Life As Canvas

I, being the lucky girl I am, share some DNA with a friendly and successful guy named Joe. He’s actually my father’s cousin, lives in Bangkok and has a condo and a sailboat on the beach and, though I’d never met him before, he invited Erika and I to stay a few days with him at his condo. So generous!

The first night, he showed us around the heart of Pattaya, a beach town south of Bangkok known for its sex district. Though I’d known about Thailand’s sex reputation, I’d never really seen it up close. Pattaya was a little shocking, with its mass of flesh for sale clicking in heels up and down the street and the dredges of Western society stalking around like hungry lions, leering and smiling, pointing and wanting. The streets filled up with vendors, fake Rolexs, lots of red neon, and girls. Girls in miniskirts, girls in go go boots, girls standing in front of bars with signs, girls that are boys, girls gyrating in windows up above the street, girls on poles, Thai girls, Russian girls, walking hand-in-hand with old worn out white guys in Hawaiian shirts, their faces blank, or seeming to say “yeah, I know he’s gross. But what do you want me to do about it?” One beautiful young Thai girl smiled ironically while she walked past us holding hands with a man who must have been 75 years old or older.

I appreciated seeing it the way I was glad to see a cow being slaughtered in South America. We’re told this is the way things work in the world but without actually seeing it, it’s hard to imagine, or even believe. I don’t want to see every uncomfortable thing that goes on behind my shiny happy world but coming face to face with a few makes for a good, grounding sort of experience.

The next day thrust me back into the dream world, and it did feel like a dream sitting on cousin Joe’s sailboat listening to his classy chill out music and then arriving at an abandoned island where we snorkeled to a white beach and kicked around some shells, did cartwheels, gawked at the scene before us like something from a postcard or a tropical computer screen background in a grey office. Teal waves and choral, warm water. Bathtub warm. And we had it all to ourselves. Erika and I selfishly soaked it all up.

And Thailand continues to be a mix of the uncomfortable, the dirty, the dreary with the bright, overwhelmingly pleasant. One thing makes you appreciate the other, even exaggerates its effect. After these last two days, two images are burnt on my brain: the hungry smiles of badly shaved men, sweaty and old, shabby and shaking with anticipation, and the bright white of the island beach, the choral patterns in its waters, their soothing soft rhythm and the rattling beetles in the trees, these nature sounds, the only sounds around.

After cooking up Thai delights, Erika and I were excited to get out of town and see some jungle. We met our flirty tour leaders, Jen and Chew, the night before at a group meeting where they started joking around in broken English and making eyes at the females in the group. The next day after a breakfast of eggs, toast, and some strange sticky sausage we piled into the back of a truck and went a-bouncing up into the hills.

Rice fields and banana trees whizzed by as we wound up the left side of the road. We saw some elephants milling about and, with a wince of the brakes, we pulled over to the side and hopped out.

They raised their trunks up to us, ever the banana-hungry beasts, and we happily fed them, trying to avoid the wet end of their enormous nostrils, blowing banana breath up into our faces and curling back into their mouths.

I think we were all a bit giddy when we got to step up onto their backs. Erika and I couldn’t stop laughing at the touristy-ness of it all. These poor elephants do this all day, it’s hard not to have mixed feelings about their simple lives, taking tourists up into the trees and back. But I can’t deny that it was a lot of fun rocking back and forth on the muddy trails and feeding our elephant banana after banana while her baby followed along beside us.

Then it was into the trees, our own feet carrying us up damp trails. Jen and Chew started throwing seeds and things at the girls and showing off by breaking off leaves and blowing bubbles with the sticky stems, falling litchis and giving them to us. I now have a new love for litchis as a mid-trail snack.

Slipping around on a thin layer of mud and leaves I walked through the jungle trees following my guides and a group of 14 other young, adventurous travelers. I retreated into my thoughts as I walked on through the heat and listened to the insects singing above. It felt good to work my muscles, to sweat, to let the jungle absorb the frenzy still in me after exploring Bangkok streets.

Strange sounds surrounded me. Sometimes I heard far-off rock music coming over a staticky radio but the noise, like some sort of ghost never faded, followed me through the trail. Bugs. Ever present and singing, they sound like a number of things from singing pipes in an old building to table saws, rattles, old broken radios, sprinklers. The crickets back home make for a nice subtle soundtrack. These Thai bugs take center stage. When we got to our bamboo hut we ate some – all of us hesitating at first – and then went for seconds. Turns out grasshoppers are kind of salty and good!

By nightfall we were singing songs around the fire and telling stories. Jen called me a monkey because I have hair on my arms and kept pulling it and giggling. This was some sort of come on, I think. Then Chew said “Do you have a boyfriend? Sometimes it’s good to have two just for fun.” They moved from one girl to the next in the group, trying to wow us with magic tricks and telling us we’re cute. Chew gave his attentions to Erika, ever the blushing beauty, but went home pouting. Such attentive guides!

The next few days were full of waterfalls where Jen and Chew showed us the best places to slide down the rocks and pretended to push the girls in the water. We jumped from little cliffs and dried off in the sun, ending each day with a new curry dish and fresh pineapple.

After days of orchids and rice patties, elephants and flirts, we regretted leaving the jungle but were happy to have a shower again. The group got together for a last drink and our guides said goodbye with hugs and pouts.

We have another day to spend in the North and then it’s back down to Bangkok to meet cousin Joe and head to the beach.

For Erika’s version, check out her blog through the link on the side of this page —>

After taking a night train with full twin-sized beds, sheets, pillows, blanket and all, Erika and I got off in Chiangmai where we were picked up and whisked off to our guesthouse. It was 8 or so in the morning and, though the train was about the best night sleep I’ve gotten this past week, I was still tired. Tired seems to be a theme running through my life, lately.

Luckily, Chiangmai, in the North of Thailand, is much quieter and more laid back than Bangkok, which we practically felt in the air when we arrived. We got to our room, unpacked, de-trained, and set out to explore the city, full of temples and restaurants, Thai and Western. We ducked into temples of shining golden Buddhas and ate some amazing chicken coconut soup.

We explored a day market and found an array of wondrous and horrid things to revel in. Fruits I’ve never seen, big bowls of noodles, flower offerings for temples, and barbecued bugs.

Thailand is this colorful place where unusual and delightful flavors and aromas flirt with the senses and the essence of it can be found at the city market. Every day I gravitate towards soothing tropical flower scents, curries, ginger, coconut, and then reel at repulsive odors easing out of abandoned alleyways. Most of it is pleasant, some of it shocks my Western-tuned nose.

We’re staying here with a hotel package we bought back in Bangkok and, with it, we were offered a dinner and dance. “I feel like I’m back in Vegas,” said Erika, when our hotel mentioned it. “There’s always a dinner and a dance in Vegas.” We knew the thing would be overly touristy so we went not reluctantly, but not expecting much. But the food was good and the dances were fun. We gave in to the touristy side of it when we were invited up on stage to dance and went, giggling as we awkwardly copied their moves.

Today we took a cooking class with Meow, our Thai teacher, who showed us through the fruit and vegetable market and described the different ingredients to us. “This is ginger. Makes big boom-boom for men.” We cooked and ate, cooked and ate, cooked and ate all day. I am full of coconut milk and curry and so pleased. Meow liked to tease us and say “Sexy time, sexy time!” whenever someone took a photo and posed, herself.

She showed us how to make curry paste and spring rolls, and many a tasty dish in the wok. I suggest a cooking class to anyone who comes to Thailand and if you happen to come to Chiangmai, take it with Meow! Her school is called the Thai Cookery School, which is easy enough to remember, and the quality of the food was beyond anything I’ve tasted back home.

Tomorrow: Trekking in the jungle, elephants, rafting!

From the small part of it I’ve seen so far, I’ve come to believe that Bangkok is a city that moves fast and moves all-the-time.

Already, I am:
A. Hot.
B. Sticky.
C. Full of Pad Thai.
D. Feeling the need to buy stuff.

Once night falls in the tourist streets, it starts to feel like some strange dream involving a frat party, tropical fruit, an import store, rodents ready to be eaten, and lots of neon. I am in awe. Or jetlagged. Or some dizzying mixture of both.

Fabric in every color, cut and texture, sparkling or flowing or soft, begs me to touch it, to try it on, to see how it looks against my skin, to give in. Silver glints in the sun. Any body part may be adorned by one or another shining jewel. Leather sacks, flip flops, and every possible knock-off is pondered by the barely-clad masses, pawed through, and quickly consumed. I want to consume, too. I want to have it all! But I calm down, count my Bahts, settle on a simple and modest pearl necklace for 3 bucks, and call it a day.

Tomorrow is to be full of temples. Buddhist temples. Let’s hope they can do something to ease my eager need to acquire all of these colorful and frivolous things. Somehow, I doubt it.

I stocked up on all of the French treats I’ve been missing and made for Barcelona, my last stop before Bangkok. In the train my Frenchy lover and I watched France melt into Spain and I silently said goodbye to that country that ever pulls me back. I will see you again. A bien tôt.

Heavy rain flooded down the sides of the train windows, rendering the passing red tile rooves and green trees a moving blur of color. But rain gave way to wide open clean sunny blue and Barcelona seemed to welcome us into its sparkling streets. What a city! It’s almost shocking to go from the unpaved hot grime of the streets in Ecuador to the cool ones of Barcelona. From taxi drivers like vultures upon us to ones snoozing in Mercedes, not caring too much whether we want a ride or not. From women with babies strapped to their backs in traditional blankets to la mode en talons. From 4 Dollars a night to 50 Euros a night. I took advantage of the rare chance to spend an afternoon in such a glitzy city, going all-out. Sushi for lunch, Gaudi in the afternoon, long walks along tree-lined streets, beautiful steaks for dinner, high quality sheets when I turned out the light.

The next day, tears at the airport. Goodbye. My French magnet goes back to work and I continue on. What a path we’ve walked together.

On the plane I struck up a conversation with a German man (perfect English, of course) who asked what I was up to and when I told him about my travels he told me this:

“When I was your age I could have done what you are doing. But I bought a car instead. (thoughtful pause) Now I am 40 years old and I am married and I have to work. I can only travel for two weeks at a time, maybe three. I like my job but I can only do it for ten more years. I told my wife ten more years. I’m going to Thailand on vacation because I like to travel. I’m going because I am empty. In the end, the money doesn’t matter.”

He didn’t say it sadly or dramatically, but thoughtfully. I don’t know what I think about the last sentence. I think it matters when you have a life dream in mind and need to work towards it. But it was nice to hear him say what he said rather than asking when I might get around to getting on with life. He understood what I am doing and, though he’s a stranger, that reassured me.

In the plane I slept well.

Two days ago I was in Ecuador. Now I’m in France!

… Again!

And I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that I won’t be here for a year, this time. Strangely enough, getting here didn’t have a large euphoric effect on me. Instead, I felt a warm contented coming home sort of feeling. I say “sort of” feeling because nothing is exactly like going home for me but this does comes close and being here, I remember why I fell in love with this country.

It helps that I’m staying with Cyril’s family in their little house in the Southern Pyreneean countryside and that the sun warms all the colors, that the frogs and crickets sing all night and the birds all day, that there are 14th century church bells that chime every 15 minutes, that Cyril’s mom made mousse au chocolat and she let me lick the spoon, that today I’m going to see the Mediterranean and this evening it’s a mille feuilles for dessert. It’s like a vacation. I’m not even doing my own laundry.

Some things I’ve seen…

Today is my last day in South America. Today I hop a plane across an ocean to touch down in Barcelona. Then I’ll get in a car and drive into France. The idea of being in France by tomorrow, and the fact that I’ll only be there for a few days, doesn’t really register in my head. I feel like some kind of jet-set woman… yes, just going to France again. (This will be the 6th time in France and the 11th time I traverse the Atlantic!) While I’m there I plan to eat a very juicy steak and maybe a tarte aux fraises or some mousse au chocolat. Or both.

Then, back to Barcelona and from there to Thailand, where I’ll try to put to use some of the things I’ve learned here in South America…

1. If the guy in the market tells you 10, you can probably get it for 6.
2. Put your bag on your knees in the bus and hold on to it.
3. Watch how much the locals pay when the money guy comes around.
4. Sickness is but a part of the trip.
6. Always carry toilet paper.
7. Always carry small change.
8. Watch out for the local girl who smiles sweetly at you while eyeing your bags.
9. Hostels often aren’t the cheapest or most ineresting way to go.
10. Try not to expect anything. Just go with it and appreciate the experience.
11. Don’t plan everything. Hazard can be your friend.
12. Rainpants.
13. Be alert but not afraid.
14. That crazy activity? Do it. Who knows when you’ll have the chance again?

Anyone have one to add?

Stepping off the bus with our bulky packs, a local woman pointed to us and shouted “Gringos! Gringos!” We were the only ones that day, though not a rare sight, and a man with a pickup ran right up to us to offer his bouncy ride to the Laguna Quilotoa, a lake in a big, round crater. It was a particularly foggy morning in Zumbahua, a little village in the green checkered farmed hillsides just south of Quito, we’d been in buses for 12 hours, and we were crabby. With little time left to spend in Ecuador, we had to chose our destinations with care and we’d come to this place because the guide book said it was “awe-inspiring” and “the best circuit to hike in all of Ecuador.” But there in the fog the hilltops were hidden, the volcanoes nonexistent, the air cold, and the locals pushy. Thank you, Lonely Planet.

We went to Quilotoa to hike the rim of the crater but it rained on us as usual, so we turned back, discouraged. I felt a little ashamed of myself to think of a big lake in a crater as so-so, but it just didn’t explode in my heart the way that Crater Lake did the first time I saw it.

Certainly something to see if you’ve never seen a crater but we should have gone to Baños, where a mountain may soon be but a crater as it is exploding and off-gassing all the time!

The trip and the hours spent in transport were all worthwhile in the end, though, when we went to the local market of Zumbahua, not in the least a tourist affair.

The Mercado:

On a long, cluttered table, piles of carrots run into potatoes, which roll over onto the tomatoes, nestled into the lettuce. And there, in the middle of the veggies sits a little girl, maybe 2 years old, sucking on the end of a carrot while mom makes change.

Hundreds and hundreds of bananas in all their local forms… platanos, bananas, red, brown, yellow, green, 3 inches long, and longer than a foot. They line the ground, sticking up from their stocks, making for spiky yellow walkways. Ecuador is the number one banana exporter in the world.

A local woman stands chatting with two men and another woman. She’s smiling, laughing. She wears dusty black leather shoes (the shoes worn by all women in the market) white socks up to the knee, a velvet skirt with glitter designs sparkling in the sun. It falls to just below the knee where the sock takes over. Around her shoulders she wears a bright almost fluorescent pink blanket/shawl with fringes around the edges and embroidered flowers in the same color. Around her neck are five or six strands of gold-colored brilliant beads. I’m not sure if they’re painted plastic or painted metal. As she talks she moves her head, on which sits a green felt European men’s-style hat like those you see in old detective films. In the ribbon above the brim, the top of a peacock feather ruffles in the wind. Most men and women wear these hats. This scene is so usual that I hardly notice she’s holding a chicken by the feet like one would hold fresh flowers or a bottle of water. She continues talking while the chicken clucks and moves its wings around, sees the world upside-down, doesn’t know of its imminent fate.

Below the market, sheep are unloaded, baaing, from the tops of buses, pigs are tied by leash to parked cars. The meat here is fresh and if you’re willing to stick around for it, you can see the throat being cut. Next to the butcher section, a girl at a stand chats with a customer while her fingers play with the fur on a body less cow head sitting on the table.

Up among the clothes, a woman dressed traditionally walks the aisles and stops to watch a dusty man in ninja clothing do a watered-down karate demonstration for a crowd of kids. Her shoes look like the shoes of all the other women… dusty black leather, worn, too small, sort of square, an inch heel, and there where the side meets the top there’s a copper-colored rivet. And on the rivet is a tiny Playboy Bunny.

On the very edge of the market, two men with foot pedal-powered sewing machines concentrate on the mending before them. The peacock feathers on their hats bow as they look down at their work.

A woman selling peppers smiles at me – a wide, sincere five tooth smile that crinkles the skin of her cheeks. I ask her if I can take a picture of her peppers and, still smiling, she says yes.

Llamas and alpacas sit on their haunches, ever the look of pride in their eyes as the cloud cover breaks and the valley turns from mild greys to color, patches of varying greens and yellows, grasses shining and rippling in the wind.

Beach. Long stretches of golden silky sand under waving palm fronds and sparkling aquamarine waves lapping at our toes – is what we had in mind. So we set our sights on Mancora, a little surfer town in the north of Peru, where the getting was said to be good. As we have no guide book (and like it that way) we asked around a bit, just to be sure.

“Mancora?” The ex-pat Frenchman shook his head. “Don’t go there. Skip it. It’s just dirty and full of drunken people who all run out into the street when the bars close.”

Our dusty, beach-thirsty backpacker hearts broke. But the curiosity in us couldn’t help it and we went anyway. We got to town around 6am and took a moped taxi to some cabañas on the edge of town. Bamboo walls and grass rooftops, sand and palm trees, hammocks everywhere, 10 bucks a night for the both of us.

There is no hot water, but this is a good thing when the sun cooks the sand and everything in between and a cool shower is about the best thing you did all week.

We watched the sunrise as a few joggers bounced by and the first surfers came out to take advantage of their solitude in the waves.

Mancora. You can sit on the beach and watch the surfers bob in the waves while the birds float above them, have some ceviche (which I avoid, lately) or other seafood delights, or take a taxi for a buck to another beach called Organos and walk South until you’re the only one there, lay down in a long stretch of sand, and let little crabs scuttle by, coming up to inspect you and then shying away into their holes. But the best part of the lazy day in Mancora is the sunset. It begins a long marmalade smear across the horizon and then bleeds intense orange into the foaming blue waves below.

The off season in Mancora. It doesn’t boast the Caribbean’s glowing teal waves, but it’s clean and friendly… and we stayed an extra day.

Next stop: somewhere in Ecuador. Either mountains or mangrove. I’ve got two weeks left on this continent and Ecuador looks like it’s full of things to do. Luckily, it’s a small country.

Alone on the hotel terrace, I sit nursing the little thunderstorm of rocky love in my heart. I can see the Pacific Ocean, a great churning mass of slow changes over time. It’s misty out, the sun is setting, and the waves look stone grey against the light clouds behind them. Near the horizon moves the silhouette of a local man fishing in a traditional boat made of reeds. It’s curved up in the front, making it look like an elf shoe. He goes out on this ocean, the same as it was centuries ago, to find dinner in the same kind of boat his ancestors used, though judging by his cumbersome maneuvering, a kayak would be more practical. But it’s simpler than that. The way he’s fishing is just the way it’s done around here, and has been done for generations. I ask myself what kinds of complications and troubles of the heart this man has. From here on my terrace looking out to his horizon, it just looks so simple.

Peru is overwhelmingly full of things to do and see, from jungle to desert, ocean and high mountains, all of it scattered with ancient walls and palaces belonging to the ancestors of the Inca who still live here. Today the Inca hassle you with their taxi offers and order you to enter their restaurants (Adelante! Adelante!). As a gringo, it gets tiring fending off their pleas. But when I look beyond the things placed in front of me to those who still fish and farm, to the friendly man who sold me an Inca Cola in the Colca Canyon, a man who lives in a village of 5 people and farms cactus for the pigment it produces, these lives seem so much simpler and, in ways, more authentic than my own.

I’m going to leave Peru for Ecuador in a few days, meandering up the coastline until the border and then following the Panamerica Highway to some new Gringo Paradise. Ecuador’s currency is the dollar. I fear that farther north this simplicity will be harder to find.