What’s it like to hitchhike

I have been traveling in eastern Canada for the past two months. It’s my first time backpacking through dramatic temperature changes—from summer to fall to winter—sometimes all in one day. It’s my first time backpacking in freezing weather. And, my first time hitchhiking.

I heard it was common and pretty safe for travelers to hitch across western Canada. A thing to do like volunteering while traveling.

I had reservations. I feared the type of person that might pick me up. I also worried whether or not hitchhiking was reliable for making miles, and if I’d arrive at a decent hour. I had taken two bus trips so far: $23 with Megabus gave me five cities: Chicago to Detroit ($1) to Pittsburgh ($3) to Philadelphia ($5) to Toronto ($12) and the second, a Greyhound bus from Toronto to Montréal for $30 -- the cheapest at the time. Fares add up. As you can see, I had no choice.

This day I am in Trois-Rivières. I find some cardboard and a thick black marker and write:

Ville de Québec

Merci!

:)

For the hitchhike, I make sure to look respectable and leave by noon.

Usually, I wait less than 10 minutes. Most drivers are old timers who hitched once upon a time. Some are concerned students, women, and men who are nervous to pick me up, but want to take me to a better and safer location. On Prince Edward Island (PEI), a retired principal who worked 20 years at First Nations schools in Nunavut turned around to take me 15 miles opposite to his destination. A fun Australian expat couple made a huge detour and was late to a lunch meeting so they could drive me directly to the Acadian peninsula. A young married accountant who bought a new Audi in Montréal had been driving two days straight; he took me 550 miles across the island of Newfoundland. Many truck drivers are happy for company and usually make a halt to treat me to some Tim Horton coffee. On these rides, I learn new words, local accents and slang, about provincial and national issues and the cultures in Canada, and about them. I have also been on a goose chase with a pretty girl and her uncle looking for her ex.

To say the least, hitchhiking is unpredictable. I don’t always arrive to what’s written on my cardboard sign. Hence, I don’t always have a place to sleep lined up. I have learned that Couchsurfing hosts are scarce in small towns. I stayed two nights at a hostel. At an average of $30/dorm a night, I cannot afford it. So, I buy a $17 tent at Canadian Tire. I also acquire a child-sized NHL Canadiens sleeping bag and air mattress for $10 at the second-hand store.

One day, I actually have a hitching partner. We travel a pathetic 50 miles this day and find ourselves stuck in the five-person Québec town of Sainte Madeleine. As we persist with la pousse (the thumb), we scout for a place to sleep. We can pitch a tent on the front porch of a house on sale, or near a fire pit off the main road. Hmm. I recall passing a campground.

We march towards the trailers and chalets near the beach. Indeed, it’s an understatement to say the campground is fully furnished. Clean showers and toilets, a washer and dryer, even an ironing board in the heated restroom. And, the sun is setting majestically. We want this place, but all the cabins are locked. A nearby abandoned building is full and dirty. I point to a half hidden shed on the hill. My traveler friend trudges through the brush to see. “Julia, come up here!”

The door is unlocked! Two small tables and a bird fountain are placed inside. A metal sheet to protect the walls from a fire has char marks. I imagine this private shed belonging to a man who spends many evenings watching the sun disappear behind the clouds and the sparkling Saint Lawrence river. Hopefully not tonight. We are so giddy. We light the half burnt candles and prepare a feast—a boiled egg and vegetable couscous.

Another day, I cannot get a short hitch into the town of Percé. I manage three miles uphill with my 90-pound backpacks. I had been hiking in Gaspésie and Forillon parks for the past three days. My feet and back are done; I give up. I believe this to be the first night my tent will prove useful. I find a tiny church near the forest, pretend to take some photos, dash quickly in the back, and drop my large backpack. With the exception of my laptop, toothbrush, and opened food, I throw the remaining in a plastic sack and shove it underneath the church.  

I am tired, but I want to get online to prepare for future Couchsurfing hosts as to not deal with this type of bullsit--uation, so I walk a couple of more miles uphill. Without asking, I get a godsend hitch to the town from a helpful French Canadian woman who doesn’t speak English. She takes me to an auberge (hostel). I ask the first two people I see if they speak English and if they can tell me where to find internet. Turns out they speak English, are stunt guys, and I landed on a movie set! After hearing my wacky story, they kindly invite me to stay at their hotel.

Canadians tell me that Canadians are too kind to leave a traveler out in the cold. “If you find an open cabin, take it. The owners would rather you do so.” “Knock on someone’s door. You won’t be denied.” A driver, a father, invited me to stay the night and meet his wife and family. I’ve gone clubbing with a hip elder Acadian gentleman before hitting the sack; I slept in a country home in Nova Scotia with two spunky ancient sisters; and I have found refuge in truck cabins during overnight hauls. One of my drivers fed me and drove me two hours to see the site of where the Vikings first landed on Newfoundland 1,000 years ago. I stayed with him and his brother for two nights. In the morning, he drove me to the Labrador ferry terminal an hour and a half away. A manager at a convenience store left his post to drive me to Brackley Beach so I wouldn’t have to hitchhike. I met a culinary student on the beach and in less than five minutes, we were off on a day adventure: picking fresh herbs in a garden, cooking a gourmet lunch, and touring the countryside. This all hitchhiking in two weeks time.

I have hitchhiked alone more than 3,500 miles and will hitchhike from Newfoundland back to Toronto. At date, I have spent one night inside a storage room of a university, two nights in hostels while hiking national parks, and only one night in my tent, and that’s because I would not allow a driver to pay for me to have a hotel room—thanks to the kindness and openness of Canadians.

Cardboard is your best friend, and your thumb works too. Thanks to all my new friends! 

What Backpacking Really Looks Like--Behind The Scene-ry!

I don't usually think to capture everyday backpacking moments and activities, so I was glad my siblings did during our last trip. They got a real kick out of my usual chores -- things I'm actually doing 80 percent of the time -- and special treats you don't often come across in resort areas. Let there be no misconceptions about my travels; it's never glamorous but plenty fun. Enjoy!

I bet you never had a fancy cutout headboard nailed to the wall in your hotel before. (Chichicastenago, Guatemala)

Chores galore. Handwashing my clothes in sinks, buckets, or the shower, every few days for hours it seems.

Hanging clothes where ever and whenever you can.

Like inside the buses. Don't want to get stuck somewhere just because your clothes haven't dried.

At a particular local bar, my brother and I got a free topless show. (I don't think women usually come here.) And how could you not appreciate the altar in the background? (Valladolid, Mexico)

Eating street food. Guatemalans love fried chicken -- as do I! (Chichicastenago, Guatemala)

Another long, bumpy, dirty, cramped bus ride. Always fun to see what goods are for sale: usually nail clippers, edible bugs, that sort of thing.

If I didn't spoil myself with two fruit shakes and juices a day, I'd probably be able to travel a lot longer. Everyone needs indulgences. (Orange Walk, Belize)

One would be surprised how much research we do on where to go and how to get there, and also, how much we lie around doing absolutely nothing. Traveler's fatigue. (Guatemala City)

Insects in your food, in your backpack, and definitely in your bed. My brother and I were attacked by bed bugs while in Mexico.

Which is why, even if it's 100 degrees, I go to sleep wrapped up tighter than a mummy.


Moving from one guesthouse/hostel to another every few days. Strange as it may sound, I love the packing and unpacking.

Until I get a proper backpacker's backpack, this is how I roll!

UH alumnus representing at his bar in Caye Caulker, Belize. Go Coogs!










Thanks, sibs, for taking silly photos. The three of us in Dangriga, Belize. <3

Getting robbed in Guatemala

My brother Will, sister Sue, and I recently take a mini backpacking trip to Central America. We start in the Yucatán peninsula and explore Belize and El Salvador as well as Guatemala, a country I had been excited about ever since third grade when I had found in my possession — a small wooden box containing tiny Guatemalan worry dolls.

It is our third day in Guatemala. We are on a second-class “chicken” bus departing the cobble-stoned town of Antigua back to gritty Guatemala City. These buses are crowded but cheap, of course. We each covet a whole seat. I worry about the bus filling up, but for now I decide that I don’t care. I stack my backpacks on the dirty floor and place my wooden drum on the seat. Stop and go, stop and go. Locals climb aboard. From the corner of my eye, I stare at the indigenous women and the intricacy of their simple clothing — the puffy sleeves on hand-embroidered blouses, the colorful patterned faldas (long skirts), and lacy aprons. They look like my muñecas (dolls).

The next stop is inordinately long — about 10 minutes. The bus driver paces around while on his cell phone. I check to see if cargo is being loaded or something, but there is little activity. The bus finally leaves.

At one stop, a small crowd enters. A man sits next to me while across the row, a Guatemalan woman sits next to Sue. Will reluctantly shares his seat with a nondescript local man. I wait for Will to turn around, and he does and grimaces as expected. He hates sitting with strangers. I am curious perhaps a tad concerned with this scenario. Locals in just about every country I have visited generally avoid sitting with tourists. All three of us have seatmates, but the bus isn’t full yet. My guy feels suspicious to me. People out here may be poor, but they are generally well groomed. He is ragged and has an infected lip. His eyes are shifty and his leg unusually sweaty. I move over. I notice a water bag in his pocket (In these parts, you can purchase water as such.) What idiot puts water in his pocket? Could a punctured bag be a distraction method? I grow anxious and put my arm around my fanny pack. Why would a man sit next me, a female and a tourist? He scoots over a little. I inch away further. Again, he moves. Most locals would rather sit uncomfortably than to touch you.

Oy vey, I cannot take anymore of this. “Con permiso, usted. Puedes asiento esta? Es mi hermano y quiero asiento para him.” (Eh, still working on my Spanish.) He gets my drift and so switch places with my brother. I am relieved and smiling as Will scolds me for sitting apart. He also discreetly hands me his iPhone. Soon after, the bus is in full capacity. Mr. Usted is sitting behind us, but decides to give up his seat to a woman. Will questions this. “Maybe it’s part of the culture.” Mr. Usted is now standing next to us. I can’t explain why, but this frustrates me. And Will and I are both unhappy at the fact that we cannot see Sue who is in the same row.
The money collector squeezes through the crowd and is now in front of me. “Tres personas” I say and hand him the exact fare amount. He tells me in Spanish that my drum is taking up one seat. I need to move it or pay for that space. I cannot understand immediately, so he repeats himself. Finally, Mr. Usted explains to me in English. It is a laborious near impossible endeavor to relocate my backpacks and drum, shove my packs into the overhead storage, figure out that my drum cannot fit in the tiny space, and so must reside in my lap. Even in communist countries the locals would acknowledge that this requirement was more trouble than it’s worth, concede, and let it be. Mr. Usted is sitting next to us — again.

The bus begins to sway from side to side more like a boat on waves. Will lays his head on my drum which weighs about 15 pounds and is cutting my left thigh in half. I think about his fanny pack, the awesome old-school Nintendo Game Boy case I let him borrow — whether it’s secured or not, about Sue and her safety, about the water bag, and the busted lip. My leg is both numb and hurting badly. Why did I buy this drum? Why are Guatemalan buses so insanely crowded? Oh well, as long as I find a Guatemalan apron. How do I say apron in Spanish? I exhaust myself. Suddenly, Will springs up and looks at Mr. Usted. The man holds up his hands, “Perdon, perdon!” Will scrutinizes but eventually falls back on my drum. The bus halts abruptly, and a group rushes out including Mr. Usted. Will looks at his fanny pack and then to me, “I’ve been robbed!”

“Wha—t?” “Jeannie, that guy! He cut into my fanny pack!” My heart races. My shaky hands grab hold of the fanny. I touch the perfect slits on each compartment. I see how easy it is to slip out his drivers license and all his U.S. money. I am thankful the passport is too big. Sue notices her leather belt bag is halfway open. I am pissed. Why did this have to happen to my siblings? Will this incident taint their perception of Guatemala, of backpacking? Geez, 80 dollars is roughly two weeks of accommodations. And repairing the fanny pack is out of the question. I’ll never find another one as legit as that one.

People on the bus are stirring now. “Will, say it in Spanish so people know. Me roberon!” (Ok, I recognize saying robbery is misleading; pickpocket may be more accurate.) Will says it aloud. A woman in the seat in front of us turns around. We tell her what has happened. The money collector, a skinny youngster no more than 18 years old, ambles back to us. She tells him our story in Spanish. He offers only a sheepish look. The woman is empathetic and tries to give us tips on being safe.

It’s time to exit the bus. As always, we are the last ones off. We thank the driver and money collector, more or less hoping for acknowledgment, but they say nothing. We alight and stand there with our bags, shuffling some, looking at each other, looking at them. At the foot of the bus entrance, the driver has his arm around the money collector’s shoulders. They are giddy, smiling and hugging about something, jostling in a celebratory way.

Purple sand and more in California

I recently took a trip to the West Coast to see family and friends and attend a wedding in Pt. Reyes. Although geographically, this trip has nothing to do with S.E. Asia, I probably interacted with just as many Vietnamese people, and my experiences were too beautiful not to share.

My trip began in San Diego, and I traveled northward to Seattle, WA via buses and trains. I've been to California on at least 20 separate occasions and lived in Orange for a year, but I never made much efforts to see the state's natural beauty. It's easy to forget how beautiful coastal, mountainous California can be when you're lured by the city lights, but I had a little taste last month when I visited San Diego, Orange County area, Pt. Reyes, and Big Sur and of course, on the scenic bus rides.


Big Sur, right smack in the middle of the state's coast. I had read in that it was jaw-dropping, and it was. Off in the distance, you can hear seal lions calling from below.




















I had no idea I would stumble upon purple sand at Pfeiffer Beach in Big Sur. I collected about three pounds into my hat. At the end of my trip, my backpacks weighed a total of 80 lbs thanks to additions like sand, books, jars of peanut butter, pickles, etc. Worth it!


































































Hiking and camping at Pt. Reyes.


















Hello starfish! (Pt. Reyes)

















On a Vietnamese bus from Orange County to San Jose.


































My cousin's daughter, Johanna getting a kick out of my teenage mutant ninja turtle mask. So glad I carry odds and ends.























The city of Laguna Beach has implemented laws to protect the marine life. Sadly, you'll hardly find any seashells; if you do and you're caught taking them, you'll be fined something like $250 per seashell. Tours are given about the species and habitat in the tide pools.





















One of many sea anemones found at Laguna Beach.


















I attended mass at the Mission San Diego de Alcala. The basilica was founded in 1769 as the first Franciscan mission in the then Las Californias Province.






















Large hacienda doors open to quite a narrow church.

Cambodia travel photos

A never-been-seen selection finally posted. For all Cambodia photos, click here.

My original blog post about Cambodia, read here.

A bus ride from Svay Rieng (bordering Vietnam) to Kampot. My first scene of dusty Cambodia, and I loved it!


















(While on an eight-hour junkle trek) in Ban Lung, Ratanakiri province far northeast, illegal logging and deforestation abounds.























A secret underground temple underneath Wat Ek Phnom's colossal Buddha in Battambang city.























Bamboo train in Battambang. I was told there aren't any breaks, so I decided to save my $4 for a rainy day.























That rainy day arrived the next day: a flash flood lasting two-three hours in the capital, Phnom Penh. Many NGOs are working to find solutions for the city's prevalent drainage problem.


















I couldn't have asked for a more beautiful -- and bumpy -- eight-hour boat ride. From Battambang to Phnom Penh.


















Another view.


















One of the many wats (temples) inside the magnificent Angkor Wat complex.























Many youngsters found around the complex are forced by their family to sell things or beg for money.























The beach at Sihanoukville on the South coast.


















On a boat ride in laidback Kampot in the South.

Does Bali live up to the hype?

[I apologize for not posting this sooner. I suppose a blog post about my final destination signifies an unwelcome reality -- the end of my travels. Nonetheless, I am happy to share my last experience as well as photos and commentary on food, quirky moments, how to bargain, etc. Thanks everyone for your love and support during and after my travels. Please stay tuned!]

Bali has always evoked much intrigue for me. Everyone knows it’s the premier beach and surfing destination. When flipping through fashion magazines, designer brands emblazon on their ads plainly but proudly, "sold in London, Paris, Bali."

balinese customs
I choose to spend my remaining 10 days of backpacking here. A few steps removed from the black- and white-sand beaches, I witness a funeral procession that is of striking contrast to American funerals. The celebration is vibrant, festive, and loud, replete with town folk, music, smiles, and a not-so-occasional ice cream cart. Heading the parade are six men carrying a gargoyled statue and the urn inside a shrine. The men and women are both wearing sarungs (a long wrapping skirt) with sashes around their waist, and headdresses. I love the colors and patterns.

Incidentally, I come to Indonesia during the Ramadan season. Whereas most of country (80-90 percent) is Muslim, more than 90 percent of Bali’s population practices Balinese Hinduism – a fusion of local culture and religion rooted in Hinduism, Animalism, and Buddhism. However, the Balinese still observe Ramadan out of respect by fasting and praying, and no cock fighting (a very popular pastime in Bali.)

living local
At this time, it is my sixth month of traveling Southeast Asia, I have forgotten what a breeze feels like; so I take a local bus into the highlands of Tirta Gangga – the site of a royal water palace and spectacular rice paddies. The newly-wed Balinese couple who rents me a guestroom treats me like family. After we eat dinner, I help make ceremonial offerings for an upcoming Indonesian holiday. The people of Bali are very proud of their heritage. As such, they maintain what we may consider a highly ritualistic and superstitious mindset. For instance, in the first three months of a baby’s life, he/she cannot touch the ground and must be held at all times. At puberty, there is a tooth filing ceremony. When eating or touching, only the right hand can be used, because the left hand is considered dirty. My new friends are gracious when I forget.

On my last night in Tirta Gangga, I develop a wicked headache and body aches. The wife insists on rubbing medicinal ointment on my back. My mom also uses this traditional technique. In Vietnamese, it is called cqo gio. The ointment is applied and scratched repeatedly into the skin with a spoon, or coin. I am surprised and thrilled to learn yet another similarity of customs across Southeast Asia.

go to Bali
I miss Bali. It’s worth the visit especially if you are short on vacation time. I recommend avoiding the main tourist areas of Kuta and Ubud in order to experience, as the locals say, the real Bali. It is a tropical beauty with a rich and captivating culture. Renting a car, or 4x4 is an easy way to hightail it out of the tourist spots. Bali is small enough that you won’t lose too much time driving around. (It’s quite possible to drive around the whole island in a day.) Talk to me for tips on bargaining (as locals tend to overcharge exorbitantly), logistics, and places to go and see.

For more Bali photos, click here.

Palau Menjangan (Deer Island) near the northeastern Bali. Jaw-dropping snorkeling: walls several meters long of coral to explore.


















Hiking to a waterfall in Munduk, a beautiful hill town with more types of flora and plants than there are locals (slight exaggeration, but the variety is quite impressive.)























My first Bali sunset: Lovina beach in the northeast. For the most part, black-sand beaches are situated in the north and white-sand in the south.























A cockfighting match, a very popular pasttime (I apologize for those that may find this photo and activity offensive. I must say I didn't enjoy nor appreciate this very much.)


















The Balinese couple I am renting out a guestroom from prepare food and offerings with relatives for an upcoming Indonesian holiday.























Folded palm leaves stuffed with food and spices are offered to the gods in hopes of warding off evil spirits.


















This cutie is part of the extended family of the lovely couple.


















Families also prepare a big meal in honor of the holiday.























I join in on the tasty family meal. Many locals eat with their hands, as is the case in all the countries I visited with the exception of Vietnam, which has a historically strong Chinese influence. Hence, the chopsticks.


















The wife teaches me to fold palm leaves for offerings.


















The restored sacred royal water palace in Tirta Gangga, highlands in the east.


















Farmers are giving up on growing Balinese rice, in favor of easier-to-grow imported foreign rice.




















The aftermath of a funeral procession: the urn and shrine are washed away in the river.























I am told Bali has its own pineapple.























A local weaves baskets for cockfighting roosters.























Note the low clouds that seem to be sitting on the land -- like a step away from heaven.