Cuentos de Costa Rica- Now about that rich coast...

los surfeos

On Sunday, I went with the oldest cousin Tito, his mom, and his girlfriend Mariana to the beach. Jacó is a very small town that nevertheless sees a lot of action due to its proximity to San Jose. This day there were not too many people stationed on the dark sand and therefore it was perfect! Mariana taught me how to use a boogie board in the ocean waves. Catching the waves (or rather, the waves catching me) was extremely thrilling. I even screamed in surprise at one point when I found my board pointed downward instead of parallel as a wave pushed me all the way back to the water’s edge. Later, Mariana told everyone how I was “having as much fun as a little kid!”

las puntadas de Mary

After eating a picnic lunch, we decided to have a surf lesson with Tito. Mariana and I followed him into the water. Mariana, who has done surfing a bit before, went first. She practiced standing up, something that I could picture taking a long time to learn. After one such effort she came out from under the surf and started making her way back to us in deeper water. Suddenly, the board that was attached to her ankle bucked up into the air on top of a wave and came crashing down on her face! She stood still for a moment, looking a bit dazed, but seemed to be no worse for the wear. Suddenly, blood started gushing out from a cut on the bridge of her nose. We ran for her, and Tito helped her back to the beach. We doctored her as best we could, cleaning the wound with water, using napkins and ice to stop the bleeding. When it had stopped and we were able to see the wound more clearly, it was apparent she would need stitches. Tito took her to a nearby hospital and we all waited for them to come back. So I didn’t get to surf, nor would I have wanted to anymore that day, but I was content to play in the waves.

I had been trying to stay out of the sun all day but I would be leaving with my usual souvenir from every visit to a beach: a painful red sunburn. Before we left, we took a drive up a hill to a lookout point. The hill itself was heavily forested and as night was approaching we could hear many birds and insects singing serenades. Native animals frolicked in beautiful stone reliefs that lined the dirt road. We then walked along another smaller path through the jungle until it opened into a long and elliptical balcony painted and set with white tiles. Stairs wove in and out and up and down, the railings adorning them like lace trim. An electrical cord with a few lit bulbs was strung across the length of the structure; where it would provide light in the space of half an hour, it now only served to contribute to the charming atmosphere. The view was incredible, the balcony and tree branches providing a frame for what could not be enclosed. My sight stumbled and rolled down the hill to the beach, laid out in front of me like an infinite-course meal; my eyes could not eat and drink enough of the spread.

I declared I would like to live there forever, even if I must bring a tent. Actually, it is already a house, or the skeleton of one, and skeleton is the correct word to use, for there is a rumor that the Italian who left the house unfinished just up and vanished, possibly taken away by the police. But enough of the macabre. From here we watched the sunset, a red glowing orb sinking down into chalky blue water. Then we got into the car to drive “home,” as I’m all too easily starting to think of San Jose. On the way, I related some of the tales of my travels. My companions listened patiently to my stories that probably took more than twice as long as it would take a native speaker to relate them, and then they were still gracious enough to praise me by saying how well I spoke Spanish!

Mami y yo

Buena gente- good people. Good people are why I keep doing this, packing up and getting out into the world larger than my home state and country, putting myself in unfamiliar places, experiencing levels of discomfort varying from slight to great. Good people are why I only spent one night in a hotel the entire month I was in India. Good people are why I kept going, staying away three more months than planned and visiting four more countries than I originally intended. Good people are who first inspired me to leave (twice!) and who encouraged me to continue despite difficulties faced. Good people are why I travel. I mean sure there’s also a lot of cool stuff to see, but I never would go see them or enjoy them half as much if it weren’t for the people who sent me or found me there. I’m so pleased to say I’m staying with some of the best right now =)

Cuentos de Costa Rica (stories from Costa Rica)

I have been in Costa Rica only a short while, and although I have just seen the Coast for the first time yesterday, I had already been experiencing the Rich-ness daily since my arrival ;) My friend Claudia’s cousins picked me up at the airport. Pri, who I had been communicating with by email, gave me a hug and as we drove provided helpful orientation to the city. The family received me into the house with the warmest of welcomes and showed me to my own room! (which had actually been appropriated from the youngest brother, Luis). The next day poor Luis also drove me around to do errands. When I changed money in the bank the teller only spoke to me in Spanish; I was pleasantly surprised that I could complete the transaction with not even a day’s warm-up!

The next few days were spent planning and carrying out job interviews. Again Luis drove me to both of them and even waited for me for 45 minutes at each one! I really do not deserve this much kindness. The interviews went well- I was offered both jobs! Now I just need to complete a third interview today and then it seems I will have my pick =) The cousins have spent significant time with me taking me around. I was able to get my fix of the English language in healthy doses as they all spoke English very well (I never realized I’d be so grateful for this, but when adjusting to a new country that one has just moved to, it is very helpful to be able to speak one’s native language, not only for logistics but also for emotional support). Luis drove me around downtown pointing out landmarks. Pri took me with her on the bus so that I could get to know the mind-boggling process of transferring =/ They both explained Costa Rican directions over and over to no avail; I still don’t get it. *Example: this section of that neighborhood, 50 meters south and 75 east of the field, the yellow house on the right with orange trim. Yes that’s the “address” of the house here!

Tomorrow for my interview I will need to get on the bus to go downtown, then I need to walk to the park past a church and stay on the side of the bank to find the green buses that say they’re going to Hospital Mexico. I will tell the driver to drop me off at the Toyota dealer and then head east, away from another park, until I see a Subway (the American sandwich chain, not an underground train), then I turn right and walk 200 meters south and the building is there across from yet another park. What a headache! I have to pysch myself up more for arriving at the interview than for the interview itself! While this all might seem ridiculously confusing right now, I know that in a few months I will probably be a pro at using the buses and determining directions and I won’t know what I ever thought was so difficult about it.

On the weekend the cousins invited me out with their friends. One unforgettable meal was an extremely greasy (and extremely delicious!) empanada filled with chicharrón (fried pork rinds). This alone could be the deciding factor in whether I can ever become a full-time vegetarian. I tried out different combinations of sauces and condiments on the divine morsels: lemon juice from lemons that are green with a light orange interior, only slightly sweeter than yellow lemons; a sweet tomato salsa that I liked best; a mix of carrots and cabbage that had an almost clear sauce dripped over them, disguising the reality of its spiciness; and a Costa Rican favorite, salsa Lizano- a brown sauce in a bottle that is both spicy and sweet and smells delicious due to its quantity of cumin, which Pri assured me would not be good with chicharrón but which I was determined to try regardless (result: not bad!).

Indeed it’s hard to go wrong with the food here. Claudia’s aunt Vilma (originally from El Salvador) is a very good cook and we often eat meat flavored by various succulent seasonings. But there are two staples that I eat everyday that would be sufficient for me even though they are not considered main dishes. The first is gallo pinto; the second, maduros. Gallo pinto is a mix of red beans that have been cooked in, you guessed it, salsa Lizano, along with plain white rice (¡Qúe rico!) And then there are maduros. I think anybody who has ever had these just loves them. Sweet, firm plantains fried in oil. Simple, but soo good! And sadly, a habit I will have to kick soon (all that oil is really not good for you).

Imagining Indonesia

November 2009

"Tell the taxi driver to take you to MOI- it's the Mall of Indonesia. We live there." My friend wasn't kidding. They actually did live in the same complex as the mall! I was visiting her and her boyfriend who I had done my teaching course with in Chiang Mai. They received me warmly, showed me my own bedroom (!) where I would be staying, and we commemorated my arrival with a bottle of Cuban rum I had picked up at the duty free store in Bangkok. During my travels, I have been very lucky to be consistently accepted into homes whose owners have never acknowledged the idiom "to overstay one's welcome." One week with them turned into three. I would tag along with them during the day to their school. (Little did I know then that this same international institution would be responsible for bringing me back to Thailand less than a year later!)

On the weekends we found one interesting excursion to do after another. We did a day-trip to Taman Mini-Indonesia, of which I was told beforehand nothing more than "it's a theme park" (the sly look on their faces told me I was in for a surprise). When we reached our destination I thought I had been tricked into going urban exploring- the park appeared abandoned, no amusement seemed to have been had in a long time. However, on closer inspection I could see that it was actually still functioning. We bought incredibly cheap tickets to enter, and then wandered around the near-deserted place, the theme of which I was now informed was a tribute to the many islands and corresponding cultures of Actual-Sized- Indonesia. We rode on the most rickety cable car ever (I very nearly kissed the ground when we exited), visited the different displays, and attempted unsuccessfully to sneak into the zoo since we didn't make it there during the one hour it was open. Overall, it was a quirky experience to say the least.

We later went to a functioning amusement park in Jakarta, which was considerably more lively. It was my first time at such at this type of entertainment venue outside of the US (complete with roller-coasters!) and I was not disappointed. Oh developed countries, why do you inhibit our fun with your concerns over safety and whatnot? If I want to get zipped into a giant plastic bubble filled with air and float on a pond then that is my prerogative, psh...

We also made a weekend journey to Yogyakarta, Jakarta's calmer relative, a culturally-oriented city 7 hours away by train. I was unpleasantly surprised that the overnight trains in Indonesia are not as nice as Thailand's (though I feel certain that nothing could ever be as bad as a third-class sleeper in India). No bunk, no pillows, no blankets- just a seat. We tried to make ourselves as comfortable as possible but when we arrived early in the morning we immediately needed to sleep until noon. In the afternoon we leisurely tooled around the city, visiting the old sultan's palace and then asking directions to the sultan's famous baths, which led to a man showing us around via many footpaths weaving all over the district that we would have never found by ourselves. In addition to the baths, we visited a street where many artisans were at work applying batik designs to paintings and fabrics. We were also eventually led to the bird market we had been looking for, which actually had every kind of animal imaginable, not just birds- pet monkey/owl/bat/lizard anyone? Except it's not recommended that you buy any animals from there because the conditions in which they're kept are pretty bad =/ We took a carriage ride back to our hotel, as we were concerned that the horses also seemed to not have been fed enough.

The next day, my friends were content to relax in the city and explore a bit by motorbike, but I wanted to make the most of my time there to see two famous monuments nearby. I bought a seat in a van that would take me to one and then another. I was taken first to Borobudur, the largest Buddhist monument in the world, dating back to the 9th century. It was indeed very large, and standing atop it I was never unimpressed by the view from any angle. A group of sweet, polite school children approached me to ask me some questions to practice their English. I was happy to oblige them... at first. It turns out that a veritable ant colony of students had swarmed all over the monument, hunting me down every two minutes and cornering me to answer the same questions. After the fourth time, I was well over it. After the twenty-seventh time I felt like I was losing my mind. Luckily we were soon on our way to the next stop, Prambanan, a Hindu temple built around the same time as the Buddhist one (yes, they are both located in an almost exclusively Muslim country). Mentally exhausted from the last monument, I walked briskly through the temple grounds and basked in the fact that I was alone. Then it was back to Yogya to meet my friends and get on the train back to Jakarta. On the train journey back I sat next to a woman who was from Aceh, the province on the Northern tip of Sumatra that was devastated in the 2004 tsunami. More than a third of the deaths from that event (over 100,000 people) occurred there. The woman explained that she had been in Jakarta at the time but she had lost over 15 family members that day. I can't imagine the sorrow she still faces on a daily basis, just shy of five years later...

My last getaway in Indonesia was undertaken alone. There was only a week left in my Asian adventure before I would return to America... exactly 5 months later! Hadn't I planned to be away for 2 months, 3 at the max? It was all worth it. And it would also be worth it to surprise my family in time for Thanksgiving =) But I still had a week to cap off my trip and I wanted to do something awesome, so I booked a short flight... to Bali!!! I landed and set about finding a hostel. The first night I was unlucky to have picked one very near a club and thus got almost no sleep (when backpacking, you win some, you lose some). But for the next few nights I found a very peaceful cluster of rooms near the beach. I spent the next few days laying on the sand and playing in the very high waves. I was tempted to take a surfing lesson but I had a minimal amount of money to last me the next few days. I wasn't bothered though because I told myself I would learn to surf eventually (promise kept!) Instead, I took a day-trip to Ubud, a small town in the interior of Bali. I met a girl from Guatemala and together we had a nice lunch, did some souvenir shopping crowded-Asian-market-style (my last time!), and then visited one of the main sights the town has to offer- the Monkey Forest!

A sign advised would-be wayfarers that under absolutely NO circumstances whatsoever should they bring any food into the grove, so I made sure that I had nothing edible in the small backpack I was carrying. I was surprised by how big the place was, trails winding all around, leading to sculptures, structures, a tiny waterfall in a river, and of course, monkeys! The macaques were not the most beautiful of simians, but their antics endeared them to observers. I made  the mistake of passing too close to a place where a larger one was perched; it jumped on my shoulder, a strategic position from which to attempt a robbery. I remained calm (a trip to Gibraltar had given me experience with surprise primate passengers) as it tried and tried to open my backpack, to no avail. However it refused to give up, and I began to worry whether this determined fellow would ever disembark. Furthermore, he was heavy! I sat down near a tree and waited until he finally bailed. I later discovered the reason why he was so bent on getting into my bag- I had left a pack of gum in there!

Bali was very beautiful. I wished I didn't have to leave. For that matter, I wished I wasn't leaving Asia at all. But it was time to go. I had come to know myself in ways I never expected. I had stayed away from my home for the longest period in my life! And ultimately, I was prepared to deal with the uncertainty of the future, only knowing that it would most certainly take me abroad again!

Tales from Thailand- Bus Journey Backfire Part I

November 2009

I boarded the "Friendship Bus" from Vientiane, Laos to Udon Thani, Thailand (final destination: Chiang Mai) and immediately realized that I was the only non-Lao, non-Thai person on board. My friend who also stayed in Chiang Mai had done this exact same trip two days prior and assured me that it was a cheaper, better way to get back to that city than taking one of the chartered tourist buses. I secured my luggage in the cargo area underneath the bus and we were on our way. The bus stopped at Laotian border, which happened to be directly in front of the Mekong River. Everyone disembarked, paid the "exit fee," got stamped through, and climbed back on the bus to cross the long "Friendship Bridge." On this side, all Lao and Thai people crossed easily through immigration, flashing some form of ID and practically walking right through. On the other hand, I was stuck waiting in line behind several other "farang" (foreigners). One couple up ahead was taking a very long time due to some problem with their paperwork. I gazed nervously at my bus waiting up ahead and wondered how long the driver would care to stay.

After about 10 minutes the couple had still not resolved their problem and the line had moved no further. I signaled to an immigration "un-official" (I'm guessing this was his job title seeing as he had a walkie-talkie but was also wearing what appeared to be a Star Wars T-shit); I gestured and said "Will my  bus wait for me?" He smiled and said "no problem," translated from "mai pen rai" which Thais use for so many everyday situations. I had been making conversation with the French family in front of me, 4 people total, and now began to voice my worries aloud to them in the hopes that maybe they would be understanding of my predicament and allow me to skip them in line. No such luck. The family waited and then presented all of their passports to the official. While he was carefully examining the first child's passport, I watched in horror as my bus pulled away. My large backpack- containing all of the minimal personal possessions I had to my name on this side of the world- was on that bus without me!

The plain-clothes immigration guy came to my aid. He could see my stress (I was in tears) and decided to take it upon himself to help me, possibly because not two minutes earlier he had said "no problem." Not speaking much English, he gestured to me to follow him to what appeared to be his personal vehicle. Trusting my instincts, I got in and we started to drive. He made calls on his cell phone (so the radio was for ?) and tried to talk to me to assure me things would be resolved, "No worry!" We slowed down at a police outpost along the highway because he expected the bus to pull over there (explained mostly through charades). However, there was no bus to speak of, so he sped back up and we kept driving... right into Udon Thani, over 60 kilometers away (nearly an hour's drive!)

Luckily, I remembered the bus number and told him in Thai (been practicing numbers to score bargins in the market). When we reached the bus station there, he pulled up to my bus and got out to speak to the driver. He then got back in the car with a confused look on his face. I asked what happened and conveyed that my bag had been dropped off... back at the highway patrol post! So we drove alllllll the way back, until we arrived again at the post, just shy of Nong Khai where I had crossed the border. By now several hours had passed and it was starting to get dark. The immigration guy talked to the officer at the post, who then showed me my bag. Then my hero said "bye!" and started walking back to his car. I was immediately startled. I called after him "Wait!" and asked where he was going and why he was leaving me. He pointed to the highway officer "he... you... bus... English!" He smiled and took his leave. I thanked him profusely, realizing very sadly that I didn't have enough money to pay him for all his trouble.

I now turned to the other police officer (for the purpose of the rest of the story, we will refer to him as Officer Creepy). He asked me to sit down and started talking to me. Although his speech was quite broken in English, I could tell that he had quite a good understanding of the language. He asked me the usual questions of acquaintance, "What's your name? Where are you from? etc." but then started to throw in some that made me uncomfortable, mostly because of the look he had when he asked them- "You have boyfriend? What hotel you stay? How much money have?" My uneasiness intensified as he suddenly decided he should search my bag (after I had already been there for at least half an hour!) If I was a cat, my hair would have stood straight up. I was hypervigilant now, worried that he would find the US dollars I had lied about not having. Something had warned me early on to pocket those, along with my pepper spray and knife, so luckily he didn't ask me to turn out my pockets.

He concluded his search with a smile on his face, nodding over at the clock and saying "bus no come."While I had been busy paying attention to him sifting through my bag, the time of 7pm had come and gone, and with it the bus he was supposed to have flagged down for me. After phoning my friend in Chiang Mai (the same one that recommended the Friendship Bus in the first place), I grabbed my guidebook and began to search for hotels nearby, realizing I wouldn't make it to Udon Thani anymore tonight. He said "No worry, I know hotel, I take you." I insisted that I wanted to choose my own, thanks. He pointed to the office and said "No worry, you can stay. Has a bed, door has lock." This is the point where I really started to panic. I grabbed my things and headed out to the road.

What was I going to do? I had no idea, but I started to wave at passing buses, realizing that hitch-hiking was just as dangerous of an option as the current situation. Officer Creepy followed me, "Where you go? That bus go Pattaya. That bus go Bangkok." "Fine then I'll go to Bangkok!!!" I was nearly shouting now. My hysteria must have un-nerved him because finally he said "Ok ok, we go see a police officer." There's been another police officer here the whole time?!?! 

To be continued...

Lingering in Laos- On a Slow Boat to... Nowhere in Particular

It had sounded like a good idea: a leisurely ride down the scenic Mekong River, two days soaking up the pristine natural beauty of the remote wilderness from the relaxing vantage point of an aptly named “slow boat.” The journey came highly recommended by many others I had met so far in my travels. The first time I heard someone speak of it, a picture of serene vistas and uninhibited relaxation etched itself into my mind and refused to leave. The only solution to appease the desire was to actually attempt the passage.

The opportunity presented itself when it became apparent that I would have to do a border run to get a new Thai visa. Myanmar was closer but I had a friend in Laos who was teaching in the capital, and this fact, coupled with the chance to take the slow boat, easily persuaded me to venture into this country to the east. Getting to and across the border was relatively hassle-free. When I set foot on the opposite bank of the Mekong, I was sure I knew what to expect. It turned out (as it so often has while I’ve been in on this trip) that I had been quite mistaken in my presumptions. I saw the boat and experienced yet another moment of horror/hilarity as I realized, “This is what I’ll be traveling in?!”

I now understood that the next 48 hours would probably not be the most comfortable of my life. I could not even begin to imagine how more than 100 passengers would a) fit on the boat and b) stay that way for two days without deteriorating into insanity. I had guessed that the chairs would be wooden and accordingly had brought a cushion. Only I had also thought that the seats would be the size of a normal chair or bench; instead, the pitiful perch was a 2”x 4”! I opted for floor space instead, and was very glad I did. Although I was crammed between another person and the side of the boat, I was certain that having a flat surface that could actually accommodate a sitting position for more than 5 minutes was very much preferable to one that couldn’t. Over the next two days, in an endeavor to avoid both boredom and stiffness, I found more ways to maneuver my body to fit into that tiny area than I could have imagined possible (maybe I should try out for cirque du soliel!)

After only about 20 minutes, I had already tired of the scenery and started reading the 50-pound book I had been loaned by a friend who knew it would keep me well occupied on such a lengthy excursion. I also met several other travelers to pass the time with talking, as per usual on any transport longer than a few minutes from A to B. One girl, Naoko, was from Japan, and we decided we would share a room in the small village of Pak Beng, where we would be stopping overnight. Touts (another given of Asian tourism) immediately converged on us, impeding our progress up the steep, sandy river bank until we finagled a deal with one who led us to our hotel. Naoko and I settled in for the night. Our progress towards sleep was only momentarily delayed as we formed a spontaneous drum corps after taking note that our “beds” appeared to be made out of plywood.

The next morning we grabbed our pre-ordered lunches and reluctantly boarded the boat for the second leg of the grueling journey. I think this time I just tried to sleep as much as possible to forget about the heat, discomfort, and boredom. Eventually, and not a moment too soon, our destination emerged slowly out of the forested mountains. Luang Prabang is a small, quiet town on the Mekong River which is Southeast Asian in most of its essentials, but exudes a touch of quaint provincial France. Colonialism left behind permanent markers here, from the architecture of the houses and shops to the art of baking the perfect baguettes, painstakingly passed-down and refined over the generations. Naoko and I wandered this beautiful town together, eating in open-air cafes on the river, exploring the many Buddhist temples, visiting a handicrafts market, hiking up a hill in the center of town to watch the sunset from yet another temple, and waking up at 4am to witness the daily procession of young Buddhist monks with marigold-colored robes and shaven heads collecting food from villagers as alms. 

After a few days, I parted ways with Naoko and took a bus to Vientiane, the capital. Other than lots of construction, nothing much seemed to be going on here. I walked to a public fountain, only to find it not functioning. I moved on to a temple, where a Western tourist couple seemed to be the only other souls in the place. I took a cab to Pha That Luang, the great golden stupa that is the national symbol of Laos, and there were about fifty times more people in the paved lot buying and selling T-shirts than there were in the whole of the grounds. As one of the poorest countries in Southeast Asia, Laos lacks much of an infrastructure; therefore, development has been slow.

(Sidebar: Of course, it doesn’t help that the American War in Vietnam has had such long-lasting effects for this country. Some areas are still being cleared of land-mines, craters puncture the countryside where our military pilots indiscriminately dropped their bombs to avoid the humiliation of returning to home base without having gotten rid of them, and Hmong people are still fleeing for their lives from persecution by the government after the Americans secured their assistance… and then left them to fend for themselves, hunted down as traitors to Laos.) Surely there will be exponential growth for the country in the next few years, and if this happens in a similar way as it has for other countries in the area, Laos might soon face similar problems of culture and tradition being pitted against Western “progress” and “comforts”. With such fundamental changes in way of life, Laos may find itself losing what makes it Laos. 

But not right now. The Laotians I met through my English teacher friend very much brought to mind the lighthearted spirit that Laos is known for. They were all perfectly happy to kick back, practice English with me, and drink BeerLao, a beverage this nation prides itself in having invented. One girl, who couldn’t have been more than 20, also bashfully told me that she had had an American boyfriend before… who was 70! I’m afraid that sort of thing is an epidemic all over Southeast Asia. It’s a pretty lucrative arrangement for both the women there and the elderly Western men who seek them out, but in a lot of ways a detriment to the community as a whole, not to mention repulsive in how the unequal distribution of power between these two groups ends up playing out in real life =/

The day before I left Vientiane to go back to Thailand, I happened to walk into an internet café and find Naoko there! We decided we would go to a sculpture park about 30 minutes outside the city the next day before I left. The ride there definitely took longer but it was worth it. We walked around the cement sculptures, which the artist had created using the influences of not only Buddhism but also Hinduism and other native spiritual beliefs. The result was an eclectic and at times eccentric mix of statues. You could even climb through a monster’s mouth, up into a hollow structure filled with labyrinthian passages, and walk along until you came out into the sun at the top, to look out over the entire park and the Mekong River, in the shadow of a towering, abstract cement tree (which can actually be seen from Thailand- more on that in a later edition). Overall, my time in Laos passed very well and I highly recommend going there… however, I will never be able to recommend that slow boat excursion to anyone, except as a joke!

Tales from Thailand- Part VIII Meditation Complications

Saying goodbye to my dad when leaving China to catch my flight back to Bangkok was incredibly difficult for me. I missed my family and friends terribly, and getting to spend time with him had renewed the ache of not seeing them. When I was looking to leave India, I had convinced myself that it was ok to go back to Thailand because I would be looking for jobs; it was ok to not go home yet because I had a legitimate reason to stay. I still hadn’t come to terms with what exactly I was doing going to all these places. Traveling just for the sake of traveling? In my world this was unheard of; I had never known anyone who had done this. At least you must be going to school, at least you must be working, at least you must be volunteering, doing a program, visiting friends, something, anything! Otherwise it starts to seem like a long-term vacation, which is idleness, which is condemnable. What place can this have in our culture where what you produce defines who you are? Except I was being productive… in my own personal growth. But I had not yet come to value this as a justifiable way to invest my time.

So I lied to myself. I went to back to Chiang Mai, the city I had stayed in for my course, and found a comfortable room to rent in a Thai woman’s quaint teak home-converted-guest house. I met several nice people there and started to get to know the town by bicycle. For almost an entire month, I struggled with whether I would feel ok to postpone my return to the US by one year! I had thus far been successful in casting off the burden of unalterable plans, but this seemed like too much of a stretch from my original plan of returning to the US in mid-September after volunteering in India for a few weeks. I never thought it would be so soon that I would take such a long leave from seeing my family and friends. If I had already planned on settling I would have most certainly packed more than three shirts and three pairs of pants! So my heart wasn’t really in it when I sent emails inquiring about teaching jobs; I knew that the real way to get a job in Thailand is to show up in person and apply.

Anxiety continued to build until I felt ready to explode. Wasn’t I wasting time? Didn’t I just spend money on TWO flights back to this country on the premise of searching for jobs? If I left already, wouldn’t I regret not looking? I needed some peace of mind. That’s when I thought of something that had actually been on my mind since arriving in Asia: a meditation retreat. A 10-day foray into my own consciousness, foregoing communication with the outside world and postponing my progress in the job hunt… It seemed the epitome of selfishness, and was therefore very freeing. I finally was able to make the decision to take care of my own personal well-being without worrying about what else and who else I was taking care of.

I called the meditation center a friend had recommended to ask for information on retreats and the monk on the other end exclaimed “Hurry! One starts in 3 hours!” Nervous as all hell, but committed to the philosophy of “go with the flow” that I had recently begun pushing myself to use for the first time in my life, I agreed and hung up the phone. Swiftly, I packed and caught a taxi to the mall so that I could purchase the white clothes (even underwear!) that would be required from the moment of my initiation and onward until the end. I arrived at the temple grounds during the lunch hour and was met by the voice I had heard on the phone. A young Thai man wearing an orange robe and a huge smile greeted me in this serene setting of chedis, bells, and statues of the Buddha, all surrounded by lush greenery. He told me to eat and change into the white clothes and meet him at his office in two hours.

Two other foreigners around my age, a woman and a man, were waiting in the office. After introducing ourselves, the woman immediately mentioned that she felt she wouldn’t make it through the 10 days. “Well you definitely won’t if you think like that,” I thought to myself. Our monk returned and explained the procedure of the opening ceremony. We would enter the teacher’s room on our knees and bow in a certain way three times to the Buddha and then greet the teacher. We would then give offerings of flowers and incense. We would also need to smile visibly during the entire ritual. We practiced all of this several times, and then we were taught the meditation techniques we would be using. I was prepared for the retreat to be intense; however, I was not prepared for the actual form of the meditation to be intense. Although I still consider myself a beginner, I have had an introduction to meditation before, enough to use as a foundation for my current irregular practice. Having become accustomed to this way of meditating, the differences between the methods were clear. Where my familiar technique used some visualization, the Vipassana taught at the center mandated acknowledging feelings that arose and then again concentrating on sitting or walking. The differences, though small, were great enough that I struggled to try the new one, having to actively pull myself away from slipping into my default method; after all, the purpose of being there was to learn Vipassana meditation.

By the time of our initiation, I had had just about as much as I could take. I felt foolish that I had rushed into this; even though I had entertained the thought for a long period prior to actually going there, I thought it would have been more practical if my mind was not going through such an emotional turmoil in terms of determining my immediate future. I decided to go to the initiation anyway, because I hate quitting things and thought that somehow I would start feeling better about the retreat after the ceremony. The teacher was very nice and encouraged us afterwards to keep fighting, because he knew that the prospect of not eating dinner and getting only 6 hours of sleep would be hard for us. I was more concerned about the sitting, sitting, sitting, and walking, walking, walking that I would still have to do in my room until 10pm! When it became apparent that I was just as miserable in the retreat as I had been back at my room in the city with my thoughts, I decided that I had indeed been too rash jumping in as quickly as I did. I decided it was time to leave.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of a gong at 4am. I got out of bed and tried again to do the meditations, but my mind had ultimately been made up the night before. I knew I would not be able to find transport until later in the morning, and I also knew I would not like to eat breakfast at 6 (the food is collected every morning during alms rounds as donations from Buddhist followers outside the monastic community, and I felt that it would be wrong of me to benefit from this because I already intended to leave). I went back to sleep and woke up again at 7 to pack. I attended a closing ceremony of many others who were finishing a 20+ day retreat. I was able to converse with a friendly American female monk who suggested the name of a less intense form of meditation that I could look into before undertaking Vipassana again.

Heading back to town, I felt good about my decision to leave because I was finally hearing my own voice and making decisions that felt good for me. I could do things without worrying about what others would think. By the time I arrived back in town, it was 11am and I hadn’t eaten for the last 23 hours! I immediately went to seek out some chocolate pancakes. I settled back in at my rented room. Within two days I started a yoga class that would provide me 3 hours of practice every morning for a week. This was the perfect answer to my need for means to calm and center myself and organize my thoughts.

So good things did result from the short time I had spent in the meditation retreat. Most importantly, I decided that I felt confident to return home to the US and begin my internet search for year-long contracts to teach abroad, as I had originally planned. I had been away three and a half months, and I was satisfied with the experiences I had had thus far. There was only one other thing left that I had been really wanting to witness: the Festival of Light, Loy Krathong. As it would be taking place on the second of November, I would have to wait almost another two weeks, putting the length of my journey in over four months. I was sure it would be well worth it and I was thrilled that I wouldn’t be missing out. The only problem this created was with my Thai visa because my legal allotment of 30 days would soon be up. This was easily solved however, as all I would have to do to extend it would be to make a border run…

Channeling China

My flight was delayed, so it was night when I arrived at my destination: Hangzhou, China! Even more exciting was who greeted me at the airport... my dad! I hadn't seen in him in almost 3 months (or anyone from home, for that matter). It was the longest I’ve ever gone in my life without seeing my family. In the car he re-introduced me to his colleague John, and John's wife, Cheryl. They had been living in China for nearly two years. John manages a factory in Hangzhou that is a joint venture with the US company and my dad was on his first of many visits to work on a project there. Because he already knew about some of the crazier things that had happened to me thus far on my journey, he immediately began eliciting me to relate these stories. Cheryl promised she would show me around the city the next day.

I was ecstatically looking forward to our first stop: a tea house! As you probably understand, I am a tea fanatic and was overjoyed at the prospect of going to a country that shares a high appreciation for this wonderful beverage, particularly in terms of its having such a prevalent place in the history and culture of the local area as well: Hangzhou is famous for producing Long Jing green tea, one of the 5 Famous China teas and sometimes referred to as the national drink. As it turned out, the tea house was practically a tea mansion- there was space to accommodate a few hundred tea drinkers! At the same time, the intimate atmosphere was not compromised as the trickling of water in small decorative pools could be heard all around and little rooms offered privacy and calm. I also got my first taste of Chinese cuisine from the huge buffet that came free with the tea. Overall it was exactly my kind of place!

Hangzhou was a nice city, although if it wasn't for signs being written in Chinese and the fact that almost everyone I laid eyes on was Chinese, I might have thought I was in some city in America that I hadn't been to yet. Compared to the other cities I had by now visited in Asia, Hangzhou was incredibly "modern" and "developed" (of course, these terms are both relative and loaded). Indeed, I had actually had a bizarre kind of reverse culture-shock upon entering the four-star hotel with my giant backpack and travel clothes! Cheryl and I walked around near the famous West Lake, and watched large groups of people exercising and listening to karaoke. We visited a vast silk market which exposed me to more of this fabric than I had ever seen in my life (even in Thailand). We also quickly walked through the wet market to see what kinds of live swimming, scuttling, and crawling things were on offer; it was interesting to see that many more creatures than I could have imagined are apparently edible.

The next day we took off for Shanghai. I had expected to see long stretches of countryside, but what I got were more like glimpses. All along the highway, houses and apartments and stores and gas stations and factories clumped together; the presence of the green mountainous terrain in the background was one of the only reminders that I was not driving through the Flatlander suburbs of Chicago. When we arrived, we unloaded our luggage at the nicest hotel I’ve ever seen! In fact, it is ranked on a list of the top 100 hotels in the world (quite a big difference from staying in window-less concrete quarters with shared bathrooms in Bangkok). We woke up early the next morning to meet my dad’s other colleagues and got on the subway to go to the Science and Technology Museum. Only we weren’t going to the museum at all; we were going to the underground knock-off market. All of the fab designer items I never wanted in America were available here! Coach, Prada, Dolce and Gabana- I hardly knew the difference between the brands, but within two hours I would become an expert in haggling- under the tutelage of my dad’s colleague, Neil.

Neil was familiar with all of the different shopkeepers, the newest fashions, and the best deals. Even though he is not able to enjoy the purses for himself (he buys them for family members), the thrill of the bargain is enough to draw him back over and over again! Even more impressive were the saleswomen’s skills; each spoke 3 or 4 languages besides Chinese- I even overheard Spanish! The fact that these women were younger than me and didn’t have the same access to education I had had renewed my hope that I could still achieve my goal of learning 3 more languages before I’m 30. At night, we ate in a fancy rooftop restaurant overlooking the river and the Bund district (again, a far cry from my recent culinary habits, ie. eating food with my hands in the Himalayan foothills). I marveled at the skyline, which combined European-style architecture with Asian technology- traditional yellow city lights were intermingled with giant techno-color screens broadcasting serene shots of butterflies and flowers. On our walk back to our hotel, we were able to make out its glowing peak in the shape of a lotus flower crown- of course, we stopped to take an obligatory tourist photo with it framed on my head =)

Shanghai is a vast and sprawling metropolitan city; luckily, my dad knew his way around by metro, so I got to see many beautiful things in the city. We went to the Pudong area on the east side of the river, where many famous buildings are located, including the Shanghai World Financial Center, the Oriental Pearl Tower, and the Jin Mao Tower. We walked through the massive decorative gardens at the People’s Square, where citizens were glimpsing super-imposed photos in a walk-through display of personal ads. We ate in Xin Tian Di, an area with upscale restaurants situated on cobbled pedestrian streets. We took a round through a district filled with art galleries and restaurants serving many different types of cuisine from around the world (there was even an American 1950’s diner!)

Sunday was John’s birthday, so we joined him and Cheryl and headed to the Old City. We reached an area that looked like a scene from an epic martial arts movie, yet another of the many different faces of China. Red buildings with sloping roofs surrounded a square where hundreds of pedestrians milled about visiting ceramics shops, waiting in long lines for dumplings, or even getting their fix at Starbucks. We meandered over into the YuYuan Gardens. We roamed around the peaceful grounds, pausing to take pictures of the scenic koi-filled ponds intermingled with reproductions of old Chinese buildings, bridges, and stone archways from dynasties past. Crowds pressed in all around, but the tranquility was maintained as the beauty of the surroundings sent breezy vibrations of calmness to the passersby.

Suddenly, it happened. We all had been eyeing the path nervously the entire time, footholds worn well into the rocks, shiny as if water flowed regularly past. Once or twice I had slipped already. But unfortunately it was Cheryl who would feel the full impact of our dubious shuffle over such well-trodden trails. Her foot slid off one of the steps and her ankle immediately popped out of the socket (we all thought it had actually broken!) She was in a great deal of pain and we tried to make her comfortable as we considered how to transport her to a nearby hospital. First things first, I went on several hurried excursions to find a few items- the ice necessitated an explanation to a guard who didn’t speak English about why I should be allowed to exit and re-enter the garden; the Ibuprofen required reassurance to a Dutch woman that I was not using the drugs recreationally. After a short time, my dad and John were able to support Cheryl out of the garden and out to the street to hail a cab.

It turned out that Cheryl’s foot was sprained, so she would only have to use crutches for a short time. Ever the good hostess, she insisted that we all still carry out our plan of having a Packer Party at her house. So, the next day, we dutifully watched our team’s defeat more than 12 hours after it had aired back home.