Things not allowed in my hostel in Luang Prabang, Laos.
1. Illegal things.
2. Ammunitions.
3. Drugs.
4. Crambling.
5. Both women and men which is not your own husband or wife for making love.
6. Prostitute.
7. Others.
8. Making sex movies.
Solo travel can be a potentially scary prospect.
Even though I’ve done my best to minimize dangerous situations, there are still moments when I can’t steer clear of menacing cab drivers, guesthouses at the end of sketchy alleys and walking home late at night.
What’s a backpacker to do?
Here are five simple items that make me feel safer — and all of them are small, inexpensive and easy to pack in a bag or purse.
1. Knife. Stab attackers right in the neck! BOO-YAH!
OK, probably not. I know someone would have to be super close for me to actually wield this little guy in defense. But I like that it fits easily into my palm and I can open it one-handed.
Beyond that, this knife has been invaluable for slicing open stubborn packages and cutting stray threads. It even has a bottle opener!
2. Tiny flashlight. A small but mighty LED light packs a punch in dark, scary places. This has come in handy more times than I can remember.
(Shoutout to Steve and Sara for the wonderful gift!)
3. Door stop. I’ve stayed in hostels where the locks don’t work. Heck, I’ve stayed in hostels where the doorknob falls off the door. And sometimes I just get creeped out by the hostel owner. (I am specifically thinking of one weirdo hostel manager who gave me a beer. When I offered to pay he ominously said, “Don’t worry, you’ll pay. Americans always pay.”)
A 99-cent door stop wedges the door shut, ensuring nobody can come into my room unannounced.
4. Xubaz scarf. Have you seen these marvelous scarves yet?
It’s a fashion accessory, it’s a traveler’s best friend. Each scarf has thoughtful elements like a hidden pocket, secret zipper pouches and bungees to secure it all to your belt loops. In the event that something terrible happens, you’ll still have a stash of money, credit cards or your passport.
Looks cute after four days of hiking the Inca Trail too!
5. Whistle. I’ve never had to use this one yet, but it makes me feel more confident just seeing it dangle on the zipper of my purse.
BONUS!
You should always bring a baggage lock or two with you. You know this already.
Beyond little combination locks, I also love having this cable lock on hand. It’s perfect for those moments where I want to keep my things safe from grabby hands, but I also don’t want to devote 100 percent of my attention to my bags.
A perfect example is an overnight train — I just use the cable to secure my bag to something immobile, and then I can snooze without worry.
It won’t stop someone who really, really wants to steal my things, but I don’t think anything short of an ACME industrial-sized vault would keep my things completely protected.
And let’s face it. That’s just not practical.
What I expected in Vietnam: Chaos, scooters, noodle soup. And that’s what I got.
I didn’t anticipate lovely green spaces in the middle of the cities. And that’s what I got too.
Here are some of my favorite public art pieces from across the country.
My friend Angie and I had just finished a visit to the Killing Fields in Phnom Penh — acres of rural property where Cambodian people were slaughtered and tossed into mass graves by the Khmer Rouge communist regime.
Some people were beheaded. Some were bludgeoned to death with bamboo sticks. Some were buried alive, tossed into pits and covered with DDT until they perished.
It’s a miserable place, swamped by sadness and cluttered with ghosts.
Angie and I paid our respects to the many lives that were extinguished. We left quiet. We left reverent.
It was unusual timing for such a visit. Osama bin Laden had been killed the previous evening, and I was waging a nonstop, complicated moral war in my head. “Does anyone deserve a violent death? What if the person is really, really evil? Who decides what is evil? Is assassination ever justified? Does this make the world safer? What motivates someone to do horrific things?”
Basically, I was in a confused, plaintive headspace.
As my friend and I climbed into the tuk-tuk we hired, just outside the gates of the Killing Fields, our driver pushed a laminated sheet of photos toward us. It was pictures of people happily shooting automatic weapons.
“You want to shoot? You want guns?” he said.
“Uh, no.” We both shook our heads.
“No guns?”
“No. Definitely no.”
Maybe the other people who visit this memorial want to vent their frustration with the world. Maybe the other tourists are gun-happy. Maybe it’s just a matter of proximity — after all, the shooting range is nearby.
But firing off machine guns was the very last thing I wanted to do.
It’s definitely a highlight for some travelers in Phnom Penh. I talked to backpackers who were absolutely itching to get their hands on some combat shotguns. I even met a few people who made a detour to Cambodia specifically for the purpose of firing off Uzis and M-16s.
I didn’t think it was a big deal. I’ve rented automatic weapons before in Las Vegas (during a Valentine’s Day getaway with my husband! awww!), and I don’t like guns much anyway. But the firearms probably prove irresistible for tourists who have no access to AK-47s in their own countries.
That said, the shooting ranges in Southeast Asia go far beyond anything I’ve seen before. In Phnom Penh, they don’t only offer guns — the menu also includes hand grenades, single-shot M79 grenade launchers and shoulder-fired B40 rocket-propelled grenades.
Whoa.
To be clear, my friend and I didn’t go to this place. But I talked to dozens of backpackers who returned either raving or ranting about their experiences. The things they’ve told me are so crazy, I don’t know what to believe.
The range has fixed per-bullet prices for the machine guns. Grenades cost between $100-200, depending on your weapon of choice.
If you’re bored with shooting at cardboard, tin cans and rusty cars, live animals make for more lively targets. I’m told chickens, geese, goats, water buffalo and cows have all been slaughtered by beer-guzzling, gun-wielding travelers. Technically, this has been discouraged by the government, but it still happens. For the right price, of course.
I also talked to one guy who said he scraped the bottom of his savings account to buy a $100 grenade and a live cow. Well, he missed the shot — and ended up with a souvenir cow to take home. (He did buy it, after all.) He ended up selling the cow back to the shooting range for half the price he originally paid.
The most disturbing rumors involve people — living, breathing targets who cost a cool $10,000. Allegedly the prisoners offer themselves up to be killed because their families receive a cut of the money. For desperate prisoners facing life sentences with no other means to support their loved ones, this is one last sacrifice they can make.
It’s so outlandish, I can’t believe people could pay to shoot other people. That couldn’t possibly happen, right? It has to be a stupid backpacker tall tale.
Then again, there are a lot of horrific things I can’t wrap my head around. And those were true.
I am waist deep in brassieres.
The shopkeeper thrusts more and more lacy lingerie my way, while pulling from a Jenga tower of ribbons, tulle and silk that threatens to engulf us both.
I knew it was a mistake to go bra shopping at the market in Hanoi.
Still, I have no other option. I’ve been traveling for 11 months with the same two bras. They are utilitarian. One black, one nude. They are not pretty.
Over time, the nude bra has received considerably more wear and tear. It was stained after sharing the wash with Thai pants that leaked blue dye. It is literally falling apart at the seams. It smells like a musty gym sock, thanks to a laundromat that stuffed my clothes into a plastic bag before they were fully dry. I no longer want it close to my skin.
So I was seduced by the layers of pretty lace at the market. But the shopkeeper doesn’t understand that I am a well-endowed woman.
She doesn’t speak English. I don’t speak Vietnamese.
She hands me bras that look like wispy handkerchiefs, bras so flat they are practically concave, and push-up bras with sacks of saline strategically positioned in each cup. I can’t wear those.
I point to my chest. I cup my hands in front and make a sinking gesture with my palms. “Big,” I say. “Very big.”
The woman nods. She pulls out more bras. She tosses them my way in rapid succession, like a blackjack dealer who works in underwear instead of cards.
Some of them are horrifically ugly in rhinestoned florals, garish crimson with gold sequins, cartoon characters. Some of them still have no chance of fitting around my frame.
I point to my chest again. “Very big,” I say. “Big like mango.”
A small crowd has formed now. They have come from the nearby perfume stalls, the shoe stalls, the purse stalls. They are gaping at the weird white lady who keeps grabbing herself, hoisting her boobs into the air, yelling, “Bigger!”
She nods. We go through the whole thing again. More bras, none that will ever fit. All of them have tags that say A. I scribble down letters for the shopkeeper. C? D? Z?
After searching the recesses of her stall, a look of calm washes over the shopkeeper’s face. She plops down pretty white lace with cups as big and round as Vietnamese soup bowls. She nudges it my way.
“Try,” she says.
So I try. There is no dressing room, so I have to stretch the bra over top my brown dress.
I strike a pose and model it for the crowd. A handful of people clap. Success.
Next comes the dance where we haggle over the price. However, after rummaging through 400 bras and finding only one that works, there is little room for negotiation. I want that bra, and the shopkeeper knows it.
I walk away with a $7 bra and a load off my chest.
