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.
