Sunday 7th February 2010, 11am, Wawee Coffee - Chiang Mai
Let me take you back to tigers. Picture in your mind's eye, if you would, a painting of a tiger. An adult female, black, amber and white striped, a serene and agile figure, still, graceful and poised, standing on a rock, peering thoughtfully in to dark and swirling waters of a river over which she is perched. She is majestically captured in, as William Blake would attest, fearful symmetry, vividly bright next to the misty pool beneath her. It sounds like a bewitching portrait doesn't it? Now - if you would - imagine this image, maybe 6 by 4 inches, on the right hand side of my lower back. For this is where it now resides in permanency, tattooed on the canvas of my skin.
I realise that opinions are widely divided on the subject of tattoos, and this is why I asked you initially to consider my new one for what it is first and foremost - a piece of art. I spent 3 hours in the parlour opposite my guest house yesterday afternoon, laying stretched out on the folding bed, flicking through the TV programmes as a means of distraction from the burning and biting digs of the needles. The first hour was little trouble to me, especially seeing as Annie Hall was on the film channel. The second hour was tiresome, I was growing testy at the aching, bored with television, and harder to distract. The third hour was endured by deep breathing, running though Spanish verb patterns in my head as a way of occupying my mind, and mainly due to my relatively high resistance and tolerance for pain. Because yes, after 2 and a bit hours, even a stoic old soldier such as myself really wanted it to be over.
I've wanted another tattoo from the day I got my first one, it's true I guess that it could become an addictive pastime. From the moment my swallow was engraved on my left hip, I loved him. I instantly felt like he was part of me, I still love him now and cannot imagine a time when he was not there, I'd feel less of myself without him. Despite my hankering for another, I'm not one of those people who strolls into a studio on a whim, picks a generic, aesthetically pleasing butterfly from the catalogue and has it branded on my arm for all eternity. My swallow was hand-drawn by the tattoo artist after strict instructions from me and numerous draft attempts, and the same goes for my tigress and her riverside environment. I knew specifically what it should look like, I have been thinking about it for a few months, and I sat with the tattoo artist, Phatty (this is clearly a pseudonym on account of his beer fuelled paunch), for an hour the day before, talking through everything I wanted the tattoo to be. It is also carefully and strategically positioned in a place where if I never want it to be seen, it never has to be.
Now, the day after and a few coats of Bepanthen later, it is beginning the healing process and so doesn't yet look like the final form it will take in a week's time. Regardless of the aching, the redness, the slight swelling, I already, as with my swallow before her, am completely attached to my tiger. With little or no contest from the rest of me that I dissect and criticise and abhor with the zeal of a self-conscious 15 year old girl, this corner of my back is now the unrivalled favourite part of my body. Not to say I didn't have doubts though. I was an hour late for my appointment with Phatty, because for 90 minutes after waking I lay sprawled on my bed running it over and over in my head. When I finally took myself across the street I still didn't know what I was going to do, but then, on taking a look at the finished design in his sketchbook, I immediately hoisted up my t-shirt and asked him to ink me up please.
What I wanted to tell you about though, the reason my new body paint has become it's own blog subject, is the reasons for my hour and a half of doubting. Every time I almost talked myself out of it, it was through fear of what other people would think of me, and nothing to do with what I actually wanted for myself! People, some people, see tattoos as a mark of the lower classes, a branding of the uneducated and unsightly scars divulging tastelessness, cheapness, tacky commonality. What will these people think of me? My Mum and Dad share these opinions, they were unhappy but mercifully accepting and non-communicative about the arrival of Mr Swallow, but Ms Tiger is bigger, and marks a commitment to body art that one small, inconspicuous tattoo experiment did not translate. I hate to disappoint them, and of course care very much what they think of me, I want them to be able to love the body they created with it's new additions as much as they did the day it was born ink-free. The mind they encouraged and cultivated has chosen to express itself on the skin they made and shaped, I hope they appreciate this.
My friends, will of course, on the whole, tell me they like it. But what if when my ears are elsewhere they confidingly share their mutual loathing of it, each too considerate in their keeping it from me? What if people I now meet cast unfair judgements about me on catching a glimpse of it, before even speaking a word to me? Now the most honest and pathetically embarrassing confession of doubt which overwhelmingly featured in those 90 minutes, (because I always promised I would be honest here, even when it traps me in unflattering and vulnerable headlights). What if I begin a relationship somewhere down the line, and fall in love with this person, and what if they decide that they can't see me as a continuing fixture in their life because of their disgust at this picture on my skin? What if there is a time of my life in the future where I lose a shot at something good because some stupid, near-sighted man decides that he doesn't like tattoos, and so doesn't like me? Tragic, Grace, real tragic.
When I was in there, needle working away on my back, and when I looked at myself in the mirror on it's completion, all of these doubts were assuaged. I am not tacky, I am not common, I am not uneducated, it doesn't change who I am, I am entitled to make my own decisions about my body, and I hope I have qualities someone could be drawn to, if they had to be, in spite of my tattoos. Plus, I realised, pulling myself together, I wouldn't date anyone so narrow-minded and pompous to dump me because of a tattoo anyway; thankfully I have higher aspirations for myself and any prospective love interests than this pettiness. It has occurred to me that I waste an awful lot of time worrying about what other people think of me, and I know, with simultaneous comfort and dejection, that I'm not alone in this. For a good part of my 23 years I have said and done things in efforts to please others. It is a telling illustration of my desire for approval, that even now, in defence of my choices, I feel the need to justify my own body to whoever you are that may read this.
But you know what? This tiger pleases ME. I think she is beautiful, and I will be forever glad to have her with me. Because of those fretful 90 minutes of uncertainty when I was still without her, she now represents for me even more than she could have before. She will be a reminder, and a lesson, that sometimes, despite our regard and consideration of others, we have to do things that make us happy, grab it where you can and stand firmly rooted in your own volition. In the end, truth outs, and no one will thank you for being anything less than yourself. This is me, this is my prerogative, this is my tiger... and you can take us or leave us.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Friday, 5 February 2010
Monk Chat
Thursday 4th February 2010, 10pm, Rathwiki Street Bar - Chiang Mai
Apparently after my redeeming morning at Wat Xieng Thong in Luang Prabang, I'm a bit of a temple nut-job these days. Chiang Mai boasts a population of nearly 300 of these structures and today I have made a dip in the ocean dent in this number by visiting 4 of them. Even a newly appreciative Lanna architecture fan such as myself has to draw the line somewhere, and this line, this battle line actually, was drawn at Wat Chedi Luang, temple numero cuatro.
Chedi Luang was always on my hit list. Reading up on the town when I first arrived I was thrilled to learn that this temple hosts daily 'Monk Chat'; a portion of each day where visitors can sit in the garden and talk to the monks who live there about their lives and about Buddhism. Well, I thought, I like chatting, I like monks (they have so far been amiable and full of surprises - one I met at Angkor Wat asked if he could add me on facebook), and I know next to nothing about Buddhism, why this is the ideal afternoon activity for me! So I took myself along. I sat with Champa, a monk who has been living in the temple for 14 of his 23 years, and who is due to graduate from his degree, and from monkhood, this July. The conversation was vast and varied and in avoidance of being dull I couldn't possibly go into everything we discussed here. I will tell you what he told me about Buddhism.
The principle, ignoring the intricate and peculiar eccentricities of it, is very simple. Live the best life you can, be good to others, be generous and forgiving and peaceful, never think about tomorrow for it is only today that matters, rid yourself of greed, hatred and desire. Essentially - make love not war. All of this I can happily get to grips with, but then I asked him about the afterlife, about the prospects of heaven and hell. There is no hell, Champa told me, there is re-birth, and there is no heaven, there is enlightenment. During one lifetime we can accumulate positive or negative karma, karma being the reaction to our actions. If you lead a wholesome existence then you earn merits and in your next life will be reborn in to a more fortuitous future. If you are unwholesome then your soul, after death, will find itself lamentably in a lesser being, such as a mosquito, or a tree (and don't even ask me how a tree is meant to lead a wholesome life, we never got to the bottom of this. Be a welcoming home for nesting birds perhaps, don't drop fruit on people's heads?). You will only ever reach enlightenment, the emptiness of Nirvana and the freedom of the soul, when you have lived the perfect, blameless life.
At a fundamental level I acknowledge the ethical equation of this, it's fairer than the world we live in because it decrees that eventually, bad deeds will get their comeuppance. Where did this battle line spring up then? Inquisitively, and expecting a slightly more convoluted answer than the one I received, I asked Champa then if this meant he believed that poor people, or say, the disabled, did something in a previous life they can't remember which would warrant this punishment? "Yes" he said, "they have built up bad karma". And this is the point where my burgeoning love affair with Buddhism abruptly ended. Yes, the morals are admirable, but not exclusive to Buddha and his disciples - Christianity, Hinduism, Islam at it's grassroots - all centre around the concept of Goodness, of loving thy neighbour. But I'm afraid I am light years away from being converted to a religion that believes people living in poverty, the sick, the destitute, the depressed and even the disabled, did something to deserve it.
Sensing my growing distrust and indignation, my monk changed the course of our chat. Unfortunately for him, he didn't do himself or the widening gaps in his religious argument any favours. He began to talk about his excitement at leaving the monastery this summer, of becoming a tour operator in Vang Vieng - overseeing the sin-pit that is the tubing industry, of his wish to have a girlfriend, his hope to taste beer for the first time and to know how it feels to be drunk. Oh hypocrisy, how I love to argue with thee. I nonchalantly pointed out that all these things he mentioned were laden with greed, desire, of looking forward to tomorrow when he'd previously said we should only live in today (although I guess not thinking about the next day is how you end up living in a temple for over a decade, he just never made plans to leave).
Yes, I yielded, all these things he wants to try are part of my life, joys and sins of the flesh which I embrace. But I'm not a monk, nor do I preach to being anything other than fun-loving and flawed. I also added that I didn't think it was healthy for him to not allow himself these pleasures - he is after all, just a human being like the rest of us, and in my mind, entitled to desire and fulfilment if it is at no one else's expense. He shrugged guiltily, and could only acquiesce that he guessed he had many more lives to live before he emulates his Buddha and achieves enlightenment. Well then, I retorted, he best ensure he's not too ill-behaved when he's released on Vang Vieng, he wouldn't want to end up in a disabled body next time he returns after all. My irony didnt quite leap the culture divide I think.
I suggested to Champa just before leaving him that Christianity and Buddhism have many similarities - the focus is on leading a moral existence, Jesus was a perfect man, Buddha was a man who in his 500th life as an Indian Prince achieved perfection, both have firm ideas about punishment and reward. He looked at me like I'd said something offensively sacrilegious and his only contribution to this argument was "No. We are not the same." Indeed we are not, my confused, naive little monk, and thank my God for that.
Apparently after my redeeming morning at Wat Xieng Thong in Luang Prabang, I'm a bit of a temple nut-job these days. Chiang Mai boasts a population of nearly 300 of these structures and today I have made a dip in the ocean dent in this number by visiting 4 of them. Even a newly appreciative Lanna architecture fan such as myself has to draw the line somewhere, and this line, this battle line actually, was drawn at Wat Chedi Luang, temple numero cuatro.
Chedi Luang was always on my hit list. Reading up on the town when I first arrived I was thrilled to learn that this temple hosts daily 'Monk Chat'; a portion of each day where visitors can sit in the garden and talk to the monks who live there about their lives and about Buddhism. Well, I thought, I like chatting, I like monks (they have so far been amiable and full of surprises - one I met at Angkor Wat asked if he could add me on facebook), and I know next to nothing about Buddhism, why this is the ideal afternoon activity for me! So I took myself along. I sat with Champa, a monk who has been living in the temple for 14 of his 23 years, and who is due to graduate from his degree, and from monkhood, this July. The conversation was vast and varied and in avoidance of being dull I couldn't possibly go into everything we discussed here. I will tell you what he told me about Buddhism.
The principle, ignoring the intricate and peculiar eccentricities of it, is very simple. Live the best life you can, be good to others, be generous and forgiving and peaceful, never think about tomorrow for it is only today that matters, rid yourself of greed, hatred and desire. Essentially - make love not war. All of this I can happily get to grips with, but then I asked him about the afterlife, about the prospects of heaven and hell. There is no hell, Champa told me, there is re-birth, and there is no heaven, there is enlightenment. During one lifetime we can accumulate positive or negative karma, karma being the reaction to our actions. If you lead a wholesome existence then you earn merits and in your next life will be reborn in to a more fortuitous future. If you are unwholesome then your soul, after death, will find itself lamentably in a lesser being, such as a mosquito, or a tree (and don't even ask me how a tree is meant to lead a wholesome life, we never got to the bottom of this. Be a welcoming home for nesting birds perhaps, don't drop fruit on people's heads?). You will only ever reach enlightenment, the emptiness of Nirvana and the freedom of the soul, when you have lived the perfect, blameless life.
At a fundamental level I acknowledge the ethical equation of this, it's fairer than the world we live in because it decrees that eventually, bad deeds will get their comeuppance. Where did this battle line spring up then? Inquisitively, and expecting a slightly more convoluted answer than the one I received, I asked Champa then if this meant he believed that poor people, or say, the disabled, did something in a previous life they can't remember which would warrant this punishment? "Yes" he said, "they have built up bad karma". And this is the point where my burgeoning love affair with Buddhism abruptly ended. Yes, the morals are admirable, but not exclusive to Buddha and his disciples - Christianity, Hinduism, Islam at it's grassroots - all centre around the concept of Goodness, of loving thy neighbour. But I'm afraid I am light years away from being converted to a religion that believes people living in poverty, the sick, the destitute, the depressed and even the disabled, did something to deserve it.
Sensing my growing distrust and indignation, my monk changed the course of our chat. Unfortunately for him, he didn't do himself or the widening gaps in his religious argument any favours. He began to talk about his excitement at leaving the monastery this summer, of becoming a tour operator in Vang Vieng - overseeing the sin-pit that is the tubing industry, of his wish to have a girlfriend, his hope to taste beer for the first time and to know how it feels to be drunk. Oh hypocrisy, how I love to argue with thee. I nonchalantly pointed out that all these things he mentioned were laden with greed, desire, of looking forward to tomorrow when he'd previously said we should only live in today (although I guess not thinking about the next day is how you end up living in a temple for over a decade, he just never made plans to leave).
Yes, I yielded, all these things he wants to try are part of my life, joys and sins of the flesh which I embrace. But I'm not a monk, nor do I preach to being anything other than fun-loving and flawed. I also added that I didn't think it was healthy for him to not allow himself these pleasures - he is after all, just a human being like the rest of us, and in my mind, entitled to desire and fulfilment if it is at no one else's expense. He shrugged guiltily, and could only acquiesce that he guessed he had many more lives to live before he emulates his Buddha and achieves enlightenment. Well then, I retorted, he best ensure he's not too ill-behaved when he's released on Vang Vieng, he wouldn't want to end up in a disabled body next time he returns after all. My irony didnt quite leap the culture divide I think.
I suggested to Champa just before leaving him that Christianity and Buddhism have many similarities - the focus is on leading a moral existence, Jesus was a perfect man, Buddha was a man who in his 500th life as an Indian Prince achieved perfection, both have firm ideas about punishment and reward. He looked at me like I'd said something offensively sacrilegious and his only contribution to this argument was "No. We are not the same." Indeed we are not, my confused, naive little monk, and thank my God for that.
Tiger Tiger, Burning Sight
Thursday 4th February 2010, 9.10am, Bunny Cafe - Chiang Mai
I made a startling discovery yesterday morning, one that if I had not been here in Chiang Mai, and if I had not indulged in some typical tourist behaviour, I never would have unearthed. If you are allergic to cats, you will also be allergic to tigers. This seems like a stupid thing to say doesn't it, both being of the feline family, a sensible person might expect it. It's just that I wonder if anyone has conclusively proved this before? Tigers do not sit on any day to day frame of reference, they do not feature in conjunction with our health concerns, no one ever said 'Well I'm afraid I can't go to Northern Thailand, they have tigers there and those things bring me out in a terrible rash'. I'm confident enough in my own curious assumptions to say that no, nothing has previously been written on tiger related allergies.
My historical experience of cat induced discomfort has been varied, chequered and frustratingly hit-and-miss. A lot of cats have no affect on me whatsoever - I spent a period of time in my teens undertaking work experience at a Veterinary clinic (this was before I realised that I didn't understand science and so abdicated from my dreams of James Herriot country veterinary practice and stuck to subjects I was good at - namely ones requiring erudite vocabulary rather than any actual knowledge) and none of the cats there, many long-haired and matted, bothered my sinuses at all. On the other end of the scale there was the horrendous evening when round a friend's house, happily cosied up on the sofa with her feline companion, Maisy I think her name was - the cat, not the friend - I began to suffer intense irritation and swelling in my eyes. It is no exaggeration to say that on examining myself in the bathroom mirror I found that I bore uncanny resemblance to Quasimodo, as though someone had carelessly placed a tennis ball under my right eyelid; it was so bad I thought that my eyeball was going to give up and fall out under the strain of it. Terrifying. I spent two days dosed up on antihistamines, hidden in the self-imposed darkness and solitude of my bedroom, much like the sheltered Notre Dame hunchback, and sat cursing that damned animal, waiting for my face to realign itself to normal proportions.
Thankfully most of my cat encounters sit somewhere in the middle of these two extremes, closer to the former story. Generally, if I spend time in their company I sneeze a few times, if they scratch me it itches, and occasionally my eyes sting a bit (probably in alarmed remembrance of the day when I nearly lost one of them). Tigers, it seem, have exactly the same affect on me. How do I know this? Well, because I spent a pretty wonderful morning yesterday at Tiger Kingdom sanctuary just outside of town, where for a small fee you can lie cuddled up with them, draped on their backs, wrapped in their paws, kissing their noses, and revelling in the magical nature of the experience. All the tigers there have been bred in captivity and exposed to human contact from birth, making them largely as tame as pussy cats and utterly nonplussed about the people fawning all over them.
Whilst sat hugging a 200lb daddy tiger, the beast, named 'Spicy Sausage', rolled himself over on to his back so that his middle section was positioned heavily across my lap.
"He wants you to rub his belly", the keeper informed me.
"Are you sure?" I asked hesitantly. "Shouldn't I just stay still and pretend I'm not here?"
"No, that's why he's moved like that, he loves it."
"But it's a tiger. I thought belly-rubbing was exclusively a preserve of dogs. And dogs are smaller, much smaller."
"He's bothered to move himself now, he'll get anxious if you don't do it."
Anxious? Making the tiger anything other than blissfully content was the last thing I wanted, and so going against my better judgement, I obediently stretched myself across his huge, soft stomach and tickled away. Sure enough, the keeper was right, and I made another tiger-centred discovery: they can purr. Spicy Sausage was demonstrably grateful for the attention, for when I laid down next to him a moment later he placed a weighty and ominous paw across my shoulder and growled his thanks. "Oh, he likes you" the keeper offered. Yes, I thought, either that or he's had his cake and is about to eat it. Me being the cake.
Evidently though, from my ability to type, I was not savagely attacked or mauled. It was an amazing morning, and laying around dozily snuggled up with tiger cubs will be a memory I hold dear for many, many years to come. My involuntarily and aggravating sneezing fit 10 minutes after I left the sanctuary was a fair price to pay I think, being more surprised at my tiger allergy revelation than I could be annoyed. Who knew?!
I made a startling discovery yesterday morning, one that if I had not been here in Chiang Mai, and if I had not indulged in some typical tourist behaviour, I never would have unearthed. If you are allergic to cats, you will also be allergic to tigers. This seems like a stupid thing to say doesn't it, both being of the feline family, a sensible person might expect it. It's just that I wonder if anyone has conclusively proved this before? Tigers do not sit on any day to day frame of reference, they do not feature in conjunction with our health concerns, no one ever said 'Well I'm afraid I can't go to Northern Thailand, they have tigers there and those things bring me out in a terrible rash'. I'm confident enough in my own curious assumptions to say that no, nothing has previously been written on tiger related allergies.
My historical experience of cat induced discomfort has been varied, chequered and frustratingly hit-and-miss. A lot of cats have no affect on me whatsoever - I spent a period of time in my teens undertaking work experience at a Veterinary clinic (this was before I realised that I didn't understand science and so abdicated from my dreams of James Herriot country veterinary practice and stuck to subjects I was good at - namely ones requiring erudite vocabulary rather than any actual knowledge) and none of the cats there, many long-haired and matted, bothered my sinuses at all. On the other end of the scale there was the horrendous evening when round a friend's house, happily cosied up on the sofa with her feline companion, Maisy I think her name was - the cat, not the friend - I began to suffer intense irritation and swelling in my eyes. It is no exaggeration to say that on examining myself in the bathroom mirror I found that I bore uncanny resemblance to Quasimodo, as though someone had carelessly placed a tennis ball under my right eyelid; it was so bad I thought that my eyeball was going to give up and fall out under the strain of it. Terrifying. I spent two days dosed up on antihistamines, hidden in the self-imposed darkness and solitude of my bedroom, much like the sheltered Notre Dame hunchback, and sat cursing that damned animal, waiting for my face to realign itself to normal proportions.
Thankfully most of my cat encounters sit somewhere in the middle of these two extremes, closer to the former story. Generally, if I spend time in their company I sneeze a few times, if they scratch me it itches, and occasionally my eyes sting a bit (probably in alarmed remembrance of the day when I nearly lost one of them). Tigers, it seem, have exactly the same affect on me. How do I know this? Well, because I spent a pretty wonderful morning yesterday at Tiger Kingdom sanctuary just outside of town, where for a small fee you can lie cuddled up with them, draped on their backs, wrapped in their paws, kissing their noses, and revelling in the magical nature of the experience. All the tigers there have been bred in captivity and exposed to human contact from birth, making them largely as tame as pussy cats and utterly nonplussed about the people fawning all over them.
Whilst sat hugging a 200lb daddy tiger, the beast, named 'Spicy Sausage', rolled himself over on to his back so that his middle section was positioned heavily across my lap.
"He wants you to rub his belly", the keeper informed me.
"Are you sure?" I asked hesitantly. "Shouldn't I just stay still and pretend I'm not here?"
"No, that's why he's moved like that, he loves it."
"But it's a tiger. I thought belly-rubbing was exclusively a preserve of dogs. And dogs are smaller, much smaller."
"He's bothered to move himself now, he'll get anxious if you don't do it."
Anxious? Making the tiger anything other than blissfully content was the last thing I wanted, and so going against my better judgement, I obediently stretched myself across his huge, soft stomach and tickled away. Sure enough, the keeper was right, and I made another tiger-centred discovery: they can purr. Spicy Sausage was demonstrably grateful for the attention, for when I laid down next to him a moment later he placed a weighty and ominous paw across my shoulder and growled his thanks. "Oh, he likes you" the keeper offered. Yes, I thought, either that or he's had his cake and is about to eat it. Me being the cake.
Evidently though, from my ability to type, I was not savagely attacked or mauled. It was an amazing morning, and laying around dozily snuggled up with tiger cubs will be a memory I hold dear for many, many years to come. My involuntarily and aggravating sneezing fit 10 minutes after I left the sanctuary was a fair price to pay I think, being more surprised at my tiger allergy revelation than I could be annoyed. Who knew?!
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Here Come The Girls
Tuesday 2nd February 2010, 2.40pm, Art Cafe - Chiang Mai
You may or may not recall from my last entry that I mentioned the presence of a Tesco Metro here in Chiang Mai. I understand that this may not have inspired quite the same level of excitement in you as it did in me - you no doubt get to see Tesco Metros all the time you lucky devil, but for moi, it was a huge novelty. It's blue and white sign welcomingly out of place so far from home. Just now though, about 35 minutes ago to be precise, I saw a different and equally incongruous blue and white sign that sent me completely balmy with delight (I'm not entirely sure about this but I think I may also have done a mini jig in the street). I have found... a Boots. A BOOTS!!!!
In an attempt to dislodge the hangover monster I awoke this morning to discover jumping up and down on my stomach and smacking me round the face, I've taken myself on a walking tour of the city today, map in hand and following my newly acquired but already fully fledged Trusty Sense Of Direction. I've been exploring the streets and alleyways of the town beyond the city walls, stopping off at various temples and bookshops and caffeine establishments on my way. Innocently rounding the corner on a busy road I was halted in my tracks by the presence of this Boots here, this cosmetics and toiletries wonder emporium that has generously unveiled itself to me at a time when I was beginning to get really fed up of sub-standard lotions and potions.
The last shampoo I bought for example (and I only know it's possibly shampoo because there is a picture of a girl with glossy hair on the front) smells like honeydew melon, and this smell makes me feel queasy - why didn't they put a picture of that nausea causing fruit on the front?! I'd run out of a few unnecessary but indulgent little goodies I brought with me and so have been living on the breadline of bathroom existence, washing as men do - perfunctorily, for hygiene and habit, and not as women do - languorously, for pleasure of products and pampering.
Needless to say I skipped around that Boots for half an hour, looking I imagine not dissimilar to a child sucking a lollipop, holding a puppy, at the beginning of the 6 week summer break, on holiday at Disneyland. If you had been an unsuspecting midday browser in Boots of Chiang Mai for these 30 minutes, as many other customers were, you would have heard my Essex twang squeakily echoing over the aisles, unable as I was to keep from chattering away to myself in the elation of it all. Such exclamations I believe I voiced out loud were 'What is a Jojoba anyway?', and 'Oh my days, I'll die if they've got dry shampoo... THEY'VE GOT DRY SHAMPOO!', and 'I'd forgotten Soap and Glory even existed, it's like I've been living under a rock', and '(Loud sniff) Mmmm, the coconut and banana one is so much better than the coconut or the banana on it's own', and to some poor German people, 'Can you believe they have like 50 different types of Conditioner here and they all do different things? It's like Christmas!'. They smiled and nodded politely, and then all glanced nervously at each other with looks that said, 'let's just back out of here slowly and get away before her tablets wear off and she hurts us.'
Basically I went mad. I can't tell you how much I spent because it's embarrassing, the girl serving at the till looked like she wanted to reassure me that Boots isn't going into liquidation and that she's not aware of any current national toiletries shortage crisis. What I will say though is that I'm bound to look positively glowing and smell like a fruit bowl from my fringe to my toenails when I go out tonight. For the first time in ages, getting ready will be a real joy, and that's definitely worth the silly price tag and a few terrified Germans.
You may or may not recall from my last entry that I mentioned the presence of a Tesco Metro here in Chiang Mai. I understand that this may not have inspired quite the same level of excitement in you as it did in me - you no doubt get to see Tesco Metros all the time you lucky devil, but for moi, it was a huge novelty. It's blue and white sign welcomingly out of place so far from home. Just now though, about 35 minutes ago to be precise, I saw a different and equally incongruous blue and white sign that sent me completely balmy with delight (I'm not entirely sure about this but I think I may also have done a mini jig in the street). I have found... a Boots. A BOOTS!!!!
In an attempt to dislodge the hangover monster I awoke this morning to discover jumping up and down on my stomach and smacking me round the face, I've taken myself on a walking tour of the city today, map in hand and following my newly acquired but already fully fledged Trusty Sense Of Direction. I've been exploring the streets and alleyways of the town beyond the city walls, stopping off at various temples and bookshops and caffeine establishments on my way. Innocently rounding the corner on a busy road I was halted in my tracks by the presence of this Boots here, this cosmetics and toiletries wonder emporium that has generously unveiled itself to me at a time when I was beginning to get really fed up of sub-standard lotions and potions.
The last shampoo I bought for example (and I only know it's possibly shampoo because there is a picture of a girl with glossy hair on the front) smells like honeydew melon, and this smell makes me feel queasy - why didn't they put a picture of that nausea causing fruit on the front?! I'd run out of a few unnecessary but indulgent little goodies I brought with me and so have been living on the breadline of bathroom existence, washing as men do - perfunctorily, for hygiene and habit, and not as women do - languorously, for pleasure of products and pampering.
Needless to say I skipped around that Boots for half an hour, looking I imagine not dissimilar to a child sucking a lollipop, holding a puppy, at the beginning of the 6 week summer break, on holiday at Disneyland. If you had been an unsuspecting midday browser in Boots of Chiang Mai for these 30 minutes, as many other customers were, you would have heard my Essex twang squeakily echoing over the aisles, unable as I was to keep from chattering away to myself in the elation of it all. Such exclamations I believe I voiced out loud were 'What is a Jojoba anyway?', and 'Oh my days, I'll die if they've got dry shampoo... THEY'VE GOT DRY SHAMPOO!', and 'I'd forgotten Soap and Glory even existed, it's like I've been living under a rock', and '(Loud sniff) Mmmm, the coconut and banana one is so much better than the coconut or the banana on it's own', and to some poor German people, 'Can you believe they have like 50 different types of Conditioner here and they all do different things? It's like Christmas!'. They smiled and nodded politely, and then all glanced nervously at each other with looks that said, 'let's just back out of here slowly and get away before her tablets wear off and she hurts us.'
Basically I went mad. I can't tell you how much I spent because it's embarrassing, the girl serving at the till looked like she wanted to reassure me that Boots isn't going into liquidation and that she's not aware of any current national toiletries shortage crisis. What I will say though is that I'm bound to look positively glowing and smell like a fruit bowl from my fringe to my toenails when I go out tonight. For the first time in ages, getting ready will be a real joy, and that's definitely worth the silly price tag and a few terrified Germans.
Reasons I Like It Here Already
Tuesday 2nd February 2010, 2.35am, Happy Guest House, Chiang Mai - Thailand
- Communicating with French boys in bars via the means of Connect 4 and Jenga - universal world languages.
- Having successfully located my own position and navigated myself around a new city by map (the most satisfying feeling in the world).
- Major franchise coffee shops on every corner.
- My bathroom is on my balcony. So I can look out over the rooftops of Chiang Mai whilst brushing my teeth.
- Being the only under 40 year old and the only female in Pinte Blues Bar, which plays exclusively, you guessed it, hardcore traditional Blues, and is decorated with portraits and names - that thanks to my wonderful harmonica playing Dad - I grew up with: Howlin' Wolf, B.B. King, John Lee Hooker, Bessie Smith, John Mayall. A great education for a parent to give a child.
- The shiny bright tattoo parlour opposite where I live. Oh no... it's calling meeeee.
- There is a Tesco Metro here. A TESCO METRO.
- Thai currency again! The easiest monetary conversion rate in South East Asia, 50 Baht = 1 quid = lemon squeezy.
- The clothes shops which sell exclusively cotton sack type things that make me look like I've been travelling for 20 years, which is incidentally the style I'm plumping for these days.
- Cafe Del Sol street bar where the staff let me pick the music and then sing along in to beer bottle microphones with me.
- The best stocked bookshop I have seen on my travels, and one with impeccable taste. They have all my favourites - Carol Shields, Will Self, Lionel Shriver, Irvine Welsh, Elizabeth Kostova, Sebastian Faulks, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Paulo Coelho; and the chick-lit shelves are where they belong - in a dark corner.
- The sign on a garage door at the corner of my street which reads 'Please do not piss here.'
- Unexpected sunshine. Everyone said Northern Thailand would be cold. It's 30 degrees. Everyone was wrong.
- Hippies, with long hair, and oversized pupils, and Bob Marley t-shirts, everywhere.
- The buxom and matronly owner of my guest house coming to my room at 1.40am with a plate of steamed rice and garlic chicken because I'd casually mentioned when stumbling through the front door 10 minutes before that I'd forgotten to eat tonight.
- The Writer's Bar where local journalists, authors and poets get together to drink beer and discuss their work. As yet undecided if I'm pretentious enough to go along and sit in the corner (but I probably am).
- The fact that Northern Thais pronounce my name 'Great'.
- That I was brave enough to set off on a pub crawl on my own tonight and that I ended it drunk, having spent 4 quid, and with the names and phone numbers of 6 new drinking buddies in my pocket.
- A distinct lack of Australians.
Things are looking good for me and Chiang Mai. Blow of leaving Luang Prabang: successfully softened.
- Communicating with French boys in bars via the means of Connect 4 and Jenga - universal world languages.
- Having successfully located my own position and navigated myself around a new city by map (the most satisfying feeling in the world).
- Major franchise coffee shops on every corner.
- My bathroom is on my balcony. So I can look out over the rooftops of Chiang Mai whilst brushing my teeth.
- Being the only under 40 year old and the only female in Pinte Blues Bar, which plays exclusively, you guessed it, hardcore traditional Blues, and is decorated with portraits and names - that thanks to my wonderful harmonica playing Dad - I grew up with: Howlin' Wolf, B.B. King, John Lee Hooker, Bessie Smith, John Mayall. A great education for a parent to give a child.
- The shiny bright tattoo parlour opposite where I live. Oh no... it's calling meeeee.
- There is a Tesco Metro here. A TESCO METRO.
- Thai currency again! The easiest monetary conversion rate in South East Asia, 50 Baht = 1 quid = lemon squeezy.
- The clothes shops which sell exclusively cotton sack type things that make me look like I've been travelling for 20 years, which is incidentally the style I'm plumping for these days.
- Cafe Del Sol street bar where the staff let me pick the music and then sing along in to beer bottle microphones with me.
- The best stocked bookshop I have seen on my travels, and one with impeccable taste. They have all my favourites - Carol Shields, Will Self, Lionel Shriver, Irvine Welsh, Elizabeth Kostova, Sebastian Faulks, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Paulo Coelho; and the chick-lit shelves are where they belong - in a dark corner.
- The sign on a garage door at the corner of my street which reads 'Please do not piss here.'
- Unexpected sunshine. Everyone said Northern Thailand would be cold. It's 30 degrees. Everyone was wrong.
- Hippies, with long hair, and oversized pupils, and Bob Marley t-shirts, everywhere.
- The buxom and matronly owner of my guest house coming to my room at 1.40am with a plate of steamed rice and garlic chicken because I'd casually mentioned when stumbling through the front door 10 minutes before that I'd forgotten to eat tonight.
- The Writer's Bar where local journalists, authors and poets get together to drink beer and discuss their work. As yet undecided if I'm pretentious enough to go along and sit in the corner (but I probably am).
- The fact that Northern Thais pronounce my name 'Great'.
- That I was brave enough to set off on a pub crawl on my own tonight and that I ended it drunk, having spent 4 quid, and with the names and phone numbers of 6 new drinking buddies in my pocket.
- A distinct lack of Australians.
Things are looking good for me and Chiang Mai. Blow of leaving Luang Prabang: successfully softened.
A New Personal Hero
Monday 1st February 2010, 1.40pm, Somewhere over Northern Laos.
The last time I was on a plane - leaving London in November - I managed to disgrace myself by laughing too loudly and animatedly at Bruno, the film I watched on the journey. I'm on a plane again now, flying back in to Thailand to secure a 30 day Visa. If I'd crossed the border by land as I had hoped then for some unknown administration bureaucracy bullshit reason I would only have been granted 15 days, and I'm not sure how many I'll need yet.
This time my choice of in-flight entertainment and tool for disgracing myself once more is the book that I'm reading: Down Under, by Bill Bryson. Bryson, if you've not already been acquainted with his work, is a travel writer. He visits various destinations around the globe (obviously Australia in this case), potters about a bit, takes in some tourist attractions and sight-seeing opportunities, walks around until he gets lost, spends more than a civilised amount of time in bars testing the beer, and then writes it all down. It sounds like pretty bog-standard reporting doesn't it, but it's anything but. He is unfailingly, in every situation no matter how mundane, the most witty, observant and downright hilarious writer I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Cackling away at 20,000 ft again I have had two fellow passengers ask what I'm reading due to my inability to stifle laughter. I have urged them, as I urge you now, to read something by this fantastic man - because that is what travel writing should be.
He has that enviable and not often found quality that all great writers possess - when you reluctantly put the book down you are left wishing you knew the author. What I would like more than anything is for Bill Bryson to be my friend, for us to go travelling together and write about our adventures, to spend time in his magnanimous and unassuming company and have him continue making me laugh. Throughout the course of reading this book I have found a new and very deserving personal hero. As I offer my amateur snippets of writing from the road for your perusal, Bryson and his books are truly something for me to aspire to. Big dreams, small means, I know... but we all need someone that makes us want to be better than we are.
The last time I was on a plane - leaving London in November - I managed to disgrace myself by laughing too loudly and animatedly at Bruno, the film I watched on the journey. I'm on a plane again now, flying back in to Thailand to secure a 30 day Visa. If I'd crossed the border by land as I had hoped then for some unknown administration bureaucracy bullshit reason I would only have been granted 15 days, and I'm not sure how many I'll need yet.
This time my choice of in-flight entertainment and tool for disgracing myself once more is the book that I'm reading: Down Under, by Bill Bryson. Bryson, if you've not already been acquainted with his work, is a travel writer. He visits various destinations around the globe (obviously Australia in this case), potters about a bit, takes in some tourist attractions and sight-seeing opportunities, walks around until he gets lost, spends more than a civilised amount of time in bars testing the beer, and then writes it all down. It sounds like pretty bog-standard reporting doesn't it, but it's anything but. He is unfailingly, in every situation no matter how mundane, the most witty, observant and downright hilarious writer I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Cackling away at 20,000 ft again I have had two fellow passengers ask what I'm reading due to my inability to stifle laughter. I have urged them, as I urge you now, to read something by this fantastic man - because that is what travel writing should be.
He has that enviable and not often found quality that all great writers possess - when you reluctantly put the book down you are left wishing you knew the author. What I would like more than anything is for Bill Bryson to be my friend, for us to go travelling together and write about our adventures, to spend time in his magnanimous and unassuming company and have him continue making me laugh. Throughout the course of reading this book I have found a new and very deserving personal hero. As I offer my amateur snippets of writing from the road for your perusal, Bryson and his books are truly something for me to aspire to. Big dreams, small means, I know... but we all need someone that makes us want to be better than we are.
Child's Play
Sunday 31st January 2010, 9pm, Baravin Bar - Luang Prabang
I'm finishing in Luang Prabang how I started. Outside a bar with a glass of Merlot, able to eat again (I sat on the wooden canteen benches of the food night market and shared barbecued fresh fish and stir fried vegetables with some Scandinavian backpackers), and utterly lost in adoration of this incredible place. I'm going to be very gushy now, but I listen to a lot of this when friends and family fall in love with accepted objects of affection - boyfriends, girlfriends, babies. I have none of these right now, I have places, and in the two months since I've been away I have not fallen more deeply for anywhere than I have Luang Prabang. Everything that appeals to me about Asia is here, everything I wanted from travelling it has given me, everything I fear has been vanquished, everything I knew I have forgotten - all that is left is my desire to walk these streets for days and days to come. Suspecting that I would fall hard for this town I exacted some damage control on Friday and booked my travel out of here for tomorrow morning. If I hadn't preempted my reluctance to move on I would, without doubt, not have the willpower to leave tomorrow.
Yesterday morning and this afternoon have been particularly special, and both due to the children of Luang Prabang. I roused myself at 8am on Saturday, still drowsy and weak through lack of sustenance other than carbonated drinks, but determined to make my 9 o' clock appointment with Big Brother Mouse (http://www.bigbrothermouse.com/). A charity and publishing project that develops books and distributes them to children in rural villages, Big Brother Mouse is slowly but steadily changing the way local families and children feel about education and reading. Last year alone 30,000 children received the first book they'd ever been given as a result of this scheme and the centre in town holds daily morning classes to improve the literacy skills of it's younger generation. I'd read about the project on a poster in town and decided to offer my services as a volunteer for the morning, they're always keen to get English speakers in to help, and hey, I did a Theatre degree, I love an audience.
So for a couple of hours I sat with local children, going through their school exercise books with them, correcting spellings and punctuation, and demonstrating handwriting and reading. I read everything passed to me by the teaching instructor - charity pamphlets, restaurant menus, the story of Buddha's upbringing, television instruction manuals - they just wanted to hear me read aloud to aid their understanding and pronunciation of the English language. This disconcerted me slightly as the whole time I was reading I kept imagining a future generation of Laos people who speak with Essex accents, pronouncing 'whale' as 'wow', 'thumb' as 'fumm', 'out' as 'aaht'; but I persisted gallantly, mustering the closest thing to the Queen's English as my sloppy Southerner's tongue would allow. If in 10 years time Luang Prabang sounds like the set of Eastenders, I swear it ain't me faul' guv, I proper did me bestest innit.
Children are a huge weakness of mine, if not one of my greatest loves. In fact, not just small children, but anyone visibly younger than me (which helped considerably in my previous job where my life consisted of zoo-keeping angry teenagers). A friend very well versed in astrology and matters of star-crossed destiny tells me that this is because under the star sign I was born, on the precise year and day I was born, and even owing to the actual time of my birth, the planets were aligned to produce someone more maternal than the cosmos had yet to create. She even outlined a historical star chart which I didn't understand to prove this to me. I have no idea if the galaxy has had any bearing on this aspect of my character, but I can say with absolute certainty that yes, despite my complete lack of broodiness and hankering to bear offspring of my own, I do melt at small faces and the opportunity to mother them. And oh, what faces these were! Laos people have shown themselves to be open, kind, affectionate and accommodating, Laos children are all of this plus heart-wrenchingly gorgeous.
This enriching experience at Big Brother Mouse led me to this afternoon's activity, desperate as I was to spend more time with Luang Prabang's younger inhabitants. When I walked along the Nam Khan River a couple of days ago I spied with glee a group of children playing and swimming in the water. The game involved throwing themselves in to the mercy of the current, splashing downstream back to the town at one end of the river, paddling to the bank, and then running back upstream to throw themselves in once more and begin the whole marvellous process again. I was very jealous of their fun, but no other foreigners or indeed anyone over the age of 12 seemed to be partaking, so I stayed a reserved and envious onlooker. I had a change of heart today though. Before I came away I suffered a series of uncomfortable and expensive injections, so to hell with it I thought! I'll get my money's worth from all this probably unnecessary immunisation and weeks of dead arms, and take on the possible toxicity of the river, that's what I paid good dollar for dammit - to risk my health in unknown water! The cold dip was also tempting due to the fact that I'd just climbed up and down the 400 steps to Phu Si temple, a view well worth the exertion but nevertheless, perspiration inducing.
So I clambered down yet more steps to the bank, crossed the bamboo bridge, and tentatively approached my small subjects of amusement who were running about in their underwear throwing mud at each other and chasing frogs. If you can imagine for a moment the surprise and bewilderment on the faces of the Aborigines when Captain James Cook moored up on the coast of Australia in 1770 with his pale-skinned crew, then I think you will more or less have in mind the expression on the faces of these Laos children as I approached their waterside territory. Unlike the 18th century English fleet however, I meant these natives no harm. To show them this I plonked down my bag, skirt and flip flops, ran in to the river waving my arms about my head in the best carefree 7 year old style I could imitate, submerged myself under the clear, clean water, and then beckoned them to come in. Kids aren't silly, they know who they can trust, and before you could say 'I'm too old for this', 20 children were yelping with excitement, waving their arms about their heads and sprinting in to the water to join me. What a relief, I would have looked pretty insane doing it on my own.
The next 3 hours were absolute bliss. For that's how long I have spent with them there today; floating along in the current, catching tadpoles, skimming stones, hand-building sandcastles, playing hopscotch, drying off in the sun and sharing Oreo cookies (I'm not silly either - I took bribes in case things didn't go my way). I don't mind telling you that when I said goodbye I was quite tearful, knowing what a rare and precious experience this was and that I, or anyone else, is unlikely ever to duplicate it. When I left the river there was a small crowd of tourists who had gathered on the road where I had been an onlooker the other day, it seems my playtime with the local children attracted quite the congregation. Some smiled warmly at me as I squelched past, others looked at me like I was a carrier of the Crazy Disease. No skin off my nose though. I have been left feeling happy and mellow from the pit of my stomach to the tips of my pruney fingers. Children have this effect, and not just on me I think.
They're the best versions of humanity we're ever going to see. They think everything is funny, they don't care what they look like when they're dancing, they are honest because they haven't learnt to lie yet, they believe in fairies, the worst thing that ever happened to them was when they fell over and grazed their knee which they can't clearly remember anyway because someone picked them up and gave them a cookie. If you spend long enough in their company without the presence of other adults they make you feel like a child again yourself - they teach you how to play and take enjoyment from simple pleasures that age steals from us. They are Goodness personified - they love you even when you don't deserve it, cry when they think they've upset you, forgive and forget quickly, and hug you every time like it's the last time. I do not understand people who say they don't like children, in my mind you may as well be saying that you don't like light or oxygen or happiness; because what a dark, choking, sad world it would be without them.
It's been a remarkable 4 days. I am very regretful to be leaving Luang Prabang tomorrow, but so indescribably grateful all the same for the youthfulness and untouchable joy it's places, it's treasures, it's children, have placed in my heart.
I'm finishing in Luang Prabang how I started. Outside a bar with a glass of Merlot, able to eat again (I sat on the wooden canteen benches of the food night market and shared barbecued fresh fish and stir fried vegetables with some Scandinavian backpackers), and utterly lost in adoration of this incredible place. I'm going to be very gushy now, but I listen to a lot of this when friends and family fall in love with accepted objects of affection - boyfriends, girlfriends, babies. I have none of these right now, I have places, and in the two months since I've been away I have not fallen more deeply for anywhere than I have Luang Prabang. Everything that appeals to me about Asia is here, everything I wanted from travelling it has given me, everything I fear has been vanquished, everything I knew I have forgotten - all that is left is my desire to walk these streets for days and days to come. Suspecting that I would fall hard for this town I exacted some damage control on Friday and booked my travel out of here for tomorrow morning. If I hadn't preempted my reluctance to move on I would, without doubt, not have the willpower to leave tomorrow.
Yesterday morning and this afternoon have been particularly special, and both due to the children of Luang Prabang. I roused myself at 8am on Saturday, still drowsy and weak through lack of sustenance other than carbonated drinks, but determined to make my 9 o' clock appointment with Big Brother Mouse (http://www.bigbrothermouse.com/). A charity and publishing project that develops books and distributes them to children in rural villages, Big Brother Mouse is slowly but steadily changing the way local families and children feel about education and reading. Last year alone 30,000 children received the first book they'd ever been given as a result of this scheme and the centre in town holds daily morning classes to improve the literacy skills of it's younger generation. I'd read about the project on a poster in town and decided to offer my services as a volunteer for the morning, they're always keen to get English speakers in to help, and hey, I did a Theatre degree, I love an audience.
So for a couple of hours I sat with local children, going through their school exercise books with them, correcting spellings and punctuation, and demonstrating handwriting and reading. I read everything passed to me by the teaching instructor - charity pamphlets, restaurant menus, the story of Buddha's upbringing, television instruction manuals - they just wanted to hear me read aloud to aid their understanding and pronunciation of the English language. This disconcerted me slightly as the whole time I was reading I kept imagining a future generation of Laos people who speak with Essex accents, pronouncing 'whale' as 'wow', 'thumb' as 'fumm', 'out' as 'aaht'; but I persisted gallantly, mustering the closest thing to the Queen's English as my sloppy Southerner's tongue would allow. If in 10 years time Luang Prabang sounds like the set of Eastenders, I swear it ain't me faul' guv, I proper did me bestest innit.
Children are a huge weakness of mine, if not one of my greatest loves. In fact, not just small children, but anyone visibly younger than me (which helped considerably in my previous job where my life consisted of zoo-keeping angry teenagers). A friend very well versed in astrology and matters of star-crossed destiny tells me that this is because under the star sign I was born, on the precise year and day I was born, and even owing to the actual time of my birth, the planets were aligned to produce someone more maternal than the cosmos had yet to create. She even outlined a historical star chart which I didn't understand to prove this to me. I have no idea if the galaxy has had any bearing on this aspect of my character, but I can say with absolute certainty that yes, despite my complete lack of broodiness and hankering to bear offspring of my own, I do melt at small faces and the opportunity to mother them. And oh, what faces these were! Laos people have shown themselves to be open, kind, affectionate and accommodating, Laos children are all of this plus heart-wrenchingly gorgeous.
This enriching experience at Big Brother Mouse led me to this afternoon's activity, desperate as I was to spend more time with Luang Prabang's younger inhabitants. When I walked along the Nam Khan River a couple of days ago I spied with glee a group of children playing and swimming in the water. The game involved throwing themselves in to the mercy of the current, splashing downstream back to the town at one end of the river, paddling to the bank, and then running back upstream to throw themselves in once more and begin the whole marvellous process again. I was very jealous of their fun, but no other foreigners or indeed anyone over the age of 12 seemed to be partaking, so I stayed a reserved and envious onlooker. I had a change of heart today though. Before I came away I suffered a series of uncomfortable and expensive injections, so to hell with it I thought! I'll get my money's worth from all this probably unnecessary immunisation and weeks of dead arms, and take on the possible toxicity of the river, that's what I paid good dollar for dammit - to risk my health in unknown water! The cold dip was also tempting due to the fact that I'd just climbed up and down the 400 steps to Phu Si temple, a view well worth the exertion but nevertheless, perspiration inducing.
So I clambered down yet more steps to the bank, crossed the bamboo bridge, and tentatively approached my small subjects of amusement who were running about in their underwear throwing mud at each other and chasing frogs. If you can imagine for a moment the surprise and bewilderment on the faces of the Aborigines when Captain James Cook moored up on the coast of Australia in 1770 with his pale-skinned crew, then I think you will more or less have in mind the expression on the faces of these Laos children as I approached their waterside territory. Unlike the 18th century English fleet however, I meant these natives no harm. To show them this I plonked down my bag, skirt and flip flops, ran in to the river waving my arms about my head in the best carefree 7 year old style I could imitate, submerged myself under the clear, clean water, and then beckoned them to come in. Kids aren't silly, they know who they can trust, and before you could say 'I'm too old for this', 20 children were yelping with excitement, waving their arms about their heads and sprinting in to the water to join me. What a relief, I would have looked pretty insane doing it on my own.
The next 3 hours were absolute bliss. For that's how long I have spent with them there today; floating along in the current, catching tadpoles, skimming stones, hand-building sandcastles, playing hopscotch, drying off in the sun and sharing Oreo cookies (I'm not silly either - I took bribes in case things didn't go my way). I don't mind telling you that when I said goodbye I was quite tearful, knowing what a rare and precious experience this was and that I, or anyone else, is unlikely ever to duplicate it. When I left the river there was a small crowd of tourists who had gathered on the road where I had been an onlooker the other day, it seems my playtime with the local children attracted quite the congregation. Some smiled warmly at me as I squelched past, others looked at me like I was a carrier of the Crazy Disease. No skin off my nose though. I have been left feeling happy and mellow from the pit of my stomach to the tips of my pruney fingers. Children have this effect, and not just on me I think.
They're the best versions of humanity we're ever going to see. They think everything is funny, they don't care what they look like when they're dancing, they are honest because they haven't learnt to lie yet, they believe in fairies, the worst thing that ever happened to them was when they fell over and grazed their knee which they can't clearly remember anyway because someone picked them up and gave them a cookie. If you spend long enough in their company without the presence of other adults they make you feel like a child again yourself - they teach you how to play and take enjoyment from simple pleasures that age steals from us. They are Goodness personified - they love you even when you don't deserve it, cry when they think they've upset you, forgive and forget quickly, and hug you every time like it's the last time. I do not understand people who say they don't like children, in my mind you may as well be saying that you don't like light or oxygen or happiness; because what a dark, choking, sad world it would be without them.
It's been a remarkable 4 days. I am very regretful to be leaving Luang Prabang tomorrow, but so indescribably grateful all the same for the youthfulness and untouchable joy it's places, it's treasures, it's children, have placed in my heart.
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