Burma: A Monk and a Nurse

Burma is behind me now as I move forward in my travels, back to the dazzling future as I mosey about the sparkling modern streets of Kuala Lumpur. But the people and sights of that motley land will vividly reside within me forever.  Especially, the people. 

A crash course in current events, first, for those who aren’t savvy regarding the unjust climate that permeates the air in Burma, much like the damp mold that saturates the buildings of Yangon. Burma is run by a military government which holds an iron tight fist around the freedoms of its people. Any books deemed threatening are banned, news that doesn’t favor the govt’s ideals isn’t reported, citizens are hardly allowed to leave the country, internet usage is restricted and monitored, and hundreds of political prisoners sit in jails for the crime of speaking their minds. Government informants are everywhere, leading to a population that lives in constant fear and censorship. ‘Democratic elections’ are occasionally staged, but are merely a farce put on as an attempt to appease international pressures; they always end the same way, with the same people sitting upon seats of crushing power.

Yet, the people smile. And laugh. And love. And live. And hope…

On the outskirts of a modest village named Hsipaw, my partner and I dismount from our rented bicycles and stroll up the steps to an unassuming temple. It is the day of a new moon, and thus a minor celebration day, as the ancient traditions of their ancestors dictate. Several women dot the stone floor that circles around the bell shaped structure, eyes closed they sit in various positions of prayer and meditation. When their stillness is broken, we exchange warm smiles and eventually follow their footsteps down a winding staircase that leads to another temple enclosure below. Many had gathered in this simple room, and as we timidly entered, the sounds of devotion we could hear found the bodies that were producing them. A lean monk dwarfed by his billowing robes led a small crowd in hypnotic chanting. Once the spell was concluded, the awareness of our presence spread fast. Faces beamed at us, thrilled to have outside guests join their tight knit community. Little English was spoken in this room, but that didn’t stop anybody’s effort to connect. We ate with them. We drank tea with them. We played with their bashful children. We were honored to receive gifts from the monk… for each of us a string of prayer beads, and for each of us a copy of the Dhammapada, written in Burmese and English. We learned from this smiling congregation how to use our prayer beads, holding them in both hands and gently thumbing along each bead while chanting ‘Buddha, Dhamma, Sangha’. We sat with the Monk as he enthusiastically opened up page after page in the Dhammapada and animatedly tried to communicate his interpretations. It was hours before we managed to tear ourselves away from their enveloping warmth, and when we did, it was with a certain lightness in my step as if an unperceived weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

Photo by David Simon

On another day, in a suburb of Mandalay that sees hoards of day trippers eager to catch a glimpse of a massive and unfinished pagoda, we managed to find some space away from the tourist stalls and souvenir hawkers. A brief mention in the Lonely Planet of an infirmary for the elderly, and the nurse who runs it, piqued our curiosity and so we ambled up to the crumbling, inconspicuous buildings. It wasn’t long before our unsure wanderings were met with the heartfelt welcome of a smiling middle aged woman. We introduced ourselves, and she began to tell us about her work. This was a home for elderly people who needed care, and who had no family or home for themselves. Twenty five years ago she had begun her work there, and to this day she still runs it completely on her own. No other nurses… no doctors… only her, and the 82 +/- patients that live there.  Seven days a week she relentlessly works, struggling to care for the plethora of crucial needs that she is responsible for, because if she doesn’t nobody else will. Sleep is rare. Funds are few, and none are from her country’s government. More shocking than all of that, is the expansiveness of the smile that radiates across her face as she relays all of this information. Really… radiates. I mean, in the best of circumstances, her line of work is extremely difficult and trying both physically and emotionally. Yet, there she stood, up against a veritable mountain of adversities, with her impenetrable positivity.

Startled into awe by her spirit, I managed to ask her, “How do you keep your smile?” To this, she emitted a resounding laugh from her rounded belly, and could barely get the words out between her chuckles and chortles. In essence, she replied that whenever the tribulations loom over her in daunting towers, when she feels she might cry from the ordeals and and hardships that she faces… instead she laughs. She thinks of each trouble and laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs until her heart is light again. Then, she gets back to work.

In the midst of circumstances truly unfathomable to anyone growing up in a land of freedom, the people of Burma find strength not just to carry on, but to truly live with spirit and happiness. This indelible will calls to mind the people of another nearby country, who lived through a horrific genocide, and came out the other end still retaining softness in their smiles, and generosity in their hearts. The courage and resilience of these people is humbling beyond words. It certainly puts into perspective the comparatively minor difficulties that mange to distress me.

Burma: First Impressions

Those who have traveled throughout the dusty roads and sleepy river towns of Burma, almost unanimously agree: although impressive and intriguing sights are not hard to find, it is the people of this country that truly make it a standout destination. I am not here to disagree with this tried and true wisdom. In-depth conversations with interesting and inspiring characters have graced my ears as I’ve meandered through this controversial and cut off country, but first impressions were solely focused on my eyes’ intake.

Local men, showing that men can wear skirts too!

The only way to travel in Burma is to fly in to its capital city – Yangon (Rangoon) – as all the land borders are closed off by the military government. Without the option of a gradual journey, I was plopped straight into the hub of this mysterious country. As soon as I placed my flip flopped feet upon the ground of this next ‘new’ country, the people were indisputably the focus of my wandering eyes. Immediately apparent, the traditional fashions of this country ate up my preliminary glances. Men and women alike are almost unilaterally clad in longi's: a large tube of fabric that is wrapped around the waist, twisted into a knot at the front for men, and pulled and tucked to the side for women. The other obvious trend here is the application of a thick paste made from tree bark, (called thanakha), on the faces of women and children. Described as ‘sunscreen’, but used more as decorative face paint, I was completely enthralled with the creative splotches and designs that adorned the faces around me. These strange and unique fashions were a welcome change to the western mimicry so often on display throughout SE Asia.

A line of women wearing longi's as they tidy the grounds around Shwedagon Pagoda

Women selling, and wearing, thanakha

It’s sad to say, but the people that occupy these far-away corners of the world, rarely wind up dressing strikingly different than people I know back home. Sure, different T-shirt designs might be popular, but so few places in this part of the world actually display a pervasive sense of their own traditional clothing or beauty trends. (The sari’s of India being another exception, and an equally enrapturing sight.) How much longer this tree bark paste will last as the preferred cosmetic in Burma is hard to say. Already, whitening creams are on display everywhere, ‘NIVEA’ ads seem to dot the entire landscape, and Burmese entertainment depicts its most ‘beautiful’ protagonists as carbon copies of Western ideals, while relegating the tree bark paste to comical, lower-class characters. What a shame that in this world, one culture has such a dominant impact over every other. To my eyes, a copper skinned Burmese women clad in her own colorful longi, proudly showcasing a face expertly decorated with cream colored paste, is unarguably far more beautiful than her country’s cookie-cutter pop-stars.

Next impressions to ponder over revolved around the incredible variety of faces that smiled at me. Something I never realized before became very obvious: Burma is a melting pot of Asian races! Over two hundred ethnic lines can be spotted within Burmese borders. This diversity is nowhere else as apparent as along the streets of Yangon. If I had entered Burma on a direct flight from America, perhaps the array of features would not have been so immediately striking. Their eyes are all brown, after all, and their hair is unerringly dark. However, after wandering through Asia for several years and sometimes experiencing a much smaller range of features, Burma seemed to be a turn of the century Ellis Island mixture of attributes. Almond eyes, oval eyes, narrow eyes, wide-set eyes, high-browed eyes, deep-set eyes… all stared back at me, most with the gleam of a smile lighting up their irises. 

Wandering along the bustling cargo docks of Yangon’s riverfront, crowds of these wide eyed stares and eager grins followed us as we carved our way through the flurry of activity. Women sellers claimed minuscule squares of the narrow pavement, displaying betel chew, noodles, pots of oily curries, cigarettes, drinks, fish, and any other popular products. Processions of shirtless and tattooed men, hoisting heavy packages of goods on their muscular shoulders, snaked their way from boat to truck, or from truck to boat. Benches dripped with groups of men whose cheeks bulged with the blood red betel chew crammed into their mouths. Small children darted in and around the teeming paths, alternately smiling in excitement or crying in fear as their eyes alighted upon the strangely pale foreigners. People shouted, horns blew, engines roared, and in the midst of it all... I began to fall in love with Burma and the people within her borders.

The Hardest Thing...

This blog is about my travels. About what it's like for me to live and travel in new countries far away from my home. Until now, I've basically written about what surrounds me, and how those surroundings affect me.

But, there's a whole other aspect of traveling and living abroad that I haven't even touched on. And it's far and away the hardest thing about traveling. It's a million times more difficult than beating the sweltering heat in Phnom Penh, it's more difficult than language barriers in Korea, more difficult than 20 hour bus rides in India, living out of a van for four months in New Zealand, and far more difficult than dragging my ass up a 5000 meter mountain pass in Nepal. The absolute hardest thing about traveling is:  being away from those you love. Especially being FAR away. So far that when something happens, something that tears apart the heart of someone you love madly... you have to live with knowing that you can't be there to help.

For those who don't want to read a blog that's going to stop being fun for awhile, and dig deeper into some harsh realities instead... stop now. It was never my intention to write about anything personal here, but I can not pretend that traveling is only about amazing adventures, new cultures, and everlasting memories. Because while I'm on the other side of the planet collecting those memories, back home where my family and so many friends reside, life keeps happening there too. Memories keep being made there, memories that I'm not a part of. And it's not just the tragedies that make me yearn to be closer. There's promotions, birthdays, weddings, births, graduations, and all the other little celebrations, achievements and turning points in life. I miss practically all of them. I can only celebrate with my family and friends in the most important moments of their lives, over Skype. On top of that, there's the hard stuff. Like two months ago, with the passing away of a grandparent, my Grandma Hamm. Even if I'd decided to spend the $1500+ that it would have cost to fly home on short notice, I still wouldn't have made it back in time for the funeral. Cause I'm that far away.

Then this week happens, and it rocks the very core of my being. Last Saturday night, I spent over an hour catching up with my family. Both of my sisters were at home in Kenosha, and my little niece Mckailynn was still awake way past her bedtime. My mom and Stepdad were there, and Mckailynn's father Steve even popped in for a bit while we were all on Skype. I got off the phone thinking I was practically as good as home. That night, Steve tucked Mckailynn into bed, and rubbed my sister' sore back before he left. All was well. But by the next morning, everything had changed forever. By the next morning, my littlest sister's reality had been sliced into bits. Around 2am Steve got into a motorcyle accident, and she had spent dawn's hours holding Steve's hand in a hospital bed, until his injuries overtook him and he died. Her five year roller coaster relationship with the one man that she'd given her whole heart to, was stamped out in the blink of an eye. To see my baby sister uncontrollably sobbing, unimaginably grieving over such a shocking and horrific loss... and to not even be able to offer her a HUG? Is this really the situation I've chosen to put myself in?

While my whole family is struggling to cope with this unbelievable tragedy, I move about the streets of Phnom Penh, blurry eyed and watching the still unfamiliar sights of this world that's so removed from the one that I come from... and I can't help but wonder about the choices I've made. What am I doing here? Why aren't I there? Why is my home a million miles away instead of just around the corner? Why can't I just be that person who settles down in a nice home in the Midwest, finds contentment in her life there, and is always nearby when something important happens?

A nagging voice inside of me thinks it has the answer. I've been cursing this voice all week, cursing the nuggets of truth it contains, but still it continues...

Yes, I'd love nothing more than to be present for every single one of life's joys and sorrows that the people I love go through... but what would happen the vast majority of the time, when no landmark moments are happening? When everyone is just going about living their life, finding their way and creating their happiness? My way, and my happiness have been inextricably linked with travel and new adventures for so long. When distant shores start calling me, and the global life that's shown me neverending possibilities and given me a constant well of personal fulfillment whispers in my ear... how would I justify my choice to turn away from all of that?

I want my cake, and I want to eat it too. I know that I can't simply abandon the life that I want for myself, in order to be present whenever something big happens in other people's lives. For that reason, even when it's a struggle, I continue to make my peace with missing out on so many of those moments. But this time... there is no peace. Not being able to be home right now is killing me. It's just, quite simply, not right. There has to be a middle ground. And I am determined to find it...

i love you little sis...

♫ Here's a story, of a man named Ed ♫

A few days ago I finished my last private English lesson here in Phnom Penh. It was actually sad saying goodbye to Tainglim and Rosa, whom I've been tutoring for the past six weeks.

I came by the position in a somewhat strange manner. After responding to a forum post, seeking an English tutor, I was contacted by an immigrations lawyer here in Phnom Penh named Wayne. He had a client that was engaged to a Khmer woman... she couldn't speak much English, and he spoke no Khmer. Could I teach her some English, Wayne wanted to know. Red flags immediately went up. An American man wants to marry a Khmer woman, although they can hardly speak to each other? Hmmm. In this part of the world such a recipe usually calls for an aging man who is for some reason(s) unappealing to western ladies, and a pretty little young SE Asian woman who is most likely quite poor, with visions of American glitz and glamour in her eyes.

Now, I happen to believe that everyone is entitled to their own little slice of happiness, whatever that slice might look like, so long as it doesn't infringe upon someone else's right to a slice. But, I also gotta be honest... partnerships like those have usually left me feeling a bit skeevy.

Feeling hesitant about helping to usher along such a union, I tepidly agreed to a meeting, and hoped that I could better asses the situation face to face. Here's the cast of characters at that meeting:

• Wayne: The lawyer. An American who's been living in Cambodia for over 10 years. Mid-forties, stocky, tan, with sandy blonde hair, and a booming lawyer voice that rarely stopped expounding overly self-assured statements. (Please, tell me more about how I should teach English.)

• Ed: The Groom. An older American man, whose motives were under surveilance. Early fifties, thinning dark brown hair, and a tall build. His voice was friendly and his smile was genuine. (Noted.)

• Tainglim: The Bride.  A Khmer woman, looking to be in her mid to late thirties. Dark hair tied back, timidly smiling eyes, and the typical small build of these parts, clothed in a polished and classy white blouse/black skirt combo.

• Yours truly: The Teacher. Balancing an act of trying to sell myself to potential employers, whilst sussing out the intentions of such employers.

• A Khmer assistant of Wayne's whose name I didn't catch, serving as the translator for Tainglim.

As the meeting progressed, I learned this couple's story. Ed was previously married, for over 30 years, when tragedy struck. His wife suffered a brain aneurism, and unexpectedly died. Suddenly single and at a loss as to how to be alone, he struggled without a partner. Much to his surprise, the woman who cut his hair offered an idea. "You should meet my cousin. She live Cambodia. Very sad because of no husband" she stated. With little more than that Ed and Tainglim were introduced over Skype, while the hairdresser translated. As their interest grew, he tried to learn Khmer, but due to an injury in his brain a few years back, retaining new language was nearly impossible for him. She avidly studied to improve her English. Within a few months, this man who'd barely set foot out of the US before, was on a plane to Cambodia. Tainglim was still living in a rural province at the time, in her family's home, (a place that I can only imagine redefined 'rustic' to Ed's unworldly eyes). He stayed in Cambodia for two months, went back to the states, and when I met him he was into his second month of his second visit here, eagerly working towards his goal of bringing Tainglim and her 10 year old daughter back to California with him.

At the meeting, the two of them sat before me, smiling and convincingly affectionate. Was it a show? Did they love each other? Or, was it simply a mutually beneficial arrangement... wherein he would receive an affectionate partner to grow old with, and she would receive a new life full of adventure as well as a plethora of opportunities for her bright young daughter? The more I watched them, trying to figure out my own thoughts, the more I realized it didn't really matter. Based on my instincts, there seemed to be absolutely nothing untoward going on. Beyond that, it dawned on me that it simply wasn't my place to judge whatever the foundation of their relationship might be.

Terms were set for the lessons I'd be giving, and the meeting was adjourned. Over the next few weeks I taught Tainglim and Rosa simultaneously, while Ed actively watched and helped wherever possible. Tainglim's English was painfully low, and Rosa's wasn't much better. Pretty much all communication was a major struggle in the first few lessons, but eventually we found our stride.

Ed left to go back to the states again two weeks ago. Tainglim seemed quite sad that he'd left, and they talked over the phone 4-5 times a day. (Several times he called during our lessons.) They both know that the statistical chances for her American Visa being approved are about 50%... at best. Photographs were taken during some of our lessons, every agreement was documented, and I was asked to write a letter declaring my experience of knowing them. All these will be submitted to the Embassy along with a mountain of other 'proof' that they're in a committed relationship. She is desperately trying to learn English at breakneck speed (in addition to her lessons with me she is also attending an English class here about 20 hours a week). All so that when she is called upon to interview at the Embassy, they won't question her union with Ed based on a lack of communication abilities.

Most likely, the higher ups that work for the powers that be at the American Embassy... will find reasons to question Ed and Tainglim's relationship. With their magic red stamp, they wield a mighty power: complete control over the lives of these three people, permanently and irrevocably.

Given a cursory glance, their story is quite similar to many others in this region. More and more, Asian women are being sought out as a 'sure thing' for Western men looking for a partner. Are there negative repercussions to this trend? Absolutely. Daughters are being separated from their mothers and their entire culture, which no doubt has a lasting impact. Additionally, Cambodian bachelors are unfairly forced to compete with Western men offering the sun and stars. But, hey, since when is all fair in love and war? To me, when you look at one of these stories up close and personal, it's painfully obvious how human and understandable their wants and needs are. It's funny how relationships like these are often referred to as a 'marriage of convenience'. From first hand knowledge, let me tell you, there is nothing convenient about the process that Tainglim and Ed are going through.

Personally, I'd like to wish a heartfelt 'good luck' to Ed, Tainglim, and Rosa... no doubt you're going to need it in order to claim your slice of the happiness pie.

a taste of phnom penh

8:30am: i wake up...slowly. too much movement only worsens the film of sweat that has accumulated since the sun began to make it's presence known. stumbling on to my half asleep limbs, the very first order of business is opening the balcony and the back doors of our apartment, in order to take advantage of any possible breeze that might waft through. these days it's not uncommon for it to be over 90 degrees before 9am, with humidity levels above 70%. fast forward to 1pm, and well... yeah. (oh rainy season, where art thou???)

eventually hunger takes over the desire to do nothing, and breakfast is approached. everyday it's the same deliciously simple combination of fruit, muesli, and yogurt. with combinations of up to five different fruits at a time perched in our fridge and awaiting my morning taste buds, this is a meal to look forward to. did i mention it's mango season? and with a ridiculous price tag of 3/dollar, those sweet receptacles of heavenly nectar are never absent from my breakfast bowl.

hey! speaking of fruit, how about a game? i'll post a picture of a fruit (or vegetable) not commonly found in the west. the top prize, (my unending admiration and respect), will be awarded to the reader that can correctly identify it first. we'll start out with a relatively easy one:

name that fruit!

after breakfast, any number of activities begin to fill my day, one of which will typically be a small trip to the outdoor market that sits a 1/2 block away...

(the blue arrow is roughly where our apartment is located)

this incredibly lively smattering of stalls, sellers, smells, and smiles is cambodia's version of walmart, with just about everything one could possibly need, for sale under 'one' roof.  it's our local one-stop-shop for:

• fruit/veg (ie: a heaping bag of tomatoes, zucchini, carrot, limes, cilantro, & pineapple... for $3)
• every kind of household item (ie: a box full of new kitchenware, for $5)
• rejuvenating ice coffees (50 cents)
• fresh free range eggs (10/dollar)

...in addition to a random list of who-knows-what-else, that might make it onto our list for the day. unlike other parts of the world, where having to shop for food so often becomes a mundane 'chore'... here, this routine activity remains an unpredictable adventure to look forward to. at the very least, it never fails to be a poignant reminder of exactly where i am... and where i'm not.

delving full force into this local market requires no small amount of resolve. the smells attack and overwhelm. mystery items commonly end up in my shopping bag. the piles of freshly caught, wriggling river fish are not unknown to wriggle themselves right off their trays and onto your feet. flies swarm wherever heaping slabs of meat or the sweet juices of produce abound. stares sometimes follow me. beggars with gray hair or pig-tailed hair often approach me. and the corrugated tin sheets that roof the maze of lanes underneath act as a highly effective heat trap, raising the already sweltering temperatures to almost unbearable heights.

i absolutely love it.

All in a day's travels...

When traveling to Chiang Mai, prepare yourself to be overwhelmed by the variety of activities on offer. Gibbons experience? It's there. Rock climbing and bouldering? Available. White water rafting? At your pleasure. Thai Cooking Class? Multitudes on offer. Motorbiking? The best in the country. Elephant trekking/shows/training/bathing/hanging out with? Yes to all. Zoos? Yep. Tiger Temple? Indeed. Massage? Everywhere. Jungle Treks? More than you can shake a stick at. Seriously, it's sorta ridiculous. Every third shop is some form of activity booking center, tempting you with their colorful posters of people just like you having the time of their life while doing "x".

Here's what Chiang Mai turned us into: Dave and I sitting on our hotel bed, attentively going through a stack of about seven hundred brochures outlining all of the amazing opportunities at our fingertips, as we desperately sought inspiration for the next day's plans. Predictably, trying to pick ONE option that would undoubtedly satisfy everyone's desires to have the BEST time possible made my brain hurt so hard that I threw my pile of their colorful promises into the air and all over the bed, thus acutely expressing my feelings on the matter. Of course, Dave felt exactly the same, followed my example, and we both proceeded to fall back on the comfy ease of our pillows while splaying our arms and legs across the shiny paper covered sheets, littered with crippling options. Thank you Chiang Mai, for outlining to me yet again, how unsuccessfully I sometimes react to decision making.

Now, let me pass on a bit of wisdom gained from the only real way that wisdom is gained: by making the wrong decision. If you ever have to temper your own travel interests (like, say, a 3 day trek into the jungle or a full days excursion bonding with rescued elephants) with the interests of another (like, say, a slightly older couple who hadn't really signed on for mucking about in or with the wild)... do not be tempted by certain 'samplings' of these activities in the form of a one day catch-all extravaganza. It would be understandable if you were. They seem quite alluring with their promises of being able to experience just a little taste of everything, all in one adventure filled stretch of daylight. Something for everyone, you tell yourself, (though there's a nagging question in your head, "Isn't there a reason I've never done this kind of thing before?"). "Everyone walks away happy", you assure yourself as you call up and book the tour, decidedly ignoring your underlying suspicions. At least a decision is made, you sigh with relief.

Faker.

Here's what the tour brochure promised us: seeing beautiful butterfly and orchid farms, visiting an authentic hill tribe village, rambling aboard lovely elephants, walking through atmospheric jungle, swimming in a refreshing waterfall, followed by exciting white water rafting, and finally capped of with a peaceful down river drift atop a traditional bamboo raft. What we experienced was something slightly different. First up was a small outdoor enclosure filled everywhere with the same brown butterfly (and one incredibly large and very beautiful blueish black butterfly... that was fake.) Minus two points for trickery. Next, a garden of rainbow colored orchids. Exactly what one would expect an orchid farm to be, though not exactly a highlight for any of us non-flower connoisseurs. We'll give out a few points for fulfilling expectations though.


After that, it was on to the hill tribe village. Looking forward to going there was a very bad idea, as it turned out to be the most depressing tourist attraction I have ever been to. We were directed up a path through an obviously over manicured landscape, leading up to a few stalls selling the handiwork of the traditionally garbed women who ran them. Ah, okay, we're being steered towards buying something first, I thought. While interacting with the lively young women who ran the first couple of stalls, and asking to take a few pictures, I noticed that something about their clothing seemed odd. Too colorful... too shiny... too synthetic perhaps. The word 'costumes' came to mind, and seemed to fit quite accurately. All of our suspicions seemed to be piqued and as we rounded a bend, and once able to take in the full village view, those uneasy feelings grew stronger. Dozens of these stalls awaited us. In fact, there was nothing else to the 'village'. But the worst part by far was that in front of every stall was a woman, now obviously costumed in over the top, demeaning 'traditional' cloths of her ethnic tribe, vying for our attention and our patronage. Sometimes, their young children were on display beside them, also dressed up in equally obvious get-ups. Before the gravity of the place had really settled in, my instinctive reaction was to raise up my camera... especially when first seeing the women from the long-neck tribe, with their dazzling layers of silver rings stacking vertically up from their collarbone to unnatural heights before letting their chin finally escape. Yet, as the woman's eye's met mine after I snapped my first picture, I no longer had use for my camera. Humiliation stared back at me, plain and simple. The questions came then, unabated. How many tourists had strolled through this easily accessible sight, waving their cameras around so they could have a photo of a real, live, ethnic tribeswoman? How many of them had actually contributed support to the people whose faces they'd captured? And the children... what affect did it have on them to see their mother like this, and to grow up identifying themselves as a tourist attraction?

Just before her eyes looked up at mine... and I put away my camera.

 Finding out that these ethnic minorities in Thailand have no real status officially, that they can't be treated in Thai hospitals, and that their children aren't allowed to attend Thai schools, is extremely sad. Being told that these same human beings have been promised citizenship, if they first lived in these tourist government-run villages for the sum of ten years, is doubly depressing. Some sacrifice. The four of us shuffled around uncomfortably for the next ten minutes or so, as the realization that we had unwittingly set foot into what could only be called a human zoo, wormed it's unwanted way into all of our heads. So, tour spectacular... minus several hundred points, for helping to take away people's dignity and self-respect. Feeling like a failure as a tour guide and as a human being, I silently walked back towards our transport. With her characteristic good humor and contagious smile, Shona valiantly held fast to the rainbow lining. At least their children would hopefully have better opportunities...

On to the elephants! Now, as you can imagine, with the taste of the last experience still substantially lingering in my mouth, I approached the elephant camp with extreme trepidation. Elephant tourism is something that has always given me doubts. All through Nepal and India I shied away from partaking in any activities that revolved around those wrinkly beasts, feeling that their majesty was always compromised when in human hands. After once viewing the 'tools' (weapons? torture devices?) that are used when 'training' an elephant, I've never really recovered. Having said that, there are definitely some places in Asia, and near Chiang Mai, that approach elephant tourism as humanely as possible, places that rescue domesticated elephants from situations where they are poorly treated and offer them a living environment that has their best interests at heart. Unfortunately, I don't think that we ended up at such a place. It wasn't the worst elephant treatment I've seen by any stretch of the imagination, they seemed to be mostly looked after, but it wasn't exactly inspiring either to see them chained up to concrete blocks. Even the surrounding landscape that we would be hauled across for twenty minutes, proved quite drab and underwhelming. They are beautiful creatures, no doubt, and it will always give me an incredible feeling to stare into their unending eyes. I just wish that what stared back at me didn't usually look so sad and broken at times. All in all, minus a few dozen points for not giving those awe-inspiring creatures the best treatment possible.

 It had to get better. It just had to. Leaving the elephant camp, we had about an hour's drive on rough dirt track ahead of us, before we reached the starting point of our little walk through the jungle. This proved quite entertaining, as my sometimes low tolerance of uncomfortable rides was humbly schooled by Dave's incredible mother... who, instead of having even the slightest negative reaction to being tossed and tumbled around in the back of an open-air jeep, actually smiled and squealed with delight every time we barreled over another sky-rocketing bump. Truly awesome spirit, as Tony would undoubtedly say. ;) 

Unceremoniously we suddenly stopped in the middle of nowhere, and were told to that we would now begin walking. Eager to exit the metal carcass, I jumped out into the surrounding wilderness. Unsure of what to expect at that point, I simply took in each moment as positively as I could, and that one seemed pretty good actually. We were led onto a path almost hidden by the thick of vegetation, and slowly we began to descend away from any memory of a motor vehicle. For the next 45 minutes we wandered through plant life that stretched and reached out in every direction like go-go gadget arms on steroids... upwards, outwards, downwards, inwards, away, and definitely towards. The jungle literally encroached in around us. As the air grew denser, the path seemed to get narrower and narrower. It was not that I was profusely sweating so much as it was that my pores were being squeezed of all their underlying liquids by the surrounding forces. Unidentifiable sounds swirled through my ears, until they were washed away by one sound: rushing water. We had reached the waterfall. Oh glory be to the heavens, I immediately stripped down to my bathing suit, and jumped in to the perfectly freezing waters. I was not the first in, nor the last, as all four of us could not be stopped from seeking refreshment. Those moments, splashing around in the crashing flow of nature, were purely perfect. Plus a hundred points for memories of laughter echoing off of crystal clear waters canopied by jungle life.

Is there more still, really? If your energy is waning while reading this, imagine the energy levels as we clambered back up to the jeep and bumped along for another hour, before being deposited beside a wide river valley for the very low-key activity of...white water rafting! Ha. Seriously though, other than what had then turned into an unfortunately overcast sky resulting in less than stellar temperatures for getting wet, there was a lot of fun to be had aboard our inflated rafts. And, I'll even say that when we switched air infused rubber, for strung together bamboo rods, I was no less entertained. Plus ten points for good ol' river fun.

Score sheet at the end says: it might not have been half bad, were it not for the incalculable errors made when tourist entertainment is trumped above the well-being of others.

Thank goodness that at least I had the company of fantastic people with me, making everything more manageable at every turn, and wholeheartedly escalating every enjoyable moment.

"Wanderlust"

"The urge for adventure, the desire to know what is over the next hill are like echoes in the backs of our minds that speak of sounds not quite heard and places not quite seen.

Take the chances and follow the voices that call you to distant places. Live, if only for a short time, the life of a traveler. It is a life you will always cherish and never forget. You leave your home secure in your own knowledge and identity, but as you travel, the world in all its richness intervenes. You meet people you could not invent; you see scenes you could not imagine. Your own world, which was so large as to consume your whole life, becomes smaller and smaller until it is only one tiny dot in space and time. You will return a different person.

Many people don't want to be travelers. They would rather be tourists, flitting over the surface of other people's lives while never really leaving their own. They try to bring their own world with them wherever they go, or try to re-create the world they left. They do not want to risk the security of their understanding and see how small and limited their experiences really are. They move from hotel to hotel, protected by money and credit cards, and never really meet the world through which they are traveling.

To be a real traveler you must be willing to give yourself over to the moment and take yourself out of the center of your universe. You must believe totally in the lives of the people and the places where you find yourself.

Become part of the fabric of their everyday lives and you will get a sense of what it means to live in their worlds. Give yourself over them - embrace them rather than judge them - and you will find that the beauty in their lives and their world will become part of yours.

When you move on, you will have grown. You will realize that the possibilities of life in this world are endless, and that beneath our differences of languages and culture we all share the dream of loving and being loved, of having a life with more joy than sorrow.
You will never regret your choice.

To be sure, there will be moments of doubt when you stand alone on an empty road in an icy rain, or when you are ill with the fever in a rented bed. But as the pains of the moment will come, so too will they fall away.

And when you get old, and your body has begun to fail you, the memories will be waiting for you. They will lift you and carry you over mountains and oceans. You will hold them and turn them and watch them catch the sunlight as they come alive once more in your imagination, You will be rich and you will be at peace.

In the end, you will be so much richer, so much stronger, so much clearer, so much happier, and so much better a person that all risk and hardship will seem like nothing compared to the knowledge and wisdom you have gained."
 

-A man who so eloquently said everything I perceive to be true about travel... Kent Nerburn.