Traveling Light, part 2

 It's now been about a month since I returned from Malaysia on May 18.   Since then, it's been a grind of really hot weather, deadlines leading to deferred exercise, preparations for selling the house in Anchorage, two phone melt-downs and  reactions of all forms including a waistline increase and self-imposed isolation. I have felt little creative room I have to write or reflect on the trip.

With now just a week or so before I head to the US, I had to overcome.  In a nutshell~ this trip was a complete whimsy generated by a banner ad for Air Asia that appeared while I was considering what to do for the 3-day King's birthday holiday.  The ticket was just over $100 and I decided to take extra days around the T-W-Th paid time off. Hence a ten day trip.

Stop #1:  Kuala Lumpur to visit an acquaintance from last year's writing workshop in Bali. Her beautiful house had a lovely, large and loveable cocker spaniel named Tumbles (or as I giggled to myself repeatedly by using other names like Gaggles, Tussles, Huggles, Grumbles, Fluffles or Tassels.)        

Taken from the outdoor porch. Lots of glass,
marble and terrific company! 

KL is a very interesting city, filled with energy, diversity and lots of cars. Indians, Chinese and Muslims live together in relative peace (but some serous conflicts).  Leone and I went to the museum, I met with a breast cancer expert who visited the hospital last year and she was kind enough to meet me on her Sunday and take me for a look around downtown.  I went up a lot of steps to a temple in a cave and saw a huge snake, then did some writing in the middle of a cafe surrounded by dense jungle during an incredible thundery torrent of water.

What's up with the little green god? 

Pouring rain turned this trickle into a torrent in no time at all! 

The bird park provided an excellent opportunity to
see a majestic pelican up close. One of my favorite birds ever.

Stop #2: Tama Negara National Park. Malaysia's largest national park

I was gleeful  to be visiting  one of the world's oldest ecosytems.  It was apparent, nearly from boarding the mini-bus, that it was a stop on Southeast Asia's infamous banana pancake trail.  I was neatly shuttled from one touristy stop to another on the mini-bus and relegated to a shared seat on the narrow longboat through the jungle.  I caught a glimpse of a fantastic blue winged leaf bird before we zoomed into the gateway community of Kuala Tahan.

I found a guesthouse run by a Muslim family, settling into a little place for $7 a night and going to explore.  Before long, it was clear that there were about 4 different activities to engage in around the park:  rapid shooting and village visiting, a night 4WD tour (our bright lamps stun wildlife and they can't move!), guided hiking and boat trips with iterations of waterfalls.  All were advertised in large billboards around town, each departure time punctuated with groups of young people eager for diversions.

I elected to spend my first day going for a walk by myself with a mission to do the canopy walk (longest in the world) before the crowds of guided hikers made their way.  It was easy to start- with boardwalks and signage-- and after knocking out the first goal I decided to attempt the closest

Originally built as an observation station for
the forest canopy, the walk is a fantastic
 opportunity to both experience acrophobia
and the upper story of the jungle. 

 hill summit- Bukkit Teresek.  In an experience reminiscent of hiking up and out from the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon, I passed many tourists coming down, following their guides. Some dressed in colorful saris and headscarves and now one looking particularly tussled.  I, however, was attired in my favorite jungle hiking outfit, complete with my made in America bandanna.  On the upwards, I went up stair after stair, perspiring heavily in each step.

Jungle all the way!  Taman Negara is
Malaysian for national park. A
showpiece of land management with
tigers and other large species still inhabiting
the huge area of the park.

At the top, hordes of sweat-eating bees were patiently awaiting the arrival of yet another water-radiating human. It would have been great to take in the view, but the sound and sense of the bees (indeed, they were not there to bite, just to drink) was tortuous.  I managed to take a quick snap shot, and then hightailed it down.

 I love a loop trail; I'll always pick that instead of going out and back.  So when I saw the tattered rope leading down the hillside, it made sense to try and go. It was a stream bed trail, punctuated by rocks and slippery muddy descents. Small groups of the bees would make an occasional appearance,  bird songs surrounded me but no sightings of the singers.  Even small sections of old and abandoned walkway were unstable, the plastic lumber rotted from rain and age.  I became a bit overwhelmed with the irrational fears of terrorist macaque monkeys and the vast unknown of this dense ecosystem.

In the relative safety of a very large tree root blissfully free of  enormous red ants, I stopped to catch my breath.  I was relieved to hear the voices of others, and surely enough two young German men made their way down, complaining about the bees and exclaiming over the rustic nature of the "trail".  We hiked together until we hit the main intersection that followed the river, and from here I was left to trudge farther behind another uber-fit Euro family with two children under ten. At this point, I felt that my entire body had been turned inside out, my clothing drenched and sticky. My sneakers soles separated from the foot bed. ( I had foreshadow of this in Vietnam but I thought I could get away with it.)   Before long another boardwalk trail signaled a return to the park entrance.  A Chinese man with a pristine white towel under his ball cap, accompanied by his female partner in short shorts  and Keds, asked "What's ahead?  Mountains? Jungle? River?"  "All of it." I replied, "but the trail down from the mountain is a bit rough."   He looked me up and down, "Yes, I can see that."

In nearly every other stop on the Southeast Asia backpacker trail, one would expect to see lots of bars. But in this Muslim community the restaurants closed by 9pm. Cats are everywhere with nary a dog to be found (Muslims think dogs are unpure).  I had a late afternoon shower, nap and requisite Naxproxen dose, and an early dinner. It was good to rest my very stiff thighs the next day and went for a boat trip up the Latah Berkoh river and finalized my plans to spend an overnight in the Cameron Highlands.

The highlight of this boat trip was when
the guides turned off the motor and just paddled
down the rapids in practiced perfection. 

Stop #3: Tanah Rata
If I have learned one thing from traveling in Southeast Asia, it is that anytime you take any form of transit, you must not eat anything beforehand and pack a barf bag in your carry-on.  As we pulled into the Eight Guesthouse,  the proprietor exclaimed, "the queen! the queen!"  Apparently, there are not many women over 50 checking into this place.  Within minutes, I was set up with a bed in the dorm, a tea plantation tour the next morning and a bus ticket to Kuala Lumpur in the afternoon.

This is the new normal for 20-something
backpacker chicks to leave in common space
in a 6 bed dorm. I feel old. 

I had a great overnight visit there: a lovely host, a delightfully cool climate  surrounded by mountains and farms and gift shops with giant stuffed strawberries,plenty of hiking opportunities, Indian food, scones and tea.   However, the bus trip down was worse than the mini-bus going up, despite my relatively empty stomach I was in agony for most of the curvy, fast trip with only 6 of us on the entire bus; the driver gleefully whistling tunes and tailgating cargo trucks.   I was so happy to get on the highway.

Our great guide explaining tea,

and the Phylliidae leaf insect. Wow! 

 the mossy forest

My last night, I was in a small box of a hotel room near the airport in KL.  I had to leave for the airport at 4am despite protests from the front desk staff that because I was leaving from the brand new KLIA-2, that it was recommended to be at the airport 3 hours in advance of my 6am flight.

This trip made me wonder-- perhaps being away for a week a month in the scope of a consuming work load was too much.   Perhaps because I was "in" my work email for nearly the entire duration, that I never really got away.  Maybe being so close to the tourist trail made me feel more lonely than going out on a limb in places less traveled. Regardless, soon I will be returning to both homelands-- the first time back to Alaska since I left in October 2011-- and the promise of a new beginning of unfettered liberation from debt and obligation.  

Traveling Light, Part 1

The regular tapping of the mallet against a chisel faded in and out as I passed by on the back of a motorbike on the road under construction between Nam Ban village and Dalat in Vietnam.  “I will never complain about my job again”, I thought to myself as the late-middle aged “easy rider” motorcycle tour guide carefully navigated through ruts of rich red mud and large yellow machinery.

The men squatted on top of 8 foot square chunks of beautiful granite, endlessly chipping lines into the slabs.  There hands were bare, but nearly all other parts of their body were covered.  The incessant labor yields about 10,000 Vietnamese dong (50 cents) per small rectangular brick.  The workers slept on bamboo slats surrounded by blue tarps, the square shanties set up on the side of the roadway, amid the rubble and slash of a new road.

I was making new inroads myself, albeit much less laborious.  This trip was the first time in many years that I traveled without an advance reservation upon a destination. It was also the first time to Viet Nam and the first solo trip in a couple of years.  The general itinerary was one week- three days in the Cat Tien National Park and three days in the mountain town of Dalat. It was a rough few weeks in advance of the holiday: staff distracted with the Khmer New Year holiday and my closest colleague moving on to a great new position.  It was time to go on vacation.  

As I got off the bus in Saigon (also known as Ho Chi Minh City) right in the middle of the city’s tourist district, I looked around to get oriented and headed in the general direction of where I knew there would be guesthouses.  I meandered down an alley and an old man gestured to a place, so I went in. It was a nice family-owned place. A basic room with aircon. Breakfast included. $14. The husband, a doctor, gave me a complimentary packet of vitamin C tablets because I sneezed when I ate noodles for breakfast.

This general approach- simply going with the flow of the events around you—was the hallmark of this trip.  I hiked in the deep jungle with a couple of British guys, biked all day with an American woman from the midwest and saw birds, wildlife and magnificent trees. I rode a sleeper bus for the first time, happened across another cheap, family run guesthouse,  bought a plane ticket in cash, walked for miles in the rain and got a great deal on an all-day motorbike tour of waterfalls, pagodas and organically processed (i.e. pooped out through the colons of weasels) coffee with a guy who barely spoke English.

This serendipity and positive flow, albeit relatively modest, felt like it reappeared after a long dormancy.  In the breaks between the intensity of seasonal work between 1990 and 1998, I often planned journeys that meandered. I explored new places, reading richly about the place, using paper maps and intuition to guide my way.

 I wrote a lot, met all sorts of new people/characters and was simply content in being myself in transition.  Naturally, I often longed for a travel companion, but frankly I was largely content to be on my own path and at the wheel of my trusty toyota station wagon.

Now, my packing system is very deft. light and utilitarian. I have a little more cash to invest in experiences and local guides. The internet is a tool that has changed everything.  My smart phone, journal, kindle and a small packet of paper logistics is all I need.  The unfettered flow of vacation amid natural places was a great antidote to the muscular paralysis of my day job.   My dream schedule  involves rigorous activity every morning, naps and reading in the afternoon, and a short walk and reflection at sunset.



Here are a few photos from the journey:

The mighty Mekong river.  The bus station was a teeming mass
of people waiting, streaming into bus doors and general mayhem
on the Saturday morning before Khmer New Year. 

The sleeper bus from Saigon to Cat Tien National Park, a nice way to stretch out.
Upper level is a bit nausea inducing. 

The guide scampered to the tree top to gather fruit. He was a member
of the tribal minoritysupported by the Ta Lai Longhouse ecotourism scheme.
Lots of great stuff on this half day hike, including
beautiful tropical plants that emitted red and yellow flowers through the root system. 

Vietnamese nun taking photo of her friend
 dressed up as royalty in Dalat's summer palace. 

Dalat's crazy house. An epic and bizarre architectural
tribute to humans and their relationship with nature.  

These old-growth bonsai are just remarkable. 

 Thank you monks for making it completely clear.
White people take heed. 

Elephant Falls. Stunning. A trampoline and a meager
 iron fence were the only things at the cliff at the top. 

My guide, Mr. Diaw, leading me down the
highly sketchy path to the bottom of the falls. 

One Buddhist diety at Linh An pagoda; interesting
to note the four faces as this is a key icon
in Khmer Buddhism. The second diety in this temple
 had similar hands, each with an item on the palm. That's
the image on my smartphone. 

Silk worms. 

Their cocoons are jumbled around in hot water to unfurl the threads
that are bundled on spools.

Spools woven into fabric.

“Live with intention.
Walk to the edge.
Listen Hard.
Practice wellness.
Play with abandon.
Laugh.
Choose with no regret.
Appreciate your friends.
Continue to learn.
Do what you love.
Live as if this is all there is.”

--Mary Anne Radmacher

  

Steamy Stagnation

In recent days,  the temperature is steadily gaining momentum.   The midday foray across the street to forage for lunch becomes an eye-squinting sweaty march for provisions.  The hallway just outside my office is cool from the aircon leaking underneath the bottom of the doors.  As I turn move across a skybridge to another building, the heat hits like a blast from a clothes dryer. In the hospital's courtyard garden, people receiving medical care at the hospital overtake every wooden bench for lying down.  Small children sleep splayed out on the ubiquitous blue plastic chairs, their caregivers half dozing nearby.  

https://alum.mit.edu/sites/default/files/migrated/news/WhatMatters/images/choi_hawley_cambodia_man_fan_483.jpg

Everyone gets a little grumpy this time of year, sleep deprived and tired of the sticky patina of sweat, exhaust fumes and the ever-present Phnom Penh dust. I’m now using two fans  in the bedroom, angled from both floor level and wall level to keep a steady breeze moving through the night.  I routinely use the highest setting for the ceiling fan in the living room, overcoming my fear of it spinning out of control and wreaking havoc.  Its faithful whirling makes an empty beer can drift in negligible circular movements. 

This time of year I find myself drifting into the “western apartment fantasy”, a recurring vision where someone else supports my residence in an immaculately maintained building. The dream place has a shaded rooftop pool, a lovely balcony and a bedroom where high quality linens are placed on a firm yet forgiving pillowtop mattress cocooned by gentle aircon.  Several weeks ago I attended an open house reception for a building such as this, located across the river to overlook the Phnom Penh cityscape.  There was free flow wine, a lovely rooftop beer garden buffet (on the same floor as the decadent kids play room and adjacent gym) and good company with a variety of work colleagues.  Then, on the 17 flight descent  to the parking garage,  the elevator jolted to a halt, punctuated by a loud thunk.  

There was a moment of silence among the three of us.  I pushed the alarm button three times in a row.  “Hello. May I help you?”  a polite heavily accented voice answered promptly.  After stating our problem, the young voice pertly replied, “Please wait ten minutes.”   Shortly after, in what seemed like much longer with my prison mates impatiently fueling the general anxiety in the small space, the doors were forced open.  Our elevator was four feet below the floor.  We started up at the security guards, somewhat bewildered.  The rustled around, passed down an end table and then we were liberated.  “Please”, the uniformed guard gestured to another elevator. “Oh,no thank you.”, we all replied in unison.  “We’ll take the stairs.”  More and more, I find myself living with a fatiguing  frustration created from a shiny façade that hides the all too frequently shoddy infrastructure under the surface.   

http://derekwinnert.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/388.jpg

I am still toiling through innumerable projects at work, consumed with a workload that fuels impatience with my colleagues.  At times I’m dismayed about deficit problem solving skills and motivation, and incredulous of my perceptions of lack of competence.  My hopes and dreams for institutional capacity building have been foiled by the recent resignation of a close colleague, whose departure represents a huge step forward for his professional career and gaping cavern of responsibilities in the wake of his upcoming departure.  Some days I look longingly at the crisp clear photos of bluebird spring skiing adventures in Alaska and reminiscence  about cold air.   

There's a pervasive sense of being a little stuck, of not wanting to move more than you have to to get anything done.  The upcoming Khmer New Year is a huge national holiday celebrating the end of the harvest season, the arrival of the New Year angel who also heralds some predictions for the next year.  

A model portraying an angel carries a statue representing the severed
head that marks the beginning of Khmer New Year. Photo by Post Staff

 We are having the office party on April 4th, also my 52^nd birthday. This annual event has consumed significant staff time to orchestrate, plan and rehearse (something that fuels a bit of consternation.  Does it really take three people to go shopping for the staff gift?)   I've been measured for a new dress.  The seamstress is now already a day late in finishing it. 

 Most real action is getting postponed until after the holiday. Most evenings, groups of men gather with their shirts pulled up over their bellies to cool off. Everyone waits for the rains to come.   Only the trees, showing off in the middle of this languorous  season, are blooming in beautiful color and rich fragrance. 

In Transit

We sat on a bench waiting for the mini-bus in the morning.  Kampot's faded and worn colonial buildings remained stoic among the morning routines of the people in the neighborhood: the grandmother playing with her grandson, the thin man pushing the loaded cart of green coconuts, which would shortly have their tops lopped off to reach the juice through the pastel straw. 

The tuk tuk arrived  overloaded with European travelers with enormous bags.  A man emerged from the depths with tattoos peeking out from his tanktop, and forceful black frame sunglasses that framed skull nearly bald except for  with a thick set of dreadlocks emerging from the back.  The a sub-oceanic creature blinked in the morning sun's bright light, heaved the bag over a shoulder, lumbered to the bench and collapsed.

From "6 Ways to becoming a true backpacker" by Daniel McBane, #1- grow dreadlocks.

“We’re guests in the wild,” I would tell the people on our pre-trip briefings before we embarked to the wilderness. “Our job is to respect the locals, some of which will kill you if they are surprised.  So try to be  a good guest.  Be aware.  Clean up after yourself.  Respect the way things are done here.”   I dress primly when I'm on the road.

The van arrived moments later, and my traveling companion Sally and I played the “I’m in last” game.  As I slid the door closed, the tourist mini-bus inflated with an aura of transitional fatigue and dull boredom, self-importance flavored with a tinge of nonchalance.  We reached a junction and the driver muttered, “Here go to Koh Rong”.  I opened the door and stood to the side as the travelers exited.

A couple staggered out of the inside seats, stiff and limping.  The male had a fierce case of road rash on the shin, a large swatch of raw angry pink skin exposed directly to the sun.   His female companion took the worse for the wear, likely on the back seat of their rented moto bike.  Below her little denim shorts,  her leg wrapped in spotlessly white bandages from thigh to calf, abraded skin peeking out amid the splotches of purple mercurochrome trim around the edges of the wounds.  Her face had a few scratches, her eyes filled with the resigned slog of moving through a ceaseless itinerary when a more sensible idea might have been to sequester in a place with good supplies of clean running water, amply stocked pharmacy and shade. We loaded back in and headed east.

I counted the mile markers along the side until we reached the promised number of our destination in Om Chamnar.  The minibus slowed along and pulled out alongside the highway.  The horde of motodups descended upon us in a swarm.   Shortly after retrieving my bag from the back of the minibus, I placed it at my feet between my legs and began to negotiate.  An old man tugged at the handle  to claim me for himself, moaning words of Khmer that were incomprehensible in the moment.  His clothes were tattered and I was torn between the surprise of the gesture (I hadn't experienced this in Cambodia before) and the pressure to make a decision and get on our way.

The bus stop in Oum Chamnar, looking north. www.koh-thmei-resort.com

In that moment the answer presented itself when  a vital young man pulled up in front of us with his moto and said, “I know.”  I agreed and hired his friend and within moments Sally and I were headed across the highway down the dirt road to the coast.   The two motodup boys chatted away alongside each other as I took the chance to smile at Sally and share the “I have no idea where we are going” look.  The breeze was cool and crisp, red dirt roads taking us to  We pulled into a rural school yard, a team of 15 3-year olds streamed out of the building, shouting “Loi Loi Loi (money money money”, their little arms waving to come up to meet us with keen and eager faces. Moments later, as I as I shook my head to the motodup, they stopped in a stunned silence and stared.  We stopped at another school on a second attempt.  I pulled out the dictionary to show “boat” and laughter pealed among us with brilliant Cambodian smiles about the "misunderstanding".  Once we were delivered, the boys wanted more money at the dock for the detour.

On the boat ride to the island  And then I remembered the words of the old man who tried to take my bag.   He was saying, “I have no money.  I want food.”and  I realized the motodup boys had likely taken us for a scam.

Walking

Love those trees.

The moment I turn the corner of the towering palace walls, my soul feels like Phnom Penh after a hard rain has broken the escalating afternoon heat of the day.  The evening walk is a purifier, settling the anxieties of the workday and allowing for a determined stride and an observant mind to take in all elements of the community here.  Earlier this month, I lost myself in the vicious drive of a  deadline,  spiraling into the cavern of frayed nerves,  cravings for Western junk food and narrow, glazed survival mode.  Now, I was stepping out. 

The area surrounding the palace and the parallel riverside waterfront are around the corner, one reason why I am keen to keep my inexpensive apartment despite the lack of air conditioning, unending grimy dust and the decrepit furniture.  As I pass by the majestic trees that line the street and listen to the rabble-rousing of the mynas and the unceasing siren of the cicada, Cambodians are playing badminton and a posse of children rides bikes, racing them unfettered down the center line of the closed off road.  Grandmothers walk determinedly waving their arms about  through this peaceful transition zone.

To get to the river, I have to cross Sisowath Quay, a major two lane riverfront thoroughfare.   On a lucky day, I’ll be crossing the street at the same time as a group of women, who will often take my hand to navigate through the slowly creeping motorbikes and cement trucks.  The other side is a heaven of vehicle free community.  

The front of the Royal Palace.

My harbinger is a man with crippled legs sits in front of a scale, waiting for people to weigh in and give him a few reil. Most evenings the flags lining the riverbank are jaunty in the breeze.  I join into the procession: women selling pickled vegetables on their heads, all sorts of older men gathered in conversation, naked children with the telltale orange hair of malnutrition, tourists in impeccable linens,  small groups of boys playing football. The vendors with balloons crowding the back of their bicycles intermingle with toddlers bouncing in a drunken trot.  The aerobics classes congregate in rows, dancing in a small box of movements to their leader.  Most evenings the small covered boats of the river people  pull up at the base of the concrete riverbanks, discharging the children to run and the mothers to sit idly by and talk among themselves.   

If I’m lucky, I’ll see Lin and try to keep up with her for a while.  She proudly walks at least 3 laps (about 5 miles) by herself most evenings.  She owns and operates a laundry in neighborhood after divorcing her slacker husband. While some small things change through the seasons, the general tenor remains the same. My riverside walks have become a regular part of my life.

This always makes me smile.

This week marks the one-year anniversary of my job.  With new responsibility,  I've built capacity for fundraising and some other physical manifestations: weight gain, joint pains from overuse of the computer, an increasing recurrence of depressive episodes that challenge my normally positive nature and "can-do" spirit.  Since December, I’d been scheming that I would reclaim my life after Lois’s visit and the deadline that loomed shortly after she left.

 

And thus, as that milestone passed, the Universe opened with new prospects for the future. The hospital’s new leader is committed to development. I finally met with a wellness coach who is offering me support.   On Friday, I took the day off from work to go “to the mountain” to see Ratha's grandmother.  "Helend", she said when we discussed this earlier in the week, "no one will be working so you should come with me."  It was a Cambodian “triple play” holiday--the end of Chinese New Year, Valentines Day and Meak Bochea Day--and so in the early morning I was on my way to at a remote temple on the top of a hill in Kampong Speu province, a two hour westbound tuk tuk ride with my friend who sells noodles across the street from my apartment. 

Meak Bochea, the full moon of the third month in lunar calendar,  celebrates a spontaneous gathering of over 1,000 monks to hear the most important three precepts from the Buddha: do no harm, spread goodwill and purify you mind.  We stopped for breakfast and at the market to buy things, were passed by overloaded local transit and gleaming luxury SUVs headed to the province, and then down a dirt road with the large, ornate, painted cement archway.

How much do you weigh?”, they asked as we all looked at the daunting  road that led to the top.  I’d seen an elderly woman walking her way up the road just after we arrived , but Ratha would have been miffed had I insisted to take the 700 stairs to the top.   In that moment of ascending groaning moto transport, I was lifted into a different world.  Small shrines to honor specific Buddhist figures were scattered around the property.  Ratha and I walked to each one, sat and chanted with three sticks of incense clasped between our palms. At the end we nestled the sticks between the old ones to continue burning, the current honor held in place by those of the past.

After lunch Ratha, her grandmother and two old women carrying offerings went down the first shrine for some time of ceremony.  “This is my time.”, she said unequivocally, standing with a Cambodian bathing sheet wrapped around her body, and I was left to my own devices. I found my way to the very top of the hill at a now unused shrine.  I stood for some moments looking out over the top of a spire with the four faced Buddha, not only representing cardinal directions but also the sublime states of Buddhism: charity, compassion, sympathy and equanimity.

The unending landscape of dry rice fields stretched out before me.   I was taken back to my experiences in Thailand: the simple joy of the dinner delivery lady that facilitated an evening “power ride" in the forest temple across the street, the simplicity of chanting prayers to the Buddha each morning after the National anthem, and the turmoil of the past year at the hospital and its impact on my psyche. 

In this moment, well after the frenzy of a dismal holiday season and the ensuing promise of the new year, I felt a shift.  For now, perhaps I could make a commitment to recapture my spirit, to eddy out after the fantastic set of emotional rapids over the past six months and reclaim my love of exercise, whole grains, the small gifts of kind smiles and writing my own stories.   Ratha was relaxed, washed and dressed as we stood at the top of the stairs to make our way down to the tuk tuk.  “Thank you very much,” I said in Khmer, leafing through my pocket dictionary to show her the Khmer script: peaceful.

2013 Year in Review

So Not Home for the Holidays

I was filled with bliss on the evening walk home on an evening in early December. Dry season has arrived with crisp cool breezes and I was imbued with a general fresh feeling, poised for new opportunities and endeavors.   My friendly fellow knitters and I had spent the evening scheming on a new collaborative fiber art project (Storming the Cyclo 2014) at the local vegan arts café and I was happy to feel connected and directed on something other than my job.

In the midst of my internal euphoria, I was startled and saddened to see the young boy lying on the small patch of grass alongside the towering wall surrounding the Royal Palace.  Face down, he was motionless and seemingly abandoned.  I stopped for a moment and looked at him, noted the gentle rising and falling of his chest and glanced around for any adult nearby.  The storefront lights in the window of the high- end furniture store across the street illuminated the western-style bed frame and nightstand, gleaming and pristine white.  For a moment I was paralyzed by wanting to wake him up and take him home and the unfortunate helplessness that comes from being, by most practical means, unable to do to absolutely anything in that moment to help him without creating a scene of misunderstandings and inappropriate foreigner behavior.  I kept walking and he haunted me for a while. 

That experience was tame compared to India. My trip to Bangalore involved a conference on neglected tropical diseases, with international experts presenting short briefing sessions, some of which were  completely incomprehensible 10 minute speed sessions of the acronym filled, accent-laden, tiny font on complex chart PowerPoint presentations about diseases that very few have heard of.

Depicting symptoms of meliodosis, also known as "the great mimicker." It is frequently misdiagnosed. Because our lab can grow microbiological cultures, it can be identified and treated. 

These problems: leishmaniasis, schistosomaisis, lymphatic filariasis and meliodosis  plague the very poor:  insects and reptile bites, parasites, and complex bacteria resulting from substandard housing, lack of access to clean water, decent sanitation and quality health care. Because they individually impact very few, they do not receive adequate funding for research and treatment.  These diseases kill, maim and impede any progress to alleviating poverty and sustaining economic development. They are deemed neglected in contrast to HIV, TB and Malaria. 

After a few days of being ensconced in the cocoon of a nice hotel and after the close of the conference, I found a couple of colleagues who were interested in a road trip to Mysore on Sunday.  In the early morning departure,  the traffic was already apparent.   India is so noisy;  life there a barrage of honking horns, speeding vehicles and whoever happens to be in the road at the time: small dogs, grandmothers in brilliant saris and cows.

 I was already queasy from three days of the hotel’s buffet.   The hair-raising winding ascension to the mountaintop temple proved to be too much for my stomach and with a desperate, universally understood plea, I literally lost my lunch.  On our next tourist stop, my Sundanese colleague’s wallet was stolen from her purse. It was an eventful tour.

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After the hell-bent taxi ride to the airport delivered me with time to spare at the gate, I mulled over the cows begging at the Chamundi temple.  I saw a family drop a peeled orange on the ground. The cow stepped up and sucked it up in a jiffy and then approached the family for more, scattering the mother carrying her son and startling the grandmother into slow-motion action. Another cow scoped out the parking lot,  ambled over to the tour bus decorated with long strings of marigolds and promptly set upon eating all of them, stumbling away with the long white thread of the garland tangled around its hooves. While some seem well-fed, others were curled up on the pavement as the humans walked around them. There are always contrasts everywhere.

Sofitel Phnom Penh serves Pumpkin Poup. 

I arrived at the  evening buffet at the Sofitel on the back of a motodop. who likely makes as much money in two weeks as I was going to spend for dinner in a night.  I was invited by a friend to join her group for an expensive feast with all the fixings. However, shortly after we were seated it became glaringly apparent that the staff was both overwhelmed and clueless.  The chefs were pleading for forgiveness from the anxious Americans lined up to receive their allotted portion of the rapidly disappearing turkey; there were no cranberries.  Wisps of pumpkin pie slices were forlorn on the platters.  The disgruntled patrons began loading up on sushi and rich cheeses, I was intrigued with roast duck and the marshmallows in the chocolate fountain. What should have been great was not. 

The end of Thanksgiving week delivered the Asian version of Christmas: towering glittery purple and silver trees in the lobbies of shopping centers and upper middle class venues,  techno-electric variations of old favorites and mini-skirted waitresses in santa hats.  Many of the expats are preparing for visits home (two of my friends have not had a Christmas in their homeland for at least four years) and the juxtaposition and contrasts of my life here are achieving remarkable clarity, yet also triggering memories of a holidays spent in past jobs.

Between 1984 and 1989, I worked as a street outreach counselor in downtown Boston. My job entailed a daily patrol around the edges and peripheries of urban existence: street hustlers, punk rockers and townies kids with horrible family histories.  The youth were marginalized and always bored; the holiday season amplified the sense of disconnection and failure and of wanting and lacking. They congregated in the evening, after the blaring music was turned off and hustling shoppers laden with brightly covered shopping bags had returned to their homes.  Sometimes the  "Merry Christmas!" greetings perpetuate a myth that all of us recognize, on some level, was never really was real in the first place.  We've all had the presents that never manifested under the tree, the family gatherings that got a little creepy, the New Year’s eves where we went to bed early and just waited for the morning when it would be all over and we could begin afresh.

For the youth on the streets of Boston, the agency would plan a special day; staff were assigned to man the tables by lottery.  We put together an early holiday lunch buffet with everything, cleared the classroom floor and rented a videocassette movie.   The youth were so appreciative; not only to have a full-on stuff your face food fest, but also to have a warm, comfortable place to stretch out and relax in the middle of the day with a full belly.  The room was filled with the scent of unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke, punctuated with the occasional snoring and whispered commentary.  It was simply a day unlike any other; a time to capture a small gift of the generosity before the movie ended and the reality of street life resumed. 

In the midst of all of the contrasts between my expat friends and of the incredibly thin, terribly sick and unspeakably poor patients that I pass by on my walk to my office in the hospital each morning,  I'm not tuned into the Christmas spirit.  There's a longing and wistful nostalgia for the comfort of family and familiar tradition, yet my choices and circumstances have me here with one foot lightly resting on each world.   Two years ago in Thailand, it seemed easier.  I paraded my way through morning assembly in a santa suit and led a rendition of jingle bells because I was the only foreigner around.   I taught classes for the rest of the day and opened presents from home in the evening and made plans for New Year vacation on the beach.

from Phnom Penh Post. Inflatable reindeer and
glittery garland are on display everywhere.

This year, the community of expats around me creates feelings of what "should be".  There's a loose plan to meet for a river boat trip, keeping it open for people to do their own thing for dinner.  The big hotels and restaurants are putting together set menus.  My Christian colleagues have services planned.  I'm laying low, unresolved about whether it is better to spend lots of money in crowded restaurants with  casual acquaintances or if I want to find my favorite noodle shop.  I'll go to work a little late and leave a little early. I'll be surrounded by my Buddhist colleagues,cooking up plans and getting things organized in the quiet lull of the holidays while the western world carries on.

Solstice is much more meaningful for me.   I'll celebrate and exercise in the power of a crisp high weather front, consider the potential of what will transpire in the new year and bolster commitments for how to achieve balance in this crazy expatriate life of homeless children and wine bars, of great potential and crushing reality, and of the pressing needs all around us and boundless compassion.  For soon, even here on the shores of the mighty Mekong river, the light will extend farther into the evening.

Winter greetings to all from the tropics~