"The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag line of a hundred tacks." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Rajasthan.

2008-10-25T02:35:00.000-07:00

Here is where i wish you were.

A short plane from Delhi. A brief trip into the desert. Step off into the heat; dry heat, dead still heat off the sand. The desert is near. Enter the arrivals lounge and almost taste the colors and the shapes. Sari's with rose prints upon electric green, deep purple, sky blue, and pure yellow, polish the room. Colors unchanged by time; tradition in sweeping satin folds. A greeting party of dark faces, large noses, sharp noses -- pierced with gold rings and studs. White eyes hold almond iris pools, and smiles sheen. Family, all are family, are being welcomed with a shower of flower petals. Women are laughing, moving across the floor. Younger generations touch the feet of elders; a blessing. Bangles clink clink, anklets shing shing. A baby cries in the fray -- the only frown in the room. Here, in an airport arrivals lounge, true joy cannot be disguised. Here I find it. I think you would too.

Step outside with bag in hand. Auto-rickshaws wait. A group of four, five, or six lounge in the backseat of their black and yellow carriage with sandals off and their feet propped on the silver frame. This is the ready position. One hundred Rupees from the airport to the home stay; my home for the next five days. I pass over the prepaid fare. My driver chooses me, grabs my bag and sets it inside. I slide in after it. We motor off with a putt putt and we are on our way. Traffic appears sparse on this side of the city; on this side of the afternoon. A few motorbikes carry on beside us. Round the bend, a camel pulls a cart and driver. My head pans to catch a glimpse, I stare until the sandy dromedary drops out of sight.

Welcome to Rajasthan.

We arrive at a house; the home where I will sleep. I thank the driver, shake his hand and look him in the eye, then step into the shade. The house is quiet. A marching blue elephant adored in golden jewelry is painted on an indigo wall. A basket leans. A clay pot stands on a ledge. Passed on to the staff, to the family, I am led through a doorway hung with tapestries. I am led to my room, across a tiled courtyard in the center of the house with shade and relief for bare feet. With lounging sofas and reclining pillows, I accept the want to do absolutely nothing. This is my relief.

Unpack, wash, change, and walk. Walk into Jodhpur.

Taste a lassi mixed with cardamom, sugar, and butter. Sit, enjoy the stares and smiles of curious children and pleased adults. Wander back alleys with bicycles, holy cows, flowing saris, and floating platters of sweet milk tea. Here are bangle shops, barber shops, kite shops, textile shops, provision shops, sari shops, poster shops, "tyre" shops, whatever-you-need shops. Here the air is still and hot. Motorbikes putt-putt with mustached drivers -- smiling drivers. "Welcome to India!" a man yells at me while buzzing past. A camel waits, chews emphatically, defecates on the pavement; the cart behind her is being loaded with bamboo for ladders and furniture. Across the street, five shops in a row, all build, send, receive these material supplies, five shops in a row. The market bustles. Sari's move in flocks -- grandmothers, mothers, daughters, great-grandchildren -- generations move through piles of sandals, printed tees, spice, and fruit. Sensitive noses sneeze. Tailors sit stitching zigzams and seams, their barefeet pump the pedal beneath and their methodical fingers move.

India is where all my fears and dreams collide in a tangled mess. My surprise of a seemingly well-off small boy who says hello, asks my name, and then chases after me to ask for five Rupees. An auto-rickshaw ride for free. A beggar, a frail woman with child in arms, following my steps with her plea. Invitations to tea. Back to my room, I crush tears sorting through the wreckage of faces. Eternal collisions; beyond human. I am outside myself again. Here on my bed, dressed halfway for heat, in a house, in a home, in the western reaches of India.

A reflection of my father.

2008-10-10T02:21:00.000-07:00

I am my father's son.
In a steel sugar bowl reflection, curved distortion, I glimpse a face.
Unkept hair, reaching length.
Eyes straight ahead looking at someone else, far away.
Mustache growing in brown stubble, not black;
soft not hard, the remnants of a boy.
Preliminary minutes, a child before man.

A photo of him in my mind.
Barefeet stand with bare chest before a blue bus.
Arms at sides.
The chiseled physique of genetics and obvious youth.
One apart from several.
Unkept hair.
A pair of short blue shorts.
Periwinkle eyes straight ahead, enchant a camera lens.
A moment captured in a shuttered snap.
Here adventure once moved in a time not my own,
once danced beyond the photo frame.
A scurry of feet, the rant of ecstatic voices.

I only view a frozen piece,
a jammed kaleidoscope caught mid-turn.
A picture of he, but a picture of me.

A labor of solitude. (Shattered thoughts.)

2008-10-09T05:12:00.000-07:00

Why have I not written here? I have no answer. Parchment pages have absorbed the ink of a burning pen and one is gone, spent of all black dye in a matter of 14 days. An intentional effort. A labor of solitude. It is work to become great but why write with the expectation of becoming so? Write for yourself. Try to decipher the mind. Become unhinged; bent in the way. It is pointless in battering inevitable motion with human complaints, yet I continue to rant over the speed of an unbridled mind -- the speed which my incapable hands will never match. Is the reality of what I write now only found in interruptions of my reading? What I want to write versus what the pen drags, versus conclusive drafts, versus preliminary concerns.

Less than two weeks and yet I am ages behind my mind's eye. A vestige created by a walking pace.

[Stalwart stone houses. Rice grows in the alley. Steady autumn eyes arouse mine mid-stride. Blink, gone. Cramping legs. A grunting howl and a toenail chips. Who chopped the green banana tree and where does he sleep tonight? Dainty crimson petals dry pink upon green stems. Evergreen striations droop with thick pine nectar. River streak shrinks as heightened canyon walls flip the scale. Inverse relationships. Oxygen drops, pressure rises. Gasp at twilight, wheeze at dawn. Shroud of breath. Anatomy and mathematics. One foot. Two feet. Climb with the mind. Five thousand four hundred times 39.37.]

Unknown to me.

2008-09-09T21:25:00.000-07:00

Guests -- unknown to me, familiar with the table. Sunlight spills onto wood, fading into the grain with passing clouds -- unknown to me. A fly, a housefly, crouches, prays in the shadow near my open book of empty lines and inky etch. Smoke spools skyward, stopped by the ceiling, floating out the open door, from the nostrils of mustached men, smooth faced men, stubble faced men -- unknown to me; my face is shaven. A large glass bottle, half empty, holds tomato sauce and residue upon its cap. One small fork with back bent spine and faded sterling sits a companion; the odd couple. Dragonfly alights on cement post, fans its wings to the sun.

On this day a school visit. A hill ascent. Blue shirts dark against the sky on clear afternoons, trousers a shade darker. Students stand beneath the peepal tree. The body above matches the body mass below -- stretching, sprawling. The future of a nation rests in the branches, the eaves of past growth, and rests from a climb to top of a hill. They stare at me, a stranger. Their ideas -- unknown to me.

A river stone.

2008-09-08T21:02:00.000-07:00

Monsoonal waters have prevented most swimming other than that which can be done at the edge, but a pool made by a change at a fork in the river, a fork that formed two narrow tines, two slivers of creek, set an offering. Here at this edge we dunked beneath the heat and into a cool still. We bathed, shared a single bar of soap; Sarasvati and her cousin on one side, Joseph and I on the other. Nepali boys scampered across the rocks and boulders tossing fishing nets. The sun moved west, a late afternoon herald. Time moved. Joseph and I stood at the bank looking to the opposite shore. We hurled stones across the waterway torrents, I from a boulder and he from the ground. In a step from atop, a twist at my torso, my ribs, and a hurl through the air. Legs, back, shoulder, elbow, wrist, fingers, release. Spinning from the side, slicing through the air, gaining curve and sinking to the earth.

*Crack*

Stone meets stone.

From here on my stone; river boulder, sun baked tower. A grunted toss that bears me to baseball mitts and leather cracks from cowhide communication. For a moment I am free. No poverty; economic disparity. Barefoot, and a pair of blue shorts, my skin offered to the air -- the sun, the star of the Milky Way at my back. I reach down, my fingers grapple, grip another from the pile at my feet. A smooth stone, a river stone. Legs, back, shoulder, elbow, wrist, fingers, release. Synapses, muscle transfers -- in this moment, all that I want to know.

*Crack*

Stone meets stone.

Beige.

2008-08-28T07:51:00.000-07:00

A lazy day falls through the panes and lights my journal page. Rain outside the window, small vanishing streaks caught in an instant against dark backgrounds. Drops sound off a tin roof, a deceiving drumroll. Between the two my mind is undecided on the effects of a walk in this rain, so I sit and move to other things. The crossword in front of me. A small clay colored pot of black coffee. A mug of the same grain. A silver teaspoon, untouched by a granule of sugar or a drying drop of bitter brown, is cradled in a saucer; its silversmithed edge shines with a pool of the sterling sky. My pen cap clicks on and off, I am stumped.

While I still grapple the truth , there is no place I need to be other than here. I am in Nepal and the Himalayas send a crackle through the air.

Anger, shock.

2008-08-21T07:27:00.001-07:00

My lips are closed with the weight of blank expression; only I know my anger. I stare deliberately across the room, cursing under my breath. (I don't want to be this way.) I drag my eyes back to the page. I count the numbers in between paragraph breaks. I read to pass the time. Now I read for completion not comprehension. To complete another minute. To finish the last thirty. I am still waiting my turn. Warmth moves through unseen channels in my hands. My fingers curl and extend, quick like the legs of a scurrying insect I flex them in attempt to retard this building aggression. Constant movement feels a necessity. A turn of the page. A scratch to my face without an itch. This is movement, expressed alone for the sake of my mind that knows better. Feelings, they wander. On these my feelings dwell: pushing crowds on narrow streets, noisy vendors, putrid rain, aggressive beggars, yellow cab horns, side mirrors inches from my middle, an ejaculation of mud onto my legs, body odor and grease. These I add and multiply, I exponentially package them. And then my turn comes. I sign the book and drop the pen onto the page away from a hand that awaits a return. Leave me alone, I think and take my seat. I don't want your kindness.

Unwritten law.

2008-08-13T07:19:00.001-07:00

In every culture there are unwritten laws. While breaking written law can assure you trouble, breaking unwritten laws can certainly do the same. For example, at the dinner of an extravagant event with prestigious guests you could break wind and receive many questionable glances. You have just broken an unwritten law. Just like written law the penalty can increase for repeat offenders. If later in the evening, at the same dinner and social event, (all dinners are), you are standing in a small circle of celebrated individuals and you commit the crime again, with guests who will easily recognize your earlier blunder, you may lose a networking opportunity, which could mean a job opportunity, which could mean the absence of a salary, which could mean you are evicted and put out on the street. Your life changes all because of a puff of gas; an unwritten law, broken. Now this is an extreme example, but you see my point. (It would be a unique circumstance but I suppose that in the right situation this would not be impossible.) In some ways, what is not clearly stated can have a greater consequence than what is. Wouldn't you rather get speeding ticket than be on the street because you are viewed as an impolite flatulence maker?

Every culture has unwritten laws. Some cultures, while different, have many similar unwritten laws. Some bear almost no resemblance to each other and some are very complex. Some unwritten laws of the past that have been entrenched in society over a long period of time may today seem utterly ridiculous and completely impractical for the age that we are in now. But since they are unwritten, at times if the culture and period call for it these laws slowly slip away. A strange existence.

Some unwritten laws are important since they can work for the well being of society as a whole. Some are ridiculous when given much serious thought and may prove to be impractical over the passage of time. And some are imperative; an absolute necessity. Breaking the unwritten laws of this last mentioned category can hurt you. They can even get you killed. The unwritten laws of Bangladeshi traffic are of this kind.

Today on a bus back to Dhaka in the rain, I sat next to a young man who seemed about my age. Over the course of six hours our conversation meandered, eventually reaching the traffic situation. I am always interested in getting the local feeling about the situation since mine will always be that of an outsider. I have ideas, but I need validation. He then told me that in the past few days, on this same road, with the same destination, in similar conditions, he had counted 28 traffic accidents. Most of them were minor, though one truck was split in half. Nonetheless, at one point twenty-eight collisions on one road in six hours happened. (No one was drunk, beer is hard to find in Bangladesh.) Moments after he told me this I felt our bus tires slip off the road onto the gravel side in a rushed maneuver around some thing. I forget what this thing was; I was looking out the window, not in fear but with awareness of this movement. My companion turned to me and smiled, "just don't look," he said. "That's what we do. We just don't look and act like we are going to make it." Good advice if you can accept it.

Sometimes I look at the fronts of Bangladesh driving schools and think to myself that I would probably fail. I might just make it onto the road and never leave because I am afraid of turning back against oncoming traffic. "Just one more intersection!" I would probably say. "I will do it at the next one." This is Bangladesh traffic. It is like a competition in which everyone forgets they are on the same team. This time also has many unique participants. Taxis, goods trolleys, buses, trucks, cattle, carts, rickshaws, bicycles, and people. I like to categorize these as big, bigger, and small. (I will not clearly define which is which, big, bigger, or small, since the laws I a about to state are applied in a relative fashion depending on who you are.) To me, the first and most obvious unwritten law is: small makes way for big or bigger. This can be restated as: big wins. When a bus is rocketing down a road, all the various traffic mentioned above can come into play. People will be walking on the sides of the road and pedaling their bikes and rickshaws. From your position on the bus it may not look like they are aware of the enormous mass of metal and peeling rubber that is headed their way, but on the majority they are. They understand the unwritten law and they respect it. As the bus, being big, is coming their way, they, being small, will move onto the side of th road. If necessary they will move farther, into the grass, onto the sidewalk, or into the irrigation ditch, dragging their cows and bicycles with them. Also interesting is that many of the people do this with their backs to traffic. They use their senses, as well as habits introduced through time and experience, to follow unwritten law for the sake of their well being. This is the first.

The second I will mention is not as apparent unless you are in the middle of it: this is the law of movement with expectation. I am convinced that this rule occurs throughout Bangladesh and for the sake of the best example I can think of, (there are probably better), I will use the countryside. The roads in these areas are almost always in two lanes and two lanes only. They also seem to have a buildup of potholes, bumps, ruts, and cracks that are not repaired as often as similar problems in the cities. Now no one likes to run over a pothole, it can be harmful, and since most potholes and other forms of crumbling asphalt seem to form at the sides of the road, buses prefer the middle. Actually, buses take the middle. There is a serious issue with two buses hurtling head on down the road; your mind and heart will tell you so. But neither bus slows down. They get closer and closer. Closer and closer, until the unwritten law of movement with expectation takes effect and both buses swerve back into their actual respective lanes at the last possible second, sounding their horns the entire time. Meanwhile the people and small things on the sides of the road move; they move with expectation. The buses move at the last second in expectation that the opposing bus (so they are led to think according to the law), and the rest of traffic moves farther over to the sides, knowing that they are smaller and with the expectation that the buses will move back.

Unwritten law; breaking it can kill you. I am sure there are many more relating to traffic just as there are many relating to everything other aspect of life, but these two are important, that much is certain.

Traffic jams and a palace.

2008-08-09T03:44:00.000-07:00

Scattered throughout Bangladesh, or at least throughout the northern Rajshahi division, are old, sometimes rundown, palaces that were built by wealthy landowners of the past. Tajhat Palace is one of these and on my second day in Rangpur, I decided to visit.

An afternoon rain began to fall as I made my way to a fleet of waiting rickshaws. Waiting for the storm's eventual end, I stood on the curb just inside the eaves of a small shop selling strange out-of-touch-with-the-world art, but was soon invited to sit inside. Two boys pulled up chairs next to me. They looked like trouble. Neither of them spoke much English but the one named 'Rabbi' (pronounced Robby) spoke enough to invite himself on my trip. I figured it couldn't be that bad, and it would also be helpful to have someone to negotiate with the rickshaw drivers.

"Come on," I told him and motioned with my hand. The rain had just died.

The first drivers we came to listened while their bicycle taxi was still rolling forward but they shook their heads with a grimace. Tajhat Palace was not so close -- about five kilometers, which I thought should be a lot in the midday heat for a man who pedals to make his living, but if he agreed who was I to argue; the truth is I couldn't really, the only Bangla I know is Bhalo achi (I'm fine). That won't get me far.

Our search did not take long, and the third driver we came to agreed to take us.

"Thirty Taka," Rabbi told me.

"Okay," I said. "Thirty Taka."

"Okay," Rabbi said again.

And we were off.

Daily there are occurences in life which are new to me. Sometimes I see things and am shocked, like when I saw the way buses in Dhaka appear and drive as if they are in war. Other times I am shocked but wish that I took a bigger hit, such as the time when I saw a lady with exposed shriveled breasts and clinging skin dying on the walk outside bus station while flies danced on her skin and everyone else danced around. There are so many sights I have never imagined, yet they happen everyday; just like bicycle rickshaw traffic jams.

They line up from the front tire of one to the rear axle of the next. In lines sometimes two or three rickshaws wide, they push each other into almost complete paralysis until it seems that the only one who can move is at the front of the line attempting a righthand turn against oncoming traffic. Somehow they manage to resolve this mess with half-passioned cries and bell rings. Everyone has a bell. Attached to their handlebars, or more frequently on the front fork with a trigger on their left grip, these silver domed bells create a small concerto when traffic is at a lull but this music dies in the chaos of a jam. Stuck in the center of all of this, most people stared at me. Who wouldn't? I am tall, white, with unruly blonde hair and I am sitting on an elevated stage. What a sight.

"What are you doing here?" their eyes asked me.

"Just trying to be friendly," my eyes responded.

Smiling received mixed results. Some sent back only dark-eyed stares, but a few returned smiles and cocked their head to the side; a friendly gesture in Bangladesh.

After several more jams, one being a car vs. rickshaw battle on a one lane bridge, we made it to the edge of town. Here goats lied on the front steps of closed shops and cows grazed in small green fields enclosed by moss covered brick walls; crumbling remnants that the eye insists are from long ago, but so much here has this appearance of age from both weather and use.

Within 30 or 45 minutes we arrived at Tajhat Palace, and our driver made it alive. The palace was beautiful. Tucked away into a small grove of trees, this particular mansion was built by a wealthy jeweller and landowner in the mid-19th century, but now laid empty except for a few exhibits displaying archaelogical leftovers from the region. The exterior had large white-paned windows and walls made of red brick with a mix of others built of cement and plaster. In the midst of a sprawling lawn this rajbari sat, guarded by a crumbling wall and an amiable guard who asked me to take his picture at the gate.

For as long as we could in the oppressive humidity, we wandered about, Rabbi said "Okay" a lot, some people took my picture, and without getting to involved we left. I tried to get Rabbi to explain to the driver that I wanted to see a nearby Hindu temple but again he responded only with "Okay" to my patient insistence and we took off in the wrong direction.

When things began to look familiar again Rabbi stopped the driver and we stepped off onto the high sidewalk. Then there was a problem. The driver, who had at first only asked for 30 Taka, now wanted 100 more. I know its not a lot of money, I am more than willing to be gracious, but the principle of the matter is that I was getting ripped off. I was nice. When we arrived at the palace I gave him extra, but I was not going to be a pushover. With patience I relayed my message to Rabbi and handed the agreed upon amount to the driver. Rabbi said "Okay" as I expected and in a mess of Bangla sent the message to the driver who began to get angry.

Now when a white person visits Bangladesh just to travel, its something odd to many people; but when a white person is standing on the sidewalk in northern Bangladesh explaining himself in English to a boy who only says "Okay" and a moustached man who is getting fired up and speaking about it in passionate Bangla, its a show. Within a minute, a crowd had gathered around me. I was at the center with Rabbi while our driver turned back and forth to random people, ranting. Everyone had something to say and it was getting loud. Someone even asked me what my country was, which for a moment took me away from the matter at hand, and I managed a smile. Young security guards, shop owners, random passersby, beggars, everyone; they all had an opinion. Thankfully, in a country which sees few Western travelers English speakers usually find me. A helpful student rode up on his bicycle into the small mass of bellowing Bangladeshis and asked me what the problem was. I explained to him and again the message was relayed to the driver. The driver was slow to accept, but in a slow manner he began to walk back to his bicycle. My helpful assistant then told me, "lets go," and I pushed out from the center. I was very grateful to this student who then offered me a ride on his bicycle and I sat down on the back. He dropped me off, I thanked him again, and tired from the day walked through the front gate of my guesthouse.

It was a day well spent in Rangpur.

Old Dhaka.

2008-08-02T08:41:00.000-07:00

A layed mix of labyrinthine streets with connecting dark alleys set in between open front shops; a dreamland for wanderers and bibliophiles on vacation. It would be exaggerating to say that people here are untouched by a modern world, we all know ideas can travel faster than the technology and machinations they produce, but in a congenial spirit of curiosity and olden truths that shape their care for the traveler, this city creates a period of its own. While not yet spoken, there is a sanctity for the wanderer; welcoming cups of tea that I have not drank of anywhere else. These principles crash into your heart with a barrage of questions and opinions that reach your ear from fifteen directions, but the smiling faces from which these words emanate hold no threat.

"Take your time," Asia beckons. "Come, sit in my lap and watch the cusp of civilization embrace those who wait."

The reward is the process. A daily move into a past attached to the sinews of the present. Some fibers run stronger than others; some places have a history, a weight you can feel in conversation as a Bangladeshi man emboldens the mosque behind him with a spring in his words. I imagine there was a spring in his step as well, just at the moment he saw us.

I have never been such a curiosity. Kyle, a friend revisited in Bangladesh, and I have walked through streets with tiny shops and bicycle rickshaws that squeeze onto a narrow lane that has acted in spite of changing times -- holding the same relevance as it did centuries ago. The challenge is avoiding the scrapes of rickshaw bolts as our eyes flit to meet those that stare from their shopfronts. Metalworkers, sarong sellers, instrument builders, and tea makers; they all look to us.

A border crossing.

2008-08-01T03:33:00.000-07:00

I move in and out of both mind and body while I crossed the border into Bangladesh. Heat and swaying palm trees, bicycle rickshaws pedaling by and colorful trucks of an airy blue and yellow adorned in Bangla script. Beggars mingling with waiting crowds. Large pure white clouds drifting above, juxtaposing the trash strewn on streets below. Long tiled corridors, empty and dimly lit within the shade of 3:05 p.m. A few pulsing fans in the ceiling above the waiting lines. Muslim men in caps and long white robes, and Bengali women in traditional salwar suits. Waiting room couches filthy and stained in another dim opening tucked out of late afternoon heat.

A guard shakes my hand at the iron entry gate. I make eye contact, smiling from the corner of my mouth. He cocks his head to the side and beams in return. I enter a crumbling courtyard, but caught up in a merger of past and present, fail to take everything in.

[What would my family think if they were standing beside me? What would they notice in different ways than I do? What would they point out? What colors would they see?]

The boy who has led me across the road and through the gate now leads me through an archway with 'ARRIVALS' painted in bold white yet obvious brushstrokes. We step into the foreign passport line. There are two or three people in front of me but my young red-shirted attendant takes my passport, steps to the side of the waiting line, and slides my passport beneath the dirty window. It is grabbed on the other side with a reaching right hand while the line continues to function according to order. A man waiting in front of me turns his body ever so slight and reaches back with a happy question: "What is your country?"

"America," I tell him with a returning smile.

"Oh!" he smiles with all possible teeth showing. He gives me his name. He is from Assam and he too is on his first trip into Bangladesh. The usual questions pass with the speed of expectation. His passport is stamped and handed back.

"Maybe see you there," he says. With a smile to say goodbye he walks away.

I rest my hands on the counter. In his mode, the officer behind the glass pages through my blue passport with its faded golden United States emblem on the cover. *Stamp*...*stamp*. A departure card is torn and set into place. *Flip*, my book of stamps is closed and passed back to me. I can now enter Bangladesh.

My young attendant appears at my side again. He takes my passport from me and inspects its pages as he walks a steady line to the door. Whether fulfilling his positional duties or performing his job to personal standards, I do not know, but I stay with him in each step and hold an expectant palm in front of his chest; asking without words. We walk outside and satisfied he sets it in my hand. "Thank you," I tell him. There is no response.

There is a feeling of elation and a sense of power in the moment your passport is stamped and you cross the imaginary and yet real lines that separate one country from the next. Some people do not have this privilege, not out of any fault of their own but because of politics. I have the privilege and I am honored in every stamp that is added -- every stamped press from a generic ink pad to a generic passport page contains the symbolic potential to become something much more. Bangladesh accepts my footsteps with waiting.

Movement and sound.

2008-07-29T00:59:00.000-07:00

Here it seems that every restaurant is tucked in a corner, or set into an opening small enough that you cannot look inside unless directly in front, but large enough to move hungry crowds in and out in a flurry. While the door may only be wide enough to allow a peek, here movement and sound are enough to pull your senses the rest of the way.

The movement: a new generation in jeans and t-shirts, or older men that appear to have just stepped out of a storybook in their white kurtas, thick beards grown with the years, and old thick rimmed glasses with deep lenses but simple character in their frames. The women enter in colorful saris draped over and around. Primary colors, absent in this unstitched cloth, are replaced by violet, Oxblood, magenta, periwinkle, tangerine, and Han purple.

The sound: it changes. Chatter spoken over reckless taxi cabs, and rickshaw wheels that *click clack* on rough streets. A busy kitchen with an atmosphere of its own in fierce spices, aroma and heat. A Sikh man with an orange turban, tightly wrapped, and iron bracelet speaks the few words necessary to instruct his staff in their grimy t-shirts and cuffed jeans. Sometimes there is only silence, but this is a neglected sound in itself. Since most eat with their fingers there is the rare scrape of fork against plate, but at times only silence.

Now here I sit by myself but enjoy the minutes I have in this atmosphere. Everything is worn and in dark spots it shows. The places where plates and bowls have slid in minute increments, back and forth; the vinyl covered seats, cracked to open stuffing inside. Neither are ancient by age; only by use. Those who slide in and out; who sit heavy with drooping fat, the weight of the years, or heavy with empty stares, the weight of the mind. Those who move fast in order to continue the night, or quiet groups of companions without words in their midst.

And then there is me. I sit alone but soak in this tiny room of atmosphere and heat. I listen for the stories in the cracked plaster and crooked picture frames. Those that have been written and the ones still to come. Today my story is in India, but it is more than my story alone, it is yours too. We are much more alike than we are different. I feel in Kolkata and you feel from where you read.

I do not understand all that surrounds me, but I will keep trying. I am chasing after change, trying to comprehend its monumental movements or sneaking reforms. Maybe change is chasing me. Maybe it makes all that difference that I am moving; I refuse to be stagnate.

My heart, my mind, my God. (From the airport.)

2008-07-23T21:57:00.000-07:00

Tears pooled upon her eyelids that had been given careful attention in the half hour between our momentary parting and a reunion. It was a somber reunion; one leading to goodbye.

She rode with me in the cab and words were barely spoken. I looked out the window for most of the trip and squeezed her hand tighter when her searching eyes caught the corner of my vision.

We arrived at the airport. Check-in was flawless. It was time to go.

Standing in a cold room of glass and steel, I gave her a red journal with a letter on the first four pages that instructed her to fill this book with hopes, fears, and loves. I insisted that she take a small wad of bills -- the taxi fare home and a little bit more. Before the revolving glass entrance I held her and squeezed her tight. She wrapped her arms around my back. I forgot the people below who stared up at a short kiss; I forgot about everyone else.

At passport control we stood together one final time, and words moved from my mouth to her ear. "No promises," I said, and she nodded. "But you will always know me."

With head turned, I walked into the opening of a frosted glass barricade and pressed my last words through the air with a raised palm and spread fingers.

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My heart, (my mind), and ("my God").

For 6 1/2 months I have been traipsing around Southeast Asia, but now my ticket has come and its time to move. In one hour and twenty-two minutes I will be on a plane to India. I hope the flight is longer than I expect. I don't know how ready I am. (But remember Seth, no expectations, you can't have them.) It might be shocking. (It might be beautiful.) ("This is not your plan.") I am afraid. I shouldn't be. ("I am with you.") That Indian man at check-in made a horrible lusting sound as he walked near Chon. (You cannot base an entire population on one man.) ("Aren't you guilty of the same? Though not always verbally, or even with your eyes, then surely with your mind.") This isn't mine anymore; it never has been. Take it from me. (Nor is it mine.) ("I have you.")

"At the least, bear it bravely if you cannot
bear it cheerfully." - Thomas A. Kempis

Tomorrow brings change.

2008-07-21T18:10:00.000-07:00

I cannot make any promises. It is not that I cannot keep them, but if I did it would break your heart, and break my own.

Tomorrow I fly to India. I do not feel ready to go, to leave your strength, but I have to step in the only direction time allows me: forward. This is more than me, this is my calling.

Last night I stood on the bridge over the canal and I said goodnight for two hours. Was it really that long? Did the morning already come? I can still taste the night.

Life is moving at a steady clip, but it races in the final hours. I will not drag my feet, but if I can I will stand in place while the world rushes on.

Its 3:00 a.m.

2008-07-20T06:31:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in my room. I just arrived back at my guesthouse after seeing the last showing of the Dark Knight with Chon. On the ride home, as we sat together in the back of the cab I noticed her silently counting with her fingers in her lap.

"What are you counting?" I asked her.

"Three days left in Bangkok," she said to me, referring to my flight on the 23rd. "Today is the twentieth."

We parted ways at the "T" in the road and I turned on my heel to look at the empty raining path behind me, though once again I did not expect to see anything.

"Choke dee. Choke dee."

2008-07-18T20:20:00.000-07:00

In a split second, my breath is gone.

I am standing on a narrow road of white cement slabs. I close my mouth and pull air in through my nose. All that I smell is of earth and oxygen, all that I see is color and shape. Before me are green shoots of rice -- tiny bundles saturated in green within a placid field of earthen walls, topped by a carpet of grass. These walls are the borders from one field to the next. Prepared by diligent human hands, omnipresent cycles of mother nature, now set through a history of planetary shifts and cycles of weather, now meticulously carry the weight. The well-being of a nation rests before me. My eyes, my father's eyes, must change in hue to match the gray sky above; still friendly in spite of overcast billows. In the distance, shafts of sunlight slice through humid cloud openings in places unknown to me, unknown to all except those who backs perhaps receive the blunt weight of heat. In front of me, an abandoned shelter stands on rotted wood stilts at a junction of green borders. A resting place for farmers, it once provided shade but now belongs to the sky and to the earth. Behind me is nothing but the same -- a jigsaw of borders and fields; green, green, and gray.

In a split second, my breath is back.

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Chon invited me to her home. I accepted. I keep telling myself that nothing can happen between us, and that's how the story goes. But to stay in a small Thai village in the far north with acquaintances who have quickly become friends was something I could not pass up.

It is the unknown which I now readily accept, yet in the moment I stepped through the open-fronted house belonging to Chon's "Paw" and "Ma," I began building something that will last. I sat down waiting, and Chon's "Ma" greeted me with a beaming smile and grabbed my forearm, feeling it with a squeeze and welcoming me once and again with the words, "Choke dee. Choke dee," (Good luck. Good luck.).

In the past five days...

I have lived with new friends in a traditional Thai village, I have stared at fertile fields of rice just planted by callused hands, I have listened to Buddhist chants in the early morning, I have sat cross-legged on a bamboo table for three meals a day, I have slept on the floor, I have stared at mountains and fog on rainy northern Thailand afternoons, I have sat comfortably in rooms for hours where words of English are rarely spoken, I have danced in the rain with 100 villagers, I have picked fruit that tastes like candy, I have been laughed at out of care, I have been blessed by grandmother ("Yai"), I have been missed in my absence from the village, and now I have cried.

In the past five days.

Soon, it will have been seven months since I first left my home in Joliet, but I suppose that it is only one of my homes. Now I know that to go back to the north, to the village of 100, would be to go back home.

Life is surreal.

A short pause.

2008-07-13T08:42:00.000-07:00

Maybe "A Long Pause" is a more appropriate title for this entry. My writing has suffered lately. Journal pages, that is my actual journal pages, were once separated by hastily written dates in order to reach the heart of my writing; the center of my mind's energy. Yet lately my paged book has become an unfinished sentence with clips of inky memories scrawled in a rush rather than for pleasure. Its not that nothing has happened -- in the past three to four weeks I have revisited Bangkok with a fresh perspective, visited old students and friends in Kanchanaburi, made a new friend (through conversation about music) with the guy who was handing out condoms on HIV/AIDs day at Nongkhao school, and went on one of the sweetest dates in my life where everything and nothing really happened. Lately, I just haven't loved writing. Lately, I haven't loved myself. Maybe though, I've loved myself too much. Selfishness is the center of the fall, the fall takes away from who I am, so taking away from who I am takes away from my writing.

There are many stories to speak of, but tonight I want to write about the most recent. This is a short pause to speak of something light-hearted, something soft, and kind. Maybe this is what I need to write to get back to where I was.

Tonight I went on a date.

Her name is Saichon; "Chon" for short. She is from the north of Thailand, but now lives in Bangkok with her two sisters, Pai and Fon. Believe me when I say that they are quite the silly bunch; in fact, they are self-proclaimed "dting dtong" (silly in Thai). The three of them live together in the northern part of the Banglamphu area while Pai studies at a university in the city, and Fon, who has graduated, works for a company. Chon has also graduated, with a bachelor's degree in biology, but while helping her parents and waiting for an opportunity to study medicine, she works at the four star Princess Hotel in the center of the city. This is where I agreed to meet her yesterday afternoon.

With the mobile phone I was lent from the wonderful teachers in Nongkhao, I called her when I arrived and waited in the lobby. I stared in awe at my surroundings. I don't think I've ever been inside a four star hotel. Beyond the glass doors and staff with double breasted suits and golden buttons was humid oppression, but inside these tall clear windows was a polished floor and a room cold with air conditioning. Everything was in its place. Earthy red-toned vases held single flowers purposefully set into balanced existence. Stacked on black granite slabs, they led your eye to silver steps and steel; the entry to a restaurant with folded linen napkins and empty tables.

My phone rang. It was Chon.

She was waiting in the connecting hallway to MBK -- a massive shopping center where every inch of floor space is covered in art, shoes, and t-shirts; a Thai-European hybrid fashion world. I saw her before she saw me. She was standing against the wall, waiting. Wearing a gray classy top, dark short-but-modestly-cut shorts, and white flats with a red stripe on the toe; she looked "cute."

We slowly wandered the hallways, getting a little lost, but eventually finding our way to the sushi restaurant downstairs.

"You can order, I like it all," she told me.

We both started with a frosty drink, hers watermelon and mine lemon, and then moved on to a large California and a Caterpillar sprawled across a white platter. We laughed through struggles to eat the enormous California roll and laughed at others in the restaurant doing the same. My mother has done well in sending several blackmail pictures of the early Wyncott years and Chon certainly laughed at these.

On a Sunday night, masses moved through the restaurant in the gourmet food center of the Siam Paragon, but we sat still, not moving from our table while people swirled around.

"What do we do now?" she asked me. Our table was now cleared of food and the bill was on its way.

I asked her, "Well, do you want to go back (a wrinkled brow) or go to a movie?" (a nod and a smile).

A movie it was.

She bought two massive drinks, and I bought the tickets. We stood up for the king, and we saw Wanted. It was ridiculous, but it didn't matter.

As the credits rolled we stepped out and slowly made our way back to the beginning; taking in everything as we went. We stepped onto the escalator going down and she asked me how long I would stay in Thailand. I told her I was leaving for India in a week and a half. Then it was quiet.

We took the number 15 bus and leaped off at Phra Atit Road, and after mentioning my hunger we made one final stop: a tiny Roti restaurant with two narrow floors sandwiched in a street of restaurants, bars, and cafes. Sitting in a tiny upstairs room Thai music videos sounding from an old TV we sat at a folding table with small stools and shared a late night snack of roti and masala.
We walked back, slowly as always and discovered our streets were leading the same way until we reached a "T" in the road.

"Goodnight," I said. "See you again soon."

"Goodnight," she said.

I walked back to my guesthouse along the river without looking back until I was too far off to expect anything other than an empty path.

She is Buddhist, I am Christian. She lives in Bangkok, I live in Joliet. Those two speak much, but there are more. Let's just name two. We are far apart, yet close for a night.

This was a short pause in my recent complexity for something soft and kind.

Give everything you are, even if its sound.

2008-06-28T22:58:00.000-07:00

I have crossed back into Thailand, and again no questions were asked about my lack of an onward ticket out of the kingdom; just a quizzical look through the pages of my passport and a stamp in red ink: JUL 25 2008.

As I walked to awaiting transport with a small group of others making the same trip from Phnom Penh to Bangkok, some girls approached. They were of all different heights but only one size: tiny. They had umbrellas but some were without shoes. One of these little children was immediately at my side. Being only half my height, she took twice as many steps to match my pace and used her fingers to hold the handle which extended into a spider-framed orange canvas above my head. Across baking asphalt and almost no trees, she walked with me.

I immediately felt horrible. I knew what she was expecting.

It would take a heartless pig to ignore their pleas, but in turn it takes misappropriated passion to give them a dollar and walk out. Some tourists will say they have no money -- a horrible attempt at escape in my opinion -- but I cannot lie. You look into those almond eyes and downcast lips and lie. I don't believe these girls are fooled. They are smart. They have their tactics, but this does not change the heart of the matter. Whether or not they are begging for pimps or cruel parents, whether or not they spend their money on something most would deem insignificant, whether or not their pouting lips are forced, they are still begging children. They are barefoot, filthy, bug-eaten, snot-nosed, empty-bellied, kids. My heart allows me nothing more than, "no, I'm sorry."

I looked around for food, but I saw nothing; only heat, dust, and pavement. I looked for something to give, and then I remembered.

The shortest girl in the group, was standing across the way, puffing her cheeks with air and expelling it with the soft force of her short fingers. I looked in her direction, and mimicked her as best I could. Her head turned and she smiled. Then she moved. For a moment she disappeared behind a standing motorbike, and then there she was standing in front of me; smiling with tiny gaps in between new adult teeth. She waited staring at me with an open mouth. I filled my cheeks and made the sound again.

*PBLTTTTT!*

She puffed her tiny cheeks with a breath and forced it out with two equally tiny fists.

*PBLTTTT!*

We laughed.

The game continued until she showed me something new. Stacking her fingers, one behind the other, she contorted her hand and showed it to me, begging me to do the same. When I failed miserably she took my hand into hers and counted as she tried to stack my clumsy fingers in the same way. I laughed at my failure, and she giggled while trying to show me again as if I was missing a step in her instruction. She smiled each time I tried, until we moved on again. She had something to show me.

A garbage bag strap was hanging like jewelry around her neck and a tiny impression near her stomach showed that there was something on the end of that plastic string. She rolled up her shirt every so slightly to show me what was in hiding. In a tiny, clear plastic bag was a pile of miniature toy animals and two silver coins -- her possessions. There was six Thai Baht in her bag, but she wanted to show me her animals. She pulled out a handful. A purple monkey, a yellow lion, a blue bird, and a few others.

"Oh!" I said, fingering through the plastic molds and desperately trying to remember the Khmer names for each. But I couldn't think of anything and it was time to go. I began to stand up.

"Bye bye," she said.

As I sat down in the border shuttle van, she repeated it again: "bye bye."

With the sliding door open, I took a breath and pressed air from my cheeks one more time. She returned fire.

The door slammed shut, but she was still there; looking through the window, moving her head left and right to catch me in between seat shifting occupants. She waved her hand, and I saw her mouth those two words again and again; "bye bye."

I caught her eyes, waved, and we left.

People were stopped -- they were staring.

2008-06-17T19:22:00.000-07:00

Whenever I finish teaching at Pek Vanna Foreign Language School, whenever a break occurs between 5:00-6:00 classes and 6:00-7:00 classes, there is a traffic jam. A mob of motorbikes, bicycles, and feet. In the madness my eyes lie to me. Flashes of color appear as hundreds when maybe there is only a hundred. Silky black ponytails swish through the air as young girls chat with each other from motorbikes. Young boys lead bicycles out of the gravel lot organized for their transportation alone and mount the pedals with a walking start. Everywhere there are faces, legs, arms, and book bags. Sky blue school uniforms from the preceding high school hours, and the latest imitation fashions for those who had time to change with the change of schools. I believe that every one of these students is passionate about learning, but the passion of freedom is overpowering, and chaos is birthed. This is the story every evening, but tonight was different.

People were stopped -- they were staring.

Usually I follow routine and catch a ride back to the pagoda where I eat dinner by 8:00. But tonight, I wanted to send an e-mail. Without having to ask, I was offered a ride by Mr. Narin; a short man with inquisitive eyes and a demeanor which gave him the appearance of always being deep in thought. He dropped me at a crossroad near the internet cafe, and I thanked and assured him I could walk the remaining distance.

"See you tomorrow," I told him.

So I began. First, I strolled into the mini mart on the corner, buying two ice cream cones, merely to satiate my craving, but also hoping to see a beautiful face; a beautiful Khmer girl behind the counter. Our relationship has been formed on lingering conversation that builds each time I push through the glass doors. Day one: I am a teacher at PVA and you are a cashier. Day two: my name is Seth and your name is Dalise; and so it continues. I stalled at the ice chest and looked down the aisles -- she was not to be seen. I closed the freezer door and walked to the counter with two cones; one chocolate, one vanilla. This would be a much shorter trip.

My heart beat faster. What was I about to see?

As I neared the internet shop, I noticed the light wasn't on. The street appeared even more dark now with this expected familiarity locked and quiet. Oh well, I thought or maybe mumbled. It wasn't urgent, and remember, I'm learning to roll with things. I returned pace to my stride and walked on, now to find a motorbike taxi to the pagoda. At the usual spot I saw several parked, across from the roundabout. So as not to play with a wad of cash in his eyes, I turned to a dark wall and presorted my fare for a now familiar route. Finished I faced the street again and while still halfway across, I made eye contact in the dim light, waved my hand once with palm to the ground, and continued across the road while my driver started his bike.

A grim sound registered in my ears.
*ticka-ticka-ticka*

He had a floppy hat with a camo print pulled down close to his ears, and the chinstrap fashioned against his jaw.

"Wat Nokorbachey," I told him. "Bei pawn."

He held up three fingers just to confirm the amount, 3,000 Riel, and I sat down while nodding in agreement.

I like this part of travel. I know where I to go; I don't need a map. I know what to say; I only know a little Khmer, but I know enough. I am a regular; sometimes I have the same motorbike who remembering me repeats my destination before it leaves my mouth. For the most part, I know these streets. I know where to eat, where to buy bread, where to buy newspaper, where to find cheap food and cheap beer, where to develop photos, and where to make local phone calls.

On the back of the bike, in comfortable familiarity, I opened one of my ice cream cones and took a bite of the chocolate flakes which had begun to melt on top. Though immediately I wondered if I should have opened it at all. Before we could really begin, we slow to a halt. There is a traffic jam. Again my eyes deceive me, but this one is different.

Motorbikes clotted the side of the road. People were stopped -- they were staring. My driver made an exclamation in Khmer. I didn't understand. On the left side, a few of the curious had moved, but they were stopped from pushing any further. Police had control of the scene. My heart beat faster. What was I about to see?

Focused on getting me to my destination, my driver began to creep through the gawking throngs. Over everyone's heads, I then looked, and a street scene began to move like a well-planned slide show; piece by engaging piece.

A large cargo truck was stopped; at a complete standstill.

Fragments and chips were scattered beneath its front.

A grim sound registered in my ears.

*pshh*
*pshhh*

Glass was everywhere.

Weaving about, I caught a view.

A man held a can of white spray paint and shook it, up and down.

*ticka-ticka-ticka*

He continues his task.

*pshh*
*pshhh*

He was outlining marks where a limp body had just laid on the pavement, most likely minutes before.

I wanted to look away, but I keep looking.

There were flashing lights, and whoever was laying on the asphalt moments ago had just been dragged away.

Glass was everywhere. Everyone was staring. It appeared a motorbike was involved, and with this thought, I doubted there were survivors.

I was glad we did not stall. My driver raced on up the road. I actually pushed the rest of my ice cream cone into my mouth. I surprised myself, though I know the world is becoming less shocking to me. But this moment of awareness, this slide show on the street, brought me face to face with my own mortality. I won't stop riding motorbikes, but I was reminded, life is fragile.

A tear welled on my lower eyelid. I smelled the night air around me. It was cool on my skin. I was alive, but someone was not.

Pagoda Boys.

2008-06-15T20:20:00.000-07:00

From the beginning of May until the end of the June 2008, I lived in a pagoda in rural Cambodia. In the countryside of Kampong Cham, I was gracefully invited to make my home. I accepted.

The subjects of the photographs at the bottom of this entry, these boys and men, hold a special place in my heart. These are my roommates.

Pagoda boys make their living in the temple. They serve the needs of the monks through transportation, cooking, cleaning, and other duties; and in return, the monks give each of them a place to sleep and a passion to learn.

Looking at their faces, a casual visitor would almost never assume that some are destitute or that some face family issues completely out of their hands. But this is the case for several. In portraying this subject, my roommates at Nokorbachey Temple, above all I do not want to show anything that is wanting or devoid. Poverty certainly touches their lives, but the resilience of their hearts moves beyond material. I want the viewer to see the beauty of their hearts, the charm of their eyes, the sparkle of their smiles, and the nonsense of their humor. These are my friends. We speak in broken English and Khmer, and some of us rarely exchange words, but our smiles have broken the boundary lines between cultures.

These are my roommates.

Driving lessons.

2008-06-11T00:14:00.000-07:00

Venerable Vandong now has a bobblehead in his car. It nods yes as he abruptly slams on the brakes, only to release and do it again. We are inching closer to the makeshift garage under the pagoda. Release, slam. Release slam. My head bobs too. This is a monk's driving lesson by night.

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Late last week we were slowly ambling in the direction of town. I didn't look over at him much then, but the robed driver seemed to be tense.

"How do you feel?" I ask.

"Uh... maybe not good sometimes," he says. He laughs and his entire body shakes, his enormous head waggles, and his eyes almost shut completely.

A slow SUV is in front of us, but at first Venerable Vandong does not pass. I don't say a word. He sits with his face leaning in and both hands gripping the wheel. He finally builds courage and we slide around the black Lexus. Cars like this are still a strange and sore sight for my eyes in developing Cambodia. I understand this Lexus just as much as I understand monks that own a car they cannot drive; a car in which they install a new stereo, plush seat covers, a bobblehead, a pine tree air freshener, and a second air freshener in an overly glamorous perfume bottle that sits glued to the dash.

"Maybe the driver the same me," he comments, looking back to his passing maneuver. Venerable Vandong continues his monologue.

"When you drive so slow, many people call you a 'tourist driver,' he says. He laughs jovially with most of his comments.

Now we are going faster. As we pull into town he slips the car in between two pedaling girls and I catch a glimpse of a petite figure on the bicycle nearest my window.

"Oh, very good," I tell him, commenting on the tight squeeze he just moved through, "but maybe better for me if you would have bumped the beautiful girl. Then I could have stepped out of the car to help her. 'Are you alright?'" From the passenger seat I mimicked lifting a fallen girl from the ground.

Venerable Vandong shakes with laughter and then runs with the joke. "Where is your house?" he says. "What is your phone number? Please give me." He shakes again, straight from the belly.

I had to laugh, not just at his joke, but the combination of all these vivid images of life in the past month: the bobblehead dog he most likely personally picked, monk's comments about the mysterious opposite sex, and now driving lessons in Kampong Cham.

Monks, me, and kung fu

2008-06-07T21:04:00.000-07:00

Last night I tried to explain culture shock to Venerable Sokheun. It was difficult. He could not get past the idea that this shock is only relative to the cost of the country. For example, since Cambodia is inexpensive, it is therefore easy. I sighed in the midst of listening. I tried to explain what it would be like if he came to America on his own. Hopefully he understood a little by the end so that my next trip to Lazy Mekong Daze in town to play pool will be thoughtfully accepted.

Another visitor soon joined the conversation, but this time diverting the subject to vocabulary.

"Seth, I want to ask you a question," Venerable Koemva began.

"Sure," I told him.

We then launched into a discussion of the word operator described in terms of Cambodian farmers, and presenter in terms of group settings. As always, with mispronunciation and improper words, laughter follows in these lighthearted conversations. Soon the room was full of orange robed monks.

All of them can speak English at different levels, but by this time in our relationship everyone has input for the circus of English and Khmer. Whether in words or in laughter; at my expense or at the expense of the absent.

As the room filled with chatter the television was silently broadcasting across the room. We talked about Laura Boof, George Boof (this is the pronunciation of "Bush"), Hillary Clinton, English teaching methods, body hair, beautiful girls, monkeys, and farts. A typical night in the pagoda.

Suddenly, the volume escalated as a Chinese kung-fu movie hit the airwaves of CTN -- the Cambodian Television Network. Conversation was subdued by silence as the stares of what was now ten, or maybe eleven people fixated their eyes on a film genre that rarely disappoints in the pagoda: over the top, often bloody, slapstick, Chinese subtitled with Khmer dubs, kung fu movies.

I laid on the floor, shirtless, while a monk snuggled up beside me. The cooling night air brought some relief but a fan still stood on the floor turning back and forth. For a moment, I forgot my allergies, frequent stomach problems, and the problems with teaching.

It was kung fu night in the pagoda.

Education

2008-06-03T19:02:00.000-07:00

Out here you roll with things.

On a Friday night, I was sitting on a mat outside the pagoda with two friends when Mr. Undia, a balding middle-aged Khmer man who frequently wandered into the pagoda, now wandered over to me in shorts and sandals, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He had tar plastered in between each front tooth and as he flashed a smile he invited himself onto our mat. Somehow, I paid for his beers. In a few past interactions, the only conversation piece he seemed to focus his energy on was self-assumed stereotypes of all foreigners based on his few interactions. He welcomed himself into the conversation with more of these ideas. As my disposition grew cloudy he then asked if I would accompany him to the university at which he taught. [Good follow up, I thought.] Wanting nothing more than to sip my beer on the lawn with friends, I was not in the mood to think about teaching.

"Do I need to teach?" I asked without looking at him.

"No, tomorrow students have a exam. You just come with me," he said.

"What time?" I asked.

"6:30 AM."

I pondered the possibility. I could easily see being manipulated into teaching something. Like when Venerable Sokhuen sends me alone into his class with the only instruction being, "its up to you." This isn't some malicious attitude, but when I am not prepared it is sometimes unsettling. On the night of this invitation, I was not prepared to be unsettled.

Even so, I told him, "Okay. But I will need you to make sure I am up in the morning."

"Alright," he said baring his teeth yet again in a smile.

The following morning, a grim sunrise was on my face as I sat with Mr. Undia for breakfast at a folding metal table just outside the school. Another man made his way over to us, with a confident but apathetic step. He was the director. After a few bites of his breakfast, a cup of coffee was brought, and he introduced himself.

"Where are you from?" he asked in an ascending tone. This was his introduction.

"America," I said.

"Ah," he hummed, "Ameri-shit."

"No, America," I slowly rebuttled in a low tone.

"What state?" he said.

"Illinois," I told him.

"North, south, east, west?" he asked.

"Northeast. About 60 kilometers south of Chicago," I said.

"Ah," he said again, "so Northeastern University."

"No, I went to school in Indiana; Indiana Wesleyan University."

"Is that a Catholic school?" he said.

"Its a Christian school," I told him, but I immediately regretted that response. Catholicism is part of Christianity after all. "Its a Wesleyan school to be specific," I added. "A private school."

He asked me more questions, about the pagoda, teaching English, writing the proposal -- the expected questions -- and then one not so expected question.

"What did you learn?" he said casually.

This caught me off guard. It was not that I hadn't thought of this before, just that I've never been asked before. I began to answer but was cut off; it was time to begin my morning at the university, but the question still stuck with me. One sentence shifted my attitude from apprehension to curiosity. Now I was beginning to see him as an educated man; disgruntled but detached from an ineffective system of education.

"What do you think of this curriculum?" he asked me in the office.

I stared at the whiteboard with class names sealed in peeling tape. Four years to a bachelor's degree in management, or four years to a degree in English.

"Its shit," he said before I could answer.

I only smiled.

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I never had to teach that day, but only sat at the front of the class in a blue plastic chair. At a desk, I thought more about the events of this morning. About my reluctance to help, about how tired I was in neverending cultural pressure, and about how bad the education system really is. As my mind fired faster than I could write, I sat in front at a desk no different than those at which students sat, but on mine sat a whiteboard eraser, a stack of tests, and plastic flowers, pink and yellow, fixed in a styrofoam block and placed in a tiny wicker basket. Mr Undia, slightly balding, and slightly bellied came to stand at my side and stared at me. As rising light brought with it heat that creept up to this second storey room, I could see the sweat on his neck as he looked down at me. This time though he smiled not only with his teeth, but with his eyes. I did not want to come this morning, but I'm glad I did. For him it appears that just my presence is a big deal.

Even so, something was missing. He asked me if I could commit to teaching literature. I told him no, but this time I returned his smile with one of my own.

Now, the morning was complete.

I am everyone.

2008-05-21T08:29:00.002-07:00

In cities like Phnom Penh, there is an ugliness.

Black smoke lines stream from tailpipes long past due, sticky plastic trash collects in sidewalk piles, rotten fruit and dead fish slop on seller's tables, and wild dogs of incestuous breed prowl the gutters.

But there is beauty in its rhythms.

Here you can walk to the beat of traffic light ticks and hike over broken tiles scattered by tree life beneath. You can move to the neon glow of restaurant lights that snap down the street into domino life, or pick a straight line across motorbike traffic and with unfounded faith know that they will stop.

In the city sprawl of Phnom Penh, I know no one and no one knows me. Today I am a virgin and the city is a whore. I feel every sensation of its filth and beauty, in scent, sight, sound, and touch.

Today I can be anyone I want to be, and if I choose, no one will ever know.

Here in the midst of millions I realize that I am everyone.

Pictures.

2008-05-18T23:51:00.001-07:00

This is going to be a short post.

First, I want to apologize for the lack of photographs on this blog. Most of you know that I have been taking thousands of pictures, but I have neglected to put them online. Because of viruses that can, and have, infected an SD card of mine, I have avoided connecting to any machine that has the slightest potential of risk. Unfortunately, this means waiting until I reach a safe computer before posting pictures, (very rare).

Second, I want to inform everyone that I have found a safe computer, and a better method of uploading. I now have several pictures posted on my Flickr site...

(http://flickr.com/photos/86005420@N00/),

...and will be posting more in the future. On this site you can view a larger image and comment if you click on the image. Hopefully soon I will have some comments of my own that will give you a little background on each photograph I've taken.

Third, I'm still in Cambodia.

Love,
Seth

An Ode to Grove. (Draft)

2008-05-11T22:04:00.000-07:00

There is a home that was once much more than a house, with trees that line the front and trees that dot the sides. A home where two brothers and two brown leather mitts, for what could have been one hour or two, ignored the pressures of the day. With the only sound between them being the crack of a hardened cowhide baseball with frayed red stitch against the softened leather of their gloves, silence spoke in the evening. With their mitts they spoke in few words between, and as the sun set behind the corn and the ball began to fade, they did not throw any slower, they just moved closer.

The house on Grove has not been the same since the divorce. It is quieter than before, and with its now isolated swing set, sandbox, and tree fort that on chance would host a cackle of laughter on two day visits, it is time for it to sell.

It is a house much too big to return to alone; to spend the evenings in quiet with a frozen pizza. Even the seasons now had different meanings, with my father leaving by the darkness of morning and returning by the stark black of a winter night. Yet warm summer evenings even accentuated loss, as in solace you could sit upon the front patio without the sound of another lightning bug being jarred, or a semi-honest plea for one more bicycle lap over the length of the drive. Even the transformer that clung beneath telephone wires across the street spoke in sadness. We used to brag that in the solitude of a summer's night on Grove, we could hear its hum and smile from our wicker chairs in the yard, as with full after dinner bellies we basked in this serenity. Now, these are the sounds of loss.

In July of 1994, we moved from 16206 Janet Avenue to 11980 Grove Road. We rented a full-size moving truck and enlisted family, friends, and neighbors, who gladly took a lamp or a table in the backseat of their sedans. In laughing processions we paraded from Lockport to Minooka, and in chaos only we could know a move was made by evening.

The house on Grove was a major "fixer upper" but it had everything we wanted. A big yard and big rooms. It was slightly ugly at the moment, but we saw potential. To us, Grove was a dream in our move from a two bedroom ranch.

"Look at all these trees!" my dad would exclaim.

True work began in the weeks preceding our hot July move, when my dad spent long full days installing central air conditioning in order to keep the family refrigerated and cool. With a jack-of-all-trades pace, and four children whose honest desire to help was frequently replaced by the allure of an enormous yard, we began to tear down and build up. But in a large family on a single income, everything had a functional possibility and purpose. Midnight brown shaded cabinetry went in the garage to house tools, and old trim went to the scrap wood work bench fund for the imaginative carpentry desires of young children. Some spare carpet squares went to the garage to become a mechanic's mat, and it was the ugly shag carpet torn from each floor that fueled our first Grove Road bonfire; the height of its flames probably never to be matched again.

While salvaging our treasures, construction continued, and slowly but surely, not without its kinks, our house became a home. We knocked out walls, tore chasms in the ground, ripped panels from the walls, dropped toilets in the trash, set tiles to the floor, spread paint upon the walls, gunned shingles to the roof, hung gutters from the eaves, and made an organized mess over fourteen years. I have probably used the word we with heavy exaggeration. More than anything, we probably disfigured drill bits and split carefully chosen wood with ill-placed hammer strokes, but dad paid no mind, for this was his classroom. Here we learned about sixteen penny nails, t-squares and triangles, chalkline snaps, and torque adjustments. We learned how to swing a hammer, and when and how to use circular saws, jigsaws, band saws, and radial arm saws.

At times, the basement still leaked, and the water still smelled of periodic sulfur, but in place of fighting with the impossible -- a perfect house -- we dabbled in the construction of imagination. This we built without lumber or concrete. This we built towards the sky.

In my parent's minds, imagination often received express privilege. It could halt the work of the day. If it was an idea of great proportion, dad would happily extract himself from work, and mom would join us. Somehow my parents retained their childhood intuition, and almost always knew what we needed.

On one particular summer evening, when we sought to chop our way through an acre of clover that stood above our blond heads, mom would notify dad, who would soon be at our side with a plan.

You could stand next to him and watch his mind work. In a faded sky blue "I HIKED THE CANYON" t-shirt, and his periwinkle blue technician work pants from Fermilab, he stood with an arm across his chest, and a hand to his chin. The look of intentional contemplation. With an open-mouthed smile on the verge of speech, he surveyed while a small gang of us stood waiting for his lips to form a word. In these times, I know his eyes surely twinkled. In their clear sky colored tincture, they sparked ideas, until choosing one he said, "Ah!" and "Okay!"

With the lawnmower from the 60's he kept running for years -- the lawnmower we painted green with yellow wheels to look like a John Deere -- my dad plowed a path through the clover. By nightfall it was finished, and in the last remaining light, we raced our bikes, one lap around.

Our home on Grove.

It was here on Grove, that all of us children learned science, grammar, biology, English, and math from my mom; our teacher of life. Each in our own spot, we sat, knelt, or stood around the dining room table that with both leaves in place, barely fit our eventual family of eight. Our stacks of school subjects marking boundaries of personal space, we lent our minds to my diligent mother and found the value of x, followed the dotted cursive line, identified the prepositional phrase, and spoke Psalm 1 in unison with groggy morning voices. For three seasons we sat at that table; wearing sweaters and turtlenecks in the fall and winter, and shorts with mid-length socks in their gray-heeled glory at the early anticipation of spring.

If you were to ask us then, our favorite days were probably holidays, new pencil and notebook day at the beginning of the school year, and the last day of school -- the mark of summer. But looking back now, with three of us finished with homeschool days, I see how through the unwavering dedication of one woman, who accepted some gray hairs and high blood pressure on account of us, we have each become capable.

I see how through the dedication of one man, there was always scrap wood in the basement, and always time for another lesson in tools or brake pads.

For it was a library and a classroom. A playground and a building zone.

Our home on Grove.

I once read that a house, in the process of becoming a home, begins in its appearance and quirks to take on the personality of its inhabitants. I know now, this sentiment holds true. In shoe scuff marks, chipped paint, fork holes in the floor, pencil lines on the table, closet doors that came off their runners, and a leaky basement -- Grove was truly our home. From wall dents caused by a yearly lack of a door stopper. From evergreens with wild branch bunches. From a tree fort, a tree swing, a "cable," and a sandbox. From bathrooms that were always clean. From bookshelves that cradled volumes and tables, bedsides, closets, boxes, and dresser drawers that held more. From toys that in neat chaos hung to homemade shelves in the family room. From the boxes of National Geographic back issues, from which I planned my trips across deserts, mountains, and oceans. From the box of scattered mittens, and woolen hats, or the tub of shoes in the basement; in these you could always find a size, no matter your age. From a room called the "school room." From a basement with BB gun targets. From a bonfire pile. From apple trees. From a pink radio cassette player that always hung in the garage. From a highchair that cradled a pile of baseball gloves. From every fingerprinted wall. From every bicycle that hung in the garage, our house took on a personality of its own. It was a home.

Our home on Grove.

It would be easy to soak in the remorse of our present day changes, but I think that in this case, to regret the changes of time is to treasure the virtue of the past. It is better to emotionally breakthrough the loss of what we once had, than to not have ever held at all. For we built bonfires of fallen branches and used pallets, and on apple wood sticks from wiry trees nearby, toasted marshmallows in orange ember remnants. We learned to respect nature through dad's insistence of a tree house on stilts, and on late spring afternoons, learned to make long garden furrows with a borrowed tiller from Mr. Vickery -- our farmer next door. We studied Wordly Wise at the dining room table, and thanks to mom's teaching can hold our own in Scrabble. We captured lightning bugs and built them habitats in jars that were kept beneath the sink. We swung far too hard at wiffleballs, and grounded baseballs on the run. We picked raspberries from dilapidated bushes that survived lawnmower encounters, and we traveled to the far corner of the yard to pick from the apple trees -- red and green. We raced between rows of corn that towered over our cue ball heads, and in the midst of winter we tramped across the same field while cloud white flakes melted and froze to our rosy red cheeks, and our boots went *crunch crunch* between stalk stumps beneath. We played tag with a flashlight by the sheen of half moon, and we all stood in the driveway while agitated skies rode by. We listened to the wind as at rattled our windows at night, and sipped hot chocolate mugs saved just for winter's tradition. We ate lunch on the roof during a change in the shingles, and with a giant steel ladder we mounted lights to the gutters in the dead of winter. We laid in our beds and made tiny lightning storms with the friction of flannel pajamas on flannel sheets, and by the opening of spring we shut our eyes upon linen that hung by day on a line and trapped country air in all of their seams.

If I ever go back to the house on Grove Road, with trees that line the front and trees that dot the sides, I will bring my brothers on a summer evening. Together we will ask to play catch in the yard, and as the sun sets behind the corn, and that cowhide ball begins to fade into a dusky sky, we will not throw any softer, we will just move closer.

Dedicated to "Grove Road" and to the people who lived there.

"Maximum."

2008-05-08T06:59:00.001-07:00

On the first day I considered content to be most important and I took his word. But on the second day, my patience was wearing and I had to look. Moving to the top of the essay portion of Venerable Vandong's proposal, I read the instructions just to be sure that he was correct in a "ten page" length for this attached portion.

"It says 10 page maximum!" I exclaim to him. "That means it does not have to be ten pages!"

For the past day, he has pushed me into believing that we needed to reach 10 pages in his very first essay. Yes that's right; this is his very first essay and I am teaching him to write it.

I continue, desperately trying to get him to understand my example. "This means that it can have five, or six, or seven."

"Or eight," he adds in a serious manner.

For a moment I stare blankly. Whether at him or at the air I do not remember. For a moment I want to pull my hair out, but somehow I resist and start laughing. This is the laughter of insanity, misunderstanding, frustration, innocence, humor, and spending more time explaining than writing.

Sick in the pagoda.

2008-05-06T05:51:00.000-07:00

I live in a pagoda now with a host of Buddhist monks.

Visiting the small city of Kompong Cham, I came across a volunteering opportunity and committed two weeks of my time; ten days left at this point. Based on the discovery of my university degree, a monk named Ven. Vandong ("Ven" meaning "Venerable," a title bestowed upon monks), asked me to help him write a project proposal for the organization he has founded, BSDA (Buddhism and Social Development Association). BSDA has provided free education and cultural development for over 1,000 children in Cambodia. Most of them are extremely poor, while there are many who have no parents, or have been pulled off the streets of Kompong Cham, from begging, child slavery, or maybe worse. With over half the population of Cambodia under the age of 18, this organization is truly fighting for life, just as much as it is fighting for change.

The particular proposal I will be working on, concerns improving the lives of the impoverished and underprivileged communities in Cambodia by raising awareness of social accountability in local government. Hopefully, the people of Cambodia can establish for themselves a more active role in governmental policy.

For the length of my volunteering, I will live with the monks.

I sleep on a wooden bed, I eat after they do, I study English with them, I sit with them in my room, and I watch an 80's, Chinese language, over-the-top, Kung-fu movie with them. Many of the monks are in their mid-twenties.

Their kindness is overwhelming. It has proved itself from the beginning, but recently, when I was sick.

...............................................................................................

My stomach was bloated -- swollen past normality. Three times I threw up, but it remained the same with nausea rolling in my belly. Muscle twitches and tiny cramps strained random tendons. In this weakness, my body's state seems to be the only concern in this world; I think of little other than its improvement.

This is reprove for the frailty of man; the selfishness that binds me, and how sickness rules the human state.

In this time, I missed my family immensely. My mother's care is like none other. My father's willingness to tuck me in a blanket or make tea to soothe my throat and stomach-- never ending. Knowing that I am missed in my half-a-world-a-way absence increases my longing.

In this sickness, its as if all my doubts and misunderstandings of a culture not my own, all my personal insecurity, fell into a single moment. They fell into a single pile. I wanted the familiarity of a worn, plaid blanket of navy blue and crimson, and a pair of brown pillows my father stitched -- made for comfort, not for style. I wanted to nibble saltine crackers and to sip 7-Up; not be offered rice porridge and hard-boiled eggs. I wanted a bathroom with a toilet to sit on and paper to use; not a squatter with a dipper and water at my side. I wanted familiarity. I did not want to give a spoonful of food resistant contemplation. I only wanted second nature. But necessity always leads to action.

My sickness surged on.

In the morning I made a third trip to expel contents of my stomach. I rushed to the bathroom, thinking of the toilet near the floor, but finding it in use, I darted out a side door and convulsed in yellow.

A monk came by and said to me, "Are you alright my friend? Do you need my help?"

"I think I'm alright," I replied, my nose dripping.

My body shook again. In a arched crunch my back and abs tensed. I stopped for a breath.

"Here, do you need me to do this?" He began to rub my back and massage it in gentle taps.

"Thank you," I said while in a squat, hunched over a ledge, at the top of a cement flight of stairs. "Thank you so much."

"There," he told me with a smile, finishing his act of care.

I rinsed my face in the bathroom and walked back to my room, trying to contemplate what I had just felt. I was stopped multiple times along the way, with smiles.

"Did you eat yet?"
"What is wrong"
"Do you want to take a bath?"
"If you need it, the bathroom is just around the corner."

...............................................................................................

My sickness lasted for three days and two nights.

In this time, visits from monks never stopped. They never stopped inquiring on how I was, nor asking me if I had eaten yet. I went to a doctor, was given pills. I had a traditional Khmer treatment applied to my stomach -- crushed herbal leaves with oil. I can now eat again, and even though the day after left me in slight fear, the taste of Cambodian food will draw me back in. It already has; out of necessity and desire.

This was not quite home, but looking back, a lesson in kindness and a bed that Someone great prepared for me.

Neutral morsels.

2008-04-30T18:52:00.000-07:00

"Here, for you."

With thumb and pointer, Mr Bun Saret, my hired motorbike driver for two days, pushed a small black morsel to my face. Sandwiched between his fingers; almost unknown to me. Maybe it was better this way. At times its better to move without knowing.

I took his offering between my finger and thumb, and before my face could react, a small beat punched through my body. I began to laugh, in shock and with humor. It wasn't that I'd never seen bugs before, or seen them eaten. In Thailand, almost nightly, a cart rolled by with locusts, cockroaches, and six-legged crawlers. In Laos, giant grasshoppers and equally large roaches were sold on skewers -- from the street to our overloaded pickup truck. But now, there was a big difference. This locust was in my hand and I was expected to eat it.

I continued laughed through a big open-mouthed smile, "I've never eaten anything like this before."

"Its good," he said. Mr Serat pulled a white glass bowl over; the bottom of it filled with dead, cooked, locusts. He popped one in his mouth and dropped the legs on the floor. "In Khmer, the people like this with beer."

In a jolt, I tossed it in my mouth.

*Crunch*
*Crunch*
*Crunchcrunchcrunchswallow*

This was not quite the nut and pretzel mix. Slightly salty, but not the same.

"Mm..." he gestured towards me with that bowl. I cracked up laughing at his expectation, and I took another.

[My mind always churning. How did I get here? I wonder while chewing. What would my family think of this?]

I had a couple more. I don't know why. Maybe to please my gracious host.

[These aren't bad. I taste a little salt. But mostly neutral. I'm going to stop, now.]

He looked at me.

"Oh, finished," I told him.

He grabbed a few more, pulling the legs off and after tossing the slightly charred body in his mouth, he nibbled off a tiny bit of meat on the locust's upper thigh, throwing the knee and the foot to the floor.

Ban Lung is colored rust.

2008-04-27T23:11:00.000-07:00

Making full use of my visa, I spent the rest of my time in Laos; up to the very day of my stamp's expiration. I stayed in a bungalow on the island of Don Det, a small getaway out of the supposed thousands created in the waters of the Mekong, and in the heat of the day, when no one attempts to leave the slight comfort of a shadow, I laid in a hammock and read The Road by Cormac McCarthy, while sipping a chilled Coca-Cola with a straw.

I wish I could have had a Coke in my hand as I crossed the border into Cambodia. A single wooden shack with three officers and four pens stood as a roadside checkpoint into what appeared to be a wasteland. I was stamped into Cambodia.

While waiting for others making the crossing, I walked to the center of the road and stood there, watching nothing apparent. Without a bend in sight, a hot tarmac strip ran to the horizon. The land on either side, choked and sputtered in the dust. Here you could hear the earth in a dry whisper counting the days to the start of the wet season.

Storms are arriving with night time frequency. Soon I hope, the skies will break.

Stopping only for lunch in the town of Stung Treng, I hopped on a four hour, bumpy minibus to Ban Lung, where I spent my first two nights.

Again, dust clogs the air, prompting even a few foreigners to cover their mouths with a scarf, while most of the locals handle this rusty air with tenacity and little concern. A few naked toddlers run about with white smiles peeking around the corner, their dark skin colored in orange splotches, and motorbikes ride past with a cloudy tail of filth; their riders covered from head to toe.

I noticed that many of the women here wear matching pajama tops and bottoms, in the middle of the city and the middle of the day. Red with floral patterns or yellow with something else. This is a bold fashion statement in the rusty dust of Ban Lung; or maybe its merely a comfort statement. With socks and sandals, or just sandals alone, these women of all ages stretch out from their shops in patterned pride.

In physical features and the sounds of language, I am beginning to mentally note the subtle differences between Thai, Laos, Vietnamese, and Cambodian; and even though I am surrounded with their presence, there are times that I am physically stunned by the beauty of the people here. Only the most bitter hearts can resist a smile. I certainly know mine is not bitter.

Evil has red eyes and green legs.

2008-04-22T19:25:00.000-07:00

In Pakbeng, I was sitting in a poorly lit restaurant when a praying mantis dropped from the ceiling and onto the floor, gliding just past my ear. I jumped in my chair excitedly and immediately leaned in for a calculated, closer look. He (yes, it could have been a she -- I didn't check), was about 4 inches long, of bright green color, with beady red eyes and a triangular head that moved on a swivel. I took my navy blue cap, and bade him to creep upon it so I could get a closer look, but elevating him from the floor to my table, he charged at my chest with aggression, and in my surprise I shoved him back to the ground.

I watched him, now standing in the center of the room. His head slowly turned as he looked for revenge.

An adorable 2 year old Asian girl, with hair in bobbing, sparse pigtails that stand on either side of her little round head, is happily trotting around the room. But now her interest turns to this new green plaything.

I look to the devilish mantis. His head turns. With a slow, creaky door, I'm watching you turn, he looks to this charging toddler.

Barefoot, she flops her tiny feet across the room and in reaching him, bends her knees ever so slightly and in quick momentum arcs from her waist to the ground. In one fell swoop she tries to grab a new curiosity in a tiny hand.

Red menacing eyes send signals to instincts. He crouches and at the last second, shuffles away.

She is determined. She lifts her tiny torso. Her red capris and white dress with tiny red polka dots flows with her movement. With two more wobbly strides she moves, and stopping quickly, her body sways like flagpole on a windy day, before abruptly, she bends to the ground again.

He doesn't move. Now he's looking right at her.

A chunky hand descends.

He is waiting.

Fingers open.

I imagine his beady eyes are burning with hate.

She has him. Her body springs back to standing, her pigtails move in this sudden breeze, and for half a second, the room is quiet.

"WAHHHHHHHHH!"

She screams. Tears roll down her cheeks. In her tiny clenched fist, a tiny green beast pinches her skin.

Older brother to the rescue.

He tears the bug out of her hand and smashes it in his. He cradles her in his arms, and slowly her wailing fades, with tears still cascading slowly.

What an evil bug. What a harsh lesson. But somehow, cute.

The bad bus.

2008-04-22T05:14:00.000-07:00

[8:40 a.m.]

The man at the ticket window slothily counted putrid smelling paper Kip. I leaned on the counter, shifting my stare from his eyes to the money passing through his hands. Maybe I wasn't intimidating enough. He didn't look at me once.

He unlocked a drawer out of my sight, and slid a pile of inflated cash into his desk. Eyelids propped only half open stirred not in their glaze of monotony. Wiry glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and black hair stood frozen, parted on the right with bangs overhanging a slight pout held in round cheeks. All these features heaped together into a pudgy face finally acknowledged my awaiting eyes in a sleazy shift. He wanted every measure of power available to a ticket seller, including redefining customer service.

"Vientiane," I said for the third time.

I signed my name on a clipboard and pushed 100,000 Kip through the window. He picked his rubber stamp, assigned me seat number 8, and pushed my ticket through a plexiglass half-circle.

"When does it leave?" I thought there was a bus scheduled at 9:30, but just to be sure, I asked him.

"About one hour." And with that he assumed the same place as before; he returned to his paper, eyes downcast and pudge hanging.

This encounter ended at 8:50. Now its...

[11:20]

...and we have just begun to pull out of the lot. Either this bus is truly operating on the laid back Asian watch, or the sellers want to fill every single seat. Probably the latter. At least five red plastic stools propped up passengers in the rubber matted aisle, and we would pick up more along the way.

For a moment, I miss punctuality. The timeliness of the Metra train that pulls away from sprinting passengers only 10 seconds late, or the rush of the "El", with its warning beeps and ensaring doors.

[11:35]

We have moved just next door to a fuel station and now here we sit, in a line, behind a utility truck, while motorbikes squeeze in the cracks. How hard would it be to fuel the bus beforehand, I wonder? Or is this another example of faulty logic? -- case and point, the woman in front of me, that has repeatedly tried to force her seat back into a reclined position, not looking once for mechanical failure, or the more obvious reason: that my legs, propped up on the wheel well, are cramped against the back of her chair. She repeatedly smashes my kneecaps.

[11:44]

Its almost noon and we still haven't fueled. I guess this is the first stop for bathroom breaks too.

[11:50]

Fast forward.

[9:17 p.m.]

More kneecap smashing.

Fast forward again.

[11:30 p.m.]

We arrive.

After three 15-20 minute driver cigarette breaks, two potty breaks for a whining two year old, and a long stop for lunch, I finally arrived in Vientiane. I walked around the city in the dark of half past eleven and moved from full guesthouse to full guesthouse -- finally settling for a bed in a scorching room that kicked me out at 6:30 in the morning for guests that had made reservations.

Now I'm sweaty, with no clean laundry, and a visa that expires in 4 days, sitting in an internet cafe, and listening to Bush, while a prolonged, on-and-off, 2 week abnormal stomach eats at me after I fed it a danish pastry and two cups of coffee. Sure, not Laos food, but comfort food.

This is my life. Now.

A lost perception.

2008-04-16T00:07:00.000-07:00

The smiles I get from my friends at the Ancient Luang Prabang Hotel are purely jovial. I watch them work in black slack stride with sandaled feet and neon green polos. In their interactions with other foreigners, I am able to see something I have lately neglected.

My perception of size has been greatly altered in almost 4 months spent in Southeast Asia, to the extent that I forget my towering height that reaches at least a foot above the crowns of their small round heads. This size worked to my detriment when picking out a shirt in the market one week ago -- the polo was about one size to small -- so I have proceeded to slowly with pressure pop the threaded seams that bind my arms and chest. At times I have also smacked my head in short doorways or ducked with a whoosh to avoid lumps from bamboo sidewalk awnings.

Now, watching my dedicated friends working in the presence of a pair of six foot white women, they appear to be small fantastical elves in the presence of giants; attending to their work with honest duty but jumping into character when catching my watchful eye and returning it with a gleeful smile. The truth of my perception.

I have made plans to leave Luang Prabang by tomorrow morning. My already extended visa expires on the 26th, so I will slowly make my way to Cambodia. The route: from here to Udom Xai, to Pakbeng, to Sainyabuli, to Pak Lai, and back to Vientiane before going to the border, straight south. A roundabout way to see the north -- its people, rivers, and mountains.

[A diversion from my normal writing; in the facial features of a woman four tables out, I am reminded of someone I once pursued to the best of my knowledge. In hiding romanticism of my years, I chased with letters from west to east. With concern for every word, I wrote in my exhaustion. Beneath a polyester rainfly or a starlit sky, and with embedded dirt in the whorls of my fingertips, I painted in monochromatic color. But with more grace than ever before. I don't know what will happen to these letters. Have they embedded themselves in the heart of their recipient, or will they wash away like the black once upon my fingertips? In a tenderly sharp jawline, and thoughtful forehead furrows, I see pieces of someone I know.]

And then there was starch.

2008-04-14T21:16:00.000-07:00

Hearing that Luang Prabang was the pulse of Laos at the three (or sometimes five) day New Year's celebration, I decided to make a return visit.

Today, is day three of the festivities. Each has been marked with massive processions, as a migration of cheerful and many drunken Lao people make their way to a single place. On day one, that was an island on the far side of the Mekong.

I watched as at about 2:00 in the afternoon, hordes loaded tiny boats that rocked with the excited passengers. After they finished loading, they then overloaded before *put-putting* across the river. From my spot on the shore, looking to the island opposite, all I could see was a mass of bodies without room to move, while full boats continued to offload and sit in a traffic jam on the water, amid cheers and splashes.

I missed my ride across the river with To, but it worked out fine since I actually ended up bumping into my friend Nick, from the bus ride. He invited me to "enjoy" with his friends and family, so of course, I sat with them. Together, we shared a meal of a unique delicacy.

The blood of a duck had been drained into several small bowls and mixed with green onions and other various innards. Peanuts were strewn across the top and as this pure red substance slowly hardened into a jello-like consistency, I spooned a runny piece out and with a gulp to push down my weak stomach, I took a bite. It wasn't that bad. My eyes triggered my stomach into a brief fight, but I resisted and ended up having several more bites, before retiring from my bowl of duck blood.

After finishing dinner, we placed the head of the duck in a bowl and covered it with a plate. In our circle of celebration, we took turns shaking this makeshift container all about, until setting it down on the table we lifted the plate and revealed the direction of the pointing beak. Like an arrow, the beak pointed at people in our circle and whoever was at the receiving end of this point, had to drink a glass of beer.

As the sun began to disappear into cloudy skies, we danced in the streets rubbing ash from burnt, crusted kettles on the faces of passing motorbikes and anyone else within our reach. I have quickly learned that this is another custom of the Lao New Year. With an ashen face, and a full belly, I happily returned to my room, on the evening of the first day.

Day two, the masses went to a waterfall, Kuangsi, about 30km from here before returning for a parade with the new Miss Lao New Year, in the midday heat of a Lao summer.

In the midst of all this heat and bustle, in the middle of Lao river migrations and parades in traditional wear, there is a central element I have not yet mentioned -- water. Two elements -- water and flour; three, if you count the black ash of crusted kettles.

For the duration of this festival, the entire country participates in a water fight and no one is safe. Small children run around with supersoakers, pickup trucks with 15 in the bed cruise the streets, with the 16th passenger being a rubber garbage bin full of water, and then a few scoops in the hands of gleeful Lao teenagers; just to make sure everyone gets a good dousing on the driveby. It doesn't matter if you are wearing a suit, or riding with your girlfriend on a motorbike. You will get wet.

And then there was starch. Out of the center of crowds you can sometimes see a puff of white, an explosion of fluffy dust -- the aftermath of a random handful to the face.

Now, take these two small mentioned instances, and multiply them from one side of the city to the other. From the mountains in the north, to the plains in the south. The entire country is wet.

Today, day three, the parade will continue in a direction opposite to which it waltzed yesterday. And today, I expect much of the same.

(Correction 4/16 - starch, not flour)

Here, just like home.

2008-04-11T23:19:00.000-07:00

Every Lao special event must, as a prerequisite, have chest-high floor model speakers pumping out hundreds of watts in bass lines. Riding on the back of To's motorbike, I felt the wedding party before I saw it. I felt the sound eating through the air, stopping only with a slap on my face that bounced into dissipation. Along with a mutual friend Kao, who rode at our side on his red motorbike, we parked in a pack of 30 others. We fixed our hair and checked our teeth in tiny circular side mirrors, and then walked in the direction of commotion.

In the paved front of a colonial style white house, folding metal tables with legs splayed beneath tablecloths of blue were set. Each one had two bottles of water, three large bottles of beer, clear plastic cups, and a tin bucket of ice to chill our drinks that would sweat in the heat of a Southeast Asian April. Slightly deflated balloons hung from tree stems. Clay flowerpots wore their latest fashions in evening glory. Lao girls in traditional skirts and dresses waltzed in with grace and their dates followed alongside in button downs, polos, and slacks.

As we entered, we dropped our invitations and gifts into a box for the bride and groom. A line of greeting stood, making the first stop a platter with two tiny pewter chalices. A shot of whiskey was poured and with a smile from the wedding party we downed our drinks, and we bowed in greeting while liquor slid down our throats with a warm aftermath.

We took a seat near the back with two mutual friends of To and Kao, and in a few words between sips of beer on ice, we watched tables fill. Miniature clouds of flies danced beneath fluorescent rods of light, mimicking in their dance the commuting throngs below. Conversation built, and now, even bashful voices spoke in the mask of music and tone. We talked of relationships, girls, dancing, Lao wedding customs, and the burden of being shy.

With most of the guests assembled, a voice halted the music and announced that two families had now become one. We smiled with applause and I ducked in close to To for a brief translation. But with an abrupt ending, numerous chairs began to back, scraping the pavement as they did so, to make way for the dinner feast.

In the most populous continent in the world, you don't get a place by waiting in an organized queue -- you make your place. At a mini-mart, the first person served is the one who first places his goods on the service counter and asks how much. The same principle applies to parking spots, bus seats, lane changes, and intersections. A meal is no different. You must assertively scoop rice into your bowl and ladle chillies, spinach leaves, pork cutlets, shredded chicken, mushrooms, carrots, basil leaves, potato slices, and hard-boiled eggs into your possession. I think this is just a cultural mannerism, maybe built out of necessity, but still carried out in love. No ill will is held towards those who dipped their spoon first, or who with long arms cutoff the entry of a shorter. With full plates and seats retaken, goodwill replaces a rush as if nothing ever happened.

My palate expresses its pleasure, and I smile at my table companions.

"Sap bor?" (delicious, isn't it?) Kao asks me.

"Sap lai!" (very delicious!), I express between a gulp and a bite.

As the night moves from feasting to dancing, Kao, To, and I take leave of the wedding and move to a Lao nightclub. We now sit on wraparound artificial leather couches with yet another group of friends and acquaintances. Conversation makes brief appearances, but in the dark I contentedly sit and think, watching life unfold in the faces of a world once unknown to me.

In these faces of bronze skin, dark hair, and lovely smiles, I see something that in sound may reveal itself as simplistic, but in sight holds a lasting impact. That is, that the essence of our human existence, though separated by space, is felt with the same measures.

Here, there are people too bashful to dance. Here, there are girls that dance in a group of friends, waiting for a man to make a move. Here, there are broken hearted wallflowers, womanizers falling into their own game, aging party girls feeling weary, and drunken middle-agers who no longer care. Here, there are shy people who can't talk to the girl across the street, bold ones who should probably slow down, straight A students who feel out of place, and academic jokers who couldn't feel more at home. Here, there are dreamers, lovers, quitters, failures, and seekers. And we are all much more alike than different.

Here, is perhaps the greatest evidence for Someone greater than ourselves, and that is, we all hope.

Here, just like home.

What not to give.

2008-04-10T23:20:00.000-07:00

The Luang Prabang National Museum occupies what was once the royal palace, so that every room has a regal air. The floor is of long, dark wooden planks and white walls are graciously interrupted with beautiful crown moulding and glass murals depicting traditional Lao lifestyles. This building itself should be housed within a museum.

Though there were many paintings, period furniture sets, and meticulously carven amulets that drew my eyes to their extravagance and yet simple placement, the final exhibit was quite humorous. Apparently, the United States and Australia need a lesson in the constitution of beauty.

In the final part of my circumnavigating walk, gifts to Laos were in glass display. The Japanese sent vases and plates of the most beautiful porcelain and with magnificient flowers in full bloom and brushstrokes of Mount Fuji. Myanmar and Cambodia sent ornamental silver dishes and platters. The Chinese gave carvings of jade. The Vietnamese sent more gifts of this ornamental splendor. India sent white stone-carved elephants and Buddha amulets.

Now we come to Australia, and their gift is a boomerang. Finally, my home country, has blessed Lao society, with among several symbols of the Land of Liberty, a model of the lunar module.

What says "lets be friends" more than a miniature, scaled, plastic and metallic, space landing apparatus?

Out of many, one.

2008-04-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

Robert Mugabe seeks to continue his stranglehold on Zimbabwe, the Chinese try to salvage an Olympic year, Cuba plans to lift bans off electric toasters, the Dutch exercise free speech, Botswana looks to bring diamonds home, CERN searches for God, Bear Stearns tapes a $2.00 note to the doors, Barack deals with a fanatic mentor, I question who I am, and my family sells their home.

Meanwhile, a Lao family struggles to pay for dinner.

[In the midst of consistent global strife, no turmoil feels greater than our own. But if you stop and listen, you can hear outside pressure build.]

Slip.

2008-04-08T07:50:00.000-07:00

An image enters my mind of my Nana's house. I am running on the sidewalk that fronts her yard when suddenly the toe of my shoe scrapes the pavement. I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and just playing with my friends; but now I am falling. I close my eyes and put my hands out to catch myself but momentum presses me forward. My knees slide against the grit of cement and my hands lead the way. My skin is abrasively torn at my palms and at my knees. I am crying now, both from the sight of blood and the touch of pain. My childhood friends are ahead of me. I look through squinted eyes and watch them look back for an instant, but that's all they do. I am alone on the sidewalk, and surely, I will scar.

Though in my despair, I find encouragement in the scribbles on the opening page of a new book. "Page 117" it says, in orange marker. This is what it says:

"CHRIST. My son, what are you saying? Consider My sufferings and those of My Saints, and cease to complain. You have not shed your blood in resistance; your troubles are but small in comparison with those who have suffered so much, whose temptations were strong, whose trials so severe, and who were proved and tested in so many ways. Remember the heavier sufferings of others, that you may more easily bear your own small troubles. If they do not seem small to you, beware lest your impatience be the cause; and whether they be small or great, try to bear them all patiently.

The better you prepare yourself to meet suffering, the more wisely you will act, and the greater will be your merit. You will bear all more easily if your heart and mind is diligently prepared.

...

Always be ready for battle if you wish for victory; you cannot win the crown of patience without a struggle; if you refuse to suffer, you refuse the crown. Therefore, if you desire the crown, fight manfully and endure patiently. Without labor, no rest is won; without battle, there can be no victory.

THE DISCIPLE. Lord, make possible for me by grace what is impossible to me by nature. You know how little I can bear, and how quickly I become discouraged by a little adversity. I pray You, make every trial lovely and desirable to me for Your Name's sake, since suffering and affliction for your sake is so profitable to the health of my soul."

-Thomas A. Kempis: The Imitation of Christ

I have fallen. And I cannot stand up alone.

In three words.

2008-04-05T07:35:00.000-07:00

I love Laos.

I wish you could see my journal. Every single day, my pen swoops, jots, dips, curls, and blots ink upon gridded pages. It is a mess of words, diagrams, arrows, circles, hand drawn maps, phone numbers, and Lao language. Still, my thoughts are incomplete. This blog is but a sliver of my understanding; even my journal cannot retain or keep pace with my mind.

Some nights I sit down and look at these pages, or stare at a blinking cursor, knowing that I have much to write, but not knowing where to begin. As I try to keep up with my thoughts in Laos, I am also slowly chipping away at an essay about my old home, which as of April 11th, will be officially sold. So many thoughts eat my brain, but feeling the need to type, here is a brief summary of a day in Vientiane.

I sat in the park upon a mat and practiced language with a beautiful Lao girl, I went to the Cambodian embassy by motorbike with a new friend named Zack (pronounced "Zock" in Lao), I received one of the best haircuts in my life from a Lao barber, I went to lunch with Zack and had noodle soup and Pepsi, we went to a snooker club and I lost 15,000 kip learning to play, and I was told that I speak more Lao than people who have been here for 2 years.

I'll stay another day.

Not so aromatic.

2008-04-01T01:51:00.000-07:00

On several occasions, finding myself to be merely a face in the crowd, I have become completely engrossed in recording the differences in travelers. While I am not much of an anthropologist, I usually make time to record these various styles and mannerisms in my journal, so that someday, I may have a short compendium of their breeds.

Here is an example of a recent encounter, dated the 25th of March, 2008.

"There are many different types of travelers. The one immediately to my right is of the 'I-don't-shower-often' crowd; (although, I have actually never seen a crowd of this type before, its probably for the better of my health). His nose is red with clogged pores and pimples that have sprouted near its overhanging base. He is also an obvious fan of manga. I glance at his computer monitor and see doe-eyed comic girls in knee high socks, who by yelling in excitement illicit concentric circles of sunlit rays blasting around their faces. Please don't move too much my tiny-internet-cafe-sharing companion, for there are ill-favored cross breezes aloft."

Stop and breathe.

2008-03-26T20:42:00.000-07:00

In the glow of clear dusk, I wandered narrow alleys and across a wooden footbridge. I watched games of petanque and stared at colonial style French and Lao architecture. And all this, before I stopped and found myself within a pristine temple ground that by setting sun was saturated in color; moreso than any other house or structure on the meandering route by which I had come.

If someone had freshly dumped buckets of paint in the minutes before my arrival, buckets of paint upon the walls, trees, flowers, and even ground and sky, but leaving not a smear, drip, or drop of imperfection -- no white of wall fallen upon green of grass -- this is what it would look like.

Cloud white walls of many rooms border lush grass blades that sheathed the earth, and a stupa glinted in sapphire reflection. Temple fringes burned in cherry wood grains, and a golden Buddha sat beneath the royal shade of a single purple blossomed tree.

The grounds were empty as novice monks disappeared into the temple for evening chants. I turned in a circle and stepped back, trying to swallow what my eyes and ears were feeding my mind.

Nothing seemed outside its proper place. Pieces of fiery orange robes hung from strings tied across open windows and outdoor hallways while few others draped over railings. Umbrellas with curved handles leaned in corners. Even the cat, that laid at the feet of cement steps looked as if it should be nowhere else but here.

Without a footstep other than my own, and without a sound other than tonal prayers that echoed upon stone within, I stopped and I breathed through my eyes and my ears.

Observations from a Laos bus.

2008-03-24T07:08:00.001-07:00

On a weaving, winding, whirling bus ride through the Lao countryside, I scribbled brief thoughts down into my journal. Here are my musings; without the scribbling.

[11:08 a.m.]

I am on a local bus from Vangvieng to Luang Prabang and I am the only foreigner. I love it.

[11:16]

Our bus does not slow down for people, it just honks fasters.

[11:20]

The mountains are wearing crowns of silver mist before their subjects of field and fowl on the ground below. I almost expect them to stand up in their lush green robes. Suddenly though, in a jerky movement they appear to be doing just that! Oh wait, thats just our bus hitting a ramp at 70 kph.

[11:30]

I have shared a picture of my family and exchanged the minimal amount of Lao words to carry a conversation, or the maximum that I know, with the man sitting beside me. "Hohk kuhn!" he tells me, (six kids). He passes the photo around to adjacent seats, probably belonging to his family and after returning the picture to me, he offers me half of a small orange. I gladly accept. Together we enjoy the citrus fruit; me throwing seeds out the window and him throwing seeds in the aisle.

[12:15 p.m.]

We are entering another small village, but maintaining speed. Our driver lays on the horn. An oncoming bus blocks the opposite lane and a small bicyclist pedaling a cart along (well, small compared to our polluted, jumping behemoth) is on the right. I notice, we are not slowing down. More honks. Then at the last second our driver sees his opening. He cranks the wheel left in the immediate aftermath of the other bus and then follows this maneuver with a speed racer cut across to the right, dodging the bicycle, its rider, and the cart. Our bus sways left and right like a boat on the water, and I laugh to myself. What else can I do?

[12:39]

At a lunch stop, the same man who shared his orange with me now also shares a midday meal of sticky rice and dried beef, (well... it tasted like beef).

[12:58]

I think that the next bus ride I go on, I will buy oranges; just to share.

[1:07]

I snap some photographs from my window and show them to my new friend who shared his lunch. "Ngarm lai," he says, (very beautiful). I ask if I can take a picture of him, and answering my question, he poses.

*Click*

I show him the picture -- "Ngarm lai," he laughs, joking.

[1:32]

Beautiful velvet-headed children peek out from the shadows of an open window frame, as our bus passes by houses of thatch, wood, and corrugated tin.

[1:35]

These roads wind and curve so much that small plastic bags are being passed around for those who can no longer hold their sticky rice down. Just down the aisle, a girl professionally hurls into one of these bags.

[1:41]

Same girl, more sticky rice; only now its out the window. Our driver continues to smoke a cigarette and nonchalantly navigate, all while Thai and Lao music plays.

[2:04]

A flurry of smells seeps in through the windows. The mountains smell of spice and rain. In moments I am left breathless at the sight of beauty in simplicity of the people who live in the midst of these peaks; these hanging gardens in the sky. Fences constructed from sticks, not of a greater width than my thumb, keep tiny pigs in, while other pens house calves and chickens.

[3:16]

I have met a man named Kham Kheuang; his nickname is "Nick." He works with community development projects in the mountaintop villages. I thought about it for a minute, and then not wanting to miss an opportunity, I asked for future permission to follow him into the villages and see his work. It seems that I have been given a chance. His first instructions, were minimal, but pleasing: get off the bus in Phoukhoun and ask the locals where to find him.

[3:55]

I search the pages of my little-used guidebook and after asking "Nick" to check the town province and name for me again, we see that Phoukhoun is not listed; much to my delight.

[5:14]

After five hours, I am beginning to feel slightly queasy.

[5:35]

I have made it to Luang Prabang, and I did not throw up.

My dream is to have a farm.

2008-03-18T20:19:00.000-07:00

Kham; one of the few I have met while traveling that has spoken openly about dreams and has referred them to her heart. She is 26 years old. For seven days a week, she cooks, cleans, and even manages the family-owned restaurant, all while taking care of her "mama" and "papa", and holding onto her dream of a farm.

"Lao style," she tells me. "Four hectare, with room to grow vegetables," and not to forget, a house near the river where she can catch fish. The cost for a small house and land, probably about $2,000 to $3,000.

She laughed at me when I first told her its good to dream like this.

"I am crazy!", she said to me, with a beautiful smile and a laugh. "But its what I want in my heart."

I ask myself, how can I help? That is the question.

Maybe just in this conversation I have strengthened her hope, and maybe that is the best thing that I can do, but now I wonder, is there more? I would spend all my money in a course of days across the countryside if I knew a proper interpretation would follow through with the deed. I do not doubt, that this is a long process.

Mechanics and all aside, there is an analysis made by the heart that needs no other honesty. It is something you can feel and know through the eyes; and this defies scientific interpretation and mind mathematics. True dreams speak loud to those who listen.

There are ideas you will only hear if you listen, and only see if you search. This is the essence of dreams. Not mental ruminations of leftover meals that meet in your slumber, but hidden aspirations that appear in the glint of an eye. It is the dreamers of morning and evening, that by the coming of night, have owned the day.

Keep dreaming Kham. This is for you.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

[Too many thoughts have already been etched in ink upon paper. You are somewhat behind in my journey, so in a parenthetical, or bracketed form, here is a slight update.

I am in Laos.

I am walking in the footsteps of the Khmer kingdom, and not avoiding a phrasal cliche, the "mighty" Mekong, which is just 160 km north. For its historical importance, as well as its natural beauty of striated cliffs and hanging jungles, I think it is deserving of the word "mighty" in conjunction with the word "river."

Unfortunately, where I am in Vangvieng (on the Nam Song river), pastey drunken wildlife inhabit the banks and bars. Much of this waterway is left for exploration, but directly in front of me, is one of those traveler's checklist, "must do" experiences -- also known as, "doing" the river, in an inflatable tube... drunk.

(I was merely an observer).

Many beautiful sights suffer from to do lists, and the people that all too often follow them, are not really traveling; they are "checklisting"; (I probably just made that up). "Did you do the pyramids?" "Did you do the wats?" "Did you do the Taj Mahal?" "Did you do Khao San Road?" "Did you do the Louvre?" "Did you do the Nam Song?" This is a terrible lingo. Do not learn it. Do not "do" it. Seek truth in culture. Understand why a people cry, or where they worship, or how they build, or what they feel; but you must not, cannot, "do". This is the "checklisters'" lingo. This is for the guidebook-is-my-bible believers who only see culture when it falls into their lap.

We are all looking for paradise, but too often, when we find it, we change it. Good is never good enough.

I will find culture though. I will learn and I will be changed. It is not that only I have an ability, but merely that I use it.]

Happily conversing, learning, feeling, and dreaming,
Seth

(Be sure to check back soon, for what will hopefully be a picture of Kham).

28 bicycles.

2008-03-10T07:49:00.000-07:00

Today was a day to remember.

Arriving by motorbike at Nongkhaokowitpittayakom school this morning (the school's full, tongue twisting name), I chuckled as my eyes and mind together registered twenty-eight bicycles parked horizontally across the pavement. Some with baskets, bells, and seats that hovered over the rear tire for extra passengers; each one had a personality of its own. For a moment, I thought back to when I was thirteen years old and embarrassed to ride with my noisy family of six. Thankfully, things have changed, and now, this was pure bliss.

Today for an English camp field trip, we would tour Nongkhao village.

I laughed wholeheartedly as I joined the motorcade of 13 year old Thai teenagers, and I announced my presence with horribly rusted, squeaky brakes. Everyone laughed. I sounded them again, just to get a reaction.

Passing up invites to ride in the middle of the pack, I took up the rear with a supervisory role. "Okay, let's go!", Miss Yuparat said.

Sixty legs now began to pump up and down upon plastic pedals and a line of bicycles that must have stretched for 100 meters took to the streets. It was quite a spectacle.

Let me tell you, if anyone had harbored the slightest bit of doubt, or maybe plainly did not know, that there was a white man in their village, they surely knew now. Together with the students, we slowed down traffic, stopped a busy street, and garnered curious looks and many smiles. I laughed for much of our ride.

In Nongkhao, directly across the street from my home away from home, there is a bullhorn-styled loudspeaker that plays that Thai national song at eight in the morning, and airs the news by six at night. Tonight, an announcement about the English camp made its way across the village. In a summarized form, all of Nongkhao village was welcomed to join in the English learning opportunity tomorrow morning, the students were asked to bring food, and everyone was told about the new foreigner in town.

Its incredible that almost one month has passed since I first stood in front of 30 Thai students, and incredibly disappointing that on Thursday I must leave.

Due to my expiring visa, I will be leaving Thailand on the 14th, and making my way, via bus, to Nong Khai, where I will cross into Laos. I am disappointed that I must duck out of the English camp one day early, but I will cherish the memory of these beautiful Thai children and hope that somehow I have impacted them for a greater good -- for the future.

My time here has definitely not been all sunshine and clouds with silver linings. I have struggled. Its not easy to be lacking in communication -- to not have anyone to share the truth of my heart and my emotion. My journals have quickly filled with ink and notes in the margins. They are a survival tool of self-awareness. I struggle with infrequent occasion, but when depression hits in a culture of unfamiliarity, a single occasion can seem far reaching.

Even though my time here is short, I will remind myself to look forward to the blessing of tomorrow; the blessing of another morning to live, the blessing of another 28 bicycle tour, and the blessing of a beautiful people and their endearing personalities.

A literary drought.

2008-03-03T02:40:00.000-08:00

Good books provide pleasant company. I love to surround myself with friends such as these; with all their opinions and vocabulary that stimulates and nourishes my thirsting mind. But, for two weeks now, a famine of literature has struck the land in which I live. The village of Nongkhao is severely lacking in English language novels. Obviously, this is not surprising.

A lack of reading wears on my mind, and like any practice, irregularities can cause a lag in understanding. Already, within two weeks I have noticed that my writing suffers, and now I frequently consult the thesaurus for inspiration. Maybe it is extreme to say, but something is amiss. My brain's neurological circuitry feels disconnected. There is a block in my head. A pathway is pinched, and while it is not permanent, I feel there is only one cure -- literary stimulation.

My palate has become accustomed to the succulence of freedom. Up until now, here is what I have read:

***Shantaram by David Gregory Roberts.

This is a partly autobiographical account of one man's life as a fugitive hiding within the complexity of India. Escaping from an Australian prison, and eventually seeking refuge among Mumbai's 13 million souls, the story's protaganist becomes a man of many faces, out of both necessity and love.

Surely an epic novel, not only because of its size (nearly 1,000 pages), but also because of its breadth and scope, Shantaram gloriously portrays the colors of Bombay; from its dark shadows to its most lively bursts of beauty. This novel has more than earned its place on my shelf of favorites.

***Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie.

Following my obsession with the complexity of this most diverse country, Midnight's Children follows the life of Saleem Sinai; one of the children born at the very stroke of midnight on August 15th, 1947 -- the exact moment of India's independence. Like any human, he struggles with youth, adolescence, and adulthood, but most importantly, Saleem is faced with a fateful connection to a country on the verge of something altogether new. Along with a myriad of other characters born in the seconds, minutes, and hours after midnight, Saleem must fight with issues of inadequacy, and the populous' expectation of something great.

In terms of literary style, I found Midnight's Children a challenging but rewarding read. To some, Mr. Rushdie's style may seem particularly drawn out, but in reading this book, I have gained an appreciation for his lofty style and see it as a reflection of India's cultural complexity.

***Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.

A read purely for pleasure, this fantastical novel is a portrayal of two 19th century magicians, who through the years shift between both competitors and friends.

Some have described this book as a Harry Potter for adults, but I did not find this to be so. I can see where certain characteristics provide it with this likeness, namely the use of magic, but instead of creating a land of unicorns and centaurs, Susanna Clarke writes her story against a backdrop of historical England. The characters are lively and their development is wonderful; each earns a place in your heart.

***Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.

In his last days, a dying father writes a letter to his almost seven year old son. Intended as a way for a son to know a father, this book, is that letter.

Gilead is one of the most moving and powerful works of fiction that I have ever read. It is both raw and touching, full of examples that illustrate the humanity in all of us.

Marilynne Robinson writes this chapterless novel from a first-person perspective, and as you sound through each sentence of "I..." and "My...", you hear and find a connection in human triumphs, as well as the paradox of death and the mystery of grace. For those who have grown up in the Midwestern states, Gilead is a snapshot of growth in smalltown America. I was disappointed that this book reached its end.

***A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke (a struggling, infuriating, work in progress).

Having found the only English language novel in the house, I am reluctantly slogging through this non-fiction piece of travel writing. A humorous attempt (note the word "attempt") at a year spent working abroad in France, this piece of work is a British perspective of life in the midst of Parisian culture.

Thus far, I think this book is a sexist, monotonous portrayal of culture. The only reason I am still reading, is because I am a completist, and therefore, I must finish; even though it is a battle almost every step of the way.

Of course, you may form an opinion for yourself and evaluate this work on a completely different basis than me, and I beg you to try; but at this point, I doubt that I will be swayed.

Hoping to soon find a monsoon of literary inspiration,

Seth

Fire and rain.

2008-02-29T22:52:00.000-08:00

Recently, it rained in Nongkhao. For two days, a cloud cover buildup of gray impressed a ceiling across the sky, and the familiar smells of earth and grass struck memories of scent. An air of familiarity. I knew it was going to rain. I could smell it.

In the morning hours between 9 and 10, the water finally came. The cumulonimbus dam had been cracked, and in a rush of pressure the walls were breached as cool teardrops dove from sky to ground.

As most teachers were supervising student final exams, I sat by myself in the almost empty administrative office. With the sound of wind and a downpouring drizzle, I walked away from my chair to stand at the railing on an open air walkway. I felt the breeze and watched a dousing of trees and soil.

It must have rained for an hour with small and distant claps of thunder, until reaching a level of satisfaction, the clouds gave way to the sun, and humidity skillfully wielded saturation and discomfort.

These days, my mood, like infrequent surges of dark weather, seems to every so often bounce on the ups and downs of a minority in an exotic land. Culture shock is punctual.

I have copied some music from my iPod to the computer of my host family. This morning, I awoke to the sound of James Taylor, but while so far from home, a familiar song can invoke pensive thoughts and melancholy.

Yesterday marks two months since my departure, and while I know I am doing very well here, I certainly am beginning feel the pendular inconsistencies of emotion associated with infamiliarity. This is why daily I must use my mind to travel, and allow my heart a partitioned role in decision-making. Self-awareness is a fundamental necessity, and a routine mental diagnosis is commonplace in my day-to-day Nongkhao life.

I am in Thailand.

Solo travel carries with it both angels and demons; just as, I assume, group travel bears its own wandering inconsistencies of joy and sorrow. I love this lifestyle, despite the sometimes unsettling reality of my situation; (I am the only white person in this village, and in two weeks I have not shared more than 15 minutes of conversation with another caucasian).

I will keep pushing on though, through the heat and the rain.

For an update, the school term in Nongkhao has ended. I already miss the students, but my time with a good number of them is not yet complete. Beginning on Monday morning, I will be helping with an English camp for two weeks in which twenty to thirty students are expected to attend.

After this... who knows where I will go, or what I will do. I will wait for inspiration.

Nanyang.

2008-02-22T21:45:00.000-08:00

A touch on the shoulder can soften a heart.

I have been getting along very well with all of the teachers at Nongkhao, and naturally, in a matter of eight hour days spent with 250 students, rapid Thai, and broken English, I have grown attached to them. I love our conversation through translation and mispronunciation, and of course I appreciate a good game of Patong with Mr. Sirachuch Pandom -- a man who never ceases to make me laugh; his hobby is joking after all.

I do not always hear a connection through language, but I feel it through a hand on my knee as I sit, or a touch on my side as a teacher slips by with a beaming Nongkhao smile. Here I directly experience how an ear deaf to linguistic understanding creates a potent experience.

With the students, I have been just as much of a friend. In fact, now we even share the same style of shoes.

This past week, I decided that in order to better connect with students, I should appear as one of them. All Thai students wear uniforms to school. The girls wear black buckled shoes, high white socks with blue heels, and navy skirts topped with a sky blue button down shirt. The boys wear blue button down shirts as well; but with a pair of khaki shorts, high socks, and black or brownish-orange shoes called Nanyang's. After telling PDum and TDum (the husband and wife teacher team that I am staying with in Nongkhao), of my plan to reach out to the students even more, and after receiving their approval, we began a search for a propper fitting shoe.

Our first stop was the department store, but unfortunately my big American feet could not squeeze into their largest size; a 42. So the search continued. Second stop: a small one-room street shop that carried a pair of orange Nanyang's in size 43. I tried them on with my bare feet and after factoring in the thickness of a pair of socks through estimation, I paid 260 Baht and happily carried my new purchase back to Nongkhao.

Every morning at Nongkhao school, the students assemble facing the Thai flag in a seated, cross-legged fashion, until they are asked to rise for the Thai national song; and every morning, along with most of the teachers, I walk directly through this assembly. Now, as I walked into the courtyard, smiles and pointed fingers spread like a fire through their ranks. They pointed at my shoes and laughed, and of course, I laughed in return.

"Beautiful! Beautiful!", they tell me later, pointing aggressively at my new sneakers.

"Same!", I say while pointing at their's.

Everyday, I walk to their tables and sit listening to the tonal sounds of Thai. Patiently, through a smile, gestures, and a mixed bag of Thai words I now know, we spend time with each other. Without a doubt, patience is the most important and needed character trait for helping these students with English. I imagine it would be the same with any foreign language. For almost eight daily hours of time at Nongkhao school, I understand only a fraction of the students lightning fast language, but in the midst of these hours, I see the strong potential of students who want to talk and just like me sit, waiting for fragmented border crossings in the lie of the land between us.

This has been a lesson in patience with a smile.

"English t-shirt?"

2008-02-15T18:47:00.000-08:00

[The second in a two part rapid fire.]

At some time around 9:30 AM on February 15th, my traveling friend and I rolled over in our beds to a pounding on the window. "English t-shirt?"

I looked across the room at Billy.

"T-shirts?", he said. "We don't want any t-shirts."

I went back to sleep.

-----------------------------------------------

Five minutes later. Knocking.

"English t------?" the voice said."

Billy rolled over, "Seth, I think she's saying 'English teacher?'" He opened the door. It was a staff member from the Jolly Frog guesthouse.

"Are you Seth... Wyncott? You sent e-mail to school yesterday. Miss Noppawan, she hear to see you now. She been here since 8:00. How soon you be ready?"

"Uh, 30 minutes...?" I said in a questioning yawn.

"No! She has been waiting."

"Ten minutes. I'll be out in ten minutes."

"Okay, I will tell her."

The door closed, and within seconds the fragments of my memory began to reattach.

The previous day, with a compelled feeling in my gut, I sent an e-mail to a Miss Noppawan. I had responded to her single page notice for English teachers needed at a nearby government school, in the rural village of Nongkhao. My e-mail expressed a very small bit about myself and my degree, but moreso did I stress the fact that while unsure if my background would qualify for a position like this, I would still love to see the school and meet the children in Nongkhao.

With my exhaustion from waking early to catch the sunrise, and staying out late the previous night, I had forgotten to check my e-mail for a response and instead drifted off to sleep without the slightest notion that there would be an opening, but while I slept, a same-day response sat in my inbox. Here is the message:

Dear Seth Wyncott

Thank you very much for your interested Nongkhao school.
Yes we need English teacher very much. So it is Ok for you

if tomorrow Miss Yupharat will meet you at Jolly Frog. and

bring you to see Nongkhao school and talking about teaching.

She will meet you at 8:00 am. Is it Ok? Please let me know.
Thank you.

Sincerely,

Noppawan

This was unexpected. And I certainly did not think that the Jolly Frog staff would find my name in the logbook and come pounding on my window. Yet giving credit where credit is due, I suppose I admire their persistence.

I pulled on my jeans (in the case that this were a professional interview I would need to look nice), while in the same instance I brushed my teeth and wet my hair at the sink. Without much time to think, I walked out the door to breakfast where Miss Noppawan, and Miss Yuparat (a fellow teacher), patiently and properly sat waiting for me at a table in the front.

Miss Noppawan held a copy of my e-mail in her hand, and picking it up as a reference, she looked pleased to meet me and enthusiastic about what I had written. Without a menu I ordered a fresh cup of coffee and an omelette, and after running back to my room for my wallet I soon was sitting in their car on my way to the school at Nongkhao, to meet the class and teach a lesson.

More fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. I smiled in the car, and with a Peace that passes my understanding, waited.

As we drove the scenery changed from city, to rice paddies, to village life until we pulled into the gravel drive at the Nongkhao school. I followed Miss Yuparat and Miss Nongkhao up the cement stairs into the main building where the office doors all hung open, maybe in a spirit of community, but also to allow a small escape from the heat. I was introduced to the assistant director and other staff members, and after checking a test for grammatical errors, I went to meet the class.

I stood in an empty room with Miss Yuparat, two whiteboards connected from end-to-end, two markers, and 30 empty desks. I took a breath and exhaled with puffed cheeks.

A school bell rang.

Thirty desks now slowly filled with thirty heads of deep velvet black hair, thirty school uniforms of yellow and black, and thirty smiling, laughing faces.

Miss Yuparat gave me a brief introduction and then told me to begin. "Tell the students about yourself."

Thirty notebooks opened.

I took a fading marker and wrote, "My name is Seth."

The class read my print in unison, until voices trailed off on the ending TH sound; this I have quickly learned is very difficult for the Thai.

I changed markers and we continued.

"I am from America."

"I live near Chicago."

"It is very cold where I live. We have snow."

"I am the oldest child in my family. I have 4 brothers and 1 sister."

"Some of my hobbies are reading, writing, playing the piano, and biking." (This was a hard one).

"She sells seashells by the seashore."

After 45 minutes, some laughs at my struggles with a Thai tongue-twister, a joke about wanting to buy my jeans, a question if I play football (soccer of course), and a comment that I look like David Beckham, we finished our first session.

After lunch in an outdoor cafeteria with teachers that spoke little English, and 250 students that smiled, shouted "hello hello!", and laughed at the new minority at their school, I met with Miss Yuparat and Miss Noppawan.

"Yes," I told them. "I will commit to teaching for the final two weeks of the term, at least."

They expressed their enthusiasm and thanks, allowed me to use the internet, offered up place for me to stay, and after a meal with Miss Noppawan and her family, I was back at the Jolly Frog by 7:00 PM.

I walked back to my room with joy and thanks, for again His strength is proven far greater than my weak abilities.

I know it will be a challenge. Already, in the first 45 minutes with the class I learned a great deal about intricacies regarding how to write upon the board, how to pronounce, how to check work, and how to praise. Everything is worthy of note. Still, challenges await. It will be interesting establishing myself in a position of leadership in a class where full communication may often be difficult and ages vary from 7 and up. I was warned there are some "naughty" students, but this is to be expected. There is also the question of Eastern and Western philosophies, of teaching and of life. I certainly anticipate learning just as much as the students that over the next two weeks I will teach.

I am not intimidated.

Now I seek to be changed. I am anxious to begin.

Tonight, I move out of my guesthouse, and Monday, I begin.

Coffee is my favorite.

2008-02-15T05:26:00.000-08:00

[There has been much to write about in the past two days, and while rapid fire posting in succession is not how I prefer to publish my thoughts, this time will be an exception. Broken into two posts -- here are my observations.]

Yesterday morning I went to take pictures of the sunrise, but enshrouded with clouds, the sun never showed its face.

I woke at 5:10 AM after pressing the snooze on my pocket-size travel alarm (thanks mom), and lethargically but forcefully moved. Rarely do people crack the seal between eyelids in the dark of 5:00 and feel that sleep has reached its needed end. Even if they have learned the robotic response of awakening, the body will still speak in its whispers. Your knees will implore you, your feet will plead with you, your arms will resist you, and your head will sink into the pillow like a stone in quicksand -- only deeper it will settle in. Though with the notion that if I didn't get up then I would surely struggle the following morning, I sat up in and twisted my feet to the floor in a single motion, grabbed my flashlight (thanks dad), and left the room.

As I walked, there was enough light to see the road, but not enough to see the blank shadows that walled and obscured detail on either side.

You may know that Thailand has many stray dogs -- and if you do not, now you do. While I maintained a slow stroll, there were several times in which I heard their low rumbling growls, snarls, and barks; and several times still that sound met reality at my heels. They snapped with nervous aggression while I repeated for comfort, 'they are probably more afraid of me than I am of them', and 'don't run -- walk'.

Well, the fact I am here to write this proves that I was not eaten by frustrated street dogs, nor did I fight them off heroically to save myself (or a small child). I made it to the famed bridge at Kanchanaburi, (Josiah, I'm sure it will not take you long to find the historical significance of this city in Thailand), and the sun never rose. I don't think I captured anything spectacular, but I am still glad I tried.

I like it here in Kanchanaburi, and I will probably stay a few more days (at least...). My guesthouse is called the Jolly Frog and through splitting the cost of a double room, the total comes to only 100 Baht per night. This peaceful place is located right close to the river with a green lawn watered every morning, along with numerous carefully maintained hedges, flowers, and trees. Breakfast is also really good. They have fresh, real, espresso coffee! Yummy indeed.

[I thought I might include a few random pictures, since according to many of you, I rarely post enough (which I suppose you are right in thinking). So here are some randoms with captions included, including a short video of my wonderful bike with a basket, that transported me up, down, and around Kanchanaburi.]

Me.

My Chariot.

A picture of my chariot.

Billy trying to keep warm on our all night bus
from Krabi to Bangkok. Unfortunately, we were sitting
directly beneath the air conditioner!

The Tarutao Broiler. The sand here was extremely hot,
so obviously, Billy had some trouble. Here he is...
sizzlin'.

I don't operate by days, I operate on whims.

2008-02-10T07:08:00.000-08:00

After a two nights in Koh Lanta, one night in Pak Bara, and three nights on Koh Tarutao, I am back in Krabi. The past week has been has been full of many discoveries. Not only of a tangible nature, but also discoveries of feelings and challenges.

After traveling with Laura and Billy for the past week, I have learned that while I enjoy company in the course of my journey, I am still somewhat of a solitary wayfarer. In The Dog Fighter by Mark Bojanowski, there is a quote that goes something like this: "a walking man needs no other companion than his thoughts"; (I am reciting this from memory, but since it is one of my favorite quotes, I hope I have not botched it too much).

Unfortunately, I believe a major issue with my recent group travel discoveries, is that some of the attitudes I have seen, have greatly upset me. Again it has been confirmed that too often, rather than allowing the journey to change them, people bring their poor attitudes along for the journey and seek to surround themselves with their comforts.

In Koh Chang, I met a twenty-one year old Kiwi named Ben who had recently been to India, and at the time was finishing up his journey in Thailand. Although our conversation was only for an evening, intuition tells me that he would have been a great companion for the road and as I feel obliged to say, other than Ben, I have not yet found a kindred spirit in my travels.

Reflective of my thought life, my journals have become filled with scribbles and half-formed essays, solitary observations, notes in the margins, and rough sketches and doodles. My mind is always running full tilt, and the blank pages that still exist within the binding of my open book will have a very short life.

On to a wonderful discovery of a tangible nature, I must now tell you in a whisper about Koh Tarutao.

Maybe it is not as much of a secret as it probably was five years ago (therefore somewhat undeserving of my whisper), but our stay on this island was absolutely wonderful. The sand was pristinely white, and the water of perfect temperature. Small fish of silver and black lace coasted through the water right along the beach, dancing between shallow and shallowest. The food is great and monkeys scamper about during the breakfast hours stealing plates and bottles of ketchup; (maybe this isn't so wonderful... but it is humorous at the very least).

Finally, in the darkest part of night, or the newborn hours of the morning, it seemed as if the stars sent their children to the water. The sea was filled with fireflies that tumbled over and under each other in the wake of lightly crashing waves. You could look to the north and see their faint light, and looking to the south, you could see them again.

In awe, I didn't know what to make of these beings. Each quiet aquatic pulse ran over my feet and legs as I stood in one place, and each tiny firefly of the water that careened off my shins lit up with a yellow glow. It was as if the smallest amount of resistance caused them hurt. Stirring the water with a hand must have caused even more alarm, as a host of the creatures were lighted in a dotted flourish that moved with the current of my arm.

They really appeared to have a magical existence, and in this moment I imagined that if I could hear them speaking, it would be a squeak of the highest pitch, and if they were in all the ocean to shout together in unison it would only sound as if a tiny pressure cooker had let out a puff of steam.

[From left to right: Me (duh), Caroline , Billy, Laura, and Mark.
My friends from Malta, Salt Lake City, and Italy.]

Stepping off the bus (2).

2008-02-05T07:38:00.000-08:00

The past few days have been lazily spent in Koh Lanta and Krabi; Krabi being where I am at the moment. Tomorrow, myself, Billy, and our new Italian friend Laura will travel four hours south to Pak Bara. There we will stay the night and by morning catch a three hour ferry to Koh Tarutao.

[Oh yes, I haven't told you yet... my friend Billy (or Tyler, as "Billy" is a nickname from our wildland fire crew) arrived in Bangkok on the 31st and has been traveling with me since. Most likely he will continue to do so until the end of this month. Laura Lenti is an Italian girl that we met at 5:00 AM in Krabi. While we waited for the town to awaken from its slumber and start the ferry service to Koh Lanta, the three of us seemed to hit it off pretty well. Tonight we will all share a two person room on a giant bed, and tomorrow we move on from here. As of now, three travel as one.]

Supposedly one of the last remaining, unspoiled islands in Thailand, Tarutao, is from the sound of it, in a fight to maintain a high level awareness of issues relating to ecotourism. There may possibly be one other resort on the island, but the small amount of accommodation elsewhere is rationed by the Thailand National Park Service and consists of primitive bungalows and housing where the power is shutoff in the evening. I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to hear of practices such as this; where the land is given careful and meticulous attention.

It is depressing to see the severe lack of environmentally sound principles throughout Thailand. The islands can be especially disturbing. Shoebox bungalows and speedily built resorts of shoddy construction surface from the earth like an infestation. Trees are torn up and the land is turned over, yet this is as much a Western issue as it is a Thai issue.

Tourism is a major commodity in Thailand and we, being Westerners, do a large part to create the demand. Though demand does not have to be unethical, in the sense to which I will later refer, more often than not it is.

Knowing that Thailand is an inexpensive destination, many tourists on holiday do not care what they spend or how they spend it, only that they are pampered with comfortable domestic planes, fast boats, big buses, quick taxis, fresh towels, never-ending drinks, fat bellies... (and on it goes). Here, the philosophy seems to often run along these lines: "I am here to relax, so give me what I want when I want it, get out of my way, and I will turn a blind eye to any hazardous impact of my being here."

This attitude is not something alien to the United States. America definitely deserves a certain amount of attention to the lack of sound principle in the care of its own national parks, but in looking at Thailand for the moment, I do not believe that ecosystem education is as readily available here as it is in the states, and therefore the problem of pollution and polluters carries a certain gravity.

I fear that these islands may not be paradise for long. There is a low level of awareness, but I must admit my determination to the idea that it only takes the initiative of one to begin the process of change. Even a spark can start a forest fire.

This thought brings me back to my conversation with Pat in Opononi, and as promised, I must revive onto this page some of the ideas we discussed -- more specifically, the idea of the ecosystem.

It is more of a philosophy, but in the realms of education (Pat has been working as a school teacher), business, art, or any other arena; whether for work or pleasure; whether subconscious or conscious; the laws of cause and effect and always afoot. The New Zealand education system, as well as corporate and private American business, will at their most healthy state, operate under the principles of an ecosystem.

Of equal importance, and worthy of substantial note, is the relationship between two elements: the ecosystem (the ideal organization), and the organism.

An organism lives. It breathes and feels. It responds to stimulation; both positive and negative, and under healthy circumstances, coexists with a variety of other organisms -- both similar and quite different. This is organic diversity.

Like synergy, where the sum of individual parts can become greater than the whole, organisms, which operate under the greater boundary of the ecosystem, will only reach their full potential, or a synergistic level of output, when the individual role is valued. To put it another way, a certain level of equanimity must be in practice.

Each individual role, from janitor to math teacher, from staff accountant to CEO, must have an understanding that their contribution will ultimately affect the health of the ecosystem in which they exist.

Just as education and business can cooperatively, and separately, use this model, the maintenance of a healthy environment also requires a holistic approach in which everyone from the taxi driver to the package tourist understands their role in a greater picture.

Some may say that in today's world it is impossible to find balance and exercise this philosophy on a daily basis, but the question is, should we not try?

Broken English with taxi drivers.

2008-02-01T19:40:00.000-08:00

My good friend Missy Williams recently sent me a message posing this question: "does this trip make the world seem larger and you more sublime, or smaller and more connected with God and other people?"

In a roundabout way, here is my answer.

About a week ago, just before I dozed in and out of consciousness with a slightly twisted neck on an all night bus to Koh Chang, I decided to catch a taxi to Ekamai bus station. The Thai were all too eager to help, and I received a host of different answers as to which local bus would take me directly to the bus station. Some said, take 511, others said take the 503 to Victory Monument and then hop on the 509. After receiving another variation of inner-city bus route advice, I stood on the sidewalk and I looked at my watch; it was 9:00 PM. Night had set in. I looked at some buses as they flew by with some of their occupants holding handkerchiefs over their mouths to filter the polluted smoke that poured out of exhaust pipes. In this moment I added two, no three strenuous factors together (a multiplicity of bus numbers + endless bus routes + final destinations in Thai writing + and pollution) -- that's four. On top of my exhaustion (five), I decided to get a cab.

After some price negotiation, by 10:00 I tossed my bag into the back seat and following it, I dropped in myself. My driver with long fingernails and long hair pinned back on his head turned to me and held a glossy folded brochure up to my face. "Which one do you want?" he asked me, pointing to naked Thai girls in the dim light. "None" I told him, "lets go to Ekamai." He laughed, "None huh? OK. Now we go to Ekamai."

As we drove to the other side of the city, he asked me the usual questions. Where are you from?, How long have been in Thailand?, How long are you on holiday? Where are you staying?, and Where are you going? I answered most of them, and then, as I thought was the polite thing to do, tried to ask him some questions.

Its interesting to note how much my English changes from person-to-person. If I were to speak with you, who are reading this, I probably would converse with you similarly (though slightly different) to how I am writing now. You would understand every word, and even in the rare chance that I would use an uncommon word, I am sure with logic you would fill in the gaps with your understanding of context. Talking in broken, or sometimes shattered English, is very different. Sometimes in my Western mind, I hear myself sounding like a child, but the reality of the situation is that there is no other way to communicate. You must simplify.

"How long... you work... in... taxi?"

He looks at me puzzled.

"How long you drive?"

(You see what I mean?)

After a few minutes, I learn that he has been driving the taxi for three years, but this isn't his taxi he tells me. For a second I am concerned. "I am driving it for a friend," he says. "My friend had to go home."

Somehow, I am back at ease.

Born and raised in Bangkok, he seems to know the city pretty well as he points out parks and markets that I inquire about as we pass them in the dark. It doesn't sound like he ever has a holiday. I mention some places in Thailand, asking him if he's been there. When he laughes and shakes his head no, I begin to feel.

Stuck in a traffic jam of motorbikes, trucks, cars, and buses, I sit quietly in the back and try to face the reality of what he has just told me. He has never been outside of Thailand and probably never will. His pay is meager -- and that is stretching it.

I have enough money in my pocket to buy him a bus ticket out of Bangkok. I have enough money in my wallet to send him out of Thailand, but even if I offered, I doubt he would ever believe me or ever go. This is his work. This is his life.

Just like the girl who works in the internet cafe six days a week, or the one who runs back and forth between restaurant tables with farangs over-bearingly waiting their bill, many people here in Thailand will probably never leave, because the facts are, many will never have the opportunity.

I am sure that much is the same in other parts of the world that sooner, rather than later, I will reach through my journey. Yet even if I were able to visit all these places, I would never even scratch the surface of understanding the truth.

To answer the question, I don't feel more sublime, but the world does seem much larger. There are privileged few who get to travel and run from country to country just like they are running from one backyard to the next, but I am in the minority.

Paperback thrillers.

2008-01-29T00:34:00.000-08:00

Looking back over the span that my entries have covered, and the words therein, I can't help but feel that my last entry was... a weak description of life here. Let me give this another go.

The days are laid back here in Koh Chang. This is island life after all. Each day is hot and humid. The heat of the afternoon is oppressive and it seems that everyone, including the dogs, look to escape its dousing of rays that burn and moisture that seeps through the air.

My first day here I walked the Bang Bao docks and passed shops on stilts selling knockoff Armani, Dior, and Gucci sunglasses (does this make me obsessive compulsive: that I feel the need to backspace my previous arrangement and place those imitation brand names in alphabetical order?), Billabong boardshorts, spaghetti and meatball dinners, tropical fruit, and diving lessons; but the owners of these one room stores did not aggressively push their merchandise in your face. Instead they sat in the shade and fanned their face. Some even laid in hammocks taking one o'clock, two o'clock, and three o'clock naps.

After three nights, I find myself slowly slipping into a similar mindset, and thinking back over the past few days I can't remember doing much of anything at all. They have passed uneventfully, but uneventful on an island, is perhaps exactly what you can expect to find.

My bungalow has a double bed with a mosquito net draped across the ceiling (in case I find the need), a three speed fan mounted on the wall that oscillates through the night, and a shower with hot water -- though a cool shower after the hot air soaks your skin is much nicer.

After a swim, or maybe just a cool shower, a favorite of mine is the forest green hammock which hangs in the shade merely 10 steps from my front door. With a paperback thriller (The Bourne Identity) in my hand I lie there and continue to do nothing at all.

I rarely will read books like this; and not to make a cocky statement, but even in reading -- what you put in is what you get out. Being on Koh Chang though, I don't really have much choice.

Even so, I find that in pouring through these pages, I am pleasantly brought back to Channahon public library trips at thirteen and fourteen years old to find a Michael Crichton or Star Wars novel (yes, this officially classifies me as a nerd), and also memories of discussions that followed these reads with good friends (now I am officially a super nerd).

Somehow, from my hammock by the sea, I don't mind.

Lizards and monkeys.

2008-01-27T19:58:00.000-08:00

There are lizards in my bungalow and monkeys in the trees.

I still can't get over the fact that I'm actually here; in Thailand; on an island. Yes, I'm on an island. And yes, its hot everyday. And yes, there are elephant treks in the jungle.

(Yes, there is jungle).

Today is my second day in Koh Chang; an island about 5 hours east of Bangkok. In my search for an escape from some of the noise and odor of the city, I found this small little paradise. It is somewhat developed, and not quite as cheap as I had hoped, but in Thailand, even what we begin to see as expensive is actually cheap.

I will probably stay here one more night, especially after getting quite sun burnt from a fishing and snorkeling trip all day yesterday. I don't want to move too much.

Sweeping smiles.

2008-01-20T06:03:00.000-08:00

As I sat on the curb, waiting for an opportunity to capture the controlled, menacing speed of a tuk-tuk, I began to scoot closer to a small girl. She appeared to be no older than four, and she swept the sidewalk with a straw broom. It could have been her father that she imitated, or maybe a close family friend, but in tiny misplaced strokes she handled the broom that was twice her size while her sweeping companion shoved the dust off the walk with force and experience.

Over the next few minutes I shifted my weight on the concrete, and carefully observed as I felt an opportunity would soon arise. She now stood by her lonesome against the wall and softly grabbed at the broom that had minutes ago been set down.

*Click* said my shutter.

At first she stared with a questioning and apprehensive glance, but soon brought the straw broom closer and stood at my side -- an arms length away.

*Click* said my shutter.

She looked at me again. With dark eyes she wondered if I was safe and as her chin nearly touched her chest, she studied my eyes with her own and my heart formed a smile. Even now, a smile is lifted to my mouth as I think of her beauty and childlike wonder.

I gestured at her and offered up the screen of my camera, and as she inched over I waited in peace, watching her every move. She looked at the photograph I had just taken, and then looking from her picture to my smiling face, she broke out in a whole-hearted giggle. With tiny white teeth and a front-toothless grin that would melt the smile of any old grump she bellowed with laughter and threw her head back in joy.

Thrilled with her amusement, I looked through the lense again. Now, to give her a laugh more rather find art for myself, I snapped a few more shots in rapid succession. She posed.

*Click*

She sauntered back to me, and leaning softly over my shoulder her heart laughed again. Be it known, there is nothing as joyful as the laughter of a child.

As again she moved back to position, again my finger pressed the shutter. Then, quick out of hiding, sprung three more. Two girls and a boy with his hair buzzed short now huddled around me and begged for a look. Four sacred heads, and four little hearts, crowded around, chatting amongst themselves. In a matter of seconds they learned this new game and they pressed together waiting for me -- three in one shot. Siblings or friends, I wasn't sure, but a close-knit group they were.

If you are wondering about the fourth, she seemed to be the oldest of the group and stood quietly off to the side. As I offered to take her picture, she graciously declined; smiling as she did so.

I wished in this moment, and I still wish it now, that I spoke the Thai language, because oh did they talk! The three youngest broke into a symphony of words and I smiled and laughed as I listened to them express their photographic triumph, and their dreams. I can only wonder what it all means, but I know that their smiles and mine broke the plane -- the differences between us were bridged for an instant and that is a triumph for me.

The midday sun strikes at ten.

2008-01-19T06:39:00.000-08:00

After 3 nights, I am still in Bangkok, and opposite to the usual flashpacker plans, I think I will be here for a few more.

Between learning the basics of the Thai language with my new friend Kit, and finding quiet tables to read another chapter of Midnight's Children by Salmon Rushdie, I am slightly caught up in this city of contrasts.

Daily walks on thoroughfares that slowly etch themselves onto the map within my head increase my curiosity and disgust. Bangkok is a frenetic mecca of chillies and petrol fumes. Sweetened chicken and rotting fruit. It is both alluring and appalling. But somehow I tell myself, one more day. One more day of language. One more day of walking with no purpose other than to browse the streets and feel the heat of a midday sun that strikes at ten.

Yummy.

2008-01-17T03:24:00.000-08:00

For dinner tonight, I went on a search for a meal. I didn't have to search long. I ended up at a street vendor less than a mile from my hostel. This is what I ate.

Two helpings = 40 Baht (just over $1.00 U.S.)

Wow.

A nap on a bench.

2008-01-16T21:56:00.000-08:00

Last night I wandered around Kuala Lumpur International Airport with bloodshot eyes. As soon as I arrived, taxi drivers approached me from all directions, trying to sell me a ride, and neon storefronts beckoned me to buy their wares. I refused both in my random wandering and instead settled for an airport bench.

Since my connecting flight to Bangkok was not scheduled to leave until 9:10 the next morning, I had thought about taking a train into downtown Kuala Lumpur. My flight had taxied into KLIA at about 9:30 Malaysian time. I figured it would be something fun to do instead of spending 12 hours in the airport, but my sleepy state persuaded me otherwise.

Before bed I walked back and forth across the airport that slowly grew quiet. I searched for a drinking fountain but through broken English discovered that here, there was no such thing. I soon settled for a bottle of water, and after gulping most of it down I sprawled out lengthwise on a slightly cushioned bench near the back. I wrapped the strap of my bag around my wrist and turned onto my side to fall asleep.

In that moment, it hadn't hit me that outside the four walls of Kuala Lumpur International was a country as exotic as Malaysia. I felt a humid blast of air rush in through the revolving glass doors that led outside and eventually to the city, but I did not feel the hit. I saw headcoverings and robes of purple, orange, and white that covered softly darkened skin tones, but it did not hit me then. For the first time, the only language that filled the air and rose to my ears was not recognized as my own, but somehow, I am not yet shocked.

I know its coming though. I know that elation will at some point turn to anxiety and for a period of time I will be shocked and questioned; overwhelmed and defused.

In this moment, looking back over the past two weeks, I have loved this adventure and I know that I always will. I love defining life as it comes at me. This life of excitement and challenge is a dear part of my existence. But at some point, in some instance, I believe I will be shocked by unfamiliar sights, sounds, and words. Until then, I can only wonder when.

Now, in the moment of writing this, I am sitting in Bangkok, Thailand. I decided to take a break from the slow and complex navigation to my hostel, as well as a break from the heat and humidity. It is about 1:20 p.m. here, on the 17th of January. I have been slowly navigating through this notoriously busy city and I have constantly stopped to look at my map, but I think I am almost there. I will be staying somewhere in the Banglamphu area, which is west of the city and nearby the river.

Almost there.

Have a cup of tea.

2008-01-15T02:59:00.000-08:00

My last few nights spent in New Zealand have been absolutely wonderful. I have been blessed with the hospitality of the Lagis, a Fijian family living in Mt. Wellington who have given me a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and their fellowship.

Here is an example of the rest that I have experienced here.

The night before last, Atu (who I had met on the plane from Fiji) and I went for an 8:00 p.m. swim in Mission Bay. The water was surprisingly warm and as we waited for Sam (another friend) to join us, we relaxed in the gentle waves and talked about life and the sea. By 9:30 we were sitting down for dinner with Auntie Frances, (Atu's wonderful wife), and Esther, their beautiful daughter. Our meal was wonderful. Together, we talked and laughed while enjoying steamed trevalli cooked in coconut milk and spinach leaves, which was served over white rice with a sprinkling of fresh lemon over the top. With taro (a root) and a juice that some laughed at but was really quite good, we ate our fill and finished with a cup of tea and some songs. As I have learned, you cannot have breakfast, lunch, or dinner with a large cup of tea and some biscuits on the side.

"Take me to Fiji!" I proclaimed as I finished our tasty dinner. "I do not know if I will be able to eat American food again."

Thank you Atu, Auntie Frances, and Esther. Thank you Sam. Thank you Tuk, Selena, Kano, and Ellie. And of course I thank the rest of the Streams' Community for your support and prayers. I would not have wanted to start this journey in any other way. Know that you are so loved. I will never forget my time in New Zealand or your hospitality.

I will make it to Fiji yet!

Stepping off the bus (1).

2008-01-07T22:34:00.000-08:00

This week was shaping up to be rather uneventful. Keyword: was.

Up until tonight, a great part of my time thus far had been spent in Paihia, New Zealand. While there, I did little other than read on the beach, shoot some pool, and spend time with new friends from all corners of the globe. It was last night that I made the decision to move on, and so this morning at 8:00 a.m. I checked out of my hostel, and boarded a bus bound for Auckland.

The bus mood seemed rather somber as a number of twenty-somethings on holiday lethargically awaited the scheduled Auckland stop. Many hunkered down in their seats with hope of a nap and the possibility of hurrying time along on the stops in between. Slowly, the allure of sleep had also crept into my mind and I drifted off without much thought, not waking until a scheduled stop was made in a small town of about 500 people, called Rawene. The scenery of what seemed to be a cozy New Zealand fishing village now surrounded our bus.

Making the scheduled stop, our driver let us know that we had just under an hour before we would continue on the road to Auckland. As he made this statement, I suddenly felt a great frustrated breath of air travel throughout our bus. I looked around trying not to pass judgment, and was greatly challenged in doing so, for the town of Rawene, while small, was obviously full of character. A few tiny shops dotted the land on which we now stood, and with the overcast skies of Hokianga Harbour providing a backdrop, a few fisherman went to work while others waited for a ferry. Strolling away from the oversized white tour bus, I walked over to a peaceful and yet brawny looking man with tattooes from head-to-toe, who sat outside on the curb with a cigarette in his mouth and a dog at his feet. His name was Dallon, and he owned the artist shop whose front stoop he now sat upon. Small talk was effortlessly played through and as we transitioned into the subjects of travel and diversity, I knew that one hour was not nearly enough time for my curiousity.

With five minutes left before our scheduled departure from Rawene, I walked straight up to our driver and asked him if another bus would be stopping through in the next few days. I told him that I wanted to stay and with raised eyebrows he said, "of course...."

As we unloaded my bags the other bus passengers slowly shuffled back to their seats through the now open door and many of them gave me a look that said, "uh... what in the world are you thinking?", but already I was too excited to give much of any thought to their condescending glances. I felt that I needed to get off the bus, and knew that this luxury of defining my life on a daily basis was just what I had traveled for. And as that white caravan pulled away and the faces of its passengers stared at me through the windows from their high perch, I smiled back at them with my pack against the curb and knew that this was where I needed to be.

Immediately, my sporadic decision turned into a wonderful adventure. Unable to withdraw any cash in town, I called a hostel across the bay and made reservations for the night. With the ferry consistently shuttling back and forth, in less than an hour I was aboard and on my way to the backpacker lodge across in Hokuhoku. Once I arrived, I was greeted with a lovely, small organic farm, hidden in the midst of a sub-tropical rainforest. The owners, with great respect for the land, had built this particular hostel with colors that naturally blended into the rest of the scenery, giving the building a camoflauged and treehouse-like appearance that really was charming to say the least. After orienting myself with the grounds, I took a tour of the building, booked two nights, and then dropped off the majority of my belongings except for a shoulder bag that I had earlier fashioned from a compression sack. This small satchel carried my camera, a rain jacket, and my journal, and would ride with me on the ferry back to Rawene.

An area of extreme historical significance for the Maori people, Rawene is one of the oldest settlements in New Zealand. The surrounding area, known as Hokianga, is according to tradition, the landing place of Kupe -- the great Polynesian explorer. This is the heartland of the Maori people. According to my research, one of the meanings of Hokianga, still used by the Maori, is Te Kohanga o Te Tai Tokerau, which translates to, "The nest of the northern people."

As I am continually learning, while traveling alone, one must always be open to potential held in the hands of the unknown. Another rabbit trail that weaved its way through open-ended opportunities would once again cross my path, and once again I took a leap into the unknown. Over the next ten minutes on the ferry, I talked with Kura, a Maori woman who also happened to be the gold medalist waka champion of New Zealand. She was on her way to Opononi and with a beautiful smile she invited me to join her and her daughter as they went to visit family.

Now, in this moment, I am writing these words from the house that belongs to this admirable family and in this moment, I am overwhelmed. Today, I have met Pat and Graham, a couple who have a mind for change and a heart for their people and culture. Pat and I shared in conversation about standardized education, the beauty of the land, and the idea of change that begins with one; and together with Graham I learned much about business and leadership over dinner in their home. I have also had a chance to spend time with Kura's lovely twin grandchildren Madison and Tammin, and as the four of us took a walk through town while a delicate rain fell from the sky, a smile was on my face.

What an honor it is to be in this place. What an honor it is to have stumbled upon Hokianga.

(I will write again soon, with ideas from my conversation with Pat, Kura, and Graham. There is much more to tell.)

A kiss on the cheek.

2008-01-04T20:14:00.000-08:00

Love is a splendid thing.

At first sight of this phrase I would think that many people immediately think of a pitter patter feeling of the heart, and while romance is important in the proper time, it is certainly not the end of love as a whole. Without the supporting pieces of care, patience, and selflessness, among many other attributes -- romantic love is by itself warped.

Love has lost its perfection, and though today's tainted understanding of love is surely a global travesty, I myself can only speak on what I have witnessed in my own culture; for whatever that is worth.

In America, I see love as an advertisement. So many are sold on the idea that if you have this car, women will flock to you; or if you wear this perfume, men will notice you. To many, this recognition is of the greatest importance and is even reason enough to take a relationship to a further level. Yet it is all about image -- a surface-level, lust like relationship. The desire to want and to be wanted seem to vie for the sole criteria in a search for love.

May it be clear that in no way do I condemn the possession of nice things, for I myself enjoy fashion and style, but I am merely saying that the truth of love is not found in tawdry displays of extravagance. I doubt that love can ever stem from the surface. Its roots are in the heart but also in the conscious and truthful effort of the mind.

While traveling, and now in the time of writing this, I still see a distortion of love, yet in the past few days I have been blessed with pictures of a love that cares just for the sake of caring. A love that does not expect anything in return. I have seen this in Pastor Atu, a Fijian living in Auckland who without hesitation told me to call him and stay with his family when I return from Paihia. I have experienced this love from a group of travelers from Canada, Brazil, and England who invited me to spend the evening with them. And of course, I have experienced this love in my meetings with a girl from Argentina named Macarena, who sat with me on the beach for hours and taught me the custom of greeting and parting with a kiss on the cheek. Joy filled my body when I experienced this open way of showing care, and obviously so, the title of this blog is dedicated to the beauty of this custom. Thank you Macarena.

It is in an experience like this, that I see how love in simple ways is felt across cultures. A love that simply cares with nothing expected in return. What a beautiful thing.

The art of doing nothing.

2008-01-02T18:55:00.000-08:00

Today is my third day in New Zealand and slowly I am becoming accustomed to a traveler's way of life. The first couple days in Auckland were actually quite expensive, (unfortunately the American dollar is quite weak). Now though, I am in Paihia, which is also known as the Bay of Islands, and while still expensive, I am learning the ropes here and am getting along quite nicely.

I absolutely love the freedom that this opportunity has allowed me so far. I wake up each morning and face so many opportunities, but each choice carries with it a simplicity that I could have never before imagined. I do not have an agenda, rather I wake up each morning and either read a little or grab some snacks for breakfast, after which I walk to the beach with a book in my hand and do nothing for the rest of day except relax.

Thinking more about this idea though, brings me to the thought that I believe we Americans are not very good at doing nothing. My first day in Auckland struck a small bit of fear into my heart, yet in retrospect I feel that more than anything, this was due to the fact that I had no schedule, nor did I have anything specific to do. I had only planned as far as a destination. I had only planned to enjoy a different culture, to meet people and talk with them about everything and nothing at all.

It took me a minute, but I know that this simplicity is truly who I am at heart. Each and every day, I love this idea more and more.

In this journey thus far, I have met wonderful people, coming from all different parts of the earth. I have met Brazilians, English, Germans, Fijians, Samoans, and Tongans. And I have got along quite well with all of them. It has been wonderful.

There is an entire traveler's network at my feet; a network that up until three days ago, I never knew existed.

"Seth, what are you doing?"

2007-12-06T17:09:00.000-08:00

I have had to ask myself this question many times. I asked it during my final weeks at college; the "will I ever get this done?" weeks. I asked this question on a fire this summer, while swallowing chunks of steak by the light of my headlamp, and looking at the people all around me who quickly became a pack of wolves at dinner. And now, I'm asking the question again as I prepare myself for a yearlong (maybe longer), round-the-world journey, that begins in New Zealand on New Year's Eve.

Here are two related little facts: (1) other than Canada, I have never traveled internationally, and (2) I'm traveling alone.

I think I've come to the conclusion that I am not a very logical person. Now, don't get the wrong picture of me. I am definitely a reasonable (and I hope an intelligent) person, but reason is a relative way of going about things. I can reason myself to the point of finding sanity in the midst of what others see as insanity, but this does not make me sane nor does this mean that there is always a logical explanation for my risks.

Ah well. I have had the travel bug for quite some time now and having satiated some of its thirst for the United States, I am now itching to take my backpack and my camera to the opposite side of the globe.

I have tossed around trip ideas like this one for quite some time, in fact, I almost quit school freshman year to go to Fiji for 3 months. All I wanted to do was surf, fish, and figure things out. But I didn't leave school, which for me was a good decision, and instead I pushed my travel plans back until after graduation. Gradually, through three years of daydreaming, this Fijian escape has evolved into a dream of long-term travel. You may be wondering how a 3 month vacation in Fiji turned into a plan year-long adventure. If you are, its basically as simple as this: I really wanted to see New Zealand, and Thailand, and India looked amazing, and so did Syria, and Italy, and Ireland too. So with this thought, I decided to visit the places in between and make my way from New Zealand, to Thailand, from Thailand all the way across Asia, into Africa, then north into Europe before someday its time to go back home.

After buying a one-way plane ticket to Auckland, and a one-way to Bangkok; after calling consulates and talking to travel insurance companies; after packing my one backpack that will carry everything I need with a couple things I don't; after all this thought, and very sporadic, open-ended planning; its wild to think that in less than a week I will be on a 23 hour long trip from Chicago to Auckland.

Through this blog, I hope to keep all of you slightly up to date with where I am in the world and what I am doing, as well as what I am learning. At times I know this trip will be extremely taxing on my mind and body, but I am convinced that every minute will be completely worth the effort. Going into this journey, I know my greatest ally is cultural sensitivity and the important understanding that I know nothing. This philosophy is not meant to downgrade the level of my knowledge and intelligence, but in admitting to myself that I know very little of this world, I am given the opportunity to learn everything.

This is what I know.

In finishing this first entry, I want to thank my family for giving me the drive and independence for this undertaking and for always providing support, even when I have crazy ideas.

Thank you so much to all of you who are reading this. You have contributed to who I am. Some, in more ways than others, but all have made an impact. I will never be able to put together all the tiny seemingly random pieces but everything is relevant, therefore I carry with me on this trip a part of each of you.

Lastly, I thank God, who without, this would otherwise be impossible.

Its time.