My final trek, the north face.
Everest at dawn.
My first view of Everest.
A Shegari nomad.
A monk in Gyantse monastery.
Yak herders, Holy Nam'tso Lake.
A reflecting pool, Holy Nam'tso Lake.
Desert crows over beat prayer flags.
The palace gardens, Potala, Lhasa.
The least expensive train ticket from Beijing to Xi'an costs a little over one-hundred renminbi, the U.S. equivalent of $20. The sales agent explains that it is a “hard sleeper” ticket – an economy class reservation that should include a small space to sleep but virtually no privacy for the duration of the twelve-hour overnight. Arriving at the platform, I discover that a “hard sleeper” is simply a stiff-backed bench seat that can cram between three and five people per row. The train departs Beijing-West station at nine in the evening, and after clacking through a series of beat-looking depots it picks up speed and as the city lights fade my window resolves itself to a dark mirror. After several hours many couples are sprawled haphazardly across the tables and benches, and the floors are littered with crunched shells, playing cards and empty buckets of instant-noodle. I decide to stretch out in the aisle next to another man who is already fast asleep, while people walking through the train have to clumsily avoid stepping on the tangled network of arms and legs that fill the cabin. I shut my eyes tight, resting my head on my bag and trying to block the sour musk of feet and open food-wrappers and eventually I nod off to the steady rock and whistle of the train.
A few hours later I get up, carefully stretching as to avoid hitting anyone else. Looking out the window, the landscape begins to reveal itself in the pre-dawn, and for a moment I am struck, as though being reminded of sitting in some theater at the end of a long performance, just as the houselights come up. We have passed the boundary into Shaanxi province – coal country – so called for the numerous refineries and mines that dot the cliffs and valleys, these rusted instruments of industry that stand motionless in the smoky twilight.
Line T-27 will continue on through the western provinces, passing Golmud and Qinghai, eventually arriving at the rail's terminus in Lhasa, Tibet. For now though, I exit at the south-central city of Xi'an, the first capital city of China, unified under the Qin empire in 217 B.C, and famous today as the site of the terracotta warrior army.
Longmen caves, Luoyang
Hiking Hua Shan
The terracotta army.
Xi'an by night.
From Phenom Penh it is nearly six hours by bus to Siem Reap, depending on which ticket you buy. Scalpers hawking budget-class fares usually lead to an uncomfortable and completely unreliable ride on a beat jalopy with no air-conditioning; if it doesn't break down the trek can take the better part of an entire day, crossing the Mekong basin. Our tuk-tuk driver warns us against this, and shows us to a bus agency that is only nominally more expensive (the difference of $10 U.S.) and by all accounts legitimate. The ride is long and at most stretches unpaved, though it is the only road operating between the two cities. For the first few hours, the landscape is like a scene from Apocalypse Now – a starving portrait of an undeveloped and unchanged countryside, dotted by slimy jade-colored water holes, and the occassional sugarpalm bent beneath the weight of a white sun.
Upon arriving in Siem Reap, that same star becomes a shimmering red orb that melts into the treetops, and at dusk we check in to a hostel called “The Riverside.” Its namesake turns out to be a stagnant, trash-filled creek that looks thick as sludge. Before even turning my room key into the lock, the entire town loses power, and the activity in my hostel is silenced by the mantle of darkness. I fumble around, ditching my backpack before finding the manager who offers a single candle – their backup generator isn't working, either. Outside I can hear the sputtering buzz of mopeds, and above the traffic, a troupe of monkies yelping in the distance. We meet two girls in the lobby who introduce themselves as backpackers as well, both from London. Together they've been walking and bussing through Indo-China, which I admire. They tell us about having recently crossed the Thai-Malaysian border – just a week earlier a bomb had detonated at the checkpoint they passed. We continue chatting for some time in the candlelight, and they recommend a few restaurants to try in town.
I get up at 5:30 the next morning to catch the sunrise over Angkor Wat. It is a vast and ancient complex that marked the spiritual and secular heart of the Khmer empire, founded over a millenia ago. For years it was lost to the jungle until being effectively 'discovered' to the Western World by French colonists in the 19th century, having heard rumors of an ancient city, one built by gods or giants.
The following photos were taken over the course of my day hiking Angkor Wat and the adjacent temple sites, from dawn to sunset.
Ta Prohm doorway.
The reflecting pool, Angkor Wat.
Ta Prohm temple.
Temple, Angkor Wat.
Temple at Bayon.
Bas relief detail.
Bayon.
Arriving in Cambodia by way of a small jet, the capital of Phnom Penh looks to be nothing more than a dusty network of red roads from the air. After filing for a brief visa and passing customs, we hire a tuk-tuk to make the drive out to the Killing Fields, where under the command of Saloth Sar – widely known as Pol Pot – the genocidal Khmer Rouge faction brutalized and buried tens of thousands of their countrymen. Between 1970 and 1980, over four-million Cambodians were tortured and executed in the name of spiritual cleansing, and the region remained locked in civil-warfare until the U.N.-sponsored elections, held as recently as 1993.
It is a sobering forty-minute drive along unpaved roads, past collapsed slums and fields still armed with active land-mines. Emaciated cattle wander untethered in the red clay, while expensive land cruisers filled with Westerners blast by, kicking up a sail of dust and gravel. The air is bone-dry and sometimes clotted black from piles of burning refuse lining the roads. At the fields, beggars – many missing arms and legs – eye the money changing hands between tourists and officials. A group of schoolchildren clambering over a nearby fence sing “Jingle Bells,” their words punctuated by the sporadic pop of small-arms fire and the heavy, thundering caliber from a machine gun at a distant shooting-range.
Victims.
Children.
Locals.
The Mekong Basin.
Phenom-Penh by tuk-tuk.
The Suvarnabhumi airport feels like a giant glass atrium, filled with the soft babble of a dozen different languages, circulating people from Copenhagen to Colombo. At the juncture of each terminal stand a pair guardian Buddhist deities, each snarling fiercely in colorful armor and wielding a massive poleaxe. After clearing customs and immigration, it is a short domestic flight from Bangkok to Phuket, the largest island-province of Thailand. We hire a driver from the airport to Patong beach. He has coffee-bean colored skin and knows no English beside “tip-tip” and “same-same,” repeating each as he guns it down an empty expressway at midnight. Over each road are decorated gateways commemorating King Bhumibol Adulyadej's sixth decade since having ascended the Thai throne, and his decisive military victories over the Burmese.
The below photos were taken across a period of seven days, from the seedy backstreets of Bangkok and Phuket, to the shores of Koh Phi Phi and the Andaman Gulf.
Koh Phi Phi Don.
Sunrise at Phi Phi Leh.
Transvestite alley.
Extracting cobra venom.
Guardsmen at the Royal Palace, Bangkok
Wat Arun, Temple of the Sun
Lodgings in Phi Phi.
A Tibetan prayer wheel.
Making an offering.
Temple grounds.
Ancestral fire trough. 
