This is Burma

A few weeks ago, I had a day with heaps of time to kill and a hardcore hankering for some quality time with my email, so I headed to the nearest internet café.  When I walked in and inquired about using a computer, the employee informed me that the internet was not currently working.  That was fair enough, but due to my incessant need to plan, I asked a few more questions to determine when I should return or where else I might be able to find a connection.  What I gathered from this dude’s broken English was that there was no internet in the entire country.  Furthermore, there would be no internet for one month.  I became completely fascinated with this absurdity and began asking other people about this predicament.  The same answer kept finding me:  for about one month, the internet would be operating extremely slowly or not at all everywhere in the country because there was an underwater cable that had been damaged (one woman claiming that fish had been eating the hardware). 

This is Burma.

In essence, this is why I chose to spend nearly four weeks in this country.  I wasn’t drawn there on a mission to temple hop (though I certainly achieved that) or to see some wonders of geography (though I saw some pretty things) or for the lovely weather (it was often oppressively hot or oppressively rainy).  I went there because of the fascinating socio-political climate and to experience a minimally westernized nation that exists in one of the most heavily tourist trodden parts of the world.  Indeed, it was fascinating.    

Burma is the type of place that really makes me wish I was a bit smarter, a bit more informed…quite frankly, a bit less of the American stereotype who is clueless about international politics.  At the same time, I know that’s just not how I am wired.  I will probably always depend on my super smart friends and my experiential learning that comes through travel to explain these world issues.  I think it’s sort of the Skinner way.  I want to see it and feel it and converse about it.  There has got to be an emotional and/or experiential component to reel me in. 

What I’m trying to say is that I am far from an expert on Burma, but I’m going to do something radical and write a travel post (including some non-emotional facts about Burma) on my travel blog. 

Here’s the skinny:  Burma was a British colony until 1947.  The dude who was considered the father of independence, Aung San, was assassinated not long after.  In the wake, there was all sorts of chaos.  And, eventually, in 1962, there was a coup that has now led to the world’s longest ruling military dictatorship.  As you might imagine, this has been bad, bad, bad:  a bonanza of human rights violations, ethnic cleansing, a massacre in 1988, and the country’s leading lady of democracy (Aung San Suu Kyi -- Nobel Peace Prize winner who also happens to be the daughter of Aung San) under house arrest for almost 15 of the last 22 years.  For reasons that I only vaguely understand, the crazy military dictatorship decided to begin easing up on things in the last few years (I’m in the middle of reading a book called ‘Burma: A Nation at the Crossroads’, so perhaps when I finish the book I will understand that piece of the puzzle and can report back.)  After an election a little over a year ago, there is now some civilian representation in government.  Many (but certainly not all) political prisoners have been freed, and some of the crazy laws have been eased (like, now, the newspapers can actually report on the news).  So, there seems to be hope for democracy and reconciliation, but people are not quite joining hands and singing Kumbaya.

I felt that this political situation was evident in some ways, but it was generally only detectable if you were looking for it.  The Average Joes were not walking the streets with their heads down, sad and afraid.  The military men were not walking the streets, busting heads.  People were just living their lives, doing their thing.  I have no doubt that just about every single person in the country has a sad story to tell related to the dictatorship, but on the surface, people were smiling and laughing and generally overflowing with gentle kindness. 

Having said that, there are surely signs of the government’s legacy of crazy control.  The whole country shuts down by 9pm.  I don’t know what that necessarily means, but I know it means something.  Burma is markedly behind its neighbors in terms of level of development, particularly in terms of technology.  I haven’t seen such a lack of mobile phone use since the US in 2001.  There are power outages across entire cities for several hours just about every day.  The isolation from Western culture is impressive.  I mean, men are wearing skirts (which I thought was smoking hot and highly practical, by the way).

*Um, so this guy was NOT one of the smokin' hot babes, but he was a total nugget.

Perhaps most telling of Burma’s isolation was the fact that there were so few white folks around.  As a tourist who tries to tone down her tourist-ness, it felt nice to be in a place that was not full of people like me.  There were certainly other travelers, but the numbers were a small fraction of what you find in Thailand.  (Of course, I always find this sort of conversation amongst travelers to be slightly ridiculous:  we like to go places where we don’t see many people like us…but then by going there ourselves, we are increasing the number of people like us who are in that place.  What gives me the right to go somewhere and complain about there being so many tourists if I am, in fact, a tourist as well?) 

Being a tourist is currently my lifestyle, so I give the role a lot of thought.  What Burma made me think about was that tourists, perhaps, should take on more activist responsibilities.  (Well, I guess I sort of believe that as human beings we have a responsibility to be activists, but that is material for another blog post…)  Bad things are happening all the time, all over the world, in every country I have visited, and, most notably, in my very own homeland.  So, let me be clear that Burma’s human rights issues did not exactly open my closed eyes to the world of injustice.  Burma was, however, a reminder of all of those bad things happening all over the world.  And, it was a reminder that there are a whole bunch of people like me that go to these places where bad things are happening to have one hell of a good time.  Then, what?  Well, then we go home and go back to our jobs and maybe save money until we have enough to go to some other country that is ohmygodsocheap. 

This is how I think about it:  If someone walked into my house, just to have a look, and noticed that I had a broken refrigerator and then left saying, “Interesting.  That girl has a broken fridge.  That must suck.”  And, then, more and more people did the same thing – like, one million more.  If no one ever stopped to say, “yo, do you want some help with that fridge?  I’m kind of a handy man, and I know a guy…”  I would be a bit irritated.  

I don’t know how to fix a fridge.  I’m not even sure I know a guy who knows how to fix a fridge.  But, I don’t want to be that asshole that doesn’t even try to provide my useless help.  So, that’s the point of this blog post.  I just want Burma to know that I see their broken fridge and to inform others about it.  I mean, maybe someone reading this blog is a skilled fridge repairman.

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A few asides:

1.        The one month internet crash ended up being false.  I was able to check my email the very next day.  Someone explained to me that there was one news source that printed a story along the lines that I heard.  I have no idea if there was any truth to it, and, if there was not, why anyone would want to spread such a rumor.

2.       I call the country Burma, not Myanmar (as you will see it labeled on maps).  Here is why:  "Burma's democracy movement prefers the form 'Burma' because theydo not accept the legitimacy of the unelected military regime to change theofficial name of the country. Internationally, both names are recognised."

Unfamiliarly Familiar

After over three weeks of luxuriously relaxing on the southern beaches of Thailand, it was time to visit the organized chaos of another greatest hit -- Bangkok!  It was my first time back to this buzzing city since my brief stint teaching and touring four years ago, and I was looking forward to checking out my old haunts (and eating as much food as possible in the process).

From the familiar feeling of disembarking an overnight train and entering the public gallery of Hua Lamphong train station, it felt great to be back.  Great but weird.  For the duration of my visit to BKK, I felt like a stranger in a land that was not strange to me at all.  You know the feeling of a word or name being ‘on the tip of your tongue”?  I felt like that’s where the entire city of Bangkok was resting -- on the tip of my tongue.  My surroundings were familiar – the public transport map, the walk from the river to Khao San Road, the delicious food on the street carts – but I couldn’t quite connect the dots.  My brain was churning hard, trying to conjure memories that related to these sites with which I felt some vague nostalgic resonance.  Perhaps more practically, it was churning hard trying to remember how to get from place to place.  I wanted to call on some imaginary witness to my life and ask, “umm, can you please tell me what this corner means to me?  And, how do I get to Central World on the BTS?”    

One of the areas I was most looking forward to visiting was my old neighborhood.  For anyone who wants to get on the old googlemapper, I lived on an alley/small street (which they call a ‘soi’ in Thailand) off of         the main road between Bang Pho and Bang Sue (please insert slightly dirty joke here).   As I got off the subway, I was nervous that I would not remember my way, but it came back to me like muscle memory.  Once I began walking down my old main road, though, I felt quite confused.  “Was this always this way?  I thought there used to be some old school wood structures over here…”  I was hardcore second guessing myself.  Then, I realized that there was MASSIVE construction everywhere around me for a new line of the skytrain – the future purple line.  At least I had a concrete reason for being disoriented in this situation – my neighborhood was in the midst of a cosmetic makeover.  As I walked around, marveling at the changes and seeing traces of storefronts, carts, and karaoke bars I recognized, I kept thinking about how the whole scene seemed like a reflection of what was going on in my brain.  It was as though a big skytrain had been constructed in my mind amongst my Bangkok memories.  It felt like all of the knowledge and memories were in there somewhere, but many of them had been deemed obsolete and the rest were blocked by the new construction-y stuff.  Interestingly, the one thing that I remembered with greatest clarity was my little soi, and there was no mental or physical skytrain there (though, in both the literal and metaphorical sense, it appears that there will train tracks up in a matter of months).     

As I carried on with my walk to visit to my former workplace – Yothinburana School – the mental skytrain effect continued, and it became apparent that other people have their own brain train issues to deal with as well.  I passed through the gate, trying to explain to the security guard why this random white girl was walking into the school grounds.  He, obviously, had zero memory of me.  Then, I entered the English Program office, finding familiar faces whose names escaped me and familiar faces whose names I knew very well but who had no idea who the hell I was.   Other than two specific former colleagues, I didn’t actually expect anyone else to remember me.  Therefore, I thought it best to ask to simply ask to see these connections rather boldly announce my return, asserting some self-importance about my visit.  This, of course, turned out to be awkward, particularly when I was shuffled over to the director of the program.  She clearly had no idea who I was but also clearly took offense to the fact that I did not ask first to see her.  I managed to smooth things over by throwing up a few wais.  And, it seemed that all of the familiar faces did sort of recall me after I mentioned my formerly dreadlocked hair. 

Without indulging in too much Anna Skinner drama-queen-ness, I must say that this lack of connection with a formerly significant space and its people put me in a bit of an existential quandary.  My most typical line of existential questioning went as follows:  “Did I not leave even the faintest footprint on this city?  Have I ever left a footprint in any city?  Have I ever left a footprint on anything, anywhere, ever?  Does anyone ever leave a footprint?  What is the point of a footprint?  Does a footprint even exist?  What is the point of anything, anywhere, ever, anyways?”

Since my initial existential self-interrogation, I have regained a bit of perspective.  I only actually lived in Bangkok for four and a half months.  With my TEFL course and my travels, we are looking at a maximum of seven months in Thailand.  That is a remarkably short span of time.  Perhaps more significant than the length of time I spent there is the fact that Bangkok was never my place.  I made some lovely friends, and I had a rowdy, fun time there.  I appreciate the city for all of its madness and amazing food and cheap massages, but I never had a soul connection to the place.  So, um, duh -- of course there will be no bloody Anna Skinner footprint!  Cement footprints (like the ones on the driveway of my neighbors, the Bartamaluccis…I was always very jealous of their permanent prints on their property) require a serious investment of time and a stirring of the soul.  Let’s be honest -- my track record with time investment in any location in my adult life is extremely poor.  And, no offense to Bangkok, but there are other places in the world that have taken hold of my heart in a manner that it never could.   

All in all, it was more great than weird to be back in Bangkok.  I still love the city. I love it for everything it has been to me and everything it has not.  It’s OK that it did not take on my footprint.  It makes me feel a bit rejected, but I really don’t think I wanted to give it my footprint anyways.  I’ve got other footprints to cement…

Kudos and Bofo: A Love Story

Two of my dear friends just got married this past weekend in Arequipa.  I had a front row seat for the evolution of their relationship, often coaching both teams.   It’s like I’ve been with them up to the finals, but I won’t be able to participate in the championship game.  This, obviously, is the source of great disappointment (particularly when you add in the awesome opportunity this would have been to dance salsa)! 

In an attempt at being involved in their special day from afar (and in lieu of a wedding gift), I would like to share with you the story of this wonderful couple…

I met Elly ‘Kudos’ Kondos and Adolfo ‘Bofo’ Salas within my first 24 hours in Arequipa.  The first time I laid eyes on them, Adolfo was in the middle of a Spanish lesson with his most challenging student, Elly.  I was new to the Traveller Not Tourist world, and after I saw the two of them reviewing worksheets at the dining table of the volunteer house, I enquired with someone in the kitchen if all lessons took place there.  It was explained that this was a normal occurrence for instructor Adolfo, but then the informant conspiratorially implied that there might have been a little something more to that particular Spanish lesson ‘if you know what I mean’.  

My thought:  well, they do say that you learn the best on the pillow.

I soon found out from the horses’ mouths that there was indeed more to that Spanish lesson (though, I don’t think there has ever been enough pillow talk because Kudos still can’t speak Spanish).  The gossip about the budding relationship was one of the forces that led to the development of my strong friendships with Kudos and Adolfo. Elly would tell me all about her feelings on the relationship during lunch or a school shopping mission.  Then, she would go off to volunteer and Adolfo would come to the office to teach Spanish lessons and tell me all about his emotional status, asking for some insight from me, the Western female spokeswoman. 

Adolfo was totally enamored with Elly from the moment he met her.  He was taken with every last thing about her, from her silly sense of humor to her outrageous slurring drunken moments.  He thought everything about her was beautiful.  He wanted to be around her all the time, and he wanted her to let him adore her. 

Elly, however, took some convincing.  Adolfo was so clearly one of the best men in the whole wide world.  There was never any doubt about that.  Kudos, however, had come to Peru on a solo mission, and she felt that this was her time to be single.  She didn’t think she wanted anything serious.  Adolfo was persistent, though, and slowly Elly started to break her walls down.  After a few months, they found themselves in a healthy, committed relationship.

As Elly’s return to Australia approached, they started having those tough conversations about what happens next.  They were determining what a long distance relationship would look like and how in the world Adolfo would move to Australia within the next 12 months.  Meanwhile, Elly was spending her free time repeating the phrase “the rest of my life”, considering if she liked it associated with Adolfo…because what would be the point of all of this tough relationship logistical maneuvering if it wasn’t going to work out in the long run?

Then something divine happened that answered all of their questions.  Elly found out she was pregnant.

On this fateful day, Elly had gone to the clinic on her own for the first time during her many months in Peru.  Every other trip she had made (of which there were quite a few – Arequipa seemed to have really done a job on her body over those months) had been chaperoned.  This time she was sure she had it handled.  It was supposed to be just a few tests administered by nurses, and she wouldn’t be talking to a doctor or anyone who would be explaining anything of importance. So, there she was, laying on an examining table, understanding very little Spanish, when a nurse pointed to her abdomen and said, “Tu!  Bebe!”  She then handed Elly an ultrasound photo of what looked like a little bean and sent her on her way.

Then she called me.  I think I answered the phone by saying something I thought was flippantly humorous.  She responded by simply saying, “I’m pregnant.”  I screamed, jumped out of my chair, determined her location, made a really stupid excuse for my outburst and sudden need to leave the office (perk of work at TNT), and literally ran to Espiritu Santo clinic.  Elly was sitting on the curb outside, ultrasound photo in hand.  If there is one thing I have come to excel at since my days in Namibia, it is crisis/disaster/trauma management.  So, I told Elly we were going back in that clinic and talking to an English-speaking doctor.  We sat in the crazy waiting room of that clinic, our conversation vacillating between making light of the situation and discussing the gravity of the reality.  Finally, the doctor called us in and he confirmed that she was indeed pregnant.  He answered Elly’s questions (though not in a totally satisfactory manner), told her the date she should next seek a consultation, and again sent her on her way.

As an aside:  To take my involvement in their relationship to another level, in the ‘making light of the situation’ phase, we did the math and determined that this baby was conceived when I was out of town on holiday.  You see, Elly and I were reliving the freshman year dream – we shared a bedroom in the volunteer house.  When the cat is away, the mice will (more freely) play… 

Elly and Adolfo’s story is one of those really clear examples of how having a child totally changes your life.  Suddenly, there was absolute certainty about their commitment to each other.  Adolfo was on the fast track to arranging his arrival to Australia, and Elly moved her flight home up, cancelling the other stops she had scheduled on her way.  In a matter of days, so much had changed. 

Often these stories of marriage ‘out of wedlock’ seem forced and a tad unfortunate.  I don’t see Elly and Adolfo’s story that way at all.  In fact, I find that the unanticipated entrance of that little baby increases the romance of their story.  All of the uncertainty, it seemed to me, was due to the existence of so many obstacles and challenges that go along with an international relationship.  The previous questioning was about fear, not incompatibility.  This outcome of marriage would have occurred, with or without an unplanned pregnancy.  It was just that lovely little baby Amaia more easily guided them down commitment road, quelling some of the concerns (and creating a whole fresh set).  The beauty with which they have faced all of the tough stuff that has gone along with very quickly transforming their lives, in my eyes, is about as romantic as you can get.

For a moment, let me speak in the New Age language that first opened the door to my friendship with Elly.  I am of the opinion that coincidences hold significance.  I feel that there is a sort of divine order to each of our lives.  And, I feel that the things that are locked deepest in our hearts are what become our reality.  So, it was no coincidence that Adolfo was assigned as Elly’s Spanish teacher.  The timing of Amaia’s entry into the world had a very particular purpose in the timelines of their lives.  And, whether they were conscious of it or not, they manifested the shit out of this beautiful wedding that has just passed. 

I see that Elly and Adolfo accentuate each others' ability to enjoy life’s simple pleasures.  I see that they make each other happy in ways that neither of them expected.  I see in their relationship a real commitment to commitment.  I see deep respect for each other.  I see patience and acceptance.  I see rising to life’s challenges.   I see two very special people creating a very special union.  I feel honored to know them, honored to have witnessed the evolution of such a special relationship, and I look forward to witnessing all of the beauty that is ‘the rest of their lives’.   

Will the real Jason Blackman please stand up?

An important stop on the Greatest Hits Tour was a visit with a wonderful man whom I often refer to as my spiritual guide.  Jason Blackman stepped into my life five years ago and sort of kicked off a mini-spiritual revolution.  Of course, he had no idea that was what he was doing at the time.  Having spent many years in Thailand, his intention was simply to give me some honest advice before I headed off to teach English in Bangkok.  The nature of his advice, it turned out, was quite profound.  He had a strong intuitive sense about what I really needed to hear at that moment.  He did not tell me to buy a King Shirt and to properly wai my work colleagues.  He gave me soul advice without knowing me at all.  All of this happened over a long distance phone call that he initiated, again, out of graceful intuition.  He was in London and I was in The Debo.  We were ships passing in the night:  on the day after that conversation, he landed at Detroit Metro Airport almost at the exact same time that I was departing for Southeast Asia. 

Every last detail of this interaction struck me as extraordinarily meaningful, and there blossomed the spiritual guide-hood of Jason Blackman.

I suppose it is important to note that I had been put in touch with Jason through the woman who baptized me into the world of yoga.  Micha Adams (now the operator of The Detroit Flyhouse) taught my second or third yoga class of all time.  It had been one hell of a tough day for me.  At the time, my dad’s health was quite precarious and my relationship with him was even more so.  When I left the heaviness of Grand Central Skinner, I went to a workplace where I dealt with broken collar bones, angst, hyperactivity, and irresponsibility of teenagers in the blazing Detroit summer sun.  And, although it had been nearly a year since I returned from southern Africa, life in the good ole US of A still felt a bit weird.  In essence, I was stressed.  With all of that swirling in my emotional world, in that first class I had with Micha, in my introductory days to yoga, I cried.  And, cried.  And, cried some more.  And, just when I thought the tears might have dried up, we did some hip openers and my tears flowed on.  In the final relaxation pose, Micha came to me and massaged my feet with some sort of peppermint-y lotion.  Baptism.  From that moment on, I have been (and forever will be) enamored with Micha and with yoga.  To this day, I think of her as my gold standard of yoga teachers.

So, really, Jason was meaningful to me before I even clicked ‘send’ on that first email.

Jason and I maintained sporadic contact after that first fateful conversation, usually at the most appropriate of times.  It was Jason who suggested that we use the excerpt from Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet as one of the readings at my dad’s funeral.  And, it was Jason that contacted me out of the blue on what was one of my bluest days in Arequipa – when my heart was bruised and battered on my messy emotional floor.  As we have both led nomadic lifestyles, we continued to crisscross the globe with the uncanny ability to just barely miss each other.  Interestingly, the first time I met Jason in person was at a 10 day silent meditation retreat.  While I have always been completely certain that The Universe brought Jason into my life with a precise, divine intention, I have often marveled at how The Universe also seemed insistent that we not actually see each other. 

On the Greatest Hits Tour, however, Jason Blackman quality time became a reality.  This seemed like great timing to see someone who I consider my spiritual guide.  And, obviously, I rank Jason on my life greatest hits list.  He is currently based in Phuket, which was to be my first stop in Thailand.  So, after Sumi returned to Singapore, Anna Costley and I went on Mission: Jason Blackman. 

As I have mentioned in a previous post, Anna Costley’s incorporation into the Greatest Hits Tour was quite divine, too.  Her presence for the Jason Blackman nights only took the divinity up a notch.  Anna is a person with whom I deeply enjoy discussing spirituality.  And, she has a deep appreciation for meeting new and interesting characters.

So, the highlight of our visit to Jason Blackman was the moment when he told Anna that she is a witch.

  

I believe her initial response to this was, “Mmmm, no, I am not.”  However, after a bit of discussion, I think we may have reached consensus that Anna is, indeed, a witch.  He was not saying that she is a nasty person, replacing the ‘b’ with a ‘w’ to make the blow a bit less harsh.  He also was not referring to her potential possession of a subversive cauldron and a black pointy hat (though she does seem to have an unusual fascination with toads).  What he was saying was that she has a special spiritual force in her.  She can tap into something that is not as accessible to all of us.  That is pretty cool.

So, if Anna were to rock up to Munchkinland, she would be able to proudly report that she is a good witch, not a bad witch.

Our 48 hours with Jason Blackman included further conversations with similar content.  However, we spoke mostly about Jason’s recent brush with death.  He contracted a super crazy illness, interpreted by my medical naivety as a hardcore brain infection.  He was in a coma for two weeks, and, two months later, he is still very much in a state of recovery – physically, mentally, emotionally.  It is a miracle that he is still alive.  His resilience, I feel, is equally miraculous.

Throughout our stay, Jason was quite apologetic about not being able to give more of ‘himself’ to us.  He was feeling very much not ‘himself’, and it seemed he was disappointed that he couldn’t share that self that he knows best.  I, however, thought it was an understated divine gift to me.  In the last year or two, I have been subtly shifting and changing.  I have often come up against those changes and freaked out with the following mental self-interrogation:  “My God, this is very un-Anna Skinner of you.  What is wrong with you?  Why don’t you want to do that?  That is the sort of thing you do.  Why aren’t you doing it now?  What has happened to you?  I REPEAT, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU???”  Jason’s scenario of a real, dramatic shift in self – a feeling of a foreign body and mind – made me aware that it is totally normal to shift and change in each of our lifetimes, whether or not it has been triggered by a traumatic experience.  It was easy not to judge Jason’s evolution because he had just gone through a massive life event.  Of course he would be facing a new sense of self!  Although my slight changes have not been the consequence of a trauma, they are still completely natural.  If I can embrace the changes of a friend, I should certainly embrace my own evolution.  I was reminded that an attachment to a particular Anna Skinner identity does not actually serve me.  That is all just some weird ego stuff.  We change.  In fact, in this same visit, a different amazing man told me that “the only thing that doesn’t change is change.”  

As we shift individually, we can count on the evolution of our relationships as well.  From the time we had the conversation that got my spiritual ball rolling five years ago, I have looked at my relationship with Jason as that of teacher/student.  With every Jason interaction, I grew to expect him to give me some divine nugget of wisdom.  While I still believe I have much to learn from Jason, I think there is some shit I need to work out for myself.  More importantly, this expectation of wisdom delivery is actually a lot of pressure to put on a person.  If someone expected me to dispense meaningful life lessons every time I saw him/her, I would feel super stressed out.  This visit made me aware of my attachment to this idea of Jason The Teacher and our way of relating in that context.  If our relationships are constantly shifting and growing, attachments to particular dynamics like this are not very useful.         

In conclusion, Jason is changing.  I am changing.  Our relationship is changing.  Even Anna’s witchy-ness is changing. Because that’s what everything does -- change.   And, if everything is changing, those attachments I have mentioned definitely are not helpful.  After all, we know what Buddha says about attachments:  they lead straight to a world of suffering.  So, peace out to those attachments.  Ain’t nobody got time for that!

I will, however, always have time for Jason Blackman, regardless of how he transforms or how our connection evolves.

Girl Talk (and No Talk)

There are three major objectives to Anna’s Greatest Hits Tour:  1. Reunite with dear friends in significant environments.  2.  Create space for inner/spiritual exploration.  3.  Visit places that I have long thought of as intriguing. 

I had heaps of friend time in New Zealand and Australia.  I had some new horizon exploration in Java.  Then, I had some quality New Age Anna time in Bali.  So, it was time to loop back to objective number one with my visit to Singapore.  Girlfriend time!

Truth be told, Singapore has never really captured my imagination.  In fact, in a highly uncharacteristic act, I completely skipped a flight to the country four years ago when I decided I was having too much of a good time in Southeast Asia’s grittier zones.  However, as more people I love have visited and settled there, I have found myself quite fascinated by this orderly city and its ban on chewing gum. 

I would have rocked up to Singapore if I found it totally uninteresting, though.  It didn’t matter where I was heading because I would be hanging out with Sumin Ahn and Anna Costley.  I was certain we would have a grand time just about anywhere.

Anna and Sumi are friends from New Zealand.  I met them through one of the people I am most obsessed with in the world – Elinor Chisholm.  Actually, it was Eli that really introduced me to (or is in some way connected to) the best of my kiwi world.  Anna and Sumi are no exception.

Sumi and her wonderful fiancé, Ben, have been living and working in Singapore for two years, so our reunion was straightforward.  However, it was divine intervention that came into play with the intersecting visit of Anna Costley.  We realized our similar timeframes during my trip to New Zealand and almost immediately committed to a joint Singapore visit and Thailand beach bum experience. 

After a decent bit of alone time in Bali, chatting and chatting and debriefing and pre-briefing and laughing and laughing and laughing with two women that I already understand to be ‘on my page’ was so wonderfully luxurious.  I was in the Four Seasons of social stimulation.

And, get this:   As if a gift from the girlfriend socializing gods, in these initial days of reuniting and sharing, I also had a date arranged to see my ex-boyfriend (for the first time in two years) as well as meet his new, serious girlfriend.  Now, that is one glorious goldmine of girl talk.

I cannot overstate the greatness of spending uninterrupted quality time with two amazing women who are so willing to share with deep honesty and ridiculous humor.  Emotional intimacy and unfiltered humor bring me to life.  One of the things that I find most nourishing is a sense of connection, so this girlfriend time made me feel plugged right into The Universe. 

Great credit to the patient photographer, Ben, who tried and tried to capture a clear photo of the cackling trio

…but, I won’t bang on further with clichés about friendships, specifically those between women.  I am sure you get the point.

What I might bang on about a bit more is something slightly less cliché – the beauty of shared solitude.  After a few days of Singapore’s equatorial heat and air-conditioned shopping malls, Sumi, Anna, and I headed to Phuket, Thailand.  We were such motor-mouths – we couldn’t even shut up for 30 seconds on the plane ride.  We were quite aware of this, too, wondering if the people around us wanted to join our fun or tell us to take our party elsewhere.  Like I said, this banter and sharing was brilliant, but when Sumi left us, Anna and I began to settle into a quieter existence.  Oh, we still had our fair share of giggle fits and exchanges of life stories and speculative analyses of the people around us.  However, we also spent a lot of time in each other’s presence without speaking or joking.  We spent nine nights on Ko Lanta (a Thai island off the Andaman coast), and much of that time we were silent.  We read.  We wrote.  We stared at the sea.  We generally did this while sitting on the same amazing bungalow balcony.  We were two Annas together, but we were also in our free, independent Anna worlds.

So, while I cherish the uproarious moments, I also cherish the ability to be in the presence of a dear friend and feel just as comfortable and grateful for her silence.  Relationships become so much richer when we understand each other in multi-dimensional ways.  I feel lucky to have had the time and space to know Anna both in the dimension of her speech and the dimension of her silence.  

Team Anna Headquarters -- bungalow in Ko Lanta 

The view from our porch

My Island Retreat (Minus the Beach)

It’s my last day in Ubud, and it feels a bit like I am leaving a rehab centre, preparing to face the real world.

Of course, I have no idea what ‘the real world’ is.  I am certain, though, that it is not lying on a beach in Thailaind with two wonderful friends.  And, that’s where I am headed next. 

Still, I have spent 15 nights in a glorious bubble of peace and growth and healing.  I am leaving the bubble, and while the beaches of Thailand won’t be tough, there will surely be challenges beyond the Southeast Asia shores.  So, I feel a tinge of fear/preemptive anxiety over the loss of this feeling of peace and contentment.

…which, perhaps, means I am not in as much of a state of glorious equanimity after all? I will have to ponder that one further on my own…

A girl moved into the room next to mine yesterday.  When I told her that I had been here for two weeks, she responded with the sort of surprise I would have expected if I had told her I had been living here for two years.  She then said, “well, you will have to tell me about everything that I should do while I am in town.  You must be an expert.”

My response, “Well, the thing is, I haven’t really done anything.  But, if you would like me to tell you about how to not do anything in Ubud, I’m your girl.”

While I told that girl that I did nothing, I was speaking strictly in terms of the typical tourist activities.  I did so much to develop my yoga and meditation practices.  I had conversations over delicious, healthy food that opened my eyes to new ways of seeing myself and the way I operate in this world.  I went for walks.  I watched the rain.  I drank coconuts and talked with Ibu (the mother of the house).  My days felt rich and full and had just the right amount of purpose.  It was my sweet little Anna Skinner economy style retreat.  

I have been really into ‘retreating’ since I was a teenager.  Obviously, I love going away – getting out of an environment familiar to me.  I love focusing on a particular task/mission for a short period of time.  I love building a sense of community rapidly with people in this unfamiliar environment who are also focusing on a similar task.  I love closing the getaway with a feeling of connection and accomplishment and growth.

This time in Ubud has been a really special sort of retreat because I designed it myself without really designing anything at all.  There was no conference centre with dorm beds.  There was no opening night ceremony speech.  There was no schedule of daily activities or cafeteria lunch.  There weren't even any other participants!  There was just me, my thoughts, my yoga practice, my lovely little group of Bali friends, and my banana pancake and fruit salad every morning.

Dictionary.com tells me that the antonym for ‘retreat’ is ‘advance’.  When I first read this, I thought it was only applicable to the military sense of the word, and I was momentarily frustrated with the lack of vocabulary I had for post-retreat life.  After repeating the word a few times in my head, I realized that ‘advance’ was actually spectacularly appropriate.  I just retreated – withdrew from everyday life and even the classic tourist trail – in an effort to advance my life in the days that follow.  With all the wisdom of my silence and all the wisdom of the kind and fascinating folks I befriended in Ubud, I feel I am indeed ready to move forward.  And, so, as I have composed this post, I have laid my real world anxiety to rest, knowing that I will continue to advance until the next time I feel the need for a nourishing retreat.

The Power of This Now

Let me list for you some of my happiest places:

      1.   Dancing salsa with my instructor, Cesar, from Arequipa

      2.  Sitting around a table of food and wine with my favorite people in Wellington

      3.  Now.  Right now.

Let’s pretend that happy place number three is charged with great wisdom.  I’m talking about every ‘now’, every moment I am ever in.  You know, some Eckhart Tolle ‘Power of Now’ shit.

The truthful ‘now’ of which I speak:  a mix of the Yoga Barn and Yumi House in Ubud, Bali.  Which is where I actually, physically am right now. 

The truthful interpretation of ‘now’ and the pretend interpretation are very much connected.  I came here to get my Power of Now/Eat Pray Love on.  Oh, and it’s so on…

From the time the plane landed in Jakarta, I was not entirely feeling my travel flow.  I had spent nearly a month on a friendship tour, and my independent state of travel felt strange.  I missed the comfort of the family homes I had crashed in and the ability to not have to explain anything about myself.  I missed the familiarity and the easy companionship. 

This was all to be expected, but what was unexpectedly strange was the lack of the ‘wow effect’.  I was seeing/experiencing things that I found fascinating and having interactions that warmed my heart.  It is almost impossible to be completely out of your cultural context and not have those moments.  But, there is a way in which those moments usually land on my heart.  I’ve been lucky to do a fair amount of travel in my life, and I was finding that my early days in Indonesia were not landing on my heart in a way that I was used to.  I wasn’t getting ‘that feeling’. 

Quite frankly, I was finding the whole travel thing to be an ass pain. 

OK, well, this isn’t entirely true.  I had moments when I got ‘that feeling’.  Like when I was on one of those, “This is Indonesia, Sucker” bus rides and the ticket man assumed that I could speak Indonesia when I called him out for trying to scam me by laying down the correct number in his language.  It was at this point that all the old, smoking men on the bus and all the old women with 87 bags seemed to feel it was their duty to look after the hairless white girl.  AND, then among the 10 other dudes walking up and down the aisle of the bus trying to slang tofu, fruit, not-so-cool drinks, weird stuff on a stick, and perfume, there was a young man with a guitar that serenaded me with “Hey, Jude.”  Or, like when I Mr. Allen took me surfing.  Or, like when we spent all day searching for the holy food cart and it seemed like we spoke to half of the people in Yogyakarta’s informal food and beverage sector and they all thought we were totally hilarious (and fairly ridiculous).  Or, like when the people from the guesthouse fed me dog and then gave me a doggie bag of fried things for that volcano bus ride.   

So, ‘that feeling’ did present itself to my heart now and again, but I could not shake the general nagging sense of ‘this is not what you are supposed to be doing right now, Anna’.  This was quite disconcerting, as I have seven months of travel ahead.  It was also a source of identity crisis – being overseas is what I do best, isn’t it? 

This is all to say that when Mr. Allen left, I felt a bit lost.  I really just felt like staying in one place and thinking and writing and relaxing and enjoying and being.  Yogyakarta wasn’t the place for that.  I was hoping that place would be in Bali, but I felt a traveler’s obligation to go to this big famous volcano that was hard out hyped.  So, I spent about 200 hours on a bus and five minutes at the cool volcano on my way to Bali. 

Then there was Ubud.  And, all was right in the world.

A fellow traveller gave me a recommendation for accommodation in Ubud (the central mountain town in Bali – yep, the Elizabeth Gilbert zone).  Of course, the directions I had were vague at best, but I put a policeman on the case, and soon enough, I was rocking into Yumi House.  And, little nine-year-old Yumi and her family’s home had me at hello.  The moment I walked into the courtyard, I knew this was exactly where I was supposed to be, that I could be totally and completely content if I spent my entire stay in this garden, and that I would not be leaving Ubud until my expired visa forced me out. 

I found this completely relieving and satisfying – scratching that really hard to reach itch on your back.  I wasn’t restless in my two weeks in Java because I fell out of love with travelling but because I needed a new interpretation of travel this time around.  So, here I am in Ubud, reinterpreting.

For me, this reinterpreting means waking up outrageously early.  It means yoga-ing once or twice a day.  It means attending a three day Law of Attraction workshop.  It means chanting in honor of the full moon (and my birthday!).  It means learning about Balinese culture in a slow, natural manner from the beautiful family I have the good fortune of staying with.  It means embracing every cliché that I embody.  It means writing.  Most of all, it means doing whatever I damn well please whenever I damn well please to do it.

While Ubud is rocking my world, I think a lot about whether or not I am rocking Ubud’s world.  This is the sort of place I hate to love.  I am not the only person who has fallen into the warm, charming arms of this town.  It seems the same has happened for a ba-zillion other Western people.  As the ba-zillion of us have shown up, rice paddy after rice paddy has been exchanged for massive hotel and spa after massive hotel and spa.  Along with us, there comes a tsunami of plastic water bottles that I see as symbolic of endless examples of cultural corruption, social injustice, economic inequality, and environmental un-sustainability.  I am walking down Balinese streets that are not at all intended for the Balinese. 

So, here I am in this playground of Western bliss – a theme park of spirituality and healing and indulgence with an affordable price tag.  I can’t help but question what it means for places like Ubud to exist (indeed, Ubud is far from alone in this respect), but I also can’t help but love every last dysfunctional bit of it.  For better or worse, I am really enjoying the ride.  

My princess bed!

My cute little porch!

The garden!

Yumi and her mom, Ibu Desa.  Obsessed.

This photo is not good at all, but it is for the benefit of the Bokuniewicz crew.  There is a Buck symbol next to the door.  I knew this place was meant to be...