The Steamy Jimjilbang and the Holy Bush.

Confession : When I lived in Korea, I never went to a jimjilbang. Shameful, I know. I don't remember if I was to chicken or if it was just one of those things that I never got around to doing. I mean, I've been... in Queens, in Annandale, Chantilly, etc. It just never happened while I was here. Needless to say, I decided that had to be rectified. 

Let me backtrack and define. A jimjilbang is a Korean spa, usually featuring multiple baths, saunas, pools, restaurants/snack bars, game rooms and evening overnight sleeping facilities. For around 10,000won (about $10USD) entrance fee you have full reign on the facilities and can pay extra for other services like massage, body scrub, facials, or anything spa oriented you could imagine. 

Jimjilbangs are mostly gender segregated. There are usually some communal areas, which can anything non-spa oriented (games/eating/internet etc) as well as saunas. At my Seoul jimjillbang experience there were at least nine co-ed saunas ranging from Egyptian Jade Pyramid rooms to tradition hot wood rooms. In these areas everyone is clothed in a standard issue gym-class-esque garb. 

While these main halls are fun, the good stuff is all in the segregated areas, the true jimjilbang bath house experience. Full of different temperature pools with varying massage jets and medicine/herbal infusions and LOTS of naked women, its what Hugh Hefner's dreams were made of. Of course, there's actual nothing sexual about a jimjilbang. 

Seriously though, Jimjilbangs are like being transported back into a 70s era all Asian Playboy magazine. I say this because .....HOLY BUSH! I remember hearing from male friends dating Korean women that is was often difficult to get them to, shall we say "landscape" because pubic hair associated with fertility. But hot damn. This 'disparity' certainly contributed to my initial desire rock a bathing suit in the bath area but when surrounded by so much nakedness, it's actually more conspicuous to be the wae-gookin who isn't naked rather than the one who is and is judged as "infertile". 

After a couple hours in the saunas and baths, I decided to go for it and receive a classic ajumma beating, I mean massage. I'm pretty sure that amount of slapping, punching, clawing, and general abuse should be called assault & battery but apparently in a jimjilbang that passes as massage. Perhaps I'm being a bit harsh, I'm just a bit spoilt. I definitely needed the body scrub that came with it. The amount of Asia that was apparently still caked to my freckle-y white exterior was only mildly repulsive. (You're welcome, pubic hair and dead skin all in one!) 

Laying naked on a table, getting beat up by an old Korean woman in her black lace lingerie uniform, I started to reflect on all the different cultural bathhouse/massage experiences I've had over the years. This seemed like a much better option than staring at the wirey bush of the girl laying wayyyyy too close next to me. While I am partial to the Thai massage (I mean how can you go wrong with $7 and one hour of awesome?!), I am typically happy to experience the art of relaxation anywhere my feet lead me. I've had variations on the Thai yoga massage all over SE Asia. Body scrubs on Jamaican cliffs. Chinese reflexology in the PRC, ROC and HK. And of course, the Turkish Hamam (bathhouse). 

The Hamam is precisely where I found my mind wandering to during my beating (massage) last night. While the similarities are many, what I found most interesting is my own prude reaction in both cases to the nudity factor. Perhaps it's just me (I don't think it is) but I do find it interesting how puritianical American culture is when you really get down to it. Korea in most cases is pretty conservative, manner panties and all. Turkey, predominantly muslim with very pretty covered public dress. And yet in both places, public bath culture prevails and nudity is completely embraced. I can't imagine a bunch of Americans going to the Y and wandering about for hours naked with friends/family/strangers alike. But I do wish there was a way we could introduce on a broad spectrum to the states. I think it be good for us culturally, not to mention helpful in promoting more positive body image for young girls. 

Borneo Part III : Bandar Seri Begawan

People warned me not to go to Brunei. Not because it's dangerous or hostile towards women as one might ignorantly assume given the fact that it's an Islamic oil state. It's not insanely expensive or wrought with horrible people. In fact, it's affordable (still a tad pricey than Malaysia) and the people are bloody brilliant. No, I was warned not to go to Brunei because frankly after a short couple hours I'd sit twiddling my thumbs wondering what to do with the rest of my time in this tiny buck-tooth blip of Borneo. 

But I, in all my stubbornness, could not be swayed. Since meeting Bryon back in the stoneage, I've had a few hysterical capitol cities eternally stuck in my head and on my list, just waiting to be checked off. I thought there had to be at least something remotely redeeming about with a name as interesting as Bandar Seri Begawan. I must admit, I think the interesting bit ends there with the name. 

I might be being a tad harsh. The city is... clean (mostly), calm (eerily), ordered and so damn quiet. 

BSB, for short, is home to two beautiful "ornate" mosques... okay ornate may be an overstatement, but I'm trying to give them SOMETHING here. In addition to the mosques, the Royal Regalia Museum is host to displays of gifts to the sultan from foreign dignitaries and a ego-boosting three level display of formal portraits and meetings of the sultan. And there it is ... BSB in nutshell. Finished. Okay, there's also a floating water village (houses on stilts), some shopping and a dirty waterfront. Outside the city is some supposedly nice virgin rainforest that costs four times as much as anywhere in Malaysia to visit so I forewent the visit. 

I have to admit though, the most redeeming part about my stint in Brunei was the people. Despite a couple very minor transportation oriented setbacks, I was shocked at the over the top hospitality of the Bruneians. And I'm not referring to in a restaurant or hotel, just everyday Joe Smo Brunei on the street. 

Case in point : myself along with two friends decided to spend a quiet evening exploring the city. I must point out that Brunei is a dry country so we had little else to do than wander the streets and start at the "space aged style" mosques. Feeling quite up to the challenge after weeks of hiking in Sarawak, we determined it couldn't be that hard to locate the mammoth mosque 3km off of our Lonely Planet map. I mean, its huge.... "how could we miss it?" Long story short, after wandering practically onto a freeway and then disagreeing about which precise direction to walk, we asked a middle aged gentleman outside the hospital waiting for his wife to point us in the right direction. Despite his confusion over the fact that neither of the young women with the strapping Dutch lad were his wife(wives), he promptly insisted to drive us there. No alternate motive. No request for payment. Just true, kind hearted generosity. 

This happened again and again. Free rides. Friendly banter. Considerate commentary/directions/cultural explanations. If you haven't traveled in Asia, you may not realize that most, if not all, acts of kindness are usually accepted tentatively as the traveler waits for the 'catch'. It seems in some places, there's always 'something'. Not in Brunei. My friend Maggie informed the sales lady at the museum gift shop that her perfume smelled lovely and inquired what it was. The lady, beaming with pride, told her she'd show her the bottle. Not only did she show it to her, she insisted Maggie take the bottle to remember her by. 

So I guess in the end there is something to appreciate beyond a cool capitol city name. My far-fetched dreams of visiting some exotic locale called Bandar Seri Begawan may have been shattered by reality but I just keep my head up for the day I get to Djibouti. 

Borneo Part II : Gunung WOW National Park

Most of my group from Bako National Park managed to stay together to make the journey to the amazing Gunung Mulu National Park. For those of you Travel Channel/Nat Geo/Discovery junkies out there... remember the Planet Earth episode about caving in the largest limestone cave system in the world filled with insane amounts of Guano (Bat poo!)... yup that's Mulu National Park! 

The caving, the hiking and more were simply described as mind blowing. One friend posed they ought to rename the park "Gunung Wow National Park" because there's few things one can say when venturing through these passage ways besides "wooooowwwww". 

Words cannot describe (or at least mine can't) and photos cannot capture. Just watch that Planet Earth episode, it took ONE MONTH to set up the shots to only begin to capture the grandeur of these caves.

Two to Three MILLION bats fly out from this particular passage way, Deer Cave (the largest cave passage in the world!), eat night in search of food. (The entrance to the cave is shadow on the face of the cliff). 

 Scientists report they collect/eat nightly over 15 TONS of insects! Explains all the poop! The stream of bats continues for about one hour every night! 

In addition to hiking and swimming, also managed to fit in a little "adventure caving". Aka real caving with rope assisted climbing and descents through one of the intermediate level passages. If you look closely at the photo above you can clearly see I'm the dirtiest kid in the group! 

Again, I managed to stay with the nicest family in a homestay outside of park headquarters. The people of Malaysia have constantly overwhelmed me with their hospitality and friendliness over the past couple of months. Dina and Robert of D'Cave were exemplary of this! Sadly the only photo I have of their place is of the awesome toilets. I informed Robert he ought to turn them around as they have beautiful vistas up to the parks' summit... what better to look at while sitting on the john, eh?   

 

Borneo Part I : In and around Kuching.

I've been contemplating how to write about the past month in Borneo. It's hard to summarize and articulate four weeks of jam packed exhilaration. I've had way less 'down time' since flying to Kuching earlier this month, definitely a good thing, but it certainly makes it hard to take the time and how amazing this time has been. 

I saw a quote somewhere in the past couple weeks that I do think however, encapsulates this idea : 

" Heaven is not a place we go when we die,

 But the moment in life when we finally feel alive." 

My journey in Borneo began in Kuching. Cat City and the gateway to Sarawak. 

After meeting the Orangutang at the local rehabilitation/soft-release center

and exploring the awesome architecture of local indigenous groups at the cultural center, I geared up for a hike to the "Village in the Clouds". Named because of it's location in the hills, this Bidayuh village is literally nestled amongst the clouds at least until mid-morning everyday. 

We trekked up the mountains on Day 1 to arrive in the village of 48 houses still living predominantly off subsistence agriculture. It's not accessible by road or boat. And each villager, up to our hosts 85yo parents regularly make the 4-5hour hike to the nearest road in order to visit family, receive medical care or take their kids to school. The local primary school is a 1+ hour hike from the village but the secondary school is a boarding only facility in the city, an hour's drive from the nearest road they must trek to! 

Our hosts, Taya and his wife were brilliant! Nicer people are hard to find in this world! They shared a lot about their culture, history, amazing home cooked meals and insightful opinions on the dam project being built nearby that threatens to relocate the village and change their lives forever. 

This particular village is also home to the last remaining "ring ladies" in all of Sarawak!! Similar to the long-neck Karen Hilltribe women of northern Thailand. These ladies begin wearing golden rings around the forearms and calfs from age 10-11 and if their health allows, wear them till death. There are definitely detrimental effects on muscle and bone development. This, combined with the awesome new access of young women in the community to education, means that it is a dying tradition. When the youngest of them, 69yo, passes it will merely be a memory. 

I fell in love with this one lady in particular. She speaks no Malay only the local dialect so we obviously had a language barrier. But boy did we have a good time laughing, chewing beetle-nut and drinking warm beer. I asked my host why she like to laugh so much and he simply said there was no way to explain it except that she was a "happy person". Perhaps the beetle-nut and beer has something to do with it me thinks. 

Upon returning to Kuching, I managed to link up with a killer group of people to explore Bako National Park. Spent the day hiking to waterfalls and explore extremes of a jungle climate with proboscis monkeys, among other things! 

They travel in troops of about 20 monkeys with only one alpha male per group. The alphas have a massive nose like this big boy here. Nearby we caught three female proboscis attempting to break into the "Proboscis Lodge" near park headquarters. The irony was not lost on me... 

"I can see those bananas! They're right there!!" 

Love Affair in Georgetown.

I knew I would like Georgetown, or as most people know it by it's state name: Penang. I knew it from the get-go, even before I arrived in Malaysia. Among other things Penang is famous for none other than FOOD. And as an admitted food-addict, foodie and all-round fat kid, lets just say it was love at first bite.

What's not to love about a place completely committed to the production of deliciousness?! Penang has all kinds of food options. Most famous are it's hawker centers or strips. Areas or streets in the city that come alive at night with amazingness being cooked up at portable stalls surrounded by plastic or metal pop up chairs. Satay, Laksa, noodles, ice lemon tea, rice, seafood, wonderful soups, fresh fruit juices samosas, you name it.... it's here.

Admittedly, I'm pretty awful at knowing what it is that I'm eating. I eat with my senses. If it looks good/smells good or frankly, if the stall is really busy, I'm trying it!

Modernization, air-conditioning and shopping malls have also made the food court set up extremely popular in Penang, as well as much of the region. Slightly more sterile (I mean there's no animals running amuck), centralized seating and picture menus all make it seem more accessible to western travelers. And so much less thrilling, at least in my humble opinion.

The city is also littered with a ton of wonderful restaurants, from local fusions to boutique Italian cafes. So many choices! Admittedly, I'm surprised I haven't gained weight traveling in Malaysia with the amazing Malay spices, Indian influence and massive Chinese population this country truly is a melting pot of amazing culinary experiences!
Food aside, when I arrived in Georgetown, I knew I liked the city but I couldn't quite put my finger on why. I certainly enjoyed the food but there was a certain energy about Penang that just worked for me.

Finally I think it was articulated well by my tour guide at the Cheong Fatt Tze Mansion, also known as the Blue Mansion given its intense indigo exterior coming from India dyes. With dozens of rooms, seven courtyards and a very customized feng shui during it's heyday it was home to it's namesake as well as 3 of his eight wives and their respective children.

Our guide was intregal in the purchase of the mansion from the family trust as well as the six year restoration process from 1990-1996. She spoke passionately about the learning curve of restoring the home and the challenges they faced but also about general ideas of conservation in local communities especially as they pertain to UNESCO World Heritage sights. She contrasted a lot the efforts of Georgetown Penang to those of Melacca in souther Malaysia. But her general themes i think spoke to the identity and energy of the area as a whole even compared to other cities or sights.

Apparently Georgetown's administration has made a lot of conscious efforts only to partake in reversible development. Meaning that anything as pertaining to tourism should only be implemented if it is also easily removed. In general they are seeking to maintain the historical part of the city as a live and functioning part of a regular Malays life unlike other areas where historical zones are simply turned into a tourist trap of upmarket shops and restaurants.

Personally I think they really succeeded in this even if I was able to independently articulate why I initially felt the warmth of the town. It was great not to feel like my experience was dramatically different than that of a Penang-ite and in the meantime if I get to eat like a queen for next to nothing, I say it's just winning all around!

Jungles, caves, dreadlocks and villages

There was a moment in time that I thought dreading my hair was a great idea. I was nineteen, learning to scuba dive on Koh Tao and an absolute fool. One of my dive instructors was a young, fit, blonde Austrian chick. She had the kind of dreads that could convince even the preppiest of individuals that dreads were a good life decision. She oozed the kind of nonchalant badass-ary that my pseudo-rebellious teenage self thought I should emulate. Fortunately for future Denise, fear of having to shave my head when I was finished with the dreads or being that chick with permanently smelly hair deterred me from following through. This weekend, sitting on a three hour boat ride upriver into the jungle behind the 19 year-old who chose not to heed those internal warnings made me eternally grateful that I passed on the dreadlocked stage of my adolescence. Even the running river and fresh air can't overpower the stench of poor dreadlocks and dirty wannabe hippie.

That said, I must admit I have poor luck with people while traveling. I always end up my overnight treks or boat rides with boring couples, people who don't speak English, angry Russians or whiney soap-boxers. My first mistake on this particular trip to spend three days hiking and sleeping in Taman Negara, a 2,500,000 year old virgin rainforest, was to assume that the two young Europeans I would be with would be good company. My first clue to the alternative should've been this girl's hair. When your dreads look like you simply allowed a series of birds to build nests in your hair without ever bathing, you may want to consider a different hair style as this one clearly doesn't suit you. Her personality was no better. Between the two, I'm lucky I was able to keep down my lunch.

Anyways, I've digressed from the point of this post: the Jungle. Plus, I swore I would keep my negativity separate. I can't keep all my promises.

Taman Negara is a virgin rainforest in central Malaysia in the state of Pehang. Having avoided every ice age, geologists can estimate the age of the forest to 2.5million years old. Pretty damn cool, if I do say so. The protected lands are home to wild elephants, tigers, boars, and a variety of monkeys, birds, reptiles, fish, etc. And leeches. Tiny, slimy, deceptively fast, blood sucking leeches. After the rain, these suckers are brutal and nearly impossible to avoid.

We spent about 6+ hours a day hiking through the jungle to reach a cave or village to sleep in that night.

I loved being the jungle. Believe it or not. Sweating. Laughing (usually at dreads falling into rivers with poor balance). Trekking through mud and rivers. Uphill, jumping over fallen trees. There's something freeing and primal about the entire experience. I can say this because in the back of my mind I knew I would return to my shitty dorm room in a couple days times. And eventually to the comforts of my life colored by hot water, air conditioning and all the joys of stateside life.

However, what really struck me was being in this village and gaining even a fleeting understanding of their culture but more critically, at least for my concern, the effect of outsiders (namely NGOs and tourism) on their sustainability and cohesion.

Background on local Orang Asli. They are semi-nomadic, moving every few months. Specifically, they change camp when a member of the village passes away. Villages are comprised by about ten families. This particular village had been in place for what we had been told was a 'long time', about ten months. So as I sat discussing village life with Riffi, my guide, and John a local village guide I wasn't surprised in the least to look around and visibly see the impact of consumerism on the village.

I remember seeing this when I was trekking Thailand, years ago. I visited a village of the Karen Hill tribe minority near the border with Myanmar. At the time I was shocked to see a small satellite dish and spotty television in one the family's modest homes. My western sentiments were appalled by this pristine village being corrupted by the influence of trash television. God love 19yo Denise. So idealist. So self-righteous.

Since then however, one thing I have come to understand is the significantly negative impact uninformed charity work and tourism can cause an isolated community like the Orang Asli village in which I stayed. Everywhere around the village one didn't have to look far to find a discarded bag of chips, can of meat or faded container of some food source sent in by a local non-government organization seeking to better the lives of villagers. So true also is the effect of tourism. I like to think I try to avoid extremely detrimental situations such as a day trip that visited another Orang Asli village, dubbed the tourism village, in which villagers daily entertain the photographs and troves of outsiders. In my idealism and naivety, I hope that when my guide tells me he is the only person who visits this particular village and they chose to limit their exposure, he is only speaking sincerely but one cannot be so sure.

Nevertheless, what does often happen in these cases, is the exposure to such outside influences degrades the culture and rips away at what sustains this way of life. But who are we to say whether or not a culture should or should not be change according to a western definition of process. I recall reading 'Development According to My Mother' in which a Columbia educated PhD candidate in development studies went back to re-evaluate everything she'd studied. I must clarify, she grew up in rural Thailand, in a small village. After years of education in the US, her piece beautifully questioned everything she'd learned about developed and sustainability. Why did her mother living a simple and happy village life need plastic? Didn't her banana leaves work well enough to contain food? Did her bamboo or local tools not suffice? Of course, they did. And they were far more sustainable and environmentally friendly than any "charity" or "development" of an NGO or foreign government.

Her's was a piece that left me questioning everything I thought I was working towards in my undergraduate education. Her's was a piece that led me never to seriously pursue work in the field of international development after graduation. Seriously questioning the very notion and the role in which foreigners could and should sustainably play a role in societal change. Real change can and should happen in most places, especially the US if I do say so myself. But that change, especially if rooted in cultural ideals and history must, exclusively come from and being forged from within. I no longer feel right with the idea of being a leader of change in a community of which I am not intrinsically a part.

This rant sincerely does tie into my experience in the village. In that to me it speaks to the role of ignorant involvement. A tourist bringing candy to children in a isolated village not only encourages children to expect and ask for that from the next person they see but can have a long standing effect on the evolution of that community if the habit continues. This isn't even to mention the issues of child nourishment and malnutrition.

And here I stand on my soap-box. I started this blurb venting on the types of people who get under my skin only to come full circle and expose that our deepest aggravations are rooted in our own weaknesses. AKA my soap-box is usually close by.

Confessions of a Narcoleptic Meditator

My teacher says the tingling/prickling I feel all over my body is a sign I'm maturing in my meditation. ..... I think I'm just getting a rash.

My friend Kate should never go into marketing. I told her this in Bangkok I believe shortly after she attempted to convince me to join Crossfit. Her pitch involved building gym relationships that were so great because of all the farting, vomiting and other bodily functions you shared during workouts. Not a big seller, even for the likes of me. A country-wide water fight, a lot of beer, a couple of days and some cheap Thai whiskey later came her next pitch : a silent Vipassana meditation retreat.

"It's so great. By day three, you'll be going mad. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll sing Lion King songs to yourself in your mind. It's very painful. You should go." I'm paraphrasing and simplifying, of course. Clearly, Kate doesn't understand the breadth of insanity already taking place in my inner monologue. The last thing I need is a ten-day long silent meditation retreat! Yeah, wonderful, leave me to my own devices and thoughts! But before I knew it, there I was, signed-up. Locked in and ready to go. Or so I thought.

Vipassana is a form of meditation dating back over 2500 years. You dedicated readers out there may recall this number has crossed your path in reading my ramblings recently. You are correct. Vipassana is believed (by its practitioners) to be the specific form of meditation use by Sidharrtha Gautama (the Buddha) in order to achieve full enlightenment/liberation/nirvana. Vipassana is an "insight" meditation practice where you where you focus on breath and physical sensation in order to alleviated deep seeded cravings and aversions (you know... Buddhism. All suffering comes from desires etc). It "disappeared" for about two millennia from the land of it's birth, India, but the practice was retained in Burma (Myanmar). Enter the twentieth century and a man named S.N. Goenka who self-fulfilled a prophecy and brought the practice back to India and has since sought to spread it around the world.

Here's the daily schedule, just to give you an idea of the day-to-day at Dhamma Malaya:

4:00AM -- Morning Wake-up bell

4:30-6:30AM -- Meditate in the hall or your own residence

6:30-8:00AM -- Breakfast and break

8:00-9:00AM -- Group meditation in Dhamma hall

9:00-11:00AM -- Meditate in the hall or your own residence according to teacher's                 instructions.

11:00-12:00PM -- Lunch break

12:00-1:00PM -- Rest and interview with teachers

1:00-2:30PM -- Meditate in the hall or your own residence

2:30-3:30PM -- Group meditation in Dhamma hall

3:00-5:00PM -- Meditate in the hall or your own residence according to teacher's instructions.

5:00-6:00PM -- Tea break

6:00-7:00PM -- Group meditation in Dhamma hall

7:00-8:15PM -- Discourse (recorded lessons on Vipassana technique and Dhamma)

8:15-9:00PM -- Group meditation in Dhamma hall

9:00-9:30PM -- Question time in the hall

10:00PM -- Lights out.

Check out the website (http://dhamma.org.au/v/a/app?re=asia&sc=my&co=326&la=EN) for the center I attended which goes into more FAQ, rules, detail about the course in general.


When I initially imagined this posting it was hysterical. Riddled with the inner-workings of my neurotic breakdown over the course of 10+ days (there was actually a Day Zero and a Day 11 as well). But like with most things in my life, nothing is ever as funny as it sounds in my own head. Pitty, cause in here, I'm pretty damn funny. Probably for the best though, better to not publicly broadcast my deepest neuroses to everyone; leave a little something to YOUR imagination cause there's nothing left to mind.

Early on in the course, I found myself oddly confident, even arrogant, in my ability to "get through it". I had no misconceptions that likely I wouldn't have some dramatic life breakthrough but just that maybe I'd learn a few things and hopefully gain a little clarity/relaxation/calm. It didn't take long for my mind to wander into renditions of Footloose's "Learning to be Silent" and episodes of my self-created sitcom, Dhamma Summer Camp, in which I escape through the tall grasses of the compound and find fun and music on the boys' side. I imagined that likely most other campers  meditators were also contemplating their own jailbreaks. Later, when the silence ended, I would learn just how many people drank the kool aid.  

By Day 6, my confidence began to dissipate. Truth be told : I am an awful meditator. The whole point of the physical silence is to attempt to reach a state of mental silence. Clearly, Goenka and his assistant teachers have never dealt with the likes of Denise Spain, cause there is no silencing the inner workings of this mind. During meditations, the bellowing voice of Goenka would tell us that whenever our minds wander, not to worry or feel depression, disappointment or sadness. Simply to recognize our minds have wandered and bring concentration back to the observation of breath (and sensation). I never got depressed/disappointment/sad because when my mind wandered, I was all: "Oh yeah, I could get a motorcycle in New Orleans. Yeah, I should email Casey about that. Ooo what color? Should I get saddle bags? I wonder if I could transfer my license? I haven't been on a motorcycle since Sri Lankan. Hm I should get one in Penang. Yes good idea Denise." And on it goes. Never ending, mental banter with myself. Trust me, if you've had any impact on my life in the past 10 years, I probably thought about you more in those 10 days than the past 10 years cumulative. Sad truth.

When my mind wasn't wandering, there's a good chance I still wasn't meditating. Most likely, I was sleeping. Those mornings came EARLY. And this girl has never been an early riser. Inhale. Exhale. Sensation. Inhale. Exhale. Sensation. Before I knew it, the hour would be up. Because narcoleptic Denise had slept the whole session. Whoops. I've always been a weird combination of insomniac and narcoleptic. Heaven forbid I sleep at night, in bed. But put me in a meditation hall, on a public bus, metro system, university classroom, anywhere I should be alert and aware and I'm out like a light.

Just as I thought, at the end of Day 6, that I too would turn a corner the next day, as Goenka promised, it burst. Literally. It burst, my right ear drum. Yup, middle of the night; ruptured. Apparently it got jealous of all the sensations my left ear (which was already ruptured and severely infected) was receiving so it decided to get in on the action. Day 7-10 became pretty interesting being mostly deaf with ringing/drumming/pounding in both ears. As I told the teacher, the silence can be incredibly deafening. The second rupture did however give me an excuse to utilize some pretty potent pain killers I wasn't meant to be taking during the course. Let's just say my meditations got a lot more interesting. I bordered somewhere between serene meditator and Jack from The Shining. All work and no play makes Denise a dull girl.

I could rant for pages about the mental tangents I took, the so called "non-secular" approach of Vipassana, the chanting, Goenka's cough, my cellblock room, the technique, etc. But I think the moment they lost me all comes down to the moment they mentioned uprooting all your deep repressed emotions/sankhara/cravings/aversions. My sub-conscious mind threw on the breaks and squealed to a halt. "Oh hell no!" That's  one of my cardinal rules "Repress all emotion so you don't have to cope properly" is right up there with "not speaking when I'm intoxicated" and "only being interested in men who are emotionally unavailable". Some people call these defense mechanisms. I call them survival skills.

All in all, I've concluded a few things about my experience. I am an extrovert. I like people. I really do. Okay, I like intelligent, interesting, clean people. Preferably adults. Okay, revision: I like some people. But the point is, I'm not the type of person who should be left to my own devices/thoughts. Do I think I had the opportunity to experience something new? Yes. Do I think I gain something positive from the experience? Yes. Can I give those positives a name? No. Will I be running to sign up for another Vipassana course? Probably not anytime soon.

Oh and you should be grateful I didn't chronicle my contemplations of the lizard's consciousness, the Chinese lady without a bra, my musical interludes, Goenka's snorting and my silent dissent into insanity.

Forgotten Love

Sitting on the banks of the Chao Phraya waiting for the ferry to whisk me downriver, an awkward Dutch couple approached me about the ferry schedule. In all fairness to these two, this particular pier is through a small market with three separate small piers from which to board. There really is no signage and dozens of smaller private ferry-taxis whipping around the river. After a quick "just follow me", they began asking me a series of arbitrary questions about Bangkok and how I feel like it's changed or hasn't.

While I think it has changed since I was last here, I think I've changed more. I'm more interested in the city, less in the "sights". Traveling is less bases on temples and museums and more so on food and wandering aimlessly.

But this is what I'll call : "Things I forgot I loved about Thailand and the things I forgot I loved to hate".

Somehow, I forgot how much I LOVE Street Food. Sri Lanka had absolutely little to no options for a delightful meal on a flimsy plastic stool or from a metal cart on wheels.

Particularly special items include the fried chicken pictured above, spicy crab papaya salad, Thai Iced Coffee (which typically comes in a handy travel baggy) and....

Salt fish. Lemon grass stuff, salt rubbed, grilled. doused in green chili sauce and preferably enjoyed with a bottle of cheap whiskey. Life is complete. I forgot how much I love whole salt fish.

Paragon, "The Pride of Bangkok", shopping mall housing Hermes, D&G, Chanel, Prada, Feragamo and Versace sits across the street from MBK. Where for pennies on the dollar you can buy replicas of all the overpriced things featured in Paragon. Okay, not quite all. But the proximity of this wealth juxtaposition is fascinating to me. I am unsure if this is a forgot I loved or forgot I loved to hate moment, likely the later.

I am templed out. I have to admit. I like to think I'm a big culture traveler and will always appreciate the subtle nuances of difference temples, WRONG. I am templed out. They're all the same to me. It's sad in some ways but it gets to the point that once you seen a couple good ones, ya done. But I will admit, I forgot how much I love Wat Phrakeaw, The Temple of the Emerald Buddha which adjoins to the old royal palace in Bangkok. This place is breathtaking. And will spoil you for anything you see in the future. Maybe, I'm just a girl who loves shiny things, if so, so be it!

I forgot how much I hate Khao San Road. Ugh. It cannot be emphasized enough. There is nothing more wrong with the world and humanity than a bunch of dreadlocked backpackers dressed-alike and thinking they are experiencing Thai culture while sitting on a street full of western tourists getting drunk and eating crappy Pad Thai and banana pancakes. Save the world, bomb KSR

I forgot how much I LOVE how easy it is to take a poop on one of these!

This is f**king awesome.

This song (or at least what I call it) has become the unofficial theme song to my last week in Bangkok. It's actually called Thrift Shop by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis and is by no means indicative of my taste in music. But the phrase has become synonymous with my weekend of Songkran in Bangkok.

I was hesitant to be in the city for Songkran. Thinking I'm not really the kind of person for a massive street party and large crowds. Not really my cup of tea. Despite the fact that I'm moving to New Orleans in a few short months, Mardi Gras... has really never grasped my attention.

Songkran is the Thai New Year. Despite my many trips to this country, I've never been around for it. Thai's (and other Buddhists) calculate the calendar year based on the death of the Buddha; NOT the birth/death of Jesus. Another example of American ethnocentricity: it don't all revolve around us. According to Thai calendars, the Buddha passed away 543 years before Jesus making this year 2556. Although the dates are now "set" (April 13-15), it is a solar holiday celebrating the movement of the sun into Aries.

Songkran is a New Years celebration. It falls in the hottest time of year the year so it is about summer and starting fresh and cleansing, starting a new. Families are encouraged to spend time together. Buddhist visit their temple/wat and perform ceremonial washings of the Buddha statues.

Outside the temples, the insanity begins.

Imagine every person you've ever met with a super soaker/bucket of water/jar of white "blessing" chalk/paint. Now, multiply those 50 people you can name by 10x to 20x easily and that's Silom Road in downtown Bangkok. Not to mention there are festivities at RCA, Khao San and numerous other hot spots around the city, oh and country. Because frankly, BKK is not the place to be for Songkran, Chiang Mai is what you want. Oh well. Because if this was a second or third class celebration than I don't think I'm cool enough to handle a first class party.

My partner-in-crime, Kate, and I managed to find bunny sun glasses as exhibited above. As the day turned into night, my sunglasses, complete with dangling whiskers, turned into evening personality glasses. But frankly I can't imagine a better day/evening/night than acting like a child, spraying people with water, 'blessing' others with well-wishes, eating amazing street food and frankly, drinking cheap beer. Life is truly good.

The bunny glasses are definitely coming home with me. Undoubtably.

It's not all fun and games though, and I was mildly disturbed by the risk associated with this entire day/weekend/week. Large crowds make me anxious. The opportunity for theft. The drunk in-citable crowds. The disaster waiting to happen. And happen it does. The Thai Disaster Prevention and Mitigation Department estimated that 218 people died during the first four days of the festival nationwide, including related traffic accidents which as of the 15th of April numbered over 2,000. Last year, over 250 people died nation wide during Songkran according to the Bangkok Post. I mean ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Yes, realize we're dealing with a smaller population.

However, last year in 2012 the National Safety Council in the US estimated 173 Fourth of July related traffic fatalities. Seems comparable, except... we have a population 4.5 times larger than Thailand and the statistics from any source are hard to confirm and attribute to the presence of a holiday. Strangely I will probably learn how to better isolate and analyze these variables while at Tulane.

The point being, can you imagine a festival in the US completely defined by a massive water-fight for young and old? At the end of the day, and throughout it, I came to a serious dilemma : a massive crowd of people, an IV line of beer, and being drenched in water.... what could the problem be?! Oh yeah, peeing. On day 1, I did what any white girl would do : sought out restaurants/guesthouses/bars with toilets for 5-10baht a squat. On day 2, my skirt seemed.... freeing. And as the fire hoses literally rained down on me, I decided "What the fuck, I'm soaking wet and you're about to spray me with a hose. There's probably not toilet paper at that bar. Plus, standing is way more comfortable than squatting."

For Mature Eyes Only

The first time I visited Bangkok, I was barely 18yo and completely green to the world of travel and especially backpacking. Turning the corner onto Sukhumvit Soi 4, aka Nana Plaza, looking from the window when I saw her/him/her. My first kathoey, Thai ladyboy. I didn't fully comprehend it at the time, Nana plaza is one of Bangkok's many red-light districts. And ironically, for a young 18yo American, it is also the red-light district that predominantly caters to Western and American sex tourists.

After that trip, Nana was not a place I sought out on following trips to Bangkok. However, having returned for the sixth time and also the first time in almost six years, I find myself revisiting old haunts.

I came to Bangkok to link up with a friend who was in town. The idea of seeing a familiar face seemed fun (can you really blame me given the influx of German couples in Sri Lanka?). I walked along Sukhumvit (a major avenue in downtown Bangkok) to meet him at his hotel on Soi 4 : The Woraburi. Of course, I found myself recognizing shops, restaurants, and bits. The 711 where I first bought disposable underwear and discovered the anomaly of deodorant with whiting agents in it (Cathay Pacific lost our baggage on this particular occasion). The bars where sad looking middle aged men (okay, some younger... others much older ugh) vied and ponied up for the attention of young Thai waitresses and sex workers. Back in 2005, I think I didn't get it or was too naive to fully form my opinions on the bars and brothels lining this street. But in 2013, on I walked. Completely aware that this strip represents such a minute aspect of the sex industry in this country (it's said that western men represent less than 2% of 'Johns' in Thailand. I have a hard time believing this figure which was only recently given to me. Also, data on the sex industry is unreliable at best).

As I pass the vast majority of the strip, I knew my hotel from back in 2005 had to be coming up soon. I thought I saw it. Yellow, open air restaurant... they'd made some changes but it seemed right. I laughed. And 200 yards on, as I approached the Woraburi, I laughed harder. They hadn't made changes, not one. The Woraburi, where I was to meet my friend in 2013, was the exact hotel I had stayed in back in 2005. The exact location I first saw a 60-something man ascend the stairs with not one but two paid companions. My skin crawled then. But evolved, 2013 me, still seemed to be lacking empathy or any emotional response.

Obviously, I didn't hit up the bars back in '05. A freshman at Fordham, I don't think the idea would have crossed my mind even if drinking on the Global Outreach trip was allowed. '13 Denise, in the company of two grown men (one un-interested in the scene, the other an admitted frequenter) decided it was time to get to the bottom of Nana. This shouldn't have been a big deal. I've been to the clubs of Patpong, inside brothels in Thailand and Cambodia was skeezier than anything that exists even on Soi Cowboy. But the idea still fascinated me because this is where looking around the bar, the men could be my uncle, my dad, my brother, a boyfriend, a co-worker. Plucked from the streets of mainstream America, I wanted to "get it".

I'm not saying I condone the sex tourism/prostitution industry. I'm just saying that even after years of traveling in Asia (not to say its the only place in the world with high occurrences of sex tourism) and writing an entire undergraduate thesis on it, I'm still fascinated. But the fascination has shifted. Younger Denise was fascinated by the girls : how to help them. Initiatives to combat trafficking by focusing on these 'poor helpless young women'. How patronizingly American of me. This approach is called supply side solutions; an idea and mindset I had completely abandoned before the ink dried on my bullshit thesis I submitted for graduation.

Demand, that's where it's at. That's what fascinates me. Not the girls. There will always be women in Thailand, South Korea, Macedonia, the US or really any country willing to sell their bodies voluntarily or not. Demand, the men. They're the fuel. They're what keeps it going. They're why I found myself drawn into some stupid social experiment of hanging out in a bar where American men go to pick up sex workers for the night. And on a practical level, their prosecution is thought to be one of the only ways to truly combat illegal sex tourism and trafficking.

I think going to a bar in Nana falls into the train-wreck mentality. As abhorrent, disgusting or unsettling as it seems at first glance, you can't seem to draw yourself away because there is something all encompassing and fascinating about a sixty-something man paying for the companionship of a younger woman. We played "what's his story." Watching guys passing by, or sipping beers. We'd guess : married? career? nationality? kids? Performance anxiety? Kinky fantasy his wife would never fulfill? ED? Socially inept?

The list of pretend identities and traits could go on in my imagination and would surely cross into something dark and inappropriate. But what it really comes down to, what I think I'll never fully comprehend is what drives men to seek out and pay for sex. Can you really get off knowing that likely somewhere in her, she despises you? Are you really gratified by this business transaction? Is your life that lack-luster that you resort to paying for companionship and sex?

Again, it's all a very narrow representation of a multi-billion dollar industry. An industry I wrote 90+ pages of bullshit on to graduate from my elite undergraduate university. Ridden with minute nuances, numerous economic actors, and a plethora of experiences and stories.

But walking down Soi 'Memory', I'm just stuck on that one idea : what drives these guys. Someone should write a book on it. A psychological analysis of male mind and sex tourism. Perhaps it's already out there. But I can promise you, if it's not, it won't be me writing it.

On Lessons Learned

My last day in Sri Lanka. I'm flying to Bangkok tonight to see a friend and then spend the week in Thailand for the Songkran festival before heading south to Malaysia. With four weeks completed here, I like to reflect. Not necessarily on one cohesive theme but random observations, lessons learned, tallies, mishaps, etcetera.

Sri Lanka has been brilliant, colorful and fascinating. A country rocked by civil war. Stricken by a tsunami that took over 48,000 lives in 20 minutes. A country as small as Ireland but with a population 4.5 times large (it's said to be like having the entire population of Australia live in Tasmania!!). So how could you expect it to be anything but fascinating, colorful, diverse and challenging.

Four weeks in Sri Lanka and I've taken :
1 Taxi
1 Train
3 motorcycles
5 Tuk-Tuks (including the one to the airport tonight)
7 pushbikes
19 buses
and countless kilometers walking.

* I could live off Kottu Roti *

Driving :
Honking a precise art : one must always honk one's horn when preparing to pass a bicyclist, pedestrian or really any vehicle smaller than your own. The timing, length and intensity of one's honk indicates how quickly the other party must jerk to the left. Occasionally, this amounts to the other part ending up in a dirt patch on the side of the road.... likely a safer alternative to the road itself. Honking can also be used when approaching any intersection as a form of "Watch out biotches, I'm coming through."
Alternatively : honk at your friend at the road side stall, in the passing bus or just saying hey. Of course, this isn't confusing with the previous necessary reasons to honk at all.
Overtaking (passing in it's most aggressive form) : if you have 100m between you and an oncoming Tata dump truck, you have plenty of time to pass a scooter, public bus and tuk-tuk. No problem. A heavy lurch to the left and a series of aggressive honks should aid in your endeavor.
Comparison: it should be noted that while the "largest vehicle wins" rule still prevails in Sri Lanka, I'll take driving here over India or South Korea any day.

On Questions :
Interested in gathering the entire male population of a town? Get into a car accident. Interested in playing a riveting game of twenty-questions? Walk down the street.

Sri Lankans (I should specify particularly men) rapid fire off a seemingly pre-set list of questions. "What your name? What your country? You want tuk-tuk? Why not? Where are you going? Sri Lanka good? Where you stay? You want banana? Why no banana? You married? Why no married? No babies? Where you going?"
I took the liberty of inserting my own Shinglish (Shinalese English). The questions come rapid fire, one after another often with little room for answers. I'm well practiced in each of three arts of response : A. Rapid fire honest answers. B. Complete and udder avoidance. C. Fun. I've been English. Spanish. Japanese. Allergic to bananas. Walking to India. Jennifer, Alisha, Rebecca and Trixie. The options are endless.

I've learned:
- That if you turn of the power to an electrical outlet (there's a switch for each in SL), you can trick the three prong circuit to only working with two prongs by sticking a pen in the third. Guess the lessons your mother taught you about not putting anything in the electrical outlet just don't hold up these days!
- Sri Lankans do not get "going for a walk"! Say you ask, how do I get to 'x' waterfall. Your answer will likely be : "take a tuk-tuk top. Tuk-tuk wait. You swim. Tuk-tuk drive you back." When you correct, that you would prefer to walk, the look of confusion envelopes and overwhelms them.

Self Reflection :

I am completely desensitized. Ironically, my mother always told me this, with special regard to movies, television, really anything exhibiting gore or violence. I always loved horror films even as a little girl. But in my "adulthood" (quotations as it feels to be a false assertion of some non-existent reality), it has gone a step further. I am desensitized to the world is seems; its pleasures, pains, poverty, shocking scenes, and stunning sunsets unfold around me without so much as a pause in my quick pace down the road.

Perhaps this is merely years of sensory overload brought on by a crippling desire to do and see more. But now, I find nothing overwhelms me, surprises me, or even more sadly, ever truly consumes me as to evoke some emotional response.
Today, as has been typical per my experience in Sri Lanka, I found myself wandering along a canal. In my midst are homes destroyed, in some state of disrepair, to most's standards unfit to live in. And yet I find myself numb, not outraged or saddened by lives lost, dreams shattere or hardships endured even in the midst of a country recently shocked by not only a three decade long civil war and a devastating tsunami.

I love that I can go anwhere and be comfortable and confident in my ability to adapt, unafraid, unshaken, ready and aching for exploration. Bu now in years gone by, I see I've lost sight of something in my travels. Empathy. The drive for a connection. An emotion undering that fuels the search beneath the facade or the surface to something... more.

In moving on, I'm looking forward to:
- Street food. There's a upsetting lack of street food, much less wonderful street food, in Sri Lanka.
- Penang Curry. No justification necessary.
- The longest Thai massage of my life. Caress me down. I'm so excited.

Dreams Deferred

Ever since getting my first dive certification in 2006, I toyed with giving up the "rat race" at my young age and living the island life. Getting my dive masters and instructors license always seemed like the perfect way to permanently defer the real world and adulthood. Well, I think after tearing my ear drum today for the sixth time in seven years, I may finally have to concede my future may not lie thirty meters below sea level.

Just to clarify, tearing your ear drum is a bit different than rupturing it (which I've never done thank god). A normal person might rupture (or pop) their ear drum while diving or other activities causing excruciating pain and potential hearing damage. My issues are brought on by having tubes in my ears as a small child from repeat ear infections. The tubes left a lot of scar tissue on my ear drums which in addition to making it at times quite hard and painful to equalize my ear pressure while descending on a dive, it also makes it a lot easier to cause tiny perforations in scar tissue. The result is pretty intense pain after completing a dive and a general feeling of drunkenness and poor coordination. Alas, might have to become a sky dive instructor instead.

Up until this moment (where I am actually drinking a beer in hopes of reversing the "drunk" effect), my time in the South has been quite lovely. I've spent the past bit skirting along the southern coast from Tangalla to Mirissa and now Unawantuna. The highlight so far being my four days staying at Dewmini Rotti Shop in Mirissa with Gayani and her lovely family. A Sri Lankan rotti is in many ways like a thinner version of a crepe, which can also be either sweet or savory. The owner of this little shop and guesthouse is a goddess. One of the kindest women I've met in my entire life and an absolutely phenomenal chef! I had the opportunity to spend the afternoon in the kitchen with her. In addition to being scolded when she learned I never wash my rice at home, I learned four vegetable curries, chicken curry, potato sambol and a few other odds and ends. Please don't expect reproductions at home, I'm an awful student.

Over the past couple weeks I've been pretty active outdoors and hiking. Made a cameo for an early morning safari at Udawalawe national park, home to more than 500 Asian Elephants. Pretty amazing, considering the last time I went to see wildlife in Asia, enter Chitwan national park in Nepal, a morning of trekking and an afternoon of driving in a jeep amounted to one lousy elephant from a distance and only on "up close" asiatic rhino.

Uda was a whole 'nother story. You could trip over the elephants in this place. It almost became like the buffalo in Yellowstone, at first they're so exciting and by the end, you just want them to get out of the way on the road!

Nonetheless, the babies were especially adorable! We also saw a lot of water buffalo, eagles, tons of peacocks, crocodiles, a fox-like creature whose name is escaping me, and a myriad of other birds and snakes. All in all a pretty successful wildlife viewing day. Nearby Yala park, offered opportunities to see wild leopards but reports from fellow travelers described it as a caravan of jeeps chasing one elusive cat, eventually scaring away any other wildlife nearby.

I did a fair bit of hiking around the hill country. Intentionally skipped the landmark hike of Sri Lanka : Adam's Peak. A perfect pinnacle mountain that is by Christian's believed to be the first spot Adam stepped foot on earth. By Buddhists believed to be the footprint of Buddha. Blah blah blah. You wake up at 2am and hike till sunrise, mostly up a set of stairs behind dozens to hundreds of pilgrims. Not my cup of tea. However, the less spiritually rewarding hikes I did around Ella especially were quite rewarding.

Some trails are marked better than others. I made it to Ella rock (above) via an adorable hand drawn map by my guesthouse in town!

To come full circle if you've read thus far, one dream deferred a different one granted. I have officially accepted admission to Tulane's MSc in Disaster Resilience and Leadership. Classes start August 26 and I guess I'll be moving to New Orleans sometime shortly before that.