Home Away From Home(land)

It’s an odd sensation, returning to a foreign country and experiencing a feeling of homecoming. It’s strange, a language re-emerging from forgotten corners of your mind. It’s interesting, something so exotic feeling so normal, so commonplace.

As we found ourselves back in Thailand for a second round, we were dealing with new classes, new students, new friends, new restaurants, and wholly new experiences. But, here we are in the same culture, speaking the same language, working with the same Thai co-workers, at the same loving, supportive school. It’s not quite the same, but neither is it drastically different.

Things we missed about Thailand –

• ·         The food. Hands down, Thailand has some of the most diverse, delicious food selection we have encountered in all our travels. We started anticipating, and salivating over, specific meals months before we landed back in Thailand.
• ·         The generosity. The Thais are some of the most giving, loving, supportive people you could ever hope to meet. Whether co-workers, strangers, or government employees, we have always been surprised by the lengths to which the Thais will go to help a fellow human.
• ·         The cost of living. No, seriously, it is just so easy to stretch the baht you make working in Thailand. It’s not hard to live without budgeting, travel for three months of the year, and still return home without emptying your wallet.
• ·         The compassion for street animals. As I have mentioned before, the way that Thais treat stray animals is far and away one of the most heartwarming examples I have ever witnessed of a culture having respect for the life of all beings.
• ·         The acceptance. It is amazing to see an entire country that is willing to accept homosexuality from childhood. Especially when teaching children and witnessing those who would be bullied and harassed in the US rise to the top of their class.

Things we didn’t miss about Thailand –

• ·         Tonal language. Despite being not-so-bad at Thai, I am still not a robot. And while I can effectively communicate here, divorcing emotion from inflection is incredibly difficult. Win, on the other hand, has such a hard time with it that all we can do is laugh and not worry too much.
• ·         Gossip and bizarrely insulting cultural tendencies. Though by no means exclusive to Thailand, it is difficult to constantly be asked why I do things and why I am fat. (As an addendum of sorts, we recently discovered that the asking about weight is the Thai way of saying that you care about someone and their health. But I could still do without someone rubbing my belly while saying, “baby?”)

Things that probably belong on the latter list, but don’t bother us enough to make the cut –

• ·         Squat toilets. Okay, in our travels we have definitely encountered far worse than those in Thailand. Plus, I like to think of it as a bit of a game. Target practice, if you will. (It’s entirely possible that that is nothing more than a coping mechanism when faced with something unpleasant.)
• ·         “Thai time”. It is a common joke in Thailand that things happen on “Thai time”. Typically, this means things happen eventually, but never when they were supposed to happen. Meeting at 7 can mean 8, and when something would be done by Tuesday it will almost certainly be finished no later than Friday. But, this is also something that we have encountered in numerous places and to worse degrees. Apparently, if you want things to happen promptly, move to the US or Europe; otherwise, just roll with it.

Of course when returning to anywhere there is the fear that it will not be the same. That you might in some way ruin your good memories with a new, worse experience. That it doesn’t live up to the memories you have.

We have been lucky in that regard; the Thailand we remember is intact and the Thailand we live in now is just as good (and, in some ways, just as bad). When all is said and done, we are thrilled to be back in Thailand.

It’s a wonderful feeling: to find home in the most faraway of destinations, and to know that, despite the common saying, sometimes you can, indeed, go back.

Lalibela: Carved from Stone

 

Situated high in Ethiopia’s arid mountains, a two-day drive from the city of Addis Ababa, lies the tiny town of Lalibela. Home to Ethiopia’s kings during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, this rural town of winding stone-paved streets holds some of the country’s most awe-inspiring, pilgrimage-worthy churches.

What makes these eleven churches so noteworthy is that they are carved directly into the mountainside. The rock-cut churches of Lalibela represent a variety of architectural styles and proudly display the nation’s deeply engrained religious history.

Arranged in two clusters, the churches are linked by chiseled channels and tunnels, some of which require walking for relatively long distances in pitch dark (especially if you were silly enough to ignore the guidebook’s suggestion to bring a flashlight).

Though the churches are named after King Lalibela based on his claim to have built them all, many scholars believe that the churches, or at least some of them, may have actually been built earlier. Legend says that King Lalibela was exiled to Jerusalem by his brother, after which he vowed to build a new holy city on his return. According to local myth, the construction was done during the day by residents and aided at night by the help of angels.

Regardless of the doubtful holy help, the churches of Lalibela are incredible, a massive testament to dedication and hard work at human hands.

Colorsplosion!

This past weekend marked my six monthiversary as a non-smoker. To celebrate, I ran my first ever 5k. And I did it in a big, colorful way. 

Let me make one thing clear: I am not a runner. It’s not that I don’t like physical activity; I love to be outdoors, to push the limits of what I can do, to challenge myself physically and mentally. I have strength and flexibility in spades, and my lung capacity is finally recovering after eight years of smoking being a vital part of my cardio regimen.

But running, just plain old running, is something I find to be unbearable. Not only does it mean wearing shoes, to which I am generally opposed, but it is tedious and boring. I am just not athletic or competitive enough to have the desire to run. Where's the variety? Where's the fun?

And then a beautiful event crossed my path, scheduled for six months, to the day, after I quit smoking. The Color Run. It looked awesome, even if running was inherently part of the deal. So I got some friends together to form a team. I figured, support and commitment to others is important when you’re doing something you’re not naturally inclined toward.

As the day came, bright and early, six thousand color runners decked out in crisp, clean white t-shirts waited at the starting line. Young and old, in strollers, on foot and in wheelchairs, color runners came in all shapes and sizes. Donning knee socks, tutus, wigs, and wedding dresses, this crowd was ready to celebrate life.

Five kilometers, hundreds of barrels of colored powder, and a dash of early morning cardio later, and there was nothing clean or white to be seen. And then, just to be certain, we all rejoiced by throwing color up in the air, again and again, because you can never be colorful enough. 

Vibrant, multi-hued, full of joy and celebration about having healthy, beautiful human bodies. Non-competitive, full of high fiving and support. Totally worth a little bit of running and one helluva scrub-down post-run shower.

Where the Magic Happens

Far too often, we get so caught up in the day-to-day nature of life and end up ensnared by routine. We become so comfortable that life becomes stagnant, rather than dynamic. In the last month, some of the best things I have done have been those things that I wouldn’t have expected to find myself doing: blindfolded yoga practice, for example. There's something incredible about taking a moment, every day, or maybe just once a week or once a month, to do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do.

Go to a restaurant by yourself. Confront a fear. Brush your teeth left-handed. Learn a new language, even if you may never use it. Drive on the opposite side of the road (you may need to move to a different country first). Pick things up with your toes instead of your hands. Tell someone you love them. Take a class doing something you think you can’t learn, and learn how to do it. Do a somersault. Lie in the grass, or dirt, or leaves, or even just carpet. Dance like you never learned any dance moves. Tell yourself that you’re beautiful. Learn to take a compliment. Use your imagination for something other than worrying.

If you spend all your time doing things that are ordinary, you’ll never experience something truly extraordinary.

Ostrich Cowboy: The Sequel

Turns out, riding an ostrich is not as easy as it looks. And it doesn’t actually look all that easy.

Win thoroughly enjoys taking the giant birds for a spin, and in the time we have lived in Chiang Rai he has taken two visiting friends for this “Once Time in Your Life” experience. Seeing as our departure is rapidly approaching, I figured this weekend was the time to put on my big girl pants and just ride an ostrich, dammit.

Ostriches apparently each have a unique personality, and, as we discovered, drastically differing reactions to having a foreigner perched on their backs. Becca (another visiting New Mexican), for instance, rode the smaller of the two ostriches. It trotted around politely, sometimes just standing still, allowing her the comfort of only moderate awkwardness, as well as normal facial expressions in all the pictures.

I was on the bigger of the two birds, and I think Becca and I had completely opposite experiences. My ostrich liked to run full-tilt, make quick turns, come to short halts and try to buck me off its back, all while making terrifying hissing noises. Not that I blame it; I wouldn’t like it if someone were clinging to my body, holding onto my useless wings and treating me as if I were a horse.

Becca was able to gracefully slide off the tail-end of her ostrich. I was not so fortunate. Mr. Ostrich did manage to successfully hurl me off his back. I went down sideways, but somehow managed to stick the landing, inciting a burst of applause from a group of tourists who had been watching my entire ostrich debacle.

On a related note, during this visit Wanna Farms had a cluster of new hatchlings and toddler ostriches. If you have never seen a baby ostrich (as we hadn’t before yesterday), they are possibly one of the most bizarrely adorable creatures I’ve ever seen. If they didn’t grow into the mildly creep monsters that those of us in Chiang Rai like to treat like horses, I would make Win promise that we could get a bunch and let them run around our backyard.

Fear on Two Wheels

This week my seventh grade students inadvertently made me feel very pathetic, not to mention a little bit terrified, when they started showing up to school on motorbikes. First of all, I don’t even know if they are old enough to be driving (Do you turn 14 in seventh grade?), and it isn’t exactly comforting to see them driving alongside us in traffic. But it also brought up a bigger, ongoing issue: I cannot drive a motorbike.

I have tried to learn how to drive a motorbike/scooter three times without success. The first time, I panicked going uphill and, remembering that if you put down the kickstand it would turn off, tried to get off the scooter while holding the brake, accidentally hit the gas at the same time and had to have Win come rescue me while I stood there baffled. The second time was mildly successful. I got going without tipping over, but then I couldn’t figure out how to comfortably steer. It’s not like a bike, it’s not like a car, and I just had no idea how to turn the damn thing. The third time was the most pathetic. I had psyched myself out so badly I couldn’t even go without feeling certain I was going to fall over or crash.

Seeing my students driving made me positive that it couldn’t be that difficult. So, I resolved that this weekend would be the weekend I learned to drive a scooter. This weekend, I would not panic ad I would not give up. And since Win’s friend Becca was visiting, there was a necessity to the situation. We rode with three of us on the motorbike, but only once. It wasn’t pretty.

Saturday morning, I got up ready to go, eager to learn, feeling sure of myself. Then, I started to think about all the ways I could really and truly screw up, most of which ended in me crashing a motorbike. By the time we arrived at Becca’s guesthouse, I was no longer confident. So when the guesthouse owner said she only had one motorbike to rent, I figured, clearly Becca should be the one to learn, right? I mean I have Win to drive me around, and then I’m leaving Thailand. Becca just got here and she has a year of needing to drive herself around. Logical though it was, I was mostly just terrified. Of course, the guesthouse owner looked even more terrified upon hearing the Becca had never driven a motorbike. When she nearly crashed into a bunch of potted plants, I thought that the offer to rent the motorbike might be revoked.

Mrs. Guesthouse Owner turned to me and asked if I knew how to drive. In that moment I felt like I was trapped in a nightmare. But, I got on the scooter. I gave it some gas and slowly inched forward. I crept along at a snail’s pace, but didn’t tip over. So I kept going. Luckily, the guesthouse is located down a small side soi, so I could drive around and practice (read: inch along trying not to crash or throw up).

We pulled into traffic and I didn’t die. I kept up with the pace of nearby cars, and I still didn’t die. It was phenomenal. And, once I stopped thinking about it, steering wasn’t anything to get worked up over. Apparently, you lean more than steer, so the whole thing starts to feel like second nature.

All told, I probably drove a hundred kilometers (that’s a guess, I’m still not sure what a kilometer feels like). And, by the end of the day, even though my wrists were sore, my hands felt like they were going to fall off from all the vibration, my eyes stung, my ass was killing me, and I’m pretty sure I ate one of the numerous bugs that hit me in the face, I thoroughly enjoyed driving. 

Flying High

In celebration of my 25^th birthday, Win and I sprung for a ziplining trip in Chiang Mai this past weekend. Our friend Brad came up from Ratchaburi to join us, bringing his girlfriend, Kelly, along for the adventure. After a few bus- and guesthouse-related hiccups in our plans, we were in a Jungle Flight van, snaking our way along single-lane roads through the mountains.

Suited up in safety harnesses, hairnets, and helmets, we were thoroughly uncomfortable (the boys even more than the girls) but ready to go. They gave us a run-down on the pre-ziplining procedures, which turned out to be entirely unnecessary because we were accompanied by guides who did all the clipping, unclipping, and re-clipping work. 

Off we went, one-by-one, zipping among the towering trees. It was exhilarating, and surprisingly simple. All we had to do was let the guides do their thing, sit down, and soar from tower to tower, taking in the fantastic view out across northern Thailand’s rolling, mountainous jungles.

Over the course of two hours, we enjoyed flying between fifteen towers, three abseils (a rope pulley system that dropped us each down to the ground), and a ton of good-natured fun from our guides. Some towers were equipped with double cables, allowing couples to go together. At other towers one of the guides would join the last female zipliner, tailing her by a couple of meters, using his body weight to bounce the cable up and down.

At the end of the day, as we sat down to the included buffet-style meal, I think we all wished we had forked up the money to do a longer course. But, now we know. Next time, we will just have to go for a full-day package.

Yoga as a Foreign Language

I have been practicing yoga since my freshman year at Emerson College. I never feel better than when I have a regular, daily yoga practice, but I have a hard time being as disciplined and dedicated as I would like when it comes to maintaining an at-home self-practice. When no one is looking, it’s much easier to be lazy. For the first year of our time in Thailand, we weren’t living anywhere that had yoga classes. It was a very lazy year. But, finding myself in a city with an expat community I set out to find yoga somewhere.

 

I found two places in Chiang Rai: one, a pseudo-hippie café catering to foreigners, the other, marked with a sign all in Thai, except for a picture of people doing yoga and the number 700. It was time for a comparison.

First, I went all-Thai. Since I couldn’t find any info online, I stopped by to ask for times, prices, etc. The woman who greeted me spoke little English and repeatedly said, “Thai language.” Three classes a day, 60 baht ($2) a class or 700 baht ($23) a month, definitely worth a try. I assumed she meant she only spoke Thai. I was wrong. She meant the instructor spoke Thai during class. Oh well, no different from the rest of my life here.

Then, I went to try out the hippie expat café, although with some reservations. I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but many of the foreigners we meet aren’t exactly my cup of tea, which is why I had put off going for several months. I find them to be pompous and abrasive. Backpackers in Aladdin pants, talking about full moon parties and how awesome and fucked up they were, or spouting pseudo-spiritual dribble; I just can’t take it. And spending so little time around English speakers makes it even more difficult to be forced into listening to them ramble on about themselves. (I know I sound bitter, but feelings build up after a year and a half.)

Turned out, they had to cancel their yoga classes for lack of a teacher, but hadn’t updated their website. So, I pedaled on over to my Thai yoga class instead, making it just in time.

Turns out, I adore taking a yoga class in a foreign language. The instructor, a delightful man with a wonderful sense of humor, a big smile, and a fantastic energy about him, does speak some English, particularly yoga-oriented English. He probably speaks enough to teach a full, not very detailed, class in English.

Three months ago, he was very heavy on the English, clearly for my benefit. However, as the classes generally follow a standard ashtanga series and I have been doing yoga since 2005, his English usage has dropped down to practically nothing. When he does say something in English, I know it is directed at me, which is just lovely. He leads a wonderful, challenging class and the Thais enjoy themselves and are all willing to attempt anything. Just last night, we did headstands, handstands, and forearm stands all in one class.

Occasionally there will be another foreigner or two, and the class gets and injection of English, but not very often. My Thai comprehension, while still pathetic, is also dramatically improving. 

Okay, only yoga-specific Thai, but it’s something.

Certified: The Art of Thai Massage

As our time in Thailand is slowly coming to a close, I realized I only had one chance left to learn Thai massage. A gift to myself, I spent the holiday break (the only consecutive free days I have left before we leave) getting Thai massage certified in Chiang Mai. Not wanting to spend an absurd amount of baht or waste my time only learning a small portion of a Thai massage, I opted to go to the same place Win went during his 2008 Thailand trip.

Win described the course as a week of getting and giving massages, and he vouched for the awesomeness of the instructor. Her 5-day whole body massage course was about half the cost of the bigger, less personal massage schools. Not bad for a hundred dollars.

So, I too went to Ms. Aree Sanyaluck, but my experience was a bit different from Win’s. For starters, I was the only student. This meant that, as I was the only one practicing, it was all massage-giving, no receiving. But, hey, I didn’t have to worry about being paired up with some creepy tourist as a massage partner. Since I was practicing on Aree herself, she knew exactly how well I was doing and how to correct me. Plus, I got to learn at my own pace.  

So, I spent five days hanging out, massaging Aree, while her three black cats lounged in the sun or stretched out alongside us. Aree turned out to be a ridiculous individual. After teaching for 26 years, she speaks not only fluent English, but also French, inadvertently slipping from one to the other occasionally. We talked about Thai schools, farang men, the Thai version of prostitution (‘girlfriends’), different types of tourists. I listened as she professed her profound hatred for most of the massage schools around Chiang Mai, especially those that teach Wat Po style (carelessly popping, cracking, and walking on backs); she told me about her herbal medicine work with the local hospital and the psychiatric hospital; and I learned about her time in Australia and Europe learning massage through a program set up by the King. Not a bad way to spend time off work.

Giving a Thai massage is incredibly exhausting, with all the lifting of dead weight, pulling and stretching of limbs, and bending the recipient into some very yoga-esque positions. But it was a ton of fun to learn, and apparently, I am a natural at it. This probably has something to do with the fact that I get a Thai massage every week ($10 for two hours, who could resist?) and I know what things they do that I just hate. I blew through the five day course in three and a half, so Aree taught me the extra two days (foot massage) on day five. For free. A wonderful New Year’s present.

And, the whole arrangement worked out in Win’s favor as well: once I finished the course, Aree had me practice on Win. Twice. So at least one of us got a free massage.

It's Hard to be a Pilgrim

Adam’s Peak, also known as “butterfly mountain”, is Sri Lanka’s holiest mountain and most famous pilgrimage site. Near the summit, a 6-foot rock formation resembling a footprint, called Sri Pada, is said by Buddhists to belong to the Buddha, by Hindus to belong to Shiva, and local Christians and Muslims believe that it is the place where Adam first set foot on earth after being cast out of Eden. Important to all local religions, it has become a must for Lankans to complete the pilgrimage at least once in their lifetime.

To reach the summit of Adam’s Peak, pilgrims climb 5200 increasingly steep steps, ideally reaching the peak just before dawn. During pilgrimage season, which lasts for about six months out of the year, the path and steps are illuminated by rigged overhead lights, and tea and snack shops stay open throughout the night, refreshing pilgrims on their trek.

Unfortunately, we weren’t in Sri Lanka during pilgrimage season. This meant that in getting from Anuradahpura to Delhousie at the base of Adam’s Peak required not two buses, as it would during pilgrimage season, but four. Unfortunately for us, overland travel in Sri Lanka takes a surprisingly long time, considering how small the island is as a whole. The bus crawled over mountain roads, hardly one lane wide, that curved up, around and back, snaking its way through tea plantations toward Hatton. Houses were carved into the mountainsides, made up of many narrow stories stacked around the mountain’s natural shape, sometimes only the top floor at street level, with many stories built downward instead.

By the time we reached Hatton, dusk had settled over the town and the last bus of the day had already left. This left only one option: tuk-tuks. For 1000 rupees (roughly $10) we hired a tuk-tuk to drive us all the way to Delhousie, about an hour away. Under normal circumstances, an hour in a tuk-tuk would be unpleasant; on narrow mountain roads, in the dark of night and driving rain, it was terrifying. And, since he had promised to make it in under an hour, our little tuk-tuk was bouncing and jostling down dirt roads at incredibly high speeds, all while he called various guesthouses to get a commission when we arrived.

After a massive pile of noodles, we turned in for a couple hours of sleep. In order to make it to the top by dawn, a departure time of 2am is required. We suited up: sneakers, long pants, Win’s sweatshirts, and a flashlight borrowed from the guesthouse. And we were glad we did; Sri Lanka’s Hill Country, especially when you’re in the forest at night, is downright cold. Heavy mist hung about the mountains, giving the silence mass, density.

The path started out mostly flat, easing through the hillside tea plantaions, with some gradual incline and occasional steps. A stray dog, limping its way along, seemed to be keeping pace with us, disappearing and reappearing at random. After passing a donation tent where string was tied to our wrists with a blessing (and we signed a guestbook in the event we lost our way and wandered around in tea plantations until found), we found ourselves rising a bit more.

The only other people on the path were clusters of foreigner tourists, each brandishing his or her own flashlight. As cold gave way to perspiration, we stuffed our sweatshirts in the backpack, and water breaks became more frequent. Time became meaningless, minutes held no concrete substance, there were only stairs, stairs, stairs. At some point it started raining; mist, rain, and stagnant sweat clung to my arms, my face. Sweatshirts were re-donned. Some three hours in and it was just vertical stairs and handrail.

Somehow we reached the summit. I might have cried a little, I felt like I was going to throw up, my legs like jelly, my pulse pounding out an erratic beat in my head, and the limping stray dog made it to the top before us, but I made it. A tea shop at the top warmed new arrivals, as they waited for the summit temple to open at 6am. The hot tea brought feeling back to my fingertips.

After watching the sun rise, a layer of clouds spilling out below us like a vast cottony sea, we were the first to venture onto the summit temple. Removing our shoes and socks, we rushed across the marble floor, through puddles of freezing nighttime water, and rang the bells, two notes vibrating across the cloudscape, full of blessings.

And then we had to clomp our way back down the mountain, back down all those stairs, back through the mist and rain, back to our guesthouse where we could collapse into exhausted slumber, losing a full day to sleep.

Hopeful Orchiding

Thailand is full of orchids of every shape, color and variety. I am constantly amazed by the seemingly endless possibilities when it comes to orchids. Rich purple stripes, yellows that fade to violet, vibrant blues, majestic magentas. The way the face of an orchid falls open in such unique patterns, thick petals twisting and curling. They have a light, citrusy scent that doesn’t overpower. Gorgeous.

I have been lured into buying these exquisite plants from several vendors at street and flower markets in Chiang Rai, and I have learned one thing: orchids are hard to keep alive. This must be why they charge so much for them in America.

My first attempt at keeping orchids alive was a miserable failure. I purchased three plants, meant to be hung, long roots akimbo in the air. Within a week, I was flowerless. The roots were dry, the leaves stiff, and the flowers dead. The plants haven’t given up completely; I have kept them alive, albeit in a vegetative state, but without hope of once again having flowers.

Second time around, I got a small orchid for fifty baht from the local flower market. Its little flowers, heads about the size of a quarter, yellow and spotted, seemed slightly neglected and covered in spiderwebs, but struck me as resilient. In a ceramic pot, rather than plastic or a wooden box, moisture seemed to last longer. Roots and flowers seemed happier. And, as time passed, new flowers replaced old, even as many as five at a time.

This has given me great confidence in my orchid-tending abilities. And then an amazing thing happened: I discovered a stall at the flow market where some lovely Thai ladies were selling full-sized, living orchids for 40 baht apiece. That’s right, less than $1.50. So, I bought three, potted and boxed them as best I could (they get very top-heavy), and I am hoping for the best. 

I might be overly ambitious due to my recent orchid success. I know virtually nothing about tending to orchids. But at that price, I can afford to fail. So, I will just keep doing what I did with my successful little guy and hope for the best. And, in the meantime, our porch is brimming with big, beautiful orchids.