Prologue: Lost
in Translation
When Bobbie and I parted ways at the
Bangkok airport, she off to Cambodia and I off to my volunteer job in the south, I remember thinking: We did
it! The world’s most accident-prone traveling duo made it through without a
scratch! Little did I know, the Universe was simply storing up our disaster
energy and saving it for the second I was alone at Suvarnabhumi. The thing is, I
needed to catch a bus to Chanthaburi. Actually, I needed a bus that stopped at
Nong Singha—but after that proved to be too complicated, I found a counter
advertising a bus that stopped in Chanthaburi, bought a ticket for Chanthaburi,
and asked at least three airport staff if the bus was, in fact, going to
Chanthaburi. So, do you think my bus went to Chanthaburi?
Of
course it didn’t .
In
retrospect, I jinxed it with my overconfidence. I had found Thailand to be
incredibly easy to navigate, and it felt good just to ‘wing it.’ So of
course, when I walked outside to meet the ‘bus’ and was instead greeted with an
oversized van, I panicked. First of all, that meant no bathroom. “WAIT FOR ME!
NO LEAVE! NO LEAVE, ONE MINUTE!”—I dashed back toward the airport and peed in
record time, dragging my mondo backpack with me and barely catching the van as
it left. Of course, being the last one on, there was no seat for me… plus, I
was the smallest. And traveling alone. That bought me exactly one spot on the
front seat center console, no seatbelt, sandwiched between the driver and an extremely
unpleasant Thai teenager, while the necklaces hanging from the rearview mirror
smacked me in the face as we drove. I sat there, my headphones broken (aka: no
escape), thinking that if we came to a sudden stop—or made any sudden
movements, for that matter—I would go flying through the window. This, combined
with the fact that not a single person on the bus spoke English or could help
me tell the driver to take me to the Chanthaburi bus station, made for one of
the most challenging—but naturally, most entertaining—branches of travel thus
far. By some stroke of insane luck, and a lot of pantomiming, I ended up
getting to the bus station and eventually to my new home, the farm at FaaSai
Eco Resort and Spa. One foot on the soil, and I immediately knew it was worth
it… but from now on, any time I feel frustrated with travel, I will remember my
non-seat on the non-bus and raise a hand in silent salute: never forget.
Part Two: Swass
Two
weeks ago, if you asked me what hard work was, I probably would have mentioned the
night I stayed up until 5 a.m. editing my thesis. I also might have mentioned
expediting food at a busy restaurant during the late-night summer rush, or
catering a wedding full of drunk uncles. In either case, my present self—the
one that just spent a week clearing rice fields—would have bitch-slapped that
thesis-writing complainer upside the head. When it comes down to it, there is
no harder job than putting in a day’s work on a farm, especially if that farm
happens to be in the tropics. There is no substitute for that kind of heat,
grime, sweat, nastiness, and strength; and likewise, there is no feeling of
relief, gratitude, power, and joy that even comes close. Not anything I’d
experienced, anyhow. Last week, I had my butt handed to me by the farm at
FaaSai; and it was one of the greatest (and most exhausting, and most
enlightening) things to happen to me.
My
first two days at FaaSai, there were only two volunteers working the
farm-shift: myself, and an Irish man named Charlie. After instant coffees and giant bowls of muesli, we biked to the farm between 7 and 8 a.m. in a vain
attempt to beat the heat—something that, after only a few days, one learns to
accept rather than try to correct. It’s kind of like walking to the bathroom in
the middle of the night, or the Kardashian family. They suck, but they’re a
part of life. Anyhow, on Charlie’s suggestion, I came to the farm armed with an
extra shirt, a towel, sunscreen, a hat, and 2 liters of water. Chok, one of the
Thai workers, also gave me a long-sleeved shirt for sun-protection…and for the
next week, I was wiping my dripping face on a sleeve stained with someone
else’s blood. (Yum.)
We
were expected to put in about 3 and-a-half hours in the morning, before we took
a lunch break during the hottest (and therefore unworkable) hours of
the day. I guess the spoiled liberal arts student in me was expecting some sort
of instruction, some sort of assignment or PowerPoint detailing my daily tasks; but instead, I was handed a hoe and told to just
do it. Farmer Barbie was quickly replaced by a sunburned girl in wool
gloves, getting scraped by rusted barbed wire, sweating so profusely that it
was actually impossible to see straight. On that first day, Charlie and I
listened to Bruce Springsteen on crappy speakers and hacked away at a rice
field, clearing weeds, spiders, snakes, fire ants, and occasionally massive
thorns, with tools that were about as sharp as a baking spoon. It was HARD.
Every muscle in my body was screaming for mercy. And yet… I found myself
hypnotized by the rhythm of the work. The OCD in me was oddly satisfied by the
extreme before-and-after of the areas we cleared. Best of all, I found myself
flashing to images of some of my peers at Scripps—moaning over this or that
paper, downing cup after cup of milky coffee in temperature-regulated dorm
rooms—and taking great comfort in the fact that I was getting to experience real work. I don’t mean to undermine the
type of soul-crushing psychobabble that is assigned in college, because that
had me begging for mercy for 4 straight years; but when it comes down to it, it
just doesn’t compare to pouring every ounce of your body into working a piece
of land. I found myself wondering why, when we were at the height of
thesis-complaints, Scripps didn’t just throw us all on a farm. It certainly
would have shut me up.
So
that was the morning; and every day, when the sun got too hot, we would
hop back on our bikes—usually looking like we had gone swimming—and proceed to
take the best shower, the best nap, and eat the greatest lunch on the planet.
After working like that, just sitting
made me want to cry with happiness.
My
body was sore all over, bruised and cut and peppered with ingrown nails and
mysterious infections… and I loved it. About halfway through the week, I
realized that I had doubted myself; after the cushiness of college, part of me didn’t know if I could hack it on a farm. Now that I’ve done it,
enjoyed it, and taken pride in my work, I feel like a new person. I feel like a
warrior.
So,
after those first days, two volunteers from Salt Lake City
arrived—Paul and Max—and after only a few hours, we were talking like old
friends. That’s the other thing about manual labor: in the amount of time
it takes most people to brush their teeth, you’ve bonded with your workmates in
a kind of Winnie-the-Pooh storybook way, where you’re sharing anecdotes and
using funny voices and galloping through the forest singing “best friends for
liiii—iiiifffee!” Or in our case, you spend countless hours pulling weeds, and
occasionally hold the rice-bag while the other person shovels cow shit into it.
You grab each other by the sweaty collar when one of you is about to slip in
the manure-goo. Best of all, you spend the evenings drinking cold beer and
eating homemade Pad Thai, laughing your butts off at nothing in particular, and
lying down with your heads touching, listening to Blood on the Tracks, when it’s 8:30 p.m. and your eyelids are
already drooping.
On
our third day, Paul, Max, and I were so giddy with exhaustion that we spent
fifteen-minutes adding the “sw-” (as in, sweaty)
to every body part we could think of.
“Swankles.”
“Swegs.”
“Hahahaha. Swellybutton.”
“Hahahaha. Swellybutton.”
Finally,
Max turned to us with a somewhat pained expression on his face. “Swass. I have
some serious swass right now. And you know what? That’s never cute.”
Little
did he know, when you’re putting in full days on a farm, even the unthinkable
becomes cute. By the end of the week, there isn’t a swass in sight that doesn’t
remind you of how lucky you are to be there, right where you are, on the verge
of dehydration and surrounded by true friends.
Part Three: Baalack
Opama
When
Obama’s victory was announced on Al Jazeera, and our spotty Wi-fi revealed that
he had beat Mitt Romney and retained the presidency for four more years, our little corner of FaaSai
erupted into happiness. Funny thing is, being thousands and thousands of miles
away from home, I found myself more interested and concerned about this
election than I was when it was in my backyard. Seeing the U.S. through the
eyes of a foreign population tends to do that; the media sensationalizes the
closeness of a race, and people for whom “hello, how are you?” is too much
English to handle are able to convey their shock that someone as boneheaded as
Mitt Romney was actually in consideration to be Commander in Chief. And yes, I
know I am probably making some enemies right now (at the very least, my
grandfather is shaking his head deciding that I am a ‘lost cause’)… but if that
is the case, know this: every single country I have been to, and every European
I have worked with thus far, has supported Barack Obama and believed he is
America’s only chance at reaching some sort of peace. Plus, the guy looks good
in a suit. And he knows how to deliver a speech… at the end of his acceptance,
Paul and I were actually crying with relief and inspiration. “It’s nothing. I
was just cutting some onions,” he said.
For
the rest of the day, the little old ladies working the property were walking
around and chattering happily to one another, laughing at our glee and
chanting, “Baalack Opama! Baalack Opama!”
It
was a good moment in time.
Epilogue:
Ghosts
One
morning, it hit me. One moment, I was eating a bite of banana, and the next I
felt as though someone had ripped out my stomach and replaced it with all the
anguish, the loss, the sadness, guilt, and anger I have ever attempted to
swallow down. It’s funny, because looking back on it now, my brain has already
placed a band-aid over that moment, and I can hardly remember how awful it
felt. Maybe it’s the same survival mechanism that allows women to have multiple
children, even knowing how much it hurts the first time. (Note: I am in no way
comparing my existential crisis to childbirth.) Anyhow, I felt it, really felt
it, and then felt it some more… and somehow, counter-intuitively, feeling it
completely is what allowed it to burn off. When it passed, I was left with
something different. I felt pure.
You
see, what had occurred to me was that I no longer feel like I have a place at
home in Santa Barbara. When I see photos of my friends’ lives and hear about
what they are doing, I feel like a ghost that has evaporated out of their lives
with great ease; everything is carrying on exactly as it has, with no evidence
that I was there, or will ever be there again. After I allowed myself to feel
the pain of this thought, though, it was replaced by another: maybe there is a
place for me at home, a place amongst my friends, but it’s not the same shape
or size as the one I left behind. If I went home now and expected to return to
the self I left behind, it would be like running full speed at a wall bearing
the cutout outline of Mary-Kate Olsen; in other words, I just don’t think I’ll
fit through.
On
the way to the Bangkok airport, as I stared out the window at the rice fields
flying by, I stopped feeling like a ghost. I don’t feel like someone who has
evaporated out of a former life, doomed to haunt those who didn’t make room for me the
first time around… but like a ghost, I feel weightless. I am engaged but
nonattached, witnessing the events of my life unfold with respect and
admiration and hilarity; the only ghosts around are the ones of my former
lives, the karma I have already worked through. Last week in Thailand, I had a
breakthrough. This week, I live in a loft overlooking Balian beach: I have a
mosquito net, a yoga mat, an open wall, and the chance to get up to the sound
of waves. I may technically be living in the attic (creaking over the
floorboards each time I walk), rattling the chains of the things I’ve left
behind… but with each sunrise, I throw another one out the window. With each
morning, I feel a little bit more alive.
I love you.
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