I've never considered myself to be a domestic being...a homebody, yes, at times....but generally I was quite comfortable with that home having piles of laundry and books scattered everywhere and maybe the occasional dirty dish in the sink (one thing that I've always had a hard time tolerating, however, is the dust bunny...death to all dust bunnies! Moving on....). After living for the past two years in a space that never felt like mine (and I was frequently reminded of the fact that it WASN'T mine), having a nest is now important to me. And while I don't necessarily feel like Peter's apartment is mine either, I DO find myself carving out little cozy corners that are all mine.
It is surprising to me that certain aesthetic things bother me now, like piles of random clutter, or mismatching silverware, or the random packs of sesame crackers in the living room. However, I think the biggest surprise for me now is learning that I enjoy cooking. It's never something that I have been particularly good at, or really had any sort of desire to learn how to do. Like, AT ALL. But now that I coexist with someone whose appetite is enormous (as is his appreciation for any sort of thing that I whip up in the kitchen), I find cooking to be enjoyable and relaxing, especially since Peter frequently insists on doing the cleaning afterward :).
In the past few weeks I have tackled dishes like chicken enchiladas, penne a la vodka, pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting, and frosted lemon sugar cookies. This weekend Peter's brother is visiting us, and we had an amazing breakfast of challa bread that he brought us from New York City, and eggs that Peter scrambled with cheese and onion. Our "weekend coffee" ritual involves beans that we grind ourselves and put in the French press. It is potent and delicious, and I look forward to it all week.
At the moment Peter and his brother are at Trader Joe's purchasing the ingredients for pumpkin soup, curried couscous, a broccoli cheese casserole, and another batch of the frosted lemon sugar cookies that I plan on making today, right after taking a rainy afternoon run.
So while the changes that I am experiencing now are not as grandiose and ground-breaking and somehow exotic as those that I experienced in Asia, it's still nice to grow in small, unexpected, and occasionally delicious ways.
Does anyone have any recipes for me to try??
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Hong Kong
I never had the chance to write about Hong Kong, which was one of my favorite cities, and so......
Hong Kong had a very different energy than the slow buzz of Southeast Asian cities. It had tall buildings and tidy traffic and neon signs and streets free of both trash and the choking scent of burning coals cooking sidewalk satay. The locals there walked quickly down the sidewalks (in STARK contrast to Bangkok) and were snazzy dressers. The April air was chilly and damp, and the shopping there was exquisite--antiques and stones and pearls and high fashion and SHOES GALORE.
My trip was made extra special thanks to friends of Peter's who live there. E. and Peter studied abroad together in Germany, and his lovely wife and daughter wined and dined me and showed me the time of my life. We met up the first night and went to Kowloon where they snapped pictures of me by the harbor. We went out for Korean barbecue and TWO desserts--one place specialized in a flavored shaved ice that had the texture of crisp ice cream, and the other place specialized in durian pastries. They told me all about life in Hong Kong, and how a lot of the expat population had cleared out as a result of the economic downturn, as Hong Kong took a rather severe hit. I also found it interesting that if parents wanted to enroll their children in international schools (which is the trend all across Asia, for better or worse), they had to first be affiliated with a church. It was an evening of stimulating conversation and delectable food, and I was so so so happy.
My guest house was rather modest, as the cost of accommodations in Hong Kong was RIDICULOUS. It was a tiny box with a rock hard bed, but luckily I was only there to sleep. The next day I got coffee and pastries at a bakery around the corner and wrote for a few hours. Then I was off to see the city--Hollywood Road where I browsed antiques, taking the Lonely Planet walking tour to the Tao temple at the top of the hill, purchasing communist paraphinalia for Andrew, riding a Star Ferry across the harbor to Kowloon, and purchasing pearls and gemstones and aventurine dragons at the Jade Market. The public transportation was quick and clean and silent, and aside from getting drenched in the evening rain, it was the perfect day. I met up with E. and S. again that night, and they took me to an amaaaaaazing Chinese restaurant. After dinner they took me to their condo in Repulse Bay, and we picked up their delicious doll of a daughter, who taught me a new song about traffic lights (which I then taught to my preschoolers) and we talked about our favorite stories. I borrowed a warm pink trench coat from S., and their daughter wore a matching one. We went up to the Victoria lookout and saw the luminous views of the harbor at night. The buildings were works of art--their reflections forming mini-galaxies in the dark pupil of the harbor. The night was cold and misty, and I felt like a model in a photo shoot as E. took picture after picture of me with the harbor as my backdrop. We ate dessert--profiteroles and molten chocolate cake and ice cream--in a restaurant filled with fairy lights that looked like something out of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
The next morning I had the most delicious mango bubble tea known to man (I have officially been spoiled and bubble tea anywhere other than Rabbit Cafe in Hong Kong is inadequate), and I was off to explore Central Hong Kong. The buildings all had unique stories (including one that was dubbed the "House of 1,000 assholes" due to its windows, which resembled ship portholes), and the park in the middle of it all was a haven for people watching. I met up with E. and S. for another delicious lunch of dim sum (there was an HOUR wait for this restaurant!). I tried chicken feet and had the best pork buns ever. We then went for a drive back to Repulse Bay and visited a famous hotel with a big square cut out of it (for Feng Shui purposes), and soaked in the view of the bay. Hong Kong has a multitude of surprisingly lush green spaces, though they come with an overwhelming price tag. We then wove our way over to Stanley to visit the famous Stanley Market. I purchased some art as gifts, and marveled at the price of pearls. We stopped for treats at a local bakery and then my new friends graciously drove me to the airport.
I was really sad to leave. I had been used to taking trips by myself, and while I certainly love traveling on my own, it was nice to be around kind, smart people who really showed off their city and took me to places where I would not have gone on my own. It was also nice to have someone taking pictures of me instead of having to ask the occasional random (and non-English-speaking) stranger. Their hospitality meant so much to me in a time when I had so many isolated moments, and struggled to find a community, and ate so many dinners alone.
It was a fabulous trip!
Hong Kong had a very different energy than the slow buzz of Southeast Asian cities. It had tall buildings and tidy traffic and neon signs and streets free of both trash and the choking scent of burning coals cooking sidewalk satay. The locals there walked quickly down the sidewalks (in STARK contrast to Bangkok) and were snazzy dressers. The April air was chilly and damp, and the shopping there was exquisite--antiques and stones and pearls and high fashion and SHOES GALORE.
My trip was made extra special thanks to friends of Peter's who live there. E. and Peter studied abroad together in Germany, and his lovely wife and daughter wined and dined me and showed me the time of my life. We met up the first night and went to Kowloon where they snapped pictures of me by the harbor. We went out for Korean barbecue and TWO desserts--one place specialized in a flavored shaved ice that had the texture of crisp ice cream, and the other place specialized in durian pastries. They told me all about life in Hong Kong, and how a lot of the expat population had cleared out as a result of the economic downturn, as Hong Kong took a rather severe hit. I also found it interesting that if parents wanted to enroll their children in international schools (which is the trend all across Asia, for better or worse), they had to first be affiliated with a church. It was an evening of stimulating conversation and delectable food, and I was so so so happy.
My guest house was rather modest, as the cost of accommodations in Hong Kong was RIDICULOUS. It was a tiny box with a rock hard bed, but luckily I was only there to sleep. The next day I got coffee and pastries at a bakery around the corner and wrote for a few hours. Then I was off to see the city--Hollywood Road where I browsed antiques, taking the Lonely Planet walking tour to the Tao temple at the top of the hill, purchasing communist paraphinalia for Andrew, riding a Star Ferry across the harbor to Kowloon, and purchasing pearls and gemstones and aventurine dragons at the Jade Market. The public transportation was quick and clean and silent, and aside from getting drenched in the evening rain, it was the perfect day. I met up with E. and S. again that night, and they took me to an amaaaaaazing Chinese restaurant. After dinner they took me to their condo in Repulse Bay, and we picked up their delicious doll of a daughter, who taught me a new song about traffic lights (which I then taught to my preschoolers) and we talked about our favorite stories. I borrowed a warm pink trench coat from S., and their daughter wore a matching one. We went up to the Victoria lookout and saw the luminous views of the harbor at night. The buildings were works of art--their reflections forming mini-galaxies in the dark pupil of the harbor. The night was cold and misty, and I felt like a model in a photo shoot as E. took picture after picture of me with the harbor as my backdrop. We ate dessert--profiteroles and molten chocolate cake and ice cream--in a restaurant filled with fairy lights that looked like something out of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.
The next morning I had the most delicious mango bubble tea known to man (I have officially been spoiled and bubble tea anywhere other than Rabbit Cafe in Hong Kong is inadequate), and I was off to explore Central Hong Kong. The buildings all had unique stories (including one that was dubbed the "House of 1,000 assholes" due to its windows, which resembled ship portholes), and the park in the middle of it all was a haven for people watching. I met up with E. and S. for another delicious lunch of dim sum (there was an HOUR wait for this restaurant!). I tried chicken feet and had the best pork buns ever. We then went for a drive back to Repulse Bay and visited a famous hotel with a big square cut out of it (for Feng Shui purposes), and soaked in the view of the bay. Hong Kong has a multitude of surprisingly lush green spaces, though they come with an overwhelming price tag. We then wove our way over to Stanley to visit the famous Stanley Market. I purchased some art as gifts, and marveled at the price of pearls. We stopped for treats at a local bakery and then my new friends graciously drove me to the airport.
I was really sad to leave. I had been used to taking trips by myself, and while I certainly love traveling on my own, it was nice to be around kind, smart people who really showed off their city and took me to places where I would not have gone on my own. It was also nice to have someone taking pictures of me instead of having to ask the occasional random (and non-English-speaking) stranger. Their hospitality meant so much to me in a time when I had so many isolated moments, and struggled to find a community, and ate so many dinners alone.
It was a fabulous trip!
Monday, November 9, 2009
All Good Things
Things that are rocking my world right now:
*Teaching!! I love love LOVE teaching kindergarten! My Superstars are the most delicious morsels of human beings....we're going to go far this year!
*Running. Cambridge has some lovely sidewalks littered with crunchy autumn leaves. Evening and weekend runs are heaven.
*Broccoli cheddar soup and pumpkin soup from Au Bon Pain.
*French press coffee on weekend mornings.
*Homemade pumpkin bars, recipe courtesy of foodnetwork.com.
*Cranberry wine from the Three Lakes Winery in Wisconsin.
*Trader Joe's. Words cannot express how much I missed Trader Joe's while living in Bangkok!
*Fast Food Nation. I may be a bit behind the times, as this book has been around for some time....however, I HIGHLY recommend it to anyone who hasn't read it.
*My Fake Uggs from Target.
*
*Teaching!! I love love LOVE teaching kindergarten! My Superstars are the most delicious morsels of human beings....we're going to go far this year!
*Running. Cambridge has some lovely sidewalks littered with crunchy autumn leaves. Evening and weekend runs are heaven.
*Broccoli cheddar soup and pumpkin soup from Au Bon Pain.
*French press coffee on weekend mornings.
*Homemade pumpkin bars, recipe courtesy of foodnetwork.com.
*Cranberry wine from the Three Lakes Winery in Wisconsin.
*Trader Joe's. Words cannot express how much I missed Trader Joe's while living in Bangkok!
*Fast Food Nation. I may be a bit behind the times, as this book has been around for some time....however, I HIGHLY recommend it to anyone who hasn't read it.
*My Fake Uggs from Target.
*
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Return
Wow....it has been over two months since I have blogged! The space here feels like it actually belongs to someone else. So much has changed since I left Asia at the end of July! I have a job that I love, Peter and I are now happily living together, and I am beginning the slow work of getting back in touch with friends and family while my brain begins to process the last two years away.
I didn't think I wanted to continue blogging after I left Asia, since, well, my life is certainly not as exciting as it was over there. I most definitely yearn for my weekend jaunts to Burma, and haggling over jade elephants in markets, and buying strings of pearls without blinking an eye, and watching sunsets at temples. My camera is taking a well-deserved vacation, and I am trying to finish writing in my journal about trips that were not fully documented before they disappear into the abyss of anything that is outside of my present thoughts, wonderings, and work.
But, well, I realized that I missed blogging. Even though there may no longer be anyone listening due to my extended absence, I feel as though I have a lot from those two years that I still need to process, still need to document, and would still love to share with others. I have also realized that I need more in my life right now than just work and sleep. Don't get me wrong....my life right now feels full and busy and peaceful, and BURSTING with people and love and new ambitions. The peace of mind that I have now would not have been possible without the hard mental and emotional work that I did in Asia, and a bit of the Buddhist peace, the appreciation for the present, and the lack of hyper-focused tunnel vision that I found there has stayed with me. However, there were also many painful events and situations over there that my brain is now feeling safe enough to work through.
When Peter and I woke up this morning and went about our delicious weekend rituals, he told me that I seemed more Zen. Less overwhelmed by life and the universe and the scrambling logistics of adapting to an entirely new living and work situation after having been immersed in such a unique and different culture for two years. I feel more Zen. I feel present and awake and thoroughly satisfied, but it has definitely been an interesting adjustment period.
And so.....in honor of it being NaBloPoMo (though I don't think I will ever put myself through that in any sort of official capacity again...sheesh...) I officially resurrect my blog.
I didn't think I wanted to continue blogging after I left Asia, since, well, my life is certainly not as exciting as it was over there. I most definitely yearn for my weekend jaunts to Burma, and haggling over jade elephants in markets, and buying strings of pearls without blinking an eye, and watching sunsets at temples. My camera is taking a well-deserved vacation, and I am trying to finish writing in my journal about trips that were not fully documented before they disappear into the abyss of anything that is outside of my present thoughts, wonderings, and work.
But, well, I realized that I missed blogging. Even though there may no longer be anyone listening due to my extended absence, I feel as though I have a lot from those two years that I still need to process, still need to document, and would still love to share with others. I have also realized that I need more in my life right now than just work and sleep. Don't get me wrong....my life right now feels full and busy and peaceful, and BURSTING with people and love and new ambitions. The peace of mind that I have now would not have been possible without the hard mental and emotional work that I did in Asia, and a bit of the Buddhist peace, the appreciation for the present, and the lack of hyper-focused tunnel vision that I found there has stayed with me. However, there were also many painful events and situations over there that my brain is now feeling safe enough to work through.
When Peter and I woke up this morning and went about our delicious weekend rituals, he told me that I seemed more Zen. Less overwhelmed by life and the universe and the scrambling logistics of adapting to an entirely new living and work situation after having been immersed in such a unique and different culture for two years. I feel more Zen. I feel present and awake and thoroughly satisfied, but it has definitely been an interesting adjustment period.
And so.....in honor of it being NaBloPoMo (though I don't think I will ever put myself through that in any sort of official capacity again...sheesh...) I officially resurrect my blog.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Whereupon I do not have the opportunity to add "Beekeeper" to my resume.....
I spent the last two days in Boston where I had two job interviews. I accepted a job and am therefore ecstatic to report that I will be gainfully employed for the 2009-2010 school year. I returned back to Minnesota yesterday and proceeded to slip in and out of consciousness for the next 6 hours. It was an exhausting time in Boston, full of lots of tough decisions, intensive scoping out of Peter's bachelor pad to determine where I will be putting my stuff, and one verrrrry long drive to check out a school where I ultimately declined their (totally awesome and stellar) offer. The best part, of course, was catching up with my bestest friend and gay husband, Andrew. Our friendship picked up where it left off, though clearly we have both grown significantly wiser in the three years since we lived in Phoenix (and somehow we've also gotten better looking....:) ), a statement which can be corroborated by the fact that the evening didn't end with me cradling my head in my hands to keep the world from spinning while we discuss Jungian archetypes or read passages from Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Yup. We used to be *those* people, and probably still are.....
I am tremendously excited about the year ahead, and I know it will be truly awesome. I feel so good about all of the decisions that I have made up to this point in my life, and I now feel ready to attack this next portion of my adulthood as I settle down with the love of my life, and get all of my ducks in a row to prepare for several new chapters in my professional life.
In other news, I ate a McFlurry and some Easy Mac for dinner tonight, and my stomach is having as hard of a time readjusting to food in the U.S. as it did adjusting to the food/water in Thailand. Granted, there are no parasites involved at this point, but still.
The world is incredibly different to me now. I guess it takes coming back to realize how much you've changed, how the old benchmarks by which you measured your existence or guaged your neuroses are no longer relevant. And I had remained so present in my experience and my life in Thailand, particularly during the last six months, that I sort of forgot about my frame of reference in the U.S. This isn't to say that I forgot about the people that I love here, or that I somehow lost myself. It's just that I became completely absorbed in these places, these cultures, and in my role as observer. It was a tremendously quiet time for me wherein I spent a lot of time contemplating and meditating and just watching (hence part of the reason why my blog went semi-neglected for so long). I was writing, but mainly in my pen and paper journal that was colored with ticket stubs and postcards and other assorted memorabilia. It was a respite, a retreat, and it was certainly not without its ups and downs. But it is astounding to me how thoroughly transformed I feel as I emerge from the other side of it all.
I miss Asia tremendously. TREMENDOUSLY. I think about my experiences there frequently, and I will still plan on writing about them here and in my journals. I am working on a memoir, but it may end up being something that is only for my eyes. We shall see. And obviously I gained a ton in my two years, and I have the Buddhas and stones and pearls and scarves and elephants and silk photo albums and fabulous clothes to prove it. And seriously, try not to vomit when I say this (no, you're gonna have to try pretty hard.....), but I think I will remember that time mostly in what I left behind. That is to say, there was a TON of demon wrestling that went on over there (which I didn't really write about on here, though I may have alluded to my various struggles once or twice, and written about some general life lessons), but I really feel like I left them in Thailand. Thailand absorbed a lot of my crap and helped me to transform it into something useful. Like fertilizer. Though I didn't literally mean, y'know, my crap......
Anyway.......
So there is a gratitude that gives my memories about Asia its particular pastel-colored shade, and even the difficult moments were worth it. I still have more to say about it all. Just because my time there is over doesn't mean that the storytelling has to be.
Thank you to those of you who were with me every step of the way!
You haven't heard the last of me.....bwahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I am tremendously excited about the year ahead, and I know it will be truly awesome. I feel so good about all of the decisions that I have made up to this point in my life, and I now feel ready to attack this next portion of my adulthood as I settle down with the love of my life, and get all of my ducks in a row to prepare for several new chapters in my professional life.
In other news, I ate a McFlurry and some Easy Mac for dinner tonight, and my stomach is having as hard of a time readjusting to food in the U.S. as it did adjusting to the food/water in Thailand. Granted, there are no parasites involved at this point, but still.
The world is incredibly different to me now. I guess it takes coming back to realize how much you've changed, how the old benchmarks by which you measured your existence or guaged your neuroses are no longer relevant. And I had remained so present in my experience and my life in Thailand, particularly during the last six months, that I sort of forgot about my frame of reference in the U.S. This isn't to say that I forgot about the people that I love here, or that I somehow lost myself. It's just that I became completely absorbed in these places, these cultures, and in my role as observer. It was a tremendously quiet time for me wherein I spent a lot of time contemplating and meditating and just watching (hence part of the reason why my blog went semi-neglected for so long). I was writing, but mainly in my pen and paper journal that was colored with ticket stubs and postcards and other assorted memorabilia. It was a respite, a retreat, and it was certainly not without its ups and downs. But it is astounding to me how thoroughly transformed I feel as I emerge from the other side of it all.
I miss Asia tremendously. TREMENDOUSLY. I think about my experiences there frequently, and I will still plan on writing about them here and in my journals. I am working on a memoir, but it may end up being something that is only for my eyes. We shall see. And obviously I gained a ton in my two years, and I have the Buddhas and stones and pearls and scarves and elephants and silk photo albums and fabulous clothes to prove it. And seriously, try not to vomit when I say this (no, you're gonna have to try pretty hard.....), but I think I will remember that time mostly in what I left behind. That is to say, there was a TON of demon wrestling that went on over there (which I didn't really write about on here, though I may have alluded to my various struggles once or twice, and written about some general life lessons), but I really feel like I left them in Thailand. Thailand absorbed a lot of my crap and helped me to transform it into something useful. Like fertilizer. Though I didn't literally mean, y'know, my crap......
Anyway.......
So there is a gratitude that gives my memories about Asia its particular pastel-colored shade, and even the difficult moments were worth it. I still have more to say about it all. Just because my time there is over doesn't mean that the storytelling has to be.
Thank you to those of you who were with me every step of the way!
You haven't heard the last of me.....bwahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Friday, August 7, 2009
Patriarch
I've been back in the U.S. for over a week now, and the first order of business (other than recovering from jet lag and eating lots of cheese) was a family reunion. And while the energy of this coming together was joyful, the reason for the occasion was my grandfather's memorial celebration and spreading of his ashes.
My grandfather's true gift and legacy was his understanding that, in the words of my uncle, water always seeks its own level. He was accepting and loved all of us unconditionally. He was involved in real estate and newspapers and lecturing at universities and advertising. He made important contributions to political advertising--his firm came up with the idea of the political bumper sticker and lawn sign as ways of increasing a candidate's exposure--and wrote a book on the subject. He wrote poetry and cared for my grandmother during her long illness, and was by her side until her very last breath. He wrote poems and had all kinds of girlfriends and was liberal with his flower purchases. We wrote to each other once a week during my senior year in college--a tradition that I wish we had continued.
He was a complete and utter optimist. He spent time in an orphanage when my great-grandmother, newly widowed, could not afford to care for her children. He spoke with fondness about his time in an orphanage, and told stories about difficult times with a positive slant.
I guess I'm surprised at how much I miss him, and how often he tends to appear in my thoughts. We all expected him to sail past 100. He was the picture of health all the way to the age of 90. During the past few years his health started to deteriorate, but none of us knew how sick he really was.
I spoke with him during his final lucid moments. I told him how much I loved him, he told me he was proud of me. He asked about how things were "over yonder," and I told him that I would always remember him, that I would tell my children all about him.
They just don't make 'em like him anymore. He had a wonderful life, a life that he loved, and he will be missed.
I wrote this poem and read it--while wearing one of his fabulous and colorful sport coats--before we buried his ashes under the apple tree where we buried my great-grandmother's--his mother's--ashes.
PATRIARCH
(For Grampsie--August 1st, 2009)
This moment is somehow impossible
A reflection of your impossible mortality
How is it that the plaid shape of your personality
The piercing blue of your kindness
The ebullient rumble of your belly laughs
The hearty handkerchiefs of your eccentricities
Are no longer here?
Your presence instead
Glides over the collected pool
Of our hearts in mourning, dark like water that has been thickened with night
Glides over all of us like the reflection of morning birds
Memories of you are light white pinpricks rippling the surface softly
And permanently
Your past actions continually shaping our present moments, our futures
Like ripples transforming into waves, lapping at the shoreline
My grandfather's true gift and legacy was his understanding that, in the words of my uncle, water always seeks its own level. He was accepting and loved all of us unconditionally. He was involved in real estate and newspapers and lecturing at universities and advertising. He made important contributions to political advertising--his firm came up with the idea of the political bumper sticker and lawn sign as ways of increasing a candidate's exposure--and wrote a book on the subject. He wrote poetry and cared for my grandmother during her long illness, and was by her side until her very last breath. He wrote poems and had all kinds of girlfriends and was liberal with his flower purchases. We wrote to each other once a week during my senior year in college--a tradition that I wish we had continued.
He was a complete and utter optimist. He spent time in an orphanage when my great-grandmother, newly widowed, could not afford to care for her children. He spoke with fondness about his time in an orphanage, and told stories about difficult times with a positive slant.
I guess I'm surprised at how much I miss him, and how often he tends to appear in my thoughts. We all expected him to sail past 100. He was the picture of health all the way to the age of 90. During the past few years his health started to deteriorate, but none of us knew how sick he really was.
I spoke with him during his final lucid moments. I told him how much I loved him, he told me he was proud of me. He asked about how things were "over yonder," and I told him that I would always remember him, that I would tell my children all about him.
They just don't make 'em like him anymore. He had a wonderful life, a life that he loved, and he will be missed.
I wrote this poem and read it--while wearing one of his fabulous and colorful sport coats--before we buried his ashes under the apple tree where we buried my great-grandmother's--his mother's--ashes.
PATRIARCH
(For Grampsie--August 1st, 2009)
This moment is somehow impossible
A reflection of your impossible mortality
How is it that the plaid shape of your personality
The piercing blue of your kindness
The ebullient rumble of your belly laughs
The hearty handkerchiefs of your eccentricities
Are no longer here?
Your presence instead
Glides over the collected pool
Of our hearts in mourning, dark like water that has been thickened with night
Glides over all of us like the reflection of morning birds
Memories of you are light white pinpricks rippling the surface softly
And permanently
Your past actions continually shaping our present moments, our futures
Like ripples transforming into waves, lapping at the shoreline
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Bird Taxi
Our task was not a simple one: to somehow fill a small, energy efficient taxi with my landforms of suitcases--the various odds and ends and knick-knacks and tchotchkies and treasures and essentials from my two years in Thailand. Four huge suitcases, plus two small ones, plus Peter, plus me. It was like a problem-solving puzzle--shoving different suitcases into different places at different angles, deciding that a given solution wouldn't work, and pulling them back out again while the taxi bobbed under the weight like an exhausted beast of burden. These suitcases seemed to struggle and resist like stubborn livestock, and I found myself doing a guarded dance around them lest one of them decide to make a break for it. After thirty minutes of pushing and pulling and huffing and puffing, all of the suitcases plus two passengers plus a driver piled into the taxi. Its belly let out a rusty shudder before we proceeded out of the parking garage and down the fickle strip of Sukhumvit Road--its neckline jeweled in traffic lights and brake lights--bound for the hotel.
For a few minutes we all caught our breath, and I fashioned my body into a makeshift prop for the suitcase that was shoved against the door and threatening to topple over and crush both Peter and me. Once our collective heart rates had dropped below that of a drunk hummingbird, I began to look out the window and visually consume Sukhumvit road in sips and nibbles in the small blank space of window that was not covered by the monolith of luggage next to me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the driver fiddling with what I thought was the radio, until I saw the radio regurgitate a surprisingly large screen. The driver gingerly inserted a DVD while keeping divided attention (albeit not fairly divided) on the traffic in front of us. I was expecting Bollywood videos, or an instructional DVD for learning English, or even (this being Bangkok and all) porn. What popped up on the screen instead was a documentary about the birds of Papua, New Guinea. The narrator droned on in a soft, flute-y voice about mating habits and feathers and fruit preferences, and how these birds play a vital role in many of the cultural practices of a particular group in New Guinea.
It was absolutely the last thing in the world that I would have expected to see pop up as traffic entertainment, but the driver was completely (and much to my chagrin) transfixed.
I turned to Peter. "This would never happen anywhere else. Never. HOLY CRAP, it's stuff like this that I'm going to miss." He was apparently equally transfixed, as he shot me a quieting glance as the driver turned up the volume to block out my yapping.
One last gift of complete, total, and surprising randomness. Thailand maintained its mystery, its intrigue, its bottomless well of sights and experiences up until the very end. Nothing was ever boring or mundane. My eyes never suffered from want of fascinating things. Even taxi rides were an adventure. For that, Thailand will always be special to me--a topsy-turvy wonderland of nonsensical chaos coating a warm, creamy core of calm.
My next adventure? Maybe New Guinea......
For a few minutes we all caught our breath, and I fashioned my body into a makeshift prop for the suitcase that was shoved against the door and threatening to topple over and crush both Peter and me. Once our collective heart rates had dropped below that of a drunk hummingbird, I began to look out the window and visually consume Sukhumvit road in sips and nibbles in the small blank space of window that was not covered by the monolith of luggage next to me.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the driver fiddling with what I thought was the radio, until I saw the radio regurgitate a surprisingly large screen. The driver gingerly inserted a DVD while keeping divided attention (albeit not fairly divided) on the traffic in front of us. I was expecting Bollywood videos, or an instructional DVD for learning English, or even (this being Bangkok and all) porn. What popped up on the screen instead was a documentary about the birds of Papua, New Guinea. The narrator droned on in a soft, flute-y voice about mating habits and feathers and fruit preferences, and how these birds play a vital role in many of the cultural practices of a particular group in New Guinea.
It was absolutely the last thing in the world that I would have expected to see pop up as traffic entertainment, but the driver was completely (and much to my chagrin) transfixed.
I turned to Peter. "This would never happen anywhere else. Never. HOLY CRAP, it's stuff like this that I'm going to miss." He was apparently equally transfixed, as he shot me a quieting glance as the driver turned up the volume to block out my yapping.
One last gift of complete, total, and surprising randomness. Thailand maintained its mystery, its intrigue, its bottomless well of sights and experiences up until the very end. Nothing was ever boring or mundane. My eyes never suffered from want of fascinating things. Even taxi rides were an adventure. For that, Thailand will always be special to me--a topsy-turvy wonderland of nonsensical chaos coating a warm, creamy core of calm.
My next adventure? Maybe New Guinea......
The Road to Halong Bay
The poetry of this landscape, the unfathomable simplicity, the blinding green of the rice paddies set in front of a backdrop of jagged, misty hills. Conical hats bobbing up and down, punctuating the air with a perfect symmetry. Thin slices of arms bearing stalks of rice, bearing baskets. Bicycles slipping slowly down dirt roads speckled with generous shadows of banana leaves. Cows etching out an emaciated silhouette, jaws contemplating, ribs sanding down the air with their heaving. The people small in the distance, like phantoms, laboring elegantly under my tourist gaze. I don't want to tokenize this scene, to romanticize it, but it is impossible not to. A speck of a conical hat surrounded by the nourishing lake of the rice paddy is art, a somehow classical archetype, a thing so much more intricate and pristine and filled with back-breaking struggle than a mere tourist snapshot. It is life--unfair, uneven, exquisitely whole and simple life, moving and growing and working and also static and traditional and authentic. Buildings reach above fields like nimble fingers, constrained in width by money rather than space, keeping watch over the paddies like candy-coated sentinels. The fields are freckled with gravestones, the dead enriching the soil, bringing blessings as the workers wind their way slowly around them. Never hurrying. The rice won't tolerate hurry. The digestive system won't tolerate a crop that's been plucked by stressed, impatient hands. And the green just washes over everything until the brain no longer has space to contemplate anything else. It is passive and pervasive, fully present, consuming. The hats mark out a means of navigating this visual ocean like buoys bobbing in the struggle against being swallowed by a vast, vast color.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Excerpt from a relationship
Setting: Bangkok, Thailand, on the Chao Phraya River
Me: You see all of that green stuff that's floating on top of the river? One of Rama V's wives had it imported after a visit to Indonesia. It's called water hyacinth. It somehow got into the main river system and is now essentially a gigantic weed. People use its stems to weave rugs and furniture, as you can see that the stems are rather thick.
Peter: Cool!
*********************************
THE NEXT DAY
Peter: Hey, what's that green stuff floating on top of the river?
Me: It's called water hyacinth. It was imported by one of Rama V's wives. It's basically a gigantic weed, but people use it to make rugs and furniture, as its stems are thick and sturdy.
Peter: Neat!
*********************************
THE NEXT DAY
Me: When I was walking back to the hotel from the temple I passed a store selling water hyacinth furniture. It looked really cool--kinda like wicker!
Peter: Wait.....people make FURNITURE out of water hyacinth?
Me: .........
..............
...........
I'm pretty much gonna have to kick your ass now.
*******************************
Silly misunderstandings aside, we are having a phenomenal time in Vietnam, doing things like buying silk runners for our bed (OUR bed!!!) and absorbing so much natural beauty. We return to Thailand tomorrow, and neither of us wants to leave Vietnam. It is truly like nowhere else.
I am incredibly exhausted. More later!!!
Me: You see all of that green stuff that's floating on top of the river? One of Rama V's wives had it imported after a visit to Indonesia. It's called water hyacinth. It somehow got into the main river system and is now essentially a gigantic weed. People use its stems to weave rugs and furniture, as you can see that the stems are rather thick.
Peter: Cool!
*********************************
THE NEXT DAY
Peter: Hey, what's that green stuff floating on top of the river?
Me: It's called water hyacinth. It was imported by one of Rama V's wives. It's basically a gigantic weed, but people use it to make rugs and furniture, as its stems are thick and sturdy.
Peter: Neat!
*********************************
THE NEXT DAY
Me: When I was walking back to the hotel from the temple I passed a store selling water hyacinth furniture. It looked really cool--kinda like wicker!
Peter: Wait.....people make FURNITURE out of water hyacinth?
Me: .........
..............
...........
I'm pretty much gonna have to kick your ass now.
*******************************
Silly misunderstandings aside, we are having a phenomenal time in Vietnam, doing things like buying silk runners for our bed (OUR bed!!!) and absorbing so much natural beauty. We return to Thailand tomorrow, and neither of us wants to leave Vietnam. It is truly like nowhere else.
I am incredibly exhausted. More later!!!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Temple of the Golden Buddha
Well, I did it, I'm done, I completed my two year contract in Thailand. My last day of work did not exactly go as I had hoped--namely, it entailed my boss screaming at me for not a terribly good or logical reason (I mean, really, is there ever a terribly good reason to scream?) and me bursting into tears when my calming breaths ceased working--but then the next day we hugged and mended fences, so no bridges were burned (a mixed metaphor, that).
I'm really excited about the various programs that I built from scratch, and I am very happy with the work that I'm leaving behind. There were many moments where the job was pure bliss, and I really feel like I did something productive and worthwhile. But as a whole, it was a gut-wrenching experience that took several years off of my life, and I would never voluntarily put myself through something that emotionally trying again. That said, I will never throw the baby out with the bathwater. I learned a lot, more than I would have if my work experience had been smooth from start to finish, and I'm so grateful for that.
I'm currently writing this from Vietnam. Peter and I arrived in Hanoi last night and we are headed to Halong Bay in about an hour. I'm so excited--I've had many dreams about Halong Bay, and I'm really looking forward to finally seeing it. I've spent the past four days in a hotel in Bangkok, being a tourist in the city where I've lived and worked for the past two years. I've loved exploring without having to worry about time limits, and I've absorbed every fascinating detail of this city.
I visited Wat Traimit--a.k.a. Temple of the Golden Buddha--and I wrote this while I was in there:
There is something about sitting in a temple in Asia that is unlike any other space. The aesthetics of prayer, and the thick, tactile nature of the wishes and desires are different from those uttered within the angled walls of churches. Devotees sit on the ground, waiing, prostrating, feet pointed away from the kind eyes of the Buddha--the Buddha, this gigantic screen, absorbing projections and bearing secrets, smirking in its joyful knowledge. I often find churches to be like secret clubhouses, where only the anointed, the repentant, the devoted, the judgmental can access the deep wells of calm and quiet and knowing within the jeweled glass of its speech, its dogma, its bearded truths. But temples--temples have aromatic breezes, fluid gasps of incense, and it houses an organic flow of pray-ers and visitors and beliefs, its chambers pumping in welcome like an open human heart. Monks and devotees look at me strangely as they watch me wai three times--once for the Buddha, once for the dharma, once for the monks--my blond head bobbing up and down, and then they smile, offer blessings, ask the standard question: "Where you come from?" Peaceful eyes, peaceful hearts. Bells twinkling blessings in a white hot breeze, candles carrying prayers skyward, eyebrows furrowed in fervent hope, lips mouthing questions and gratitude and requests. I received a blessing from a monk today--water sprinkled from a bundle of straw, a simple white string around my wrist, and two simple words: Good luck. This is where I come to feel empty, free, devoid of worry and self-congratulations and criticism and judgment and even passion. This is the color of bliss, of knowing without computing and analyzing, this is having a heart like a breeze, a mind like a bell, a soul within a soul within a soul, a simple white string connecting the purple throbbing veins of humanity's fibrous mosaic. Incense induces tears and garlands thicken the air with offerings. There is the flavor of silence in the back of my throat and my chest fills with presence. I don't want to leave.
I'm really excited about the various programs that I built from scratch, and I am very happy with the work that I'm leaving behind. There were many moments where the job was pure bliss, and I really feel like I did something productive and worthwhile. But as a whole, it was a gut-wrenching experience that took several years off of my life, and I would never voluntarily put myself through something that emotionally trying again. That said, I will never throw the baby out with the bathwater. I learned a lot, more than I would have if my work experience had been smooth from start to finish, and I'm so grateful for that.
I'm currently writing this from Vietnam. Peter and I arrived in Hanoi last night and we are headed to Halong Bay in about an hour. I'm so excited--I've had many dreams about Halong Bay, and I'm really looking forward to finally seeing it. I've spent the past four days in a hotel in Bangkok, being a tourist in the city where I've lived and worked for the past two years. I've loved exploring without having to worry about time limits, and I've absorbed every fascinating detail of this city.
I visited Wat Traimit--a.k.a. Temple of the Golden Buddha--and I wrote this while I was in there:
There is something about sitting in a temple in Asia that is unlike any other space. The aesthetics of prayer, and the thick, tactile nature of the wishes and desires are different from those uttered within the angled walls of churches. Devotees sit on the ground, waiing, prostrating, feet pointed away from the kind eyes of the Buddha--the Buddha, this gigantic screen, absorbing projections and bearing secrets, smirking in its joyful knowledge. I often find churches to be like secret clubhouses, where only the anointed, the repentant, the devoted, the judgmental can access the deep wells of calm and quiet and knowing within the jeweled glass of its speech, its dogma, its bearded truths. But temples--temples have aromatic breezes, fluid gasps of incense, and it houses an organic flow of pray-ers and visitors and beliefs, its chambers pumping in welcome like an open human heart. Monks and devotees look at me strangely as they watch me wai three times--once for the Buddha, once for the dharma, once for the monks--my blond head bobbing up and down, and then they smile, offer blessings, ask the standard question: "Where you come from?" Peaceful eyes, peaceful hearts. Bells twinkling blessings in a white hot breeze, candles carrying prayers skyward, eyebrows furrowed in fervent hope, lips mouthing questions and gratitude and requests. I received a blessing from a monk today--water sprinkled from a bundle of straw, a simple white string around my wrist, and two simple words: Good luck. This is where I come to feel empty, free, devoid of worry and self-congratulations and criticism and judgment and even passion. This is the color of bliss, of knowing without computing and analyzing, this is having a heart like a breeze, a mind like a bell, a soul within a soul within a soul, a simple white string connecting the purple throbbing veins of humanity's fibrous mosaic. Incense induces tears and garlands thicken the air with offerings. There is the flavor of silence in the back of my throat and my chest fills with presence. I don't want to leave.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Ice Queen
It's pretty rare that I randomly run into people I know when I'm out and about running errands here in Bangkok, but today I ran into a friend of mine while at the pharmacy. It is always amazing to me that I never seem to run into people I know when I'm there to buy face cream or nail polish. It's always when I've got the anti-fungal cream, stool softener, and a turkey baster* that I hear the familiar voice behind me and see that person's eyes glance down at the contents in my hand.
Anyway......
Yesterday I went to my favorite temple here in Bangkok. It's a temple made completely out of marble with absolutely beautiful detailing (I wrote about it once before here). It's like an ice castle. It has fountains that make quiet trickling sounds, and monks wandering around everywhere, and a graceful Buddha, and the ashes of Rama V. I thought that it would make a nice mini-retreat so that I could do some prayer and meditation.
Getting there is an adventure in and of itself, as it requires taking a motosai to the SkyTrain, changing lines on the SkyTrain, and then getting off at the river pier. It then requires taking a river taxi 15 stops, and once you get off you must amble through a flower market in order to find a tuk tuk that will take you the rest of the way. Planes, trains, and automobiles. It is a wonderful journey, perfect for a Sunday afternoon when I SHOULD be finishing my final project for my 45 clock hours of SEI training (which, um, I should be doing right now instead of blogging....). When I got to the temple, instead of the peace and quiet and fountain sounds I was expecting, I was greeted with swarms of people, and tents, and television monitors capturing what was happening inside. The people at the ticket counter said that it was a ceremony for initiating new monks, but that I was more than welcome to go inside and observe it from the back.
I took off my shoes and tucked myself away in a corner of the temple and watched. The monks had their BRIGHT orange ceremonial robes, bright yellow belts, and they were carrying their alms bowls in silk sacks that were slung diagonally across their bodies. I realized after looking through my Luang Prabang photos that I have taken an insane amount of monk photos over the years. I have also purchased many monk photos and monk candle holders and monk teak figurines, and it is pretty safe to say that I have a complete obsession with monks. I think they are absolute works of art--their robes and bowls and chanting and slow, flowing movements. This was the first time that I was ever able to witness, close up, a monk ceremony. The chanting was so beautiful, and the routine of it all was done with a choreographed reverence, and I just closed my eyes and listened. The inner temple is like a candy chamber--stained glass windows and gold dharma wheels and floral offerings--and it was an hour of pure and total peace where I just shut off my mind and absorbed everything in that room. The fluttering hearts and the growling chants and the two-part harmonies and the deep prostrations.
After leaving the inner temple I wandered around and looked at the Buddha images in the courtyard area, and photographed the red Chinese-style footbridges that arch over a small canal that flows between the temple and the monastery, and sat on a bench taking more photos of monks. I truly did not want to leave, but the sky was looking ominous and I had made plans to meet a friend for dinner.
I climbed back into a tuk tuk that took me to the river pier. I bought a green Fanta (omg....green Fanta is CRACK IN A BOTTLE, and apparently not available in the U.S.!!) and sipped it while watching the catfish in the river right below the pier literally climb over one another to catch the breadcrumbs that vendors were selling to passersby. Their bellies were flashing and gleaming like tongues, and the water was churning in a muddy sludge, and the entire mass of fish bodies was peppered with plastic pieces of trash, and they made a fleshy slapping sound as they struggled against one another, and really the whole thing was just terribly unappetizing.
I watched the sun struggle to set through the thick billows of clouds between the emaciated ribs of the Rama 8 Bridge. Once the river taxi came I sat behind an older foreigner with a tidy bun in her hair and a Nancy Chandler map across her lap and the two of us took pictures of river slums and fine hotels and fishermen and tugboats.
I made it home right before the torrential downpour began, and had a lovely dinner with a lovely friend (though the Fanta gave me gut rot and I could FEEL my teeth decaying).
I will miss weekends like this.
*Purely hypothetical :)
Anyway......
Yesterday I went to my favorite temple here in Bangkok. It's a temple made completely out of marble with absolutely beautiful detailing (I wrote about it once before here). It's like an ice castle. It has fountains that make quiet trickling sounds, and monks wandering around everywhere, and a graceful Buddha, and the ashes of Rama V. I thought that it would make a nice mini-retreat so that I could do some prayer and meditation.
Getting there is an adventure in and of itself, as it requires taking a motosai to the SkyTrain, changing lines on the SkyTrain, and then getting off at the river pier. It then requires taking a river taxi 15 stops, and once you get off you must amble through a flower market in order to find a tuk tuk that will take you the rest of the way. Planes, trains, and automobiles. It is a wonderful journey, perfect for a Sunday afternoon when I SHOULD be finishing my final project for my 45 clock hours of SEI training (which, um, I should be doing right now instead of blogging....). When I got to the temple, instead of the peace and quiet and fountain sounds I was expecting, I was greeted with swarms of people, and tents, and television monitors capturing what was happening inside. The people at the ticket counter said that it was a ceremony for initiating new monks, but that I was more than welcome to go inside and observe it from the back.
I took off my shoes and tucked myself away in a corner of the temple and watched. The monks had their BRIGHT orange ceremonial robes, bright yellow belts, and they were carrying their alms bowls in silk sacks that were slung diagonally across their bodies. I realized after looking through my Luang Prabang photos that I have taken an insane amount of monk photos over the years. I have also purchased many monk photos and monk candle holders and monk teak figurines, and it is pretty safe to say that I have a complete obsession with monks. I think they are absolute works of art--their robes and bowls and chanting and slow, flowing movements. This was the first time that I was ever able to witness, close up, a monk ceremony. The chanting was so beautiful, and the routine of it all was done with a choreographed reverence, and I just closed my eyes and listened. The inner temple is like a candy chamber--stained glass windows and gold dharma wheels and floral offerings--and it was an hour of pure and total peace where I just shut off my mind and absorbed everything in that room. The fluttering hearts and the growling chants and the two-part harmonies and the deep prostrations.
After leaving the inner temple I wandered around and looked at the Buddha images in the courtyard area, and photographed the red Chinese-style footbridges that arch over a small canal that flows between the temple and the monastery, and sat on a bench taking more photos of monks. I truly did not want to leave, but the sky was looking ominous and I had made plans to meet a friend for dinner.
I climbed back into a tuk tuk that took me to the river pier. I bought a green Fanta (omg....green Fanta is CRACK IN A BOTTLE, and apparently not available in the U.S.!!) and sipped it while watching the catfish in the river right below the pier literally climb over one another to catch the breadcrumbs that vendors were selling to passersby. Their bellies were flashing and gleaming like tongues, and the water was churning in a muddy sludge, and the entire mass of fish bodies was peppered with plastic pieces of trash, and they made a fleshy slapping sound as they struggled against one another, and really the whole thing was just terribly unappetizing.
I watched the sun struggle to set through the thick billows of clouds between the emaciated ribs of the Rama 8 Bridge. Once the river taxi came I sat behind an older foreigner with a tidy bun in her hair and a Nancy Chandler map across her lap and the two of us took pictures of river slums and fine hotels and fishermen and tugboats.
I made it home right before the torrential downpour began, and had a lovely dinner with a lovely friend (though the Fanta gave me gut rot and I could FEEL my teeth decaying).
I will miss weekends like this.
*Purely hypothetical :)
Friday, June 26, 2009
Click
Sheesh....lately this blog has been feeling like that relative that you know you should contact more often than you do, but then the more time that passes that you don't contact him or her, the harder it is to get back into contact because you feel like such a douche for not getting in touch earlier so you just end up not doing anything at all and then that person passes away and you feel like an even bigger douche.
Lesson of the day: Get in touch with that relative. I started writing to my grandfather again several months before he passed away, and I'm glad that I did.
Alrighty......
Luang Prabang reminded me quite a bit of Ubud in Bali. Both places have a ton of hippie backpacking tourists with really intense BO who are all about the local beer and have massive collections of stringy bracelets. Both places have incredibly charming spas, restaurants, and quaint-but-overpriced shops that charge five times as much for an item that you can get at a market for a song. Both places are rich in history and cultural offerings and amazing textiles, and, in spite of being a haven for tourists, both places maintain their absolute authenticity, their unique footprints in the world. They are unequivocally themselves, and in both places I found myself feeling breezy and blissful and like life could just not possibly get any better.
Luang Prabang is great in that you can really see the whole thing in about a day/day and a half, so you don't need to be running around with your nose in your guidebook, checking things off of your packed itinerary while also learning about the history and culture and language and current events in order to make the most of your time. And believe me--I loooove to travel that way as well. However, since I had three days in Luang Prabang and could easily check off all items on my itinerary, it left time for some unexpected little treats.
I talked to a lot of people--from novice monks to ancient hilltribe women to fascinating expats--and one of the most fascinating was an older Dutch gentleman who is married to and has a baby with a Lao woman, and I happened to meet him by pure chance. I didn't pack any books for this trip, as I didn't want anything to distract me from writing in my journal, but as I headed back from the night market that first night I found myself wanting to read something mindless. I hopped into a little restaurant/gallery that has a book exchange (Luang Prabang has a ton of places where you can exchange books, which is awesome and much appreciated by the hippie backpacker crowd), picked up a book about ghost stories, and turned my attention to the photos on the walls. I have always been a fan of photography, but for some reason have become even moreso since living in Asia. There are just so many opportunities for incredible pictures, and the pictures on the wall were an absolute work of genius. There were pictures of hilltribe women in their full regalia, pictures of fishermen casting their nets on the Mekong in the hazy early morning hours, pictures of an opium addict indulging his habit with a boyish oops-I've-been-naughty look on his face. These were like pictures out of National Geographic, except even more raw and human and beautiful. The owner of the gallery--the Dutch man--approached me (wiggly baby in tow) and said that he had taken the pictures. I then spent the next thirty minutes picking his brain about each of the pictures, each of his subjects, and how he was able to do all of this amazing work.
The pictures completely haunted me all day the next day, and then I went back the following day--the day I left--to buy a bunch of postcards of the pictures (and though the postcards are lovely, they simply do not do justice to the work). The Dutch man made me a cappuccino and we sat and chatted for awhile. He talked about the fact that he does commercial and high fashion photography in order to support his family, as his artistic work does not bring in the money, which is just so unfortunate (but a familiar tale of woe for many talented artists). He also talked about photography as an agent of social change, and he has taught photography to impoverished youth in big cities and rural areas as a way of helping them to truly LOOK at the world around them and observe their own transformational power within it. He was interested in starting a sort of photography "school," and told me about some of the other exciting projects that expats and locals were doing in Luang Prabang to help increase the life chances of children. I just sipped my cappuccino and looked at the faces on the wall and just felt like the world is pretty freakin' amazing.
I have to go to work now, and there is a TON that must be done before my contract ends in just over two weeks. I am stressed and frazzled, and the fact that I lost a bunch of important files the other day due to a virus on my USB drive really didn't help matters. I know that everything will get done, and I've mapped out a nifty (if packed) little road map for it all, but I can't help but wish I could be back in Luang Prabang, ambling along the muddy vein of the Mekong, taking pictures of flowers, and feeling completely and utterly at ease.
Lesson of the day: Get in touch with that relative. I started writing to my grandfather again several months before he passed away, and I'm glad that I did.
Alrighty......
Luang Prabang reminded me quite a bit of Ubud in Bali. Both places have a ton of hippie backpacking tourists with really intense BO who are all about the local beer and have massive collections of stringy bracelets. Both places have incredibly charming spas, restaurants, and quaint-but-overpriced shops that charge five times as much for an item that you can get at a market for a song. Both places are rich in history and cultural offerings and amazing textiles, and, in spite of being a haven for tourists, both places maintain their absolute authenticity, their unique footprints in the world. They are unequivocally themselves, and in both places I found myself feeling breezy and blissful and like life could just not possibly get any better.
Luang Prabang is great in that you can really see the whole thing in about a day/day and a half, so you don't need to be running around with your nose in your guidebook, checking things off of your packed itinerary while also learning about the history and culture and language and current events in order to make the most of your time. And believe me--I loooove to travel that way as well. However, since I had three days in Luang Prabang and could easily check off all items on my itinerary, it left time for some unexpected little treats.
I talked to a lot of people--from novice monks to ancient hilltribe women to fascinating expats--and one of the most fascinating was an older Dutch gentleman who is married to and has a baby with a Lao woman, and I happened to meet him by pure chance. I didn't pack any books for this trip, as I didn't want anything to distract me from writing in my journal, but as I headed back from the night market that first night I found myself wanting to read something mindless. I hopped into a little restaurant/gallery that has a book exchange (Luang Prabang has a ton of places where you can exchange books, which is awesome and much appreciated by the hippie backpacker crowd), picked up a book about ghost stories, and turned my attention to the photos on the walls. I have always been a fan of photography, but for some reason have become even moreso since living in Asia. There are just so many opportunities for incredible pictures, and the pictures on the wall were an absolute work of genius. There were pictures of hilltribe women in their full regalia, pictures of fishermen casting their nets on the Mekong in the hazy early morning hours, pictures of an opium addict indulging his habit with a boyish oops-I've-been-naughty look on his face. These were like pictures out of National Geographic, except even more raw and human and beautiful. The owner of the gallery--the Dutch man--approached me (wiggly baby in tow) and said that he had taken the pictures. I then spent the next thirty minutes picking his brain about each of the pictures, each of his subjects, and how he was able to do all of this amazing work.
The pictures completely haunted me all day the next day, and then I went back the following day--the day I left--to buy a bunch of postcards of the pictures (and though the postcards are lovely, they simply do not do justice to the work). The Dutch man made me a cappuccino and we sat and chatted for awhile. He talked about the fact that he does commercial and high fashion photography in order to support his family, as his artistic work does not bring in the money, which is just so unfortunate (but a familiar tale of woe for many talented artists). He also talked about photography as an agent of social change, and he has taught photography to impoverished youth in big cities and rural areas as a way of helping them to truly LOOK at the world around them and observe their own transformational power within it. He was interested in starting a sort of photography "school," and told me about some of the other exciting projects that expats and locals were doing in Luang Prabang to help increase the life chances of children. I just sipped my cappuccino and looked at the faces on the wall and just felt like the world is pretty freakin' amazing.
I have to go to work now, and there is a TON that must be done before my contract ends in just over two weeks. I am stressed and frazzled, and the fact that I lost a bunch of important files the other day due to a virus on my USB drive really didn't help matters. I know that everything will get done, and I've mapped out a nifty (if packed) little road map for it all, but I can't help but wish I could be back in Luang Prabang, ambling along the muddy vein of the Mekong, taking pictures of flowers, and feeling completely and utterly at ease.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Heaven on Earth
You know those moments of pure, unfiltered happiness and awe when you're like, "Holy crap, is this really my life?" That's kinda what Luang Prabang has been like. It has been perfection, perfection, perfection. This place is heaven on earth. I have exactly zero desire to leave tomorrow.
I'm in a crowded internet cafe filled with unshowered travelers (um, myself included), and it is starting to smell like feet. I am therefore going to keep this short.
I will post more upon my return (though the next two weeks are gonna be hell on earth with everything that needs to be accomplished), but I just wanted to go on record as saying that this has been a truly delicious trip, and I want to remember this feeling and these images forever.
I'm in a crowded internet cafe filled with unshowered travelers (um, myself included), and it is starting to smell like feet. I am therefore going to keep this short.
I will post more upon my return (though the next two weeks are gonna be hell on earth with everything that needs to be accomplished), but I just wanted to go on record as saying that this has been a truly delicious trip, and I want to remember this feeling and these images forever.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Weeks
The time that I have left in Thailand can now be measured out in weeks, which is so strange, because there were many times when I felt like it would never, ever end. That there were just these huge, gaping expanses of time that seemed like they would just...go on...forever. By the way, this has been both a good thing and a bad thing at times (though more often than not a GOOD thing). And now....I have three more weeks of work left, after which Peter and I will be traveling to Vietnam and Chiang Mai, and then it's back to the U.S. for good.
I am feeling strangely at ease with everything. I still have quite a few loose ends to tie up at work, I have some specific purchases to make for myself before I go, and I want to to a whole lotta gift shopping. I need to finish some scrapbooks and make sure that my pen and paper journals are all updated so that all of my little adventures are documented, I need to finish my online class for my 45 clock hours of SEI training in order to keep my AZ certificate valid (which has been a HUGE pain in the ass), I need to visit Ayutthaya and maybe do one more beach trip, and, um, I need to FIND A JOB (the whole job search process has been a lot more complicated than I had anticipated, but something will work out), but I am feeling calm about it.
I am feeling very sad, but I also have a wonderful sated feeling. I think part of it is because, once my loose ends are tied up, I will have accomplished everything I set out to do, seen everything I wanted to see, done mostly everything I wanted to do (I would need ten lifetimes to REALLY do everything I wanted to do), and then some. I did not finish my memoir (there's time for that later) or learn Thai (yeah, I kinda gave up on that one....), and LORD KNOWS this experience has had its massive, massive, gut-wrenching imperfections, but one thing that I have realized is that you don't learn nearly as much when things are easy from start to finish. As Peter told me on the phone the other night, if you are not making mistakes, you are not challenging yourself enough.
I'm off to Luang Prabang, Laos, in an hour. This trip is significant for three reasons: 1.) It's the first trip where I actually took a day off of work in order to extend it, 2.) It's a place I've been DYING to see for so long, and 3.) With the exception of my Ayutthaya trip and possible beach jaunt, it's my final solo journey. After this, all of my trips will be with Peter.
I don't think I can really fully prepare myself for how much my life is going to change in the next few months, but I really feel ready for anything. And for now, I'm going to go buy some textiles (though I reeeeally don't need more stuff to ship back to the U.S., so I will try to restrain myself....but, textiles! Hand woven! As part of a rich cultural tradition! Yay!), eat some baguettes, visit some temples, and enjoy my final moments of alone time before beginning life as part of a cohabitating couple.
I'll write about my trip upon my return!
I am feeling strangely at ease with everything. I still have quite a few loose ends to tie up at work, I have some specific purchases to make for myself before I go, and I want to to a whole lotta gift shopping. I need to finish some scrapbooks and make sure that my pen and paper journals are all updated so that all of my little adventures are documented, I need to finish my online class for my 45 clock hours of SEI training in order to keep my AZ certificate valid (which has been a HUGE pain in the ass), I need to visit Ayutthaya and maybe do one more beach trip, and, um, I need to FIND A JOB (the whole job search process has been a lot more complicated than I had anticipated, but something will work out), but I am feeling calm about it.
I am feeling very sad, but I also have a wonderful sated feeling. I think part of it is because, once my loose ends are tied up, I will have accomplished everything I set out to do, seen everything I wanted to see, done mostly everything I wanted to do (I would need ten lifetimes to REALLY do everything I wanted to do), and then some. I did not finish my memoir (there's time for that later) or learn Thai (yeah, I kinda gave up on that one....), and LORD KNOWS this experience has had its massive, massive, gut-wrenching imperfections, but one thing that I have realized is that you don't learn nearly as much when things are easy from start to finish. As Peter told me on the phone the other night, if you are not making mistakes, you are not challenging yourself enough.
I'm off to Luang Prabang, Laos, in an hour. This trip is significant for three reasons: 1.) It's the first trip where I actually took a day off of work in order to extend it, 2.) It's a place I've been DYING to see for so long, and 3.) With the exception of my Ayutthaya trip and possible beach jaunt, it's my final solo journey. After this, all of my trips will be with Peter.
I don't think I can really fully prepare myself for how much my life is going to change in the next few months, but I really feel ready for anything. And for now, I'm going to go buy some textiles (though I reeeeally don't need more stuff to ship back to the U.S., so I will try to restrain myself....but, textiles! Hand woven! As part of a rich cultural tradition! Yay!), eat some baguettes, visit some temples, and enjoy my final moments of alone time before beginning life as part of a cohabitating couple.
I'll write about my trip upon my return!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Plague
We had a meeting today to discuss possible school closure due to swine flu. This meeting took considerably longer than usual on account of having to pause every time the roll o' thunder that is my horrific hacking cough emanated from my mouth. After reviewing a comprehensive list of swine flu symptoms, my coworkers eyed me suspiciously and then suggested that I go see the doctor. While backing away slowly. And spraying the air around me with disinfectant.
No worries...there is no swine flu wreaking havoc on my immune system. Just your garden variety chest infection. In any case I've been ordered to wear a medical mask whenever I venture out in public and the doctor gave me a nifty stay-at-home note that I cashed in for the afternoon. I'm supposed to stay at home tomorrow also, but sadly there is just no time for that. In any case, it is an interesting experience walking around in a mask while hacking violently. People give you a wide berth. As I was walking through the breezeway of my condo behind another woman (and, of course, coughing with great alacrity), she turned around to check whether it was a human or a wild boar behind her, and when she saw my mask her eyes became saucers and she stepped up the pace. That is not a reaction that I am used to receiving, and the fact that I was able to make a Thai person increase her gait means that I am probably pretty as a postcard right about now. This comes just after my face has finished healing from getting my freckle infestation lasered off two weeks ago (I'll post pictures soon...it was totally gnarly....). So I can't quite get a break.
In other news, this past weekend found me on a wild goose chase for belly dance costumage, yay for sparkly metal bras and beaded skirts, to a place that my belly dance teacher called "Nana Plaza." I found a place called "Nana Square," and I did not see a belly dance costume shop there (though it's possible it was closed). I asked around, but of course, no one had any idea what I was saying, and gesturing to my undulating belly was not helping matters either. I finally found someone who spoke a little English, and I asked where Nana Plaza was, as surely I must not be in the correct place if my store was not here. She took me outside and pointed across the street. "Nana Plaza is there, behind the Singha sign. But," she said as she placed a well-meaning hand on my shoulder, "I don't think you will find your store there." I just chalked it up to the language barrier, thanked her, and let my optimism be my guide.
Nana Plaza is not a place you want to be. It is filled with bars, which are filled with creepy farang men and neon signs flashing "pretty pretty lady," and "strip show," and there are stilettos and skirts hiked up around the hoo ha as far as the eye can see, and seedy rooms with darkened windows above the whole electric scene. I became disoriented and sunk mid-calf into a puddle of filthy rainwater. Yeah, there was clearly not a belly dance costume shop in sight, though I can understand why the undulating belly would have confused people as to my intention.
It never ceases to amaze me how Bangkok can be so painfully beautiful until you make a wrong turn, and BAM! Its unsavory underbelly rolls over and suns itself. This place is filled with endless nooks and crannies, endless mystery, endless things to see. There are so many incredible, incredible details. Girly bars notwithstanding, I am going to miss these details tremendously.
No worries...there is no swine flu wreaking havoc on my immune system. Just your garden variety chest infection. In any case I've been ordered to wear a medical mask whenever I venture out in public and the doctor gave me a nifty stay-at-home note that I cashed in for the afternoon. I'm supposed to stay at home tomorrow also, but sadly there is just no time for that. In any case, it is an interesting experience walking around in a mask while hacking violently. People give you a wide berth. As I was walking through the breezeway of my condo behind another woman (and, of course, coughing with great alacrity), she turned around to check whether it was a human or a wild boar behind her, and when she saw my mask her eyes became saucers and she stepped up the pace. That is not a reaction that I am used to receiving, and the fact that I was able to make a Thai person increase her gait means that I am probably pretty as a postcard right about now. This comes just after my face has finished healing from getting my freckle infestation lasered off two weeks ago (I'll post pictures soon...it was totally gnarly....). So I can't quite get a break.
In other news, this past weekend found me on a wild goose chase for belly dance costumage, yay for sparkly metal bras and beaded skirts, to a place that my belly dance teacher called "Nana Plaza." I found a place called "Nana Square," and I did not see a belly dance costume shop there (though it's possible it was closed). I asked around, but of course, no one had any idea what I was saying, and gesturing to my undulating belly was not helping matters either. I finally found someone who spoke a little English, and I asked where Nana Plaza was, as surely I must not be in the correct place if my store was not here. She took me outside and pointed across the street. "Nana Plaza is there, behind the Singha sign. But," she said as she placed a well-meaning hand on my shoulder, "I don't think you will find your store there." I just chalked it up to the language barrier, thanked her, and let my optimism be my guide.
Nana Plaza is not a place you want to be. It is filled with bars, which are filled with creepy farang men and neon signs flashing "pretty pretty lady," and "strip show," and there are stilettos and skirts hiked up around the hoo ha as far as the eye can see, and seedy rooms with darkened windows above the whole electric scene. I became disoriented and sunk mid-calf into a puddle of filthy rainwater. Yeah, there was clearly not a belly dance costume shop in sight, though I can understand why the undulating belly would have confused people as to my intention.
It never ceases to amaze me how Bangkok can be so painfully beautiful until you make a wrong turn, and BAM! Its unsavory underbelly rolls over and suns itself. This place is filled with endless nooks and crannies, endless mystery, endless things to see. There are so many incredible, incredible details. Girly bars notwithstanding, I am going to miss these details tremendously.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Forever Young
Tuesday is Max's birthday. He would have been 27. It's been almost nine months since his death, and the pain of it is still so raw and searing. Since Max's death our group of friends has become close once again (though the magic of Facebook!), exchanging our typical loving and caustic banter and planning reunions. But I miss them, I miss Max, and even though I have made so many fabulous friendships and had so many fabulous experiences in the years since leaving Phoenix, I think I will always be haunted by the fleeting perfection of that time, that group of friends, that level of absolute trust and love and comfort.
While the title of this post may seem a bit cliche and cheesy, I chose it because it reminds me of one particular moment that I will remember forever. We had been up in Springerville, where Max was from (and the site of many happy memories), for Memorial Day weekend. It had been an absolutely incredible weekend of escape from Phoenix's inferno and white hot skies. We drank lattes made with Mexican chocolate, cured our hangovers at Max's grandmother's restaurant, were overwhelmed by the amount of stars we could see, and passed out on air mattresses. None of us wanted to leave, and I had even gone for a run to further delay our departure (side note: running in high altitude locales is not terribly pleasant if you are not used to the oxygen deprivation). As the sun started to set we finally said our goodbyes to Max (who was staying up there for the summer to work at his grandmother's restaurant) and piled into our cars.
I rode back with my friends A. and B. and their bulldog, Eleanor. A. drove slowly as she navigated the winding mountain roads and watched for elk, and the trees were a blue-black blur under the impossible banner of stars overhead. We listened to a mix that A. had made, and when "Forever Young" came on we did our best Napoleon Dynamite impressions, and then things got quiet for a little while. Eleanor had plopped her wrinkly head on my lap, and I remember feeling like it was an absolutely perfect moment. It was one of those moments that I will look back on when I'm old and decrepit and I can think about how I had weekends in the mountains with friends whom I loved, and how our lives felt like they stretched ahead of us as far as the eye could see, like mountain roads framed by stars.
I don't think any of us could possibly conceptualize how much our lives would change after that. We flocked to all corners of the globe, went through break-ups, changed careers, found true love, grew up. None of us could have possibly imagined that we would have to say goodbye to Max.
I remember his birthday three years ago. I had gone with Andrew to the Mexican supermarket, where I had to serve as translator as we purchased a pinata, princess decorations, balloons, and all of the ingredients for carne asada fajitas and homemade salsa and guacamole. We drank and drank and drank (K. had brought some rather potent to-kill-ya that was so smooth it was like drinking water) and gathered the candy from the broken pinata. Max was drinking beer out of his gigantic beer stein and fell on top of A. when he was showing us his Lord of the Dance moves.
(Alcohol and Lord of the Dance moves are not a good combination)
Our darling, darling Max. You are missed. I will be joining my Phoenix friends in drinking a memorial cocktail at 5 p.m. on Tuesday (though, um, I will be drinking mine twelve hours earlier than they will), and celebrating some incredible memories.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Rainy Day in Yangon
Let me just start off by saying that life is SO FREAKIN' GOOD. I am truly loving life, and savoring all of my remaining time here.
Part of the reason why life is so good is that I am basking in the wonderful afterglow of my second trip to Myanmar. Now, Myanmar is a tricky and controversial place to write about, and I realize that by doing so I will possibly open myself up to some attacks. However, I also feel like if I can help raise even an ounce of awareness about this beautiful, sacred, and troubled place, that any negative backlash will be well worth it.
Sule Pagoda--the temple right smack dab in the middle of a traffic circle. Around its perimeter are a variety of shops and fortune tellers.
For starters, even the NAME of the country is tricky. Most governments--including the US--do not recognize the name Myanmar (as it was the name selected by the military junta), and instead continue to refer to the country as Burma, which is the name that the British gave it. However, I prefer to refer to it as Myanmar, as even though calling it this does somehow "give credit" to the evil junta, it is quite simply the name by which locals have referred to the country for several centuries. The British named the country Burma after its largest ethnic group. However, this name serves to exclude the other multitudes of ethnic groups that call Myanmar home. Myanmar is in a sense a unifying name that acknowledges all ethnic groups, and out of respect for those living there who prefer to call it Myanmar, that is the name that I shall use throughout the entirety of this blog post.
Rambutan. So freakin' good...
Aesthetically speaking, Yangon is by far the most beautiful city in Asia. It has an elegant, old world, charming European veneer to it, but its essence and flavor is distinctly Asian. It is the only place I've visited where both the men and the women wear sarongs around their waists (though the men tie theirs differently than the women. They leave a corner of the sarong hanging in front, which, I've been told, is, um, a phallic symbol...). The cheeks of the women there are smeared with a thick, white powder--part make-up, part sunblock, part moisturizer--which is made from the bark of the thanakha tree and mixed with perfume. There is a copious amount of greenery there--trees and shrubs and gardens and big, leafy, tropical plants--that you don't see in other cities (granted, Hong Kong also has a lot of greenery, but it is mainly in the posh residential areas. In Yangon, it's everywhere). The monks are ubiquitous, walking around in their burgundy robes, coating the air with calm.
Monks at Shwedagon Pagoda
What you do not see there are tourists. Last time I was there I saw a few, though they were mainly older Europeans on guided tours. This time my flight from Bangkok was basically empty, and I stood out like a compound fracture. Last time the line in the Myanmar Embassy in Bangkok took hours, and it gave me an opportunity to bond with my fellow travelers. This time I was in and out of there in no time, and the lack of friendly strangers provided me with an opportunity to see just how truly depressing the Embassy is.
Anyway.....
City Hall. I LOVE this building!
There are several reasons for the lack of tourists. One, people make a conscious choice to boycott Myanmar. Aung San Suu Kyi has asked tourists not to go to Myanmar, and several pro-boycott groups have stated that visiting Myanmar is seen as essentially condoning the evil military government, as visa fees, the departure tax, and entry fees to certain places (such as Shwedagon Pagoda) all go directly to the government. Two, people are scared to visit a place with such a violent past (and, um, present) and so much unrest.
With Aung San Suu Kyi's current **BULLSHIT** trial (Dear John William Yettaw: You are NOT the kind of friend that Myanmar needs. Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us, AND for screwing over the very person that "God" supposedly summoned you to help), I am sure that more people will be inclined to stay away. That is certainly understandable. However, there are also those of us on the other side of the argument. Namely, those of us who are pro-tourism, as long as it is done properly, respectfully, and with a significant amount of preparation. Those tourists who insist on guided tours, or who are going to only visit the Shwedagon Pagoda and ride around in an air-conditioned taxi without interacting with the local people and seeing what their lives are like shouldn't bother coming.
(As soon as I took that picture, a soldier LITERALLY jumped out of the bushes, blew his whistle, and began gesticulating wildly. Apparently I wasn't supposed to be taking a picture of that building. Common sense is also telling me that maybe I shouldn't post it on my blog either....????)
The people in Myanmar are beyond lovely. They are warm and friendly and want to practice their English and ask about life in America. The oppression is palpable, and the poverty crippling. They are not able to speak freely (and, as a note to any potential visitors to Yangon, DO NOT ask the locals questions about the government or engage in any sort of political discussion WHATSOEVER. Seriously, these soldiers are IN THE BUSHES...), and they are severely limited in their access to educational and informational resources. And yet there's a hunger, a curiosity, an unapologetic "go-with-the-flow"-ness that is absolutely pervasive and unlike anywhere else. I got meditation tips from monks, talked about The Godfather with university students (which, um, I have never seen in its entirety...apparently this is some sort of sacrilege to die-hard fans), and tried to peel my eyes away from the betel nut-stained mouths of my interlocutors. I got my fortune read (apparently I shouldn't swim in rivers) and gladly spread my money around purchasing lacquer ware and charcoal drawings made by local artisans. And, of course, I visited the Shwedagon Pagoda--an awe-inspiring sight that is part temple, part local hangout. The energy there is both ebullient and reverent.
The central stupa of Shwedagon Pagoda, which, according to legend, houses eight actual hairs from the Buddha
A lack of tourism (again, as long as tourists are independent, well-researched, and well-prepared...) hurts the private sector much more than the government. Many pro-democracy leaders have stated that isolation is the last thing that Myanmar needs. Myanmar needs to be a part of the world, part of the international dialogue. It is appalling that a government like this is allowed to exist. It is an unspeakable crime that the people there have to live in constant fear, and some must participate in forced labor. The only way that people are going to pay attention to Myanmar is if its shroud of secrecy is removed, and if they are willing to look beneath the gold leaf mirage to the beating, bleeding, tortured soul of this place that is comprised of unearthly beauty and an impossible warmth.
I don't plan on shutting up about Myanmar anytime soon.
For more information and ways that you can get involved, check out this site (which is permanently posted in my sidebar):
U.S. Campaign for Burma
Part of the reason why life is so good is that I am basking in the wonderful afterglow of my second trip to Myanmar. Now, Myanmar is a tricky and controversial place to write about, and I realize that by doing so I will possibly open myself up to some attacks. However, I also feel like if I can help raise even an ounce of awareness about this beautiful, sacred, and troubled place, that any negative backlash will be well worth it.
Sule Pagoda--the temple right smack dab in the middle of a traffic circle. Around its perimeter are a variety of shops and fortune tellers.
For starters, even the NAME of the country is tricky. Most governments--including the US--do not recognize the name Myanmar (as it was the name selected by the military junta), and instead continue to refer to the country as Burma, which is the name that the British gave it. However, I prefer to refer to it as Myanmar, as even though calling it this does somehow "give credit" to the evil junta, it is quite simply the name by which locals have referred to the country for several centuries. The British named the country Burma after its largest ethnic group. However, this name serves to exclude the other multitudes of ethnic groups that call Myanmar home. Myanmar is in a sense a unifying name that acknowledges all ethnic groups, and out of respect for those living there who prefer to call it Myanmar, that is the name that I shall use throughout the entirety of this blog post.
Rambutan. So freakin' good...
Aesthetically speaking, Yangon is by far the most beautiful city in Asia. It has an elegant, old world, charming European veneer to it, but its essence and flavor is distinctly Asian. It is the only place I've visited where both the men and the women wear sarongs around their waists (though the men tie theirs differently than the women. They leave a corner of the sarong hanging in front, which, I've been told, is, um, a phallic symbol...). The cheeks of the women there are smeared with a thick, white powder--part make-up, part sunblock, part moisturizer--which is made from the bark of the thanakha tree and mixed with perfume. There is a copious amount of greenery there--trees and shrubs and gardens and big, leafy, tropical plants--that you don't see in other cities (granted, Hong Kong also has a lot of greenery, but it is mainly in the posh residential areas. In Yangon, it's everywhere). The monks are ubiquitous, walking around in their burgundy robes, coating the air with calm.
Monks at Shwedagon Pagoda
What you do not see there are tourists. Last time I was there I saw a few, though they were mainly older Europeans on guided tours. This time my flight from Bangkok was basically empty, and I stood out like a compound fracture. Last time the line in the Myanmar Embassy in Bangkok took hours, and it gave me an opportunity to bond with my fellow travelers. This time I was in and out of there in no time, and the lack of friendly strangers provided me with an opportunity to see just how truly depressing the Embassy is.
Anyway.....
City Hall. I LOVE this building!
There are several reasons for the lack of tourists. One, people make a conscious choice to boycott Myanmar. Aung San Suu Kyi has asked tourists not to go to Myanmar, and several pro-boycott groups have stated that visiting Myanmar is seen as essentially condoning the evil military government, as visa fees, the departure tax, and entry fees to certain places (such as Shwedagon Pagoda) all go directly to the government. Two, people are scared to visit a place with such a violent past (and, um, present) and so much unrest.
With Aung San Suu Kyi's current **BULLSHIT** trial (Dear John William Yettaw: You are NOT the kind of friend that Myanmar needs. Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us, AND for screwing over the very person that "God" supposedly summoned you to help), I am sure that more people will be inclined to stay away. That is certainly understandable. However, there are also those of us on the other side of the argument. Namely, those of us who are pro-tourism, as long as it is done properly, respectfully, and with a significant amount of preparation. Those tourists who insist on guided tours, or who are going to only visit the Shwedagon Pagoda and ride around in an air-conditioned taxi without interacting with the local people and seeing what their lives are like shouldn't bother coming.
(As soon as I took that picture, a soldier LITERALLY jumped out of the bushes, blew his whistle, and began gesticulating wildly. Apparently I wasn't supposed to be taking a picture of that building. Common sense is also telling me that maybe I shouldn't post it on my blog either....????)
The people in Myanmar are beyond lovely. They are warm and friendly and want to practice their English and ask about life in America. The oppression is palpable, and the poverty crippling. They are not able to speak freely (and, as a note to any potential visitors to Yangon, DO NOT ask the locals questions about the government or engage in any sort of political discussion WHATSOEVER. Seriously, these soldiers are IN THE BUSHES...), and they are severely limited in their access to educational and informational resources. And yet there's a hunger, a curiosity, an unapologetic "go-with-the-flow"-ness that is absolutely pervasive and unlike anywhere else. I got meditation tips from monks, talked about The Godfather with university students (which, um, I have never seen in its entirety...apparently this is some sort of sacrilege to die-hard fans), and tried to peel my eyes away from the betel nut-stained mouths of my interlocutors. I got my fortune read (apparently I shouldn't swim in rivers) and gladly spread my money around purchasing lacquer ware and charcoal drawings made by local artisans. And, of course, I visited the Shwedagon Pagoda--an awe-inspiring sight that is part temple, part local hangout. The energy there is both ebullient and reverent.
The central stupa of Shwedagon Pagoda, which, according to legend, houses eight actual hairs from the Buddha
A lack of tourism (again, as long as tourists are independent, well-researched, and well-prepared...) hurts the private sector much more than the government. Many pro-democracy leaders have stated that isolation is the last thing that Myanmar needs. Myanmar needs to be a part of the world, part of the international dialogue. It is appalling that a government like this is allowed to exist. It is an unspeakable crime that the people there have to live in constant fear, and some must participate in forced labor. The only way that people are going to pay attention to Myanmar is if its shroud of secrecy is removed, and if they are willing to look beneath the gold leaf mirage to the beating, bleeding, tortured soul of this place that is comprised of unearthly beauty and an impossible warmth.
I don't plan on shutting up about Myanmar anytime soon.
For more information and ways that you can get involved, check out this site (which is permanently posted in my sidebar):
U.S. Campaign for Burma
Friday, May 15, 2009
Holy Crap....
It just occurred to me that my last day of work here in Thailand is exactly TWO MONTHS from yesterday. There is an entire cosmos of actions that must be completed between now and then, and I really don't know how it is all gonna happen. I'm still trying to finish my journal entries from my Hong Kong trip while I also plan for my upcoming trip to Burma. I'm also trying to scrapbook and finally, FINALLY upload some pictures onto Picasa/Facebook, and even on here, which I will hopefully do this weekend. I also have to ship about a gazillion more packages and somehow save enough money to transition from here back to the U.S. I have to get a billion massages ('cause, oh man am I gonna miss those) and put the finishing touches on the preschool curriculum.
Posts about previous and future travels coming soon!
Posts about previous and future travels coming soon!
Dear California,
Dear California,
I apologize for what I said before. I didn't mean it. I was just upset. The fact of the matter is that you are going to make it very easy for me to not only become fully certified in your fair state, but to become a reading specialist as well. Becoming a reading specialist is my dream job--I get to work with curriculum, struggling readers, AND provide professional development to teachers--and I am so very thankful that you are willing to fully accept and embrace my Arizona teaching certificate AND reading endorsement without making me jump through that oh so firey hoop of student teaching. I am glad that you can make it easy for dedicated teachers such as myself who completed Teach For America instead of a traditional teaching program. And, just so you know that I am giving credit where credit is due, it should be known that Arizona has made it very easy for me to acquire a reading specialist endorsement (I sent a lovely fruit basket to Arizona yesterday).
Now, Massachusetts is no friend of mine. MA has Harvard and a lot of famous dead white men, and certainly our country would not be what it is today were it not for MA. However, they are just jerks jerks jerks when it comes to teacher certification. Not like you, CA. Plus, your Commission on Teacher Credentialing folks are much more friendly and laid back than the DOE folks in BOTH AZ and MA. I envision them as wearing Birkenstocks underneath their corporate-looking cubicle desks and driving Subarus with bumper stickers that encourage recycling.
Thank you for having the largest population of non-native English speakers in the U.S. Thank you for all of your outdoorsy goodness. Also, thank you for providing a home for this dance company. As soon as Peter and I get settled in San Francisco we plan on producing copious amounts of blue-eyed, California-loving offspring who can grow up to become upstanding taxpayers, and who will enjoy helping to clean up your beaches and forests in their spare time.
Love,
Brooke
I apologize for what I said before. I didn't mean it. I was just upset. The fact of the matter is that you are going to make it very easy for me to not only become fully certified in your fair state, but to become a reading specialist as well. Becoming a reading specialist is my dream job--I get to work with curriculum, struggling readers, AND provide professional development to teachers--and I am so very thankful that you are willing to fully accept and embrace my Arizona teaching certificate AND reading endorsement without making me jump through that oh so firey hoop of student teaching. I am glad that you can make it easy for dedicated teachers such as myself who completed Teach For America instead of a traditional teaching program. And, just so you know that I am giving credit where credit is due, it should be known that Arizona has made it very easy for me to acquire a reading specialist endorsement (I sent a lovely fruit basket to Arizona yesterday).
Now, Massachusetts is no friend of mine. MA has Harvard and a lot of famous dead white men, and certainly our country would not be what it is today were it not for MA. However, they are just jerks jerks jerks when it comes to teacher certification. Not like you, CA. Plus, your Commission on Teacher Credentialing folks are much more friendly and laid back than the DOE folks in BOTH AZ and MA. I envision them as wearing Birkenstocks underneath their corporate-looking cubicle desks and driving Subarus with bumper stickers that encourage recycling.
Thank you for having the largest population of non-native English speakers in the U.S. Thank you for all of your outdoorsy goodness. Also, thank you for providing a home for this dance company. As soon as Peter and I get settled in San Francisco we plan on producing copious amounts of blue-eyed, California-loving offspring who can grow up to become upstanding taxpayers, and who will enjoy helping to clean up your beaches and forests in their spare time.
Love,
Brooke
Saturday, May 9, 2009
SpecRACKular
I'm feeling oddly sentimental today (well, who am I kidding, if you've read my blog for more than un second you would know that I am a sentimental sap through and through), and after sending a partially weepy e-mail to Kellyn--a fantastic wife, mother, and human being who is also about to be a first-time homeowner, and who was also my sidekick in many (mis)adventures in high school--about the fact that we are becoming grownups, I took a dazed stroll around my condo.
For the first six months that I lived in my condo, it did not in any way resemble home. It was huge and dusty with industrial strength lighting and eye-frying white walls. It echoed strangely, and I was locked out of all of the other rooms. When I had friends over for a dinner party, everyone was highly amused by my lack of decor, as were various sets of visitors. But it didn't feel like home, I was reminded in not so subtle ways by the owners that it wasn't REALLY my home, so I didn't bother nesting.
It's certainly no secret that Peter had wanted me to come back to the U.S. after one year instead of completing my two year contract. It's understandable why he would want this, especially given the fact that things had not, well, gone EXACTLY as I had hoped out here. However, I also knew that I had to stay. That there was something bigger than me pulling the strings in all of this. Over the summer when he (and two of my best friends from grad school) came to visit, I told him this. He hugged me and kissed me and told me he would wait for me. Then, he looked around my condo and said, "Let's see what we can do about making you feel more at home here."
He got to work hanging the pictures that he had bought for me in Cambodia, and covering vast sections of white wall with batik sarongs from Bali. He assembled my paper lamps, hung up some fabulous string lights, and bought me a hanging picture frame where I could put pictures of my nieces.
My friends Cayla and JJ gave me their plumeria tree when they left Thailand to return to the States. I have a bit of what you might call a "toxic thumb" with plants, and I had bet that within in a few months I would have figured out a way to kill the poor, beautiful thing. During the fall and winter it had lost all of its leaves and flowers, and I was pretty sure it was dead. I stopped watering it and tried to figure out a way to dispose of it (and by "tried to figure out" I mean I stood there with my hands on my hips feeling guilty and then thinking to myself "I should find a way to dispose of this dead tree" before shrugging and going back inside). Then, in recent weeks it began blooming again. It had miraculously come back to life. OH, THE METAPHOR. I could not make this stuff up if I tried.
As I was watering it last night I remembered that Peter had ridden through the streets of Bangkok in the back of a pick up truck to hold the tree steady while we transported it from Cayla and JJ's place to mine. The next day he also bought me a drying rack so that I wouldn't have to drape my wet clothes all over the living room furniture.
Sometimes true love and romance is all about violins and fireworks and gazing deeply into each other's eyes. And trust me, there is PLENTY of the above. However, sometimes you know that someone is The One because of a drying rack. And even though Peter has been on the other side of the world from me for two years, waiting patiently for me, he's also always been right here.
For the first six months that I lived in my condo, it did not in any way resemble home. It was huge and dusty with industrial strength lighting and eye-frying white walls. It echoed strangely, and I was locked out of all of the other rooms. When I had friends over for a dinner party, everyone was highly amused by my lack of decor, as were various sets of visitors. But it didn't feel like home, I was reminded in not so subtle ways by the owners that it wasn't REALLY my home, so I didn't bother nesting.
It's certainly no secret that Peter had wanted me to come back to the U.S. after one year instead of completing my two year contract. It's understandable why he would want this, especially given the fact that things had not, well, gone EXACTLY as I had hoped out here. However, I also knew that I had to stay. That there was something bigger than me pulling the strings in all of this. Over the summer when he (and two of my best friends from grad school) came to visit, I told him this. He hugged me and kissed me and told me he would wait for me. Then, he looked around my condo and said, "Let's see what we can do about making you feel more at home here."
He got to work hanging the pictures that he had bought for me in Cambodia, and covering vast sections of white wall with batik sarongs from Bali. He assembled my paper lamps, hung up some fabulous string lights, and bought me a hanging picture frame where I could put pictures of my nieces.
My friends Cayla and JJ gave me their plumeria tree when they left Thailand to return to the States. I have a bit of what you might call a "toxic thumb" with plants, and I had bet that within in a few months I would have figured out a way to kill the poor, beautiful thing. During the fall and winter it had lost all of its leaves and flowers, and I was pretty sure it was dead. I stopped watering it and tried to figure out a way to dispose of it (and by "tried to figure out" I mean I stood there with my hands on my hips feeling guilty and then thinking to myself "I should find a way to dispose of this dead tree" before shrugging and going back inside). Then, in recent weeks it began blooming again. It had miraculously come back to life. OH, THE METAPHOR. I could not make this stuff up if I tried.
As I was watering it last night I remembered that Peter had ridden through the streets of Bangkok in the back of a pick up truck to hold the tree steady while we transported it from Cayla and JJ's place to mine. The next day he also bought me a drying rack so that I wouldn't have to drape my wet clothes all over the living room furniture.
Sometimes true love and romance is all about violins and fireworks and gazing deeply into each other's eyes. And trust me, there is PLENTY of the above. However, sometimes you know that someone is The One because of a drying rack. And even though Peter has been on the other side of the world from me for two years, waiting patiently for me, he's also always been right here.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Overheard in Bangkok
Today at lunch I was sitting one table over from a French woman who was speaking on her mobile phone in beautifully accented English (seriously....I love the way French accents sound. My alter ego--the one I imagine myself to be whenever I happen to hit a rough patch--TOTALLY wears 20-eye boots and a leather corset and speaks with a French accent), and I couldn't help but overhear her conversation:
"Yes, I canceled my cable account last month, but I saw on my American Express card that you have just charged me for three more months. I would like you to remove the charges, as I should not be paying for an account that I no longer have............Yes, well, you see, I canceled my account last month and you have charged me for the next three months........No, I do not wish to pay you because I canceled my account...............Yes, you charged me for the next three months................No, I no longer have an account.............................I would like the charges removed.................No, I already canceled my account, I don't need to cancel it again............................"
Five minutes go by wherein the French woman is doing a lot of "yes....uh huh"-ing. And then:
"I canceled my account last month, but you have charged me for the next three months. I would like you to remove the charges, as I should not be paying for an account that I no longer have."
A wise man (or woman??)* once defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Sometimes, however, that is also the definition of an expat.
*Both Einstein and Benjamin Franklin have been credited with this quote, as has Rita Mae Brown.
"Yes, I canceled my cable account last month, but I saw on my American Express card that you have just charged me for three more months. I would like you to remove the charges, as I should not be paying for an account that I no longer have............Yes, well, you see, I canceled my account last month and you have charged me for the next three months........No, I do not wish to pay you because I canceled my account...............Yes, you charged me for the next three months................No, I no longer have an account.............................I would like the charges removed.................No, I already canceled my account, I don't need to cancel it again............................"
Five minutes go by wherein the French woman is doing a lot of "yes....uh huh"-ing. And then:
"I canceled my account last month, but you have charged me for the next three months. I would like you to remove the charges, as I should not be paying for an account that I no longer have."
A wise man (or woman??)* once defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. Sometimes, however, that is also the definition of an expat.
*Both Einstein and Benjamin Franklin have been credited with this quote, as has Rita Mae Brown.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Detour
Well, I have been Getting My Ass Handed To Me by departments of teacher certification in both Arizona and Massachusetts. The fact that I barely know how to spell Massachusetts, as indicated by the red line under my multiple tries, is perhaps the Universe's way of telling me that I shouldn't move there. I'm only joking when I say this, as MA DOES have this much going for it: the folks at the MDE don't yell at quite the decibel level that the folks at the ADE do.
Now, my time in Asia has taught me to go with the flow, that worrying is futile, and the only thing created by worrying is lines in one's forehead. I've learned how to have faith and know that everything always works out as it should. SO....to that effect, while my career may be veering frighteningly off course at breakneck speed for the time being, I have compiled a list of other possible professions that I can explore during this time of temporary road blocks:
-Beekeeper
-Telemarketer
-Burlesque dancer (not to be confused with stripper)
-Elevator operator
-One of the lost cosmonauts
-A participant in the wife carrying contest
By the way, the fact that the U.S. does not have universal teacher certification from state to state is an absolute crime. And California???? Don't get me started on California. I don't know who California thinks it is. No one is apparently good enough for it. It's sitting there on its west coast perch all, "Ooooo, just LOOK at my beautiful, frothy, glistening shoreline and abundant population of English language learners (I mention this because working with ELLs is my area of expertise and true passion in life). You wanna come here and teach?? Suck my redwoods, biatch!"
Forgive me. I worked for almost 13 hours today, and it is quite possible that the beer I smelled earlier in the lobby of my condo has actually succeeded in getting me drunk.
Any career suggestions/magic wands for making certificates appear out of thin air/talismans (talismans or talismen?? Doesn't it seem like it should be the latter?) for warding off evil department of education spirits would be greatly appreciated.
I'm gonna go sleep it off.
Now, my time in Asia has taught me to go with the flow, that worrying is futile, and the only thing created by worrying is lines in one's forehead. I've learned how to have faith and know that everything always works out as it should. SO....to that effect, while my career may be veering frighteningly off course at breakneck speed for the time being, I have compiled a list of other possible professions that I can explore during this time of temporary road blocks:
-Beekeeper
-Telemarketer
-Burlesque dancer (not to be confused with stripper)
-Elevator operator
-One of the lost cosmonauts
-A participant in the wife carrying contest
By the way, the fact that the U.S. does not have universal teacher certification from state to state is an absolute crime. And California???? Don't get me started on California. I don't know who California thinks it is. No one is apparently good enough for it. It's sitting there on its west coast perch all, "Ooooo, just LOOK at my beautiful, frothy, glistening shoreline and abundant population of English language learners (I mention this because working with ELLs is my area of expertise and true passion in life). You wanna come here and teach?? Suck my redwoods, biatch!"
Forgive me. I worked for almost 13 hours today, and it is quite possible that the beer I smelled earlier in the lobby of my condo has actually succeeded in getting me drunk.
Any career suggestions/magic wands for making certificates appear out of thin air/talismans (talismans or talismen?? Doesn't it seem like it should be the latter?) for warding off evil department of education spirits would be greatly appreciated.
I'm gonna go sleep it off.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Smoke
My final trip to Cambodia was, as usual, fantastic. I bought a bunch of clothing and DVDs, ate gourmet chocolate, drank passion fruit smoothies, hung out at the Foreign Correspondents' Club overlooking the river, and read a fabulous book in the sprawling garden of the hotel where I stayed. I also bought some really awesome jewelry from an NGO, and these very colorful pieces are made entirely out of trash. I soaked in Phnom Penh's quirky beauty, and the feeling of having stepped back in time to an entirely more classy and romantic era. I love love love it.
I noticed that people in Phnom Penh are constantly picking their noses and hocking loogies (yeah, I really have no idea how to spell that word....). Like, CONSTANTLY. At first I was puzzled by this, as I had never noticed that before. However, since this was my first visit where I didn't have a krama (Cambodian scarf) wrapped around my face each time I climbed into a tuk tuk, I realized that the air there is unbelievably grimy. It goes so far beyond just being polluted or dusty. You get a mouthful of soot that accompanies each breath, and the mucus in one's nose instantly springs to battle. While I was a bit more discreet about it than the locals, I found myself needing to clear out my nose constantly. It just doesn't seem fair that the air there is actually capable of leaving a stain.
I took a taxi to the airport, which had a very kind man with a gently lined face behind the wheel. And while I've read quite a bit about the history of Cambodia, and about the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge, I've never had the guts to ask anyone about it. It's not the kind of thing that, you know, comes up in conversation. But, well, I figured that this was my last chance.
I started by asking his age, and then did some quick mental math. He was about six years old when Phnom Penh fell, and he was more than willing to talk about his life during "Year Zero," which is what many Cambodians call the period from 1975-1979.
"I wore black clothes and had to work very hard, even as a young boy. And I cried every day because all we could eat was a bowl of water with a few grains of rice. I used to steal food from my parents because I was so hungry." He hung his head slightly. "I was a bad boy."
He went on to tell me about his oldest brother. All of his siblings were sent off to the labor camps--what he called the "work very hard camp"--and one day when his brother was working in the field he found a small fish or crab and stuck it in his pocket. One of the other boys from the labor camp saw this and told the guard. The guard apparently gave the standard lecture about sacrificing for Angka, never stealing from Angka, never lying to Angka, and that thieves must be punished. And then he shot him.
"But this is kind," my driver, Hen, went on. "The people that were killed in front of me were hit over the head with shovels or sticks until their skulls cracked. The Khmer Rouge soldiers didn't like to waste bullets."
He also sang for me one of the brainwashing songs that the Khmer Rouge soldiers taught the children. It was a sickeningly jaunty tune. I felt like my skin was on fire when I listened to it.
"So, do people still talk about what happened? Do they discuss the past?"
He told me that he and his friends would gather in coffee shops and talk about their experiences. He also said that most people his age, who had lived through those years (and he did point out that there is a large dip in population numbers of people above the age of thirty in Cambodia today), were very eager to see the Khmer Rouge leaders and soldiers brought to justice. The hearings have been happening over the last few years, but the money funding these trials always seems to run out. Other countries have donated money, he explained, but it somehow always ends up in the hands of corrupt politicians and not in the courtrooms.
"Soon these men will be too old. They will get old and die without having been punished," he said.
Our conversation then led us to the subject of education. He was pleased to hear that I am a teacher, and all he wants for his children is a good education. He told me that school in Cambodia is free, but that if his son does not bring 500 rial--just over 1 USD--to his teacher each day, that his teacher will not let him in the classroom.
"Teachers only make about 50 USD per month, so they charge the students." He shook his head. "If the government just paid teachers more instead of giving all of the money to corrupt politicians in their Mercedes, then my son wouldn't have to worry about paying his teacher each day, and he could just worry about his studies."
My head was spinning as I listened to him, as I watched the scenery go past me. I watched children playing in piles of garbage, and beggars without limbs sitting next to buckets, pleading limply into the air. Hen really had no trace of anger in his voice. He was very matter of fact, and even chuckled a bit at the fucked-upness of it all.
"Well, I love your country," I said in a high pitched voice because I was trying not to cry. I felt like a freakin' idiot. Some smiley idiot tourist with absolutely no conception of struggle or grief or difficulty or injustice. I felt a hot twinge in my chest and wondered, really, how much one place has to endure before the Powers That Be will lay off already. My face was all screwed up and I could feel Hen's compassionate (and puzzled) glance in the rearview mirror.
"Why, thank you!! I love Cambodia too!"
Earlier that day I had climbed to the top of Wat Phnom to give a final offering to the Buddha, staring at its compassionate face through the stinging smoke of my incense sticks (three, as is the custom) that I had clasped between my palms. I love the Khmer Buddhas. Their faces are so expressive, their lips are so full, their eyes hold the hint of a smile, their fingers are thick and bulky and look like they could handle a rice harvest. Don't get me wrong--I love the various styles of Thai and Laos Buddhas as well, but they are a bit more rigid and refined, with thinner fingers and tense mouths and expressions that are pure business. I feel completely comfortable gazing into the face of a Khmer Buddha. Like everything is just as it should be, and that cultivating a sense of humor is indeed a spiritual undertaking.
"I won't forget Cambodia," I whispered, sending the smoke into the air in chaotic curlicues.
I noticed that people in Phnom Penh are constantly picking their noses and hocking loogies (yeah, I really have no idea how to spell that word....). Like, CONSTANTLY. At first I was puzzled by this, as I had never noticed that before. However, since this was my first visit where I didn't have a krama (Cambodian scarf) wrapped around my face each time I climbed into a tuk tuk, I realized that the air there is unbelievably grimy. It goes so far beyond just being polluted or dusty. You get a mouthful of soot that accompanies each breath, and the mucus in one's nose instantly springs to battle. While I was a bit more discreet about it than the locals, I found myself needing to clear out my nose constantly. It just doesn't seem fair that the air there is actually capable of leaving a stain.
I took a taxi to the airport, which had a very kind man with a gently lined face behind the wheel. And while I've read quite a bit about the history of Cambodia, and about the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge, I've never had the guts to ask anyone about it. It's not the kind of thing that, you know, comes up in conversation. But, well, I figured that this was my last chance.
I started by asking his age, and then did some quick mental math. He was about six years old when Phnom Penh fell, and he was more than willing to talk about his life during "Year Zero," which is what many Cambodians call the period from 1975-1979.
"I wore black clothes and had to work very hard, even as a young boy. And I cried every day because all we could eat was a bowl of water with a few grains of rice. I used to steal food from my parents because I was so hungry." He hung his head slightly. "I was a bad boy."
He went on to tell me about his oldest brother. All of his siblings were sent off to the labor camps--what he called the "work very hard camp"--and one day when his brother was working in the field he found a small fish or crab and stuck it in his pocket. One of the other boys from the labor camp saw this and told the guard. The guard apparently gave the standard lecture about sacrificing for Angka, never stealing from Angka, never lying to Angka, and that thieves must be punished. And then he shot him.
"But this is kind," my driver, Hen, went on. "The people that were killed in front of me were hit over the head with shovels or sticks until their skulls cracked. The Khmer Rouge soldiers didn't like to waste bullets."
He also sang for me one of the brainwashing songs that the Khmer Rouge soldiers taught the children. It was a sickeningly jaunty tune. I felt like my skin was on fire when I listened to it.
"So, do people still talk about what happened? Do they discuss the past?"
He told me that he and his friends would gather in coffee shops and talk about their experiences. He also said that most people his age, who had lived through those years (and he did point out that there is a large dip in population numbers of people above the age of thirty in Cambodia today), were very eager to see the Khmer Rouge leaders and soldiers brought to justice. The hearings have been happening over the last few years, but the money funding these trials always seems to run out. Other countries have donated money, he explained, but it somehow always ends up in the hands of corrupt politicians and not in the courtrooms.
"Soon these men will be too old. They will get old and die without having been punished," he said.
Our conversation then led us to the subject of education. He was pleased to hear that I am a teacher, and all he wants for his children is a good education. He told me that school in Cambodia is free, but that if his son does not bring 500 rial--just over 1 USD--to his teacher each day, that his teacher will not let him in the classroom.
"Teachers only make about 50 USD per month, so they charge the students." He shook his head. "If the government just paid teachers more instead of giving all of the money to corrupt politicians in their Mercedes, then my son wouldn't have to worry about paying his teacher each day, and he could just worry about his studies."
My head was spinning as I listened to him, as I watched the scenery go past me. I watched children playing in piles of garbage, and beggars without limbs sitting next to buckets, pleading limply into the air. Hen really had no trace of anger in his voice. He was very matter of fact, and even chuckled a bit at the fucked-upness of it all.
"Well, I love your country," I said in a high pitched voice because I was trying not to cry. I felt like a freakin' idiot. Some smiley idiot tourist with absolutely no conception of struggle or grief or difficulty or injustice. I felt a hot twinge in my chest and wondered, really, how much one place has to endure before the Powers That Be will lay off already. My face was all screwed up and I could feel Hen's compassionate (and puzzled) glance in the rearview mirror.
"Why, thank you!! I love Cambodia too!"
Earlier that day I had climbed to the top of Wat Phnom to give a final offering to the Buddha, staring at its compassionate face through the stinging smoke of my incense sticks (three, as is the custom) that I had clasped between my palms. I love the Khmer Buddhas. Their faces are so expressive, their lips are so full, their eyes hold the hint of a smile, their fingers are thick and bulky and look like they could handle a rice harvest. Don't get me wrong--I love the various styles of Thai and Laos Buddhas as well, but they are a bit more rigid and refined, with thinner fingers and tense mouths and expressions that are pure business. I feel completely comfortable gazing into the face of a Khmer Buddha. Like everything is just as it should be, and that cultivating a sense of humor is indeed a spiritual undertaking.
"I won't forget Cambodia," I whispered, sending the smoke into the air in chaotic curlicues.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Accountability
According to my friends down at the Office of Blog Accountability, I need to write about the following trips:
1.) My trip to Angkor Wat
2.) My trip to Hong Kong
I am off to Phnom Pehn (ah, my beloved city....) in a few hours, just for a quick farewell tour. This will be my FIFTH trip to Cambodia. I love love love Cambodia. It is heartbreaking and beautiful and desperate and rich and the sunsets there are the most haunting in the world. I will miss its broken energy and smoky skies.
So....much travel writing will ensue upon my return. I have been so so so happy lately, and filled with a nice, quiet, content kind of joy. It's a grown up kind of happiness--one that feels solid and permanent. The transition back to the US (in just over TWO MONTHS) has been a little stressful and crazy (how in the hell did I ACCUMULATE SO MUCH STUFF in the last two years?? Each time I send a box, another boxful of stuff seems to spontaneously appear. Oh, and as far as knowing what I will do for a job upon my return? Yeah, um, not so much yet....), but I have learned the futility of stressing myself out. Everything will happen as it should. I have the most fabulous guy in the world waiting on the other side of the world with open arms.
Here I go, riding off into the sunset!!
1.) My trip to Angkor Wat
2.) My trip to Hong Kong
I am off to Phnom Pehn (ah, my beloved city....) in a few hours, just for a quick farewell tour. This will be my FIFTH trip to Cambodia. I love love love Cambodia. It is heartbreaking and beautiful and desperate and rich and the sunsets there are the most haunting in the world. I will miss its broken energy and smoky skies.
So....much travel writing will ensue upon my return. I have been so so so happy lately, and filled with a nice, quiet, content kind of joy. It's a grown up kind of happiness--one that feels solid and permanent. The transition back to the US (in just over TWO MONTHS) has been a little stressful and crazy (how in the hell did I ACCUMULATE SO MUCH STUFF in the last two years?? Each time I send a box, another boxful of stuff seems to spontaneously appear. Oh, and as far as knowing what I will do for a job upon my return? Yeah, um, not so much yet....), but I have learned the futility of stressing myself out. Everything will happen as it should. I have the most fabulous guy in the world waiting on the other side of the world with open arms.
Here I go, riding off into the sunset!!
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Water, Water Everywhere!
I have been a busy little bee lately! Save for some random anonymous hate mail, everything is comin' up roses!
Earlier this week was the festival of Songkran, or Thai New Year, here in Thailand. During this three-day festival, everyone gets wasted and throws water all over everyone else. The idea is that the water washes your impurities and mistakes away so that you can start the new year with a clean slate. Here's hoping!
Earlier this week there were also massive protests and riots. I'll be honest: on Monday, the first day of the Songkran holiday, I barricaded myself indoors for most of the day with Gossip Girl (um, possibly the most addictive thing ever, except for maybe these, which I like to call "crack pretzels") as the streets raged with protesters. On Tuesday the protesters agreed to back off until after the Festival, so I finally mustered up the courage to head to Kao San Road--the place that all of the backpackers infest while in Bangkok, and apparently where the party is for Songkran.
Because of the protests, Bangkok was an eerie ghost town. There were hardly any people around, and as I neared Kao San the groups of soldiers became increasingly more dense, and their weapons seemed to be increasingly bigger. What is generally a boisterous festival with people throwing water out of cars and on street corners and from the SkyTrain overpass was replaced by a meek, haunted version. I felt oddly alone and uncomfortable, and was starting to think that maybe leaving Gossip Girl alone for the night (which was difficult to do....who can resist those come hither eyes??) was not such a good idea.
However, then I reached Kao San Road and was in no way prepared for the sheer volume of people creating a virtual wall of water. Shortly before turning onto Kao San Road itself I had purchased a little squirt gun. I figured that 50 baht was about my budget for that item, and I figured that a little squirt gun was better than no squirt gun at all. However, after turning down the main road I felt like the kid who gets dropped off at school in an Oldsmobile station wagon while everyone else pulls up in luxury SUVs. I was clearly ill-equipped, and my pithy trickle of water was no match for the high-powered rifles that other were packing. People were armed with all varieties of watery weapons: water guns in all shapes and sizes, including the extremely painful water rifles with the backpacks that provide a constant supply of water; bowls and buckets of ice cold water; hoses that sprayed a fine mist over the dancing, squirming, liquid crowd.
Within thirty seconds I was drenched. People were also carrying around buckets filled with a facial powder that had turned to mud and were slathering it all over anything that moved. Before long I had swallowed several gallons of dirty water and choked down several powdery mouthfuls of facial mud. And I'm not gonna lie: My interior monologue read like that of an old woman. My eyes! I just got over an infection! My stomach! I don't want any more infections there! I'm freezing! I'm going to catch my death! Why must these wild youngsters insist on hitting me IN THE EFFING FACE?!?! I felt like I was drowning in the middle of all of these people, all of this water, all of this mud, all of this loud and touchy-feely debauchery that is--to be honest--completely out of place in Bangkok. I finally retreated into the chipped paint nook of a bar and guzzled a Beer Chang to further prepare myself for battle. After the slight buzz started to kick in (I really couldn't tell you the last time I had a beer before then), I was all, "Game on, f*@#ers!!" and traded my tiny squirt gun for something more substantial. That was all well and good until a group of guys chased me down the street and pummeled me with water. That was a strange feeling. I was virtually blanketed in it, cramming myself up against the crowd in a pathetic attempt to shield myself from it. My ears were full of the screaming sound of the water, which muffled the sound of the group's laughter, but only just barely. I knew it was all in good fun, but it was a weird junior high flashback/Vietnam War vision that promptly robbed me of my buzz. Alrighty, it was time to step into another bar and refuel.
After guzzling my second beer I stood (er, swayed) on the curb and sprayed the crowd as they wandered past. I preferred this mode of water combat much more than running around in the trenches, but I quickly ran out of ammo, and upon being told that I would need to pay five baht to refuel, I decided that it was my cue to leave.
I slipped back into the crowd and began pushing my way down the street, determined to make it to the end of this viscous artery clogged with people. My mission had one objective only: to leave with all limbs, both eyes, and all important facial features intact. People still continued to slather me with mud and spray me in the face (seriously....the face? Have some manners!!), and I just kept on a-movin' with my water gun hanging by my side like some tragic vestigial organ. As I neared the end of the road a particularly aggressive mud slatherer (yes, I made that word up...you got a problem with it, take it up with my water gun....) took advantage of the fact that my eyes were closed and my face was in his hands and he planted a big smooch on my lips.
Alrighty. Now it was REALLY my cue to leave.
I bolted through the crowd the rest of the way, and once I rounded the corner there were no more water guns and there was no more mud and I could see again. There was a small dance party right there on the street with a group of locals and I stayed and danced for a bit. No one did any groping or grinding or touching or kissing. "Ah....I'm back in Bangkok again," I thought. After I had my fill of dancing I purchased a jasmine and orchid garland from a kid on the street, climbed onto the back of a motorcycle, and let the hazy quiet of Bangkok slide by me like an oily river.
Even though I am clearly OLD and BORING, I still had fun :)
Earlier this week was the festival of Songkran, or Thai New Year, here in Thailand. During this three-day festival, everyone gets wasted and throws water all over everyone else. The idea is that the water washes your impurities and mistakes away so that you can start the new year with a clean slate. Here's hoping!
Earlier this week there were also massive protests and riots. I'll be honest: on Monday, the first day of the Songkran holiday, I barricaded myself indoors for most of the day with Gossip Girl (um, possibly the most addictive thing ever, except for maybe these, which I like to call "crack pretzels") as the streets raged with protesters. On Tuesday the protesters agreed to back off until after the Festival, so I finally mustered up the courage to head to Kao San Road--the place that all of the backpackers infest while in Bangkok, and apparently where the party is for Songkran.
Because of the protests, Bangkok was an eerie ghost town. There were hardly any people around, and as I neared Kao San the groups of soldiers became increasingly more dense, and their weapons seemed to be increasingly bigger. What is generally a boisterous festival with people throwing water out of cars and on street corners and from the SkyTrain overpass was replaced by a meek, haunted version. I felt oddly alone and uncomfortable, and was starting to think that maybe leaving Gossip Girl alone for the night (which was difficult to do....who can resist those come hither eyes??) was not such a good idea.
However, then I reached Kao San Road and was in no way prepared for the sheer volume of people creating a virtual wall of water. Shortly before turning onto Kao San Road itself I had purchased a little squirt gun. I figured that 50 baht was about my budget for that item, and I figured that a little squirt gun was better than no squirt gun at all. However, after turning down the main road I felt like the kid who gets dropped off at school in an Oldsmobile station wagon while everyone else pulls up in luxury SUVs. I was clearly ill-equipped, and my pithy trickle of water was no match for the high-powered rifles that other were packing. People were armed with all varieties of watery weapons: water guns in all shapes and sizes, including the extremely painful water rifles with the backpacks that provide a constant supply of water; bowls and buckets of ice cold water; hoses that sprayed a fine mist over the dancing, squirming, liquid crowd.
Within thirty seconds I was drenched. People were also carrying around buckets filled with a facial powder that had turned to mud and were slathering it all over anything that moved. Before long I had swallowed several gallons of dirty water and choked down several powdery mouthfuls of facial mud. And I'm not gonna lie: My interior monologue read like that of an old woman. My eyes! I just got over an infection! My stomach! I don't want any more infections there! I'm freezing! I'm going to catch my death! Why must these wild youngsters insist on hitting me IN THE EFFING FACE?!?! I felt like I was drowning in the middle of all of these people, all of this water, all of this mud, all of this loud and touchy-feely debauchery that is--to be honest--completely out of place in Bangkok. I finally retreated into the chipped paint nook of a bar and guzzled a Beer Chang to further prepare myself for battle. After the slight buzz started to kick in (I really couldn't tell you the last time I had a beer before then), I was all, "Game on, f*@#ers!!" and traded my tiny squirt gun for something more substantial. That was all well and good until a group of guys chased me down the street and pummeled me with water. That was a strange feeling. I was virtually blanketed in it, cramming myself up against the crowd in a pathetic attempt to shield myself from it. My ears were full of the screaming sound of the water, which muffled the sound of the group's laughter, but only just barely. I knew it was all in good fun, but it was a weird junior high flashback/Vietnam War vision that promptly robbed me of my buzz. Alrighty, it was time to step into another bar and refuel.
After guzzling my second beer I stood (er, swayed) on the curb and sprayed the crowd as they wandered past. I preferred this mode of water combat much more than running around in the trenches, but I quickly ran out of ammo, and upon being told that I would need to pay five baht to refuel, I decided that it was my cue to leave.
I slipped back into the crowd and began pushing my way down the street, determined to make it to the end of this viscous artery clogged with people. My mission had one objective only: to leave with all limbs, both eyes, and all important facial features intact. People still continued to slather me with mud and spray me in the face (seriously....the face? Have some manners!!), and I just kept on a-movin' with my water gun hanging by my side like some tragic vestigial organ. As I neared the end of the road a particularly aggressive mud slatherer (yes, I made that word up...you got a problem with it, take it up with my water gun....) took advantage of the fact that my eyes were closed and my face was in his hands and he planted a big smooch on my lips.
Alrighty. Now it was REALLY my cue to leave.
I bolted through the crowd the rest of the way, and once I rounded the corner there were no more water guns and there was no more mud and I could see again. There was a small dance party right there on the street with a group of locals and I stayed and danced for a bit. No one did any groping or grinding or touching or kissing. "Ah....I'm back in Bangkok again," I thought. After I had my fill of dancing I purchased a jasmine and orchid garland from a kid on the street, climbed onto the back of a motorcycle, and let the hazy quiet of Bangkok slide by me like an oily river.
Even though I am clearly OLD and BORING, I still had fun :)
Monday, April 6, 2009
Turning Point
Today's blog entry--while extremely long--covers the remainder of the third day at Maesa Elephant Camp (you can read about the first day here, the second day here, and half of the third day here). It is also--drumroll please--the beginning of the memoir that I am writing about my two years in Asia. Or at least as much of the beginning as I feel like sharing at this point.
Now, mind you, I will most likely never do anything with this memoir. I am writing it for my own purposes at the moment. This blog contains some facets of the story, my pen and paper journal contains some, and my photo album/scrapbooks contain others. The memoir is a way to draw everything together so that, forgetful as I am, I do not forget the lessons and experiences of my life here. And it's a way to insert these two years into the greater context of my life, instead of simply chronicling individual moments, memories, and experiences. It is my hope to weave a greater tapestry of it all.
So here is the beginning. It is EXTREMELY rough and unedited, as the revising and editing will come much later in the writing process.
I’m sitting on an elephant’s head, and the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise, accompanied by a sparking shower of tingles up and down my spine, like a snake awakening and preparing to strike. The jungle is suddenly and inexplicably quiet, save for the squishing of multiple sets of footprints negotiating the impossibly deep mud. One set belongs to Wanpen, the elephant (whom I have come to know as “my elephant”); one set belongs to Chi, my guide at the elephant camp outside of Chaing Mai, Thailand, where I have come for a three-day mahout (or "elephant keeper") training course; and one set belongs to Vichien, Wanpen’s actual mahout. Wanpen is harrumphing along methodically under me, shaking her head with each step in protest. She hates the mud, and I don’t blame her. The mud in this section of jungle is an organic entity, swallowing and spitting up the feet of brave pedestrians with gurgling, slurping sounds. Its top layer is slick with what I imagine from my vantage point to be digestive juices. I peer down at my bare feet, which are dangling right below Wanpen’s ears and getting tickled by her breath as her trunk swings back and forth, and I feel fortunate for their distance from the mud. I had, in fact, badly injured my right foot the day before, and I could feel it filling with blood and fluids, and throbbing in dull exclamations. In a daredevil moment—which had recently become a new and strange norm for me—I decided to attempt the advanced dismount: Sliding back onto Wanpen’s hind end and swinging one leg over so that I was sitting sideways on her spine, her vertebrae holding my tailbone in place like a tinker toy. Wanpen then raised her hind leg, I stepped onto the remarkably stable ledge that she had created out of a bent knee, and then stepped down to the ground. Except I grossly misjudged the distance between leg and ground, and wound up flailing through the air before falling painfully (and sans grace) onto the ball of my foot, which responded with a loud POP. It still hurt unbearably the next day, but nothing was going to keep me from giving Wanpen one last bath and taking her for one last trek.
My heart starts fluttering in my chest. Not pounding, as pounding would have been a comfort in that moment. It would have been a feeling of substance, of something REAL and tangible to feel the weight of my heart against the butterfly spread of my ribcage. The fluttering, however, irritated my stomach, and heralded a nervousness of a more primal nature.
I found myself melting into Wanpen, dissolving into soft folds of her skin that had not yet been hardened by age or turned pink by the sun. All of her was a perfect, perfect gray, and with each step I found myself merging with it, my joints and bones stretching to accommodate the massive elastic strides of her movement. The more I felt myself merging with her, the more urgent the fluttering in my chest became. Wanpen kept turning her huge head from side to side, being sure to secure my leg against her neck with a giant, leathery flap of her ear as she did so. Her trunk arched in the air in front of us like an awkward periscope, exhaling brief snorts of air.
I thought about opening my mouth to say something. To suggest that we turn back, that the sun was starting to droop in the sky, that I had to catch my ride back to Chiang Mai soon and wanted to be sure to shower first. But I had become so merged with my elephant that I had no ability to speak--only to soak in my surroundings. I saw the strange geometry of leaves making flirtatious etchings in the air. I saw the uprooted trees resting comfortably against their still growing counterparts, whose very roots and trunks arched under the weight of their fallen comrades. The jungle was emotional and energetic and all connected. I breathed it in deeply, even as a malignant sense of dread coiled and uncoiled itself at the base of my spine.
And then, from around the corner came two bright, white slices of tusk. A gigantic male elephant was taking a pleasantly plump older couple for a relaxing jungle trek. I had never seen tusks that size. They practically devoured the earth as the elephant walked.
Something strange was happening, but it wasn’t quite registering. I could hear Vichien yelling “How! How!” in an urgent voice. How. I mentally leafed through my mahout command book. “How” meant stop. Stop? I saw Vichien lunge for Wanpen’s ear, but the mud had closed its muscular throat around his ankles. I saw him topple near Wanpen’s front leg about a second before she took off running.
The former equestrian in me, the one that had endured many episodes of spooked horses running away with me, automatically sat straight up as my hands instinctively reached for reins and my feet reached for stirrups. Instead, all I had to hold onto were two ears that were waving fearfully, like flags in a storm, and Wanpen’s awkward and surprisingly slow gallop was threatening to unseat me with each step.
She slowed to a trot and I heard a deep and frightening growl. It was so strangely aggressive and gravelly that I thought there must have been a tiger chasing us. Somehow a story that my friend Nadia had told me about a family that was killed on an elephant trek in Nepal when a tiger chased and attacked the little group had time to unfold in my head. I had no idea whether or not to tell Wanpen to stop or go, so I chose to curl up into a ball instead. In another second it registered that the growling noise was coming from deep inside the baby chasm of a frightened Wanpen’s stomach.
She stopped trotting, and I knew what was coming next. She had communicated it to me in a millisecond—the deep guts of her instincts connecting with mine—and I braced myself. With an earth-shattering shake of her head, we parted ways. I fell for what seemed like many minutes as the former equestrian within me shouted directions in her freshly pressed hunt coat: Turn your body so that you land on your side! Keep your right foot elevated so that it doesn’t hit the ground! And, for the love of god, don’t forget to roll!!
As I fell I heard a piercing and unpleasant sound, and I realized that it was my voice, locked in a deep and trembling scream. I hit the mud with a comical squish and rolled. I did a mental scan from my head to my toes and back again. I was completely fine. Chi threw his body on top of mine, as I had not landed far from Wanpen’s frantically stomping front feet. Wanpen and I locked eyes for a moment, I gave her a nod of my head, and with that, she was off, trotting for home, her lower jaw swinging in nervous circles, her ears wringing like fretting hands.
I brought my attention to the frightened and bewildered eyes around me—in particular the poor couple who had witnessed my fall and heard my screaming, and judging by their pale and breathless appearance, the experience had been far more traumatic for them than for me. I tried to imagine what I had looked like to them—like a Barbie doll being shot out of a lawnmower—and I scanned the faces of Chi and Vichien, who were afraid to say anything or even touch me, lest I fall apart right there.
In the great scheme of what my life had been over the last year and eight months, it made perfect sense that I should fall off of an elephant. It made perfect sense that I should be the first visitor EVER in the history of the camp to not only sustain an injury, but to also fall off of an elephant. It made perfect sense that this experience that I had been waiting for my entire life should take these rather adventurous, if scary and painful, detours.
And it was the most hilarious moment of my life.
I stood up, waved to the couple, shouted “I’m fine,” (to which they responded with an audible exhalation), and the hysterical, overpowering laughter came rushing out of me. It was more than my muscles could handle and I found myself doubled over, heaving, completely unable to catch my breath. And the laughter spread to Vichien as he took off after Wanpen. Chi looked at me quizzically, as he was fairly certain I had sustained a head injury, and repeatedly asked me if I was okay. The laughter just kept coming in strong, swift waves, and the tears blurred the whole world around me. Only when my abdominal muscles could no longer sustain the laughter was I able to find my voice again and tell Chi that I was, in fact, just fine.
We were stuck on a very high, very muddy hill, and my foot was still too injured from the day before for me to walk down it, so Chi had to lift me onto his back, just as he had the day before when I had first injured myself. Correction—THIS was the most hilarious moment of my life. Here I was, riding down the hill on the back of my guide because I had been unceremoniously jettisoned from the head of my elephant, and I was too gimpy from falling off of my elephant’s hind leg the day before to walk on my own. Chi could hardly keep his balance with the combined forces of the mud and my still bubbling laughter, and we fell several times, which made me almost panicked because the laughter became utterly breathless in those moments.
We looked like earthy Pollock paintings when we reached the bottom of the hill. Chi deposited me on the porch of a mahout hut and informed me that he would send for a motorbike, as we were still quite a ways from the central area of camp where my (rather upscale) mahout hut was located.
“No!” I said, wiping my eyes with my dirty sleeve and smearing mud all over my face, “No! I want to ride Wanpen back to camp!” At this point, a small crowd had gathered, as the tale of my fall had spread through the camp, which was a déjà vu moment from the day before, as the entire camp had held a vigil at the foot of my bed, icing and massaging my injured foot and helping me to the bathroom. Everyone looked at each other, certain that they had not heard me correctly.
“No, no,” said Chi, “we get you a motorbike. Is better.”
“No! No, I want to ride Wanpen back to camp. I don’t want my last memory of this experience to be falling off of an elephant. I want to get back on.”
Chi finally agreed to send for another elephant (he thought that Wanpen and I seemed to be a bad luck pairing), and I just sat there, laughing while everyone stared. I kept laughing while I rode the new elephant back to camp, and was laughing still when a parade of mahouts escorted me out of the camp and into a car bound for the hospital. The mahouts brought me sweets—delicious rice candies and pyramids of a gelatinous, banana flavored delicacy wrapped in banana leaves—and joked that they should stamp the certificate that I had received for completing the camp with a “real mahout” seal. I felt like a wounded war hero--I don’t think I had ever been glazed with so many respectful glances at one time. I had earned some wicked street cred among the mahouts. They all wai-ed deeply to me as I drove away, steepling their fingers together and bowing their heads.
My foot was fine—just badly sprained—and Chi pushed me all through the hospital on a wheelchair as I went for X-Rays and examinations, bringing me water and ice for my foot, and apologizing constantly.
“I knew this would happen,” he said, “I had a dream last night that a guest fell into the river and I couldn’t help because my legs were stuck. I was very scared all day. And then this.”
There is no underestimating the importance of dreams here. Dreams are prophetic, dreams have messages. While I had always paid attention to my dreams, they took on a new level of significance since living in Thailand. I looked at Chi, saw the worry in his eyes, and I knew that he felt responsible for either ignoring the message in his dream, or for somehow dreaming it into existence. I put my hand over his.
“Mai pen rai,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. To be honest, this was the best experience of my entire life.”
And it was. That night, after Chi had dropped me off at my hotel in Chiang Mai and I was alone with my enormous foot and my buzzing thoughts, I realized that I had turned a corner. That every step I had taken had been precisely planned, had been expertly guided, had been following Technicolor signposts of situations and interactions and decisions that had brought me to this exact point: The day where I would become The Girl Who Fell Off of an Elephant, and it would be a defining beacon in my story. It would carve a dividing line in the topsy-turvy timeline of my life. There would be everything the happened BE—Before Elephant, and everything that happened AE—After Elephant. The Universe, or the Powers That Be, or whatever lexical packaging one prefers to use, will never give us more than we can handle. And, well, if I could handle falling off of an elephant, I could surely handle anything.
And while Falling Off of an Elephant was a turning point, it is neither the beginning nor ending of this story. The beginning of this story—the true beginning, the absolute fertile ground of this story’s germination—begins....[to be continued]
Now, mind you, I will most likely never do anything with this memoir. I am writing it for my own purposes at the moment. This blog contains some facets of the story, my pen and paper journal contains some, and my photo album/scrapbooks contain others. The memoir is a way to draw everything together so that, forgetful as I am, I do not forget the lessons and experiences of my life here. And it's a way to insert these two years into the greater context of my life, instead of simply chronicling individual moments, memories, and experiences. It is my hope to weave a greater tapestry of it all.
So here is the beginning. It is EXTREMELY rough and unedited, as the revising and editing will come much later in the writing process.
I’m sitting on an elephant’s head, and the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise, accompanied by a sparking shower of tingles up and down my spine, like a snake awakening and preparing to strike. The jungle is suddenly and inexplicably quiet, save for the squishing of multiple sets of footprints negotiating the impossibly deep mud. One set belongs to Wanpen, the elephant (whom I have come to know as “my elephant”); one set belongs to Chi, my guide at the elephant camp outside of Chaing Mai, Thailand, where I have come for a three-day mahout (or "elephant keeper") training course; and one set belongs to Vichien, Wanpen’s actual mahout. Wanpen is harrumphing along methodically under me, shaking her head with each step in protest. She hates the mud, and I don’t blame her. The mud in this section of jungle is an organic entity, swallowing and spitting up the feet of brave pedestrians with gurgling, slurping sounds. Its top layer is slick with what I imagine from my vantage point to be digestive juices. I peer down at my bare feet, which are dangling right below Wanpen’s ears and getting tickled by her breath as her trunk swings back and forth, and I feel fortunate for their distance from the mud. I had, in fact, badly injured my right foot the day before, and I could feel it filling with blood and fluids, and throbbing in dull exclamations. In a daredevil moment—which had recently become a new and strange norm for me—I decided to attempt the advanced dismount: Sliding back onto Wanpen’s hind end and swinging one leg over so that I was sitting sideways on her spine, her vertebrae holding my tailbone in place like a tinker toy. Wanpen then raised her hind leg, I stepped onto the remarkably stable ledge that she had created out of a bent knee, and then stepped down to the ground. Except I grossly misjudged the distance between leg and ground, and wound up flailing through the air before falling painfully (and sans grace) onto the ball of my foot, which responded with a loud POP. It still hurt unbearably the next day, but nothing was going to keep me from giving Wanpen one last bath and taking her for one last trek.
My heart starts fluttering in my chest. Not pounding, as pounding would have been a comfort in that moment. It would have been a feeling of substance, of something REAL and tangible to feel the weight of my heart against the butterfly spread of my ribcage. The fluttering, however, irritated my stomach, and heralded a nervousness of a more primal nature.
I found myself melting into Wanpen, dissolving into soft folds of her skin that had not yet been hardened by age or turned pink by the sun. All of her was a perfect, perfect gray, and with each step I found myself merging with it, my joints and bones stretching to accommodate the massive elastic strides of her movement. The more I felt myself merging with her, the more urgent the fluttering in my chest became. Wanpen kept turning her huge head from side to side, being sure to secure my leg against her neck with a giant, leathery flap of her ear as she did so. Her trunk arched in the air in front of us like an awkward periscope, exhaling brief snorts of air.
I thought about opening my mouth to say something. To suggest that we turn back, that the sun was starting to droop in the sky, that I had to catch my ride back to Chiang Mai soon and wanted to be sure to shower first. But I had become so merged with my elephant that I had no ability to speak--only to soak in my surroundings. I saw the strange geometry of leaves making flirtatious etchings in the air. I saw the uprooted trees resting comfortably against their still growing counterparts, whose very roots and trunks arched under the weight of their fallen comrades. The jungle was emotional and energetic and all connected. I breathed it in deeply, even as a malignant sense of dread coiled and uncoiled itself at the base of my spine.
And then, from around the corner came two bright, white slices of tusk. A gigantic male elephant was taking a pleasantly plump older couple for a relaxing jungle trek. I had never seen tusks that size. They practically devoured the earth as the elephant walked.
Something strange was happening, but it wasn’t quite registering. I could hear Vichien yelling “How! How!” in an urgent voice. How. I mentally leafed through my mahout command book. “How” meant stop. Stop? I saw Vichien lunge for Wanpen’s ear, but the mud had closed its muscular throat around his ankles. I saw him topple near Wanpen’s front leg about a second before she took off running.
The former equestrian in me, the one that had endured many episodes of spooked horses running away with me, automatically sat straight up as my hands instinctively reached for reins and my feet reached for stirrups. Instead, all I had to hold onto were two ears that were waving fearfully, like flags in a storm, and Wanpen’s awkward and surprisingly slow gallop was threatening to unseat me with each step.
She slowed to a trot and I heard a deep and frightening growl. It was so strangely aggressive and gravelly that I thought there must have been a tiger chasing us. Somehow a story that my friend Nadia had told me about a family that was killed on an elephant trek in Nepal when a tiger chased and attacked the little group had time to unfold in my head. I had no idea whether or not to tell Wanpen to stop or go, so I chose to curl up into a ball instead. In another second it registered that the growling noise was coming from deep inside the baby chasm of a frightened Wanpen’s stomach.
She stopped trotting, and I knew what was coming next. She had communicated it to me in a millisecond—the deep guts of her instincts connecting with mine—and I braced myself. With an earth-shattering shake of her head, we parted ways. I fell for what seemed like many minutes as the former equestrian within me shouted directions in her freshly pressed hunt coat: Turn your body so that you land on your side! Keep your right foot elevated so that it doesn’t hit the ground! And, for the love of god, don’t forget to roll!!
As I fell I heard a piercing and unpleasant sound, and I realized that it was my voice, locked in a deep and trembling scream. I hit the mud with a comical squish and rolled. I did a mental scan from my head to my toes and back again. I was completely fine. Chi threw his body on top of mine, as I had not landed far from Wanpen’s frantically stomping front feet. Wanpen and I locked eyes for a moment, I gave her a nod of my head, and with that, she was off, trotting for home, her lower jaw swinging in nervous circles, her ears wringing like fretting hands.
I brought my attention to the frightened and bewildered eyes around me—in particular the poor couple who had witnessed my fall and heard my screaming, and judging by their pale and breathless appearance, the experience had been far more traumatic for them than for me. I tried to imagine what I had looked like to them—like a Barbie doll being shot out of a lawnmower—and I scanned the faces of Chi and Vichien, who were afraid to say anything or even touch me, lest I fall apart right there.
In the great scheme of what my life had been over the last year and eight months, it made perfect sense that I should fall off of an elephant. It made perfect sense that I should be the first visitor EVER in the history of the camp to not only sustain an injury, but to also fall off of an elephant. It made perfect sense that this experience that I had been waiting for my entire life should take these rather adventurous, if scary and painful, detours.
And it was the most hilarious moment of my life.
I stood up, waved to the couple, shouted “I’m fine,” (to which they responded with an audible exhalation), and the hysterical, overpowering laughter came rushing out of me. It was more than my muscles could handle and I found myself doubled over, heaving, completely unable to catch my breath. And the laughter spread to Vichien as he took off after Wanpen. Chi looked at me quizzically, as he was fairly certain I had sustained a head injury, and repeatedly asked me if I was okay. The laughter just kept coming in strong, swift waves, and the tears blurred the whole world around me. Only when my abdominal muscles could no longer sustain the laughter was I able to find my voice again and tell Chi that I was, in fact, just fine.
We were stuck on a very high, very muddy hill, and my foot was still too injured from the day before for me to walk down it, so Chi had to lift me onto his back, just as he had the day before when I had first injured myself. Correction—THIS was the most hilarious moment of my life. Here I was, riding down the hill on the back of my guide because I had been unceremoniously jettisoned from the head of my elephant, and I was too gimpy from falling off of my elephant’s hind leg the day before to walk on my own. Chi could hardly keep his balance with the combined forces of the mud and my still bubbling laughter, and we fell several times, which made me almost panicked because the laughter became utterly breathless in those moments.
We looked like earthy Pollock paintings when we reached the bottom of the hill. Chi deposited me on the porch of a mahout hut and informed me that he would send for a motorbike, as we were still quite a ways from the central area of camp where my (rather upscale) mahout hut was located.
“No!” I said, wiping my eyes with my dirty sleeve and smearing mud all over my face, “No! I want to ride Wanpen back to camp!” At this point, a small crowd had gathered, as the tale of my fall had spread through the camp, which was a déjà vu moment from the day before, as the entire camp had held a vigil at the foot of my bed, icing and massaging my injured foot and helping me to the bathroom. Everyone looked at each other, certain that they had not heard me correctly.
“No, no,” said Chi, “we get you a motorbike. Is better.”
“No! No, I want to ride Wanpen back to camp. I don’t want my last memory of this experience to be falling off of an elephant. I want to get back on.”
Chi finally agreed to send for another elephant (he thought that Wanpen and I seemed to be a bad luck pairing), and I just sat there, laughing while everyone stared. I kept laughing while I rode the new elephant back to camp, and was laughing still when a parade of mahouts escorted me out of the camp and into a car bound for the hospital. The mahouts brought me sweets—delicious rice candies and pyramids of a gelatinous, banana flavored delicacy wrapped in banana leaves—and joked that they should stamp the certificate that I had received for completing the camp with a “real mahout” seal. I felt like a wounded war hero--I don’t think I had ever been glazed with so many respectful glances at one time. I had earned some wicked street cred among the mahouts. They all wai-ed deeply to me as I drove away, steepling their fingers together and bowing their heads.
My foot was fine—just badly sprained—and Chi pushed me all through the hospital on a wheelchair as I went for X-Rays and examinations, bringing me water and ice for my foot, and apologizing constantly.
“I knew this would happen,” he said, “I had a dream last night that a guest fell into the river and I couldn’t help because my legs were stuck. I was very scared all day. And then this.”
There is no underestimating the importance of dreams here. Dreams are prophetic, dreams have messages. While I had always paid attention to my dreams, they took on a new level of significance since living in Thailand. I looked at Chi, saw the worry in his eyes, and I knew that he felt responsible for either ignoring the message in his dream, or for somehow dreaming it into existence. I put my hand over his.
“Mai pen rai,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. To be honest, this was the best experience of my entire life.”
And it was. That night, after Chi had dropped me off at my hotel in Chiang Mai and I was alone with my enormous foot and my buzzing thoughts, I realized that I had turned a corner. That every step I had taken had been precisely planned, had been expertly guided, had been following Technicolor signposts of situations and interactions and decisions that had brought me to this exact point: The day where I would become The Girl Who Fell Off of an Elephant, and it would be a defining beacon in my story. It would carve a dividing line in the topsy-turvy timeline of my life. There would be everything the happened BE—Before Elephant, and everything that happened AE—After Elephant. The Universe, or the Powers That Be, or whatever lexical packaging one prefers to use, will never give us more than we can handle. And, well, if I could handle falling off of an elephant, I could surely handle anything.
And while Falling Off of an Elephant was a turning point, it is neither the beginning nor ending of this story. The beginning of this story—the true beginning, the absolute fertile ground of this story’s germination—begins....[to be continued]
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