Border Crossing in the Time of Covid19

The call came at 9:57 Wednesday morning. 37 days since I started working from home per company mandate, 29 days into California lockdown, 18 days since the last time I’d set foot in a building that wasn’t my home, and that was a masked/gloved grocery shopping trip.

We’d found out it was bad in late February, and decided not to head up before our planned trip the first week of April. We’d canceled that trip mid-March, certain that things wouldn’t get so bad with her before we could visit again. We were doing video conference calls, 2–3 times a week, chatting and keeping each other company. So the mid-morning call was shocking. We weren’t prepared for this. Hadn’t planned on this. We plan on everything. Ok, I do. My husband’s voice broke as he asked me to book a flight for the next day — Seattle/Vancouver, didn’t matter — and a rental car. No context, but I knew. I asked anyway, and he said simply, “she’s going downhill fast”.

Search sites revealed mediocre options. I’m a nervous flyer and, even if I wasn’t joining him, I didn’t want him on a non-major-carrier, making a sad and nerve-wracking journey worse. I hunted online for a bit before pivoting into what I knew needed to be. I closed the computer, calling my best friend, running to the basement for suitcases. I grabbed passports. I called my manager. I flung clothing into my suitcase, grabbed the gifts we’d planned to bring “whenever we could get there” and, by the time my husband got home at around 10:30, had decided that we were driving, and that I was going with him. I love her. She is one of the last maternal figures in my life. I’ve known her since I was 15, since her home was a haven to rebels hiding from parents. We were so misunderstood! And I wasn’t leaving my husband alone to face this. I had been left alone to face this once and made a vow to never do that to another human being that I loved. We piled things into the car haphazardly; suitcases, bags of personal protective equipment; sanitizer, gloves, masks, paper towels. And, yes, toilet paper. We took all the snacks from the house; we weren’t risking going into a gas station. We called my dad and our cat sitter to let them know, begging them for help, and hit the road at 12:15.

(All that travel last year meant my international travel preparation game was strong. I am still wishing I’d packed a pair of sweat pants, though.)

We left the Bay Area, and Redding was our first gas stop. We used gloves, we sprayed down the credit card. We got drive through In N Out. I got out of the car to retrieve the food and walk it to the parking lot, spraying the containers, my husband following me in the car to pay. We ate outside in the parking lot. We… did not use bathrooms (sorry, rural roads, thank you, lots and lots of camping trips).

We stopped again for gas in middle-Oregon, waiting until after 6 so that an attendant would not attempt to pump gas for us. An attendant was there anyway; we left a tip, after pumping our own gas. We noted the hearts in the lights of the buildings in Portland. We smiled as we drove through, texting “wave” to our friends there.

Our last gas stop was in Rochester, WA. Noted the hearts on the buildings in Seattle. It was 1:05 AM, too late to text “wave” to our friends there

I was driving when we reached the Canadian border at 2:57 AM. We were exhausted. We were concerned; not overly so, just generally trepidatious. “What if they don’t let me in? I guess you could turn back and drop me in Seattle, and I could rent a car and you could go ahead without me…?” We didn’t have much of a contingency plan. We had no plan at all aside from getting to her.

As we neared the border, the signs changed from “Staying home is saving lives. Keep it up, WA” to “Border crossings closed to nonessential travel”.

We had chosen the truck crossing. There was no one there. A single lane was open, absolutely everything else closed. We were the only car — no cars ahead of us for the time leading up to the border, none behind us.

The tall man in the booth (gloves, no mask) looked at us dubiously as he took our passports — my U.S., my husband’s Canadian. His face impassive, he said “we can let him in. I don’t think we can let you in.” We paused. “Why are you essential?” “He’s not even sure he can drive safely,” I said. He called his colleague over. A blonde woman with a knit cap. She stayed in the corner of the booth, nodding as he spoke. “Not only am I not sure we can let you in, but if we do let you in, we need to know that you can quarantine for 14 days. Can you quarantine for 14 days?” “Yes, we have an AirBNB cabin on the property where we’ll be staying. It’s fully separate from the house.” We went back and forth for some time there, no one coming up behind us. We were asked the usual questions — total value of items in the car. Any alcohol. Any weapons.

“We’ll be going through your whole vehicle.” “Of course.”

We gave our email addresses, our phone numbers. They are, absolutely, tracking our phones. We gave the address where we’d be staying. The name of the AirBNB when where we’re staying is rented out. We repeated an oath — that we understood what coming in would mean. That we understood we risked a 1,000,000 CA fine and/or 3 years in jail if we were found to be in breach of the oath. I don’t think my husband needed to read it aloud, but he did, with me. It was 3:15 and we got a lot of the words wrong. We were delirious. This man could not approve me. He did not know what to do with me. I got the sense that this was, for good reason, a rare situation. He had to bring us in. He had our passports, and directed us to park and come in. We drove to “lane 1” — again, the only car anywhere — donned masks and gloves (how strange to put on a mask to enter a government building), and headed inside. I have blue hair. Was wearing my travel t-shirt; a giant photo of our ginger cat, looking pensively up at us. He looks cute, but he just wants snacks. We were met with the same man, another, younger, smaller man, a brown haired shitkicker looking woman who I liked because she wasn’t trying to be nice or warm, which reminded me of me, and the Canadian border version of Hank from Breaking Bad. These were the only people in the building, and they were all at our counter. We were the only people trying to cross. These people wanted to help my husband. They did not want to help me.

Younger, smaller man:

“You drove straight from the Bay Area.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a long drive. What time did you leave?”

“About noon.”

“So you didn’t stop.”

“Just for gas. Three times.”

“No hotel?”

“No. We didn’t even use restrooms.”

“OK. Well, he can come in. I’m not sure you can.”

“If it matters, I haven’t had contact with anyone but my husband since the 28th.”

Hank:

“It doesn’t matter. The US numbers are bad.”

“I’m from the Bay Area. Our numbers are better than most of the US…?”

“They’re still much worse than ours.”

“I understand.”

Brown haired shit-kicker woman, to her colleagues:

“We need to call this up to CBSA.”

Hank:

“Wait… over there.”

We stepped away from the counter to the center of the room. I curled up into my husband. I apologized for complicating this trip — it was the last thing I wanted. We waited.

First guy:

“Ok, so are you two…?”

“We’re married.”

“Do you have evidence of that?”

Thankfully, we’re in the middle of a refinance. I pulled out my phone, where I had, just last week, taken photos of our marriage license.

“How long have you been married?”

“7 years.”

[I left out “She married us.”]

…

“Do you have health insurance?”

“I do, through my employer.”

“Who’s your employer?”

“[Fortune 500 software company]”

Younger, smaller guy perks up.

“What do you do for them?”

I tell them. Then, “We have great insurance. Plus, I can get help anywhere in the world, if I need it.”

“Yeah, they’re a good company. Big.”

“We have rockstar insurance.”

First guy:

“Because we can’t have you taking a hospital bed from a Canadian who needs it.”

“I absolutely understand. I wish our government cared as much about us.”

“You’re a risk.”

“I understand.”

Smaller guy:

“Tell me more about the residence where you’ll be staying.”

I describe the AirBNB; the completely separate free-standing structure about 50’ from the main house. The kitchen, loft, fireplace.

“Please wait.”

We go back to the center of the room again. We are exhausted, hopeless, making the plan to turn back.

“Come on over.”

…

“We’re going to let you in. Because you have proof of marriage, and good health insurance… and because we know this isn’t a trip you wanted to take.”

I don’t waterworks very often. I certainly don’t authority-waterworks, because they know it’s a blatant attempt at manipulation, and because it’s not productive. When I heard these words, I burst into tears. I couldn’t hold it together. Mask on, mask still on, never off, we retrieved our passports. I thanked them.

To my husband: “We know you’re going to see your [her]. You’re a citizen. We can’t stop you. You [to me] need to stay in the other building.”

“Absolutely.”

“You made it past federal. In about half a block, there’s a road block. It’s provincial. They need to know where you’re going to be quarantining. If you can’t prove that, it won’t matter that you passed here because they’re just going to turn you right around.”

“Thank you.”

“Good luck. With everything.”

We left the building. On the landing outside, we held each other. Shaking. We walked back to the car, discarding gloves, removing masks, sanitizing hands. They did not, in the end, go through our car.

My husband drove. It turns out he could drive. And, 1/2 block later, a full barricade. We rolled down the window. A red-haired man there asked where we were going, the purpose of our visit. We told him.

“Do you have accommodation?”

“We do.”

“Do you have accommodation where you can quarantine for 14 days?”

“We do.”

“You’re not supposed to stop for anything until you get to your destination. Do you have enough gas to get to [a 40 minute ferry ride and an hour drive north of Vancouver]?”

“Yes, we just tanked up.”

The ginger took my husband’s passport. He was 2 feet from the car, no mask, no gloves. He took our names, phone numbers. We got paperwork outlining Canada’s rules on Covid 19. They did not ask for any of my documentation at the provincial stop.

We were cleared. Our adrenaline spiked, we drove from the border to the ferry, arriving at 4:50 AM. We parked, falling asleep repeatedly until it was time to board the ferry. We slept the entire ferry ride.

We made it to our destination. A beautiful respite of trees and wildlife.

She saw us passing the house, through her window, to the cabin out back that would be our quarantine home.

“Just kidding, I’m not really sick,” she yelled to us. We broke up laughing. It was 9 AM exactly.

Would that she were kidding. But that she can joke means we got here at the right time.

Until 2 weeks from now, when we can hug, I am here, quiet. Had we flown, had we arrived separately, I would be back home by now.

Forced peace, a gift from the Canadian government, at the closing of a life.

[ETA: My husband’s brother, a Canadian citizen with expired passport, was allowed in with a lot of questioning and the same quarantine restrictions just a few hours later. HER (the she in question) sister, not a citizen, was turned away at the border and may not see her sister again in this lifetime.]

Border crossing closed

Grand Adventure IV : iv – Goodbye, Chiang Mai

Goodbye, Chiang Mai

Chiang Mai was the first of the unplanned stops on my trip, but it certainly wasn’t unexpected. Anyone who’s spent more than a few weeks in Thailand, and even some of those who’ve spent fewer than that, sing the praises of Chiang Mai and, upon learning I had unscheduled time in Thailand, insisted I make it a priority. 

 

Ok then.

 

New traveler rule

-the minute you land anywhere, go eat some local yoghurt. This will help your stomach to process everything else you eat while there.

 

Once I knew Luke was safely on the ground in San Francisco, I slept a few hours, woke, and headed to Hua Lamphong. Monday morning commuting being what it is, I made the train with moments to spare, without having eaten a thing. This is the way sometimes, that we’ll trust that food will appear; in this case, in the form of mackerel. Mackerel soup, mackerel in a sealed container… a whole train full of people eating mackerel. It smells exactly as you might expect… as does the bathroom.

 

 

While I was on the train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, the news came out that David Bowie died. I will always remember where I was; surrounded with people who didn’t know who that was, with the exception of the British guy behind me, both of us incredulous, his Chinese companion oblivious to the significance.

 

R.I.P., Thin White Duke. I can’t believe it.

 

After hours of stunning Northern Thailand scenery

 

 

I did finally arrive in Chiang Mai, the train just a half hour or so late, and took a red cab.

 

Red cabs are fascinating; part bus, part tuktuk, all Thai; pay 50 baht, and an enterprising driver goes around the train station collecting people who are going near that location. Your luggage goes up top, the final people hang onto the back, and you jostle through a new town, hoping your luggage doesn’t fall off the top. Mine didn’t, and I ended up at my delightful, quiet little hotel tucked just inside the old city. It was a beautiful sanctuary, one within which I spent very little time. I didn’t use the facilities other than to get the free breakfast, nor did I use the free 15 minute massage. I dumped my things, likely unpacked some of them, and soon, my new friend Nathan came to meet me. 

 

We strolled the old city, the city within the walls. What a charming, delightful place. We ate street food and talked. We accidentally ordered steak tartare and it was delicious. We had planned to drink the ginger wine I’d inadvertently left and which Nathan had carried back from Cambodia, but it slipped out of my hands and crashed on the front porch of the hotel where we planned to drink it, so instead we toasted Bowie with gin martinis in some bar. I am listening to this as I write.

 

My first goal on my first full day in Chiang Mai was obviously to extend my time there. I had initially planned on only three nights, which was immediately apparent as a clear mistake. A trip to the train station secured my (LAST ONE!) private overnight sleeper back to Bangkok, and a quick call extended my stay at the hotel.

 

It was time to wander into the world. Here, this meant meeting Nathan for a quick snack (finding something not fried that is not papaya salad can prove somewhat challenging, actually), then continuing the wander. I was determined to find the people to whom I’d been directed by various friends. A friend of Baeleay (my mother-in-law), some folks at a tattoo shop, a motorcycle shop owner.

 

I failed miserably at all three this first afternoon, but at least had contact information for Baeleay’s friend. I wandered through a Wat (Chiang Mai has over 300 of them – this one was Chedi Luang), exploring

 

 

noting some important cultural similarities

 

 

and, before I left, chatted with a monk (they do this to practice their English, and so that foreigners can learn about Buddhism), and went to hear some chanting. Savorn was very sweet and we became Facebook friends – I need to edit a photo for him but the wifi has been horrible until now; sorry about that, Savorn! If anyone with better Photoshop skills than me is willing to edit his photo, please let me know.

 

Patient Shea, Baeleay’s friend, was at a cafe connected to my hotel when I returned. What followed was the getting to know of another new friend; serendipity abounds. He worked in tech, but had another career as well. Through the windings of fate, he has ended up partially in Chiang Mai, partially in Ireland. Through the simple living of his life, he has some insights about living a dual life that I quite badly needed to hear. There are no coincidences.

 

He recommended Cooking Love (the second one, on the right as you walk north, not the first one, on the left) and, while he couldn’t join for it, Nathan & I enjoyed our dinner there immensely. Have the garlic shrimp; it’s amazing. Per Shea, the woman who opened it had a street cart a few years ago, and expanded. Now Cooking Love I (on the left) is partnered with a hotel, but the one on the right has her original chefs.

 

I’m getting accustomed to this no-planning travel thing… so I awoke the following day, put a swimsuit on under my shorts and tank top, and was prepared for elephant visiting or a waterfall hike (but not Doi Suthep – you can’t visit a temple in shorts and a tank top). The elephants were not an option for that day, so I booked for the following day, ate breakfast, wrote a bit, and got a driver for the falls.

 

A beautiful hike

 

 

 

followed by a trip to the insect museum

 

(yes, pedants, I know that’s not an insect)

 

where things tickled my hands

 

 

and I eventually headed back down the hill to the old city.

 

That evening, I finally had the opportunity to introduce Nathan and Shea.

When you have three people who are usually the connectors, the, as Shea calls it, multi-potentialite, together for dinner at a really fantastic place called Dash (go here, it’s amazing.), the conversation flies, from Eastern Healing, to workouts, to software, and back again. The only thing missing was opera, but I get quite a bit of that at home. The conversation wound, around and around, as I enjoyed these two new friends and our delicious corner garden spot.

 

The morning yielded elephants.

For goodness’ sake, don’t ride them. Don’t be that guy. We went to a place that rescued elephants from places like that. During our tour, I asked how the “rescues” take place; a bit  difficult to abscond with an entire pachyderm… they are, indeed, rescued with money.

 

Mostly gentle, injuries only occur when the elephants don’t notice you and you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s also important to note that elephants will follow the baby. This becomes relevant momentarily. The baby wanders off, and eight adults follow. So, after spending some time with this sweet girl

 

 

we wandered close to a parade (yes, look it up) of elephants and were told not to get too close, as they’re aggressive. So we didn’t. And we took photos.

 

 

Soon after this photo was taken, the baby wandered off, followed by three of this parade.

 

Moments after that, our guide was yelling “run! run! this way, guys!” as the remainder of the parade thundered to join the rest. Yes, we had to run out of the way of a charging parade of elephants. We ran through some wet stuff. We didn’t care.

 

That occurred fairly early in the day, and we naturally retained a healthy respect for the elephants; feeding them

 

 

bathing them

 

 

and, finally, piling back into the van and heading back to Chiang Mai.

That evening we headed to the Clay Garden

 

 

a place Nathan had discovered during his stay a few years ago. Following that was was another night market dinner (this becomes relevant later), then wine at Ginger, another Shea recommendation. This evening, my last in town, Nathan, at my request, gave his assessment about the panic and other issues that have been plaguing me for years. In short – I have a lot of work to do. The assessment made a lot of sense, and, of course, is in keeping with a lot of the things I already knew on some level… or I likely wouldn’t have agreed with them, because I’m obstinate like that. I am incredibly thankful to him for his perspective and thoughts on this, and can thank him further (and help myself) by applying what he has said.

 

A few burning folks met us at Ginger – Ky, who was a connection made through Tania, another multi-potentialite, and two friends, Alex and Alex, all from Camp Disorient. They were interesting, fascinating; a film critic, a designer, a brand specialist…but I felt myself slipping. Was this a panic attack? Something else? The next trip to the restroom answer the question and my delightful fried shrimp street food dinner was consigned to, at least, one of the cleanest public restrooms I’d experienced in Thailand. I regretted more than ever the inability to rinse my mouth with tapwater, but eventually made it back to the table, feeling immediately more energized. Sadly, everyone was saying goodbyes for the evening (including Shea, who arrived for a hello and a goodbye as we were leaving) and I needed to do the same, as I had an early checkout, so we traded information, said our many goodbyes, and I packed.

 

Morning found me on a very small tour of three up the hill to the Mong village high in the hills over Chiang  Mai. Our tour guide, the abundantly honest Toy, let us know that most villages, particularly the Long Neck villages, for example, are faux. This one had enough commerce that it was clearly self-sustaining… as we watched children go to school

 

 

and drank tea

 

 

and eventually wandered back down through the town, shopping.

 

then to Soi Duthep, a stunning place where we didn’t get to spend nearly enough time

 

 

I have heard from everyone that this is a fantastic place for meditation, and look forward to coming back (because, oh, yes, am I coming back), and experiencing this for myself.

 

Down the hill, we were dropped off at the Warorot Market, an overwhelmingly huge place where I did final Chiang Mai shopping and met with Nathan again for our last snack. Stomach still upset, I downed some noodles and he reveled in the vast herb selection. He gave me some herbs for my stomach for the road and walked me to my hotel, where we said goodbyes.

 

I made my way to the overnight train, where I slept nearly the entire time. Without caffeine, my body rebels, unable to retain consciousness, let alone wit. Maybe I needed to unconsciously reflect on this city; a haven for so many people of so many types; drawing multi-potentialites from all over the world, and no shortage of digital nomads. It feels accessible, but is huge. It is old and new, with tourists, yes, but retaining its character in a way that absorbs, unlike Koh Tao, which risks being overrun, or Bangkok, which is too huge to be impacted in any way other than trying to make money off of them. And so I write this entry from Kanchanaburi, refreshed, overlooking the River Kwai, and planning my day. I look forward to telling you about my trip from Bangkok to Kanchanaburi, one about which I will be thinking for a long time.

 

 

 

Grand Adventure IV : iii – Return to Koh Tao

A few rules for the first-time traveler to Thailand (and possibly more of Southeast Asia, but the driving stuff doesn’t apply to Cambodia).

-drive left, but walk right
-don’t take an elevator if you have to use the bathroom (power outages)
-if the bottled water is free, don’t drink the tap water
-if you feel something crawling on you, there is something crawling on you
-if you hear something in your hotel room, there is something in your hotel room
-get a massage
–get another one. You pay more for a cocktail when you go out in San Francisco.
-don’t be the ugly American
–don’t worry – you’re still not as obnoxious as the British

Rules for Koh Tao specifically
-if you see a stream of water, especially going across the sand from inland to the beach, it’s not a stream of water; don’t walk through it with bare feet or open wounds.
-don’t do any guided tours
-rent a scooter
—rent that scooter from Oli’s
-ride on the left, dumbass
-if you’re a motorcyclist, the first time, you will aggressively grab the rear brake. That’s not the clutch. You know that now.
-avoid Sairee
–unless you like inane conversation, mediocre alcohol in buckets, and STIs, in which case, go crazy.
–actually, Fizz is kind of mellow and has good cocktails and chill music, if you have to.
-if you swim in Sairee, you’re swimming in pee. That’s cool. That’s cool.
-if you go to Freedom Beach, bring a hammock.
-if you go to Hin Wong, bring a trash bag and help out the community a little.
-eat at Yin Yang
–eat there again
-Snorkel at Tanote
–avoid this fish

Ignorance is bliss, in snorkeling as in life.

-befriend a gecko
-befriend a cat
-go out early. Everyone’s hungover.
-don’t stay somewhere close to the beach in Sairee. The pools are icky.
-don’t kick the coral. Don’t touch the coral. This isn’t your world. Observe it respectfully.
-say hi to Koh NangYuan for me
–snorkel at the Japanese gardens
-hike to the top of Koh NangYuan
–if the line for the view photo is too long, cut out to the right and get an *also* lovely photo from there
–don’t die trying
-go to the Taco Shack. Tip big and say hi to Khai
–if you’re a hostel-er, stay there
-go to the Queen’s Cabaret
–try to appreciate all that this show represents. Read up about what it means to be a lady-boy in this culture, not male, not female, not trans, the “third sex”. We saw a young woman transform herself into himself while Shirley Bassey sang “It’s my life”. She became he, violent rubbing away makeup and taking off her wig and corset. Afterward, I gave him 500 baht and told him he’d made me cry. I hope that means the same thing in his culture as it does in mine.

In life we must find pockets.
When we don’t travel, these pockets are easy – we create areas of comfort for ourselves; at home, at work, in our own minds.

Travel challenges these; we are thrown into discomfort as people of many different comfort styles are thrown together, trying desperately to recreate their own spaces of comfort in an unfamiliar world.

It’s a good reason to not trust people who don’t travel.
Maybe that’s incorrectly put. You can trust them. You can trust them to always be consistent, the same, unflagging in opinions and mindsets. So, sure, I guess. You can trust them. But they’re not open-minded and they don’t want their minds changed, and they’ll make their worlds as small as possible to ensure that doesn’t happen. They won’t even try weird food. It starts at home; it always does.

Drinkers win.
Drinkers always win.
Heavy drinkers, drinkers with a low barrier for entry in all ways, who are comfortable drinking out of buckets of booze and wandering around barefoot getting their feet wet in water that’s not really water, which they’d realize if their olfactory were remotely hooked up to their receptors.

Drinkers get to win because they can graze in any pasture and make it taste good, at least for one night. Even light drinkers; the social lubricant is undeniable. A scotch in a bar has eased the awkwardness of conversation between strangers since there was single malt. Beer is for friends. Strangers require something a bit more.

And so we get to the parts of Bangkok and, subsequently, Koh Tao that are worth avoiding.

After Cambodia, we spent a few hours gathered in Bangkok near the Lomproyah ferry station, inconveniently located in an insanely touristy alley full of overpriced beer, surprisingly good music, and street food. Rambuttri alley. Don’t go here. Don’t go here unless you absolutely must because the overnight bus to the ferry will leave from here, and even then only go at the last moment, right before you leave.

We made the mistake of arriving early. Because, when traveling, that’s what we tend to do. And so we were among the Tourists. The real ones. Not the travelers. The tourists who go to Fisherman’s Wharf and Pier 39 in San Francisco. The ones who try desperately to find American food when they travel, who speak more loudly when confronted with someone who doesn’t speak English, despite the fact that they’re in a country where English is not the primary language. If you want to go here you should just stay in Texas.

We ate street food and ordered drinks. Finally, we boarded the overnight bus. The bus loads at an odd little traffic island near the alley, and is a bit of a cluster, but it all worked out. The organized chaos that is Thailand is undeniable; somehow, despite crowds, stickers, and no one keeping track of the luggage, it all works out. Perhaps this is why it’s considered poor manners to lose one’s temper in this country. We ended up at the back of the bus, two seats each to ourselves, strapped in and trying to stay warm as the air conditioning blasted full all night. The bus hurled itself along Road 4 in the dark and wee hours, people sleeping softly; people with more experience than I have with sleeping in strange positions and on vehicles. Younger people. I did fairly well, the cold being the biggest issue as I was in the very back closest to the air, sleeping in 90-minute fits until we finally arrived at Chumphorn. Chumporn. Chumphon. It’s spelled many different ways, none quite right.

A few hours at the very familiar ferry terminal yielded some wifi, coffee, and a small selection of breakfast foods, none of which appealed. I ate a few durian chips (prepackaged, puffed, and bagged) acquired in Cambodia and drank some coffee. This becomes relevant later.

We boarded the Chumphorn-Koh Tao ferry, all excitement to return to one of our favorite places.

It started all right, but the seas became rougher and rougher, until everyone around us was sick. I was doing well until the guy across from me lost it and, being empathetic, I could do nothing but consign my durian-chip-and-coffee breakfast to one of the little red plastic bags carried around by the boat attendants. That may be their only job – handing out baggies to people not graced with an iron stomach, like Luke. Throwing up of course felt better almost immediately, and I was able to enjoy the last few moments of the ferry ride, stopping first at one of my favorite places, Koh NangYuan, then proceeding across the small channel to Koh Tao.

[the author and her husband atop Koh NangYuan]

Oh, Koh Tao. Two years ago, we said we’d be back. I remember looking plaintively out the back of the boat, taking pictures as we left you. And here we were again, jostling our way out of the ferry, heat emanating through the soft wooden boards, slats spaced just enough to reveal glimpses of the shimmering water beneath. Nausea forgotten, I floated down the pier, distractedly looking for our ride to the hotel. Luke found them, from The Place, the brilliantly named series of villas in the hills above Sairee, one of which we’d call home for the next 6 nights. Our room was not yet ready, so they took our things and left us to our own devices in the Sairee district for a few hours. We stocked up – on motion sickness pills, decongestant and coconut oil. You know, the usual. We wandered the streets in a delirium, dimly remembering our stay 2 years prior, exhausted from a night of unsatisfying sleep and, for my part, dehydration and hunger. Eventually, the folks from the hotel picked us back up and brought us to our Villa, #3, straight up the steep hill. We ascended our private stairs, and were given the extensive walkthrough. Each villa is dark-stained teak, with a private infinity plunge pool. Our bathroom was built into the natural rocks of the hill, shower cascading over stones. Two sets of doors; one to make the whole villa grounds private, with our names layered onto a wooden sign on the door. The other to close up the villa; our little room with private kitchen.

We unpacked.

Ok, I unpacked. If I’m staying anywhere for more than one night, I like to unpack, see everything I brought, access it, organize it, assess it. Feel a bit at home. I do this every few days at Burning Man, as well. It’s exhausting, time-consuming, and calming. I napped, a firm-mattressed nap and, finally, we were ready to head back out for dinner. We were overwhelmed with options and ended up at the Indian restaurant, Shalimar, but not before strolling the busy streets of Sairee. A delicious meal, a steep hike back up the hill, and we fell into bed early and exhausted.

The next day we rented scooters.

This began the pattern I recommend for Koh Tao… and possibly other places in Thailand and Southeast Asia but, again, I can’t really say.

Get scooter. Descend precarious treacherous terrifying dirt road. Descend further by foot once the roads become impassable. Snorkel for an hour or two. Become just tired enough to not want to hike back up the hill. Hike back up the hill to the scooters, scooter somewhere to eat delicious food, head back to The Place, hose off and enjoy the infinity pool, watch the sunset, watch an episode of Top Gear or Game of Thrones, watch Netflix and chill, shower, and ready for dinner. Walk to town, eat a delicious meal, walk up the insanely steep hill, sleep. Repeat.

Tanote Bay is full of Germans.
Hin Wong is full of trash.
Japanese Gardens (and NangYuan generally) doesn’t allow flippers.
It’s almost impossible to find an honest scooter rental place, so go to Oli’s.

We didn’t stay long enough to get bored, or used to it, in case you’re wondering. Not at all. We could have spent another week there, avoiding bar crawls and eating the shrimp chips and Massaman curry at Yin Yang, even going to Fizz and drinking caipirinhas on the beach. Fizz wasn’t so bad.

In the end, we snorkeled all of the places we’d wanted to but one (Aow Leuk). We ate almost all of the places we wanted (Pud). We had enough time to not feel rushed, which was a luxury, an incredible luxury that I rarely afford myself while traveling, and one for which I have Luke to thank. Our last evening we found the expat bar, where I felt totally uncomfortable and like everyone hated that we had discovered it… and that was awesome. So awesome, in fact, that we ordered bar food and hung out all night.

We eventually, sadly, headed back to Bangkok after 6 glorious nights on Koh Tao. The ferry ride was much, much calmer.

And then it was done. We had one night together at a lovely very corporate riverside hotel in Bangkok, sharing a meals of delicious Chinese food on the 36th floor. We spent the day prior to Luke’s flight shopping at Chatuchak, proud of the fact that we’d made it there and back on public transportation with no help, buying an extra suitcase for all of our spoils – scarves, t-shirts, coconut oil, penis-shaped soap.

I freaked out when Luke left. I went with him to the airport and waited for hours for his plane to take off.
It’s not the me traveling alone. It’s the him flying alone. I eventually went back to the hotel and slept fitfully until Sunday, when I forced myself to walk to Hua Lamphong to get my train ticket to Chiang Mai.
There is some famous AA quote about the things you can’t change. I won’t say it here. But I’m working on it, apparently by walking face-first into the least comfortable parts of it. I don’t want to spend another flight that my love is on frantically checking the flighttracker, unable to sleep.

I’m already glad the overnight sleeper wasn’t available. We just passed a small strip of grass between the railroad tracks at the Bang Sue junction, perfectly manicured, with ponds and flower boxes, where a monk sat, resting; where a businessman sat, shoes off, cross-legged, reading the paper.

I’m not in love with Bangkok. Bangkok is like any other big city; large, functional, gritty. But, as a jumping-off point to some of my favorite places in the world, it has few equals.

Next stop – Chiang Mai.

Grand Adventure IV : ii – [Holiday in] Cambodia

Navigating a country where you don’t know how to read the alphabet, let alone speak the language, is always an adventure. Ditto being any place where the color of your skin betrays you as an outsider before you open your mouth. These are important experiences, and it’s important to go with a smile, with calm, and with the assumption that no one intends you any harm; these are the ways of making travel – and general living – palatable.

So, I start with this – things I never knew I wanted until I visited Cambodia:

-pancakes as street food from a cart
-a house on stilts in the water
-many pairs of flowing, tie-waist pants

Things I suspected but of which I am now sure:

-a simpler way of living
-fewer things
-more laughter

We made our way, completely sleep deprived, to the Mochit bus station in Bangkok. This was relatively close to our hotel but still, cab drivers don’t like to go there, so there was mild distress when we didn’t have as much time as we might have wanted to ensure we’d catch our bus. With some navigation, we traded our travel vouchers for tickets and got to the bus in plenty of time for Luke to buy random snacks at the market (surprise me!). I got the only seat on the bus with no curtain. This sounds like a small thing, I know. But this is Southeast Asia, not Sweden, and the sun is fierce and unforgiving and I was trapped in the window seat, unable to move on this ancient bus, packed to the gills with tourists (<— I resemble this)  By the end of our journey, I had a mild case of sunstroke and a gnarly heat rash. I get some pleasure from the knowledge that, for large sections of the journey from Bangkok to Siem Reap, Thunderdome represented on the side of our bus as my jacket and a bunch of carabiners served as a makeshift curtain.

A larger pleasure is Thai street food, available at many gas stations.

The border was fascinating. It reminded me in none of the good ways of walking with Chris, Jacob, and Mike Bennet into Tia Juana in 1995.

People in various states of confusion, distress, and heat exhaustion left the bus and passed in the general direction of what we could only assume was the border. The instructions we received from our bus host (not our driver) were barely audible from the back of the bus, so we hoped for the best; the 40 or so of us would disembark with all of our carry-ons, and the bus would proceed through the border with our luggage. The bus would wait about an hour and then, from what we could tell… tough shit. No one on our bus was left behind, but what a terrible thing that would be!
The border is a series of buildings and walkways on a street filled with shops. We navigated achingly poor people begging, insistent children begging, and became awash with hopelessness. Do you give money? What are you paying for? What are the politics of homelessness here? Of begging? Is this how people feel when they visit San Francisco and witness the vile disparity of the tech industry juxtaposed with our many, many homeless? Literally and figuratively, here is no clear path, and there are few signs. Walking from building to building, hoping that your departure card and hastily-acquired passport-sized photos will be sufficient, following the herd and assuming a lowest-common-denominator travel method; I hope the person in front of me is going the same way.

They were! Exiting Thailand, making our way through vendors and beggars, we come into the office to enter Cambodia, swarms of people, surprisingly organized lines for a corrugated steel building, staying away from the windows where we could have had all of the sim cards and inconvenient, trip ruining theft we could imagine. Passing through, then walking back to the between-area to get back on our bus, stopping at the casino in no-man’s land as the only place to use the restroom.

Relying on others isn’t a particular forte of mine. Indeed, when all but 2 of us were back on the bus, and things remained this way for over 30 minutes, I thought uncharitable thoughts. Were they unprepared? Did they neglect their photos or some other aspect of international travel? Why were we waiting for them? When could we get into the pool? Finally, we were on the remainder of the way, trundling along into Cambodia, just a few more hours to Siem Reap.

Cambodia is gorgeous. We’re heading back through it now. Fields, flats, flood plains, water buffalo with birds resting on them, like in the pictures. Marshes, rice patties, farmers, carts and carts of mobile food, every kind you can imagine and some you can’t. I watched, and was warm, and watched, and finally, we arrived in the center of Siem Reap.

Due to some kerfuffle with communication, we waited around until the 9:00 am (ours was at 8:00 am) bus came in and finally caught a tuktuk to our hotel. We blissfully checked in to the beautiful teak-filled Mayfair Angkor Villa, chatting with the proprietor and wandering out to the pool bar area. Due to the communication kerfuffle we were treated to a bottle of wine, which we drank with the intention of getting food with our dear friend Kinsie when shee arrived.

Oddly, nearly a bottle of wine between two people on an empty stomach while jet-lagged and sleep-deprived rendered us mostly useless and, instead of waiting up for Kinsie’s (delayed) flight and immigration issues (not hers; everyone’s), we fell asleep. The kind hotel manager (we suspect he really runs the place) did indeed awaken us to let us know Kinsie had arrived, and we said our hellos and promptly fell back asleep. This would serve us well the following day, when we awakened at 6:30 to be ready and sated by 8:00 for our day tour. Kinsie met us downstairs, where she (after months on the road) had an American breakfast and we went for traditional Cambodian. We downed coffee and headed out.

It’s decadent, but recommended, to get a driver and a tour guide for the day. We were ushered into an air-conditioned passenger van, and told of Cambodian history as we drove the right-hand-drive streets through Cambodia to Beng Mealea. We parked, slowly getting accustomed to the warmth each time we exited the van, and made our way to the destroyed temple.

There is overwhelming hopelessness combined with beauty here. The destruction of something built in the 12th century, a destruction that occurred within so many of our lifetimes… it angers me. It angers me not just because it happened; of course it happened. People are shitty assholes who aren’t creative enough to come up with other solutions to their issues. But it would be easy to look at objectively (“people were so primitive then”) if it were over. It fucking refuses to be over. We are no different now. We are distracted, disappointing idiots, as nearsighted metaphorically as I am literally. My heart shatters at hordes of tourist with $4,000 cameras who make peace signs in their photos and still don’t see it. As we walk through, the guide telling us about the minefields (the clearing process for this one *began* in 2003), Kinsie tells us about the minefields in Vietnam, the experience of being an American there, how fresh and recent it still is, children still disfigured by agent orange. I am reminded of my family, the second world war still current to them, and the Americans who never fought, whose parents and children who never fought, basking in the luxury of ignorance; they think  the Vietnam war ended the year I was born. It is so easy to do this when the war is not on your soil. People in the south are still upset about the war of northern aggression, and there is no one alive there who remembers it. It has been over for 150 years. Imagine if our children were still impacted, an entire generation recovering from slaughter, generations of huge disparity in ages of parents because there just aren’t any men around who are the same age as the women, ad many of them never come back from war. We walked through, pausing, taking photos of course, appreciating the beauty among the ruins, talking. It wasn’t solemn, exactly, but it was certainly thought-provoking.

From there we were on our way to Tonle Sap, but were also hungry, which meant stopping for street food. We jumped on the opportunity for some pork buns and apples, plantain chips fried in sugar. The pork buns were not entirely trustworthy, or we weren’t used to pork buns with non-barbecued pork, so we each threw out uneaten portions. Luke has an iron stomach, so when he said he wasn’t sure about his, I knew that my easily upset insides wouldn’t fare well if he was right.

Sated and on a sugar rush, we continued on our way to the water town. It was dusty and reddish, like driving down a road in sepia tone. There was one dirt road with shops and houses on stilts on either side. Families fished underneath.

We headed down a series of wooden stairs and planks to the water, where a sweet kid navigated our boat through the water. Suspecting there was no indoor plumbing and confirming this, we closed our mouths when the water splashed up. It was an opportunity to see a completely other way of living; isolation by choice (our guide mentioned that the families who lived here were quite wealthy), a small, insular community. We made our way along the water, some people glaring at us, some waving joyously. We made it out into the big open water (the actual Tonle Sap), which is a Vietnamese community. All of the families along the river were Cambodian, and all of the families in the open water were Vietnamese.

The houses were fascinating; some simply boats moored in place, others elaborate houseboats. All on stilts, the water just a few meters deep. Our guide said these families had been here since 1979 (I wondered how long before the Cambodian kids and the Vietnamese kids would get married and have babies and make these water borders irrelevant). The houses were extensive; potted plants, stained glass, a small market.

The most fascinating water vessel was the Vietnamese school on a small barge. This tiny community of 100 families had a school, a Vietnamese school on the water, in Cambodia. We watched as children in uniform went in and out of the school house, waving at us.

 

On the return trip, we quietly enjoyed the hum of the motor along the water (it was too loud to make conversation, really), making it back to the sweetness of the air-conditioned van, cold pre-packaged damp towels and chilled water. We headed to a lovely, if definitely touristy (there were no Cambodian people there) restaurant on the water. We relaxed, enjoyed our food and, afterward, took a brief rest in the brilliant hammock area in a small building next to the restaurant proper. Up a few stairs, 15 or so hammocks in a row, our guide and driver relaxing, smiling when they saw us. We sat for a few moments, swinging in the shade, then made our way back to the hotel. It wasn’t too far at this point back to the hotel, and when we arrived we jumped into the pool, enjoying the dregs of the day.

The evening brought us to Madame Grill BBQ, a recommendation from the hotel. This is always a risk, as hotels are so often working with restaurants for referrals, and may not necessarily be the best. This was not the case here. Various meats and vegetables were brought to our table and cooked on the grill in front of us. We chatted, enjoying the second-story view, the want night, the street lights, the grilled okra and beef.

New Year’s Eve was an ambitious, full day. We wanted to do the thing you’re supposed to do in Siem Reap, despite warnings of crowds. So, we awakened just after 4 to catch our 5 AM tuktuk to Angkor Wat.

The juxtaposition between the insane crowds; busloads and busloads, packed with traffic for blocks in the dark, hundreds of people lined up for ticket purchase, not even pre-dawn (not that there is much of a pre-dawn near the equator; it just goes from dark to light and back again almost like a switch), and the exquisite and untarnished temples, is striking. Hitting the open coffee stands just across the street, then crossing into the complex in darkness, with flashlights, felt as though it should be illegal.

When we’d asked our guide at Beng Mealea why it was not permitted to climb on the temple rubble, he said it was because it would cost a tourist $5,000 if they broke a stone. What an interesting difference; in the states, they wouldn’t be allowed to climb because the complex would worry about a lawsuit. Angkor Wat is intact, and the grounds are vast.

While there were a lot of people entering the grounds at the same time, we had no problem finding a spot on a wall of the temple to comfortably sit, and watch the sunrise. No one jostled us, or blocked the stunning view.

We bought some scarves, which was a huge mistake. Apparently, in Cambodia, if you buy a scarf, *the vendors don’t go away*. I’ve never experienced this. Most vendors go for the next sale after a purchase, not continuing to hit the button to see if they can cash out more. Kinsie had to tell them “no” quite firmly, which was amazing to see as I’m pretty sure that simply never happens. On our way to the complex, after finally convincing the aggressive saleswomen that, no, we were not purchasing any more scarves, we were distracted and fed an apple to a tied-up horse. Who knows what he’s doing there, just hanging out… at Angkor Wat, well-fed and happy. We strolled. The smaller buildings, the larger ones, the huge, huge one. We looked at the intricacies of the carvings, noting the shiny surfaces of some that had been rubbed over and over and over by human hands. In particular an upsetting rape scene where the stone was shiny. Unfortunately when I went to find a vendor to buy a book on Angkor Wat for $1, there was none to be found. Of course. After several hours strolling and enjoying, taking both appropriate

and inappropriate

photos, it was time to head back. We had a moment where we thought we’d go check out some of the vendors along the row of vendors. But, when we stepped within a certain threshold – about 50 feet from the row of shops along the temple grounds – dozens of vendors stepped out and began calling to us. It was so off-putting that we turned heel and went the other direction, vowing instead to not purchase anything, or to purchase later.

We eventually found our tuktuk driver (batman!) and headed back to the hotel, where we had breakfast, and Kinsie and I spent all day in the pool while Luke slept. We talked about life, changes, learnings, goals.

There is a whole spot here for how much I admire Kinsie’s approach to the world – unflagging positivity, assuming the best, always, insistent optimism, and approaching her own self-growth like a marathon that she will win. She’s inspiring. The conversations we’ve had over the last few years of increasing friendship have grown more and more profound, searching, theoretical. I look forward to many more as we continue our journeys; her perspective is one of which the world needs more.

I eventually tried to nap a bit, distracted by my non-functional phone (thanks, “life proof” – that first-time-underwater 3” for 30 seconds really put your product to the test…), and finally gave up. Well, not entirely. I put the phone in a ziplock with some silica gel balls and walked away.

Eventually.

We went out. We shopped. We found a night market. We bought booze for the evening. I bought all of the amazing pants that I could possibly want, in the same style, again and again. An orange cotton and silk Angkor Wat bedspread that I’ll bethrilled to put on the bed. Scarves. A dress for Kinsie. Shirts for Luke. Bracelets. Massages for me and Kinsie, a beer for Luke. The adorable kids at “I ❤️ Massage” in the Night Market near pub street made our whole night.

We headed back to the hotel later than we would have liked, the traffic already getting bad. We changed, my phone working again (thanks to that blog post on the many uses of silica gel!) and got ready to head out. We walked part of the way, then found a tuktuk to take us the remainder of the way to Abba, where we met with Liz, Nathan, and Liz’s friend Phil for dinner.

Liz I have known since we were 19, baby goths in a baby goth world, all sharp edges and faux confidence. I imagine we’d be described similarly as the years have passed. As the edges wear off we find ourselves with a friendship deeper and better with each passing year, a wealth of shared history and similarity that reveals itself more and more with each confidence whispered or texted or shouted. This woman is a treasure, one that has been in my world all along and which I’m slowly discovering.

Nathan has been in the periphery of multiple social circles, and the opportunity to spend some time with him in his stomping grounds, where he’s been out of normal circulation for several years, was rare and wonderful. We both shared joy at the fact that, finally, we were spending time together, and I reveled in the ability to say these things aloud, finally being among people where this is the norm, the coin of the realm.

Phil is a friend of Liz’s with whom I got to spend very little time over the course of the evening, likely because he’s a lot like Luke. I hope he had fun! After dinner, we bought a bottle of Jamesons, some beers, and headed to the banks of the river. Each bridge was decorated with a different set of brilliantly colored lights, and we joyed in the reflections, hundreds of locals gathered around, celebrating in the same way. Bottle rockets flared, we drank, we shared stories, we toasted, we found a countdown timer for Kinsie, and we joyously said goodbye to an incredibly difficult year and hugged as fireworks sprouted from across the river. The old saying goes that the devil that you know is better than the devil that you don’t. Well, I know the devil that was 2015, and can choose to be either optimistic or fearful about what 2016 will bring. Thank goodness Kinsie was there to help tip that scale.

We went around pub street. I found Bar.

(in Phuket, Bar was simply called “Bar”, and it was a trailer on a beach next to our hotel (the Best Western) with benches attached to it, a confederate flag for a roof, and a wild man who cut our pina colada coconuts with a machete. In Belize, Bar was a Bar on the beach that said “Bar” on the roof where, during the day (had it not been raining nearly our entire trip) we could have lounged in inner tubes but instead just had evening drinks there.)

Bar in Siem Reap was a bicycle trailer of mixers with a counter and some folding chairs holding two girls from München. I saw this setup, and yelled for Kinsie – “KINSIE! COME HERE! I FOUND BAR!” She came, I bought coconut shots for everyone, including the employees, and we giggled and drank and said hellos and goodbyes and, finally, joined our friends in the “real” bar next door. Kinsie somehow managed to convince them that we were going to drink the remainder of our bottle of Jamesons while eating their appetizers. She is pure unicorn magic when it comes to convincing people of things, but we still ended up pouring out a lot of Jamesons for our dead homies.

It was time to go. The evening waned and Luke and I had a bus to catch in the morning.

We said our goodbyes somewhere in the small hours, the streets still lively, no one in our crew messy drunk. We got into separate tuktuks with promises to meet up again (Liz in Bangkok? Nathan in Chiang Mai? Kinsie at a meditation retreat?), and the three of us headed back to the hotel.

There are hilarious videos of this journey somewhere. I may post them later. Maybe.

Finally, we slept.

In the morning we packed. I woke Kinsie briefly to say goodbye, and then Luke and I were in a tuktuk, then at the bus, then sleeping and writing and reading on the journey back to Bangkok.