A Journey Through Asia

Below is a collection of images from our seven month journey through Asia. This slide show is a showcase of images captured in
India, Nepal, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand and is set to the music of Brasileiro, Gomez, Jack Johnson and Michael Franti. Turn up the volume and enjoy!

Climbing in Siung Beach, Indonesia

Hey guys. Just thought I would share some images from our recent trip to Siung Beach, Indonesia. We had a fantastic time throughout Java, but Siung was the highlight for sure. Amazing people, wonderful food, and fantastic beach side limestone. The bolts had seen better days, so if you plan on paying the area a visit, bring a drill and some hardware!

Just finished the story on the trip and it should be out soon. I'll keep you all posted!


Lisa on a low tide boulder problem.

Flo taking the sharp end on this very nice 5.10.


There were some great routes in this canyon. It was a great place to escape from the midday sun.



Flo on Kuta Laut - an amazing 5.11a.


To clip or not to clip? Unfortunately, many of the non-stainless bolts in the area met the same fate as this one.



Lisa gets friendly with the locals.

The Burning Ghats of Varanasi

First a glow, then the ash falls. To my surprise, the product of these fuming pyres stings my eyes. Drifting past this medieval scene in our leaky wooden vessel, I feel as if I transcended back through time at least a few centuries. I swear I hear voices whisper through the black night, the final dreams of passing spirits or perhaps last requests. In this feeble light it seems the shores themselves were hewn of rib and joint. Each ghat is crowned with roaring flames. Corpses wrapped in gold linen are carried down the stone steps for their Gangal dip then brought to the burn – back to the earth. The clang of bells dances upon the river; carrying with it weeping and sorrow. Costumed disciples twirl candles upon a stone tower with silent rhythm for those they know not. Another is lit. A dark, human profile turns to ash as the sandalwood smolders to infinity. If Hades were on earth, this river would truly be the fabled Styx.

Our boatman slowly paddles on. The air is so thick with spirits we nearly choke. I turn my head back to the night just to clean the slate before taking one last look at this haunting scene. The feeling is more than I expected of these public cremations. Blank. Solemn. Smoke. I feel quite voyeuristic, almost guilty for witnessing this scene. But the spectacle is so encompassing and the feelings so physically powerful – you are not merely watching, you are truly part of it all.

India Journal

4/18/09
One more day in Delhi. It seems that Uncle Sal (my Dad’s pet name for salmonella) decided to leave me a birthday present in my spinach cannelloni. It was a gift delivered on my birthday, but not opened until the following morning. At least I can say that I have now vomited in a public urinal in Delhi. Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. Let’s not relive the details though, ok? We hurried back to the hotel, bogged down by the triple digit heat every step of the way.

We actually sprung for a really posh place for my birthday. So if I’m going to be sick, this is the room to let loose in. But at thirty bucks a night, we can’t afford to stay long. One more day, one more bout with food poisoning.
In India, it seems every dining experience is a spin of the roulette wheel. Every spoonful lands on either red or black. We have been fed rotten food five times collectively now over the period of six weeks. Week after week, the odds have been in our favor. But, sooner or later the house always wins.



4/20/09
Two days have passed since my little ordeal. Now that we’re finally here in the mountain town of Vashisht, Lisa found that she should have placed her bet on black instead of red. Her last meal in Delhi, caught up with her here in the foothills of the Himalaya. Food poisoning is annoyingly persistent that way. But at least the symptoms were well mannered enough to wait until we checked into our new room. Poor thing, she’ll feel better in the morning.

I sit with my Tom Robbins book, nearly asleep in ‘frog pajamas’ myself. Then a billowy storm system rolls into the valley. For a mere 200 rupees per night - approx four U.S. dollars - our room boasts a wall of windows that allow sweeping views of the Himalayan range, prefaced with a river carved gorge below. With this view, I can spy every craggy ridge and every slot coulier. And this gift of rain dances upon the landscape; it may be the most refreshing act of nature I have seen in India so far.

I wake from my lethargic fog, and dust the 14 hour bus ride to the floor. A greater sense of awareness falls gently upon my shoulders and I realize that I feel as if I’m home. The mountains always steer me towards that direction. And with the trials we have been pitted up against in this country, I have to say that it’s about damn time! A quote by Ruskin Bond pops into my mind: “Once you have lived with mountains for any length of time, you belong to them and must return again and again.” Right on, so very, very right on.
I haven’t been inspired to write a poem for quite a while, but suddenly here I am pressing the pen to the paper for the first time in well over a year.

Vashisht Drops

And to my chagrin, it happens again
New place, new face(s)
Only this time, rain the wet blanket
It’s familiar touch, soothes souls and such
The Vashisht drops, she never stops
Only a rainbow can save us now


If that rainbow comes out tomorrow, we hope to head to the hills and get some climbing in!

And That's How I Got Rabies

After being in the small Indian town of Hampi for nearly three weeks, Lisa and I had peeled through and exhausted all forms of literature in our possession. Apparently, it was time to hit the bookstore. We remembered seeing one not too far from our hotel, so we set out to grab some piles of pages to pacify us on our upcoming (twenty-six hour) train ride to Delhi. Our mission began with a left turn onto a chossy Hyderabadi sidewalk. We dove into the churning sea of what we have come to accept as a typical Indian street scene – wave after wave of sweaty humans threatening to topple us over – the undertow of shouting rickshaw drivers, careening motorbikes, and blasting horns grab at our bodies and drown our senses. The only way to survive is to surrender to the flow.

Not two minutes had passed when I felt a sharp and piercing pain in my left leg, followed by about twenty pounds of dead weight trying to stretch my skin. It was as if I walked into a piercing shop and asked for a heavy gauged needle to be threaded through my kneecap and accessorized with a bowling ball. I sharply blurted out a “What the hell!” then looked down and discovered the bag of mange that was clamped onto my leg.

I immediately began to shake my leg violently, but the scrappy monster had a solid grip and hung on for the ride. Locked away somewhere in the instinctual part of my brain, I had a plan for just such an occasion and I was able to access and process this plan in the span of about two seconds. Honestly, I had no idea my brain operated that fast anymore. Locking out my left leg and swiftly spinning clockwise on the ball of my right foot (speed aided by the greasy pavement no doubt), I flung the little bastard from his crushing grip. Landing on all fours, he stood about four feet before me. This was the first time I actually got a good look at him. Patches of bare black skin shown through the brown muted fur of what just might have been one of the ugliest stray dogs in all of India. He was a little guy – about nine months old, but as mindlessly ferocious as an undersexed, juiced-up frat boy. His foamy jowls were pulled tight, bearing his toothy weapons as he stared up at me. He has already tasted my blood, and I can see he is about to come back for more. Waiting for him to turn broadside, I chambered my kick, then let my sandled foot fly into his boney ribcage. He was airborne for about five feet before skidding down on the sidewalk’s opposite side. Defeated, he let out a whimper and disappeared back into the sea of Indian legs.

Marveling at the fact that I had never actually punted a dog before, I felt a small sense of Cro-Magnon pride for defending my mate and scaring off the wild beast. I hadn’t noticed the circle of people that stood watching the flying dog act. I wondered if they had seen the dog attack, or if they had just seen some white guy kick a poor defenseless animal into the street. I pray for the former, because I am greatly outnumbered here. Instantly, they lose interest. No concern is shown for the dog – or me for that matter.

Lisa inspected the leg of my now shredded (and only) pair of pants to check out the damage. They were covered in some sort of black frothy goo. “My God, what the hell has this little bastard been eating?” I asked, praying not to hear a reply. Rolling up the pant leg, we took a look at the rest of the collateral damage. I was bleeding, but not much. Just four small punctures encircled with red, soon to be bruises, showed around my left kneecap. “God damn hell hound – I should go finish him before he bites some kid’s face off. Where the hell did he come from anyway?” Lisa explained that he was just trotting along, happily walking towards us when he turned and pounced on me. “Must not like whiteys., the damned racist mutt,” I shakingly joked. “Off to the pharmacist for you,” laughed Lisa. Lucky for us, we knew the drill. Our friend Alonzo was bitten by a stray dog in Hampi and had to undergo the same rabies vaccination process that I would now have to endure – five shots over the period of a month. It’s not so much painful as it is a hassle. We all had a great time laughing at poor Alonzo’s expense. Unfortunately, rabies jokes are so much fun, but Karma is such a bitch.

Now, I’ve been an animal lover ever since I was a kid. I remember one time when I was about seven years old, my folks brought me to the Jersey Shore. There were these children about twice my size who were using sticks to stab and chop the jellyfish that washed up on the beach. So, I ran up to the group of savages, placing myself between the pointed sticks and directionally challenged invertebrates and demanded that they stop this madness at once. I was promptly pushed into the water and stung by several jellyfish. It seems that animals just don’t care.

My leg - post chomp.

Me, taking shot number 1.