I’ve been reviewing my finances this morning- I printed off my bank statements before the boat trip – and it’s an ugly and disappointing picture. I’ve spent 3x what I planned to spend and made back a fraction of what I expected to make from working in New Zealand.
In cold hard numbers that means I’ve spent $3,124.27 in eight months, and I expected to spend a third of that over the course of twelve months. (I won’t need to spend any money until June 1 when I leave Kevin’s boat for Bali, Indonesia. For now I have no expenses.)
My book-keeping skills are terrible because I avoid doing things I don’t want to do, like my finances. I’m much better at spending money and leading a life of instant gratification than I am at saving money and sticking to a budget that limits my “fun”.
Because I haven’t kept a close eye on my pocketbook I’ve let many little expenditures go unnoticed…they add up.
My only saving grace has come from the deposits made by my family and the government. Thank you for the birthday and Christmas money and the tax returns! Because of their generosity my total loss is $2,253.12, which is a better, but not ideal, sum.
I’m not exposing my financial situation in hopes of handouts, but to explain the reality of my situation and one of my biggest stresses: money. It controls my every move and is always heavy on my mind. Everything costs more than I expect it to. I make mistakes that are costly and I indulge myself too often.
My biggest problem is I have a hard time facing reality and making changes. Even right now as I write this I’m struggling with myself. I don’t want to be doing this because if I see the problem then I’m responsible for finding and executing a solution, which inevitable means making changes.
My head is beginning to hurt and my eyes are growing heaving. “Take a rest, lay down, and come back to this later,” a voice inside is encouraging. But I know that “later” is the only time that never arrives. This is the same voice that convinces me that I deserve every indulgence I make with no consideration for moderation.
I have an incredible intolerance for doing things I don’t want to do, especially the things that will benefit (usually in the long run) like spending frugally/ sticking to a budget, exercising (even when it’s hot or cold) and eating healthy and in moderation (no matter how much I love chocolate).
Ironically I have an incredibly high tolerance for doing things that other people want me to do or putting up with what others inflict on me such as listening to unwanted noise or traveling by means or to a location not of my choosing. Sure I will ride an uncomfortable bus for 30 hours while the girl next to me tells me her whole life and I will smile through the whole excruciating process, but not buying the sarong I want or not eating the extra sticky rice and mango I crave is unbearable.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Third post
The imperfect rug that was to be my future source of income was pulled out from under me.
The French Teaching Assistantship program emailed me my rejection letter on April 6. (I found out about it on April 25, an extra month of unnecessary worry since I applied in November.)
I was disappointed and a bit surprised that I didn’t get the job, which would have been a 20 hour, 750 euro, a week teaching position in a French elementary, intermediate, or high school assisting the English and cultural studies.
Disappointed because I want to live in France to experience the culture, learn the language and use it as a base to travel other European countries; surprised because I applied for a position a year ago and was accepted into an academy in Toulouse, France, but I rejected the placement in favor of my year of traveling with Katie.
Had I gotten the job I wouldn’t be much better off because I’m not qualified, nor interested, in teaching. Being a teacher was a means to do all the traveling and generate some income in France, a country I’ve been interested in my entire life with one of two languages I studied in school (Spanish being the second).
So although it had little to potential of being perfect, at least it was a plan. Now the future is completely unknown and I’m afraid, albeit a bit excited, about the possibilities. However, other than working as an Au pair, the options are limited. I’m not fluent in anything but English and I really have no qualifications for a career. I managed to make it 22 years skill less, with little going for me than a friendly disposition and a optimistic attitude. As of right now I wouldn’t even be qualified to be a waitress or a barista in France (or any country unwilling to train me).
This bleak realization terrifies and depresses me. What am I going to do? What can I do?
Ultimately I’d like to find something I want to do that can earn me money, but discovering desirable work has been a source of constant worry for my entire life (maybe not when I was five, but as soon as I come to realize everyone has to earn money to live.)
I’ve pursued many job path, although I’ve never given 100 percent of my effort because I’ve yet to find a pursuit I was very passionate about or at least not wrought with doubts, so mostly I’m treading water without committing to a direction. Landing, or sticking, in a job I hate terrifies me, and allowing misunderstood dreams and talents to evaporate (I believe everyone has a purpose and special talents.) seems breaking beyond recovery. Around every corner could be the clue to revealing a career that would bring me the greatest joy and satisfaction. So, I’m stalling, and most of the time just avoiding, commitment. Maybe the French could feel my insincerity.
It’s not that I don’t understand the necessity of work, and I like to think I’ve done my fair share of unwanted occupations.
I’ve toiled through every menial job that high school and struggling college student endure, but I’ve also applied to more “adult” or “long-term” positions with the Peace Corps, Americorps, French Teaching Assistantship Program, Ohio University Communication and Marketing department.
About one year ago I was pursuing all these opportunities, as well as exploring the possibility of traveling around the world for a year with Katie, and wondering if I should do something with my hard-earned journalism degree.
While these ideas were percolating, my deadlines were passing by unattended. Some I worked on for two years before running away from the opportunity because they wanted me to have six months of community development experience or better language skills and I felt unfit for the challenge (or rather the commitment).
Whether I find work I adore or not the bottom line is I have to start generating an income.
Upon reassessing the situation (my resume if you will) here is where I stand: I’m a 22-year-old female with no skills. I have a degree in magazine journalism that is basically worth less than the ink on my diploma because I don’t have the desire or talent to make it in the industry. Acquiring my degree has put me $20,000 in dept (and rising thanks to the interest) – extra salt in the wound. I enjoy traveling, dancing, horseback riding, food (cooking and eating), reading, films, yoga, learning (my interests are short lived and my attention span even shorter), and any adventure and outdoor activity man has created. I see little potential in finding a career that encompasses one of the above mentioned interests, nor do I feel I could devote myself to developing one into a career path.
I wish I were someone who could accept the past and move on, but when I look at my present circumstances it’s hard not to have regrets.
I wish I had worked harder in school and actually learned something instead of working for a grade. I wish I had started thinking earlier about what I want to do and not what others wanted me to do, and I wish I’d discovered how to love myself and honor my personal happiness without external praise and approval.
This sounds depressing, and I should mention that I’m writing this after just hearing the rejection, but this is a sad situation I’ve been thinking about since I walked across a stage wearing a tasseled cap and white gown almost one year ago.
Regardless of how bleak things look, I willingly admit that I have (past and present) a great and very very blessed life. I have a wonderful family who loves me despite not understanding me, and my friends are an invaluable support system that has helped carry me through obstacles I couldn’t have managed alone.
So no matter what happens I have plenty of people to fall back on – and places to live – until I can get my act, somewhat, together.
A working world awaits me…good thing I’m in the middle of the ocean and can’t actually act until I get off the boat
The French Teaching Assistantship program emailed me my rejection letter on April 6. (I found out about it on April 25, an extra month of unnecessary worry since I applied in November.)
I was disappointed and a bit surprised that I didn’t get the job, which would have been a 20 hour, 750 euro, a week teaching position in a French elementary, intermediate, or high school assisting the English and cultural studies.
Disappointed because I want to live in France to experience the culture, learn the language and use it as a base to travel other European countries; surprised because I applied for a position a year ago and was accepted into an academy in Toulouse, France, but I rejected the placement in favor of my year of traveling with Katie.
Had I gotten the job I wouldn’t be much better off because I’m not qualified, nor interested, in teaching. Being a teacher was a means to do all the traveling and generate some income in France, a country I’ve been interested in my entire life with one of two languages I studied in school (Spanish being the second).
So although it had little to potential of being perfect, at least it was a plan. Now the future is completely unknown and I’m afraid, albeit a bit excited, about the possibilities. However, other than working as an Au pair, the options are limited. I’m not fluent in anything but English and I really have no qualifications for a career. I managed to make it 22 years skill less, with little going for me than a friendly disposition and a optimistic attitude. As of right now I wouldn’t even be qualified to be a waitress or a barista in France (or any country unwilling to train me).
This bleak realization terrifies and depresses me. What am I going to do? What can I do?
Ultimately I’d like to find something I want to do that can earn me money, but discovering desirable work has been a source of constant worry for my entire life (maybe not when I was five, but as soon as I come to realize everyone has to earn money to live.)
I’ve pursued many job path, although I’ve never given 100 percent of my effort because I’ve yet to find a pursuit I was very passionate about or at least not wrought with doubts, so mostly I’m treading water without committing to a direction. Landing, or sticking, in a job I hate terrifies me, and allowing misunderstood dreams and talents to evaporate (I believe everyone has a purpose and special talents.) seems breaking beyond recovery. Around every corner could be the clue to revealing a career that would bring me the greatest joy and satisfaction. So, I’m stalling, and most of the time just avoiding, commitment. Maybe the French could feel my insincerity.
It’s not that I don’t understand the necessity of work, and I like to think I’ve done my fair share of unwanted occupations.
I’ve toiled through every menial job that high school and struggling college student endure, but I’ve also applied to more “adult” or “long-term” positions with the Peace Corps, Americorps, French Teaching Assistantship Program, Ohio University Communication and Marketing department.
About one year ago I was pursuing all these opportunities, as well as exploring the possibility of traveling around the world for a year with Katie, and wondering if I should do something with my hard-earned journalism degree.
While these ideas were percolating, my deadlines were passing by unattended. Some I worked on for two years before running away from the opportunity because they wanted me to have six months of community development experience or better language skills and I felt unfit for the challenge (or rather the commitment).
Whether I find work I adore or not the bottom line is I have to start generating an income.
Upon reassessing the situation (my resume if you will) here is where I stand: I’m a 22-year-old female with no skills. I have a degree in magazine journalism that is basically worth less than the ink on my diploma because I don’t have the desire or talent to make it in the industry. Acquiring my degree has put me $20,000 in dept (and rising thanks to the interest) – extra salt in the wound. I enjoy traveling, dancing, horseback riding, food (cooking and eating), reading, films, yoga, learning (my interests are short lived and my attention span even shorter), and any adventure and outdoor activity man has created. I see little potential in finding a career that encompasses one of the above mentioned interests, nor do I feel I could devote myself to developing one into a career path.
I wish I were someone who could accept the past and move on, but when I look at my present circumstances it’s hard not to have regrets.
I wish I had worked harder in school and actually learned something instead of working for a grade. I wish I had started thinking earlier about what I want to do and not what others wanted me to do, and I wish I’d discovered how to love myself and honor my personal happiness without external praise and approval.
This sounds depressing, and I should mention that I’m writing this after just hearing the rejection, but this is a sad situation I’ve been thinking about since I walked across a stage wearing a tasseled cap and white gown almost one year ago.
Regardless of how bleak things look, I willingly admit that I have (past and present) a great and very very blessed life. I have a wonderful family who loves me despite not understanding me, and my friends are an invaluable support system that has helped carry me through obstacles I couldn’t have managed alone.
So no matter what happens I have plenty of people to fall back on – and places to live – until I can get my act, somewhat, together.
A working world awaits me…good thing I’m in the middle of the ocean and can’t actually act until I get off the boat
Second post
I hate writing because I’m afraid I’m incompetent and I have nothing to say of any value.
I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.
When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.
In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)
When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…
Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”
I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.
The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?
Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.
I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.
I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.
When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.
In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)
When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…
Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”
I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.
The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?
Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.
I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.
THE START OF A SERIES (or personal rant...)- first post
When Kevin offered to take me on his two-month boat trip I envisioned hours of reading, writing, walking, swimming and lot’s of meditation and personal reflection.
It was this latter pursuit that most attracted me because I felt that I’m in a pivotal point in my life that deserves some contemplation.
After about eight months on the road I haven’t become the person I want to be or materialized a life I’m satisfied with, and running away from the familiar hasn’t absolved me of issues and opened me to self discovery that I’d hoped the trying and personally revealing circumstances on the road would cure.
I haven’t discovered my dreams and passions that could be converted into a career; I’ve met people and seen places but I haven’t found romantic love or contentment; and I haven’t found an enjoyable way to improve my negative bank account or something that inspires an enduring passion. (Traveling has allowed me to see as many wonderful places and people and uncover attractive possibilities but there are deeper and longer lasting benefits and resolutions I want to secure.)
Reality is such that I have to make some decisions about the next chapter of my life, regardless of the personal growth and discovery yet to be achieved, and that is why a time of reflection was appealing.
The next set of blog posts are going to address the worries and personal struggles that sit heavy on my shoulders and occupy a large part of my thoughts and brain power. I want to expose my soul a bit and address the things I think about no matter if I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ohio, meditating atop a mountain in New Zealand or sailing around sandy beaches in Thailand. My hopes, fears, and struggles go with me.
It was this latter pursuit that most attracted me because I felt that I’m in a pivotal point in my life that deserves some contemplation.
After about eight months on the road I haven’t become the person I want to be or materialized a life I’m satisfied with, and running away from the familiar hasn’t absolved me of issues and opened me to self discovery that I’d hoped the trying and personally revealing circumstances on the road would cure.
I haven’t discovered my dreams and passions that could be converted into a career; I’ve met people and seen places but I haven’t found romantic love or contentment; and I haven’t found an enjoyable way to improve my negative bank account or something that inspires an enduring passion. (Traveling has allowed me to see as many wonderful places and people and uncover attractive possibilities but there are deeper and longer lasting benefits and resolutions I want to secure.)
Reality is such that I have to make some decisions about the next chapter of my life, regardless of the personal growth and discovery yet to be achieved, and that is why a time of reflection was appealing.
The next set of blog posts are going to address the worries and personal struggles that sit heavy on my shoulders and occupy a large part of my thoughts and brain power. I want to expose my soul a bit and address the things I think about no matter if I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ohio, meditating atop a mountain in New Zealand or sailing around sandy beaches in Thailand. My hopes, fears, and struggles go with me.
Thursday April 15, 2010 (Day 9)
Its 3 p.m., the sun is out, the wind is calm and we are in a protected anchorage in the north end of Nias, so the boat isn’t rocking. I could almost forget that I’m on a boat except that I can’t leave.
When I woke this morning at 6:30 a.m. it was raining and a strong southwesterly wind was blowing, which is only a problem if you need to travel southwest. Now the weather is improved, but leaving is no longer an option because the next stop is 11 hours away and traveling and anchoring at night isn’t a favorable option.
(The distance of other boats is difficult to judge at night, and Indonesia is plagued with floating logs from the densely wooded islands that are impossible to see in the dark.)
To pass the time I have watched two movies, snacked, read, wrote and listened to an hour of news by the BBC. There are 7 hours left in my day.
Kevin and I are isolated on 32 feet of boat because going ashore isn’t an option for two reasons. The first and main reason is we aren’t legally permitted to be in Indonesian waters until May 1 and going ashore will likely provoke interest among the locals and potentially cause us problems if any officials, known for their corruption, curiosity and want of bribery, ask for paperwork. Second, the dingy, which is the small inflatable and motorized boat used to get to and from the sail boat, is stowed on deck and even if it was in the water where would I go?
It’s a lazy day, one that doesn’t leave me feeling completely guilty for indulging in hours of mindless entertainment, because my options are limited. I’ve managed to get a bit of writing done, so my day doesn’t feel like a complete waste of time, but I can’t help but feel like sloth about once an hour – or at least between movies.
When I woke this morning at 6:30 a.m. it was raining and a strong southwesterly wind was blowing, which is only a problem if you need to travel southwest. Now the weather is improved, but leaving is no longer an option because the next stop is 11 hours away and traveling and anchoring at night isn’t a favorable option.
(The distance of other boats is difficult to judge at night, and Indonesia is plagued with floating logs from the densely wooded islands that are impossible to see in the dark.)
To pass the time I have watched two movies, snacked, read, wrote and listened to an hour of news by the BBC. There are 7 hours left in my day.
Kevin and I are isolated on 32 feet of boat because going ashore isn’t an option for two reasons. The first and main reason is we aren’t legally permitted to be in Indonesian waters until May 1 and going ashore will likely provoke interest among the locals and potentially cause us problems if any officials, known for their corruption, curiosity and want of bribery, ask for paperwork. Second, the dingy, which is the small inflatable and motorized boat used to get to and from the sail boat, is stowed on deck and even if it was in the water where would I go?
It’s a lazy day, one that doesn’t leave me feeling completely guilty for indulging in hours of mindless entertainment, because my options are limited. I’ve managed to get a bit of writing done, so my day doesn’t feel like a complete waste of time, but I can’t help but feel like sloth about once an hour – or at least between movies.
Tuesday April 6, 2010 (Day 1)
The anchor was pulled, the main sail was left down (no wind) and the diesel engine was started. By 7 a.m. we were pulling out of Chalong harbor in Phuket, Thialand and heading toward Sumatra, Indonesia.
It had been my second night and third day spent on Helena, Kevin’s sailboat, and my home on water for the next seven weeks.
Yesterday we checked out with the harbor master, immigration and customs and today we set sail (or rather motor).
We maneuvered through dozens of boats, passed rocky islands and a few hours later there was no land in sight. The sun was high and a familiar motion sickness feeling was keeping me quieter than usual, but Kevin maintained his end of conversation.
So far, between all my boating experiences, which includes the trip with Gary from Malaysia to Thailand and the countless ferries I’ve ridden, I’ve yet to experience full-on sea-sickness. I have not been incapacitated by ceaseless vomiting, pounding headaches or incessant sweating. Unfortunately, I do often in the middle of the afternoon, feel slightly nauseous, fatigued, severely aware of the heat, throbbing between my temples and a very strong desire to lie down in silence.
I’ve managed to will myself out of succumbing to the ill feelings, but I don’t feel like singing and dancing.
Tonight will be my first night watch because we are running for 48 hours nonstop and Kevin and I will rotate being awake through the next two nights. While on watch it’s important to make sure we are running on course and not getting hit or hitting other boats.
I’m not nervous about staying awake (my night shift is from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m.) but I am worried I will do something wrong like misread the GPS (thank goodness most sailors have upgraded to modern technology and rarely use paper charts and maps anymore!) or misjudge the distance of another boat? This is Kevin’s home, without insurance, and for seven hours I will be responsible for her wellbeing.
It had been my second night and third day spent on Helena, Kevin’s sailboat, and my home on water for the next seven weeks.
Yesterday we checked out with the harbor master, immigration and customs and today we set sail (or rather motor).
We maneuvered through dozens of boats, passed rocky islands and a few hours later there was no land in sight. The sun was high and a familiar motion sickness feeling was keeping me quieter than usual, but Kevin maintained his end of conversation.
So far, between all my boating experiences, which includes the trip with Gary from Malaysia to Thailand and the countless ferries I’ve ridden, I’ve yet to experience full-on sea-sickness. I have not been incapacitated by ceaseless vomiting, pounding headaches or incessant sweating. Unfortunately, I do often in the middle of the afternoon, feel slightly nauseous, fatigued, severely aware of the heat, throbbing between my temples and a very strong desire to lie down in silence.
I’ve managed to will myself out of succumbing to the ill feelings, but I don’t feel like singing and dancing.
Tonight will be my first night watch because we are running for 48 hours nonstop and Kevin and I will rotate being awake through the next two nights. While on watch it’s important to make sure we are running on course and not getting hit or hitting other boats.
I’m not nervous about staying awake (my night shift is from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m.) but I am worried I will do something wrong like misread the GPS (thank goodness most sailors have upgraded to modern technology and rarely use paper charts and maps anymore!) or misjudge the distance of another boat? This is Kevin’s home, without insurance, and for seven hours I will be responsible for her wellbeing.
Waste
Trash. We (man in general) create too much of it (I include myself in this generalization), and then we have to figure out what to do with it. I saw truck loads of trash littering the streets, parks, temples and rolling hills of Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia (I don’t expect Indonesia to be much different), and now I’m living with my trash on a boat – no dump boats out here. Funny I don’t hesitate to create trash (or criticize others for creating and mismanaging theirs), but I sure don’t like to see it…I guess this is way civilized countries bury it in the ground, sink it in the sea or propose to shoot it into space (All great ideas in theory I’m sure. Too bad we can’t see the pollution and poison created by our waste.).
In addition to not being accustomed to living with my accumulated trash, I’m not used to handling it. At home I have a garbage collector who conveniently takes it away for me.
Here on the boat though most (not all!) trash is thrown into the ocean. (This was a difficult concept for me at first because I despise improper waste handling.) But in fact things like food scraps, paper, even aluminum can safely be tossed into the water without risk of polluting. Plastic, however, is put into garbage bags and tied to the deck, near the mast (the tall pole in the middle of the sailing boat), and carried on the boat until we reach a port where we can throw it away in a trash can (probably to turn up later on a beach or tossed into the jungle).
I’m doing my best to first reduce my waste, then recycle what I can and finally as a last resort I throw it in a plastic bag to be with us for the next month. I’m shocked how much trash two people can create!
Of course we create trash in ways I don’t normally at home.
Before living on the boat I didn’t consider toilet paper to be trash. It was flushed and dissolved down the toilet. Easy, efficient and thoughtless. The boat’s toilet can’t handle toilet paper, so it becomes trash – something that needs handled.
There are two ways of handling used toilet paper. First, my preferred technique, it can be tossed out the bathroom immediately after usage. Second, it must be thrown in a waste basket and dealt with later. The latter technique is used when we are moving, because if you try to throw toilet paper out a window of a moving boat it will fly back and potentially hit the captain in the face, which is exactly what I did.
One morning we were sailing along, and after doing my business I tossed my toilet paper out the window. Unfortunately it didn’t make it down to the water. It was caught in the wind and was caught flying from some mast lines (the lines coming down to the sides of the boat from the giant pole in the middle). The white flags were flapping in the breeze a few feet in front of Kevin when I, unknowingly, came above deck a few minutes later. Thank goodness they caught on the rope!
I’ve become much more aware and careful about handling my trash.
In addition to not being accustomed to living with my accumulated trash, I’m not used to handling it. At home I have a garbage collector who conveniently takes it away for me.
Here on the boat though most (not all!) trash is thrown into the ocean. (This was a difficult concept for me at first because I despise improper waste handling.) But in fact things like food scraps, paper, even aluminum can safely be tossed into the water without risk of polluting. Plastic, however, is put into garbage bags and tied to the deck, near the mast (the tall pole in the middle of the sailing boat), and carried on the boat until we reach a port where we can throw it away in a trash can (probably to turn up later on a beach or tossed into the jungle).
I’m doing my best to first reduce my waste, then recycle what I can and finally as a last resort I throw it in a plastic bag to be with us for the next month. I’m shocked how much trash two people can create!
Of course we create trash in ways I don’t normally at home.
Before living on the boat I didn’t consider toilet paper to be trash. It was flushed and dissolved down the toilet. Easy, efficient and thoughtless. The boat’s toilet can’t handle toilet paper, so it becomes trash – something that needs handled.
There are two ways of handling used toilet paper. First, my preferred technique, it can be tossed out the bathroom immediately after usage. Second, it must be thrown in a waste basket and dealt with later. The latter technique is used when we are moving, because if you try to throw toilet paper out a window of a moving boat it will fly back and potentially hit the captain in the face, which is exactly what I did.
One morning we were sailing along, and after doing my business I tossed my toilet paper out the window. Unfortunately it didn’t make it down to the water. It was caught in the wind and was caught flying from some mast lines (the lines coming down to the sides of the boat from the giant pole in the middle). The white flags were flapping in the breeze a few feet in front of Kevin when I, unknowingly, came above deck a few minutes later. Thank goodness they caught on the rope!
I’ve become much more aware and careful about handling my trash.
Irrational Fears
Hearing about people’s dreams is usually boring because I find them totally irrelevant to reality- they are a process the brain goes through during the REM cycle not a foreshadowing of events to come (or a deeper insight to past events). Unless they are incredibly interesting (by my appraisal of course), relate to me in some way, or are told with such flair that they are entertaining, but most of the time they are a bore to listen to. But writing and sharing my fears usually helps eleviate them, so I going to tell about my dreams the last few nights – you are under no obligation (unless you are one of my parents) to read about them, which is probably the only thing worse than verbally hearing about someone else’s dream.
Last night I dreamt a grizzly bear was after me. I had watched him fishing at a river surrounded by pine trees and it didn’t take long for him to notice my presence. The fish were let off the hook because I was the new target. The bear pursued me through my dream worlds and soon the chase took us to my grandparents old dairy farm where thanks to the loud grinding of the anchor chain being pulled out of the water, which woke me, pulling me out of grizzly danger, and reminded me that I’m on a boat miles from land and continents away from bears, my dream ended.
This dream would be of little significance except it is the third night in a row that has been full of malicious creature trying to catch me.
The first night was sharks, which is completely understandable.
The second night was crocodiles. (I have recently become enlightened to the cruel saltwater crock, one of which was rumored to be lurking near where Kevin and I anchored for two nights. I could barely stay in the water for 30 seconds out of fear. These brutal creatures, unlike sharks which only attack by mistake, purposely kill people. They are very territorial, can swim hundreds of miles and have survived since the dinosaurs so obviously they are doing something right. ) Given a shark or salt water crocodile I’ll take the shark any day.
But why is nature attacking my in my defenseless sleep? And where did the bear come from?
I just hope these aren’t premonitions, and that they are the typical run-of-the-mill dreams that bore the poor audience forced to listen, or read, about them.
I'm irrationally afraid of being attacked be something in the water during the day and night...I'm working on getting over it though and so far I haven't let fear prevent me from getting wet.
Last night I dreamt a grizzly bear was after me. I had watched him fishing at a river surrounded by pine trees and it didn’t take long for him to notice my presence. The fish were let off the hook because I was the new target. The bear pursued me through my dream worlds and soon the chase took us to my grandparents old dairy farm where thanks to the loud grinding of the anchor chain being pulled out of the water, which woke me, pulling me out of grizzly danger, and reminded me that I’m on a boat miles from land and continents away from bears, my dream ended.
This dream would be of little significance except it is the third night in a row that has been full of malicious creature trying to catch me.
The first night was sharks, which is completely understandable.
The second night was crocodiles. (I have recently become enlightened to the cruel saltwater crock, one of which was rumored to be lurking near where Kevin and I anchored for two nights. I could barely stay in the water for 30 seconds out of fear. These brutal creatures, unlike sharks which only attack by mistake, purposely kill people. They are very territorial, can swim hundreds of miles and have survived since the dinosaurs so obviously they are doing something right. ) Given a shark or salt water crocodile I’ll take the shark any day.
But why is nature attacking my in my defenseless sleep? And where did the bear come from?
I just hope these aren’t premonitions, and that they are the typical run-of-the-mill dreams that bore the poor audience forced to listen, or read, about them.
I'm irrationally afraid of being attacked be something in the water during the day and night...I'm working on getting over it though and so far I haven't let fear prevent me from getting wet.
First Two Weeks with Helena (sailboat)
The past two weeks have passed with routine and a few moments of surprise. Every day we travelled about 13 hours, waking around 6 a.m., leaving our night anchorage by 6:30, and arriving at our next destination by 6 or 7 p.m. For a few days we had to travel 48 straight hours taking shifts staying up as we sailed through the night (someone must always be on watch day and night to make sure the boat doesn’t hit anything or get hit. Autopilot can handle the steering, but she can’t detect a fishing boat or an island.) It’s safer to stop at night, rest and start fresh in the morning. It’s been a lot like driving for days on end in a car without air-conditioning, but with a refrigerator.
During the time I read 7 books (I averaged an entire book over other day), watched dozens of Kevin’s movies and episodes of “Two and a Half Men” on his laptop and sat staring into the horizon thinking (and a lot of times not thinking about anything and just staring).
The weather was good, but the wind wasn’t. Over two weeks and hundreds of miles we only sailed without the motor running for three hours. The droning of the motor was always competing with the iPod music playing over the speakers (graciously Kevin lets me be DJ).
Some days the heat really got to me, or maybe it was the constant rocking mixed with the heat…as was the case on Saturday April 17 when I wrote in my journal:
“A film of perspiration covers my face, back, and underarms. My hair is pulled back in a bun and a headband is holding back the hairs that were sticking to my neck and forehead a minute ago. I smell like spent deodorant (that smells like rubbing alcohol and plastic before it’s even rubbed on), sweaty skin and day old laundry. I don’t know which is worse the way I look or feel.
There is a deep throbbing that starts in the back of my head and runs around to my temples squeezing my scalp and threatening to pop the crown of my head off and my eyeballs out of their sockets if I don’t apply pressure.
I’ve been lying on the couch for the past eight hours, thirsty for the occasional breeze that come down through the hatch window (a window that opens from the deck down into the cabin, so when I look up through it I can see the sky and the main mast).
My bladder needs emptied, but I’m avoiding getting up and afraid the smell of urine (I’m always dehydrated), mixed with my headache and the persistent rocking motion of the boat will make me vomit.”
The days weren’t all easy or hard. They were a mix of excitement, relaxation, boredom, frustration, fear, and gratitude.
Among the mundane and boredom there were moments of magic.
On a handful of occasions dolphins decided to pay a visit. They like to play with the boat’s bow wave (The bow is the front of the boat and the “bow wave” is the wave created by the boat driving through the water.). Their grey slick bodies torpedoed through the water jumping and laughing. I would stand watch until the last dolphin made his exit before returning to the shade of the cabin or the stern (back of the boat).
The dolphins and books could entertain by day, but at night the sunset and stars took center stage. Pink and orange slashed across the canvas sky and when the final rosy tints faded the stars would come out. They emerged one at a time at first and then the whole sky was polluted with their hazy glow. The moon in all her glory was smiling on.
Most of the time was empty and my thoughts had plenty of space to run rampant. I thought about everything, many repeats that have plagued my mind for years, new ideas and forgotten dreams. I wondered what friends and family were doing and I imagined our conversations.
I handled the situation the best I could. I tried to harness my restlessness, motivate myself when boredom had wasted me away to a pile of goo, and remain appreciative for this opportunity even when I felt like my head was going to explode.
During the time I read 7 books (I averaged an entire book over other day), watched dozens of Kevin’s movies and episodes of “Two and a Half Men” on his laptop and sat staring into the horizon thinking (and a lot of times not thinking about anything and just staring).
The weather was good, but the wind wasn’t. Over two weeks and hundreds of miles we only sailed without the motor running for three hours. The droning of the motor was always competing with the iPod music playing over the speakers (graciously Kevin lets me be DJ).
Some days the heat really got to me, or maybe it was the constant rocking mixed with the heat…as was the case on Saturday April 17 when I wrote in my journal:
“A film of perspiration covers my face, back, and underarms. My hair is pulled back in a bun and a headband is holding back the hairs that were sticking to my neck and forehead a minute ago. I smell like spent deodorant (that smells like rubbing alcohol and plastic before it’s even rubbed on), sweaty skin and day old laundry. I don’t know which is worse the way I look or feel.
There is a deep throbbing that starts in the back of my head and runs around to my temples squeezing my scalp and threatening to pop the crown of my head off and my eyeballs out of their sockets if I don’t apply pressure.
I’ve been lying on the couch for the past eight hours, thirsty for the occasional breeze that come down through the hatch window (a window that opens from the deck down into the cabin, so when I look up through it I can see the sky and the main mast).
My bladder needs emptied, but I’m avoiding getting up and afraid the smell of urine (I’m always dehydrated), mixed with my headache and the persistent rocking motion of the boat will make me vomit.”
The days weren’t all easy or hard. They were a mix of excitement, relaxation, boredom, frustration, fear, and gratitude.
Among the mundane and boredom there were moments of magic.
On a handful of occasions dolphins decided to pay a visit. They like to play with the boat’s bow wave (The bow is the front of the boat and the “bow wave” is the wave created by the boat driving through the water.). Their grey slick bodies torpedoed through the water jumping and laughing. I would stand watch until the last dolphin made his exit before returning to the shade of the cabin or the stern (back of the boat).
The dolphins and books could entertain by day, but at night the sunset and stars took center stage. Pink and orange slashed across the canvas sky and when the final rosy tints faded the stars would come out. They emerged one at a time at first and then the whole sky was polluted with their hazy glow. The moon in all her glory was smiling on.
Most of the time was empty and my thoughts had plenty of space to run rampant. I thought about everything, many repeats that have plagued my mind for years, new ideas and forgotten dreams. I wondered what friends and family were doing and I imagined our conversations.
I handled the situation the best I could. I tried to harness my restlessness, motivate myself when boredom had wasted me away to a pile of goo, and remain appreciative for this opportunity even when I felt like my head was going to explode.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Images...
Me and Soel Ki in a Tuk-Tuk, in Cambodai on our way to see Angkor Wat.
Rami and Mael in a Tuk-Tuk.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Sailing Itinerary:Phuket to Indonesia
My sailing itinerary…
Tuesday April 6, 2010 we leave Phuket, Thailand at dawn and begin ourtwo month journey to Padang,Indonesia
First we will cross the Malacca Straight to Banda Aceh, but not for a stop. Instead we will anchor in a small town at the tip of Western Sumatra called Sadu on Thursday April 8. Then we will be sailing 50 miles south to another small town for one night’s rest before heading to the first island chain, where Kevin will be surfing, called Banyacks. The next islands are Nias (mecca for surfers), Tellos, Mentuaki and finally to the Mentawias for remainder of May.
I will not have internet or phone access during the next two months, unless I can find some in one of the surfing camps- not likely though.
So I will update my blog as soon as possible!
I intend keep a detailed account of my experience and I look forward to sharing with everyone the challenges, discoveries, beauty and pain I experience. I see this as a time for self-relection and I hope I surface in Indonesia a stronger and more self-assured version of me.
I appreciate your audiance and support.
Tuesday April 6, 2010 we leave Phuket, Thailand at dawn and begin ourtwo month journey to Padang,Indonesia
First we will cross the Malacca Straight to Banda Aceh, but not for a stop. Instead we will anchor in a small town at the tip of Western Sumatra called Sadu on Thursday April 8. Then we will be sailing 50 miles south to another small town for one night’s rest before heading to the first island chain, where Kevin will be surfing, called Banyacks. The next islands are Nias (mecca for surfers), Tellos, Mentuaki and finally to the Mentawias for remainder of May.
I will not have internet or phone access during the next two months, unless I can find some in one of the surfing camps- not likely though.
So I will update my blog as soon as possible!
I intend keep a detailed account of my experience and I look forward to sharing with everyone the challenges, discoveries, beauty and pain I experience. I see this as a time for self-relection and I hope I surface in Indonesia a stronger and more self-assured version of me.
I appreciate your audiance and support.
Bus Abandonment
How does a person get left behind by a bus taking a pit stop?
Very easily when no one is watching out for her or noticing her empty seat.
After spending over 26 hours on buses (12 hours on 5 different buses from Siem Riep, Cambodia to Bangkok, Thailand where I had 10 minutes to catch the last night bus from Bangkok to Phuket) I emerged from the bathroom to discover an empty parking space.
My stomach dropped. My bag was on the bus and I was already late arriving to Phuket- it was nearly 10 a.m. Saturday and Kevin would be expecting me.
I had no idea if the bus had a name or company, I only knew it’s destination.
Fortunately I always keep my most valuable possessions on me, so I wasn’t relieved to feel my passport and some money in my purse.
But I what was I supposed to do?
I was stranded, not sure where I was, sweating under the blazing sun with dirt and dust everywhere, staring uncomprehendingly at the empty space where my bus should have been.
“Did you see the big blue bus heading to Phuket?” I asked a group of Thai men standing nearby, one of whom had given me directions to the bathroom when I first stepped off the bus, so I hoped he would recognize me.
“Oh bus gone.” He said.
“Well, can I catch it somehow or contact the driver? My bag is onboard and I should be,” I replied pathetically.
One of the guys lead me to the bus information stand, explained my situationa (I was very lucky he knew a bit of English), and soon I was on the back of a motorbike chasing down my run-away bus.
We caught the bus 2km up the road, and I gave the bus driver and innocent grin as I slid into my seat.
Only 200 km to go.
(The bus adventure took a total of 30 hrs, about 9 different vehicles with varying degrees of leg room and air-conditioning …what a ride.)
Very easily when no one is watching out for her or noticing her empty seat.
After spending over 26 hours on buses (12 hours on 5 different buses from Siem Riep, Cambodia to Bangkok, Thailand where I had 10 minutes to catch the last night bus from Bangkok to Phuket) I emerged from the bathroom to discover an empty parking space.
My stomach dropped. My bag was on the bus and I was already late arriving to Phuket- it was nearly 10 a.m. Saturday and Kevin would be expecting me.
I had no idea if the bus had a name or company, I only knew it’s destination.
Fortunately I always keep my most valuable possessions on me, so I wasn’t relieved to feel my passport and some money in my purse.
But I what was I supposed to do?
I was stranded, not sure where I was, sweating under the blazing sun with dirt and dust everywhere, staring uncomprehendingly at the empty space where my bus should have been.
“Did you see the big blue bus heading to Phuket?” I asked a group of Thai men standing nearby, one of whom had given me directions to the bathroom when I first stepped off the bus, so I hoped he would recognize me.
“Oh bus gone.” He said.
“Well, can I catch it somehow or contact the driver? My bag is onboard and I should be,” I replied pathetically.
One of the guys lead me to the bus information stand, explained my situationa (I was very lucky he knew a bit of English), and soon I was on the back of a motorbike chasing down my run-away bus.
We caught the bus 2km up the road, and I gave the bus driver and innocent grin as I slid into my seat.
Only 200 km to go.
(The bus adventure took a total of 30 hrs, about 9 different vehicles with varying degrees of leg room and air-conditioning …what a ride.)
Goodbye to Cambodia and a few friends
I’m alone again, I left my three friends and Cambodia behind, and this bus I’ve been riding for ten hours should have landed in Bangkok nearly three hours ago.
I said goodbye to my three friends before boarding this bus, and I’ve had plenty of time to reminiss about our short, but busy, time together- hot bus rides and hours of sweating while the bus was delayed, lot’s of ladyboys, birthdays and beers on the beach, diving certifications, temple visits, and Cambodian BBQs.
In Cambodia I saw Angkor Wat at sunrise, experienced complete frustration and hopelessness with the poverty, got drunk on Cambodian whisky and convinced a tuk-tuk driver to let me drive his manual motorbike (I’ve never even driven an automatic before).
Siem Riep, where I spent all my allotted “Cambodian time”, was dry and dusty and I took two showers a day to get the dirt, sweat, and brown rivers the two created together behind my knees and along my hair-line off my skin.
My spirit was depleted by the relentless vendors and kids selling worthless goods who swarmed me and pleaded with me to make an overpriced purchase. It was sad because I could never give enough. No matter what I bought (and I bought far too many coconuts and scarves) it wasn’t enough. They were happy to bleed me dry.
I enjoyed traveling with Rami, Mael and Soel Ki and will regret their absence, but I’m ready to make a move into the sailing adventure awaiting me back in Thailand. And returning to Thailand even thought this bus ride is never-ending feels like a vacation back into the familiar.
I would have liked more time in Cambodia to better understand the country and it’s people, to continue conversations with monks, old ladies and tuk-tuk drivers; to work for a bit in an orphanage and meditate in a temple. But I danced with locals, ate Cambodian cuisine and made the most of my short time there – I’m even walking away with a souvenir: dozens of flea bites all over my legs.
Now it’s creeping on 7:00p.m., the sun has set, and the road into Bangkok is congested with Friday night traffic, meaning the trip won’t be over anytime soon.
I’m hoping to catch a night bus in Bangkok heading to Phuket because Kevin is expecting me Saturday, tomorrow, in the morning to help with the final provisioning so we can check out of Thailand Monday and set sail at dawn on Tuesday. I have no idea if, where or when a bus will be leaving and I’m not thrilled to preform my search alone after dark.
I’m consoled by the thought that if I don’t make it to Phuket by morning then Kevin will understand. He’s been around SE Asia long enough to know how unreliable buses can be.
I have to laugh though, because the man who sold me this bus ticket guaranteed I would arrive in Bangkok by 4p.m. and said I would have no problem finding a night bus to Phuket. I hope he is at least 50 percent accurate.
I said goodbye to my three friends before boarding this bus, and I’ve had plenty of time to reminiss about our short, but busy, time together- hot bus rides and hours of sweating while the bus was delayed, lot’s of ladyboys, birthdays and beers on the beach, diving certifications, temple visits, and Cambodian BBQs.
In Cambodia I saw Angkor Wat at sunrise, experienced complete frustration and hopelessness with the poverty, got drunk on Cambodian whisky and convinced a tuk-tuk driver to let me drive his manual motorbike (I’ve never even driven an automatic before).
Siem Riep, where I spent all my allotted “Cambodian time”, was dry and dusty and I took two showers a day to get the dirt, sweat, and brown rivers the two created together behind my knees and along my hair-line off my skin.
My spirit was depleted by the relentless vendors and kids selling worthless goods who swarmed me and pleaded with me to make an overpriced purchase. It was sad because I could never give enough. No matter what I bought (and I bought far too many coconuts and scarves) it wasn’t enough. They were happy to bleed me dry.
I enjoyed traveling with Rami, Mael and Soel Ki and will regret their absence, but I’m ready to make a move into the sailing adventure awaiting me back in Thailand. And returning to Thailand even thought this bus ride is never-ending feels like a vacation back into the familiar.
I would have liked more time in Cambodia to better understand the country and it’s people, to continue conversations with monks, old ladies and tuk-tuk drivers; to work for a bit in an orphanage and meditate in a temple. But I danced with locals, ate Cambodian cuisine and made the most of my short time there – I’m even walking away with a souvenir: dozens of flea bites all over my legs.
Now it’s creeping on 7:00p.m., the sun has set, and the road into Bangkok is congested with Friday night traffic, meaning the trip won’t be over anytime soon.
I’m hoping to catch a night bus in Bangkok heading to Phuket because Kevin is expecting me Saturday, tomorrow, in the morning to help with the final provisioning so we can check out of Thailand Monday and set sail at dawn on Tuesday. I have no idea if, where or when a bus will be leaving and I’m not thrilled to preform my search alone after dark.
I’m consoled by the thought that if I don’t make it to Phuket by morning then Kevin will understand. He’s been around SE Asia long enough to know how unreliable buses can be.
I have to laugh though, because the man who sold me this bus ticket guaranteed I would arrive in Bangkok by 4p.m. and said I would have no problem finding a night bus to Phuket. I hope he is at least 50 percent accurate.
WWJD?
Today I met a Cambodian monk named Sel. He is 24, enjoys studying English, and aspires to be a tuk-tuk driver. He dreams of driving foreigners around will cost him a lifestyle change and about $1500, a sum he will spend years earning in a rice field and probably never achieve. (According to him, but sadly I’ve learned even monks can’t be trusted because I’m a dollar sign to him and not a friend.)
Sel is the second youngest of nine children, not an unusually high number, left home at 15 to join a temple and had little formal education before studying Buddhism among fellow monks.
We talked for nearly two hours in the halls of Angkor Wat, the biggest temple in Siem Riep and considered the 8th wonder in the world, and at the end of our conversation I wrote him a long letter, which he read aloud to me, to practice his English. I hoped this gift would deter him from asking me for money, but it didn’t.
As I excused myself to rejoin my friends, who were waiting for me at the entrance, he asked for money to help him with his education.
I gave him some money (they only want American money here) and desperately maneuvered my way back through the Angkor Wat corridors until I could find an exit.
Was the conversation cheapened my his request for money?
I still gained considerable insight to life as a monk and as a Cambodian, and the reality of the situation is that his existence is dependent on handouts.
During the 15 minutes it took me to find Remi, Mael and Soel Ki I was thinking about the acronym WWJD, which stood for “What Would Jesus Do,” that we used to wear on bracelets when I was a kid.
I can’t give all my money to each person who asks me, but I gave two hours of my time and an English lesson. I hope Jesus is proud.
Sel is the second youngest of nine children, not an unusually high number, left home at 15 to join a temple and had little formal education before studying Buddhism among fellow monks.
We talked for nearly two hours in the halls of Angkor Wat, the biggest temple in Siem Riep and considered the 8th wonder in the world, and at the end of our conversation I wrote him a long letter, which he read aloud to me, to practice his English. I hoped this gift would deter him from asking me for money, but it didn’t.
As I excused myself to rejoin my friends, who were waiting for me at the entrance, he asked for money to help him with his education.
I gave him some money (they only want American money here) and desperately maneuvered my way back through the Angkor Wat corridors until I could find an exit.
Was the conversation cheapened my his request for money?
I still gained considerable insight to life as a monk and as a Cambodian, and the reality of the situation is that his existence is dependent on handouts.
During the 15 minutes it took me to find Remi, Mael and Soel Ki I was thinking about the acronym WWJD, which stood for “What Would Jesus Do,” that we used to wear on bracelets when I was a kid.
I can’t give all my money to each person who asks me, but I gave two hours of my time and an English lesson. I hope Jesus is proud.
Getting to Cambodia
Almost twelve hours on a bus (the trip should have taken 7-8hrs and cost half of what we paid) that sold us into the hands of a corrupt system that makes the trip especially difficult and uncomfortable so when you land at your destination you collapse into a taxi and allow them to take you to a hotel of their choice. Everyone along the way is working with one-another, receiving commissions and mining as much money from you as possible. It was a soul draining experience to be ripped off so badly and blatantly. At every turn were people manipulating and taking advantage.
At every stop we were swarmed by children selling worthless good or demanding money, who would follow me around, grabbing me and staring at me with practiced frowns.
It was one of the worst days in all my months of traveling. When we arrived in our overpriced hotel I was furious and frustrated. I showered but the day’s dirt and my anger wouldn’t wash away.
If I’d been alone I would have fought the system and had a go at getting places alone- no package deals, no “helpful” taxi drivers and no travel agents, but I was with the group and we made a consensual decision. We didn’t know better options until we had paid and committed to the scams.
Through this ordeal I’ve been reminded that this is SE Asia and everyone is in it for themselves. A travel agent will lie about an arrival time to get you to buy a bus ticket and a tuk-tuk (motorbike pulling a cart) driver will promise you sights that don’t exists just so you pay to take a tour.
My patience is tested daily, and learning the trick of the trade is an intolerably high learning curve.
I have to accept that I will always spend more than I think I should and remember that no one is responsible for me, except me, whether I’m among friends or strangers.
At every stop we were swarmed by children selling worthless good or demanding money, who would follow me around, grabbing me and staring at me with practiced frowns.
It was one of the worst days in all my months of traveling. When we arrived in our overpriced hotel I was furious and frustrated. I showered but the day’s dirt and my anger wouldn’t wash away.
If I’d been alone I would have fought the system and had a go at getting places alone- no package deals, no “helpful” taxi drivers and no travel agents, but I was with the group and we made a consensual decision. We didn’t know better options until we had paid and committed to the scams.
Through this ordeal I’ve been reminded that this is SE Asia and everyone is in it for themselves. A travel agent will lie about an arrival time to get you to buy a bus ticket and a tuk-tuk (motorbike pulling a cart) driver will promise you sights that don’t exists just so you pay to take a tour.
My patience is tested daily, and learning the trick of the trade is an intolerably high learning curve.
I have to accept that I will always spend more than I think I should and remember that no one is responsible for me, except me, whether I’m among friends or strangers.
Diving in New Waters
From the jungles of Koh Sok, our international foursome headed for Ko Tao, an Island off the southeast coast of Thailand renowned for its cheap diving certification courses (plus it is north of Ko Phag-nag island where the infamous full-moon parties are held).
Remi and I didn’t have our diving certification (Mael and Soel Ki are experienced diverd) and the course included free accommodation, we decided to enroll.
So I enrolled in a three-day open-water diving certification program that qualified me to dive anywhere in the world, with a buddy, down to 15 meters.
I completed the course on March 25, by birthday, and the next night, Friday, I, and my twelve peers, went out for our final ocean dives, dinner and drinks on the beach.
I look forward to future oceanic exploration.
Earlier the same day, between diving and dinner, I was walking around town when I met Ho, a Korean man, who discussed his long-distance relationship and his years of traveling with me. He bought me a mango shake, took me for a spin around part of the island on his motorbike, and read my palm- In four years I will have a lucrative job according to my left hand. I sure hope he’s accurate because I’ve spent more than I intended on this trip.
From Ko Tao, we traveled to Bangkok for one night before taking a bus to Siem Riep, Cambodia.
Traveling with a group again has been surprisingly pleasant. We all get along great, I save money sharing rooms and I don’t have to worry about landed in areas after dark.
I am enjoying this experience because I know I will be alone again in four days, when I must return to Phuket and prepare to set sail. No longer will I be surrounded by peers and community. Once I return to Thailand I will be leaving on a boat with one individual, and hours of solitude while he is out surfing, for two months.
I’m cherishing company while I have it and looking forward to hanging out with myself again in the near future.
Remi and I didn’t have our diving certification (Mael and Soel Ki are experienced diverd) and the course included free accommodation, we decided to enroll.
So I enrolled in a three-day open-water diving certification program that qualified me to dive anywhere in the world, with a buddy, down to 15 meters.
I completed the course on March 25, by birthday, and the next night, Friday, I, and my twelve peers, went out for our final ocean dives, dinner and drinks on the beach.
I look forward to future oceanic exploration.
Earlier the same day, between diving and dinner, I was walking around town when I met Ho, a Korean man, who discussed his long-distance relationship and his years of traveling with me. He bought me a mango shake, took me for a spin around part of the island on his motorbike, and read my palm- In four years I will have a lucrative job according to my left hand. I sure hope he’s accurate because I’ve spent more than I intended on this trip.
From Ko Tao, we traveled to Bangkok for one night before taking a bus to Siem Riep, Cambodia.
Traveling with a group again has been surprisingly pleasant. We all get along great, I save money sharing rooms and I don’t have to worry about landed in areas after dark.
I am enjoying this experience because I know I will be alone again in four days, when I must return to Phuket and prepare to set sail. No longer will I be surrounded by peers and community. Once I return to Thailand I will be leaving on a boat with one individual, and hours of solitude while he is out surfing, for two months.
I’m cherishing company while I have it and looking forward to hanging out with myself again in the near future.
Group affairs: Jungles, Islands and the inbetween
After meeting Rami, Mael and Soel Ki in Phuket, the three of us traveled to Patong for a one night safari.
Patong is the party area of Phuket, which makes it the mecca of drunken tourists and lady boys (Thai men who have become women), and rampant sex tourism.
The four of us shared one room with one giant king – sized bed, because accommodation is pricey, found an affordable restaurant among the bars and showgirls (it’s hard to tell if they are men or women), and had one drink at the feet of five dancing lady boys who were more than happy to flash there implants for a tip.
One night was enough to get our fill of this “Thai Vegas” and the next day we headed north to the tranquility of Koh Sok, a jungle that is older than the Amazon.
Four two days, we slept in a bungalow with mosquito nets and hiked in the jungle.
One morning I woke early and went for a walk alone. No one else was on the track and after about an hour of solitude I heard a rustle up a hill to my right. I stopped in my track and saw a large, dark object move. My hands began to shake and my stomach tightened. Frozen for a moment, I felt the adrenaline pumping through my limbs and my brain preparing me for an escape- back the way I came, up a tree or down the hill to my left. What was the animal?
Before I took any action my curiosity urged me on. Rationally I knew there was very little chance of it being any kind of large cat with teeth, because it was making too much noise and these jungles have been combed through for feline game. But my heart wasn’t convinced and as I stealthily climbed toward the creature I was trembling.
Before I was more than 30 yards him, I realized it was a small- I’m assuming baby- wild elephant. A cute creature, but still dangerous. Where there is a baby there is likely a larger mamma nearby. Fortunately for my safety he moved deeper into the jungle as I crept closer and soon I could hardly see my backpack on the track.
Disappointed that I couldn’t get a better view, I returned to the path and gathered my things.
Suddenly the jungle seemed scarier than it had an hour earlier and I was aware of my vulnerability. I began walking back the way I’d come in and I could feel the monkeys and birds taunting me. Screeching sounds from swinging vines and disturbed branches made my heart race. I wanted to run, but I knew my fear was illogical.
I was grateful to run into a Russian couple twenty minutes later and I recounted my elephant story to them with pride and not an ounce of fear.
Patong is the party area of Phuket, which makes it the mecca of drunken tourists and lady boys (Thai men who have become women), and rampant sex tourism.
The four of us shared one room with one giant king – sized bed, because accommodation is pricey, found an affordable restaurant among the bars and showgirls (it’s hard to tell if they are men or women), and had one drink at the feet of five dancing lady boys who were more than happy to flash there implants for a tip.
One night was enough to get our fill of this “Thai Vegas” and the next day we headed north to the tranquility of Koh Sok, a jungle that is older than the Amazon.
Four two days, we slept in a bungalow with mosquito nets and hiked in the jungle.
One morning I woke early and went for a walk alone. No one else was on the track and after about an hour of solitude I heard a rustle up a hill to my right. I stopped in my track and saw a large, dark object move. My hands began to shake and my stomach tightened. Frozen for a moment, I felt the adrenaline pumping through my limbs and my brain preparing me for an escape- back the way I came, up a tree or down the hill to my left. What was the animal?
Before I took any action my curiosity urged me on. Rationally I knew there was very little chance of it being any kind of large cat with teeth, because it was making too much noise and these jungles have been combed through for feline game. But my heart wasn’t convinced and as I stealthily climbed toward the creature I was trembling.
Before I was more than 30 yards him, I realized it was a small- I’m assuming baby- wild elephant. A cute creature, but still dangerous. Where there is a baby there is likely a larger mamma nearby. Fortunately for my safety he moved deeper into the jungle as I crept closer and soon I could hardly see my backpack on the track.
Disappointed that I couldn’t get a better view, I returned to the path and gathered my things.
Suddenly the jungle seemed scarier than it had an hour earlier and I was aware of my vulnerability. I began walking back the way I’d come in and I could feel the monkeys and birds taunting me. Screeching sounds from swinging vines and disturbed branches made my heart race. I wanted to run, but I knew my fear was illogical.
I was grateful to run into a Russian couple twenty minutes later and I recounted my elephant story to them with pride and not an ounce of fear.
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