Check out my new website, www.michaelfauver.com.
Thanks to everyone who read this blog.
Michael
06 June 2009
14 October 2008
Lunch-Time Links
An article in The Independent covers Louise Doughty's opinion of male academics judging book prizes. Doughty, author of five novels including Stone Cradle, is one of the judges of this year's Man Booker Prize.
The new Wellcome Trust Book Prize will recognize outstanding works of fiction and nonfiction on the theme of health, illness or medicine.
Monica Heisey writes about character development in Postscript.
Janet Tay asks, "Does the short story need saving?"
The new Wellcome Trust Book Prize will recognize outstanding works of fiction and nonfiction on the theme of health, illness or medicine.
Monica Heisey writes about character development in Postscript.
Janet Tay asks, "Does the short story need saving?"
30 September 2007
Posting Update
Over the next week I'll be posting the rest of my journal entries from southeast Asia. Each entry will appear under the date it was originally written. After that I hope to get back to writing regularly while I look for a job.
In the meantime, I've posted the photographs from my travels on Google:
In the meantime, I've posted the photographs from my travels on Google:
06 September 2007
Crossing (Phnom Penh, Cambodia / Chau Doc, Vietnam)
Travel entries have been transcribed from my daily journal with minimal editing. This is to help preserve the tone and mood, and it keeps me from spending hours every day on the internet. I'll add pictures now and then for effect. Enjoy!
Spent most of the day getting to Chau Doc. A sweltering boat rid with rude passengers and no place to sleep. Down the river on the muddy Mekong. Brought pastries from a bakery near our hotel. Departure from Cambodia anticlimactic. The boat pulls off to the side of the river, you turn in your paperwork. Then you enter the watery no-mans-land before pulling off to the side once again. As expected, it took longer to enter Vietnam than to leave Cambodia. One man collects everyone's passport to process and stamp. Meanwhile, you sit at a long picnic bench talking to locals. They sell food, snacks, and even exchange currency at a decent rate. Mark was friendly with a few them. I'm pretty sure this pair of sisters had a thing for him. I unfortunately spent the entire time writing about the previous day, and it wasn't the first time that happened. I've often found myself writing when I should've been interacting with the environment, trying to meet people.
In Chau Doc, we took motorbikes to the top of a nearby hill. One driver for every one tourist. A ton of fun. Much smoother and relaxing than when Mark and I tried to do it ourselves in Chiang Mai. We road in a big caravan wearing our matching Intrepid Tours helmets. Felt like I was a member of a really safety-concious motorcycle gang.
At the top of the hill was one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen.
Flatness in the foreground -- rice paddies, rivers, floud-soaked plains -- and mountains lining the the sky. A fireball sunset burning a hole in the horizon. We relaxed and drank beer in hammocks until it was time for dinner. Ride down the hill was slower, but once they reached the bottom, all the drivers shot off. All of them except for Mark's and mine. They lagged behind for some reason. Were they good friends? Did they figure out we were together? Whatever it was, it helped us get some great photos and video of us during the ride.
Dinner at another restaurant Amanda thought was great. Food was very bland. Afterward, as expected, everyone went to bed except the Americans. We hired these two boys to take us on their bikes to a good bar. Somehow they picked a place with English karaoke and no tourists. Decent selection of songs. Mark sang "Georgia On My Mind" of course. I finally let him talk me into singing "Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey. When we finished, the bar began to close up but continued to bring us drinks. Our two drivers were still happily waiting. One of the employees at the bar handed me her puppy to play with. Milo. Just a ball of white fur that could fit in the palm of my hand. We passed him around for a little while. Made me want a dog terribly. Hilarious watching him scamper around.
Easy trip home by cyclo. They tried their best to convince us to get a massage -- all the way up until we arrived at the hotel -- but we didn't give in. We'd negotiated the price down to 60,000 dong, but when we got back we paid them double.
Such a loud country. Since no one follows traffic laws, they just spend all day on their horns. Our bus's horn, though, was a little too beautiful. Sounds like a pleasantly synthesized bugle. It didn't stop so much as it faded. Can't imagine anyone taking us seriously, getting out of the way. Amanda said there a buses that, instead of beeping when they back up, they play "Happy Birthday." Driving in the U.S. would be so much more pleasant if our cars could do that.
Spent most of the day getting to Chau Doc. A sweltering boat rid with rude passengers and no place to sleep. Down the river on the muddy Mekong. Brought pastries from a bakery near our hotel. Departure from Cambodia anticlimactic. The boat pulls off to the side of the river, you turn in your paperwork. Then you enter the watery no-mans-land before pulling off to the side once again. As expected, it took longer to enter Vietnam than to leave Cambodia. One man collects everyone's passport to process and stamp. Meanwhile, you sit at a long picnic bench talking to locals. They sell food, snacks, and even exchange currency at a decent rate. Mark was friendly with a few them. I'm pretty sure this pair of sisters had a thing for him. I unfortunately spent the entire time writing about the previous day, and it wasn't the first time that happened. I've often found myself writing when I should've been interacting with the environment, trying to meet people.
In Chau Doc, we took motorbikes to the top of a nearby hill. One driver for every one tourist. A ton of fun. Much smoother and relaxing than when Mark and I tried to do it ourselves in Chiang Mai. We road in a big caravan wearing our matching Intrepid Tours helmets. Felt like I was a member of a really safety-concious motorcycle gang.
At the top of the hill was one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen.
Flatness in the foreground -- rice paddies, rivers, floud-soaked plains -- and mountains lining the the sky. A fireball sunset burning a hole in the horizon. We relaxed and drank beer in hammocks until it was time for dinner. Ride down the hill was slower, but once they reached the bottom, all the drivers shot off. All of them except for Mark's and mine. They lagged behind for some reason. Were they good friends? Did they figure out we were together? Whatever it was, it helped us get some great photos and video of us during the ride.Dinner at another restaurant Amanda thought was great. Food was very bland. Afterward, as expected, everyone went to bed except the Americans. We hired these two boys to take us on their bikes to a good bar. Somehow they picked a place with English karaoke and no tourists. Decent selection of songs. Mark sang "Georgia On My Mind" of course. I finally let him talk me into singing "Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey. When we finished, the bar began to close up but continued to bring us drinks. Our two drivers were still happily waiting. One of the employees at the bar handed me her puppy to play with. Milo. Just a ball of white fur that could fit in the palm of my hand. We passed him around for a little while. Made me want a dog terribly. Hilarious watching him scamper around.
Easy trip home by cyclo. They tried their best to convince us to get a massage -- all the way up until we arrived at the hotel -- but we didn't give in. We'd negotiated the price down to 60,000 dong, but when we got back we paid them double.Such a loud country. Since no one follows traffic laws, they just spend all day on their horns. Our bus's horn, though, was a little too beautiful. Sounds like a pleasantly synthesized bugle. It didn't stop so much as it faded. Can't imagine anyone taking us seriously, getting out of the way. Amanda said there a buses that, instead of beeping when they back up, they play "Happy Birthday." Driving in the U.S. would be so much more pleasant if our cars could do that.
I Will Tell You. Soon. Part II (Phnom Penh, Cambodia)
Travel entries have been transcribed from my daily journal with minimal editing. This is to help preserve the tone and mood, and it keeps me from spending hours every day on the internet. I'll add pictures now and then for effect. Enjoy!
From the prison we drove to the Killing Fields, one of the few left. Choeung Ek Genocidal Center. Near the entrance stands a tall stupa, an elaborate monument that houses a wooden scaffolding of clothing and skulls pulled from the ground. Massive potholes litter the fields, graves that could never hold the bodies that died there. In one, something like 350 bodies were buried in a space no bigger than a small studio apartment. In another, former members of government and traitors were beheaded, their bodies buried together and their heads dumped in a nearby pond, ensuring that their spirits will never be reincarnated. In another place, women and children were buried naked. Babies were hung by their feet and swung like baseball bats against a special tree.
All the rain every year pulls more remains of the dead from the soft soil. Shirts, pants, shoes rise from the earth, half stuck in dirt. So do teeth and bones. As careful as you try to be trailing the lips of the graves, you still trip on what once belonged to Cambodia's lost millions.
Our guide made sure we looked. He said, "Look. Look." And pointed at something that the world must see.
We rode in near silence to lunch. Past what Cambodia has become. A place half young and infantile, half traumatized and ruined. Hard workers trying to survive. We passed a pond of morning glory. Our guide called it water spinach.
We ate lunch at a Friend's restaurant, part of an NGO that helps train Cambodian children in hospitality skills. Cooking, serving and managing. Mark, Adam and I ordered a plate of stir-fried tarantulas. I was expecting something like soft-shell crabs covered in batter and disguising the body. No such luck. Every bit like a live spider but with less hair. Suddenly, I lost most of my cunning. How could I pick it up? How could I feel it in my mouth? Touching it was the hardest part. Then, quick as I could, I pulled off a leg, slathered it in sauce, and tossed it in. Tasted ... pretty good. The texture of a shrimp tail. Ate a couple more, but couldn't bring myself to eat the abdomen. Mark did and said it was a lot tastier. Still, I couldn't. Neither could Adam. Chased it down with spring rolls.
Napped most of the afternoon. Didn't see much of the city. Just the main street where the backpackers stay and the roads between the places we went. Still, it seemed like a town I'd like to come back. A lot to do. Many reasons a person could -- like its many residents -- be happy here living outside the past.
From the prison we drove to the Killing Fields, one of the few left. Choeung Ek Genocidal Center. Near the entrance stands a tall stupa, an elaborate monument that houses a wooden scaffolding of clothing and skulls pulled from the ground. Massive potholes litter the fields, graves that could never hold the bodies that died there. In one, something like 350 bodies were buried in a space no bigger than a small studio apartment. In another, former members of government and traitors were beheaded, their bodies buried together and their heads dumped in a nearby pond, ensuring that their spirits will never be reincarnated. In another place, women and children were buried naked. Babies were hung by their feet and swung like baseball bats against a special tree.All the rain every year pulls more remains of the dead from the soft soil. Shirts, pants, shoes rise from the earth, half stuck in dirt. So do teeth and bones. As careful as you try to be trailing the lips of the graves, you still trip on what once belonged to Cambodia's lost millions.
Our guide made sure we looked. He said, "Look. Look." And pointed at something that the world must see.
We rode in near silence to lunch. Past what Cambodia has become. A place half young and infantile, half traumatized and ruined. Hard workers trying to survive. We passed a pond of morning glory. Our guide called it water spinach.
We ate lunch at a Friend's restaurant, part of an NGO that helps train Cambodian children in hospitality skills. Cooking, serving and managing. Mark, Adam and I ordered a plate of stir-fried tarantulas. I was expecting something like soft-shell crabs covered in batter and disguising the body. No such luck. Every bit like a live spider but with less hair. Suddenly, I lost most of my cunning. How could I pick it up? How could I feel it in my mouth? Touching it was the hardest part. Then, quick as I could, I pulled off a leg, slathered it in sauce, and tossed it in. Tasted ... pretty good. The texture of a shrimp tail. Ate a couple more, but couldn't bring myself to eat the abdomen. Mark did and said it was a lot tastier. Still, I couldn't. Neither could Adam. Chased it down with spring rolls.
Napped most of the afternoon. Didn't see much of the city. Just the main street where the backpackers stay and the roads between the places we went. Still, it seemed like a town I'd like to come back. A lot to do. Many reasons a person could -- like its many residents -- be happy here living outside the past.
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