Link to pictures for illustration!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2003708&l=0c0a1&id=1056950876
30 May
We are greeted by Luang Prabang, Laos with turbulent skies and a sudden torrential downpour which ends as abruptly as it starts.
“It’s so quiet,” I say in an almost-whisper. After the bustle of Cambodia this little colonial town is just…dreamy. At dusk vendors lay out piles and piles of colorful things. Blankets and bags and gongs and scarves and jewelry and t-shirts and pillow cases. We wander. Slowly. Staring. The colors are veritable magnets to our eyes.
31 May
Today we begin a three day trek/kayak adventure. We meet our new companion, Mike, who has just graduated from medical school and had been partying off the studying in the islands before arriving here. Mike, in a word, is great. (Of course he is—he’s Canadian! hehehehe) He answers all of our medical questions and seems to be amused by our picture poses…if a bit disappointed when we tell him we usually go to bed at 10 PM.
And so we embark upon our adventure into the jungle-y hills. It begins to rain. A little. And then. A lot. It is pouring and we look like wet rag dolls in about 10 minutes. But on we go. The muddy path becomes slick and slippery. Clay collects on our shoes and makes them heavy and useless. Grasses brush our legs. Giant leaves are like momentary umbrellas.
I love to walk. I love to be outside. I love to walk outside. When my feet wander, my mind wanders over friends…ideas…happenings. And as we ascend this very very slippery hill, one part of my brain chooses footsteps—making sure what my foot lands in is wet mud and not wet shit—and another is feeling far far away from home.
An e-mail from my friend this morning—she and her boyfriend broke up. I am mad at him. And sad for her. I think about heartache and how much it hurts. How it seems at times that it will never end. That no one will ever hold you or kiss you or make your heart beat like that again.
I think about Dante. And the impossible number of tears I cried at the end of us. Why is it so hard to let go—even if it isn’t right? Leftover love and glimmers of perfect moments linger like weights on the heart…or devils on our shoulder when our heart whispers, “Let go.” I kept waiting for them to let me go. But I was backwards—I had to let them go.
Still pouring. We are at the top and white mist drifts around the mountains. Our guide cuts us bamboo staffs which are subsequently named, Splinter, Samurai, and Juan Palo. The descent is like trying to walk down a muddy slip n slide. Poor Mike has a broken pinkie toe and keeps falling on his bum. As do I (no broken toe). We are a trio of muddy butts.
As we near the villages rice paddies and corn fields dot the mountains. Our guide tells us that every family has a farm. The clouds finally part and the rain relents at the bottom and we arrive at the village where we will sleep.
The brown houses are woven with grass roofs. And the children. There are so many children! They wave eagerly and call out “Sabaidee! Sabaidee!” We see a boy who can’t be more than 5-years-old bouncing his screaming baby brother on his back.
We take off our soaked clothes with relief. Our feet are white and shrivelled and our shoes are caked in mud.
“I wonder if they sell beer here…” Indeed, they do. It’s warm and perfect.
After dinner (sticky rice, vegetables and “spicy” sauce made with dried fish juice that made me want to barf) I crawl onto my mattress, under my mosquito net--like a cozy nest—I write a letter to Dan.
I feel very far away right now.
Stop. Sadness creeps in. Maybe frustration. Sometimes on these trips I expect myself to be happy and elated at every moment. I do it in life too. But that is just not the way that life is. One of my best friends is going through a break up. I want to be there for her. Another one of my best friends is moving away tomorrow or the next day. I want to be there to hug her goodbye.
The letter remains mostly blank page. I think about Dan hard for a moment. About all of the things his name conjures up. The memories are there, but the little details are fuzzy. Like I know I love the way he smells, but I can’t remember what he smells like. I love the way he kisses me, but I don’t remember exactly what his lips feel like. I think about his lips touching the edge of his morning coffee cup. Or him snuggled into his comforter in bed. And I want to be coffee cup. I want to be the comforter. Just for an instant.
Mike knocks on the door. “They are passing around rice wine and the kids are singing—you guys should come out!” Yes. Yes, we should.
The children are packed around a long table, mesmerized by Mike’s iPhone. The rice wine pours out of a huge clay jug as one semi-toothless smiling man passes around shots, trying to get us drunk. And suddenly I remember why I am here.
1 June
There are fried frogs for breakfast. Legs. Yes. Heads. Also yes. Somehow, it is not raining today.
We arrive at a small village where they are selling beautiful pillow cases. We had seen them at the market—but had no idea they were all hand sewn. As avid, sewers, Betsy and I are amazed by the perfect needlework. They take one week to make one. Sometimes a month, for the more detailed ones.
It starts to rain (again) and we huddle under a roof. But the kids. The kids are delighted. Three naked boys run down a muddy gully. One boy digs a hold. He just digs and digs and digs and digs. The girls chase the boys and they all splash and get muddy and laugh. I could watch this for hours. So much of what is important to me exists in this moment.
Our guide tells us that the kids start school at 6. Most girls get married at 14 or 15 years old, boys at 17 or 18. The parents work all day and the kids look after themselves.
Can I even compare my life to this?
I think again about how life at home continues to happen, even though I can’t see it or touch it. About how these kids will grow up and have kids and watch more travelers pass through. I think about how very small my life is.
Lunch is on top of a hill. Below people work in the fields. At eye level the tops of the mountains bob and dip—I imagine god scribbling these mountain tops across the sky.
The town we sleep in tonight is much bigger. There are satellites everywhere and we can hear TVs and radios. There are even ice cold beers, which we take to the river to watch the sunset and the stars come out.
“It’s weird—“ I say. “You can see that this town used to be like the others. But it’s beginning to change. It’s sad—in a way.”
“But it’s also inevitable,” says Mike. I wonder if we should even be here.
Betsy points out how much we have to learn from these cultures about sustainable life and living off of and in harmony with the land—and how important it is to preserve them. And yet…who are we to say they shouldn’t have access to the same opportunities that we do? And then again, do we even define opportunity in the same way? It’s hard to get my mind around.
I guess we all just live the best way we know how.
My second beer is warm but I don’t care. We watch the fireflies, see a shooting star and talk about the great reaches of the universe. We talk about how our futures are already coming at us—for Betsy got her NOLS contracts—and Mike will begin his residency in less than a month—and I have already gotten my first writing assignments. It’s impossible to push pause. Which is wonderful and infuriating all at the same time.
2 June
Today we kayak back. It is sunny over the river but we can see the rain and hear the thunder in the hills around us. Betsy and I are fast. I feel my arms turning brown. The water is perfectly cool.
”I love the colors of this place,” says Betsy. So do I. The green mountains that fade to blue. The brown river and the brown houses. The bright blue sky…the white clouds and the grey clouds and the dark clouds.
Last night at dinner we found out our guide is 27—just like all of us. He met his new wife at a festival where they played games and sang songs. He met her once. They talked on the phone. They got married.
Betsy and I consider this love story. We consider that ours are actually not all that different.
“I think I knew Michel the third day that I knew him,” she says.
“I knew I was going to fall in love with Dan in that first week that we were together. But my head kept buzzing…little reasons…to be scared… ‘I don’t even know him…’ ‘it’s’ too soon…’ …. ‘it’s too complicated….’ I had to sit down and look at love and see that it isn’t supposed to look one way or another. I guess I had to undefined love before I could really fall into it.”
This notion of un-defining liberates me.
I un-define love and I am able to feel it nearly everyone, all of the time.
I un-define myself and who I think I should want to be and only then am I entirely myself.
I un-define my life and my expectations for it and suddenly I am in the thick of being alive…wonderous things happening all around me.
Like now we see water buffalo cooling off at the shores. Now we are singing Hakuna Matata and laughing as we bounce over tiny rapids.
I never want this river trip to end.
4 June
By fluke of airline schedules we have been awarded one extra day in this sleepy town. Our travel book says this place is like tonic for the soul. And here in this garden, writing in the rain, after exploring a waterfall yesterday, and waking at 6 AM this morning to watch dozens and dozens of Buddhist monks walk through the streets to collect alms…followed by a long hot shower…and a most delicious omelet and thick coffee….I have to agree.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
Temples, Tuk Tuks, and Van
So here are the pictures from Cambodia!
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=53802&l=292b4&id=526956216
We've been exploring temples for the past two and half days.
Now I must have a moment to talk about Van (pronounced like Vaughn), our tuk tuk driver. As I mentioned he snagged us at the boat and we hired him to drive us around to temples. He's a good dresser, very shy, and handsome. (yes I have a tiny crush on Van) He always shows up an hour before we tell him to, and when we run from breakfast to our room he shouts out: "Sky! Hello!" and waves so we know he's there. God we love Van. He's by far the coolest person we've met since we embarked upon this adventure.
Well, these temples--man, they are huge!!! There are dozens of these massive ancient temples scattered throughout the area. We have a huge breakfast, pack up the puppets and we're off.
The first one we see, we jump out of the tuk tuk and climb the steep steep (steep!) steps so high to overlook the flat green land. "Wow--it's so tall!"
And we are off to the next--the Shiva temple--the citadel of women--which is much smaller but decorated with intricate ornate carvings. "How did they do this?" "How ever did they move these stones?" And "Man, it is getting HOT." We are dripping.
On the long drive to the last temple it starts to rain a little. Faithful Van, gets out and rolls down little plastic sides to keep us dry. As he does so, it stops. He rolls them back up. A little kid stops to say hi and marvels at our puppets.
We land at the last which is described as where all faiths meet--as we walk down the long path, we are accosted by two small girls selling bracelets.
"Lady, you want bracelet, lady? 1 for 1 dollar." "Ok 3 for one dollar." "ok five for one dollar." Our no's are lost on them. Betsy storms ahead. (It's kind of funny to watch her get worked up by these little kids) I am laughing as the girls just hang by my side. We hit the entrance and they leave us and the rain begins.
We hover in a huge stone door way while it pours and pours. When it lets up a little we wander in. It seems to extend in front of us forever, these long narrow stone walls. And to our sides. It thunders and the rain falls on the leaves and strange birds sing all over--it's like a great mysterious labyrinth. And no one is here. (If only the camera battery hadn't been dead--alas!)
But we make up for pictures the next day. The first temple we visit is inundated with Japanese tourists. They are loud. They move in hoards. We hate them and move to the sides. The trees grow right up out of the ruins, and stretch their roots like hungry fingers over the stone.
At the next, serene faces watch in all directions and we stare into them on a high terrace. "Imagine it like a giant sand castle," I suggest. "Oh yeah," says Betsy. "Or imagine that giants built it. And it was actually really easy. These stones were just like Legos for them."
Finally, we land at Angkor Wat, the largest and most famous. We have a picnic in a side temple. It's hot (again). We hear thunder in all directions, but here, it is sunny. The temple is empty. We wander around the edge and stare at the carvings--follow a monkey eating bugs.
Van takes us tired, dusty, sweaty girls home. We shower and inadvertently nap in the heavenly air conditioning. Cambodia has become white wine land for us and we find a garden table, our wine comes in an ice bucket, and we toast. Cambodia. Wow.
[have landed in Laos and we leave for a three day trek tomorrow morning--big green hills all around us...]
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=53802&l=292b4&id=526956216
We've been exploring temples for the past two and half days.
Now I must have a moment to talk about Van (pronounced like Vaughn), our tuk tuk driver. As I mentioned he snagged us at the boat and we hired him to drive us around to temples. He's a good dresser, very shy, and handsome. (yes I have a tiny crush on Van) He always shows up an hour before we tell him to, and when we run from breakfast to our room he shouts out: "Sky! Hello!" and waves so we know he's there. God we love Van. He's by far the coolest person we've met since we embarked upon this adventure.
Well, these temples--man, they are huge!!! There are dozens of these massive ancient temples scattered throughout the area. We have a huge breakfast, pack up the puppets and we're off.
The first one we see, we jump out of the tuk tuk and climb the steep steep (steep!) steps so high to overlook the flat green land. "Wow--it's so tall!"
And we are off to the next--the Shiva temple--the citadel of women--which is much smaller but decorated with intricate ornate carvings. "How did they do this?" "How ever did they move these stones?" And "Man, it is getting HOT." We are dripping.
On the long drive to the last temple it starts to rain a little. Faithful Van, gets out and rolls down little plastic sides to keep us dry. As he does so, it stops. He rolls them back up. A little kid stops to say hi and marvels at our puppets.
We land at the last which is described as where all faiths meet--as we walk down the long path, we are accosted by two small girls selling bracelets.
"Lady, you want bracelet, lady? 1 for 1 dollar." "Ok 3 for one dollar." "ok five for one dollar." Our no's are lost on them. Betsy storms ahead. (It's kind of funny to watch her get worked up by these little kids) I am laughing as the girls just hang by my side. We hit the entrance and they leave us and the rain begins.
We hover in a huge stone door way while it pours and pours. When it lets up a little we wander in. It seems to extend in front of us forever, these long narrow stone walls. And to our sides. It thunders and the rain falls on the leaves and strange birds sing all over--it's like a great mysterious labyrinth. And no one is here. (If only the camera battery hadn't been dead--alas!)
But we make up for pictures the next day. The first temple we visit is inundated with Japanese tourists. They are loud. They move in hoards. We hate them and move to the sides. The trees grow right up out of the ruins, and stretch their roots like hungry fingers over the stone.
At the next, serene faces watch in all directions and we stare into them on a high terrace. "Imagine it like a giant sand castle," I suggest. "Oh yeah," says Betsy. "Or imagine that giants built it. And it was actually really easy. These stones were just like Legos for them."
Finally, we land at Angkor Wat, the largest and most famous. We have a picnic in a side temple. It's hot (again). We hear thunder in all directions, but here, it is sunny. The temple is empty. We wander around the edge and stare at the carvings--follow a monkey eating bugs.
Van takes us tired, dusty, sweaty girls home. We shower and inadvertently nap in the heavenly air conditioning. Cambodia has become white wine land for us and we find a garden table, our wine comes in an ice bucket, and we toast. Cambodia. Wow.
[have landed in Laos and we leave for a three day trek tomorrow morning--big green hills all around us...]
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Everything happens in the between space...
Everything happens in the between space...
We bus from Phnom Penh to Battambang. And then a boat to Siem Reap.
The bus has a small TV which plays and blasts a Mr. Bean movie in Cambodian. IPod, please. The Soundtrack mix. It has a lot of great thinking--Cat Stevens/Blur--type music. The earth is so green here--I realize now where Crayola came up with that color , Jungle Green. It was my favorite color... and here it is, all around me, big puffy white clouds in the blue sky.
I made this mix for Dan before we met up in December. He mentioned during one of our enormous gChats how certain songs made him feel like he was wandering through a movie--and life was the movie. I even wrote him a little "movie" to go along with the songs. I remember testing the mix out on frozen Lake Minnetonka, dancing with my shadow in the sun at Christmas. Wondering what in the world I was thinking going to see this boy I met three years ago for only three days. Was I crazy for feeling like we had a connection based on Facebook messages and IM-ing and the occasional drunk dial? And what ever would he think of this very silly movie I wrote for him?
We pass houses that look like haystacks and haystacks that look like houses. I watch this jungle green and brilliant blue and cotton white world pass by and am glad I made this mix.
The next day, we board a "fast" boat. "Such an unlikely cast of characters..." I say to Betsy. There is one German girl. A monk. A man with a huge bag of lychees. A man in the Cambodian army. At least five other Cambodians--all dressed in long sleeves and pants...it makes me hot just looking at them. We have no idea how long this trip will take.
It's impossible to describe this journey down the long narrow brown river. There are houses standing on long skinny rickety stilts. They appear to be in the middle of nowhere. Children splash in the water and run the banks to wave to us. People push boats so stuffed with stuff, it's hard to believe they are still afloat. And there are the parts so narrow that trees and reeds pop through the sides and we have to duck.
After nearly 4 hours we have a pit stop. We are starved. Buy some crackers and Betsy purchases a lychee flavored Fanta. It's disgusting. There is loud funny music blasting from somewhere and all around us little houses--more like rooms-- literally float on the water. People hang out in them, watch us pass, swing in little hammocks. Betsy and I look at each other in disbelief--we've never seen anything like this.
My iPod dies and I write a letter to Laura Lee. (warning LL, spoiler)It's so humbling to see how silly our extravagance is--and yet....the more I travel, the more I just appreciate all of those silly things we can afford to have--and to have all of it to go back to....I think I am feeling now more than ever--knowing that good things are ahead--and big challenges--but feeling content to wait--in knowing that I'll never ever be here--at this moment--again...
And so...over 6 hours later...we arrive. We don't know his name yet, but Van, (to be our Tuk Tuk driver for the next three days) finds us and we snag the last room in this fantastic place. On a walk we wander in Hotel Le Paix (peace), the fanciest hotel in town. It's heaven. We sit on a bed by glassy pool with a twisty tree growing out of the middle. Champagne and a fruity cocktail. Worlds away just a few hours later. We talk about boys. (we always talk about boys). We talk about our families. We giggle over memories.
"I will buy you a bottle of wine for your birthday!" says Betsy. And, suddenly, I've had the best birthday ever, with chilly white wine, a tiny sunburn, in a place far too fancy for me, and my best friend.
We bus from Phnom Penh to Battambang. And then a boat to Siem Reap.
The bus has a small TV which plays and blasts a Mr. Bean movie in Cambodian. IPod, please. The Soundtrack mix. It has a lot of great thinking--Cat Stevens/Blur--type music. The earth is so green here--I realize now where Crayola came up with that color , Jungle Green. It was my favorite color... and here it is, all around me, big puffy white clouds in the blue sky.
I made this mix for Dan before we met up in December. He mentioned during one of our enormous gChats how certain songs made him feel like he was wandering through a movie--and life was the movie. I even wrote him a little "movie" to go along with the songs. I remember testing the mix out on frozen Lake Minnetonka, dancing with my shadow in the sun at Christmas. Wondering what in the world I was thinking going to see this boy I met three years ago for only three days. Was I crazy for feeling like we had a connection based on Facebook messages and IM-ing and the occasional drunk dial? And what ever would he think of this very silly movie I wrote for him?
We pass houses that look like haystacks and haystacks that look like houses. I watch this jungle green and brilliant blue and cotton white world pass by and am glad I made this mix.
The next day, we board a "fast" boat. "Such an unlikely cast of characters..." I say to Betsy. There is one German girl. A monk. A man with a huge bag of lychees. A man in the Cambodian army. At least five other Cambodians--all dressed in long sleeves and pants...it makes me hot just looking at them. We have no idea how long this trip will take.
It's impossible to describe this journey down the long narrow brown river. There are houses standing on long skinny rickety stilts. They appear to be in the middle of nowhere. Children splash in the water and run the banks to wave to us. People push boats so stuffed with stuff, it's hard to believe they are still afloat. And there are the parts so narrow that trees and reeds pop through the sides and we have to duck.
After nearly 4 hours we have a pit stop. We are starved. Buy some crackers and Betsy purchases a lychee flavored Fanta. It's disgusting. There is loud funny music blasting from somewhere and all around us little houses--more like rooms-- literally float on the water. People hang out in them, watch us pass, swing in little hammocks. Betsy and I look at each other in disbelief--we've never seen anything like this.
My iPod dies and I write a letter to Laura Lee. (warning LL, spoiler)It's so humbling to see how silly our extravagance is--and yet....the more I travel, the more I just appreciate all of those silly things we can afford to have--and to have all of it to go back to....I think I am feeling now more than ever--knowing that good things are ahead--and big challenges--but feeling content to wait--in knowing that I'll never ever be here--at this moment--again...
And so...over 6 hours later...we arrive. We don't know his name yet, but Van, (to be our Tuk Tuk driver for the next three days) finds us and we snag the last room in this fantastic place. On a walk we wander in Hotel Le Paix (peace), the fanciest hotel in town. It's heaven. We sit on a bed by glassy pool with a twisty tree growing out of the middle. Champagne and a fruity cocktail. Worlds away just a few hours later. We talk about boys. (we always talk about boys). We talk about our families. We giggle over memories.
"I will buy you a bottle of wine for your birthday!" says Betsy. And, suddenly, I've had the best birthday ever, with chilly white wine, a tiny sunburn, in a place far too fancy for me, and my best friend.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Phnom Penh, A Memoir in Meals
On a busy day, our meals are buoys and the days just sail around them. They are our only chance to take a break--to stop navigating.
Frozen Yogurt (literally, a frozen cup of strawberry yogurt):
The firt semi-solid food I've had in over 48 hours. It cools my mouth and I haven't loved artificial strawberry flavor so much since I was ten. Betsy and I sit on our balcony in Phnom Penh and watch the motor bikes zoom by. A flood of bikes. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. One is a portable restaurant. A family of five packed on another. A 12-year-old driver. Zoom. "It never ends," I whisper. "I know," she says. "It's crazy."
Dinner, Restaurant, Tamarind:
Comfy chairs. These chairs are everywhere in Cambodia and I love them--big straw chairs with cushions you can sink right into. A bottle of white wine. Cooked vegetables over cous cous. I eat and eat as I have never eaten. "My god I'm starving!" Betsy laughs. "You must be! You haven't eaten in three days.... It's so great to have you back."
It is good to be back. All I did this day was walk around the block. I saw an small old woman pushing a huge cart carrying a man missing the bottom parts of his legs. Betsy had mentioned seeing a lot of this. People disabled from landmines. I ducked into a place for a $7 massage.
Breakfast, Bougonvieller Hotel:
Our last morning at the fancy hotel. The dining room is white and pristine. A mini-croissant and yogurt. Tea. We plan our day. First we will go to the Killing Fields. "Betsy, thank you for waiting to do all this with me. Really." The fields are where the prisoners at S-21 (prison described below) were taken to be executed.
Snack, mystery fruit shake near the central market:
We are covered in all kinds of dirt and grime from the 14 km tuk tuk ride to and from the fields. Riding the tuk tuk is an adventure in itself. We pass slums. We pass palaces. We pass Buddhist monks in their bright orange robes.
As cars pass motor bikes, and motor bikes pass slower trucks, all on 2 lane roads, each lane just sort of gives a little, to allow for this passing to happen in both directions. To someone not so used to this system, it appears simply that we're veering into oncoming traffic. It's kind of scary. Kind of fun.
Immediately upon entering The Killing Fields, is a beautiful monument--within it are almost 9,000 human skulls. Our guide lead us around in the oppresive heat and pointed out the mass graves, and bones visible in the ground.
"This is where most of the prisoners held at S-21 were brought to be executed," he explained. "There heads were bashed in with bamaboo or farm tools. Or their throats were slit. Babies were held at their feet and their heads swung against the trees."
The little I know of the history is this: in the late 70s, Pol Pot came to lead Khmer Rouge regime and set out to begin Cambodia anew--beginning as a completely agrarian society. In order to do this, he set out to execute anyone deemed educated or against the regime.
The thought I could not get out of my mind: One day, these peoples' lives were normal. The next day they were not.
We are exhausted. We savor the shake. And head into the market.
Late late lunch, Boddhi Tree Restaurant:
We melt into the big cushion chairs. And order lassis and salads. We're starved.
We shopped. There are two places I love to shop. Haight Street and abroad. We hit the market for cheap kitsch. And then Betsy led me to these stores--which teach disabled people and women crafts. They make the most beautiful things. We go nuts. Presents. Mom. Dad. Maddy. Charlie. [other people] There is nothing better than finding perfect gifts! We are jubilant with fat purple shopping bags. We cram our asses and our bags on the back of a motorbike of a smiling Cambodian. "When in Rome!" Betsy says.
And then we decide at the last minute to go to the genocide museum. The late afternoon heat gripped us as we wandered through headshots of the prisoners. Some stare at the camera with fear. Some with defiance. Pride. A half-smile. The sadness here is as heavy as the heat.
The salads come and we stuff ourselves. There is goat cheese on my salad--Goat cheese! And artichoke hearts. My goodness, I'm happy. But full. Too too full. The clouds are getting dark and pregnant so we pay, race for the hotel. And life happens all around us. Badmitton in the streets and everyone cooking and eating and yelling at us: "Tuk tuk, lady? Motor bike ride, lady?" We laugh and scurry and tell our bellies to digest faster and the clouds to hold their rain just a little longer. They do and we collapse into our beds, tired but dry.
Drinks, Foreign Correspondence Club:
We sink into big brown leather chairs. This place is beautiful, on the second floor, with high ceilings, overlooking the city. Little white lizards run around the white walls, like they do everywhere. I always like to try and count them. A cafe of chardonnay--it's terrible, but we couldn't care less. And as we sip, an older man, with a little white hair, dorky glasses and a belly hanging over his pants, perches himself on a high stool in the front of the restaurant, with a young Cambodian girl on his arm. She can't be more than 19. Betsy and I look at each other. We try to understand her life. We can't. Can't imagine having to choose what she has chosen. He leans into her and runs his old hands up and down her too thin arms. My skin crawls. I close my eyes and wish it away. Open. They are still there. And he won't stop leaning into her like he geniunely wants to get to know her. It feels like the restaurant is holding it's breath and staring at them. We know what's going on. Why the show? All of our eyes seem to sing. Then he goes to kiss her. Their mouths touch. It's the strangest kiss I've ever seen. Forced and lifeless. "Do you want to turn around?" I ask Betsy. We do, and a minute later, we watch their backs descend the staircase. "Thank god!" we say outloud.
The couple next to us asks, "How do you really feel about that?" And then, "Have you seen the old men with the young boys?"
We order one last beer. We love this city. In spite of its pain, in spite of its devastating history, it is alive. It makes us feel alive.
Frozen Yogurt (literally, a frozen cup of strawberry yogurt):
The firt semi-solid food I've had in over 48 hours. It cools my mouth and I haven't loved artificial strawberry flavor so much since I was ten. Betsy and I sit on our balcony in Phnom Penh and watch the motor bikes zoom by. A flood of bikes. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. One is a portable restaurant. A family of five packed on another. A 12-year-old driver. Zoom. "It never ends," I whisper. "I know," she says. "It's crazy."
Dinner, Restaurant, Tamarind:
Comfy chairs. These chairs are everywhere in Cambodia and I love them--big straw chairs with cushions you can sink right into. A bottle of white wine. Cooked vegetables over cous cous. I eat and eat as I have never eaten. "My god I'm starving!" Betsy laughs. "You must be! You haven't eaten in three days.... It's so great to have you back."
It is good to be back. All I did this day was walk around the block. I saw an small old woman pushing a huge cart carrying a man missing the bottom parts of his legs. Betsy had mentioned seeing a lot of this. People disabled from landmines. I ducked into a place for a $7 massage.
Breakfast, Bougonvieller Hotel:
Our last morning at the fancy hotel. The dining room is white and pristine. A mini-croissant and yogurt. Tea. We plan our day. First we will go to the Killing Fields. "Betsy, thank you for waiting to do all this with me. Really." The fields are where the prisoners at S-21 (prison described below) were taken to be executed.
Snack, mystery fruit shake near the central market:
We are covered in all kinds of dirt and grime from the 14 km tuk tuk ride to and from the fields. Riding the tuk tuk is an adventure in itself. We pass slums. We pass palaces. We pass Buddhist monks in their bright orange robes.
As cars pass motor bikes, and motor bikes pass slower trucks, all on 2 lane roads, each lane just sort of gives a little, to allow for this passing to happen in both directions. To someone not so used to this system, it appears simply that we're veering into oncoming traffic. It's kind of scary. Kind of fun.
Immediately upon entering The Killing Fields, is a beautiful monument--within it are almost 9,000 human skulls. Our guide lead us around in the oppresive heat and pointed out the mass graves, and bones visible in the ground.
"This is where most of the prisoners held at S-21 were brought to be executed," he explained. "There heads were bashed in with bamaboo or farm tools. Or their throats were slit. Babies were held at their feet and their heads swung against the trees."
The little I know of the history is this: in the late 70s, Pol Pot came to lead Khmer Rouge regime and set out to begin Cambodia anew--beginning as a completely agrarian society. In order to do this, he set out to execute anyone deemed educated or against the regime.
The thought I could not get out of my mind: One day, these peoples' lives were normal. The next day they were not.
We are exhausted. We savor the shake. And head into the market.
Late late lunch, Boddhi Tree Restaurant:
We melt into the big cushion chairs. And order lassis and salads. We're starved.
We shopped. There are two places I love to shop. Haight Street and abroad. We hit the market for cheap kitsch. And then Betsy led me to these stores--which teach disabled people and women crafts. They make the most beautiful things. We go nuts. Presents. Mom. Dad. Maddy. Charlie. [other people] There is nothing better than finding perfect gifts! We are jubilant with fat purple shopping bags. We cram our asses and our bags on the back of a motorbike of a smiling Cambodian. "When in Rome!" Betsy says.
And then we decide at the last minute to go to the genocide museum. The late afternoon heat gripped us as we wandered through headshots of the prisoners. Some stare at the camera with fear. Some with defiance. Pride. A half-smile. The sadness here is as heavy as the heat.
The salads come and we stuff ourselves. There is goat cheese on my salad--Goat cheese! And artichoke hearts. My goodness, I'm happy. But full. Too too full. The clouds are getting dark and pregnant so we pay, race for the hotel. And life happens all around us. Badmitton in the streets and everyone cooking and eating and yelling at us: "Tuk tuk, lady? Motor bike ride, lady?" We laugh and scurry and tell our bellies to digest faster and the clouds to hold their rain just a little longer. They do and we collapse into our beds, tired but dry.
Drinks, Foreign Correspondence Club:
We sink into big brown leather chairs. This place is beautiful, on the second floor, with high ceilings, overlooking the city. Little white lizards run around the white walls, like they do everywhere. I always like to try and count them. A cafe of chardonnay--it's terrible, but we couldn't care less. And as we sip, an older man, with a little white hair, dorky glasses and a belly hanging over his pants, perches himself on a high stool in the front of the restaurant, with a young Cambodian girl on his arm. She can't be more than 19. Betsy and I look at each other. We try to understand her life. We can't. Can't imagine having to choose what she has chosen. He leans into her and runs his old hands up and down her too thin arms. My skin crawls. I close my eyes and wish it away. Open. They are still there. And he won't stop leaning into her like he geniunely wants to get to know her. It feels like the restaurant is holding it's breath and staring at them. We know what's going on. Why the show? All of our eyes seem to sing. Then he goes to kiss her. Their mouths touch. It's the strangest kiss I've ever seen. Forced and lifeless. "Do you want to turn around?" I ask Betsy. We do, and a minute later, we watch their backs descend the staircase. "Thank god!" we say outloud.
The couple next to us asks, "How do you really feel about that?" And then, "Have you seen the old men with the young boys?"
We order one last beer. We love this city. In spite of its pain, in spite of its devastating history, it is alive. It makes us feel alive.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Toul Sleng , former S-21 Prison, Genocide Museum
Betsy and I visited this musem in Phnom Penh. It was a high school converted into a prison during the Khmer Rouge regime. Only 7 of the prisoners survived.
Below is the text from the flyer.
Apologies for typos.
------------------------------------------------------------
S-21, located in Tuola Svay sub-distric south of Phnom Penh, covers an area of 600 x 400 meters. During the KR regime it was enclosed by two folds of corrugated iron sheets, all covered with dense, electrified barbed wire, to prevent anyone from escaping the prison. Houses around the four school buildings were used as administration, interrogation and torture offices.
All the classrooms of Tuol Sleng high school were converted into prison cells. All the windows were enclosed by iron bars , and covered with barbed wire to prevent possible escape by prisoners. the classrooms on the ground floor were divided into small cells .8 x2 meters each, designed for single prisoners. The rooms on the top floors of the four buildings, each measuring 8 x6 meters, were used as mass prinson cells. On the middle floors of these buildings, cells were built to hold female prisoners.
At first, the interrogations were conducted in the houses around the prison. However, because women taken to the interrogation rooms were often raped, in 1978, a flormaer teacher decided to convert Building B for use as an interrogation office as it made it easier to control interrogation processes.
The number of workers in S-21 totaled 1720. Within each unit, there were several sub-units composed of male and female children ranging from 10 to 15 years of age. These young children were trained and selected by the KR regime. Most of them strted out as normal before growing increasingly evil.
the medical personnel were untrained and mostly children.
The victims in the prison were taken from all walks of life and all parts of the country. The civilian prisoners composed of workers, farmers, engineers, technicians, intellectuals, professors, teachers, students, an deven ministers and diplomats. Moreover whole families of the prisoners, from teh bottom on up, including new born babies, were taken there en masse to be executed.
Reports show a total of 10,499 prisoners, not including the 2,000 children estimated to have been killed by the same report. The prison held on average 1,200 and 1,500 at any time, Duration of imprisonment ranged 2-4 months although some important political prisoners were held between 6 an d7 months.
The prisoners were kept in their respective small cells and shackled with chains fixed to the walls or the concrete floors. Prisoners held in the large mass cells had one or both of their legs shackled to short or long pieces of iron bar. prisoners were fixed on alternating sides, so they had to sleep wiht their heads in opposite directions.
Before the prisoners were placed in the cells they were photographed, and detailed bilgraphies of their childhood up to the date of their arrest were recorded. Then they were stripped to their underwear. Everything was taken away from them.
Every morning at 4:30 am all the prisoners were told to remove their shorts, down the ankles, for inspection by prison staff. then they were told to do some physical exercise just by moving their hands and legs up and down for half an hour. The prisoners had to defecate into small iron buckets and urinate into small plastic buckets. They were required to ask permission from the prison guard in advance of relieving themselves; otherwise they were beaten or received 20 to 60 strokes with a whip as punishment. Regulations were poasted as follows:
1. You must answer accordingly to my questions. Do not turn them away.
2. Do not try to hide facts by making pretexts of this and that. YOu are strictly prohibited to contest me.
3. Do not be a fool for you are a chap who dares thwart the revolution.
4. you must immediately answer my questions wihtout wasting time to reflect.
5. Do not tell me either about your immoralities or the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you mus tnot cry at all.
7. Do nothing. Sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something. You must do it right away without protesting.
8. If you disobey any point of my regustions you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.
Prisoners were bathed by being rounded up into a collective room where a tube of running water was placed through the window to splash water on them. Bathing was irregular...unhygienic living conditions caused prisoners to become infected with diseases like skin rashes and others. There was no medicine for treatment.
Below is the text from the flyer.
Apologies for typos.
------------------------------------------------------------
S-21, located in Tuola Svay sub-distric south of Phnom Penh, covers an area of 600 x 400 meters. During the KR regime it was enclosed by two folds of corrugated iron sheets, all covered with dense, electrified barbed wire, to prevent anyone from escaping the prison. Houses around the four school buildings were used as administration, interrogation and torture offices.
All the classrooms of Tuol Sleng high school were converted into prison cells. All the windows were enclosed by iron bars , and covered with barbed wire to prevent possible escape by prisoners. the classrooms on the ground floor were divided into small cells .8 x2 meters each, designed for single prisoners. The rooms on the top floors of the four buildings, each measuring 8 x6 meters, were used as mass prinson cells. On the middle floors of these buildings, cells were built to hold female prisoners.
At first, the interrogations were conducted in the houses around the prison. However, because women taken to the interrogation rooms were often raped, in 1978, a flormaer teacher decided to convert Building B for use as an interrogation office as it made it easier to control interrogation processes.
The number of workers in S-21 totaled 1720. Within each unit, there were several sub-units composed of male and female children ranging from 10 to 15 years of age. These young children were trained and selected by the KR regime. Most of them strted out as normal before growing increasingly evil.
the medical personnel were untrained and mostly children.
The victims in the prison were taken from all walks of life and all parts of the country. The civilian prisoners composed of workers, farmers, engineers, technicians, intellectuals, professors, teachers, students, an deven ministers and diplomats. Moreover whole families of the prisoners, from teh bottom on up, including new born babies, were taken there en masse to be executed.
Reports show a total of 10,499 prisoners, not including the 2,000 children estimated to have been killed by the same report. The prison held on average 1,200 and 1,500 at any time, Duration of imprisonment ranged 2-4 months although some important political prisoners were held between 6 an d7 months.
The prisoners were kept in their respective small cells and shackled with chains fixed to the walls or the concrete floors. Prisoners held in the large mass cells had one or both of their legs shackled to short or long pieces of iron bar. prisoners were fixed on alternating sides, so they had to sleep wiht their heads in opposite directions.
Before the prisoners were placed in the cells they were photographed, and detailed bilgraphies of their childhood up to the date of their arrest were recorded. Then they were stripped to their underwear. Everything was taken away from them.
Every morning at 4:30 am all the prisoners were told to remove their shorts, down the ankles, for inspection by prison staff. then they were told to do some physical exercise just by moving their hands and legs up and down for half an hour. The prisoners had to defecate into small iron buckets and urinate into small plastic buckets. They were required to ask permission from the prison guard in advance of relieving themselves; otherwise they were beaten or received 20 to 60 strokes with a whip as punishment. Regulations were poasted as follows:
1. You must answer accordingly to my questions. Do not turn them away.
2. Do not try to hide facts by making pretexts of this and that. YOu are strictly prohibited to contest me.
3. Do not be a fool for you are a chap who dares thwart the revolution.
4. you must immediately answer my questions wihtout wasting time to reflect.
5. Do not tell me either about your immoralities or the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you mus tnot cry at all.
7. Do nothing. Sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet. When I ask you to do something. You must do it right away without protesting.
8. If you disobey any point of my regustions you shall get either ten lashes or five shocks of electric discharge.
Prisoners were bathed by being rounded up into a collective room where a tube of running water was placed through the window to splash water on them. Bathing was irregular...unhygienic living conditions caused prisoners to become infected with diseases like skin rashes and others. There was no medicine for treatment.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
links to pictures!
Bangkok pictures:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=53102&l=437c5&id=526956216
Island pictures:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=53104&l=1a4b7&id=526956216
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=53102&l=437c5&id=526956216
Island pictures:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=53104&l=1a4b7&id=526956216
I don't really know what to say about these last few days.
We partied with many people on the beach under the full moon. My camera broke. I lost my new hat. We were ready to leave.
We left.
One day later, I was suddenly very ill. By the end of the day, my vomit was green and I was walking like a hunchback. (sorry i know that's gross...but it was BAD)
The next day was my birthday. I awoke in a beautiful room that we had booked for the occasion, wrapped in an oriental silk blanket. There was a fuzzy orange stuffed alien and a card from Betsy at my feet. She made a dozen Sprite runs, brought me flowers wrapped in a pink bow, and watched Superstar, the movie, in bed with me. Explored while I slept. Thank goodness for best friends.
I thought about how my dad used say (and still often does): "Sky-B, I love you today!" How my momma would wrap me up in her best blankets in her bed and let me watch my favorite movies. I pulled out the note she sent me before I left:
Sky, you know I have always been such a visual person. Well, you know all the little boxes around the house and how I love to buy a little box when I travel. Here is why. I visualize lots of life as a collection of boxes. Some are big experiences, some small. Some are rigid or angular, some smooth and soft, some are fragile, others very fragile. Some have hinges that are easy to open, others are tight and difficult to open, and then there are those that won't open at all. Like life, some boxes crash and shatter, some crack and are more fragile. We can fix the cracks if we have patience and care. A shattered experience cannot be fixed and brought back to the original. Some breaks leave permanent scars-some bigger than others. But the collection all lives together, in harmony, in my home, in my memory, and in my heart....It is is just a silly way that a glance can evoke an emotion...
When I was little...I thought my parents knew everything. As a teenager, early-twenty-something, I was sure they knew nothing. Here, on my 27th birthday, in this note--is love, is wisdom...is more than everything.
I called them. Every time I call my mother when I'm ill, I hear that it's the end of the world in her voice. And even though it never is, sometimes being sick--especially--abroad, can certainly feel like it...thank goodness for mothers. They ask me again and again "Is there anything we can do?" "No." I say. "I love you." You've already done everything.
And then I opened Dan's birthday card--the one he sent with me. I read it. I read it again and again. We spoke ever so briefly, I could barely think. "Do you need to see a doctor?" "Are you hydrating with water and sugar and salt?" "I wish I could be there...to make everything ok." "...I love you."
When I hang up, I smile a little--these are all the things my parents would say.
Isn't it funny, how in a weird way our lovers or partners or boyfriends or girlfriends or whatever you want to call them, somehow fill in where our parents cannot anymore. They will rub our back when our tummies hurt. The ones who invite our sick selves into their beds. Who think we're pretty even when we're not. The ones who can--somehow--kiss us and make it all better.
We partied with many people on the beach under the full moon. My camera broke. I lost my new hat. We were ready to leave.
We left.
One day later, I was suddenly very ill. By the end of the day, my vomit was green and I was walking like a hunchback. (sorry i know that's gross...but it was BAD)
The next day was my birthday. I awoke in a beautiful room that we had booked for the occasion, wrapped in an oriental silk blanket. There was a fuzzy orange stuffed alien and a card from Betsy at my feet. She made a dozen Sprite runs, brought me flowers wrapped in a pink bow, and watched Superstar, the movie, in bed with me. Explored while I slept. Thank goodness for best friends.
I thought about how my dad used say (and still often does): "Sky-B, I love you today!" How my momma would wrap me up in her best blankets in her bed and let me watch my favorite movies. I pulled out the note she sent me before I left:
Sky, you know I have always been such a visual person. Well, you know all the little boxes around the house and how I love to buy a little box when I travel. Here is why. I visualize lots of life as a collection of boxes. Some are big experiences, some small. Some are rigid or angular, some smooth and soft, some are fragile, others very fragile. Some have hinges that are easy to open, others are tight and difficult to open, and then there are those that won't open at all. Like life, some boxes crash and shatter, some crack and are more fragile. We can fix the cracks if we have patience and care. A shattered experience cannot be fixed and brought back to the original. Some breaks leave permanent scars-some bigger than others. But the collection all lives together, in harmony, in my home, in my memory, and in my heart....It is is just a silly way that a glance can evoke an emotion...
When I was little...I thought my parents knew everything. As a teenager, early-twenty-something, I was sure they knew nothing. Here, on my 27th birthday, in this note--is love, is wisdom...is more than everything.
I called them. Every time I call my mother when I'm ill, I hear that it's the end of the world in her voice. And even though it never is, sometimes being sick--especially--abroad, can certainly feel like it...thank goodness for mothers. They ask me again and again "Is there anything we can do?" "No." I say. "I love you." You've already done everything.
And then I opened Dan's birthday card--the one he sent with me. I read it. I read it again and again. We spoke ever so briefly, I could barely think. "Do you need to see a doctor?" "Are you hydrating with water and sugar and salt?" "I wish I could be there...to make everything ok." "...I love you."
When I hang up, I smile a little--these are all the things my parents would say.
Isn't it funny, how in a weird way our lovers or partners or boyfriends or girlfriends or whatever you want to call them, somehow fill in where our parents cannot anymore. They will rub our back when our tummies hurt. The ones who invite our sick selves into their beds. Who think we're pretty even when we're not. The ones who can--somehow--kiss us and make it all better.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Pictures: for The Sendoff
Here are 5 whole pictures to go with my first entry, The Sendoff...
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=51916&l=7d7fa&id=526956216
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=51916&l=7d7fa&id=526956216
Remember when....?
I left on Mother's Day.
When I told my grandmother I was going to Thailand. She said:
"Well, why would want to go there?"
My grandmother asks most the most simple and excellent questions.
(About Dan: Is he handsome? [yes--very] Does he work every day? [yes. he is a landscape architect. smart and creative.] Is he nice to you? [yes, grandma, he makes me feel magic])
How funny--I think--that I forget to ask myself these very basic, very important questions.
Why would I want to go to Thailand?
Near my last day of work, the President of our company walked by and said:
"Congratulations. And how wonderful--to go-- and open the aperture, before you start school."
In a sentence--that is the best way to describe what I love about traveling.
All this way across the ocean, there is a chance to widen the lens. And see. Your life.
To take in the people that you love. And take time to simply love them. Yesterday, on the ferry from one small island to another, with the Main Title to Billy the Kid on my ipod, I watched boat cut the blue water, wrote a post card to my family. And just let my heart fill up with them. And then I began a note to Dan, and let my heart fill up with him. It seems there is rarely time for this at home. Life is busy. And fast. And relentless at times.
There is time to look back at the wayward path that led me here. And listen to Betsy's fascinating life. I always learn new things about her. Her story is Switzerland. And New Zealand. And France. And Patagonia. I am always learning about how much you can do--how far you can travel--what is possible for a lifetime from her.
And take note of all the things I take for granted every day. Stupid things. Like flushing toilet paper. The way we fill our gas tanks. And bigger things. Like opportunity.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm learning to maneuver with the tiniest bit of grace and direction. To pause at this moment--take a breath--and forgive myself for not getting here right away--give myself credit for taking a few risks--for letting myself make mistakes--to remind myself that life will always be and I will always be perfectly imperfect--is invaluable.
Dan asked me, "do you think this will be one of those trips, where you look back and think, 'remember when...?'"
And I laughed. Because nearly every moment I spend with Betsy is a "remember when..."
But Yes! Yes. Yes.
Do you remember those buckets they sell at night in Haad Rin? The ones they fill with ice, and Thai Red Bull and vodka?
And how many times did you have to ask me: Sky where are you shoes? As the tide suddenly came up and I scrambled to remember where on the sand I had left them...
The fruit and honey and yogurt and musseli. The fresh mango banana pineapple shakes...The spicy peanut papaya salad that we ate for every lunch...the curries and coconut that lingered on our tongues...
The heat that made even the air sweat...waiting in our bungalow by the beach, under the fan with our books, for the hot afternoon sun to set...
Do you remember the special shakes at the Mellow Mountain? Do you remember how we laughed at the girls giggling in the water at night? Lying on the chairs at a place called Fairyland while Jack Johnson and the stars soothed the pulsing electronic music-soaked air...
Do remember the drunk travelers we shared the taxi home with -- the ones with the thick Australian accents, who had come here to drink and dance and get laid?
Or the lady we met on the Water Taxi to the Sanctuary? The one who had quit her job as a lawyer to come to Thailand and practice yoga indefinitely?
Everyone here shares one tiny island--but they are on a thousand different journeys.
And do you remember the Sanctuary? Where we ate fresh vegetables and drank wine, talked about love and watched cloud after cloud parade over the nearly full, brightest of moons--lit only at the edges like ghosts?
I remember looking over at you on the boat ride home, enormous boulders bathed in the moonlight behind you. You had a butterfly in your hair and we were both laughing and warm ocean sprayed our faces.... and I thought-- This. This moment right here. Is why I came to Thailand.
Ahead: Full Moon Party.
And then...Cambodia (and my birthday! hooray!)
When I told my grandmother I was going to Thailand. She said:
"Well, why would want to go there?"
My grandmother asks most the most simple and excellent questions.
(About Dan: Is he handsome? [yes--very] Does he work every day? [yes. he is a landscape architect. smart and creative.] Is he nice to you? [yes, grandma, he makes me feel magic])
How funny--I think--that I forget to ask myself these very basic, very important questions.
Why would I want to go to Thailand?
Near my last day of work, the President of our company walked by and said:
"Congratulations. And how wonderful--to go-- and open the aperture, before you start school."
In a sentence--that is the best way to describe what I love about traveling.
All this way across the ocean, there is a chance to widen the lens. And see. Your life.
To take in the people that you love. And take time to simply love them. Yesterday, on the ferry from one small island to another, with the Main Title to Billy the Kid on my ipod, I watched boat cut the blue water, wrote a post card to my family. And just let my heart fill up with them. And then I began a note to Dan, and let my heart fill up with him. It seems there is rarely time for this at home. Life is busy. And fast. And relentless at times.
There is time to look back at the wayward path that led me here. And listen to Betsy's fascinating life. I always learn new things about her. Her story is Switzerland. And New Zealand. And France. And Patagonia. I am always learning about how much you can do--how far you can travel--what is possible for a lifetime from her.
And take note of all the things I take for granted every day. Stupid things. Like flushing toilet paper. The way we fill our gas tanks. And bigger things. Like opportunity.
For the first time in my life, I feel like I'm learning to maneuver with the tiniest bit of grace and direction. To pause at this moment--take a breath--and forgive myself for not getting here right away--give myself credit for taking a few risks--for letting myself make mistakes--to remind myself that life will always be and I will always be perfectly imperfect--is invaluable.
Dan asked me, "do you think this will be one of those trips, where you look back and think, 'remember when...?'"
And I laughed. Because nearly every moment I spend with Betsy is a "remember when..."
But Yes! Yes. Yes.
Do you remember those buckets they sell at night in Haad Rin? The ones they fill with ice, and Thai Red Bull and vodka?
And how many times did you have to ask me: Sky where are you shoes? As the tide suddenly came up and I scrambled to remember where on the sand I had left them...
The fruit and honey and yogurt and musseli. The fresh mango banana pineapple shakes...The spicy peanut papaya salad that we ate for every lunch...the curries and coconut that lingered on our tongues...
The heat that made even the air sweat...waiting in our bungalow by the beach, under the fan with our books, for the hot afternoon sun to set...
Do you remember the special shakes at the Mellow Mountain? Do you remember how we laughed at the girls giggling in the water at night? Lying on the chairs at a place called Fairyland while Jack Johnson and the stars soothed the pulsing electronic music-soaked air...
Do remember the drunk travelers we shared the taxi home with -- the ones with the thick Australian accents, who had come here to drink and dance and get laid?
Or the lady we met on the Water Taxi to the Sanctuary? The one who had quit her job as a lawyer to come to Thailand and practice yoga indefinitely?
Everyone here shares one tiny island--but they are on a thousand different journeys.
And do you remember the Sanctuary? Where we ate fresh vegetables and drank wine, talked about love and watched cloud after cloud parade over the nearly full, brightest of moons--lit only at the edges like ghosts?
I remember looking over at you on the boat ride home, enormous boulders bathed in the moonlight behind you. You had a butterfly in your hair and we were both laughing and warm ocean sprayed our faces.... and I thought-- This. This moment right here. Is why I came to Thailand.
Ahead: Full Moon Party.
And then...Cambodia (and my birthday! hooray!)
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