I decided to sit on the curb on the opposite side of the street from the monks procession, balance my camera on my knee, and take some discreet pictures.  This seemed to be a good idea for about 3 seconds, until two ladies came and stood directly in front of me with their point-and-shoot digital cameras going the whole time.  One gentleman, who had just purchased sticky rice from a street vendor, managed to snap off a few shots on his way to get in line to give alms.  Two other men stood immediately in front of a group of women giving alms, leaving about a four-foot space in between for the monks to pass.  (Before the monks arrived, these same men were taking photos of the women posing with their baskets of sticky rice.)

Another fellow, with a camcorder on a large tripod, set up right in the monks’ path and did not move his camera until the last possible moment.  One French gentleman was speaking very loudly to his companions until another tourist crossed the street to tell him to be quiet; he responded to her with a “merci” that could be heard down the street. Plenty of foreigners bought cheap sticky rice from street vendors so they could insinuate themselves in the ceremony, even though the custom is to buy quality rice at the market and prepare it oneself.  What had been moments earlier a somewhat peaceful gathering prior to a religious ceremony had turned into another fun diversion for tourists.

Needless to say, people in LP don’t really like scenes like this. In fact, the sign below is posted widely all over town, in six languages, including English and French:

That sign is in guesthouses, restaurants, the tourist office, and most Buddhist temples. Somehow the message just does not seem to have gotten through to people.  I find it hard to believe that so many people who attend the tak bat seem to be oblivious to the impact their conduct has on both the beauty and the dignity of this ceremony. I try not to grouse about other travelers’ behavior here. We all have our badly behaved tourist stories, and on this trip, Kara and I probably have too many to write about here.  Here, though, inconsiderate tourists are damaging the very thing they came on vacation to see.

So many unique customs, around the world, get turned into tourist attractions.  Kara and I have traveled to many places where you can pay a few dollars and you can see a wedding (which is probably not real and staged specifically for tourists), or a traditional dance and even a funeral.  So many times, you watch these things and you can see on the faces of the participants that it is pure performance, not done out of any sense of tradition, but only as a means of profit.  It is truly unusual to be admitted to a real, live ceremony, one performed for its own purposes rather than the entertainment of a paying audience.  When I watched the conduct of my fellow travelers at the tak bat, I understood why.

Our trip to Vientiane was easy, if long. We were able to get from the gulf coast of Thailand to Vientiane, the capital of Laos in about 24 hours by a combination of bus, overnight train, tuk-tuk and taxi. Although there were a lot of moving parts, it was a pretty easy trip. We ended up at our guesthouse in Vientiane even earlier than we thought. We got checked in, showered off the grime of the trip, then hit the street for croissants and Lao coffee. Even decades after the end of French rule in Laos, the French culinary tradition remains in Vientiane. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Vientiane didn’t have the best croissants in Asia.

Vientiane’s small town feel is not just the illusion of a sheltered tourist district tucked away within a larger, screaming metropolis. Even when venturing beyond the outer limits of the city center, you still find no one in much of a hurry. You rarely hear raised voices or car horns. Nearly every corner of the city has a wat, peaceful Buddhist temples and monastery complexes that seem to emit their inner calm to the rest of the city. Even the tuk-tuk drivers are relaxed. Every now and then, one will pop up from his seat with “Sabai dee! Tuk-tuk?” At least as often, we would find a tuk-tuk driver asleep in a hammock made just to fit across the frame of the tuk-tuk’s shell.

Usually, we left the tuk-tuk drivers to their slumber because we preferred wandering Vientiane on foot.  We would wander into one of its wats and find an amazing colossal seated Buddha statue.  Another had beautiful gardens and memorial stupas.  In the Wat Si Saket, we found a courtyard surrounding the main temple building filled with literally thousands of Buddha figures of all sizes, from miniatures to nearly life-sized.  We made our way to the Patuxai, a memorial arch — vaguely similar to the Arc de Triomphe — that was built with concrete donated by the American government for the construction of a runway at the Vientiane airport.  The park around the Patuxai is a favorite spot for the people of Vientiane to hang out, listen to loudly broadcast Chinese pop music, and drink sodas or Beerlao.  There we found this sign, which I’m pretty sure was posted before it was vetted:

Just about the only reason to leave Vientiane is the Buddha Park, located about 25 kilometers to the south of the city.  We crammed on to public bus #14 at the Talat Sao bus station for an hour-long ride to the park.  When we arrived, we found a park maybe an acre or two large full of large, and often bizarre, representations of the Buddha and various Hindu deities.  The centerpiece is a colossal reclining Buddha statute that is at least 50 meters from end-to-end.  When wandering around the rest of the park, however, we had the feeling of having gone down the rabbit hole.

Vientiane lacks the energy of Bangkok and the chaos of Delhi, and I think that’s why we loved it so much.  What it lacked in excitement, it more than made up in good food, interesting sights and friendly people.

[UPDATES: Thanks to Helene for pointing out a big proofreading error on my part.  Hopefully the rest of you were sleeping while we got that fixed!  Also, Kara pointed out that I didn't add a pic of Patuxai. As you wish.]

Patuxai.  I’m missing the Arc d’ Triomphe comparison.

We decided to spend some beach time at Khao Lak because we had some friends from home who really enjoyed their time there. But they were there in the off-season, when they got a beachfront bungalow at half-price and had the beach to themselves.  Khao Lak was hammered by the 2004 tsunami, and some of what we read indicated that tourism had still not fully returned to pre-tsunami levels.  Plus, the personality of the place seemed pretty mellow.  So, we thought we’d give it a try…

As it turned out, Khao Lak in the high season was not quite our thing. There were so many European tourists there that it was far more common to hear German spoken on the street there than Thai. The number of Speedos on the beach was unbelievable. The vibe was very package tourist. The beach was incredibly nice, but we didn’t love it.

But after a few days in Khao Lak, a bit of luck led us to the Ko Ra Ecolodge, on a largely undeveloped island just off-shore from the town of Kuraburi, about an hour north of Khao Lak by bus.  Just getting there was an adventure.  The bus stop is about three kilometers from the Kuraburi fishing pier, so you have to meet a motorbike taxi to take you the rest of the way to the pier. By motorbike taxi, I mean you and your luggage get on the back of some guy’s motorcycle at the cost of about 65 cents (not recommended for the safety conscious). I was glad it was just a short ride. We made the rest of the way by “longtail,” a wooden boat with a deafening outboard motor improvised from a car engine and a three-meter propeller shaft that functions both as engine and rudder.

When we got there, we found a totally peaceful enclave occupied by about 18 people (at the time), half Westerners (mostly Americans) and half Thai staff. The place is run by a friendly guy named Kim, who works with an NGO called Reef Check that monitors the condition of the reefs on the Andaman coast. Kim is supported by a great team of staff and volunteers who help make the place a really pleasant place to stay. The ecolodge is set up for kayaking trips, snorkeling outings, guided hikes and even yoga classes. But it’s also a great place just to relax. There is a nice stretch of beach and some really comfortable hammocks that were just made for a good book and a cold beer.  Because you are basically stuck on the island for the duration of the stay, the ecolodge offers a full-board meal plan at an additional charge, which is well worth it.  The food is simply awesome.  The kitchen staff prepare good Thai (and, while we were there, Italian) food from the fresh ingredients available from the market and the sea.

The highlight of our time on the island was a snorkeling trip out to the Surin Islands. Every time we go snorkeling, I wish that we had an underwater camera. The coral and the fish we see always blow me away. But the Surin reefs we visited on this trip were the best yet. The sea floor was completely covered in coral of every shape and color imaginable. We saw huge schools of little tropical fish whose names I don’t know. We found lots of clown fish (think Finding Nemo) darting in and out of the soft coral beds where they feed and lots of brightly colored parrotfish feeding on the coral.

The cool snorkeling wasn’t just limited to the Surins; we saw some pretty cool things just around Ko Ra as well. One day we went to a reef that was badly damaged by the 2004 tsunami. There we saw a “giraffe” eel, a kind of moray with a black and white giraffe-like coloring. Right off the boat pier at the island was a group of lionfish. Fortunately they swim close to the surface, so I was able to take a few pictures of them from dry land. They’re amazing to see in the water, although their fins have very dangerous stingers, so you have to keep your distance!

Before long, it was time to leave Ko Ra, time to start heading north toward adventures in Laos and northern Thailand.  It’s very easy to see how the siren song of southern Thailand draws in so many tourists.  Despite that, hopefully it will retain the culture and the natural beauty that makes it such a special place.

Last time we chatted, Kara and I were in India and we were floundering.  We were trying to decide what the heck to do.  Keep pressing forward with the plan, despite being sick and tired, or scuttle the plan and head to Thailand.  It wasn’t easy, but ultimately we decided to abandon India and head to Thailand.

We arrived in Bangkok about two weeks ago.  At minimum, we hoped for better weather, less chaos and a chance to rest, relax and recuperate from the challenges of India.  We were already off to an auspicious start.  When we landed in Bangkok, our cab driver helped us with our bags, ran the meter without an argument, and took us directly to our hotel without trying to take us to a bunch of travel agencies or shops.

We were a bit nervous about arriving in Bangkok without a room reservation.  I had visions ending up in that Bangkok hostel in The Beach.  Although the first couple of places we went were fully booked, we found a brilliant guest house on the third try, complete with free in-room wifi and cable TV.  Even better.

Then we went out to eat.  We found some pad thai and spring rolls, and that was pretty good.  But it started getting real when we met up with our new friends, Daniel and Helene from Canada (they’re behind the excellent travel blog The Backpack Foodie).  These guys really know their street food!  The first night we met, we went for Thai noodle soup (not pictured) at a restaurant so popular with Bangkok locals that their tables expanded from the sidewalk into the street.  There were several times that parking cars reversed within inches of our table!  But the soup was awesome.  Actually, it was better than awesome.  The second night we hung out, they took us for the hottest curry I have ever tasted.  It kept getting hotter, even after I was finished eating!  (I later discovered that coconut juice is pretty good for tamping down the fire.) I can’t wait to get back to Bangkok to try even more street treats.  Daniel has challenged us to try durien, a tropical fruit with spiky skin that supposedly tastes amazing, but the skin smells something akin to a North Jersey landfill.  That experience promises to be a post in itself.

After four days of relaxing, wandering Bangkok, and regular meetings with Daniel and Helene for drinks and street food, we left Bangkok for the south of Thailand.  More on that to come in future posts, but we had more than our share of sitting on our asses on the beach, we experienced some incredible snorkeling, we found our own little island paradise, and we checked out “Happy Place” — a fishing community in the south Daniel and Helene let us in on.  I won’t tell the name out of deference to Daniel’s wishes that we keep Lonely Planet from telling everybody the secret.  Mum’s the word!

When the insanity of India gets to be too much, there are plenty of activities away from all that.  Some people do yoga, study Ayurvedic massage, or take meditation classes.  We do cooking classes.  So, our class at Noble Cooking School in Udaipur turned out to be one of our favorite activities in India.  Our instructor took us through 12 different dishes — way more than we could eat at the end of class!  And we learned skills for life, like making chapattis (as Kara is doing in the photo).   Hopefully, we’ll be able to pull off some delicious curry when we get back home.

Before you enter the Golden Temple, you must remove your shoes and socks, cover your head and wash your feet. You walk down a set of steps on to a white marble portico. The first thing you see is the large water reservoir surrounding the beautiful, but small Golden Temple at the center of the reservoir. Thousands of believers are there, bathing in the holy waters of the reservoir, sitting along the walkways reading Sikh holy texts, and making holy offerings at the temple.

The Golden Temple also has a huge, free dining hall in an adjacent building. It is a tradition in Sikhism to provide a free meal for all people at its gurdwaras. The dining hall at the Golden Temple reputedly provides between 60,000 and 80,000 free meals per day. The hall feeds people in groups of probably 2,000 at a time. Everyone comes in and sits in rows along long mats on the floor. A guru comes in and says a prayer, and then workers start walking down the aisles distributing food. First, a volunteer comes along with a big basket and (literally) tosses you two chapattis. Then, another guy comes along, with a large bucket and a ladle, and spoons out a portion of dal on each plate. More buckets, containing a vegetable curry and sweet rice, come later. The volunteers continue circulating, offering seconds of everything, as people frantically eat. When a guy starts dumping water on the floor, that’s the cue to start leaving. More volunteers enter the aisles with mops and start getting ready for the next group. Although the service is perfunctory and getting your food from a bucket seems a bit unappetizing, the food is very good and the experience is unique. It’s probably the only pilgrimage site in India where you can sit and take a meal with the pilgrims, be welcomed and included and not feel entirely like an outsider.

After leaving the Golden Temple, we arranged a ride to the border. When we got there, we found thousands of people waiting for the security checkpoints to open. It’s a truly Indian experience. People coming to the border closing ceremony must go through a series of security checkpoints, and they must divide into separate queues according to gender. Apparently the experience in the women’s line is much different from the experience in the men’s line. At least partially by virtue of her blonde hair, Kara was adopted by an Indian family that spirited her through the long lines and the chaos. I, on the other hand, was pushed and jostled on all sides, by Indian men stampeding their way to the front. It was particularly hilarious when the entire men’s section – six or seven “lines” consisting of several hundred people at that time – all had to push their way through a single metal detector.

The Indian and Pakistani governments have built large grandstands around the border post for people to come view the goosestepping. Although there were lots of empty seats on the Pakistani side, the Indian side was packed, with people standing and crouching in the aisles. The border closing ceremony is a bit like a football game; the Indian side has a guy whose job is to get the crowd going. He screams chants like “Hindustan zindabad” (which means “Long live India”) into a wireless mic while the soldiers march back and forth with extremely high leg kicks. At certain points, a soldier would march up all the way to the Pakistani side and pump his fists and arms in the air. This would elicit a huge roar from the Indian side.

The whole thing is a bit bizarre. These are two countries that have very real tensions between them. Both are nuclear powers. Yet, here they meet every day to taunt each other across the one crossing they allow between them. And citizens on both sides eat the whole thing up.

Before coming to India, we heard a lot of warnings that India was “intense.” I just assumed this characterization had to do with poverty in India.  But we knew that there was a lot of poverty in India.  We had heard the stories about crime bosses having children maimed and then turning them out on the streets to beg. I knew that, in India, you some times see shocking examples of human suffering and poverty. That is some times true, and we were prepared for it. We were not prepared for the chaos.

Chaos is the only word I can think of to describe India. There is very little infrastructure for basic things we take for granted, like sanitation and sewage. So, there is garbage everywhere. It is not unusual for Indian people to litter. We were waiting for a train at Nizamuddin Station in Delhi and watched a young guy eating at a food stall on the platform throw his used plate on the ground even though he was standing right next to a trash can. The trash is just piled up in mounds on the street, and is usually picked over by the cows, pigs and dogs that roam the streets.

India is the second most populous country in the world. Given the one-child policy and attitudes toward female babies in China, it will probably be number one soon. But its territory is much smaller than China or the U.S. for that matter. While the U.S. has about 300 million people, India has more than one billion. A cycle-rickshaw driver in Amritsar summed the reason for this population explosion nicely: “In an Indian marriage, after two years, there are two babies.” This population density has very real effects; there are people everywhere.

This might not be such a big deal if there were any rules of order in Indian society. But there don’t seem to be. People don’t line up for things; there’s just a big scrum to push your way to the front. There were several times in Delhi Metro where people looked me in the eye before stepping right in front of me in the line to buy tokens. At home, you would call out such a person. I’ve learned that, in India, indignation doesn’t really work; instead, you sharpen your elbows and push such a person out of the way. It is a very physical society. People don’t think much of pushing and shoving their way. I don’t think it’s considered impolite; it’s just a way of getting by in a country with more than one billion people.

We’ve had a few opportunities to speak one-on-one with some Indian people. I find usually that Kara is always very warmly received. For one, she’s a blonde. But there’s also an odd fascination in Indian society with fair skin. Watching Indian television, you see one ad after another for a product called “fairness cream,” sold under brand names like Neutrogena and Nivea. Fairness creams purport to do pretty much what the name describes – make your skin whiter. One cream even pledges to make your skin “up to two shades fairer.” So it seems having a fair complexion, at least to some, is a good thing. People often come up to Kara to strike up a conversation, or even ask her to pose for a picture with them.

I’m also a curiosity. Usually people ask Kara whether I am also American, a question to which, after hearing in several other countries, I have learned not to take offense. Sometimes they think I am Indian, but since my hair has grown out some, and it’s quite a bit coarser than the typical Indian man’s hair, there is some question about where I come from. I explain, and if that doesn’t get the point across, a reference to Barack Obama usually helps clear it up.

Once these issues have been resolved, the conversation often turns very personal. The questions Indian people can sometimes ask are akin to being asked to undress in public. The two favorites are our salary when we worked as lawyers and the type of contraception we use, the latter because it is assumed that a couple married for two years and without any children must be using contraceptives. I guess these are ordinary things to ask a perfect stranger in India, because there seems to be no concept that these are extremely personal questions. We try to politely demur and express our desire not to answer, but we just get the question repeated. When the inquisitor cannot get the answer from one of us, he will just turn to the other and ask.

We take it all in good humor, or at least we try.  When we were stranded in Jaipur after midnight and trying to figure out when, if ever, our train to Agra would leave, Kara was not too amused when a gentleman at the ticket office, with whom she was chatting while they waited for the correct person to arrive, asked her whether we used condoms or the pill.  I don’t know if we’ll ever get past some of the cultural differences we have with India.  But part our reason to take this trip was being challenged.  I don’t think it gets any more challenging than this.

There are a few bright spots to my new notoriety. In addition to the hucksters, I also attract the attention of curious Indians, especially children. Lots of kids come up to us to say hello and ask questions. It is a great way to meet people, as chatting with children often opens up conversations with their parents and families. It is a great way to meet people, and to learn about India from the people who know it best. It can also be useful in navigating unfamiliar waters. When Damien and I were separated to go through the chaotic security at the Indian-Pakistani border, I was adopted by a family of Indian women, who chatted with me and protectively guided me the fray.

In addition to wanting to talk, lots of Indians want pictures with us, or just of us. Our first experience with this phenomenon was at the Red Fort in New Delhi. A young man approached us with his cell phone out and asked about taking our picture. Confused, we demurred. In our recent experiences in Africa and the Middle East, a request for a picture either meant that the requester wanted money to take a photo for us or appear in a photo with us. After watching the young man move around the complex with his friends, it became clear he was not hustling for money; he was just hanging out. A friend later suggested that he wanted a picture of us because of our novelty—a fair, blonde woman and a dark skinned man. Since then, we have been asked to pose for numerous photos, and seen a number of people snapping pictures surreptitiously. It still seems strange to me, and I don’t think I will get used to it any time soon. In the meantime, I will just keep smiling.

At least, we’re waiting to leave Agra.  We’re in a nice enough hotel; they upgraded us to their nicest room because Kara was sick and they had some all-night construction work going on adjacent to our room that was keeping us up at night.  But, once you’ve seen the Taj Mahal and the four other beautiful Mughal sites here, there’s not too much to do here.  And I can’t leave the hotel without being harassed by rickshaw drivers and shopkeepers.  “Need rickshaw?” “10 rupees, really cheap, anywhere you want!” “What country you from?”  The one that annoys me the most is, “Where are you going?”  I always have to suppress the extremely strong urge to respond, “None of your G.d. business,” and come up with something marginally more polite to say.   On our first day here, I had a rickshaw driver follow me for three blocks trying to get me to book a tour with him.  He made a u-turn to catch up with me when I shook him once.  He waited outside for me while I used an ATM.  He even grabbed my arm when I turned to walk away from him.

India has been hard on us.  Being out of the hotel can often be intense.  Usually, every day, you will be approached many, many times by people directly or indirectly seeking something from you.  Tourist touts are all over the place, especially in Agra, since everyone comes here to see the Taj Mahal.  Then, you often run into street kids asking for money.  In Delhi, we had a kid board our train, wipe down the floor of our berth and then demand a tip.  People aren’t shy about asking for tips, even for things you never asked them to do.  Sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference between people that are just trying to be nice and touts.  At least a couple of times, we’ve had people accuse us of being rude for blowing them off on the street.  We went back to talk to them and had to explain that we just can’t strike up conversations with people on the street or we’ll spend our lives going in and out of shops instead of doing the things we want to do.

It took us about 22 hours to get from Jaipur to Agra.  Fog and some rail accidents had snarled rail traffic through one of the busiest corridors in the country.  Our train was supposed to leave 14-and-a-half hours late, but we don’t know if it ever made it.  In Agra, we saw in the newspaper that many people traveling to the Taj Mahal have had to abandon their plans because of interminable train delays.  We decided just to take the bus. Unfortunately, we waited too long to make that decision, missed the last bus, and had to spend the night at the Jaipur bus station.  That was a hell of an experience.  While Kara tried to sleep in a molded plastic chair with her head on a cafe table, I sat up drinking chai and reading while the waiters watched old Bollywood flicks on TV.  Thankfully, when we finally got to Agra, we found our pretty decent hotel and a really nice rickshaw driver to take us around to the Taj Mahal and the other sites.  But we only had a good 24 hours in Agra before Kara got sick.

I had been thinking about writing about travel sickness before Kara got sick.  Getting sick is a reality of traveling.  Between us, Kara usually caught colds and I usually got the gastrointestinal bugs.  Believe it or not, I think I got the better deal.  Colds stick around for weeks, while I can usually knock out the intestinal bugs with two or three doses of a broad-spectrum antibiotic.  The symptoms suck — especially since in many Asian countries there are not proper Western toilets outside of hotels — but you’re usually only off your feet for a day or two.

Whatever Kara got in Agra is the worst travel bug either of us have had on the trip.  As I said, I have never seen her so sick in nearly six years together.  So, it has us here waiting for her to get strong enough to travel again.  And although Agra is probably not the best place to hold up for a few days, we have a comfortable room in a hotel with satellite TV, a good room service and internet access.  So, we are watching English movies, reading, and working on the blog.  But the 200-ton elephant in the hotel room with us is the question, “What next?”  At this point, do we have it in us to take on Varanasi and Kolkata when we’re already feeling sick, tired and a bit overwhelmed by our experience in India?   Or, are our minds and bodies telling us we should head back to Delhi and get on the next plane to Thailand?  We sit here and wait, and hopefully soon, we’ll figure our the answer.

The most daunting part of the new plan was getting to Egypt in the first place.  Fortunately, we hitched our chances to Vicente and Eduardo, two Mexican students we met at Cleopetra who were planning to enter Egypt as well.  The four of us, plus some other folks from Cleopetra headed into Israel, all boarded the first bus to Aqaba we could get.  It’s a bit of a mystery when the Aqaba to Nuweiba ferry leaves, so we knew we needed to get there as early as possible.

When we got to Aqaba, the four of us, plus a Japanese guy, Tomo, we met on the bus who was also headed to Dahab, tried to find a taxi to the ferry port.  We ended up in the car of Mousa, the craziest taxi driver I have ever seen.  We started with Mousa turning up the Arabic music on his radio while dancing in his seat as he drove.  Then he began a very animated cell phone conversation with both hands off the steering wheel.  When he accidentally swerved while talking on the phone with both hands off the wheel, Kara buried her head in my shoulder, (only) partly in amusement.  Mousa turned back to apologize, then jokingly swerved the car again.  By the end of the ride, we were all dying from laughter.

When we arrived at the port, we were happy to learn that we had two hours until the ferry departed.  This was plenty of time to buy tickets and get through Jordanian immigration.  After those formalities were resolved, we were helpfully told to wait for a bus to come pick us up to take us to the ferry.  A bus that seemed never to come.  While we waited (and waited) we met Matt, a New Yorker who was also making the passage after a few nights in the desert at Wadi Musa.  After numerous questions about the bus’s ETA, it eventually arrived 10 minutes before the ferry’s scheduled departure and the six of us were on our way. We need not have worried about time, as the ferry left more than an hour after the scheduled departure time.

The passage across the calm Red Sea was uneventful, although it took more than twice the amount of time advertised.  It was on our arrival in Nuweiba when things once again became interesting.  Although we could see the arrivals hall from the end of the jetty, the police insisted that we wait for a bus to take us there.  Meanwhile, scores of Arab men also leaving the boat showed up for the bus as well.  It was obvious that there were more people there than one lowly bus could carry.  Nevertheless, it was one bus that arrived.  When its doors opened, a crush of humanity immediately started moving in.  It felt like the Who concert where they barred the doors and all those people were killed.  All the people in the back started pushing the people in the front.  I ended up in the midst of this with my backpack and I gave into the crush.  Just as a man on the bus started pulling me in and a man from behind started giving me a push, the bus driver decided it was time to go.  There I was, with both feet barely on the moving bus.  But Kara was still off the bus.  There was no time for debate.  I gave one big push with my left leg and got all the way on the bus.  Three more guys got on behind me, one of whom was hanging on to the outside of the bus.  I saw Kara standing outside with a bewildered look on her face and Tomo running furiously behind the bus (he had put his suitcase in the luggage hold before getting on).  Then, after all that, Kara, Eduardo and everyone else who didn’t make the bus simply walked to the arrivals hall with no objection from the police.  I met them shortly after I got off the bus.

In the midst of all that madness, we took a moment to appreciate the beauty of the place in which we found ourselves.  Sinai’s breathtaking, craggy mountains stretching all the way to the sea, and the majestic mountains of Saudi Arabia matching their beauty on the other side of the sea, with the whole scene bathed in the purple and pink hues of sunset.  We had made it to Egypt, and Egypt provided us its beautiful, crazy welcome. We would have taken a picture, but who had time to take out a camera?