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.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
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
Bech at Bay, John Updike
Sunday, January 17, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, January 1, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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