Thailand Memories
… (continued from The Story of Rob and Bob)
AROUND THE WORLD
Chapter Thirty-One
On January 16, 1994, Rob and I set out to fulfill a dream of flying all the way around the world in one direction. Our adventure began in Los Angeles, as we headed west on Korean Airlines to our first destination in Southeast Asia. In a cafe on the Khao San Road in Bangkok, we sat reading the newspaper, about the devastating earthquake in Los Angeles, that we had just happened to avoid by a couple of hours. We were soon distracted though, by a voice that called out our names. “Aren’t you Rob and Bob, the yoga teachers from Loutro, Crete,” a man asked, as his wife peaked over his shoulder to get a closer look at us. Just moments before, both of us had felt about as far away from our lives and pasts as anyone could possibly feel. But that illusion passed quickly, as we realized we were now a part of an international group of expatriates who roam the world in search of the next fix of exotic experiences.
Of course, both of us being obsessive compulsive, we had read everything we could about the places we would visit. For the first week we struggled with all the fears we had accumulated from reading guide books. But one by one, those fears were replaced with real life experiences that eventually had us laughing about our naive acceptance of other people’s apprehensions. As we adapted, we soon found ourselves hanging our food on the clothesline across the front porch to keep the rats from entering the sleeping quarters. After dark, we learned to carry a big stick for scratching the gravel in the road to scare away the cobras. Each night before sunset, we religiously lowered the mosquito nets around the beds. When sunning on the beach near the coconut jungle, we kept one hand on the strap of our backpack to prevent it being stolen by a monkey waiting patiently above in one of the trees. We learned not to sit on the same pillow we use for our head, because the head is sacred. I hadn’t had that many new experiences each day since I was a very young boy. That was a major motivation for our behavior as travelers. Recreating the excitement of youth.
One day a woman walked up to our table and announced that we were her kind of people. Angelika was an artist in Berlin’s Kreuzberg. She had traveled to Koh Samui with a small carry-on bag that contained only the bare necessities. Her wardrobe was all new, a collection of silk sarongs and flowing cotton throws arranged on her body as only an artist from Berlin would know how to do. We sat at tables in the sand playing Yahtzee and other dice games for hours. We shared stories from our worldwide adventures and ate all our meals together. Being in our fourth year of travel, we now understood the importance of creating temporary families, forever reliving those summer vacations as children, when we would eventually have to bid goodbye to our new found friends. But this time we would not return to our “normal” lives back home. We would brace instead, for the next challenge, knowing that patience is essential for the first few days, until we learned the new rules for survival.
In The Center of Southeast Asia.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Samui is in the Gulf of Thailand. It is very centrally located. To the south lie Malaysia, Singapore, Brunei and Indonesia. To the east and northeast lie Vietnam and Cambodia. To the north are Laos and Burma (Myanmar), which form a buffer to the south coast of China. To the west and northwest are India, Bhutan, Nepal and Sri Lanka. We live at the edge of a village called Maenam. At the end of the beach is a cove that separates us from the Big Buddha statue on the opposite shore. Through the middle of Maenam runs a river that connects to the north shore of the sea. Beside the river is a path through the jungle to the southeast coast of the island to the town of Lamai.
We have found an excellent place to eat called Magic View. It’s a shack with three tables, a loud generator and loud music from a boom box. Most things on the menu are less than a dollar, except for the Magic Omelet which costs 200 baht or about 8 dollars. It is made with psilocybin (psychedelic) mushrooms. One more experience to challenge our Puritanical American roots. Even without the omelet, we found the view is still magical.
One evening everything exploded at The Magic View. Jaroon had a fight with his wife, Am Pah, the cook. The altercation spilled out into the seating area, Am Pah coming at Jaroon with a chef’s knife. Rob and I pulled Jaroon off of his wife while Angelika managed to get the knife out of Am Pah’s hand. The next morning we found two khao tom madt, traditional sweet rice wrapped in banana leaves, tied to our door knob, with an apology from Jaroon. In our other life we would have avoided Jaroon after what we had witnessed. But the next evening we returned to The Magic View for dinner. Everything resumed as it had been before.
Finding Paradise Again
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rob and Bob’s time on the island of Samui was very different than the Greek islands. We offered yoga, massage and breath work for free. Everything was so ridiculously cheap, it didn’t make sense to charge. One of our students went into a trance while dancing around a bonfire on the beach during the full moon. We later discovered he was addicted to heroin. The veil was slowly lifted from a counterculture that was right under our noses all along. We were surprised at how easily we had discarded our American bred desire to judge. After our encounter with drug related violence at The Magic View, we had been initiated.
We were observers, only participating when there was no other choice. We quickly became friends with Londoners who had been coming to Mae Nam for years, spending three or four months each winter. We spent many evenings riding in the back of Jeeps, searching for the next hot dining spot. Exotic meals served beside the water on tables in the sand, became the norm. I found some kind of solace in the company of the British who seemed to best understand where we were coming from. By the time of our departure for Athens, we had been invited to stay in London on the last leg of our around the world tour. In my mind I envisioned Rob and myself joining the Brits each winter. Of course that would never be true for Rob. But after his death, I returned in winters for the next 12 years.
Traveling Alone
Chapter Thirty-Four
At 47, I realized I was not comfortable traveling alone. My friend John was always telling me how lucky I was to have Rob, because traveling with someone was easier and much more enjoyable. I decided to go back to Koh Samui in January, 1996, to practice traveling alone before returning to Loutro in April for Rob’s memorial. I thought of John’s words as I boarded the flight to Bangkok. He was right about traveling being easier with a companion. My trip to Bangkok was made even more difficult because of the grief I carried from the loss of my traveling companion. I believe John’s characterization of traveling alone carried an implied reference to loneliness. On that flight to Bangkok, I understood that Rob and Bob had been an entity of one. One half of me had been ripped away, leaving me unsteady like an 18 month old child who has just learned to walk.
I arrived in Bangkok after midnight. I walked out onto the taxi area where Rob and I had chosen the friendliest looking face among men standing beside well worn automobiles, waiting to drive us to their family owned hotel. We loved the excitement of throwing ourselves at the mercy of a complete stranger in such an exotic place. As I walked along the sidewalk, the men outstretched their hands, each reciting a short phrase to describe the hotel they were pitching. I could not find a friendly face among them. I finally gave up, jumping into the nearest car, trying not to look my captor in the eye.
In 1994, Rob and I had been driven to a hotel very near the airport, just a few minutes drive. But I now found myself in the backseat of a car winding down dark roads, passing fires where street people were cooking food. As we turned into an industrial area even darker than the streets we left behind, I did my best to project a calm demeanor, while my mind was conjuring up several scenarios that were also dark. Then we suddenly made a right turn onto a narrow road barely wide enough for two cars. The sides of the road were stacked with junk, old rusting cars, forming walls that led to the end of the road that was now evident.
There, at the end of the road, a bright white light shone into the darkness. A beautiful neon sign shouted out the word HOTEL, proclaiming the existence of this unlikely oasis in the middle of a junk desert. The moment I walked through the front door, all my fears vanished. I realized traveling alone did not mean giving up the basic reason I was attracted to travel in the first place. I could still be challenged by new experiences, destroying old fears in the process.
Maenam, 19 January 2000
Chapter Thirty-Five.
Tomorrow is my 51st birthday, and on the full moon! The twenty hours of flight were just as grueling as always. After 4 hours of sleep in the Bangkok airport hotel I took an early morning flight to the island. I arrived at Cleopatra’s to find that all the wooden bungalows had been replaced with new bigger concrete bungalows. They lack the charm and adventure of the original bungalows and the price is 4 times more. There is a special market for the wooden bungalows. I hope someone will stop the destruction before they all disappear. I got nervous when I saw a 7-ELEVEN store in Maenam, on my first shopping trip. Internet and e-mail are the big new industry now.
My bungalow is about 25 feet from the ocean. Although I have screens on my windows I bought a mosquito net anyway. There is a feeling of crawling back into the womb when one sleeps under a net. There is an illusion of being totally safe from any kind of danger. The last two nights I have gone to bed at 9:00 PM and awakened at 6:00, then watched the sunrise. Most of the night the only sound I hear is the surf. I am once again in the process of healing from all the stress accumulated by living in the modern world. The first few days are a practice of watching my thoughts. The heat and humidity are a wonderful tool for this. I am always amazed at the automatic desire to “do something” that has been created by the expectations of the system and culture we have created. Now I know the secret by heart, after traveling for so many years. At the moment I let go of the idea that I have something I must do, I enter the world of synchronicity, then the serendipitous journey begins again. This is the moment when I truly begin to heal, the moment I can throw away all of my medicines because I have removed the cause instead of the symptom of illness. At the moment of this writing I can honestly say once again that I love my life. This is always the true test!
In Thailand, when you return to a bungalow, you are accepted into the family. They take care of you like you were a relative visiting for a holiday. There are no business formalities separating us from each other. Sonny, the new addition to our Cleopatra family is introduced to us all like we were aunts and uncles.
Last night Angelika and I returned to Magic View restaurant for our first shark dinner. When we first came to Koh Samui, Magic View was just a small shack on the beach that the owner Jaroon and a few friends had built in one day. His wife Ampa cooked on one gas burner that was placed on the dirt floor in the back room. We were always amazed that she could produce some of the best food in Maenam by squatting in front of that lone wok and turning out as many as 20 meals in one night. Now Jaroon has five bungalows and a new expanded restaurant with a more realistic kitchen. It still seats about 20 people and to our advantage Ampa still does all the cooking. There are two favorites that I use as my medicine when staying in Maenam. Last night I had my first dose of shark with pineapple, peppercorns and garlic. Today I will follow-up with the chicken coconut soup. These are two things that definitely make the 20 hour plane ride from San Francisco worth it!
Yesterday I made trips to Nathon and Chaweng to buy supplies. Transportation is by what Thais call taxis but we would call them pickup trucks. The backs are covered and there are benches on each side which would reasonably hold about ten people. On a busy run I have counted as many as 26 people. The last arrivals stand on the tailgate holding onto a bar provided around the edge of the roof. Something that is always obvious to westerners who come to Thailand is the apparent lack of regard for safety. It is simply another difference in cultural thinking. It is yet another reason I am drawn here. As one Thai man told me on the plane to Koh Samui, “it is no problem when I die today. I will come back again for another lifetime.” When I first arrived here in 1996 I had come from my sister’s in Texas. I had watched my niece buckle all her children into the seats of the car before each trip to the supermarket, as required by law. A few days later I found myself hanging from the back of a pickup truck going 60 miles an hour followed by a Thai woman on a motorcycle. Seated in front of the woman on the tank of the motorcycle was a baby who wasn’t much more than one year old. The mother had both hands on the handlebars and the baby was holding itself up! There we all were living on the edge together and it all seemed so real and somehow necessary. I felt that some great lie or illusion had been exposed to me in that experience. I think about it every time I want to embrace fear and retreat into some boring safe existence that’s not me!
Culture Shock, Again
Chapter Thirty-Six
It’s essential to take notes the first few days, before I begin to take everything for granted again. There are so many cultural differences to notice when I first arrive anywhere. As I was walking to Maenam village on the main road I was struck by the happiness of the people. So many people are smiling and their smiles seem to be so genuine. I watched a huge truck pass by, overloaded with some sort of building materials. On top of the building materials sat half a dozen young men, like children on a roller coaster in an amusement park. Their shiny black hair, erect spines, skin the color of coffee, all seemed perfect against the blue sky and marshmallow clouds. Their laughter was not suggestive of people who dreaded going to work.
As I crossed the narrow bridge into Maenam I was passed by a huge, very tall truck that was painted in typical, colorful Thai style. It was reminiscent of the circus wagons of my childhood. The bright colors, the ornate designs exude the splendor of a royal palace. I had to wonder what cargo such a truck might carry. The elegant Thai script is so beautiful I don’t care what it says. Perhaps I would be disappointed if I knew what it actually described. Maybe my imagination is better than the truth.
In Maenam I had come to shop for things for my bungalow. Many of the shops are packed with goods from the floor to the ceiling, leaving dark narrow isles that suddenly open at the back into a space with mats on the floor. Here the owners live with very few possessions. Perhaps they have a TV, a small cooking stove, a few clothes hanging upon a rack. There is something very beautiful about the simplicity of their lives, and yet they survive upon the needs of tourists hungry to consume all the unnecessary things packed upon their shelves.
And always I am amazed at the spectacle of people on motor bikes. Women sit side saddle with enormous woven baskets filled with necessities from the local market. Their husbands or sons drive close to the edge of the road as their mothers or wives balance themselves in ways that seems impossible to safety conscious Western eyes. Children ride without seat belts, sometimes three or four on one bike. As the bikes crawl along the edge of the road the rest of the world speeds by at a dangerous pace. There is something exciting about the danger, the lack of concern for the possibility of instant death. Perhaps it’s just that they accept what we deny. Perhaps it is better to die laughing than to live in the fear of dying.
Laem Sai, Christmas Eve 2002
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Every morning on the way to the beach there is a woman sitting in front of her small home doing ironing. I assume she does laundry for a living. I don’t think it’s a high stress job, sitting under coconut palms ironing shirts. Each morning she sits up when she sees me coming, puts on a huge smile and says good morning in perfect English. Each day she has a small question about my life. When she asked if I had children, she smiled when I answered no. “Me also, never marry!” she exclaimed, then laughed. Yesterday she asked my name, then told me her name is Thing. She spelled it out very slowly as though she were used to people questioning if they heard her correctly. I now affectionately call her Miss Thing. She laughs, but doesn’t quite understand all the implications from a Gay man from San Francisco.
At Cleopatra’s there is a boy named Boy. When I asked Sa why they named him Boy, she said he is so beautiful and feminine they though it would end the confusion many people have about his gender. Now that makes me wonder if I should ever ask Thing why they chose her name. Better leave that one alone!
At the school they are constructing some elaborate gates from concrete. I get a little paranoid each time I pass through them now. I have to wonder if they are constructing it to keep all the tourists from passing through while the road is in such bad shape. Oh well, I should just assume the new owners of Laem Sai will fix the road. Yesterday the exterminators came to spray all the bungalows with what they call DDT. I’m hoping the name is just a carry over from days gone by. They told me to go walk on the beach while they spray inside my bungalow. I told them if they spray inside my bungalow I would have to leave for the airport. “No, No, it all gone in one hour!” All I had to say was I have asthma. They went away without spraying my bungalow.
About 5:30 that evening I was working on my computer when I heard some sort of machine I thought sounded like a lawn mower. Suddenly I felt a burning sensation in my nose that quickly spread to my ears and behind my eyes inside my head. Then I couldn’t breathe. I felt this double thump in my chest and I thought I was going to have a heart attack. The life seemed to go out of my body with each thump and I really thought I was going to die. It was like my brain suddenly lost the ability to tell my body what to do. I went to the window and realized the entire bungalow was inside this huge white thick cloud. Then it occurred to me, they were spraying for mosquitos! I looked for my inhaler and couldn’t find it. I opened the door to try to escape and I could see places in the grass where the machine had come close. It looked like small fires everywhere with thick white smoke hugging the ground. When I finally did make it to the beach I kept falling sideways. I sat in the sand breathing in the salt air, trying to calm down. By then my entire head was ready to explode and I felt nauseous. I sat for quite a while experiencing all these strange sensations I’d never felt before. I wondered if I should ask someone to take me to a hospital. Somehow the beach seemed a better place to be.
When the woman who is in charge of housekeeping found out what had happened she was in tears. She found me on the beach and caught me as I was falling sideways. She said her father has asthma and she understands how difficult it can be. I really wonder if this was really about asthma or perhaps the chemicals had attacked my nervous system. She brought me a plate of fruit, went to my bungalow and wiped everything down with a wet rag, then offered to bring a bed to the beach if I wanted to sleep there. There was no way I could be angry with her. She exhibited true concern and love. She had no idea the chemicals would come inside the bungalow. I tried to make her feel better by telling her it was the responsibility of the exterminators to know these things. I do think I would prefer to kill the mosquitos one at a time when they land on me, though. She said they fogged at the request of another guest who complained there were too many mosquitos in the garden.
During the night I had repeated anxiety attacks and hallucinations. My muscles kept going into spasms, my ears ached, the area around my liver was like a balloon and my left jaw hurt every time I opened my mouth. It occurred to me in the night that perhaps they do still use DDT here. Perhaps living in an upscale resort community is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes perfection has great hidden costs!
Today is December 24. In San Francisco it’s December 23. Makes me confused about which day I should get sad and sentimental. Maybe this is my way out! Today and tomorrow I will go by the San Francisco clock. The next day I’ll go by the Thai clock. That way Christmas will never come and I won’t have to be sad. Of course at 2:00 am, when I hear footsteps on the roof, I’ll have to try remember it’s just the two squirrels building their nest in the light of the full moon.
The Perfect Bungalow
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I am settled into my new bungalow which is a little more expensive than I’ve paid before, but worth every Baht! I have one of the garden houses surrounded by palms, bananas, papayas, and orchids. I am a few hundred feet from the beach, behind the family house. I have air-conditioning which I can use in case of smoke from burning coconut shells during harvest. My front porch is huge with a table and chairs and a lounge. I can have my meals served on the porch if I choose. I really feel like I’ve moved uptown!
In the morning I’m awakened by the roosters who hang out on the porch sometimes. Fortunately they crow before the sun rises, so I can get to the beach for the event. The books Joyce sent from San Francisco, for my birthday two years ago finally arrived and were waiting for me when I went to breakfast at Cleopatra’s on my first morning back. Sa and her sisters came running out of the kitchen yelling, “Bob, books come, books come!” I now have a library of 28 books to keep me entertained in the years to come. All the gang are here from London and I’ve added a few new friends in the short time I’ve been here. I can truly say I’m happy in the moment.
Laem Sai is at the end of the beach looking across the bay to Big Buddha. We eat dinner at bamboo tables set in the sand with the sun setting in the background. One of the major attractions of this place is the food! I can’t imagine a healthier diet anywhere on the face of the planet. The main road is a fifteen minute walk from my bungalow on a road that is so badly in need of repair the taxi refused to drive me in. I had to carry my bags on foot. We all agree they should never fix the road. That’s what keeps it isolated and peaceful! There is a new MacDonalds and Starbucks in Chaweng. These we could do without!
Monsoon
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It has rained steadily now for three days. The sidewalk in front of my bungalow is slimy green and I have to walk carefully as if I were back in Illinois after an ice storm. I went to the beach and brought back sand to spread over the walkway, but the rains are so heavy they just keep washing it away. In the morning I have to be careful not to step on the millions of tiny frogs jumping out of my way as I wade through the mud and standing water. The road to Laemsai is absolutely unbelievable now. It reminds me of a time back in Illinois when I was driving on a country dirt road in the early spring thaw. The mud is so deep an ordinary automobile doesn’t have a chance. The water buffalo was sitting in the swamp this morning with a snow white heron perched on his back. The bird seems to be camera shy, because whenever I took aim he dismounted.
There is something very different about rain in a tropical jungle setting. Instead of chilling the bones it seems to wrap itself around you like a warm wet blanket. The sound of the monsoon rain and wind are cleansing sounds that wash through the spirit, leaving one relaxed and peaceful. They come to release you from obligation, stress and plans. They hold you suspended under a waterfall that will eventually wash away the misconception that you are in control of your life. After moments, then hours, then days of the unrelenting pull of nature’s force you will finally be uprooted from the concepts and expectations of the mind. You will flow with the water and it will take you places you thought you didn’t want to go. Then, when the rain finally stops and the sun appears from behind the coal black curtain, you awaken like a flower, nourished and radiant.
New Year’s Day
Chapter Forty
It’s 12:00 noon on the first day of January. At this very moment in New York they are ringing in the New Year in Times Square. It is still three hours before my friends in California will welcome another year. Being at the far eastern end of the time zones makes one acutely aware that the world is round. It also makes one conscious of the artificial nature of time itself. I have to forget about my 18 hour flight, crossing the international date line, in order for it to all make sense. If my mind wanders east, over the wide Pacific Ocean, back to another day, it all seems very confusing. But when I travel west across the continent of Asia, into Europe and over the Atlantic, then it makes sense, as if the world were flat like a paper map. It’s so much easier to accept that in New York it is 12:00 am on Wednesday and Chicago is 11:00 pm on Tuesday. That I can accept!
As I look out of my bungalow window to the north I can see the moon shining onto the north shore. It doesn’t seem all that strange until I remember looking out of the south facing kitchen window in San Francisco and seeing the same moon. How many people in the world are unaware that their experiences and perceptions are very unique from millions of others in the world? I feel so blessed to have had the opportunity to challenge myself by traveling. It is only during the first days of travel that one can afford to hang on to opinions and perceptions that are inappropriate in a new setting. Eventually even the most stubborn person will realize that survival depends on adapting. It is not an easy task, giving up ideas we have accepted as universal truths. The process is liberating though. We get to take account of who we really are behind the masks we wear in order to present ourselves to all the others who have accepted the same truths. We get to emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon, more beautiful than before, and hopefully able to fly!
This morning the rains have finally stopped. The tide is the highest tide of the year. I had to walk out to the main road because there was no beach. There is a short stretch of road between Laem Sai and the school that is made of clay. It is on a slight incline. Today it was almost impossible to climb up this part of the road. The road was slippery, but my sandals stuck to the clay. With each step I had to lift my foot straight up as if walking on suction cups. There was a long green snake hanging from one of the trees. I checked to see if his tail was brown. The ones with brown tails are the most poisonous. The other danger is from falling coconuts. There seem to be many falling after the storms. They come down at great speed with a dull thud that would mean certain death if it were from contact with a human skull. As always, information is power. If you are in a foreign environment you have to be conscious every moment. There are many people who live here and become old with lots of stories to tell. Unfortunately, many of the stories are about unconscious tourists who took chances that proved fatal. I like to believe I’m not in that category!
This morning my friends who run the internet shop gave me New Year’s food. The first was sticky rice with coconut that had been cooked inside a hollow piece of bamboo. It had a sweet smoked flavor. Then I had small pot stickers filled with sweet meat. Third was a steamed bun with sweet bean paste in the center. This all began because I brought them salmon teriyaki and tea for Christmas. Now they bring me food every day. I guess I am part of the family now.
January 3rd, Laem Sai
Chapter Forty-One
Today is the second day the sun is shining, and not a moment too soon.
In the afternoon a thunder storm came suddenly. When I opened the door I smelled a fresh breeze that drew me out onto the front porch to the bamboo chair. The air smelled green like fresh cut grass. I closed my eyes, imagining myself on the front porch of my grandmother’s Victorian farmhouse back in Illinois. It had one of those porches that wrapped around two sides of the house. In the summertime we would spend rainy days playing on the porch. I could feel the mist blowing across my face just the way it did almost half a century ago on my summer vacation from grammar school. In this moment I remembered what I miss most in life, something I fear will be lost here too, as so called progress begins to pave over the simple things that drew me back here year after year.
I miss springtime with the smell of lilacs and tulips in my mother’s garden. I miss that feeling of the last day of school, the lust for summertime, that joy and celebration of freedom. I miss playing after dark until Mother screams our names from the front porch and we pretend not to hear her the first time. I miss falling down and getting up again without worrying that I’ve broken something beyond repair. I miss Mom’s fried chicken and potato salad on a picnic at Douglas park. I miss having something excite me like the roller coaster and strawberry snow cones used to. I miss family reunions with huge aluminum tubs of ice filled with soda pop. I miss the odor of hot dogs with onions and root beer on a metal tray attached to the car window at the A&W. I miss rides in Dad’s fishing boat on Lake Vermilion. I miss the ravenous hunger one feels after hours of jumping off the raft into the water at the sportsman’s club, when your skin feels like a prune and the ends of your fingers are numb. I miss warm nights when everyone sits outside because there is no air-conditioning. I miss lightning bugs and crickets and walking through wet grass with a flashlight catching night crawlers for Dad’s next fishing trip. I miss simplicity, the sense of community and belonging. I miss doors that are never locked and neighbors who drop by without calling. I miss conversations around the kitchen table, card games with potato chips and French onion dip. I miss bowling at midnight, then eating fried onion rings at one A.M. I miss Christmas morning, the sound of steam rattling the pipes to the radiators as Dad stokes the coal furnace in the basement. I miss the smell of a bushel of apples stored in the pantry. I miss climbing trees and eating cherries until I was sick to my stomach. I miss wiener roasts, burnt marshmallows and hay rides. I miss buying milk and bread from the owner of the corner grocery store then telling him to put it on the bill. I miss the song of tires rolling across the red bricks on the street in front of my grandmother’s house. I miss the sense of family and belonging one feels when sitting around a table filled with food, when dinner is served at the same time each day. I miss the sound of a wooden screen door slamming shut as children rush from the table, with a sense of urgency, to finish their game of kick the can.
It is not just in this moment of the fresh smell of rain that these feelings come to me. They are present in every moment in which I’m forced to participate in a sterile, selfish, greed driven environment that is forced upon us in the name of progress. When I sit at computers, shop in air-conditioned malls, walk down deserted streets during prime time television hours, I can feel an ever present sense of loss of something vital to my spirit. When I question Thais who are new to this artificial world, I see the same excitement I once felt myself. There is no way I can tell them what they will be asked to sacrificed in order to alow this mistake continue to feed itself. One day they too will go shopping because it is the only option left to fill the void they can’t quite describe. They will fill their closets with unnecessary things they have subconsciously been told they need. Everything will revolve around money and the economy. They will never be satisfied because they will be addicted to the idea that more and bigger is always better. I remember the joy of sliding down a hill on pieces of discarded cardboard boxes that held some new purchase. What a simple joy it was to be surrounded with friends, to laugh together, to create something that was uniquely ours to share with each other!
Laem Sai, Jan 10
Chapter Forty-Two
As I begin the sixth week here I am entering the second phase of this journey. There are two things that have changed. The monsoon has ended and I have passed the point where I want to run back into the mistake. This is the place where most ordinary tourists never get to venture. My existence here has become my life. I no longer qualify as a visitor or tourist. I have routines, friends and responsibilities that are all attached to being here. Some time after five weeks, wherever you are begins to seem like home.
The mud has dried into smooth peaks and valleys on the road to Laem Sai. The toads have been reduced to pancake-like fossils on the main road. The sun beats down with an intensity that penetrates right through the awnings and umbrellas designed to protect us from its damaging rays. The mosquitos have retreated to cooler swamps and shadows, now only venturing out at sunrise and sunset. This is the time I cherish the most. The heat creates a sense of living in a state of dream. One is never quite sure of the difference between reality and mirage. The equatorial sun opens a door between the temporal and the spirit world. We get to pass through it unencumbered by doubts or judgments. We get to lie about lazily without guilt. We are allowed to stare unfocused on anything in particular as our minds wander through time and space. Then suddenly some unconscious act of nature or man awakens us rudely. We are forced to acknowledge the idea that time exists. We are not quite sure what to do with it if it does, or even if we really want to do anything. So we slowly drift back into semiconsciousness and bliss.
The coconut palms are still a deep shade of green all the way to the fragile tips. They create a dizzying optical illusion against the backdrop of the clear blue sky. The air is still and light compared to the wet moist blanket created during the rains. The sun creates fragrant bursts of olfactory stimuli as it rains down upon the offspring of the monsoons. The noontime sun surveys a quiet landscape as all nature has retreated beneath every bush and leaf that could provide protection. But on the seashore gather the humans buttered like russet potatoes waiting to be baked. They scoff at every cloud that might deny their trophy tan and the opportunity to make their friends back home jealous. And I am glad to be alive, to be relaxed and to be in my sixth week, totally detached from the tourist’s limited concept of traveling.
THE SWAMP
Chapter Forty-Three
By the end of March, the heat on Samui sometimes becomes unbearable. The oscillating ceiling fans in small markets do nothing to cool the body. They simply blow hot air. If you stand in one place too long, you find yourself sloshing around in pools of your own sweat. The important thing is to stay hydrated, otherwise, you may find yourself in the Twilight Zone. The Zone is not a bad place to be if you are swinging in a hammock with a large container of liquid close by. But it’s not a place you want to go if you are alone on a deserted road without water. On the way home from the market I decided to escape to the road that divides the swamplands, because it provided the only shadow between Maenam and Laemsai. In my haste, I had left the small market without water for the trip home.
Sweat soon evaporated into daydreams, with nothing left for temporal incarnations. It was a time for apparitions, hallucinations or siestas. Anyone who dared walk unprotected in the noonday sun would surely suffer some great catastrophe. The trees and the murky swamp water provided some relief from the insufferable heat. I thought about the first time I had walked that same road many years before. I had arrived with all the misconceptions and fears one has after reading sensational accounts and warnings in travel guides. Over the years I had erased those fears one by one with firsthand experiences. Perhaps this was the day to erase my fear of the swamp.
I sat down beside the swamp, determined to make friends. As I surveyed the water it seemed less hostile than the impressions I had fabricated from watching old Vietnam War movies. The water no longer looked black, but more like tea that had been steeped to British tastes. I was surprised the water was translucent. I had imagined darkness intended to conceal all the evil lurking just below the surface. Instead I found a clean refreshing coolness emanating from water I had expected to repel me with its intolerable stench. Putting aside all my preconceived notions, I was finally ready to concede I had misjudged the swamp. I closed my eyes confident I had nothing to fear.
But then I heard movement in the water, the distinct sound of something large moving in my direction. My eye lids opened involuntarily, like a roll-up shade with a too-tight spring. My heart raced as I surveyed the surrounding bush to find the source of my fear. Then, involuntarily again, my body provided a huge sigh of relief accented by a cheek to cheek smile. There before me stood the vision of an unthreatening small man holding a cloth bag in his right hand. The bag drooped from the soggy weight of its contents. Water dripped from the bottom as he held it away from his body. I assume the swamp had provided some kind of sustenance. The swamp I had feared until that day, had doubtless been his lifelong friend. The man raised his head to get a better look at me. Then, a gentle, unthreatening voice came out through a generous unassuming smile. “Sawatdee!”
Samui, February 6
Chapter Forty-Four
Rain in the Jungle
The rains have returned the last two days
Into a dream, the constant sound of soft percussion incorporates itself. You are not yet aware of the source of the beautiful music. As the feathers of majestic palms catch raindrops, they whisper among themselves. In the background, pearls drop from the eaves, bouncing onto the floorboards of the verandah as though they have fallen from necklaces of a thousand tiny women dancing pirouettes on the rooftop. A phantom bride and groom rush through the narrow path as tiny grains of rice pelt the wide banana leaves. The palm trees bow as the mighty wind announces the great crescendo. Torrents of regenerating liquid flood your imagination with visions of waterfalls cascading into crystal clear springs. The conductor abruptly brings his baton down and there is silence. The audience holds its applause. The baton rises slowly as the conductor deliberately points his magic wand at the nocturnal inhabitants of the jungle. One by one they reclaim their a cappella serenades.
The air smells fresh as you lie upon the top of damp sheets without cover, protected by a warm moist envelope. You allow your body to sink into the mattress. There is nothing cold or forbidding to force you to put up barriers. You gently slide down a golden path where you are embraced by the full moon. Its platinum light holds you suspended, timeless, between the temporal and spirit worlds. Here memories walk together, without the constraints of time and space. The vast library of your subconscious mind floats to the surface. You awaken to the dawn, unable to open your eyes for fear of forgetting the lessons. You resolve to stay conscious when you stand up to walk. If only you could remember how to bring the same infinite possibilities into the waking dream.
Big Buddha
Chapter Forty-Five
For the next few days I’m off to a Buddhist monastery to fast and meditate. It helps me to become more centered. Being surrounded by people who dedicate their lives to peace and love is very infectious. Even in paradise, dredging up the past can take its toll. Until I had memories of violence revived, my dreams here were healing and supportive. Now I dread going to bed each night because of the nightmares.
I want to share a few things about my experience with Thai Buddhism. I feel it’s responsible for the gentle nature of the Thai people. When I first came here I was really surprised by the absence of worrying about other people’s business and lives. Samui is really the example of the motto, “live and let live.” There is so much love and compassion that is felt with each encounter. People look you in the eye and bow with their hands in prayer position. There are no greetings that are spoken without deep meaning and a sincere smile. The act of placing hands in prayer position is a way of saying, “the God in me salutes the God in you.” In the experience of daily life the fear of violence or even the sound of voices raised in anger is conspicuously absent. Thai’s are seldom confrontational.
Sometimes riding in the songthaew I am brought close to tears when I see a young boy place his hand on a strangers knee as if it were his own father. Sometimes an old woman will sit on one of the small stools in front of me and place her hands on my legs for support. There is no fear of intimacy or the need to ask permission. They just assume we are all part of the same family and treat everyone accordingly. I enjoy watching some of the more stoic Germans recoil when touched by a stranger. It reminds me that even within many of our blood families we do not have the kind of love and intimacy Thai’s show to complete strangers. Instead, we have walls of fear.
Everyday I meditate to Benedictine monks chanting. My Austrian friend Stefan thinks I wouldn’t be able to meditate to these particular chants if I had gone to Catholic school with him in Austria. When I listen to Benedictine monks they sound methodical and disciplined. When I listen to Thai monks chanting I feel I’m listening to birds, singing in a forest. It sounds like one continuous flowing note. I will be in good healing hands for the next few days. I’m sure the nightmares will end.
Laem Sai, February, 2002
Chapter Forty-Six
I’ve met a 70 year old man and his 60 year old wife who have done something similar to what Rob and Bob did. Garry and Beryl Rowse owned a company called Canadian Muffin that has stores worldwide now. They retired from the baking business, sold most of their things and set off on a world tour two years ago. They have arrived on Samui from an extended stay in Australia on their way to China. Each evening, at cocktail hour, Garry and Beryl perform an endearing ritual of drinking martinis from plastic martini glasses. Last night Garry and I rode to and from Big Buddha in the back of the jeep, standing up holding on to the roll bar. This 70 year old man acts like a 15 year old. Normally I would have sat down in the back of the jeep, but he insisted I stop acting my age! We laughed all the way to dinner and back singing old songs he thought I wouldn’t know the words to! The road to Laem Sai is pretty treacherous, so we had to hang on tight while dodging tree limbs and low hanging wires in the dark. He just kept saying, “isn’t it wonderful fun not being safe?” I had to agree.
We ate at yet another obscure restaurant on another beach, with bamboo chairs and tables set in the sand next to the surf. Last night we were treated to fireworks from several directions in celebration of Chinese New Year. Earlier in the day I ran into my friend Alyson in Nathon. She is British, living on Samui for 6 years now. She pulled me into a small ceramics shop that also sells beautiful silk cloth and local artists’ creations. It doubles as a cafe with the best muffins on Samui! I have walked by it for years, never understanding it was so diverse! Afterwards I went to the market to replenish my supply of exotic fruits such as mangosteen and rambutan. Rambutan are small red hairy fruits that look like sea urchins. So many wonderful things are in season now! It’s really great to discover new tastes at my age. Some Thais love a fruit called durian, but I doubt I’ll ever add it to my collection of new discoveries. It smells like raw chicken that has gone bad! Sometimes it’s difficult to walk through the market when durian is in season!
Alone, But Not Lonely
Chapter Forty-Seven
I think it’s much easier for me to be alone in an equatorial jungle environment than in a Northern European or North American setting. Perhaps it’s partly because of the constant sound of nature. But I think it’s more because of the climate’s effect upon one’s spirit. I stand with one foot grounded and the other foot in the spirit world. It’s not uncommon for me to revisit my childhood in my dreams, to meet with the spirits of those who have departed this temporal existence, or to travel to places a rational mind would not easily accept.
All this is possible in one night of dreams. I awaken within a womb, warm and feeling safe, protected. The spirit world follows me into my waking hours. In my peripheral vision I see the spirits watching me, protecting me. I understand the concepts of indigenous peoples of equatorial lands. They respect their ancestors because their ancestors are always with them. They respect nature because nature and the animals are their guides to understanding life. They walk with death on their left shoulder, to remind them that perfection comes not from being safe, but from understanding how to be a part of all creation without destroying it.
I am only lonely in cities with millions of people who believe they don’t need each other. I am only lonely in places where people are rushing as though they have someplace to go. At the end of each day they are back to the place where they began that very morning, exhausted from running in place. I am only lonely in places where people have schedules, appointments, places to go, things to do. I am only lonely in places where people have to schedule time to smile, to laugh. So when I am here, I return to my childhood, a place that is familiar, a place where people have time to love.
And each day I wonder how the spirits will survive when this place is paved over with concrete. I wonder if the indigenous people will pave over their ancestors graves if someone offers them enough money. I wonder if the door between the temporal and the spiritual will be locked like the doors to the churches of big Western cities. Each time I burden myself with all these questions, I am tapped on the shoulder by a gentle wind that whispers in my left ear, “the choice always belongs to you!”
A Dream In The Jungle
Chapter Forty-Eight
I could hear the sound of a small animal gnawing at the outside of the wooden enclosure. It was pitch black, so the only way I could see was to use my hands to survey the small space that was my prison. I had no recollection of how I had come to be in this place. I had memories of my life, but they were thrown about in disorder. There was no way to know which memory had been my last. There was an odor of antiquity that triggered a memory of my grandmother’s attic when I was a small child. I used to crawl about in the attic even though it was forbidden. Suddenly a tiny ray of light pierced the darkness with a stinging brilliance, making me aware that I was in my bungalow in Maenam.
I was briefly half awake, but still residing in a place defined by imagination. Then I fell back into the dream where I imagined that the tiny pieces of sawdust falling onto my face had magically transformed into snowflakes. Inside the box again I gasped for air, pressing my face onto the tiny hole where the ray of moonlight had penetrated the darkness. I sucked fresh air into my lungs like a newborn who intuitively suckles his mother’s breast. But the hole was too small, causing me to fall into an unconscious state where even dreams do not exist.
The silent darkness was interrupted when I opened my eyes in my dream. I found myself lying on a blanket under a tree still gasping for air. A man with black curly hair and green eyes knelt beside me. He pressed his lips on mine, pushing air into my lungs. He smiled when he noticed my eyes were open. “For a moment there I thought I had lost you,” he said. He looked at my hand, asking about Rob’s ring on my finger. Then he asked about my life with Rob. In that moment I couldn’t remember my life. Was this a message to move on, to look toward my future?
Later, after taking a shower and getting dressed, I opened the door to find Angelika standing on my porch with an orphaned baby monkey on her shoulder. The monkey suddenly jumped onto my head, while Angelika doubled over with laughter. The monkey was like that proverbial “pinch me to see if I am awake.” Now I was certain I was awake.
Dodging Butterflies
Chapter Forty-Nine
I know I’ve truly arrived because I’ve stopped ducking for butterflies, thinking they are birds.
There are three people who work in my e-mail shop at different times. One told me yesterday that he was a smoker, and he’s sick. He was almost in tears when he told me he quit smoking because of me! I had given them my business card the day before and he had seen the photo of me with my niece Cyndi on my website. Cyndi died from lung cancer. I can’t tell you how gratifying that is! When his business partner came in he gave me a gift of three small Thai delicacies wrapped in coconut leaves.
I’ve learned a little bit of Greek from tapes I brought along and the new woman who is running Laem Sai is attempting to get me to order food in Thai. Perhaps I’ll be even more multi-lingual at the end of this trip. What’s amazing is how much time I seem to have, but at the end of the day it is gone with none to spare. I’m doing Tai Chi and Yoga religiously with great results. I am sleeping better and have more energy. I constantly have to remind myself to slow down, there is plenty of time for whatever I want to do!
On my way to the main road I pass through the school property. It’s a shortcut because the road to Laemsai is in terrible condition because of the rains. There are places that are virtual mudslides which are not conducive to walking or driving. I am always impressed by how casual and relaxed the students are in the school. Even though they all wear uniforms there seems to be a casual atmosphere that it not reminiscent of my school days. Many times they are playing ping pong on their breaks. It all seems to be a big contradiction. They all assemble together in front of the school each afternoon to the beckoning of a Thai woman’s voice over a loudspeaker. There seems to be some formal outline to the groups of students assembled together, all facing the same direction as if ready to march. But there is also a conspicuous absence of stress or seriousness. They all seem to be having fun. Is that allowed in school?
At the end of the day all kinds of vendors line the road from the main road to the school to sell fresh fruits, sweet pastries, soft drinks, ice cream, seafood, chicken and water. Some of the vendors sell their wares from a strange looking contraption attached to the side of a motorbike. These are being replaced by more respectable modern vendor trucks, though. I expect in the next few years they will all disappear like the horse drawn wagon that used to come down the alley back home in Illinois, to pick up junk. The Thai’s enthusiastically embrace the new and discard the old in much the same manner as we did in the 1950’s. There is a rumor that the bungalows at Laemsai will soon have TV’s with CNN. There goes the neighborhood! Many of the students make their exits on motorbikes, usually with a passenger sitting precariously sidesaddle, books or homework balanced on lap. Perhaps someday soon they will build a big new parking lot for the students cars. Prophecy or experience?
One day forty years from now a student from this school will be traveling the world in search of a place with the simplicity and happiness of his school days. He will seek escape from the stress and fast pace of a world gone mad. He will search out someone who has time to play ping pong and to laugh. He will want to escape the knowledge of every politician’s words and every terrorist’s bomb. He will bring with him the knowledge that with every step forward comes new responsibilities and new problems. He will also carry the burden of knowing that sometimes there is nothing one can do to save others from the mistakes he has already made. Everyone must learn for themselves. Prophecy or experience?
SONGTHAEW
Chapter Fifty
I choose to stand at the back of the songthaew, holding onto the railing designed to keep the luggage from falling off the roof. Local Thai women gesture for me to take the last remaining place inside. They giggle among themselves when I refuse. They don’t understand why a Farong (foreigner) would want to stand outside when a seat is available. It’s my chance to prove to myself that I’m still alive. The warm tropical wind lifts the straps of my tank top, inflating the shirt to allow tiny droplets of sweat to tickle my golden torso. The road is an exciting dangerous place where no one seems to have a sense of rules. The speed sign says 40 KPH as we approach 110. As we pass a slow moving truck, there are three vehicles abreast, coming at us full speed with no place for us the go. The driver slams on the brakes as we sneak back into the space we formerly occupied behind the truck. The three vehicles whiz by in the opposite direction, each one repositioned one second before a head-on impact. I lean to the middle of the songthaew to prevent my right arm from being separated from my shoulder. My hands are sweating, so I wipe them one at a time on the back of my shorts so I can grip the luggage pole securely, then brace myself for another go around the race track.
Every place in the world has its unique scents. As I hang from the back of the songthaew I can taste and smell the dust from the road, blended with the odor of smoke and fried fish, the scent of flowers, the stench of sewers and the occasional breath of salt air. As I watch blurred images of people going about the routine of a normal day, I compare them to my childhood in America. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I become more conscious of being out of my element in a foreign land. I study the children, wondering what it’s like to be born in a place so unlike my home in central Illinois. I find a sense of peace in understanding that reality is subjective. It’s easier to accept people who are different when you are the one who is most different from those you are living among. I have known for quite some time that my addiction to travel is augmented by a sense of wonder when I encounter memories of my own childhood that make me feel ageless.
We stop to pick up a young boy on his way home from school. He carries a small black satchel that I assume is holding his books and papers. He is well groomed with clean pressed clothing and shined shoes. His smile is only exceeded by the exquisite sense of excitement in his dark brown eyes. He positions the strap of his satchel so he can push it onto his back, then grabs the pole on the roof and faces me directly before he speaks. “In the morning we have much raining!” He seems desperate to practice English, but that is not the reason he feels comfortable being intimate with strangers. It’s a trait that runs through the Thai population. We Farong eventually begin to look foolish in our attempts to prevent human bodily contact, becoming gross exaggerations in extremely crowded situations. At first it seems the Thai’s are laughing at us. We ultimately come to understand that they are simply smiling in recognition of our struggles. Although they are considered a developing country, they have many things to teach us about being human. Perhaps they are things we have simply forgotten in our race to become so called “civilized.” Perhaps they are things the Thai’s will soon forget also. I will be sad when all the songthaews are replaced with modern air-conditioned taxis that insulate people from each other and the smells and dangers of nature and the road.
Sawatdii
Chapter Fifty-One
My house at Laem Sai is directly behind the family house. The tourists call it the palace. When the grandfather is caring for the young boy, his grandson sometimes runs to the steps when I’m passing by. He places his hands together in wai (prayer) position and says, “sawatdii khrap” with a slight bowing motion. The greeting literally means wishing you happiness. The hands together in prayer position are a sign of respect that acknowledges that we are all a part of God or the creation together. It’s a refreshing cultural tradition in this modern world!
The main room in “the palace” resembles a ballroom in a mansion back home. In the corner opposite the outside door, a lonely television sits on a table. Three mats have been placed on the floor in front of the TV. That’s all there is in this huge room. It’s as if they built a house to resemble one in the west, but they haven’t yet discovered the art of filling a room just for the sake of filling a room. I see this everywhere I go. Their practice of minimalism is not an art form or a concept. It is the result of taking only what you need. To me, the ballroom is a work of art. It is a warning of what is to come. The television in the corner is the warning. It is one if the things I have come here to escape.
We are still in the midst of Chinese New Years celebrations. Last night as we arrived back from dinner on the other side of the island we were treated to a beautiful display of Chinese lanterns. They were launched from the jungle side of the road. They are like small balloons that rise into the sky from the heat generated from the candle inside the lantern. Against a sky dripping with stars, accented by a new moon, came a stream of red/orange lights gently floating across the sky like small ships sailing to the moon. There is always something undeniably Asian about these moments! Perhaps it’s the simplicity, like a beautiful Chinese watercolor that overwhelms you with its quiet beauty!
My 57th Birthday
Chapter Fifty-Two
It had been two years since my last trip to my bungalow at Laem Sai, on Samui. In January, 2006, my friend Mark Adams was in hospice care, so I made frequent trips to the hospital on California Street, knowing I would not see him again after my trip. Two days before my departure Mark rallied. Several of us enjoyed laughter that reminded us of old times, tempting us with hopeless hope. On the night before my departure, Mark’s niece called me, telling me to come to the hospital immediately. Mark was at the end of his brilliant, creative life. A life that influenced my own life in uncountable ways. I sat talking to Mark for quite a while, not knowing for sure if he could still hear me. Before I left I leaned over his bed, then whispered in his ear, “come with me to Samui!” The next morning, before my flight, Mark’s niece called to tell me Mark was waiting for me on Samui.
I wanted this trip to be special for several reasons, one being the feeling that it might be the last. Mark’s death added another dimension to that feeling. On the way to Samui, for my birthday I had booked a suite overlooking the river at the Shangri-La Hotel. I had only stayed in Bangkok once before with Rob in 1994. One night at the Shangi-La would buy two weeks in my Laem Sai bungalow.
Soon my bungalow would be destroyed so Laem Sai could build a resort equivalent to Shangri-La, charging the same prices. I don’t regret spending the money on my birthday, because it reenforced what I already knew. The more we spend, the more insulated we are from the experiences that make us grow. The hum of the air-conditioner merely reminded me of every hotel room I had ever stayed in. As I watched the boats on the river, they glided silently behind triple panes of glass. When I walked out into the streets, I was assaulted by loud obnoxious sounds created by humans. Nature seemed a million miles away.
But Bangkok is just an adventure of a different kind. I walked the streets of Bangkok with my camera, documenting the beauty that exists in spite of its distance from nature. There is always beauty and a story to be told, regardless of where we are. We simply have to take a big breath, suspend judgement, then open our hearts.
December, 2002, Laem Sai
Chapter Fifty-Three
It’s been nine years since Rob and I first came to Mae Nam in 1994. Today the family who have made this place so special, left to make room for the corporate people from Bangkok. Since I arrived early this year, I’m the eyes and ears for all my London friends. I was the one who had to break the news about the corporate takeover of our little paradise. Nothing has changed that much so far, except for the change in staff. But seeing Madame and her family get into that car and drive off into the sunset was really emotional. It marked the end of an era and represented a glimpse of the future of Samui. The family worked hard for years, to make their business special, in turn making the “regulars” feel like part of their family. Our task now, is to enjoy the last days as much as possible, knowing that bulldozers are on the way in the near future.
Here there is talk of sea level rise. I guess that explains the fact that there is no sand left near the Laem Sai end of the beach. A wall had been constructed since last year. I decided to walk on top of the wall to get on the sand to the west. Suddenly the wall collapsed beneath me, putting a deep gash in my leg. Getting a wound of this size is nothing to mess with here. It’s so easy to get an infection. I have gone to the pharmacy on the main road to buy bottles of peroxide and iodine. I must not shower or go into the water for two weeks.
The gang from London aren’t arriving until February 3rd. Leam Sai seems empty without them, so each morning I walk to the other end of the beach, to Cleopatra’s for garlic toast, my natural antibiotic. Alison has rented a house near Cleopatra’s. I see her often on my breakfast runs. Last week there was a lot of commotion at her house. She came home to find a cobra in her kitchen. I guess if you’ve lived here your whole life, that may not seem like such a big deal. As I watched two men remove the snake, I felt two emotions, fear and joy. Fear of cobras and joy for feeling truly alive.
Eating Out
Chapter Fifty-Four
One of my favorite things about Samui is dinnertime. We gather at Laem Sai before sunset to decide where we will eat. It could be a restaurant from the guide books or a recent rumor of a new enterprise. Half the fun is getting there. We pile into the back of a pickup truck or stand on the back of a Jeep holding onto the roll bar. Samui comes alive at night. It’s a destination for party vacations where people get drunk and dance till they drop. That’s why we live in Mae Nam, not Chaweng. Mae Nam is quiet, the bungalows being far from the road.
Every trip to dinner is an adventure. Christmas lights adorn the various restaurants along the road. Smoke rises from the dinner fires, sending delicious aromas wafting through the air to titillate our hunger pangs. Everything comes alive in the absence of the sun. For those of us who lived through long winters with snow drifts and frozen fingers, it’s a dream come true. The real endless summer.
My favorite meals are enjoyed on bamboo tables in the sand next to the water. The best part of traveling to dinner as a group is the ability to order family meals. Watching the sumptuous platters carried to the table reminds me of feasts in vintage black and white movies. There is nothing to remind me of my mother’s dinner table in Central Illinois. The only thing that tops the presentation is when we are able to say, “I’ve never tasted anything so delicious!”
Expatriates
Chapter Fifty-Five
After four years of travel we have joined the world of expatriates. We are drawn to each other wherever we go. We share survival tips the way our mothers shared recipes. We gather together for meals, to play games or go on field trips to experience local color. The things that bind us together are our pasts. No matter how much we submerge ourselves in local customs, we still compare everything to our own childhoods and birthplaces. To be perfectly honest, hanging out with others from our tribe, our pack, makes it easier to assimilate, as much as that’s possible. We are forgiven for transgressions that would never be allowed by natives. They laugh at us, then turn away forgiving our ignorance.
Many times the lives of expatriates are lived under the radar. Often locals are invested in our survival because we provide important support to the economy. We are not there to take someone’s job. We often stay because our money from home goes further. But the biggest reason most of us join this select international community is because of the rich education it provides. Our ignorance is in some ways our best asset. We are put in the position of a child in school, learning how to function in a culture that is still unfamiliar. For some, it’s the first time they see the world as a whole. For myself, I no longer see or respect borders. I am a citizen of the world.
The Last Decade of Real Things
Chapter Fifty-Six
Arriving in a new place always takes a period of adjustment, but no place was more challenging than our first time in Southeast Asia. It was much more than simply adjusting to a new physical environment. There was nothing to draw upon from previous experiences. You can’t understand the nuances of a culture from eating in an ethnic restaurant. Most of the tropical places I’d been before had long ago been diluted by decades of western commercial tourism. Perhaps that’s what attracted us to Koh Samui.
To us, it seemed the 1990s were the last decade of real travelers, before everyplace in the world would be homogenized by globalization. Soon everything would be available anytime, anywhere for a price. I remember the first time I thought about this, in Washington, D.C. in 1978, when a neighborhood market provided strawberries in December. Why would someone want out of season fruits in the winter? Now no one even questions it anymore.
Today I dream of the times I would stand in the courtyard of my bungalow in Laem Sai, peeling a mango picked ripe from a tree. I would carefully bend forward to allow the juice to drip onto the ground instead of my shirt. I have similar memories of peach season in Illinois, when peaches were just as juicy. But now it’s hard to find a tree ripened anything, especially when new generations proudly proclaim their preference for crispy tasteless fruits. My references to fruits are simply metaphors for something bigger. The loss of individualism and uniqueness. Those are what stimulates the soul. That’s what has always made me want to get out of bed each morning. The anticipation of a new experience that I’ve never had before.
Samui, January 22, 2004
Chapter Fifty-Seven
My day begins at 5:00 AM. I’m not sure why I wake up at that particular moment each morning. I just accept that I do. The first thing is to do yoga and meditation for an hour or more. I have arthritis in my knees and hips. Stretching each morning helps keep the range of movement wide enough to function normally. My second meditation is on cutting garlic for my toast. I chop three to four cloves and sauté them in olive oil, then pour that over toast. It helps to protect the stomach against infection and I’m convinced also wards off mosquitoes and perhaps vampires. If cooked correctly, it’s also delicious. My third meditation is to channel some kind of creativity into my computer before setting off down the road to the e-mail shop. Of course I reserve the right to cancel it all at a moment’s notice and run off into some spontaneous fantasy.
I enjoy the walk down the road from Laem Sai each morning. I give myself plenty of time to be distracted along the way. I try to ignore all those city impulses that trick people into believing they must hurry past everything that is beautiful and real, only to participate in some organized event motivated by material lust, or greed. My main agenda is to not have an agenda. I reserve the right to take the fork in the road that I’ve never traveled before, to get lost, to be late for an appointment, or to never show up at all.
There is a small hill behind Laem Sai where one can view the entire north shore at Maenam beach. In the early morning it’s really spectacular with the sunlight over the shoulder to the east. I am always overwhelmed by the beauty of millions of droplets of sunlight tossed upon the sand from the tips of palm fronds dancing in the wind. At sunset Big Buddha’s golden radiance is accentuated as the sun drops off behind the western hills.
I often come upon water buffalo at the side of the road. The villagers tie them to different trees each day. They walk the perimeter, eating clean the circle allowed by their tether. Sometimes I find them bathing in the black murky swamp created by the monsoon. Often they are accompanied by pure white herons who sit upon their backs and feed upon parasites. For ten years I’ve tried to capture the two together on film. Always the click of the shutter signals the heron to fly away. Maybe I’ll have better luck with my digital camera.
The road to Laem Sai is a virtual treasure chest of experience. During the monsoon, legend has it frogs rain down from the sky. Truth is, they live under ground and come out to mate during the rainy season. This year I arrived after the monsoon, so the only traces of the frogs on the road are the pancake images left by passing jeeps, or the strange sound in the night, like someone in a stalled vehicle trying to turn over an engine that refuses to ignite.
There are some traditional Thai families who still live near the road, although their numbers are reduced each year as corporations snatch up the property with visions of 5-star resorts and spas. I will miss the dirt road and the occasional chicken running across, “to get to the other side?” When the swamp has been drained and all the mosquitoes killed with pesticides, when all the water buffalo and cobras have been moved to zoos what will I have to write home about?
