graywanderings

Dear Daniel, my brother, my apologies for the way this blog exposes certain graphic  elements of our childhood.  It’s necessary, and you’ll appreciate it.

We’re moving down another hill in the “King of Buses,” (no really, that’s the neon painted name on the front windshield . . . I’m pretty sure the bus driver can see around the lettering), this is the third or so in a series of ridge climbs and descents, and it seems there’s at least a dozen more ups and downs before we arrive.  One of the young twin boys seated next to us is standing on his mother’s knees, holding on to the seat in front of him and somehow managing to pee directly into a blue plastic bag. Impressive.

Impressive especially since I can’t figure out how to simply stabilize my body around all the twisting turns.  I’m using climbing moves that I utilized when climbing with my brother three days before departing on this trip, but they’re not quite working.  I’ve got my knees jammed against the seat in front of me and I’m applying opposing back pressure to my seat (like a rock chimney), but I seem to continually rock back and forth.

This may not seem all that important, but it’s was absolutely crucial to my survival. You see, when we were young, my brother and I were known as the baf brothers (in Matt and Daniel Gray language, that means barf brothers . . . neither of us could pronounce our “r”s with any ease).  Mountain roads?  We would be sick after the first mile.  Our Uncle Bob’s boat?  Couldn’t even get on the dock without tossing breakfast.  Flat freeways in Southern California?  Okay, those might take a while, but at the end of 100 miles to our grandmother’s house, we were bound to be hunched over a take-out cup.

When we boarded the bus at 7:50 am, bound for Luang Pabrang, just 387 kilometers away, you can imagine my dismay when I realized my dramamine was stowed in the baggage area underneath us.  No big deal, I thought, we’ll be there by lunchtime.

Lesson #1: never use the word “just” when estimating the time it takes to travel distances on 30 km/hour, up and down, windy, teetering ridge-top roads that travel through remote mountain villages and a rather rainy countryside, (30 km/hour  on this road would be a brake-neck speed that would land you at the bottom of the valley floor after a thousand foot freefall). Lesson # 2: never under estimate how much one such bus ride (in a bus that I’m pretty sure was missing its front left shock and its right rear break) can slosh your body around a tiny space.

I would love to retell the many lessons I learned on this ride (ten hours gives you plenty of time to think) or describe the many memorable details (roadside vegetable stands, children shooting toy guns at the bus, people bathing five feet from the road, pigs and dogs barely escaping run-ins with our front axel, water buffalo chewing lemongrass, and the remote beauty of a jungle wonderland), but none of that will help you if you find yourself in a similar situation.

At about hour number 6, I was about to give up and succumb to reliving the baf brother days. I threw my left hand behind the arm rest of my seat, I think in frustration, as the bus made a sharp left turn.  Bingo. My body didn’t swing to the right and when the bus turned back to the right, the arm rest blockaded any further movement in the opposite direction. My strategically placed palm created the additional opposing pressure that I needed.

Lesson # 3: stabilize yourself using the correct body positioning and avoid motion sickness for a ten hour bus drive through some of the most beautiful country on earth. Oh, and don’t forget your dramamine.

Imagine the rolling hills and sharp mesas of southern Utah draped in a rainforest.  Imagine grass roof houses resting on stilts above rice paddies and corn fields. Imagine coconut trees and grey skies patched by sunlight and blue.  Imagine a long windy road, neither paved nor dirt, in the middle of an endless landscape.

Imagine two monks walking down this road, one in a sharp orange robe, the other wearing a robe with the hint of olive green, the sign of age. Imagine both monks walking towards you, each caring a light umbrella to protect their cleanly shaven heads.  Imagine standing there, sweating in the heat of the Laotian humidity, thankful for the slight breeze blowing across the valley. Imagine those monks turning and smiling at you as they pass by: glowing, satisfied smiles.

Imagine wondering why those monks turned to smile at you. Imagine suddenly realizing that you’ve been grinning ear-to-ear without knowing it.  Imagine that smiling exchange, the most simple gesture of humanity, and think to yourself, “what did I do to deserve all this?”

As I dropped into our seat on the long-tailed motorboat I looked around to see the orchestration of tourists.  We were in the first of many mini-buses filled with site-seers arriving to explore the “traditional,” “authentic” floating market.  Yes, I thought to myself, we’re about to see a lot stuff.

And by stuff I mean the hoards and hoards of repetitive handicrafts and trinkets and fabrics and tourist goods, many of which have been Made in China, made available at these places.  Lindsay and I came to see paddle boats filled with locals buying fresh fruits and vegetables, but if our drive to the water, and our earlier walks were any indication of what was to come down the canal, we were in for the material onslaught of souvenirs.

The ninety-minute drive away from Bangkok to the market area was lined with warehouses and storefronts selling wooden benches, pre-fabricated houses on stilts, boats in the shapes of ducks, water towers and tanks, giant rooster gargoyles, political campaign posters for the upcoming election, and rows upon rows of street bikes and car tires.  While walking in Bangkok we were privy to outdoor markets selling gems and jewelry, knock-off sunglasses and religious tokens, and the same stuff over and over and over.

Where does all this stuff come from?  Why, no, how is there so much stuff  in the world?  We saw it in Agua Calientes near Manchu Pichu and in Oaxaca and Guatemala in our trips there. And we of course don’t escape it in our malls of America. Maybe it’s because I’ve made the mistake of reading Ed Abbey’s “Hayduke Lives” in our down time, which rallies against “growth and more growth” as a way of building and human development, but I can’t help but ponder these questions. I know the money helps put food on the table and clothing on people’s backs, (barely) . . . And yet, is this the economy we want to assist in building for the world?

Sure enough, as we turned a sharp corner into the Damnoensaduak Market, we were greeted by locals selling stuff.  Yes, some paddle boats sold coconuts, a tourist favorite to sip on (I bought one myself, but for research purposes only), and mangosteens and freshly cooked food, but the vast amount of floating storefronts were filled with all the keepsakes we look forward to bringing home to our families (fear not, we’ll find the stuff made locally).

We’re cruising in and out of traffic on a brisk Bangkok morning.  Early from a flight that chased the night for 17 hours, our pink taxi, and the hundreds we pass that blur the same color, gently remind me that I’m not in Idyllwild, or Denver, or anywhere I’ve ever been in my life.  While I might boast the label of world traveler, this is a continent I had not stepped foot on until today, and it didn’t take long to realize that as the cliche really does go, I really was in a different world.

Guarded by the confines of our candy-trippin’-cadilac, I kidded myself for the forty-five minute drive to our hotel that humanity is the same everywhere. Radio Thai’s perfect English broadcast of world news, local politics and American pop-culture, along with billboards for the latest green air conditioner unit, a Prius and its rivaling hybrids, and newly built eco-neighborhoods lulled me into thinking that this far away land must really be like Kansas.  How quickly I forgot that the last 50 billboards I saw on the drive to LAX  advertised faulty weight-loss programs and super-sized fast food. But I did see a Thai hipster rockin’ out in her fixed-gear Tuk-tuk.

I wanted to end this blog, as I wrote it in my head on that final stretch, with some rather big dream . . . with this triumphant notion that I would spend the next seven weeks unpacking my drastic generalizations that humanity is the same everywhere . . . that my travels, as they always have, would help me see the nuances of culture and cities and their people.

How arrogant could I be? Seven weeks? The moment I stepped out of our beautiful cab, the aromas of salted fish and vinegared gutter water, the roar of the morning moto commute and the un-lit neon signs hanging far too close to my head and exposed wires, stormed over my senses.

And then I saw the 46 meter long by 15 meter tall reclining Buddha . . . and without a doubt, I had arrived.