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."

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)

The Goriest Meal

Jenny and Monika are vegetarians, though you would never know this if you were their travel buddy. One day in Hanoi, the girls meet me in the room and pull a pink plastic bag out of the fridge saying they have brought me a present: dog meat. Since they are vegetarians and they ate dog, I should do it too. Well, I couldn't do it and I never heard the end of that. Look, I'm all about experimentation, but eating Lassie is taking it a bit far for me.


Being born in Louisiana, eating strange reptiles is pretty normal. I've grown up eating crawfish, alligator, turtle soup and frog legs, so when the girls heard about a snake village outside Hanoi, I was game. The snake village has these specialty, family-run restaurants that serve cobra feasts featuring the raw heart of the snake and snake blood wine. We selected our restaurant and withing minutes, the server's father and brother brought out a writhing cobra to the corner of the restaurant, stepped on its head and stretched out its body, slit its throat and drained the blood into a goblet. Our server then ushered us back to our table and mixed the blood with rice wine. As we toasted, she brought out another goblet containing a greenish liquid, which turned out to be snake bile, and 3 cobra hearts in 3 glasses for us. We were told that the cobra is supposed to give you long life and fertility, which is why Vietnamese have these restaurants. After having our "wine" and some beer to wash it all down, our server started bringing out the rest of the food.

The menu was so extensive, we couldn't eat everything she brought. Imagine iron chef where the secret ingredient is cobra. Among the twelve dishes we were served, we had snake gruel, snake with ginger, sauteed snake with garlic, snake steamed with Chinese medicinal herbs and fried snake with dipping sauce. I wouldn't have been surprised if she had served us cobra ice cream at the end of the meal.

My vegetarians made me proud that night. The slaughter didn't phase them one bit. When our glasses were drained and our bellies full, we caught our taxi back to town, a little grossed out that we were stuffed with snakes.

vietnam: from russian symphonies to portable pho restaurants

my first impression of vietnam was at a border crossing, dawn after an overnight bus from vientiane. fuzzy after all the sleeping pills and the blurry overnight train, we come to the lao border, spend all our kip on pringles and shuffle into the government building where we stand in awe of the utter mayhem springing around us. the room is packed with travelers, most of them lao, in no particular order desperately trying to shove their passports behind a glass window AT THE SAME TIME. forget lines, forget order- this is asia. it's the same story once we walk across the border, leaving our bags on the bus. we have to hand our passports to the people in front of us, who pass them through the crowd and under the glass window. from there we wait and elbow our way to the glass window to watch the men process, stamp and grimace. we wait while the passport agents flip through the passports, befuddled that jenny and monika have extra pages, until they finally let us through. then the morning fog rolls in, shrouding us all in a chilly mist.

hanoi


motorbikes are everywhere, like ants, honking and whipping around. in order to cross the street, you just walk- very slowly- and they swerve around you like a rock in the middle of a stream, surrounding you in honks and exhaust fumes. the city is packed. there are ladies carrying baskets like giant scales across their shoulders, heads down, pointy straw hats hiding their eyes. they sell fruit, flowers, car parts, set up restaurants on the street and make pho. every brick of the street is a store, a restaurant, or a barbar shop crammed so close that you can't take it all in. as you squeeze through them all, dodging the motorbike that's now cruising the sidewalk, blaring its horn at you, you pass the dishwasher who crouches on the curb with her tub of soapy water and try to cross the street again.


on the other side of this extreme is the luxury of the nicer places in the city. the opera house, a lavish renaissance structure built by the french, where we see a symphony and piano concerto underneath glowing chandeliers. the music of russian masters brought to life again in front of us, moving us to grab for each others hands in the dark. after, dirty martinis and cuban cigars in the gazebo by the sofitel pool. candle light and wicker lounge chairs, talks of graham greene and secret affairs, laughter. the next day, we return to our oasis for high tea, lightly scented lotus, tiny sandwiches, chocolate buffet.

sapa

vodka bottles at a nearby lesson yield english lessons and walrus grins from chopsticks. everything blurred by the orange lights of the train and our friends from the hotel ushering us into the train, hugging us farewell. our windy bus ride from the station to sapa overlooks the rice terraces, carved from the mountain over 500 years ago. they resemble architectural topography, sketches now living in the side of the mountain. we start our trek, followed by a train of hill tribe people and chicken, our pink bunny balloon. the ladies of the hill tribe smile wide, explain the use of the water buffalo and pose for pictures in front of the landscape. then insist that we buy their headbands or earrings or pillowcases after lunch. we sleep in a village of 600 people, the mountain rain tinkling on the tin roof, squeaky wood floors and uno games. the next morning, we set out along the terraces, swimming in crisp river water as children watched and laughed on the bridge above. the next day, the mist rolled in so our walks were like being in a cloud. fog settled above rice fields, gardens of lillies and bamboo tucked into a sheet of mist.




halong bay
the bus operator accidentally plays a pole dance porn video on the neon bus to haiphong. in town, we search for exotic foods and find izakaya instead of blackened sea slug and snails. the japanese business men are from nagoya, so i reminisce about my old city and befriend yamakawa-san, who gives me his vintage lighter. the next morning, we ferry to the bay, through the damp mist to cat ba town. our hotel is on the 6th floor with our own private balcony, overlooking all of halong bay. we play cards and watch the sunset behind the mountains, then take a boat to a floating restaurant where we choose our fish from nets under the restaurant. they prepare a feast of fish, clams, crab and slippers marinated in lemongrass and peppers. we take a boat back to town and dance to the music we make up. dawn and we are off on our own junk- a traditional vietnamese boat taken through halong bay. we are surrounded in an eerie mist as we pass the floating homes of fishermen, constructed above their aquatic farms. chows run along the planks of the homes, barking as we sail by into the mist. we kayak along the salt water reefs, through caves that sing with dripping water. when the rain starts, we hide in a cave and watch the drops dance in the distance. mammoth jelly fish pulsate through the water during the day, and at night the black water glows with phosphorescence while we drink moonshine by candlelight. the bay feels like a mystery, a place where time slows down to a crawl. so little light can actually penetrate the fog that the entire day seems like dusk; like you're looking at the world through lenses of green and gray. and though it's not traditional beauty, it's an honest one; like seeing your lover as they sleep. it's a beauty that is three dimensional.

on being a quiet american

i originally had a conflict about coming to vietnam. should i spend tourist money in a country whose political system i morally oppose? christmas morning at the vietnamese embassy further concertized these oppositions and made me a weary of testing these waters, but now that i'm here, i am glad to be seeing how communism works, or doesn't rather. this trip is not just about leisure but about education. sometimes, i am an ambassador for my ideals in conversations with others who want to share. this is not about politics, more about seeing the guts of a country and realizing that their way of life has nothing to do with my values. they have the right to live as they please and organize themselves how they wish. as long as they are not aggressors, then it has nothing to do with me. (which makes me really think about the wars...)

oh hanoi, the train, the smells, the noise...i will tell those stories later. right now i want to talk about sam and hannah, the iranian couple who shared our cabin from hanoi to sapa.


we rolled in, laughing and drunk, holding a pink chipmunk balloon and talking to everyone in the way. sam and hannah were already seated on a cot, so allan and i settled in and started talking. when they said, "iran" i was so excited because they were already so warm. for hours, i sat with them and talked to them about their culture and their politics and their conception of americans. i got to cross the lines that the borders and the media barricade between us and reach locals in places our leaders won't let us go. hannah must cover her head in public. sam and hannah have never been to a beach together, as men and women must be separate. alcohol is illegal and must be ordered over the phone like drugs in the us. but, girls do have sex with their boyfriends before marriage, though they don't talk about it. they do drink and live like we do, though they must be secretive in most ways and though i think this is oppressive and would not want to live this way, (which is why i don't), sam and hannah seemed exceedingly happy in their lives, tolerant of their challenges, and excited to share themselves and their culture with others. not all of the population is religious or even agrees with the fanatic government ruling the nation. they said about 5 to 10 percent of iranians think that way and the rest are just like them. if that is true, then i am going to iran. i have never been so in love with a couple: their smiles and warmth, sincerity and joy of life despite its difficulties. we talked about language, poetry, japan (sam lived in japan), culture and love.

and then i thought, if only 10 percent of the population are like ahmadinejad, why don't the rest of them stand up and fight against it? how could a country that was so liberal be forced back into such repression? as i asked myself these questions, i realized that OUR government is being ruled by the same concept. maybe it's a majority, but it doesn't make it right and it doesn't make it free. why can't new, innovative, radical ideas take root in OUR american society? we are always stuck in a middle rut of compromise and moderation, which is just a muddle of right and wrong. it's not easy to pass judgment on something you don't understand and are not a part of, kind of like you shouldn't take the stick from your neighbor's eye when you have a log in your own.

(for more on this theme, please read graham greene's novel, the quiet american)

same same...but different

the motto of laos, same same, but different, has become my motto. i am the same same, but these weeks have made me different. it's a nuance, a cloud lifting and opening my eyes to something wonderful: possibility. through my whole life i've felt obligated to do things without really understanding why. there's been this pressure to please or take care of everyone but myself, but now i'm starting to see that the only person i am accountable to is myself. the only person i need to make happy is myself and i'm doing that.

i love my life

i have said this aloud so many times and meant it with the utmost sincerity. i love my life.

riding the slowboat up the mekong, surrounded by people that see me, that understand me. conversations about murakami with norwegians and sharing beerlao and slow joints. listening to graceland and singing to myself, for myself and admiring the scenes around.

relaxing in luang prabang, the french colonial city speckled with lao culture. the wats overlooking the long french windows, drinking wine in fishbowl glasses and runs along the river- the markets illuminated with white lights and bananas roasted on an open grill. the lao disco where we drank scotch and danced till we were drenched and the locals laughed at our charisma. the waterfalls- pools so clear and blue we argue about whether or not they're real. we hiked up through the fall, past the danger signs, following the groves made by the water and stood at the top of the enormous fall. the lush forest in the distance, the green blue layers of water falling, falling to the ends of the earth.



the smell of fresh mint everywhere. splashing in the tube in veng vieng, kicking my feet, calling to the mountains in elation. the color of the sunset, a burning red behind the sharp blue cliffs as i drove a moped down the street, overcoming a paralyzing fear. lagoons, crisp and refreshing after a blistering bike ride over rocky roads, and the lighting of the caves illuminating the golden buddha inside. dancing- fireside while everyone rested in hammocks and finding ben in the crowd, making up words to the song based on back to the future. moments that make you laugh so hard you can't talk. running around the boardwalk, screaming for ben as he screamed for me to dance thriller. kayaking from veng vieng to vientiane, admiring the boulders, the child fishermen and conquering the rapids.

our last night in veng vieng, i looked around at our crew- a group of 15 strangers who had kept running into each other and formed a bond. misunderstandings and fights morphed into daredevil moments and crazy conversations. each of these people brought something diffent to the table and each of them has left me a little bit different, better. but mainly, this is about my girls. traveling with jenny and monika has been the best choice i could have ever made. both of them enrich me in ways i forgot i needed and every moment with them i feel more and more complete.

from monika, i'm learning to leave time and space for myself. to create and let go, to have the guts to take chances alone. also, to commit to things and follow through with the crazy ideas you come up with.

from jenny, i'm learning to learn. i'm reminded of my love of learning and beautiful things and how to make my goals translate into long term possibilities.

i am the same person i have always been- the core is the same, but the layers around me are peeling and changing colors- more vibrant, more rich, more. i am same same, but i feel so different.

the gibbons experience

as a youth, i always marveled at the idea of tarzan swinging through the jungle on the vines of trees, calling out to the open space- a king of the natural world. i thought i would never find a place so untouched and so alive, but i was wrong. i found such a place in the jungle outside of houay xai, laos. we woke up with the town rooster crows, packed and ate our muesli and fruit. we then climbed into a white landcruiser, 9 near strangers following trails into the bokeo reserve, where the gibbons experience has set up its operation. the landcruiser came to a stop at a small village. we all piled out and were greeted by sang keo- a short, muscular lao guy with a light chocolate complexion contrasted by a huge, toothy smile.

almost immediately, we were off, following him and sheil down winding paths. soon we came to our harnesses and put them on; awkwardly shifting our weight and tying the carabeeners to the loops around our waists. sang keo attached himself to the zipline and took off, singing and swaying like the line was an extension of himself, completely relaxed and at home in the jungle. then it was our turn: i snapped my safety on first, then attached my roller and held my breath. "okay" sang keo shouted and i jumped. i held onto the roller at the top to steady my swaying but the wind rushed over my body, whipping my clothes and hair. i looked around me- water running below, 150 meters down. trees everywhere, canopies, green, lush, birds, and a treehouse stuck in a tree below. in the distance, the mist and the mountains, an infinite space where you are completely alone. then i shouted- i let out an exultant cry of elation and i have never felt so free. imagine flying across the canopy of the jungle, looking out for the first time


this first zip line was over 300 meters long- the longest that we would do and by far the most memorable. throughout the next 3 days, we zipped over 20 times, to where it was as natural as jumping for us at the end. the gibbons experience was started by a french guy who was interested in preserving the rainforest in lao. he pays the government "rent" to keep this area a reserve, free from poachers and loggers. we were told stories about how the staff have stolen baby asiatic bears from poachers and brought them to bear camp to try to assimilate them to jungle life. jeff, the french "owner" of the gibbons experience, has constructed 6 treehouses throughout the jungle using ziplines and trails to connect them. our first day we did about 5 zips before coming to the first treehouse, where 6 of us would sleep. we dropped our things and zipped to a waterfall, stripping down to our bathing suits, we swam in the clear, freezing water.

i climbed along the waterfall, playing and slipping in the swirling pools of icy water. we laughed and raced in the pond, then dried off and tried to make our way back to the treehouse for dinner. we got lost and luckily a girl who worked in the kitchen zipped up to us and showed us the way home. our dinner was there waiting- a bamboo box of sticky rice, mushrooms, bok choy, and beef with onions. we had fruit and nuts to our hearts content, then i made tea and the others lit candles so we could play uno in the dark. we pulled down our mosquito nets and settled into sleep with the sounds of the jungle lulling us. the bird calls intermingled with the cool mist and protection of the canopy.


soon it was dawn and the bird calls changed to something more bright and chipper. we were awoken by the sound of sang keo zipping into the house, "morning! coffee? tea? who want?" we packed our bedding as he laid out drinks and cut up a pineapple with his machete, we ate and soon were off again to the kitchen where we met up with the others for breakfast. the day was composed of trekking through the woods, up hills so steep i felt that if i stopped i would not be able to start again. i welcomed the burning muscles and the panting from loss of breath. after so much time in one place, sitting on the boat, i loved the intensity. the jungle looped around us, embracing our crew with its arms and scented flora. the earth was moist and smelled fresh. we zipped- every time seeing the forest from new perspective and each time loving it more. it was like being completely alone for one minute, a solo celebration. tonight we stayed in treehouse 5, a two story treehouse with a honeymoon suite as the loft. jenny, monika and i took the loft, since it's meant for 2 people and we don't mind sleeping close. we can see people enter the house on the zipline and enjoy a 360 degree view of the jungle around us. it's truly stunning. we have seen and heard so many smaller animals, but unfortunately no gibbons. i think we are too loud, having too much fun with each other.

sang keo took us on another trek from the exit zip, past the kitchen to the primary entrance zipline. it was an intense hour of hiking, in the middle of which we found an enormous tree, probably 40 feet tall, which had grown around a hollow center (unless it was once a tree that was squeezed to death by the vines of another). i climbed up the center, following sang keo like an agile animal, crawling vertically hand over feet, pulling up, switching for strongholds- live sturdy branches and vines. we towered up, poking our heads out of the mammoth tree. every few feet our heads through a different gap, our smiles and our hands showing our friends below where we were inside the tree. 3o feet? 40 feet? i'm not quite sure how high i went- but in the bowels of this tree, i reminded myself of my college days, climbing trees with jacobi and terrance- scaling the ficus trees in the arboretum, napping in the arms of the trees on campus, the youth of our spirits. when i came back to the treehouse and showered, the waterbeads fell from the the tree down to the bottom. it looked like a silver shower of light beading its way down forever.

we started to stir when the birds' song changed again into morning tunes; when the sky began to show its misty grey of dawn. it was moist and cool when those of us who wanted to look for gibbons left the treehouse by the entrance zip. now, zip lines are constructed so that you are going downhill, which is why there is an entrance and exit zipline. this morning, to avoid the same hike as yesterday, we had to do a reverse zip and climb the rest of the way up the cable. allan went first, barely reaching the center before turning around to pull himself up the line. jenny followed, his weight making it easier, then marnie, then me and monika. 5 people, white gloved pulling themselves up the cable in the grey early morning. we hiked to an observation spot and listened for 30 minutes. we wanted to hear gibbons. instead, we got to hear the entire jungle wake up: the birds call, the deer bellow, the domestic kitchen animals compete with the others. the sun rose between the trees, a burning orange ball that melted into a pale yellow.


we returned to our treehouse and packed. we left on the trek back to the village: a 6 hour trek with 9 zips over the river. we followed the trail through an unused portion of the jungle. the earth was moist, scenting the air with a soft, cool aroma of things dying and new things growing from them. the leaves were quilts, covering the next generation of life. mold and mushrooms grew over old wood and broken branches. we followed the river. thorn-covered trees and vines gripped at our legs, tearing at us. leeches reached out for our shoes and clothes, attaching themselves to our ankles. throughout the journey, sang keo rarely left the lead. he used his machete like a key, gracefully opening up the locked doors of briar and vines, opening up the mysteries of the earth to us. my muscles burned and i was short of breath, but i was too joyful to notice and too melancholy at leaving the heart of the forest.

we arrived at the end almost by surprise. we were suddenly walking down solid paths made by tires, not machetes. we zipped our last line without realizing it- i leaped from the platform, first in line, listening to "no cars go" by the arcade fire. "i know a place where no trains go. i know a place where no ships go...no cars go" i unhooked myself and yelled "okay" then sat down and scribbled in my notebook, trying to encapsulate the joy, realizing that this experience is too complex to articulate. we walked to the river and put our tired feet in, admiring the river devices the villages had constructed to mash rice: two windmills powered by the river current which raised a large mallet and then dropped it onto a basket of rice. soon we were in the landcruiser again, leaving the village with its sow and 3 piglets, all black and squealing, leaving all of them for the bumpy road. the car brushed past hundreds of plants, throwing their soft, billowy pollen into the air like a cloud of dancing snow flakes. i sang tiny dancer and remembered singing arm in arm with line in tokyo- that night i rode the roller coaster and she and kjersten waited for me and then we ate cheeseburgers.

that night, we slept in beds, ate dinner at the pizza shop and went drinking at a swank bar. it was the one with the great lighting and the chairs made from tree stumps. they served good vodka and let monika pick the music. we talked all night, weening ourselves from the sounds of the forest, trading them for the howls of the stray dogs in houay xai.

river trips, hill tribes, elephant rides...the end of thailand

thaton

the bus to thaton was a crazy green with polished cielings so that we could see our reflections in the metal- it screamed vegas. the air became sweeter as we pulled away: the smell of bamboo and horses on the outskirts of chiang mai gave way to even subtler scents- of honeysuckle and bananas. i peered at locals piled into a pickup truck, adorned with bright linens and colored headdresses. the mountains are not peaked like they are in america, but clustered fists covered with lush foliage. i am pleased to be outside of the city now, away from the pollution and the hustle.

when we arrived, i tripped and fell from the bus. a terrible dizzy spell and a sickness i've never felt followed and i couldn't sit up straight at the bar where we had looked for shade. out of no where, a thai woman with rough dreadlocks saw me and ran to get a key and lay me down in one of her rooms. she but tiger balm under my nose and some rust colored powder on my tongue, instructing me to wash it down with water. she returned to the room with a wet towel and wiped me down, instructing me to rest. she had such a calm, serene authority to her, that i never questioned her motives or techniques. i let her nurse me and make me soup and lecture me that evening about not wearing long pants. i turned out to be very sick- though i'm not sure what it was. perhaps my body just needed some time to adjust to this new culture or to purge itself before starting again. i'm not sure, but i had a hard time getting out of bed for the next two days. i slept most of the time in thaton.

that is, with the exception of visiting the karan hill tribe outside of the city. the karan are a indigenous people to northern thailand who elongate their necks using gold coils of metal that stretch out their necks and knees. they look like giraffes, walking down the street trying to hold the weight upright. in addition to these, there are women with elaborate headdresses and black teeth, some of which have stretched out earlobes. the groups of women (i'm not really sure where the men are) sell handmade scarves and trinkets for tourists who pay to come and see them in their "natural habitat", which is strange because it gives them a freak show quality which i found really awkward and distasteful. i felt bad taking their picture. i kept looking at the little girls with these massive coils around their necks and knees and wondering if they did it for their own cultural reasons or if they do it so that tourists will come and gawk at them and give them money. i have a feeling its the latter, which made me feel strange.

mae kok river
thaton to chiang rai via bamboo raft

from february 28th to march 1st, monika, jenny and i pulled a huckleberry finn in the most authentic way imaginable: we floated on a handmade bamboo raft down the mae kok river. it was the most leisurely pleasurable experience so far on the trip because it got us far away from other foreigners, and go slow enough to really absorb everything around us. our raft was about 20 feet long, most of which was a covered hut where the three of us played uno, read or listened to music most of the day. the rest was the bow and stern where our guides stood and steered the vessel that they had assembled for the purpose of our adventure down river. the bow is handled by me, a dark old Thai with laugh marks entrenched in his face. he's always pointing to things and asking for them in english. when he messes up, he laughs hysterically and turns his head, revealing the mole on his neck from which 3 long silver hairs burst like streamers. tan, the stern, is much more mellow and reserved. he rarely tries to speak or respond to us, he just smiles and smokes from his long, hand-rolled cigarette. tan always wears a straw hat that, since he looks so young, makes him seem even more like one of mark twain's characters, except he wears a bright green t-shirt that says, "happy halloween" on it. tan's always the one sneaking up on us with plates full of fresh fruit- papaya, watermelon or pineapple that he's literally just sliced up with his all purpose machete.

over the days on the river, tan and me taking care of us was the main theme. they liked to try and joke with us in their limited english- entice us to sing and then laugh at our silly songs or what they hear as garbled language. we stopped in 3 villages along the way, meeting many small children who loved to show us through the streets of the village. pointing out where they live or showing off their little brother, the pregnant ox or the local mission. when we would return to the boat, tan and me usually had lunch of noodle soup ready or, if we were camping the night, had begun setting up the grill for dinner. every evening we slept on the raft under mosquito nets after feasting on fresh fish grilled on the open fire over a handmade bamboo grill.

on our last day, we went to a hot spring that had been made into a spa and soaked, relaxing away the sore necks from sleeping on the hard floor. then we continued to float until we came to an elephant camp. here, at my request, we had worked in a stop at a place to ride elephants. we automatically bought food to feed our elephants, which made all of the others acts giddy and perform for the possibility of getting fed. one balanced in a tripod using her trunk and front legs, kicking her back legs up gleefully. the others were equally excited and blocked my way with their trunks- sticking the moist, pointy end toward me and sucking in torrents of air. we paid our money and were off- two guides, three girls and two massive elephants rocking down the road. we switched places a few times, so that in the end the guide was walking and giving verbal commands as i rode on the elephant's enormous, bristly head.

chiang rai- chiang khong

shortly after the elephant camp, we arrived at our stop for chiang rai. a driver met us there, we said our goodbyes to tan and me, and we were off to chiang rai. though chiang rai is a pretty big city and there is probably a lot to see, we decided to head directly for the smaller border town of chiang khong and stay at a guesthouse there. we relaxed and had a hot shower, did laundry, played with the guesthouse kittens and had our thai massages. the matron's mother and i bonded over a game of charades, trying to find the thai translation for "ginger" i finally went into the kitchen, but still couldn't find it, so jenny looked it up online. king is the word. so grandma and i had ginger tea together and then i was invited to share breakfast: purple sticky rice that you mash with your hands and then press into a second dish- pork with stewed garlic and vegetables. as we were talking, it turns out that she lived in osaka for 5 years, so we spoke a little japanese and she pulled out her pictures from 20 years ago and how happy she looks beneath the sakura blossoms. now it's time to raise our gaze to the other side of the mekong, the river that you see if you look out beyond the guesthouse as you sip your ginger tea. that's the city we're moving too. houay xai, laos. a whole new country. a whole new chapter.

sigh of relief, skytinis and long live the king...the beginning of thailand

i was a wreck when i left japan. it's embarrassing to admit it, but i reached my threshold of tolerance and i completely lost it. christina had to pour me into a taxi and take me to the train station and then to the airport. when i finally arrived in bangkok, hired my taxi to take me to the guesthouse, and saw my friend jenny waiting for me wearing that sweet blue dress and a smile, i cried and cried. i feel like japan was an abusive boyfriend that i tolerated and worked with despite the underlying knowledge that it would never suit me. i have never fought so hard to keep my head up but now that i'm gone, i somehow miss it. now that i'm in thailand, i find myself excited when i hear japanese or see that familiar writing.

thailand

bangkok

this city is teeming with life, like a continuous street fair. the thais have food vendors lining the streets, and in every open space there is a gold framed photo of his majesty the king (or his wife). there are street vendors on every corner and rickshaws have been replaced by little tripod motorcycles called tuk tuks which buzz through the streets of bangkok, leaving a trail of black smoke behind them. thai massages, lady boys, outdoor markets and hipped out tourists compose the streets of the city and it is charming. when you walk by, the thai people greet you with a toothy smile and a nod. they are very friendly- often offering advice about sites and holidays (though it's sometimes a scam)- which is such a nice change. i was fortunate to visit bangkok on a buddhist holiday, so i was able to see the ceremony at the golden mount and at the wats (buddhist temples) around town- witnessing the monks in their bring orange robes chanting and praying beneath enormous golden buddhas, the lines of people carrying lotus blossoms folded upward to release the fragrance, and the buckets of goods that people donate to the monks. thai temples are lavishly decorated with bright gold and jeweled figures. i was struck by the similarity to thai artwork and hindu artwork- it seems that the history of these two cultures are tied together, which i didn't know before. after seeing the grand palace and all its splendor, monika, jenny and i went to sky bar for drinks. we overlooked the Chao Phraya river and drank martinis amid the sparkling lights of bangkok. when we left the hotel in search of lady boys in the red light district, i was struck by the poverty that is mixed right in with the wealth of the city. on the same street as bangkok's most posh bar are homeless sleeping on the streets next to stray dogs.

chiang mai

we were all excited to leave bangkok for a smaller and hopefully less chaotic city, so we headed to the trade city of chiang mai in northern thailand via slow sleeper train. it was an adventure: our toilets opened up to the tracks and the steward wanted to drink with us, but it was really exciting and comfortable for the most part. since our arrival, we have explored many more wats and temples, though the ones in chiang mai have exposed brick and broken down statues, which make them seem more authentic and traditional. yesterday, we took a car to Doi Suthep national park, which contains one of thailand's most famous wats: wat doi suthep. we climbed 306 stairs, the handrails of which were two giant serpants fanning down from the temple. right inside the temple, 6 young girls were performing a traditional siamese dance, accompanied by children playing bright, whiny thai instruments. we covered ourselves and went into the wat. at one point, a monk threw water on us with a cluster of reeds and prayed over the people in his presence. you aren't supposed to stand higher than a monk or the statue of the buddha, which makes entering and exiting temples quite interesting: you see thais shuffle and scoot along the floor with lowered eyes and hands placed together in prayer.

after the temple and checking out the local shops (and the elephant chained up behind the shops) we left the temple compound and wandered into the national park, which was completely deserted. we found a footpath and decided to do some outdoor trekking through the jungle. we climbed banon trees, videod a marching assembly of ants and met russians in the forest who gave us hats they had made from banana leaves. as we continued, we found a waterfall and sat beside it just listening to the sound of the water pounding the rocks. i finally felt tranquil and happy. i looked around at the jungle around me, listened to the birds caw and watched my friends, equally moved and speechless. our journey finished with a bamboo forest and another set of waterfalls which were too cold to swim in.

that evening we went shopping through the streets of chiang mai for its legendary sunday night bazaar. i have never seen such a huge outdoor market, selling everything from thai silver to rip off threadless t shirts. even though everything shut down at 11, it still wasn't enough time for me to see everything they had to sell and showcase.

thaton

tomorrow morning, we are leaving chiang mai for a remote town in the golden triangle: the area where thailand, laos and burma touch. apparently you can explore some of the smaller villages which are off the beaten path. our plan is to spend a few days there and then hop on the Ping river to float to the city of chiang rai where we will get a bus to cross the border into laos. from there its time for the gibbons experience!

feast for the eyes

thanksgiving came and went without even realizing it. i happened to glance at my computer where my friend roger had left me a thanksgiving message and it dawned on me that i had missed the holiday. no matter- this year thanksgiving was a visual experience because i got to see the legendary leaves change in kyoto.

i desperately needed to get out of nagoya, so i woke up at 4:30 and took the first train out to kyoto. as the sun rose, we passed through gifu and i could see the snow touched sky slopes and the leaves beginning to turn. my train twisted itself through mountain passes and persimmon orchards and i felt freedom like a physical change in my body. i felt like wordsworth, gaining strength by leaving the stink of the city behind.
kyoto has 17 world heritage sites, which means they have historical significance and are recognized by the UN. throughout the weekend, i would visit about seven of them and take five hundred photos. my friend jonah greeted me at the train station with his friends toyota and mari. we dropped off my luggage and were right off to our first sight, Tenryu-Ji. this temple was constructed in 1339 when Emporer Go-Daigo had a nightmare about a dragon. This site was supposed to ward off the danger from the dream with its spectacular gardens. the pond had coy as long as my forearm and overlooked the changing mountains. after this, we strolled through the crowds along kyoto river before rendevousing with our friends at kyoto station, the controversial modern structure in japan's most historical city. from there we walked past an authentic japanese wedding to Kiyomizu-Dera which is a buddhist temple built without any nails which sits on the edge of a steep cliff. our friends tested their luck at the love shrine and drank magic water said to give you wealth and luck.














we were trapped in a crowd stampede when we cut down a side street to go spotting geisha in the gion district. i saw many maiko, or geisha in training, including an extremely rare male maiko, but i was told that to see a real geisha is extremely rare. these women are trained to host parties and entertain men with conversation and gentility, so they are too refined to be seen posing with tourists. however, i did get to see 2 real geisha walking down the street, but they were so quick on their wooden sandals that i couldn't get my camera ready in time.

the following day, jonah and i went bike riding all around kyoto. we started with Ryoan-Ji, with its famous pond and rock garden. the garden contains 15 rocks and intricate raked gravel, but i was more impressed by the trees and ducks by the pond. from there we pedaled to Ginkaku-Ji and Nijo-Jo, both of which had gorgeous leaves turning. Nijo-Jo is the imperial palace of japan, where the shogun lived. it is famous for its stunning screen paintings and its nightingale floors. these floors squeak when you walk on them so that samurai couldn't storm the palace without being detected. outside there are beautiful gardens and even a traditional tea ceremony where women in kimonos serve bowls of steaming tea and touch their foreheads to the floor before scooting away from your view of the gardens. we saw a hawk demonstration and at rice balls covered in sweet soy sauce, then continued our exploration to Maruyama-Koen and Tetsugaku-No-Michi- a stunning park and a famous walking trail called philosopher's path. the day was capped off by a night viewing of Eikan-Do, which boasts the most spectacular leaves. this shrine had gorgeous illuminations and a small performance by 6 traditional japanese musicians in front of the temple entrance.



























the next day, i was exhausted so when the crowds surged to get into Tofuku-Ji, i turned around and elbowed my way off the bridge. it really was beautiful, but not worth a fight. instead jonah and i made a picnic and wandered to Fushimi-Inari Taisha. after eating, we began the 4 km hike with no intention of finishing. we got about halfway through counting 1,875 torii, or gates, along the way. apparently, the torii were built for inari, the goddess of grain in order to bring bountiful harvest. along the trail there were many miniature shrines, figurines wearing bibs, and gravestones wrapped in red fabric. the trail had a queer peace to it, kind of creepy but tranquil nonetheless. we climbed until we found a nice lookout and sat with a small group of japanese to watch the sun set over kyoto.


















at this point, i was ready to return home and take the long trek back to reality. imagine my surprise when, after all of these glorious moments, i found a cafe du monde in the kyoto train station. so my thanksgiving trip concluded with a shining moment from home, sipping cafe au lait between the Bourbon and Bienville street signs in kyoto station.