the end of the world

ko phi phi is legendary for its beauty. the islands surrounding it include maya bay, where leo filmed "the beach," as well as mosquito island, monkey island, and bamboo island. our second morning, allan haggled with a tour guide and rented our own longtail boat for the day. we waded in the surreal green waters of maya bay, amid scores of international tourists. it made me realize why the characters in "the beach" went to such cruel lengths to protect the secret. i went snorkeling by the reef on the south side of the island and went swimming through schools of tiny silver fish off of monkey island, but nothing was quite as beautiful as bamboo island. the sand was lightning white against a soft, cool green ocean. longtail boats bobbed up and down, flaunting their ribbons like young children. we ran onto the sand and walked along the rocks, passing bamboo huts and a giant swing made of rope, until we came to the edge where you could see mosquito island and ko phi phi in the distance. later in the day, jenny and i saw tents and asked some thai guys about staying overnight.

"sure. you want to reserve now?"

we said no, but when we got back, we made arrangements to be dropped off on bamboo island for 2 nights. when we arrived and moved into our tents, it dawned on us that we were the only people staying in tents. looking around, we realized that everyone leaves bamboo island right before dusk, as we had the previous day. soon enough, that moment came and the tourists packed into their boats and headed for their resorts. gunner, allan, jenny and i walked around the island, letting the sun sink behind the trees and allow us to cool off in shade. the sun began to dip lower and lower into the sea, setting part of the sky in a pastel smear and the other in a light grey mist. we gathered on the curve of the sand, like we were facing the end of the earth and watched the sun fade and the stars wake. i never took that moment for granted- not for a second did i doubt how fortunate we four were to have seen such magnificent beauty and to own it, personally recount it without the pollution of crowds.

we walked back to our tents, but heard the rangers talking and laughing. we joined them and played cards, smoked harsh cigarettes rolled in bamboo paper, and exchanged languages. Ekk and Rit taught us Thai, introducing Mon- the cook- who brought us a mammoth papaya as a gift. we drank Mekong whiskey from a bright orange bottle; when the night wore on we went swimming in the ocean and the water glowed with algae. we walked naked on the beach, talked for hours and finally fell asleep in our tents, despondent when we heard the sound of the first longtail boat.

it was gunner's last morning, so we walked around the island- partly to explore and partly to hide from the tourists who were beginning to populate the sand. we walked past our sunset spot and came across a fisherman's camp, where he sat grilling a kuhl stingray over a fire. we examined the ray with its grey body and turquoise spots, and the fisherman climbed into his longtail boat, pulling a basket of crabs from the water. with sticks, we drew pictures in the sand and negotiated the sale of 2 kilos of crabs for a few baht and what time we would return with our money. he ushered us over to his wife, grinding a powder of chile and lime, and shared a taste of his stingray with us. it was good and chewy. we went back, crossing rocks that looked like they had been drizzled with chocolate syrup and caste from marble cake, and saw gunner sail away. watching him load into the boat, i realized that he was going back to "the real world" and my time in this paradise was rapidly ending.


we feasted on crabs and fish with the rangers. they insisted on cooking for us and sharing beer and wine with our group. we laughed a lot that night and sang "the winds of change" and "the gambler," rivaling the roosters for gawking, off key noise. we woke up early and watched the sunrise. the boat back to ko phi phi arrived later that day and i threw my bags into the boat and watched ko mai pai get smaller and smaller in the distance until it disappeared behind the curve of the island, like it never happened.

Marin County

"Do you know where the bus stop is?"
It's a simple enough question, but when I asked Maureen she looked a little befuddled and instead offered me a ride back to San Francisco.
"It's a tight squeeze in the back of the Porsche, but we'll take you if you don't mind the space."
"When would I ever turn down to ride in a Porsche?"
And that settled it. I said goodbye to Alina and her economy rental car and crawled into the back single back seat of Ray and Maureen's white, vintage Porsche. We sped through the hills of Marin County, past the thick smell of evergreen and pine saturating the cool mist that was rolling over the mountains. Watching the sailboats like white flecks of paint on a deep green sea, we drove across the Golden Gate Bridge. We talked about life and youth, how they met and the hitchhiking adventures they took as kids. Right out of college, Maureen had attempted to hitchhike from Boston to Maine, only her first ride, an old couple from Massachusetts, had been afraid for her to go alone and taken her the whole way. Ray had hitched from San Diego to Vancouver, then from British Columbia to Montana and back to Southern California after he got out of the service. He kept his eyes on the road, lowering the Porsche into another gear while Maureen turned toward me and smiled.
"But you can't do that nowadays. There are too many crazy people out there; I taught my kids better than to do that."
"Yeah, my mom obviously didn't."
They both look back now and laugh at me.
Sometimes you just know people are good and you trust it because it's so much better to hope for the best than to be afraid all the time. Then I realize how often I've been burned and how many times I've promised myself to become more guarded. Yet, here I am again and because I wasn't afraid, I'm gifted with an adventure that makes me continue to love my new city.
They drop me at the 31 bus stop, Eddy and Van Ness, and zoom off to check out designer furniture at Room and Board. A guy I know works there, so I call and tell him I have friends coming into the store.
"How do you know them?" he asks.
"Well, I don't."

layers of alice

alice lowered her head and toward the bowl and began smashing the avocados into a creamy pulp. i put on anthony and the johnsons who sing "fistful of love" and i think of a lover i once had once, of shivering underneath blankets in winter, that cup of coffee when i said goodbye. it had started to rain and the sunlight dissolved into a gray mist that darkened the porch outside. the wind picked up and made the hummingbird chimes clink together in a silvery song. i swirled my wine and inhaled the aroma, trying to detect the slight smells they always tell you about: dates, velvet, oak, hay, whatever it is they say you should be able to smell.

"how did you know i wanted to hear this song?" alice asked, barely turning her cheek toward the table, where i sat holding my wine.

"i didn't know anyone else really liked them"

"i do." she brought the bowl to the table and sat down without touching it. she looked at the contents without accomplishment or joy. it was a task that was finished, nothing more. "i really needed to hear this song tonight."

"yeah, me too." i poured her a glass of cheap pinot noir and had another sip of mine.

"it's strange, you know you never stop loving when it's over. it's like layers, like childhood and growing up."

"i don't understand." i said, looking up at her, but she didn't raise her eyes from the bowl.

"all those things that make up a person- the joy and pain and fears of childhood- are always the same in people; they just learn to cope with it. when i was a kid, i went to new york with my parents and this homeless guy gave me a newspaper. i was shocked that he was so nice to me, said thank you, and walked away from him. he followed my family to the car and told my dad he wanted money for his paper. my dad got mad and started yelling, took the paper from me and threw it at him. my mom told me it wasn't my fault, but i felt so terrible. i played that scene over in my head for weeks and i never really got over it. i felt like i had done something terribly wrong and i still feel a little guilty about it."

i didn't know what to say exactly. i was worried that if i said the wrong thing she would stop talking, but if i said nothing she would feel like i didn't understand. i wanted to watch her open up- to watch her facial expressions as she thought through those moments and compiled them into something manageable.

"i still do things like that on a grownup scale." she looked at me while hanging her head slightly downward, so that one lock of red fell across her cheek and it looked like she was blushing. "those experiences, they are like love because it never stops. love layers like age. it gets old and distant, but it never really stops. it's still there, underneath everything that you do and who you become because you've let that person shape that time in your history."

last week i dreamed that He got married and told me after it was done, like it was a secret i was supposed to keep from others. i woke up sweating and i cried because i was terrified that i would never love like that again. i wonder if alice is thinking the same thing; i wonder who her He is.

"it's raining." she says.

"i know."

un-plugged

as i was about to board the bus yesterday, i realized i had left my phone at home. i felt like a samurai without a sword, waging the pros of hand-to-hand combat versus a battle glittery steel. i had to make immediate choice: risk being late for a job interview or leave my weapon at home. sullen, i boarded the bus and made my way to the back of the bus. how bad can it be to be unplugged?

on the ride downtown, i struck up an interesting conversation with a lady who was also on her way to an interview and my handy-dandy NFT supplied my maps. i had a little wave of panic when i thought the address was wrong and i wouldn't have my internet to troubleshoot the problem, but that proved itself unnecessary and i showed up for my interview ten minutes early and rocked it. so far so good. then i realized that i had about 2 hours to kill before my next interview and i would be so much better off reading and preparing for it, rather than idly wasting that time reading SF weekly. (that being an enormous understatement considering my "deer in the headlights" moment with the firm's partner on the EASIEST question known to man)

later that night, i went to see the new BATMAN movie just to be as consumer america as possible. after getting my midnight dinner of a large cherry coke and popcorn, i noticed the line of kids waiting to get into the imax, seated i might add. oodles of them sprawled out on the floor dressed in all black amidst mounds of smashed popcorn. about half of them were plugged into an iPod, despite their friends being seated right next to them and one cluster actually had their MacBook with them. the phenomenon continued when i turned around at one point in the theater to see that almost everyone had an illuminated screen in front of them (yes, another MacBook) and they were clicking away, playing games or listening to music, despite the fact that they are out to a movie with their friends.

so let me get this straight- we facebook, myspace, twitter, linkin and blog our lives away to stay connected so that when we actually go out with our friends, (to plug into a movie i might add) we ignore them?! seems a disconnected type of connect, and a little more like the people on WallE than i'd care to admit. the irony is that we glean these lessons FROM A MOVIE and that i feel my avenue for venting this frustration is a BLOG!

from dusty cabs to turqouise waters

it was five in the morning when i roused my crew out of bed. ben swung himself down the ladder of the top bunk, flashing us all a glimpse of the ladies panties he was still wearing from the pool. gunner's face was priceless as those frilly, electric blue boy shorts clung to him and he rummaged through a pile of clothes to find his jeans. i rushed the crew through breakfast and loaded them into a rickety toyota corrolla: our cab from siem reap to the border crossing. when i tell people i took a cab from cambodia to thailand, i always get a look of shock, but when the alternative is a chronically late bus ride down asia's most infamous road, it's well worth the ten dollars per head to cab it. apparently, the road hasn't been paved so that thai airlines can capitalize on the tourists who don't want to deal with the discomfort. i'm not sure if that's true or possible, but i wasn't willing to deal with those alternatives.

i knew that getting us all to the thai beaches would be a mission, but i was determined to get us there within 24 hours because i did not want to spend my birthday on a bus. the sun beat down unmercifully into the back seat. we couldn't roll down the windows because of the dust, couldn't crank the air because of the gas, and couldn't sleep because of the heat. by the time we got to the border and stood in line for customs, hopping on a bus was not an option for us. fortunately, thai cabs, while considerably more expensive, have AC, seatbelts, and drivers with serious road rage. within three hours, we were cruising through bangkok and on our way to the bus station. another two hours later, we were on the a double decker sleeper bus with a stewardess and snacks. it was 6 am when we arrived in krabi, thailand and sussed out a breakfast of rice and egg, nescafe and condensed milk.

we ferried from krabi to ko phi phi and found ourselves a bamboo bungalow and immediately changed into our swimsuits. floating, i was surrounded by sharp cliffs, palm trees, and green water. while resting, jenny heard a familiar voice and two guys walking toward the cliffs on our south side of the island.
"allan!"
we knew that he was on the island, but when ko phi phi is crawling with wild, young debauchers you don't expect to run into your friend when you're taking a nap. instead of going to the cliffs to climb, allan led us to the other side of the island, long beach, where we drank tall, cool chang beers and watched the sunset stretch itself along the glittering water. that night we met for cocktails at a little bar with red, pleather booths and it started pouring down rain. we waited and had another cocktail, hoping the rain would lighten up, but it didn't. the light clay mud began to run and the streets began to flood. we took off our shoes and ran for it, laughing as we got lost in the streets looking for a particular seafood restaurant. under an awning, we gave up and began the search for any restaurant that had space for us. the waiters didn't know what to think of us as they ushered us to our seats; other patrons glared as we scuttered between the tables, trying to avoid dripping on people. when we sat, they brought out a case of napkins and we laughed as we dried off. more beer chang, thundering rain, steaming bowls of tom yam and enormous prawns.

gunner and jenny went back to the bungalow, while allan and i continued walking. we went to his hostel, where his bedfellows were listening to 90s alternative rock on their ipod, which they had hooked up to tiny speakers. it was still pouring and the humidity was starting to set in, a sticky warm wet that makes your fingers prune so that you can't tell if it's rain or sweat on your skin anymore. allan and i crammed on his tiny bunk bed and talked until we fell asleep, to sleep until the mosquitos woke me up and it was dawn and time to walk home.

Siem Reap and Angkor Wat

The bus to Siem Reap from Phenom Penh traversed dusty Cambodian roads and the worst car accident I have ever seen. Whenever the bus stopped, children would swarm around to sell exotic fruits or coconut rice cooked in hollowed out bamboo shoots. "Ladiiiiiieeee. You buy from me ladiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee" they sang, holding up plastic bags mango. When we finally arrived in Siem Reap, Tuk Tuk drivers shoved each other to stand in the bus door, each desperately trying to be the first to gain our attention. The sweat caused the dust to stick to my legs and face; I lifted my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and pushed my way through the sea of men shouting about Tuk Tuks and accommodation. I found my bag and walked away from the commotion, too tired to worry about finding a ride. The people still suffer from the Khmer Rouge takeover and tourism in Siem Reap is a huge revenue for profit. Most men earn their family's keep by shuttling tourists around and they know that if they meet you when you get off the bus, you will probably use them every time you go to the temples. It's fierce competition and a lot to handle after dealing with fruit ladies all afternoon.

We eventually met a man who would guide us through the week, shuttling us to Angkor Wat in the pitch dark so that we could watch the sunrise over the ancient temple. He took us to his favorite temples: the crumbling Angkor Thom, the bridge of the giant snake tamed by Vishnu, the mounds of Bayon with the faces in each direction. The complex of the Angkor Temples was massive, stretching over 400 square kilometers with dozens of temples and crumbling friezes of battles and the Ramayana: the roots of ancient Hindu culture in Cambodia. A family of monkeys played by the side of a road, gathering a crowd of tourists in their Siem Reap t-shirts and locals who fed them bananas. One mother scurried toward the food, chasing away the juveniles, while her infant clung to her underbelly screeching. In every temple, roots of trees tore through the stones toward the earth and planted new trees on the rooves, so that the roots would surround the structure like rain. The temples, though a gorgeous reminder of history and culture were no match for nature, giving the compound an Ozymandias air to it.


At the entrance to one of the temples, a group of men played traditional music. When I stood and listened, I noticed their missing limbs and their scarred bodies. They were a troop of landmine victims who chose to play music instead of beg for their living. They smiled at me and invited me to sit with them and play music with them. I was given reeds and began banging on an instrument that resembled a harp. When I had successfully destroyed their song and meekly returned the reeds to the man with the huge smile, he giggled and gave me tiny cymbals instead. We were driven through the ruins in the Tuk Tuk carriage, and then to the lesser temples farther away. Passing through the villages, the children would raise their arms to wave at us from their shady, bamboo huts. Women washed by soaking themselves with water from an enormous clay pot in the yard, while adorning colorful sarongs. One child rode a bike that was so big for him, he looked like a light brown Kermit the Frog. I let the wind cool me down and listened to Bonobo, watching the rice fields and the water buffalo stream by.

The Killing Fields and S-21, Phenom Penh Cambodia

The first time I heard about The Killing Fields was through my friend Jose's blog. He described the scene in harrowing words that shocked me, but nothing could prepare me for the feelings that this place stirred in me. The pain and sadness that came from me that day was not a simple mourning like the loss of a family member, but something more profound. What I saw that day, what caused me to stagger around the complex in a shock of sorrow, was the loss of humanity that results from the abandonment on reason.

The creed of the Khmer Rouge was even simpler than the creed of communism, against which America was obsessed: destroy anyone who has a mind and exterminate their families. Drive fear into the hearts of any who would think for themselves, anyone who has an education or knowledge. When we got to the compound and began to explore, the first thing I saw was an enormous tower, constructed for the exhumed bones of the Khmer Rouge's victims. The skulls were categorized according to age and sex, layered shelf upon shelf to the top of the tower. My eyes lifted toward the glass shelves and my friend asked, why would they display these bodies so ungraciously. So it doesn't happen again, I said. I'm not sure if I can believe that. There is no expiration date on the cruelty of which human beings are capable. We have seen these themes repeat throughout our history, from the Viking raids to Hitler's Holocaust, the brutal have always sought power.

We wandered around the complex, from mass grave to mass grave. We saw the killing tree, against which children were tortured, and read about the loud music they played throughout the day so that people working in the fields beyond would not know what was happening in the complex.

After the Killing Fields, we went to S-21, a high school transformed into a torture facility and prison. I walked along the corridors, stepping into a few classrooms along the East side of the complex which had been converted to large, single cells. There was an iron bed, wrought iron leg shackles and an iron box for the prisoner's excrement. I made my way around the bed, my imagination surging until I saw the photographs. When the Vietnamese raided Phenom Penh, after the "American War", they found the remains of the Cambodian victims of S-21 and photographed them. When S-21 became a memorial museum, these photographs were mounted on the walls and the beds placed as they had been. After the first photograph, I was shocked and left the room. When I came upon the second, I started to cry.

When I turned around to look at the grounds, it was as if the facility had been resurrected in all of it's horror. I looked onto the grounds of the compound, picturing the smiling school children running for recess, until my imagination played fast forward on the tape. The children are rounded up and kicked out, barbed wire is coiled, scaffolds builts, bayonets thrust, the blood and and the screams. The center building contained a gallery of rows upon rows of photographs, mug shots of the victims upon their entry into S-21. Some men wore a vigilante glare, daring the photographer to attack. Others were terrified, unable to protect their loved ones. I came upon the children before I saw the women, little babies in navy blue suits staring blankly at the camera. The youngest that I saw was a child so little, he was cradled in his mother's arms. The vacant look on her face is not afraid or even alive anymore. It's as if the child she holds is already dead. As I walked the rows, staring into the eyes of these people, struck by the myriad of emotion conveyed through their eyes, I came upon one girl who moved me to tears. She had been beated, her eye was swollen shut and bruised but she was still fighting. She faced a fear greater than any I will ever see, but she looked at her captor and raised her head proudly.

The dilemma that this experience brought to me was profound: The tragedy of this totalitarian government is so appalling that we want to keep these things from happening in the future. However, the only way to do this is to assert a moral superiority to these intolerable actions and one can only achieve this by establishing that there is such a thing as RIGHT. This means accepting that RIGHT exists, not "right for me" and "right for you." One's right to life supersedes the world's cultural ideals: the individual's right to life is the highest moral ideal. It is against these atrocious acts that people must stand and defend the world's smallest minority: the individual.

(Since writing this post, I have read First They Killed My Father by Luong Ung. For more information and a non-fiction account of being a child during this time, I refer you to the book)