Scott's Southeast Asian Adventures

One year has now passed since I moved to Vietnam, and if there's one thing I know when I wake up every day, it's that I'll see this at least once: A woman in a conical hat, a kid on a motorbike and a guy peeing on the side of the road. Seriously. But not all of my time spent in this part of the world has been predictable. In fact, just as frequently, it's been unpredictable. And I've enjoyed that. As I've enjoyed the fact it is: home to Dalat Palace Golf Club, one of the greatest courses -- and best-kept secrets -- in all the world; and close to family in Australia, which Claire and I have managed to visit twice -- first over Christmas and New Year's, then last month when we went camping in the Outback so that she could take 17,542 photos of crocodiles. (And anything else that moved.) What hasn't been so great? Well, there's what you would expect of a SE Asian nation: traffic, pollution, and the language barrier. But more unpleasant are the things no

The other morning I got up at 4:30 and learned how lazy I'd been all my life. On my way to the train station, I crossed the new bridge closest to my house and witnessed hundreds of Vietnamese already in action, either walking at a brisk pace over the kilometer-long span or stopped along it doing calisthenics. Orange street lamps illuminated the scene, but my blood-shot eyes weren't ready to make out more than silhouettes. "So early," I said to my cab driver, who'd already polished off a ca phe sua da (iced coffee). I could tell from the beads of precipitation still clinging to the empty cup in the holder next to his seat. "Ba Ria?" he shot back, slowing the vehicle to a virtual halt. He thought I'd asked him to take me to a town two-and-a-half hours away. "No, no, no, no," I said. "Just ... train station. Di doi, Phan Thiet ." I've been here eight months, You would think a lot of the cultural gaps would've been filled by

If I'd have thought to bring my camera, the picture I'd have taken would've been one for the ages. There, just around the corner from what's now my local supermarket, was my dad, sitting on the back of a moped, wearing not just a helmet, but a pink one. And several sizes too small, at that. "No way !" my brother exclaimed before doubling over. It took him about 20 seconds to stop laughing. "Did you steal that from a baby?" There was also the kid driving the bike, a Vietnamese dude of about American drinking age who seemed to have skipped puberty -- not only was he all of about 5 feet tall, but he was thinner than bamboo. My dad, on the other hand ... well, perhaps he said it best a couple days later, when, being led up the sand dunes of Mui Ne by a pack of 10-year-olds who had talked us both into trying their homemade sleds, his belly was poked. "Yeah, too much rice," he said. "I eat too much rice." The result was a bike that look

I had just finished wiping the dust off my feet in the Siem Reap Airport when all hell broke loose. There, at the Vietnam Airlines counter I was issued a boarding pass at five minutes earlier, stood Claire, my parents and four close relatives, all clustered around a ticket agent and speaking at once. Voices had anger in them. Faces concern. "They're not letting your family on the plane," Claire said when she heard me approach. My flip flops, which had gone over and around the temples of Angkor all day, were now squeaky clean. "We've got to get on the Internet and figure this out right away!" In December, Claire and I tried to go to Australia for Christmas. On our first attempt, we failed -- we hadn't obtained visas. We drowned our sorrows in Tiger Beer and tandoori chicken at Ashoka on Le Thanh Ton Street, went home, got online, discovered all we needed was "Electronic Travel Authority" clearance ($20/person, payable via the web, good for one y

One. Heat. It's February folks. It's the coolest time of the year. It's still 90 degrees. Today I walked out of my house, hopped a xe om (motorbike taxi) to the ferry dock, crossed the river, walked about five blocks to a French bakery for the best roast beef sandwich in Saigon, and proceeded to pound a beer faster than the cashier could ring it up. I challenge anyone to do that 20-minute journey in a temperature that's hotter than four hells and not quaff at least one. No chance. Two. The stuff is cheap. I mean really cheap. Like, a dollar. In a restaurant. Go to the store and it's more like 50 cents. And I'm not talking about Keystone Light quality. I'm talking Heineken, Tiger, Bud. The Czech kind. If I was in Salt Lake City, the only place I'd be able to find that would be at the Bayou, where they'd probably charge me 5 bucks for something lukewarm because a minute ago it was in storage. Oh, then they'd expect me to tip. Here's a tip:

This is what I found myself asking the moment Claire and I landed in Vietnam's former imperial capital last Monday night. There was a light drizzle coming down and the air had bite, just like the Pacific Northwest does in February, when spring is right around the corner but still feels miles away. It actually didn't seem so bad at first. After all, it was fresh. And that's not something you can say about Saigon, the screwy and sometimes stifling city we've been living in for six months now. But then it lingered, that weather. For four days. I've got a sinus infection to prove it. Only here's the thing: It was worth it. And here's why: What a place! If it's not the most soulful spot in Vietnam, it's close. Tattered old buildings draped in mildew and moss. Ancient temples and tombs resting amid casuarine pine forests. A river running through it. Oh, and it was Tet. The Lunar New Year. The holiday of all holidays in this part of the world. We stayed wit