Message from the Universe

Summer is ending and I am feeling wistful for what could have been. Looking back on a few meager Maine adventures and the week at sea, I’m a tad regretful that I worked so much over the past two months. As the sun rushes back to the horizon and the sunflowers stand tall and triumphant, the air has a brisk sense of crispness for the ripening of harvests and the beginning of foliage season.

The Great Pumpkin winner at the Alaska State Fair.
Grown entirely with hydroponics, the pumpkin weighed in at
1,231.5 pounds.  A tradition at the end of August in Alaska.

Instead of feeling rich with summer's bounty, I'm tattered, juggling and plate spinning on work projects. The retail job hired me part-time with benefits and increased my hours. I applied in the midst of the ACA controversy as the memories of the crippling costs of self-insurance in Alaska were painful. I don’t think that was a mistake to move to "permanent", but the tide is rushing with the consulting work as well.

There are three other concurrent projects on deck; good work with great people. Hours have become precious, scheduled, and dedicated to specific things: tasks, cooking, driving, and eating and sleeping. I was happily distracted to have two different houseguests who each came for day days for the third week of August, long-time friends who traveled long hours to get to Maine.

On a Sunday afternoon after the last guest had left, when I descended the stairs after stripping the beds, I missed the last step and sprained my ankle. Pain erupted; I heard something click. When the hubbub subsided and I R.I.C.E’d without relief, I headed off to the clinic. Nothing was broken, but the orders were clear. I couldn’t go to work at the retail job on Monday.

Photo from NASA.
https://www.doi.gov/sites/doi.gov/files/uploads/solar_eclipse_nasa.jpg

I felt a cascade of relief wash over me and called in sick.  I made a long list of things that had been bugging me to get done, and the next morning I ensconced myself into a comfy chair with an ice pack, knocked out tasks, made a pinhole box viewer for the Eclipse, and a plan to meet a friend for an afternoon at the beach to watch it. In the afternoon on the rocky shore, the tide drifted out, I shared my shadow in the bottom of the box with my friend and a young mother and son. I bathed in the waning afternoon sun, taking nourishment in the sea air. It was a wonderful moment to be celebrating nature's power with other Americans.

In accidents like this, the message from the Universe is clear. Slow down. Pay attention. Use your support system (the railing). There’s plenty of time if you bring intention to each minute. It was a wake-up call, a reckoning, a realization that I'd like to dedicate more time to walking and nature and exploring new places. That will happen right after I wrap up short project #2...

My Alaskan Bachelor Party

It was a "last-chance before the snow falls" pilgrimage back to a beloved land, culture, and people. The primary mission to see old friends and bring back my belongings. In the final hour of the 9 hours of flights from Maine. I lifted the window, high-fived my forethought and appreciated the clear skies as the sun stretched its legs in the waning autumn evening.

The Lost Coast of Alaska,  the northern coastline of the longest contiguous stretch of wilderness in the world,was studded by glaciers and mountains below.  I'd guided many trips in two glacier-filled bays along this coast in the mid-90s. It was a sheer, raw,dynamic  and powerful place where I felt such a deep hue of humility and awe that I felt some of my ashes should be spread there after my final days. The plane flew farther north to Valdez, then over the mountains and following the highway into Anchorage.

Over the next ten days, I awoke during a mild earthquake at 3am, saw moose and calves in Anchorage's parks, watched for belugas amid the glittery outgoing tide of Turnagain Arm, walked long and hard, reunited with some objects some of which were reassuring and others pointless, went to a pop-up street art festival, drove a manual transmission, and listened to my favorite radio station.  My host and Southeast Asia travel companion fulfilled my hope and offered to drive on a road trip out to the edge of the biggest National Park in the US, which is only accessible by air or a 60-mile gravel road.

On the road east. Frost heaves not shown. 

The highway stretched through expanses of golden birch and aspen punctuated by distant views of some of the highest mountains in North America. I reunited with a friend and homesteader, who I hosted for a few winters at my house in Spenard, and moved into a sweet little cabin for the weekend.  We drove into town with Mark on Friday night for some local culture and aurora's magic glowing green waves rippled in the sky.

Aurora at Fireweed Mountain.
Photo by Mark Vail. 

One our way into town the next day, heading up to the Kennecott mine for our hike, the memories of my first autumn in Alaska drifted in.  I'd gone out alone in my 1984 Landcruiser wagon for an end of season trip to visit my friend Tim. I'd just started a new job coordinating an eco-tourism trade association in Valdez. On the long gravel road that was the old railroad bed, I'd gotten a flat tire and changed it myself. My friend was guiding trips and the operations were based out of a shipping container in the gravel beds on the riverside. The airstrip was on the other side of the river in the old miner's community.  Ar the time, the only way across the rushing and icy glacial river was to pull yourself over on a hand-tram that swayed above a rocky, rushing, glacier-fueled river. Tim and his fellow guides shuttled their gear across each day  I watched the owner heat his bathing water with a small, twiggy fire in a tiny, cylindrical stove.

Years later, on this crisp fall morning, we set out and hiked up-- 1,000 feet of elevation per mile--saw bears grazing on the hillside, more mountains stretching on forever,  and returned home to make a simple dinner and sleep well.

There were other nights in cabins in this beautiful valley. In the late days of 2008, I was the beginning of a new stage of work and feeling frayed by the previous job. I rode in with a couple of with a couple of gal friends who also had cabins in the area. The truck was loaded with tire chains and a chainsaw, There was a cold snap of well below zero degrees.  My homesteader friend met me at the trailhead at the road and I was happy to ski with my backpack. I was staying in the cabin couple that rented a room in my house during a winter they lived in this special foothills area of Fireweed mountain a few years earlier.

Bonanza Mine on the horizon. 

The outgoing breath billowed to leave frost on my eyelashes and breathing in froze nose hairs.  Over the next few days, I explored the area with Mark, read and wrote, and split wood in the noon light. The big spruce logs cracked apart in the deep still cold. I hauled in and restocked and melted snow for water. That night, drifting down to 30 below, the night percolated along nicely. It was time to buff up the stove before bed.

The gnarled piece was problematic to split even in the deep cold of the Alaskan interior. A knot entangled at the base. It barely fit in the barrel of the stove. Hot and fierce action erupted as the heady flow of oxygen was sucked in. The accelerator was floored in this race to complete destruction.  The stovepipe glowed red.  If this went bad it would be a disparaged legacy, a reputation gone awry, a horrible act of negligence and a grievance that one lifetime couldn't heal. Perhaps only a minute passed in frantic poking and prodding, but then the load shifted. The stove door shut and I exhaled and tempered the damper. Everything was settled into a slow burn.  I was happy to see the morning.

Now back in Maine, the fatigue of the redeye flight has subsided. The fiery passion of getting set up in Maine has now settled into a merry warmth on a bed of settled coals. The fire embers I spoke of back in 2011 are igniting. The 9 boxes of books, journals, antique kitchen tools, and small arty objects of importance and joy will arrive before September's end.

The 250 pounds of stuff sent back in the mail.
25% of it was the boxes of journals.

While I will likely never work as a guide again,  I now have the outdoor gear I need to explore Maine's vast wild places. On the departure evening at the airport,  I hefted the utilitarian duffle bag from my guiding days onto the scale. I'd carefully packed with my outdoor gear: tent, life jacket, sleeping bag, hiking boots, small tarp anI stove. It weighed in at 49.5 pounds, 8 ounces shy of the overweight limit. "Nicely done.", the Alaska Airlines agent commented as it moved away on the conveyer belt. "Yes!", my brain high-fived itself, "Haven't lost the mojo."

The small joys of seeing old refrigerator magnets from the house. 

Impasse

I was horrified to see the date on the last post.    The well meaning intention to write a little something for the folks back home got waylaid by the stress of the single-minded and determined march to meet deadlines at work. In the three months and  the three international trips that occurred recently, I careened through life  like a suddenly spooked horse with blinders on. Nothing much seemed to matter except going forward. 

Opposition leader Sam Rainsey and Prime Minister Hun Sen, 17 September.
 (Xinhua/Sovannara) Globaltimes.com

Concurrently, the political situation of both America and Cambodia were both seemingly stuck in the same timeframe.  While the shutdown/debt ceiling petulant antics were only just recently bandaged in the US, the opposition party  has still not come to sit and vote in the Cambodian Parliament. The CNRP continues to stand ground that the elections were fraudulent; refusing to support the system as it stands.  Party leader Sam Rainsey will be returning from an international tour later this week and a three day rally is planned.  Previous rallies resulted in injuries, deaths and massive road closures in my neighborhood.  I watched from afar.  

Batur Hot Spr ings.  www.balijavaadventures.com

Now, after having returned back to home, I am facing my own impasse.  I’d had a list of things planned to accomplish by year end:  small improvements to the apartment, creative work, health and body related housekeeping and projects.  However, one small moment changed it all.  I was blissed out in the hot spring,  the strong stream of hot water on my tension-ravaged shoulders, when  I noticed I was the only one left still soaking.  As I hurried to find the group, my foot hit an unexpected obstacle.  A shot of pain, later swollen and painful, seemed to be a bad sprain.  I was not the perfect patient throughout the following week; soldiering on to take in temples and wild places and grabbing ice cubes, ibuprofen and compression bandages when I could.  On my second day back at work, I realized it was not getting better and trudged into the ED for a consult at the employee health clinic.  Hence the foot cast.  For a month.

In the midst of bewildering political strategies of my current home and my homeland, I’m now placed in a enforced hiatus while things heal.  Small things seem to matter more, both in challenges and in the small kindnesses.   I am counting down the days.    Here’s a few notes on the travels for those who want to read on:

On the mid-August Thailand trip, I accomplished a lot.  I went to the expat friendly hospital for an annual check-up, an eye exam and the laboratory work that can’t be performed here in Cambodia and  I had a few days with Rochelle, my good friend who lived up in the next town north.  The results from the medical exam were less than optimal—I’ve gained weight, some lab numbers are not as good as last year and I was diagnosed with optic neuropathy, which is affecting my right eye and now unable to be treated.  I passed on the recommended week-long course of  IV steroids that should have been administered in April when I first noticed symptoms.  However, weeks later and after consults with a couple of the hospital's international volunteers, I've realized that this is now my reality. Another minor annoyance in my aging body.  

Goddess statue in Freising, Germany. 

In Thailand, seeing my friend Rochelle was a great antidote to the travails at the hospital, and we had a lovely time touring around Kanchanaburi, a small town on the edge of a huge jungle of national parks and waterfalls.    On the day we signed up for an all-day tour, we soaked in some hot springs with two bus loads of Russian tourists. One of these was an obese and stern woman in her sixties, with braids wrapped around the back of her head and wearing a red bikini.   We also had a lovely ladyboy guide who diligently walked with us through the rain to Hellfire Pass; her hooded sweatshirt had two little cat ears at the crown.  There was time for a quick writing exercise and a hug before I caught the bus back to the airport. 

Three weeks later, my parents met me at the Munich airport. Dad ascended the hills of Freising to visit the cathedral, where we were lucky enough to hear the bells resound among the ancient walls.  

The next day we went onward to Innsbruck, navigating luggage and tight transitions on the train system, passing by idyllic mountain valley farms.  Mom and Dad met their professional colleagues.   I had a day on my own partake in a free mountain hike with the Alpine School of Innsbruck, with a guide who happened to be the dude that suggested that Denali National Park rangers get some training in mountain rescue.  Mom and I took the public bus system to Hall, an old city to the west while the other accompanying partners went off to the tour of the Swarovski crystal factory.   I had time to read about floods in Boulder Colorado and post-election violence in Phnom Penh. Dad went to meetings, there was a banquet and off we went to Lucerne and Zurich for the remainder of the journey, where the swans and the crisp orderliness created nostalgia for the jackets in storage and a developed civilization filled with confident bicyclists and clean streets.  It was a bittersweet departure: so terrific to see my parents in such great shape, but sad to end the plush travel lifestyle.

I returned to s a whirlwind eight days before I headed to Bali in the afternoon of the Pchum Ben holiday.  Bonar picked me up as the torrent was just starting. He navigated through foot-high lakes in the street, swearing at the driver who sped by on the left and drenched us both with flood water. (The tuk tuk's tarpaulin shelter had torn from the velcro strip in the wind and rain, leaving a gap which I had been fruitlessly trying to refasten for the past six blocks.)  

Puaji temple on Lembongen Island. A conversation with a 10 year old bracelet vendor led me here. The pink umbrella sunshade was a life saver and the fresh coconut drink at her mother's fruit stand on the way back hit the spot.  

 I had a few days traveling solo on the coast for a couple of days before joining my writer’s group.  I did some walking on a tropical island and followed clues to find a stunning set of male and female old growth banyan trees honored with a temple.  Hosted by a terrific facilitator and local guide, the next day I was surrounded by an accomplished group of writers amidst stunning mountain scenery, fruitful writing exercises and the unfettered flow of thoughts that have formed the structure for the project.  

Black and white checkered cloths drape the entrance sentinels at many Bali temples:
they represent balance between light and dark.  

At the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, I was overwhelmed and intrigued, pained and nourished,  humbled and inspired.  I realized that the process of writing takes time and (as I knew) daily commitment.    To reach a published book by 2019, there are plenty of small steps to take along the way.  Including this—my first public blog. 

With enormous physical energy required to move anywhere, I am now forced to use this next four weeks well.  My priorities have changed. I'm taking some steps to move through the impasse between the deadlines of work and my physical well-being.   I'll continue to shake my head with distant resignation at the tragic, misspent energies of American politics. I can only hope for a non-violent, nonlethal resolution of Cambodia's withering and stale political stalemate.  I'd like to reinforce  a stronger sense of balance for my self;  hone the creative compass and keep the center whole. 

Wheel of Fortune from the Tyrol Folklore Museum in Innsbruck. 

The New Year

The weather was breezy with a hint of fresh coolness when I stepped out of the Phnom Penh airport after nearly 30 hours of transit from Maine. There’s a lot of time to think on a trip like that.  I appreciated that my dad was recovering after his hospitalization from pneumonia while they were on holiday in Kauai.   I noted that my oldest  nephew is gripped with the self-consumption of adolescence, but ralied for a walk on the beach with the family on the day I left.  I felt the searing cold winter air cause my lungs to swell as I shoveled.  I drifted into luxurious sleep swaddled in bed warmers and down blankets, so delectably comfortable amidst the peace of my parent’s house in the woods.   I noticed that much of the western food made me feel as  bloated as the Americans I saw bustling around with loads of Christmas presents and merchandise and the prices of everything. I had a brief visit with my brother and his family, made phone calls to friends in the states, wore jeans and sweaters. I touched down into Maine as I always have, as a waystation for rest, resupply and face to face relationships with my family. 

With the hectic conglomeration of my trip to Myanmar, my dad’s illness and my first work contract and the trip to Maine behind me, it was reassuringly familiar to be back in the thick of Southeast Asia.  I've returned to the New Year and the yawning chasm of an open chapter.  On the tuk tuk ride back from the airport,  the  motorcyclist weaved a bit under the burden of long stalks of sugarcane strapped on the back of his bike,  stretching across an entire lane of traffic, with no precautionary flag attached to the end.  Welcome to your latest home.  My first work contract is wrapping up this week and I have nothing definitive lined up.  Unfortunately, I've uncovered the next chapter in my personal series of dental trauma.  After a visit to a well-regarded dental hospital here in Phnom Penh on the day after I arrived back, it’s clear that staying in the area for another nine months will force the attention to my beleaguered  teeth and gums.

The view from the waiting room at the dental hospital.
The King Father's new pagoda in the distance is under construction
24 hours a day for the cremation ceremony scheduled
for early February. A $5 million dollar price tag.

On Friday night I was walking home with the newspapers from the English bookstore down the street when I heard someone call my name.  Bonar the Tuk Tuk Guy crossed over with a U turn against the incoming traffic and pulled up next to me on the sidewalk.  We visited briefly: he looked well and asked about my visit with the family.   Then he became sad.  His wife died and he had no money for the funeral. He muttered something about her brother also dying and something about Thailand, then gestured me into the tuk tuk and went the wrong way up the street, amid honking cars and speeding motorbikes, to deliver me back to the apartment and to inquire about my travel plans for the next day.

Friday’s Phnom Penh Post featured a front page story about a sugar cane plantation and refinery in Kampong Speu, a province that I’d visited on my site visits last month. In an all too typical scenario here, land titles are disputed, farmers are vacated from their land and a new factory/processing facility/highway is built. Without a farm to sustain them, families are forced to work for the corporation.  And in this case, children as young as 7 are earning less than a dollar a day cutting down stalks of cane that tower over them.  (Nephew Ian, while I love your 11 year old self, I recalled your Christmas Eve disappointment over the malfunctioning helicopter drone that you felt was a paltry substitute for the Xbox you really wanted and played a tiny violin for you after reading this article.)

Phnom Penh Post

 The injustices and life in general seems so raw here, like the eviscerated chickens and pigs that I saw in the neighborhood market that I explored for the first time on Saturday.  And there are also threads of community and humanity that transcend the cultural differences in this country.  Through an expat email forum, I learned about a hairdresser who speaks English and was excited to find she had a booth in the neighborhood market that I hadn’t had a chance to explore yet.

 After winding my way through the uneven brick flooring scattered with flip flops and scanning the mirrors and walls for booth numbers, I found Sookie.   She was surprised and delighted to hear me ask for her and I got set up in the chair for a long overdue haircut.   Her assistant spritzed the water on my hair and began to trim.  Another assistant set to work on the toenails. Then it was time for the shampoo.  The Khmer shampoo is a melange of scalp massage and copious foam that lasts for minutes in the seat where you got your hair cut.  It involves a small bottle of water, a rake of fingernails through thick hair, creamy foamy mounds of bouffant hair piled up like you were in a bathtub when you were five, and long stretches of thumb pressure into the place where your head meets your neck.  The shampoo cleanses like the waves surging against a rock wall. Then, you are rinsed in the sink and the massage continues across your forehead and down to the tip of your nose, across the cheeks and behind your ears.   Two people are blow drying me from opposite sides of my body and at this point, I don’t really care that a young boy points and me and exclaims something.  Sookie looks at me with gratitude and appreciation for my business.  I thank her for a job well done. “I am so happy that you come to see me.  That will be $5.”

A few days later, I was handing over my credit card to the Khmer owned and operated dental hospital.   I like my Dentist. Everyone wears white crocs in the facility.  He seems young but he has gray hair, speaks English very well and is gentle and practiced.  Then dental hospital is just around the corner from my house.  All of this bodes well because I’m going to be seeing him a lot over the next year.    I sat for a few minutes and collected myself in the waiting room, then planned a stop at the printing shop to get a hard copy of my long won final draft of my report.  The only thing I had to do was cross Norodom Boulevard.

Norodom is a major artery that runs north to south. It’s  lined with embassies and high-end housing, banks and coffee shops. For most of the day, it’s filled with the legendary Phnom Penh traffic.   In my neighborhood, it has wide sidewalks and a traffic light on the corner when I cross most frequently to go to the supermarket.  I stood at the corner and hesitated about walking up two blocks to the safety corner with the light, but noted a young student who was doing usual “cross away from the intersection and walk into traffic” maneuver on her way to school.  I stood next to her as the traffic lightened on my left and I walked across two lanes.  When I reached the relative safety of the yellow double line, then took a minute to gauge on my right and said to myself, “how lucky. No one is coming” as I stepped out into the lane.   And then, a motorbike hit my left shin and grazed by left wrist, wobbled for a moment and sped away.  (This hit and run manuveur is completely matter of course here, regretfully.)

Cutting across lanes in opposing traffic
to merge is a common practice here.

There was no blood.  Only the rich promise of a bruise, swelling already with the bluish heated rush of blood vessels bursting.   I was stunned. The parking attendant across the street rushed to help me and walked me to the Toto coffee shop, filled with prim flowery upholstery and white wrought iron chairs.  The staff fussed over me and understood that I wanted a bag of ice.  The manager gave me her jar of Tiger balm.   I RICE’d, wrote in my journal, and let the weeping flow and ebb. I remembered Beth, a woman I knew in college, who stunned me one afternoon at the cafeteria when she showed up with a golf-ball sized goose egg extending out from her forehead resulting from an epileptic seizure she'd just had. To this day, I remember it's angry prominence.   I told her to go the clinic but I did not take her there myself. I regretted that I hadn't. Small gestures of kindness are so powerful.

As I’m lying here with a rapidly thawing bag of beans in banana syrup (a sorry excuse for frozen peas),  I’m recollecting the joy of my Sunday morning.   I was up early and decided to explore the group meditation at Wat Lanka not far from the house.  On my way home, Norodom Boulevard was completely closed to traffic.  I pedaled my way around Independence Monument. My bike, short and bright red, hummed with the unfettered and clean flow of the only two wheels in sight.  I was filled with serendipitous glow myself, taking in my lucky voyage into this unprecedented  spirit of  Phnom Penh.  Then I saw the approaching pack of bike racers.  Sleek, spinning and predominately clothed in bright green lycra, they whizzed by.   I clunkered by clusters of Cambodians lining the street and some of them cheered me on as I pantomimed my participation in the race, all of us laughing at the silliness of it all.  It was bright, precious and rare.  

CAMBODIA. Phnom Penh. 6/01/2013:
 First bicycle race in the city of Phnom Penh.
©John Vink/ Magnum Photos

At that moment, I was filled with a spirit of gratitude for all the unknowns that lie before me. I felt lucky and strong, rich and attractive, resilient and optimistic.  And later,  I did some research looking for a photo of the race.  Blogger John Fink found out about the race the night before.   He says that Sunday’s  race  was the first time a bike race had been held in Phnom Penh since 1979.  Called Liberation Day, January 6 is the anniversary of the day that Viet Nam invaded and the Khmer Rouge retreated to the hills in the north, effectively ending their murderous regime. Others call it Invasion Day, and therein lies the complexity of life here. So much depends on perspective and recognizing the duality of life.   The accident was a reminder to keep my eyes open around all forms of intersections, not to take short cuts and to recognize and perpetuate the small kindnesses that bond us together as humans.  Oh, and ask for help. With a few errands to do around town today, I'll call Bonar for a ride.

Sunday afternoon cookout

I was in the middle of a recently typical stay at home Sunday afternoon “nap and sweat” when I heard a distinct sound of snap, crackle and pop outside my window. Rousing myself from an URI medication-induced stupor, I joined Tuy and Aon on the front porch to watch this:

Thai people burn a lot of stuff.   The rice fields are set on fire after the harvest to clear out the debris and make way for the next planting.  Trash and piles of leaves are often incinerated in random piles.  It is not uncommon to be walking in town and see inch long pieces of burned up material floating gently down to earth.   On bus rides and road trips, I’ve seen more than one formerly grassy median aflame, likely from a flicked cigarette butt.   It’s the dry season and the ecosystem here in Thailand seems to be a tinderbox.

My neighbors in the shanty town across the dirt road have a trash pile nearby that’s burned pretty frequently, but apparently this one got out of control.   Tuy and Aon nonchalantly went to the market as I hung out watching the flames rip through the undergrowth.  Shortly after, the school secretary and janitor stopped by to check in.  I started filling up the 5 gallon buckets that were hanging around the front yard; a hose was nowhere to be found.  After they saw flashing lights of the fire truck in the distance, spraying the other end of the fire which was closer to a few other houses, they left. 

The Director pulled up on the secretary's  motorbike a few minutes later.   “I called them.” She said.  “I can’t believe no one else called the them.  How can you not worry?”   The fire truck arrived in front of the house a few moments later and the “hose guy” started getting ready.  He was wearing a red t-shirt.   The driver gets out of the water truck and he’s wearing flip flops.  The two of them heave the empty hose toward the biggest part of the fire closest to my house.   The water gets turned on and turned up with the driver revving the water truck’s engines.  Water is moving out of vehicle in more ways than the hose: the undercarriage is creating large puddles as well.  The slight young man in a t-shirt is working hard to move the water laden hose around.   The Director is telling him to be sure to spray the large trees that line the fence at the back of our house.


The firefighters then move onto the large open space behind the house along the road to school.  The hose guy fires up the master blaster from the roof of the truck and I see water pouring out of the cannon housing. The driver fires things up and the hose starts spraying silt-laden water over the fire.  It then becomes apparent that the water truck is running low.  The fire is patched out into smaller blazes at this point, but the hose guy borrows The Director’s cell phone and calls for another truck, which arrives shortly after.


As the sun sets, the fire seems to be mostly  extinquished. The stretch of grassland is laid bare, covered in ash and black  instead of greenery.  As I walk to school the next morning, I look back to the little blue roofed place I call home and feel a ping of grief for what was. However, despite the hotter temperatures ahead, the rains will follow shortly after and create a fertile climate for growth.   I can't wait to see what happens next.

Honk to pay homage to the city shrine

On the long curve of the main road that goes from school to town, the gold pillar city shrine sits within a glass and stone walled structure on the edge of the ancient walls of Kamphaeng Phet.  It is customary to honk as you go by, with some car drivers performing a quick wai as they pass.   Who could resist the opportunity to push the horn button for a little beep beep as another opportunity to build favor with the powers?  When Tuy gives me a ride to the market for dinner after school is over, she usually does.  

Driver's seat on the minibus between
Trat and Bangkok. Note the 9 buddha statues,
 gold flower garland, red and gold wrapping
on steering column and wheel.
There were also several pieces of
gold leaf on the van roof above the windshield.

Driving a motorbike is a routine mode of transportation here in Thailand; very few people have cars.   With the ubiquitous presence of this machine as the primary way of getting from point A to point B,   I've seen various iterations of passage.    A man carrying a CPU on the way to a repair store, an old woman with a well-worn duct taped seat, a child slumped over the front dashboard napping on her way to school, a family of five piled on with children sandwiched between adults, dogs in the front basket, dogs standing on the foot rests at the owner’s feet, dogs balanced on the back seat and a particularly memorable obese  pug sitting on his owner’s lap with the paws on the handlebars.  There’s a man holding an infant in one arm, young women talking on the phone while driving and one sighting of someone texting.

 It is not uncommon to see the driver wearing a helmet and all the passengers riding bareheaded.  Teenagers go too fast.   Old people drive very slowly.  My fellow teachers cruise in with large purses slung over the handlebars and long sleeve jackets to protect their arms from the sun.  As school starts and I’m poised by the front gate for morning greeting duty, students of all ages jump off the bikes, wai to their caregivers and greet me with a good morning.  Some of the older kids drive their siblings in, taking care to cut the engines and walk the bike onto school grounds.

The road in Thailand has three facets:  the personal responsibility, the cultural norms and the Thai’s approach to life and death.   From what I’ve observed there are a few norms that set the context in this provincial capital.  One way street signs and “drive on the left” are optionally observed, especially for short distances.  Right of way is generally negotiable, especially if you are pulling out into the same lane of ongoing traffic.  If you are going slowly, you will be passed regardless of anyone coming in the opposite direction. Street Vendors rarely have taillights and often drive in the dark.  Once I saw a “meat on sticks” barbeque in progress with smoke billowing from the back of the motorbike sidecar, the wife of the team turning the cutlets as they headed to market.

Tuy (in polo) and her
friend Aon at the market.

The true beauty of Thailand’s  motorbike culture is manifested in the roundabout, where the grace and synergy of how traffic moves through the circle demonstrates the power of group dynamics and the legendary Thai tolerance.   One has to have some gumption to push their way into the circle but once your in- it’s golden.  Of course, cars and trucks have more power, unless there are a few motorbikes that gang up together in the same direction. 

In the first week of my arrival, a motorbike was dropped off with an empty gas tank.  The bike is bigger and heavier than the standard 150 cc Honda Dream that other teachers drive, but fortunately it’s an automatic.    Moving through gears with traffic on a different side of the road would have pushed me over the edge of my driving confidence.  Someone had to come over and show me the gas tank (under the seat and popped open with the key) and drive me to the gas station for a fill-up.  When we returned, I was finally liberated and took the first test drive around the ancient forest temple across the street to get acclimated to the power, turning signals and other controls.   I then drove to town and stopped by the Siva shrine to make an offering before proceeding too much further.  The Siva shrine is the only one of its kind in Thailand, incidentally, and a german tourist cut off the head and hands in the late 1800’s but was caught at the border.  The cast a replica for the outdoor viewing but the actual statue is here in the local museum.


After the ritual offerings, I made my way through a few side streets, looked around and was finally ready to conclude my inaugural journey.  On the way back to the house, the bike felt wobbly.  With escalating anxiety  I couldn't tell if it was me  or something physically wrong with the bike itself.   I wondered about pulling over to check things out, calm myself down and get regrounded, but instead I counted  down the meters to get home.  I saw the school sign, the traffic was clear in both directions and I made the decision to turn across the highway, down the small hill with a quick right turn to the dirt road to my house.

Then, I was down in the gravel.  The entire right side of my body covered in red dust, my pants (thankfully) absorbing most of the impact.  I was shaken and bleeding, the bike was scratched up and dusty, wouldn't restart and had a flat tire.  I pushed it the last 200 meters home- embarrassed, resolute and frustrated.  I hobbled my way into the shower for a fully clothed hose down,  scrubbing the heck out of the 8 cm abrasion on my right elbow.   With the ample bandaging supplies from my fall in Pattaya (see note entitled Is there Cheese in Thailand) I was able to administer first aid.   I spent the rest of the on the couch.

 On Monday there was ample discussion and questions from the teachers and students about my bandage, to which I pantomime what happened. The students thought this was hilarious.  My school coordinator was chagrined I didn't call her.    When the tire got fixed the following  week,   I got back on the bike and kept my ventures to jaunts around town on the weekend, still a bit leery.

Rush hour in KP

 After my long trip north in early December, my  wounds were all healed.  I had Alaskan friends of friends visitors who came to Kamphaeng Phet, which required a “drive home in the dark” ride after dinners.  The following week I navigated to the Big C Supercenter, a rather complicated journey with a speed hump/parking attendant experience at the end.  I’ve committed to getting out to the river park for aerobics at least twice a week, which involves driving home in the early evening dark.   As is the norm with my diabetic body, the road rash left a nasty scar on my right elbow.  I have also learned a few lessons.

The first and most important is to slow down.  I’m farang and dress like a Thai grandmother. No one expects me to be zipping around confidently on the bike.  There is plenty of time in the world and best to just saunter and smile your way through the world.   This is one of my great lessons of Thailand- it is always better to wait than it is to hurry.   It will all work out.  My experiences with the  students and teachers, the interactions with the folks around town and even my approach to Buddhism are all formed with time.  There is no rush.

I've also had to work hard to stay focused in the present moment. Thai Buddhists believe that it is important to make your present life your best, moving your way up the karma ladder toward enlightenment.   So why spend your life distracted with the hubbub of your internal mental machinations?  The dog that is lying on the street, the young man who zips up on your left, the student calling out from the sidewalk as you ride by- notice them and  stay attuned to the world around you at all times.

Lastly, be  confident (not cocky), cautious and relaxed.  During my time in Thailand, I've realized that by slowing down and staying in the present moment, you can actually gain a lot of confidence.   Driving the bike in this small town requires vigilance and tolerance, being prepared for the unexpected but also open to whatever comes up.    The anxiety created by constant mental discourse can be very destructive.  It’s  better to let those thoughts drift out away from you like a trailing silk scarf you might wear on a chilly evening after a long walk along the Mae Nam Ping at sunset, while you on the way home from the night market with a shopping bag of Chinese oranges, mixed steamed veggies and other dinner food and the half- drunk carrot smoothie in the beverage holder. Beep Beep!