Time-Warp to Thailand

Hello, good readers. Dear readers. Patient readers, most of whom comprise my family and dearest friends. Greetings from Bali. It is winter here, though a Balinese winter would feel like summer to most of the world. But I dare not speak of Bali now, for there is much ground to cover in the interim. I have much neglected my updates while in China, and my second semester passed somewhat more stressfully than expected. As you know, many moons have passed since I last vacationed in Thailand. Now that China is behind me and the shifting sands of my subconscious have settled, I have a bit more time and motivation to inform others of my goings-on this past half-year.

There have certainly been some adventures along the way. Reaching back to January, I would recommend Thailand to anyone, any age range. Without question, hesitation, or reservation. The Land of the Thais is a place of preternatural beauty, scooped up in heaping helpings and served on the cheap. The food is incredibly delicious, the oceans azure blue, the people bronzed, beautiful, and free. To any of my older relatives: if you haven't put Thailand on your bucket list, do so now. You may find yourself enjoying an extended stay.

I know I certainly did. I intended to spend just over a week in Thailand, and ended up canceling two flights and staying for a month. The country grabs you. Thailand was fated by geography to become a vacationer's paradise, especially during the temperate winter months of 'high season' - stretching from December through early March. The entire nation spans a narrow isthmus, with famous beaches girdling either side and islands dotting its peripherals. Thailand was colonized by England, and a large amount of British culture permeates. English was the lingua franca in the resort country I visited, and most educated locals spoke it fluently. I am lucky to have been conceived into the mother tongue, as it rendered navigation a breeze.

In lieu of an extended rundown of my events during my three weeks at The Sanctuary resort, I'll post a lurid rendition penned closer to my stay there. Thailand lends itself to prose-poetry, and while I trust the pictures to speak for themselves, a lurid landscape lends legitimacy to liberties with language.

How to do Thailand justice? Picture a land hand-crafted by the Maker for His Holy vacation. A portal into an alternate reality spangled with mangoes a-gogo and a hammock on every palm tree.

Blue seas frothing on white sand beaches stretch beneath the pink and orange of the morning sun. Then the island lazily shakes its perfect body off, swimming laps. Kickboxing. A yoga retreat or three. Thai massage - seven bucks an hour. And then in stumbles its bloodied, still drunken cousin from the Full Moon Party. The stars are still in their eyes - the party won’t be finished for at least another 48 hours. And why not? The yogis and the addicts, the tantrics and the tourists all have the same word on their lips: Ecstasy. This is Tahiland, and the islands are pulsing with joy.

My words don't tell the story well enough. Let me show you what greeted me, every morning.

Beautiful.

How else to describe Koh Phagnon? A shimmering atoll off the sandy spinnaker of the thai coast, Koh Phagnon and her elder sister, Koh Samui were made for vacations. They have no other purpose. Tourism is their life’s blood, the sand and the sea and the shining sun, their bread and toil. The food is magnificent. The people, entrancing.

Ashanti spirit healers and medicine men coupled with aurvedic shamans and tantric yogis. Spinal therapists mingled with art dealers, writers, composers. Bond traders shed their market floors for flip flops and ray bans as raves Omed into the distance from 6 in the evening past noon the following day before indefatigably shifting along the coast. The party did not end - it only changed its tune.

Sipping magic shakes on the beach with a Scotsman named Alister and seeing holographic visions tessellate the living stars. Waking on the beach, surrounded by friendly puppies who frantically pollinate you with their kisses before returning to their coconuts. Bamboo hut, and its preposterous pumpkin salad, and even more ludicrous oceanside view.

The magicans’ circle at the tea temple. The rollicking motorboat through choppy surf. The jungle. The days pass, effortlessly. It is a flower, budding and blossoming in one setting, a time lapsed bliss.

Took two tantra retreats and saw amazing things. A full kundalini awakening - My friend Kyle jerked up like an astral jesus after energetic exercizes with the magical Megan flamer. Kyle was flashing brighter than a neon christmas tree through the courses of his subtle electric, blinking, all the while stammering ‘its all real,’ and ‘i can see the lights!’ Oceanic bliss alighting the halls.

Tears, laughter, reconciliation. Contacts, crossings, cracking signals. Unclenching old fists. Realizing how much I love my father, how much he loves me. Pushing through the pain to get there. Stepping out on my own, yes, stepping out of my own shadow. You must see your shadow if you want to get out of its way. And of course, to leave the shadow, you must face the sun. There is so much more to tantra than the sex - it is a world entire. In two weeks, I got a year’s worth of focused growth.

In my more contemplative nights I stayed alone by the sands and surf, listening as the waves lapped endlessly upon the shore. I woke to these lovely creatures, gnawing at their coconuts amidst their morning nuzzle:

Now I know, if people weren't busy working in China, there would certainly be far less play on the Thai beaches. Passing from China to Thailand, I felt I had journeyed from purgatory to paradise - from grey to green, from dry to lush, from silent to vibrant, and cheery, and welcome. Yes, its easy to smile when you’re not working, and easier still when it’s for a month at a time. But the easiest smiles come in a place like Thailand - where nature is decked in her proudest raiment, where the surf squeals joy in chorus with monkeys and macaws, and the flowers outdo one another in their sexing allure.

That sums it up nicely - about as well as I could do myself. ;) If you get the chance, do yourself a favor and book an extended break in Southeast Asia. The reality of it trumps all the text I've chucked to date - it's beautiful beyond words.

Hello Again!

It has been a half year between updates. The consolation and the wonder of that span is this: I can clearly view the changes that time and a relative isolation have wrought on my psyche. In many ways, I’m much more realistic and self-aware than I have been in the past. That comes with the territory, I suppose. and the time.



My brain handles new situations much more methodically. I am beginning to look towards the horizons of my life, enacting the rudiments of a plan for myself. I am no longer tied to one set future, and am free to venture toward multiple goals. My goals are no longer centered upon others, nor a projection of my internal insecurities. I am improving myself, and only through this primary action can my world become a better, more vibrant place.






This newfound autonomy has its upsides. Remarkably, given my position on the fringe of my old life as a foreign teacher, I have notched over $10,000 in the bank in the past four months. Just as remarkably, my parents have forgiven my outstanding college debts, and the albatross which looped hungrily about my neck has flown for other, drearier seas. I am already lucky to be a young American - to be that and debt free is colossal. Thus: a huge and lasting thank you to mama and papa Horst.





I have been to Thailand and had some wonderful experiences. The place is a paradise. I enjoyed the sights, though due to the nature of the workshops, most of my adventures were internal. Kyle, my friend and coworker, had an even more enlightening experience, with a full Kundalini awakening, a bunch of new friends, and a beautiful and intelligent Australian girlfriend Megan, whom he somehow coerced to leave paradise to join us for a three month contract in central China. At any rate, Thailand was beyond exquisite, and I will detail the trip in full with my next entry.



In the meantime I’ve climbed a couple mountains and went on a few vacations here and there. I’ve taken up a second teaching job on weekends, and the kindergarteners I minister to bring new meaning to the word ‘adorable.’ I met some lovely foreign friends: Joel from Vancouver and Claire and Leon Frey of Michigan and Manchester. Claire’s care, Leon’s wit, and Joel’s easygoing nature are braided into our regular game and movie nights. Together, they have mitigated the often isolating experience of life in a foreign land, and I for them.





My oral Chinese is slowly improving, but reading and writing is still beyond me. On paper and at pay time, I am technically an expert. In practice though, my three lovely TAs, Sophie, Amy, and Cedar hold my hand throughout much of my daily life. They handle my Chinese communication and coordinate my affairs with the local authorities. I would be lost without them, as they well know, and make up for this somewhat by rising with the electric roosters at dawn to supervise morning exercises. This allows them an extra hour of sleep, and when the workday lasts from 6:00 AM - 9:00 PM, that hour certainly counts. I enjoy the privilege of a fairly comfortable schedule, for which I am duly grateful. Many Chinese teachers do not have a full day’s break, settling for Saturday evening and Sunday morning for a break. A 24 hour leave, perhaps, but inconceivable to many in the west.


I have become a much better teacher in the past six months, and I owe a debt of thanks to Kyle’s influence. He really cares in the classroom, regardless of the input of the students, and if he makes education his career he will make a difference in many young lives. He also inspired me to undertake a pushup regimen which has wrought sweeping changes on my musculature and bearing. Still, even his Herculean presence as Assistant headmaster could not forestall that slowdown familiar to so many students and teachers in response to the irresistible advances of summer.



At the beginning of the semester, Kyle and I set up a system of strictures to govern student behavior. We have since learned that our powers for discipline are sadly limited. Two of the students have severe respiratory problems, owing to a parental indulgence of their smoking habits. We have tried to confiscate their cigarettes, but they somehow always end up with more. These same students sleep in class, and disciplinary measures do little to alter their behavior. Eventually, even Kyle threw up his hands, and I did the same. While we have achieved some successes. The students no show up to class on time more often than not. They are also bereft of their cell phones and PSPs. Of late, there has been a marked drop in student-teacher stabbings. This is a first year school, and is hence a haven and last resort for behaviorally challenged youth. The students’ grades are in free fall, but as Chinese academics are entirely dependent on test scores and our students joined an International school to escape the national tests, our marks matter little to either the students our the administration. Perhaps as a direct result of this policy, the students break more rules than they obey. 






Their delinquency may be due in part to our winnowing contracts. Kyle and I will only be teaching for two, perhaps three more weeks at the maximum before going off on our respective trajectories. Kyle and Megan will likely take a summer teaching position in East asia, returning to California for Kyle to finish his teaching degree. I will circle China with my good friend Alex before heading south overland to reach mystical Bali, Indonesia. I will stay there, traveling and learning for several months. My current mental schematic has me returning to the east Coast for a family Thanksgiving, but life is often not so predictable. The fates, however, are kind. Tanner will shortly be transforming into a demigod at Deep Springs, and so the old Honda Accord will be awaiting me in North Carolina. The road is open wide, and wherever it leads, I greet it with open arms.

Stink Bugs

Stink Bugs.

In my time in Xian, I grew rather attached to these quizzical creatures. They quickly revealed themselves to be the dominant life form in our dorms, clambering over everything they could see seemingly for the hell of it.

Why did I climb this umbrella? Because it is THERE.

The girls were terrified of stink bugs. I returned the favor by threading them into their hair whenever I got the chance. The stink bugs and I would play a little game together, seeing how long the intrepid voyagers could hold on as I held back laughter.

Our record was nearly an hour. I placed my stinkbug on Eva, leaving the dorm. It stayed on her for the taxi ride and showed signs of wanderlust. I quickly transferred him to Janice, where he sat enraptured for the remainder of the evening in the crowded dance club. When he left his perch, perhaps to go bumping with the local cockroach coterie, I felt a real sense of loss - and a burgeoning respect for the species.

Stink bugs are apex scavengers because they cannot be killed. Well, you can kill them, but the action is extremely inadvisable. The species is exquisitely adapted to life among humans because their death brings something worse than pain - it yields aesthetic inconvenience. Some quirk of the stinkbug’s intestinal alchemy results in a disproportionately potent effluence emanating from their bowels. The resultant combination is a fugue of stench - like a reeses peanut butter cup if instead of chocolate and peanut butter it were bile and diharrea.

I did not know this at first, because I loved the little creatures and never turned thought to harm them. I loved to watch them crawl - each little motion of the legs curled a smile as my eyes widened. Middle legs up, then front, then back. Afternating each side - six separate motions at once. LIke a jazz drummer, or an exquisite organist sitting down to Bach. Their every movement proficiency and improvisation. These bugs cost me minutes on end as I watched their thoraxes edge across the shower spout, preparing for a kamikaze bungee into my dripping coifs.

I have yet to see one eat.

Giving Thanks in Xian

We pulled up just outside Xian’s South Gate, facing its 15 meter stone walls and imposing fortress crenolations. The glistening, brass studded red doors stood at attention, sentries eternally preserved yet eternally petrified, a monument never to rust nor again open. On either side of the ancient portcullis, great holes had been carved into the city walls, allowing thruway traffic purchase into the imperial capitol. Where archers once drew their bows, bike tours now whirred their concentric levity around the firmament. Stoplights and crossing guards replaced boiling oil and murder holes. The roads of history diverged on this night, and we chose the western of the two. Giving the cabbie his 30 RMB, we strode into the evening, sheathing fork and spoon at Howard Johnson’s luscious Thanksgiving buffet.

In China, Howard Johnson’s is a five star experience. This may sound counterintuitive, but in China, America’s gutter turns to glory. In Beijing, Pabst Blue Ribbon (also known as PBR, the hipster brew of choice due to its cheap price and self-knowing mediocrity) has been repackaged as a luxury brand. Its ‘oak aged’ vintage is priced at a staggering $40/liter, and sold in the finest gentleman’s clubs and fine dining establishments. Brands such as PBR and Howard Johnsons are seen as typically American, and can thus command great value regardless of their connotations in their native soil. As such, they shrewdly capitalize on their traditional American imagery in an unfamiliar, ever hungry Chinese market.

In a sense, I do the same. Any foreigner who comes to China is suddenly a commodity, and none moreso than the blonde haired, blue eyed male. There is an amount of deference afforded me, an undue respect which is freely given, due to my relative scarcity. As the world opens up, this artificial inflation will slowly diminish, but for the present, both myself and Howard Johnson’s were the beneficiaries of American advertising. I’d toast the trend with a PBR, but at present, it is out of my price range. A sixty cent Dark Knight stout will have to suffice.

As we walked into the marble halls of HoJo, we were serenaded by a player piano, slowly rotating in an enormous crystal enclosure. We were greeted in rote English by a beautiful unsmiling Russian concierge. She took pictures of us as we sidled up by the moat, beside the ferns and the koi. Cameras returned, I paced with my fellows at the Bodi international school towards the buffet.

Prices were western, as was custom. Dinner, including unlimited wine, appetizers, turkey and dessert, came to 120 RMB - a red 100 RMB mao and his lesser orange 20 RMB counterpart. As in all Chinese establishments, tipping was not encouraged, and incomprehensible to the majority of the wiatstaff, so the bill was as is, without any further decision. The meal was a special treat - the feast cost twelve times as much it did in our jaunts through the village. Money works differently in China. When you are foreign and in the company of generous friends, any expenditure is a surprise. Twenty dollars had become a ludicrous expenditure for a good meal, but luckily, our spread was well worth the cost.

I turned to enter the buffet, with its red wine oxidizing under a purple, velvet draped roof. I sampled an excellent pumpkin bisque, hesitantly passed on the turtle soup and lasagna, and greedily snatched from the cheese display and the salads. Salivating, i dressed my salads in caesar, italian, a variety of creamy balsamics. As most Chinese establishments only served thousand island and nothing else, it was a welcome change of pace. I grabbed my appetizers, hungrily tendered my cheeses, and resumed my place at the table.

Cheese is a rarity in China, as a large majority of the population is lactose inolerant. Pizza is a luxury rarely sampled, and when it is available, it is enjoyed as a five star experience. Pizza hut is a jacket and tie affair, with crisp white tablecloths and sommliers touting the wine selections. The pizza buffet was replaced by a single turky, which was sufficient for the entire evening. Most patrons tended towards the sushi, hot pot, and other traditional asian fare.

Though there was no dog on the menu this evening (at least, not labeled as such - Chinese chefs can be tricky), China has yet to accede to the health foods craze of superconscious America. Nutrition labels reflect this divergence, even in familiar brands. In China, Heinz ketchup comes in an aluminum squeeze bottle, spitting forth like crimson toothpaste. In China, one serving of this formidible nostrum contains 1300 mg of sodium - over 60% of the daily value for a fully functioning human being. In Mali they used to trade salt for gold. Somebody should pitch this to Heinz - they’d make a fortune. In my four months here I’ve likely had more MSG than Yao Ming at Madison Square Garden. Don’t worry about me though - I’ve been drinking a lot of (bottled!) water. And if I’ve learned anything in my times at Chinese laundromats, it all comes out in the wash.

As we stabbed pairs of gleaming ebony chopsticks into the freshly minced turkey - one of which was sufficient to feed the uninitiated locals - Jason’s millionaire friend Bo rolled up with his entourage. Toasts were traded, chairs added, and the meal commenced with renewed gusto. Appropriately enough, Bo works at Boeing, where he manages the Xian branch. His father’s franchise is based in Shanghai. Bo frequently rolls up wearing million dollar watches, buying bottle service and flashing meticulously sculpted arms and the whitest smile in the Orient. Evenings with Jason Bo are a blur of Western debauchery coupled with eastern precision. Boeing beer pong at the dubstep diaspora. Bo is better informed about hip hop trends than anyone I’ve ever met. Somehow he finds the time to do this and manage a thriving branch of a multinational corporation.



Toasts, and toasts. I had no work on friday, so the shackles were off. It was a good meal, good company, but typing this now, hundreds of miles away in rural Yichang, it strikes me how surreal my life in Xian was. It wasn’t like China, it wasn’t like America - I can’t even call it the future with true certainty. So much of my stay in Xian felt like a half constructed dream - a blank check fantasia of rags to riches without the provisions of planning or architectural training. In my wild nights in Xian, I rambled through a living theme park whose terse, businesslike childhood had blossomed into a dualistic pseudomaturity - of work undertaken to capture the pleasures which youth denied. An entire generation living in Western frivolity with Eastern efficiency. What strange new animals dance about in Chinese Neverland!



The dinner ended, and my last holiday in Xian came to a reluctant close. We all took new photos with the Russian concierge in front of the rotating crystal piano, and then outside into the open air. Bo sidled into his absurdly luxurious prototype BMW - one of two confirmed in the entire province. Just as absurdly, it was painted in dark blue with racing stripes had the word POLICIA professionally embossed across the side. Bo asked me if I thought it was amazing. Looking at it all under the smoky twilight of Chinese halogen, I could only say, “yes."