Do you have to be so predictable?

Building your life on artificial foundations

On artificial ideals

On artificial men

On art that artificially connects you and them

I could call it from a mile away

Because I fell for your foundation

And the foundation I wanted to give you

Crafted in the best way I know

Informed by my place

My priorities

My people

My heart

Too secure and too boring

Find that pattern

Cultivate it inside of you

Ladrillos of your own creativity, honesty and beauty

Use them to craft su propia foundation

Your (and my) extended happiness depend on it

How ironic to find you on a mountain

With Harvey by your side

On the cliff

With no fear of your fall

I've become a bygone

So you can spread your wings

And it hurts my heart

To see the direction you've continued

And what a disaster you are

Timely Words from Confucius

The Master said, "The scholar who cherished the love of comfort is not fit to be deemed a scholar."

The Analects, Confucius

For the one who cooked me Poha

I had
a friend
tell me
With eyes
of endearment
to my naivete
That she, too, once believed
in love
in travel

Experience
the fruit of her adventures
enlightened her
with life's wrinkles
Romance
the physical performance of love (as I know it)
left her
with social scars

And love
and travel
now loess
To the owner of a heart
sinking
into the everyday
As I quietly panic
at the inevitability
of being too old

For dreams

Good for the Soul

Yunnan part 二

Two days after the soul recharging at Dianchi Lake, I boarded a bus bound for Yuanyang, home to the rice terraces of Yunnan. Probably a year ago, I was looking through some of my friend's pictures and this unbelievable image of a sunset over rice terraces captured my imagination. Bright oranges and yellows reflected over the glass mirrors of the terraces (you’ll see what I mean below) as my breath disappeared in bewilderment. One of the most beautiful images I’d ever seen on digital film, my eyes would have the chance to the grandeur first-hand upon venturing to Yunnan’s south.

Before the narrated beauty of the rice terraces begins, I must tell you about Chinese buses. Ohh Lord . . . (a big sigh from your writer) . . . If you are a claustrophobic, tall, hater-of-cigarette-smoke type of person, Chinese buses might just force you to gouge out your eyes. And if the sound of people throwing up disturbs you, you might as well make your China trip solely on airplanes. It’s an adventure folks. Tiny seats, neighbors blowing cigarette smoke all around you, passengers barfing out the window and onto the floor of the bus, as well as the ubiquitous sound of the pig-like “HUHHHHH” followed a combination of mucous and saliva hitting the floor are guaranteed on Chinese buses. On this particular journey, my passenger to my left had apparently had a bad spout of karma in recent days and kept his head out the window for the duration of the journey in preparation for his never-ending vomit sessions. I felt bad for the dude, but what could I do?? When we finally got off the bus, I noticed that homeboy had thrown up so much on the ride that his discharge was tattooed ALL over the exterior of the bus, looking like a painting mistake on the Japanese-made 32-seater.

Ok, enough of that. Upon arriving in Yuanyang with my new friends, Jerome (French) and Jennifer (Australian), we boarded another van to head to our destination 25 km away, the Sunny Guesthouse. With the sun beginning to set we made our ascent up the mountain into the heart of the Hani Ethnic Minority territory. Riding up the mountain felt like I was going back in time. Villagers with packs and packs of sticks, shrubs and whatever else they needed strapped to their backs occupied the streets and our ride was halted momentarily while a herd of cows cleared the road.

Stopping at an overlook a few minutes later, I was privy to my first glance of the splendor of the rice terraces. Having no idea that Sunny Guesthouse was in the middle of the terraces, my companions and I were led down a mountain, along a winding road, past homes constructed of sticks of pine, past a pigsty home to two oinkers, to our home for the next few days. Occupying an absolutely serene location, the Sunny Guesthouse opened up to a stunning view of the rice terraces (photos below). Run by the ever-energetic, sweet-as-pie Chinese woman simply referred to as “Ah yi” (Auntie), we were welcomed with open arms and pleas to drop our bags as we entered the courtyard of the Guesthouse.

The place was magical in it’s austere dwellings, the kind of establishment that provided just enough character to be memorable, but lacked the homeliness that causes backpackers to take refuge for weeks at a time. The design was akin to the Beijing hutong, comprised of a central courtyard surrounded by three buildings with the kitchen and eating area taking up a third of the triumvirate the dorms completed. Electricity in the hostel was not guaranteed as the first night of my stay was spent in the kitchen under the glowing umbrella of a lamp powered by a car battery, downing Dali beers and talking semi-intellectually about the US political situation with my foreign English-speaking friends. Insulation in the walls was non-existent, but electric blankets helped to keep the winter's air at bay, and the bathrooms were on the roof, which, depending on the cold, could prove to be a truly shriveling experience. Ah yi and her family were not the only permanent residents of Sunny but a hoard of chickens and ducks occupied the roost providing the world’s best alarm clocks as the sun rose beyond the mountain peaks.



Upon finding my bed in the dorm room and re-connecting with some friends from Kunming, a pack of Hani girls walked uniformly into the courtyard, heading straight for the pile of Japanese-style sandals in the corner near the washing machine. A red drum was pulled from the office of the Guesthouse and small porcelain bowls were distributed among the girls, the oldest of them no more than 12 years old. Not really knowing what was going on, I was told to, “Go, go, go!” by Ah yi, meaning to get out of the main courtyard so the girls would have room. What ensued was a magical performance/rehearsal of Hani traditional dancing by these youngsters, equally mesmerizing for its performance and endearing because of its performers. Dressed in their traditional Hani clothing, the girls executed their handed-down steps with ease and precision, clacking their bowls together to the beat of Ah-yi’s drum. The pride with which they rehearsed was contagious and by the end of the rehearsal all (including the whiteys) were dancing together in a circle, chanting the same phrase in the Hani language over and over.



The next day was spent perusing the local area with a driver, visiting the local villages, viewing the majestic rice terraces from every possible angle and making a trek to the market in Yuanyang. The market provided sights, sounds and tastes new to our senses, all combined with the stares we would receive from the villagers on a seemingly constant basis. Children would often look in our direction and when they noticed we were privy to their glances, the reactions would range from them running away out of fear to some laughing and shouting, “Hello! Hello!” Here in Yuanyang I saw the biggest display of sexual energy of all my time in China. As I was looking at a roadside vendor, I felt a hand grab my arm. Turning to figure out who in the world would grab my arm which such a force, my face met a local Chinese girl about my age with her index finger pointing to her cheek. After a second or two, I finally pieced together that this girl wanted a big American kiss on the cheek and as I busted out laughing in shock and surprise as her friends dragged her away, playfully scolding her brashness. I’d never seen anything like that before in Middle Country.

The afternoon and evening were spent peering into the vastness of the valleys inhabiting the rice terraces. At one point I hiked with my friend Jerome, finding a clearing that made hundreds of kilometers of terraces visible. Both stunned at the beauty before us Jerome said, “Doesn’t this make you believe in God?” I nodded in affirmation. A few seconds later he looked at me and said “Or, at least believe in Mao?”

The evening sunset was accented by Jerome and Alex (more on this awesome chica soon) bargaining with a Hani woman over some postcards. If you don’t know about bargaining in China, its one of the funnest and most dangerous things you can do in the country. Salespersons and customers REALLY get into it, and this Hani woman was no exception. The outing ended in the Hani woman literally yelling at Alex in French (which she doesn’t speak) and Jerome picking his favorite from Alex’s stack of overpriced postcards, nagging the Hani woman in his broken Chinese throughout the bargaining process. The sunset speaks for itself.

Yunnan part 一

So, the time has come. As I sit listening to the cars outside of my Beijing hotel room, the hours before my departure back to the US have dwindled down to 18. That’s only 1080 minutes before my feet will be off Asian soil! Even though I didn’t believe him for some time, the words of Mr. Harrison, “All things must pass,” have never rung truer. Sitting on the floor with the computer in my lap, my mind is filled with memories of new friends, outrageous stories, unbelievable displays of hospitality and the strong, organic connections to cultures I called foreign only months ago. A piece of my heart will be left here and maybe, just maybe, I’ll return for it someday.

I haven’t updated this blog since first getting back to China, and my return to the Middle Country deserves its place on the blog! Upon leaving Thailand, I set my sights for Yunnan, the Southern China province characterized by its City of Eternal Spring, the Rice Terraces of Yuanyang and the tourist getaways of Lijiang and Dali. Yunnan was of special interest to me because it is also home to many of China’s ethnic minorities (yes, this is what the Chinese call them).

The journey began in Kunming, home to the special Camellia Flower and its accompanying festival. The capitol of the Yunnan province, Kunming was the jump off point for anywhere you would like to go in Yunnan and I found myself and the travelers around me returning to the City of Eternal Spring more than we would have preferred. Nevertheless, Kunming offered some beautiful sights.

My first day in Kunming took me to the Ethnic Minority Village in the SE part of Kunming. The Village was a “theme park” of ethnic minorities, with over 20 different minorities each having their own village inside the compound where they worked, lived and practiced their own unique cultural heritage. Here is a good time to bring up a shining example of the kindness shown to me by the Chinese.

Jumping on the bus to the Ethnic Minority Village, I had no idea where the stop would be. Cautiously peering out my window for any sign that might indicate my destination I spotted a big blue information advertisement for the Minority Village and quickly descended from the bus. Strolling around the area, I discovered that my feet were a little green and the Minority Village was no where in the vicinity. Pondering my predicament, I found the nearest large hotel, hoping their large establishment required their employees to speak English and posed in my best Chinese the question of where in the world this Village was. A lively older woman came up to me and over-enthusiastically answered my question, in Chinese waaay too far for me to grasp. “Wo bu dong, wo bu dong,” I repeated, hoping she would begin to counsel me in my mother tongue. Like a cat taking her new-killed prey proudly to its owner, the woman led me by the arm out to the street and pointed me in the direction of my destination, all the while still talking to herself in Chinese (since I couldn’t understand a word). Pointing to the sidewalk and moving her arms upward, I took her signals to mean I should continue straight down the paved road. Happy that I was at least heading in the right direction, I bid her farewell and departed to where her hands, unintelligible speech and eager energy instructed.

Not more than half a kilometer down the road I heard the sound of someone yelling, unintelligibly to my ears, in my general direction. With my only companions being the flowers on the sidewalk and the cars to my left, I turned to see what all the fuss was about. Wouldn’t you know it, it was the same woman from the hotel jogging in my direction, flailing her arms in hopes of capturing my attention. When she came closer I saw she'd adopted a pair of yellow evening slippers with chicken faces on the sole and a brightly colored umbrella that you might find in Key West, indicating to me that she was making the stroll along with me. Starting up her excited Chinese again, I was able to decipher that she really doesn’t want me to get lost, and sure enough, the slippered woman led me 3 km down the road to the Ethnic Minority Village with the protective nature of mother bird. Even though it was a straight shot down the road she initially instructed, it was such a kind gesture that I thanked her over and over as she headed 3 km in the other direction, in that combination of a jog and hurried walk that that only Chinese females can do (Hannah calls it the China shuffle). A flattering display of hospitality, this instance was one of many that imprinted a love for Chinese culture into my psyche.

Being a student of culture and helping to put on the Smithsonian Folklife Festival (a 2-week festival with the same “cultural exposition” goal as the Ethnic Minority Village), the Village was a fascinating example of cultural tourism. Its hope was to display the varying cultures found within Yunnan in one location, a goal that made me wonder what role the Chinese government played in putting this exhibition together. As I strolled through the religious altars of the Dai and the clothing stands of the Hani, I couldn’t put my finger just on how I felt about the place. In my most optimistic I appreciated what the Village was trying to do and was excited that these cultures had the stage to share themselves with the larger audience. In my more pessimistic views the Village was nothing more than a human zoo, with the meanderings through the minorities’ living spaces akin to the tapping on a fish tank at the aquarium. But hey, the free wine offered by the Naxi’s wasn’t all that bad . . .




Upon departure I headed south of the Village to Dianchi Lake. Not really sure what I was getting into, I was bowled over at this beautiful creation. To the left of the Lake stood the spread outskirts of Kunming while steep, grey mountains inhabited its right bank. I found myself standing in the middle of Dianchi, observing a beautiful sunset amidst the Chinese tourists and the “you-know-you’re-standing-beside-a-big-body-of-H2O” winds. Venturing out onto an abandoned dock, an even more spectacular sunset awaited me as I chugged a beer and realized how thankful I was to be alive.

The Meditation

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve started this blog, either on the page or in my mind, but was never able to give the experience its due credit through this or any medium (and probably never will). My vocabulary and knowledge of how to construct sentences in the English language was just not cutting it. Not that I could not describe the everyday events, but in looking for an over-arching theme or something that would tie the experience together, I always came up empty-handed. Let me back up.

A few weeks ago, I completed a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation in Chiangmai, Thailand at a beautiful temple called Wat Rampoeng. Here were the rules of the meditation: no talking, no eye-contact, no writing, no reading, no mixing the meditation with other techniques, white was the only color clothing you could wear (including underwear), no dinner, no eating food after noon, and usage of the computer was out of the question. While this all might sound extreme, the point was to eliminate as many distractions as possible. To eliminate the things that inhibit us from being in the present moment, to stop the dependence on external stimuli, and to allow for the most mindful experience possible.

Days started at 4am and ended at 10pm. We were expected to meditate between 10 and 12 hours per day, splitting our time between walking and sitting meditations taught to us by the ever-unintentionally-funny Pra Chaibordin. More on him soon.

At times I joked to myself that I was in “Buddha jail,” being denied the freedoms I’d become so accustomed to, but other times it was so liberating to be rid of the bullshit we create that consumes so much of existence. The emails, facebook, the pointless conversations, the things that somehow take up so much of our day, but whose importance is questionable at most. That being said, I can’t count on the fingers and toes of the New York Yankees how many times I thought about my email while in the midst of meditating. “Oh shit, I forgot to respond to Chase,” “Man, I’m going to have so many emails when I get outta here!” “I wonder if I have a message from Dan?” “Do I sound full of shit when I write messages,” “Was that message to Cristina too formal?” The list of thoughts about these ephemeral, ones and zeroes flashed across my mind much more often than I would like to admit.

And this wasn’t all . . . stupid-ass shit filled my brain. I mean, really, really idiotic. One day I would have hours of thoughts about what my future home would be like. The rooms, each carefully designed in the blue prints of my mind. The music room, with its CD’s piled high to the ceiling. The reading space directly in the sun, allowing for the words of Marquez to have the most potent effect possible. A lovely, but not over done, kitchen where I could impress my friends with my mediocre culinary skills. The bedroom, perfectly fit for a bachelor but with just enough extra space in case someone were to come along. The bathroom, with its tiled artistry, a perfect size and space for privacy. The meditation space, a small shrine to . . . (and then), WHAM!!! The present moment would catch me, allowing me to realize that my mind had been taking a stroll down Unmindful Lane, and that it might be a good idea to put my thoughts back on my breath.

I cannot tell you how many times this happened, with the subjects different for each day. If you are reading this, I probably thought about you, a lot. About times we were together, moments we were lucky enough to share, times that I thought shed some insight into your personality, times where I knew you had caught onto my bullshit, times where I caught onto your bullshit, times I wasn’t always the best friend or brother or nephew or son that I could be, times where I was selfish around you, times when I could have said, “I think it’s a good idea if we don’t speak anymore, ok?,” times where I felt sorry for you, times where I tried to help you out, and the amazing, wonderful, inspiring love you gave to me in all those varying ways I would have never imagined.

I thought a lot about old loves and lovers. What they were doing, what they thought about our time together, how shitty I had been to them, how selfless I had tried to be around them, about how they hurt me or how I had hurt them, how I was trying to prove my manhood through my relationships with them, how I was so grateful for the things they taught me, what it would be like to take them home to my parents, about the ones I might have in the future. On and on and on and on and on, until, WHAM, the present moment would once again intervene. Thankful each time it happened, but soon enough I would find my mind off again on one of its quixotic adventures.

This kind of thinking happened with every person in my life, every stage of my life, ever job I had in my life and with all the memorable events that happened in my 24 years on the earth. 10 days is a long time to be alone with your thoughts!

Our teachers would tell us that the point of our meditations was to attempt to gain mindfulness, focusing on the present moment and the breathing that occupied that ever-illusive space. Past and future were non-existent. Our job was to focus on where we found our bodies at that moment, knowing (not thinking or analyzing or examining or pondering or any other verbs that the human brain can perform), simply knowing.

It always sounded so simple. So elementary, so grounded. Just to be here, in this moment. My college-educated, DC-living, world-traveling, jazz-listening, intelligentsia-inhabiting ego thought it would be a piece of old-school Southern apple pie that my esoteric tastes outgrew years ago. The reality of the situation was that the practice was easiest thing I could ever do, but in the next moment, it would be the most challenging task I’d ever put myself up to. It WAS elementary and grounded, but at the same time it was the realm of higher-conscious and complete ungroundedness, although my glimpses into this part of the practice remained few and far between.

The first few days were a little shocking, just letting go of MY world was tough. I would often have thoughts about leaving the monastery and going to indulge in all the earthly pleasures that my money would allow. Hookers, beer, expensive hotels, whatever it was, as long as it seemed it would set me free from my current state. The place seemed like a mental institution at some points. Free access by our arms was the only thing differentiating the clothes we were wearing from straight jackets (we had the colors and the uniformity down!!), mysterious bells would ring at all hours of the day, and the dogs and cats and lizards and crickets and other unknown creatures would all make the strangest (I mean strangest) sounds in the midst of my meditations. I wondered if these animals made these sounds all the time and I just never paid attention, or if the crazy spirits of Wat Rampoeng had somehow gained access into their psychic spaces. I remember one day I was doing a walking meditation and there were two cats literally talking to each other. I mean, they sounded like toddlers trying to piece together words, but their inflections, pitch and intensity mirrored the other's to a tee. I had to stop my walking meditation as I searched for someone else who wanted to reassure themselves they hadn’t gone crazy.

Physical pain was also a big part of the first few days. Leg cramps, back aches, and thanks to my good ol’ Osgood–Schlatter disease, knee swelling were rampant in my first days. This brings me to Pra Ajahn Suphan. Ahh, Pra Ajahn Suphan. The man was the abbot of Wat Rampoeng and each day we would be allowed 10 minutes or so where we could speak with him about our practice and he would offer insights of the most basic and human variety, all with soaked astounding truth. When I asked him about my pain he replied in his sagely manner, “Ahh Douglas, pain is a very good friend. It will come to visit you often.” Call it a mind-fuck, call it a non sequitor or whatever you will, but in that moment, there was nothing more perfect he could have communicated. So, I took his advice and was friendly with my pain, and funny enough, it subsided.

There were countless moments where Ajahn Suphan would invoke his teachings in what other states I might have coined pretentious bullshit, but I believed his words to my core. The beauty of his personal discourse was like a marble dropped in my lake of consciousness, its wake reverberating in all directions. In moments of clarity during meditation, his words were among the most beautiful things I was lucky enough to hold in my mind, void of ego, void of show, full of light.

Keeping our rooms and surrounding areas clean was one of my only duties throughout my time, and I was amazed at how diligent and willing I was to uphold my duties! Sweeping my porch was so important to me in that time, as if the porch had a soul and out of respect for it living, I offered my services in removing all those pesky dead leaves. Watering the plants became the reason for my existence as well. Grabbing the hose, turning on the faucet and strategically planning my watering routine became a meditation to me. I would notice the plants moving slightly back and forth as the water splashed their photosynthesized leaves, both pleasurably dancing and thanking me for helping them grow. I would roll the hose in the most careful manner and even rinse off the extra dirt it might have picked up, all in respect for the next person who would lend their help to the plants.

I also made a friend in the process.

I returned to my meditation cushion one day to find a gift occupying the space my ass usually filled, a CD and note from a woman named a Hispaniola named Bea. Written in Valencian Español, Bea’s constant stream of letters poured in each day and were a blessing in disguise to my uber-inner world created at Wat Rampoeng. She reminded me that the silent creatures all around me were souls, with feelings, emotions, thoughts, hopes, and fears, something that was frighteningly easy to forget under the circumstances. I read her notes in the shadow of my room, like a teenager smoking cigarettes in a bathroom stall, itching in anticipation for their content, but in utter fear of being discovered for breaking the rules!

Bea and I became buddies through the exchanges and it was amazing to reactivate my shitty Spanish through the correspondence. We left the Wat together on the final day, and there was no one else in the world I would have preferred more to share the experience with.

In the midst of the meditation, it was beyond incredible to see the fleeting quality of my thoughts and feelings. Some days I was really happy, some days I couldn’t have been more sad, some were exciting and there some where I was ready to pull out my hair in boredom. But none of these emotions lasted. There were days when all I could think about was food, and would have whole meditations where the taste of a burrito, fried chicken or anything but what I was served at the monastery, would haunt my tastebuds like a fuku. (Thanks, Junot Diaz) But as quickly as these thoughts would come, they would go. I would want things soo badly, and then ten minutes later, they were the farthest things from my mind. The same thing happened with the emotions I experienced; come and go, come and go. It was a shining example of impermanence, another important lesson shared by our teachers during my time in Chiangmai.

Since I mentioned him, I’ve got to talk about Pra Chaibordin. Chaibordin was a monk, couldn’t have been more than 26, who was in charge of working with all of the foreigners (farang) who came to Wat Rampoeng. In the monastic hierarchy of Wat Rampoeng, his job was one of the shitiest for sure. He was in charge of showing the dumb farang who had never even been to a Buddhist temple before the ropes of the place and teaching us our basic meditations. He explained the meditations to us with such a vapid sense of interest; you could imagine he was doing calculus equations in his mind. I remember my first night at the Wat, he showed me around the place, leading me by my underarm and explaining in his broken English where this and that was. Everything was spit out at the speed of a racehorse and questions were not answered, if even listened to. But the funny thing about Chaibordin is he has a crazy streak in him. Again on my first night, he became so excited about showing me the dorms that he hugged me out of the sheer excitement of his words. A strange exchange that I went with at the time, but one that also gave me suspicion when Bea questioned his sexual orientation after the meditation.

My third morning I walked into his office and without getting a word in (we could speak to him, albeit only if we had a problem and it better be brief!!!) he started to spatter, “Ahh yes, present moment, present moment, its like, you have girlfriend, yes, you have Thai girlfriend, ok, and you meet girl Mom, ok, haha, and when you meet Mom she talk wid you, yes, but you no kiss other girl, no, the paparazzi come, yes, and bad, bad, bad, very bad. . . “ How the hell do you respond to something like that?

Chaibordin was also the “farang police officer” of the Wat. Temples have police officers? Maybe it would be better to say he was the “farang mindfulness officer.” Whenever we would run into him on the grounds of the Wat all he would say would be, “Eyes down, present moment, knowing, knowing, knowing,” never really directed just at you, but almost like a reminder to everyone who could understand him. He delivered his preachings with an intensity that was both ridiculous and contrived, but it was his job! We learned by the end of our time just to laugh at Chaibordin and roll our eyes when he would start his spiels. Una risa is what Bea would say every time he came to mind . . .

In the final days of my time at Wat Rampoeng, I became very accustomed to my life there. It was nice, actually. I meditated, I ate, I meditated, I cleaned, I meditated, I drank soy milk, and then I meditated some more. That was my day. It seemed that each day lasted an eternity, but by the 9th day I found myself saying, “Holy shit self, you leave tomorrow. This was so quick!”

When the time came to actually leave, I was soo happy that I was going to have a hot shower and a comfortable bed to sleep in. And the emails!! Just how many would I have and who would want to know how the meditation went? And oh my god, how good is that beer going to taste tonight?

Well, when I finally did find a hot shower it wasn’t all that great and the beer I had longed for wasn’t so tasty either. And the emails? I had a few hundred spam messages, about 10 that were semi-important and 2 that actually had actual significance, including one from my Mother. All that time and brain power spent thinking about email was a total waste, as most thinking is.

If I had to pull together some things I gained from the meditation, a few things stand out. First off, the fact that everything is impermanent. That means everything, folks. Money, friends, family, feelings, love, and the whole shebang. Secondly, everything we need in the world is always provided for us, often times in the most unimaginable ways. All the things we want will never be provided, so we best just get over it. Thirdly, expectations are the worst thing we can create for ourselves. Just avoid ‘em. Finally, how grateful I was for the people in my life and to be given the opportunities that I’ve been lucky enough to experience.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. Am I glad its over? Affirmative. Do I think it was beneficial? Yes, and it will probably become more and more so as time goes on. Was the surrender hard? Extremely. My ego fought it tooth and nail, but when it stopped, some beautiful things shined through.

This is the best I could do at putting this on digital paper. I hope you enjoyed.

Bech in fact had felt quite tired of life ever since completing his last - his final, as he thought of it - and surprisingly successful novel, whose publication coincided with the collapse of his one and only marriage. That was why, he supposed, you travelled to places like this: to encounter fictional selves, the refreshing false ideas of you strangers hold in their minds.

Bech at Bay, John Updike

Tuol Sleng Museum and the Killing Fields

I am often amazed at the beauty of the human spirit. Watching others act selflessly, seeing how we can create out of sheer passion, and having first-hand experience with love given to me that I never deserved, all make me marvel at this beautiful, jumbled mess we call “the human race.” But just as giving and as saintly as we can be, humans can go beyond evil, beyond hatred, and today I got a first hand taste of the darkest depths of the human spirit that lies within each of us.

Tuol Sleng Museum was formerly a primary school, occupying a central space in the downtown area of Phnom Penh. But when Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge Regime took control of the country, the school was closed and converted into S-21, a detention, interrogation, torture and killing center to aid the party’s interests. Interested in the inhuman acts of the Khmer Rouge and the impact they’ve had on today’s Cambodia, this was an essential, albeit gruesome, part of my Cambodia experience. But before I begin describing the heinous scenes inside the museum, I have to tell you about Paula.

Upon purchasing my entrance ticket, I was approached by a woman asking if I would like an English tour of the museum. I agreed and the woman who began to lead me towards the museum introduced herself as Paula. We had not taken more than 30 steps before Paula began to unravel the horrors that the Khmer Rouge inflicted upon her family. Paula’s father, mother, son, daughter, husband, sister and brother-in-law had all been killed, directly or indirectly, by the inhumane acts of Pol Pot’s regime. I questioned her about this and she led me through gruesome details of how each of them were killed, with a sadness that had been soothed by time, but an anger that began to simmer, as her impassioned speech became more and more revealing. I listened as the details of her daughter’s starvation, her brother-in-law’s beheading and her schemes to avoid death, as a lump started to develop in my throat. This was real. And I was talking to someone who had lived with the horror, seen the futures of her loved one’s mowed down like blades of grass, and whose family support system had been shattered by a group of revolutionaries. It was like staring into a window full of nightmares, realizing that it could as just as easily been me on the other side experiencing the terror first hand.

It was awful to see this sweet mid-50’s woman almost loose it before we began the tour, and I offered to pay her for the tour and she could go about her day if it was too much. But she declined, telling me it was important to share about the tragedies that happened here.

The interesting thing to me about Paula was that her work made her relive the horrors of her past each day, and the way that she earned her living was by exploiting her past to foreigners interested in her experience. To me, this seemed akin to having a deep cut and pouring salt into the wound each day, never allowing it heal. And making your living from something like this seemed absolutely wrong in my moral scale, but as my upbringing was in a land much, much different than Paula’s, I cannot judge her for her decisions (and more possibly, lack of choice).



The tour started in the interrogation rooms, where the centerpiece of the tiled room was a bed frame, used to tie down prisoners for questioning. Axes and other blunt objects filled the floors, used to strike the prisoners when they would not be cooperative with interrogators, and horrific photos of dead bodies hung on the wall, taken in the same room we were standing. I tried to imagine myself as the photographer, opening the door to the room and documenting this mangled, bloody and mutilated body, but the reality of the situation made it too tragic for my mind to hold onto. Outside of the rooms were the instructions given to the prisoners by the interrogators, which are posted below.



We then moved into building B, used as prison cells for the inmates. The most horrifying part of this building were the photos of the prisoners’ mug shots plastered all over the walls. Boys, girls, men and women alike, were all forced to be photographed before they entered S-21, and this building housed all of the documented Khmers, most of whom would soon have their futures cut short. I can’t fathom the emotions these people went through as this process took place. As I looked into the eyes of some of the prisoners, I saw fear, anguish, and in some I even identified an indifference, likely conditioned by the past months of forced labor they experienced. When I look out on the street, I see the same faces that I saw on those walls and it makes it even more evident that despite the progression the world has managed to experience, something like the Khmer Rouge could happen anywhere and at anytime.



This part of S-21 functioned as the individual holding cells for the prisoners and while the walls of the cells had been removed, you could see on the floor the remnants of the small cells each of the inmates were forced into. Each inmate was allowed to shower once every month, offered an old bullet case for their toilet, and had their feet shackled to the cell to prevent their escape. The open hallways of the jail were also covered in chicken wire, to prevent prisoners from jumping off the buildings to their death, a seemingly common occurrence before the Khmer Rouge remedy.

Paula led me through the different parts of the compound, offering information about the leaders of S-21 and their whereabouts today, the different torture techniques performed upon the Khmers, maps of the forced progressions of Khmers by the Khmer Rouge and paintings of the lives of the inmates, created by one of the 6 Cambodians who made it alive out of S-21.

After S-21, it was off to the Killing Fields.

Accompanied by Paula and her driver, we left downtown Phnom Penh and started out trek outside the city. Preparing mentally for the Killing Fields was a difficult experience, especially when the drive was comprised of developing neighborhoods and children playing in the streets. Hardly an indication of the horrors we were about to see, we approached the museum and found a large stupa filled with the skulls of the victims. Now, I had my indication.

Walking through the huge covered holes in the ground, it was awful to know the things that happened where my feet were standing. Bones and pieces of clothing were strung out around the area, the last remnants of those executed long ago. Paula showed me the nearby bamboo trees whose limbs were so sharp that they were used for cutting the throats of the prisoners to save bullets. We passed by a large tree only to find out it was used for killing babies, by guards slamming their bodies into its’ trunk. There was another tree nearby, where a large speaker played music loud enough to drown out the screams of those being attacked. It was a formalized killing factory, an assembly line of death, designed to make the process as quick and as inexpensive as possible.

Looking out beyond the Killing Fields, it was hard to imagine that such inhuman acts happened here. The Fields were surrounded by lush countryside, and the connecting field was full of young Khmers laughing and playing. Furthermore, the Killing Fields had a sense of peace about it, as if the lives that had been taken there had learned to absolve their murderers. I distinctly remember having this thought and a beautiful yellow butterfly flew over one of the mass graves 5 feet in front of me, a possible sign that spirits can forgive.

I asked Paula how she felt about coming here and after a 20 second pause all she could say was, “I just miss my sister and brother-in-law so much.” “I hope this never happens to anyone, anywhere, ever again,” I responded. Paula looked at me with eyes I’ll never be able to understand and nodded her head.

Phnom Penh part one

Closing the door to my hotel room, I feel like I am finally safe from the storm that is Phnom Penh. Southeast Asia has always held an air of calm in my mind, with its proximity to the beaches, its connection to nature, and the relative easiness that everyone I’ve met from the area tends to resonate. But, if there’s an exception to the calm that I’ve seen, it would be Phnom Penh. Motorbikes, shouting, children in the street, trash, smells, elephant shit, grasshopper stands, and locals exercising in large groups all unite to make the Khmer capitol a storm of energy, with a past that makes one shudder.

I arrived in Phnom Penh in the afternoon, starting the day in Chiang Mai, and then heading to Bangkok before my landing around 4pm. The guesthouse where I had booked a room was full (despite my reservation), so they kindly gave me a ride to another hotel where the price for a room was the same, and strangely, had some of the same workers . Hmmmm, my sketchy-radar was definitely on alert. The place was a little seedy, not unlike the street outside its front door, but after being on the road all day, I was ready to drop my bags.

Upon suggestion, I headed down to the city’s riverside, to grab some dinner and to check out the views. What I found was a collection of restaurants, bars, clubs and shops, all catering to barang (the foreigners), which was at the same time refreshing and a little depressing. I always struggle with the battle of patronizing places that cater to tourists, because I feel like my experience in that area would somehow more akin to someone living in Cambodia if I ate as a local ate, but the creature comforts of being able to speak English and be able to know what you are getting yourself into sometimes make it worth the extra cash. With this in mind, I found a traditional Khmer restaurant on the main strip. A healthy medium I would say.

Dinner consisted of an amazing traditional Khmer soup that was served with French bread for dipping and an amazing vinegar-based sauce. The bread was covered in seasoning, that almost made it look like a piece of trash rather than a piece of bread that was truly delicious. After making friends with the waitresses, I was served a free desert of sweet coconut with cream. Not too shabby.

With my belly full, I crossed the street and hit the riverfront, to see what was going on there. This area was totally void of barang, and it was incredible to see cultural divide provided by the street, splitting tourists dining and drinking on one side, and Khmers enjoying the fruits of the riverfront on the other. With the number of young Khmer couples occupying the waterfront, this area could have easily been called “lover’s row.” The scene reminded me of the parks in Argentina, with the kissing, couples sprawled out on one another, the guys showing off their motorbikes; all in the hopes of taking advantage of the romantic atmosphere provided by the respite of the river and the evening's dark cloak.

I found a nice spot on the wall and sat, overlooking the river for a few moments before my yawns reminded me how much travel I’d done completed in the day. It was time to find my own respite from the Phnom Penh craziness, and off to my room I went.

1.1 New Year's silence

At this writing I sit in the Bangkok airport with my heart wanting to come out of my mouth. I’m on my way to a 10-day meditation retreat at the Northern Insight Meditation Center in Chiang Mai where I will spend my time in silence, dressed in all-white with no music, no writing, and no dinner (only breakfast and lunch), meditating from 4am to 10pm, doing my best to focus on the now and nothing more. This is an opportunity I’ve only dreamed about and the reality that the time has come is both exciting, and bone-chillingly scary.

While I am weary to put goals or expectations on the experience before it begins, I know that finding the present in every moment through mindfulness helps pain, fear, worry, and resentment fade away, sometimes allowing truth to shine its light. The thing that is making the butterflies wreak havoc on my stomach is surrendering. Letting go, giving in to the moment, watching my thoughts instead of playing into them, and further peeling back my layers of identity is a scary thing. And that’s why I’m doing it.

I have no idea if this will be the most amazing 10 days of my life, or if I’ll leave asking the reception desk if I can have a refund of time for the 240 hours I’ve wasted, but something inside tells me that I’m heading in the right direction.

The Happiest of New Year’s to all my family, friends and loved ones, I wish I could have shared it with all of you. See you on the other side.

12.31 NYE and farewell to Samui

Our last day in Samui started with a move. We’d thought staying in the north and south might give us a better overall idea as to the pleasures offered by the island, so our initial plan was to spend three nights in one hotel, and then move to another for the last three. Well, due to the craziness of Samui, and the famous Full Moon Party happening on the neighboring island, the only flight we could find back to Bangkok was early morning on the 1st, cutting our Samui stay down by two days, and our stay at the other hotel to a single night. So while the move seemed like a smart idea at the time, it was more just a pain in the ass packing up and moving for one night’s stay.

After getting confused on where the hotel was, and spending way too much baht to get there, we finally arrived to the Jinta Beach Bungalow on the south part of the island. Upon jumping out of the back of the pickup truck (call it a traditional Thai taxi), we were greeting with a confused look by the owner of the hotel. Gift and the woman, who could have doubled as the Buddha she was wearing on her shirt, burst into a Thai-tirade that left me useless for a few minutes.

It turned out that the two rooms we booked ready weren’t ready, and the hotel didn’t even know we were coming that night. One of the rooms would be ready after cleaning, but the other would not be available until 6pm that evening, another 7+ hours from the time of this conversation.

I told Gift I wouldn’t mind sharing the larger room, if we could receive a refund on the unused room, and after so much haggling, translating, and waiting on cell phone calls to the person we obviously should have been talking to in the beginning, we got in our room and would have 800 baht returned in a few hours.

The afternoon continued on with a swim, some reading and a quick run down the beach to see the difference of the terrain on the south of the island. It felt like a different world here compared to where we’d spent the previous three nights with the number of locals matching the number of farang, each of them practicing their very well pronounced, “Hello’s!!” as I made my way down the beach. One even offered me some whiskey and a cigarette, but I respectfully declined with a smile.

With both of us starving, Gift and I set out to try and find some food. The nearest place to get a bite was a kilometer away, so we set out in hopes of quieting our hungry stomachs.

I would say this was one of the most interesting walks of my time in Thailand, for all of the local life we saw en route. One of the most interesting things to rural Thai life is the co-habitation with so many different animals. It’s not a big deal to see a bull being led down the road, and elephant walking through the streets, or mischievous monkeys, rummaging through handbags, lunch bags, brown bags, plastic bags, or any kind of bag they can find. On this particular walk, we saw the bulls (I was very aware that I was wearing red shorts as I walked by . . . ), the stray dogs, the chickens, and even caught sight of the birds providing the underscore for a beautiful, warm Samui day. But as we continued, I started to hear what sounded like a crowd of folks singing. In rural Thailand, this would be almost as unusual as seeing a polar bear hanging out with the bulls. As we drew closer, Gift and I saw a huge groups of Thai’s following a truck with a full band playing in the bed, singing, dancing and raising money for God-knows-what cause. The music was infectious, and we were greeted by the local Thais with handshakes and hello’s as we danced in the afternoon sun with the joyous parade. This same time last year I’d been in New Orleans for New Year’s, and had been bummed to not see a second-line parade through the streets of the Big Easy. I laughed to myself that a year later almost to the day, on a different continent, my wish was being granted.

New Year’s Eve was quiet on Ko Samui for Gift and I, as we had to leave at 5am to catch our flight back to Bangkok. We visited a neighboring resort to watch their NYE party and it was surprisingly a lot of fun. The master of ceremonies for the evening, an openly gay cabaret singer who would say things like, “This is my last song. I want to let you know that it is from the heart,” was a riot. At one point he pulled a man to the front of the stage, stripped down to his salmon colored boxers and wife beater, and gave the man a private serenade in front of his girlfriend. Ballsy, yes. Entertaining, you bet.

Another year came to a close as I fell asleep in my bungalow to the sound of the ocean.

12.30 Ice Cream and Due Diligence

Musicians practice for hours a day to perfect their craft. Dancers rehearse their routines countless times to have their steps as familiar as taking a breath. Actors try to be chameleons with their personality, changing colors as their scripts force them to manifest themselves into someone other than their ordinary selves. But when an ice cream salesman on the beach in Thailand becomes all at once a musician, a dancer and an actor, with no inspiration besides fattening his pocket, the results are usually subpar to say the least. However, today was the exception.

While on the beach I composed an emotionally intense letter to a friend. After its composition I read it again twice, fixing the large errors and chalking up the small ones to the spontaneous nature of its inspiration, and after I put the letter away. As soon as my hands closed my journal, a figure appeared out of the corner of my left eye.

“Do – you - want - ice - cream??!!” The figure sang aloud, bending his knees and raising his arms as if he was taking a bow to conclude the greatest performance of his life.

The tone of his question, the divine timing of his humor bringing me out of the swamps of my emotions, and the huge smile smeared across this Thai’s face, made his proposal all at once the perfect act and an irresistible offer. How could I say no??

Laughing uncontrollably at his audacity, I asked him for the cheapest ice cream he could offer up. Finding the fruit flavored popsicles at the bottom of his portable chest, I realized I’d left my wallet in the hotel room, unable to give him the exorbitant 50 baht that he requested. Explaining the situation, he smiled at me and said, “I give you and you pay later. I come back.” Further gaining my trust with a handshake that said, “No worries man,” he left and tried to work his magic on the other farang lounging on the Samui sand.

About 20 minutes passed before Gift and I decided to leave the beach in search of some lunch. With no sign of the ice cream salesman and my conscious telling me I needed to pay this guy before I forgot, I set out in search of the boisterous ice cream man in the Boston Red Sox shirt. I told Gift I’d just be a few minutes and left her at the hotel, beginning to scan the beach to pay my debt.

I saw many vendors selling grilled corn, hot dogs, beach toys and necklaces, but my baseball fan-ice cream man was nowhere in sight. I continued walking, passing the beachside bars with the Happy Hour specials, the black British couple enjoying their salad at a table on the beach, the Korean couple who looked like a portrait that could be captioned as “happiness,” and the American business man whose skin turned as red as the Chinese flag when he wasn’t busy ruling the world. I passed the ragged stray dogs that call the beach their home, always with a curious confusion plastered on their faces that made me think they were old Samui souls asking themselves, “What the fuck happened here?” I walked by the Thai masseuses who questioned in their high-pitched voices, “Hello!! You want massage? Hello!” all the while wondering if they would like to wear gloves while they massaged so many greasy, smelly white bodies. I saw the pack of vendors gambling in the shade, putting the money they’d just earned onto the tree stump, aka the makeshift card table, that either got them laid by their girlfriends or forced their children to go without food for an evening. I strolled by the beach volleyball net that no one was using, the juice stand playing bad Buddha Bar music, and the wax-chested gays with no sign of my ice cream man.

Almost half an hour had passed and the sweat on my brow told me that this was the hardest I would ever work to give someone money. I began to question other vendors I found, asking if they knew where the crazy ice cream man was. All of them said yes and pointed in the same direction, the one I was heading away from the hotel.

I finally found the guy with a farang girl, enjoying a cigarette during a respite from his antics. Looking back on it I probably messed up his game with this chica, but I was in such a relief to finally see his face with the sinister smile that I walked straight up to him and handed him his money.

When he recognized who I was, he said nothing, but looked directly back where I’d come from with the expression, “Damn, this farang is crazy.” And that was it.

With my pride satisfied that I’d completed the promised task, and my internal clock telling me I needed to get back to Gift before she started calling the police, I picked up the pace of my walking.

I again passed the Koreans, the Brits, the hot dogs and the Buddha Bar music, with the bridge of my feet burning with each step in the afternoon sand. Realizing that I was still ages away from the hotel, I took off my sandals and began to run. This heightened pace didn’t give me time to respond to the massage requests or to see which of the vendors’ karma had been aligned on this Wednesday, and I saw my due diligence was quickly turning into idiot compassion. With my breath becoming more weighted I saw the sign for our hotel, and Gift sitting outside, waiting patiently with a smile on her face.

Almost an hour had passed since I embarked on my “quick trip” and she was dying laughing as I ran to her chair, sweat dripping from every pore of my body and my breath as short as a Speedo.

I explained the situation to her and she laughed all the way to lunch, where I quickly chugged the first bottle of water I could get my hands on.

If I ever questioned that great performances can inspire even more epic (some would call stupid) ones, the ice cream man, his charm and my voyage through the sand removed all of my doubts.

12-28 The Motorbike

Today started off in the way I’d like to spend all mornings in Thailand, watching the sunrise over the ocean. There is a calm to the break of day here, where time slows for a few seconds as the sun makes its daunting and controlled entrance. The reflection of the new day’s sun over the ocean always brings family and loved ones to mind, hoping they could be beside me to share the experience.

But even before the sunrise, a companion awakened me in my single bungalow, of whom or what I still do not know. At 6am, right when I needed to get my ass out of bed for the morning spectacle, the calls of an unknown creature brought me out of my unconscious state. The sound was so close that it had to be coming from somewhere in my room, but after some investigation, the culprit was not to be found. Has anyone ever heard of ghost animals?

After breakfast and a swim, Gift and I decided to rent a motorbike for the day, which I was really excited about. There is a road that runs around the island of Samui perfect for motorbike, the preferred method of transportation for the Thais here and most of the other parts of the Land of Smiles. Gift was a little skeptical of the idea, and me almost crashing at the hotel did not soothe her confidence as we boarded the bike to peruse Samui.

The first stop was the Big Buddha Island. The island is the home of the Wat Phra Yai, and wouldn’t you know it, its got a big Buddha there. After milk tea, buying a horde of white clothing for my upcoming meditation retreat and some photos, it was off to another nearby Wat for more photos. ABW could apply in this situation. (Another Bloody Wat?) We then made our way through some beautiful countryside to Chaweng, the most touristy part of Samui. Upon parking our motorbike, I felt like I’d landed in San Diego, with the number of white faces quadrupling the natives and every sign catering to the farangs’ lack of ability to interpret Thai script.

Quickly exiting Chaweng, Gift and I headed inland to search of some more authenticity to our journey. We passed through some beautiful countryside, catching a glimpse of the durian fruit farmers collecting their daily harvest and the coconut trees providing a backdrop I’d only seen in movies or on cheesy screensavers. It seemed so different from the other parts of the island we’d seen that day that I had to think twice to realize we were still within Samui proper. Upon finding the entrance to a waterfall, Gift and I dismounted hoping to see it with our own eyes. After a half hour of trekking, there was no waterfall to behold, so we turned around, fearful of nightfall making the motorbike ride home an even more perilous voyage.

I could feel Gift’s uncertainty for the motorbike throughout the day, and I was trying my hardest to keep my attention on driving; to soothe her fears, as well as keep us both alive! These bikes are reliable, but when you are traveling 60km per hour on a hill and cars are passing just a few feet away from you, it makes for a interesting ride. As we were exiting the parking lot for the waterfall, I accelerated the bike and hit a batch of sand. The bike spun out of control, sending both Gift and I off the bike, onto the sugar-colored sand hands and knees first. Initially I was more concerned about Gift, seeing if she was ok and realizing that she suffered only a few scrapes and scratches. I wasn’t even conscious I’d suffered the same until I got back on the bike and saw my bloody feet and elbows. Funny how the mind works right? The part that sucked the most was that I’d put her in danger, but she took it like a champ and was laughing about it much sooner than I.

With my pride hurt more than anything and the blood beginning to dry, I started the bike again up the mountain to try to beat the sunset. But, with the lack of propulsion we’d gotten from starting our trek in the middle of a hill, our little bike would not make it up the inclines. This left us trying to find a flat surface to give our shitty Honda automatic the flatland it needed to climb the Samui curves, and when we did, the process was repeated again and again, with the bike loosing its steam each time the hills began. After a few minutes of trying, and the recent crash fresh in our memories, we decided to take the longer route back to the hotel, characterized by its beachside views and more importantly, flat surfaces.

We arrived an hour later, cleaned our cuts and I bought a big Chang beer to help me forget the annoyances and mishaps of the day. While on the walk home, Gift informed me of an interesting revelation. She’d been to see a fortuneteller a few months before, and the physic told her that she would be in a motorbike accident within the next year. Further understanding her apprehension and laughing to myself at the ridiculous nature of the situation, I wondered if going to the Thai fortuneteller might help me to ward off some avoidable pitfalls in the future as well!

Will we take the bike again, tomorrow only knows, so until then I’ll keep my helmet buckled tight.

12.27 Samui first impressions

While my travels in Asia have been going on for over a month now, this is my first full blog entry. I ask myself why it’s taken me so long to get the thoughts, impressions and incredible stories I’ve been lucky enough to experience down in some written format, and my best response is “It’s better late than never.” In that spirit, here’s where the spirit has placed me in this moment.

I’m sitting on the North Side of Ko Samui, an island off the coast of Thailand, at a beachside bungalow. I arrived here with my friend Gift after a full day of traveling which was not without its own adventures.

We started the day in Trang, Thailand, where we had been for a few days, being treated to the most amazing hospitality I’ve ever experienced by the parents of my friend Gibb. They deserve their own blog entry for all of the amazing stuff they did for us, but for now, let’s continue. So Gift and I boarded a bus in Trang to head north 3 hours. While waiting for the bus, a man walked up with a chicken, holding it in his arms as if it was his prize-winner (it turns out it was!!). When we began to board the bus, the man and his chicken joined us. I can check “Riding on a Bus with a Chicken” off on my list of life goals. Surprisingly, the chicken was very well behaved on the journey, and the only way I remembered he was a passenger was the by the occasional “Gobble, gobble,” that was too authentic to be smart-ass Thai making jokes.

The ride consisted of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Love in the Time of Cholera. I’m such a sucker for Marquez, but does prose get any more beautiful? I mean how could one quietly slip the quote, “He was still too young to know that the heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past,” appropriately into his writing without sounding pretentious? Only Marquez.

The book has had a big impact on me not so much for the story itself, but for the descriptions of the characters in this love story. Marquez is a genius for picking out the nuances of his characters that make them distinct, but that every one of us can find in the ones close to us. I read somewhere that Marquez considered himself to be more of a journalist than a writer, and from his sensitivity in describing people, places and, most heart-wrenchingly, love, its evident that his journalistic inclinations were just as honed as his gift for storytelling.

That being said, I’ve started to record information about folks I briefly meet on the road, hoping to record what I learn about them with as exactly and as revelatory as Marquez . . . we’ll see how that goes.

Ok, here’s one for you:

One the ride on the bus, Gift and I shared a seat with a man named Bao we’d met in Trang. Bao was in his mid to late 20’s, and with his ironed white shirts and designer shoes, you could tell he was off to either make impression or to maintain one. While Bao spoke no English (and my Thai won’t let me talk with anyone), you could see his kindness in some of the most beautiful brown eyes that ever graced a two-legged creature. He had an easiness to him that could make him forgettable, but behind his quiet voice there was a firmness to his words that forced you to take him seriously. He carried with him only a camera bag, meaning that he had clothes in the place he was going, and I later found out the purpose of his trip was to visit his girlfriend. They are to wed in August.

After leaving the first bus, another bus was in store, no chicken this time, that led to a ferry. The ferry ride took us to Ko Samui and offered up some beautiful scenery on the open sea.

Ko Samui was not what I expected at all, and I think the whiteys (or farang as the Thai call them) have overrun the small island. I wrote in an email to my brother that the island was like the Myrtle Beach of Thailand, and while this may have been a little of an overstatement, but yes, there is a Starbucks and a McDonald’s on this island (along with over 100 7 Eleven’s)!

Gift and I were exhausted from the traveling, so after a stroll on the beach, it was time to settle down for the night.

I’m looking forward to seeing more of Samui and getting to the good stuff the island has to offer in the morning.

This seems like a good time to end, so until next time, sawadee krab.

For an old love

You haunt me
When I am on the way to work
Umbrella in hand
Brad Mehldau underscoring my consciousness

You haunt me
When I am in the arms
Of the girl I've wanted for months
But whose love wasn't real

You haunt me
On long car rides
As the meditative white lines
Bring my unconsciousness to the forefront

You haunt me
When I think about my future
Even though you told me not to
I know you're doing the same

You haunt me
While in the back of a theater
I think I see you with him
My entertainment turned to rage

You haunt me
As I stared out into the ocean
Hoping your eyes were fixed
In the same place

You haunt me
While in the train
Unconsciously scanning the faces
Of the strangers I call passengers

You haunt me
As I think about music
And the songs we shared
We are both lonely painters

You haunt me
As I think about having a partner
Who will push me
To be the best I can be

You haunt me
As I know
You will love me
Whoever or whatever I am

Day 45 and 46 – Yellowstone National Park

From Portland, Daniel and I headed to Seattle where we stayed with the Heffernan’s, whose son, Joe, was in boarding school with Daniel. We had another amazing time with their family, meditating with Charlie (father), sharing stories and learning a little Arabic with Robbie (mother) and learning about Indian music and having a blast with Amanda (sister). Amazing folks and we are so grateful for their cooking, hospitality, and friendship which were fuel to keep on truckin’.



In the summer of 2007, I lived in Mendoza, Argentina with the Simpsons, an American family who had set up a program to teach kids to record music in Argentina. The Simpsons are now living in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho and it was to their home we traveled after Seattle. Man, what a reunion. We arrived around 5 pm, and Daniel and I stayed up talking with Rich, Wendy, Matt and Andy (who arrived a little later) until almost midnight. It was so nice to catch up on all the folks in Mendoza, and all the stories I had missed in the interim 2 years. This was one of the personal highlights of the trip for me. We celebrated Wendy’s birthday with a lake side BBQ and even caught new Harry Potter movie at a local theater (highly recommended!).



After a bittersweet departure from Coeur d’Alene, Daniel and I set out for Yellowstone.

Day 45 and 46 – Yellowstone National Park

Spending the majority of the day in the car traveling, Daniel and I were both tired when we arrived in Yellowstone. After seeing that all the campgrounds within the park were full, we begrudgingly turned the car around and headed 16 miles outside the park to find a place to pitch our tent. After finding a suitable, but unusually uncomfortable campground, we settled down for the evening. I spent the night (and most of the day’s car ride) reading Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. Before leaving for the trip I received some travel recommendations from my old boss, Atesh Sonneborn. Atesh lived in various parts of California for years and he suggested visiting the Self Realization Fellowship in Pacific Palisades, CA where some of Ghandi’s ashes were kept. He also mentioned that the Fellowship was founded by Yogananda, but at the time I had no idea who this was. Then, upon arriving in DC to hang out before the trip, Daniel brought a book (Autobiography of a Yogi) with him and was telling me all about the wonderful, childlike, and amazing life of Yogananda. After listening to Daniel and visiting the Self Realization Fellowship for myself, I decided to pick up the book. It has been a wonderful companion on the journey and has really inspired me to renew and pursue my own relationship with God. Yogananda’s playful, ever seeking prose has made me realize that a spiritual journey does not have to be one of stoic practice and solitude, but rather a revealing search that can be fun, communal, and divinely rewarding. He does not leave out the difficulties of his stories, but the lessons learned and wisdom gained from these trials make the search all the more appealing. Thank you Atesh and Daniel.



After waking up to the coldest morning of the trip so far, Daniel and I got two cups of coffee, bread and some firewood, heading into the park to find what treasures lie within its boundaries.

The smell of Yellowstone is undeniable. Known for its geysers, the Park has omnipresent odor of deviled eggs. The mixture of sulphuric gas, water and heat leads to amazing sights (bubbling lakes and geysers), but was a constant of reminder of kindergarden (where deviled eggs were served as afternoon snacks). Aside from this little nuance, the geysers and hot springs in the Park were absolutely beautiful. Daniel and I were lucky enough to see a good many of them, also catching Old Faithful blow her load in front a huge, anxious crowd of tourists. It was really amazing to see this large hole in the ground one second, then a 50 feet tall blast of water emanating from its insides. What a funny planet we live on.



In the afternoon, Daniel and I took a long hike on the Elephant Bear Trail near Lake Yellowstone. The 3.5 mile hike was a needed exercise, and led to some amazing views at the summit. The hike was a little surprising because of the massive amounts of dead trees in Yellowstone, leading Daniel and I to question what had been happening to make all of this destruction take place. After grabbing some beer and a little ice cream, we made our way back to our campground.

One of the other amazing features about Yellowstone is the huge number of wildlife that are visible by simply driving through the park. Bison are very abundant throughout the Park and there were no shortage of them on our drives from location to location throughout Yellowstone. Such interesting creatures, these Bison are. Short legs, hairy in the front, not in the back, small eyes, hunched posture, and a massive body. I wonder if they think we are funny looking too. In addition to the bison, the Park is full of giant deer, wild birds and coyotes. Whenever any of these animals are visible from the road, a bottleneck of cars form, with each tourist grabbing as many photos of the unassuming animals they can, before they start to feel conscious of the line of traffic behind them. We learned this happens often in the Park, and not to freak out when a random line of traffic begins to form.



After gathering wood for the fire, and having some trusty soup for dinner, Daniel and I got the fire started and got out the guitars. After learning a song from Wilco’s new album, we tried to play the song together. While we have played music together for a long time, it has always been difficult. I come from the school where I am very accustomed to playing with other people, and very seldom play by myself. Daniel, on the other hand, plays by himself the majority of the time. With both of us expecting different things of the other and our personality differences as evident as our dirty clothes, we began to argue about how the music should be played. After telling Daniel that he was “so hard to play with,” he got up and left the fire. This was not the first and definitely not the last argument of the trip, but the difference with this one was that it involved music, something we both care deeply about, but look at from completely different perspectives. Looking back on the argument, I believe there was a lot of big brother/little brother anxiety wrapped up in the disagreement, hitting even closer to home. I guess there are some things that we are just not supposed to see eye to eye on.

With the funds running low and our time on the road growing short, we are in for some long travel days ahead. As I am writing this entry, Daniel and I have been on the road for 6 hours with another 2 ahead of us before our destination. Traveling to the Badlands National Park (which turned out to us staying at the Lakota Indian Reservation) yesterday, we clocked almost 11 hours in the car. These long hours are taking a little bit of a toll on our tempers (which may have been a big contributing factor to the earlier tussle), but with a new injection of music (thanks Oliver, Amanda, and the Heffernans!) hopefully the drives will be a little better.

Approaching Bloomington, Indiana as our next main destination Saturday-ish and more from the road soon. Thanks for reading.

Day 40 and 41 – Portland, Oregon

Interstate 5 has been a companion on this leg of the journey and from within its white lines I start this entry. Daniel and I are on the road to Seattle and Mount St. Helens is staring at us as we look out of the right side of the CR-V (our other constant companion of our voyage). There are so many stories to be told since my last entry and I will probably have to share the majority of them individually with friends, family and fellow travelers as time passes on, but there is a beauty in sharing these undocumented experiences, letting time polish their individuality from the journey itself. I hope I’ll get to share some of them with you.

Day 40 and 41 – Portland, Oregon

Portland has always held a particular place in my psyche, one consisting of lots of young, hip kids in plaid shirts and think glasses, local brews offered at every hole in the wall, and a particular smugness exhibited by those living within its proper. All of these impressions were established when I was 3,000 miles away! Pulling into Portland, some of these expectations were met, some were debunked, but actually experiencing “Stump Town” firsthand was more satisfying than any IPA could be.

Two days before arriving into Portland, we had stayed with a woman named Megan in Medford, Oregon. We were Megan’s first couch surfers and we could tell by her nervous acceptance of our request that she was a little uncomfortable at the proposal of 2 young (and probably smelly) strangers taking shelter in her abode. However, after a long talk about India, the South, sharing some wine and cooking dinner with her, it was like we were old buddies (or cousins as we would soon become to be known). We told Megan we were heading to Portland and she graciously called her brother, David, and asked him if we could pitch our tent in his yard while we were in town. We did not hear his response before we left, so pulling into Portland a few days later, we cold-called David to see if he (and his family) might mind us crashing with them. It took them a little while to get back to us, so in the meantime, we investigated the city.

We were told by two girls we camped with to check out 21st and 23rd streets off of Burnside for places to eat, drink and take in the scene, so this is where we first headed. This was a cool area of the city and we caught an awesome street drummer (playing on buckets and pan lids) on 23rd! We also think we ran into Jim Gaffigan, the comedian, after his son he told us his 18 month old could skateboard. We still can’t figure out if it was him or not, but check the photos to see for yourself!



After a trip to the local Goodwill, we received the call from David we had a place to stay for the night. After checking out Hawthorne St. (another awesome area of Portland), we headed to Oregon City to meet the Annand’s.

An introduction of the family is necessary. David, the father of the household, is the brother of Megan (who we couchsurfed with in Medford, OR). Lisa is the mother of the house, and the two of them have two daughters, Chloe (14) and Emma (9). Oh, and I can’t forget Sammy, the brownish red dog who asked for love like people ask, “How are you?”

This family is amazing. The openness they exuded to Daniel and I was inspiring. There were instruments (guitars, ukuleles, pianos, marimbas, and harmonicas) all over the house, books scattered everywhere, the girls were both in a bi-lingual school studying Spanish, and the communication between the members of the family was really amazing to see. The children knew all about their parents’ work and the parents were familiar with most aspects of the children’s lives in a very organic way. We spent the night telling the family about our travels and getting to know each of them.

The next morning, while Chloe was sleeping, Daniel, Emma and I had an impromptu jam session on marimba, piano and harmonium over “No Woman, No Cry,” after finishing some of Lisa’s delicious pancakes. We then recorded a song together on Emma’s keyboard and had a blast doing it. We loved Emma’s openness to play with us and her enthusiasm for the music was contagious. Big kudos to her and her folks for giving her that exposure. After Chloe woke up, we heard her play piano and were very impressed as well.



Lisa and Emma then took us around downtown Oregon City to the end of the Oregon Trail (!!) and to their local Library to get a free pass to the Japanese Gardens in Portland! So cool this is offered by the library. Daniel and I then headed into the city to check out some of the sights. The Portland Japanese Garden was one of the coolest things we’ve done on the trip. This was a part of Portland’s Washington Park and seeing an authentic Japanese Garden was a photographer’s dream. The colors were subdued, yet vibrant, and the organization of the Gardens were designed with the precision of a surgeon’s hand. From there we headed back to Hawthorne St. to Powell’s Books and oh man, what a bookstore. Daniel went in before I did and would not let me browse around the store for fear of me being there all day. I could have stayed a week. It’s a must in Portland.



After talking to some locals in a community garden and hanging out in a park near Hawthorne, Daniel and I decided to get a burrito a Cha Cha Cha. We were enjoying our burrito, and I am not lying, none other than Dave Chappell walks by us on the sidewalk. Daniel and I both did doubletakes and looked at each other with the expression, “Was that who I think it was?” Sure enough, Dave was with his wife and had a entourage of fans following him down the street. He looked really healthy and muscular, which was amazing to see after his tough times following his TV show.

A quiet night of Indian food, meeting the Annand’s grandparents, aiding in Emma’s anticipation of seeing the new Harry Potter movie at midnight (!), and sharing stories with David and Lisa ended a great time with a wonderful family. I feel blessed to have gotten to learn, share and spend time with them. I hope I can adopt some of their family practices if I am blessed with a family of my own one day. Daniel and I both agreed that staying with a family was a rejuvenating and got us ready for the next leg of the journey.

Comfort of Strangers

After buying a harmonium at the Ali Akbar Khan School of Music, seeing some old friends from the Smithsonian, camping at Yosemite and coming back to Alameda for the evening, Daniel and I are back on the road, heading north. Our destination- the Redwood Forests of Northern California. While as of this writing, we do not have a place to sleep for the evening, we have faith that we will find a comfortable place either inside or outside to rest our heads. While this mindset of “going with the flow” and “being in the moment” is a little unnerving, it has led to exhibitions of generosity, hospitality and kindness by strangers, offered (and accepted!!) to Daniel and I. I wanted to dedicate this blog to those on the road who have offered us a meal, a place to sleep, or the combination of them both, and share a story of one instance of particular generosity.

Erin in Santa Barbara –

Leaving southern Los Angeles, we encountered the worst bout of traffic I’ve experienced in my life. What seemed like an eternity was, in actuality, 2 and a half hours in traffic, going a maximum of 15 mph the whole time up the 405. While this may be commonplace for Los Angelinos, it threw our “schedule” of making it halfway to San Francisco completely out of whack.

After finally getting through the traffic and filling up with gas, which took another 30 minutes, we were back on the road. But seeing as we had just lost 3 hours on our journey, the reality set in that we were not going to make it halfway to San Francisco that evening.

Upon pondering alternatives, we agreed to stop in Santa Barbara for the night and see what would happen. We set the GPS to head toward downtown Santa Barbara and threw our fate to the wind with the kind of anticipation only matched by a betting on your best hand in a game of poker. Upon arriving in downtown, Daniel and I began to argue a about what we would do in Santa Barbara. Daniel was tired of driving and just wanted to go have some fun, while I was concerned with finding someplace to lay our heads. After some bickering about “letting” things happen and “making” things happen, we split up to investigate Santa Barbara in our own ways. Off Daniel went on his skateboard and with the help of my iPod (thanks Janet!) and the free internet I stole from an apartment complex, I started to look for places to stay. The local hostel was booked and because it was the July 4th weekend, all the hotels were extremely overpriced, making that option an impossibility.

Scratching my head for an alternative, I went to investigate some local parks to see where we might find a spot to camp in the city for the evening. This gave me a chance to see Santa Barbara, and man, it was a beautiful city. The architecture reminded me of something in my past (past-life?) and I felt an immediate connection with my surroundings as the slight panic of not having a place to sleep left me.

Upon leaving one of the parks, I saw a girl walking her dog in an unfamiliar fashion. The dog was completely free, walking with the girl without a leash, only guided by her commands and his choice to obey them. Intrigued, I asked the girl about the dog and commented that she must have trained him well! She relayed that yes, she was very close with her dog and they walked together everyday, sometimes three times a day! I was introduced to her (Erin) and her dog (Oliver), as we continued our conversation about Santa Barbara, our travels, her travels, her home in Vermont, going to Bonnaroo, and the difference between the east and west coast in the US. The conversation led to her front porch where we continued the talk and played with Oliver.

I told her about our situation not having a place to stay in Santa Barbara and she sympathized, but said that out of courtesy to her roommate, she couldn’t give us a place to stay. I understood and we continued our talk. Upon getting a call from Daniel to meet up, I bid adieu to Erin and her faithful Oliver and thanked her for the talk.

Walking back to meet Daniel, the panic of not having a place to sleep set back in. It looked like it was going to be a night in the car or on the beach, avoiding the sight of the police. But, a thought hit me on the walk; if we can’t sleep at Erin’s house, could we set up our tent outside in her yard? Upon meeting Daniel we headed back to Erin’s to pop the question. Taking into consideration that I had just met this girl 20 minutes ago, that she had never met Daniel and that 2 guys were asking 1 girl if we could stay with her, I was a bit nervous about our proposal.

We arrived at Erin’s and knocked on the door. A part of me hoped she had already gone to bed and would not answer the door, but as she appeared on the other side of the door, I introduced her to Daniel and popped the question, most likely in a fashion akin to asking a girl out for a first date.

From her face, I think Erin was a little shocked and surprised that we even asked, but upon surveying our situation, not only offered us the yard, but also said she would give us her couch to sleep on!! We gladly accepted and came inside to get know her better and for some added playtime with Oliver.

Erin shared her kitchen with us, stories of growing up in Vermont, encounters with the police in Oklahoma (which were hilarious) and other stories of the road that we could identify with. I suppose it was these travels and the closeness of the road to her heart that compelled her to take in two smelly strangers like Daniel and I.

In a matter of minutes, we had gone from no place to stay and not knowing a soul in Santa Barbara, to having a place to rest for the evening and making friends with bartender, traveler, and this all around cool girl, Erin. Displays of compassion and hospitality like Erin showed to us, even in my most cynical states, will remind me of the good each inhabitant of this world possesses.

There have been countless cases of folks showing us hospitality on this trip, from Terry in Oakland, to Ashley in Durango, to dinner with Tye in Denver and to Adele in Albuquerque. We will keep their kindness in mind as we meet other travelers to whom we might be able to pay it forward. Maybe you can find someone in need today to pass this compassion onto. It comes full circle!

Looking out my window at the vineyards as we head to Northern California . . .