Hope Maria doesn't mind, but eighteen Indonesian ladies plan to claim I'm their lover. They approached me en masse as I was getting out of the water with surfboard in Kuta, and each posed for a few pictures with me. One at a time. Didn't quite understand why, but tourists subject the locals to that treatment often enough that I felt I should just stand still, smile, and let a Westerner take it for once. They're Catholic school teachers and students visiting from the neighboring island of Kalimantan, and Sister Rosela explained their scheme to me later. Oddly, she had some shots taken with me too.

Trucking off to the west coast of Australia tomorrow. A question's been posed about my five favorite experiences of the trip so far. I cut myself off after fifteen minutes of brainstorming and seventy-five candidates. If you're headed to Southeast Asia, drop me a line. I've some tips.

I've interspersed some pictures in September and October. My means here are humble, so I selected this smattering of shots semi-randomly. Bug me for a slide show when I get back if you want a better visual overview.

The Balinese are certainly in the running for the world's nicest people, but I still have a bone to pick with them. Due to our different ethos regarding the use of headlights during the day, I cause consternation for the island's population each morning when I get on my bike. It's a battle of wills. Every single person I pass gives me a the 'your light is on, idiot' sign until I give in and grumble as I flick it off and increase my chances of getting sideswiped.

I got them back, though, yes I did. Won 20,000 rupiah from 'em at the cock-fights. Yet another socioreligious experience where the loser ends up eaten. The massive gathering outside Lovina happens at a Hindu temple every afternoon from one to five. Bring your steel-toeds if you want to stand in the ring - the roosters are sporting three-inch curved razors on their feet. Enough to slice their opponent in half in seconds, and certainly enough to inspire severe calf problems in slower bystanders. Bet purple. It worked for me.

Blew the twenty grand on a sarong later in the day. Easy come, easy go.

Bali's been expensive. Less so than Australia or New Zealand will be, of course, but still pricey. Since dollars still go further here than it will from now on, I've reallocated a bit o' travel budget. I'll be self-catering in the antipodes either way.

That brings me to diving. The PADI system of certification and advancement appeals to the role-playing gamer in me. There's always that carrot on a stick dangling in front of your mask. Advanced Open Water... mmm... Rescue Diver... ahhh... Divemaster... oohhh. It's like they're a division of Blizzard. The nifty logbook with dive details and comments appeals to the side of me that tracks every movie I've ever seen. 1142 and counting.

Edy and the rest of the crew that ran the bungalow we stayed in at Lovina Beach wear many hats. Pedicurist to pimp. Masseuse to mechanic. Bartender to bookie. None of them do banana pancakes like Putu here in Ubud, though. It's all in the coconut.

It's two months to the day since I left Portland. In that time, I've used three ounces of concentrated soap for laundry and showers, a third of an ounce of face soap, and a quarter ounce of shampoo. Military haircuts will do that to you.

If I continue mentally transitioning to left-laned driving where everyone on the road is equally attentive and reckless/precise, I'll be quite the menace when first barreling down Cedar Hills Blvd. back home. Apologies in advance for the inadvertent speeding - I'm now used to the throttle response of a 110cc Honda.

A motorcycle's a delightful amalgamation of transportation and recreation - that's been an unpleasantly-rhyming mantra of mine for years. Bali amplifies it. The sounds, the smells... I'd say that it's the way to truly see the island, but taking your eyes off the road plasters you against the grill of an oncoming truck that found its way into your lane, or at least forces you to pick gravel out of your knees. Find a safe spot to pull to the side of the variably-surfaced decreasing-radius hairpin switchbacks before taking in the views of jungle, rice terrace, and South Pacific.

Did I mention monkeys? I don't think I mentioned monkeys. Close quarters, all over the place, and predominantly friendly. However, I stuck my digital in the face to a baby macaque, and its mother added a scratch across the camera face. That picture's getting albumed.

The dolphins proved less precocious.

Torpedoed by a Japanese submarine, the USAT Liberty sunk before reaching Tulamben, the Balinese port to which it was being towed. Half a century and one major volcanic shift later, the 120-meter hulk's smack dab in recreational diving range. Viewed from 28 meters under water, one sees an imposing tower of a geometric reef. Eel gardens, tremendous live corals, schools of thousands of glistening jackfish, inquisitive surgeonfish that about-face and bare their blades when you stroke them... I ran into only one creature I didn't dare bother. The rockfish is renowned as the ugliest, most poisonous dude in the sea. He was hiding under a fan coral on the stern gun. The wreck's frozen in a perfect state of disrepair; there are more nooks, caverns and vertigo-inducing shafts than you can swim through on one tank. So I had two.

A simple pleasure here involves walking into a random roadside stand, saying "Lunch, please", and ending up with reliably delectable things. The plate yesterday tasted particularly nice. Again, I had two.

I'm officially impervious to 24-hour bus journeys. The only discomfort I experienced during the trip from Luang Prabang to Bangkok was the showing of Deep Rising. Kyle and I checked into the same hostel we used upon our arrival in Asia. The name of the joint's conducive to a sense of homecoming - My House Guest House. "Let's meet at My House for dinner tonight."

I can say with authority that Khaosan Road is the most colorful spot in Indochina. No matter how garish some of the Buddhist spots of worship become, they cannot compete with the neon signs, tuk-tuks, vendors and miniskirts for chromatic diversity. Still, it wasn't the same this time around. It seems that the APEC economic conference, which started yesterday, caused security measures so drastic that they reduced the number of (unlicensed, apparently) fresh-squeezed OJ vendors. The difference was even more apparent at night. The hundreds of farang and young Thai thrill-seekers just didn't compare to the thousands you usually see there. Even most of the prostitutes stayed home. This was your grandmother's KSR.

That just proves things aren't as fun with Republicans around. Bush arrived just as Kyle and I were leaving. Yet again: Somewhere in Texas, a village is missing its idiot.

Flirted with the Dutch blonde in the seat in front of me the entire flight to Bali. (She's four, so I shouldn't be in too much trouble for mentioning it.) Still, the highlight of the journey was a water fountain at the Singapore layover. Having hand-pumped or purchased every single milliliter I've imbibed over the last six weeks, it was like drinking pure freedom.

Bali's surf central, Kuta Beach, is two parts Waikiki, on part Hanoi, and one part Tumbleweed, Nowhere. Our pilgrimage to the spot of the bombing occurred exactly a year and a week after the the Sari Club was destroyed, taking 180 backpackers with it. Ground zero's a sanitized lot between shuttered stores. I know now how small the transient Westerner community is here - had I been traveling anywhere in the area a year ago, I would have known victims. My heart goes out to the mostly Australian families who lost part of themselves to terrorism here. I've never been to New York, and October 12 was a fraction the scale of September 11, but the effects on this island are more palpable than anything I saw in the States after our tragedy. Entire shopping malls stand empty, excepting the echoes of my own footsteps. Bali's economy is tourism, and the tourists just aren't here. Laughing horror stories linger amongst shoestringers about the ferocity of the hawkers here, but no one bothers you now. They've given up.

Our appetites have picked up to the point where Kyle and I suspect that our tapeworms have reached adolescence.

My quest to find the perfect sunset spot was interrupted tonight. A group of budding 12-year-old linguists approached me, demanded my name, and each told me they loved me. They turned out to comprise the bulk of an accelerated after-school English class, and once their teacher found me, I became the guest speaker and pronunciation expert for this evening's session. Mr. Sourasith took me out for Beerlao and water buffalo after class, and he managed to get a tentative agreement out of me to come back and teach next year. The vice-headmaster and his department head were at the cafe kicking a few back too, so I guess the red tape should be taken care of.

Between that, the dollar I blew on textiles at the night market, and the four-hour siesta, it's been a whirlwind.

Halong Bay contains the world's best swimming water. The thousands of islands it's famous for are pretty and all, but a sleep under the full moon on deck bookended by dips in inviting, calm seawater sealed the trip. Natural beauty I only expect to be rivaled in New Zealand.

Less enthralling was a comment I overheard on the bus between two loud, fake-blonde Abercrombie types and the British guys they were flirting with. One of the Brits mentioned a middle name they weren't familiar with, and they asked how to say it in English. Similarly broadcast stupidity kept my head pounding against the seat in front of me until a half hour later when the word "Mum" came from the direction of the offending valley girls. Canadian! They were Canadian, much to the chagrin of their non-tube-topped countrymen I spent the night on the boat with.

No one else here owns clothes that impractical - except the two Vietnamese girls I saw at the Ho Chi Minh Museum. I couldn't figure it out - even the most red-light areas at the darkest hour don't contain women with that tight, bright, and skimpy a selection of clothing. And what were prostitutes doing sitting around looking bored at a museum anyway? Their speech gave it away as I passed - say hello to Vietnamese-American teens on a family trip to visit their folk's homeland.

Not all English speakers provide unwelcome company, though. Without the fourteen others on the fifteen-seat minibus for the 23-hour drive from Hanoi across the Laos border I might have had room to stretch out. Instead we all just formed a bond only exceeded by those between soldiers in bloody and extended combat. Five each Canadian and British girls, three Irish, an Aussie and myself. Each of us signed up assured of a large AC bus with reclining seats. The convenient fact that there were so few of us holding tickets allowed the bus fitting that description to conveniently (and suspiciously) break down ahead of time, to be replaced by one much cheaper for the tour company to operate. Highlights of the ride include the steering column coming apart (twice) and the stop at 3:30AM when we pulled into a deserted gas station, the driver disappeared, and the two other locals up front went straight to sleep. Only in retrospect did we figure out that the three hour stop was designed to coincide our crossing of a dangerous pass with, well, sunlight.

Kyle, who'd been traveling separately from me for the good part of a week, has a much better story about the same journey. It involves the coerced unloading of the boxes of fermented fish that accompanied them and a cumulative one stop. You'll have to ask him about the currency conversion fiasco. I've heard it three times and the math still boggles.

The scenery was breathtaking, however. I was on buses for 38 of 48 hours, and I'm glad the hairpin switchbacks kept me awake for most of it. Might have missed out on the jagged, jungled peaks and valleys, with stilt houses, hillside farms, and AK-47 toting bandit-prevention providing counterpoint. I appreciated the Clapton mix tapes provided by my compatriots on the 23-hour ride much more than the Lao karaoke on the last 8-hour ride, though. [Note to self: replace your missing earplugs]

The longer Westerners spend in Vietnam, the more they seem to gripe about the underhanded, money-grubbing tactics of the local socialists. Some are innocent or cute, like the fifteen-year-old who attacked my disintegrating shoes with super glue ("No money no money!") before insisting I donate a dollar to his cause. Travel agents have earned my wrath, however. The above bus switcheroo is not only typical, but for once didn't even directly cost me anything. However, an extra two bucks up front for a single room on the Halong boat instead of sharing a berth with a stranger? Sure - except that all six of the cabins turned out to be solo-occupancy anyway. We all upgraded to the top deck anyway, but it's still the principle of the matter. The answer to any question posed to them is yes. No money back when dissatisfied with the results of their lies. The Biblical tirades against the immorality of money changers and landlords left out a particular professional class.

No such problems in Laos. Aside from universally greedy taxi drivers, you have to go out of your way here to use your tourist dollars. No pushy vendors - the most they throw my way is a smile and a friendly hello ("Sawatdee!"). Sawatdee to you too! It's said that the Vietnamese sow the rice, Cambodians watch it grow, and the Lao just lie back and listen to the wind blow through the farm. Walking the streets here in Luang Prabang, it's not just the (usually naked) children laughing and playing - you'll see adults involved in pickup games of badminton, chess, cards, or curling-like bowling isotopes. Along with their standard-setting sunsets and waterfall-infested swimming holes, it's no wonder the GNP per person is in the bottom ten.

Case in point - I played soccer for the first time in a decade upon my arrival here. Bent it like Downen.

My congratulations to Eric Zanger, who's planning to embark on his own international adventure - reportedly inspired by our descriptions of this journey. Apparently Kyle's the color commentator to my play-by-play account. Zanger's part of another small club - I've seen dopplegangers of a few inviduals since leaving the states. His double was prostrate on Waikiki beach. A Nitaya look-alike checked me into my hotel in Ko Tao. Why an ex-girlfriend of mine was touring with Germans in Hue, I don't care to know. And Houston is apparently driving a tuk-tuk in Siam Reap.

Southeast Asia is changing. If you want to see these unique and beautiful countries, by all means do it soon. A recurring conversation amongst my backpacking brethren is that in five years, Vietnam will be as commercialised as Thailand. China will be like Vietnam is now. Cambodia and Lao will have lost their cultural innocence, and you'll start seeing golden arches adjacent to the ancient stone spires. Quit your job and tour for a full year - less would be cheating yourself of too much of this amazing world. I'm going to meet that quota with the next go.

A thumping techno remix of the main Tetris theme (music option 'A' on the GameBoy version) sets the tone in this internet cafe. I'm a bit underdressed compared to the club clothes worn the locals IMing with webcams all around me, but if I hear a Castlevania cover I'm never leaving.

Hue, Hanoi, and the rest of Northern Vietnam have been accompanied by blissfully dry weather. You'd think my Oregonian's webbed feet wouldn't mind the daily drenching they received in Nha Trang and Hoi An. It's just that I've begun to appreciate being on the back of a motorcycle. All of the fun, none of the "paying attention to the fifty oncoming vehicles" work. Close your eyes, give a little prayer, and enjoy the wind through your unhelmeted hair. Might as well keep the noggin uncovered. I know enough about helmets to recognize that the one that Hien gave me lent cranial protection somewhere between that of a yarmulke and a propeller-beanie.

Hanoi's old district is akin to a Target. Instead of departments, though, one finds streets dedicated to one particular ware. The roads historically known (and named) for bamboo and hemp have turned into strip malls of merchants hawking sunglasses or imported liquor. No such changing of the guard has occurred on the streets named for gravestones and coffins - some industries never grow out of fashion. Britney Spears' sample tombstone still catches the eye, though - especially when it's Vietnamese style, with her picture embedded into the ceramic centerpiece.

Ho Chi Minh's embalmed body, sadly, is down for regularly scheduled maintenance. Error 404 - Corpse Not Found. The visit to his mausoleum still stood out in a day that included a whirlwind Hanoi-area tour of five museums, a bridge, and drinking snake blood.

Perhaps the snake did make a stronger impression. I was shaking for minutes from the rush of the experience, so that's likely. I was with Kyle at the time, and our moto drivers dropped us off in a narrow, dimly-lit establishment on the outskirts of town. Highlights in the entryway included cobras, salamanders and other reptiles suspended in jars - the smaller ones are typically recycled cognac bottles. They appeared to be almost out of geckos. We were led upstairs to a deserted yet handsomely carved wooden room, and introduced to dinner - a five-plus foot ran ho ngua. I've yet to determine the English translation of the breed, but it was sleek and feisty.

A nod of approval at the specimen instigated a flurry of activity. A half-shod skin was gruffly rubbed off. Our server displayed why there was a large open area between the tables when a full-arm whip of the head half to the ground stunned the snake and likely broke its upper spine. Knife to the throat - slit just enough to pull out the heart, and then more to drain several ounces of blood into a waiting cup of super-strong rice wine. Cut further to reach a small blue organ - the gall bladder. The half-thumb sized disembodied heart still beat every few seconds. Shot glasses appeared, and the heart was placed into mine as the server squeezed the blue organ into the blood-wine and stirred. Fill the glasses, open the gullet, and bottoms up. The still-active heart went down without incident.

Dinner consisted of snake soup, teriyaki snake meat, fried snake skin, snake spring rolls, and finely-chopped steamed snake tail over rice. I didn't know when arranging the meal that we were going to be drinking blood. Just wanted to try the meat. Order it off a menu as the centerpiece of a ginger dish. However, the whirlwind situation presented me with an experience, and I rarely say 'no' on this trip (except to street vendors and pimps). Honestly, it didn't taste bad - mostly of strong rice wine with heavy protein overtones. Wouldn't order it regularly, but I could do it again if you're buying. The adrenaline rush is the payoff.

It's supposed to have aphrodisiacal properties, but that's bunk. I didn't find Kyle one bit cuter after drinking.

Due to the bad luck it might bring, I'm not trying dog. Specifically, eating canine in this half of the lunar month is considered inauspicious by the Vietnamese, so the appropriate restaurants are all closed for two weeks.

I'm spending the next couple days on a boat in Halong Bay, and I promise to avoid killing any animals while in World Heritage sites.

So I'm ordering a mystery sandwich at one of the roadside stands where my overnight bus from Nha Trang to Hoi An has pulled over for a toilet break. How much? 5000 dong?!? That's a whole third of a US dollar! As my jaw's halfway through dropping, an American accent sounds from the darkness to the left - "Almost as bad as Saigon prices, aren't they?"

Kyle Flubacker and I'd ended up on the same bus out of dozens of carriers and just as many timetables.

I've had fifteen of those potentially gut-bombing sandwiches and no two have tasted remotely the same, excepting the fresh baguettes upon which they're based. I think that particular one had a delightfully hefty portion of squid. Despite the sticker shock, it hit the spot.

Now that I've had my first cooking class of the trip, though, I'm just a trip to the market away from the draconian tourist-specific price gouging.

The best beaches in Vietnam are surrounded by scum, villainy, and a rain storm. Not to mention batty, paranoid Irishmen. My thirteen-hour bus ride north to Hoi An commences this evening, so I don't mind passing the rest of my short time here reading in the Same Same But Different Cafe. The expression from which it derives its name is ubiquitous amongst both travelers and locals throughout Southeast Asia. You want to rent a motorcycle but the shop owner thinks you're in the market for a bicycle? The monolingual French backpacker thinks you're from California? "No, same-same but different." Paired with gestures, it's foolproof.

Bookending my solo stay in a stilted tribal house that could have slept sixty were two days of swerving on muddy roads in the central highlands. They wouldn't let me take a silk worm home from the factory. Okay, I was too shy to ask for one, but they were so cute... for larvae. Same-same for the tribal kids. Being a relative giant is especially fun when mobbed by five-year-olds all wanting to be hoisted in groups of four.

I offer this contribution to anthropological canon: men of the Tay hill tribes take crappy digital pictures. They're ingenious when taking care of corpses though. For three months after burial, they'll feed the body via a four-foot shaft leading from the surface to the rotting mouth. Peering down a fresh one, I could see vermicelli stuck to the sides.

Less amusing was Phoenix Pass - thousands of acres of hilly grassland. It used to match the surrounding dense jungle, but Agent Orange is still lurking in the soil several inches below the surface. Anything with deep root systems can't take hold. It's been forty years since the area was sprayed, but the lines between jungle and barren hill are still visibly distinct.