rawr

It is so hot right now, I can barely think straight. Thailand is a whirl of sensory experiences....I've been caught coughing on spices floating in the air; I have practically devoured every sugared and fried banana set in front of me; I lost skin on the sidewalk (there's a violent body-soul integration sort of thing happening for me on this trip) and I was assaulted with a close-range firework; I have woven through crowds of motorbikes and ridden my own down crowded city streets that for all its heated stillness still whips wind around your face when you're flying on your own set of wheels...Chiang Mai is a vibrant sauna of smells and lights and glittering temples. The days have brushed the threshold of my melting point, but today, our last day in the city, my hair is damp against my temple and I haven't left the mild coolness of a hotel lobby for the past couple of hours...I feel like a cat that has been in the sunshine so long, I have lost my will to even pant away the heat. Melting. Hmm but since my thoughts are now trailing into this more defined direction, of the qualia of cathood, I will go ahead and take advantage of the sense of purpose that is now possible in my writing....please bear with me....

When my mind is muddled as it is now, I am more aware than ever of my own animal instincts, the energies that ebb and flow on the primal levels of consciousness. Perhaps that sense of oneness with all other sentient creatures who are subject to life's elements is the source of my anxiety over animals' suffering when it confronts me. It's easy to say that animals are less evolved than humans, that they do not suffer in captivity in the ways that humans might imagine...I've always had mixed feelings over zoos and wild animal domestication. Cats are domesticated animals, yet they seem perfectly content as kept creatures. But what about their distant relatives, the bigger and wilder felines of this world?

One of the experiences I was told I had to take advantage of in Thailand was visiting a place with domesticated tigers. There was one in particular, Tiger Kingdom, that seemed like the most humane option--it boasts of no drugs and no abuse, providing tourists with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to spend time in a cage with tamed wild beasts.

I didn't really know what to expect before going, but to finally meet those beautiful beings--touching them and looking into their eyes--felt simultaneously awesome and forbidden. They were far more perceptive and powerful than any house cat; the comparison is laughable. To look into the eyes of a tiger is to see something mystical incarnate, more energy and strength and natural instincts than any human--and yet reduced to an object of entertainment, locked into a life of exhibitionism and submission. It was a confounding experience.

Emily and I walked amongst the cages and saw impatient adults struggling with their limited space and the constant demands of their attention. An endless line of tourists awaiting picture-perfect moments. What a life. I honestly felt ashamed to be a participant and guilty for the excitement I felt at meeting the babies. We had all this time to await our turn, and I spent most of it working myself into a guilt-ridden meditation.

But then we went in the cage and I let it all go to just be in the moment...because controversial as it might have been, this was still a spectacular experience. The cubs were amazing. They were too young to anticipate that this was the only life they would know (ignorance is bliss) and their compliance was startling. They were noticeably sober, these beautiful, energetic bundles of velvet fur and muscular grips and baby roars, all tumbling over each other and across the laps of humans. I held a baby's paw in my hand. Soft, warm, tar-colored pads and much too big for the little one, but small enough to fit in my child-sized palm. For a moment that existed outside the confines of time, I played with baby tigers.

Of course, once Emily and I had exhausted our turn and were moved on to the adult cages, we were once again confronted with the reality of the situation. The babies were playful and carefree, but the adults were painfully tense. They had known years of the same routine. The adults didn't seem to suffer anything violent from the human trainers, but they had obviously come to realize that life would always be this small and boring and sad. Moments before, Emily and I had been put under a spell by the absurdity of rubbing baby tigers' bellies; then suddenly we were shamed by the angst of these adults. Pacing animals with low grumbled roars. We asked to leave early and were answered with surprised shrugs.

What a strange experience...stranger, still, when our taxi driver asked us if we wanted to see the "long-necks" after the tigers. Right. Because after our conflicting sentiments regarding the "humane" treatment of tigers, we really wanted to see a village of persecuted human-beings. The drive back was silent as Emily and I were completely lost in our own thoughts.

Traveling so far from home has opened up my eyes to certain shadows of capitalism I didn't know before (oh boy, and now I'm really sounding like a modern skeptic). But the supply-and-demand of tourism goes beyond simple exchanges of money and goods. There are always living beings--human or not--that are directly affected by globalization and tourism in ways that are not necessarily beneficial to the natives.

The backpacking world, itself, is an alternate reality where certain things fly--the commoditization of the "authentic" (I always wonder), strange, and wonderful--all under the pretense that we are expected to participate, because how many opportunities does a person get in one life time to pet a tiger or see an aesthetic oddity. But where does the money go and what are the true effects of our tourism? Who really benefits? There are entire streets in cities like Bangkok and Chiang Mai that are dedicated to the throngs of visitors with cameras and money to spend. But the underlying attitude of live-in-the-moment doesn't really make sense to me when I think of how many people spend just a moment in any given place. The locals must be worn down with the efforts of a neverending performance put on for a paying public....and then on the other side, there is the fast-paced life of the travelers, especially the forever-backpackers I meet who embark on neverending journeys and somehow sustain the energy (and funds) required for such a life.

And yet from a different angle (there's always another angle) traveling creates an atmosphere of heightened sensitivity, simplifying existence to the necessities that fit in a bag. You meet friends and lovers and travel partners who might very well stay in your life forever. There is also the added brilliance of seeing the world through a kaleidascopal lens, as long as "living in the moment" really means living with an open mind and an open heart. That mode of living, that sort of "be here now" mentality, actually is translatable from a life of backpacking to a more stationary life. As much as I have recently been questioning tourism and backpacking and all the rest, there is also an intention in my traveling that I value more than anything else I could possibly get from this experience--I am very awake. I want to stay this awake when the traveling is done and home is back in California.

I keep thinking about home and all its implications...right now, "home" is the hostel I'm living in at any given time, "home" becomes the rituals I keep wherever I go (like running, running is home for me). Of course, home is also California and the people and places who make up my personal world. I think my two realities of home come together when I meet people in my travels who I know I will meet again in the United States, thus extending my present journey in ways that will hopefully lead to a more solidifying effect from all the lessons and experiences I gain here. My current conflicts about the world of tourism...my preoccupation with living in the moment and ensuring that this experience is, in fact, grounding for me....I am simply in the throes of a wild ride and feeling rocked by my transience. Perhaps I should be less focused on finding security in this experience and instead embrace the entirety of Backpacker Land, the invaluable and the beautiful and even the corruption too. What would this world be without shades of gray?

At least I am staying awake. Opening my eyes and heart and mind to the madness of this world, catching glimpses of perfection and beauty along with my understandings of the darker sides to things. Besides, if I wasn't aware of the ugly, I would not appreciate the beautiful as much as I do. Falling in love with with life happens in the moments when I see the world more fully. Tiger Kingdom was an opportunity for me to understand humanity better. It was an opportunity for me to understand my own sensitivities better, and to contemplate the entire backpacking experience from a new perspective. Up and down, up and down, riding the currents of revelation and emotion tied in with each new experience.

Hours after Tiger Kingdom, settling down from one adventure and entering another, Emily and I were rushing through a new type of madness. Sitting on cushioned seats screwed into the bed of a truck, we danced to the music blasting through the cab's window and watched the streets light up with fireworks and all the lamps from food carts bursting with steam and aromas. There was screaming everywhere and laughing and excitement. Loy Krathong, the festival of lights, was in full bloom in Chiang Mai, and we were blessed to be a part of it. Even in the 3rd night (boy do the Buddhists love celebration), there was still an upwards falling rain of burning lanterns and floating wishes literally papering the sky. Emily's and my lanterns had risen into the sky's parade the night before, when we joined the ceremony with child-like fascination and determination. Chiang Mai became a fairyland for locals and travelers all celebrating life with the same fervor and joy.

Then continuing the party into the third night, my sister and I danced with new friends, spinning circles with each other and total strangers, bursting open and pounding the floor with total abandon as we lost ourselves to the beats that shook the insides of our ribs. In an ecstatic celebration of lights and traveling and the unknown, what we could all clearly see--what I perceived--was that this moment was human and pulsing and impermanent and perfect. Life as a beautiful mess.