Impact Dreams

I don't usually write about dreams on my blog, but this one seemed important somehow. For the record, I'd have to say this is about the 4th or 5th dream I've had in which Barack Obama played a positive role. I've never dreamed about Hillary Clinton or any other political figure. I find the dreams a little odd, I don't idolize Obama, although I do hope he becomes president. Remember when reading, it is a dream, and it is strange as dreams are...

The Dream:

I had a doctor’s appointment, and I intended to keep it. I had heard that President Bush was going to be coming to the First Methodist Church on Montgomery Drive in Santa Rosa, and I wanted to go, just to see a President. I was standing on the street in a crowd when Obama walked by, followed by some noble people in orange/red robes of justice. He stopped and pointed to me and another person and motioned for us to follow. I thought about my doctor’s appointment, but being hand picked to follow behind and become a part of his council, I felt I had to continue walking behind Obama. When we got to where we were headed, I told Obama that I had an appointment but I would be happy to cancel. He nodded his head, and left to go to Mars for an important council of leaders. As he left, a large part of earth was sucked out of the atmosphere like a ball, like the moon.

There were scenes of Obama in this place, making important decisions with consequences for the survival of the planet. And there was concern about the consequences of the hole in the atmosphere, and the ball of earth just rolling off and disappearing like it did.

Awaiting the return of Obama, there were large crowds of people in the place where I was. I was standing by the ocean. It was chaotic and frenetic and very dark. I didn’t know what was going to happen, and was afraid. If the ball were going to come back into the atmosphere and hurtle toward Earth it would crush us all. There was a fearful knowing of this among the people. Suddenly the air was raining objects, and the ball came into sight, green and blue like a little earth, it could be seen far off, spinning and coming quickly, its shadow looming over us as it approached. I reached out and took as many as possible into my arms, and everyone else was doing the same. The impact came as expected, but it wasn’t painful. Instead, it was as if we were all released. My cells felt the sense of intermingling, oneness. The missing part of the earth rejoined itself.

And then it was peaceful, and I was walking by the sea. Everyone I passed held up their hand and we touched hands together like prayers, and looked into each other’s eyes. We recognized each other and although we were strangers, we knew each other. We also knew nature, and when I breathed, I could feel the cleanliness of the air; the Earth was restored. That’s not to say there weren’t those who didn’t believe, I could hear comments of non-belief of the restoration being spoken by some. But they would soon see that it was true, because the evidence was everywhere.

And then, as is the usual final course of any dream, I woke up.

Walking with Pappy

Yesterday my father and I stepped out of our flat on Russian Hill in North Beach to walk down the hill to have lunch at a nearby Afghani Restaurant. It has been a dream of his for a while to go have their lunch buffet, and although he attempted it last week on his own, he found it closed. He made the mistake of assuming it was closed because of the massive crane that was up on the hill directly behind the building. So we decided to try again and walked down the three flights of stairs and down the street toward the restaurant.

Normally, for me, this is a 5 minute walk, but no matter how slowly I walked, I could not keep pace with my father. I had to stop every few feet and wait for him. My father has spent his entire life walking around this city, and it is a little disconcerting that it should be so difficult now. I remember when he first began slowing down; it was several years ago, and seemed to contain itself to the hills. However, as he has aged, so has he slowed. It is almost like a battery running down. Rue the day that he can no longer walk.

The restaurant was closed permanently, it seems they have moved locations, we won’t be going to the new one. Instead we went to a Chinese restaurant next door, which although it was a Hunan place, it was not so hot. My father took the bus home. I walked back home, stopped first at a couple of stores, and was still home at least 15 minutes before he was.

He’s a slow ol’ geezer, but I love him.

Roots and Fire

Since I returned a little over a month ago, I’ve spent a significant amount of time watching the highway of ships moving in and out of the bay. I am drawn constantly into the little back porch that has that view, hypnotized by Alcatraz’ spinning beacon which casts its distant beam across the eyes in 5 second intervals.

Since the back porch is my favorite place to be, I’ve painted a picture, and also happened to make the room astoundingly clean. The picture is an oil painting of a burning forest at night reflected in a body of water.

I am longing to put down roots.

When I leave the back porch, I retreat to my room; a cave like room really. It’s almost in the dark save for one lone window that looks into an air well. I keep the top half covered with a huge stained glass piece of red, gold and blue. The lower half of the window is covered with a sheer golden curtain that is draped with shawls and fabrics. The walls of my room are covered with wall hangings and fabrics I collected while traveling. The floor has two Indo-Persian rugs from Agra. These three photographs that are a backup group for my Pegasus Theatre showing, are hanging on the wall, with their title cards. Also hanging on the wall is the burning forest painting. It seems fire and water at night is a theme on the wall of the cave which is my room.

From the group, Evening on the Ganges:

1. Rowing to Arti
2. Floating Prayers
3. Night Ride to Nirvana



From a desire to roam to a desire to nest. That is what has become of me.

In my room, I dream of putting down roots. Long tap roots that go into some deep crystal studded aquifer and take in the life giving mineral elixir. Growing green and strong as my branches reach out into the surrounding community, participating in art, music, dancing, gardening, friendships, openness, trust and …

Openness and trust…

Two days into my adventure, (and I am speaking of the very beginning of my trip which is well documented in the US Travel Writings portion of my website, www.catvibe.com), my father and I were in the parking lot of the Lincoln Motel in Austin, NV when I ran into Corinne, a Sebastopol poet I had interviewed several years before. She and her husband were off to visit their land in Colorado. We talked about my pending adventures, and Corinne, a huge fan of travel, was very encouraging, explaining that she and her husband had spent many years traveling, and there were times when they didn’t own any keys, opting out of homes for the sake of freedom to roam.

The funny coincidence is that two days after I returned from my travels, I went to Aroma’s Café in Santa Rosa, and ran into her as she was coming out of the restroom. I told her I had just returned from traveling around the world, and reminded her of our Austin meeting.

She told me she was addicted to travel.

“You know what I wish?” she mused. “I wish I could just keep that openness you feel when traveling,” she touched her heart.

“Yes”, I replied, “and the way you just let things go, even relationships, you just really enjoy people and then never see them again. Sometimes you don’t even learn their names!”

She nodded her head, “and you're really appreciating that person or that conversation on the bus or in the café, .”

“Savoring it,” I said.

Then we hugged and said goodbye. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again…

And trust…well that’s a whole ‘nother subject.

The Trip Ended

But not the adventure.

Ok, I went to Angkor Wat, back to Thailand for two days, and then I came home. The high point was really Chiang Mai, so why have a long drawn out ending?

I came home, and it took two weeks to peer out of my room, and another week before the next adventure was planned: two weeks in North Carolina with my mother in March. I'm thinking of moving to Asheville. It was written that it's one of the happiest places on Earth (Eric Weiner, "The Geography of Bliss"). We shall see....

Meanwhile, I've been busy preparing a photography show of some of my photos from India which will be displayed in the lobby of Monte Rio's Pegasus Theatre during the performance of their latest offering, The Perfect Ganesh. Directed by Peter Cooper, the play set in India runs from February 23 to March 22. The play also features audio and video I recorded while in India. Please come and check out the play and the photos. http://www.pegasustheater.com/

Some have asked me if I've experienced culture shock since returning? Everything costs too much in this country! Especially food. It is appalling to the senses. Food and medical assistance should not break the bank. Nor should your mortgage. One needs time away from work in order to slow down long enough to watch the flow of water.

Stay tuned for more USA centric blogging.

A Kiss in Chiang Mai

One of the best purchases I made in Bangkok was a used mobile phone, found in a stall in the hectic electronic section at the MBK: A Thai mall that defies Western sensibilities. When I got to the Chiang Mai bus station, I took out my Lonely Planet guide and called a list of moderately priced budget options, but found them all booked. Then I noticed a very basic one that a friend had recommended, Sara Guesthouse, and gave them a call. “We have a room and we’ll keep it for an hour,” said a female voice with a British accent. ‘Must be Sara,’ I thought to myself. “I’ll be there in 5 minutes,” I said. I picked up my bag and walked over to the Tuk Tuk driver who was sitting in his rig with his feet up. He came to attention as he saw me coming, “Where you go?” he asked. “Sara Guesthouse,” I showed him the address. We sped off in some direction and arrived a few minutes later down a very quiet soi (alley) in front of Sara Guesthouse.

The room was basic, but clean and quiet and with an attached bath. You can’t do better than 250 baht a night in Chiang Mai (about $7.50). I never did actually speak to the woman who answered the phone, she was always off doing something, but instead I talked to a Thai woman who seemed to be managing the place. I asked her if there were any good cooking schools, so she gave me a brochure. I called and made an appointment to take a two day cooking class beginning in the morning, then went out to see where I was.

I was in a vibrant and interesting city with temples and pagodas on every block, some of them very ancient and rich in history. I was in a shopping haven with everything from well crafted soft cotton clothing to Thai silks to laquers and silver and Hill Tribe antiques and oh my god! And I thought Bangkok was enticing. I was in an outdoor adventure advertisement arena with trekking, rafting, elephant riding, and more being advertised on every door front, there is no lack of things to do in Chiang Mai.

And I was signed up to spend all of the time I had in a cooking class.

In the morning, the minivan came to pick me up for the class. We drove to the market first, and had a tour of the kinds of foods used in Thai Cooking. Then we went to the school, which was set up, as Tom, a fellow student said in his German accent, “Like a military operation.” The staff was completely efficient at teaching a group of about 15 of us in a very assembly line manner, each group of 5 had its own assistant to teach a particular dish. We learned all the basic elements of Thai Cooking, sugar, coconut, fish sauce, chili pepper, kaffir lime leaf, basil, lemongrass, ginger. Once you have made a few dishes you realize that the above ingredients are used in every single Thai dish in varying proportions. We ate all of what we cooked, and we were all completely stuffed. I realized one day was all I needed, and got out of my two day commitment so I could spend more time exploring Chiang Mai.

I walked back to my guesthouse to freshen up, and then went out to take a walk, looking specifically for Wararot Market where I heard there might be some good silk deals. Winding my way through the streets to the market, I found myself in a Chinatown. It is always very obvious when you’ve come to a Chinese section of town, although the people look similar, the landscape changes. Suddenly everything is lined with red, red lanterns, red trim around the store, Chinese characters appear in the signs, and the population of the very small area increases by hundreds, it's difficult to miss. In any case, the Wararot market was a bustling food market by the time I got there. There were many kitchen utensil stalls behind the food markets, and although there were fabric stores, they only sold fake silk.

Around the market are many alleyways that are adorned with stores, and in some of those stores I found some astoundingly good deals on beautiful cotton clothing. It was on one of those little streets that I wandered into a store and noticed all of the Indian and Nepali things being displayed. The storekeeper had his back to me when I asked him if he was Indian, but when he turned around I knew I had it wrong. “Close,” he said “I am from Nepal.”

“Oops! Yes you are!,” I said, “I saw you from behind, I can see you look Nepali.”

“Thank you!,” he smiled.

“Where in Nepal?” I asked. It turns out he comes from a village up the same Nepali road where my bus crashed last Spring, a common occurrence there, so we got to talking.

The conversation moved on as it usually does, where do you come from, what do you do, etc., ‘I do media, bla bla bla’ I handed him my business card.

“Can you sit down and talk for a while?” he asked me, pulling up a chair. Always feeling a bit on the defensive with salesmen, I wondered what he had to sell me, this sitting down technique was employed by many Indian and Nepal sales folks I have encountered. Instead, he asked me more about my work, and about traveling, and we talked about the frustrations of traveling in India; a never-ending source of storytelling.

“Can I take you to get some dinner tomorrow night,” he asked me, “to chat?” I don’t remember doing this consciously but somehow at some subliminal level I must have been taking in his creamy youthful delicate skin, his warm brown eyes, the lovely shape of his lips.

“Sure,” I said without thinking, “why not?”

He smiled. “Six O’Clock” he said. “I can pick you up at your guesthouse?”

“I’ll come here,” I said, thinking that would be easier than trying to explain where my guesthouse was.

It did not hit me until halfway through the next day that I had agreed to go on a date, a recognition that immediately brought a shot of panic into my system. I had spent half the day walking through the section of town that sold silver, and then crossed the river into the inner moat section and explored all of the temples and pagodas therein, photographing signs advising ethical behavior which adorned some of the temples. By late afternoon I was completely exhausted and I began to feel my date fears really set in hard. It would have been very easy to cancel it at that moment and I almost did, but instead I called him and asked if he would come to the guesthouse and we could go somewhere close by. I gave him my phone number so he could call me when he arrived.

At about five minutes after 6, I heard a cat crying. It was very loud and regular and it was extremely close. I opened the door of the room to see if it was out on the balcony, but as I stuck my head out the door, I noticed it was farther away. That’s when I remembered that I had set the ring tone on my cell phone to ‘meow’. My date was calling, he was just outside the gate.

He picked me up on his motorcycle and took me up to a beautiful restaurant in a flowering garden overlooking a lake in the foothills of the mountains around Chiang Mai. We really did have a lot in common it seemed. He studied journalism and at one time had a radio show in Kathmandu until he was kicked off the air for interviewing a Maoist Folk Singer, someone who is now in favor. He told me gruesome stories of his days reporting, of the Maoist rebellion and of friends lost.

It was my last night in Chiang Mai, I had an early morning plane ticket. Things moved quickly for lack of time to move slowly. We tried to eat the banquet he had ordered but it seemed neither of us had much of an appetite, we nibbled. The mood was sweet. His eyes beaded as his smile broadened and the twinkle in his eye melted any last puritanical thread that might have been holding me back.

Despite the overwhelming desire to accept the kiss he was leaning in to give me at the restaurant, I remembered the sign in the monastery making it clear that such public displays of affection were strictly not acceptable in Thailand, so I held him off. “I love you,” he said as he stole a kiss from me in the dark outside the restaurant. ‘I don’t know what love is, but this sure feels good’ I thought as I melted into his arms and returned the kiss. I pushed him away as the lights of a car attempted to reveal our secret transgression. “Let’s go,” I said, putting on the motorcycle helmet.

I held on to him tightly as we navigated the way back through the city. The night air was thrilling as it rushed past my face. As we wound our way through the alleyways to the hotel, my eyes met a woman who was hawking at a massage parlor. I had seen her several times while out walking. Her glance and smile implied her suspicions of our intentions. I smiled back, confirming her suspicions. Weaving our way through the maze of alleys, we arrived at the guesthouse, parked the bike and walked up the stairs towards my room. I fumbled with the key and finally got it into the lock and the door opened. We walked nervously into my room and closed the door behind us. The sign on the back of the door was prominent:

“Guests who are not registered at Sara Guesthouse are not allowed in room.
Sara Guesthouse takes no responsibility for consequences as a result of not heeding the above rule.”

...

He gave me a delicate kiss before leaving in the wee hours of the morning and I shut the door behind him. I listened as he made several attempts to kick start his motorcycle before the engine eventually caught and the silence swallowed up the sound of him riding into the night. If I slept at all, it was superficial.

In the morning, he was gone, I had a plane to catch, I went to get a cup of coffee and some breakfast at a little restaurant down the street. Eva Cassidy’s lilting vocals came over the café speakers singing ‘Fields of Gold’ and that’s when I felt it; that pang of desire to hold on to that sweetness, that passion, to kiss those lips again and again, that hope that maybe Love really is in there somewhere and maybe a little piece of it could be ours…if only I could stay in Chiang Mai a while.

Oh hell…that song always makes me feel that way, even if there is no particular person I’m thinking of. And besides, I CAN’T stay in Chiang Mai a while. I finished my coffee and paid, ran back to the guesthouse and got my bags.

I caught the Tuk Tuk to the airport, spent one crazy day in Bangkok at the dentist and the tailors, caught up with my son James for a few short hours in the middle of the night, endured negligible sleep rations, and then flew off to Cambodia early the next morning to explore the treasures of Angkor Wat.

Mae Salong: Just In Time for Tea

"You should go to Mae Salong." said Alberto the Italian as I was fleeing Phuket. "I bought a teapot," he patted his bag which held his newly purchased teapot which was insulated on all sides by large bags of Oolong tea, "you will like it there".
High in the Northern Thailand hills lies the peaceful little Chinese village of Mae Salong. It sits on a ridge just under a high peak, the nose of which is capped by an ornate Chedi. I went up to the Chedi on the advice of a couple of travelers I had just met and joined for coffee. They had been in Mae Salong for a week, and I had only one afternoon and evening there. “What is the best thing to do with one afternoon?” I asked. They glanced at each other and both agreed, “The Chedi”, they said in unison. And so after a bowl of pork noodle soup, I climbed up each of the 700 steps that led the way chanting ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’, one word for each step.

Halfway up the steps I was approached and propositioned by a group of relatively harmless young teenage boys who were accosting the town with their Bangkok attitudes. “Thai boys?” said the hotel owner when I told her about it later, “not sound like local boys.” The local boys are all Chinese, of course, and probably have manners. At the top of the steps I was greeted by a Hill Tribe woman, selling her wares in front of the Chedi. She let me know she was the mother of 5, so I felt sorry for her and bought her offerings. I went up into the Chedi and took a good look around at Burma and all of Northern Thailand as well as the birds-eye view of the village and tea plantations of Mae Salong.

It wasn't until midway through the day that I knew I would end up in Mae Salong. I had caught the bus back to Chiang Rai from Chiang Khong, and took a taxi masquerading as a Saengthaew to catch the boat going to Tha Ton. I didn't think I would have time to do both Mae Salong and Tha Ton, and I liked the idea of a boat trip up the river through the countryside, so I chose Tha Ton. However, I had apparently missed the daily boat a half hour earlier, and the other option was to rent a private boat for 2500 baht (about 75 dollars). I didn’t feel like being so extravagant so I huffed and got back into the Saengthaew and told the driver just to take me back to the bus station, I would go to Chiang Mai. He said, “I can take you to Tha Ton”. I turned him down, but the fact that he would drive that far made me think…

“How much for you to drive me up to Mae Salong?” I asked, sticking my head through the back window when the truck had come to a stop. “1500 baht”, he yelled up toward me. “No that’s too much!” I exclaimed, pulling my head back into the truck.

Next stop, “How much you spend?” the driver asked me. “1000 baht,” I answered. “Not enough,” he said, “I have to drive long way, drive back, gas expensive,” he asserted, “1200 baht” (about 35 dollars).

“Ok” I said. “Pull over so I can sit in front.” The driver pulled over and I settled into the front and ate the bananas he offered me as we made our way up the windy road to Mae Salong. The scenery was magnificent and I knew immediately that I was going to wish I could spend more time in those hills. You can get there cheaply if you have time to take the bus and then wait for the public Saengthaew, but I was feeling short of time so this was like a miracle for me. I had only one afternoon in the town, and I wanted to make the most of the time.

When I came down from the Chedi, I walked from one end of town to the other, wandering through the hill tribe market stalls, and the multitude of tea shops before the sun set and I made my way back through the town to my hotel.

The hotel, The Mae Salong Villas, was a red lantern trimmed very ornate Chinese affair with a huge banquet hall. They are a tour group hotel, essentially the only one in town, so they often have a full house. The other options were some inexpensive guesthouses closer in to town, but I decided to splurge my one night in the mountains.


My room had a spectacular view and was as clean as a hospital, and about as warmly appointed, you can’t hand it to the Chinese for their interior decorating skills. The gleaming whiteness of the walls however, made it very easy to hunt and kill the evening mosquitoes, a task I’ve become very good at, occasionally using one hand to grab and squish one right out of the air in one agile movement. This movement has become quite the impresser to those lucky enough to witness it. I’ve yet to meet anyone who thought this activity was cruel.

The banquet hall was crowned at the back by a wall of tea and a facility for tasting. The owners have a tea estate and sell all their own teas at the restaurant. I had a long talk with the owner and found out that the tea is picked by Hill Tribe folks. “They are very clever,” said the owner, “We used to pay salary, but they were very lazy and did not pick enough tea. Then we switched to paying them by weight, and they started picking more stems because stems are heavier. This is a great problem later because we can’t use stems to make the tea. We have to supervise very closely to make sure they pick only leaves.”

Unlike the plantations of India, the workers here are not supplemented beyond their salaries in theory or reality. They get paid for their labors and that is all, and then they go home in the evening, to their Hill Tribe villages. Also unlike India, here, the tea industry seems to be thriving. How do the laborers fare? Good question.

The next morning, after buying much tea, I hopped on the public Saengtaew down to Tha Ton, changed to another one that went to Fang, and hopped on the bus that took me through the sharp pokey mountains down to Chiang Mai where it seems I’ve left a little piece of my heart.

Oh, Alberto, you were right... and I also bought a teapot.

Making it to the Mekong

Where I am now, the Mekong river provides the border of Thailand and Laos, and I am sitting on the porch of my bungalow looking at Laos as occasional boats make their way up or down the river heading to their various destinations. This town is Chiang Khong, a legal border crossing between the two countries therefore making it a backpacker stronghold in Thailand’s North. From here, you can take a boat to China.

Getting here from Chiang Rai was an interesting journey. I arrived in Chiang Rai after a day of delayed plane rides and airport people watching activities. In Chiang Rai I had the late afternoon to explore the bustling downtown area, and the next morning to do an early morning walking tour of the temples. Then I checked out of my hotel and hopped on a bus to Chiang Saen. I got off and the Tuk Tuk driver was waiting for me (as usual) and I asked him if he could take me on a quick tour of Chiang Saen’s ruins and temples because then I wanted to take the Saengthaew to Chiang Khong. It didn’t cost too much and was a lot of fun, and then he dropped me off at the Saengthaew which was about to leave.

A Saengthaew is a small pickup truck that is lined with benches in the back. The Saengthaew was full so I sat in the front squished between the driver and a middle aged Thai woman. Neither of them spoke any English. I listened to them talk trying to pick up the occasional word or so. The Saenghaew was a manual drive truck, therefore I had to keep my knees to the left to avoid getting in the way. I was not comfortable with leaving my backpack with it’s computer occupant on the top of the truck, so it was also squished into the front and on my lap. The scenery was beautiful however, as the truck wound its way along the Mekong. “Aihhoooooga” went the Saengthaew’s bell, letting the driver know that one of the passenger’s wanted off. The Thai woman and I looked at each other and laughed. I was enjoying this ride.

We reached a town that was in the middle of nowhere and the Saengthaew driver pointed to a waiting area and used his hands to tell me that I should wait there for the next Saenghthaew that would take me the rest of the way to Chiang Khong. I waited for about 20 minutes when another Saenghthaew appeared, and he used his sign language to tell me that he wouldn’t be leaving for about an hour and a half.

I went for a walk to find some food, and found a little grocery store where I bought some kind of stale rice cake for 5 baht. I sat at a table in the store and ate the cake and then started looking around the store, I guess it was the town’s grocery store, although it wasn’t much in the way of supplies. The woman who was keeping the store opened up a banana leaf package and ate a little piece of what was inside, some dark sticky rice with coconut on top. She used her hands to invite me to try some. I did and it was delicious, she gave me the rest. Her friend showed up with an orange that she divided up into three parts, which we ate, throwing the seeds off to the side. They taught me a couple of words in Thai, which I promptly forgot.

I said Khorb Kuhn Ka and Sawatdee Ka (Thank you and Good day) to them and waved as I walked off in the direction of a sign in English that said Hand Weavers -->. It took me down a long road past a schoolyard full of Thai children of all ages learning dances and just having fun. The road took a sharp right turn right on the cliff that looked out over the Mekong, so I stopped and enjoyed the view for a minute, noticing a tobacco plantation growing near the river’s edge. I found the weavers studio and went in to find the cutest old ladies wearing delicate turban like hats and sitting at their looms, weaving.

“Sawatdee Ka” I said, holding my hands up in the prayer position and bowing in the traditional Thai manner. “Sawatdee Ka!” They repeated the gesture, bowing twice as deep and laughing, using gestures to invite me in. I took off my shoes and came in, looking at their handiwork and oohing and ahhing. I picked out a couple of things and found that price can be discussed easily without using words. One of the women pointed to the scarf I was eyeing and held up 1 finger. 100 baht. This was something she made herself on the loom. At the beautiful hill tribe embroidered fabric I was eyeing she held up five fingers, 500 baht. I bought them both, I didn’t bother to try to barter. Not so expensive for beautiful things and lovely people. And this place didn’t look to me like it saw much tourist traffic.

After posing for pictures and thank yous and goodbyes, I made my way back to the Saengthaew stand and waited for the truck to leave. It finally left about a half hour after the agreed upon time, and wound it’s way along the Mekong until we got to Chiang Khong, right before dark.

So here I am, enjoying a day off along the Mekong in a sleepy little backpacker stronghold with lovely bungalows that cost only a few dollars a night. The only problem here is Laos. Laos is really loud in the morning, broadcasting Buddhist prayers on the loudspeaker system all day long starting at about 4:00 in the morning.

Day 2

No noise from across the river except a peaceful bell early in this morning. Apparently Buddha Day is over and Laos is back to normal. A stunning sunrise greeted my day, my bungalow faces East.... From my balcony retreat, I could hear the occasional sound of music wafting over from the other side, a drum, a flutish thing, some kind of hammered tonal instrument. Someday I must go there, not this time.

I rented a small motorbike and headed up to a hill tribe village about 8 km outside of town. I didn’t want to take a motorbike, and tried waited almost two hours for a Saengthaew which never appeared. While waiting, several people asked where I was going and made motorbike gestures, pointing at me. I finally succumbed and went to a place where I could rent one, cheap. The shopkeeper gave me a lesson and I learned in five minutes how to drive one. Luckily the roads are easy and other traffic is scarce, which is good because the signs alone are enough to scare one off the road. Obviously I lived to write this blog. Actually, the freedom and the breeze in my face was quite nice...don't tell my father.

I went up to the hill tribe village and found that there really are places that tourists don’t frequent. The scenery of palms, vines and banana trees, giving way to wooden shacks and laundry hang to dry. “Hello” shouted the occasional child practicing English, “Sawatdee Ka” I replied. Smiles, giggles, and the occasional dirty look from the occasional unwelcoming villager. I stopped and had sticky rice in banana leaf at a store, and bought some chili peppers as I had seen many drying in the villages.

I learned on this trip that almost anything wrapped in a banana leaf and sold as food is probably delicious.

I am having a hard time wanting to rip myself away from this bungalow, which comes with it’s own personal cat, albeit a cat with fleas, but a cat never-the-less. And the cat loves me, it can barely get enough of me. As I write this now, from my porch looking over the Mekong, the cat is asleep in the hammock I have recently abandoned.

Tomorrow, a new adventure…I will leave this lovely town by bus and make my way to another place.

Get me the Ph** out of HERE!

Ok, here’s the deal…after spending a delightful week with my son James in Bangkok, I went North to Ayuthaya to see the marvels of the Ancient Kingdom of Siam. Amazing temples, Buddha’s head being enveloped by a tree, ruins of ancient temples with rows of headless Buddhas, stuff like that. Then I intended to go further North, but could not get a ph***n ticket because, as the man at the bus station said “No ticket, because Happy New Year Thailand” (say in Thai English inflection or you totally lose the idea). Apparently all of the Thai people take the rare holiday opportunity to visit their families in the North, and who can blame them? So the wonderful woman at the Baan Lotus Guesthouse, (a wonderful place to stay in Ayuthaya by the way), recommended I go South, to Phuket. Another traveler from the guesthouse, a lovely man from Italy named Alberto who happened to be going to Phuket, and I hopped on the train back to Bangkok and were going to take a train but found out that we could take a pretty cheap flight instead and so hours later, suddenly I was in Phuket. Way down South.

It was dark when we arrived and we took two rooms at the first guesthouse we came across. I was satisfied as it was clean and cheap, even if the showers were not hot. We then, because it seemed Alberto was enamored with the idea, allowed a Tuk Tuk driver to recommend an expensive restaurant by the sea where we went for seafood and wine and ambience. One whopping hell of a commission later, he brought us back toward the hotel where a fell into my room and watched the continuing saga of the devastating news about Benazir Bhutto on BBC news. After spending night after night watching her battle through the last few months while I was traveling around in India, I felt a closeness that I can’t explain. I am really sad to see her struck down. A shining light for Pakistan, and for women of Islam has been darkened. But again…I digress.

In the morning I walked out of my room at 7:30 in the morning to find Alberto standing outside my door about to knock. Primed to go find coffee and then try to make the 8:30 boat to Koh Phi Phi, we both shot out of the hotel and went on the hunt. Not an easy thing to find coffee before 9:00 unless you like Thai coffee. We ended up in a busy Thai food market eating dim sum and drinking Thai Coffee with the locals. That was my favorite moment in all of Phuket. We missed the 8:30 boat as we decided to relax and aim for the 10:00 boat which made for a more relaxing morning.

When we got to the pier we bought tickets to Koh Phi Phi, which left at 11:00 instead of 10:00 so we waited. More and more tourists showed up until it was obvious to me without even going to the island that I was going to really hate it there. This was NOT my scene, young 20 something babes in miniskirts and tattoo covered men with shaved heads, jet setter families with tow heads and golden tans, not a single Thai person to be seen. My stomach began to get tighter and tighter. I’m not the partying kind, I’m more the lying around with a book kind. I’m the 300 baht a night kind, not the 3000 baht a night kind; the only option on Koh Phi Phi. I was obviously about to be with the wrong people. Alberto wanted to go there to say to his friends that he had been there. He was heading out the next day. I thought I wanted to go with him for the same reason, but the more people that showed up, the tighter the knot in my stomach became. The boat was late. I ran back to the reservation booth and cancelled my ticket, apologized to Alberto and kissed him on the cheek, said bye bye and hopped in a taxi back to Phuket town and to the airline ticket office to get tickets North. By tomorrow night, I should be in Chiang Rai, where I really want to be. Temples, mountains, rivers, Thai people. One or two tourists, not BILLIONS.

But since I was in Phuket, I thought that maybe I could find a nice quiet beach for one night. Even if it cost me a little bit more than I’d like to spend.

Um. No. Read my lips, DON’T COME TO PHUKET TO GET AWAY FROM IT ALL. If you want this vibe, just go to Venice Beach. Seriously! If you go anywhere, I hear Krabi province has more hope for peace. But even then, really, avoid Thailand at Christmas and New Years. Just don’t come here.

So then, I paid a good deal of money to a taxi man who took me from beach to beach to find a hotel, and every supposedly dreamy beach looked like hell to me. This was from the tsunami of people and development; the other tsunami’s damage is no longer visible. I finally landed in Patong Beach, probably the most chaotic of them all. I Ph***n hate it here. Get me the Ph*** out of here. “Tomorrow morning, first thing,” says the God of the North.

Oh, and by the way, Phuket, in case you didn’t know, is pronounced Pookette.

Udaipur: I was an Indian Princess

The car arrived at 9 in the morning and I hopped in, destination Udaipur. We began the long drive down the obstacle course known as the Indian Road. Through the city of Jodhpur we went, onto the highway and passing an endless sea of trucks. We turned onto a one lane road as we drove through rural India. The driver tried to communicate something to me in his very poor English, something along the line of ‘smaller road to Udaipur, other road take longer’. “Shortcut!” I exclaimed. “Yes, short cut!” the driver laughed. Apparently the road cut off some 60 km of driving, saving us about an hour.

We drove through the Aravali hills, passing the Jain Temples in Ranachpur, I noticed signs of giant cats and a goodly number of dhurris waving in the wind, their weavers hoping to call in customers. We stopped for lunch there in a very nice restaurant called Harmony, offering a Rajasthani buffet catering to tourist busses. The food was excellent and it was lovely to sit outside in the forest. A few hours later we were in Udaipur, asking every person along the way how to get to Hanuman Ghat, the area where the hotel I hoped to stay at was.

This is an interesting way to find directions in India but it works. The driver just keeps asking people and they tell him directions up to the next turn and then he asks the next person, and so on until we get there. One of the people he asked was a man sitting in a little shop doing miniature painting work, I was intrigued by the peaceful little shop.

We squeezed through a very narrow little street and finally came up on the hotel, The Amet Haveli, a 350 year old haveli that was on the lake shore. I got out and looked at the room; very beautiful. I don’t know if it was really worth the 3000rs price, but it had a window seat studded with cushions looking out over the lake, a 4 poster bed, and a beautiful tiled bathroom with an actual bathtub! A rare find in India. 3000 rupees is less than the price of a highway hotel in the states, so what the hell, why not? I was treating myself. I took the room. How was I to know that the bathtub would only be able to be filled two inches with water from the tiny hot water geyser? Ah well, the window seat totally made up for that.

I went for a walk, noting the architecture, feeling the familiarity of the place and ignoring a multitude of rickshaw drivers and store hawkers, by this time I was hardened to that old Indian song. I walked across the bridge to the other side of the lake and talked to some gypsy musicians, also courting my money. I bought a CD and they offered to pose for me so I snapped a shot. I walked back and noticed once again the man in the store doing miniature paintings and felt attracted to go and see what he was doing. Unlike the many other miniature painting stores which were adorned with annoying hawkers, this place was small and I was drawn in by the man’s concentration on his work. I sat with him for 3 hours and watched him mix paint, draw boarders and frames and I looked at his collection. We talked about meditation and concentration and how the world falls away when immersed in an activity. I admired his eyes which gave an intense and direct gaze when he spoke. I picked two paintings and paid a fair price for them and he invited me to his home to meet his family the next night. I didn’t end up going, though had I not been otherwise engaged the next evening, I might have.

I went back to the hotel and had a small bowl of soup and a drink at the restaurant by the lake, gazing out at the palace on the lake, and the palace on the opposite lake shore. A voice struck out across the water wailing a classical Indian stream of notes. Although the city of Udaipur is just as busy and insane as any other Indian city, the lake shore is like going back in time 300 years to some other India that is now only a distant memory, a melancholic longing.

The next day I got up early. I had my breakfast out on the lake and watched the bathers at the ghat while listening to the rhythm of the laundry wallahs giving their clothes a severe thrashing. I walked across the bridge and made my way up the crooked streets of the old city to the Grand Palace, former capital of the Mewar Kingdom. The palace was a marvel, room after room of splendor in architecture. This palace was restored not too long ago from what looked in pictures like an absolute mess. I took the audio tour and learned, among other things, of the princess Krishna. In the 18th century her father made a mistake by promising her to the princes of Jodhpur and Jaipur. They both came to claim her and set up their camps outside the city. The father, realizing that if he made a choice to give her to either man it would plunge the Mewar Kingdom into war, decided instead to have his daughter put to death. They poisoned her, but she didn’t die. They gave her another dose, and still she was not harmed. They could of declared this a divine sign, a miracle, but instead they made a draught of the most powerful poisons imaginable, and this sent her into a deep sleep, a sleep from which she never awakened.

I cried when I heard this story. I must have been Krishna in another life. No wonder men bug me. Well not all of them…but…I digress…

Winding my way back through the old city, I got caught in a traffic jam. It was a parade of Indian pilgrims who were carrying holy water in a pot collected from the sacred Ganges River. They were bringing the water to the lake at Udaipur because by merging the waters, the lake water becomes sacred.

I went back to the hotel and had lunch. While there I met a couple of Americans from the East Coast who were teaching at U Toronto. He was a non-whiny Woody Allen type from New York, and she, a tall Jennifer Connolly look-a-like from Philly. They were witty and interesting and I liked them right away. I invited them to go sightseeing with me for the afternoon. We got in my car and my driver took us around happily informing us when he was using ‘a shortcut’ to which he and I would smile knowingly at each other. We went up to the Monsoon Palace for a spectacular sunset, and then made our way back down the hill. They took me to dinner at a fantastic rooftop restaurant on top of the Udai Kothi Hotel. We drank Mojitos and had great conversation lasting long into the night. After the meal we traded contact info and went our separate ways. And so it goes with those one meets on their travels. More than most, I hope I see them again.

The next morning my driver and I set off back toward the Aravali Hills, stopping in Kumbulgarh, an amazing fort surrounded by a 36km wall, akin to The Great Wall of China. I climbed up to the the top of the fort, the view from which was like being on top of the world. The fort was surrounded by many Jain and Hindu temple ruins which I explored until I had blisters on my feet. Finally settling back into the car for the ride down the hill, watching men with the most interesting turbans, as we drove I noticed the men tied their turbans differently than I had seen in other parts of Rajasthan. It seemed they were dyed in different colors and used different tie and dye techniques with each town we drove through. Rural life there looked very much like I imagine it has for many centuries. Water was being pulled from streams by tying cows to a wheel that pulled the water up to irrigate. It seemed like such a peaceful life. As I was admiring with a kind of longing, the driver spoke, “Dangerous area,” he said, “Adivasi”. Referring to the generic name for tribal peoples. "Not safe."

I stayed at another fantastic hotel that night The Aryawani Resort. I had a huge room all in slate. There was a stunning balcony with a view looking down the valley where, if one were lucky, they might just see a jaguar or cougar. Tigers are no more in this area, though at one time there were many. This was the most peaceful place in all of India I am sure, far removed from the city and very remote. After checking in, we drove down to visit the amazing Jain Temples in Ranachpur, all carved from marble and giving the Taj Mahal a run for its money. Then back for drinks around the outside fire, more lovely conversation with some folks from England who were on a trekking by day and luxury hotel by night tour and their guide, a fabulous dinner and a sleep that was so quiet that it felt like it must surely have been in some other country, far far away from India.

Then, in the morning, back on the obstacle course highway we zoomed back to Jodhpur for a few short hours before to say goodbye to Nigama and Emil, to Govind and Mukta and little Ayush, to Mira Didi and all of the girls, and to India. It was Nigama’s birthday and Govind had bought her a cake, so we all sang happy birthday and ate cake and then piled into the car to take me to the train station and I railed off to Delhi. I checked into a cheap room in Delhi and rested for the day and then flew off to Bangkok in the wee hours of the morning.

Thank you Ganesh, for safekeeping me in your beloved India. I will never forget the way you held me close in your loving trunk.

Sambhali: A Guiding Light

They call him brother, the girls of Sambhali. A year ago, Govind Singh Rathore founded a school for Harijan girls in Jodhpur, a city in India’s Rajasthan state. He called it the Samhali Trust. Sambhali means ‘consciousness’, and trust is what the girls and their families have come to feel for this man. The school teaches English, Arts and Crafts, Hygene and Aids Awareness, and it encourages and prepares the girls to attend Indian academic schools. The school has attracted the attention of international funders which has helped by means of making it possible to build a beautiful new classroom on the premises of Govind’s guesthouse, and also has facilitated the opening of a new classroom in Setrawa, a rural village about 90 kilometers from Jodhpur. The funding also helps send some of the girls to academic schools.

I came to visit Govind to see what I could do to help in the way of making a multimedia presentation that can be shown online. The day after I arrived, he and Nigama and I made the trip out to Setrawa to visit the new school, now open merely a month. There I met a wonderful volunteer from Australia, Amanda, a young woman of 27 years. I admired her bravado to be able to live alone in this village, let alone start a brand new school. Most of the attendees at this school are women of all castes, who share a lack of wealth as a common feature. Amanda teaches English and arts and crafts, and I was impressed with all she had done in one month’s time. When I asked her the most important benefit the school has given the women she said it was the opportunity to have a woman’s gathering place, where women could come together to talk openly together while working on handicraft projects.

This is a little different focus than the school in Jodhpur, which focuses entirely on girls of the Harijan caste, formerly known as ‘untouchable’. Harijan means children of God, a term coined by Gandhi. Now the term Dalit, meaning oppressed, has become popular to describe the lowest of castes.

I interviewed Sophie, an adorable young woman from Germany, all of 18, who has been living at the guesthouse for 2 months as a volunteer. She is doing a fantastic job with the girls. When I asked her what she learned from doing this work, she said it was a continuous reminder of how to live simply. She is leaving in a few days, and is very broken up about it, the bond she has made with the girls and Govind’s family is profound.

I went to visit the homes of several of the girls and was astounded at how clean their houses were. To say house is a misnomer, the girls and their entire families usually live in establishments of one or two rooms and often a courtyard. The courtyard serves as a kitchen where an open fire can be made to cook, and large ceramic pots hold the family’s water supply. The rooms all had shelves upon which their collections of stainless and ceramic ware were displayed beautifully, along with various knickknacks and religious icons. The walls were usually painted with a properly pointed swastika indicating the four directions, and there was usually a picture of Shiva on an alter somewhere in the compound, adorned with flowers and incense.

The girls giggled as they took me from house to house, where I had tea with the families of each house, the grandmothers exuding warmth to me, as we communicated without the benefit of language.

Govind has become a very special man in the minds of the families of the girls. While I was there, I witnessed the parents of one of the girls come to Govind for help in resolving a family problem. One of the girls of the family had been married into a family which was abusing the girl. They were beating her, and keeping her locked up, waking her up in the middle of the night to go do laborious chores. It was an inhumane and illegal situation. Govind was moved and called authorities he knew in that village, who went and retrieved the girl and charges were filed against the offending family. The girl will not be forced back into that family because luckily, her own family will take her back. This girl was lucky, she could have met with an unfortunate fate all too common for India’s young women. Govind’s intervention probably saved her life.

This is just a tiny touch of the story of the Sambhali Trust, but I wanted to post it so you would know what I was working on.

After I finished my interviews with the girls, I realized that it was my last few days in India, and I had still not seen Udaipur. Udaipur had been the city that attracted me to India in the first place. Having memories of a dream I had in childhood, Udaipur looked just like what I had seen in that dream. I couldn’t leave India for the second time without making the trek down there. And so I did.

Jaisalmer is Falling

When a person needs to lie around and stare, Jaisalmer in India's Rajastani Thar Desert is the place to do it. There is a conflict between backpackers as to whether to stay in the fort and stare out at the city view, amazing, or to stay outside of the fort and stare at the fort. The answer to anyone with a modicum of ethics is obvious; the fort is falling. Why is it falling? It is falling because it was built in medieval times, and was not built to have water piped into it and drained out of it. That was added much later. The addition of plumbing has taken its toll on the fort, and many of the ramparts have fallen down. Something like 12 have fallen since the early 1990’s. This is all written up in Lonely Planet, and I would read and quote it but I gave my India Lonely Planet away when I left India a few days ago. It is a brick of a book, and my friend can use it for planning tours.

But I digress.

The LP bible states, and I paraphrase in my own language, that people who stay in the fort should be put to death. They don’t recommend hotels in the fort. I stayed at a place, The Shahi Palace, with an outstanding group of people who wanted to attend to me as I lay on the cushions that adorned the rooftop. Listening to ragas and stretched out on pillows while drinking chai and lemon sodas, I stared at the fort and contemplated the obvious damage to the remaining ramparts. The occupants of the fort would stand on the rooftops flying kites that wafted high above the city in the gentle breezes. The color of the fort in the setting sun is a sepia gold, and it is easy to see why Jaisalmer is nicknamed The Golden City.

When I got to Jaisalmer I was an emotional wreck. For reasons I do not care to mention in my blog, I was deeply in need of a nurturing rest. When I got out of the jeep that picked me up from the train at 5 in the morning, Mama Nigama was waiting for me. I fell into her arms and could feel waves of tears shuddering through my body. We went into one of the beautiful rooms of sandstone and granite and talked for several hours then spent the rest of the day walking through the fort and relaxing on the rooftop.

I did not go on a camel safari, which this place is known for. But my friends did, and I went with them as they set out from a village not far from Jaisalmer, and met some of the happy children of the desert. In the Thar desert, life is very simple and needs are very basic. When food, water, and shelter are taken care of, little else is needed. These children exemplify my opinion that children who have less are far happier than children who have everything.

Before heading back we went to the house of Bapu, the hotel manager, and I sat with his mother who was making chapatis in the traditional handcrafted way. After mixing them by hand, she roasted them on a pan over a fire which was fueled by cow dung. The walls of the kitchen are a kind of adobe plaster made of cow dung and sand from the desert. It is quite beautiful. I returned to the hotel to resume my staring activities.


One night after my friends returned and I had regained enough of myself to venture out to other places, we went to The Artist Hotel for dinner. This is a place which is very nice, has an outstanding view of the fort, and houses a group of musicians that play Thar desert music using a harmonium, a drum which dhoops like a tabla, but is played on both sides, Thar Desert Castanets, which are really two sticks in each hand which are played quite deftly, and singing. Before they played, the singer donned his turban, while giving me the look that was to enrapture me the rest of the night. The music was lively and fun, and the singer replaced the names of every woman in each song with my name, and stared at me throughout the night, inviting me to dance. At one point I loosened up enough to go have a castanet lesson with him, but failing miserably I went back to the table, head hung in shame. We had invited the local tollphone walla out to eat with us, and he bought us a bottle of gin which we drank. Before long Nigama and I were dancing. There was much laughter and for a time it was easy to forget my troubles. We stumbled our way back to the hotel, giggling the entire way.

The next day we were hungover, and I returned to my pillows and chai and fort staring activities. I did resume shopping in Jaisalmer, an activity I had avoided throughout my trip until that point. I could not resist the beautiful Jaisalmer patchwork wall hangings done by women in the desert. Tbey caught my eye whenever I would see them, and I finally succumbed to a gorgeous Picasso style turquoise threaded work of art. It is really impossible to describe them, so I suggest you Google ‘Jaisalmer patchwork’ in the Images mode.

We were so sad to leave Jaisalmer a week after I arrived, but we boarded the train late at night and made our way to Jodhpur where we were expected by Govind to work on the Sambahli Project Documentary. The next chapter in my blog.