Status: very happy.

About a week ago I woke up at 5:00 a.m. and hopped into the cab of an enormous truck with my Haydin's stepfather Hamish for a little road trip bound for Westport. I don't know if any of you have ever been to Westport, located, shockingly, on the west coast of New Zealand, but it's not much to look at. It's the trip there and back again that catches the eye.

I'll quell the rumors now and say, with a resounding "Yes," that New Zealand is as beautiful as you think it is. Maybe even more so. The four hours to Westport and four hours back to Nelson passed in one breathtaking instant, which only further fuels my ever-present, ever-growing travel bug. As always, I am having trouble putting the majesty of Nature into words that do it justice. For you, I shall try.

As the sun rose behind us in the early dawn, everything was quiet, dark and peaceful, except for the roaring engine. We sat shivering as I watched the stillness of the frosty fields transform into the rolling hills and mountains of the Northwest while Hamish watched the road. The only word I can think of is 'green.' Not your lame, run-of-the-mill crayon green, but every color in an all-green rainbow casting its rays upon the landscape. Pine forest green, avocado green, cooked spinach green, palm tree green, freshly cut grass green, sea green, pistashio green, lime green, moss green, neon light green, blue-green, yellow-green, green tea green, cactus green, and Heineken beer bottle green. All I could do was stare, mouth open, as we zipped through valleys and over hills, across rivers and past waterfalls, with the looming snow-capped mountains glistening towards the Heavens in a crystal clear blue sky.

For the morning I was so stunned that all I could utter was "Wow," over and over again. Hamish, simply sitting in his massive, vibrating office, laughs and explains the differences between driving Big-Rigs down one-lane roads in New Zealand versus giant six-lane freeways in the United States. Hamish is a well seasoned traveler, much more so than I, and now prefers forty tons of steel over a backpack. Between the two of us there is rarely a silent moment, and those first few hours flew by as the stories unraveled and laughter filled the cab. He was also a tour bus driver for many years and can answer any question I dish out about the land, wildlife, the truck, AC/DC, rugby, and how he's not allowed back into the United States for some bogus speeding tickets, leaving the States only two days before two planes hit the Twin Towers in New York. Also, if you ask what his trucks' name is, without hesitation he will reply, "Piece of Shit."

We pull into the town of Westport, near Cape Foulwind, thus named for being the closest point to Australia...no joke! The most exciting thing about Westport is, well, nothing really. We pulled up at the fish factory and preceeded to have twenty four tons of fish entrails loaded into our two trailers, which took about an hour and smelled delightful. It only took me half an hour to walk around the entire town and I was back in the truck for the glorious ride home and also for a bit of my new favorite sport: Extreme Knitting!!! Haydin's Grandmother, aka Nannie taught me how to knit when she was in town last week and it's been a wild ride. The basic rules to Extreme Knitting is to be in a dangerous atmosphere with two sharp knitting needles and still be able to have nice lines. Sitting atop thirty wheels of rumbling, roaring metal while blasting down the road, I'd say it's a bit dangerous. Every third word I uttered would be classified as "naughty" by a group of seven year olds as we wove through the hillside and my blue yarn, with Hamish continuously chuckling at how easy it was for me to push all the masculinity out of the truck with a few soft stiches.

The views behind my patterns were equally beautiful on the return journey, and a bit sunnier. The multitudes of sheep, baby sheep, cows and also sheep were spread out and eating my green rainbow, and for those of you who read my story about Wales know how much sheep amaze me. (http://moonbeamchronicles.blogspot.com/2008/12/back-to-farm.html ) Probably it doesn't make me look too cool, but I can't actually remember a time when I was cool so I'm not too bothered. Everyone who passed by us waved, everyone utilizes polite road etiquette and I am blown away. But that's just Kiwis for you.

How to explain New Zealand? No one locks their doors. That trust, that securiity, that safety is a start, but there's a lot more to them. Plus a couple of them gave me jobs, so they're alright in my book! You might have noticed the 's' behind the word 'job.' That means it's the plural form of the word, meaning more than one in case you didn't know. I have many, a multitude, nay...a plethora of jobs!

Job 1. Massage Therapist at a yoga studio. (no explanation needed)
Job 2. Special Needs Teacher. (multiple explanations needed)
-Job Description: hanging out with six to eight chain-smoking thirteen to sixteen year olds with learning disabilities like ADD, ADHD, Autism, Anger management, Depression, and also fun stuff like drug addiction, abuse, teen pregnancy, etc.
-Qualifications: none.
-Why?: only Buddha knows...because they're paying me to basically be a mentor/bouncer.
-What's it like?: stressful, but it has its moments of fun and discovery.
Job 3. Working at a hostel two hours a day for free accomodation.
-Length of Duration: eight days.
-Why?: Hostel owner insane.
-Current Location: now living with Haydin's sister Rebecca and her two kids, Ryan (5 yrs.) and Lilly (8 months).
-Status: very happy.

Status: very happy. That's a good way to be.

Fear vs. Curiosity

I think there's definitely something to be said for Fear of the Unknown, even though I think its losing the battle.

One week ago, which seems like an eternity in itself, I left Asia to embark on yet another unknown adventure. As I have done many times before, I left behind friends, family, and someone I love. My mother comforted me in saying that I had made this move before and that I was equipped with the physical and mental tools needed to take the next step. I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing.

All of us nomads are well aware of our blessings and our curses. The blessings and oppurtunities to see what most people will never see, to experience daydreams and live out our life ambitions are at the top of my list for why I do what I do, why I am who I am. The top of my list of Traveling Curses would look something like this:

1. Being seperated for long periods of time from my friends, family and loved ones.
2. Living out of a small backpack with little or no privacy.
3. The almost impossibility of sustaining relationships due to frequent changing of countries.
4. Giving up material possesisons.
5. No hot showers.

Most of those I am fine with, or have learned to cope with, or have learned to cherish. Recently though, I've been wondering if human beings really can be equipped with the ability to leave a comfortable life passively, or if it's some sort of mental defect that was bestowed upon me at birth. Is it a good thing to not be afraid of the unknown? Or to pretend that I'm not even though I am petrified. I can honestly say that I have been afraid before every big move I have ever made. That means it's not Fear that keeps me home, but simply that my curiosity is stronger than my fear of the unknown.

Curiosity is a strange companion. It will find me when I am satisfied with life and pry me out of there as fast as it can. It is always near, always itching to move, learn, grow, push, run, jump, and crash into streetlights. It is addicted to adventure. Curiosity is selfish and will not compromise. It does not bind itself to people or places, it steers clear of love, it invites trouble to tea and its motives are unquestionable because there is no logical answer anyway.

I have leapt agian with Curiosity as my only guide. As I sit and reflect on my life and how I have come to be who I am, I look out the window to see the green hills, blue sky and leafless trees of Nelson, New Zealand. The crisp August chill catches me off guard when I venture out of my blankets, but the air is clean and my peace of mind spreads further with every hot cup of tea and friendly smile. My boyfriend Haydin's family has been so kind as to take me in and treat as one of their own, and for that I will be forever grateful. Curiosity has been forced into remission while I stay here and make some money to fuel my travel habits. Until then it will bide its time, it will be patient, it will wait.

But someday it will strike and at its mercy, I will uproot myself once again and the battle between Fear and Curiosity rages on. If your curiosity is screaming at you too, please feel free to join in.
My Curiosity and I welcome you.

Fear vs. Curiosity

I think there's definitely something to be said for Fear of the Unknown, even though I think its losing the battle.

One week ago, which seems like an eternity in itself, I left Asia to embark on yet another unknown adventure. As I have done many times before, I left behind friends, family, and someone I love. My mother comforted me in saying that I had made this move before and that I was equipped with the physical and mental tools needed to take the next step. I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing.

All of us nomads are well aware of our blessings and our curses. The blessings and oppurtunities to see what most people will never see, to experience daydreams and live out our life ambitions are at the top of my list for why I do what I do, why I am who I am. The top of my list of Traveling Curses would look something like this:

1. Being seperated for long periods of time from my friends, family and loved ones.
2. Living out of a small backpack with little or no privacy.
3. The almost impossibility of sustaining relationships due to frequent changing of countries.
4. Giving up material possesisons.
5. No hot showers.

Most of those I am fine with, or have learned to cope with, or have learned to cherish. Recently though, I've been wondering if human beings really can be equipped with the ability to leave a comfortable life passively, or if it's some sort of mental defect that was bestowed upon me at birth. Is it a good thing to not be afraid of the unknown? Or to pretend that I'm not even though I am petrified. I can honestly say that I have been afraid before every big move I have ever made. That means it's not Fear that keeps me home, but simply that my curiosity is stronger than my fear of the unknown.

Curiosity is a strange companion. It will find me when I am satisfied with life and pry me out of there as fast as it can. It is always near, always itching to move, learn, grow, push, run, jump, and crash into streetlights. It is addicted to adventure. Curiosity is selfish and will not compromise. It does not bind itself to people or places, it steers clear of love, it invites trouble to tea and its motives are unquestionable because there is no logical answer anyway.

I have leapt agian with Curiosity as my only guide. As I sit and reflect on my life and how I have come to be who I am, I look out the window to see the green hills, blue sky and leafless trees of Nelson, New Zealand. The crisp August chill catches me off guard when I venture out of my blankets, but the air is clean and my peace of mind spreads further with every hot cup of tea and friendly smile. My boyfriend Haydin's family has been so kind as to take me in and treat as one of their own, and for that I will be forever grateful. Curiosity has been forced into remission while I stay here and make some money to fuel my travel habits. Until then it will bide its time, it will be patient, it will wait.

But someday it will strike and at its mercy, I will uproot myself once again and the battle between Fear and Curiosity rages on. If your curiosity is screaming at you too, please feel free to join in.
My Curiosity and I welcome you.

Devastation and Hope

I have two stories to share: one is a story of devastation and one is of hope.

Today Haydin and I went to Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum and the Choeung Ek Killing Fields in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. As with my visit to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Poland, I find myself once again searching for words to describe the indescribable. Perhaps a little history to fill our heads and fuel our hearts is a good way to start...

In 1975, after a bloody, five-year long civil war between the Khmer Republic and the Kymer Rouge (the revolutionary faction), Pol Pot and the Kymer Rouge emerged victorious and "liberated" the Cambodian people. During the war, many people from villages had fled to the cities for protection from falling bombs and open warfare. Hours after their victory, the Kymer Rouge proceeded to start rounding up Republic officers, soldiers, officials, diplomats, and educated men, women and children who were either from the cities or had fled there during the war. The goal primarily being to wipe out humanity and start over again with poor, uneducated people who would not question the new regime.

The atrocities committed are astronomical. Tuol Sleng, formerly a school, turned into a prison for interrogation, torture, deprivation and death. There are pictures on the walls, hundreds of pictures, of the men, women and children who suffered beyond what I can even imagine. The look in their eyes tells the story of their plight: fear, anxiety, confusion, humiliation, pain, pride, defiance, strength, and even a few weak smiles. I like to think that the smiles were reflecting their spirit within.

There were seven survivors out of the 20,000 people taken from the prison to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, fifteen kilometers outside the city. There, after weeks, months, or even years in the prisons, they were taken to the field and killed simply for being a doctor or born in the wrong city not in a Khmer Rouge province. After four years the genocide was stopped, mainly by the Vietnamese army, and the realities and truths surfaced. In those few years over three million people were executed, which is almost three hundred innocent deaths per day.

Today was a rollercoaster of emotions for me. I went through stages of anger and hatred to pure shock and deep saddness. I walked around with a numbness one can only feel when being truly overwhelmed. I was frustrated because I feel I should have learned something about this in school and felt very uneducated and ill-informed. I wanted to scream at the cruelty of the greedy few who destroy this beautiful world in their quest for power. I wanted to give everything to the families who suffered and lost. Every single Cambodian has a story to tell, thier wounds still healing from the horrors they endured. This tradgedy must never be lost or forgotten, and we must learn from the past so as not to repeat it in the future.

The hope I can offer comes in the ever-enduring spirit of the people of Cambodia. They are making their way back into the developing country it once was forty years ago. Our tuk-tuk driver, Softya, was a ray of light on such a dark, cloudy day. He is teaching himself English and his smiles and friendship were exactly what I needed to hold back the tears. On the way to the Fields he stopped at his house to introduce us to his wife and six year-old daughter, and beaming proudly, introduced us to them. He gives me hope for a prosperous Cambodian future, one of solidarity and of peace.

This day has forever changed me, and I will awaken each morning with a new appreciation for what I have been handed in life, and how lucky I truly, truly am.

***If you would like some more information and don't have time to visit Cambodia, I would highly suggest a few books:A Cambodian Prison Portrait. One Year in the Khmer Rouge's S-21 by Vann Nath, I have read this short book, and is written by one of the seven survivors of the Tuol Sleng Prison. First They Killed My Father: A Daughter of Cambodia Remembers by Loung Ung. I haven't had a chance to read this yet but it has come highly recommended by many friends.

Northern Winds

I am surrounded by white people and it's freaking me out a bit.

I have left life as I know it.
My kids have new teachers.
My lovely apartment is empty.
My vegetable lady is wondering where the hell I am.

All I can say is that recently a strong wind has been blowing from the north, and I now find myself in Hoi An, a town quite a ways south of Hanoi. Back in the traveling circuit I am no longer the solo foreigner on the road and I am having trouble adjusting.

I miss Hanoi and my way of life for the last four and a half months. It's the longest I've stayed in one place in almost two years. I miss that it's close to impossible to get a decent cold shower because it's so hot outside that it heats up all the pipes. I miss the decrepit old lady who lives in our alley who always pinches my cheek and speaks to me in rapid Vietnamese when she knows she has to speak slowly for me to understand. I miss my tofu lady I see twice a week. I miss that our alley is not just an alley but a community. Viet Nam is a community. Viet Nam is a family.

What is really getting to me is how much I miss my kids. Those little bastards have sure learned how to tug on my heartstrings, which I wasn't aware I even had. I miss how they run screaming at my knee caps when I walk through the door in the mornings, how they hug me and show me toys they have brought from home, mostly of the McDonald's quality. I love watching them progress, the proud look of accomplishment on a four year old when he can count to ten and the mischievous grin of a six year of when she can make a joke with me that we both understand. I imagine that my kids will grow and continue to learn English, become educated young adults and lead Viet Nam into its already developing future. I feel blessed to be able to take part in that process, in a special part of their lives, which I will always remember. I hope they will remember me too.

To the teachers, students, families and friends who made my life so much easier in such a challenging country, I smile from my heart and say Thank You. I will continue heading south to Saigon, aka Ho Chi Minh City, and then into Cambodia for two weeks to conclude a nine month stint in South East Asia. As I said before, the northern winds have been very strong and are taking me from Bangkok to New Zealand on August 9th so that I will arrive in Christchurch on my 24th birthday, starting a new chapter in this crazy life of mine.

May the winds blow you along your paths as well.

I swear I get more Vietnamese every day.

I think the reason I haven't written in a long time is not due to lack of weird things to write about, but that the oddities of a life in Viet Nam have just become the norm. Most mornings I wake up early and try to dress conservatively because showing any shoulders, stomach or knees is considered whore-ish. In one hand as I walk out the door is a green army helmet covered in mesh with a Viet Nam flag on the side.. A gift from my boyfriend Haydin, it is so I don't have to wear other peoples helmets on the multiple moto-taxis I take all the time. In the other hand is a pink and white flowery face mask with a filter in it.. The face mask is a common accessory here in Hanoi due to the raging polution problem. The first time a giant bus hacks up a cloud of black exhaust in your face, you will wear a filtered face mask too. If it's raining, which is often, a bubblegum pink rain coat keeps me and my school supplies somewhat dry. So with my helmet, face mask, rain coat and a pair of giant purple sunglasses I look like a smaller, more colorful version of Darth Vader. The funny thing is that I still look like everyone else.

I walk down my alley to the street where a couple of xe om (motorcycle taxi) drivers usually hang out. A quick conversation in Vietnamese as to where I need to go and how much I will pay and I'm on the back of the bike zooming towards 15-30 kids waiting for me to teach them English. It really makes my day when I can have a little joke with the xe om guys, because unless they know me, most of them aren't expecting Hanoi street slang from a big, tall, white girl. (Insert: ling ta ling ting.) My Vietnamese is coming along nicely, but it has been quite an interesting challenge. For example, there are six different tones, eight accents, eleven vowels, and nothing is said the way it is spelled. As you might imagine, I spend a lot of time trying to get the right pronounciation so that I can get simple messages across. I have a theory about the Vietnamese language: it is made of so many minute differences that any deviation of the exact pronounciation does not register at all. So if I'm trying to get to my street, Ngo Van So, I might have to say it seven different times in seven different ways before they understand.

I'm not giving myself much credit, but I do speak a little. I can hold small conversations, answer questions, haggle, and not get ripped off as much as other foreigners, which I'm actually quite proud of. There's a three-way tie for my favorite phrase:

Toi la giao vien, khong phai la hach du lich.
(I'm a teacher, not a stupid tourist.)

Ling ta ling ting.
(You're talking shit. (in a joking way))

Khong phai ga viet!
I am not a Vietnamese chicken!

Basically all my key phrases are in effort to save me money and not be pegged for some oblivious tourist that will pay triple the price because they just don't know better. I'm not shocked by it though, as nothing shocks me anymore. Twelve year olds driving mopeds through morning traffic with giant, slaughtered pigs strapped to the sides while chain smoking cigarretes no longer phases me. The roads of Hanoi no longer scare me, but kind of remind me of the Super Nintendo version of Super Mario Cart, complete with slippery banana peels laid out by giant Donkeys driving go-carts and explosive red turtle shells bopping across the lanes of traffic. I've stopped flinching at chicken heads and feet floating in bowls of soup, deep-fried whole baby ducklings, and dog-meat kebabs. Seventeen year olds weilding AK-47s at major tourist sites make me laugh, as do the great lengths the people here go through to remain as pasty white as possible, while I run around trying to soak up the sun for a better tan.

I'm also never shocked when a Vietnamese friend or acquaintance of mine will bend over backward to help me out. My favorite Vietnamese person is a woman named Huyen, a manager at one of the schools I teach at. She takes me to the outdoor market so I can buy fresh fruit and veg without being overcharged. She invited Haydin, Brittney and I for coffee on her one night off a week so I could meet her husband, son and mother. She has taken me to the Van Phuc Silk Village outside of the city twice so I can find some nice, affordable clothes. We swap teaching each other English and Vietnamese phrases and laugh at the beautiful differences between our two cultures.

The differences here are amazing, but we learn to live with it, laugh about it and love it, like when the government shuts off the power in different areas of Hanoi (including mine) a couple times a week to save energy. That's always fun.

Bring it on.

When the other moped hit us it didn't hurt much.
Just a tap.
It was the shock more than anything.

As I yell out a loud obscenity I realize two things:

1. The small child on the back of that motorbike is in the class I just finished teaching.
2. It's a good thing I haven't taught my five-year old class English cuss words yet.

At that moment the words I had been searching for hit me like a ton of bricks. I have been looking for a description for the drivers in Hanoi, for their insanity and carelessness, for their disrespect for the rules of the road and of life. I have found them:

Reckless Indifference.

Yes. The pure illogical, maniacal sense of invincibility. It drives me crazy. The driver of the other motorbike, I'm assuming Phuong Thuy's father, for that is my student's name, did not even give a hint of remorse for bumping my xe om into another motorcycle in morning traffic in central Hanoi. Nor did he seem perturbed that his five year old daughter who got jostled on the back was not wearing a helmet!

Viet Nam Absurdity: It is a law that everyone must be wearing a helmet on a motorbike, and it is enforced most stringently, yet children are an exception!!! I have never seen a child wearing a helmet as their irresponsible parents weave in and out of thousands of other motorcycles in their hurry to get nowhere fast.

The only positive thing I can say about motorbike drivers in Hanoi is their creativity when it comes to strapping giant loads onto their bikes. So far I have witnessed some miracles, including a full-sized coffin lying horizontally and breezing through three lanes of full-stop traffic. Twice. I can only hope there wasn't a body inside, but I wouldn't put anything past the Vietnamese. I have seen a seven-foot tall tree, roots, soil and all tied and standing vertically to a man on a Vespa. I have seen five microwaves, out of their boxes and stacked three high and one on each side of a moped. I have seen five Vietnamese teenagers all on one two seater motorbike. All of this astounds yet no longer shocks me. After five months in southeast Asia, nothing does.

In response to this ridiculous driving, I am doing the only thing I can do in protest.
I'm learning how to drive a motorbike. Bring it on.

A Nice Welcome Home

I went for a run this morning through the surrounding neighborhoods, and on turning a corner I got chased half-way down the street by a tiny lady trying to sell me cigarettes. It's my own fault though, as I was jogging through the Cheap Cigarette District.

Oh how I love Hanoi.

Last week I was sitting at the Bia Hoi with my buddy Tony talking about life, and trying to put in words why we loved this crazy city so much. We look back to the street where a moped had just clipped a little old lady carrying about twenty kilos of oranges in baskets connected to a bamboo pole balanced over her shoulder. As her and her pointy grass hat goes flying, Tony looks over: "It's the chaos of it all. The beautiful chaos." I couldn't have said it better myself.

Getting settled is a lot harder than I imagined it might be. For example, I've been in my apartment almost a week and still don't know if I have an address and am not sure where to put my trash once the bin is full. Even though the apartment came "furnished" there are still a few crucial items I want, like a table. So the logical thing for me to do was go down to the Table District.

Here in Hanoi, if you're looking for anything, it's best just to figure out where the "District" is, because once you find it, there will be seventeen different shops on one street selling the exact same thing. I live, hilariously, in between the Welcome Mat District and the Maternity Dress District and yes, it IS the greatest street in the world. There are exactly twelve stores that sell the same ten welcome mats. I'm not sure if anyone has thought to mention that it might be a bit more profitable if they were to spread out around the city, because they certainly haven't figured this out for themselves. Perhaps the government allocates this space specifically for welcoming purposes. Perhaps this is newest form of the Communist Regime, to make all pregnant women get to this specific location so they can be dressed suitably. Whatever the reason, if there is one, I absolutely love it, and my favorite area is the Colorful Buttons and Ribbons District. Go figure.

My friend Peter swears there's a Prosthetic Leg District, but I think he's lying...

I love that this city makes absolutely no sense, and still functions.
I love that I am daily surprised by cultural differences, which keeps me on my toes.
I love Welcome Mats.
What else could a girl want?

Thrill-Seekers Anonymous

Nothing could have possibly prepared me for the moment when I got milked by a four year old this morning. Nothing. What an oddly normal ending to a fantastically strange week.

Today we learned about animals. As it was nearing the end of the hour, we roared like lions, flew like bats, clucked like chickens, purred like cats, barked like dogs, and mooed like cows. These games are great because they are beneficial to the kids and wear them out, plus it's very entertaining for me and it kills five minutes of time. I took a moment to get up from my "cow" position to check on everyone, when I feel small hands on my stomach. Looking down I find my favorite kid, Mai Chi, pretending to milk me. The Vietnamese teacher sees this at the same time and we simultaneously burst into hysterical fits of laughter. This brings the kids to start laughing, and we kill another five minutes. Score!

I have learned that the average 3-5 year old has an attention span for 4.5 minutes. That means I have to have something new, fun and different to do every five minutes. That's a lot of singing and dancing; I am usually left for dead at the end of the class, too exhausted to move. I'm having a great time though.

Me teaching children English is just one of the oddities that currently makes up my life. Public transportation is another. Here in Hanoi I take a Xe Om to work, which is a moped-taxi. I could not possibly describe a Xe Om ride, except to compare it to that movie 'Final Destination', where the guy cheats Death and then Death goes looking for them. Apparently Death has never been to Viet Nam, or has recently misplaced his passport. The first fear-gripping ride should have been my last, but one gets bored of near-death experiences after a while, so I take them to work and back every day and am on the lookout for new thrills.

Enter: My new apartment. Nickname: "The Fridge".
It's hard to explain, except to say I'm living in a standard Vietnamese tree-house. Yes, that makes sense. Basically what it comes down to is complete insanity, which is why I immediately took it. I have a five story apartment, each floor measuring to about six square meters of hilarity, all of this connected by a series of M.C. Escher-esque ladders. I also have two refrigerators (one that works, one that holds my teaching books), two TV's I'll never use, a reading/yoga/meditation room, and a washing machine on my balcony. I'm sure that there was a family of fifteen living here before me, but I'm quite content with my new-found haven, all for the low low cost of two hundred dollars a month!

Now I just have to figure out how to get down the ladders at seven a.m. without breaking my neck, which I guess, is just a part of my new thrill-seeking nature.


***My good friend Adrian Hartwell just brought to attention that tomorrow is the anniversary of Martin Luthor Kings assasination. I would just like to take a moment to honor a man who inspired a nation, improved the world through his words, and loved with an open heart. May his memory never fade.

Saving The World

Last Saturday the power was shut off at the Hanoi Backpackers Hostel from 8:30-9:30 p.m. to make a statement supporting Earth Hour. Although Hanoi was not technically participating in the world event to curb energy waste, it felt good to take part in something that is bringing awareness to the masses about the realities of global warming.

The world needs a Band-aid. No need to worry though, because I've solved the worlds problems. Again. Yesterday I talked to my friend Adam in Birmingham who says there are two million unemployed people in England. Two million! I sat down, drink in hand, and pondered.

I'm confused because I have just gotten two jobs and am now feeling a bit greedy. I'm still in Hanoi, Viet Nam, and today is my first day of work. My official job description is "Teaching Five Year-Olds How To Sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." I know what you're thinking...."Rachel hates children." Well, I don't hate children, they just scare the living crap out of me.

The Vietnamese are ravenous for English teachers. I have no experience, no diploma, no training, and my only real qualification being that my skin is white. (My second job is teaching a month-long workshop on traditional Cuban style Salsa dancing at a dance studio, which I am qualified to do.) Viet Nam is a rapidly developing country, and speaking English is the way forward for them. It is impossible to sit in the park for less than ten minutes without someone walking up to ask if they can practice their English, and I am more than happy to help. I truly believe that every day it is increasingly more important to speak more than one language, as that's what connects us all in the end. I can't think of a better gift to give a child, plus they're paying me twenty American dollars an hour! Cash! To play with toys! Sweet.

Rachel's Plan to Curb Unemployment and Help the World (please keep an open mind):

To all of you unemployed Americans, Canadians, English, Irish, Welsh, Scottish, Australian and New Zealanders: Come to Asia. No, I'm actually serious. Think about it:
-Low cost of living and a high salary.
-When will anyone else pay you twenty dollars an hour for being completely unqualified except for being born in a country whose language they want to learn?
-It would cost more to stay unemployed, or at a low-paying job you hate, and having to pay more for living in your country, when here in Asia they are begging for "teachers".
-Korea, China, Viet Nam, Thailand and Malaysia are offering big bucks for anyone willing to help.
-Did I mention you get to play with toys?

Let's do the math, get a calculator if you must. I'll do this in American dollars because that's what they pay here.
$20 an hour x 3 hours a day= $300.
$300 x 4 weeks= $1,200 a month/ 900 Euros/ 850 Pounds/ 1,750 Australian Dollars

That is only working fifteen hours a week. Full time is way more, and if you have a degree from Uni, any degree, or teaching experience, they pay more. Considering a meal on the street is thirty cents and a nice one in a restaurant is three dollars, the cost of living here is way below our norm, and the possibility, probability, of saving money here is fantastic! I am a genius! The only thing to do now is to uproot yourself from the society you've always known, throw your TV out the window, and set out on an adventure I cannot tell you the end of. I will only say that it will be one of the best things you will ever do, plus you get to live in Asia!

But that's not human nature, so I doubt anyone will take my great advice into account, which saddens me. If more people listened to vagabond hippies we wouldn't need to bring attention to our global problems by turning off the lights of the Eiffel Tower! People would already know! Now I'm getting a bit carried away, so I'm going to sit back and take a nice, deep breath.

I understand that for most people it is not easy to uproot and that I am a freak of nature. Instead of preaching the wandering ways, I will simply offer advice, information, and perhaps a nudge in a direction that might be very new and different. If anyone is interested, or perhaps is considering the possibility, please do not hesitate to ask. I have gathered an odd assortment of knowledge on the inner workings of acquiring jobs in other countries and would love to help if I can. Or you can check out www.newhanoian.com and see how many jobs there are for yourself.

I think I'm going to go buy a cape.
Adam Fumagalli, I expect to see you here in less than a week.

Going Hmong

The Hmong tribe villagers of Sa Pa believe that painting a red circle on your forehead using water buffalo's blood will cure a headache.

On arrival from our bogus journey through the mountains we find ourselves surrounded by small, fiery tribal women hawking their wares for us tourists who quite obviously have just gotten into town. Usually I push my way through with my hands over my head for protection from "The Village People", but there was something different about these women. Maybe it was the fresh air in my lungs or the pure joy of getting there in one piece, but I really enjoyed their company and laughter. I bought a pretty scarf from one of them that I had been eying ever since my arrival, and they promised to come back later to show us around. Weathered travelers know that people will say just about anything to get you to buy stuff, so I wasn't actually expecting to see much more of them.

I was surprised to be awakened from a nap by Haydin to inform me that there were some village ladies downstairs and that they had invited us out for drinks. My travel radar went off again, knowing that there are a lot of scams where you get "invited" out by locals, only to get stuck with a hefty bill at the end of the night. We all went with them anyway and sat down at a Bia Hoi.

Bia Hoi is a genius idea. These old ladies have kegs of beer out on the street, and you buy a pitcher of beer for the price of a bottle in a bar. They have tiny plastic chairs you used to sit on in kindergarten and it's the social event of the town until the kegs run dry. So we sit and we chat and I find them to be beautiful, amazing women. Sue, Sa, and her daughter Cue all speak fantastic English, as well as Vietnamese, their local Hmong dialect, and an assortment of French and Spanish as well. I almost fell out of my chair when I told Sa that I lived in Mexico and she replied with "Hola, como estas?"

It's hard to describe these women, but I can definitely say that they glow. Their traditional dress includes a pair of velvety shorts, a tshirt and a beautifully stitched outer coat. All of this is tied together with a hand stitched belt that took over a year to make. Add a little hat, a scarf and matching velvet leg warmers on a four foot tall tribal lady wearing all the rings, earrings and necklaces she can without falling over, and you have an idea as to what my new friends, or should I say my new mommies, look like. Or you can check out the picture I attached.

Yes, I've been adopted. After hours of talking, laughing, sharing stories and learning about each other, we all split the bill evenly and they invite us to their village for lunch the next day. We meet up and walk the seven kilometers that they walk every few days to get back home from Sa Pa, talking the whole way. Sa holds my hand and says, "Rachel, you must come live in the village and I will get you a husband. It's best to be Hmong woman in the village because the man must pay the dowry to marry the woman. You get paid! And my husband also takes care of the children and our pet water buffalo! Ha! It's best that men do the house work too, and I spend my time in Sa Pa having drinks with you! Ha!"

I have an announcement to make: I'm moving into the village and never leaving.

The last three days in Sa Pa I have seen them everywhere, always greeting me by screaming "Daughter!" from across the street with huge smiles, hugs and kisses while I scream "Mommies!" as they skip up. These women took us into their homes, cooked us lunch, taught us about their culture and language, dressed us up in traditional Hmong clothes and introduced us to their husbands, mothers and children without a second thought. Today, at our request, they brought us blankets and belts for us to see and buy because I want one, I love these woman, and because I'm wearing the most beautiful hand stitched belt in the world right now. When the time came to say goodbye it was a sad event. They each give me a big hug, Sue gives me a pretty little purse made by her six year old daughter and Sa gives me a pair of silver earrings. She knows I don't wear earrings and explains that they're not for me. They're for my other mommy.

Tomorrow Haydin and I are back on the motorbike headed east, which is why I'm writing this now. Mel took the train back to Hanoi yesterday and Andrew left on his bike this morning. We'll do four more days cruising around the national parks in northeastern Viet Nam before getting back to Hanoi. From there I might just hop on the train and come straight back! Sa apparently has a husband lined up for me, and I've promised to teach them how to read English if they teach me how to sew.

But only if I get my own water buffalo.

Rachel's Guide to Being Hard Core

To quote Bill and Ted, I just had a most excellent adventure.

Adventure comes in many forms, from a good hike to parenting to just trying something you wouldn't normally do in your daily life. A few days ago I did something I never would have dreamed of doing, purely for logical and safety reasons. It's amazing what you'll do when you have nothing else planned, so I said yes and hopped on the back of a giant dirt bike for a three day journey through the mountains of northwestern Viet Nam with Haydin from New Zealand, Andrew from Canada and Mel from England.

There are a few reasons why this is so wild and crazy for me, the first being that my mom is going to kill me because I have been conditioned my entire life to know that motorcycles are dangerous. Others might be that I know absolutely nothing about bikes or riding them, I am a nervous wreck just watching other people ride motorbikes, and I am ridiculously not hard-core. And still I said yes. The only preparation I could contribute to the trip was to switch from my Buddha necklace to my St. Christopher necklace, which seemed important at the time. I also became the Navigator, because I'm pretty good with maps and talking to people who don't speak English, which made me feel special. Other than that I was completely lost, and on sharing this with fact with Mel I realized that at least I was not alone. So together we put on our "Brave Face", tried to figure out how to put a helmet on, and jumped on the back of a roaring bicycle from hell.

Day One: Ache.
Getting out of Hanoi (a city of four million) in morning traffic was enough to put me over the edge, but I was committed so I tried not to scream too much. Instead I just held on to Andrew so tight that he was having breathing problems. Out of the city however, we had a good day of zipping around mountains, water buffaloes and giant trucks, getting about three hundred kilometers between us and chaotic Hanoi with only minor brushes with death. I don't know if any of you have gone three hundred kms. on a dirt bike, but they are ridiculously uncomfortable. You can't move at all, so when your butt goes numb with pain you have to deal with it or stop to allow circulation to flow once more. At one of the rest breaks I decided that our bike was named Clyde, after my grandfather, because he is strong, smart, and I had the sneaking suspicion he wanted me to go back to University.

Day Two: Pain.
I fell off the bike. Three times. We started off well and I was pumped, purely from the elation of still being alive. But then the child on the bike swerved the wrong way and Andrew decided to hit the mountain and spare the little bastard. My right leg ended up a little smashed up, but other than that we were ok. Actually I'm completely lying. I was really shaken and lost all my confidence for the whole day, making me a nervous wreck and an annoyance to everyone else. After the other two minor slides I was so depleted of all energy that I almost didn't make it. Andrew, Haydin and Mel were all very supportive, but I learned that I'm not much of a motorcycle rider, seeing as how I don't like peeling around blind corners on Vietnamese "highways" and am not much of a thrill-seeker.

Day Three: Excellent!
Haydin talked me back onto the bike for the last leg of the journey, and for that I am very thankful. He said that it's easier to just let go and enjoy the flow of the ride, rather than try to control things that are beyond control to begin with, and he was right. So I woke up early, meditated, practiced my yoga, and charged my iPod. During meditation my Muay Thai trainer Ay appeared and said, "No crying!" which is something he used to say to keep me going when I was down and exhausted. My head clear and my confidence returned, I stopped crying, figuratively, and got back on. With 'Rage Against the Machine' flooding my ears, the wind on my face and my friends beside me I felt alive once more.

The ride was amazing. If you have never seen the rice paddies in northern Viet Nam, then my words can do them no justice. I can only say that they are emerald stairs towards the heavens, shining as the water catches the sun's rays, as far as the eye can see. Little figures in pointy straw hats weave amongst them, and the countless views of peace and perfection are forever seared into my memory. Viet Nam, with all of it's symmetrical yet curvy green rice fields, reminds me of an M.C. Escher painting.

When we reached Sa Pa, our final destination, Mel and I hugged each other in peals of joy and laughter for having survived. Andrew and Haydin just laughed at us for being so ridiculous. I wouldn't have made it without Mel there, and we have jointly decided that we are now "Hard Core", which is pretty cool...

Being self-proclaimed Hard Core always is.

Frolicking Regulations

I've lost my voice from screaming/haggling in Viet Nam.

I don't know if I was trying to test myself or I just wasn't paying attention, but I definitely took the wrong way to cross the border, or the right, non-tourist way, depending on how you look at it. Either way, it took me five days through the mountains of Laos in the back of a tuk-tuk to finally reach the most stringent border crossing I have ever faced. After losing one travel buddy at the border due to a small paperwork error, I continue on into Viet Nam with a crazy Canadian guy named Andrew who taught the border guards how to play the didgeridoo while I danced so they wouldn't take his camping knife away, although they did make him promise not to stab anyone, which is fair.

Andrew and I make a good team because we're both poor and really stubborn, which is a good quality when trying to get through Viet Nam without being charged six times the going rate. The one bus a day that left the border town headed towards Hanoi tried to charge us one million Vietnamese dong, which is about fifty American dollars and an absolute atrocity. After refusing their price, screaming in English, Spanish and Thai, we storm off in a huff up the highway with our backpacks, fully intending to hike the fifty kilometers to Hanoi rather than pay this ridiculous sum. The bus driver, determined to get our foreign money, circled around the town and came back to try and get us again:

"800,000 dong!"

"No! Screw you! 300,000!" And again we start walking.

"800,000!"

"You don't seem to understand haggling. NO! 400,000 or go away!"

The bus continues to follow us slowly, filled with people, I might add. The Vietnamese loved the show and were in no way perturbed by the hold up. The Norwegian couple on the bus who payed the money were not entertained in the least. Finally the driver and his helper give up,and the bus blows past us. My thumb pops out and I am satisfied to hitchhike, until we round the corner...

"600,000!"

Andrew and I look at each other and shrug. Take a chance, knowing that no car may pass us the whole day, or pay the blasphemous fee and have the whole thing done with. At 300,000 dong each, it's still a rip-off but a lesser evil. We take the deal and the driver bursts into laughter, takes our money and shakes our hands. His knowing nod and smiling eyes say, "I'm proud of you for taking a stand. You're just another crazy foreigner but a good negotiator, and damn do I respect that."

Excellent. And it only took an hour.

Viet Nam is a whirlwind of chaos and regulation at the same time, slightly different from the tranquil back roads of Laos. The constant honking or horns and motorcycles zipping by me in the busy streets of Hanoi has really stressed me out. In Thailand they drive on the left side of the road, in Laos the right, and here in Viet Nam they all tend to stick to the middle of the road and the sidewalks. When going to visit Ho Chi Minh's tomb we had to check our cameras, walk in pairs in somber silence, and got poked a lot by "Official" looking seventeen year-olds wielding pointy guns in military uniforms whilst walking past the nation's savior who has been dead and embalmed for nearly forty years and looks like a wax statue. So basically Viet Nam makes me feel like a slinky in a room full of ironing boards.

The perfect example of Viet Nam, I feel, is outside the old prison in Hanoi, where I believe John McCain spent some time during the war. There at the entrance is a sign listing all the do's and don'ts for visiting. In big, bold letters at the bottom it reads: NO FROLICKING.

I am outraged and intend on frolicking my ass off.

Mo' Money Mo' Problems

I got yelled at yesterday by a swarm of tribal ladies in a village in northern Laos called Muang Sing. They were genuinely concerned that I was sitting peacefully drinking coffee and reading without my newborn baby in sight. It was when I burst in to hysterical fits of laughter that the situation turned sour.

It took ten minutes in broken English and Thai for me to realize that their reasoning behind this madness was that my breasts were so large that I must be breast-feeding. After pacifying them with the small amount of Thai I speak they sat down at my table and started asking me questions about everything, like where I was from and if I wanted to buy one of their bracelets or some opium.

I love northern Laos. Yesterday I took three different buses for a total of eleven hours to get one hundred miles. The roads are packed dirt, sand and rocks, and not kind to your sanity. Around every corner is yet another postcard-perfect views of rolling mountains, roadside villages, grass huts, pebble-strewn streams, and children playing with the dirt in the middle of the highway permanently seared into my memory. There are no rest stops, so if you need to throw up, just open a window, which happens sickeningly often. If you need to go to the bathroom and speak Lao, you can ask the driver to stop on the side of the road for you. If you need to go to the bathroom and don't speak Lao, you're basically screwed.

I'm feel very confident in saying that the Lao-wegians are the most chill people I have ever met. Northern Laos is a lot more impoverished than their central brothers, so they have been very interested in me and my "western" gadgets, like books. Every time I pull out my book, which is always near me, they crane their necks to check out the pictures on the cover and the print inside they cannot read. On Bus Three I tired of 'Tai Pan', by James Clavell and went into by backpack for a 'Moby Dick' reunion, and that nearly blew their minds.

They also LOVE my iPod. On Bus One I was sitting next to one of the young tribal girls. My music called to me, and her eyes widened like tea saucers when I offered her one of the ear pieces. We started off with 'Job 2 Do', which has the number one hit song in Thailand right now, and which I am totally addicted to. (For anyone interested in Thai reggae music, check out the CD called 'No War' by Job 2 Do, it is amazing!) The Thai and Laos languages are very similar, so she understood the words, even though I didn't. When she stopped quivering with excited fear over the music coming out of my iPod, I switched it up to figure out what other music she could like...

Rachel's Study of the Musical Taste of Fifteen Year-Old Tribal Girl From Laos:

Positive: Nina Simone, Lauryn Hill, and Ben Harper.
Negative: The Prodigy, TLC, Tom Jones and Biggie Smalls, aka Notorious BIG.

Someone should give me a PhD.

Sunny Little Paradise

Last night the electricity went out over the entire town of Vang Vieng while I was eating dinner with friends. The waitress walked over using the light from her iPhone to bring us candles, assuring us that this happens all the time, and it should be back on in half an hour or so.

I love Laos. Stuck between the paddy field mentality and the influences of a modern age, it is everything I could want. Two weeks ago I took a wooden longboat trip up the Mekong River from the border of Thailand to Luang Prabang, which took two full days. It is quite a rare thing to travel for 48 hours on a boat and not see a bridge anywhere, but only a handful of houses. The tourist industry here is but an infant, which is why so many backpackers are drawn to the peaceful mountains and the ever-calm "Lao-wegians" as I call them, because the "Laos people" just sounds weird. No one hassles you on the streets because it's hot and they can't be bothered to try to sell you something. If you want a taxi you're probably going to have to wake one up and then convince him to work for a bit. The guy running the internet cafe I'm in right now is asleep to my left, so I'll have to wake him up to pay him. The honor system is definitely at work here.

And then there's Vang Vieng. Some genius figured out that if you build a few bars and rope swings by the river and buy a couple hundred inner tubes, then the foreigners will come. So for a few dollars a day you can tube down the river, which is the only thing to do here by the way, and be pulled up to a bar by guys on land with bamboo poles.

There are good and bad points to this, the good obviously being that it's ridiculously fun and it might just be the best party I've ever been to in my life. You meet some amazing, fun people, the rope swings are wicked and the mud pit is great for wrestling your new best friends in. The somewhat bad side to this is that you have a bunch of young people swimming around when they're too drunk/stoned to realize that it's a bad idea. Apparently there were three broken legs from Swing Five last week, and yesterday the rope from Swing Three snapped and some Irish guy got thrown half-way across the river. It's now the most popular swing.

Another interesting thing about Laos is that, unlike Thailand, they aren't at all strict on drugs. Rachel's Travel Tip #47: Do not try the Marijuana-Mushroom-Opium-Whiskey-Red Bull Milkshake while trying to float down a river. It's just...wrong. Instead, perhaps just order a cocktail, but beware because they are only served in buckets, quite literally.

Now Laos sounds like Spring Break in Cancun, but I can assure you it is nothing but divine. The people are so friendly and helpful, the purple-green mountains surrounding me are ever-present and the baguettes are always fresh and warm, being the lasting remnants of the old French rule. The balance of the old ways and new is beautiful: how many of the villagers still bathe and wash clothes in the river but have a camera phone to take a picture of you from their moped as you walk down the dirt road into town. Although it is still technically a Communist country, I have never seen or experienced any indication as such and feel comfortable and happy in my sunny little paradise.

Hopefully we'll have electricity tonight...

Jing Jai (True Heart)

I finished a month of Muay Thai training on Wednesday. Two to three hours a day, six days a week for four weeks. Now I'm not quite sure what to do.

I was thinking about doing another month before I looked at my bank account. Then I was thinking about doing a week or two more, purely because I like this new healthy lifestyle and the boxing community is more of a family than a training regime. Plus I adore Pai. I fall in love with Pai every day, with all of its funny quirks and good energy. I also have my vintage clothing store that I am settling down with nicely, so when the thought to leaving Pai and Thailand entered my mind, I was completely unprepared.

Confused, I asked my friends, family, absolute strangers and my dog Crystal what I should do, and all of them responded with some version of "Follow Your Heart." So I asked my heart what to do. At that particular moment my heart was napping, so it took quite a few days to get a response. When I did it was loud and clear, and this is what it said:

"Rachel, you have done what you said you would do, and that is an accomplishment. You completed an entire month of Muay Thai, and that is an accomplishment. You know Pai and you have many friends who will be sad to see you go, which is an accomplishment. If your biggest problem in life is whether to stay in Pai or go traveling in Laos, I'd say you have a pretty good life. It is now time to move on, and when you are ready the next adventure will find you."

Turns out my heart was right.

Accomplishment is a many splendored thing, and I was floating on a cloud my last day of training. It was such a high, such a rush to follow through and complete something I told myself I was going to complete, even if I doubted myself most of the way. And I miss it. Two days of freedom and all I do is get up early and want to go back to Ay kicking me and laughing, but pushing me to be just a little bit better, knowing that I could do it. I will miss Bee yelling at me about my left side-kick technique which is never right. I will miss Tong flirting with me, Egg teaching me phrases in Thai I should never use in public, and Tree singing while preening his chickens for the next cock-fight. I will miss all the guys and girls I train with, always joking around and laughing but so supportive of each other when needed. I will miss waking up and walking through Pai early, when the mist hasn't quite yet risen and the absolute beauty of the morning surrounds and swallows me in the greens of the mountains and the golds of the monk's robes as they collect their morning alms. As I write this, I fall in love with Pai all over again. As I write this, I smile knowing I have an excellent path ahead of me, albeit unknown. As I write this, I know I am ready.

It's a night bus and a two day boat trip down the Mekong River into Laos, landing in Luang Prabang. After exploring Laos I'll head up into northern Vietnam, travel down the coast and cross into Cambodia. If time, money and visas allow, I'd also really like to get to Myanmar. So much is uncertain, but that is simply a part of life.

"You cannot escape from your heart, so you might as well listen to what it has to say."
-Paolo Coelho, "The Alchemist"


******I have finally got up more travel pictures!!! Check them out here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/20085426@N05/sets/:

Soi ching ching katoi tuan

It was when the eight year old knocked out the other eight year old and the crowd started cheering that I started biting my fingernails.

Maybe I'm just a weirdo, but that sort of stuff makes me squeamish. Here I am kissing my little Buddha and praying that everyone comes out unscathed, which kinda defeats the purpose of being at a Muay Thai fight at Tha Phae Stadium in Chaing Mai. What can I say? I'm a lover, not a fighter.

Two people from my gym fought last Monday: Mary from Canada and Joe from England. About fifteen of us piled into a mini van that could comfortably fit eight and drove down the treacherous "highway" through the mountains from Pai to the big city to cheer them on, farang style. Mary was the seventh fight of the evening against a giant Austrian girl with a killer right hook. She, however, had a stunning victory for her very first fight, and now I'm not so sure about Canadians being all that peaceful. Joe was the eighth and headliner for the evening, fighting one of the best Muay Thai fighters in Chaing Mai. He was ready, held his own, got some major kicks in, but lost to points to a guy who has been fighting since the age of six. Not really fair, is it?

All in all the evening was fantastic, except for the loss of my fingernails due to stress from watching my friends take a beating, even though they were dishing it out as well. I have realized recently that I have zero agression in me, I have no desire to punch anyone not wearing sparring pads, and I severely dislike getting punched. All that said, I'm in my third week of training and I absolutely love it. I feel fit, energetic, more confident, and I've developed quite a tolerance for small, annoying pains like knuckle bruises, which I now only have three of.

Life in Pai is fantastic, and I've got my little routine down well. I have moved from my bamboo hut and am now living true Thai style in the back of my shop. It's great, cheap, challenging, and I'm getting creative with what people might call "roughing it." I get up at seven a.m. every morning and go fill up my shower bucket, which is next to my sink bucket. The water is really cold, so once my bucket is filled I go put it out back in the sun for my shower later. Then I go about my morning and head off to a two to three hour training session, which I'm finally getting the hang of. The rest of the day is split between arduous tasks of reading my book (Moby Dick), napping, practicing my fire spinning, talking to nice people, occasionally going to the pool, playing with my dog, napping, etc.

Oh yes, I have a dog. Her name is Crystal, and technically she has me. She takes me out on walks all the time, and introduces me to everyone as they all know her and keep wondering who the new farang in town is. Which brings me to how much I love Thai people. They are hilarious, and they think I'm just about the strangest thing that has happened to them, so we get along well in comical disbelief.

Reasons I Love Thai People:

1. They are always smiling, laughing and singing.

2. The slight chill of the Pai evenings has everyone coming up from Chaing Mai for the weekends to parade around in their winter clothing, such as earmuffs and snow boarding goggles when it is literally 90 degrees (30 Celsius) every afternoon.

3. They take pictures of everything that is not beautiful scenery, such as post boxes, unimportant cafe signs, and me. Yesterday I saw a family of seven take a group picture in front of the cement Pai Bank sign, with the photographers back to the mountains. They also hugely enjoy taking multiple pictures of themselves in different lights, never forgetting the Stereotypical Asian Pride Pose of a peace sign in Every. Single. Picture.

4. Their respect. Bowing is such a huge part of daily life, and I love the intricasies of the proper bow. If someone is older than you then palms together at your heart as you bow your head is appropriate. Lower head bows for monks. If you're not sure about age and don't want to offend someone, a simple head bow will do. Farang are included on this should we choose to participate.

5. Muay Thai is the national sport, and kids can start learning at the age of six. It also wields great respect and has been something of a shock to me to get bows from people when I walk through the main street in my Thai boxing shorts at 7:30 every morning. To them a foreigner training in Muay Thai is pretty shocking, especially girls, and yesterday a policer officer gave me a slight bow, which was totally unexpected. I had to stop mid-stride for a low bow as a compliment to his, and we parted as new friends.

6. Thai food is the second best food in the world, the first being Mexican. My favorite person in Pai is a tiny lady named Na, who runs Na's Kitchen and is the best and cheapest restaurant in town. For a full meal of Pad Prie-Waan, which is a sweet and sour sauce with tofu, fresh veggies, pineapple, cashews, an egg and rice is less than an American dollar. I love this woman as she is always singing and skipping about her kitchen, and calls me Lay-chee because Thai people can't pronounce r's. We have become quite good friends seeing as how all the Muay Thai fighters eat at her restaurant/house every night.

7. Thai language is really difficult to learn for Westerners, but is actually quite a simple language. There are no past or future tenses, and instead of saying something like, "Where are you going?" they just say "Where go?" I'm learning more everyday, especially from my trainers, and today Egg taught me "Soi ching ching katoi tuan," which means something like "You're very pretty for a fighting ladyboy."

Ahh, Thailand, you had me at "Sawadii kaaaaaaa." (Hello.)

Vote for Change

I just got the chance to sit down and watch Barack Obama's inaugural address online, and I have to say that it brought tears to my eyes. Here I am, sitting in an internet cafe in Thailand wearing my Texans for Obama t-shirt and crying. A girl from Holland sitting next to me asked if I was ok, and the only response I could muster was to point at the screen. She smiled, gave me a hug, and said, "I think the whole world is proud of him today."

I'm still sitting in the same chair, but an hour later. I watched Obama's speech twice and then sat in stunned silence thinking about what he had said. I'm having problems trying to write down my thoughts because my mind is racing and my heart is beating loudly in my chest. So instead, I will try to write down what this speech means to me.

It has been a long time since I can honestly say I am proud to be an American. A very long time. My first big traveling trip was ten months in Europe in 2005-2006, where I spent a large percentage of my 20th year listening to people complain about my country, how George W. Bush was destroying the world, and how it seemed to somehow be my fault even though I didn't vote for him. It also did not help that I was born in Texas at all. I felt devastated and ashamed, and started hiding my accent and the fact that I am American. I absorbed their hatred, holding America accountable for the actions of a greedy and mis-lead government. Although it has been hard, I am trying to forgive and move on.

I have known from an early age how lucky I am to have been born in a first-world country. As a child I was introduced to Mexico and to the poverty, over-population, polution, and corruption they deal with on a daily basis. I know that being born with the freedoms of speech and religion are something we take for granted every day, and there are so many people in this world who smile through sufferings we cannot even imagine. And through it all, I still felt judged and ashamed to be an American.

Three years later I have a different outlook on the world at large. I know that the media has stereotyped and destroyed a lot of beauty that America holds. I know that over the last eight years our actions have landed us in a heap of hatred and anxiety, and I have felt trapped, as if we might never escape. I feel that our over-consumption and greed will come back to haunt us if we do not rectify our mistakes soon. I know that America is a beautiful country filled with beautiful people, and I feel so blessed and lucky to be a part of this turning point in our history. I mailed my voting ballot from London and popped open a bottle of champagne there at 10:00 a.m. that cold November morning while Brittney and I stared at the TV screen in awe and disbelief that Obama had actually been elected. It felt good, so good, to be proud of my countrymen and woman again, and to know that it was a step, even if just a small one, in the right direction.

What can we expect now?

Barack Obama is not a saint. He cannot snap his fingers and make the world a better place. He is a strong man who was handed all of the world's problems and is expected to fix them fast. Yet these problems are not just his, and not just Americas. We, as Citizens Of The World, all have a responsibility to do what we can to help make and inspire change. We cannot wait for the politicians of our country and other countries to make all the decisions and sit idly by hoping some good might come out of it. Blaming other people in other places will get us nowhere, nor will blaming ourselves. We all know the tasks ahead of us will be tough and many, but with inspiration in the form of my new president, I have hope.

A favorite quote from Barack Obama's inauguration speech:

"Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land- a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, that the next generation must lower its sights. Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America - they will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord."

Hope over fear.
Unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

This is what I wish for my country and for all countries. I have faith in the good of this world, that it will triumph through adversity, and that we will someday be able to put our differences aside and share this beautiful world we live in together in peace.


If you want to watch Obama's speech or read it:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/obama_inauguration/7840646.stm

Taking Names

Currently my favorite phrase in Thai is "Farang mai ting tong," which means "White girl not crazy." Although I'm sure some would beg to differ, including myself actually.

For some unknown reason I have recently signed up for a month of Muay Thai boxing training. Why have I signed up for this? Only Buddha knows. Perhaps it's because I was getting sick of the travelers' party scene. Perhaps I'm looking for some semblence of health and fitness. Perhaps I am ting tong. The good news is that I actually think it's working.

Today I finished my fourth day of training. We train once or twice a day, two hours each session, six days a week. I haven't had a drop of alcohol in six days. I can barely lift my arms to type this. I have come to terms with a new pain: shin pain. Shin pain feels like your shins are bleeding from the inside, but only forming bruises on the outside as you kick the trainer's gloves or punching bags over and over again. I have a bruise on my right ribcage from my third day when I missed a block out of pure exhaustion and got kicked. As I whimpered softly in pain Tong, my trainer for that day, felt my ribcage and looked up with a smile. "Not broken.......jab! Uppercut!" I haven't missed a block since.

A typical rundown of a two hour training session, not including the run that usually starts at seven, starts with a jump rope, which is good because from third to fifth grade I got blue ribbons in a jumping rope contest. Which actually means nothing. Then we warm up together, which I like because it includes a lot of yoga and that's the only thing I'm better at than anyone else. After we line up to practice techniques with our jab, punch, uppercut, cross, elbow, straight kick, knee, and side kick. A trainer will then grab you, strap on some boxing gloves, and go for a one-on-one endurance session on pain. For two hours we are constantly punching, kicking, weaving, and blocking, so of course we end with a measly 300 push-ups, pull-ups or sit-ups, all of which I cannot do for the life of me. I opt for 200 crunches with Tong yelling, "higher...higher!" and me yelling, "Mai! Chai yen yen!"

That brings me to my second favorite phrase. "Chai yen yen," means "Take it easy."

I love all the trainers, but Tong is my favorite. The only English he speaks are words like punch, block, elbow, kick, good, faster, and sissy. He always laughs at me because I'm incapable of having a badass Thai fighter face and look more like a fatigued Minnie Mouse. We spend most of our time laughing at each other, which is cool considering he used to be the number one Muay Thai boxing champion of Thailand. After a while Bee will seperate the giggling idiots and he'll make me work hard on my technique, or lack there of. It's Bee's gym, and he used to be a number one champion also. So was Tree. And Ay. And Egg. So basically I'm paying for some of the best Thai fighters in Thailand to kick my ass into shape six days a week. And when I can finally pick my broken body off the mats, it's time to go to work.

Here in this tiny little town called Pai in the northern mountains of Thailand I am running a vintage clothing store. I met an English Reiki Master named Allen who was given this little shop, and has no idea what to do with it. So he just kinda gave it to me to advertise, take care of, and generally be creative with. It's a nice place to relax, wind down, read my book, practice my fire spinning and meet some cool people. We split the profits, which isn't much, but it's enough to keep me alive. He's also given me a great deal on some Reiki lessons, which is energy healing, that would add on nicely to my massage practice.

Yesterday my friend Andy, who is doing the training with me, cursed me for being able to land on my feet so quickly, seeing as I've been here for a week. I'm not sure why or how this always seems to happen, but I'm thankful that it does. I'm happy here in my little town with only three streets. I live in a bamboo hut, which is absolutely freezing in the mornings but beautiful in the sunny afternoons. I train, I work, I eat great Thai food, and I'm usually sleep by nine or ten at night.

Rachel the Social Butterfly is taking a break.

Rachel the Muay Thai fighter is kicking ass and taking names.

I just found out that I'm sparring on Monday. And yes, my toenails are painted shiny pink. We'll see how long I last.

Outwardly Looking In

I've been meaning to write for a while, but I've been looking for the right words. I want to talk about my generation, our generation, and how we express ourselves. Some may chuckle to themselves, some may raise an eyebrow in silent disagreement, others I am hoping will agree.

Last week I got my fourth tattoo. I love it. I will always love it because it is important to me. It means something to me now as it will in fifty years, because it connects me to my favorite person in the world: my younger brother Sam. To describe it is simple. It's at the back of my neck, written in Thai. The top word says "Nong Chai" which means Little Brother, and it's followed by four lines of the Awakening prayer:

"Evoking the presence of the Great Compassion, let us fill our hearts with our own compassion towards ourselves and towards all living beings."

My brother was there to hold my hand for an hour and a half, while a small Thai man stabbed me thousands of times with a small piece of bamboo with intense precision, in traditional Thai bamboo tattoo style on the island of Ko Tao in Thailand. It's not this tattoo that inspires this writing, it was actually my first. I want to talk about my generation and how we define ourselves. We are what I like to call the Tattoo Generation. We express ourselves outwardly, through our clothing, hair, piercings, tattoos, ideals, peace protests, poetry slams, rock concerts, and style. What were once private issues whispered in the safe confines of your home are now splashed across bumper stickers, tshirt logos and the headline of the newspaper.

Yet we are not the first to spawn these great ideals of change. My parents' generation of the sixties were the first, and I am merely passing on what they taught me. They taught me that change is possible. That breaking from the norm with some radical new ideas may just be what this world needs. That if we are unhappy with our governments, we have the power to have our voices heard. That it's the differences in all of us that make this world unique and will lead us forward into the future. Today I feel a different type of revolution taking hold.

I believe that in ten or twenty years it won't matter how you appear outwardly, but who you are inside. I wish we could be there now, but I find judgment at every corner from those unwilling to open their minds. Yes, I have dreadlocks, a giant tattoo on my forearm, upper back, lower back and ankle. Yes, I think they are the most beautiful pieces of art anyone could have on their body. No, I never want to be or work where someone would overlook my skills or personality because of them. No, I would never change for anyone but myself.

Some people will say that I'll never be able to get a "real" job, and to that I can only say, "Promise?" I laugh to think at what my mother is thinking right now. She is the foundation of sensibility and logic mixed in with her wild spirit, and yes, she's almost always right. She says that when I'm old all my tattoos will be big, splotchy blobs, and she's probably right, again. The point, though, is that those big, beautiful unrecognizable blobs will be the reminder of my youth, my carefree, happy youth. I will take these years, live them and love them, and occasionally paint pictures on my skin of loves, lights, and memories. Every tattoo is a little piece of me that I want to show and share with the world, and I can see nothing wrong with that.

What I think I'm asking for, from those who disbelieve or disagree, is a little peace and a little acceptance. You don't have to like it. You don't have to agree with it. But seeing as how you can do nothing about it, I'd have to say it'll be a lot easier for all of us to move forward, together, if we could embrace our differences instead of fight about them. There is enough hate and judgement in this world. We should be standing together.