Asia in Pictures: Things that build character:

1.) Having a tiger's head in your lap at the Tiger Temple:



2.) Holding a tiger cub's paw:



3.) Giving an elephant a forehead hug:



4.) Walking over the Bridge over the River Kwai (this last one especially...the bridge is very narrow and full of gaps large enough for a whole person to fit through as he plummets to the river below....there is an absolute dearth of handrails and an absolute plethora of tourists.....it was truly daunting, BUT....truly authentic!)



I certainly enjoyed my visit to Kanchanaburi. So much history and so many furry animals, all in one place. I also had a FABULOUS driver, "Mr. T," who answered all of my questions, half in English and half in Thai, and who also allowed me my quiet moments of introspection as we sped from one place to the next.

It was a truly fabulous day.

Asia in Pictures: Vietnam, part 2

How amazing it is to see this. To see a scene so simple: a farmer with his cows surrounded by a blinding green. The simplicity is what makes this scene extraordinary. I see many postcards like this, and I find myself feeling jealous of the photographer, of the camera, of the patch of ground under the photographer's feet. To see life in another context, to take a deep breath and experience a beautiful day so far from home. This is to truly live. This is everything that I have dreamed about for such a long time. Just a farmer and his cows and the knowledge that I don't have to be jealous of postcards. That I am truly alive, truly living, truly SEEING, truly remembering.

Click on the photo to enlarge it!

Asia in Pictures: Cambodia, Part I

Across from the Killing Fields of Chung Ek, Cambodia


There is a woman singing. She sings through speakers that are perched on the back of a truck. She sings and her voice cracks and creaks and the air is peppered with grief and hope and I can't breathe through my nostrils because the dust is so thick and it's dust that covered mass graves covered bones covered teeth and it's dusk and the song has stirred up the ghosts. They are imploring my remembrance, they are stroking my hair and staring into my eyes and showing me that flesh is a mere boundary. A boundary carved out of obligation and action. DO BETTER, they say. DO MORE. BE MORE. LIVE your compulsion to keep moving, to see, to write, to help. And the woman sings her shaky song and the ghosts slide around me like ink like bubbles, looking for the sunset, looking for the voice, looking for their offerings.

Cambodia. I whisper the name to nobody. It is a secret and the air is burning. My lungs are dry and wooden. Kindling. Waiting.

Something is waking up inside of me.

Asia in Pictures: Vietnam (part 1)

The boats form ribs along the breastbone of this river, boats that widows in their conical hats have rowed to the Perfume Pagoda for as long as anyone can remember. Their thin arms and stooped backs propel boatloads of visitors forward with surprisingly strong, rhythmic lurches, while the limestone cliffs around us cup sound with the wrinkled fingers of their peaks, amplifying the muffled silence around us until the static in our heads dies down. And the widows row, and the paddles slap the water in a constant rhythm, and believers and tourists and fishermen fix their eyes on the peaks and the plants and the fish and the flame trees, and the widows look at it like for the first time, every time, because that's the only option that's left when the world is so stunning it hurts. My tour guide stops the boat along the way to gather leaves for a home remedy. The Canadian man's camera clicks and whirs, its huge lens looking ostentatious and awkward in front of this backdrop of slowly sloping beauty. The Dutch couple behind me speak in heavy syllables, unconsciously adjusting the rhythm of their speech to match the rhythm of the oars. And the widow's eyes crease against the blinding gray of the cloudy sky as we draw nearer to the river's end and the path to the Pagoda begins to reveal itself to us. This sacred site for believers, hidden deep in the mountain. The prayer flags sigh in welcome like little, fluttering eyelashes and all around us the earth seems to just hold still. Like the pupil in the center of the iris. Like breath held in anticipation.

Asia in Pictures: Myanmar, part 3

Me in front of Shwedagon Pagoda, Yangon.

This picture gives me conflicting feelings. On the one hand, true, AUTHENTIC, responsible tourism in Myanmar does NOT include a visit to this pagoda. The money from the entrance fees goes into the hands of the evil government, and tour groups who visit Myanmar see this and mistake it for a realistic picture of the state of things there, like it's some kind of gold-plated manicure that the country waves around to seduce visitors and illustrate its florid wealth. THERE'S NO TROUBLE IN BURMA, THAT PLACE IS FREAKIN' COVERED IN GOLD! However, even though I WAS extremely careful about my money distribution and responsible tourism, I chose to go. The pagoda called to me in its twinkling bell voice wherever I went. And when some teenage girls--with their cheeks covered in a powder made from tree bark that is part make-up, part sunblock--convinced me that I have to go see their "number one pagoda," my mind was made up. Shwedagon Pagoda is a place in which the people of Myanmar take a lot of pride. People urged me to go all day long until finally I did. Yes, I felt guilty as I hired a tour guide (whom I annoyed to no end with my zillions of questions, and my constant requests to take pictures of me here here here here here kthanksalot), I poured water over the Buddha that corresponds with my birthday, and I rang a temple bell three times, as is the custom. However, after the tour was over, I sat there, surrounded by hundreds of devotees who had come to the pagoda to pray, socialize, and even eat--spreading out a blanket and a delectable picnic on the marble platform that slowly began to cool after the sun started to set. And that's when I was approached by two university students, and we began a three hour conversation. We talked about the animistic beliefs in Burmese Buddhism, The Godfather, and books they had read. They loved their country, but they got the faraway look in their eyes that most people did when talking about it. They weren't allowed to tell me their grievances, the things that angered them, the things that had been done to them. To do so could cost them their lives. I posed for pictures with a group of young girls from the countryside who had never seen a white person before. I didn't want to leave. To be honest, it was nice being in such a bustling place with very few tourists.

I exchanged e-mail addresses with the two students I had met. It was strange saying good-bye to them. I was sad. I loved the energy of the pagoda in the evening, I loved the feeling of being a (welcome) outsider, I loved this sharing that was happening. They walked me to the exit where I could claim my shoes (and, um, there are, like, a zillion exits there, so I was grateful for their help!!). They left me at the elevator and walked back down the long corridor leading back into the main part of the pagoda. After they had walked a ways, I looked back over my shoulder at them, at the two young men cloaked in green sarongs, and felt a strange pang of sadness. They must have sensed that I was looking at them, because they also looked back over their shoulders at me and waved one more time.

I e-mailed both of them after the cyclone and haven't yet heard back from them.

This pagoda has been a witness to so much.

Asia in Pictures: Myanmar, part 2

Yangon, you have the elegant pride and glistening cleanliness of European cities without the pristine edges. You sag in places and peel in others and you have a weary look about you, like you want to spend your days knitting for grandchildren instead of trudging, trudging, trudging through minutes and hours, afraid to exhale. You, Yangon, are swollen with air, swollen with silence, swollen with a tension so thick that I'm afraid of treading off of the sidewalk for fear of you bursting. And Yangon, your people look at me with curiosity and a strange pride and an inexplicable warmth, but most of them are afraid to ask me. They're afraid to talk, to touch, to know. But you do not move in your quiet dignity, your weary tolerance, and a slight grin tugs at the corners of your lips somehow. It's been there so long that it has caused a wrinkle all the way across your entire expanse. You are just waiting. Just waiting and hoping. I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream and tear my hair out and gather everyone together and start marching and hitting and clawing and fighting. You just shook your head at me. No, no, no. That is not how this is going to work. So I took this picture instead. I took this picture while your people walked around me, greeting me, asking, "Where you from?," and telling me, "America is greatest country in the world." Yangon, your quiet hope, your warm patience, your unspectacular suffering, your weathered beauty rest at the very root of me like lead seeping into groundwater.

I won't forget you.

Asia in Pictures: Myanmar, part 1

I apologize for my absence. I haven't had Internet access at home OR at work. So....instead of using this time to claw my eyeballs out from Internet withdrawal, I figured it would be best to finally shove the eighty million pictures from five different memory cards into my computer. And now I need an external hard drive. Anywho.....it made me relive my travels. Asia? YOU'RE FABULOUS.

I thought I would spend the next few posts waxing poetic about the things I've seen here. This is mainly so that I can look back on all of this when I'm an old lady and remember exactly WHICH monk I'm looking at from WHAT country.

Enjoy.



Monks' sleeping areas and robes drying.


My time in Myanmar was brief--exactly 24 hours--and I had a lot to see. My very first stop was to see a reclining Buddha with glass eyes who was housed in a simple structure with a corrugated tin roof. A sweet old man approached me and offered to take me to see where the monks lived. It was during the time of the day designated for resting, which is right after they eat their last meal of the day (just before noon). I expected to feel like persona non grata, given the fact that I am a woman. My feet felt loud and clunky as I walked into their very simple sleeping areas which were still peppered with dishes from the afternoon meal. I was afraid to breathe, afraid to look at anything. The monks sat up as I entered, smiled, and gestured for me to come in. Some of them giggled at my shyness. Some just stared, having not seen many pairs of blue eyes lately. One monk woke up and insisted that my guide bring me over. He chanted something in a tired, parched voice. He blessed me with a long life and lots of luck. He was 79 years old. He smiled and allowed me to take his picture. Another monk limped over to me and encouraged me to follow. He had been rubbing oil on his sore legs and it made the entire room smell like mint and lavender. He showed me the eightfold path of the Buddha that was hanging in a special place of honor. Another monk showed me the paintings he had made. A third monk set out leftover rice for the stray dogs. The energy was quiet and subdued with function, with repetition, without anticipation or projection or aggravation.

Myanmar, I have many unwritten love songs for you.