Think Round

Some little gremlin must get his kicks off eating my minutes. That’s really the only way to explain the fact that I only have three months left in Thailand. We settled on one year when we embarked on this journey and our year is about expired. It’s crept up so quickly and I’ve realized I’ve spent entirely too many minutes living in indifference and boredom rather than basking in paradise.

So a few weeks ago after the monsoon depression, Lindsay and I made a pact to get our minds right because the only possible way someone can be dejected in paradise and in life in general is if they can’t find a smile in every situation. We’ve been spending less time indoors and more time trying things we’ve never done—like surfing, 30 consecutive days doing yoga in a sweatbox or taking a FREE sociology class online at Princeton. (coursera.org ... DO IT) My stress from teaching came from the seriousness I placed on a classroom full of four year olds—tiny little people that just want to make teacha proud. My only real job is to make them giggle and try and keep them from hurting themselves with over sharpened pencils—that I can do.

We stood up on our first waves and shared some life revelations while sitting on a cliff watching the setting sun engulfed by the enormity of the ocean like a misplaced firefly and pondering how the sun decides on which colors to paint the sky each night. After talking a lot about the absurd idea of one’s singular “soul mate,” we agreed on the fact that a person can have many soul mates… not necessarily many people who romantically fit the connotation, but friends, family, random people, moments, songs, inanimate objects, sunsets, smiles—these things can all be our soul mates if we recognize when they stir our spirit.

My coffee lady, in the moment when she places the perfect combination of coffee and milk into my cup that gives me the vigor to brave the day is momentarily the most appreciated person in my life. Princess Cuddles—my dingy grey (once stark white) teddy bear—is my snuggling soul mate. Every sunset that recharges my reason like a petrol pump of wisdom is my soul mate. My friends who constantly support me, challenge me, hug me, laugh with me and tell me when I’m completely full of shit are yings to my emotional yangs. My mom’s screwball cackle that shatters formality like a baseball bat in a glass shop is my laughter soul mate. That random old lady that resembles an incarnation of my deceased grandmother in Thai form who smiles deliberately (same menacing dentures and all) at me like she’s glimpsing deep into my being is my soul mate. And that little girl in 7/11 who pointed to Koala Yummies when I was having trouble deciding which cookie to go with on this eve was my snack time soul mate.

There is that perfect song for you at any given moment, that awakens something inside and drives you to the point of inexplicable tears and for those seconds, you’ve found the musical equivalent to a soul mate. Or some scene of beauty Mother Nature when mysteriously throws a flock of pigeons into your gut or raises the baby hairs on your hands fully upright and the universe reveals itself, giving you a connection to some enigma somewhere. It took me awhile to realize that life is 10 percent what it actually is and 90 percent what you think it is. We control much more than we’re given credit for even as much as to say your life is what you think it. No making involved.

And as we cruised through the jungle through the cool nighttime air, an assemblage of constellations materialize from beneath the dissipating grey clouds, our own personal planetarium as far as the eye can see. In this most honeymoon-esque of our adventures, I thought to myself, one would have to be a real shithead to be anything other than gloriously happy in this place. And as friends have left or are gearing up to leave, moving on to new chapters and new adventures, I cherish every second I have in this dreamland and I’m so very thankful for the sights I’ve seen, the things I’ve done, the knowledge I’ve gained and the multitudes of soul mates I’ve encountered that have enriched my life for sometimes only a moment, but left a tiny and lasting imprint on my soul. I guess what I’m saying is… thanks.

“There is no right or wrong, just masses and masses of ignorance and wisdom. Dearest Ann, think round.” –An anonymous inscription on a used book I found

How the OTHER Half Travels

I haven't found the time in my ultra-busy schedule to compose a blog post, mostly because I've actually been finding time to be productive. But, I stumbled upon a post I composed after my travels through Laos, although I'd forgotten to blog it. As one of my favorite experiences in my adventures, I learned that most of the time things don't happen the way you intended and it's only when we step (or catapult) outside of our comfort zones that we discover things we'd never have had the chance to see or do.

Strapped two backpacks deep sitting front of our guest house waitingfor a shuttle to take us to grab the bus to Vientienne from VangVieng, I can't shake the menacing feeling that we’d been forgotten. I’d watched a trolly shuttle up anddown the main strip of road, carrying passengers bound to their seats withbaggage, all heading in the direction of the bus station. Frustrated, I inquire whether our bus that was supposed to leave 20 minutes agowas actually leaving. Another Asian man in a sheer white tank top holdingmy future tells me not to worry, they are running late. I'm not sure what the recurring theme of direct contact with Asian men in wifebeaters has to do with impending misfortune, but after my tubing mishap a week before, I'd say I'm they coincide.

Fifteen minutes later, Browned Nipples pulls up in a trickedout Honda and starts loading our luggage into his trunk. Although baffled asto why this man is hauling my backpack into his personal vehicle, I stay silentand evade Jamie’s questioning glance for fear of bursting into the awkwardnesscackle. Inside his Ricerator, Sheer Shirt states that the VIP Bus has broken downand the “local bus” will have to transport us to Vientienne.

As we barrel into the bus station with showboat swiftness, Iscan the lot for our vehicle, but all I see are a few minivans and one massive pile ofrusted parts gyrating and secreting sounds of fury in the middle of the lot. I turn to Jamie, whose mindis clearly traveling down the same dark path. I clamp down my agape jaw and transitionbetween suppressing the alarm bells and calculating the logistics behind whatever scientificmarvel propels this tin lunchbox. I realize it’s too late to back out now asTank Top’s already hauled our things onto the leather upholstered metalbenches.

Dazedly, I march up the steps and into Laos circa 1977. Fivelocals stare back, clearly as confused by my presence as I am. I briefly wonder how therest of the VIP Busers found alternative transportation, when I realize that wehad been forgotten. The scent ofmanure and metal rises from every orphus of this contraption as the drivershouts something in Laos and a woman takes her rightful seat by his side, indicatingthe beginning of our trip. Thankfully, there are only 6 of us, so Jamie and Iboth secure our own seat. Laughing to myself, I take out my notebook and beginchronicling our journey in RustBus77.

With windows and doors ajar, the bus barrels through back roadsas the driver erratically honks, warning villagers interested in taking a deathride through the mountains that we’rehere. Great, one of those buses.The kind without tickets or any sort of ceiling on the amount of humans they’llshove into its motorized exoskeleton. New riders climb aboard clutching sacksof perishable food items, buckets wafting fishy odors and surgical masks tocombat the waves of dust whisked through the open windows like swells of asthmarhythmically coating our faces with gusts of clay terrain.

Similar to a wooden rollercoaster attraction, no sane human actuallywants to ride some rickety pile of decaying timber thrown together with oxidizedbolts and Paul Bundy’s spit, people just want the theme park street cred ofhaving braved this dangerous game of Chutesand Shit-Where’s-the-Ladder. This ride was very similar, minus the cart,tracks and semi-dependable park building codes. Instead, we’ve got 35 locals,50 sacks of God knows what and a looming future image of riders banningtogether to Flintstone the last leg of this perilous backwoods trek.

Loving every second of the weirdness involved in thisjourney, I sit smiling like a creeper in a cult combine. I glance ahead watchingas a truck spewing a colossal stream of water heads for us. I realizethat with all the windows down, the entire left side of the bus is about totake a tidal wave to the eyesockets. I look over at Jamie, who is chin deep in somefried rice, completely unaware of the impending shower. Maybe a kinder personwould’ve given her a heads up; instead I shifted my body for a front row seat/toavoid any ricocheting water drops. The truck trudges past dousing the faces of the entireleft side of the bus. As Jamie gets a post-Songkran blast to the face, I explodein a maniacal guffaw pointing and holding my lunging chest while Jamie blankly stares with the same look my dog gives me when I hose him down out back. 

The two Lao men seated behind her catch the cackle likewildfire and pretty soon everyone is laughing. At the fact that they all justreceived a free car wash? Maybe. But I’d like to think my laughter tremorsbroke down some ethnic barrier and for that brief moment, we all spoke thesame language—a comical language of circumstantial soakedness. The tripcontinues and I’m thoroughly enjoying seeing Laos from this perspective, thisintrusive glance into how the other half lives. The family of woodlandcreatures propelling the engine coupled with the scent of fishcakes and thelady holding an anticipatory paper bag beneath her mouth for most of the tripgive me a warm sensation of belonging inside this 19^thcentury shard of shrapnel.

The rattle wagon successfully managed to bob, weave, sling,turn and eek its way up mountains, down hills and around perilously sharpcurves, all the while running singularly on the hopes and prayers of its passengers.The little engine that did.

So when your VIP bus breaks down and you’re forced to takethe local MuskBus: wear your gas mask, pack flame retardant pants and bringyour pet chickens because anything goes. Inthis metal death trap half a world away, I felt at home in the smell of dirtyfeet and metal. It’s strange how adaptable we humans are at finding comfort inthe obscurities thrown at us by life. 

Monsoonity Monsanity

My patience squirms inside the tiny claws of 60 schoolchildren, slowly squeezing through their talons like a traumatic play-doh project dangerously closing in on painful ulcers and a one-way ferry ticket to Shutter Island. Basically, I really like teaching kindergarten. Okay, so the latter statement drips with sarcasm, but teaching four year olds is a whole different ball game—less runs, more injuries and coach Arex erratically scampering after her marbles in the outfield.

In my 8 years of various employment “positions,” I’ve never napped on the job; quite frankly, I’m not a napper. Two days into Kindergarten and Teacha passes out for two hours in a drool pool on her desk. Even harsh whistle blows produce an explosion of laughter and pointing at my terrible stern face. They do not fear me. I need them to fear me.

Sadly, teaching small ones has me wondering, do I actually enjoy teaching? Mehhh. Do I enjoy teaching kids that don’t understand a word I utter? Out on a limb, the split second answer is NO… back near the trunk after some careful consideration the answer is still Ehhh. I love these kids, I do. And it breaks my heart every time I fail to console a face full of tears because I can’t bushwhack to the root of the problem through the language barrier brush. I love Thailand, but what good is love when you don’t have the time to express it? Let alone a millisecond to exhale. I just want sit on a dock of the bay with Otis, a bottle (barrel) of wine and a shattering sunset.

Maybe monsoon season washed away my patience along with the roads, trees and abandoned motorbikes or maybe I just figure if a job is going to make me miserable, I might as well make some money doing it. Some long-awaited sunshine this weekend helped to heal my bruised soul—it’s mind blowing how a little vitamin D can repair you mentally, physically and emotionally.

Monsoon season in Thailand is no joke. I mentally prepared myself for afternoon showers and maybe a lightning storm here and there, failing to comprehend the severity of this period. In Florida, when streets overflow and flood to depths rivaling the shallow end of a swimming pool, we shut shit down. Schools close, jobs grant vacation days and families huddle together under mattresses in the kitchen encompassed in mounds of canned goods and flashlights. It’s called hurricane season and frankly it’s terrifying, or so I thought until I nearly experienced a rain-induced apocalypse last week. I remember being mocked because during torrential downpours, I pushed my seat forward, gripped the steering wheel at 10 and 2, flipped on the hazards and my inner granny materialized as I coasted down the street slower than a drive-by Prius.

Photo credit to Corey Husak!

Now I’m completely perplexed as to how to safely travel through troughs of muddy streams on the back of a scooter while thousands of tiny water knives prick my skin and gusts of gale force winds relentlessly toss me around. I momentarily stop under some metal overhang to place my poncho on then resume the perilous journey home. Rather than dispelling raindrops, my plastic garment gets picked up by the wind and transforms into wings/sails, treacherously sending me veering to and fro, like a kite in a cyclone. I again take refuge below some rusted shack and watch as brave Thais glide down the road helmetless, taking gallons of rainwater to the dome. Where’s Chiddy Bang Bang when you need him?

Even the beaches experience the wrath of monsoonity. The tide commandeers our stretches of beach and swimmers turn around defeated as red flags denoting NO SWIMMING flap violently in the draft. I attempted to brave some storm swells and was repeatedly wrecked and tossed into the sandy throws of a ruthless ocean. Moments later, I staggered to the shore with bikini bottoms filled to the brim with beach and received an uninviting welcome committee of a lifeguard and rentacop each motioning me to step away from the water before Farang gets hurt. I glance down the beach realizing that not only am I the only idiot swimming in a storm, but I’m also the only idiot on the beach. Not my finest moment.

Thankfully Mother Nature sensed the depression and imminent alcoholism resulting from days of being confined to the space of ones own home allowed the sun to grace us with her cheery presence. And after drunkenly contemplating packing our shit and hopping the next flight to South America, Linds and I again grasped our sanity with both hands. And even as prisoners in our turquoise living room, we interpretively danced for hours to Wilson Phillips and anxiously anticipated the arrival of September with Earth, Wind & Fire. Call it insanity, call it contrived happiness, either way, we’re making a conscious effort to find solace in the storm. To harness the wind and transfer it into some joyful energy and maybe some puddle jumping.