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Feb. 26, “Great Walk #2”: Routeburn Track (a “burn” is a glacial and/or rain-fed river). Don and I pushed ourselves. We thought it’d be “so nice” to do our own thing (it was, but we often have no idea how far or how high we’re hiking). We considered doing the whole 20-mile track, but ran into the problem of having no way – nor the time – to get back to our van at the other end (a 3-4 hour drive around the park). We were also starting at 10 a.m., having not figured out how to make French press coffee, toast and cereal, unhook water, electricity, and gas, and batten down the hatches, in less than 2 hours.

We are making progress, though. Don has stopped calling where we are, “Australia.” I have gotten used to owning my own small space around the sink in campsite bathrooms, as I carefully place my toothbrush, bandanna, and facial soap (a recent purchase) on the stainless steel. The same rules of space apply to the campervan. Even though we are only about 10 feet away from our neighbors on either side, couples and families stay to themselves, and most are friendly and respectful. There’s always some version of the tired woman in hiking clothes patiently waving and directing her husband back into the parking space at 7 or 8 pm. And usually a child will arrange his trucks and action figures on our “shared” picnic table or run around screaming and laughing just before bed. I am starting to appreciate the wonders of a mini-fridge that can hold salad fixings, cheese and hummus, to accompany meat on the grill. We even have a small pantry for goodies like chocolate, bread and cookies. Tasks take longer, but are evenly divided: I’ll make the dinner salad and sandwiches for the hike tomorrow if you do the hamburgers. One night, we bought a bag of ice and made gin and tonics. There is, unfortunately, a “situation” with our moldy hiking boots and shoes. But, according to Don, the fact that they are inside our “closet” at the foot of our bed means that they don’t smell as bad. I talked him into some air freshener.

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So Tuesday, we did the Routeburn Track in reverse, starting from the Glenorchy side, not knowing how much we could cover before we would need to turn around. The trail starts out steep, then levels off to a gentle climb before reaching some flats. It follows the Routeburn, which flows out of the alpine region from Harris Lake and flattens out in a high river valley before tumbling down again. It took us 2 hours to get to the Routeburn Falls hut, where we had lunch in front of the falls and spoke with an older New Zealand couple who had done Conical Peak in the past. With their encouragement (and Don’s determination to get to the highest point possible), we ascended to the Harris saddle (with its shimmering, turquoise lake) where we took the smaller Conical Peak trail, a steep but short climb to a magnificent 360-degree view, with mountains in every direction. Here, we could look down the valley to see where we had started; in another direction, we could see out to the Tasman Sea. On the way down, for a few minutes, we were behind a woman who had fallen and hit her head (leaving a lot of blood on the rocks). Scary stuff, but the guide had wrapped her head in a bandage and she seemed to be okay. Retracing our steps down the trail, we stopped once to soak our feet in the icy river. We arrived back at the van by 6:15 p.m., drove back to Glenorchy, and treated ourselves to a nice dinner and pints of Mac’s beer. Total hiking distance: 21.2 miles. Elevation gain (on iPhone): 380 floors.

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Feb. 27: We slept in (thankfully, we were not too sore) and lounged around in our campervan that “feels just like a Holiday Inn,” having an extra cup of coffee, catching up on the news, and writing. At noon, the rain let up a bit so we walked into town and stumbled into an incredibly, fully organic, much-needed leafy greens and whole grains place to eat (we would go back for date and cheese scones). It dawned on me that the town was big enough to have a movie theatre, so we walked to the outskirts of town to see “Green Book” (which we loved). The Ruby Theatre is delightful, with lounges and big picture books full of Hollywood movie stills. There’s always a break for intermission in New Zealand, which prompted us to buy Kumara (their sweet potato) chips. Don and I had gotten the last two seats, so they put us on the sofa, on top of a soft woolly cover. Pretty darn sweet. As we were walking over, dark clouds were gathering, with sheets of rain obscuring parts of the mountains. Just as the wind was gusting harder, a loud, persistent siren went off in town. I was so scared it was a tornado warning that I ran the rest of the way to the theatre (Don stayed with his manly stride); it turned out to be an emergency call for the volunteer fire brigade. Small world stuff: the young man and his girlfriend who took our tickets met while working at a restaurant below the Parthenon in Nashville. 

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After the movie ended, Don and I strolled back into town, bought stuff to make hamburgers, and headed home. To top off this lovely serendipitous day, we ran into a woman at the car place after lunch who was about to rent the last 4X4 “beater” that they would let drive the gravel road to Rob Roy glacier. We made a deal to share the rental fee and meet them the next morning at 7:30 a.m.

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Feb. 28: Susan and Roy Lowry, an anesthesiologist and family doctor from Connecticut just a few years older than us, turned out to be great conversationalists and hikers. The brakes on the car were squealing, but we made it out and back. Don and I sat in the back, noting the red deer farms, the sheep, and of course, the ever-variable play of sunlight on the yellow and green mountains. The hike up to Rob Roy Glacier was 9 miles “through”; it is designated “easy,” but here, all that means is that the trail is maintained. The climb wasn’t too bad, though, and we ate lunch in front of the gorgeous, receding glacier and a steep waterfall that held a rainbow at its base. Right now, we’re headed through the town of Haast to Fox Glacier (3.5 hour drive). We stopped at the “blue pools” and got out to take a photo when the road ran smack into the ocean. This whole west coast is pristine; there wasn’t even a road here until 1960. It’s fun to sit back and look out our big window as we travel this windy two-lane road up and over passes and across valleys with enormous lakes and rivers (it’d be great for motorcycling, Dad!).

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The images below are of charming Arrowtown, founded in 1863, just outside of Glenorchy. We stopped here for Deep South ice cream (boysenberry and coffee & walnut) and bought a small jar of expensive part-Wanuka honey (the Wanuka flower has all kinds of healthful properties). Leaving Arrowtown, we stopped at Peregrine Winery, where we bought two bottles of wine after tasting the Sauvignon Blancs and Pinot Noirs with the proprietress.

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Only nine days in New Zealand and I have witnessed the creation of the Garden of Eden and walked among its splendors, though not in that order.  The Milford Trek (53.5 kilometers one way) is often described as one of the most beautiful treks in the world.  It begins at the top of Lake Te Anau traverses along the valley, continues up and over Mackinnon Pass (elevation 1154 meters), and finishes at Milford Sound, a glacier carved fiord, an inlet of the Tasman Sea.  Our guided tour lasted five days with three days of significant hiking sandwiched between two travel days from and to Queenstown.

Day one begins with forty or so of our newest, best friends – our group ranged from early twenties to mid-seventies – boarding a bus in Queenstown for the two to three hour drive to Te Anau, a quaint town nestled at one end of lake Te Anau.  Here we board a boat and leave civilization.  We travel to the far end of the lake, an almost hour cruise through slate gray waters speckled with small wind-whipped white caps. Spectacular, lush green mountains cradle the lake soaring skyward.  There are no beaches or development or anything human along this coastline.  Our boat cruises close to the shore without worry of grounding as these same mountains sink steeply below the surface of the water to a depth of over 1000 meters in some places.  This is the beginning of Fiordlands National Park, New Zealand’s largest park covering 12,607 square kilometers, most of which is inaccessible except by foot.

We dock at the top of the lake, wash our boots to rid them of invasive species and walk a short mile to the first of the four huts we will stay in during the trek.  Everyone is anxious, aware of the awkwardness of knowing we will be together for the next four days.  But as we are shown to our rooms and take in the warm, spacious lodge set among a glorious river in a valley surrounded by rain forests blanketing the mountains, anxieties give way to giddiness, a sense that we are in for a rare, beautiful adventure.  By the way, for those of you who might think after the yoga camp experience that I skimped on the accommodations for this sabbatical, rest assured our deluxe queen room with en suite shower and toilet, though not five star resort, is certainly five star eco lodge.

Settled in our rooms, we meet as a group for a nature walk before dinner.  Our guides (Susan – mid-fifties, Hugo – mid-twenties, Beth and Laura – early twenties) divide us up and lead us into the forest.  This part of New Zealand is wet, a kind of wet that makes even Seattle feel arid.  At the start of the trek, the average annual rainfall is between three and six meters per year.  At the end of the trek, near Milford Sound, the annual rainfall is between seven and nine meters per year.

The rain produces spectacular fauna in every conceivable (and some inconceivable) shades of green. Every inch of every growing thing in the forest is covered in green.  New Zealand has, for example, over 400 types of ferns, some, as we will see on the last day of our trek, grow as tall as trees.  When the sun momentarily breaks through the clouds, the forest shimmers iridescent.  Dull, brown moss coating tree trunks suddenly turns to gold.  Although there are no indigenous mammals in New Zealand, save the long-tail bat, the forest vibrates with life.  I can smell the green.  I feel the plants growing and breathing, if that is possible. 

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The next three days proceed along a similar schedule.  Wake early and make our own lunch, get breakfast and coffee, pack up and hit the trail.  Walk the trail to the next lodge, unpack, gather for drinks and dinner, wash and dry dirty, wet clothes (every lodge is equipped with a laundry room and drying room), attend a short general information session about the next section of the hike, generator off at 10:00 pm, sleep and repeat.

Although each day has a similar schedule, the outings are anything but the same.  Day 2, our first hiking day, dawns glorious and bright after a night of torrential rain.   The air is cool and the weather fickle.  What to wear? I go with shorts, a quick-dry tee shirt under a thin woolen hoody, but keep my raincoat and rain pants handy should the weather turn.  Two kilometers in I shed the wooly.

With the rain from the previous night giving way to a sparkling clear morning, I am walking through Eden.  Waterfalls cascade down the slopes around us sometimes loud and powerful, sometimes a distant sparkling sliver of silver slicing through the green.  Most of these waterfalls will shrink and disappear by nightfall.  Birthed by the night’s rain, they burst upon the valley as if they know their time is limited.

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Walking in this rain forest feels like swimming in a North Georgia lake on a brilliant September day. Pockets of air, like pockets of lake water change magically from cool to warm, but the smells are the most surprising. They too alternate from crisp, rainwater fresh to fertile earth to vibrant green.  And God looked out on her creation and saw that it was good.  Amen, I say with each delicious breath and each plodding, awestruck step.

Five minutes from our second hut we take a short spur towards the canyon walls to find Prairie Lake, filled, it seems by the thundering waterfall plunging, splashing, spraying, crashing rock ledge to rock ledge down the side of the mountain.  On our not so distant rocky shore, the still green waters are tempting in the hot late afternoon sun.  But one quick icy plunge is enough to stop my heart and send me scrambling tender-footed over the rocks to the warmth of the shore.  We have two sisters and their mother with us on the trip, all from Oregon.  Katie, the eldest, a flight attendant for Alaska, a veteran of the Milford, is the quintessential northwest rebel/daredevil.  She not only plunges into the icy bath, but swims the 50 meters across the lake to shower under the waterfall.  Mary Jo, her look alike little sister, matches her stroke for stroke. 

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After dinner, we are briefed on the upcoming day, the toughest one of the hike – unrelenting switchbacks to Mackinnon pass, a stop at the hut at the summit followed by a knee-shattering descent to our third overnight lodge.  Someone asks about the weather forecast.  Someone always asks about the weather forecast.  And every single time our guides tell us that the weather is too unpredictable.  Nonetheless, the questioner persists.  Beth, rolling her eyes with exasperation tells the anxious hiker that the most recent forecast predicts overcast skies but no rain.

When we head out the next morning at 7:00 am, it is pouring.  Over the next eight hours the skies will dump almost 100 ml on us.  Five steps from the hut, I am drenched.  A half-mile from the hut, I am walking in ankle deep streams that did not exist the day before.  A mile in, my rain pants are useless, but my raincoat is still holding up.  Fortunately, it is not cold, only wet, underwater, shoes squishing, pants stuck to your thighs wet, and it is the most beautiful, magical, magnificent walk I have ever taken.

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If the first day was like walking into Eden the day after creation, this second day is walking through Eden as it is being created.  The mountains sing with waterfalls.  The ground moves and flows with water.  Rain-washed rocks bloom purple and green like flowers and everywhere there is the sound of rushing water pumping, flowing and gushing like blood through the veins.  Up to sixty percent of the adult human body is water.  There is no separation between nature and me.  I am drenched in her, embraced by her, innervated by her unabating pulchritude and creativity.

At the summit of Mackinnon pass, the rain stops briefly.  As our guides warned us, we “cool down quickly” in the steady wind. We huddle in the wooden hut dripping puddles on the floor.  Hot tea and coffee are handed around.  We are glad wool insulates wet or dry.  Thirty minutes later, a few of us strike out again heading down the rain washed mountainside.  We plunge through stream after stream of rushing water hurtling itself in riotous delirium down the mountainside.  One stream has become a mini torrent, shin deep, threatening to sweep our feet out from beneath us as we wade cautiously across, the cold water filling our boots. By the time we reach the tree line we are out of the wind and walk the rest of the way beside the roar and ferocity of a river swollen and gorged by the day’s deluge.

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Reaching the lodge in the early afternoon, Melissa and I snack on a few soggy cookies, rehydrate (believe it or not it is necessary even as soaked as we are), and decide to strike out on the “bonus” trek to Sutherland Falls, the highest, continuous falls in New Zealand.  We both know that if we dare take off our shoes or coats, we will not put them on again that day.  Forty minutes later we are squinting in the relentless spray of the falls, the base of which are still a hundred meters from us.  If it is possible to have a rainstorm inside a cloud, this is what it feels like.  The noise, even at this distance is deafening, a 747 endlessly taking off.  

Some members of our group do not make it to the lodge until 7:30 pm that night.  Our guides spend the afternoon shuttling them to safety.  Beth, the lead guide that day, arrives at the lodge with Melissa and me only to immediately race back up the pass loaded with her 22 kilo pack to assist the other guides.  She returns to the lodge a couple hours later carrying not only her own pack but two additional packs from hikers who need assistance.

By 7:30 pm, dry, warm, and freshly showered, I sit at my dinner table humbled and stunned that our guides, some of whom have reached the lodge only minutes ago, are now serving us dinner.  At our nightly briefing, someone again asks for the next day’s weather forecast. Laura, one of the last guides to make it to the shelter that night, says, “stick your head out the window tomorrow morning when you wake up.”  She immediately apologizes.  We all laugh. 

The final day of hiking dawns cool and clear, no hills today, a mostly gentle amble through one of the wettest places on earth to the innermost tip of the Milford Sound. Green takes on a whole new meaning. Ferns become trees.  Moss here is like snow in the Himalayas.  Everything is quiet save the occasional bird songs, some sharp, shrill whistles, others almost mechanical with a mixture of trills and clicks.

A few kilometers from the inlet we stop for our second lunch of the day beside aquamarine waters rippled by a gentle waterfall.  The water in this valley turns off as quickly as it turns on.  We stay in the mist of the falls to keep the sandflies away.  It is said that New Zealand has no poisonous animals, but it has one that will kill you: the sand fly.  Incidentally, only the female sand fly bites.

A boat arrives to take us up the inlet to the Milford Sound Lodge, our last stop.  As I gawk at the ever-widening fiord with its mitre-like peaks on all sides, I sense a different reaction to this vast, magnificent landscape than what I felt on the trail.  I can best describe it this way.  Walking the trail inspired the same reaction I have when listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, Ode to Joy – light, happy, carried on the melody.  Sailing into Milford sound inspires the feeling I have when listening to Handel’s Messiah – explosive, uplifting, bursting with the majesty and power of the words.  Perhaps the pictures here and in Melissa’s wonderful post about her experiences on this incredible trail will help make manifest something ineffable. 

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A parting note: experiences like this one become all the more powerful to me because they bring to mind, almost instinctually, thoughts of all of you.  It is as if the experience, so powerful and moving, is not quite real and settled until I place you in it with me.  

Southern Thailand to Auckland and down to the South Island: Feb. 23

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Don and I flew out of Phuket one week ago to enter a dramatically different world. This entailed putting all the culinary and sensual delights of southeast Asia behind – the ambient warmth and birdsong, the fragrant flowering trees and plants, the sun as central character – to head to a country of volatile weather and vast, austere landscapes. In five weeks’ time, the unfamiliar had become the familiar, yet we needed to move on, so I let go my grasp and entered a new, expectant phase. Physically, I could feel the weight of gratitude crushing down on my chest at this transition.

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I have missed writing and will not have time to tell all the stories here, about: the older NZ couple from Wanaka who encouraged us to add the climb up Conical Peak yesterday; running into Linda and Ted Johnson who were being shown around Mrs. Woolly’s and Glenorchy Camp by the philanthropist Seattle couple – Paul and Debbi Brainerd – who developed Islandwood and then moved to NZ to build this state-of-the-art eco-friendly (compostable toilets!) and upscale, comfortable campground, renovate the more basic Mrs. Woolly’s campground and construct a new school across the street; running into Jenny from Wales, Jonathan and Tracy (the “sleeper” rapid hikers on the Milburn Track), and mother-daughter team Lissa and Karen from San Francisco; hiking behind the poor woman who left a lot of blood on the rocks when she fell and hit her head coming down from Conical Peak.

I had a fascinating conversation with Bruce Rauner, who just lost his re-election bid for governor of Illinois. He and his wife, Diana, who is equally talented and friendly, have 6 children (4 of them went to Dartmouth, as did Bruce) and love to camp. They were just one of the gang, only standing out when they and another couple left the rest of us suckers on the bus after the guided boat tour to take the pricey helicopter back to Queenstown. Bruce is a Republican who spent months when he was 17 hiking in Arizona for the purpose of recommending new public land to set aside. He and his friend got the majority of hikes they suggested approved and turned into preserved wilderness. He is pro-choice, pro-environment, and vehemently opposed to the state workers’ unions that he says are bankrupting his state. He does not like Trump, wrote in his buddy Mitch Daniels (past Ind. Governor) for President, but defines himself as an economically conservative Republican (I thought they had disappeared). He took no money for his campaign (contributed 65 million of his own $) and no salary as governor. 

Our entry into New Zealand was underwhelming. The Air Singapore flight went better than expected – 12 hours in an economy seat, but with the courtesy of a hot towel before dinner, decent food, and clean toilets. Yet we spent our first night at an airport hotel full of large, loud people and weird, offensive in-room messaging (“blow me” on the hairdryer, “it’s okay, you can swallow” next to the sink, “open me up” on the guide, etc.). It helped to vent in the negative review I posted on Trip Advisor.

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The next morning, we took the two-hour flight to Queenstown and a short taxi to our friendly hotel (QT) which sits on Lake Wikitapu. Queenstown is like Chamonix, a four-season hub for all sporting and outdoor activity. Bungy jumping originated here, for one, and paragliders float down all day from the top of the gondola ride on the “hill” behind the town. The next morning, Don and I “walked” Queenstown “hill,” a steep, high climb to a gorgeous view of the mountains ringing Wakatipu Lake. Halfway up, when I called ahead to Don to stop because I couldn’t breathe, Don muttered something about leg exercises being important, and I mentioned my low blood pressure. (Since Don does not tire on uphill climbs, I always look forward to group hikes where I do just fine). Our first week in New Zealand would be a wee bit more strenuous than the previous five weeks in SE Asia.

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The Milford Track is one of the nine “Great Walks” in New Zealand (nice wide trails in dramatic, spectacular places). Great Walks are incredibly well-maintained, considering that the rain and wind constantly change the course of streams and down many of the beech trees, whose root systems stretch out wide like arthritic fingers on a gigantic hand. There are latrines along the trails and picnic huts. After high season each year, the suspension bridges over the rushing water are taken out by helicopter. Only one group (of about 90) is allowed at a time on each segment of the trail, split between “independent hikers” who reserve a bunk at a hut and “Ultimate Hikes” trekkers who stay in exclusive lodges with laundry, meals, and private or shared rooms. We did the latter.

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Our hike took 5 days: Day 1, we took a 2 ½ hour bus ride, followed by a 45-minute boat ride up Lake Te Anu and a one-mile hike through the forest to Lodge #1. Day two, we hiked 10 miles on fairly easy terrain to lodge #2; Day 3 was the most strenuous, including a climb to MacKinnon Pass, “discovered” in 1888 by Quinton MacKinnon, a hardy explorer who stood 5’2” tall, followed by a hike to Sutherland Falls, at 450 metres, the highest waterfall in NZ (10+3 miles for the falls); Day 4 was a long, flat walk out (13 miles). Day 5, we took a boat ride around Milford Sound, which is truly spectacular. The captain maneuvered us close enough to feel the spray of one huge waterfall and next to rocks with sunning seals; every turn, we encountered a new vista of the mountain range; we motored right out to the Tasman Sea and back. Each day, the routine was up at 5:45 or 6, pack lunch, eat breakfast, pack up, on the trail at 7:30, usually back by 2:30-3:30; on the longest day, hikers in our group were out 13.5 hours! which delayed our 6 pm dinner until 7:30 with a late end of day. Yet our hiking lodges were wonderful, with fun-loving guides (one, a Kiwi woman about my age), excellent food and drink, hot showers, washing and drying rooms, and lots of laughter and card games with the other West Coasters on our trip (Ashland, Oregon, San Francisco). In addition, we had Swedes, Japanese, English, Irish, New Caledonians (again!).

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We have lucked out with the weather. Day 1 and 3 of the Milford Track, we had clear blue skies, 45-65 degrees. The sun is intense, as are the biting sand flies that swarm next to any stream. Day 2, it dumped rain (98 mm or 4 inches), but because it wasn’t cold, it didn’t matter that we were drenched and our boots squishy all day long. [As you ascend, you encounter more rain, up to 20 feet of rain per year, 240 inches. They say it rains 320/365 days here]. The water seeped in our boots as we forded deep streams and splashed through creeks along the way. I couldn’t see with my raincoat hood up, so I just took it off and let my hair get soaked, then my wool cap later on; when I sat down for lunch, the water that lay hidden in my jacket pooled on the floor. The air smelled clean, like sod and sweet grass. The rocks – blues, greens, and purples – come alive in the rain, like a watercolor does when you dip in a wet brush. So do the ferns, the tall tufted grasses and mosses, the trees. In the valleys, the huge, sloping mountains seeped water, in rivulets that look like icing on a lemon cake, in storming waterfalls that crash down from the heights.

It felt primeval. The Creator had made the earth and the seas, but these elements had not yet separated, with each creating a surfeit of life for the other. At times, the light on the path would get murky and trees that look like madronas (with the peeling red bark) would glow. I half-expected to see a wood nymph peeking out. Late afternoon that long day, I looked out our window at the lodge and saw glints of silver, red, and green, in the trees as the water droplets refracted the sunlight.

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The mountains in Fiordland are geologically young, so the contrast of jagged peak and blue sky is spectacular. The scale is so vast – like Montana on steroids. At the same time, because the island is also young (20 million years since it re-emerged from the ocean), there are no endemic mammals besides birds. Isn’t that amazing?

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True to the Edenic analogy, the South Island is a predator-free zone – no large mammals, no poisonous snakes, no raptors, nothing, only sand flies. This explains why NZ contains the greatest number of flightless species in the world. Ten years ago, a campaign was launched to revive the greatly depleted bird population. There are countless traps set for rats, ferrets, and possums. As you hike, you encounter alpine parrots, yellow-painted birds, robins, and the odd falcon. The parrots are inquisitive, smart, and playful. They will chew off the rubber siding on car doors and fly away with shoes or other things left outside. Their call is distinct and melodic, with a knocking sound in the middle. The robins show up everywhere, alighting on a branch or trunk, and move closer to you, with no fear. The guides taught us to dig our heels in to give them a strip of fresh soil to search for grubs and worms. This region also has some of the cleanest, bluest water in the world. You can actually drink out of the waterfalls as you hike and fill up your water bottle as you go. I’ve never seen streambeds so transparent and pure.

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Camper Van! We’ve had two nights so far to establish our groove in our compact Mercedes campervan. Our bed is quite cozy, though exhausting to take down and make back up, with all the tucking in of sheets and blankets. We just learned that we can set up a table at the front, which would allow us to leave the bed alone. But then where would we plug in the toaster and water heater for coffee? As I said, we’re still figuring this all out. Our first night, we dutifully shopped and made dinner. Unfortunately, the tomato sauce we bought tasted like sweet ketchup, so instead of spaghetti, we made something resembling Sloppy Joe mix on noodles. We’ve slept really well and woken up freezing cold. Tonight, I’ll put my wool hat and a sweater close by and wear wool socks to bed. This morning, we dumped our wastewater and our toilet for the first time. Easy peasy! Truly, we are here at the perfect time, towards the end of peak season, with the temperature still warming up to mid-60s and the tourists thinning out. Because internet is spotty, we are old-schooling it with maps and guidebooks.

Friday, February 15, at 6:00 pm Phuket time, Melissa and I left Southeast Asia after five weeks.  We changed planes in Singapore Airport (rated the world’s best airport for the sixth consecutive year by Skytrax) and arrived in Auckland, New Zealand around 2:00 pm on Sunday, February 16.  I don’t know what Skytrax is, but Singapore Airport is Disneyland meets Luxemburg.  It boasts three free 24-hour movie theatres, a twelve-story slide, a butterfly garden with 47 species and over 1000 butterflies, a sunflower garden, a fish spa, free massage and a snooze lounge.  Unfortunately, Melissa and I could not take advantage of any of these attractions as our first flight was delayed and we ran the three quarters of a mile from one gate to the next.  Not only are the terminals and gates well signed, the signs even tell you the amount of time it will take to walk to the gate.  I am pretty sure we hold the record.

When I planned our transition from SE Asia to New Zealand, I built in an overnight in Auckland to catch some sleep before flying from Auckland to Queenstown.  Auckland is at the top of the northern island and Queenstown is at the bottom of the southern island.  Since we would basically be crashing, waking up and catching another plane, I booked a hotel by the airport.  Sensible.  Why spend money on a place you will stay in for less than 24 hours.  Ah, well.  The Naumi Hotel has a bit of a problem with its marketing.  As soon as we entered the lobby, it felt a bit too hip.  In our room, signs were posted to let us know about the different amenities.  Each sign began the same way, “Naumi says…”  Everything that followed was a sexual innuendo.  At first, I thought it was me and my jet lag. Then I read the note on the bag containing the hairdryer. It read: “Naumi says blow me.”  The bed was comfortable.  The room was clean, creepy, but clean. I think we’ll stay at a Holiday Inn next time.

We landed in Queenstown on Sunday afternoon and, fortunately, checked into a wonderful boutique hotel called the QT.  Queenstown sits on the shores of Lake Wakatipu, and our room had a magnificent view of the lake and the surrounding mountains.  We christened our arrival with one of Australia’s many fine wines. Note to file: contain enthusiasm for local wine until after the effects of jet lag have subsided.  Melissa sensibly dealt with her jet lag by sleeping 12 hours our first two nights.  I was not as lucky, finding myself pacing our room from 1 am to about 3. 

We climbed Queenstown Hill (a complete misnomer – 1500 foot climb with few switchbacks) to test our legs before heading out on the Milford Trek.  We survived.  The view was remarkable.  I am glad I brought ibuprofen.  We leave tomorrow for five days and four nights on the Milford Trek, considered by many to be one of the most beautiful hikes in the world.  We’ll be incommunicado until we return.

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We have been talking about this transition from east to west, sharing our impressions.  At some point, with a little time to process it all, we hope to write about it.  The world is truly an amazing place not only for its geographic diversity, but its cultural diversity.  I suppose my most hopeful take away is that we have so much we can learn from each other if we can learn to approach each other without fear and judgment.  I’m still sore from yoga, but I miss the quiet, settled feeling of listening to my breath; and, while I miss the stillness of yoga, I remembered today how much I love and miss hiking in the mountains. Each of those experiences, so remarkably different in their physicality, somehow produce the same sense of awe and wonder.   Be still and know that I am God, or, go hiking and know that I am God.  Both work for me.    

             

It is day four at the Island Yoga retreat on Koh Yao Noi, a small island off the coast of Phuket inhabited year-round by about two thousand people.  I never experienced Hawaii until after the point at which people would say, “Oh, you should have been here fifty years ago.”  Koh Yao Noi, at least as best as I can imagine, feels like what those people meant about the bygone Hawaii.

The island hosts a handful of five or four-star resorts, one of which is sequestered at the far northeast corner of the island, blocked off to the everyday riff-raff and obnoxiously called “Paradise,” as if heaven belonged only to the pampered wealthy.  But other than these few, mostly invisible blights to the environment, the island is delightfully rustic, imbued with the kind of charm and pastoral feel achieved only in a place in which native life has been allowed to slowly absorb little bits of modernity instead of being overwhelmed by it.  Our dinner outing last night, for example, included expertly done wood-fired pizza served under an open-air, thatched-roof hut with a sand floor.  Incongruously, a Ping-Pong table had been planted amongst the rubber trees.  The venue was full-on Koh Yao Noi, but the cheese on the pizza (in a country that does not produce cheese) was straight-up Italian mozzarella.  

We have, finally, settled into a routine, a far more difficult process than I anticipated in such a delightful place.  In fact, to be brutally honest – and I am not expecting nor soliciting sympathy here – our first forty-eight hours were uncomfortable, bordering on intolerable. I cannot finesse a way to explain this poor start.  In a nutshell, we went from coddled four-star luxury to bohemian youth hostel too quickly for us to adjust.  With the help of an extra pillow, a pad to soften the brick-hard mattress, and long, cold showers taken as we wait for the anemic air conditioner to moderate the oven-like heat in our bungalow, we have found a kind of equilibrium.

I fully appreciate my hypocrisy here.  On the one hand, I denigrate the five-star Paradise resort as a blight on the island, while on the other hand I whine about our one-star accommodations.  These juxtaposed thoughts sum up my experiences to date at this yoga retreat.  Even now, as I have adapted to my Spartan surroundings – in fact, more than adjusted, I actually enjoy them – I am not far removed from wishful thoughts of a well appointed, properly cooled suite overlooking the ocean.

I am drawn to the stillness and inner peace promised in a consistent and dedicated practice of yoga, but, despite Tai Chi at sunrise, followed by the first of two yoga sessions (morning and evening), both two hours long, I have not found that yearned-for inner peace, that “aha” experience in which all my follies are revealed in naked clarity, and I gently embrace the elusive enlightenment I have chased all my life.  Instead, I find myself frustrated by my lack of flexibility (physical and mental) and inability to (as the floor mat outside of our yoga studio in Seattle humorously puts it) “let that shit go.”  My siblings, at least those who may read this, will immediately recognize my competitive nature.  Actually, who am I kidding, most anyone who knows me will recognize that streak in me.

In my defense, I am at least aware of what I’m doing, and equally aware of how much it gets in my way. I am simply incapable of banishing it. If I were by some miracle capable of letting that shit go, would I also lose my motivation, ambition, my get up and go? Now I hear Cindy O’Brien, that sage spiritual counselor, laughing at my mental gymnastics.  Just relax already.  Right. Easier said than done.

As much as I wanted to carve out time for this week of yoga, as much as I expected it to be enlightening, I found greater stillness and inner peace in the first three weeks traveling with Melissa than here at the camp.  I will not question the truth of that statement.  I do question, however, if such a lifestyle as Melissa and I led over the last three weeks is either sustainable or continuously rewarding.  Why is it that any external stimulus eventually dulls with overuse, but that is not true with the infliction of pain?  An electric shock feels as painful the twelfth time it is administered as it did the first time, but even something as wonderful as an ice cream sandwich loses its appeal and flavor if you eat too many of them.  In fact, my law school roommates determined, based on multiple indulgences, that after two and a quarter ice cream sandwiches, the marginal utility, that is, the increasing delight in eating the sandwich, drops precipitously.  

After trying several times to explore these thoughts more deeply and reflectively, I come up short. Candidly, I am not sure what I should make of this experience.  But I do know that right now I am hungry, and it is time to get on our scooter and head to lunch. 

Final note: Melissa and I often sit across from each other at a table writing our respective entries. Most of the time we express (albeit in our own voices) similar thoughts.  Today, as usual, we switched computers to let the each other read what the other had written (an experience, I suggest, is a sign of a healthy marriage).  For the first time in this blogging saga, I find that the tone and tenor of what I have written does not match the tone and tenor of what Melissa has written.  In your wildest imaginations, would you have predicted that Melissa would be the true Buddha?  Yes, I see the undertones of competition in that statement.  I will say this in my defense.  Even in my unmet expectations (self inflicted or not) I am sincerely grateful that Melissa has drawn so much from this place. 

A final, final note, or really a postscript.  We had lunch, took a brief swim and returned in time for the 4:30 yoga session.  At lunch, I saw a comment written by our dear friends Emory and Fran Thomas which swelled both of us with gratitude and love. In the yoga session, unable to sit crossed legged any longer without one of my knees exploding, I thought about that comment and decided to quit trying so hard and just sit on a damn cushion already. I leave it to you to ponder both the catalyst for and the cosmic implications of that decision.

Our heart chakras open today to our featured (okay, only) fan of the week: Fran (and Emory Sr.) Thomas. It’s so good to hear from home!

Koh (island) Ya Noi sits in the Andaman Sea a 30-minute, high-speed ferry ride east of Phuket, Thailand.

Feb. 12 (Tuesday):

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Five days in, and the path to enlightenment has never been clearer. I am now not only willing, but able, to direct my inhale into my left nostril like a jetstream, up to the center of my brain, and out the other side. I have learned to let go of “erotic/erratic” thoughts, repeat mantras like “I am culpable/ capable,” and respond appropriately when asked at the end of class if there are any “Christians/questions.” Who knew that spoken English could come out in such intriguing sounds and syllabic contortions? “Dis will open your eeps.”

“Island Yoga” has become the retreat we longed for, but candidly, the first 36 hours were tough. The heat felt unbearable, our “bed” was/is a boxspring with no mattress, and the first meal we ate was bad, decidedly not “yoga-campy.” The yoga/hostel operations here are run separately, which explains the incongruent standards. Breakfast is good – homemade yogurt, fruit, eggs, and toast. The coffee is not great, but we drink it for caffeine delivery. The real stuff gets put out at 5:45 a.m. and again, at 10. Otherwise, it’s a teaspoon of Sanka with hot water. After our first, restless night, a bit of panicked self-assertion secured a softer cover for our boxspring, and one more pillow. We have let go of the rest and embraced a state of constant, stinky stickiness.

From around 10:30-3:30, it is really too hot to move or do anything. We’ve found, though, that if we build our chi at the beginning of the day – in sunrise Tai Chi and morning yoga – we are content to languish in the shade until it cools off enough around 4 to swim or go back for restorative yoga. It’s crazy how few people there are. Don and I enjoy half-mile swims in the light green water that laps up gently against sandy beaches of the whitest, softest sand and wonder, where are all the people? Danes make up most of the tourists. We smile enjoying their tow-headed toddlers and lilted Danish. (Europeans really have cornered the market on relaxation amid simple pleasures). The sunsets here are magnificent, and afterwards, a coolness descends that opens your lungs and almost lifts your feet off the ground. No matter how “nice” the restaurant, you get in line with everyone else. Every establishment apparently has one stove with two pots on it, and if you get your order in after the other tables, you sit for an hour and a half or longer, hoping you can recover your appetite when food finally arrives. Lest you think that Don and I savor our spiritual refreshments, a typical conversation goes something like this. Melissa: “Wow, all I get when I suck on this straw is ice.” Don, aggrieved, but willing to laugh about it: “Melissa, I can see the level go down as you drink.” Melissa: “Well, don’t push the straw around then either. You’re just melting it more.” Don: “Next time, we’re each getting a smoothie.”  

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Ya Noi looks like my seven-year-old memory of “Gilligan’s Island.” Yet imagine the stands of palm and rubber trees, giant ferns, birds-of-paradise, and flowering bougainvillea without the snarl of sun-starved bathers, traffic, and expensive services we all have put up with for tropical beauty. Life is simple here, though not in ecological balance. If you don’t watch out, you can get caught down-wind of a groundskeeper spraying a cloud of pesticide on a hotel lawn. You may find yourself cursing at the reckless waste of small, plastic water bottles. But you will come up short in your criticism as you remember that everything you eat is locally grown or fished and there are no wasted resources – no lights left on, no computers idly humming.

Lying in the direct sun here would be foolish. Instead, Don and I poach two hammocks slung for use on a public beach. Has there ever been a greater invention? Not only is the hammock elevated, channeling the breeze over and under, but it cocoons your body, cradling your neck as you gaze upward at the play of light through sinuous branches. Looking out over the water, you remember the breathtaking vista of verdant, limestone outcroppings of various sizes and shapes that lies just off shore. In your peripheral vision may rest one of the wooden boats with a long rod to hoist its outboard motor so it can throw down an anchor in the shallows. For lunch, Don and I eat on the beach, quite literally, at an open-air restaurant where Muslim women cross the narrow road to deliver food to additional tables placed on the sand. For variety, there is an organic restaurant-bakery run by a Swedish-Thai couple five minutes away, a meandering, multi-level shack with hand-crafted wooden tables and pillows inside and outside, strategically placed under the shade of an arbor. Here, we enjoy Golden Milk (coconut milk, turmeric, ginger, and pepper) and eat fresh lettuces and vegetables. We use our motorbike to get around, but there is hardly any traffic (hence, our courage to rent one in the first place). For dinner, we’ve tried barracuda and a whole array of Thai noodle and rice dishes. The most gorgeous entrée is a whole fish (usually bass) steamed with garlic and lemongrass, presented with head and scales intact.

In a few minutes, Don and I will head out to lunch and run into a few of the 100 or so people who appear to be here on the island, maybe one of the talkative young French yogis, the cute, but exhausted Aussie-American couple, or sun-wizened Christina, she of the long, wispy white hair. [There is a fancy resort in the northeast tip, but they don’t let anyone else in, and we’re lucky that they tend to stay put right where they are]. The human footprint is so small otherwise. Chances are, we’ll run into someone we know, No one quite fits with anybody else and great games are had trying to locate different accents. Scottish Keri and Irish Kate (in my mind, experts on the subject) were stumped by teacher Ronnie’s adulterated English accent. Graceful, lithe teacher Ilya, grew up in New Caledonia, a French-speaking island between New Zealand and Australia (I think I’ve heard of it?). It’s astonishing that we come from so many places, yet can practice yoga together, a blend of Hatha with tantric breathing, kidney cooing (don’t ask), Qi gong, sun salutations, and restorative yin.

There are many repeat clients here at Island Yoga, and it is not uncommon for someone to book for one week and decide to re-up for two or three more (again, European flex time). Our cost per night is $110 (higher because we have AC). This covers breakfast, potentially five hours of yoga (Tai Chi at dawn, morning and afternoon classes), and our one-room bungalow with a porch, all-in-one, drain-on-the-low-side shower/toilet/sink off the back, hard-working AC unit and electricity, both of which have to be rebooted each time we return to the room. Eating out can be as cheap as you like. We tend to spend $18 for a full lunch, $24-30 for dinner with drinks. Thai massage is everywhere and very good ($13/hour). The upshot? If you can get here, you can live it up for a small fraction of what it would cost on any other island.

I am not my mind. Energy flows where the attention goes. I want to vibrate at a higher level and cultivate a store of life-giving chi. I want to steer clear of the habits and environments that drain my energy and focus more on the practices and passions that replenish and expand my heart. We’re all just muddling along, but as Meg would say, we can be better, be happier. Twice now on the same day, I have gathered in the light of the sun as it rose and been blessed by its radiance as it set, smudging the sky in a shifting palette of pinks and grays and crimsons. I…am…here.

We have to start this blog with heartstrings frayed for our wonderful daughter Meg.  A busted hand (courtesy of a lay out playing Ultimate) and surgery to repair it, are not scheduled stops on the college train, especially when her parents are gallivanting across the globe.  Meg, you are the bright, funny, kind, courageous, gracious, and beautiful daughter every parent dreams of.  This too shall pass.  And tidal waves of gratitude for our village of family and friends who jumped in to support Meg, especially Kathy and Brock for the enormous care package that arrived in Meg’s dorm right after her surgery.

We decided to heed the wisdom of our elders.  Specifically, we noted a comment from Margaret McClatchey that – in her delightful, yet impossible-to-ignore way — “suggested” we find the relaxation part of a vacation.  I think two pictures tell you all you need to know about whether we followed her advice.

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After twenty five-days of what I might aptly describe as, at times, near delirious wonder, we have landed in Phuket, Thailand.  Until yesterday, I thought Phuket was a small resort town on the beach.  It is actually a rather large island hanging precariously off the mainland and surrounded by the Andaman Sea, part of the Indian Ocean. 

Our resort is on the southern tip.  The beach here is a huge tidal flat.  At low tide it is possible, if you don’t mind squishy brown mud/sand, to walk a full kilometer out to the drop off, the shipping lane that carves its way between us and one of the many islands dotting the sea around us.  I woke early this morning and snapped this picture of the sunrise at low tide.  Within an hour or two, the sea will return and lap against the beach.

Our first night here, we taxied to a neighboring beach and walked along a small rural road to find a restaurant our guide recommended.  Mahatsamut, a local, relatively undiscovered restaurant, is one of the great places in the world to sip a Long Island iced tea and watch the sun melt away.  It was here that Margaret’s wisdom sunk in (along with the Long Island iced teas).

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We opted out of doing anything taxing the next morning, choosing to spend the day beside the pool, reading, swimming and walking on the beach.  One sad note: we have to figure out how to stop using plastic.  Strewn all along this otherwise pristine and glorious beach, hung up in the trees and littering the high tide mark, were plastic bottles and scraps of plastic bags.  There really is no justifiable reason why in the United States we should purchase water in a plastic bottle.  

In the afternoon, we drove to the north of the island, a long drive given the traffic, and boarded a traditional wooden long boat.  Think “canoe” on massive steroids, with an outboard motor.  With our guide (Jeff) and Captain, we spent the next six hours boating through wonderland.

We made three stops. The first was to take a small, rubber kayak through a cave at the waterline, a cave that “closes” with high tide, into an inner lagoon surrounded by the massive cliffs of the island interior.  Even our guide gasped when we unexpectedly saw a family of Macaque monkeys flitting among the trees dangling from the cliffs about 75 feet overhead.

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Our second stop was not really a stop so much as a drive by.  Here is the part of our blog you have been waiting for, the trivia contest. Who out there (all 8 million fans) can identify the movie featuring this famous island?  Hint: think Sean Connery and vodka martinis, shaken, not stirred.

We made our final stop a little before sunset so that we could swim before having a magnificent Thai dinner on our private boat.  Now, I want those of you who know Melissa to imagine her in glorious, cool, but not cold water, in the middle of a place she has never been, the sun magically setting behind the islands and spectacular food waiting the moment she climbs back on board the boat.  This, my dear family and friends, is what contentment (not to mention beauty) look like.

The island is from the 1958 James Bond movie, Dr. No.  Enjoy the gallery below of the scenery on our boat trip.  Yes, the sun really was that orange.

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Finally, we are acutely aware of how fortunate we are to take this trip.  Our bodies pump with gratitude.  Mostly, however, the sublime beauty we encounter fills us with love for all of you.  Thank you especially to the elders that brought us into this incredible world.  Jack, Carol, Mom, we love you, and, Mom, like you, Dad would have loved this place!

On our last day at the tented camp, Melissa invited me to swim with her in the river.  Understand, when Melissa invites you for a swim, she does not mean a quick jump off the dock, some splashing around, and a float on your back.  She suggested we do a “ladder.”  An hour later, we had each swum thirty minutes alternating between swimming and kayaking.  I swam first, a fifteen-minute interval, and hung to the side of the kayak catching my breath.  It was then, in what is best described as a Kennedyesque, eyes on the horizon, nonchalant aside that Melissa noted the slimy sheen on the surface of the river.  I don’t know which is stranger to me, the fact that she let me swim through the sheen for fifteen minutes, or the fact that, completely unconcerned, she jumped out of the kayak and took off for her fifteen minutes.  That night, I woke up around 3 a.m. and spent the rest of the night in the bathroom.  I was not taking a shower.

The next day we left the camp at 8 a.m. to catch a plane at 1:30 for Siem Reap, the city next to the famous Angkor Wat temples.  Our young, earnest guide initially scheduled us to leave at 7 a.m.  Melissa, who could not at that point have told our guide the date much less the distance to the nearest airport, convinced him that we would be fine if we left at 8 a.m.  Without any attempt to question the basis for Melissa’s opinion this young man utterly capitulated.  I told you Melissa was getting prettier every day on this trip.  I was too fixated on the odds of staying within easy walking distance of a bathroom to argue.

Remarkably, everything unfolded without a hitch.  The camp used the fast boat, cutting our time downriver in half.  The car was waiting for us when we docked.  Traffic was virtually non-existent for the first 2 hours, and we made it to the airport in 3 hours on a trip the driver told me usually takes him 4-5 hours.  Sihanoukville Airport shuffled us through check-in and security with an ease that would put TSA Precheck procedures to shame.  We were over an hour early for the flight.

My stomach was still revolting.  I had eaten virtually nothing, and all I could think was how does this happen to Melissa? How does she get so lucky? A part of me, not my best part, I admit, hoped that we would miss the flight so I would have the perverse pleasure of saying I told you so.  I am not proud of the thought.  I was in discomfort.  At least I kept it to myself.

Our first full day in Siem Reap began with Mr. T.  Without a hint of irony, this 29-year-old, thin,  handsome native from a small village near Siem Reap said we should call him Mr. T.  We did not know then how much we would need him later that day.

We boarded mountain bikes directly outside our hotel and began the 8 or so kilometer ride to Angkor Wat. A few miles outside the city, the trail turned to dirt winding through a blessedly shady jungle canopy.  The most delightful thing about biking was being completely alone.  The masses of tourist, mostly Chinese, tend to travel in large groups on mammoth Trailways buses.  The most astonishing thing about biking was riding nearly blind through a tight, dense trail before pulling up to a stop next to a massive stone structure that you instantly knew was not built by any person living today.

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The next few paragraphs are for those of you who enjoy a history of Angkor Wat.  If, like me, you still prefer books with pictures, skip these paragraphs and look at the pictures.  You’ll miss some stuff, but you’ll get the gist.

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Angkor Wat is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and covers an area of over 400 square miles with 3,000+ temples.  Only 1080 of the temples have been registered.  The rest are partially or totally buried by the jungle.  The largest temple, which most people think of when someone says Angkor Wat, is the best preserved, though parts of it are still in ruins.  Extending over 500 acres, this single temple is just one small part of the entire region.

Five years ago, using drones and radar detection, Cambodia was able to map the entire region and “see” for the first time how extensive this ancient civilization was.  The first temple in the region was started in the year 802 and additional temples continued to be built until 1432.  During this period, it is estimated that over 1 million people lived in the main temple area city, a small part of the region, making it one of the largest cities in the world at that time. 

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Angkor means holy city. Wat is the Buddhist word for temple. However, this region oscillated between Buddhism and Hinduism throughout the temple-building years.  Each successive king determined whether the temple he built would be Buddhist or Hindu.  Only one king, referred to as J-7, was both Buddhist and Hindu.  During his reign (1181-1218) J-7 built more temples than any other king.  Half were Buddhist and the other half Hindu.  Unfortunately, as different kings came to power, the existing temples would often be altered.  Hindu kings tended to deface the Buddha statues while Buddhist kings were less prone to vandalism, choosing to simply place additional Buddha statues in Hindu temples without defacing or marring the Hindu carvings.  Thus, in many of the temples, including the main temple, you see carvings from both religions.

Hinduism and Buddhism both came to Cambodia via India.  In the first century with the opening of the spice road, the Khmer people converted from animism to Hinduism.  Buddhism did not enter Cambodia until the third century.

The largest temple was built in the twelfth century as a Hindu temple. Despite its massive size, this temple was completed in just 37 years, using both slaves from conquered nations and local volunteers (building the temple would bring a better afterlife). Construction would have required over 300,000 people and over 6,000 elephants.  The temple contains between 7 and 10 million hand-carved limestone blocks with an estimated weight of over 10 million tons.

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The main temple and its surroundings served as the capital of Cambodia until 1492 when the capital was moved to Phnom Penh.  A combination of events may have caused the Khmer people to abandon this region, although they never abandoned the main temple.  Most significantly, a deadly drought lasting two decades followed immediately by ten years of torrential monsoons drove the people from the area.  In addition, the Siamese empire from Thailand invaded Cambodia in the 15^thcentury.  As a final note, Cambodia defeated the Siamese empire in the 16^thcentury and reclaimed Angkor Wat.  Siem Reap, now the main city in this region with 250,000 people, means defeat of Siamese.

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Back to the story. Mr. T expertly guided us via bicycle around the grounds of the main temple, a separate temple known as Angkor Thom (Thom means large) and to several surrounding temples and structures. By 1:00 p.m. Melissa and I, both still with recovering (river-slimed) stomachs, needed a lunch break.  Most of our tour was complete.  Lunch revived us.  Fortunately, river-slime disease lasts only 24 hours.  The worst was behind us.  Before riding back to the hotel, Mr. T took us to one last stop to see what has been described as “living art,” the unimaginably beautiful interconnection between living trees and human-made stones.

Unfortunately, pulling up to this last stop, Melissa lost her seat and fell awkwardly on her wrist and bum.  Elephant pants were converted into a makeshift sling, a tuk-tuk was urgently called, and we waited, in the heat, a little anxious, hoping for the best.  Mr. T became a hero.  He told us we needed to go to the international hospital.  He called his good friend who happens to own a car and somehow got him to meet the tuk-tuk at the entrance gate.  Cars are not allowed in the temple grounds.  About 2 hours later, Mr. T was still with us in the emergency room when the doctor told Melissa she had no broken bones.

Earlier in the day, I asked Mr. T what the tattoo on his arm meant.  It was Cambodian for benefactor in honor of the people who helped care for him when he was young.  While he waited with us in the hospital, he told me about his tattoo.  

Mr. T is the youngest of 5.  He has 4 older sisters.  When he was five, he fell off a scooter driven by his father and suffered a serious head injury.  He showed me the scar, a large, shallow crater on his forehead just beneath the hairline.  In addition to surgery and a coma, he lost all memory of his family and friends.  For nine months, his parents introduced themselves, nursed him to health and reintegrated him into his community. 

A short time later, his father died after a prolonged disease.  His mother sold their home to pay the medical bills.  They lost everything.  Members of the community helped care for him.  A local Buddhist monk taught him rudimentary English.  Mr. T started school as the tallest and oldest person in the class.  He was eleven.  His classmates were 5 and 6.

With no home, his mother moved back to the jungle where she could farm, something she knew how to do.  She asked him to come with her, but he did not.  He wanted to continue his education.  He earned money carrying ten-gallon containers of water from the lake near his house to what I think was either a brothel or a sex trade organization.  He described the place as dark and a bad place, but he did not let himself get involved in the drugs or other activities. He merely sold water to the women, sending most of the cash to his mother.  When he was fifteen, his mother stepped in a bear trap and died from the ensuing infection.

Despite these tragedies, he has, as he said, managed, like the lotus that blooms from the mud, to make a good life as a tour guide while he completes his studies in marketing. When I asked if I could share his story, he said yes because people could compare their life with his and understand that maybe they have a good life. I wasn’t sure how to thank Mr. T for his generosity and help that day.  When we finally returned to the hotel, I asked him to come into the lobby.  I had already tipped him for the guide service.  I gave him another $40.00, but first I told him that Melissa and I would have liked to do something kind for him to let him know how much we appreciated his help.  Since we could not take him out, I asked if he would accept the $40.00 and use it to take his friend with the car to dinner and pay for the gas we used.

Later that evening, the front desk called.  When I went to the lobby, Mr. T, freshly showered and dressed to go out, gave us two rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves, a local specialty made by his landlady for the New Year festivities.  Mr. T told me he was on his way to meet his friend for dinner.   

There is a beauty that aches. This kind of beauty fuels the connections between people that Don has written so eloquently about and for that reason, is worthy of our attention. Angkor Wat, and the surrounding 12^th-16^th century temples just outside of Siem Reap, overwhelm the mind, with much to admire: the astonishing amount of human drive and effort it must have taken to complete the temple in 37 years; the craftsmanship and artistry, including the “apsara” carvings (women who only dance for gods or kings), each one unique in facial expression, dress, and gesture; the lofty ceilings and huge, vaulted doors (a vault is built opposite the way an arch is); the dialogue between interior and exterior space. It is the kind of place I would give anything to wander through several days in a row, away from the crowds and able to enjoy it from different angles, under the sheltering shade of the “spung” (silk cotton) and strangler fig trees that stand sentinel. This is not the kind of beauty I have been thinking about, though.

Close by Angkor Wat is the temple the King built for his mother (it also happens to be the temple that Angelina Jolie “rented” for one day for $10,000 to make Lara Croft: Tomb Raider). At the center of that temple is an ancient tree that has spread its roots in all directions and riven parts of the temple in two, splitting walls and insinuating itself into every nook and corner. It curves and wraps itself around the temple in impossibly graceful shapes. Experts have debated what to do with the tree: because it is still growing, it will ultimately destroy the temple, yet it is too far grown at this point to remove without destroying the temple. Somehow, over time, the tree and temple have formed a symbiotic relationship; one cannot live without the other. The tree, no longer antagonist, is actually supporting the temple, extending its life, imbuing the temple with a pulse and almost human vulnerability, hence the aching beauty.

No thing is immortal, though a 900-year old temple that has withstood the ravages of warring Hindus and Buddhists gives a proximate sense of the eternal. What is immortal is the flickering spirit that can alight and move within us in times of vulnerability. The guides who shepherd us around know how precarious life is. The stories of each, to an extraordinary degree, are marked by violence and poverty – whether it is Juanach, who is happier now bringing tourists to the waterfalls at his village than making his living as a poacher, or Mr. T, who lost his father at age 10 and his mother five years later, after she stepped on a bear-trap (please see Don’s entry for Mr. T’s story). These young adults relate their past in a matter-of-fact way and often speak about the person or persons who helped them along the way. Mr. T sports a tattoo on his arm that translates, “Benefactor,” and refers to the monk who taught him English.

In the last couple of days, I have been blessed with visitations of the spirit. And I believe these are likely to continue, because when you can’t speak the language, you tend towards deeper listening. I get a lot more information observing how someone is saying something, the expressiveness of their face, their body language, than I do attending to content. It’s kind of like taking the static out of your life, to arrive at the simple essence.

Yesterday at the temple, I decided to pay my couple of dollars and receive the Buddhist monk’s blessing. After his chant, he looked at me and said, “You did good. Good luck.” He knew that I had made myself available to receive his blessing. Later that day, I took a nasty spill on the bike and wondered whether his had been a good luck blessing. Then two things happened. First, after waiting for 20 minutes or so in the park for our tuk-tuk, Mr. T, without telling us, called his best friend to see if he could come pick us up. We still needed a tuk-tuk to get us out to the car, but then we met the friend in his air-conditioned car, which conveyed us in about 10 minutes, rather than 30, and smoothly, to the international hospital. When Mr. T told me that his friend was coming, I burst into tears. His gesture was so kind, so good. Later that night, Mr. T came to the hotel to drop off a traditional Cambodian cake (coconut rice and jackfruit wrapped in banana leaves) that his landlord had given him. The good luck continues. Lying on the gurney at the hospital, waiting for the X ray results, I was in a lot of pain and really thought I had fractured my left arm just above the wrist. They had put it in a splint, which helped a little, but the pain was coming in waves and making me squirm. Remarkably, the results came back and there was nothing broken, not even a hair-line fracture. I owe that monk more than the $2 I dropped in his bucket.

Our lives revolve around each other. My aim is to see the beauty rimming the clouds that cradle the setting sun. This is what I want to have on my mind.

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“Cardamom” Tented Camp is tucked into a part of jungle that lies five hours west of Phnom Penh, close to the border with Thailand. The camp sits on the river towards the eastern side of Botum Sakor National Park; one more lodge, not so remote and built 12 years ago, occupies the western side. This project is being financed by the richest guy in Thailand, an American, who oddly (to me) has shown no interest in coming to visit. Whatever his motivation, his investment insures that the 20% of the park not owned and being razed by private companies, mostly Chinese, is protected. 100% of the money that will be made here (this year, Allan, our host, hopes just to break even) will be funneled back into preservation projects like the Ranger Station we kayaked to 3 miles upriver. These efforts are already bearing fruit, as we saw in the display of hand-made guns, snares, and nets the rangers have confiscated from poachers. Of interest in the area are rare green peacocks, a few remaining elephant, the world’s largest moth (the Atlas), pangolins, or termite-eaters, whose scales go into Chinese soup, and a whole slew of medicinal and/or spice trees (e.g., cinnamon).

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One of the men on staff is especially funny, and we laughed a lot at how the Chinese want pretty much anything that lives or moves here for their “medicine.” Among the sustainable health aids are elephant poop and swallows’ nests. Dotting the countryside are 4 or 5-story concrete towers, nesting houses for the birds, with gentle music played throughout the day and pools of cool water. One villager, when asked what he would like to come back as in his next life, replied: “a swallow, they have it easy.” The Chinese eat these nests (primary ingredient: saliva), and some go for as much as $3,000/kilo.

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The 78-hectare Cardamom property is managed by a loquacious 53-year-old Englishman (and his pretty Cambodian bride). Allan left banking 17 years ago to become a wildlife photographer and film-maker. He is not a hotelier, but like any one of us who would take on a project like this because we thought it was cool and worthwhile. In the 13 months since the camp opened, Allan has unexpectedly had to: replace the roof on the dining platform (the tree growing through it re-seeded the roof); put in new cables for the ones the rats ate through; figure out ways to keep monkeys out of the kitchen, where they eat the eggs and other treats.

Shortly after we arrived, Allan breezily informed us that he “and the Missus” were taking off early the next morning for three days. The unsettled look on our faces solicited his reassurances that a) a couple of the staff standing silently by could actually speak English, and b) if we looked at the very short wine list, we could see that not all the titles had been scratched off by Sharpie.* This helpful information was delivered just after he told us that pit vipers are a “real” problem, so much so that one of the workers building the camp had to be medevaced after getting bitten (good to know there’s a fast way to a hospital); another man, a villager, had to amputate his hand when he did not properly care for a spider bite. The next morning Don, a French guy, and I set off into the jungle in single file between one guy carrying a huge knife and another with a gun strapped to his belt.

*Allan also offered up his opinion (I don’t remember the context) that toilet paper is unsanitary. I was at a loss to respond. Of course used TP is unsanitary if you must place it in a bin next to the toilet. But no one has shown us how to use the “squirter” that resides next to the toilet. (Update: I have since tried it and found it delightful, if impossible to apply in a contained manner while standing over a porcelain hole in the ground with your underwear around your knees. The Cambodians seem just as flummoxed by our toilets, as “Don’t squat on the toilet” signs appear in every public place).

True to Allan’s word, we have been cared for beyond our needs, with three simple, but delicious meals a day (rice, carrots, cauliflower or eggplant and pork, with sweet-n-sour soup for lunch/dinner, rice or potatoes and one fried egg for breakfast). Dessert at lunch is a small plate of cut-up dragonfruit, watermelon, mango, or apple, but after dinner – Ah! – there are delicacies dreamed up long ago by Allan’s chocolatier grandfather that float incongruously out of the kitchen: chocolate lava cake with one small scoop of ice-cream, lime soufflé, chocolate mousse. The delightful ambiance of these meals has been supplemented by our lively conversations with the wonderful German and English tourists who have shared this place with us. Tonight, a well-fed East German woman waxed on poetically about the stunningly clear lake she spends hours swimming backstroke in near her home in what used to be East Germany. I thought she was going to cry. We are kindred souls.

Beyond the Facts: I am in a state of wonder at the changes that have come over Don and me during the last three days. Our first full day, we got up at 5:45 after a fitful night of hot, sticky sleep. After a single, insufficiently energizing cup of coffee, we paddled a double kayak up to the ranger station and then trekked back to the camp. At this point, I scanned my brain, trying to remember my conversation with the tour guide about why we would stay a full three nights at this minimally supplied outpost. Rather than taking the whole morning (as it was supposed to), this structured activity ended at 10 a.m., which left the rest of the day yawning wide open. Nothing else was planned. What would we do in the heat that had been so enervating the afternoon before?

I was surprised by epiphanies in the wake this question left. Adrift and a little nervous, when I actually stopped ruminating and took a breath, I noticed that the two young men who tend the bar all day were just standing around, too. Sometimes they were on their phone, but mostly they were just there. When one caught my eye, the expression he levelled at me was perfectly calm and self-assured. He wasn’t bored, nor did he seem to mind that I had caught him doing nothing at that moment (at other times, he jumps at the slightest expression of a question or need). Observing this helped me realize that it’s really not hard to spend a day. Yes, the afternoon that followed was long, and I couldn’t tell you exactly how I passed it, but it made me wish that every day could be this…slow. After initially wanting to check out of this place early, I looked forward to sleeping so that I could wake up to a second whole, event-less day. I was not disappointed. Between my book, jumping in and out of the cool river, and sitting still watching a blessed rain shower, I have burrowed into the present moment.

Time passes, and as it does, it feels like a small miracle. I have felt this keenly at pre-dawn outings as we watch the darkness lighten and lift. Morning resolves into afternoon, into evening, and there has been time enough. Can you remember the last day you spent without feeling rushed at all? I remember Don telling me when he first retired that all he wanted was “to not be rushed.” This idea sounded stupidly impractical and it annoyed me to hear him state it. But now I get it, Don. We should aspire to measure time not by clocks, not by our frenzied means of consuming news and entertainment, but by finding a rhythm of life we like and matching our own rhythm to it. Here, before the sun dips behind the opposite bank and we begin to look forward to a late-afternoon beer, delights abound, in the whisper of a breeze, the full palate of jungle greens, the slowly sliding river.

This time has been blissful for us as a couple. We have heard and responded to the same music, realizing pretty much together that there is no end to this kind of happiness. We follow each other like minnows in a pond, playfully joking, lying down together in the middle of the day, heading out to the river for a swim, coming back to share the things we have thought and written down. The quiet of this place and our understanding that all we need is right here with us has fed a deep, affectionate, and abiding love.