Double Double

On the island of Sumatra lies the world’s largest volcanic crater lake, Danau Toba. Within Lake Toba sits the Singapore-sized island of Samosir. And, if you’re quite determined, high up in the alpine trees of this double island, there are several smaller lakes. If you have the kind of bucket list we have, there’s just no resisting seeing a double lake on a double island.

On rented scooters, we set out to circumnavigate the island, turn inland and head up an over the island in search of said lake. We headed past remnants of the island’s animist history, palm trees on one side of the road, pines on the other. Through rice fields and rocky hills dotted at random with the massive, colorful multistory graves unique to Samosir.

We lost ourselves in towns, through markets filled with staring Indonesians. After some false starts, kind strangers eventually directed us onto the road that would lead us on a quick jaunt across the island. Stop at a lake, click of a camera, back before dark. Or so we thought.

“Hati, hati” and “Palan, palan” are two oft-ignored warnings in Bahasa Indonesia. Slowly and Caution mean very little in a land where driving is reckless, passing is nonchalant, and speeding is a given. So when told to drive slowly and be careful, we assume it’s because we are white and suspected of ignorance about driving motorbikes.

As pavement became pockmarked, giving way for wide expanses to dirt and gravel, we figured it couldn’t last. Wouldn’t maps indicate a dirt road? The road did, indeed, wind its way past the lake, the x on our treasure map. But that's about as far as our luck lasted. 

Eventually, you go too far to turn back and must forge on ahead. Even as you are driving at a snail’s pace, the sun inching closer to dusk, trying a dip and dodge around innumerable rocks and potholes,  scooter rattling and scraping all the while. At some point we crested the top of the island, some 3,000 feet above sea level, to see the island ring road a thin snaking string along the coast, far below us.

Much in the way that all good things come to an end, so too must the harrowing. After a brief pavement fakeout (which had us so assured we were done with dirt that we stopped for a victory break), the dusk trickled into dark, pavement back into rock and dust, leaving us to crawl back by the light of a barely-functional headlight.

Aching and dusty, we finally pulled up to our hotel. Soothing pizza and beer were applied to our wounded spirits. Bed was crawled into early. But, sometimes it’s not easy to reach your destination.  Especially if you’re looking for a lake on an island in a lake on an island in the ocean. 

Chicken Bus

Have you ever wondered what happens to those big yellow school buses once they’re replaced with newer models? I didn’t think so. Neither have I.

Once retired, school buses are (apparently) sent down to Central America, where they live out the rest of their days as local public transportation. After being given a flashy new paint job and covered in various Spanish versions of ‘I heart Jesus’. Obviously.

The old Bluebird buses, nicknamed chicken buses for the sheer multitude and variety of things that fill aisles and overhead racks (I hear that crates of chickens are common, but have only seen chickens transported in squirming, noisy bags), often still have the rules to keep school children in line posted up front. It is a bit strange to look around at the familiar interior of a school bus, such a time lurch, and have it be so out of place in another country. And so full of its citizens.

And I mean full. Seats originally designed to hold two children are packed with three grown adults, and typically a child or two, while others stand in the aisle. Personal space is not a concept that seems to exist here. Children sprawl into your lap, babies drool on your arm, grown men fall asleep on your shoulder, all while the bus careens through mountain passes.

We have come to love the chicken bus. Not only does it cost far less than taking the nicer tourist buses, it also…okay, that might be its main draw. Yep, we love the price.

In fact, we love it so much, we took a chicken bus from Nicaragua to Guatemala.  Three borders, four countries, and seventeen hours. But to be fair, it was supposed to be over 25 hours; they drive their buses a bit differently down here. Even with only two people per seat, that is still a long time on a school bus. Especially when you’re in the back and cargo -- including a wheelchair, a walker, and a bedframe -- fills the aisle to the ceiling.

Despite the lack of comfort and space, there always seems to be a general sense of accommodation, courtesy, and good humor. Even as the only gringos (we have yet to see any other foreigners on a chicken bus), we receive helping hands and big toothy grins all the way to our destination. No matter how many buses it takes us to get there. 

Mobile Bliss

We spend very little of our time living in the present moment. Between endless to-do lists and planning, not to the mention frequent “did I turn off the stove?” and “oh no, I feel like I'm forgetting something,” our minds race from one thing to another, rarely slowing down enough to do just one thing at a time.

But I feel blessed. I have found solace from this constant mental racing in the strangest of places. I have recently discovered a sort of meditation-in-motion every time I drive my scooter around town. Unlike driving a car – battling traffic, shoulders tensed, constantly frustrated, fingers poised for honking – cruising about on my little 50 cc scooter I find myself completely relaxed. (It’s hard to believe I was ever terrified by the prospect of driving a scooter.)

I expected to feel anxious on a scooter; I am, after all, much smaller and slower than the other vehicles on the road. But it is this size and speed difference what has altered my attitude about driving. I am forced into being completely aware of my surroundings – other cars, potholes, trash – in a way that matters less when driving a car. I am able to feel the nuances of the pavement and must move subtly within the confines of my lane in order to avoid excessive jostling and bouncing about. It is this awareness that keeps me tuned in to the present moment, rather than worrying about reaching my destination or what I must do once there.

Scooter driving has also cultivated an attitude of calm in regard to trying to keep pace with those around me. Being able to only reach speeds of 30-35 mph, I must practice more fully acceptance of my limitations. Pass me if you must. I am not in control of other people’s need to rush (though I do try to only take roads with these lower speed limits, out of compassion for those in a hurry). And this is something that I try to carry around with me in the rest of my day – I can only do what I am capable of today.

I’m sure that many of the people behind the wheel of a car find me frustrating (especially with the number of scooters in Albuquerque ever-increasing), but I try to just let that thought wash over me and disappear, choosing to focus instead on just being attentive.

And so, I coast around town with none of the tension I experience when driving a car. Sun on my face, wind whipping my hair around, catching whiffs of flowering plants, noticing just how many butterflies flit around town unnoticed. Calm and present, doing something we should all try to do more often: doing just one thing.

Seoul Searching

Having spent a year and a half in Southeast Asian countries, a week in Seoul was something of a shock to the senses. Accustomed to hot, humid weather, a laidback pace of life, and dirt-cheap everything, we suddenly found ourselves thrust into the middle of a surprisingly Western city, complete with winter temperatures, urban sprawl, and smog. Luckily, we were visiting my college roommate, Mr. Peter West, so we had our own built in tour guide, making it much easier to adjust to such Western living (and someone with female friends who could loan me warm clothes and shoes, without which I may have frozen to death).

While tagging along with Peter, I learned a handful of interesting things about South Korean food, culture and lifestyle. 

In a world without scooters, tuk-tuks, or motorbike taxis, having an efficient transportation system is invaluable. Getting all around Seoul, and to the surrounding cities, was incredibly simple given a massive web of subway lines and bus routes. Thanks to easy transport, we were able to spend time roaming through palaces, perusing modern malls, walking Korean street markets, meandering streets lined with tea shops and traditional houses, and sampling Korean and Western foods. 

Scissors are vastly underrated in the West. In Korean restaurants, scissors are a widely used utensil. Used to snip off noodles served from a common dish, scissors prevent that sloppy snap that flings sauce everywhere. At Korean BBQ (or "Meat Restaurants" as they are locally known), scissors are also used instead of a fork and steak knife. Both solutions are so simple, but I wouldn't have thought of them on my own. 

Soju is the devil. Alcohol made from sweet potatoes, plus a dash of evil, soju is a dangerous drink. It might not taste very strong, but when ingested soju can cause incredible intoxication, as well as spontaneous attacks of boisterous laughter and random fits of karaoke. It is also known to cause the worst hangover ever. 

Southeast Asia might be less "developed" than South Korea, but I vastly prefer their ideas on what constitutes an appropriate workload. The Koreans spend the majority of their time working or studying, sometimes into the wee hours of the night. There's something much nicer about living in a culture that values free time, a lack of stress, and an afternoon nap. 

Traditional architecture interwoven among highrise apartment buildings, Seoul is the combination of ancient Asian culture and modern Western influence, with a dash of poorly structured English and brightly colored cartoon characters. Seoul was the perfect layover between Southeast Asia and America.

Thai Family Sedan

All over Southeast Asia, the number of motorbikes far surpasses the number of cars and trucks. Motorbikes are cheaper and get better gas mileage. They are also much smaller, which is a blessing when navigating one’s way through traffic, and it certainly makes parking easier.

But, having such small vehicles comes with its own burdens. Namely, how do you transport extra people or stuff? As we have seen, you apparently just figure it out.

You have a six-foot bookcase, a wheelbarrow full of dirt, some fifteen-foot piping, two bicycles, or a broken motorbike? Figure it out. And, yes, we have seen all of those items being carried by people while driving motorbikes.

And when it comes to people, luckily the Thais are smaller than Westerners. We have managed to transport three Americans at a time on one motorbike, but that was max capacity. Thais ride around in trios constantly, with the driver in the middle.

They do any number of things that in America would probably get you arrested for reckless endangerment, and land your kids in the care of Child Services. Toddlers ride around in one of several ways: crouched in front of the driver, standing in front of the seat, standing between two adults, or propped up on the back (possibly asleep).

In fact, not only have I gotten comfortable riding sidesaddle like the local women (because it's rude not to), I kind of prefer it. But I think even that would get us pulled over in America. 

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. 

Rewind: Christmas in Laos

Christmas 2010, Win and I were given an incredible, unexpected gift: a week off from teaching, contingent on our doing a “visa run” to Laos. Your typical visa run involves going to a Thai consulate in another country with a massive envelope of paperwork (Laos, apparently on best consular terms with Thailand, is the country of choice among teachers), waiting x number of days, and going back to Thailand with a Non-Immigrant B visa in-hand. However, having decided to get yearlong multiple entry visas, our visa run was a cake walk: leave Thailand, see another country, come back to Thailand and get a new 3-month entry stamp. So to Laos we went.

Twelve hours on a train, an hour waiting around at the border crossing, and a single sign telling drivers to start driving on the right, and we were in Laos. Flat, dry, and rundown, Laos’ capital city of Vientiane made for a lackluster first impression. Buildings, storefronts, even the stray cats, everything was sparse, dismal.

Aside from the presence of a bowling alley and the city signage having French flair – a trait that carried over to street, restaurant, and hotel names – Vientiane was very much like a small Thai city. The manner and language were similar; the architecture and tuk-tuk drivers much the same; there were the same orange-robed monks, the same women hiding from the sun beneath umbrellas, the same stray dogs rummaging through garbage. We navigated the city on foot, walked its streets, saw its museums. We ate its food, drank its beer, and spent its devalued kip (worth so little, I was withdrawing a million kip from ATMs the whole time, which was bizarrely satisfying in its own right).

After a day and a half, in what would turn out to be a moment of poorly executed planning, we boarded a bus to head into the heart of northern Laos.

Having been told that there wasn’t a bus leaving for Luang Prabang until evening, we were surprised when the ticket seller told us a bus would be leaving at 4 pm. As we stowed our backpacks and climbed aboard, it seemed a positive turn of events, catching a bus right as we arrived at the station. As the passengers were finding seats, the driver and some helpful hands started filling the aisle with packages, copious amounts of luggage, bags of rice, and all manner of freight, including three pieces of PVC piping, a foot in diameter and at least 12-feet long. In order to reach our seats, we now had to clamber and balance our way over piping, walking along armrests at times.

And so we set out, luggage shifting precariously in the aisle, Lao karaoke blaring and crackling from the speakers. Up and around steep, jutting hills, through luscious jungle foliage, encroaching thick and dark along the roadside, pushing its way toward the bus windows. As mid-afternoon gave way to evening, we passed through meager villages, clusters of single-room homes, many without furniture or front doors. The countryside wore its poverty openly. Bonfires served as stoves, simple elevated bamboo platforms as beds, possessions were few. Late into the night, long after the small village clusters went to sleep, the bus lumbered jerkily along half-finished roads, karaoke still blaring.

After twelve cramped hours, we arrived in Luang Prabang at 4 am. The whole town, all guesthouses and hotels, was sound asleep. We tried knocking on doors, calling phones, checking to see if anything was unlocked, all to no avail. So, we sat down somewhere well-lit to read and nap and waited for Luang Prabang to rub the sleep from its eyes.

Ill-timed though it may have been, our 4 am arrival had two unexpected benefits. First, as the sun started to peek over the mountains and the town stirred to life, we got to start our day off with fresh fruit-filled crepes, a treat one would be hard-pressed to find in Thailand. Also, we got to witness Luang Prabang’s famed procession of monks, numbering into the hundreds, lining the streets every morning bowl-in-hand, going from storefront to doorway, collecting alms, something many tourists wake early to see.

After schlepping around and scoffing at prices (“Only 40 US dollars a night”), we finally found a place to bed down for several days. It was a dank little hole of a room next to the guesthouse kitchen, but it was affordable. Luckily, as we discovered after napping well into the day, Luang Prabang was a lovely town, giving us little reason to spend excess time in our room.

Nestled between the Mekong and Nam Khan Rivers, The Unesco World Heritage city of Luang Prabang sits high above the flowing waters on its hilltop peninsula. It was my first tryst with a World Heritage City, a first fling that would, unbeknownst to me at the time, turn into a travel love affair.

Roaming around town, the architecture is awash in French colonial remnants; beautiful balconies, wooden shuttered windows, massive homes mixed in with smaller, more Southeast Asian structures. Cafes, baguettes, creperies, Luang Prabang embraced its heritage as part of the French colony Indochine, using it as a tourist selling point surely, but also full of genuine relics of its past.

French remains Laos’ dominant second language (though it is being steadily overtaken by English), and to hear the Laos (plural of Lao, referring to the people of Laos) speak French was a surreal experience. There was none of the harsh, nasally, pretentious quality that you get when listening to French or other Europeans speak; instead, the words were tranquil, a calm, steady flow, all rounded edges and curved letters. It was delightful to listen to, as if the Laos spoke French as it was intended, a beautiful, delicate language.

Mixed in with its French heritage, an abundance of Buddhist temples stood their ground, solidly announcing Luang Prabang’s Buddhism. Although, with the highest number of Buddhist monks per capita (a statistic I might be making up, but there were certainly an impressive number of monks), the predominance of Buddhism in the area announces itself. Everywhere we walked, groupings of orange-robed monks, from small male children to wrinkled elderly men, meandered along the streets. In all of Thailand, never had I seen so many monks, especially child monks, all in one place.

Despite the attempts around town to appear more festive, garland and lights and trees appearing in large numbers, it wasn’t a particularly Christmasy Christmas. And, with near-tropical temperatures, it certainly wasn’t a white Christmas (although I don’t know that Southeast Asians would know what to do with themselves if it ever did snow).

In fact, we spent Christmas Day flying back to Bangkok through Luang Prabang’s ‘International Airport’ (a building so small it resembled a bus station more than an airport). The flight was my Christmas present to us, a way of avoiding 24 hours on buses and trains. Buying airline tickets also gave us time enough to spend three days soaking in Luang Prabang: enjoying its dichotomous culture, eating French, Lao, and French-Lao food (I even ate some buffalo), and most of all, just relaxing, reading, and relaxing some more. 

In the Presence of Pachyderms

Up close, an elephant is a creature like no other. Gentle eyes the speak of unplumbed emotional depth, stubbly hair across smoky-grey flesh. Riding on the back of an elephant, you tower and lurch, high above the world.

Blessed with remarkably quick wits, we have seen elephants perform incredible feats. Dancing and hoolahooping, painting and playing soccer, even drinking soda through a straw; elephants have a knack for learning. Among Thailand’s hill tribes, a number are native mahouts and elephant herders, holding annual Elephant Roundups, hundreds of elephants displaying their talents.

Small town men will purchase elephants, parading them around town selling sugar cane to pedestrians or people in restaurants in order to feed the elephants (which will then be locked in too-small yards until the next night’s circuit). Standing on the sidewalk, bobbing his or her head along with the music, swaying with a remembered dance, the elephant will wait patiently for another handful of food.

Such treatment isn’t befitting of such elegant giants, but the treatment of elephants seems to be getting ever-better. No longer will you see elephants being exploited thus on Bangkok’s Khao San Road, or anywhere in Bangkok. And many of the formerly mistreated elephants from Bangkok have been sent north, living out their lives in elephant camps and orphanages, given fresh air and open spaces, tromping through jungle rather than city streets, and fed on a regular basis. While many of these places operate as tourist attractions as well, the conditions are kept under closer scrutiny, hopefully providing better quality of life for the liberated pachyderms.

Leathery skin, wrinkles like canyons spreading across their broad backs, bristle-like hair springing up among the cracks and gullies. Ears flap like massive water-soaked flags, slapping their sides as they sway, huge gait, like a minivan on legs. Big, bright, long-lased eyes sparkle with depthless sentience. A curious trunk twists above stray chin whiskers, searching for anything edible. Lumbering, weathered and majestic, elephants have been a magical presence in our travels.