Opportunity Knocks

“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? It’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s goodbye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
-Jack Keroac, On the Road

What would a journey anywhere be without a frenzied trip to the airport? A few days ago, my roommate told me that while I might still be living in the apartment, I had actually left for India some weeks before. She was not incorrect. The day of my departure, I felt especially out of sorts. I did a pretty decent job keping myself distracted from what was coming, first by work, and when they would no longer have me, I spent every waking moment practacing and fretting about my NYC debut bellydancing performance scheduled conveniently the night before I left. This way, if it didn’t go off as I planned, I could just flee the country. So I really only began actually dealing with India the day I left. For those who know me, it should come as no great surprise that I misread my departure time for two hours later than it actually was, realizing this a mere two hours before actual departure. Suddenly, I’m running around my apartment like a maniac because OF COURSE I’m having technical difficulties, my mp3 player having pooped out on me the day prior. I throw everything I think I want in my bag and rush out the door. I am having an asthma attack. I am upset with myself. It’s difficult when you’re not that bright but also not quite in the category of idiot, because you remain astute enough to recognize how close to idiocy you are, and that always hurts a little.

I am so distraught that I get on the subway going in the exact opposite direction of JFK. I notice this as the doors are closing, but all I can do is curse and try to throw my mail at the narrowing gap between me and the right train. (I at this point am carrying an important letter that I have to mail before I leave, thou I’ve yet to figure out the logistics as to how.) I get off at the next stop in a more or less deserted Brooklyn neighborhood, but determine to make the flight by sheer will now, I stand on the corner and try to hail a car. None pass. A woman takes pity on me and tells me there’s a car service a block down. I run in. I ask for a ride to JFK and whether he knows of any mailboxes nearby. No, but he is going to deliver a letter himself later, and sometimes I wonder if maybe I’m not completely insane believing there is something to be said for sheer will after all.

The man at the Kuwait Airways kiosk is not pleased with me. He first tells me I can’t make the flight and must come back the following day, but I make a particularly sad noise at him and he makes a call, then instructs me to follow. I tell him he’s a saint and consider proposing, but I still don’t think he likes me as much as I like him.

Since I’m being specially escorted through security, my checked luggage is subject to the same ridiculous restrictions as my carry on. Goodbye toiletries. I shall miss thee, but not as much as the people who have to sit next to me a few days from now in the hot Delhi sun. Were it not for the most auspicious gift of a small tin of solid perfume given me earlier that day from my dear friend Katy (whom I now believe to be psychic), I would have nothing to counteract my loss of all things fragrant. Interestingly enough, though my toothpast was deemed a threat, they missed my Swiss Army knife. Nice. My angel from the kiosk said he would send my wayward shampoo on the next flight to Delhi, but I’m not holding my breath. I’m slightly concerned I’ve used all my accumulated stores of karma already by the second day here, which is too bad because I’ve been saving.

On the way to my Kuwaiti stopover, I have a whole row to myself. When I wake up, I realize the plane is not going to Kuwait. At first I am stricken with panic that I boarded the wrong flight, but turns out it was just a London layover no one bothered telling me about when I booked. So that was aggrivating. We flew directly over Bagdad; it was dark and everything looked so calm from that altitude it was hard to believe there was war so close. When we finally do reach Kuwait City, I am pleasently surprised to be put up in a room for the night by the airline. I was only one in a handful of women on the flight from Kuwait to Delhi, which worked out in my favor because they ushered us ahead of the security line for our own private check.

Delhi is not as intolerable as many people warned it would be, though that could also be attributed to my expecting the worst. There’s a lot going on here, that’s for sure, but at least the language barrier is not so much a problem. Everywhere there are people, selling everything you could imagine. The hotel where I’m staying is in the Main Bazaar, and absolutely crowded with shops, guest houses locals, tourist, motor bikes, regular bikes, cows, dogs, and food. There don’t appear to be any strict rules really about driving (although I’ve seen worse) or a clear relationship between cars, bikes, and people. Sort of every man for himself. I do worry about getting runover by a cart here and there, but it’s less of a concern of impact and more that I do not, under any circumstances, wish to make contact with the streets, which are disgusting. I’ve booked a train tomorrow morning to Agra, where I hope things will slow down a little for me and I can start paying attention.

I’ve taken a few pictures, but in my rush out the door, I neglected to bring the proper cable to upload them. I hope to remedy that in the next day or so, so I’ll post the think to those in the next blog (fingers crossed). Otherwise, the word processor I bought especially for this trip is not working as it should and my ipod is devoid of music. So technology is not with me this time around, but who needs it. I find that travel is always a little about loss for me, anyways. Finding out what is truly needed and what’s superfluous, and how without certain luxuries, I have a richer experience. True. And something about dropping a thing I thought was important and continuing to live happily is always gratifying. Notebooks it is.

“It’s been a long time. Long time. I shouldn’t’ve left you. Left you without a dope beat to step to. Step to. Step to. Step to. Step to. Step, step. Freaky-freaky.”
-Aaliyah, Try Again

Well, you heard it here first (or more likely in that email I sent you with the link in it..why would anyone still be checking this blog after it’s been inactive for over a year? Whatever. I know who my real friends are.) I’m hitting the road again! Not quite as aimless as last time, so that’s something to look forward to. Here’s the setup: 3 month round-trip to India, Jan 29-April 30. This opportunity came to me as a nice way to turn apples into…when I put on my rosy colored…when something shitty actually turned out to work in my favor. Back in New York for over a year now, having a holly-jolly time. Truly. I almost want to say that my year here has been more eventful than my time abroad, but that would be a tough call. I’ve worked virtually every job known to man, braved the life of a citygirl, moved twice, ran a half marathon, and tricked quite a few strangers into becoming really good friends. A lot of my time has been funneled into the hERE Arts Center, where I boast a plethora of part-time/freelance little jobbies. Uuunfortunatly, the theatre is closing for a number of months for renovation, leaving me with a lot of free time on my hands and not so much income. Granted, I could have opted for another bout of craigslisting to see me through, but I decided it’d be better just to travel again. Am I right? Yes! Maybe. I do have the plane ticket (and visa this time!), but the airfare cost me more than I was expecting, so once I’m over there, it’s gonna be real interesting to see how I manage. But hey, that’s what India’s all about, right? Asceticism? Who needs people food when you have MIND food. Boy, let’s hope so…

In the meantime, any advice on where to go, what to see, how not to starve, etc would be greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance.

Here’s the story: If you will open your hymnals to the entry of October 2nd, you will be reminded of the most unfortunate event of my losing 3 blog entries courtesy of website malfunction. Wah. I know I took a while getting them back up there, but gosh darn it, I finally did and that’s what counts. And who had them saved for me? Who else? I reckon that’s what mothers are for. Thanks, ma. I must say that I’m a bit disappointed in myself for not pulling together another posting after that last bizarre and non-travel related piece (of what?, you ask…smartass) at least for a little closure if noting else. But here’s the way I see it: It ain’t over till it’s over…and it just ain’t yet.

Laissez les bon temps roule!

[NOTE: Originally posted September 6th, 2006]

“Time weighs down on you like an old, ambiguous dream. You keep on moving, try to slip through it. But even if you go to the ends of the earth, you won’t be able to escape it. Still, you have to go there—to the edge of the world. There’s something you can’t do unless you get there.” -Haruki Marakami, Kafka on the Shore

“One has not only the ability to perceive the world but an ability to alter his perception of it; or, more simply, one can change things by the manner in which one looks at them.” -Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls get the Blues

That’s right. You get two quotes this time around, because I’ve been particularly inspired this week. Now as all you Nancy Drew types out there might have noticed, I left meditation earlier than planned. I’ll take a moment to tell you why. I should preface it by saying that I believe meditation is a powerful tool for exercising the mind, and its importance is largely underestimated by the masses, if not neglected entirely. Also, I’d like to concede that Buddhism has some very good points when it comes to the nature of the mind and inter-relatedness. I left because I decided that my remaining time here would be best spent learning something else, and because I decided that there are particular tenets of Buddhism that I no longer see as the best answers out there. The process of meditation at Wat Thaton was different from what I learned in Doi Suthep, namely because it involves keeping your eyes open, and it does not involve a sort of inner monologue which narrates/directs mindfulness. While conceptually, I think the Thaton approach makes more sense, in practice I prefer the method I learned at Doi Suthep. Once I decided this, I didn’t really think it fair to live on the monastery’s hospitality if I wasn’t going to be adhering to their specific teachings.

Also, I have a thought. I think if you follow any one philosophy or religion through to the letter and do not take into account any other cosmologies, it will make perfect sense. The problem is, there are different ways to understand and describe reality, so now-especially in the age of globalization-people become aware of other ways of explaining things (however disparate of their original views), and they realize on some very basic level that there are other possible answers, and both sides have merit. So, the quest for truth turns first fragile then violent—people choose the religion that makes the most sense to them and do what they can to perpetuate it/destroy the others, so they can feel righteous. And everyone keeps trying ot get back to the basics, go back in time to “the good ole days”, fundamentalism emerges and abounds on all sides in order to highlight the differences in approach and spur conflict. It is an unrealistic goal, this dangerous reminiscence; it defies the notion of the theory of evolution. Evolution is not merely physical, it takes its toll emotionally, philosophically, psychologically, and is above al things practical, determining both individuals and societies. Our modern (and exceedingly rapid) evolution takes the form of technology, and encompasses all the things that are a reality in the world from the effects of the industrial revolution to our advances in artificial intelligence and all the ethical questions that go with it. This cannot be ignored for the sake of trying to re-invoke an idealized world or setting our standards for then. We have to deal with things as they are—differences in ideology exist. We cannot whittle it down to one way of looking at the truth, we can’t continue to glorify regression. Reality is dictated by emergence, creation, mutation—something new must arise to replace our obsession with the idealized past. It is not another religion, another philosophy, it is an understanding. It is not looking at the various religions in existence and taking their best principles, combining these ideas-that would only lead to more confusion as religions are often at odds in the specifics. Life is dynamic, the universe is in constant flux. Everything and thought has at the very least, a dual nature. The essence of reality is contradiction. Every life is a collection of perceptions: good, bad, indifferent, all the subjective perception. The only thing applicable to the masses is that nothing is applicable to the masses except the shared benefits of society (which differ fro person to person). Therefore, to seek out or speak of “one truth” is unrealistic, because it implies that there are others in existence, but that these are inferior truths. Truth is. Everything is encompassed. Every thing and thought is a philosophy, an inspiration, connected. They do not have intrinsic existence alone, but as nothing is alone, so all things exist.

In deciding that my new line of thinking was at odds with some of the fundamentals of Buddhism, I again felt it necessary to leave if I wanted to expound upon them. The above is not me doing that, it’s just my general ranting that led me to my conclusions. If you want to discuss specifics, feel free to write or email me; I’ve taken quite enough time here for something so untravel-like.

After this thought, I left the temple back for Chiang Mai, where I decided it would be nice to become certified in Thai massage. I met a friend in Thaton, Maria, who recommended a school here for me, Loi Kroh Salon.

“Growing up isn’t getting a job, having a house, all of that. It’s saying, ‘I can’t be who you want me to be, and I can’t be who I want to be, so I’ll just be…”
-Maria

Three quotes! You lucky dog, you! For those of you who don’t know, I bought a plane ticket back to the States which takes off next Monday morning, New York City bound. So, aside from my wish to acquire the paper that allows me to refer to myself as a masseuse, I also wanted some time to just sit and think about the above an reflect on the last year in general. Chances are, I’ll send out one last blog before heading back, though I doubt too much will happen between now and then.

[NOTE: Originally posted August 24th, 2006]

Alright kiddos. I’m going away to do meditation again. This time for a bit longer, until September 8th. So don’t expect any emails or favors until then. Not that you could really count on me for either of these things outsde of this particular time, but I thought I’d throw it out there anyhow. If you’re interested in where I”ll be, you can check out these websites:

http://www.wat-thaton.org/
http://thaton.awardspace.com/index.shtml

And if you’re not interested, then why are you here? Really. I ask you.

[NOTE: Originaly posted August 21st, 2006]

“What’s happened has happened. What’s coming is already on its way with a role for me to play. And I don’t understand. I’ll never understand. But I’ll try to understand. There’s nothing else I can do.”
-Fiona Apple, Red Red Red

I only spent 2 nights in Phnom Phen because I had enjoyed Siem Reap so much…well, parts of it. The same problems that haunt Siem Reap are present in Phnom Phen, of course; devastating poverty, and the all too familiar sights of people (most of them children) asking for money and missing limbs due to landmines. It’s really hard to see for obvious reasons, but also just the sheer quantity of people affected is overwhelming. You simply can’t help everyone. It’s very hard. My driver Smithy told me however, that he works at an orphanage who takes in and educated these kids, and a lot of them refuse the help and would rather beg in the streets. So, yeah. Tough nonetheless.

Siem Reap has other, more pleasant attributes, among them a huge variety of Indian restaurants upon which I gorged myself daily. Also the city center is a nice place to hang around for a few days, small, but a lot of cool places to sit and read a book, plus a small market in case you ever wanted to pick up that pig’s head you’ve been craving. Phnom Phen seems to have a vivacious aura as well, but it’s much more spread out, and really, that’s not the reason you go to Phnom Phen. You can’t go there without being cognizant of all the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge. It affected all of Cambodia of course, but it has had its most lasting affect at the country’s capitol, near both the Killing Fields and S-21, basically just a torture complex from which only 6 people got out alive. I took the tour. Quite a bit to take in on one day, but I’ trying to chalk it up to experience. Really, it just made me tremendously sad, and I almost felt guilty visiting; I know I can never really understand what happened there or how even one person could commit such horrific acts against another, so I feel like when I do ‘the tourist thing’ it’s almost exploitative. But tourism is also a big industry here and people depend on for their livelihood, so it’s something of a double-edged sword. After my brief time in Phnom Phen, I took the bus back to Bangkok, where I met my friend from Manhattan, Emily for lunch. Small little bitty world.

My boyfriend Mike came to Thailand all of last week. He flew in through London on the second day of all the hubbub over there and was one of the unfortunate thousands whose luggage was lost somewhere in route to its final destination. And thanks to the stringent regulations on carry-ons, all he had with him on arrival was his wallet and the clothes on his back. Luckily, clothes are cheap here in Bangkok, and we visited the big weekend market on the first day, but it was still a hassle trying to call and locate the bags, being led around in circles by the airlines, and finally just having to leave Bangkok without them. We went down to the beach at Koh Samet for the first couple of days where we rented a four-wheeler to traverse the ridiculously rocky and holey “roads” on the island. The first night, we got stuck in the rain on the 4-wheeler, but it ended up being a muddy blast of abandon once we gave into the fact that w were going to get more than a little soaked. Next day, we moved to a more populated section of the island, but ultimately decided to leave Koh Samet to see more of Thailand. We ventured to Pattaya, which was something of an international hub for dirty old men looking for Thai girlfriends, but spending just one day there and seeing Walking Street at night was more than a little interesting. Plus, we saw a poster advertising a multi0day trip to the River Kwai. We decided it sounded like a good idea, so we signed up. It was great. It included a hike up a 7 tier crystal blue waterfall, elephant trekking, rafting down the river (a bit overrated), and rips to the floating market and a woodcrafts shop. Not a bad gig. The waterfall was probably my favorite of the bunch. It was in a national park, so it had been kept quite pristine; the weather was nice, and the water as perfect for swimming…even if you didn’t know to bring your bathing suit. There were fish in the shallow waters that sucked at your feet if you stood still. It tickled.

After that, we headed back to Bangkok, where we checked one last time for Mike’s luggage. He had called the airline and asked them just to send it back to New York, but of course, that would be too easy. Instead they forwarded it to the hotel we stayed at the first night in Bangkok. It was all there, having arrived a day or two after we left…but it was there. Then, only hours later, he had to say goodbye to it again as he checked it once more to go back. Luckily, they’ve relaxed the rules about carry-on luggage a bit, so now you are once again allowed to bring books. Whoopee.

And now I’m back on my own in Bangkok. I was supposed to get on a train today up to Chiang Mai, but I missed it because I was getting my hair done. I’ve put in long, right, multi-colored, braided extensions…sort of a hair ‘a la blended clown. Fountain of Rainbow Brite springing eternal from the top of my head. Rapunzel does the Gay Pride parade. Leprechauns will be disappointed when they get to the end only to find my face. You get the idea. I rather like it. I’ll put up some pictures. And a note on the pictures: Web shots hates me, and therefore throws any new picture’s I put up into any album it chooses, so don’t be surprised if they’re a bit out of order here and there.

Today, I missed the train by mere minutes, so it was suggested that I hop on a motorbike to try to catch it at the next station. So, though it is raining, I try, and find myself weaving in and out of traffic too fast and too close, large bag balanced on my back, colored wisps of hair flying about under my green helmet, and decide it just isn’t worth it. So I ask the guy to pull over…and he nods, but does not stop. So I sit quite uncomfortably on the edge of his seat until he stops where he likes—at the train station. The train has already left, but I’m so shaken I don’t really care. He doesn’t understand why I refuse to get back on the bike to take me back into the city. As I walk away to hail a cab, he calls lower ad lower prices after me, thinking I’m trying to haggle with him. He could have said ‘free’, he could have offered to pay me and I’d have turned him down. Tomorrow, I’ll take the bus, and I’ll leave much earlier. I want to find a temple that will take me for another meditation retreat.

So there was a problem with the server which has caused me to lose the last 3 entries, most likely forever. If anyone had backups of these saved anywhere for any reason, could you please let me know. I’d really appreciate it. (Or if anybody fancies themselves a technical guru capable of manipulating cache in ways that I cannot, for I have tried but failed.)

In other news, I’m back in New York, have found an apartment and am keeping my fingers crossed for a job. I’ve got a phone number too, but I’m not about to post it out here for everyone to see. If you’d like the number, you can shoot me an email at meblair@gmail.com and I will most happily supply you with it.

I believe in nothing, everything is sacred.
I believe in everything, nothing is sacred.
— Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues

I spent the last week in Cambodia. I took a bus from Bangkok to Siem Reap, which was supposed to be 12 hours, but due to the deplorable condition of the roads in Cambodia, it took 17. There’s a rumor that the airlines pay the government not to fix the roads, so that more people will choose to fly to Cambodia. I don’t know if this is true or not, but the roads really are very bad, and I don’t see why someone wouldn’t fix them, with the amount of traffic they face everyday- much of which isn’t tourist related. When we changed buses at the Thai/Cambodian border, the driver warned us that the roads “were dancing” and made wild jumping motions with his hands, laughing. I guess it was something like that…

On the journey, I made friends with two other prisoners, two girls from Austria, Susanna and Eva. I was nice to know people when I arrived in Siem Reap, because it was midnight. We took rooms at the hotel the driver dropped us off at. A word of fiscal caution: when you take a tour bus from Bangkok’s tourist Mecca, Koh Sarn Road, be prepared to be treated like a tourist. You won’t be forced to do follow the plans laid out by the bus company and their international constituents, but they will certainly try very hard. What do I mean by this? Take for example our arrival in Siem Reap. When the bus gets to town, the driver announces that he knows a “good hotel, very cheap” which he will generously drop us off at, should we like to stay there. Otherwise, (and keep in mind that it’s now midnight), he’ll take us on to the bus station, which, he adds, has no lights. So of course, everyone just stays at the hotel. And I should add, that it isn’t a bad hotel, it is only 4 dollars a night, and it has a tv and in-room shower. Still, you can feel something is off. The people are all very nice, but at every turn it’s, “you want tuk-tuk?”, “you want guide for temple?”, “breakfast? you want breakfast lady?” Whether all these people are employed by the hotel, I do not know, but they sit outside the lobby all day, waiting for someone who needs a motorbike. (Which is everyone, because this hotel is conveniently not centrally located). Though they are all well meaning entrepreneurs, they aren’t the best guides, and they generally milk tourists for all they can get. I am in luck, because I have the number for a guide. I don’t know his name, or if he even gives temple tours anymore, but by golly, I have his number. I got it from my friend Matt’s friend’s…friend whom I’ve never met. That’s right. Anyway, I call the number, and find out his name is Samithy, and he does indeed still give tours. A former UN translator, Samithy is well spoken and very knowledgeable about Angkor history and architecture. And he’s friendly. So friendly, in fact, that he recommended me another driver who would charge me less for the second day. (I bought a 3 day pass to the temples and the first day, I had the Austrians to split the cost of hiring a car, but they only stayed for one day). Just in case anyone’s going to Siem Reap any time soon, I thought I’d put his contact info up:
Mr. Samithy
Tel: 012 958 454 (inside Cambodia), 855 12 958 454 (outside Cambodia)
Email: chhom samithy@yahoo.com

Nice guy. I asked him to refer me to another hotel in the town center as well, one that wouldn’t hassle to buy some service every time I stepped out the door. I ended up at a place called the Dead Fish Guesthouse. The Austrians and I went out to eat the first night, and we passed this place, and without even looking at the rooms, I thought, this is a place for me.. The room I took there was not the most spacious or well lit, but it did have a tv and shower, and the attached restraint was pretty cool. Every night, they had live music and traditional Khmer dancing, plus the ambiance was just nice; mats and pillows on the floor with low tables, a crocodile farm, and a little pond.

The first three days I spent in and about the temples, outside of town. Angkor Wat is of course the main attraction here, but it is certainly not the only one. There are countless Hindu and Buddhist temples that dot the landscape for some 40 miles, though dot doesn’t really do them justice. They are magnificent. Still standing from as early as the 9th century, their intricate relief sculptures are still in tact throughout. It’s quite a change of pace from Greek or Roman ruins, partly because these temples are still in such good shape (and so very detailed, at that), and partly because of access. There are no ropes, no signs telling visitors to stay off or stay out. This was a huge delight for me, I felt like a kid at a playground. I climbed all over. These people did not believe in building temples on the ground level. They are all raised on mounds of earth and rock, accessible only by stairs, and once inside, more stairs. Needless to say, after the first day of temple hopping, I was exhausted. The stairs, plus the heat plus all the walking and climbing to a vantage point for that perfect picture (and I took plenty, I assure you), had me begging for mercy by 3pm. Still, though a bit costly, the temples are definitely worth seeing. While I’m on it, a note about currency in Cambodia: really, anything goes. Everywhere I went accepted the national currency, Riel, or Thai Bhat, or US dollars. I’d heard before I went in to take a lot of money because there were no atms, but this is apparently no longer the case. There are atms around the cities, and also tons of money change places, so that ‘s not really a problem. Just so you know.

Beyond this, I went to Phnom Phen, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave this blog a ‘to be continued’ for now because I’ve got to go to the airport to pick up a visitor. (And no, I did not meet him online). So,

To Be Continued….

“I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave something up and got something else. Or you worked for something. You paid some way for everything that was any good.”
-Ernest Hemmingway, The Sun Also Rises

So. I have been a naughty little blogger. I apologize. I’ll do what I can to bring you up to speed.

Sri Lanka is not my favorite country, and let’s just euphemistically leave it at that. The last six weeks have taught me a lot about myself…namely, that perhaps teaching abroad is not for me. Granted, I have been told by people who have taught elsewhere that my experience/itinerary was not the norm as far as “teaching abroad” goes, but nonetheless, I’m afraid it has managed to sour the idea for me a bit. But these things are important to figure out; better I know after 6 weeks than to get locked into a year long contract and really dislike it. And of course, the last 6 weeks has been filled with ups and downs. Melissa Mike, and most recently MC’s Bro. Augustine kept me laughing and as close to sane as possible, our living arrangements were outstanding, and we did manage to make a few excursions out of the pollution and noise that is Colombo.

Our first and most memorable trip was to one of the suburbs to visit the house of the sister to one of the St. Ben’s Brothers, Bro. Augustine. Follow that? We had a really wonderful and relaxed time; good food, great company, and the famed Sri Lankan Arrack, a liqueur made from the naturally alcoholic juice of a king coconut–distilled again, just for good measure. Mike, Melissa, Brother Augustine and I sat in chair’s in the front lawn telling stories and learning to sing songs in Sinhala.

One weekend we went down south to an area called Galle, staying for the night on a beach called Hik-kaduwa (there’s almost a hiccup sound there in the middle). We went out on a glass bottom boat, but sadly most of the coral is dead due to the high occurrence of glass bottom boats.

The next weekend we organized our own trip to Udawalawe National Park. The night preceding our safari was spent at a rather questionable hotel with a total of 2 rooms (we all slept in one), but we had a good time there, despite our fears. Perhaps because of them. The next day, we woke up bright and early for a morning safari. The park has quite an assortment of wildlife- elephants, jackels, peacocks, leopards (though we didn’t see any), deer, alligators and a plethora of bird species. The biggest attraction there are the wild elephants. We were taken our in an uncovered jeep with a driver and a guide, just us five. We came first upon a small elephant family of 3. They walked right up to the jeep, which was nice, until papa elephant started making growling noises. Eventually they lost interest or decided we weren’t worth a brawl, and moved along. Next we came to a large herd. The guide explained that elephants are not dangerous in a herd because they do not feel threatened, so we were able to get very close. The morning was long and hot under the Sri Lankan sun, so I sat down as we moved across the plains. Then the jeep slowed, and Mike said, “Blair!” so I stood up quickly wondering what I’d missed. In hindsight, it would have been better to ease out of my seat, on the off chance that my attention was being called to what it was-a lone male elephant, giving us the eye. The jeep stopped, and our guide explained that these elephants are the most dangerous because they don’t have the rest of the herd around to protect them, and because of territorial issues. It starts when I bound up up out of my seat, and takes a few, fast, threatening steps towards us. Our guide waves his hat frantically and yells something in Sinhala. I have one leg out of the back of the jeep, ready to make my move. (What move? you ask. How should I know? I panicked. It was a big angry elephant, OK?) The elephant stops coming at us, but it stands there and beats it’s foot on the ground. It bellows.
“That means he’s angry,” our guide says, “very dangerous.” Yet he is smiling. The two ton, non-reasonable, upset animal is very close. It does the little mini-charge again, and again the guide yells and shakes his baseball cap at it. It stops again, staring us down. We tell our guide we’re ready to go. The jeep pulls forward, and happily Frankendumbo does not follow. The bus ride home from Udawalawe actually gave this experience a run for its money for which was more hellish to endure. We stood on a crowded, hot, musty, ancient public bus for 3 1/2 hours. I don’t know that I can really put into words how terrible this was, so I’m going to ask you to take my word for it.

The next weekend, we were asked to face elephants again. This time, they were much more hospitable because they were not wild, but at an elephant orphanage. No jeeps here, you could just walk up and pet them. I never thought I’d want to be near an elephant again, but these were pretty friendly.

I was exceedingly ready to leave Sri Lanka, and I do feel somewhat guilty, because there are people there who have come to mean a lot to me, but I was really looking forward to getting back to Thailand. Will I miss it? Parts of it. Brother Rajan, our host, was just brilliant and hilarious and completely selfless when it came to anything we needed, anything at all. Several of the other Brothers there kept me smiling too, and for that I can’t thank them enough. Time and meals with Melissa, Mike and the US Bro. Augustine were the best parts of the day. It’s very fortunate I did not have to do this alone.

Last night, I left for my plane to Bangkok. I didn’t sleep much, the flight was only about 4 hours; so when I got here, I walked into the first guesthouse that would take me a slept for a while. Eventually, I took myself out of bed, because I had several errands to run. Firstly, I was out of clothes. I went to the weekend market at Chatachuk, one of the largest outdoor markets in the world; the beating and bleeding heart of consumerism, torn from the body and plopped on the sweltering hot pavement of central Bangkok every weekend, pumping hoards of tourists and locals through endless alleys of shops selling anything the mind can conjure up at a negotiable price. I do not generally like to shop, but this place turning me into a buying machine. But 5 bucks for a skirt, I mean REALLY. I dropped off some laundry today as well, and applied for a visa to Cambodia. It should be ready on the 2nd, so I’ve booked a bus to Angkor Wat on the 3rd. Three days in Bangkok. I don’t know what I’ll do with them, and I don’t care. I love it here.

“One of the stories I tell myself when I am trying to fall asleep is that I have tried.  I’ve tagged along after myself in the pages of my own modern Western, and every few years is another chapter in the story.  The myth of the cowboy.  I chased a dream and it kicked me in the teeth.  Yet I find myself falling for it again and again.  I am guilty of adding to the romance, of overlooking the tiny deaths that make the life so hard.”
-Tom Groneberg, “The Secret Life of Cowboys” 

We’re balanced right on the edge of the rainy season here in Sri Lanka. Showers come and go for short intervals unannounced and largely unheeded by the people who live here. My room is situated on the side of the house opposite the water, facing the considerably less attractive evidence of human inhabitation. Stray dogs pick through the trash that lines the street. The dilapidated walls of houses are made to look even less hospitable thanks to layers of grime and pollution. I’ve never seen anyone inside the building across from me. It looks uninhabitable by most standards, though, like many of the housing complexes around here, I imagine it is not regarded as such by would-be tenants. But it beats sleeping in the rain, I reckon.  There is one, lone chair on the roof of that building.  Day and night, rain or shine.  I wonder how it got there and why it remains; who sat in it or who intends to.  What they wish about when they stare into the sky, all alone in that chair, so temporarily removed from the garbage and barking and smog.  Maybe they don’t look at the sky at all…maybe they just sit there-out of the mess, but smart enough not to become trapped by the lure of an impossible dream.  Then again, like I said, nobody ever seems to sit there.

When I woke up this morning, I knew it had rained last night, because there was water in the hallway, seeping under the doors on the opposite side.  Rain only comes in through the window on the ocean side.  So maybe my view isn’t that bad after all.  Every morning is a carbon copy of the morning before:  my alarm goes off at 6am, and me being the only one to have an alarm, I stumble half asleep out of my room and knock heavily on Melissa’s door (I don’t like wasting time doing several, polite ‘wakey, wakey’ taps), then further down the hall to mike’s door, waiting each time for some verbal confirmation of life within.  Then it’s back to my room for a has-yet-to-be-refreshing cold shower.  After breakfast, we’re driven to school.

First thing every morning, the children are assembled on the grounds to hear announcements and sing the national anthem.  Their voices drift up through the trees, beyond themselves, past the three-walled classroom where they reach my ears as I sit in the empty space cluttered with too many old, wooden desks; planning the day’s lesson, waiting for them.  From that point on, the day goes either surprisingly well, or I am broken completely and contemplating desertion.  I teach five sections of 10th grade english–each class with their own charms and/or Children of the Corn.  Between classes, I sit in an open foyer facing the main lawn.  I used to like sitting on the lawn itself, but I have apparently managed to violently displease the crows here, which attack me and me alone when I enter their territory.  They let everyone else be: Melissa, Mike, the elderly, the children who seek to destroy their nests–but for whatever reason, they go absolutely Hitchcock when I’m around, swooping down and pecking me on the head.  There is one crow in particular who I believe is actually insane, and I wait patiently for that one opportune moment when no students are watching, when we may proceed to throw down.  I’m no advocate of cruelty to animals, but I will destroy this bird.  Its day is neigh.  After school, we stay for another two hours, tutoring students who need extra help.  Then it’s back to the Provincial House. 

The house itself begs for a more in depth description.  I’ve just walked out of the little computer room in search of someone who can tell me more about it–I wanted to hear the actual history, that it might bring to life all the shadows and creaks; some corroboration with the general sense I get that this place has a story all it’s own.  As soon as I walk into the hall, I see Brother Ignatius tutoring one of the girls who comes up to the house every day from the beach.  The kids who live in the villages down there are marginalized by public schools, Br. Ignatius tells me, and their families are too poor to send them to private schools, so the Brothers started a program here where they can come for free and get a good education.  And by ‘good education’, I actually mean, ‘qualify for Mensa’.  There is a small group of girls who are here working quietly when we leave in the morning, and are still hunched over their notebooks, scribbling away when we go upstairs to bed.  They are relentless.  Brother tells me that not so long ago, “ladies would not have even been invited here, but of course, things have changed.”  The house was built over 80 years ago, on land bought from a Dutch company, previously owned by a Portuguese planter.  The only vestiges remaining from that time now are a low, arched parapet running along the edge of the hill overlooking the ocean and a small stone elephant guarding one of the five entrances to the covered veranda.  There, in the main house, are a few small rooms used as classrooms, libraries, a kitchen, and one temporary computer lab.  Further down, the main house connects via sheltered garden area to the Brothers’ quarters. 

 When you first enter the gate, you are confronted with a well looked after lawn serving as a sort of landscaping drum roll announcing the chapel on the other side.  Sitting on a site which was once a Portuguese dance hall, the church sits patiently waiting to fill its occupant capacity, though it’s been a good 50 years since it’s had the chance.  Br. Ignatius estimates that at least 130 Brothers lived here then, alongside a number of young men who boarded here while they trained to become Brothers themselves.  These days, there are less than 30 Brothers who live here, plus the three of us.  “Lots of space”, I quip optimistically.

Although some might see this period of scant occupation of the house as a dark time, I certainly enjoy it in my own selfish, incurable romanticism for all things potentially haunted.  I love walking around at night, hearing the harmonized hum of an outdoor insect orchestra, my mind filling with thoughts and moments, just as the halls are saturated with the ghosts of Sunday Masses past.  Solemn, quiet but for the occasional thud of the as yet unidentified creature(s) in the attic, the house stands as much a supernatural mystery as it is a testament to stability, protection, and above all, the ability of the things we create to outlast their architects.

We spend most of our time after school here.  There are benches along a break in the parapet which easily lend themselves to extended moments of introspection at any time of day.  There’s a sizable shipwrecked boat that the people living in the village have brought closer to the shore and stripped for any valuable materials or sheet metal they could use to bolster their vulnerable seaside homes.  During the day there’s a cool breeze, the rustle of palm.  The sunlight warms your face and carries the peaceful feeling from where you are sitting out over the ocean; brings it back to the sun, connects something in your soul with the rhythm of the day, slowing as the sun sets over the water.  For a brief moment as it retreats from orange into blue, everything is frozen in place, distance becomes nothing, smoke and mirrors, it isn’t real.

Of course we’ve seen more than this in our time here, but I truly was not expecting to spend so much time talking about the atmosphere in which our little stories take place.  And now it’s getting pretty late.  Wednesday’s over, and that’s fortunate, but there’s still two more days to go before our impending 3 day weekend, so I’m going to head upstairs for some shut eye.  I’ll do another blog soon about the particulars of our experience.  Until then, cheers.