and admire the city together. What will Havana and 103 Paeso de Marti be like in 10 years? I can’t wait to go back and find out.

Source: bootsnall.com

A Cuban visa is easy to get, costs $10.00 and is worth it. Mexicana and Cubana Airlines have daily flights from México City. You can get a visa in Mexico City when you buy your ticket. The visa is a little engraved document about the size of a dollar bill, entirely separate from your passport. You surrender half upon arrival in Cuba and the other half on departure.

Currency is no problem. You exchange your cash – euros, pesos, dollars, whatever – for convertible pesos at the CADECA stand in the airport, or in other CADECA branches all over Havana. Convertible pesos are worth slightly more than one U.S. dollar. When you leave, the CADECA stand in the international departure area, and will buy back your Cuban pesos, including coins, for the currency of your choice.

The two biggest surprises are how flat and green the island looks from the air, and the lack of sandy beaches in the Havana area. The coast is pure rocks, so people go to Varadaro to swim. Havana is remarkably clean; I didn’t see a single beggar or homeless person. There is a lot of new construction and even more restoration work on turn-of-the-last-century buildings lining the waterfront drive, the Malecón and Prado Street.

There’s a lot to see in Old Havana. The capitol building, circa 1930, is a massive, domed tropical Cuban version of most U.S. capitols; it has a large faceted diamond (beneath heavy glass) in the center of the rotunda floor. The baroque Teatro Nacional and the air-conditioned 1900-vintage Hotel Inglaterra are right next door. Nearby is the four-story white marble former presidential palace, now a museum to the Cuban Revolution. You can take pictures wherever you like, including inside all the museums, where the guides are friendly and helpful.

The three-story Palacio del Gobierno, dating from 1776, is architecturally like the palaces of México City, but its patio is sunny and filled with palms and tropical plants. The building houses a museum to the colonial period, and has a large collection of original furniture, pictures, china, silver, chandeliers and carriages. The old cathedral sits on another plaza.

Quinta Avenida, running west from old Havana is lined with elegant mansions, mostly occupied today by foreign embassies. Spanish banking giant, Banco Bilbao y Viscaya, is in one. The huge tower housing the Russian Embassy is more spectacular than ugly, but could be described as both.

Cubans have to survive without Burger King, Domino’s, Macdonald’s, KFC, Coca Cola and Budweiser. They do have burgers, plenty of chicken, Nestle’s ice cream, two brands of local beer (Cristal and Bucanero) and imported Czechoslovakian Pilsner.

Source: bootsnall.com

From Here to Eternity

LA HABANA, CUBA to LOS ANGELES, USA – 19 April, 2003
Frankly, by the end of two weeks in Cuba, I had had it up to HERE with hissings and harassments from the sleazy Cuban men. I was actually rather glad to be heading out today. But Cuba had indeed been one incredible learning experience and an appreciated challenge at this point of my trip. It had provoked me to think about the various facets of life and that many things are not what they seem. Gosh, what else is out there? The more I know, the more I realise I do not know.

If the airport departure halls in other countries had been a tad charmless, I was pleasantly surprised by the departure hall of La Habana airport. I was greeted by a huge hall of flags from all over the world, hanging from the ceiling. I kept my eyes skyward and walked around the hall twice. I found that I could only recognise a fraction of the flags up there. Indeed, there is so much more out there.

The plane back to Cancun was not the propeller-sort. It was bigger and less wonky. I also had the chance to practise my nearly-forgotten Russian alphabets on the seat-numbering and buttons for stewardesses. This must either be a repainted AEROFLOT or at least, it came from the same supplier.

Upon arrival, the Mexican Customs asked if I had any cigars with me. I said ‘no’ but I actually had two. The Cuban customs had not stamped on my passport and I knew, for sure, US citizens were not supposed to declare that they had been to Cuba nor have any evidence of Cuban cigars. But I was not sure whether I could or not.

I soon departed for Los Angeles. I was flying to LA, because to go to Tahiti, I had to fly from LA. Yet I could not connect the flights and so, I needed to spend a night there.

In June last year, a lady from LA, Delara, had spotted my BootsnAll articles and emailed to me, offering the chance to crash at her living-room couch if I ever drop by LA. I remembered her offer and had contacted her a few weeks ago. To my delight, the offer was still on and she would pick me up. Wonderful.

However, trying to clear the US Customs was a nightmare. Firstly, I realised Mexicana flight crew had not given me the Arrival/Departure card on the flight. I was one of the first to get off the plane but by the time I filled out the Arrival/Departure card in the corner, the four planes that had arrived at the same time had unleashed the rest of the passengers.

I queued randomly at one. The speed of clearance was moderate but when I was merely five persons away from the top of the line, the officials came and, from me onwards, gestured that we were supposed to turn back and head to other lines as they were closing our counters.

I was at the start of this line. By the time those at the back turned around and made their way out to join other lines, I was at the end of the queue. There were perhaps forty people in front of me. Great.

We moved along slowly and by the time I was halfway there, the officials came to shoo us to another line again. Good lord, enough already.

Finally, finally, finally, it was my turn. Of course, the Customs guy now said I had filled out the wrong card. I should have filled out the green card, and not the white one. He paged for a Mexicana staff. After a while, she arrived and led me from Counter 64 to Counter 9 to get the green card. By then, there was only a trickle of passengers left. All the carousels had long stopped. My backpack lay abandoned in the middle of the hall.

The Mexicana staff then fretted that she only had the green card in Spanish, not in English. I was really agitated by now. I practically snatched it from her, muttering I could read some Spanish. I feared Delara might not be waiting for me anymore. Yet, I could not appear to be nervous in front of these people.

Then, I had to walk all the way back to Counter 64 and face the insipid questionings of the Customs guy. In my haste, at the place which asked me to list all the countries I had been to in the past X days, I wrote ‘Cuba’ and when he asked me where I had been since I left Singapore, I mentioned ‘Cuba’ too. He let me through. But later, other people warned me that I should NEVER have mentioned ‘Cuba’. If I had arrived at the Miami airport, I would be creamed for sure. Oh dear, I had no clue.

Delara was still there, holding up the ‘TRISHA’ sign, slightly droopy by now. My angel in the City of Angels! She was just about to give up. How lucky I was. She drove me to her home to dump my bags and then, we headed to her favourite bar for drinks. It was Saturday night. She had worked hard during the week and was dying to meet up with her friends again. In fact, she seemed to know half the people at the bar.

I was still reeling from the shock of coming from a country with not much available to a country with everything available. The language was another thing. I could eavesdrop at other people’s conversations without really trying.

Delara was excellent. She was chatty, confident, funny, very on-the-go, full-of-energy type of person. We talked about our travels and it was wonderful to learn we shared the same sort of feelings and ideas for our common passion.

I asked her about the side order formerly known as FRENCH fries and to my surprise, Delara had no idea what I was talking about. I had heard from Liliana when I was in Mexico City about USA changing menus and other stuff to remove FRENCH from them and replace them with FREEDOM. I had thought this was the most brainless story I had ever heard in a while.

Guess the stupidity did not spread far from Washington DC. La La Land was safe, for now.

I was introduced to Roy, her flat-mate. He had thought it weird she was going to the airport to pick up a person whom she had never met. Well, once in a while, we have to do weird and crazy things, don’t we? Once again, I was really grateful for Delara’s help, for LA sounded rather daunting to me.

Soon, I started to glaze over due to the body clock still set to Cuban hours. When the bar closed, Delara drove me back first before driving her tipsy friend home. Roy had returned to the apartment as well.

Just as I was getting ready to sleep on the couch, Roy came out to the living-room, clad only in a towel. He sat down and started to ask me questions like, ‘Why did you go to Cuba?’, ‘Why choose a country such as Cuba?’, ‘Why makes you do this, travelling and this sort of shit?’.

I explained as best as I could but he was not pleased with my answers. He kept probing, why, why, why, what f*#king difference does it make, so what if you know how life is like in those f*#king countries, so what? You can’t change the world, you can’t change their lives, the whole world is f*#ked up. (I will have to ask readers to pardon the guy’s FRENCH, or what President B’s supporters would call, FREEDOM.)

OK, despite the fact that Roy was very drunk and had very nearly flashed himself just now, I wanted to listen to his uninhibited opinion for it was from an angle that I never got from the usual people I met, for most of those I met while travelling are people, more or less, like me.

He proceeded to name a few countries and claimed them to be really f*#ked up. “But here in LA, this is the place to be. Nothing will ever change, so I just leave the shit there and f*#k it. Here, we make money, we print money. Ultimately you only have one life and you should live it well for you. Why bother with the rest of the f*$king world? I’m rich, I can do whatever I want. People go to Cuba and have a blast, spend money and do all sorts of things they can’t do here. I don’t see you as that sort of person…”

He explained that he had a lot of respect for what I had done, he confessed he was ignorant and agreed he would never experience anything close to what I had, but so what? Ultimately, I have to stop this and I would settle down and place kids on this world, live my life, earn money for my family because that is MY LIFE and this whole thing, so what if I learnt something, would just be a ‘waste of time and money’.

And so, my entire 11-month-and-3-weeks had just been summarized as a ‘waste of time and money’.

I seriously suspect that if this had happened in another time and place, the old me would have flared up and throttled someone’s neck. Now I know for sure, this trip had changed me.

The words ‘compassion’ and ‘empathy’ came into my mind. These are the main concepts Buddhism tries to inculcate in us. If you have peace of mind and a good state of well-being, you will be happy. For any situation, you have to be compassionate and try and understand the other person’s angle and feel it from his or her side. Then, misunderstanding can be avoided and you keep your peace of mind and good state of well-being.

I was glad I had this conversation for I had nearly forgotten, had hardly ever come fact-to-face with people of opinions such as these, for we orbit in entirely different ellipses. If he chooses to live his life this way, it is because that is what he knows. If he is curious to the other sort of life, I think it is difficult to pick my brain just like that, to know why I do the things that I do. I can only share certain things. The rest is up to him.

Meanwhile, he made me search deeper for my own answers. Why do I do the things that I do?

I agree there is only one life. And this is HOW I want to lead it. He was right in some ways, there is nothing I can do to change the world. I never set out to change it or to accomplish anything noble. If anything, the world changed me. Whatever I had done, I had barely placed a dent in anyone’s lives. But they impacted me in more ways than one.

To describe your trip by saying I have done this, this and that, I’ve been to here and there and everywhere, I climbed this, I visited that, I sailed down here, I crossed into there, yadda yadda yadda, sure you have, whatever… But all this LISTING just trivialized everything you had just done. You cannot describe the WHOLE EXPERIENCE in this way. You can paint your impressions of certain specific and special moments, yes, but the complete experience, well… difficult.

Perhaps a person 1000 times more eloquent than me can attempt to do it but the listener, if he just listens and goes ‘uh-huh’, will 100% never get it.

Some of us have the GIFT of choice to decide what kind of life we want to live. Others, unfortunately, don’t. I realise I am one of those with this GIFT and so I choose to go down this path of learning. Because I choose to go down this path, I KNOW others don’t have this GIFT of choice. Unfortunately, I cannot help them much. Yet from them, I now know how important ‘compassion’ and ‘empathy’ are. From them, I appreciate my GIFT so much more. The money I spent on this trip is US$XXXX. But the return I got back is priceless. Which ‘business deal’ gets this sort of returns?

Sure, I don’t have anything tangible to show after this. In a month or two, my friends and family will forget this ever happened. I will have to get a job and try to place food on my table, I agree, but in my heart these personal priceless memories, difficult to share with others (I can only try), will linger forever.

The smile of the Tibetean woman whom I reached my hand out to to admire her turquoise ring. The near cat-fight with rogue taxi drivers at the China-Mongolia border. The final wave of farewell from the Herdsman as he crossed the rushing river on his horse. The spattering of saliva from the drunk and very happy babushka. The childish but exhilarating experience of sticking our heads out of the Trans-Mongolian train to smell the taiga and trap Siberia in our hair. The hug from the delighted old Brazilian lady just because I was a ‘china’ and by walking past her door, I had apparently lit up her day. The power of the Iguacu falls. The incredible sincerity of the friends I made in my stay in Buenos Aires. The touching hospitality of the families who invited me to stay with them, to eat with them, to dance with them. The excited children who ran over to show me an insect just as we were leaving the remote Chachapoyas town. The sweet guy who gave me money to get on a bus with him just so I would not be lost in Mexico City. The curious looks from the Cubans when I stood in line with them to eat stale bread and drink syrup… and the wonderful friends I met and shared my trip with, these kindred spirits whom I will always treasure.

Well, like I said, I can only faintly paint certain moments to share. But this ‘waste of time and money’ sure makes me feel good.

LOS ANGELES, USA to PAPEETE, FRENCH POLYNESIA – 20 April, 2003
Delara was very amused this morning when she heard from Roy that he had come to the living-room, barely clad in a towel and said those things that he said. She wanted to apologize for his behaviour but, nah… she did not need to apologize. It was alright. If anything, it made me understand myself better.

We had our breakfast at 1pm. After Cuban food, gosh… anything sounded wonderful, omelette with spicy sausage and baked potatoes was perfect. Yummy. Thank you!!

I was driven to Venice Beach for my quintessential LA experience. Naturally, there were Dance-for-Peace, Skate-for-Peace, Donate-for-Peace, Art-for-Peace events organised by freaky and weird people. There were protests against the war, not unlike those I saw in Buenos Aires and Mexico City, but with a hippie-slant. Tattoo, psychics and tarot card readings, Indian incense sticks, the chance to take photos with aliens, they were all there.

Delara had been great. She was one super-cool chick. Her energy, positiveness, spontaneity, interesting and inquiring mind… While my stay was short, not even 24 hours, I had a terrific time. So she went to the airport to pick up a stranger but life is too short to just do boring things like NOT pick up strangers from the airport, isn’t it? She deserved one of the very illegal Cuban cigars I smuggled in.

And so I flew tonight to what President B’s supporters would call FREEDOM Polynesia islands and would probably eat a lot of FREEDOM loaves soon.

PAPEETE to MOOREA, FRENCH POLYNESIA – 21 April, 2003
I arrived at the ungodly hour of 2:40am. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw hefty Polynesian men playing tiny ukeleles to welcome us, and svelte ladies in hibiscus-printed dresses distributing miniscule fragrant jasmine buds. Nice touch, but at this hour? The huge, macho Tahitian Customs guys stamping our passports all had tiny jasmine flowers tucked behind their ears too. Spooky.

I wanted to wait til daybreak to head to Moorea island. I tried to stay awake but finally, I fell asleep on the hard seats. When I woke up, a Tahitian woman in the typical hibiscus-printed primary-coloured dress sitting next to me, started telling me she had been watching my bags and that I should be careful with my stuff. I smiled sheepishly. Merci, I thanked her. OK, another language now. And one that I did not know.

A conversation of gestures, noises and sporadic Spanish vocabulary thrown in, hoping they were similar to French, ensued. In the end, I figured she said there were buses to town, but yet she shook her head when I paraphrased my understanding. My French was limited to numbers, ‘bonbons’ and ‘champignons’. Not very useful now.

She finally waved down a guy whose job was to receive tourists at the airport for various five-star hotels and this one spoke English and instructed me accordingly.

I headed to the main road to try and grab a ‘Le Truck’. This was the typical public transport in Tahiti. They basically looked like trucks. On the ‘Le Truck’, I asked a few other tourists if they knew where to get off for the Moorea Ferry Terminal. They were heading the same way too. Great. They were Go, Junko from Japan/USA, and Greg from Australia.

Go and Junko had booked themselves in a US$140-per night beach bungalow in Moorea. Greg and I opted for a slightly cheaper resort, dormitory beds for US$13 a night.

I had changed some Tahitian francs at LAX airport but I did not have enough to pay for three nights. As it was Easter weekend, everything was shut. The receptionist decided to take US dollars from me instead.

Greg had a weird story. He brought no US dollars or travellers’ cheques, relying entirely on his card. But the card could not work at any of the machines. He tried to do a cash-advance-over-the-counter at the bank at the airport and the guy claimed it was not possible at that branch. With every bank shut for Easter, Greg simply had no means of getting any francs. The guy amazingly LENT him 20000 francs (about US$200), took a photocopy of his passport and made Greg promise to return the money just before he leaves Tahiti.

I had worked in a bank for six years. I assure you this is the ONLY compassionate bank-related story anyone will ever get to hear.

This was really the tail-end of my trip. I was not interested to do this or that sight, hire kayaks or snorkels, or whatever. Nonono. I just wanted to merely exist for three more days.

We took the scenic route along the beach to walk to Go and Junko’s resort. Some places were fenced off but the sea being so shallow, we just waded through the water to get around.

The beach in front of their resort was way better. One could not really swim because of the coral all over and the water was not deep enough to kick one’s legs properly. The water was wonderfully warm and super clear to see the fishes and coral. In the far distance, one could see the enormous crashing Pacific waves but they broke very far off because of the coral and never made it to the beach. In other words, paradise.

I shut down my brain and drifted in the water.

MOOREA, FRENCH POLYNESIA – 22 April, 2003
Today was the end of the Easter holidays. Greg had looked forward to going to the bank nearby and doing a cash advance so that he would have money to pay back. Meanwhile, I calculated that I needed another US$15 worth of francs to survive the next few days.

As it turned out, that bank could not provide cash advance or currency change. The staff was there mainly to look surly, tap something on the computer and pretend to use the telephone. We had to go to Cook’s Bay at another end of the island.

The automatic Change Machine would zap US$5 for every transaction. If I needed US$15, I had to feed in US$20. That’s 25% commission!!!! My card could not work on the withdrawal machines either. We later learnt from a French tourist that only her French credit card worked. Most mysterious.

To help out my situation, Greg and I decided to buy US$20 worth of groceries from the supermarket and I would pay by credit card and he would give me francs in return. Great, we would feed on French loaves and Nutella for breakfast and spaghetti for dinner the next few days.

With money issues sorted out, I shut down my brain and read trashy novels by the beach.

That night over spaghetti, I found out that Greg had been on five or six Round-The-World trips over the years. Gosh. He was definitely NOT a lister and was so humble and unassuming that I only learnt about this now. I had to coax stories out from him. I really appreciated him telling me this. I knew this Round-The-World would not be the one and only one. And to hear that he had done several really encouraged me. It might be possible for me too. A wonderful dream.

MOOREA, FRENCH POLYNESIA – 23 April, 2003
There were too many roosters on this island.

Some people could exist for their entire life. I existed for two days and felt I was ready to start LIVING again, but not too strenuously, please.

Greg said that, according to the guidebook, there was a ‘fairly easy’ walk from the Ferry Point to Cook’s Bay. Two hours, 5 kms, that sounded alright. I asked if I could join him and so we set off on the bus to the Ferry Point.

Unfortunately, it rained just when we arrived at the Ferry Point. We only set off after an hour’s wait when the rain subsided.

The trail was horribly muddy right at the start. We followed the red markers painted on trees or plastic tapes tied to trunks and started ascending up a slope. Greg only had flip-flops on. With the earlier rain, the climb was difficult and very slippery. Many times, we had to use roots embedded in the mud like rungs of a ladder to climb up.

After an hour of very sweaty and exhausting climb, we reached the top of the ridge. Walking across the edge to the left, we arrived at a view-point and found ourselves right at the bottom of two very impressive peaks.

Moorea had some very astounding and dramatic mountain peaks scattered all over and to burst through the foliage and be met with this sight, I was utterly floored. “This is TREMENDOUSLY PHENOMENAL!!”, I yelled.

We were awed by the fantastic view around us, for we could see Tahiti island, the bays and the spectacular mountains around Cook’s Bay. Yes, the tough work was all worthwhile. Greg confessed smilingly that he had started to have doubts but agreed with me this was worth it. The poor thing was suffering more from the climb because of unsuitable footwear.

Now, we had to descend on the other side of the ridge… which was even worse. We slipped several times and Greg knocked his elbow badly. We came to a point where it was so steep it was like plunging to death. I saw no plastic tapes in a distance and was afraid if we went down this way and it was the wrong route, there was NO WAY we could climb back up. I got worried but there appeared to be no other route and so we carefully crawled down.

We managed to leave the jungle without tragedy after the very stressful journey downhill. And Greg… oops, I am sorry, the Legendary Greg did it in flip-flops. ‘Fairly easy’, my foot!

We returned to the hostel by hitching. I started to have really bad stomach aches upon our return. French loaf, Nutella and biscuits. What could go wrong?

MOOREA to PAPEETE, FRENCH POLYNESIA – 24 April, 2003
Woke up with no more stomach pains but there were still too many roosters on this island.

After yesterday, we deserved a brainless day today at the beach. At one point, from the clear shallow water, Greg spotted a huge black something moving against the currents. It was a ray! He had spotted one two days ago but nobody was nearby for him to point it out. This time, he pointed it out from the beach and everyone saw it. It was so gigantic and graceful. I waded in the water to follow it for a while. It was great to be able to see a ray. Wow, I was really pleased with this final, perfect present.

I would be flying out of Tahiti tonight to Melbourne, Australia. While I was transitting in Melbourne as well, I had about four hours to kill. Since Greg was from Melbourne, I asked him for transportation details to the city centre, if I so choose to head there from the airport. He suggested I take the SKYBUS to Spencer City Station and then, find my way to Bourke Street.

“OK, so when I arrive at Spencer City, I just have to ask someone: Donde esta Bourke Street? (‘Where is Bourke Street?’ in Spanish). And I can go there by walking?” I inquired.

“Right.”

“Except that I have to ask that in Australian.” I pointed out.

“Yes, that would be: Donde esta Bourke Street, mate? (‘Where is Bourke Street?’ in Australian)”

I was all set to tackle Melbourne.

PAPEETE, FRENCH POLYNESIA to AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND – 25 April, 2003
I sat and read at the Tahiti airport since 5pm yesterday and only boarded the plane at 1am this morning.

I barely got a chance to experience 25 April before…

AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND to MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA to SINGAPORE – 26 April, 2003
…it was zapped from me when we crossed the International Date Line.

It was payback time. The hours I had been earning slowly the past 12 months… time to return them.

Took a couple of planes to Auckland, New Zealand and Melbourne, Australia.

Australia was picky about everything. One of the questions on the Declaration Form was if I had any soil, or articles attached with soil with me. Sure, I had. I had gone hiking and slipped down muddy slopes a few days ago. My sandals were still covered with mud. I very honestly ticked ‘Yes, mate’ to that and was ushered to the Quarantine Room.

I was told to take off my sandals and take a seat. The Quarantine guy washed my sandals and returned them, dripping wet. I had a muddy dress from my hike in Cuba and a muddy pair of pants I had on where I did several slipperoos. Do you guys do free laundry here? Nah, I was not going to confess those and so I fled the scene.

I found out the price of the SKYBUS to town and it was not worth for so few hours and so I stayed put at the airport.

And then, my final flight back to Singapore.

Well, at this moment, allow me to share a few humble verses, inspired from various points of my trip.

---

A minaret against the sunset
A yodelling call to the evening prayer
Incense smoke, lighted candles
Joss papers burn in the temple pyre

Yak-butter lamps flicker on the altar
‘Wind horse’ papers strewn across the pass

Prayer wheels creak as they spin clock-wise
Fluttering in the wind, white and yellow scarves

Faded Bodhisattvas with missing arms
A thousand Buddhas peer out of caves
A wall that snakes forever into the mist
Brick by brick, stacked up by slaves

---

Undulating grasslands
Stretched endlessly for miles

Emerging from gers,
Curious gentle smiles

The shifting wind
The stirring dust
The thunderous hooves
The silent stars

These meat-eaters, these warriors
Galloping across the hills on their stallions
Survived the harshness, lived the desert

Once widely feared and so valiant

---

Four days three nights, bulleting west
Siberia in my hair, soot on my face
Lulled by the rhythmic ‘TUK-tuk-TUK-tuk’
Towards the orange sunset, we chased

‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’
Tongue-twisting, four syllables
Surly and sour looks

Coaxed a smile out? It’s a miracle

Onion-domed churches, clashing in colours
State treasure, opulence in abundance
Soviet-era statues, abandoned in parks
Metro stations, grand and extravagant

---

Sun-drenched bodies, brown and baking
All shapes and sizes, decked out in bikinis
The curved beaches, the warm Atlantic

The party never ends, it stretches to infinity

In this land, the music plays on
Feathers and sequins gyrate to samba
A radio here, a street band there
Booming oludum alternates with suave bossa nova

A limitless coastline, the odd mountains
An impenetrable jungle that knows no peers
Crystalline rivers, blue subterranean lakes

And a waterfall that brings tears

---

A gracious twirl, a sensual slide
Quivering voices from the cracking gramophone
Passion and nostalgia, that is tango
Musical poetry performed with tearful moans

Red-hot charcoal and that sizzling sound
Comes the smell of unmistakable asados
Yerba mate fills the gourd

The bitter the better, so prefers the gauchos

Relentless wind beats on the pampas
The majestic glacier, one swoons and faints
Amidst the mighty Andes, emerges Aconagua
Seven colours on a mountain, swirls like paints

---

Turquoise lakes patrolled by guanacos
Savage wind tortures and tosses
Vertical peaks that tower over you

Enigmatic ‘Horns’, sculpted by nature forces

An island with wooden churches and palofitos
Good old fishermen haul in the day’s catches
A climb up the volcano, blinded by whiteness
Confused by the snow, the clouds and the smoke it belches

Hissing and bubbling, the geysers awaken
In the distant salt lake, the flamingoes feast
Vicunas relish the freedom of the altiplano
Sparsely populated by Indians who chew coca leaves

---

Stone ruins, trapping enigmas and legends
Messages encoded in beads and threads
Dried-up mummies in frozen screams
Intricate textiles, now in shreds

Multiple cultures from epochs ago
Rose from the coast, highlands, jungles and deserts
Slowly taken over by the mighty Incas

Only to be silenced forever by the bearded Spaniards

Mysterious drawings criss-crossed the plains
Boats of reed sail the highest lake
Silent sarcophagi perched on cliffs
A network of trails, through the mountains they snake

---

One country, three currencies
The land that is Castro and cigars
Crumbling colonial houses

And classic Chevrolet cars

Where everyone is meant to be equal
Every business, state-controlled
Food products, weighed and rationed
Rules and regulations, to be followed

Be surprised by the contrasts
Be shocked by the disparities
Be humbled by their lives
Be touched by their sincerities

---

If they sound incomplete, it’s because they are. To be honest, I do not know how to end them. To end them with a flourish is as if to say, this is how the country is. But the truth is, I, like any other travellers, am merely a passer-by, some essence of the places at those moments rubbed off a little as I flitted around the peripherals. These are my impressions then and I am sure they will evolve.

I hope that for the past twelve months, I had shared the flavour of things, triggered some wonderful memories, inspired a few to dust off their bags, hit the roads and have their own experiences. Only then will anyone understand what I am talking about.

Twelve months
Eleven diaries
Ten languages
Nine airlines
Eight inspiring books

Seventy-nine rolls of film (oh well)
Six haircuts
Five visas
Four Equator-crossings
Three continents
Two ‘White Nights’
One World
Infinite Smiles

Today, I complete my circle. This is not the end. This is the beginning. From here to eternity, may the magic run to infinity.

Ever since the collapse of the Iron Curtain starting in 1989, the number of countries calling themselves communist has been on the decline. Sure, there are still quite a few places with governments that have elected “communist” leaders, but that’s not the same as states with a brutal single-party system that makes all other political parties illegal and takes a firm grip on every aspect of its citizens’ lives.

If Karl Marx were alive today he’d be down to only six possible places to go on holiday, and he’d probably be disappointed in most of those, since they have recently been allowing some free market capitalism and foreign investment in order to stay afloat, while they keep many of the horrible parts of the doctrine like a near complete lack of freedom and oppressive policing.

Karl Marx’s travel agent would only have these brochures left, and a few of these are already on shaky ground:

North Korea

Long known as the most secretive nation on the planet, it’s actually not terribly difficult to visit the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, as they like to call themselves. The only real catch to visiting is you can’t do it on your own. You must be part of an official tour group that applies for entry with all details well in advance, but the group can consist of as few as a single person. If they think you are a journalist your chances of getting in are about as good as your chances of getting to sit on Kim Jung Il’s throne while you watch a movie together, but non-journalists don’t usually have a problem.

The other small catch is your group is monitored every minute of the day, and you are forbidden to interact with normal citizens, just as they are forbidden to interact with you. The trips are also not cheap. A 5-day “carefully planned tour” can run around $3,000 per person, including airfare from Beijing. Lately the government only allows Americans in during the famous Arirang Mass celebration, which is an enormous stadium show featuring about 100,000 performers whose choreographed moves and card stunts help show that theirs is the greatest country on earth. Another highlight is seeing the infamous Ryugyong Hotel, if your handlers let you. The 105-story pyramid in Pyongyang was mostly built between 1987 and 1992, after which they ran out of money and the thing was deemed unsafe for occupancy. It’s become such an embarrassment that it’s rarely spoken of, and it’s been airbrushed out of government photos, but there are reports saying they’ve started working on it again as of April, 2008.

Cuba

Up until the 1959 revolution, Cuba was one of the most popular resort areas for Americans, but since then it’s been officially off limits and subject to a strict trade embargo. Much of the country remains like a dilapidated time capsule thanks to that embargo and the general lack of wealth or major industry, but there have long been beach resorts that until recently have prohibited locals from even visiting. Cuba continues to be popular with adventurous tourists from Europe and Canada, and many Americans continue to slip in, usually by changing planes in Cancun or Mexico City.

The capital of Havana has seen better days, but the eye-catching colonial architecture and spirited locals give it a charm not found elsewhere in the region. Of course the cigar industry is part of the draw, as none of the other nearby islands seem to be able to duplicate the quality. Varadero is the most famous beach resort city, with about 12 miles of gorgeous sandy beaches lined with all-inclusives and other nice hotels that the locals can one day hope to stay in. Now that Fidel’s health has forced him to step down, and his brother Raul is running the show, reforms are coming at a nice pace, and better things might be on the horizon for all.

China

The People’s Republic of China combines some of the fun aspects of communism, such as a single-party system with power guaranteed by the constitution so there is no need for voting and whatnot, with an economy that has been steamrolling half the world for the past few decades. Starting in 1978 they began reforms that allowed for private ownership and foreign investment, so even though they are still officially “communist” it doesn’t really show when you visit. No need to get into that pesky human rights stuff here, but as long as that doesn’t bother you it’s incredibly easy to visit this enormous country, and it’s quite cheap once you get there too.

Modern Beijing (home of the 2008 Summer Olympic Games) is the most popular stop, and where you’ll find the breathtaking Forbidden City, and the most popular section of the Great Wall of China just outside the city center. And Shanghai has become perhaps the most advanced city in the world in the past decade or so, with dazzling skyscrapers and modern architecture at every turn. Decent hotels for under US$40 are easy to find in both places, and meals are cheap as well. But once you get outside those giant cities you’ll see countless more amazing sights that don’t change every week like in the urban centers. Even some of the hardcore backpacker/independent travelers find that booking tours of China is the best way to go, since they tend to be very affordable and they help you see things that are difficult to reach on your own if you don’t speak the language.

Vietnam

Vietnam is yet another country that is officially communist, but aside from operating under an oppressive single-party system, they don’t really take the rest of it too seriously. Since the late 1980s they’ve given up on the collective farms thing, encouraging private ownership and foreign investment instead. Today it’s still quite a poor country, but market reforms have done a lot to increase output and the standard of living. It’s also incredibly cheap as well, which is only one reason it’s a major draw among the adventurous backpacking and independent traveling crowds. Living decently for around US$20 per day is definitely possible for experienced backpackers, and those willing to spend more can even afford some luxury.

The two major cities are the capital of Hanoi, which still carries an unmistakable French influence alongside its traditional Chinese-inspired city center, and the sprawling Ho Chi Minh City (formerly known as Saigon), which is modern and growing by leaps and bounds every year. But getting out of the cities leads to even more exotic adventures, and cheap tours from Hanoi to the stunning Ha Long Bay (A UNESCO World Heritage Site), are probably the most popular things for newcomers.

Laos

While Laos’ northwestern neighbor, Burma/Myanmar, does have a strict military dictatorship, it also has a messed up and corrupt version of socialism, so it doesn’t really qualify as communist. Laos, on the other hand, still officially calls itself communist, even though they’ve been experimenting with market reforms for a while now. Forget looking for parades of thousands of goose-stepping soldiers demonstrating their loyalty to the country, the single-party here doesn’t get too involved in anything, and there is a massive divide between the haves and the have-nots, so it’s not exactly a workers’ paradise either.

This landlocked country that straddles the Mekong River is one of the better-kept travel secrets in an area that is extremely popular with low budget backpackers. Hotel rooms for around US$5 are very common, and meals under US$1 are available nearly everywhere.
Vientiane is the capital and largest city in Laos (the “s” in Laos is silent, by the way), and it’s the mellowest big city in the entire region, although it’s been picking up the pace lately. The city is about 1,000 years old, and there are plenty of temples decorating the place, but the countryside also has its share of sights. The mysterious and ancient Plain of Jars is one of the most famous attractions, and they’d be easier to visit if not for the thousands of unexploded bombs in the area.

Nepal

Under a monarchy for 240 years, the Communist Party of Nepal started a somewhat bloody civil war in 1996, which finally met its goals of forming a republic 10 years later. In April 2008 the party won the most seats in the new parliament, so this landlocked country in the Himalayas is the newest member of the communism club, although things are still sorting themselves out. It’s hard to imagine this country that has recently been one of the hottest new tourist destinations shutting things down and trying to nationalize everything, but we won’t know for a while yet.

Of course the country is best known for being home to half of Mount Everest, alongside its controversial neighbor Tibet/China, but there is plenty more to see here for those not wanting to meet some insane personal goal of climbing to the top of the world. Trekking in other forms is huge in Nepal, and tours that are suited for people with moderate fitness levels are getting more popular every year. The capital of Kathmandu is also jammed with temples and ancient sites, and is considered one of the major highlights of the whole region.