To The Land of Oz

My initial impressions upon landing here in Australia were simultaneous and many.  After 6 months of rocketing overstimulation, my senses were decidedly underwhelmed upon debarking.  For the first time in recent memory I inhaled lungful after lungful of cool, crisp, clean air.  No longer was my throat burning from the pollution, no longer was my olfactory system overwhelmed by the scents of rotting garbage and exhaust and the raw sewage flowing along the footpath.  This place is clean, so much so that for the first time this year, I’m neither elevating my feet in restaurants to avoid the certain scurrying of begging rats, nor averting my eyes from their fat brothers racing on the rafters above.

As quickly as I realized the overt absence of so many environmental qualities I’ve grown accustomed to this year, I couldn’t help but notice the presence of others.  This place, or at least the parts of Sydney I’ve seen so far, is beautiful.  Really, really beautiful.  Despite arriving in the heart of winter, many of the trees still hold their leaves.  The grass is emerald green, and tropical flowers continue to bloom.  Parakeets and lorikeets continue to squawk and dive along the tree line, some even as bold as their homely pigeon cousins, coming closer than I’m comfortable with to pilfer crumbs. 

And the people.  There is a heterogeneity here that I find incredibly refreshing, a feature in many western cities that I’ve really missed, and don’t take for granted.  Despite being an urban setting, those I’ve met are decidedly more laid back and relaxed than the average Chicagoan.  And nice, they are so nice.  I don’t know that I’ve met a friendlier bunch anywhere, ever.  Their manners are impeccable, so much so that even on public transportation, everyone is given their turn to board and their personal space to relax while their magically efficient network gets them where they need to be.  And in my experience, on time.  Personal space on a sparklingly clean, relatively efficient mode of public transportation?  Good Lord, it’s been a long time.

Like anyplace though, this place isn’t perfect.  While they brew some of the best coffee I’ve ever had, I pay a small fortune for each cup.  Though at this point in my travels, quite willingly.  They make some tasty wine and beer, but alcohol seems to dominate the Aussie social scene.  While no different than home, it's become painfully obvious to me after so long away.  And while their winter temperatures are more comparable to a Chicago springtime, I realized after the first few nights of painstakingly shivering all of my thermals in a threadbare blanket that they rarely have heaters.  At least in the hostels.  Lucky for me though, this magical land of Oz is also the magical land of Target.

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In Ass-less Pants

Burrito Head

Chicago taught me a lot about weather.  I learned to wait to put on mascara until after I melt the icicles from my eyebrows.  Chicago taught me how to run and slip and slide through thigh-height snowdrifts in scrubs, to get to my girlfriends waiting to drive my carless self to work when they couldn’t get down the side street to my bus stop.  After too many years in trendy, not-nearly-warm-enough pea coats, Chicago humbled me into wearing the ubiquitous puffy coat: despite my chagrin at looking even more inflated than my baseline Chicago puff, it was love at first snuggle.

What Chicago didn’t teach me though was how to manage chronically syrupy, suffocating, glutinous Asian heat and humidity.  How to sweat so profusely and continuously that even cold showers are ineffective at ebbing the flow.  When your toes are sweating, and your hair is sweating, and your sweat is sweating.  When you drink upwards of 5 or 6 liters of water daily, only to pee hardly ever.  Thus far, 2016 has been my year of chasing summer.  And I’m over it.  

There is of course, the occasional reprieve.  There aren’t yet too many hostels here in the country, but those I’ve visited tend to have functional air conditioning for sleeping.  Hallelujah.  That is unless your roommate insists on turning it off and sleeping in a windowless, unventilated shoebox with several strangers: she was a peach.  There are also the night buses.  Built to show off all that Myanmar has to offer, this sweet ride not only blasts arctic air directly onto your head all night long, but will also, if you’re lucky, blast some super special tunes.  Music is important here, a real fundamental of Myanmar culture.  On occasion you’ll even spot a karaoke truck gliding along, inviting people to come and belt their hearts out into the accompanying megaphone, which is always a blistering treat.  So for your overnight pleasure, because surely you didn’t want to actually sleep, there is a continuous show, a continuous blast of music videos.  And not your run-of-the-mill western pop, but crooning, swooning, Myanmar heavy metal.  Live.  I burrito my head to protect my ears from frostbite, but not even the thickest of blankets can protect me from the cacophony detonating from the speakers.  Oh, Myanmar… 

Cool Treats!

While I’d prefer to keep the cute little attached earlobes I share with my siblings, I’m open to just about anything that could provide respite from my sweaty self.  I pool hop at hotels I can’t afford, and wash my hair unnecessarily, simply for the relief of something cool and wet on my neck.  I wear Thai tourist pants like all of my college student [non]peers, partly to avoid the scandal of being a woman in shorts, and partly to avoid the dreadfully hot weight of my trusty hiking pants. But as they say, and as I’ve continued to learn, I need to be more careful about what I wish for.  Or at least, more careful about dressing like a college student.

It was just another steamy evening here in Yangon.  I’d connected with a young Chicagoan named Caroline, a bright young thing with a million lifetimes under her belt, Caroline killed me with her caustic self-deprecating humor and inspired me with her courage.  She also allowed me to tag along to the Human Rights Human Dignity International Film Festival being held just around the corner.  While we waited in a 200 degree lobby in a crush of hundreds of people, I tried not to faint of heatstroke or whack any of the unsuspecting men pressing me from all sides: while I’ve made progress since India, I’m considerably more skittish than before, and secretly consider my umbrella as much a samurai sword as a rain protector.  Baby steps.

When we finally arrived to our seats, I chugged what remained of my water and tore open my prawn chips; a significant concession for this popcorn-loving girl.  We sat through the painfully slow beginning to a Chinese film, only to arrive at the even more painful content.  Though artfully done and compelling, we were contending with less weighty but similarly compelling distractions from our respective seats.  Caroline was captivated by the army of cockroaches marching across the railing.  I was focused on my ass.

My enormous tourist pants are ever falling down, but I wouldn't call them particularly breezy.  As I watched Mongolian migrant workers labor in the hell that is the coal mining industry, I had an epiphany: I had busted the ass out of my pants.  Not a little hole, or a subtle rip.  The seam down the middle intended to adjoin my two bigger-than-the-average-Asian legs was literally hanging on by a single thread: it simply didn’t exist anymore.  For how long I’d trucked myself and my flesh-toned, hideous traveling underwear through the city I had no idea.  Not exactly the cool off I had in mind, but maybe it's onl fair: one free show deserves another?

Without a Brain Injury

Chinlone Ballers

I arrived here in Bagan after several quiet days in Mandalay fighting a cold and some serious homesickness.  Daily I wandered the streets gobbling up mangosteens, the prettiest little fruit that is both fun to eat and a little eyebally, while agonizing over what to do, where to go, what I want.  While I didn’t come to any major decisions, I did manage to sink into a little bit of a funk.  This country is lovely and full of gentle people, but it is also far more isolating as a solo traveler, English only just beginning to emerge among the locals, and travelers often behaving as decidedly exclusive couples.  Nowadays I try to pay attention to the feelings that accompany my growly funks, having far fewer distractions behind which to hide, and far less consistent access to my support system.  It’s for these reasons that I rely more heavily on my proven funk-busters: fresh air, long walks, good coffee, lots of sunshine.  And on special occasions when I’m very lucky, a friend born before 1995. 

After spending a few days tottering around this ancient town of 3,000 temples on a dinky little scooter, I chose a big girl bike capable 

accelerating beyond 30 kph, feeling decidedly more confident than I should have, perhaps even a little cocky: I’m the daughter of a biker, after all.  I got his eyes and his calves, why not his Harley skills?

After some stealthy surveillance to determine she was in fact alone, I practically accosted Theresa, asking if she wanted some company.  More to the point, if she’d be willing to be my friend for a few hours.  A bit startled but no less gracious, she agreed to share a mango lassi to determine if we’d want to commit to being friends for longer than an hour.  Just a few sips into our thickly delicious sweet and sour drinks, we knew we were a friendly fit.  We spent the next few days tearing up temples and pagodas, visiting carvers and painters, and avoiding disasters.  Or at least, nearly avoiding disasters. 

With my burgeoning confidence and what would later prove to be an inaccurate map, we headed eastward to see more of the country and get off the beaten path.  And see it we did, driving for hours beneath the brilliant sun in circles leading to nowhere.  When we eventually found the road we were looking for we turned left, full of confidence and misinformation, into an unplowed field of gravelly sand.  It wasn’t 5 minutes before I was airborne, realizing in slow motion that brakes don’t work in sand, and we had indeed made a mistake.  I popped up nearly 

as soon as I landed, wanting to assure Theresa I was okay, knowing I’d look a disaster squashed awkwardly beneath my damn big girl bike.  As I spit sand from my mouth and dug gravel from my knee, I realized my dreams of proving my coolness to my brothers were effectively dashed.  Instead of a wild-and-free selfie with hair billowing in the breeze, I’d be lucky to get a photo at all, or at least one that hid the ripped and ruined pants now barely covering my bloody leg. 

All told, the first few days here in Bagan were good for my soul.  Proper quality time with a new friend, fresh air and sunshine from the seat of a mildly nefarious scooter, even thwarting a brain injury.  Solid reminders of the pleasures of simplicity, and the freedom I have to pursue them.  Now if only I could convince my brothers that only the coolest of big sisters experiences whiplash in her armpits…

To The Prettiest Dirty Lake Ever

So.  Much.  Gold.

I met them when I first arrived here in Myanmar, a trifecta of the most naturally cheerful French Canadian medical students, traveling Asia while they wait for the results of their boards and the beginning of their respective residency programs.  I love me some residents, even at home, and these three were no exception.  They were question askers and voracious learners, memorizing as much of the Myanmar language as they could to maximize their interactions with the locals, and the length to which they could use their impeccable manners.  Best of all, they loved each other well.  Singing their hearts out without accompaniment, squeezing the most they could from life with boundless energy and enthusiasm, I was tickled when we realized that our paths would intersect at Inle Lake, and quickly booked a bed in their hotel.

It didn’t take me long to realize these three hilarious humans took adventure seriously, packing as much fun as possible into our time together.  I bit my tired old tongue, and did my best to hang on tight. 

Alodaw Pauk Pagoda

We spent our first day on bicycles, pedaling through rice paddies, villages, and monasteries.  I learned a little too late that apart from nearly matching my own body weight, my bicycle was unable to keep itself in gear up any kind of elevation.  I willed my quads and my pollution-infested lungs to ante up, and tried to hide the fact that the exertion in tropical humidity made me feel like my ruby red head might blow off my body, as my adorable (younger) friends glided effortlessly ahead.  We visited temples, philosophized while watching fishermen, and even spent some time in a natural hot spring.  Which, incidentally, I do not recommend after sweating out the entirety of your body fluid.  Like curtains on a stage, the thunderclouds eventually drew the afternoon to a close, and while they raced the storm back to town, I chugged behind in the downpour, praying not to be struck by lighting, and trying not to die.  I was unconscious before 9.

Early the next morning we made our way across the street to HaHa, our boat driver for the day.  I slathered borrowed SPF 30 onto my body, having run out of my own SPF 50, and settled in.  This would later prove to be a crispy mistake.  After winding through the canal, we entered the lake and spotted a traditional fisherman, perfectly staged and perfectly posed.  We wound through floating villages, and marveled at babies sitting on the precarious bamboo somehow holding their homes steady.  The water was serenely clear, and deceptively beautiful: beneath the surface, forests and mountains and valleys floated, landscapes composed entirely of trash.  While mamas did their dishes and children took their baths, boats blew oil and families pitched trash into this water on which they lived.  We tried to wrap our brains around the 14 kilometer floating garden that provides the vegetables to the surrounding villages, and tore up some street food at a local market.  We visited several homes of floating craftsmen, families of traditional weavers, and jewelers, and tobacco rollers.  I held my breath as a man melted silver inches from my ankle, and tried not to gnaw through the banana-flavored cigarette, meticulously rolled into a tea leaf.  Our day ended at an enormous floating monastery known for training cats to jump through hoops.  Excusez-moi?  While we didn’t personally witness any feline shenanigans, there were certainly enough cats and kittens floating around to fill a bathtub.  What a world.

Pa-O Teens

Our last day together was slower, as we had all day to wait for our respective night buses.  We impulsively decided to investigate the “Traditional Myanmar Massages” for less than $7 an hour, and made our way to the hot and dusty home of a family in the center of town.  On the hardwood second floor above the crying toddlers and spitting husbands downstairs were 4 questionably clean blankets, arranged side by side.  We lay face down, and awaited our fates.  I now believe “Traditional Myanmar Massage” to mean a whole lot of no training and a free pass to squeeze and smoosh and smack the shit out of the western tourists converging on their city.  I practiced my deep breathing, knowing better than to sneak a glance in the direction of my friends: I am a notorious giggler even at the best of times.  When we finally escaped their pointy elbows and thumbs, we fled across the street to our favorite cafe to share fresh mango juice and compete for "most scandalous location of thumbprint-shaped bruise."  If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.

With Desperately Needed Girl Time

It is a small wonder that I had any friends at all in college.  Instead of acknowledging the excruciating pain of my parents’ divorce, I became the classic martyr, taking responsibility for as many others as I could, not yet having the tools or insight to take responsibility for myself.  I built tremendous ramparts of defense around my bleeding heart, walls of bitterness, anger, and curly fries, and gained a solid 40 pounds of cellulite-filled, razor sharp edges.  Despite this though, a few women were able to penetrate my defenses, and become some of my most treasured friends.  Erin was among them.

To me, Erin was the quintessential “cool girl”, and I couldn’t believe she’d want to be friends with me.  Erin was self assured and confident when those things were still abstract, distant concepts to me.  Together we’d smoke Marlboro Lights, and write poetry, and question “Where is God when it hurts,”, and “Where are men when we’re sober”.  Erin taught me authenticity before it was mainstream, and gained my trust and respect when I wasn’t giving it away very freely, if at all.  To this day, she remains one of my dearest friends, so when she began pushing me to connect with Amanda, I knew I’d have to figure out a way to make it happen.

Getting to Amanda however, was no small feat.  Though I’m not sure it’s necessary, we shall call her town Nowheresville for security reasons.  On the Thai border, it is a town with a notorious reputation for easy access to weapons and drugs, though I experienced none of that.  Perhaps because we were living in a classroom of the school where she and her husband teach English, my experience was both cozy and tasty, as local dishes and delicacies were our only options.  The only safe access to Nowheresville is by local air, which was an adventure in and of itself, and one I’m glad to have experienced, apart from the constant hawking and spitting at 30,000 feet: flight attendants actually hand out extra barf bags to support this ubiquitous local custom.  Nast.

I knew immediately upon meeting her that my spittle-filled flights were going to be worth it.  She was warm and friendly, and for the first time in a long time, someone with whom I knew I would really connect.  How many others can understand the refreshment of a cold bucket shower, or the art of not peeing on your feet over a toilet hole?  Her friendship would quickly prove to be a gift, and it began with a suggestion to visit a pool she had recently discovered.  Simultaneous offers of friendship and a cool dip were magic to my lonely, swimming-deprived, sweaty ears, and I dove into both.

After paying our admission with Thai baht, we found the most obscure little table we could, knowing we’d receive the curious stares of everyone in attendance.  Amanda was a great model of patience for me, as at this point, I’m running on fumes alone, desperately tired of being no more than an anomalous object of interest.  It was glorious to splash around, to reconnect with one of my most favorite lifelong pleasures.  That is until it began to rain cannonballs of moderately obese Chinese boys.  I did the best I could to tame my inner bitch, until they began squeezing their masks onto their fat faces and bobbing around us, snorkeling not to see coral or starfish, but our white lady bodies.  Culturally sensitive or not, I sent those little suckers flying: I don’t think they saw it coming.

My time with Amanda was as deeply satisfying and encouraging as any I’ve had on the road.  We took advantage of proper coffee in a cafe with real wifi, raided a 7-11 to satisfy our curiosity about a variety of Asian snack foods, and came to the joint conclusion that roasted watermelon seeds taste like sweet feet.  We spent most of our time lying on the floor of her classroom, staring at the ceiling and talking about life.  Being away from home for a year, how we want our lives to be different when we get home, what faith looks like when it has to grow legs and stand on its own, apart from community and a dogma that makes very little sense outside of the distorted cultural Christianity that we come from.  We talked about a faith boiled down to knowing nothing more than loving well, and doing the best we can.  Which probably means not being a bitch to fat children.  Did I mention doing the best we can?