One of Those Days

Today I just want to,

Kick it in my living room.

Today I just want to,

Return to a home cooked meal.

Today I just want to,

Speak English with more than 10 people.

Today I just want to,

Call my family without considering an 11-hour time difference.

Today I just want to,

Book a ticket out of Thailand to America.

Today I just want to,

Be there when I’m here.

But when I was there,

I wanted to be here.

So I was neither there nor here.

And that’s the problem isn’t?

We’ve got to realize 'there' only exists because we’ve left the 'here'.

So today I must stay here,

That’s the only mindful place to be.

Pak Chong: Highway Walks with the Gypsy Gang

Reunions are very important for the soul. It’s not often that you are able to encounter people that make you shine, people that are just as weird as you are, people that you have fun with simply because of their company. I like to call these people my tribe. A band of sisters here in Thailand you might have heard me refer to as my gypsy girls.

So after far too many weeks of separation, we decided we must reunite. Pulling out a map and finding a midway point was the easy part. We weren’t trying to bust the bank so we looked for the cheapest accommodation. But with last minute planning, a place to stay wasn’t the easiest pursuit. So with questionable homage 24-hours before the weekend, it seemed like maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Maybe another weekend. Maybe when we had saved more money. But then, just like that, with Facebook chat the only form of communication, a place was found and the adventure was set.

It doesn’t matter where we are staying, it just matters that we are together.

When I finally arrived from my long journey, five hours with two bus transfers, I phoned the hostel and was happy to hear one guest had already arrived. Must be Zola, no way the straggling Kara had made it there first. After catching up and lounging, we decided to make our way into town to grab some grub and to find the missing piece of the gypsy puzzle.

We took a stroll, with some miscommunication from the German owner on how to arrive in the city. Something about walking to the supermarket and flagging down a pickup truck (songtaw). But with only two possible roads in the right direction, we were certain it must be the dirt road, because there was no way a highway walk was the only option. We passed by some cut up rocks, which I insisted were cave stalagmites, and hit a dead end. Yes, the highway was the only option, we were told, everyone walks on the highway, even families and children. Apprehensive, we started our way, passing zooming semi-trucks, and countless honks. 

As timing works, we arrived in town simultaneously as Kara. Three gypsy girls walking down the backstreets of markets, with stories shared from our wild child about her previous night’s escapades. And let’s be honest, white people get enough eye attention.  It’s that starkly white skin, and that farang tongue. But take that attention and multiply it by 100 for a scene of a motley crew of hippie girls roaming around. It’s all good; we’ve got inexhaustible smiles to share.

In search of some green space, we asked around for advice on local parks that spared the costly admission. We decided on the only park within walking distance, which provided us incessant laughter as we arrived, walking into a cement-filled lot. It featured a running track and pony ride loop.  More laughter. Finding our source of entertainment with an unattended soccer ball, we caught up on our interim lives. A cute young 18-year old passed by and practiced his English with us. After our hour or so long conversation he shared that it had been months since he had practiced with a Westerner. The guts this guy had to approach three foreign strangers was very admirable.

Later, while munching on street food we caught eyes with the very attractive Salad Roll Man. Interested to make a connection, I used the thai wave to call him over. Soon enough, we had a tour guide for the night. After some 7/11 front stooping and the mistake of spending far too much baht on ice, we met our friend again and jumped onto his motorbike. The adventure began. Just like that.

And as us gypsy girls do, we made friends with everyone. With older woman. With older men. With servers. With singers. Kara fell in love with a guy who reminded her to not forget her backpack. And we transitioned from four people on a motorbike to 10 people in a pickup truck. At one point, I turned to look at Zola and she was rocking her dreads with the main bassist. There was an amazing light of energy, and we were treated like pure celebrities that brought the party.

And that’s what it feels like when you’re surrounded by your tribe. Sure, we were in some random town whose main attraction, Khao Yai Park, was unaffordable. But it didn’t matter. I was with people that emit blinding light. My gypsy girls might be extreme. My gypsy girls might be weird. My gypsy girls might have a voracious approach to life. But, most of all, my gypsy girls are magical.

So, find your tribe. Find people you can runaway from hostel owners, dashing towards the highway, laughing out loud, and almost falling over because of your comedic lifestyle. Find the people you resonate with. Your true allies on this journey called life.

So, do it. Find your tribe.

Magnify your brilliance with a trusted tribe of kindreds.

Nong Khai: Solo Peace and Quiet

What good do words really bring? We constantly blabber on in our lives as we justify, explain, relate, admire, and demonstrate. Our verbal input makes us feel…. connected? But there is already this endless chatter in our mind space; does the talk need to consume our lives as well?

 I decided to take a break from the words. A break from the need to be connected. And although I love having company join me in my adventures, I did something for myself this weekend. I went alone. Not to affirm that I can get it done solo style. I already know I can. But to grace myself with the silence my body so dearly needed.

Nong Khai is a quiet, tranquil town that borders Laos. The muddy Mekong River flows between with the Friendship Bridge linking the two countries. The Mutmee Guesthouse was the perfect accommodation tucked away for my weekend of silence.

And let’s be honest, I wasn’t completely silent. On my four-hour transport, on bus and mini-van, I had great conversations with Thais. Regardless if I wanted to be bothered, I’m white, and that often entices the locals to try out an exchange with the farang. One older gentleman reached for my hand before he got off the bus and told me Thailand loves America and America loves Thailand. One college student insisted I sit next to her on the mini-bus and was just staring at me, smiling, the whole way.

I wandered through the markets, snagging an American flag hat for the 4^th of July weekend, a pair of gypsy pants made in Thailand with fabric from Indonesia, and some bracelets . . . because one can never have enough bracelets. And here I was in this peaceful town, taking whatever outlet looked interesting as I walked on. I wasn’t pointing out all the amazing things I saw, I wasn’t verbalizing how sweaty I was, I wasn’t clouding the air of Thai language with a farang tongue. I was just, silently, taking it all in.

With no company at dinner, I mindfully ate my food. Rather than shoveling in bites between stories, I was slowly enjoying my meal and tasting all the ingredients. I thought about the farmer who picked the tomatoes, the cook who made the sauce so perfectly acidic and juicy. I thought, but I did not speak. And at the night market my solitary silence continued. I communicated with the local Thai dancers by snapping their photos as they posed for me. I joined an older couple, who interacted with me through grins, as we watched the music performance. I was all there, but I did not waste my energy on words.

Before my friend, Jick, arrived to take me back to Khon Kaen, I savored the silent moments with a riverside bike ride to the must-see sculpture garden, Sala Keoku. Sala Keoku, built by a Laotian artist, was created to honor the spiritual teachings of Buddhism and Hinduism.  Upon entering the park, with it’s awe-inspiring giant monuments, I was quickly distracted by a precious young boy. We giggled and played, and after twenty minutes I brushed off the gravel, and let him on his innocent way. It’s amazing how I can be in the presence of such beautiful art, and yet be so much more captured by this little live-image nugget.

I spent hours circling this garden. I’m not sure if it’s because company didn’t distract me, but I just had this overwhelming sense that nature was so intertwined with the art. It seemed that every sculpture was paired with wildlife; whether that be a flower growing, a butterfly landing, a beehive serving as a beard, or the fauna backdrop adding to the overall image. The flower child in me was beaming. Beaming on that blessed of an overcast day that allowed me to coolly stroll.

 

Overall, a perfect weekend where I reminded myself it’s ok to get tired of words.

“It is only in an atmosphere of quiet that true joy dare live.” –Bertrand Russell

Losing A Best Friend While Abroad

 I called my parents to exchange stories about our 4^th of July celebrations. To possibly laugh over the mishaps and mayhem from the annual do-it-yourself firework show.

But instead, my laugh quickly echoed into sobering tears as my mother told me my best friend of sixteen years had died. Died. And as I often do, when I’d rather not handle something, I hung up. I hung up and crumbled to the floor.

It was such an unexpected shock to my system. I still remember the first day I met him, how interactive and friendly he was. He never liked cuddling, but man he loved giving kisses. Throughout the years, he put up with so much of my bullshit. All those times I dressed him up . All those times he took the first snow plunge, when we were all apprehensive to see how deep it went.

He was my best friend.

The weekly chore of taking the trash to the cul-de-sac was never a bother because he always joined. He would remind me to not get annoyed at the task at hand, and we’d play in the woods for hours, returning home and getting scolded by Mom because we were only meant to be outside a few minutes.  All those adventures to the creek were always glistened with his footsteps. No matter how far I went, he was always game to join. My brother and I would play paintball by the bunkers, and there he would be jumping over the water to join.

I still have that scar from when the tree branch came crashing down next to us, when he clung onto me so tight with our lives flashing before our eyes. All those all-nighters I spent studying in middle and high school, he was there helping me finish the cookies and milk Dad had brought in. Sometimes I would sneak outside and shed some tears over the drama of being an adolescent, and without even calling him over, he’d be there to empathize. He’d rub my head up and brush away my sniffles. He was the best listener.

As a youngster, he peed on the toilet seat cover, and I took the fall for him. But the timeout in the corner was well worth him not getting kicked out for the day. Many times Mom would object to our sleepovers, so when everyone was asleep I’d sneak out and let him in. Before I even knew selfies existed, I was snapping photos with him. Capturing the moments of absolute affection.

    

                    

I’d return home from college break or an adventure abroad, enter the house, and head straight for my boys. My Calvin & Hobbes. Hobbes would immediately be smiles, purrs, rubs, happiness. . . all a fury overflow of love. It’s always been one of the best things to have these amazing boys, my most beautiful friends provide me with the greeting of home.

And the thing is, I go on these adventures, and selfishly, think things will go on perfectly the same.  But in reality all is changing, all is progressing, all is aging. Although I wish I could be at home, mourning with my other best friend, his brother, Calvin. I can’t. My moment is here. And that’s the beautiful thing about moments, because being present in them is what’s blossomed these amazing memories with my childhood best friend.

Hobbes is living his moment now.

I’ve heard kitty heaven is pretty amazing buddy. Love you. Always. 

Phu Pha Man: It's Not Always About the Destination

~~~~~

Sure, you can find beauty in the tourist traps, you can let Tripadvisor tell you about all the must-sees, but you’re limiting yourself to 30% of what there is to offer. The real beauty is found when you wander, when you let the whim of the moment direct you. And I’m fortunate here as a foreigner to have a great Thai friend that invites me along and opens up the local secrets of this beautiful land.

Two Americans with their faces drooling at the scenes out the window and our Thai beauty of a driver cruised in along the gravel road, with two guys and a guitar in the hutch. We’d arrived at our oasis: an eco-resort set in front of limestone mountain curtains, rickety wood bridges leading to our designated bungalows nestled upon purple lotus ponds. And surrounding the farm fields in front: endless young rice fields the color of Crayola Electric Lime, with Thai farmers lined in perfect formation pulling up old roots and exchanging them with new seeds like a natural, well-oiled machine. And silence. Silence that I’m evermore appreciative of because of my current urban existence.

Silence, with it’s rhythmic melody quiet, is a powerful sound on the planet that reminds us to breath into its naturalness.

Our first adventure of the day: a natural spring.
We turned along farm field after another. And if I told you I was beaming, I don’t think that accurately illustrates my expression. My smile was basically falling off my face. Eggplant. Sugar Cane. Dill? I could have died and gone to heaven, and I’d be happy.

 
Jick was waist-deep in the mud colored spring. I was doing my best not to slip on the rocks below. Melissa was close behind. Johnny was free jumping from boulder to boulder. And Nay was wandering through the forest snapping shots.

 Water is cool and all, but after getting a taste for it, my heart gravitated towards the soil. The touch. The feel.  Miss. Barefoot straying through the fields. Round eggplants, oblong eggplants, bushes of multi-colored peppers rows on end. Green mountains, edged and etched in their own individual way, lined the backdrop. I walked past a deserted farmer’s hut ornate with a dried grass hammock, cooking pot, and straw hat- elements of the simple life that I could easily adapt to. Just a little further I was zooming my camera into a field and focused on a farmer. My immediate instincts were to engage, but after saying hello, she flowed with Thai conversation and laughter. I quickly realized I could only communicate with my smile. She touched my skin, that holy white, and I was on my way. When I joined the rest of the crew we challenged each other for the most epic picture of a gargantuan tree.

Our next adventure: a waterfall.

             Twelve kilometers along the countryside on a bumpy, up-hill road, we were blessed to have a truck that handled the terrain. Farm fields upon farm fields. Hundreds of baby papaya trees filled my line of sight, and every so often I yelped pointing out adult jackfruit trees. Past an orchard of rubber trees, each with their own spouts to collect this precious material. I was constantly reminded where everything comes from- the Earth. With jaws dropped at the picturesque scenery of green mountains and rainstorms in the distance, we decided to take a group shot among the tapioca fields. It was one of those journeys where the beauty never ended. With no idea where this waterfall exactly was, and no road signs to provide direction, every so often we would check in with the locals to assure we were on the right path. And the first time Jick rolled down the window, they all just looked at us so puzzled. She thought, “they must not speak Thai.” But in reality they were just in shock of seeing their first farangs, foreigners.

And I can’t really describe what it’s like to be looked at with so much bewilderment, to be one of the first in your race to engage with a remote village. It’s like you’re this beautiful creature that’s been extinct and you’ve only been described from word of mouth. Slowly, we crept further up this mountain, given the constant assurance that yes, trong pai, keep going forward.

But as we checked the time, we realized it was getting late, that we’d have to turn back to catch the bat cave show. So we made a 3-point turn cliffside, and past our friends who were cleaning cilantro where the river met the mountain. We could sense we were so close to the main attraction of our journey, but for me, the journey of engaging with the locals and identifying plant life made the trip all worth it. 

The night adventure: the bat cave (tham khang khao)  

            Before I left on my weekend trip I called my brother. His advice: don’t eat the guano. Ace Ventura provides all of life’s lessons. And as we gathered underneath the cave, I couldn’t help but wonder when someone was going to offer me guano. Sadly, no offers of bat poop, although my friend who climbed into the cave said locals were rummaging about collecting something from the floor. Had to be the guano, man.

A little after their expected departure, as the sky was darkening, the sound of flapping wings activated the amazing spectacle. Millions of bats were flying in formation, creating an ebb and flow of black dots across the night. You could see them for kilometers into the distance. And some locals were there to gain good spirit, to possibly see a winning lottery ticket number in bat formation. I just looked up in awe; they just kept coming, with a straggler out to the side every once in a while.

After the great natural entertainment, we took to the road in search of dinner, feet dangling out the truck bed. But the street was all closed for the night. Before accepting 7/11 as our dinner option, Jick asked if there was anywhere open. Directions were given, and in the thai way, directions weren’t that helpful at all. But after some turning around, slowing down, asking for more directions, we finally happened upon a place. And although it was closed, with one table finishing, they let us eat.

          

We met a local farang, with feisty British humor. He was having fun getting cheeky with Johnny, surprised we were there, seeing how he’s only encountered five foreigners in the area. He invited us to check out his orchid farm the following day (or we invited ourselves, I don’t really remember).

A nightcap of live melodies from Nay and Johhny became an opportunity for us all to practice our musical talents. It was a night where everyone played and got involved. It didn’t matter how the harmonica sounded; we were all trying.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful thing about music, that anyone can give it a go.

The following day we took our time leaving the peaceful eco-resort. What’s the point in rushing with an atmosphere so calming? We made our way to the orchid farm, that weeks earlier had been destroyed by high winds.  But as I peaked through the greenhouse before we started our tour, it all looked so beautiful, and the tree hugger heartbeat started thumping.  Our British friend was very open about his life story. His main reason for leaving his homeland was the loss of his dog. He figured his angry soul would go wild in England, and so he started an adventure to Thailand. Now he’s got lots of animal friends, a Thai wife, a daughter, a booming orchid business that manifested a travel career, and the most beautiful backyard where he can see infinite mountain peaks. I’d say, a pretty satisfying life.

            I was consumed with purveying the infinite rows of sprouts that came from all over the world. And I felt so comfortable in the greenhouse. It’s my ultimate playground. No better of a reminder, among thousands of plants and great friends, to acknowledge a missing passion in my current lifestyle.

Before heading home, we ventured into the remote Phutalor Cave where we needed a guide to unlock the entrance. I’ve been to caves before and stalagmites still amaze me. But what I couldn’t get over was that this massive cavern was all to ourselves. There weren’t obnoxious tourists making far too much noise, or kids running around touching everything. There weren’t blocked passageways. It wasn’t an experience that thousands of people had walked before me. It was just us. Exploring its depths. Feeling the energy from the crystalized rocks. It was our own private experience, and the rocks were left undisturbed.

Even a stone, and more easily a flower or a bird, could show you the way back to God, to the Source, to yourself. When you look at it or hold it, and let it be without imposing a mental label on it, a sense of awe, of wonder, arises within you. Its essence silently communicates itself to you and reflects your own essence back to you. –Eckhart Tolle 

Phimai: A Taste of Cambodia in Thailand

I absolutely love my children. I love teaching them English, even if they can only count to ten, even if they still pronounce strawberry as ‘stawbully’. But they tire me out, my exhaust tank is empty after a full day of little nuggets jumping all over Teacher Nola. So I absolutely savor my weekend time. It’s an opportunity for me to get out of my city and explore somewhere new. A time for Nora the Explora to feel like a backpacker again, at least for a few days.

The perfect hint of wanderlust.

This past weekend I was recommended by a friend to visit the village of Phimai, about a 2 hour journey south from my city. I was planning on heading solo, but two girls from my program were interested in joining. And if there is anything I’ve learned from traveling alone, it’s that company is ALWAYS welcome. On Saturday afternoon we took a public, air-conditioned, non-direct bus there.  

My initial thought about this hop on, hop off adventure was shit. I’ve had many of journeys where non-direct routes equate to me stranded on the side of the road with a dust caked face and an anxious mind.  But my friend and school coordinator had provided me a full proof guide to landing in this village. She wrote down each step of the journey, and even scribbled in Thai in case they didn’t understand my pronunciations. Yet again Thailand made things easy. There was an actual bus stop, we weren’t just on the side of the road. And there was a bus controller who flagged down the transport for us. It was all so… convenient.

When we arrived in Phimai I immediately felt relaxed. Life seemed to happen a bit slower, cars and motos didn’t zoom down the streets. And as we walked to a nearby shop to ask for directions to our guesthouse, they didn’t just point for us, they actually walked us there. I knew I liked the feel of this village. And that night as we wandered together to the night market, we recognized how amazing the silence felt. Our city is full of people, and you constantly embody frogger crossing the motorway. But here in Phimai, we were able to practically walk in the middle of the street with no obstructions. 

Along the night market, this one stall grabbed my attention. I think I was mostly interested in the beaming faces from the Thai man and woman selling this green plant that looked similar to peppercorn. We did our best to use hand motions as we asked what exactly the plant was. I pointed to a mango, thinking this plant might be a fruit, and they responded, “Same, Same.” But the more we engaged with them, the more we learned this was not a fruit, but actually a tobacco plant. And I’m really not one for cigarettes. I was that 10-year-old girl who cried every time my Uncle came to visit with nicotine-laced clothing. I was that younger sister that brought the package of Skool chewing tobacco to my Dad when I was snooping around my brothers room. And here I am, in Thailand, fascinated by this local smoking product. So Morgan and I decided to buy some, directed to chew it and spit it out. But almost immediately as I gnawed on the plant, I was revolted, and started dribbling it out of my mouth.  Infectiously laughing at how ridiculous we looked, I scanned the market, and all the Thais were laughing too.

If you have to look like a fool, at least be a clown for others amusement.

We made a friend at the cake stand, who proceeded to give us his number. And we nodded, as if  “sure, sure,” while we knew in our heads we wouldn’t contact him. The following morning we woke up early to begin our tourist filled day of meandering through the historical park. When I walked downstairs to ask for a bike rental, I was in such a sleeping haze it took me minutes to realize the man standing next to the owner was none other than the cake man himself! SHRIEK! I tried my best to stay casual as I reverted upstairs to pass along the news to the girls and work on an escape plan out the back. But as we pedaled down the street, from the corner of my eye, I saw the cake man in his yellow shirt joining along. Crap.

We wandered around this magical temple, as my mind filled with memories from Angkor Wat, the world’s wonder in Cambodia. I had researched the Prasat Phimai and learned it’s believed to be a 12^th century model for this larger religious complex, with much evidence suggesting that the land was once ruled by the Khmer Empire. Seeing it firsthand, touching the stones, I saw so many similarities to the structure in Cambodia that I visited a month ago. It was so impressive. But something was different. . . it felt so much more special. Because thousands of tourists weren’t blocking my vantage point, it was just me and a handful of others. And the grounds were so lush and well kept. I really felt like I could close my eyes and go back in time to this heaven on earth.

Yet there he was, the stalker Cake Man, following behind my friends each time I zoomed in from afar to snag some paparazzi footage. I approached him once, and flat out told him he could go. But when he reacted so sadly, I couldn’t muster the courage to be persistent. Later, though, I realized our hopes of him catching the drift were pure delusions so I finally, firmly, relayed the message.

And I recognized that sometimes you gotta put on that ‘bitch face’ to get what you want.

So with our extra baggage kicked to the curb, and the morning sun beating down, we made our last rounds of the temple structure. As I was breathing in the beauty, a man approached me and said, “Teacher” pointing to his son, his camera, and me. They wanted a picture with me! I’d heard from friends that this happens in Southeast Asia, but I’d never experienced it firsthand. This little boy was so happy to be in a frame with me, and sweat dripping down my face, I couldn’t help but give the cheesiest smile ever. Never have I felt such royalty for my profession. And standing against history, they were more excited about this white girl than the backdrop.

I had spent a month in this country, but in those 10 minutes of a celebrity photo-shoot, I finally grasped “Real Thailand”.

We decided to do some wandering, because there is really nothing better to do in an unfamiliar town. After circling a beautiful lake, constant positive thoughts floating in my head, we happened upon a cute café. The owner filled our stomachs with fruit smoothies and fried rice, and even drew me a map to our next destination. Nature soothes my soul, so we began the journey to the largest Banyan tree complex in all of Thailand. Banyan trees create an interwoven web of connectedness, as seeds germinate into the very tree they were bred from.

Before entering the tree maze, I was intrigued by buckets of amphibians. We learned that it was common practice to buy one and release it into the lake as a form of good luck. Each fish providing it’s particular fortune. As we wandered through the forest in amazement, I quickly felt sorry for my bagged Goby fish and rushed to a waterway opening the bag to release it. Although I wish I could tell you it was this gentle, pleasant release, in reality I awkwardly plopped the creature into the lake. But when he announced some air bubbles in the distance I was immediately relieved. I hadn’t killed my little good luck charm.

We roamed around this enchanted space, giving thanks to the Buddha, and shaking a cup of wooden sticks that provided our fortunes. I did my best to be mindful, and my adventurous soul saw a broken down walkway as the perfect playground.

The return home reminded me that all travel is never the same. Although we took the same exact route, the bus we landed on home was crammed to the brim with passengers. About 15 of us were standing in the aisle for almost an hour. My friend turned to me and grimaced, “I wanted to practice my thai vocab words,” and I replied, “even better. . . we get to practice Thai culture instead.” Sitting on plastic chairs the remainder of the ride, holding on to the seat in front at every turn, I did my best to be careful and not tip over on the monks sitting behind us. And I took the air-conditioning driblets as a nice relief, a different kind of spritzer.

I’ve been spoiled with enough luxury in my life to cherish the moments of raw, bare, essential travel. 

Taking‘roughing it’ to a whole new level.