My heart pounded when we got to the front door of our condo. I felt as if I didn't know what I would see behind it, that was the strangest part. What kind of changes or surprises was I expecting? But we opened the door into our old home (and yet a relatively new home--we were newly moved right before we left to travel), and then it was with the greatest relief that I stumbled in and looked around at the scene we had so carefully set up before our departure. The furnishings and easy flow of energy were exactly as I remembered, so lovely to be home, such a stark contrast to the previous months' travel.
But when I woke up this morning, I felt off-balance in my own space. I don't know how to explain it properly, I was just out of my element being in my element. So many hours of movement and so many different beds and bus seats which had served as my bed and now I was still. I found myself oddly unsettled in my very own sheets, waking up to the blinding, buttery California sunshine bathing my bedroom. Why did it all feel so foreign? Musky air from my absence and incense on my shelves, they irked my senses as I awoke and started investigating my little spatial world. Thailand, only two weeks ago, a foreign place that had started to feel so familiar, and now I was back and reorienting myself to the sensory experience of being in a place that should feel like home, but didn't quite yet...
It was the smell of basil dishwashing soap, familiar and surprisingly delicious in its familiarity, that returned me to a surprising sense of stability. It awoke in me old habits of starting my mornings early with washing the dishes and cleaning the counters in anticipation of a new day and new beginnings. Basil dishwashing soap. Who could have guessed that it would be such a comforting and grounding sort of aroma? In fact all the smells I encountered this morning were amazingly affective, my senses waking up to the perfumes and soaps of my space, bringing me back to a real sense of belonging...I felt more animal than human as I investigated them all.
I brushed my hands over surfaces, straightened pillows, opened and closed drawers, reexamined old images from memories that seemed long past and continued--and continue--to come flooding back with the aggressive hereandnow of being home. It's not just reorienting myself to this space, it's coming to terms with the fact that I am at the end of something powerful, and knowing that the world is the same and not the same, and that I am different and not all that different, but I am back in a little world that is, for all intensive purposes, mine to settle into again. All that anxiety I felt when I stood outside my front door, wondering with nonsensical apprehension if I would know the space awaiting me inside, all that anxiety has been slowly slipping away as I wander back and forth through the inner doorways of my apartment. I am finally realizing and falling in love again with stillness. It is another gift from the trip, to feel peace at the end of so much movement, a savasana of grand proportions.
Showing posts with label travel blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel blog. Show all posts
Friday, January 4, 2013
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
move
The last week in Thailand just disappeared... Back to the States. So strange. So exciting and yet so so strange. Even though we knew the end was coming and both Emily and I were actually looking forward to the change, it was hard to process how fast it arrived.
Naturally I became broody, and spent the better half of our last week battling my anticipation for home and my resistance to leaving. It was touch and go there as I did my best to stay in the moment rather than with my thoughts flitting around to the future and the past and back to the future again...until the last day when we arrived in Phuket. An insane drive through the city. One of the sharp turns and narrow misses we made in that van threw some sense into me (or knocked some sense out of me, depending on your views of that whole sort of thing) and I was absolutely present in Thailand. The sun was going down behind heavy wet clouds as the neon lights of the citystreets illuminated a smoky dome of neon glows and tourists and locals and bumpertobumper and a whole lot of bass, all rising from the streets under the tires of our windy ride. I felt nostalgic for the familiarity of that chaos.
The Phuket drive was a total throwback to a specific taxi drive in Bangkok, a moment that stands out to me now as one of things I love most about Thailand. A taxi drive making that much of an impact? It might not make a whole lot of sense, but the crazy spirit of the drive was full of everything I loved about being there. It caught me off guard and made me appreciate the present (which, I realize time and again, can change its tone from moment to moment).
We were stalled for thirty minutes in the middle of Bangkok waving down a taxi, while our time to catch a bus was slipping away with each denial. We were getting increasingly desperate for help. The guy who finally gave into my pleas, Buddhist bow, and promise to be the best passengers of his night (despite his reluctance to brave the traffic en route to the southern bus terminal), he was my favorite random friend. He swerved and sped and created VIP traffic lanes out of thin air, all the while filling the car with the best soundtrack for the spirit of our rush. He was the first guy who didn't try to get more money out of us than was fair (so we tipped him 50%). Fate denied us the other drivers who brushed us by.
We were stalled for thirty minutes in the middle of Bangkok waving down a taxi, while our time to catch a bus was slipping away with each denial. We were getting increasingly desperate for help. The guy who finally gave into my pleas, Buddhist bow, and promise to be the best passengers of his night (despite his reluctance to brave the traffic en route to the southern bus terminal), he was my favorite random friend. He swerved and sped and created VIP traffic lanes out of thin air, all the while filling the car with the best soundtrack for the spirit of our rush. He was the first guy who didn't try to get more money out of us than was fair (so we tipped him 50%). Fate denied us the other drivers who brushed us by.
And there in Phuket with another driver who took his soundtrack seriously but laughed at life in general, shouting out his windows, veering around cars in a way that should have made me fear for my life but instead assured me that we were in safe hands. It brought the whole Thai experience full circle for our last night there and I couldn't stop smiling.
But of course we realized only minutes after my romantic revelation that our real last night was the night before because, somehow, we had remembered the dates wrong. Our flight was in 6 hours. Ah well.
We concluded our travels with an Indian dinner, a harried departure, and then an excruciatingly long day of travel. (Longest day of my life--no exaggeration--December 18th will have lasted for 31 hours for us when all is said and done. I consider this further proof that Time is no respectable unit of measurement and hours, minutes, and seconds as we know them are merely fantastical constructs of the human imagination.)
....I am currently in the 20th hour of December 18th and on the second plane, this time traveling from Seoul to Tel Aviv. (The flight paths laid out for us are just as nonsensical as the hours.) To think that only days ago I was simply worried about mini buses and ferries.
In fact less than a week ago, Emily and I were squeezed into the umpteenth mini bus of our trip, traversing the jungles and en route to another island. The islands of Thailand were languid and delicious but molasses-slow, slower than anything else we saw in Thailand (and slower than anything we're getting into now, on our way home). There was also the rainforest, and that was a world away from anything else, a destination outside of Thailand, deep in Thailand: tree temples, hidden stone chambers, sparkling walls glossed by watery sheets pooling into a rushing stream on a cave tunnel floor. We trudged through mud and over fallen logs, until we were waist deep--chest deep--neck deep in chilled water from the jungle. Another world--and we were only on the edges.
But no matter where we were, the trip always moved on before we were settled, much too little time for all that we wanted to see. Emily and I ended the rush and noise of the trip with a quiet oasis of an island, bringing everything down into a low hum. Maybe it's because Koh Lanta was our last destination, but our time on the island felt much longer than any other portion of our trip. Time swelled into a silent calm. We rode bikes down the main street (as far as I know, the only street) of the island, slicing through red puddles of mud as the rain soaked our clothes through to the skin. What else is there to do when a warm rainstorm is crashing your plans? It was exhilarating to surrender to the elements and another opportunity to laugh at our misguided planning. After so much excitement, our closing ceremonies took place with books, wine, and rain.
In retrospect, better to end on that sort of note...the rain washed away anxiety, the stillness prepared me for the silent meditation of transition, and then hours later...still writing on the same piece...I'm seamlessly in another country in another time zone (and in hours I will be in yet another). The transitions are neverending, but the most important movements are happening within. Words seem a bit superfluous at this point...
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
--Rumi
But no matter where we were, the trip always moved on before we were settled, much too little time for all that we wanted to see. Emily and I ended the rush and noise of the trip with a quiet oasis of an island, bringing everything down into a low hum. Maybe it's because Koh Lanta was our last destination, but our time on the island felt much longer than any other portion of our trip. Time swelled into a silent calm. We rode bikes down the main street (as far as I know, the only street) of the island, slicing through red puddles of mud as the rain soaked our clothes through to the skin. What else is there to do when a warm rainstorm is crashing your plans? It was exhilarating to surrender to the elements and another opportunity to laugh at our misguided planning. After so much excitement, our closing ceremonies took place with books, wine, and rain.
In retrospect, better to end on that sort of note...the rain washed away anxiety, the stillness prepared me for the silent meditation of transition, and then hours later...still writing on the same piece...I'm seamlessly in another country in another time zone (and in hours I will be in yet another). The transitions are neverending, but the most important movements are happening within. Words seem a bit superfluous at this point...
Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move.
--Rumi
Saturday, December 8, 2012
want
We have less than 2 weeks left in Thailand....the countdown has been strange. We realized we only had 2 weeks to go while we were in the forests of Northern Thailand, visiting a hippy backpacker bubble where we easily could have stayed for a week. We left the next day because of how much more we want to do while we're here. There's just not enough time. Whenever one of us says out loud, "only two weeks," there's a mix of nostalgia, sadness, and a touch of relief at the prospect of returning home.
To be home will mean getting to wear more than the same three outfits over and over again. We can reintroduce simple steamed vegetables, Mexican food, and Italian food into our diets. Bike rides and grocery shopping on the weekends. Having weekends. And at some point, I'm going to take a bubble bath again. I'm thinking now of the hand-held shower heads fixed above toilets for showering, but also that cold bucket shower I had in the hills which wasn't honestly all that bad, since I did feel refreshed....but Oh, to have a bubble bath. The word "heaven" comes to mind.
It's easy to get caught up in these kinds of fantasies when I'm sitting in a cold, pale-blue and naked-steel bus station at 4:30 in the morning, after a 6 1/2 hour drive and awaiting the next 5 hours of travel. There's only dark around the silent station. We could be anywhere or nowhere (but hopefully somewhere close to the ferry station--they did tell us to get off the bus). I'm not uncomfortable right now so much as spacey and timelost, turning my thoughts elsewhere, like to how the money I've been saving by cutting corners will ultimately help me out in New York. Having a little extra in New York is worth the grunge in Thailand.
New York in 2 weeks...crazy.
Christmas time in New York, New Year's Eve in New York...I'm so happy we had the insight back in September to know how exciting it would be to end on that kind of note. From genie pants and muddy TOMS, tuk tuks and Thai temples, the smoke and steam of the tropics...there will be scarves and leather boots and my fantastically impractical lace gloves, champagne and the Soho art scene, ice skating and the vintage of Brooklyn...and of course, the people I care about who are spread across the United States and who I'll get to see again first in New York and then eventually in California...
I will miss Thailand, but I am also looking forward to what comes next, both in heading to all those things back home (more than just the small comforts) and to all that I want to start up--and continue--once I am there. The groundedness of appreciating all that I have and can nurture and sustain in my connections to people and education and opportunities for my future. I can't help but think about the future, even living as much as I am in the present moment (but I think my futurethoughts flourish the most when the present is something like this, a bleak bus station).
It is actually in realizing how I miss home and in discovering what can ground me, that makes me realize why this trip has been so important for me, beyond the opportunity to see other ways of living and stretch my perspective through the changing scenery. The missing, itself, is what I'm talking about.
Missing somethings or someones is necessitated by their absence, and--taking a small leap here--what is desire, if not a byproduct of absence? You can only desire what you don't believe you currently have. Desire--thirst and attachment--is an issue I wanted to explore on this trip, which made going to a place like Thailand, where Buddhism is the predominant religion, particularly attractive. As long as I have admired Buddhism, one of the principles I have found most intriguing is the intention to overcome desire. I have tried to wrap my head around that and to embody it in myself, because I believed that it was a higher mode of consciousness. Letting things go, letting go of my attachment, my wants, etc.
Suffering arises when thirst arises. Suffering ceases when thirst ceases. These are the second and third of the Buddhist Noble Truths.
But right now I am in a Buddhist nation, wondering if desire is one of the most important gifts I have in this life.
Longing is the core of mystery.
Longing itself brings the cure.
The only rule is, Suffer the pain.
Your desire must be disciplined,
and what you want to happen
in time, sacrificed.
--Rumi
Yes, discipline is important for growth, and yes, all things in time are sacrificed, but--can't desire also be productive if you nurture it and think about it in the right way? Missing something, wanting something doesn't have to be frustrating or painful. If I am patient with my desire, if I understand it clearly, it can serve as an empty space for fire to burn: when I desire something, the mindful attention I give it has the potential to lead to action. There is something beautiful about the suffering of thirst...
Think that you're gliding out from the face of a cliff
like an eagle. Think you're walking
like a tiger walks by himself in the forest.
You're most handsome when you're after food.
--Rumi
Before I came on this trip, I was not writing as much as I wanted to, but I desired it. I wanted to practice writing regularly and the craving of something missing from my life motivated me. It's a small example, but my desire gave me the spark I needed to start a blog.
In a truly inspiring example of desire at work, I think of Lek, the creator of the Elephant Nature Park that Emily and I visited in Northern Thailand. She saw the suffering of supposedly holy animals (the brutality that elephants often suffer at the hands of humans is tragic), and her desire for their salvation motivated her to dedicate her life to the cause. She says that she will work on saving elephants until the day she dies. There are so many animals that she cannot save; her desire for their healing and safety is an unquenchable thirst. But it has turned her life into something awesome and beautiful. She has 34 elephants at her sanctuary and that is a staggering number considering how much work goes into their care. First of all, they each eat 200-250 tons of fruits and vegetables a day. They also go through the same issues of illnesses, neuroses, and injuries as humans do, which makes a full-time medical staff necessary.
Yet the interactions between humans and elephants in this lush valley does not feel laborious. It is a place full of love. I could see the evidence of old suffering on the elephants' thick skin, dark scars cutting into their deep wrinkles, some of their eyes long-ago blinded, punctured ears and the marks of hooks that went through the tops of their heads...but here, they finally had their own piece of paradise. They were given a second chance at life and at creating unique little tribes amongst themselves, through the desire of one tiny woman whose happiness depends on their happiness.
Maybe desire is a gift when you see it as a function of the divine quality within us all, love. If your thirst is a heartfelt desire born out of love, then it has a certain energy and truth to it.
Love is the way messengers
from the mystery tell us things.
Love is the mother. We are her children.
She shines inside us, visible-invisible,
as we lose trust or feel it start to grow again.
--Rumi
Throughout my travels, I have thought just as much about love as I have about desire...the blurred line between desire and love...the way love moves me and moves everyone around me, whether I can see it or not.
I definitely haven't met a single traveler who hides his or her love for life...there is little room for apathy in exploring the world. Perhaps that is much of its appeal for me. The travelers I have met love trying new things, they love adventure, and even if they don't love all the places that they have seen, they love something about their experiences there. As humans, we are all captivated by whatever in life feeds our cravings and fills our hearts.
It has to be love that has kept me engrossed in the last few days of jungles and elephants and buses and schedules. It is certainly not sleep (I am truly exhausted). I simply love what I am doing. Especially with the time restraints (the urgency of temporal reality is a great motivator as well), I am trying to absorb all that I can from my experiences before they shift yet again.
Lanterns and fireworks and cracked city sidewalks, giant tree canopies laden with vines, soft-footed elephants floating like dark storm clouds over grassy seas...
And the people, the fusion of generosity and greed, of reverent and rude, and everything in between. People really are people wherever you go, but--I don't know, maybe it's because there is a glittering, golden temple on every block, and all the fireworks we have seen, and I can literally taste the spices in the air--living with Thailand's people reminds me of being at a big festival every day of the week. Every day is a carnival. There is just such a raw madness--good or bad--with every interaction, in every facet of daily life. Even getting a taxi leaves me feeling like I've just gone through something...like last night, however many hours ago, just getting a ride to the first bus station was such an event. (Unless you have tried to get a metered taxi in Bangkok on a Friday night, there is really no simple way of explaining this one....it's just mad mad mad.)
That taxi episode was only hours ago...and the bus chaos that followed...here I am, absorbed first in Rumi and now in my writing...I really don't understand how I feel so wide awake and settled here in my seat on the ferry (there was a spacial transition sometime in my entry that did not seem important to note). I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be at the island, Koh Tao, in an hour (or two?) but all I see around us is a flat steel blue ocean and a clear sky on the horizon. Only a moment ago (or was it an hour or two?) I was on a dock watching the world shift into day with the dramatics of a painting. Pink blush on the horizon bleeding into a feathery gray curtain, rising above, and there, jutting at an angle right through the middle of the opposing shades, like a searchlight coming out of the ocean looking for the moon, was a streak of cerulean. Mystical Thai Madness.
There's a strange frenzy in my head,
of birds flying,
each particle circulating on its own.
Is the one I love everywhere?
--Rumi
To be home will mean getting to wear more than the same three outfits over and over again. We can reintroduce simple steamed vegetables, Mexican food, and Italian food into our diets. Bike rides and grocery shopping on the weekends. Having weekends. And at some point, I'm going to take a bubble bath again. I'm thinking now of the hand-held shower heads fixed above toilets for showering, but also that cold bucket shower I had in the hills which wasn't honestly all that bad, since I did feel refreshed....but Oh, to have a bubble bath. The word "heaven" comes to mind.
It's easy to get caught up in these kinds of fantasies when I'm sitting in a cold, pale-blue and naked-steel bus station at 4:30 in the morning, after a 6 1/2 hour drive and awaiting the next 5 hours of travel. There's only dark around the silent station. We could be anywhere or nowhere (but hopefully somewhere close to the ferry station--they did tell us to get off the bus). I'm not uncomfortable right now so much as spacey and timelost, turning my thoughts elsewhere, like to how the money I've been saving by cutting corners will ultimately help me out in New York. Having a little extra in New York is worth the grunge in Thailand.
New York in 2 weeks...crazy.
Christmas time in New York, New Year's Eve in New York...I'm so happy we had the insight back in September to know how exciting it would be to end on that kind of note. From genie pants and muddy TOMS, tuk tuks and Thai temples, the smoke and steam of the tropics...there will be scarves and leather boots and my fantastically impractical lace gloves, champagne and the Soho art scene, ice skating and the vintage of Brooklyn...and of course, the people I care about who are spread across the United States and who I'll get to see again first in New York and then eventually in California...
I will miss Thailand, but I am also looking forward to what comes next, both in heading to all those things back home (more than just the small comforts) and to all that I want to start up--and continue--once I am there. The groundedness of appreciating all that I have and can nurture and sustain in my connections to people and education and opportunities for my future. I can't help but think about the future, even living as much as I am in the present moment (but I think my futurethoughts flourish the most when the present is something like this, a bleak bus station).
It is actually in realizing how I miss home and in discovering what can ground me, that makes me realize why this trip has been so important for me, beyond the opportunity to see other ways of living and stretch my perspective through the changing scenery. The missing, itself, is what I'm talking about.
Missing somethings or someones is necessitated by their absence, and--taking a small leap here--what is desire, if not a byproduct of absence? You can only desire what you don't believe you currently have. Desire--thirst and attachment--is an issue I wanted to explore on this trip, which made going to a place like Thailand, where Buddhism is the predominant religion, particularly attractive. As long as I have admired Buddhism, one of the principles I have found most intriguing is the intention to overcome desire. I have tried to wrap my head around that and to embody it in myself, because I believed that it was a higher mode of consciousness. Letting things go, letting go of my attachment, my wants, etc.
Suffering arises when thirst arises. Suffering ceases when thirst ceases. These are the second and third of the Buddhist Noble Truths.
But right now I am in a Buddhist nation, wondering if desire is one of the most important gifts I have in this life.
Longing is the core of mystery.
Longing itself brings the cure.
The only rule is, Suffer the pain.
Your desire must be disciplined,
and what you want to happen
in time, sacrificed.
--Rumi
Yes, discipline is important for growth, and yes, all things in time are sacrificed, but--can't desire also be productive if you nurture it and think about it in the right way? Missing something, wanting something doesn't have to be frustrating or painful. If I am patient with my desire, if I understand it clearly, it can serve as an empty space for fire to burn: when I desire something, the mindful attention I give it has the potential to lead to action. There is something beautiful about the suffering of thirst...
Think that you're gliding out from the face of a cliff
like an eagle. Think you're walking
like a tiger walks by himself in the forest.
You're most handsome when you're after food.
--Rumi
Before I came on this trip, I was not writing as much as I wanted to, but I desired it. I wanted to practice writing regularly and the craving of something missing from my life motivated me. It's a small example, but my desire gave me the spark I needed to start a blog.
In a truly inspiring example of desire at work, I think of Lek, the creator of the Elephant Nature Park that Emily and I visited in Northern Thailand. She saw the suffering of supposedly holy animals (the brutality that elephants often suffer at the hands of humans is tragic), and her desire for their salvation motivated her to dedicate her life to the cause. She says that she will work on saving elephants until the day she dies. There are so many animals that she cannot save; her desire for their healing and safety is an unquenchable thirst. But it has turned her life into something awesome and beautiful. She has 34 elephants at her sanctuary and that is a staggering number considering how much work goes into their care. First of all, they each eat 200-250 tons of fruits and vegetables a day. They also go through the same issues of illnesses, neuroses, and injuries as humans do, which makes a full-time medical staff necessary.
Yet the interactions between humans and elephants in this lush valley does not feel laborious. It is a place full of love. I could see the evidence of old suffering on the elephants' thick skin, dark scars cutting into their deep wrinkles, some of their eyes long-ago blinded, punctured ears and the marks of hooks that went through the tops of their heads...but here, they finally had their own piece of paradise. They were given a second chance at life and at creating unique little tribes amongst themselves, through the desire of one tiny woman whose happiness depends on their happiness.
Maybe desire is a gift when you see it as a function of the divine quality within us all, love. If your thirst is a heartfelt desire born out of love, then it has a certain energy and truth to it.
Love is the way messengers
from the mystery tell us things.
Love is the mother. We are her children.
She shines inside us, visible-invisible,
as we lose trust or feel it start to grow again.
--Rumi
Throughout my travels, I have thought just as much about love as I have about desire...the blurred line between desire and love...the way love moves me and moves everyone around me, whether I can see it or not.
I definitely haven't met a single traveler who hides his or her love for life...there is little room for apathy in exploring the world. Perhaps that is much of its appeal for me. The travelers I have met love trying new things, they love adventure, and even if they don't love all the places that they have seen, they love something about their experiences there. As humans, we are all captivated by whatever in life feeds our cravings and fills our hearts.
It has to be love that has kept me engrossed in the last few days of jungles and elephants and buses and schedules. It is certainly not sleep (I am truly exhausted). I simply love what I am doing. Especially with the time restraints (the urgency of temporal reality is a great motivator as well), I am trying to absorb all that I can from my experiences before they shift yet again.
Lanterns and fireworks and cracked city sidewalks, giant tree canopies laden with vines, soft-footed elephants floating like dark storm clouds over grassy seas...
And the people, the fusion of generosity and greed, of reverent and rude, and everything in between. People really are people wherever you go, but--I don't know, maybe it's because there is a glittering, golden temple on every block, and all the fireworks we have seen, and I can literally taste the spices in the air--living with Thailand's people reminds me of being at a big festival every day of the week. Every day is a carnival. There is just such a raw madness--good or bad--with every interaction, in every facet of daily life. Even getting a taxi leaves me feeling like I've just gone through something...like last night, however many hours ago, just getting a ride to the first bus station was such an event. (Unless you have tried to get a metered taxi in Bangkok on a Friday night, there is really no simple way of explaining this one....it's just mad mad mad.)
That taxi episode was only hours ago...and the bus chaos that followed...here I am, absorbed first in Rumi and now in my writing...I really don't understand how I feel so wide awake and settled here in my seat on the ferry (there was a spacial transition sometime in my entry that did not seem important to note). I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be at the island, Koh Tao, in an hour (or two?) but all I see around us is a flat steel blue ocean and a clear sky on the horizon. Only a moment ago (or was it an hour or two?) I was on a dock watching the world shift into day with the dramatics of a painting. Pink blush on the horizon bleeding into a feathery gray curtain, rising above, and there, jutting at an angle right through the middle of the opposing shades, like a searchlight coming out of the ocean looking for the moon, was a streak of cerulean. Mystical Thai Madness.
There's a strange frenzy in my head,
of birds flying,
each particle circulating on its own.
Is the one I love everywhere?
--Rumi
Saturday, December 1, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
cozy
It is our last night in Malaysia before we fly to Thailand. Our new friend, Rash, is kind enough to have welcomed us as his guests for a few days and it is amazing to be in a real home again. Right now, I'm sitting cross-legged on the guest bed, wearing my Bob Dylan go-to shirt, with a glass of wine on the nightstand. (Side note: The friendly owner at the buffet down the street let us borrow a couple of glasses for the night. "Oh, you'll bring them back tomorrow? No problem!")
Emily's glass is on the floor. She has the sewing kit between us (her new bag handle started to rip, but that is now fixed) and she just got off the phone with a pizza place that delivers gourmet pizzas, calamari, and strombino.
After dealing with some airline-sanctioned red tape, taking a 9-hour bus ride down the country's coast, and completing our final Kuala Lumpur missions in the last full day we have in Malaysia, Emily and I agreed that all we really wanted to do tonight was hang out and watch movies and drink vino. Basically, we wanted a night that felt like home.
Yesterday, Rash asked us, "What's in your survival kit?" It took me a minute to realize that what he meant was something along the lines of, "What do you need from home to feel grounded as you travel?" I don't need a lot in terms of material objects, but having a cozy night is a main part of my experiential survival kit: Watching an American movie, eating some late night food American-style, browsing life back home through Facebook and email. Wine makes the night better. Pajamas make the night perfect. We've had plenty of Asian cuisine, lugged around a camera every day, and completely submerged ourselves in the travel experience. I can't really describe what a relief it is to just screw it all and become a homebody for a night. I don't think of it as a night wasted, but as a night earned.
Of course just by expressing my sense of relief for a break, I feel compelled to reiterate how lucky I feel to be on a trip that nearly exhausts me. I'm learning things every single day, whether it is how to ride a motorbike, how to cook new foods, or how to have a conversation about foreign politics with people who have a wildly different perspective than myself. I'm out of my element in all sorts of ways and it's awesome.
The people I have met--especially locals--have changed my world. Rash is a perfect example. The cousin of one of my new friends from Birthright (you're the best, Arun!), this guy got up at 3:30 in the morning, and picked Emily and me up from the bus station. He not only saved us a decent amount of money, but also introduced us to a different perspective of Kuala Lumpur. Last night, we joined Rash and his fabulous girlfriend at his buddy's new cigar and whiskey bar, Whisky Tango Foxtrot. We relaxed in the back room with a door that looked like a wall panel, and met some generous, down-to-earth folks who shared Japanese whiskey and traveling stories of their own. It was the kind of night that would only happen with a local friend, a night that was unique to Kuala Lumpur.
And now the pendulum swings and I need the cheesiest night possible: American films that rated poorly on Rotten Tomatoes, wine out of a bottle with a screw top, and thin crust pizza. All in my pjs. It's perfect. As much as I love the surprises of traveling, sometimes having the familiarity of a cozy night is just as wonderful, my personal take on a "survival kit."
Emily's glass is on the floor. She has the sewing kit between us (her new bag handle started to rip, but that is now fixed) and she just got off the phone with a pizza place that delivers gourmet pizzas, calamari, and strombino.
After dealing with some airline-sanctioned red tape, taking a 9-hour bus ride down the country's coast, and completing our final Kuala Lumpur missions in the last full day we have in Malaysia, Emily and I agreed that all we really wanted to do tonight was hang out and watch movies and drink vino. Basically, we wanted a night that felt like home.
Yesterday, Rash asked us, "What's in your survival kit?" It took me a minute to realize that what he meant was something along the lines of, "What do you need from home to feel grounded as you travel?" I don't need a lot in terms of material objects, but having a cozy night is a main part of my experiential survival kit: Watching an American movie, eating some late night food American-style, browsing life back home through Facebook and email. Wine makes the night better. Pajamas make the night perfect. We've had plenty of Asian cuisine, lugged around a camera every day, and completely submerged ourselves in the travel experience. I can't really describe what a relief it is to just screw it all and become a homebody for a night. I don't think of it as a night wasted, but as a night earned.
Of course just by expressing my sense of relief for a break, I feel compelled to reiterate how lucky I feel to be on a trip that nearly exhausts me. I'm learning things every single day, whether it is how to ride a motorbike, how to cook new foods, or how to have a conversation about foreign politics with people who have a wildly different perspective than myself. I'm out of my element in all sorts of ways and it's awesome.
The people I have met--especially locals--have changed my world. Rash is a perfect example. The cousin of one of my new friends from Birthright (you're the best, Arun!), this guy got up at 3:30 in the morning, and picked Emily and me up from the bus station. He not only saved us a decent amount of money, but also introduced us to a different perspective of Kuala Lumpur. Last night, we joined Rash and his fabulous girlfriend at his buddy's new cigar and whiskey bar, Whisky Tango Foxtrot. We relaxed in the back room with a door that looked like a wall panel, and met some generous, down-to-earth folks who shared Japanese whiskey and traveling stories of their own. It was the kind of night that would only happen with a local friend, a night that was unique to Kuala Lumpur.
And now the pendulum swings and I need the cheesiest night possible: American films that rated poorly on Rotten Tomatoes, wine out of a bottle with a screw top, and thin crust pizza. All in my pjs. It's perfect. As much as I love the surprises of traveling, sometimes having the familiarity of a cozy night is just as wonderful, my personal take on a "survival kit."
Friday, November 16, 2012
lull
I'm enjoying a lull in island adventuring right now, due to a sudden downpour of rain (although monsoon season is mild and warm despite the current waves of water). The break is welcome, since I'm also just on the other side of severe illness. Nothing like the bronchitis I experienced in Israel....this time I learned the hard way that one should NOT drink the tap water in Malaysia.
Since Emily and I are now hiding out in our dry and cozy hostel, it seems like a good time to write. Although I have a feeling this will be much shorter than the normal entry, since I'm currently typing on my iPhone...such a handy little device....and yet such a small screen.
Since Emily and I are now hiding out in our dry and cozy hostel, it seems like a good time to write. Although I have a feeling this will be much shorter than the normal entry, since I'm currently typing on my iPhone...such a handy little device....and yet such a small screen.
Emily and I are on Langkawi, a beautiful little paradise. The ocean is warm, the people are laid-back, at night the stars blanket the sky, and you can eat a meal for as little as a dollar. (Although I'm pretty sure the place where we ate a $1 lunch is also the source of my water poisoning.) The island caters to a pretty big tourist population and yet still maintains the charms of personal space and community for the locals. It is a great balance.
Yesterday, Emily and I stumbled upon a local scene while we were exploring the jungle. A giant picnic under a waterfall, with kids swimming on different tiers and mothers preparing plates of food on the surrounding rocks. The smaller boys leapt off an old metal sign perched on a ledge and into the shallow pool (I had a minor, mom-like freak-out upon seeing them, but they seemed perfectly fine). The older kids were at the top level, under the biggest part of the waterfall, snacking and chatting and daring each other to jump off the higher rocks. Em and I lingered for a few minutes before we continued our little adventure, passing private beaches where more families were enjoying a relaxing Friday afternoon together.
Our day's travel was made possible by a motorbike we rented in the morning from a tourist shop. Best idea ever. I don't know what possessed me to say, "Yeah, I can drive that thing," but lo and behold, I am one with the bike. On our way to the northern part of the island, the ride was mildly terrifying....sharp turns, cars full of dudes pulling up alongside us for polite conversation ("Hey hey hey!! How you doing?? Where you going??"), random and frequent monkey crossings, and all this while driving on the left side of the road. By the end of the day, though, I had gotten a much better feel for how to control the thing. Despite the lurch I felt in my stomach every time I saw a sign indicating a sharp right or left, I was positive that I could handle it with ease. Accelerate and lean in to the turns...stay in the left lane. True to my Angelean roots, I even passed the slower vehicles. It was a very exciting day.
The best part of our exploration was this little clear and gentle bay hiding off the side of the road. Fine and grainy sand, mostly locals with a couple other foreigners, beautiful trees around us and no boats in view. Emily and I were giddy, turning somersaults and doing handstands, floating on our backs like sea otters, saying over and over again, "This is a perfect day. I am so happy we're here."
We were hoping for another perfect day to follow that one, but maybe this is just a different kind of perfect. The torrential rain is beautiful and resting feels wonderful. Besides, tomorrow should be a big adventure for us if the weather allows. Em is going to show me her driving skills on a jet ski and there are baby islands so close to us that we can see the sand lines. We have much more exploring to do.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
wear
Please press play.
I just discovered this 10 hour version of the song, which at first seemed absurd to me, as I'm sure it does to you. But considering how many times I played it while I was writing the following entry, it seems like the perfect accompaniment.
Yesterday, Emily and I took a bus from Kuala Lumpur to Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands, giving me plenty of time to catch up in my journal....
Kuala Lumpur....yep, we're in Malaysia. The plans have changed a bit.
***
Kuala Lumpur, November 9-12:
In my AC-chilled hostel room, I comfortably dressed in black spandex pants and a long, baggy T-shirt that hid my curves. Since Malaysia is a predominantly Muslim country, I didn't want to offend the locals by showing too much skin while I went for my morning run. It didn't really occur to me how difficult I was actually making it for myself, attempting my first run in almost a month in such a hot and humid climate and with so much fabric covering my skin.
I swung my heavy hiking boots forward as I slowly climbed the ascending pavement, into the depths of a park that felt like the outskirts of a rainforest. Water dripped from the trees overhead and onto my bare forearms, mixing with the sweat that glistened on my already wet skin.
About 20 minutes in, I passed the first pair of joggers. The woman was wearing shorts. They were as long as her male companion's, but she was still going for comfort over the rules of dress that I imagined were strictly enforced. By the end of my run, I had passed countless women in high-cut shorts and tank tops running on the same path. Needless to say, I was confused about the advice I had received to dress modestly.
Like most countries in the world, the cultural "rules" in Malaysia vary based on region, and in a modern city like Kuala Lumpur, Western influence has clearly made its mark. I hadn't realized just how developed the place was, with its efficient monorail system, futuristic skyscrapers, and fairyland LED lights which illuminated streets, temples, and even the royal palace. Kuala Lumpur is an urban burst of color and glitter that seems to draw from tradition just as much as it pushes for innovation and modernization. Of course what I'm describing here are the architectural developments I was able to observe.
So what about the social developments? How does the concept of modest dress work in such a modern city? The more time I spent in KL, the more I observed a diverse mix of female clothing, from waves of burqas--the few moth-like women flowing by--to the rainbow headscarves and butterfly tunics visible in every direction. I was also surprised to see plenty of bare shoulders and legs amongst the locals.
My fascination with these varied clothing styles has led me to think about the broader concept of how we, as humans, work with the physical form to express our inner selves. In fact, the ways in which we cover--and don't cover--our bodies reflect much more than our individuality. Clothing is about the relationship between an individual and the public. When I am home, I feel empowered as a woman and as a citizen. I present my body in ways that reflect that sense of freedom, I embrace the curves of my body and I show a decent amount of skin. However, as a young woman traveling without a male companion in Malaysia, I would feel vulnerable if I dressed the same that I normally do in California. Showing skin back home is an expression of my power as a woman, while covering my skin here is a way to empower myself as a woman.
Thinking about "modest dress" in this context gives me appreciation for the particular ways in which Malaysian women empower themselves through dress, even with the restrictions of a Muslim culture. (Although, as open-minded as I try to be, burqas are admittedly strange to me.) The varieties of colors and jewels amongst the women offer opportunities for self-expression that celebrate the physical form. No matter our country, traditions, or concepts of modesty, I think we all want to exert some sense of control over our physicality as way to express our personal power. Muslim clothes can be surprisingly audacious. There is also something sexy and powerful about leaving more to the imagination. By bringing more attention to a woman's face, head scarves and tunics highlight her unique beauty.
I'd be curious to know how the women here perceive tourists' more scandalous clothing choices and how they feel about foreign dress in general. Based on my current physical appearance--wrinkled, Thai "genie" pants, American shirts and shoes, an Indian henna--I probably look like a Western hippy backpacker, which carries its own implications about my identity and personal power. In some ways I think my appearance hinders my relationship with the Malaysian locals. Covered or not, I am still vulnerable as a foreigner and as a single woman, and so I can easily be overcharged by taxi drivers and hassled by strange men. As a foreign woman, I also haven't had a great deal of interaction with the local women. However, my backpacker outfits also empower me by communicating that I need help with translations and directions. My attempts at modesty (and my henna) show that I respect the local culture. My clothing provides me with opportunities to learn more about Malaysia from friendly locals who are intrigued by my appearance and want to engage in conversation. Obviously, I look foreign regardless of my clothes, but I also believe that my particular blend of local and American garb communicates much more than the fact that I am foreign.
It is interesting to consider the power of dress in a place with such different traditions from those I know. I don't believe appearance tells the whole story about an individual or culture--I mean, how could I?--but I am learning more about the power of appearance and clothing here in Malaysia. I am also learning more about Malaysia, simply by keeping my eyes (and mind) open to the explosions of colors and flowing fabric all around me.
I just discovered this 10 hour version of the song, which at first seemed absurd to me, as I'm sure it does to you. But considering how many times I played it while I was writing the following entry, it seems like the perfect accompaniment.
Yesterday, Emily and I took a bus from Kuala Lumpur to Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands, giving me plenty of time to catch up in my journal....
Kuala Lumpur....yep, we're in Malaysia. The plans have changed a bit.
***
Kuala Lumpur, November 9-12:
In my AC-chilled hostel room, I comfortably dressed in black spandex pants and a long, baggy T-shirt that hid my curves. Since Malaysia is a predominantly Muslim country, I didn't want to offend the locals by showing too much skin while I went for my morning run. It didn't really occur to me how difficult I was actually making it for myself, attempting my first run in almost a month in such a hot and humid climate and with so much fabric covering my skin.
I swung my heavy hiking boots forward as I slowly climbed the ascending pavement, into the depths of a park that felt like the outskirts of a rainforest. Water dripped from the trees overhead and onto my bare forearms, mixing with the sweat that glistened on my already wet skin.
About 20 minutes in, I passed the first pair of joggers. The woman was wearing shorts. They were as long as her male companion's, but she was still going for comfort over the rules of dress that I imagined were strictly enforced. By the end of my run, I had passed countless women in high-cut shorts and tank tops running on the same path. Needless to say, I was confused about the advice I had received to dress modestly.
Like most countries in the world, the cultural "rules" in Malaysia vary based on region, and in a modern city like Kuala Lumpur, Western influence has clearly made its mark. I hadn't realized just how developed the place was, with its efficient monorail system, futuristic skyscrapers, and fairyland LED lights which illuminated streets, temples, and even the royal palace. Kuala Lumpur is an urban burst of color and glitter that seems to draw from tradition just as much as it pushes for innovation and modernization. Of course what I'm describing here are the architectural developments I was able to observe.
So what about the social developments? How does the concept of modest dress work in such a modern city? The more time I spent in KL, the more I observed a diverse mix of female clothing, from waves of burqas--the few moth-like women flowing by--to the rainbow headscarves and butterfly tunics visible in every direction. I was also surprised to see plenty of bare shoulders and legs amongst the locals.
My fascination with these varied clothing styles has led me to think about the broader concept of how we, as humans, work with the physical form to express our inner selves. In fact, the ways in which we cover--and don't cover--our bodies reflect much more than our individuality. Clothing is about the relationship between an individual and the public. When I am home, I feel empowered as a woman and as a citizen. I present my body in ways that reflect that sense of freedom, I embrace the curves of my body and I show a decent amount of skin. However, as a young woman traveling without a male companion in Malaysia, I would feel vulnerable if I dressed the same that I normally do in California. Showing skin back home is an expression of my power as a woman, while covering my skin here is a way to empower myself as a woman.
Thinking about "modest dress" in this context gives me appreciation for the particular ways in which Malaysian women empower themselves through dress, even with the restrictions of a Muslim culture. (Although, as open-minded as I try to be, burqas are admittedly strange to me.) The varieties of colors and jewels amongst the women offer opportunities for self-expression that celebrate the physical form. No matter our country, traditions, or concepts of modesty, I think we all want to exert some sense of control over our physicality as way to express our personal power. Muslim clothes can be surprisingly audacious. There is also something sexy and powerful about leaving more to the imagination. By bringing more attention to a woman's face, head scarves and tunics highlight her unique beauty.
I'd be curious to know how the women here perceive tourists' more scandalous clothing choices and how they feel about foreign dress in general. Based on my current physical appearance--wrinkled, Thai "genie" pants, American shirts and shoes, an Indian henna--I probably look like a Western hippy backpacker, which carries its own implications about my identity and personal power. In some ways I think my appearance hinders my relationship with the Malaysian locals. Covered or not, I am still vulnerable as a foreigner and as a single woman, and so I can easily be overcharged by taxi drivers and hassled by strange men. As a foreign woman, I also haven't had a great deal of interaction with the local women. However, my backpacker outfits also empower me by communicating that I need help with translations and directions. My attempts at modesty (and my henna) show that I respect the local culture. My clothing provides me with opportunities to learn more about Malaysia from friendly locals who are intrigued by my appearance and want to engage in conversation. Obviously, I look foreign regardless of my clothes, but I also believe that my particular blend of local and American garb communicates much more than the fact that I am foreign.
It is interesting to consider the power of dress in a place with such different traditions from those I know. I don't believe appearance tells the whole story about an individual or culture--I mean, how could I?--but I am learning more about the power of appearance and clothing here in Malaysia. I am also learning more about Malaysia, simply by keeping my eyes (and mind) open to the explosions of colors and flowing fabric all around me.
Friday, November 2, 2012
oops
"You seem nervous. Is this your first time flying?"
Emily's passport is filled with stamps, so this accusation was a bit absurd. Any signs of nervousness were only her reaction to the intensity of the airport security guard. He drilled her with repetitive questions and held her passport behind his back as if she just might not get it back that day.
We hadn't eaten anything and we were running late for an international flight, and then, just as we got to the front of the security line, we were pulled aside for questioning. Airport security was concerned that we weren't leaving with the rest of our Birthright group, as well as by our relation. A straight-haired blonde and a curly brunette claiming to be sisters? Fishy. They focused in on the blonde.
Whispered Hebrew, sideways glances, and then they separated us so they could double-check her answers. When Emily had finally satisfied the guard with her consistency, he gave her an extra sticker to put on her passport. "This one's shady," it seemed to say.
Ever closer to the check-in counter, we laughed about the misfortune.
"Can you imagine what's going to happen when we try to leave Israel again, but after traveling an extra two months through India and Thailand?"
"O god. I'm going to get strip-searched."
We threw our bags onto the X-ray belt, laughing. I stopped laughing at the next obstacle.
"You." The uniform stared me down. Apparently it was my turn for extra inspection. The static group of angsty travelers in the new waiting area looked nearly as frustrated as me, all of us waiting for tediously slow baggage analysis. Forty-five minutes until boarding.
Emily hurried to the check-in counter to see if she could get both our boarding passes printed. Meanwhile, I waited. And waited. Thirty minutes before boarding, I heard a security guard call for my flight and I shouted, "HERE!" like I was snagging the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. We would not miss this flight. We would go to India.
My bag was rushed through the check point and I ran to where Emily stood, leaning on the counter in front of an apathetic woman who pretended she didn't see either of us.
"What's going on?"
"They say we need visas."
Emily and I had bought our tickets to India weeks prior, without any problems. We hadn't read up on the visa situation because, as far as we knew, we didn't need one for our brief amount of travel. Israel didn't require a visa, Thailand didn't. But India--the longest portion of our trip, the place we researched the most, the country I've obsessed over visiting for years--that was the place with the red tape.
At first, we were in disbelief. Then there were tears. But Emily and I finally womaned up and decided we could remedy the situation. We've made some blunders together in the past while traveling...nothing to this degree, but adequately screwed up enough to prepare us for disaster.
We spent the next four hours visiting the Indian embassy, then an intermediary travel agent. We filled out forms, took formal application photos, and handed over our passports to a sympathetic woman who told us, "Anywhere from a couple days to two weeks." Only then did we collapse on the bed of a dingy hostel, where we planted ourselves for the next four nights. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to stay in Israel a little while longer.
This would also be a good time to mention that on the day we were ready to leave for India, I hadn't yet reached the peak of what we would later determine was a bad case of bronchitis. It is just in the last day or so that I've started to get better--and much credit has to be given to my amazing traveling companion for taking my violent coughing in stride. I am so grateful for her calming presence and also that we are traveling together. Going through this madness as a pair brings a bit more humor to the situation. It also makes bronchitis a hell of a lot less miserable.
The plans are a mess, but at least we were given an opportunity to make the most of an unfortunate situation. More time in beautiful Tel Aviv is a far cry from disaster. Our crusty hostel turned out to be a happy oasis, one block away from the gorgeous, soft sandy beach and walking distance from some eclectic restaurants, the movie theatres (go see Looper!), plenty of markets, a post office, and everything else we could need in Limbo.
The past few days slowed us down and gave us a lovely little extension in Israel. A couple days ago, we decided to return to Jerusalem and--thanks to Birthright--we actually have friends up there to visit. A very generous guy who traveled with our group, Kobi, has arranged for us to stay with his girlfriend while we're there. Soon Emily and I will get to experience Shabbat dinner in a traditional, family setting. And, knowing Kobi, I'm sure we will also be experiencing at least one more impromptu hot chocolate session. (Kobi travels with a camping stove and supplies for hot beverages....he is always prepared with hospitality!)
As fun as it has been to explore Tel Aviv, I'm really looking forward to a change of scenery for the next few days....off we go to Jerusalem. The bus awaits.
Emily's passport is filled with stamps, so this accusation was a bit absurd. Any signs of nervousness were only her reaction to the intensity of the airport security guard. He drilled her with repetitive questions and held her passport behind his back as if she just might not get it back that day.
We hadn't eaten anything and we were running late for an international flight, and then, just as we got to the front of the security line, we were pulled aside for questioning. Airport security was concerned that we weren't leaving with the rest of our Birthright group, as well as by our relation. A straight-haired blonde and a curly brunette claiming to be sisters? Fishy. They focused in on the blonde.
Whispered Hebrew, sideways glances, and then they separated us so they could double-check her answers. When Emily had finally satisfied the guard with her consistency, he gave her an extra sticker to put on her passport. "This one's shady," it seemed to say.
Ever closer to the check-in counter, we laughed about the misfortune.
"Can you imagine what's going to happen when we try to leave Israel again, but after traveling an extra two months through India and Thailand?"
"O god. I'm going to get strip-searched."
We threw our bags onto the X-ray belt, laughing. I stopped laughing at the next obstacle.
"You." The uniform stared me down. Apparently it was my turn for extra inspection. The static group of angsty travelers in the new waiting area looked nearly as frustrated as me, all of us waiting for tediously slow baggage analysis. Forty-five minutes until boarding.
Emily hurried to the check-in counter to see if she could get both our boarding passes printed. Meanwhile, I waited. And waited. Thirty minutes before boarding, I heard a security guard call for my flight and I shouted, "HERE!" like I was snagging the last lifeboat on a sinking ship. We would not miss this flight. We would go to India.
My bag was rushed through the check point and I ran to where Emily stood, leaning on the counter in front of an apathetic woman who pretended she didn't see either of us.
"What's going on?"
"They say we need visas."
Emily and I had bought our tickets to India weeks prior, without any problems. We hadn't read up on the visa situation because, as far as we knew, we didn't need one for our brief amount of travel. Israel didn't require a visa, Thailand didn't. But India--the longest portion of our trip, the place we researched the most, the country I've obsessed over visiting for years--that was the place with the red tape.
At first, we were in disbelief. Then there were tears. But Emily and I finally womaned up and decided we could remedy the situation. We've made some blunders together in the past while traveling...nothing to this degree, but adequately screwed up enough to prepare us for disaster.
We spent the next four hours visiting the Indian embassy, then an intermediary travel agent. We filled out forms, took formal application photos, and handed over our passports to a sympathetic woman who told us, "Anywhere from a couple days to two weeks." Only then did we collapse on the bed of a dingy hostel, where we planted ourselves for the next four nights. Everything happens for a reason. Maybe we were supposed to stay in Israel a little while longer.
This would also be a good time to mention that on the day we were ready to leave for India, I hadn't yet reached the peak of what we would later determine was a bad case of bronchitis. It is just in the last day or so that I've started to get better--and much credit has to be given to my amazing traveling companion for taking my violent coughing in stride. I am so grateful for her calming presence and also that we are traveling together. Going through this madness as a pair brings a bit more humor to the situation. It also makes bronchitis a hell of a lot less miserable.
The plans are a mess, but at least we were given an opportunity to make the most of an unfortunate situation. More time in beautiful Tel Aviv is a far cry from disaster. Our crusty hostel turned out to be a happy oasis, one block away from the gorgeous, soft sandy beach and walking distance from some eclectic restaurants, the movie theatres (go see Looper!), plenty of markets, a post office, and everything else we could need in Limbo.
The past few days slowed us down and gave us a lovely little extension in Israel. A couple days ago, we decided to return to Jerusalem and--thanks to Birthright--we actually have friends up there to visit. A very generous guy who traveled with our group, Kobi, has arranged for us to stay with his girlfriend while we're there. Soon Emily and I will get to experience Shabbat dinner in a traditional, family setting. And, knowing Kobi, I'm sure we will also be experiencing at least one more impromptu hot chocolate session. (Kobi travels with a camping stove and supplies for hot beverages....he is always prepared with hospitality!)
As fun as it has been to explore Tel Aviv, I'm really looking forward to a change of scenery for the next few days....off we go to Jerusalem. The bus awaits.
A tea party from the past. (From left to right: Emily, Amanda, Yael, Kobi, Lewis)
Thursday, October 18, 2012
here
Warm wind swirls brown leaves off the ground and carries the laughter and songs of a wedding celebration over Jaffa. The live music is bright and joyful, but there is also a nostalgic quality to its tone, haunting and beautiful. Stray cats leap from stone steps stretched out around us. The city lights across the way contrast with the dark ocean below the hill. This is our first night in Tel Aviv and the city has already swept me off my feet.
Our tour guide, Yoav, tells us that even though he expects we will have lots of questions throughout the ten days of Taglit-Birthright, we should expect more questions and less answers. "You'll find a way to answer questions later."
***
The first night in Tel Aviv felt like a meditation on what was to come, a moment to reflect on how much I still have to learn about my Jewish roots--and about identity, community, and spirituality in general. My experience of being human is part of an unfathomably larger fabric of history. Perhaps in understanding that history better, I can come to understand my small part better. Israel is so rich with stories of the past, it feels consequential to simply stand on the soil. But then my exploration will also extend beyond Israel and take a turn into complete unfamiliarity in South East Asia. This is a testament to the even greater community of being human that extends beyond myself and my family and my notions of spiritual awareness.
My intention prior to leaving the USA was to find "clarity," to obtain a sense of security in my spiritual and emotional faculties. This seems more like the analytical agenda of my rational mind. The type of clarity I am really seeking isn't about feeling secure and placid, nor about finding answers and making conclusions. Yoav assured us that the more we learn, the more questions we will have. That sounds more like spiritual and self-exploration, doesn't it? Life is messy and expansive. True clarity, then, should light the way down the infinite path of exploration, so as to continue the search.
Before leaving, I put so much weight on this trip, as if it were to be the literal manifestation of my allegorical exploration of life. True, traveling, at its core, is always something like that. A person shakes off all the familiar and sets off into the unknown--that desire to shift scenery must come from a deeper desire to expand. But if I put too much emphasis on searching for clarity or finding answers, I might just miss the point. Much better to be here now.
The beginning of this trip kicked off with my 25th birthday. It feels like starting fresh, like a new phase--and I can't imagine a better place to begin than in Israel. This country is very special. Such a heavy past and so rich a culture, yet the atmosphere is welcoming and light.
We've been here only three days, but my Birthright group generally agrees that time is irrelevant--it might as well have been weeks at this point. So far our stay has been a fantastic blur of hummus, bus rides, political and religious discussions, hot thick air, dust, hookah, and fast bonding. The relationships we are building as a group--superficial as they might be after what is in actuality a very short time--feel surprisingly easy and organic. These are good people. Everyone is so open, they just come as they are.
I'm finding myself more grounded and clear-headed than I've felt in a very long time. I think it has something to do with the welcome familiarity of living out of a backpack and definitely from the laid-back group of people with whom I am lucky enough to travel. I feel free to be myself, passionate and curious and messy as ever. All my heavy expectations about what this trip could be are dissolving into the reality of what it is: I am in a magical place with a little community of beautiful people, waking up every day to wildly different experiences than I have ever had before.
Just yesterday we hiked through the Golan Heights. We ran up rocky paths and found shade from the sun in a cool tree tunnel arching over a stream. Later at Mount Bental, we stood on top of an old bunker and waved to Syria next door. Then last night, Emily and I led a mini drunken yoga session under the stars. Emily learned how to salsa dance and count to ten in Hebrew. Today, our entire group of forty-five sang together in an echoey, ancient citadel in Safed. Emily and I drank fresh squeezed pomegranate juice and ate our third meal of falafels.
And tonight, we are in Jerusalem. It's only day three....I'm in total bliss and blowing my mind.
Our tour guide, Yoav, tells us that even though he expects we will have lots of questions throughout the ten days of Taglit-Birthright, we should expect more questions and less answers. "You'll find a way to answer questions later."
***
The first night in Tel Aviv felt like a meditation on what was to come, a moment to reflect on how much I still have to learn about my Jewish roots--and about identity, community, and spirituality in general. My experience of being human is part of an unfathomably larger fabric of history. Perhaps in understanding that history better, I can come to understand my small part better. Israel is so rich with stories of the past, it feels consequential to simply stand on the soil. But then my exploration will also extend beyond Israel and take a turn into complete unfamiliarity in South East Asia. This is a testament to the even greater community of being human that extends beyond myself and my family and my notions of spiritual awareness.
My intention prior to leaving the USA was to find "clarity," to obtain a sense of security in my spiritual and emotional faculties. This seems more like the analytical agenda of my rational mind. The type of clarity I am really seeking isn't about feeling secure and placid, nor about finding answers and making conclusions. Yoav assured us that the more we learn, the more questions we will have. That sounds more like spiritual and self-exploration, doesn't it? Life is messy and expansive. True clarity, then, should light the way down the infinite path of exploration, so as to continue the search.
Before leaving, I put so much weight on this trip, as if it were to be the literal manifestation of my allegorical exploration of life. True, traveling, at its core, is always something like that. A person shakes off all the familiar and sets off into the unknown--that desire to shift scenery must come from a deeper desire to expand. But if I put too much emphasis on searching for clarity or finding answers, I might just miss the point. Much better to be here now.
The beginning of this trip kicked off with my 25th birthday. It feels like starting fresh, like a new phase--and I can't imagine a better place to begin than in Israel. This country is very special. Such a heavy past and so rich a culture, yet the atmosphere is welcoming and light.
We've been here only three days, but my Birthright group generally agrees that time is irrelevant--it might as well have been weeks at this point. So far our stay has been a fantastic blur of hummus, bus rides, political and religious discussions, hot thick air, dust, hookah, and fast bonding. The relationships we are building as a group--superficial as they might be after what is in actuality a very short time--feel surprisingly easy and organic. These are good people. Everyone is so open, they just come as they are.
I'm finding myself more grounded and clear-headed than I've felt in a very long time. I think it has something to do with the welcome familiarity of living out of a backpack and definitely from the laid-back group of people with whom I am lucky enough to travel. I feel free to be myself, passionate and curious and messy as ever. All my heavy expectations about what this trip could be are dissolving into the reality of what it is: I am in a magical place with a little community of beautiful people, waking up every day to wildly different experiences than I have ever had before.
Just yesterday we hiked through the Golan Heights. We ran up rocky paths and found shade from the sun in a cool tree tunnel arching over a stream. Later at Mount Bental, we stood on top of an old bunker and waved to Syria next door. Then last night, Emily and I led a mini drunken yoga session under the stars. Emily learned how to salsa dance and count to ten in Hebrew. Today, our entire group of forty-five sang together in an echoey, ancient citadel in Safed. Emily and I drank fresh squeezed pomegranate juice and ate our third meal of falafels.
And tonight, we are in Jerusalem. It's only day three....I'm in total bliss and blowing my mind.
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