I come home in a few days but I thought one last blog post would be appropriate. Thanks to everyone who has followed this, at times, long winded blog.
Ever since I established this long 6'2'' frame of mine people have made fun of my phalanges. I have gorilla hands or alien toes. Now, there is a new name: Tarsier toes. Tarsiers look like aliens. They are the smallest primates in the world and they are nocturnal, so naturally they have enormous eyes that bulge out of their heads, and naturally they can easily be confused for aliens. But the nickname for my toes comes not from their eyes but from their own phalanges. Like mine, they have extremely knobby knuckles that you can see on their slender, furless hands. So goofy looking. They were a must see while on the island of Bohol. The other must see were the Chocolate Hills. From the viewpoint atop the highest hill is a landscape of perfectly rounded, treeless hills scattered around you. It is borderline surreal. At some point, the grass on the hills dries out or is burned and the hills take on a brownish black hue, hence the name Chocolate Hills. Like so many things I have described, sorry about not uploading pictures. In time.
Just off the southeast coast of Bohol is Panglao Island. It was here that we stumbled upon Bohol Bee Farm, an organic beekeeping farm. Not only did they produce honey but they grew vegetables that they used in their restaurant (we ate there and I had a plate of grilled blue marlin with rice and a salad for under $6...best $6 ever,) and made their ownm ice cream (mmhmm, scoops of buko (coconut) and ube (purple sweet potato.)) It sat on a low cliff overlooking the ocean, so nice.
While traveling towards Carmen to see the Chocolate Hills, a woman gave us a hint about the BBC (Bohol Beach Club) on Panglao. In general, I abhor country club type establishments and the people who attend them, but I discovered that these things cannot be generalized, and in general, generalizations are poor form. You know that the place is going to be meticulously manicured before you walk in, and it was. They had crews of guys that raked the seaweed from the beach every couple of hours, gardeners in the gardens of flowers and trees, white painted beach chairs with grass huts for shade. But it was more than that stereotypical image. Any music playing was contained and could not be heard from the beach, there were more people by the beach than at the pool, and there was no wrinkly, leatherskinned women in sight. The staff joked with us and let us have free coffees when the rain came. They knew we were trying to sneak a taste of the dream for cheap, and we did.
When Lizzie and I planned (the little bit of planning that we did) for the Philippines, I told her that if I did nothing else I wanted to spend one day in Donsol. In the 90's WWF (World Wildlife Fund) heard that whale sharks, locally called butanding, frequently feed off of the coast of this small fishing village in the Philippines. They, along with the local population, established a system of ecotourism that allows people to swim and interact with the butanding. It went something like this: The spotter standing in the bamboo "crow's nest" of the small boat must have seen something, a dark silhouette maybe. The guide tells you to get ready.You slip on the flippers, pulling hard to stretch the rubber around your heel. You adjust your snorkel mask and suction it to your face. The mask is tight and you can feel the red lines forming that will be around your eyes and nose when you take it off. "GO GO GO!" he yells like an air force jump training instructor. You scoot your butt off of the edge of the boat and plunge into the water, careful to avoid the wing of the boat as it whizes past, and swim in the direction that the guide points. "Look down!" he reminds you. So you look. Is it there? Where is it? You must've missed it. Nothing. Then your stomach lurches and your muscles tighten as a huge open mouth looms towards you, trying to suck in microscopic plankton. It materializes quickly in the deep blue of the water but it moves slowly, drifting. But just seeing its mouth in those initial moments doesn't give you an accurate impression of how big it is. You know its big. You've been told its big. But you don't fully appreciate how dwarfed you are next to it until you are next to it, until its massive, white-spotted blue body passes you. Its gills are the size of your torso and its tail fin is as tall as your body from head to toe. As excitement electrifies your body you begin to kick your flippers to keep up with it. How is it that this giant is gentle and eats only plankton and small krill-like fish? You spend twenty minutes labouring to smoothly swim alongside it. You look like a bigger, less scaly version of the small fish that follow it, catching a free meal of the food coming out of its gills. The butanding's black inside white eyes turn downwards and it begins to dive. You follow its last visible movements with your eyes, your body suspended in the blue water. The length of the butanding flows past. You try to count the many white spots as its dorsal fin passes. The tail oscillates slowly and gracefully until it disappears. You surface. Gasping to catch your breath you wait for the boat to scoop you up. The guide asks how it was. What do you say to that, after something like that? It was exciting as hell, but after the adrenaline subsided I thought of how they remind me of cows, a creature that amasses a great size, and in the butanding's case mostly, through eating plant matter and lives an almost exclusively peaceful life. Shouldn't we be studying these creatures for more than biological purposes, for more than how to make money from them? What do they teach us about how we should live?
Our flight back to Bangkok was scheduled for the nighttime so we had time to head to Tagaytay to see the Taal volcano, which sits in the center of a lake. Usually you can take a boat to the volcano, hike to the rim of the crater, and peer into the swirling pool of magma. However, the volvano had recently been raised to "Level 2," meaning it is at risk to explode sometime soon. They wouldn't let us climb to the edge of the crater. Bummer. On the way back to the airport I saw durian fruits, in their tan spike-covered shells, hanging in fruit stands on the side of the road. Lizzie has a lot of good ideas, one of them being for me to walk into a five-star hotel to go #2. In doing so I saw numerous no smoking signs with durian fruits edited into the red, slashed out circle and ever since I've been wanting to try this disgusting thing. Some people think it tastes like feet, others like stale vomit. For some unexplainable reason I'm drawn to the possibilities. But the vendors wouldn't sell me a small piece to try. I had to buy the whole fruit or nothing. I guess with durian, once you pop the fun stops immediately. The vendors knew that if they opened the fruit and sold me just a piece then they would have to sit for the rest of the day with this smelly sock of a fruit in the scorching sun. I didn't buy the whole fruit, because I knew that after I hated it I would have to sit for the rest of the day with this smelly sock of a fruit in the scorching sun. But the quest to try durian did not end in vain. Also hanging in the fruit stand was a bundle of mangosteen. To put into perspective the magnificence of this fruit, Queen Elizabeth once promised a knighthood and 1000 pounds to any man that could bring her a single mangosteen. My jaw muscles tickled from the sweet juice that bursted from the white, segmented flesh of this fruit. Jesus it was delicious.
If you have read this post in its entirety, congratulations. That is well done. I would've had to get up and make a sandwich to get through that thing.
P.S. I listened to rap music while writing this post. Also, Thailand has far more mosquitoes than the Philippines.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Halo Halo, Puto, Lumpiang, Crispy Pata...Why does it taste so good?
It might sound crazy, but I am happy to be rid of the Thai cuisine, at least for a while. Those coconut milk based curries and endless $1 Pad Thai are unbelievably good, but I needed a rest after three months. In traveling to the Philippines we get a break from everything but the rice. You can't escape the rice. It's everywhere.
Our first Philippine destination was the capital, Manila. It is a city with a lot of history, but even more signs of the future to come. Going to Intramuros, the old section, one can find forts, Catholic cathedrals, and Spanish villas all left over from colonial times. There are expansive parks honoring the martyr Jose Rizal and other colonial era fighters. But then there are tons of malls. The Robinson is a four story behemoth. In Philippine malls there are as many sit down restaurants as clothing stores and as many stores selling cell phones as either of those. You have at least ten choices of the same kind of food, and there are many kinds a food to choose from. These malls take cuisines from around the world: pizza, burgers, rotisserie chicken, French baking, you name it. We walked into the Robinson to buy a new SIM card for our phone so that it would work in the Philippines but we were completely overstimulated. We couldn't imagine a larger example of consumption. Then the next night, Lizzie's cousin Cleah took us to MOA (Mall of Asia) which is the third largest mall in the world. You couldn't fully explore the place if you had a week. There was an ice skating rink inside. It was big, very big. But it is interesting, They have found ways to make these malls, I hesitate to use the word but, beautiful places. MOA has a veranda that overlooks the bay. The mall in Baguio (which is where I am typing this now) has a veranda that gives possibly the best view in the entire city. The mall is on top of a huge hill from where you can watch the clouds drift through the building-covered hills of Baguio. You are literally inside the first cloud layer and you can feel their moisture as they float past you.
Anyways, we haven't spent that much time in the malls, they are just crazy and of note to mention I think. But Manila was a special place for Lizzie. In Manila, we visited St Paul's College where her mother attended nursing school before she came to the U.S. More importantly though, about 45 minutes outside of the city is the town of Imus in the province of Cavite. It was, for so long, the fabled birthplace of her mother and her other family that is now in the states. Cleah drove us to Mascardo Street and Lizzie met her Aunt Heidi for the first time. There were tears. We saw the neighborhood where Lizzie's mother grew up, a place she had only heard about in stories but was now real, concrete, streets full of houses and shops. From my perspective, it was amazing to watch someone connect with a part of themself. Just being there for it was special.
We left Manila and headed for Baguio, a beautiful town in the Mountains. It is not a small quiet town. In fact, it is large bustling town. It is hard to escape the smog of Jeepneys, even here where it mingles with the crisp mountain air. But here, unlike in Manila, we have found pockets of peace, at least for a few minutes at a time. Reading in Burnham Park is relaxing, that is until the vendors swarm you. Note to all you future travelers, don't buy anything from wandering vendors, or if you do be so quick that the other vendors don't see the transaction. I could read maybe a paragraph before a huge plate of empanadas were dropped in front of me, or oranges, or wooden flutes, or chicharonnes. And when I finally caved and bought an empanada all of the vendors converged, like sharks to a drop of blood in the water. But Baguio has been the perfect place to relax and watch the clouds.
Tomorrow we leave Baguio for Bohol. Adventures that are tentatively planned are seeing Tarsiers, dolphin and whale watching, and viewing the chocolate hills. Our last few days in the Philippines we plan to swim with whale sharks in Donsol, the only place in the world where the beasties come that close to the shore and surface and are comfortable with people swimming alongside them. Well, I hope the flowers are blooming back home.
Our first Philippine destination was the capital, Manila. It is a city with a lot of history, but even more signs of the future to come. Going to Intramuros, the old section, one can find forts, Catholic cathedrals, and Spanish villas all left over from colonial times. There are expansive parks honoring the martyr Jose Rizal and other colonial era fighters. But then there are tons of malls. The Robinson is a four story behemoth. In Philippine malls there are as many sit down restaurants as clothing stores and as many stores selling cell phones as either of those. You have at least ten choices of the same kind of food, and there are many kinds a food to choose from. These malls take cuisines from around the world: pizza, burgers, rotisserie chicken, French baking, you name it. We walked into the Robinson to buy a new SIM card for our phone so that it would work in the Philippines but we were completely overstimulated. We couldn't imagine a larger example of consumption. Then the next night, Lizzie's cousin Cleah took us to MOA (Mall of Asia) which is the third largest mall in the world. You couldn't fully explore the place if you had a week. There was an ice skating rink inside. It was big, very big. But it is interesting, They have found ways to make these malls, I hesitate to use the word but, beautiful places. MOA has a veranda that overlooks the bay. The mall in Baguio (which is where I am typing this now) has a veranda that gives possibly the best view in the entire city. The mall is on top of a huge hill from where you can watch the clouds drift through the building-covered hills of Baguio. You are literally inside the first cloud layer and you can feel their moisture as they float past you.
Anyways, we haven't spent that much time in the malls, they are just crazy and of note to mention I think. But Manila was a special place for Lizzie. In Manila, we visited St Paul's College where her mother attended nursing school before she came to the U.S. More importantly though, about 45 minutes outside of the city is the town of Imus in the province of Cavite. It was, for so long, the fabled birthplace of her mother and her other family that is now in the states. Cleah drove us to Mascardo Street and Lizzie met her Aunt Heidi for the first time. There were tears. We saw the neighborhood where Lizzie's mother grew up, a place she had only heard about in stories but was now real, concrete, streets full of houses and shops. From my perspective, it was amazing to watch someone connect with a part of themself. Just being there for it was special.
We left Manila and headed for Baguio, a beautiful town in the Mountains. It is not a small quiet town. In fact, it is large bustling town. It is hard to escape the smog of Jeepneys, even here where it mingles with the crisp mountain air. But here, unlike in Manila, we have found pockets of peace, at least for a few minutes at a time. Reading in Burnham Park is relaxing, that is until the vendors swarm you. Note to all you future travelers, don't buy anything from wandering vendors, or if you do be so quick that the other vendors don't see the transaction. I could read maybe a paragraph before a huge plate of empanadas were dropped in front of me, or oranges, or wooden flutes, or chicharonnes. And when I finally caved and bought an empanada all of the vendors converged, like sharks to a drop of blood in the water. But Baguio has been the perfect place to relax and watch the clouds.
Tomorrow we leave Baguio for Bohol. Adventures that are tentatively planned are seeing Tarsiers, dolphin and whale watching, and viewing the chocolate hills. Our last few days in the Philippines we plan to swim with whale sharks in Donsol, the only place in the world where the beasties come that close to the shore and surface and are comfortable with people swimming alongside them. Well, I hope the flowers are blooming back home.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Some Travels End in Ruins
We left the farm. No surprise there, really. It was time. We spent two weeks shoveling into bags, almost burning our hands on the heat that escaped from between the layers of decomposition. You wouldn't think it, but the compost was hot. It was cool to strike the pile with a hoe and watch the steam rise out of the pile. The steam was from the heat of the anaerobic processes under way deep within the compost pile, released by my hoe after months of putrifying. We grew a bit bored with the process. Acquire compost, bring compost, water the composted tree and moisten the compost around the tree with pigshit water, cover compost around the tree with straw. Rinse and repeat. The alternative was to fill holes dug for new papaya trees with compost. Either choice involved traviling a long road with bags of compost slung over your shoulder. It got old. But that's not the real reason I wanted to leave. Even a task like composting fuit tree groves can become therapeutic with the right thoughts in your mind. It was time to go and I'll leave it at that.
We left for Chiang Mai, again. Chiang Mai, deservedly so, has become our hub between activities. We'd go somewhere, and come back, go somewhere else for a few weeks, and come back. And like always, we stayed with Vichai. Altogether, this man and his wife and son hosted us for maybe two weeks of our trip. I think he liked the company since he was retired. It gave him something to do, people to talk to about our travels and about the U.S. where he lived for many years and about his ideas to open a Chinese restaurant in the U.S. or a hot dog stand or any number of different food stall ideas. Last time we were in town we met Pensook, the principal of a secondary school in town, and went to a buffet lunch with her. This time in Chiang Mai we met up with Pensook again and went to dinner with her. Her younger brother is the proprietor of a whole block of boutique hotel and spas. During the meal we were treated to a huge Thai style dance production. There was a man moving with swords in his mouth, a story about a monkey that married a fish that was adapted from an old Hindu story, men drumming, and women gracefully turning their wrists with their fingers extended in the traditional thai style. On the way out, people lit huge paper laterns and released them. They drifted up into the empty night like glowing hot air balloons. We asked Vichai, who had come to the dinner, "Aren't those blowing towards your neighborhood?" He said, "Yes. One time one of those dropped into the community pool." We didn't believe him, of course. When we turned the corner onto his street, we saw a huge paper latern. The white paper lie folded on itself on the ground and it no longer glowed. Vichai laughed. "What did I tell you? Every night it is like this."
That time in Chiang Mai was our last. We will not be going back to Vichai's. We left for Sukhothai and then Ayutthaya to fill in the last few days before the Phillippines. They are both cities built around ruins. Sukhothai was a wonderful town with people who still smiled. It was the one place above all others that I felt as if it wasn't all about business, that the people were still genuinely happy that I was there. The ruins were spread far apart, a large city of ancient temple complexes. We rented bikes and rode them all day, and when we had seen all of the ruins, we rode the bikes just to ride them. The air felt clean and there was a peace in the slow deterioration of the place and in the neutral smiles on the faces of the many Buddhas at each ruined temple.
Ayutthaya was the capital of Siam for four centuries until the Burmese razed it in the 1700s. The ruins that remain are what was left of the city when the Burmese left. Every so often a pile of bricks sits discarded, the past and past locations of each brick unknown. But many figures still remain. You can imagine high brick walls covered in an older cement mixture. Worn, straight postured Buddha images sagely sit, staring ahead. The pointed tops of the chedis are now a faded gray-black of mildew growing in the grain of the cement, but were once covered in gold; all melted dorn by the Burmese as spoils of war. The one thing that improves with the years is the face of Buddha at Mahathad Temple. A ficus tree's roots slowly grew downward around the stone head. Every year that it becomes further enveloped, further strangled by the roots, it rises higher towards the heavens. I looked at it as a resounding motif: experiencing enlightenment through nature. Nature lifts us to God. After all, didn't the real Buddha end the cycle of suffering under a Boh tree? I came to this realization while being similarly enveloped, not be dense ficus roots but by screaming Asian tourists, all hurrying to flash a peace sign while there laughing friends snapped a photo. The sheer numbers of them were stifling.
Late tomorrow night (3-29) we leave for the Phillippines. One of Lizzie's cousins is set to pick us up from the airport in Manila. We spend a few nights there and then Head to Bagguio. After Bagguio we fly to Bohol to see the chocolate hills and hopefully some beachtime before we head back to Manila. It shouled be a nice two weeks before heading home. Some of you I will see very soon. Rebecca's name comes to mind. I want a haircut and some good conversation.
We left for Chiang Mai, again. Chiang Mai, deservedly so, has become our hub between activities. We'd go somewhere, and come back, go somewhere else for a few weeks, and come back. And like always, we stayed with Vichai. Altogether, this man and his wife and son hosted us for maybe two weeks of our trip. I think he liked the company since he was retired. It gave him something to do, people to talk to about our travels and about the U.S. where he lived for many years and about his ideas to open a Chinese restaurant in the U.S. or a hot dog stand or any number of different food stall ideas. Last time we were in town we met Pensook, the principal of a secondary school in town, and went to a buffet lunch with her. This time in Chiang Mai we met up with Pensook again and went to dinner with her. Her younger brother is the proprietor of a whole block of boutique hotel and spas. During the meal we were treated to a huge Thai style dance production. There was a man moving with swords in his mouth, a story about a monkey that married a fish that was adapted from an old Hindu story, men drumming, and women gracefully turning their wrists with their fingers extended in the traditional thai style. On the way out, people lit huge paper laterns and released them. They drifted up into the empty night like glowing hot air balloons. We asked Vichai, who had come to the dinner, "Aren't those blowing towards your neighborhood?" He said, "Yes. One time one of those dropped into the community pool." We didn't believe him, of course. When we turned the corner onto his street, we saw a huge paper latern. The white paper lie folded on itself on the ground and it no longer glowed. Vichai laughed. "What did I tell you? Every night it is like this."
That time in Chiang Mai was our last. We will not be going back to Vichai's. We left for Sukhothai and then Ayutthaya to fill in the last few days before the Phillippines. They are both cities built around ruins. Sukhothai was a wonderful town with people who still smiled. It was the one place above all others that I felt as if it wasn't all about business, that the people were still genuinely happy that I was there. The ruins were spread far apart, a large city of ancient temple complexes. We rented bikes and rode them all day, and when we had seen all of the ruins, we rode the bikes just to ride them. The air felt clean and there was a peace in the slow deterioration of the place and in the neutral smiles on the faces of the many Buddhas at each ruined temple.
Ayutthaya was the capital of Siam for four centuries until the Burmese razed it in the 1700s. The ruins that remain are what was left of the city when the Burmese left. Every so often a pile of bricks sits discarded, the past and past locations of each brick unknown. But many figures still remain. You can imagine high brick walls covered in an older cement mixture. Worn, straight postured Buddha images sagely sit, staring ahead. The pointed tops of the chedis are now a faded gray-black of mildew growing in the grain of the cement, but were once covered in gold; all melted dorn by the Burmese as spoils of war. The one thing that improves with the years is the face of Buddha at Mahathad Temple. A ficus tree's roots slowly grew downward around the stone head. Every year that it becomes further enveloped, further strangled by the roots, it rises higher towards the heavens. I looked at it as a resounding motif: experiencing enlightenment through nature. Nature lifts us to God. After all, didn't the real Buddha end the cycle of suffering under a Boh tree? I came to this realization while being similarly enveloped, not be dense ficus roots but by screaming Asian tourists, all hurrying to flash a peace sign while there laughing friends snapped a photo. The sheer numbers of them were stifling.
Late tomorrow night (3-29) we leave for the Phillippines. One of Lizzie's cousins is set to pick us up from the airport in Manila. We spend a few nights there and then Head to Bagguio. After Bagguio we fly to Bohol to see the chocolate hills and hopefully some beachtime before we head back to Manila. It shouled be a nice two weeks before heading home. Some of you I will see very soon. Rebecca's name comes to mind. I want a haircut and some good conversation.
Friday, March 11, 2011
We found it, a real farm.
We finally caught up to our schedule for northern Thailand, and on that schedule we arranged to stay at Aimee Doyers Organic Farm. We arrived after taking a bus from Chiang Rai to Chiang Mai, a bus from Chiang Mai to seven km passed Chiang Dao to the intersection with road 1178 where we then got onto a Sangteuw (pickup truck converted to passenger holding vehicle complete with benches alongside the truck bed, a few guys had to ride on top) to Ban Lo Pahan, got out when we saw a motorcycle shop, walked down the road across the street for about one km until a dirt road, turned left onto the dirt road and then walked for about 700 meters to the house. These were some of the better directions we have had, but they are always further complicated by the Thai-English language barrier. Quick fact, Thai is a language with a set alphabet, not pictorial characters like Japanaese or Chinese. But as the title of the post explains, it is a real farm that grows food and everything. Needless to say we were excited; a feeling temporarily halted by the barking Rottweiler in the driveway. We would learn that Maloi is a kind idiot, truly harmless but a dangerous looking dog.
There are five other WWOOFers here, all French speaking, and they had been working on the seemingly unending project of delivering compost to the rubber and fruit tree groves. The process involves hacking compost out of a rich, layered mound and then shoveling it into rice husk bags. The bags are then brought to the trees. Sometimes we have to carry the 40lb bags if the terrain does not permit use of the cart. You spread the compost around the base of the tree and then wet it. Then you cover it with straw or rice husk, something to help keep in the moisture. The can water can be tricky. The pump that brings water through the hose is not powerful enough to go uphill. The hose is also almost never long enough to reach the trees. We often find ourselves carrying buckets uphill to the trees. I should also mention that the water comes from a pond that is full of pig shit. Not only does the water moisten the compost, it adds additional nutrients for the nutrient poor soils. But it is disgusting as the water, sloshing around in the bucket as you carry it, spills onto your leg and slowly drips into your boot. The smell stays with you no matter how many times you wash your hands. The idea is that the compost is made from material that is indigenous to the area and therefore it possesses microbes that are indigenous to the area and capable of breaking down and fixing nutrients that plants in this area need. It is a place-specific system. This is basically what I have been doing for the past five days. Maybe a new project will come up, but this composting project seems like it is it. It is hard work, the kind of work that makes you proud you accomplished it, work that you want a cold beer after, the kind of work a Thai man would do for 5-6 dollars per day, and not be able to afford a cold beer after.
Wednesday (3-9-11) was Jean-Marcs (a fellow WWOOFer) birthday. Members of the Lisu (a hilltribe in Thailand) community came to celebrate it with us. It began with Christian psalms in Lisu. They sang in perfect two-layered harmony. The whole time children ran around, climbed into and out of laps, and ate watermelon and sour unripe mango. Then individuals stood and prayed for Jean-Marc. After maybe an hour of all this, everyone come together around Jean-Marc, and placing a hand on him, jointly voiced their prayers. People shouted and whispered, their eyes closed, focused that his wishes may be granted by God. It was sincere, their energy powerfully positive as if the ceiling opened to let in a bright, shining light. Then we ate Khao Soi, a delicious noodle dish with yellow curry, coconut milk, pickled cabbage, onions, and chicken. It was a happy experience, a modern Lisu tradition where Christianity has replaced the veneration of spirit gods. After showing some of the Lisu children card tricks that made them giggle and shine with curiosity, they left. And we were left to our routine of waking, spreading compost, resting during the hottest hours, returning to the groves, and then finally sitting as tired individuals who have all shared hard work. A laughable bunch, happy to be sitting.
There are five other WWOOFers here, all French speaking, and they had been working on the seemingly unending project of delivering compost to the rubber and fruit tree groves. The process involves hacking compost out of a rich, layered mound and then shoveling it into rice husk bags. The bags are then brought to the trees. Sometimes we have to carry the 40lb bags if the terrain does not permit use of the cart. You spread the compost around the base of the tree and then wet it. Then you cover it with straw or rice husk, something to help keep in the moisture. The can water can be tricky. The pump that brings water through the hose is not powerful enough to go uphill. The hose is also almost never long enough to reach the trees. We often find ourselves carrying buckets uphill to the trees. I should also mention that the water comes from a pond that is full of pig shit. Not only does the water moisten the compost, it adds additional nutrients for the nutrient poor soils. But it is disgusting as the water, sloshing around in the bucket as you carry it, spills onto your leg and slowly drips into your boot. The smell stays with you no matter how many times you wash your hands. The idea is that the compost is made from material that is indigenous to the area and therefore it possesses microbes that are indigenous to the area and capable of breaking down and fixing nutrients that plants in this area need. It is a place-specific system. This is basically what I have been doing for the past five days. Maybe a new project will come up, but this composting project seems like it is it. It is hard work, the kind of work that makes you proud you accomplished it, work that you want a cold beer after, the kind of work a Thai man would do for 5-6 dollars per day, and not be able to afford a cold beer after.
Wednesday (3-9-11) was Jean-Marcs (a fellow WWOOFer) birthday. Members of the Lisu (a hilltribe in Thailand) community came to celebrate it with us. It began with Christian psalms in Lisu. They sang in perfect two-layered harmony. The whole time children ran around, climbed into and out of laps, and ate watermelon and sour unripe mango. Then individuals stood and prayed for Jean-Marc. After maybe an hour of all this, everyone come together around Jean-Marc, and placing a hand on him, jointly voiced their prayers. People shouted and whispered, their eyes closed, focused that his wishes may be granted by God. It was sincere, their energy powerfully positive as if the ceiling opened to let in a bright, shining light. Then we ate Khao Soi, a delicious noodle dish with yellow curry, coconut milk, pickled cabbage, onions, and chicken. It was a happy experience, a modern Lisu tradition where Christianity has replaced the veneration of spirit gods. After showing some of the Lisu children card tricks that made them giggle and shine with curiosity, they left. And we were left to our routine of waking, spreading compost, resting during the hottest hours, returning to the groves, and then finally sitting as tired individuals who have all shared hard work. A laughable bunch, happy to be sitting.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
A Hilltribe Holiday
This waterfall never ends. It simply goes where you can no longer see it. The water continues to new tiers of the same falling river. It pools, and rises, pools, and rises, and disappears into the dense overhanging foliage. Untidy banana trees extend broad, green leaves while dry, dead leaves hang against the thick stem. Bamboo leaves stretch like thin fingers on slender hands. A whole community of bamboo stalks holding hands. We sat for hours here and just listened to the birds, the water, the eerily creaking bamboo.
Nearby there was a school. We taught English for a day to the children who came from the neighboring hilltribe villages. The girls were shy and the boys loud, eager to show off until called upon. It is the same in every language. The same giggles from all of the kids not singled out by the teacher. The "that's what you get for showing off" giggles from the girls as you convince the boy to pull himself out of his seat and write the first day of the week on the board. We had lunch with the teachers. Green curry, scrambled egg with kale, a noodle dish, and a cabbage dish. They were as shy as the students to talk with us.
At the elephant camp we made a connection with an elephant, if only for fifteen minutes. He looked curiously at us with his cloudy, cataract eye. I held his trunk and felt the smoothness and the roughness of his trunk. I felt the short black hairs and then let his trunk drop. He brought it back to my hands. I caught it, and then let it drop. Next I gently blew into it and he tore it away, tickled by the air. He curiously, slowly brought it back. It always came back. Lizzie and I both played catch with an elephant's trunk. Sometime during the interaction he popped a huge boner.
A hot spring spa fed natural hot spring water into private bath houses and a swimming pool. The warm water soothed muscles that had walked far to get there; a long sought reward.
All of these things were within a several km walk from the Akha Hill House, a guest house nestled in the hills in an Akha village. The Beekers, who live upstairs from my parents, recommended it and it was a wonderful place to either have packed days of trekking or just to sit and relax. However, I'd wager the place has changed since they ventured through. There is a paved road going almost all the way to the village, there is wifi, lots of cement, and lots of jungle-cleared hills converted to mango groves. There is a single unconverted hillside remaining where you look out from the hill house dining,relaxing,reception area. The world is changing, there is no doubt. But even as I imagine what it would be like to be surrounded on all sides by jungle, the scent of mango blossoms fills my nostrils. One can find beauty in everything.
And then today we went to the Hilltribe Museum in Chiang Rai where they basically state that every manner in which you can access the hilltribes is exploitative (except, of course, the tours arranged through the Hilltribe Museum's Population and Community Development Association). So we hung our heads in shame and defeat. We didn't actually do that. But, I began to compare the experience to the way in which some Maasai villages in Kenya are constructed to be tourist attractions and have nothing real about them. Tourists come to a village of mobbing women soliciting their crafts. No way of life is interrupted by your arrival because the way of life has been changed in expectation of your arrival. The way of life is dead in these villages. Which begs the question, is there any way to see an authentic village of traditional people anymore? Can I realistically hope to have an honest, pure interaction with people who cling to their culture in the face of globalization? I like to think that everyone isn't out there to just sell me shit; that a simple way of life close to the earth still exists unspoiled by the desire to adopt western ideas of consumption. Does everyone want a slice of the metaphorical pie?
Nearby there was a school. We taught English for a day to the children who came from the neighboring hilltribe villages. The girls were shy and the boys loud, eager to show off until called upon. It is the same in every language. The same giggles from all of the kids not singled out by the teacher. The "that's what you get for showing off" giggles from the girls as you convince the boy to pull himself out of his seat and write the first day of the week on the board. We had lunch with the teachers. Green curry, scrambled egg with kale, a noodle dish, and a cabbage dish. They were as shy as the students to talk with us.
At the elephant camp we made a connection with an elephant, if only for fifteen minutes. He looked curiously at us with his cloudy, cataract eye. I held his trunk and felt the smoothness and the roughness of his trunk. I felt the short black hairs and then let his trunk drop. He brought it back to my hands. I caught it, and then let it drop. Next I gently blew into it and he tore it away, tickled by the air. He curiously, slowly brought it back. It always came back. Lizzie and I both played catch with an elephant's trunk. Sometime during the interaction he popped a huge boner.
A hot spring spa fed natural hot spring water into private bath houses and a swimming pool. The warm water soothed muscles that had walked far to get there; a long sought reward.
All of these things were within a several km walk from the Akha Hill House, a guest house nestled in the hills in an Akha village. The Beekers, who live upstairs from my parents, recommended it and it was a wonderful place to either have packed days of trekking or just to sit and relax. However, I'd wager the place has changed since they ventured through. There is a paved road going almost all the way to the village, there is wifi, lots of cement, and lots of jungle-cleared hills converted to mango groves. There is a single unconverted hillside remaining where you look out from the hill house dining,relaxing,reception area. The world is changing, there is no doubt. But even as I imagine what it would be like to be surrounded on all sides by jungle, the scent of mango blossoms fills my nostrils. One can find beauty in everything.
And then today we went to the Hilltribe Museum in Chiang Rai where they basically state that every manner in which you can access the hilltribes is exploitative (except, of course, the tours arranged through the Hilltribe Museum's Population and Community Development Association). So we hung our heads in shame and defeat. We didn't actually do that. But, I began to compare the experience to the way in which some Maasai villages in Kenya are constructed to be tourist attractions and have nothing real about them. Tourists come to a village of mobbing women soliciting their crafts. No way of life is interrupted by your arrival because the way of life has been changed in expectation of your arrival. The way of life is dead in these villages. Which begs the question, is there any way to see an authentic village of traditional people anymore? Can I realistically hope to have an honest, pure interaction with people who cling to their culture in the face of globalization? I like to think that everyone isn't out there to just sell me shit; that a simple way of life close to the earth still exists unspoiled by the desire to adopt western ideas of consumption. Does everyone want a slice of the metaphorical pie?
Things You Can Find in a Thai 7-Eleven
Having spent much time in Thai 7-elevens because they are conveniently everywhere and are the only reliable place to find yogurt, I decided to compose a list of some of the more eye-catching items.
Wasabi peas, seasoned seaweed sandwich with tofu sheet, badminton birdies, tamarind with apricot powder, shower caps, salted cured plums, scorched rice with fossy pork pepper sauce, skin whitening lotion, bacon-wrapped hotdogs, sweet chili squid Lays chips, a refreshing towel, chicken pot pastry pie, red fanta slushee, UHT sweetened flavored milk product, Nopamas incense sticks and Lucky yellow candles for the temples, soybean sauce soaked hard-boiled eggs, Playtex tampons, Pao with savory curry chicken and preserved egg, Halls, tofu, and every Nestle Milo product ever made.
I hope everything at home is wonderful, and thawing.
Wasabi peas, seasoned seaweed sandwich with tofu sheet, badminton birdies, tamarind with apricot powder, shower caps, salted cured plums, scorched rice with fossy pork pepper sauce, skin whitening lotion, bacon-wrapped hotdogs, sweet chili squid Lays chips, a refreshing towel, chicken pot pastry pie, red fanta slushee, UHT sweetened flavored milk product, Nopamas incense sticks and Lucky yellow candles for the temples, soybean sauce soaked hard-boiled eggs, Playtex tampons, Pao with savory curry chicken and preserved egg, Halls, tofu, and every Nestle Milo product ever made.
I hope everything at home is wonderful, and thawing.
Monday, February 28, 2011
a Crabby 3 yr. old, a Golden Retriever, and a Botanical Garden.
Minus the last two Laos trip delaying days of pounding fever headaches and temperature swings like a menopausal woman, we spent our last week at Dokmai Garden. This "farm" was another misleading WWOOF host. There was no farm. There was nothing WWOOF about it. There was only a tropical gardening class that you could take for roughly $15 per day. The classes were taught by a Swedish biologist with a PhD and took place in a botanical garden with 975 species of tropical plants, many of which were native to Thailand. So despite the fact that it would not be free and we would not farm, we did it. Well worth the money. It just so happened that Folbert and Corienne, friends of Eric (the Swedish biologist) spontaneously visited during the first day of our stay. Folbert, a Dutch seed technologist with a side passion of orchids, suggested taking a trip the next day to Doi Inthanon National Park, commonly known as the home of Thailand'd highest point. So for a short time we had two authorities teaching us more than we could want to know. Folbert about orchids, and Eric about most everything else. That was some of my most proud bumming hospitality. It wasn't all learning, but even the learning was fun. We:uncovered a scarab beetle larvae (that shit was gross,) spent over an hour with a Swedish mad scientist trying to burn things with his hand lens, forced sex upon a few orchids, sucked on a white, fleshy cacao seed, gritted my teeth and bared a poorly parented three yr. old, pruned bamboo, watched Mimosa pudica leaves fold inward upon being touched, dug up cassava root, pulled up taro root, cooked casava root, cooked tara root, ate cassava root, ate taro root, walked a huge golden retriever named Reuben, among other things.
After the gardening school, we headed back to Veechai's for one night before planning to take an early morning bus to Chiang Khong at the Thai-Laos border. But my fever that began at the end of our stay at Dokmai peaked and I made the decision to postpone for what ended up being two days. Tomorow we leave no matter how I feel, but I feel fine. At Veechai's we: watched a seven yr. old boy run an extension cord outside the house and into his small tent to power two fans, went swimming in a community pool (legally this time,) had pool experience ruined by a boisterous herd of Chiang Mai youth, ate a grilled ham and cheese, drank a juice box of honey-flavored soy milk, designed and constructed a mini gold course on a house lawn, taught wheel-barrow racing to two seven yr. olds, taught jump roping to to seven yr. olds using a string of tied together rubber bands--real ghetto. Fun times.
Tomorrow it is off to Laos or bust. The fever has passed.
After the gardening school, we headed back to Veechai's for one night before planning to take an early morning bus to Chiang Khong at the Thai-Laos border. But my fever that began at the end of our stay at Dokmai peaked and I made the decision to postpone for what ended up being two days. Tomorow we leave no matter how I feel, but I feel fine. At Veechai's we: watched a seven yr. old boy run an extension cord outside the house and into his small tent to power two fans, went swimming in a community pool (legally this time,) had pool experience ruined by a boisterous herd of Chiang Mai youth, ate a grilled ham and cheese, drank a juice box of honey-flavored soy milk, designed and constructed a mini gold course on a house lawn, taught wheel-barrow racing to two seven yr. olds, taught jump roping to to seven yr. olds using a string of tied together rubber bands--real ghetto. Fun times.
Tomorrow it is off to Laos or bust. The fever has passed.
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