Hi All,
Sorry for the extended radio silence. We've had a hard time finding Internet access since we left Thailand. We're gonna try to pound out a few posts today to update those interested.
XOXO,
Kyle and Aud
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
and also, i have ringworm.
after 2+ weeks of travelling, kyle and i finally arrived in the little town of pai to begin our second home stay on a small farm growing coffee beans and fruit. we took a 4 hour bus ride from chiang mai and telephoned our host named...
wait for it...
willow ironhorse.
we probably should have taken this as an early warning sign, but we didn't.
upon meeting willow, he immediately launched into a detailed analysis of our chinese zodiac signs. he would refer back to peoples' signs later in conversation, which was sometimes disorienting. ie "you'll have to meet my wife. she's such a pig."
willow believes that the us government engineered every major domestic disaster over the past 200 years, including pearl harbor and 9/11. he cannot justify living in the states for this reason. somehow, he still manages to justify living off a government check. go figure.
willow is (literally) twice as old as his akha wife, buti, who gives him sponge baths and cuts his fungal-infested toenails.
willow did way too much lsd in the sixties, seventies, and probably eighties.
to top it off, this didn't turn out to be a homestay, so much as a "you can camp on my land if you want while i live in town and occasionally treat you to my crazy lectures." this is fine, but it isn't what we were expecting. luckily, there is a healthy cast of characters also crashing on willow's farm, which is making for an interesting experience.
1. australian couple. normal, smart, funny, similarly disillusioned as to the homestay/labor exchange aspect of this opportunity. we get along.
2. ceb, the french expert in thai boxing. extreme alpha male, but friendly so long as you don't piss him off. when he isn't hauling tree-sized logs and tilling the garden, he's packing a bowl (i've never seen anyone smoke this frequently - he seems to have an inexhaustible supply and tolerance).
3. mike. we think he's thai. mostly what he does is come over during the day and smoke ceb's weed.
4. the malaysian prince (we're pretty sure). he has come to the farm to study thai boxing with ceb, which is unfortunate, because ceb can't stand the sight of him. occasionally, ceb will lose it and confront him verbally in front of everyone ("you need to shut your mouth!") which is pretty unconfortable, but mostly he just gets the poor guy drunk and then beats the shit out of him during "training."
there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of work to do on the farm, so i'm not sure if we'll stay a full week. perhaps we'll move on early or explore chiang mai a little more thoroughly. for now, we're still collecting stories, so we'll stick around. :)
hope all is well back home (in babylon, as willow would say, frequently).
<3 audrey
wait for it...
willow ironhorse.
we probably should have taken this as an early warning sign, but we didn't.
upon meeting willow, he immediately launched into a detailed analysis of our chinese zodiac signs. he would refer back to peoples' signs later in conversation, which was sometimes disorienting. ie "you'll have to meet my wife. she's such a pig."
willow believes that the us government engineered every major domestic disaster over the past 200 years, including pearl harbor and 9/11. he cannot justify living in the states for this reason. somehow, he still manages to justify living off a government check. go figure.
willow is (literally) twice as old as his akha wife, buti, who gives him sponge baths and cuts his fungal-infested toenails.
willow did way too much lsd in the sixties, seventies, and probably eighties.
to top it off, this didn't turn out to be a homestay, so much as a "you can camp on my land if you want while i live in town and occasionally treat you to my crazy lectures." this is fine, but it isn't what we were expecting. luckily, there is a healthy cast of characters also crashing on willow's farm, which is making for an interesting experience.
1. australian couple. normal, smart, funny, similarly disillusioned as to the homestay/labor exchange aspect of this opportunity. we get along.
2. ceb, the french expert in thai boxing. extreme alpha male, but friendly so long as you don't piss him off. when he isn't hauling tree-sized logs and tilling the garden, he's packing a bowl (i've never seen anyone smoke this frequently - he seems to have an inexhaustible supply and tolerance).
3. mike. we think he's thai. mostly what he does is come over during the day and smoke ceb's weed.
4. the malaysian prince (we're pretty sure). he has come to the farm to study thai boxing with ceb, which is unfortunate, because ceb can't stand the sight of him. occasionally, ceb will lose it and confront him verbally in front of everyone ("you need to shut your mouth!") which is pretty unconfortable, but mostly he just gets the poor guy drunk and then beats the shit out of him during "training."
there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of work to do on the farm, so i'm not sure if we'll stay a full week. perhaps we'll move on early or explore chiang mai a little more thoroughly. for now, we're still collecting stories, so we'll stick around. :)
hope all is well back home (in babylon, as willow would say, frequently).
<3 audrey
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
2/17 -- Night Train North
We got to the train station at a little after 9:30 AM. The 2 PM train to Chiang Mai would have gotten us there at the early hour of 5 AM the next day, but the only seats available were 1st Class sleeper cars with AC. We’re not First Class Cats, Aud and me; the 2:30 train still had regular 2nd class, fan-cooled seats.
We’ve generally found bus travel to be cheaper and sometimes faster than trains, but the comfort and antics of trains are superior. This trip was no disappointment.
We ate at the train station cafeteria, which uses a somewhat convoluted coupon system in place of a cash-for-food exchange. Aud had a tasty noodle dish in a beef broth, and I went out on a limb at the “Islamic Food” Station. (I’ve put that between quotation marks because ‘Islamic Food’ seems to connote something very specific, perhaps religious, and possibly inaccurate.) Despite the admonitions of the young man serving the food, I tried what he said was his favorite dish: spiced chicken stomach with vegetables. The texture was poppy and exciting, the taste a bit chalky but pleasant like processed meat sometimes is, and the spice left a glorious ribbon of dew on my brow.
Onto the train, where legroom was generous and the seats were pen-cap-blue pleather. Caramel wood paneling framed the large, operable windows, and every two rows was an 18” oscillating fan bolted to the ceiling. These fans were basically useless, as every window was open shortly after departing.
Unlike the other trains we’ve been on, this one did not serve meals, those microwaved entrees of savory sauce and mystery meat over rice that Aud scarcely finishes inspecting by the time I finish mine and begin leaning over asking if I can have a bite of hers. Instead, men and women pace the aisles bearing boxes and baskets of goodies, calling out their descriptions in melodious Thai that is utterly unrecognizable to my tone-deaf ear. There is a range in both value and deliciousness among these: a fresh coconut icee for 5B is a steal; 50B for a can of Chang (i.e. Thai Coors) beer is not; sticky rice with fat-moistened beef jerky is scrumptious; processed, foot-colored pork rinds are not appealing.
As we cruised along, I’d been working my way slowly but attentively through the Bible. I had just finished the book of Exodus when…Ack! A plague of locusts! A plague of gnats and gadflies and mosquitoes! As night fell, buggies of every size and predilection began flying through our open windows and crashing into us, dazed. In the dark, the train is nothing so much as a giant bug lamp, a four-car tube of seductive fluorescent allure churning through the countryside. We made sure to sleep with our mouths closed…
Between sections of reading I looked out at our changing surroundings. Going north and east to Cambodia took us to a depressingly dry and harsh area compared to the greenness of the Southern Peninsula. But up here the land seems fertile and kind. Huge tracts of land devoted to rice cover the flatlands, geometric carpets of brazen, electric green and hues borrowed from pond scum. As we rumbled by a fallow field I could faintly smell the earthy scent of the freshly tilled soil, but it was mostly overpowered by the persistent, heavy sweetness of last season’s crop as it burned in preparation for the next cycle. Bits of ash floated in through our windows and threatened to recolor our clothing. The first twenty minutes of evening glowed lavender and raspberry with the burn’s light.
But some things are universal in the rural world, it seems. Rising out of the monotony of the fields is the biggest structure for miles: the grain elevator. I don’t presume to know about how agriculture is organized here in Thailand, but in most of the world the grain elevator is global capitalism’s sacred mark, not merely a structure but an institution in itself signifying monopsony and depressed food prices. It is all very nice if you buy your food, but selling food to such a machine is nicht good.
Aud turned to me and remarked that now that we’re back in Thailand it’s obvious how much wealthier it is here than in Cambodia. And she’s right. But Thailand hasn’t changed, even if our perspective has. On the banks of the turbid streams, on the margins of the rice fields, are the homes of Thailand’s rural poor. The contrast between the radiance of the fields in which they toil and the apparent dimness of their prospects is striking. Four moldering support beams and some corrugated tin panels—is that a home? A rusting lean-to, sagging like playing cards atop a drinking game glass. How much longer can it be supported? A sinking foundation, a home just trying to hold together and hope for better things tomorrow. Maybe people inside, doing the same.
We’ve generally found bus travel to be cheaper and sometimes faster than trains, but the comfort and antics of trains are superior. This trip was no disappointment.
We ate at the train station cafeteria, which uses a somewhat convoluted coupon system in place of a cash-for-food exchange. Aud had a tasty noodle dish in a beef broth, and I went out on a limb at the “Islamic Food” Station. (I’ve put that between quotation marks because ‘Islamic Food’ seems to connote something very specific, perhaps religious, and possibly inaccurate.) Despite the admonitions of the young man serving the food, I tried what he said was his favorite dish: spiced chicken stomach with vegetables. The texture was poppy and exciting, the taste a bit chalky but pleasant like processed meat sometimes is, and the spice left a glorious ribbon of dew on my brow.
Onto the train, where legroom was generous and the seats were pen-cap-blue pleather. Caramel wood paneling framed the large, operable windows, and every two rows was an 18” oscillating fan bolted to the ceiling. These fans were basically useless, as every window was open shortly after departing.
Unlike the other trains we’ve been on, this one did not serve meals, those microwaved entrees of savory sauce and mystery meat over rice that Aud scarcely finishes inspecting by the time I finish mine and begin leaning over asking if I can have a bite of hers. Instead, men and women pace the aisles bearing boxes and baskets of goodies, calling out their descriptions in melodious Thai that is utterly unrecognizable to my tone-deaf ear. There is a range in both value and deliciousness among these: a fresh coconut icee for 5B is a steal; 50B for a can of Chang (i.e. Thai Coors) beer is not; sticky rice with fat-moistened beef jerky is scrumptious; processed, foot-colored pork rinds are not appealing.
As we cruised along, I’d been working my way slowly but attentively through the Bible. I had just finished the book of Exodus when…Ack! A plague of locusts! A plague of gnats and gadflies and mosquitoes! As night fell, buggies of every size and predilection began flying through our open windows and crashing into us, dazed. In the dark, the train is nothing so much as a giant bug lamp, a four-car tube of seductive fluorescent allure churning through the countryside. We made sure to sleep with our mouths closed…
Between sections of reading I looked out at our changing surroundings. Going north and east to Cambodia took us to a depressingly dry and harsh area compared to the greenness of the Southern Peninsula. But up here the land seems fertile and kind. Huge tracts of land devoted to rice cover the flatlands, geometric carpets of brazen, electric green and hues borrowed from pond scum. As we rumbled by a fallow field I could faintly smell the earthy scent of the freshly tilled soil, but it was mostly overpowered by the persistent, heavy sweetness of last season’s crop as it burned in preparation for the next cycle. Bits of ash floated in through our windows and threatened to recolor our clothing. The first twenty minutes of evening glowed lavender and raspberry with the burn’s light.
But some things are universal in the rural world, it seems. Rising out of the monotony of the fields is the biggest structure for miles: the grain elevator. I don’t presume to know about how agriculture is organized here in Thailand, but in most of the world the grain elevator is global capitalism’s sacred mark, not merely a structure but an institution in itself signifying monopsony and depressed food prices. It is all very nice if you buy your food, but selling food to such a machine is nicht good.
Aud turned to me and remarked that now that we’re back in Thailand it’s obvious how much wealthier it is here than in Cambodia. And she’s right. But Thailand hasn’t changed, even if our perspective has. On the banks of the turbid streams, on the margins of the rice fields, are the homes of Thailand’s rural poor. The contrast between the radiance of the fields in which they toil and the apparent dimness of their prospects is striking. Four moldering support beams and some corrugated tin panels—is that a home? A rusting lean-to, sagging like playing cards atop a drinking game glass. How much longer can it be supported? A sinking foundation, a home just trying to hold together and hope for better things tomorrow. Maybe people inside, doing the same.
2/17 -- Tit-For-TAT
Two things are sure to happen to you if you dare to amble down the streets of Bangkok saddled with baggage of any sort, no matter your outward confidence or air of purpose: you will get 1) an offer for a tuk-tuk/taxi, and 2) an emphatic recommendation that you secure transit for the next leg of your trip through the TAT.
The illustrious Tourism Authority of Thailand is at once a mysterious and an omnipresent institution. On our first visit to Bangkok (this is our third of the trip), the advice of three separate onlookers and our own reluctance to schlep ourselves 10 km roundtrip to the train station for tickets combined to justify our visit to “the” TAT office. In the air-conditioned foyer, a set of six cubicles awaited us, each bedecked with its own share of tropical-scene calendars and large travel posters advertising lush islands and elephant treks. In the end, we were convinced that 100 baht per ticket was a reasonable surcharge to pay to have the tickets brought to us, even though we did not believe the agent’s claims that same-day purchases are impossible and that, with his help and deft cell-phone jockeying, we’d secured the last two tickets on the train we wanted.
So here we find ourselves again: in Bangkok, up early to find transport to another region of the country to meet another host and continue our journey. We braced ourselves for the onslaught and stepped down the stairs of our guest house and onto the street. Khao San Road is ground-zero for Bangkok tourism, and as we walked toward a larger avenue the vendors were in the early-morning limbo of assembling their stalls for today and cleaning up after the chaos of the day (and night…) before. We’d gotten maybe 10 m before a man asked if we’d gotten our tickets yet—we walked away when he whipped out a map and began pointing excitedly to “the” TAT office.
(I say, “the” office because whatever strange governmental status the TAT actually does rightfully have is endlessly parroted by every sort of travel agency. EVERYone has a TAT license, which makes each travel agent’s flimsy laminated badge seem all the less compelling. At right, see (if you can) this snapshot
of the upper gallery of the Bangkok train station, where three “Tourism Information” stalls sand side-by-side, each ostensibly “licensed.”)
Another man offered Audrey a taxi ride to the train station for only 10 baht, but we instantly recognized that as a scam. 10 baht is enough for a ride to one of two places: a) a ride around the block, or b) a trip to a TAT office. Another offer of 50B was a little more credible, but it soon became clear that they were more interested in helping us get our train tickets than taking us to the train station itself (note the disconnect there…)
We finally found a metered taxi and got to the train station for 70B including a tip. Our tickets: same-day, no problem. We win…for today.
The illustrious Tourism Authority of Thailand is at once a mysterious and an omnipresent institution. On our first visit to Bangkok (this is our third of the trip), the advice of three separate onlookers and our own reluctance to schlep ourselves 10 km roundtrip to the train station for tickets combined to justify our visit to “the” TAT office. In the air-conditioned foyer, a set of six cubicles awaited us, each bedecked with its own share of tropical-scene calendars and large travel posters advertising lush islands and elephant treks. In the end, we were convinced that 100 baht per ticket was a reasonable surcharge to pay to have the tickets brought to us, even though we did not believe the agent’s claims that same-day purchases are impossible and that, with his help and deft cell-phone jockeying, we’d secured the last two tickets on the train we wanted.
So here we find ourselves again: in Bangkok, up early to find transport to another region of the country to meet another host and continue our journey. We braced ourselves for the onslaught and stepped down the stairs of our guest house and onto the street. Khao San Road is ground-zero for Bangkok tourism, and as we walked toward a larger avenue the vendors were in the early-morning limbo of assembling their stalls for today and cleaning up after the chaos of the day (and night…) before. We’d gotten maybe 10 m before a man asked if we’d gotten our tickets yet—we walked away when he whipped out a map and began pointing excitedly to “the” TAT office.
(I say, “the” office because whatever strange governmental status the TAT actually does rightfully have is endlessly parroted by every sort of travel agency. EVERYone has a TAT license, which makes each travel agent’s flimsy laminated badge seem all the less compelling. At right, see (if you can) this snapshot
of the upper gallery of the Bangkok train station, where three “Tourism Information” stalls sand side-by-side, each ostensibly “licensed.”)Another man offered Audrey a taxi ride to the train station for only 10 baht, but we instantly recognized that as a scam. 10 baht is enough for a ride to one of two places: a) a ride around the block, or b) a trip to a TAT office. Another offer of 50B was a little more credible, but it soon became clear that they were more interested in helping us get our train tickets than taking us to the train station itself (note the disconnect there…)
We finally found a metered taxi and got to the train station for 70B including a tip. Our tickets: same-day, no problem. We win…for today.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
1/30 - 2/10 -- FlashBack/-Forward
So, we've been a bit MIA since leaving Wat's. Since we know that dozens upon dozens of you read this blog daily, waiting with, as they say, 'bated breath for our sporadic missives, I present to you the following summary of the week and and a half since we left Wat's:
Jan 30-- We left Wat's in the morning, taking the mini-bus to Hua Hin. Wat was quite nonchalant about the bus schedule, even though there are only two city-bound buses a day, at 8:00 and 8:30 AM. We had missed the 8:00 AM bus, and were in the middle of a breakfast of Thai tea with milk and coconut-fried bananas when I asked what if the gaily colored truck heading for us was the second bus. He looked at it lazily and then suddenly perked up, and Aud and I dashed to stop it, catch it, and say goodbye hurriedly.
After spending an evening with Nikki, a rambunctious, off-color, and very drunk Canadian ex-pat who dragged us out (with her indifferent husband and his buddies) for a dinner of "the best fish and chips in Hua Hin" for the "dirt-cheap" price of 510 baht (like, $15, or roughly 5 times our normal food budget for a meal), we apologized for being too tired to party all night and headed to bed.
Jan 31-- We lazed around Hua Hin. Our guest house had a serene courtyard conducive to reading quietly, and we each plowed through a book. A trip to the beach was a treat, though it resulted in my getting an odd rash covering a large amount of my feet and ankles (which has since been defeated with some knock-off Claritin).
Feb 1-- We finally figured out that touristy restaurants were not the way to go, and we subsisted solely fruit and various fried goodies (banana & egg crepes, squid-on-a-stick, and Thai mini-waffles) from street vendors. Steamed bean paste buns were also a favorite. Yum! We basically entertained ourselves the same way: some beach, some reading, wandering the large night market but finding most of the stuff undesirable. That said, they have Louis Vuitton and Dolce and Gabbana coming out of their ears here! Who'da thunk it? [Wink]
Feb 2-- We caught a mid-day train from Hua Hin to Chumphon, two hours south and on the east coast of Thailand. A travel agency secured us tickets on the night boat to the island of Koh Tao and also drove us to the fishy pier out in the boondocks, which was worth the $1.50 surcharge. We even got to shower at their place, which was a godsend. The nightboat was pretty sketch...The air was thick with the aromas of stagnant water, rotting fish, and sea-rusted metal. We followed a path of low doorways and steep stairs to a large bunk room lit by fluorescent lights and furnished with bunks lining the walls. The engine roared once we took off on the six-hour trip, but I'm a deep sleeper and Aud had her earplugs so we slept OK.
Feb 3-- We saved $10 the hard way by refusing all offers for taxi service on our trek across the 3 km by 7 km island of Koh Tao, headed for the eastern shore of Aow Tanote. With the precision guidance of a tourist map of the island, we found a path that took us from west to east over the second highest point on the island; we ended up climbing 1,000 vertical feet over 1.5 km. Aud's ankle was still a little on the weak side, but you wouldn't have known it. At one point we had to crawl on all fours to get up a steep, sandy hill where the road had been scarred by deep washouts that would have made vehicle access impossible. We finally came down, luxuriated in some cold water and iced mint tea at a man's tea shop, and perused the lodging situation. We ended up finding a bungalow at the Poseidon resort for 300 baht a night, which we snapped up.
Feb 4-7 -- This was a really sweet time. Aud used the word 'romantic,' which actually nails it pretty well. Less in the chocolate and flowers and Macy's jewelry kind of way, but like this: four days of cheap lodging, tasty food, fantastic snorkeling, reading in the sun, Scrabble in the shade, gin rummy with dinner, and not a worry in sight.
Feb 8 -- My 23rd birthday! We celebrated by heading back to the pier via an easier path: a longer but much flatter, mostly paved road that delivered us to Freedom Beach, which is the compromise between Aow Tanote's serenity and Hat Sairee's party-all-night scene. We gnoshed on some fruit smoothies (their tangerines here are great!) and did some book trading at a European ex-pat's shop. We sold some books we'd both read: "Same Kind of Different as Me," a book about a couple of born-again Christians in Texas whose lives intersect with that of a man who grew up in modern-day slavery in Louisiana (it was not what I'd expected when I bought it on a recommendation, but it is worth a read if for no other reason than to see how some people find glorious ways to act out their faith); "Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha," a fun memoir of growing up in 1960s Ireland in which the author (Roddy Doyle) nails the voice and perspective of a young boy; and "Three Cups of Tea," the improbable story about Greg Mortensen, who is singlehandedly doing more to prevent terror by building schools at $12,000 a pop than the US government has managed with some trillions of dollars. We got some cash for these and Aud picked up a copy of Thomas Hardy's "Tess of the D'Ubervilles," which is a period piece whose dramatization she'd only seen part of. I'm simultaneously reading Steven Millhauser's collection of short stories called "Dangerous Laughter" and the Old Testament of the Bible. (We also gave my copy [actually, John Carrico's...] of Paulo Coehlo's "The Alchemist" to Wat when we left. It is a beautiful read about chasing one's dreams.)
Anywho...we had a nice dinner and played cards for several hours before catching another night boat that proved to be cleaner and better equipped.
Feb 9-- We got in to Chumphon before dawn, when a pallid moon still fought inky clouds for control of the blank, starless sky. The mini-bus we all piled into was full, so I had the thrill of hanging off the back on a wooden runner while Audrey watched me, concerned. Some German women were dropped off at a bus station, and we decided to follow them, which ended up being a good call. For half the price of train tickets, we got a bus direct from Chumphon north seven hours to Bangkok. Once we got to Bangkok, we had to get to another bus station to get to the Cambodian border, so we spent a night in Bangkok in a cheap guest house. Again, the luxury of a private bathroom and a shower is never so evident until you've been traveling all day.
Feb 10--We trekked up to the northern Bangkok bus station to catch the 10:30 bus to Aranya Prathet, on the border of Cambodia. Or should I say Scam-Bodia? We knew things were going to be dicey, so we did our best to be vigilant about getting tricked. A tuk-tuk driver took us from the bus stop to near the border, but he pulled off onto a street a mile or so from the border market, which is where we wanted to go. When we stopped at a small storefront, a tout approached us and welcomed us to the Cambodian Consulate, where for only 1200 baht we could get our visas in five minutes. Audrey, whose research had shown that we could get visas at the border market for about $20-$25, insisted that they were full of it, but they kept insisting that visas at that price were only available in Bangkok with three days' notice. I noticed that we were 20 meters from the street corner, while the sign the tout had pointed out (as proof of his station) said that the Cambodian Consulate was 100 meters away. I walked down the street a bit and saw the embassy, tucked behind some trees.
We still got had there, a little. At the Consulate they charged us 1000 baht a piece; we believe the trick there was to not offer us the chance to pay in US currency ($20) so that we would necessarily pay the baht-conversion fee, bringing the total to 1000 baht. Nice, guys.
Our tuk-tuk driver took us to the border market, where a man showed us his lame ID badge, explained that we could trust him because he is "Cambodian people," and began escorting us around to show us the ropes. We walked right by several "Visa Express US$20" stands. This "guide" insisted that we take out baht at the ATM, saying something illogical about ATMs in Cambodia only spitting out US dollars, though it was not clear what that had to do with Thai baht. We were suspicious but didn't quite connect the dots, so we complied. He shepherded us through customs, and then told us about the free shuttle bus to the bus station where we could get buses to Siem Reap. The immediate area showed no promise for finding a bus station, and the shuttle came in about 90 seconds, so we went for it. I asked the guide if we could really catch a bus to Siem Reap for $10, and he answered enthusiastically in the affirmative.
Next thing we know, we are dropped off at the "bus terminal," an empty, high-ceilinged room with no ticket counter but only a restroom and some cheap tables and chairs on the perimeter. The guide then insisted that we turn our baht into riel, and we complied. (We didn't get ripped off bad, but the trick is obvious now--85 riel equals 1 baht, and the money changer gave us about 84.8:1. So they get to make a small profit from misleading us, but they are not guilty of any egregious wrongdoing.) We now had 334,900 riel in paper notes...one US dollar is worth 4000 riel.
Then our guide informed us that, oops, we'd JUST missed the last bus of the day. What a shame! But his friend was happy to take us to Siem Reap by taxi for only $50. At this point I dug in my heels and began to harangue our smug, khaki-clad, pock-marked "guide." I expressed my deep surprise to find that at the young hour of only 4 PM the last bus to the biggest city in the region had already left. I asked when the buses ran, and he sputtered for a while before explaining that there were two per day, one at 2 PM and one at, um, 3...no, 3:30 PM. Ah, now I understood! It must have just slipped his mind when, at the border, I'd asked if we could take a bus and he said that we could. It was after 3:30 then, but he must have just forgotten the bus schedule.
Meanwhile, Aud went out one side entrance to buy a beer from a cooler that the taxi drivers all shared. (Really.) She came back in and told me that our taxi fare was now down to $33. Still pissed, I explained to the driver and our guide that I was quite content to sit in the cool, clean "bus terminal" until some other foolish tourists showed up to share a cab. Audrey said that she, too, was quite comfortable, and dug around for her book.
Within a couple of minutes the price had fallen to US$30, on the condition the the driver pick up some passengers en route. The ride was uneventful: the road is infamous for its poor condition, and we had to drive down into ditches to get around several bridges. The poverty of the countryside was evident, and Audrey made the observation that Cambodia simply has a drier climate than, say, Thailand, which explains the less lush farmland, and some of the poverty. (Of course, Pol Pot and the landmine problem are other culprits among many.)
Finally, at something like 9 PM, we got into Siem Reap. Another tout hopped in our tuk-tuk and recommended a cheap guest house that we've enjoyed. He was very charismatic and wanted us to hire him as a guide for the temples at Angkor Wat. We struggled over that for a couple of days, but ultimately decided to follow our original plan and see the temples by bike. I'm still trying to decide if that was the Right Thing to do...
--OK. That was exciting, yes? We'll give some more updates soon. Tomorrow we head back to Thailand, but it should be less scammy as we've found a direct bus.
XOXO,
Kyle
Jan 30-- We left Wat's in the morning, taking the mini-bus to Hua Hin. Wat was quite nonchalant about the bus schedule, even though there are only two city-bound buses a day, at 8:00 and 8:30 AM. We had missed the 8:00 AM bus, and were in the middle of a breakfast of Thai tea with milk and coconut-fried bananas when I asked what if the gaily colored truck heading for us was the second bus. He looked at it lazily and then suddenly perked up, and Aud and I dashed to stop it, catch it, and say goodbye hurriedly.
After spending an evening with Nikki, a rambunctious, off-color, and very drunk Canadian ex-pat who dragged us out (with her indifferent husband and his buddies) for a dinner of "the best fish and chips in Hua Hin" for the "dirt-cheap" price of 510 baht (like, $15, or roughly 5 times our normal food budget for a meal), we apologized for being too tired to party all night and headed to bed.
Jan 31-- We lazed around Hua Hin. Our guest house had a serene courtyard conducive to reading quietly, and we each plowed through a book. A trip to the beach was a treat, though it resulted in my getting an odd rash covering a large amount of my feet and ankles (which has since been defeated with some knock-off Claritin).
Feb 1-- We finally figured out that touristy restaurants were not the way to go, and we subsisted solely fruit and various fried goodies (banana & egg crepes, squid-on-a-stick, and Thai mini-waffles) from street vendors. Steamed bean paste buns were also a favorite. Yum! We basically entertained ourselves the same way: some beach, some reading, wandering the large night market but finding most of the stuff undesirable. That said, they have Louis Vuitton and Dolce and Gabbana coming out of their ears here! Who'da thunk it? [Wink]
Feb 2-- We caught a mid-day train from Hua Hin to Chumphon, two hours south and on the east coast of Thailand. A travel agency secured us tickets on the night boat to the island of Koh Tao and also drove us to the fishy pier out in the boondocks, which was worth the $1.50 surcharge. We even got to shower at their place, which was a godsend. The nightboat was pretty sketch...The air was thick with the aromas of stagnant water, rotting fish, and sea-rusted metal. We followed a path of low doorways and steep stairs to a large bunk room lit by fluorescent lights and furnished with bunks lining the walls. The engine roared once we took off on the six-hour trip, but I'm a deep sleeper and Aud had her earplugs so we slept OK.
Feb 3-- We saved $10 the hard way by refusing all offers for taxi service on our trek across the 3 km by 7 km island of Koh Tao, headed for the eastern shore of Aow Tanote. With the precision guidance of a tourist map of the island, we found a path that took us from west to east over the second highest point on the island; we ended up climbing 1,000 vertical feet over 1.5 km. Aud's ankle was still a little on the weak side, but you wouldn't have known it. At one point we had to crawl on all fours to get up a steep, sandy hill where the road had been scarred by deep washouts that would have made vehicle access impossible. We finally came down, luxuriated in some cold water and iced mint tea at a man's tea shop, and perused the lodging situation. We ended up finding a bungalow at the Poseidon resort for 300 baht a night, which we snapped up.
Feb 4-7 -- This was a really sweet time. Aud used the word 'romantic,' which actually nails it pretty well. Less in the chocolate and flowers and Macy's jewelry kind of way, but like this: four days of cheap lodging, tasty food, fantastic snorkeling, reading in the sun, Scrabble in the shade, gin rummy with dinner, and not a worry in sight.
Feb 8 -- My 23rd birthday! We celebrated by heading back to the pier via an easier path: a longer but much flatter, mostly paved road that delivered us to Freedom Beach, which is the compromise between Aow Tanote's serenity and Hat Sairee's party-all-night scene. We gnoshed on some fruit smoothies (their tangerines here are great!) and did some book trading at a European ex-pat's shop. We sold some books we'd both read: "Same Kind of Different as Me," a book about a couple of born-again Christians in Texas whose lives intersect with that of a man who grew up in modern-day slavery in Louisiana (it was not what I'd expected when I bought it on a recommendation, but it is worth a read if for no other reason than to see how some people find glorious ways to act out their faith); "Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha," a fun memoir of growing up in 1960s Ireland in which the author (Roddy Doyle) nails the voice and perspective of a young boy; and "Three Cups of Tea," the improbable story about Greg Mortensen, who is singlehandedly doing more to prevent terror by building schools at $12,000 a pop than the US government has managed with some trillions of dollars. We got some cash for these and Aud picked up a copy of Thomas Hardy's "Tess of the D'Ubervilles," which is a period piece whose dramatization she'd only seen part of. I'm simultaneously reading Steven Millhauser's collection of short stories called "Dangerous Laughter" and the Old Testament of the Bible. (We also gave my copy [actually, John Carrico's...] of Paulo Coehlo's "The Alchemist" to Wat when we left. It is a beautiful read about chasing one's dreams.)
Anywho...we had a nice dinner and played cards for several hours before catching another night boat that proved to be cleaner and better equipped.
Feb 9-- We got in to Chumphon before dawn, when a pallid moon still fought inky clouds for control of the blank, starless sky. The mini-bus we all piled into was full, so I had the thrill of hanging off the back on a wooden runner while Audrey watched me, concerned. Some German women were dropped off at a bus station, and we decided to follow them, which ended up being a good call. For half the price of train tickets, we got a bus direct from Chumphon north seven hours to Bangkok. Once we got to Bangkok, we had to get to another bus station to get to the Cambodian border, so we spent a night in Bangkok in a cheap guest house. Again, the luxury of a private bathroom and a shower is never so evident until you've been traveling all day.
Feb 10--We trekked up to the northern Bangkok bus station to catch the 10:30 bus to Aranya Prathet, on the border of Cambodia. Or should I say Scam-Bodia? We knew things were going to be dicey, so we did our best to be vigilant about getting tricked. A tuk-tuk driver took us from the bus stop to near the border, but he pulled off onto a street a mile or so from the border market, which is where we wanted to go. When we stopped at a small storefront, a tout approached us and welcomed us to the Cambodian Consulate, where for only 1200 baht we could get our visas in five minutes. Audrey, whose research had shown that we could get visas at the border market for about $20-$25, insisted that they were full of it, but they kept insisting that visas at that price were only available in Bangkok with three days' notice. I noticed that we were 20 meters from the street corner, while the sign the tout had pointed out (as proof of his station) said that the Cambodian Consulate was 100 meters away. I walked down the street a bit and saw the embassy, tucked behind some trees.
We still got had there, a little. At the Consulate they charged us 1000 baht a piece; we believe the trick there was to not offer us the chance to pay in US currency ($20) so that we would necessarily pay the baht-conversion fee, bringing the total to 1000 baht. Nice, guys.
Our tuk-tuk driver took us to the border market, where a man showed us his lame ID badge, explained that we could trust him because he is "Cambodian people," and began escorting us around to show us the ropes. We walked right by several "Visa Express US$20" stands. This "guide" insisted that we take out baht at the ATM, saying something illogical about ATMs in Cambodia only spitting out US dollars, though it was not clear what that had to do with Thai baht. We were suspicious but didn't quite connect the dots, so we complied. He shepherded us through customs, and then told us about the free shuttle bus to the bus station where we could get buses to Siem Reap. The immediate area showed no promise for finding a bus station, and the shuttle came in about 90 seconds, so we went for it. I asked the guide if we could really catch a bus to Siem Reap for $10, and he answered enthusiastically in the affirmative.
Next thing we know, we are dropped off at the "bus terminal," an empty, high-ceilinged room with no ticket counter but only a restroom and some cheap tables and chairs on the perimeter. The guide then insisted that we turn our baht into riel, and we complied. (We didn't get ripped off bad, but the trick is obvious now--85 riel equals 1 baht, and the money changer gave us about 84.8:1. So they get to make a small profit from misleading us, but they are not guilty of any egregious wrongdoing.) We now had 334,900 riel in paper notes...one US dollar is worth 4000 riel.
Then our guide informed us that, oops, we'd JUST missed the last bus of the day. What a shame! But his friend was happy to take us to Siem Reap by taxi for only $50. At this point I dug in my heels and began to harangue our smug, khaki-clad, pock-marked "guide." I expressed my deep surprise to find that at the young hour of only 4 PM the last bus to the biggest city in the region had already left. I asked when the buses ran, and he sputtered for a while before explaining that there were two per day, one at 2 PM and one at, um, 3...no, 3:30 PM. Ah, now I understood! It must have just slipped his mind when, at the border, I'd asked if we could take a bus and he said that we could. It was after 3:30 then, but he must have just forgotten the bus schedule.
Meanwhile, Aud went out one side entrance to buy a beer from a cooler that the taxi drivers all shared. (Really.) She came back in and told me that our taxi fare was now down to $33. Still pissed, I explained to the driver and our guide that I was quite content to sit in the cool, clean "bus terminal" until some other foolish tourists showed up to share a cab. Audrey said that she, too, was quite comfortable, and dug around for her book.
Within a couple of minutes the price had fallen to US$30, on the condition the the driver pick up some passengers en route. The ride was uneventful: the road is infamous for its poor condition, and we had to drive down into ditches to get around several bridges. The poverty of the countryside was evident, and Audrey made the observation that Cambodia simply has a drier climate than, say, Thailand, which explains the less lush farmland, and some of the poverty. (Of course, Pol Pot and the landmine problem are other culprits among many.)
Finally, at something like 9 PM, we got into Siem Reap. Another tout hopped in our tuk-tuk and recommended a cheap guest house that we've enjoyed. He was very charismatic and wanted us to hire him as a guide for the temples at Angkor Wat. We struggled over that for a couple of days, but ultimately decided to follow our original plan and see the temples by bike. I'm still trying to decide if that was the Right Thing to do...
--OK. That was exciting, yes? We'll give some more updates soon. Tomorrow we head back to Thailand, but it should be less scammy as we've found a direct bus.
XOXO,
Kyle
breaking it down
sorry for the radio silence! that last two weeks have taken us from the countryside at pala-u, to the bustling city of hua-hin (same-same bangkok, according to locals), to a tiny seaside guesthouse on the island of koh tao, and finally to cambodia for a few days at angkor wat. we have had limited/very slow internet. we'll be getting back to volunteering soon, but the vacation has been fun and liberating.
since we've been doing the tourist thing for the last week or so, i've made an effort to be aware of how we (both kyle and i and rich white tourists in general) interact with the local community. it's difficult to really understand, because most of the places we've visited are popular destinations, and so the tourist experience is somewhat inevitable, but we've had glimpses of something more, and it has been extremely rewarding.
hua-hin was a depressing place to start. the city is a hot spot for puffy, older white people to lounge under umbrellas at the beach and be waited on hand and foot. they sip pina coladas while brown hands massage their fleshy, sun-seared bodies. at night, the streets are overrun by a number of white-haired, pot-bellied men parading around with disturbingly mis-matched and likely under-aged "thai girlfriends." it was a good place for cheap internet, but the city catered so overwhelmingly to a different set of tourists, that we didn't end up having anything you could describe as a genuine interaction with a thai person. two days was more than enough.
koh tao, located off the eastern coast of the thai peninsula, caters to a different brand of traveller. don't get me wrong - this was still tourist central, as most of the island's economy seems to revolve around the scuba diving/snorkeling industry (again, rich tourists), but we didn't notice the same conscious and self-conscious divide between the haves and the have nots. i don't know if it was the attitude of the more adventurous, outdoorsey group of foreigners who ventured out to the island, or the idyllic atmosphere once you arrive, but something seemed to create a more peaceful and respectful coexistence. when the workers at our guest house tried to launch the refurbished iron boat they'd been working on all afternoon, several tourists who'd been relaxing on their beach mats didn't hesitate to jump up and help them push it down to the water for a test drive. all the thai people we met on the island seemed to be involved in the tourist industry in some capacity, but when they smiled at you, it didn't feel polite. that may have been the biggest difference.
after five days at koh tao, it was off to cambodia and the ancient temples of angkor wat. this was the one landmark in southeast asia that i absolutely insisted we visit, and so we braved the five-hour bus ride, visa scams at the border market, and a 2 hour taxi drive from the border to siem reap. as the home base for anyone who wants to visit the temples, siem reap is full of a variety of tourist accommodations, ranging from our $4 a night bamboo hut, complete with mattress, mosquito net, and shared bathroom, to the ultra-luxury spa resort. as soon as we exit our guest house in the morning, we are harangued by a chorus of idle taxi drivers. "hello! tuk tuk!" at the temples themselves, it is literally impossible to park your bike and enter the stone walls without multiple adorable children approaching you with offers of cool drinks, t shirts, and wooden flutes. when we decline, they try to wring promises and allegiance for any future purchases. "ok, maybe later," they say, "you come back, you buy from me - i remember you." most of the salespeople are under the age of ten, but this always ends up sounding vaguely threatening. it's a must-see sort of place, but for kyle and i this is like the 4th or 5th level of dante's tourist hell.
on our third day at the temples, kyle and i were trying to bide some time during the hot part of the afternoon. we took shelter under a tree and brought out the playing cards for a game of gin rummy. a young cambodian man approached and asked if we were playing a game. i stiffened involuntarily. this had already happened a few times - someone would approach and ask questions (mostly where are you from, followed by a recitation of state capitals and a shout-out to obama) as a pretext for the inevitable sales pitch. we gave a vague but polite answer, secretly hoping that he would leave us alone, but he stayed and observed with what we began to realize was genuine interest. he was joined shortly by a gaggle of young kids, mostly girls, ranging in age from maybe 5 to 12 years.
once we realized that we'd inspired some actual curiosity, i started to get excited. i gave a brief explanation of the rules, and almost everyone picked it up within a round. by the next hand, kyle and i had each earned a set of fans, who would help us by pointing to what they thought we should discard, and sit patiently with clasped hands while the opponent made his move, praying earnestly for that 5 of hearts, or whatever we needed to complete our final set of three.
back at our guest house, games seemed once again to be the medium of cross-cultural interaction. we were both sitting quietly and reading, when one of the other hotel guests approached us with an invitation to play volleyball. he had been challenged by the hotel manager to a game - cambodians vs tourists. it was on. we were screwed.
for the first game we were given an extra team-mate on our side and still managed to lose 15 to 4. the second round was more respectable, with our side breaking double digits with the help of some british guys from the neighboring hotel. the highlight of the afternoon took place when, during a beer break, a local decided to lead his cow through the volleyball court. everyone was laughing, until the animal caught sight of the red shirt on one of the british tourists, lowered its head, and started to charge. i'm pretty sure that if that dude could have harnessed the adrenaline he used running away from the angry bovine, we might have tied the cambodians.
i leave cambodia tomorrow with mixed emotions. on the whole, this is a pretty unpleasant place. it is unbelievably poor and war-ravaged. as a westerner, you can't walk around without feeling alternately bombarded and guilt-stricken. on the other hand, for the individuals who let down their barriers (and with whom i was able to cautiously remove my own), i will hold the fondest regard. if there is hope for real, healthy recovery from the internal wounds of recent history, it certainly lies in the optimism, intelligence, and resilience of the cambodian people.
since we've been doing the tourist thing for the last week or so, i've made an effort to be aware of how we (both kyle and i and rich white tourists in general) interact with the local community. it's difficult to really understand, because most of the places we've visited are popular destinations, and so the tourist experience is somewhat inevitable, but we've had glimpses of something more, and it has been extremely rewarding.
hua-hin was a depressing place to start. the city is a hot spot for puffy, older white people to lounge under umbrellas at the beach and be waited on hand and foot. they sip pina coladas while brown hands massage their fleshy, sun-seared bodies. at night, the streets are overrun by a number of white-haired, pot-bellied men parading around with disturbingly mis-matched and likely under-aged "thai girlfriends." it was a good place for cheap internet, but the city catered so overwhelmingly to a different set of tourists, that we didn't end up having anything you could describe as a genuine interaction with a thai person. two days was more than enough.
koh tao, located off the eastern coast of the thai peninsula, caters to a different brand of traveller. don't get me wrong - this was still tourist central, as most of the island's economy seems to revolve around the scuba diving/snorkeling industry (again, rich tourists), but we didn't notice the same conscious and self-conscious divide between the haves and the have nots. i don't know if it was the attitude of the more adventurous, outdoorsey group of foreigners who ventured out to the island, or the idyllic atmosphere once you arrive, but something seemed to create a more peaceful and respectful coexistence. when the workers at our guest house tried to launch the refurbished iron boat they'd been working on all afternoon, several tourists who'd been relaxing on their beach mats didn't hesitate to jump up and help them push it down to the water for a test drive. all the thai people we met on the island seemed to be involved in the tourist industry in some capacity, but when they smiled at you, it didn't feel polite. that may have been the biggest difference.
after five days at koh tao, it was off to cambodia and the ancient temples of angkor wat. this was the one landmark in southeast asia that i absolutely insisted we visit, and so we braved the five-hour bus ride, visa scams at the border market, and a 2 hour taxi drive from the border to siem reap. as the home base for anyone who wants to visit the temples, siem reap is full of a variety of tourist accommodations, ranging from our $4 a night bamboo hut, complete with mattress, mosquito net, and shared bathroom, to the ultra-luxury spa resort. as soon as we exit our guest house in the morning, we are harangued by a chorus of idle taxi drivers. "hello! tuk tuk!" at the temples themselves, it is literally impossible to park your bike and enter the stone walls without multiple adorable children approaching you with offers of cool drinks, t shirts, and wooden flutes. when we decline, they try to wring promises and allegiance for any future purchases. "ok, maybe later," they say, "you come back, you buy from me - i remember you." most of the salespeople are under the age of ten, but this always ends up sounding vaguely threatening. it's a must-see sort of place, but for kyle and i this is like the 4th or 5th level of dante's tourist hell.
on our third day at the temples, kyle and i were trying to bide some time during the hot part of the afternoon. we took shelter under a tree and brought out the playing cards for a game of gin rummy. a young cambodian man approached and asked if we were playing a game. i stiffened involuntarily. this had already happened a few times - someone would approach and ask questions (mostly where are you from, followed by a recitation of state capitals and a shout-out to obama) as a pretext for the inevitable sales pitch. we gave a vague but polite answer, secretly hoping that he would leave us alone, but he stayed and observed with what we began to realize was genuine interest. he was joined shortly by a gaggle of young kids, mostly girls, ranging in age from maybe 5 to 12 years.
once we realized that we'd inspired some actual curiosity, i started to get excited. i gave a brief explanation of the rules, and almost everyone picked it up within a round. by the next hand, kyle and i had each earned a set of fans, who would help us by pointing to what they thought we should discard, and sit patiently with clasped hands while the opponent made his move, praying earnestly for that 5 of hearts, or whatever we needed to complete our final set of three.
back at our guest house, games seemed once again to be the medium of cross-cultural interaction. we were both sitting quietly and reading, when one of the other hotel guests approached us with an invitation to play volleyball. he had been challenged by the hotel manager to a game - cambodians vs tourists. it was on. we were screwed.
for the first game we were given an extra team-mate on our side and still managed to lose 15 to 4. the second round was more respectable, with our side breaking double digits with the help of some british guys from the neighboring hotel. the highlight of the afternoon took place when, during a beer break, a local decided to lead his cow through the volleyball court. everyone was laughing, until the animal caught sight of the red shirt on one of the british tourists, lowered its head, and started to charge. i'm pretty sure that if that dude could have harnessed the adrenaline he used running away from the angry bovine, we might have tied the cambodians.
i leave cambodia tomorrow with mixed emotions. on the whole, this is a pretty unpleasant place. it is unbelievably poor and war-ravaged. as a westerner, you can't walk around without feeling alternately bombarded and guilt-stricken. on the other hand, for the individuals who let down their barriers (and with whom i was able to cautiously remove my own), i will hold the fondest regard. if there is hope for real, healthy recovery from the internal wounds of recent history, it certainly lies in the optimism, intelligence, and resilience of the cambodian people.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
2/7 -- Passport
I got a new passport this week, issued to me in the clear, serene expanse of the Gulf of Thailand, on the shores of the small island of Koh Tao. Now, this passport is not a proper document--it lacks pages, a government seal, and even goofy, semi-serious headshots--but it has the same power to offer mobility. Passage to new places. Liberation.
[If that sounds overblown...well, it probably is. But I'm a windbag, so you shouldn't be surprised.]
As most of our readers know, I am not a great swimmer. After bullying my parents into letting me avoid swimming lessons for most of my childhood, at adolescence I suddenly found myself floundering amidst an increasing burden of aquatic social events: pool parties, trips to Lake Tahoe, etc.
Fast forward ten years: nearly 23-year-old Kyle stands waist-deep in the ocean at the peaceful getaway he and Audrey have discovered in Koh Tao. The gentle mid-morning waves lap against his belly and chest as he fidgets nervously with a snorkeling mask; Audrey has already been exploring for half an hour and is ecstatic. Shackled variously by claustrophobia, hydrophobia, anger, and frustration, he wills himself to escape, to be a fugitive from fears left behind on the beach.
Well, it wasn't quite that easy. After half an hour of false starts, panicked breathing, and copious thrashing in the shallow water, I finally trusted the strange plastic apparatus with my breath--and my life. My dogpaddle evolved into a rhythmic (if not graceful, or even efficient) frog-stroke, and the shroud of disturbed sand receded and the ocean appeared before me.
The life I encountered was spectacular in every way--scale, hue, variety. Trying to describe everything I saw is futile, but some cannot go unremarked: long, narrow silvery creatures with comically protruding needle-noses; living mounds with waving, pillowy maws that glisten in effeminate hues like an O'Keefe painting; one type of fish is nearly 2' in length and details itself in colors I've only seen previously inside Crayola boxes, with fluorescent turquoise eyelashes painted in trios on its face and a neon rainbow of other bold, improbable accents. Passing over blankets of coral like a reconnaissance plane, I greedily spied on a world that had been closed to me for most of my life.
I drank it all in--steering around bulbous, purple heads of coral that jutted out from the ocean floor like buttes; chasing glowing schools of radiant fish; peering into the cobalt depths of water too deep for today's outing, but that is suddenly visible and approachable, for the first time in my life.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not suddenly Michael Phelps, and I still panic if even a little water violates the sanctified breathing space of my mask. But I also want to honor what is really a profound moment in my life. The boy who feared the deep end kept his face underwater for an hour at a time; the boy who always hugged the shoreline finally felt the chill embrace of open water. I WANTED to be in the water; I WANTED to swim. That's really, really big for me, I'm ashamed to admit.
My point in all this clumsy blathering is to say thanks. Thank you, Aud, for being exactly the guide I needed to discover this new realm: an impetus and a partner, but not a bully or a taunter. Thanks for knowing I could do it before I myself knew. It's a better, more enduring birthday gift than I ever could have asked for.
-Kyle
[If that sounds overblown...well, it probably is. But I'm a windbag, so you shouldn't be surprised.]
As most of our readers know, I am not a great swimmer. After bullying my parents into letting me avoid swimming lessons for most of my childhood, at adolescence I suddenly found myself floundering amidst an increasing burden of aquatic social events: pool parties, trips to Lake Tahoe, etc.
Fast forward ten years: nearly 23-year-old Kyle stands waist-deep in the ocean at the peaceful getaway he and Audrey have discovered in Koh Tao. The gentle mid-morning waves lap against his belly and chest as he fidgets nervously with a snorkeling mask; Audrey has already been exploring for half an hour and is ecstatic. Shackled variously by claustrophobia, hydrophobia, anger, and frustration, he wills himself to escape, to be a fugitive from fears left behind on the beach.
Well, it wasn't quite that easy. After half an hour of false starts, panicked breathing, and copious thrashing in the shallow water, I finally trusted the strange plastic apparatus with my breath--and my life. My dogpaddle evolved into a rhythmic (if not graceful, or even efficient) frog-stroke, and the shroud of disturbed sand receded and the ocean appeared before me.
The life I encountered was spectacular in every way--scale, hue, variety. Trying to describe everything I saw is futile, but some cannot go unremarked: long, narrow silvery creatures with comically protruding needle-noses; living mounds with waving, pillowy maws that glisten in effeminate hues like an O'Keefe painting; one type of fish is nearly 2' in length and details itself in colors I've only seen previously inside Crayola boxes, with fluorescent turquoise eyelashes painted in trios on its face and a neon rainbow of other bold, improbable accents. Passing over blankets of coral like a reconnaissance plane, I greedily spied on a world that had been closed to me for most of my life.
I drank it all in--steering around bulbous, purple heads of coral that jutted out from the ocean floor like buttes; chasing glowing schools of radiant fish; peering into the cobalt depths of water too deep for today's outing, but that is suddenly visible and approachable, for the first time in my life.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not suddenly Michael Phelps, and I still panic if even a little water violates the sanctified breathing space of my mask. But I also want to honor what is really a profound moment in my life. The boy who feared the deep end kept his face underwater for an hour at a time; the boy who always hugged the shoreline finally felt the chill embrace of open water. I WANTED to be in the water; I WANTED to swim. That's really, really big for me, I'm ashamed to admit.
My point in all this clumsy blathering is to say thanks. Thank you, Aud, for being exactly the guide I needed to discover this new realm: an impetus and a partner, but not a bully or a taunter. Thanks for knowing I could do it before I myself knew. It's a better, more enduring birthday gift than I ever could have asked for.
-Kyle
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