a i m l e s s

The stars poke holes in the blackest night sky.  Ideas about self-empowerment, beauty in the breakdown, and dancing mercilessly into the void shine through.  The stars appear united from behind.  One cohesive blinding light.  Justice, love, truth manifested.  They poke holes in our being, our utter blackness, our own singular point, our void.

The night sky would hold no importance to me, no beautiful poetic narrative, if it weren’t for the stars.  These pieces of truth that manage to squeeze their way through pin-sized holes in the great abyss.  Moments like these, these points of clarity, are what makes ‘it all’ worth it.

The dark includes the twinkling stars, full of possibility.  Inseperable.  ONE.  Dualism is a way to reflect this universal truth into our earthly paradigm.  We often take the unknowable apart, and simplify the bits to fit our cultural commonalities.  Although divided, the story is reunited in daily acts.  Reunited in our full collective unconscious.  Memory soup.

Gazing up at the night sky on this very evening has allowed me a moment’s glimpse of the ‘one hearted way.’  I am inspired to more fully understand, to know it in my bones, to sow my seeds in it, to breath it, and become a living representation of it.

Actually,  we probably already have.  We probably already are.

Meet Amy.  Hilarious, compassionate, beautiful blue-eyed, inappropriate and strong Amy.  We met in Korea, in case you didn’t remember.  We re-met in Cambodia, Nepal, and India… our paths purposely crossing to co-create a world of adventure and trouble.

Amy is the yin to my yang.  We trade ham for radishes at meals,and trade stories about farting afterward.  She’s always up for any ridiculous and spontaneous adventure.  Together, all things feel right.

All things, save for a few ‘incidents’ that we knew we’d laugh at once they were through.

“Fan death” is Korean folklore.  Even the most educated Koreans believe that if you sleep in a room with the fan on and windows closed, you will die in your sleep.  Although it makes no sense, it terrifies most Korean people.  We always laughed at the idea of fan death, up until recently.

A few nights back, we found ourselves in a three-bed room with a steel fan that didn’t oscillate.  Since I had the center bed, I figured it only fair that the fan point at me.  Both Amy and our Canadian NGO friend agreed, and we passed out.  I awoke in the middle of the night to a cold shiver.  Too much fan.  In the dark, I couldn’t see the switch to turn the damn thing off.  Instead, and with a smirk of trickery, I turned the fan full blast at her and then jumped back into bed.  I fell immediately, deeply, and comfortably asleep.

I awoke again to Amy frantically asking me how to turn on my headlamp.  I caught a shimmer of something dark covering the palm of her hand as I flicked the button to turn the lamp on.  “AMY!” I screamed, realizing that the shimmer was actually blood dripping down her fingers, flowing over her palm and making a beautiful waterfall down her right wrist.  “What happened!!??”

We rushed her over to the sink to see the damage.  Amy had attempted to find the switch to the fan as I had.  Only, she somehow managed to get the tip of her pinky caught in the wire and gashed her finger open pretty bad.  We applied pressure, neosporin, and multiple band-aids.  She said it hurt a ton.

The next morning we called for a taxi to take us the last leg of our journey to our current home in Nicaragua, InanItah.  Amy was enamored by the tiniest baby monkey on a chain at the hostel.  As we sat to take some pictures, a big mean monkey crept out from behind the tree and began leaping full force, teeth bared, straight for Ames.  Luckily, his chain was just a centimeter short.  He bounded back to the tree multiple times, finally gripping hold of her hair with his tail.  He just barely reached her sparkly bracelet with his front hand.  Amy, not wanting it to break, let her hand move with the maniacal monkey.  His big incisors made contact with her thumb flesh.  Like a clamp, he bit down, not letting go for a few seconds.

The next few minutes passed in a daze.  I didn’t realize the magnitude of the bite, and we concentrated our efforts on collecting the special beads from the debris beneath the tamarind tree.  Tico, the monkey, wouldn’t give up.  He continued to spin-kick towards Amy, levitating between the chain on the tree and her bangs.  Like a mean monkey hammock.

The owner came out to see the commotion.  In just a few seconds Tico was curled in his arms like a baby.  Schizophrenic monkey perhaps?  He explained that Tico spent most of his years defending his life with razor blades in cock fights.  He was trained to kill, and this innate reaction wasn’t his fault.  The small sign near the tree read, “Ouch!  Monkey Bites!”  This didn’t deter Amy, or dozens of other travelers who also recently got bit.

In the next two days we visited two clinics and a medical center to treat Amy’s highly painful swollen monkey bite.  They gave her antibiotics, painkillers, and a tetanus shot to be safe.  At the second clinic, the nurse cleaned her massively swollen palm and squeezed the pus out.  It was nasty yet intriguing to watch.  After another day the swelling went down, and Amy was able to bend her first three fingers.  Now, five days later, the hand looks a million times better.  She is bruised and has a massive gash, but thankfully no infections or diseases.

Funny enough, Amy’s main concern through the whole ordeal was her gold St. Christopher charm that was lost in the debris.  The hostel owner promised to rake the area, but I didn’t have high hopes that it would be found.  Was this an omen?  Did this event happen for a reason?  We’re unsure.

Miraculously, the charm resurfaced and made it’s way back to Amy’s person.  A good omen?  Perhaps.  What was learned here?  Amy learned to always sleep in the middle, and not to photograph ‘ugly monkeys.’  This girl has experienced the hospitals of every country she’s visited, and I’m glad to come along for the ride.

The walls of my hostel are painted black with splashes of glow-in-the-dark paint.  Although I have hardly arrived, I am here.  I slept close to 14 hours last night, after blindly spinning circles around the Parque Nacional.

I awoke to the grumbling of voices in my hostel dorm room.  Most were just settling down to sleep as I was rummaging for shampoo and new clothes.  I learned some new Spanish expletives, at least.

This morning I met Fran squared, a couple from Boston who not only share the same name but also finish each others sentences.  Fran one broke her tooth so Fran two invited me to accompany him to the rainforests on his wifeś non-refundable ticket.  I promised to practice hollaring FRAN! the way she has been all morning, so as to mimic her presence, while she is off getting a tooth replaced.

Hector, the hostel desk man with a goiter, told me of a massive snowstorm in Korea.  The biggest in two centuries, he said.  It appears that my Amy is already in Texas (howś that for universal perfection?) and is due to arrive tonight.  My heart is buzzing and bustling.  All things are right when we are reunited.  Thatś always the way.

Deep lavender flowers dangle from a tree in the garden of this hostel.  They look even more beautiful set before overcast skies.  The flora here is sturdy and strong, withstanding extreme winds, sun, and temperature change.  And still beautiful.  I want to become those flowers.  If I ever should become those things, I suppose here is the place and now is the time.

Home is where the heart is – on the bus!

Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Panama…

http://www.inanitah.com/

Flying south in the morning… see you in June!

For the last eight months I’ve been enjoying the fruits of home.  Clean underwear, tap water, comfy bed, friends and family in hugging distance, a sexy vehicle in which to transport my lazy self to work and play.  Though I sometimes think and talk about past and future travels; I’ve found myself comfy and settled into the habitual patterns of life.

Whenever that happens the universe seems to well up in anger.  It roars, “STAY ON YOUR TOES!  ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN!  BE AWARE!  DON’T TURN TO MUSH!  CONTEMPLATION AND MODERATION, NOT STAGNATION!”In a fit of rage, I’m sure, the universe manifested five tattooed local jerks to steal from me in my one place of New Jersey solace; Island Beach State Park.  

My big buddha bag full of wallets, car keys, and fancy water bottles… Dougie’s backpack with spanish books, fishing tackle, and a driver’s license… GONE.We grabbed a guy in a jeep to give us a ride from the jetty.  What a heartsore, to see Dougie gathering bits and pieces of his things strewn across the tire tracks in the sand, book pages blowing in the wind.As we approached the A-23 exit ramp a thought occurred to me; My car keys were in my bag.  My car was parked at A-23.  My.  Car.

A-23 parking lot was barren.  Two vehicles, neither mine, stared me down.  I laughed nervously in the back seat while our driver attempted to contact IBSP police.  As we blasted down the ‘boring black road’ I envisioned myself in a car chase from some action movie.  This was the most excitement I’ve had since coming home, and strangely enough, it was actually kind of fun.It turns out, my sexy escort is gone.  The officer gave me very little hope of it being found; the only way ‘these people’ could be caught is if they are stopped for speeding or a faulty tail light.  My inspection sticker is good until 2011.

Luckily, I left the car in dire need of an oil change.  (Haha!)  I only paid insurance up to the end of June.  It’s possible for me to ride my bike and take the bus to work in Princeton in the morning.  In order to do this, I’ll have to cut back my currently unmanageable schedule (good excuse to have more free time!)Ultimately, I feel liberated.  Freed from the daily 45 minute commute, control over route or traffic, and lonelillies as I consult my daily demons.

The universe always keeps me on my toes.  It’s time to start learning this lesson.

Cyclos, car horns, smells like piss and potatoes, pollution, people constantly staring, mom’s nauseous again, bindis, turbans, saris, silk, hindu gods, shiva shambo!, taj mahal made from love, stop go stop go stop go go go, ‘are you married?’, vegetable samosas, dhal, channa masala, sweat, stank, chafing, pollution throat, insensce, tv, curry, kindness, naked hungry babies, elephantitis, lying, trying to make sense of caste system, namaste, pray, essence of me bows to the essence of you, ahum prema ahum prema ahum prama om.

 http://picasaweb.google.com/MRumianowski/IndiaAndNepal?feat=directlink

In the golden light of the early morning I awake to the sound of lapping waves.  Not a minute later I quickly stop the beeping of my alarm clock and peer through the screen door of my tent.  Koh Phangan is silhouetted in the light, and for a second I think it may actually be on fire.  No, no, no.  It’s just the sunrise.  I wrap my sarong around my shoulders and stumble out over the tent strings.  I trip over them every day, without fail.  I pause, breathe, and soft-footedly make my way to the sand.  Some of the trees drop spiky seeds the size of peas on the ground, so my feet have become quite tough.  But in the early morning all senses are heightened.

There are no people around.  The sky is just turning from black to blue, stars alight, and sky brightening with each passing second.  I lay my sarong on the flat cool sand near the water and I sit.  I gaze.  I listen.  Usually my mind goes back to my last dream and I struggle to consciously remain present.  Sometimes a fishing boat will pass; it’s loud motor buzzing in my bones.  I urge sounds of moving water and calls of birds called ‘Nok Yeang’ to fill me up.  I try to imagine just where they are, and imagine their chirping conversations.  Then I remember, oh yea, I’m supposed to be meditating.

After thirty or so minutes I start to move.  I just go where my body tells me to go, melting sore muscles and stretching sleepy stiff body parts.  The sand collapses under my body as I struggle to remain upright.  Standing poses are the hardest.  Shavasana, dead man’s pose, is my favorite.  I end my yoga session with a long shavasana, since at this time the sun has usually risen above the lingering night clouds and is shining brightly.  Then the sweat starts.  A hop, skip, and a jump and I’m floating in the gulf of Thailand.  I like to float on my back and hum or sing with my eyes closed and my body relaxed.  In the salty sea I float easily and breathe deeply.  Time check; it’s almost time for the flag salute.  I hurry over to the outdoor fresh water showers, rinse off, wash my hair, and stand in the sun to dry off.  This takes (literally) four minutes.  Energized, I wrap my sarong around me and head up the hill just in time for the dinging of the bell.  “Sawatdee-don-chow ajarn!” (Good morning teacher!) is usually called across the field from some of my friends here.  I respond with a quick “Sawatdee-kaaaa!” (Hello!) and quickly join everyone.

At precisely 8 am the Mu Koh Angthong National Marine Park staff and I, Mah-lee, the volunteer English Teacher, line up in front of the Thai flag.  We do this extremely cool ceremony where someone yells something in Thai and we must stand at attention, arms at sides, standing straight and tall.  Then we sing the Thai National Anthem.  I’ve been learning it for the last two weeks, but still keep my cheat sheet in hand.  Next we chant a Buddhist prayer and someone else calls something out in Thai and we stand legs apart, hands clasped behind backs.  Now it’s time for the big boss to assign everyone their work for the day.  He does this in Thai; sometimes I understand a bit.  Then it’s time for Pi Wak to give us a mini English lesson.  Often times he calls me to the front to pronounce words, correct him, or repeat things.  We return in line for a final “Hua!” and now one of my favorite times of the day… breakfast! 

We have a restaurant on the island with a big kitchen.  Nong Long, Pi Je, Nong K, Pi Ning and Pi Ja O are the magic makers – the food here is amazing.  Breakfast is usually rice with spicy curry, or eggs, or sometimes fish.  We serve ourselves, caffeinate ourselves, and everyone goes off to work.  I usually spend about two and a half hours eating breakfast.  No joke!  I chat, hang out, make fun of, and get cheeky with everybody.  We usually exchange bad words in English and in Thai, or I correct some grammar mistakes with a slap on the shoulder and a “Mai Chai!” which means “No!” which is actually okay to say to your students here!

Pi Wak and I head off to the Information booth just off the beach to await the first boat of tourists.  My day job is simple.  I greet tourists, collect and keep their belongings safe, chat with tour guides, direct dancing children to the bathroom, and sometimes we sing karaoke with Pi Wak’s laptop computer.  Frankie Sinatra’s “My Way” is our favorite duet.  He taught me a Chinese song that we serenade tourists with every day.  It’s great having different people every day.  You only need to know one or two jokes.  Pi Wak’s jokes don’t translate.  Mine don’t either, I’m probably the only one in the universe who thinks they are funny.  The only people who laugh are those who don’t understand English, which is okay by me.

I see the first boat in the distance.  The horizon is gray and it’s easy to mistake the sky for the sea.  A black speck becomes a worn-out ferry toting thirty-some odd tourists from all over the world.  They take a longtail boat driven by my friend Pi Kai to the shore and don lifejackets for a kayaking tour.  Some grab snorkels and masks and float in the buoyed off swimming area in search of beautifully colored fish (I shouldn’t say, but actually, there aren’t many on this island.  Only sea cucumbers and sea urchins speckle the rocky coral.  And the water isn’t really that clear, it’s actually the worst snorkeling I’ve seen in Thailand.  But just around the corner is beautiful coral with lots of fishies.  It’s pretty cool to know the secret spots.) 

Three hours, two big boats, and a few speed boats later, we’re famished.  Time for my second favorite part of the day… lunch!  Pi Wak always makes me a plate while I cover the booth.  Lunch varies a lot.  Spicy lemongrass shrimp soup, rice and curry, friend rice, noodle soup, fried fish, eggs, fried chicken, pork laap… (What do you mean, a yogi eating meat?  What can I say, the food is free for me… and so delicious!)  I eat lunch while delivering the final tourists their bags and ogling the other staff who usually partake in a very vicious game of beach volleyball.  I choose to float on my back in the sea once the tourists are gone.  I swim out pretty far and watch the birds fly around the rocky cliffs. 

In the piercing heat of the day, I have no idea how the staff here at Koh Wua Talap wears long sleeved turtlenecks while paddling kayaks, playing volleyball, and driving longtail boats.  It’s just beyond me.  I choose to wear as little as possible as often as possible.  Everybody is used to tourists in string thong bikinis (Europeans) so me in a tank top doesn’t really bother anybody.  And believe it or not, I have a real tan!  I use coconut oil instead of sunscreen and haven’t burned once. 

Afternoons are slow and long.  The ‘coffee shop’ is a bamboo hut on the beach, just next to the guy with a bundle of young coconuts and a butcher knife.  Sweet fresh coconuts and delicious real cappuccinos… is this paradise yet?  The benefits of volunteering here are that I can eat for free.  Only some people will understand how extremely happy this makes me.  After my coffee break, sometimes I kayak around the island or hike to the cave or viewpoint, but usually I just hang around.  I’ve made the best friends here.  Pi Nan, Pi Go Lung and I hang out every day.  They’re like older brothers.  They tease me, teach me, help me, and take care of me.  I’m so grateful for their company.  We talk music, slang, and love most of the time.  Other times they question me about America, about my life, about what’s next. 

It seems that everybody likes that I’m staying awhile.  There are three or four staff who just love studying English.  They come to me at odd times throughout the day, in between weed-whacking the huge lawn and chopping coconuts out of trees.  They bring their notes and speak to me in the most polite and respectable way.  I love teaching these guys one-on-one, I’ve established real relationships in doing so.  These guys disclose so much to me about themselves and their lives.  Probably because this place is just a big family, and everybody loves everybody.  There is zero drama.  It’s awesome. 

The sun sets over the mountains and vwooom the electricity turns on around 6 pm.  The cooks get a cookin’ and people wander around the land.  The workday has been over for a few hours and everybody reconvenes after showering, napping, and doing whatever it is that they want to do.  You can hear the ‘bzzzzz… smack, smack, smack’ of the ridiculous amount of mosquitoes.  I’ve gotten to the point where I just let them devour me.  Then I smother myself with red tiger balm.  I have a newfound love for tiger balm; it’s camphory clove-filled goodness makes my skin warm and makes me forget the itch.  I hang about, eat some dinner, which is just like lunch but bigger.  Then, at 7:30, my class starts. 

My students file into the visitor center and sit in plastic chairs beside a whiteboard stapled to an old trail sign.  Class varies between 0-8 students on any given night, depending on if we have any customers or not.  During class time the students learn vocabulary relevant to Marine Park Rangers like “strong current” and “sea urchin.”  Their pronunciation was atrocious when I first arrived.  “What’s your name?” sounded like “Wassss yul naaaeee?”  Even just after studying a few weeks, I can hear a huge difference in everyone’s English, as well as their confidence.  Shy guys will approach foreigners on the beach to tell them to “Watch out for falling coconuts!” They do so without fear!  I’m so proud!

After class I usually find Nan and Go Lung on the platform surrounding the big tree, rocking their passion-filled hearts out.  A few strummed chords always turns into a massive sing-along; you know it’s getting good when Pi Jay, the head cook, starts singing into an imaginary microphone, headbanging, and pounding his chest maniacally.  Sometimes Pi Gone takes out a maraca or two, a harmonica, and some bongos… add a bottle of 100 Pipers whiskey to the scene and it’s a party under the tree!  And what’s a party without The Cranberries “Zombie?”  I sing it, loud and proud to a crowd, without fear.  After hitting all those high notes, I’m spent.  I sit back and pick out words from the Thai songs that I can translate into English in my head.  It seems every Thai song is about love… “Chan rahk ter… I love you!  I know that one!!”

My eyes start feeling heavy and I yawn a couple of times.  I know I should sleep, but the magic of the moment usually captures me.  As people start trickling away to their beds I call it quits.  I retire, call ‘goodnight,’ and stroll my way back to my lovely little tent under the tamarind tree.  The power cuts at 10 pm, and sleep comes naturally with the salty breeze blowing through my screen windows.  Darkness all around, I snuggle into my pretty pink sheet, and kiss the pillow with my grin.