Don't Think About it Too Much

I laid in the dark on a nubby sheet of questionable cleanliness which didn't quite cover a thin mattress of questionable prior use, on the floor of a loft in a Vietnamese hilltribe home, my head on the beloved -- and yet again, proven to be highly functional -- Faded Black Denim Shirt which is covering a small, hard pillow of questionable contents. Although sleeping under a mosquito net, I imagine that I feel things biting me. There are tiny, nearly imperceptible sounds in the dark I can't indetify. It will be awhile before I can fall asleep. "Don't think about it too much," I tell myself, "don't think about it too much." This has become my Asian mantra.

It is pouring rain in Hanoi and the restaurant in which I am eating is located in a small depression where the run-off from other streets is quickly accumulating. In an effort I deem premature, but which later proves to be futile, the restaurant staff has begun to stuff small towels under the door and in the crevasses of the outside wall. I am dining with a Dutch couple I keep running into and two New Zealand friends they had made, who I just discovered -- with delight -- are brother and sister rather than a couple. We watch with amazement as the water in the street outside rises to the curb, to the pedals of the bicycles parked outside, to the seats of the motorbikes inexplicably still moving through the streets. In minutes it begins to seep into the restaurant. We place our feet on table railings, then on chair rungs, then on the chairs themselves. The staff is working furiously to stem the flow. [INSERT PICTURES]

Outside has become a circus of vehicles trying to move through the streets, of people trudging through the flood (when the water's at your hips, it's no longer wading!), and of things floating by. It is this last point that has me concerned. In Vietnam, all waste is thrown into the streets; they do not use trashcans (actually they don't even have trashcans!). During the night, street sweepers (people, not machines) come through with a simple broom, pan, and rolling bin and clean up the day's mess. So now all that waste is in the water and the water's not receding fast enough to keep me from having to walk in it. All the other patronsof the restaurnat have ventured out except our group. The rain has subsided considerably, the water in the restaurant has ebbed some, the restaurant staff clearly wants to begin its clean up -- it's time to go.

The biggest decision at this point is to wear shoes or not to wear shoes. Anticipating uneven pavement and other potential toe-breaking hazards (can you believe I can still work that into a story?!), not to mention potentially disgusting matter underfoot, I keep the shoes on, accepting that they may be ruined. I have a moment of rejoicing when I realize that I have on the convertible pants and can zip off the legs so at least my clothes won't touch this disgusting swill. (I know some of you are wondering at this point why I'd rather have disgusting swill touch my body than my clothes. It's just easier to get oneself clean than to have clothes properly laundered when you need them laundered.) And as I gingerly pick my way through god-knows-what, I tell myself, "Don't think about it too much."

On a hot Vientiane, Laos afternoon I meet a young Laotian man at a temple who wants to practice his English and ask my opinions on a range of topics. Once I ascertain that this is really want he wants -- he doesn't want to sell me something or be engaged as my guide -- I am so thrilled to be regarded as a human being that I suggest we continue the conversation over dinner. With my encouragement, he takes me to a local establishment so I can taste the local specialties, green papaya salad and grilled chicken. We are sitting in an open air cafe next to the Mekong River. I am unprepared for the mosquitos, having expected to return to my room and apply toxic chemicals before dusk. Unlike their American cousins, Asian mosquitos are sneaky -- you generally don't know that you've been bitten. So as I ponder whether or not these are nighttime mosquitos (carrying malaria, for which I take pills) or daytime ones (carrying dengue fever, for which there is no prevention or cure), I tell myself, "Don't think about it too much." The conversation is fun as he tells me about his Laotian courtship as I drink the weak iced tea over ice cubes both made with what? water. "Don't think about it too much." We discuss his hopes to study in the US as I realize that the chicken is not cooked sufficiently. "Don't think about it too much." I tell him about American universities as ants march on the table and descend into the bowl of food. "Don't think about it too much."

The Halong Bay, Vietnam three day trip I have booked includes a trek on Cat Ba Island. As we disembark our boat, we are told by a local person that parts of the path/road to our starting village is covered with water and in a tunnel we will have to pass through chest high water (in Asia this assessment means it might actually be chest high for me and not over my head!). The affable group is given the option to walk around this obstruction by climbing a hill in the blazing noontime sun. Given that a) we have enough of a trek in front of us, b) that we're intrigued by the adventure of the situation, and c) we seem to have a high willingness to take off our clothes, we unanimously vote to forge ahead. At the first sign of water some take off shoes, some take off pants, some change to swimsuits, and some leave everything as is. I hand my backpack to our uncharacteristically tall Vietnamese guide and we begin our aqua-journey. [INSERT PICTURE]

I've opted this time to keep my shoes dry for the hike ahead and am comforted by pavement underfoot. The water is blessedly cool and following a moment's elation at relief from the unbearable heat, I suddenly consider what might be in the water. Oh dear, snakes?! "Don't think about it too much." Other wiggly things? "Don't think about it too much." Community waste run-off? "Don't think about it too much."

We finally make it through the tunnel where I get past minor claustrophobia (aaaahhhhh!!!). "Don't think about it too much." It was on the other side that I first considered what else might be in the water, something I learned about at the University of Massachusetts because I was involved in trying to raise money for a vaccine to prevent it, schistosomiasis -- a nasty disease that is the reason one is warned to stay out of freshwater lakes and such when in Asia! I'm freaking at this point, but yielding to the fact that I've already been in this water for the past 20 minutes and saying over and over, "Don't think about it too much." "Don't think about it too much." I'm nearly calm, certainly resigned, when one of my tour mates, who has just completed medical school, says, "I hate to think what's in this water." "Schisto?" I ask. "Yes!" she replies at which point another of our comrades, currently in medical school, pipes up, "Oh schisto, yeah, but I was more worried about staph." I groan -- I hadn't even considered that. Then as we wade through the last part of the flooded path, I teach the group my mantra, "Don't think about it too much." "Don't think about it too much." And I am certain I can hear the faint mutterings of "Don't think about it too much," as we go on.

The bus ride from Pai to Chiang Mai in northern Thailand is not under the best of conditions. The bus is far too crowded, the insistent Asian heat and humidity is everpresent, some of the windows don't open, and the two meager fans only reach a few people. Blessedly though, the driver is relatively (in the scheme of things) careful on this very windy mountain road. And I've somehow gotten myself into a very mellow frame of mind so that I can endure the four hour ride. Then I look out the window just in time to see a large chunk of the road washed out beside the bus. As the bus skirts by, a French woman and I stare at the gaping hole and the long, steep gully extending from it. She looks at me with a look that says, "I can't believe we just passed that so closely!" To her I say, "Don't think about it too much."

The hike in the Vietnam mountains was very muddy and my shoes are covered. To make my pack as light as possible and to save room, I have no other shoes with me for this three day trip. The hosts of the homestay offer me some flip flops to wear. In fact, it is quite common to remove shoes in the house anyway and there are house shoes -- or even bathroom shoes -- offered. This is true in hotel rooms as well. I don't want to offend by refusing nor do I want my feet to touch the floor of the outhouse. (The outhouse, I have already noted, is located right next to a stream -- fortunately, the kitchen is above it. However, there seem to be other homes up the hill from this one. "Don't think about it too much.") As I put on the shoes that I have no idea who else has worn or the condition of their feet, I tell myself, "Don't think about it too much."

The only airline that flies between Vientiane and Luang Prabang in Laos and then onto Chiang Mai, Thailand is Lao Aviation. The guidebook suggests that Lao Aviation is of concern because the French mechanics who used to maintain the planes have gone home. "Don't think about it too much," I tell myself as I board each flight and as we prepare to land, "Don't think about it too much." The Thai Airways hop from Chiang Mai to Mae Hong Son in northern Thailand only takes 35 minutes, but goes over mountainous terrain. There seems to be only one approach for the landing and that is between two ridges. I can see the treetops clearly as we prepare to land, "Don't think about it too much." "Don't think about it too much."

The food at the little local place I've found in Bangkok looks wonderful and is cheaply priced as well. I need vegetables, so I point to a dish filled with lush looking green beans and order. As I eat it I find some sort of meat that I can't identify. Some sort of very square shaped meat. It doesn't taste bad, so I carry on. "Don't think about it too much." I wonder what water those vegetables were washed in? "Don't think about it too much." I wonder why have I never seen meat refrigerated? "Don't think about it too much."

Everyday in Asia, where living is so very different from what we are used to in the western world, you can only get through it if you tell yourself -- all together now! -- "Don't think about it too much." "Don't think about it too much."