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!

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Maesa Elephant Camp, Day 3

Before I tie up yet another narrative thread that has been dangling for far too long, I must first say that March has probably been the best month that I’ve had in the last two years. Of course, the fact that I had two INCREDIBLE trips in March—one trip to Vietnam, the other to Siem Reap, Cambodia (and posts about that to follow)—hasn’t hurt matters, but it’s been so much more than that. It’s like all of the stuff that’s been simmering and cooking over the last few years has finally come together. Work has been going well, life has been going well, and it’s like I’m stretching my winter-weary joints out for the first time in a long time. All of the work that I’ve set out to do here—internal and external—is wrapping up exactly as I had hoped, even if the journey to get here has been nothing like I had hoped. It’s all been a roller coaster, but it’s all had its perfectly calculated purpose. The story of these two years has a happy ending ☺.

And so…..Maesa Elephant Camp, day three. When we last left our heroine, she was galloping (or, well, limping painfully) into the sunset on the head of an elephant (or, well, on a BED because I was in an insane amount of pain). I had sprained my foot badly the day before while attempting the “advanced dismount” off of my trusty steed’s raised hind leg. Note to all aspiring mahouts: It’s a LONG ASS WAY DOWN from an elephant’s hind leg to the ground. Be ye not so void of depth perception!!

Anyway….during the afternoon after I had sustained my injury I did a fabulous job of not freaking out. Sure, my foot was the size of a full-grown durian, and lookin’ just as sketchy. Sure, I was fairly certain that I had broken something in there, which would complicate my life in Bangkok (a.k.a. the LEAST CRUTCH/WHEELCHAIR/INJURY FRIENDLY CITY IN THE WORLD!!). Sure, I was extremely bummed that this had to happen during an experience that I had pretty much waited for my entire life. The fact that this mahout camp was something that existed in Thailand did play a part in my decision to choose Bangkok over Bogota as my site of overseas employment (albeit it was a small part, but a part nonetheless). I kept the freak out demons at bay all day, instead opting to curl up with my book, enjoy the lovely breeze that was drifting through my luxurious mahout hut (and I say that sans sarcasm….I was put up in some fabulous digs), and will myself to feel better in the morning.

Around midnight I woke up because the pain medication had worn off and the nerves in my foot were having a throbbing house party under my skin. The roosters that were pacing under my window had begun to crow (seriously, the idea that roosters crow only at dawn is a myth that has been fed to us by Sesame Street and other children’s programming that would lead us to believe that roosters are these heroic harbingers of the dawn. Hell no. They’re just effing annoying). The elephant camp employee who slept at the bottom of the hill below my hut had began to hack loudly (I eventually hobbled to the window to make sure that he was ok, because I thought what I was hearing was a death rattle. And there he was, happily puffing away on a tobacco pipe with one hand while holding bits of coughed up lung in the other), and I knew that I would get no more sleep. And that’s when the freak out demons crept in. They just love those early morning hours, when your boundaries are all blurry and your defenses are down, and they take full advantage of the watercolor haze of your consciousness and claim their territory.

I started sobbing uncontrollably. I cried because my foot hurt, I cried because I felt completely alone, I cried for Max, I cried for the fact that NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING seemed to go as I had planned. I had looked forward to this trip for well over a year, and of course, I had to be the first ever guest at the elephant camp to sustain an injury (the fact that I was one of three guests to ever attempt the advanced dismount was not something that had dawned on me at that point…..). I was this tiny pinprick in the universe, and it felt like all of the clouds in the sky were being funneled into me, their misleading lightness being converted into white wet weight. My caretakers had told me the day before that if I wasn’t better by morning, then I should skip the third and final day of the program and go straight to the hospital. I couldn’t envision myself getting dressed, getting home, and somehow resuming my life in Bangkok. I didn’t know how I would manage the stairs that I climb a gazillion times per day at work. I felt stagnant and inert and drained, and the sobs came in great, heaping waves—crashing and vibrating through veins and muscles and anything inside of me that would have them.

And then, well, I had enough. FUCK THIS. Y’know, life doesn’t always work out like how we dreamed it. In fact, if you are a wide-eyed dreamer with unrealistic expectations like myself, it rarely does. I was sick of this sniveling, snot-filled victim that I somehow found myself becoming. I couldn’t stand it anymore. My sheets and pillows couldn’t endure it anymore. I was going to finish this MOTHERFUCKING ELEPHANT CAMP if I had to be carried on piggyback or a stretcher or a palanquin.

I pulled on my mahout outfit, tied my checkered scarf around my waist, hobbled out to my patio, and waited. One of my caretakers came down the gravel path, took one look at my foot (which was spilling out of my shoe), and looked at me worriedly. I just smiled. “I want to finish the program today. I just might need a little help.” He laughed, did a low wai to me, and said, “You very strong!”

It had rained that morning and everything was wet and muddy. Wanpen, my elephant, hates the mud and shook her head like a prima donna as I rode her to where she would be getting her bath. Instead of bathing her in the river like we usually did, we brought her to one of the wash stalls where I could clean her with a hose. The camp employees all laughed as I hobbled around Wanpen, barely able to keep my balance, and scrubbed the mud out of her little baby wrinkles. She grabbed the hose from me and drank long gulps of water from it, then sprayed me with it. Cheeky little monster.

I could no longer mount her as I had before: She would bend her front leg, I would step on her foot, and then her thigh, and then swing my leg over her neck, nestling myself just behind her ears. I had gotten that mount down perfectly, and could do it three seconds or less. However, since it required me to put a lot of weight on my right foot, I would be unable to do it. Instead, Wanpen had to lie down so that I could scramble over her shoulder and onto her back. When she would stand up, I would experience a little earthquake. This huge mound would shudder and oomph upward under me, shoulder bones rippling under wet, tough skin as I steadied myself by pressing my palms against them.

We headed up to the elephant show grounds where I would ride in the elphant parade while Wanpen played her harmonica. Before the show we stood in a pen where the tourists could feed the elephants bananas as the elephants did endearing things like take off visitors’ hats, or hug them with their trunks while they squirmed and screamed. When the tourists would hand Wanpen 20 baht, she would bend her trunk over her head and pass it back to me. I was amazed at the show the elephants were putting on, though I’m not gonna lie….I wasn’t feeling as confident as I had the two days prior. While I had previously felt as though I was made for riding elephants, and that I could just go on ahead and conquer the world on the head of one, on the third day my foot was killing me, I had lost a lot of trust in Wanpen’s mahout (who had stood idly by as I injured myself), and I had a strange feeling of fear in the pit of my stomach. Something just didn’t feel quite right that day. I shook it off and told myself that I was just nervous because I had gotten hurt the day before, and I was just being a silly little Nervous Nelly.

We finally headed up to the show arena, and we all marched in in order of height. Wanpen wrapped her trunk around the elephant’s tail directly in front of her while a smaller elephant took position right behind her. There were at least a hundred people there, snapping all kinds of pictures, and I was waving like a freakin’ Miss America contestant. After the first little parade, I slid back from Wanpen’s neck onto her back and she rocked out on her harmonica, shaking her head and waving her front leg. The elephants were complete hams, and they fed off of the crowd’s applause.

After the parade, it was time for Wanpen and I to paint a picture together. She was one of the camp’s most talented elephant artists, and she had a particular flower that she liked to paint, which was dubbed “Wanpen’s flower.” I decided that I wanted a bonsai tree, so we mixed up the green and brown paints and started painting. I pointed on the canvas where I wanted her to paint while also giving vocal commands, and her mahout gently tugged her ear. I was standing right next to the beautiful dinner plates of her eyes, and they were blinking softly in concentration. She could barely paint because I started draping myself over her trunk, hugging it tightly and squealing because OMG SHE WAS TOTALLY PAINTING AND SHE LOOKED SO CUTE AND HAPPY WHILE SHE WAS DOING IT. After we finished the bonsai tree (which turned out BEAUTIFULLY and is one of the most unique pieces of art that I have gotten in Asia) she gave me a ton of trunk hugs, and playfully took off my hat, and patted me on the head, and I posed for pictures sitting on her knee. I fed her bananas and she wrapped her trunk around me to get to the ones that I was hiding behind my back. Her trunk felt like an arm in its structure and strength, and her eyes were so filled with presence and personality. She is a tremendous flirt and gave me trunk kisses and exhaled small trumpeting sounds to ask for more treats. I melted into a big, gooey puddle of elephant love. My elephant obsession reached pathological proportions.

It was time for me to rest and pack before going on one final trek. When I emerged from my hut, Wanpen was chilling in the painting area and snacking on some grass. I walked up to her, speaking to her in my gooey saccharine voice that animals and babies bring out in me, and patted her between the eyes as she sniffed me all over to see if I had brought her anything to eat. And then, out of nowhere, she stuck her trunk in her mouth, wetted the end of it, and USED HER TRUNK TO MASSAGE MY INJURED FOOT. It was almost eerie in how it felt like strong, gentle fingers. I looked at her mahout in total surprise, and he just laughed. “She knows!” he said.

We took her to get another bath at the wash stall before heading out on our trek. And, well, that’s when things got REALLY interesting……..

I’ve rambled on enough for one day. I’ll finish this story tomorrow!

Traveling on.....

I realize that on this here blog there are many narrative threads that I have left dangling. I will sort of start to write about a trip, and then not really follow through (e.g. my experience at Maesa Elephant Camp). This is just utterly unacceptable, as the entire purpose of this blog is to keep family, friends, and loved ones informed about my fabulous adventures, not necessarily to talk about my own personal struggles and growth experiences and experiences with grief. And while the growth experiences have been numerous, and I learn so much each and every day here about myself and the things that need to (and have!!) change(d), really, the travel experiences are much more interesting. I think the reason why I have not been as prolific in my travel writing here is because I document every little detail of every trip in my pen and paper journal (and I even glue in ticket stubs and receipts and postcards and business cards and everything!), and so I therefore tend to not feel like writing about it all over again. However, that is all about to change. Behold! The new and improved era of The Milkman's Daughter!

One benefit of the economic downturn that is happening all over this great wide world is the fact that travel is cheap as all get out. Mind you, this "pro" is definitely countered by the "con" that is the fact that the baht is getting its ever-lovin' butt kicked and, thanks to the godawful exchange rate between the baht and the dollar currently, my salary is now basically worthless. Moving on......

Let me also make it clear for any longtime readers (hi, Mom!) that during last school year I only had 1.5 days off during the weekend. However, this school year I have two full days off!! Woo hoo!! More time to travel!!

So, back to cheap travel.....two weekends ago there was a special promotion on flights AND hotels in Vietnam, and last weekend there was a special promotion on flights to Siem Reap, Cambodia. Even though visas and departure taxes in these countries are somewhat pricey, I figured that these expensive logistics were completely worth it. I've had a total bee in my bonnet lately about getting back to Vietnam--to Hanoi, specifically, otherwise known as the Most Charming Place on Earth, and I spent five days in and around there last time I went--and I also figured that it's a cryin' shame that I had been to my beloved, beloved Cambodia three times and had yet to visit Angkor Wat.

And so....I went. And it is truly remarkable how much you can do, see, and experience in only a weekend. People look at me strangely when I tell them that I'm going to these places for only a weekend (which usually works out to be one night), but you can live a lifetime in a weekend.

Hanoi. I stayed at the exact same hotel that I did last time, and ate at all the same places that I did last time. I even went to some of the same shops. But that was sort of the point of this visit: revisiting the familar, reliving all of the experiences that I relished the first time, and just taking this city in to the greatest extent possible. Unlike other places (especially Siem Reap!!), Hanoi is not a destination where I tend to run around, crossing tons of items off of a packed itinerary, and keeping my nose buried in my Lonely Planet as I read about the zillions of things that I want to see as I am en route from one destination to another. I do love that sort of frantic way of traveling, where you are completely absorbed in your surroundings but also excited to get to the next sight or restaurant or activity. You become a one-woman inferno, consuming absolutely everything in your path. And Hanoi is quite frantic, but I move at a complete snail's pace. The first time I visited Hanoi I started the Old Quarter walking tour that is outlined in the Lonely Planet, and never ended up finishing it. This time I booked my ticket and had one (and only one) agenda item: finish the freakin' walking tour.

I totally did not finish that walking tour.

Hanoi is a fabulous place for a Piscean like myself--for the fish whose soul and intellect are constantly swimming at odds with one another. It forces you to wake up, pay attention, and stay present. The sheer volume of motorcycles, and their relentless and brazen invasion of personal space requires you to stay alert, walk in a straight line, and make no sudden moves. There are, if you are lucky, about four inches of sidewalk that are available for pedestrian use. The other inches are devoured by parked motorcycles, squat stools where people sit and slurp their piping hot pho, makeshift barber shops where you can get a shave and a haircut (two bits), women resting their loads of pineapples and bananas, and narrow stores overflowing with colorful wares as they try to entice buyers. So if you do not pay attention, you are likely to be run down or lose your balance or trip. And even though everything is completely chaotic, and at first glance it can all be somewhat frightening, there is a perfect and flowing harmony to all of this motion and noise and metal and smoke and silk. When exiting the hotel and entering the street, one must simply take a deep breath and allow oneself to be utterly swept up in all of it. And mind you, while there is constant and blaring movement everywhere, none of it is fast. The energy of this city buzzes and vibrates, but it is slow and careful, picking its way around everything, taking care not to muss its delicate charms, its soft colors.

And while Hanoi DOES force you to focus and pay attention, on the other hand it also has countless ways of diverting your attention. The shops....THE SHOPS!!! You've never seen so many lovely things in one place. The silks that have been embroidered by hand (oh the lucky ladies in my life, have YOU got some beautiful gifts comin' your way!!), and the lacquer paintings with eggshell and gold leaf details, and the brightly painted vases, and the water puppets, and the gemstones that have been so expertly polished, and the bags and quilts that have been sewn by hilltribe people with rough threads and bright colors, and the satin sleep sacks, and the stone carvings of traditional Vietnamese musicians, and the conical hats....I put myself on a very tight budget this time, and it was hard to stay within it (though I did manage). Every two steps is another beautiful shop (and I mean two steps literally....the shops in Hanoi are extremely narrow, as households and businesses built in the colonial period had to pay taxes according to how much of the actual street they took up, so they took the "tube" approach and built narrow buildings with deep hallways). Every two steps I must divert myself from my walking tour and feel the lacquer, touch the silks, and do some quick budget calculations. As soon as I get myself refocused and on my way, BAM. I must stop and look at something, or take a picture of a random sign (I think Vietnamese looks really cool in writing), or contemplate how a family of five can fit so comfortably on a motorcycle, or watch a group of live snails in a bucket ooze all over each other before they become delicacies.

At first glance the Vietnamese are not perpetually smiling like the Thais (I must admit, I always get a little homesick for Thailand and its beautiful, smiling people whenever I go elsewhere...there's just nothing else like it), nor are they aggressively friendly like the Cambodians. They have a calm, centered core that just radiates, and they can be feisty when they need to be. I love their energy. I love how everything there seems so completely random, like there is no order to anything at all, but it all somehow makes sense (and again, this is simply a glance, my own humble observation, and certainly not intended to be a cultural generalization that encompasses all Vietnamese or Thais or Cambodians everywhere). This place has steeped in its own complex history, has been fortified by its own quiet faith, and it has its own distinctive fingerprint. I feel such a deep reverence and respect for this place. This beautiful warrior (the beautiful female warrior being an image that is replicated over and over again in Hanoi's Fine Arts Museum), this place of blinding green rice paddies and gray skies and abrupt silhouettes of limestone cliffs, this place where the air is filled with bellowing horns and clanging bicyclce bells and an unidentified (to me, at least) smoke that men inhale out of large bamboo stalks.

It was an altogether fabulous trip.

Wordless Wednesday: Hooray for Hefelumps!!

These pictures were taken at the Maesa Elephant Camp in Chiang Mai, where I did a three-day mahout training course (see here and here for previous entries about that....the entry about day three is coming soon!). This is Wanpen, my elephant. Isn't she beautiful? I fell madly, madly in love with her!!

Bali

I miss Peter. I miss riding bikes. I miss Bali.

Here's a picture of Peter and me riding bikes in Bali.....



And, since I'm posting Bali pictures, here's a picture of Chang being eaten. That's Peter's hand in the frame, bravely attempting to retrieve Chang. About two seconds later the monkey would bare its fangs, hiss, and chase after poor Peter. Monkeys can be SCARY!! No wonder the Wicked Witch of the West slapped some wings on them and kept them as pets.....

Maesa Elephant Camp, Day 2

First, go ahead and read about my experience at Maesa Elephant Camp, Day 1. Go ahead....I'll wait!

This is copied directly from my pen-and-paper journal (which I bought at the camp, and which is made out of elephant dung paper!!)...simple, uncut, uncensored, unedited. And yes...the smiley faces are in the original text. Enjoy!!

So...Day 2. I was elated and ecstatic and giddy (even though I awoke to the sound of someone's wet, mucky, painful-sounding hacking cough and the crowing of a smoky-voiced rooster) from the day before. I was BEYOND excited, and just kept repeating over and over again, HOLY CRAP, THIS IS MY LIFE! I felt so incredibly grateful and awake and excited. The day started early--we had left Wanpen in the jungle overnight, so we had to hike in to get her. I was smart this time, though: instead of wearing the crappy sandals that they provided for me (two sizes too big!), which were NOT good for hiking (I majorly sliced open the bottom of my big toe...hardly the worst injury I would sustain :) ), I opted for wearing my own comfy shoes. It was a gray, misty morning--the mist was wound around the trees like cotton, barely moving. The jungle was wet and alive and making its morning sounds. I could barely walk because of all of the mud from the rainstorm the night before. There were deep, elephant foot-shaped puddles everywhere, and HOLY LORD, was the hike strenuous! I clearly hadn't noticed the day before, as, um, I was on the elephant, but it was all pretty much STRAIGHT UPHILL. And slippery. Before long the mist in the air settled onto my skin and mixed with my sweat. I was SOAKED. Wanpen was so adorable--she was full of jungle nourishment and COVERED in mud. I climbed on, and wow, din she ever NOT want to leave the jungle! As soon as V., her mahout, would get far enough ahead, she would sneak off the path in search of more food. I would kick a little, and try the commands, but she didn't REALLY listen to me, so mostly I just laughed and waited for V. to rescue me.

I would learn on that (beautiful, peaceful, and quiet save for V.'s occasional shouts at Wanpen and the firecrackers that the hilltribe children--who live near the elephant camp--were setting off) that Wanpen a.) is a bit of a 'fraidy cat, and b.) hates deep mud. Two bits of information that would come into play on day three.....

Apparently, Wanpen was spooked by the sound of firecrackers, a fact that I did not notice in my content, hazy oblivion until V. started leading her by the ear and looking at her sideways. He finally told me to get off. He said, "My elephant is scared, and when she gets scared, she RUNS!" Wanpen just lumbered along in front of us for a ways, snacking as she went, her lower jaw moving back and forth, until the sound died down and I could climb back on. I felt like a freakin' princess riding into camp on her. It was an unforgettable feeling.

Since Wanpen was a complete mud ball, it was time for a much-needed bath! The bath on the second day was much more elaborate than the bath on the first day--I really had to scrub every inch of her with the scrub brush. I was getting soaked, but I was loving every second of it. She was splashing around, using her trunk as a snorkel....LOVE IT!! After she was nice and clean (and her skin was wonderfully soft) I climbed back on. Now, I didn't know it at the time, but apparently other tourists were usually not able to climb on by themselves the way I could [see day 1 for details]. On the first day they also had me mount using Wanpen's hind leg, climb to her neck, and dismount using her front leg. When I totally ROCKED that, V. showed me the super advanced "professional" dismount: Scoot back to the elephant's butt, swing one leg over so that you're sitting sideways, step onto the elephant's raised hind leg (with your body facing away from the elephant), and step to the ground. I was going to attempt it on the first day, but didn't quite feel comfortable enough. However, I was DETERMINED to try it the second day. Now, at the time I thought that this dismount was something that EVERYONE who visited the camp could do. Standard camp procedure. I would later find out that this was not, in fact, the case. I was one of very few privileged individuals to attempt this dismount. If I had known this ahead of time, well....I still TOTALLY would have tried it :)

So anyway, after Wanpen's bath we went on a very muddy trek back to camp. C., my main caretaker, had gone to get water, and M., my other caretaker, was helping a British couple who had arrived that day. So it was just V. and me. We got back to camp and were in the area where they teach the elephants to paint (and where the ground is VERY hard), and we decided to practice getting on and off, and to attempt the hind leg dismount. So....I had swung my leg over, stepped on Wanpen's raised hind leg, and, well, thought I was much closer to the ground than I actually was. And, well, I was maaaaaybe not supervised as closely as I should have been, and V. wasn't really helping to ease me to the ground (or, more accurately, catch me). I ended up sorta falling, landing awkwardly on the ball of my right foot, and hearing a loud POP as my foot collapsed under me.

OUCH. HOLY LORD, DID IT HURT!!!!

I was able to stand up and hobble to the nearest chair where I elevated my foot, while V.--who was totally panicked--kept asking me if I was hurt. And, well, I couldn't quite find the voice to answer him. He went running to get C., and I was NOT allowing the panicked thoughts that were brewing in my gut to travel to my brain ("What if it's broken? How will I get around Bangkok in crutches?? How will I get up and down the stairs at school? What about the rest of my trip? What if I'm wearing a cast and my leg gets infected and HAS TO BE AMPUTATED????"). I was just taking deep breaths, staying completely calm, trying to slow my racing heart. After icing it for a little bit, and successfully wiggling all of my toes (which led me to believe that it was most likely not broken), I decided that I needed to get into my bed STAT, which was luckily close by. I was feeling lightheaded, and my vision was doing its T.V. static-esque warning that I might faint. I stood up, the blood rushed to my head (or left it?? How does that work, exactly??), and I promptly had to sit on the ground with my head between my legs. I attempted to stand two more times with the same result, and my face was damp with a cold sweat. C. finally put me on his back and carried me. After plopping me down on my bed, he got me an ice pack and said he'd be back in a couple of hours to check on me. I was in SO MUCH PAIN, and my toes were starting to look like sausages as my foot began to swell. BUT, again, I was simply refusing to acknowledge any fearful, dramatic, negative, worst-case-scenario thoughts about my injury. I stayed calm and fully present, and just kept telling myself that I didn't yet have enough information to jump to any conclusions (though everyone, including me, was fairly certain that it wasn't broken). I spent the rest of the day enjoying the book The Secret Life of Bees, taking painkillers, and sleeping. Later, V., C., M., and some female staff members came to check on me. One of the women put some strong balm on my foot and massaged it, which felt SO good (yet another indication that it probably wasn't broken).

So I was perfectly content to just hang out, take it easy, nap, read, and let the staff pamper me a bit. That is, until about midnight when I came unraveled because of the PAIN and called my mom and BAWLED (man....mothers are ALWAYS great for drying tears, even when they're half a world away). However, once that was out of my system I realized that the main reason why I was so upset was because I thought that I was not going to be able to finish the program--this once-in-a-lifetime, totally amazing, complete dream come true--and that just broke my heart. BUT....even despite the roosters and the guy with the technicolor phlegm that interrupted my sleep all night long, I awoke that morning feeling COMPLETELY determined: I was going to ride Wanpen again and be in the elephant show and do the elephant painting if I had to be CARRIED from place to place. I was very no-nonsense when I declared this to M. after hobbling out of my room, hands on hips, and he knew that I meant business. He just looked at me, gave me a compliant bow, told me that I am "very strong," and helped me limp to breakfast.

The Day 3 installment will be coming soon!!!!

Oh, and an update on the foot injury: Just as I suspected, it was NOT broken, or even fractured. Just severely sprained. It still looks like a bloated, rotting piece of meat with its all-encompassing bruises and bubble toes, but it gets better each day, and my limp is now much less pronounced. And.....it was so. totally. worth. it. To be honest, when they told me that the dismount was the super advanced, professional dismount, I felt like a total badass. Hey, accidents happen, and I'm so happy I didn't waste any time or energy stressing about my injury. Because, at the end of the day, it's just a minor inconvenience. Besides...how many people can say that they injured themselves DISMOUNTING AN ELEPHANT FROM ITS HIND LEG???

Maesa Elephant Camp, Day 1

Oh man. It's NOT GOOD that I'm already sick of the daily blogging!! And lemme just say....I think it's a good thing that I only post when I have something interesting, relevant, or fully "baked" to say, because yesterday's post? YIKES. Clearly I was reaching for something to write about in my nearly-brain-dead state. However, all of this is an exercise in growth, so bear with me....

As I mentioned before, I spent three days at Maesa Elephant Camp in Chiang Mai learning to be a mahout (or "elephant keeper," "elephant driver"), and it was BY FAR the best experience I've had in Asia. It was certainly not without its mishaps, but even those helped to make for a rather rich experience.

I arrived at the camp where I was greeted by C. and M., my "caretakers," who were tremendously kind, and who right off the bat started teaching me more Thai to add to my (unfortunately, rather meager) lexicon. The first order of business was to give me my mahout uniform: large, comfy pants and shirt made out of a rough cotton (a type of outfit that is commonly worn in the Chiang Mai Province), tied at the waist with a colorful, checked cloth serving as a belt (which also transforms into a protective sun shield AND towel for bathing), and topped off with a hat woven from the thick blades of the local grasses. I got to keep this outfit, by the way....

Then it was off to watch the elephants take a bath in the river. Sweet angel babies. They would completely submerge themselves, leaving only their trunks above water. C. called it "elephant scuba." It was the first time I had ever seen how playful elephants can truly be; they were splashing each other, and splashing their mahouts, and climbing all over each other, and ignoring their mahouts when it was time to get out. When they DID finally get out, they were sulking a little. Their eyes were so bright and full of their personalities, their cheeky humor, their gigantic feelings.

Next was the elephant show, where I was informed that I would be participating. This was news to me, and I looked around nervously at the multitudes of spectators that were about to watch me make a total ass of myself. The extent of my participation consisted of competing in a dart throwing contest with an elephant--namely, to see who could pop the most balloons. Now, I'm certainly not known for my hand-eye coordination (or large motor coordination, or, hell, color coordination), but I was quite the dart champion back in the day (alcohol+throwing things=YES, PLEASE!!). The elephant and I were neck and neck until one of my darts bounced off of a balloon without popping it, and I couldn't quite get it back after that (though the crowd was definitely behind me!!). The elephant was a good sport and patted me on the head with its trunk after I lost.

After the show it was time for me to meet my elephant. Wanpen. Her name means "full moon," and she is a gorgeous, nine-year-old elephant with a patch of pink freckles on each cheek. I was in love with her as soon as her Mahout, V., brought her over. Now, all of my years of riding horses prepared me well for riding elephants, and I was able to clamber on and off without any difficulty. To mount an elephant, you shout a command, tap her front leg with your foot until she raises it a bit, step on her foot (which she then raises a little more), and then step on her, um, thigh (?) with your other foot before swinging your leg over her neck and situating yourself between her ears. Two steps and a swing. I perfected it after two shaky tries. The dismount is just the reverse, and the elephant's skin grips you as you slide slowly to the ground. Wanpen's skin was amazingly soft, and waaay thicker than I ever would have suspected. And her forehead....her forehead, which I used for balance, was almost *squishy* and covered in thick hairs that curled around my fingers. Her ears were like a long leather trench coat against my legs.

I learned the commands and practiced them: BY! HOW! BEN!...Go! Stop! Turn! Yelling at the top of my lungs, loving it. We even played a little soccer with another visitor (the command for kicking the elephant-sized soccer ball? A very unladylike HUA!!), but we stopped when Wanpen's aim was a little off and the ball made contact with the back of an unsuspecting visitor's head, who shrieked a little and proceeded to swear in German. We were yellow carded and then decided that it was time to go to the river and take a bath.

Unlike horses, who coax your hips into a back and forth motion as you walk along, the motion of an elephant makes your hips go in a very wide circle, which makes you feel at any given moment that you will lose your balance and topple off. However, as soon as you start to feel unbalanced in one direction the elephant shifts, taking another step, and you are balanced again.

On the way to the river was a rather steep downward slope. Going down a steep hill on an elephant's head is perhaps the most bizarre feeling ever. There is nothing in front of you to hold onto, and her head just seems to disappear from your line of vision. Everything feels like it's dropping out from under you and that you are, once again, going to topple off. However, it all seems to end up working out, especially since the moment you are feeling off balance or an unfortunate victim to inertia, WHAP! She smacks her ears to the side of her head, holding them there, so that your legs are secured to her neck. Right where they belong.

Once we got to the river I rolled up my pants, grabbed a scrub brush, and proceeded to scrub every part that I could: behind her ears, her sweet forehead, her back, her belly, the pink bottoms of her elephant feet (um, elephant feet are the CUTEST THINGS EVER, and I had to resist the temptation to kiss them the same way I do baby feet), the wrinkles in her trunk, her tail, all the while telling her what pretty girl she is. She, um, relieved herself in the river, and the large green globs floated downriver where women were waiting with baskets to collect it. Upon seeing my puzzled expression, V. explained to me that the women use it to make paper.

After the bath it was time for lunch and a bit of a rest (um, any program that has nap time BUILT INTO THE SCHEDULE is my kind of program!) before the jungle trek that evening.

At this elephant camp (where, I might add, the elephants are all very well-trained and treated like ROYALTY), elephants are brought into the jungle several nights a week where they are dropped off with the sole purpose of eating the thick greenery and lying in the plush grass. And so began the trek, just as the sky was beginning to be tinged with pink and the insects were warming up their mechanical throats to fill the air with night sounds. The sound of the cicadas was a deafening, single-note squeal. The winter song, C. told me. When the winter cicadas die, the spring cicadas are born and they sing a different song. But even with the squealing and the chirping and the croaking, the silence was rich and warm and just utterly present. HOLY CRAP. THIS IS MY LIFE. THIS IS MY LIFE. THIS IS MY LIFE. That was all that filled my head. I had an elephant lumbering along beneath me, tickling my toes with her surprisingly warm breath as her trunk swung back and forth, reaching for sweet things to eat, exploring the air with occasional snorts.

It was a dream come true. It was perfect.

After dismounting and saying goodnight to Wanpen we hiked out of the jungle, passing a spider web the size of a kiddie pool (sorry I couldn't think of anything more eloquent....the thing was just HUGE!), complete with a spider the size of my torso absolutely devouring a gigantic (and juicy!) insect. We passed a black and orange centipede wrapped around baby mushrooms, pulling them into its mouth with its spindly little legs. C. showed me a plant that, if tapped, pretends to wilt and play dead for about ten minutes before springing back to life.

THIS IS MY LIFE. THIS IS MY LIFE.

That night I had a cooking class. We made tom kha gai (soup with coconut milk, chicken, lemongrass, garlic, chilis...basically sunshine in a bowl) and stir fried vegetables, and then the cook prepared a breaded fish and spring rolls and plate of succulent pineapple for desert. I sat in the small dining room, FEASTING on this food, looking out the open doors and windows to the dark silhouettes of the elephants beyond, rocking back and forth in their nighttime ritual of sensing danger, using the stems of the long grasses they were eating to swat away mosquitos, all under a silvery kaleidoscope of stars. And my eyes filled with tears.

This day was a bright, bright beacon in a year of major ups and downs. And the loss and the grief and everything that I've been keeping at bay just came up to the surface for a moment and dissolved a bit in the enveloping peace of this place. Like water disappearing in the warm tunnel of a trunk. And I was quiet and still and full. And I cried.

C. and M. came in to check on my progress with the meal. They saw the tears, they saw the smile, and they sat down across from me, also smiling. They knew. They got it.

C. is from a Karen hilltribe nearby. We talked about the long neck women, and how the new generation is discontinuing this practice, which some have argued is somewhat akin to foot binding. He told me about his village, about his dream to return there one day and teach.

After dinner I walked with C. and M. (and a flashlight!) to see Mena, the camp's youngest elephant at just over a year old. Mena was curled up, a little gray mass at her mother's feet as her mother rocked back and forth, feeling out the air with her trunk, watching over her baby.

I had elephant dreams all night that night.

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!

Presence

So, the picture below is certainly not the most flattering picture ever taken, but I'm pretty certain it captures one of the happiest moments of my entire life. Peter and I were messing around with the camera, and he told me to start jumping up and down. The whole thing felt so silly, especially since he kept telling me to spread my arms out, and I was giggling uncontrollably. I think my face was about to split wide open with the power of the grin on my face (you can click on the picture to enlarge it if you reeeeeally wanna see it in detail....which you probably don't...):



That whole week in Bali was so unusual for me, because I think it was the first time in my entire life that I was able to just be in the present moment--not fretting over the future or thinking about the various pressing concerns that are plaguing me at the moment. I literally left them behind in Thailand, and I've never been able to do that before.

Bali has no interest in worry. Worry is utterly incapable of breeding there. Should a worry arise, it is lazily carried away by a salty breeze to join the mosaic of kites that pepper the sky there. The ground there is littered with offerings. People make them twice a day--banana leaves folded into squares and filled with flowers, incense, Ritz crackers, prayers. They're placed in a variety of spots--on steps, on the sidewalk, in the middle of the street, in tree branches. Everyone stops to reflect and give thanks, and while no one in Bali even begins to produce what can pass as a bustle, these little brief retreats bring everyone into the present moment. The present moment is alive and well in Bali.

When Peter and I went on a bike tour, our guide told us that everyone in Bali (it being the only Hindu country in the archipelago of Indonesia) believes strongly in Karma. People are genuinely good to each other. There's a gentleness that pervades and persists and any sort of negativity just gets absorbed and diminished, like water disappearing into terraced rice paddies.

Even the stray dogs were amazing. They were happy and looked well-fed and their tails were wagging and they looked significantly less tragic and weary than the strays in Bangkok. There was one particular stray dog named Cocoa (or rather, that's what I named him) who followed Peter and me around Ubud (a fabulous town filled with artists and mountain air) for pretty much the entirety of our time there. I would regress to the age of five whenever I would see this dog. I would coo to him and tell him what a widdle pweshious weshious he was, and he would wag his tail and look up at me with his sad little eyes and protect us from other stray dogs (and hide behind us when other stray dogs came after him). Peter had had enough of Cocoa by the time our last day rolled around, but he managed to find some "I heart Bali dogs" stickers for me and chuckled that I was clearly among kindred spirits in Bali.

So, yes. I was quite possibly the happiest I've ever been in my entire life in Bali. The fact that I was there with the love of my life (who spent every minute of his time making me feel perfect and pretty and like I'm the best thing since sliced bread) turned Bali into a perfect paradise.

Chang

Bali was BEYOND amazing. It is possibly the most magical place in this wonderful world. The series of posts about it will begin tomorrow! Today, as I dust off the cobwebs and try to shake the Balinese dreaminess out of my head (but not completely), I have a story about Chang.

Chang, as I mentioned before, was a gift from my friends B. and C. His role is to travel around the world and be photographed in various exotic locales (a la Flat Stanley, the Flatmistress, and other similarly fun companions).

Here he is in Cambodia:



He's a cute little patchwork elephant that can strike many different poses and is rather photogenic. We toted him with us all over Bali, and had a blast taking pictures of him in front of a gigantic volcano, balancing on the stone head of a mythical creature, and sitting on our shoulders as we stood in front of pastel sunsets.

On our last day in Bali we wandered over to the Sacred Monkey Forest--a stunning forest filled with Indiana Jones-esque temples and over 300 macaque monkeys (macaque monkeys, by the way, are the most prosperous and "successful" genus of monkey....and boy, are those things feisty!!). Before we arrived at the actual entrance of the forest, we noticed that several monkeys were causing trouble in some of the storefronts near the forest. It was a very interesting experience seeing these monkeys hanging out on the sidewalk, and while I didn't want to set Chang down on the pavement and risk a possible elephant-napping by an overly mischievous primate, I DID want to get a picture of Chang with one particularly chubby monkey who was just chillin' right there on the sidewalk as people walked past.

Peter bravely volunteered to hold Chang NEAR the monkey so that at least the two of them would be in the shot together. I got my camera all ready and zoomed in nice and close. And then, as if in slow motion, I watched in horror as the monkey reached out and swiped my patchwork elephant from Peter's hand. Peter, being the heroic boyfriend that he is, attempted twice to retrieve poor Chang from the monkey's evil clutches, which the monkey did not appreciate in the least. He reacted by hissing, baring his (suprisingly long and sharp) fangs, and chasing after my sweet, beloved Peter while I attempted to scoop my gaping jaw from off of the sidewalk. The monkey, being rather chubby, gave up the chase after a few steps and hopped, King Kong style, (and I swear I could hear Chang screaming Fay Wray style) up a pole where he would proceed to perch on a roof and....I can barely type it....begin devouring my sweet little elephant.

Chang, in a weak attempt at self-defense, found a way to poke the monkey right in the palm with the pin that was attached to his back (as Chang was intended to be worn as a lapel pin...which, as much as I love and adore Chang, I think would be a hideous accessory in what I would imagine to be an even more hideous outfit...). The monkey began licking his palm and rubbing it on the ledge, at which point I decided to plead with the monkey, arms outstretched and fingers waving wildly, to throw down my elephant. The monkey, clearly aware of my pain and suffering, began mocking me by dangling poor Chang by the (now extremely bent and therefore defunct as a form of self-defense) pin for a few moments before putting Chang head first into his mouth and scampering off to another roof.

I was completely distraught. My Chang! My loyal travel companion! I allowed him to be EATEN BY A MONKEY!! I was catatonic for a few moments and remained glued--mouth wide open--to the spot where I had watched the carnage. A little while later a small monkey sat on the perch where the murdering bastard monkey had been. I watched him as he chewed on something, made a displeased face, and threw whatever he was eating to the ground. It was a Chang appendage, and it spilled fluffy white Chang insides all over the sidewalk.

Peter eventually had to put both hands on my shoulders and tell me to let it go...Chang was gone. Poor Chang. Peter also gently told me that we would never hold our future infant near a monkey in order to have a most excellent photo op. Duly noted.

In my state of shock I DID end up snapping some photos of Chang's final moments (Peter, unbeknownst to me, took a VIDEO of it!). Perhaps I will post the, er, less graphic ones once I get my Bali pictures uploaded.

R.I.P., little guy!!

Bali and bliss.....

Well, after SIX MONTHS APART (six months!!!!!!! Six! 3+3! 4+2! You need two hands to count that high!), Peter and I were reunited in Singapore. Sadly, it was a short reunion, as my employers did not give me any extra time off (even though Thursday was actually a holiday here), but it was very, very sweet. I can't believe how much he's been through since we last laid eyes on each other. I can't believe I wasn't there to hold his hand through all of it. It was awful and difficult and will be a long journey. The fact that I couldn't be there during that time will always remain one of my biggest regrets. However, when we saw each other, not only were we able to pick up right where we left off, but it became immediately apparent that our relationship had also strengthened considerably. Now, I realize that life is not a contest. Neither is love. However, I wonder if there are many couples out there whose relationship would be able to survive so many intense tests. I mean, I think all couples THINK they could, but when it comes right down to it, it's a lot to handle: Six months apart, many difficult life changes, bad phone connections, an 11 hour time difference, and another year to go.....and yet, we are more in love than we ever have been, and feel more secure in our relationship than ever before.

So, yes. Love is not a contest. But we **TOTALLY** win!! I think it's pretty safe to say that we are in this for the long haul. I want to enjoy the year ahead of me, but I am also really excited about planning our future together.

As far as Singapore is concerned, well, I gotta admit that I didn't, um, see much outside of the lovely hotel room (sorry you had to read that, Mom and Dad). Peter is speaking at an economics conference there, so I feel as though I should send a thank you note and a batch of cookies to HBS for putting us up in such fabulous accommodations. Now, I certainly don't want to say anything negative about someone else's home, as I know how much it bothers me when people make fun of Minnesota. Singapore is a place many people call home and they are proud to live there. I think it is a wonderful place and I did enjoy my time there. However, as an uninformed outsider, I would have to say that Singapore is my least favorite of all of the places I've been in Asia. The artifice of it all is palpable. It is a place with a fascinating (and relatively recent) history, some very interesting language and educational policies, and it used to be a swamp in the middle of a jungle. Much of its land was originally constructed out of sand from Indonesia. So the fact that it all feels so artificial makes sense--it is quite LITERALLY a man made city that hasn't had a chance to accumulate the wonderful age spots that a rich history will give a place. I DO have to say, though, that it was so nice to be able to drink the water and eat whatever I wanted without worrying about my stomach. I highly recommend the food vendors (or "hawkers") in Chinatown. Peter and I had some satay and some Tiger beer and it was all kinds of awesome.

So....Peter and I will be reunited on Sunday in Kuala Lumpur, and then we head to Bali for a week. I've been reading all about Bali today and it is going to be an incredible trip. It seems like SUCH a romantic place. It'll be like a pre-honeymoon....y'know, the kind that you have BEFORE you get married (or engaged, for that matter). I'm pretty sure we'll have internet access, but whether or not I will spend any time blogging is a question that can probably be answered in the NEGATIVE.

Life is good. Be well while I'm gone!!

xoxoxoxo

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.