A Dirty Hoe and a Handkerchief

From a dead sleep, I’m jolted awake. The haze of my unconsciousness hangs around clouding my vision. There a noise behind me. Wait, no it’s above me. It’s my roof. The roof is caving in! No, wait. I shake the sleep from my eyes and try to concentrate on the noise again. There’s a sudden loud scraping noise on my thatch roof.

It’s chickens.

There are chickens on my roof.

Simultaneously, my whole hut shakes like from an earthquake. The wood seems to shift under the pressure of this movement. Pumpkin, the pig, has stood up from underneath my hut causing the floorboards to buckle. She, also disturbed by the noisy chickens, takes the opportunity to shift in her wallow. Torn from my slumber I now hear everything. Horses in their stalls next to me, sheep bleating, turkeys wobbling around in the fields. Confused roosters crowing in the middle of the night. There’s a kitten that sneaks through the floorboards to sleep under my bed; I can even hear her purring having slept through the onslaught of farm noises. Too exhausted to shoo her out of my hut I roll back over, letting her be hoping that I too will find it easy to sleep.

Kitten sleeping under my cot

Pumpkin’s wallow under my hut

For those of you that don’t know. I’m currently stationary in Thailand. I’m WWOOFing. WWOOF is the World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. Basically in exchange for my sweat and tears I get a roof over my head. Even though in the summer Thai heat I often feel stupid for ever agreeing to do this, at the end of the day–I get the better end of the deal. I get to meet people from all over the world and see how others live their day to day life. Which was basically the whole point of my trip. Yes, I wanted a break from the U.S. and to explore an opportunity to see part of the world I’d only ever dreamed of. But truly the whole point of why I love to travel is to experience something different. Something totally opposite to my day to day life. The more uncomfortable I am, the better. The harder it is, the stronger I will be. And believe me, it’s hard.

It’s easily 125 degrees by the time we take our first break. Work starts at 6, sometimes earlier, to beat the morning heat. No need anyway, by 7:30 the sun is up in the sky beating down on everything. By mid morning we are all dizzy with sweat and fatigue but we press on until our task is done. We begin at 6:30 by taking care of the animals, we muck the stalls and the pins of the horses, sheep, deer, and chickens. We give food and fresh water and grass to everyone and then we, in turn, have our breakfast in our open air kitchen. Mama, always makes us a fine meal. She is the mother of the farm’s owner Arnon. They, along with the rest of the family and volunteers run the farm year round. They are up even earlier than we are and go to bed long after.

After breakfast, we begin our daily task. This could be anything that needs to be done around the farm, like maintenance or construction. Currently, we are clearing out an area over run with weeds to make a garden. Armed with a hoe and a handkerchief I get work. It’s easy to settle a restless mind when you’re weeding a garden in the sun. You can’t really think about anything but getting it done so you can puddle, naked in front of the fan in your hut. Determined, the group of volunteers has managed to weed a surprisingly large area so Arnon can grow pumpkins. ‘Sexy pumpkins,’ as he calls them.

Arnon is a kind man always wearing a smile. He speaks English very well and I am convinced he understands more than he alludes to. His favorite word is ‘sexy’ and he always reminds us not to ‘worry, be happy.’ This followed with his giddy laugh brings a smile to everyone’s face. He amazes me with his strength and determination. When it gets too hot in the afternoon he demands we get water, take a shower, and rest. We all do this gladly. But after my shower, I find him still weeding in the garden underneath the brutal sun. We take a lunch break, Arnon cuts more grass for the animals. We rest during our midday siesta (when it’s far too hot to do anything else), Arnon drives fence posts into the ground for the new cow pin. He never seems to stop and he never loses his positive attitude (and the man never sweats). It’s contagious, everyone here has different backgrounds and different outlooks on life but we are all happy to be in the company of such a brilliant person. We all congregate in the kitchen and chat about what our lives are like back home and why we’ve decided to put all that behind us and sweat underneath the Thai sun.

After lunch and a quick nap we are back to work at 3:30. We muck the stalls again, change their food and water. We put the animals back in their pins after letting them wander around all day. They reluctantly meander back into their stalls and seek shade.

For the rest of the day Arnon makes sure we have something to do. Chatpawai is a small town on the Burma-Thai border. There isn’t much to see but always something to do. He’s taken us to markets and into town. He lets us volunteer at the local school to teach English and at a refugee camp on the border (more on those later). On Friday, our only day off from weeding, he’s promised to take us to the local hot springs to swim and relax after a hard week at work. At the end of the day, the farm sounds lull me to sleep like a bizarre lullaby. Too exhausted to let them keep me awake, I drift off to sleep hoping no chickens crash land on my roof.

How Ruin Can be a Gift

It’s so refreshing to be out of the city. The fog and cacophony of Bangkok and Krabi seeped under my skin and weighed me down. Do not misunderstand me, both experiences were incredible but they take a toll on the soul. Sometimes you need to be somewhere quiet and green. That’s how I feel about Ayutthaya. It’s lovely here. The city is calm and unassuming. In the middle of it lay ancient ruins: the remains of Siam’s old capital. The ruins are the very heart of this town and Thai pride rings from them. As a UNESCO World Heritage Site they humble you and cause your mind to spin. Was this really the finest area in Asia? A grand capital of a powerful kingdom? As you wander aimlessly through corridor and step over broken misplaced bricks you wonder what life would have been like. Headless Buddhas are placed everywhere; some even at their original alter. The bricks in front of them are shiny and concave, worn away by years of faithful. How wonderful it must feel to have something to cling to when fire and destruction are at your door.

The Burmese army invaded Ayutthaya in the 1700s and reduced it to ruble. They destroyed all of the temples, beheaded the Buddha icons, and set the whole golden city on fire. Today time has weighed on the faces of the temples.The bricks are painted with black char and the prangs that are still standing lean over tired from their journey to here. The whole city seems like a burdening heartbreak you won’t let go of because it hurts too good, as Elizabeth Gilbert says.

It’s silent here; tourists have all returned home, shying away from the monstrous heat that the summer brings. It seems almost as if I have Ayutthaya to myself. I sit at the feet of Buddha, the only part remaining of a once great statute is his lap. Severed hands are atop hinting to a meditation pose. It represents serenity, his hands comfort me. How beautiful they are. How useful they are. They can take but more importantly give, they can comfort, and they can reach for more. I sit and place my fate in his hands. Ayutthaya speaks to me. I feel it silently blowing in the wind around me. I don’t know what it was, could have been the universe, God, direction, or light. Whatever it was it filled me and for a split second I knew peace.

Hello Kitty Apron

A tired old man in a tattered pink apron rests on a motorbike at the side of the road. He’s lost among a sea of hungry tourists and working Thais but through the crowd, I see him. I know him from breakfast. He made me spicy chicken curry at 9 am this morning. He is silent as he sits with his hands on the handle bars perhaps pretending he’s moving; cooling off his face from sweat. He is silent as he cooks too. Soon he’s back behind his counter chopping fresh greens and carrots. He delicately but mindlessly places ingredients into a bowl. He is silent. His daughter is friendly and loquacious as she places each new order in front of him as he chops on.

Earlier she was exhausted when she got to me to take my order. She exaggerated a sigh and leaned against the menu board pressing her wrist against her forehead like they do in movies. She laughed at her own joke and touched my arm. This small gesture made me feel, ever so briefly, like I belonged there–like we were friends. The young girl and her mother chat incessantly. Could be gossip, could be professional. Her mother is small and focused. She talks the whole time she cooks without ever looking away from her hands. She, in her bedazzled headdress and leopard print pants, picks up each bowl of ingredients her husband creates and tosses it in a large wok over their sole burner.

I watch all this from a set of plastic furniture behind them as I eagerly await my dish next. I have come back to follow breakfast with dinner. They are all still here, still cooking, and laughing. This whole food festival is mobile. It’s not here late at night when I walk home. And it’s not here early in the morning when Jet-lag has kept me up. It’s only taken me 2 days to figure out that this is where I will always want to eat. Some of the owners already recognize my face and smile. They know they don’t have to call out to get my attention. They know when I cross the street that I’m hungry for more.

There’s a bend in the main road, almost a 90 degree angle, this is where they set up. One by one they come with their portable restaurant. It’s attached to their motorbikes like a side car. It’s packed to the brim with tables, chairs, umbrellas, cooking utensils, bowls, pots, pans, fresh produce, and fresh proteins. They arrange everything into its proper place. To me, from the outside, it looks a mess. I wouldn’t know where to begin to organize a mobile restaurant on the side of the road. To them everything that has a place is in its place when the ice man comes. He comes in a black truck with the logo Toyota peeled off the front. Three handsome young men sitting in the bed jump out. They carry giant bags on their shoulders and pour them over the meat and vegetables. When I first saw it I thought the bags held rice…I was wrong it was ice. They exchange pleasantries and hop back in the truck and move to the next establishment. This happens all day long.

As I sit and wait for my dinner the young girl comes up to wipe the table next to me. She says something to me in Thai and I just smile. She laughs so I laugh. Happy with my response she skips back to her work. She takes the orders and runs the food. The three of them continue to dance around each other in a small space. They converse with the stalls next to them and soon are exchanging goods. One large bowl of fried rice for their family and three smoothies for mine. It’s an excellent trade and everyone seems happy.

They seem to understand it this family of mine. They know how to get people to come back. Fast, friendly and delicious are all they know they need. Where you sit and what you sit on don’t matter here in Ao Nang. What matters is the food you eat and who you know.

Driving in Krabi, Thailand

Driving in Krabi seems a free for all. As long as you remain relatively within the lines, as close as physically possible to the car in front of you, and moving at excessive speeds at all times…you’re good.

There doesn’t appear to be really any traffic laws above the basic stop and go. Kids busting from their school yards fill the streets with the same uniform at every corner. They even sport the same haircut; the boys are cut short and close to the scalp whereas the girls have a cute little bob that comes barely past their chin. They’re all standing on the sidewalks away from the madness as we whiz by them. Half have snacks from the streets in their hands while the other half slurp down some sort of bright red soda-like drink. It stains their innocent faces. Some see me in the window and start shouting broken English. You can’t help but smile and wave back at their curiosity and friendliness. Some are old enough to drive but they still look like babies to me. They pile onto a scooter fit for one average size person and stack three, sometimes four, gangly boys on too and join the honking circus. Toddlers ride up front and infants in the laps of their mothers. I can only hope those in vehicles are wearing seat belts.

Unfortunately for me all of mine have been removed from the remains of the bus I’m riding. Stitched together with packing tape and faith, our driver hurls us deeper into town. He drives with the confidence of a 17 year old American boy: fast and loud; honking at everything I can’t actually figure out when is the appropriate time to do so.

The city is busy and dirty and industrial. They have a purpose here in Krabi. They work hard. Spaces between the bustling city center are mere glimpses of a chocolate colored river….or it could be a bay. Rocks hundreds of feet high shoot up out of the ground giving no notice to the surrounding geography. Almost like they were placed there as a final touch instead of reminder of what this land use to be. Or perhaps they were left here as stepping stones for the giant gods to tiptoe around such a city. Half covered in thick green flora and half exposed rock beckons us closer and closer to the beach. I recognize these massive rocks of wonder. I’ve had them as my screensaver for many years. I’d always hoped one day I’d get to see them. Hopefully if this bus driver doesn’t kill us all, I will.