Spinning Free

Sinking into sweet uncertainty
April 18, 2013

How God and the Catholic Church nearly ruined my twenties

“Before we go any further, I have to tell you something.”

Eric looked at me expectantly but I could feel my nerve wavering. This was the talk I had been preparing to have for days, but now that the time had come, I wanted to forget the whole thing and go back to making out.

We had only been dating for a few weeks but things were going well. Eric was nice, funny and respectful. We liked each other. It didn’t hurt that he had a ridiculous body. There was no apparent reason not to keep heating things up between us.

Except…

“I’m a virgin. I’m waiting to have sex until I’m married. So we can’t have sex.”

“OK.”

“OK?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I should have been relieved. Hadn’t my fear that the virgin card would bring things between us to an end been abated? Instead, I turned away from him, tears in my eyes. I was embarrassed, and angry that I felt so hemmed in by the constraints of Catholicism, the religion I had practiced for most of my life. I was 24, and seriously sexually frustrated. But at least I was making God happy, so that was some warped consolation.

I had been raised on the promise of Heaven for the faithful, Hell for the wicked, and the latter group included fornicators. I was told that God had a man chosen for me and I was to trust in His plan and wait for “the one.” No sex before marriage. The message had been burned into my brain during 12+ years of Catholic school. Never mind that the vast majority of my classmates and fellow Catholics seemed to have disregarded the abstinence lesson. I was convinced that if I stayed pure, I’d be rewarded one day.

But when I was 23, I started questioning everything about my religion. And that included the Church’s mandate against pre-marital sex. I wanted to be having sex, but fear of being damned in the eyes of God prevented me. I felt that I was missing out on a huge part of my young adulthood and was feeling increasingly out-of-place and uninformed during conversations with my friends about our love lives.

When I think back now on the beliefs I held then, I shudder. There are few things more irrational than telling human beings that they must utterly refuse themselves an act that they are biologically wired to perform. Forcing people to deny their most basic impulses or to feel shame at every hint of a stirring in their loins is cruel and foolish. We’ve seen how well such practices have worked out for the multitude of Catholic priests exposed as child molesters, and in the many cases in which abstinence-only education has resulted in high rates of unplanned pregnancies.

Having abandoned Catholicism, and religion, altogether three years ago, I can see now how warped and backward my thinking was. I used to cling to the promise that God would lead me to the right man and that it shouldn’t matter to a guy whether or not we had sex. It’s absurd to me now that I ever believed such a thing. I know that I would not marry a guy or commit to a serious relationship with him if he refused to have sex with me. It’s an essential, intimate part of a romantic relationship and I would not expect someone to pledge his life to me before we had determined if we were compatible in that way. Yes, I realize there are a number of other areas that are vital to a long-lasting relationship. But this one is a requirement of mine.

I resent the fact that sex, and all of the fun related activities, were such a source of guilt and fear during my formative years, all because of the teachings of a corrupt and antiquated institution. But I am grateful that I awoke to the realities of the Church’s teachings in time to heal and get to know myself as a sexual being.

Things between Eric and me ended before I made the leap into atheism and decided to become sexually active. When I did start having sex, my early experiences came with what I suspect are the same insecurities and uncertainties that accompany a lot of people’s first forays into that area. But I felt no guilt. I felt no shame, and no fear of burning in the pit of Hell for all eternity. The only judgment that concerns me about my sexual activity now is my own.

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April 17, 2013

One last chance, this world is gonna pull through

The Buddhist New Year festival, Songkran, was celebrated in Thailand this past weekend. It’s the biggest festival of the year and the celebrations go on for at least three days.

These celebrations are not your average holiday festivities, however. Songkran is a massive, multi-day, city-wide water fight. Everyone buys water guns and buckets and plays outside for three days, the only goal being to soak everyone who passes you as much as humanly possible. It’s quite possibly the greatest holiday in the world.

Thapae Gate

Friends who had been in Chiang Mai for the holiday before had been telling stories for months, getting the Songkran newbs pumped for what promised to be the most epic waterfight we had ever seen.

I marveled at the stories; I watched the videos; I saw the pictures. I was not prepared for all that is Songkran.

Thapae party

The day before the holiday officially began, people were already lining the streets with Super Soaker knock-offs, PVC pipe syringes, buckets and hoses, ready to take down anyone who crossed their paths. Street vendors lined Chiang Mai’s famous moat selling sausages, sweet corn, spring rolls, water and beer.

My friends and I donned t-shirts we had made for our crew, the Songlorious Basterds, and spent a wonderful pre-Songkran afternoon eating home cooked Thai food and drinking Sangsom, a sweet Thai whiskey, in between bouts of unleashing hell on every passerby who dared walk past our guest house.

Songlorious Basterds

Already, the holiday was off to a glorious start. But even that didn’t prepare me for the real deal.

In some ways, words fail me when I try to describe Songkran. On the first full day of the festival, we took to the streets and found the best party you could ever imagine: an entire city playing, eating, drinking and dancing in the sunshine. It’s absolute mayhem and you can’t walk two feet without getting soaked to the bone. There’s no place for vanity or reservation. You simply jump into the fray and enjoy.

Swimming in the moat

Celebrating Songkran in Chiang Mai was, without exggeration, one of the most wonderful experiences I have had since moving overseas. There were many times when I couldn’t stop smiling from the sheer joy I felt at being there, and being surrounded by friends and a city full of people in celebration.

There were countless instances and interactions that made me smile or laugh out loud: getting covered with foam and dancing in front of Thapae Gate, having children smear talc on my face to stave off the heat, being beckoned by a laughing old woman eager to throw her bucket of freezing water on me. But I will never forget the way I felt on the first day of Songkran.

Songkran child

The water symbolizes a time of cleanse and renewal at the start of the new year, which is why it factors so prominently into the celebrations. On Saturday afternoon, the first day of the festival, rain clouds rolled over the steaming hot and already drenched city. People had been in the streets all day, blasting each other with water guns, dumping buckets of ice water on each other’s heads, clinking cans of warm Chang beer in a toast to the new year. But then the sky opened up, punctuating what had already been a perfect day.

If I was Buddhist, or religious in any way, I would have taken the rain as a sign from God that the coming year was a blessed one. Instead, I stood there in the middle of the street, arms wrapped around my friends as we laughed and hugged one another and I was grateful that I, and they, are alive.

Foam party

That’s the kind of celebration Songkran is. The generosity of spirit, the abundance of people and food and drink and water and music – it makes you happy to be alive. And when you’re dancing to Bruce Springsteen in the middle of a reggae bar, sopping wet and surrounded by people who are just so damn happy they could burst, you can’t help but love them.

And when you start teaming up with Thai kids to attack trucks full of people with squirt guns and buckets, and see groups of strangers helping a drunk old man who’s done a little too much celebrating for the afternoon, you can’t help but really like human beings as a species. And when you watch a little girl celebrate her first Songkran with shrieks of delight and demands to be doused in water, you want to cry a little out of happiness because it’s moments like those that make you think that maybe humanity does deserve to exist.

Songkran trucks

Songkran is the sort of holiday that helps you continue to believe that people are good, even when you wake up the morning after it to the news that people were murdered and maimed at the Boston marathon and that 55 others were killed in Iraq on the same day. Yesterday morning, when I read about this wave of horrors, I held on to the memory of Songkran. Seeing people in such a pure, happy state, in a communal moment of joy, sharing and celebration … I have to keep that in mind in the face of senseless tragedy, and believe that decency will eventually triumph.

Thanks to Will Moyer, Joshua Du Chene and Agnes Wdowik for the photos.

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March 19, 2013

Why Hannah Horvath is my hero, or something like that

Last night I watched the season two finale of Girls, and was compelled to share some of my thoughts about it. This isn’t about why Girls is such a damn fine show, whether or not Lena Dunham is a feminist hero, or even about how brave she is for showing her naked, “real” body on camera every week.

My love of Girls has always been an intensely personal one, and this blog post is personal as well. I do think this is a high-quality show and am always happy to have a spirited debate about what makes it such from a critical point of view. But that’s not what I’m writing about at the moment.

Hannah Horvath, Girls, HBO

My initial interest in Girls was piqued by a New York Magazine piece that referenced the painfully awkward sex scenes and the “realness” of the main characters’ naked bodies. I was skeptical of the promised gritty, realistic portrayal of how 20-somethings live, and watched with the expectation of being proven correct in my assumptions.

But I liked the show immediately, so much so that I proceeded to hold regular viewing parties with friends, in Beijing during season one and in Chiang Mai during season two. My friends and I would debate the merits and flaws of the characters and divulge who our favorites were. Each of us confessed that the character we found most endearing was the one who reminded us most of ourselves.

From Hannah’s first monologue, in which she declared that she thought she could be the voice of her generation, or “a voice of a generation”, I knew I had found a kindred spirit in this character.

Throughout both seasons, I have winced at her willingness to debase herself for a man, cringed sympathetically when she was called out on her self-absorption and empathized perhaps a little too well with her spiral into anxiety, OCD and presumably, depression.

I saw some of my own worst qualities reflected back to me and much as it pained me to watch them, I also thirsted for more. Here at last was a character who reflected not the traits I was proud of or aspired to possess, but the things I feared and was finally ready to see in myself.

It’s been nearly a year since I entered into a period of emotional upheaval, intense reflection and many months of emotional extremes. In some small way, the presence of Hannah Horvath in my life was a comfort, a validation. I was mortified by some of my internal thoughts and insecurities. I didn’t want to tell other people about what I saw then as the horrors in my head. Instead, I could watch Hannah and take some comfort in the fact that anyone who could write such a character must occasionally grapple with the same brands of insecurity, self-doubt and uncertainty that I was feeling.

The development – or regression – of Hannah’s character in season two particularly resonated with me. Certainly I could relate to the messiness and futility of her relationship with Adam in the first season, but I didn’t really need to see my own mistakes with men mirrored back to me to learn my lesson. I knew that what Hannah was doing was kind of fucked, much in the way that I knew my own behavior was every time I made excuses for a guy who had repeatedly shown he wasn’t good for me, just so I could feel a little less bad about continuing to be involved with him.

Hannah Horvath, Girls, HBO

It was the unraveling of Hannah’s inner world that kept me hooked on the show during season two. Perhaps I projected some of my own life onto the character, but I related to her apparent fears of not being able to deliver on professional promises, of being a failure, of being alone. The sense of being disconnected from everyone around you. The harsh reality of sitting, alone, in your apartment in your pajamas, unwilling or unable to get out from under the covers and face the world. Were these not the very things I had been berating myself over for months in between bouts of lethargy?

Where Hannah had OCD, I had panic attacks. Seemingly out of nowhere, I would find myself imagining my own death by suffocation. This would lead to me hyperventilating, clinging somewhere in my mind to a thread of rationality even as I broke into a cold sweat or hot flashes, paralyzed until the all-encompassing fear had subsided. “You’re not dying; you’re alive and you’re OK” became the mantra that kept me in the moment. These attacks became so frequent at one point that I briefly went on Xanax in order to make it through the day without going through the physically exhausting and emotionally draining process at alarming intervals.

I was embarrassed and it took me a long time to admit to my close friends what was going on. I probably would have continued taking the Xanax had it not exacerbated my depression. Instead, I started working with a therapist again and can happily say I haven’t been back to such a dark place in months. But I remember it. And I’ll always be able to empathize with what it’s like to be there.

It’s cliche at this point to thank Lena Dunham for presenting her audience with heavy issues in such frank and raw ways, but I thank her all the same. In Hannah Horvath, she gave me a character I needed to see and love at this point in my life, a character who has helped me better see myself. And through writing this character, she made me feel a little less ashamed and a little less alone on the morning I woke up viciously self-attacking for sleeping with a guy I knew didn’t respect me, or the many days I could barely get out of bed because I felt so much like I had sold out as a writer and had failed at all of my goals and dreams.

Hannah Horvath, Girls, HBO

There is so much to be said about the season finale of Girls, both about the writing and story lines and the potential social commentary. But my initial reaction to the show, and the season, was gratitude for a character who is, if nothing else, a very real embodiment of some of the most serious issues that many of Dunham’s fans face.

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February 20, 2013

The lasting legacy of the Vietnam War in Laos

A young man sat at the desk of the COPE Centre in Vientiane, Laos, working at his laptop. He went by the name of Peter Kim, which was embroidered on his t-shirt. He had a slight build, shiny black hair styled into a bowl cut, and brown eyes.

Peter went about his work, shuffling through his backpack, plugging a USB stick into his laptop, discussing business with a member of the COPE Centre staff. He looked for all the world like any other young Laotian guy.

Except that Peter had no hands. And he was blind.

Peter, whose given name is Phonsavath Souliyalat, was 16 when he suffered the tragic accident that left him blind and maimed.

“My friend and I went for a walk one day, and we were playing,” Peter told me. “My friend picked up a bombie. He didn’t know what it was and he threw it to me. It exploded and I lost my eyes and my hands.”

The “bombie” Peter referred to was a cluster sub-munition that had been dropped on Laos during the Vietnam War. It and millions of others failed to explode on impact, rendering large swaths of the landscape extremely dangerous.

Peter’s left arm ends just below his wrist; his right a few inches below the elbow. Scars from the explosion mark his face.

Peter recounted this gruesome tragedy to me in a matter-of-fact voice, then hurried on to tell me that he had taught himself English in the three years since his accident. He also described his advocacy work with the Ban Advocates, an activist group that pushes governments to ban the use of cluster munitions like the one that robbed Peter of his hands and sight. He seemed eager to move on from his injuries and focus on what he had achieved since the explosion. Peter was proud to tell me that he had met former United States Secretary of State Hilary Clinton during her visit to Laos.

Then Peter asked where I’m from.

“The United States,” I responded, cringing.

His face lit up. “Oh, the United States! I like it there. I want to go there someday.”

Having spent the last hour and a half learning about the ways in which the United States government had destroyed the lives of millions of people in Laos, I couldn’t fathom why. I’m not the type of person who feels guilt for the misdeeds of my country’s government, but I was baffled nonetheless that Peter spoke so cheerfully about America, without a trace of (rightful) hate in his heart.

The UXO legacy

Peter Kim is one of thousands of Laotians who have been maimed or killed by unexploded ordinances (UXO) left over from the United States’ air campaign against communist forces in Laos during the Vietnam War. Between 1964-1973, the United States Air Force dropped 260 million sub-munitions from cluster bombs, known locally as bombies, on what is now the Laos People’s Democratic Republic. Thirty percent of those did not explode on impact, littering the Laos countryside with literal time bombs that continued to detonate in the three decades since the war ended.

According to the National Regulatory Authority for UXO/Mine Action Center in Laos PDR (UXO-NRA), roughly 50,000 people were injured or killed in UXO incidents between 1964-2008. Three hundred are maimed or killed annually.

There are several types of UXO in Laos, the most prominent of which are cluster bombs. These devices are dropped from planes and detonate in mid-air, spraying dozens to thousands of bomblets across an area. They are highly effective at decimating a region, causing widespread casualties and lasting financial and psychological ruin, especially in a poor country such as Laos.

COPE Laos

The COPE Centre in Vientiane, the capital of Laos, houses a small but powerful exhibit educating visitors about the UXO problem and the lasting traumas the bombing campaign wreaked on this impoverished country. The centre is run by COPE Laos, a not-for-profit organization that provides free prosthetics and therapy for those who need them. Their patients include children who were born missing limbs or with medical conditions such as club feet, and people who have lost extremities due to leprosy. Thirty percent of COPE’s patients were maimed or disabled by UXO.

The COPE Centre exhibit highlights the UXO issue, a problem exacerbated by the country’s poverty. One display involves a collection of prosthetic legs that were gathered from locals. These are makeshift pieces, cobbled together out of scrap metal and wood. COPE provides quality prosthetics and rehabilitative therapy to those who would otherwise spend their lives limping along with these unsanitary and unsafe false limbs.

Elsewhere in the exhibit is a replica of a typical Laotian hut, where the audio to a BBC documentary plays, providing the chilling backdrop to what is seen in the museum.

“This incident is part of the deadly legacy of the Indochina War, which continues to haunt the people of Laos…”

Visitors can watch an interview with two parents whose son died from sub-munition injuries in 2004. The boy, Hamm, was nine years old when he was killed. He and a friend followed a group of scrap metal collectors working outside their village, picking up pieces that were discarded by the adults. Unable to tell the difference between scraps that were safe for carrying and those that were explosive, Hamm picked up a live one that ripped his body apart.

Hamm’s parents were summoned and found their son gravely wounded, but not dead. They hired a driver who took them from hospital to hospital, none of which had supplies of blood and oxygen. Eventually, the driver told them he did not want the boy to die in his car for fear of the death bringing evil spirits, and Hamm was taken home to die.

A deadly legacy

There are countless stories like Hamm’s, and like Peter’s. Scrap metal is a precious commodity and can bring in desperately needed money for rural families. Collecting it, however, means that men, women and children are going into areas that could very well contain explosives that will go off when disturbed.

Because so much of the land remains contaminated, once thriving farming communities are unable to work large portions of it, contributing to a vicious cycle of poverty.

Before that moment, I had never before consciously felt embarrassed to tell someone I’m American. I’m not one to take ownership of the behavior of the American government, or make apologies for “my country.” But I felt embarrassed nonetheless. I had had no idea about the atrocities committed in Laos, and could not recall ever having learned much, if anything, about this country before arriving in Asia. The idea of being even remotely associated with any of the horrors that continue to be visited upon the innocent people of Laos made my stomach turn.

Efforts to clear Laos’ landscape of UXO continue to this day, and the work is slow-going and dangerous. All 17 provinces were hit, and a third of the land is thought to be contaminated.

Though Peter’s optimism and the COPE Centre’s commitment to providing health aid to those who need it were inspiring, I left the effort feeling helpless and enraged. I thought not only of the thousands killed during the actual U.S. campaign in Laos while it was in progress, but also of the thousands who have died needlessly since. How could someone like Peter reconcile himself to the fact that he lost his eyesight and his hands because of a bomb that was dropped on his country before he was even born?

Whenever I visit places like this, I try to take something positive from it – inspiration from people who have overcome adversity, are able to rebuild their lives from tragedy, do something in the service of humanity. But this time, I couldn’t muster it. I did admire Peter and COPE’s work but all I felt was disgust and despair because the same kind of tragedies and war crimes are being visited upon other people in other countries all the time, to this day, always with someone’s justification.

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February 14, 2013

Being my own Valentine

When I was in grade school, I loved Valentine’s Day. Adored it. I relished picking out those boxes of marvelously corny valentines, usually Barbie and/or Batman, to write out for all of my classmates. Valentine’s Day was one of my favorite days at school – an entire afternoon blocked off for exchanging cards, eating Dunkin’ Donuts munchkins and watching movies. What’s not to love? Barbie Valentine

But as I got older, Valentine’s Day became an increasingly stressful holiday. By my junior year in high school, it became downright panic-inducing. That was the year all my friends got boyfriends and my long-held nightmare of being the only single girl among us came true. Why God was plaguing me with such emotional torture, I wasn’t sure, but I set about mitigating the public humiliation days in advance (I have since relinquished the notion that “God” had anything to do with it, but that’s a post for another day).

There were fewer things more horrifying to me than being at school on Valentine’s Day when I was single.
What was I going to do while other girls had roses and candy grams delivered to them, sit alone and die of fucking embarrassment?

Not a chance. Rather than orchestrate a cleverly timed trip to the nurse’s office or a doctor’s appointment that would take me out of school through lunch period – by far the most torturous stretch of the day – I decided I simply was not going to school on Valentine’s Day.

Humiliation in any regard was one of my greatest fears as an adolescent, and I felt that not having a serious boyfriend when all of my friends did was a tremendous shortcoming on my part. I went through long bouts of self-loathing, admonishing myself for “fucking up” by breaking up with guys who had actually liked me.

Like most people, I had no idea what I was doing when it came to my romantic relationships as a teenager, but I was convinced that I was some unique breed of singleton. On my worst days, I lamented the fact that I was clearly a mean, spiteful person who deserved to be alone. I virulently criticized my appearance, personality, intelligence and aesthetic tastes until I was nauseated from crying and self-hate.

This made regular days at school stressful enough, but Valentine’s Day, I was certain, would be unbearable. Worst of all was the fear that my loneliness and shame would overwhelm me and I might cry during the middle of the day, and that was a hell to which I would not subject myself. Batman Valentine

Of course, I realize now that it wasn’t that big of a deal. Being single, not having a Valentine…none of it mattered all that much. And no one would have treated me like a leper had I shown up to school boyfriend-less on Valentine’s Day. But the shame of it ate away at me all the same.

And so, well in advance of the big day, I would announce to my parents that I was not going to school on Valentine’s Day. Fortunately, by the time I reached the second semester of my junior year, they had stopped fighting me on taking days off and gave their tacit approval to my writing my own absentee notes, so this proved to be a less difficult conversation than I would have originally anticipated. I had my temporary reprieve from the shame of my singlehood.

Once I escaped the Valentine’s Day Hell of high school, there came college. None of those are particularly remarkable – lots of chocolate eating and rom com watching with my single girlfriends, if I remember correctly. I still spent much of college longing for a boyfriend, and I still found admitting that I was single to be an exercise in emotional torture, but everyone’s love life is a mess in college so I was in good company.

Then came the post-collegiate years of 22-24, which passed in boozier and occasionally more dramatic fashions (in one instance, a former love interest called me at 2 a.m. the night before Valentine’s Day and called me “an asshole” when I got upset that we weren’t spending the holiday together. Dubious though my taste in men was at the time, I did have enough self-esteem to promptly end that affair.).

The best thing I ever did for my love life, it turned out, was move overseas. I’ve had more flings, dates, sex and relationship-esque situations in the past three years than I did in all of the years between high school and my early 20s combined. Through the combination of therapy and some serious introspection and reflection, I learned to heal some of my own insecurities and change my perspective on relationships. That opened up a whole new world for me and I gained confidence and became a little less afraid to put myself out there.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped alternately hating and feeling sorry for myself because I was single. I no longer berate myself regularly for not being in a relationship. And when I realized that Valentine’s Day was upon us this week, for the first time in years, I found myself looking forward to it. Michael Jordan Valentine

There were no traces of shame or sadness and embarrassment. In fact, those were replaced by a sense of optimism and even elation. This is not the first Valentine’s Day I’ve spent solo but it is the first one that I won’t be pining away for or fostering resenting toward someone from my past.

It’s the first one that I’ve felt comfortable with my single status, not because “I’ve given up on love forever,” but because I actually feel open to love and to meeting someone when the time is right, without old fears and losses and baggage hindering my current happiness.

So this year, I’m allowing myself to remember how much I do love Valentine’s Day, cheesy and manufactured though the holiday may be. And I will celebrate, probably by watching a movie and treating myself to a glass of cheap red wine. Because even though I’m single, I’m celebrating for that 16-year-old somewhere inside me who can finally be at peace and know she’s worthy of love and celebration, even if she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Valentine

All photos from BuzzFeed’s “150+ Valentines from Your Childhood”

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January 14, 2013

The nightmare that was Christmas…and New Year’s

All photos in this post were taken by Will Moyer and reflect the natural beauty of Koh Phangan, as opposed to the side of the island described in this blog post

6 a.m., January 1, 2013

“Bao, there are two people fucking on your front lawn.”

The four of us gathered in the doorway of Bao’s ramshackle bar and indeed, there beneath a gnarled tree, were two people having sex.

“Time to get a room, guys,” Bao yelled. “This is my home. You can’t do this thing here.”

The man, a blond Brit wearing a bright orange singlet, grinned and waved. The woman, a Brit wearing nothing more than a pink bikini top tied loosely under her fully exposed breasts and a patch of mud smeared across her lower back, didn’t even break her rhythm.

Bao laughed. “They’re happy. Let them go.”

Of course there were two drunks fucking at 6 a.m. in front of the bar.

It was the only appropriate ending to the night. To the whole vacation, really.

Prelude to misadventure

I spent Christmas and New Year’s Eve of 2012 on Koh Phangan, an island in the Gulf of Thailand. I was with six friends: Will, Ruby, Hilary, Rob, Suzanne and Katz.

We had chosen Koh Phangan as our holiday destination mostly to go to the Full Moon Party for which the island is famous. The Full Moon Party is a massive festival of debauchery involving tens of thousands of people, lots of cheap booze, drugs, sex and overall mayhem. I had been on the fence about wanting to go to a Full Moon Party ever in my life, but I figured that if I’m going to be in Thailand for half a year, I might as well go see what it’s all about.

The plan was to spend the first half of the trip on Srithanu, a quiet beach on the northwestern part of the island. We figured that we would be far enough removed from Haad Rin, where the Full Moon Party is held, to get in some relaxing beach time before the madness. We were looking forward to uninterrupted days of swimming, sipping cold beers in our beachfront hammocks, getting massages and having as drama-free a vacation as possible.

Of course, this is Asia – more specifically Southeast Asia – where the likelihood of bad, ridiculous, random, insane shit happening increases exponentially. And lots and lots of it did.

The not-so-relaxing island Christmas

I had been on Koh Phangan for all of a day when the first signs of a bacterial infection reared their ugly head. At first, I assumed the shooting stomach pains and bouts of nausea were symptoms of a standard upset stomach. Refusing to be deterred from enjoying my vacation, I boarded a boat with Will and Katz to Ang Thong National Park, an archipelago of 42 uninhabited islands.

I assured myself the stomach pains would be gone by late morning. We went snorkeling in the pristine waters that surround the islands and saw enormous black sea urchins, purple anemones and electric blue fish. I even made it through lunch and a short hike to see the emerald lagoon. Then the vomiting started.

Ang Thong National Park

Great, I thought. Food poisoning. At least it should be gone by Christmas.

False. For the next two days, my body rejected everything I put into it: water, medicine, plain noodles, peanut butter toast. I threw up partially digested meals I had eaten four days earlier (There is no mistaking the distinct flavor of samosas, on their way in or out.).

The end result of this grossness was that I was admitted to a local hospital for two days and put on an IV. The doctors, who were of questionable competence, diagnosed me with gastroenteritis, an infection of the stomach and small intestine.

Koh Phangan Hospital was a rather primitive medical facility. The nurses were friendly but mostly inept. I had to inform them when it was time to change my IV bags, had to instruct them on what medicines I should be taking and had to call them three times when I got blood in my IV tube before they did something about it.

I will admit that I started crying when the doctor told me I’d be spending Christmas night in the hospital. I was exhausted, frustrated and intensely hungry but also intensely nauseous. I knew I needed to be in the hospital but I was scared and I hated it.

Fortunately, I have good friends. On Christmas night, Will brought me pizza and watched movies with me so I wouldn’t be alone for the holiday. The next night, everyone came, bringing pizza once again, as well as smoothies and other Western treats.

Being in the hospital was a frightening and uncomfortable experience, but it was also an exercise in practicing gratitude. I allowed myself bursts of anger and frustration but after each one, I reminded myself of the good people in my life and the fact that my health was on the mend. Life could be a lot worse.

Koh Phangan Hospital

Besides, I thought, once I got out of the hospital, I could enjoy the rest of my island stay worry-free. It turned out my commitment to that Pollyanna attitude would be tested more than a few times even after my release from Koh Phangan Hospital.

“I am boring of this!”

A friend of a friend had been nice enough to book bungalows for us at Seaview Rainbow, a small resort on Srithanu. The price was right (about $7.50 per person each night), the beachfront location sounded great and the restaurant and reportedly fast wifi were bonuses. We planned to stay there at least through the end of Christmas week. We could hardly believe our luck at getting a reservation at this place. It seemed almost too good to be true. Which, of course, it was.

Something seemed off about the owners of Seaview Rainbow from our first interactions with them. They refused to provide basic amenities such as soap or adult-sized blankets, and gave us only small fleece throws that looked like they had been purchased at a Disney store. Then they hemmed and hawed over giving us a blanket or towel to use on the beach because “they would get too sandy”… which seemed odd, given that the resort is located on the beach.

Srithanu, Koh Phangan

There were other weird nickel and diming issues, but no major problems, and the location was as convenient and beautiful as we had hoped, so we let the small things go.

And then, three days into our stay, the owner lost all sense of professionalism and, it seemed, his mind.

On Christmas Day, when I gave up thinking I could fight whatever ailed me by lying in the bungalow and willing myself not to puke, I asked Will to come with me to the hospital. He of course agreed, and asked the Seaview Rainbow owner, Mr. Ko, if he would give us a ride. Ko said he would, for a fee.

I grabbed my bag with my laptop and wallet, just in case the doctor decided to keep me overnight, and told Ko we were ready to leave. He glanced at me, then turned to Will.

“My friend, can you help me with something? Can you talk to your friends for me? They have been very disrespectful to me.”

The night before, Christmas Eve, Suzanne showed up to Seaview Rainbow around 7 p.m. only to be rudely informed that her bungalow reservation had been given away. When Suzanne and Ruby asked why, Ko became emotional and screamed in Ruby’s face. An aggressive shouting match, mostly fueled by Ko, erupted and Suzanne ended up spending the night on the hammock outside the bungalow Ruby and I were sharing.

I assumed this heated exchange was what had him smoldering now, but no. He had found something fresh to add to his list of grievances against us.

Apparently Hilary and her boyfriend Rob had made the egregious error of putting leftovers from another restaurant in the Seaview Rainbow refrigerator (she had asked a staff member for permission and been given the OK).

“My friend, I don’t understand why they are so disrespectful,” Ko told Will, his face reddening. “They cannot do this thing. I am running a business here. Why they disrespect me in this way?”

“I don’t think they were trying to disrespect you, but I’ll talk to them and see what’s up,” Will said. I could have slapped Ko at that moment for delaying my trip to the hospital, but I seethed silently and let Will handle it.

He walked over to the bungalow where Hilary and Rob were staying and told them they couldn’t leave the food in the fridge. They accepted this with no complaints. Under any normal circumstances, that would have been the end of the whole thing.

Will explained to Ko that Hilary had asked a staff member to use the fridge and hadn’t meant any disrespect by what she had done.

Ko exploded.

“Where do they think they are that they can do this thing? I am running a business! These guys fucking disrespect me. I am boring of this!”

We assume that by, “I am boring of this,” he meant “I’m sick of this,” though who knows for sure. He assured Will that the two of them were still friends, that “there are no problems between us but I cannot accept this thing from your friends,” and loudly declared that Hilary and Rob had to go.

Keep in mind that while this was going on, Rob came out and apologized and tried to smooth things over. Ko would hear none of it. Rob and Hilary were kicked out of the resort, effective immediately.

Finally, after dropping that bomb, he summoned his wife or sister, I’m not sure what the relationship was, to drive Will and me to the hospital.

Sunset on Koh Phangan

I missed the ensuing drama, which involved everyone leaving Seaview Rainbow on principle and scrambling to find accommodations for the rest of the week. Because so many people were arriving for the New Year’s Eve party on Haad Rin, we were unable to get rooms for more than a night or two at a time and there was absolutely nothing available for Dec. 30th or 31st.

The circumstances were not ideal. It’s hard to settle in or relax somewhere when you know you have to pack up and schlep to a new hotel or resort the next day. But it also wasn’t the worst situation.

Everyone except for Will, Ruby and me was leaving on the 29th. A Thai friend of Ruby’s had generously offered to let us sleep at his recently purchased bar for 100 baht (about $3) a night in exchange for helping him sell beers and keeping an eye on the place.

Again, when something seems too good to be true, it really probably is.

Bao’s house

Will, Ruby and I were determined to put the drama and stress of the past few days behind us. My stomach was finally beginning to feel like that of a reasonably healthy human being and once we got to Bao’s bar, we wouldn’t have to move again.

Thinking we’d get to play the cool bartenders for a couple of days on Haad Rin, the three of us showed up to the bar in a chipper mood on a rainy Sunday night. Bao had warned us that he hadn’t set up the guest house area yet, but the prospect of sleeping on the floor didn’t faze us at that point.

The “bar” was little more than a sagging bamboo and wood shack covered in three layers of dirt and dust. The only alcoholic offerings were a few cheap Thai beers, unless you count the half-empty bottles of Sangsom strewn about the front patio. Worse than that, however, were the stacked plates of rotting food, trash bags leaking a black, oily substance all over the floor, and a front door hanging off its hinges.

As for the “guest house”… it was a room at the back of the bar, and the only indication that it was meant for sleeping were the stained pillows and single bamboo mat on the floor. This room, too, was covered in three layers of filth and had the added bonus of being filled with mosquitoes.

The bathroom was in an outhouse and in lieu of a shower, we realized we’d have to use the butt hose (a staple in Thailand, where the preferred method of cleaning up after using the toilet is a hose-down, rather than a wipe) for bathing.

To top the whole thing off, power had gone out on the entire island, so after doing a quick clean-up by the light of a few headlamps we found lying around, the three of us lie down in the pitch dark on the dirty bamboo mat and contemplated our situation.

“At least we have a place to stay” and “It will be fine once the lights come back on”, became common refrains, heavily interspersed with “Where the fuck are we?” and “Of course this is where we’ve ended up.”

Koh Phangan, Thailand

“I’m going to write about this,” I announced.

“Good,” Will said. “Then everyone will know we laid here like three dicks in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.”

Thankfully, the lights came back on 20 minutes later and shortly after that, a group of about eight Thai guys, all friends of Bao, showed up for a barbecue. What had looked like a potentially miserable stay quickly became fun and we enjoyed one of our best nights on the island.

Friends we knew from Chiang Mai came over, the guys cooked the best food we had tasted on Koh Phangan, Sangsom and Changs were flowing and there was a sing-along to acoustic versions of popular American songs.

It was a great night. A perfect night to lead up to New Year’s Eve.

Which was also perfect.

Right up until we got robbed.

A very un-merry New Year’s Day

During the week between Christmas and New Year’s, there were three Full Moon parties: one on Christmas Day, one on Dec. 28, the night of the actual full moon, and one on New Year’s Eve.

There were roughly 30,000 people on the beach on New Year’s Eve, possibly more, the vast majority of whom were either incredibly drunk, incredibly high or both. Vendors along the beach sold buckets of cheap rum and whiskey mixed with Red Bull, and bars hung enormous banners advertising mushroom shakes, “special cigarettes” and laughing gas. Harder drugs were also available, or so I’ve heard, though they require a little more effort to obtain.

Lime 'n Soda, Koh Phangan

The Full Moon party is madness. It’s a massive rave on the beach where everyone is dancing, guys are openly peeing in the water, and people are having sex about two feet away from where those guys are relieving themselves. An Australian drummer we befriended at the party told me he saw another dude pooping in the waves.

In the midst of all this chaos, the party was fun beyond all my expectations. The friends I was with were relaxed and happy, and the fireworks were incredible. Golden sparkles rained down over us in a spectacular display, and while it was probably a total safety hazard, it was a beautiful and exciting way to ring in 2013.

So it was a wonderful New Year’s Eve and on the short walk home around 5 a.m., I found myself feeling utterly satisfied with the night, and optimistic about the new year.

It was about 5:15 a.m. when I walked in the door, contemplating posting a sappy Facebook status about what a great night it had been.

I glanced at my computer bag and noticed that not only was it open, but that my laptop wasn’t in it.

“Hey, where is my laptop?” I asked Will, assuming he had used my computer when he got home.

“I have no idea. I haven’t touched it,” he said. “You probably moved it before you left earlier and just forgot.”

There was little doubt in my mind that I had put the laptop and Will’s Kindle in the bag and zipped it shut before I left, but I supposed I could have been wrong.

Then Will noticed something else that was out of place.

“Were our cameras on the counter when we left?”

Yes. That was exactly where our Canon and Nikon DSLRs had been. But they weren’t there anymore.

Will jumped up to check his computer bag.

“My laptop is gone.”

Ruby, Will and I stared at each other.

“Holy shit.”

We had been robbed.

It’s a surreal feeling to realize that someone has broken into your home, or what is passing for your home, and stolen something from you. It’s hard to wrap your mind around the fact that not only are those items gone, but that someone had been pawing through your belongings, violating what is supposed to be your safe space.

It’s even harder when the items that have been stolen are the very tools you use to make a living. I’m a freelance writer and Will is a web designer. Our livelihoods depend on our computers and cameras.

Ruby called Bao and we did a quick survey of our things while we waited for him to arrive.

We discovered that the bastard thief had stolen the following:

  • My MacBook Air
  • My Nikon D60
  • My external hard drive
  • Will’s Kindle, which I had been borrowing for the trip
  • Will’s MacBook Air
  • Will’s Canon Rebel T1i
  • Will’s external hard drive
  • Ruby’s Nook

Whoever stole all of this had left behind Ruby’s Sony laptop, Will’s iPod classic and, inexplicably, my bank cards, which had also been in my laptop bag. MacBook Air

Fury, anger, fear and disgust all made an appearance that night and in the days to come. But we all agreed that what really mattered is that none of us had been home, or hurt. How often do you hear about botched burglaries that end in the victims being beaten or murdered? Who knows what this thief might have done if we had been home and tried to foil his plans?

It’s possible that he wouldn’t have tried to rob us at all if someone had been there but I’m glad we weren’t around to find out. All of our things will be replaced with time. Our lives and our health are far more important than the loss of our electronics.

But it’s still infuriating.

Bao arrived and offered to take us to the local police station to file a report but admitted that that would be useless.

“Even if they find your things, they’ll probably keep them,” he said.

Cool. Good to know there’s crack law enforcement there when you need it.

Resigned to the fact that we were probably never going to see our stolen possessions again, we decided to get a couple hours of sleep before starting the three-day journey back to Chiang Mai. But Koh Phangan had one surprise left in store for us before we went on our way.

“Bao, there are two people fucking on your lawn.”

Will spotted the fornicating couple after he and Bao did a sweep of the premises and gleefully pointed them out to us.

The two were either oblivious or just didn’t care that there were four people watching them have sex in broad daylight.

Bao alternated between furious and amused at what was happening on his lawn. The Brits paid him no attention as they switched from woman-on-top to oral.

“Want me to chase them off with the broom?” Will asked, a gleam in his eye. It would have been hilarious and as much as they deserved, but Bao shook his head.

“No, they’re having a good time. Let them be.”

At least somebody was.

Anywhere else in the world and at the end of any other night, I would have been shocked at the brazen public humping that was going on a few feet from where I was about to sleep. But this was Koh Phangan and it was the morning after a Full Moon party and we had just been robbed and were sleeping on the floor of the most run-down bar in the hemisphere, so why wouldn’t there be two people having sex in the mud in the front yard?

“Koh Phangan is not paradise!”

Two hours later, I woke up and stumbled to the outhouse, feeling like death might actually be imminent. I couldn’t remember the last time I was so tired and was dismayed to find that being robbed was not merely a bad dream.

I pulled on the bathroom door. Didn’t budge.

“Bao, did you lock us out of the bathroom?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

“Well, the door is locked and I can’t get in.”

Bao came out and banged on the bathroom door. No response.

He disappeared then came barreling out of the bar carrying an old Coke bottle filled with water. “This fucking girl,” he muttered.

He clambered onto a chair and dumped the water through an opening between the door and roof. No sooner had the water splashed on the floor than the girl erupted in anger.

I breathed a sigh of relief. When she didn’t wake up to Bao banging on the door, I honestly thought she might be dead.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she yelled. Then came a loud crash as she pulled down a shelf in her rage.

“Get out of my fucking house!” Bao screamed back.

The bathroom door swung open and out she came. I feared that she was going to take me for the person who had doused her in water and punch me in the face.

Instead, she began a monologue that was undoubtedly the ravings of a lunatic, or of someone who had taken a lot of drugs in the not at all distant past.

“Who the fuck would invite 40 people to a bar and then tell them to leave?” she yelled. “You know, it doesn’t make me a lesbian if I’m doing things with a girl and then wake up three hours later and decide I’m not into it anymore. That doesn’t make me a lesbian.”

“Trust me, no one thought you were a lesbian,” I said, recalling her persistent banging of the British guy.

“What the fuck is going on out there?” Will yelled.

“This place is not paradise!” she yelled back. “Everyone told me, ‘Come here, come to Koh Phangan. It’s so amazing.’ This is not paradise. You should pay for my plane ticket back to England.”

Will started laughing. Ruby, who is an exceedingly nice person, glared at her.

“Yeah…she’s gotta go,” Ruby said. “I can’t deal with this girl right now.”

We asked her if she had taken any drugs.

“If you’re the type of person who wants to put things up your nose, then fuck you,” she replied. She looked accusingly at Will. “Are you on something right now?”

“No,” he said.

“Good.” It was obvious that this girl was on something, regardless of her evasive response. She was erratic and irrational and had no idea where or when she was. She was also unaware that her right breast was hanging out of her loose-fitting tank top throughout her entire rant.

Eventually we stopped responding to her and turned to the more pressing topic at hand: should we stay on the island and search for our stolen property or should we catch our boat and start making our way back to Chiang Mai and deal with the losses when we got there?

We decided on the latter. The likelihood of finding our things was slim and there was no one on the island who would help us. We suspected that the thief was either one of Bao’s friends or at least an acquaintance, but he was adamant that that was not a possibility.

The three of us packed up, exhausted, resigned and desperate to be home in Chiang Mai.

There was a knock at the door.

“Oh god, she’s back.”

The British girl stood in the doorway, a more subdued version of herself than we had seen before.

“I’ve…I don’t have a bra,” she said.

“We noticed.”

She looked pleadingly at Ruby and me. “Do you have one I could wear?”

Absolutely not.

Bao handed her a filthy strip of pink material. Her bathing suit top.

“Here, honey. This is yours.”

She slinked away, apparently sobering up.

Will sighed.

“I’ve never been so upset to see a boob in my life.”

All that was left to do was catch our ferry to Surat Thani and begin the long trek home. The reality of having been robbed didn’t hit for another few days, when the financial burden of replacing my laptop and other equipment began to sink in.

I don’t know if I will ever return to Koh Phangan but I do know that I will never forget this vacation. For all the bad, there was a lot of good, too, including enduring the travel madness alongside friends, getting to ring in the new year with people I love at one of the biggest parties in the world, enjoying the breathtaking beauty of Thailand’s beaches and meeting a lot of interesting people.

As for having my things stolen…it’s a setback financially and hugely disappointing but in a few months, it will just be a crazy travel story and a cautionary tale. Life goes on and I remain as excited for 2013 as I was before any of that debacle happened.

So here’s to lessons learned, memories made…and hoping with all my heart that the son of a bitch who robbed us got caught in a rainstorm and everything he stole was destroyed.

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December 31, 2012

A reflection before the new year

If I had been asked last Dec. 31 where I expected to find myself in exactly one year, on the last morning of 2012, I probably would not have said sleeping in the back room of a friend’s bar on an island in Thailand.

But that is where I found myself this morning, and somehow, it seems a completely appropriate ending to the year that’s been. I’m in Koh Phangan, Thailand, and because it’s New Year’s Eve, and there is a Full Moon Party tonight, there are no available rooms and this bar is the only thing between me and sleeping on the beach.

I don’t remember exactly what I expected 2012 to be like, but it’s safe to say that it turned out far differently than I had envisioned in nearly every way possible. For a long time, I tended to think of the year as a bit of a wash, marred by stress, emotional upheaval, and professional frustrations.

But when I lifted that gloomy pall a bit, I saw that the past 12 months have been more nuanced than that.

Yes, there were some dark and low points. Yes, I worked to the point of burn out not once, but twice, this year. Yes, I went through bouts of depression and anxiety that felt at times like they would never end. Yes, some relationships that meant a great deal to me ended, in sad and less than ideal ways. And yes, there were times when I felt that unresolved issues from the past were too great to surmount.

However. There has been more to celebrate this year than there has to lament.

In the past 12 months, I’ve visited three new countries. I’ve lived with elephants for a week, experienced an intensely beautiful lantern festival I’ll remember all my life, and been to a rave on an aircraft carrier in China. My friends and I started a t-shirt company, and I had the opportunity to write for the Wall Street Journal and Vogue India, two publications that, when I was just finishing grad school a few years ago, would have seemed like a far-off dream. Some relationships ended, but new ones were formed, ones for which I am deeply grateful. And others have become stronger, more honest and rich throughout the shared experiences of the past year. I came through the other end of depression with more emotional clarity and a stronger sense of self than I have ever had before.

If there was one thing that I was searching for throughout the past 12 months, I think it was a sense of peace – an acceptance of the past, a putting to bed of old insecurities and grievances, a freeing of my mind, energy and attention to embrace all the possibilities of the present and the future.

It has been a struggle at times, but as I reflect on the past year, and all the curves in the road, the unexpected and often delightful experiences I’ve had along the way, I think I am closer to finding that peace than I realized. Perhaps I’m not quite there yet, but I’m finally ready for it. I’m ready to allow myself to let go of the regrets and struggles, the self-criticisms and the bad days. That’s not to say I’ll forget them, because all have provided valuable lessons I’ll take with me going forward. I’m just ready to put them to rest, forgive myself and move on. I’m excited for 2013 and about working toward the new goals I’ve set for myself.

I don’t want to sugarcoat 2012, but I don’t want to dwell on it either. As I enjoy the last day of the year, I will focus on one simple theme: gratitude. I’m grateful that among the bad, the stressful, the frightening, I have had so many beautiful opportunities to explore and learn about the world, to meet people and to gain a greater understanding of myself. And most of all, I am grateful to be alive to experience all of it, and to have the opportunity to move forward and create new memories, new bonds, learning from but not being imprisoned by the past.

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December 5, 2012

Photo essay: Children of Koob Kub village

A few weeks ago, I had the opportunity to visit Koob Kub, a Lahu hill tribe village, in the mountains of northern Thailand. I visited the village with members of The Christopher Robert Project, an organization created to help better the lives of children living in Thailand’s hill tribe communities.

This was my first visit to such a community, and the experience was humbling and in many ways profound. The village is not without its issues – hierarchical corruption and rampant opium addiction among the men being but a sample of them, and I hope to write a more extensive piece on hill tribe history, culture and the issues they face at some point. In fact, that’s what brought me to Koob Kub in the first place, research on a people and tradition that fascinate me but about which I know very little.

Koob Kub left a lasting impression for a number of reasons but whenever I sat down to record those for the purpose of a blog post, all I could think of were the children I met there.

To say the community is poor would be a gross understatement, a fact underscored by the state of the children’s clothing and filthy hands and faces. There was certainly reason for concern for their health and well-being, and again, perhaps I will write more on that another time. But these children, through their energy, intelligence, and their warmth toward me and especially toward one another, moved me in a way I have not felt in a long time. I find myself thinking of these kids often, wondering how they are doing and finding myself drawing inspiration from their example.

Rather than attempt to wax poetic about what each of these children did to leave such an impression, I decided instead to go with a photo essay that I hope will give some insight into what their lives are like.

Nasay, Koob Kub Village

Nasay, a young girl I met during my second day in Koob Kub. Although the only word we could say in each other’s languages was hello, Nasay took my hand, played games with me and introduced me to her friends. She was intelligent and kind, and when clothes were being distributed among the students and there wasn’t enough for everyone, she gave hers to a friend. Knowing that many young hill tribe girls are at risk of being sold into prostitution at a young age, I worry that Nasay will never have the opportunity or freedom to reach her full potential in life, but I hope for the best for her.

Koob Kub boys

The young boys in Koob Kub are remarkable (and, as seen by the underwear on their heads, they also have a sense of humor). When a solar panel needed to be moved on the school roof and the adult men proved too heavy for the aluminum roof to hold, these boys and a few others insisted on doing the job themselves, repositioning the solar panels, securing them and scrambling down the precariously placed bamboo ladder without any assistance. They were intuitive, skilled, mature and eager to help.

School pictures

The next several photos are shots of the kids in the classroom and at play. I’ve included photos of the old school, which was mostly destroyed in a fire several months ago but is still used occasionally, and the new one, where students of all ages attend “class” together.

Old schoolhouse, Koob Kub

The old schoolhouse, which burned down after catching fire one afternoon. No children were hurt and a new school was built a few yards away.

Schoolhouse, Koob Kub

The new school, which is a one-room bamboo and aluminum structure with a dirt floor. Many of the students’ school supplies, such as notebooks, reading materials and blankets for naptime, have been provided by non-profit organizations such as The Christopher Robert Project.

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Koob Kub village

Sibling Love

The following photos are of siblings from one village family.

Koob Kub village

Dala, left, is 13 years old and is the big sister to Attidia, right, Appon (not pictured) and B’Joul (the baby seen below). Though bright, Dala is too old for the village school and is frequently expected to help care for her siblings, limiting her prospects for learning languages and other skills that would help her get a job and make a life outside the hill tribe.

Koob Kub village

This might be my favorite photo from the trip. B’Joul was born with pigeon-toed feet and weak ankles that could not support his weight. When Lynn and Rip, founders of The Christopher Robert Project, first met his family, B’Joul seemed to be condemned to a life of not being able to walk, crawling around the rural village. The Christopher Robert Project paid for B’Joul to have corrective treatments and therapies and he is now able to walk and run freely. He is one of the happiest babies I’ve ever seen and knowing his backstory makes watching him climb slides and race around the schoolyard all the more enjoyable.

Koob Kub village

Attidia and B’Joul walk back to the village together at the end of the school day.

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November 6, 2012

My hometown: A former Jersey girl’s reflections on Hurricane Sandy

When news first broke about Hurricane Sandy, I felt almost as though I couldn’t comment on it. After all, I haven’t lived in New Jersey for a long time – nine years, if you count from 2003, when I moved to Maryland for college. What could I say that would have any relevance?

Then I started to see the photos, read the Facebook status updates and news stories about the devastation at the Jersey Shore. I glanced at one local news site and read that Brick Township had been particularly hard hit, with a house rumored to have floated into the Mantoloking Bridge and structural fires breaking out around the town. Casino Pier in Seaside had been washed away (that link has good photos; apologies that they’re in a story about MTV’s “Jersey Shore”). Route 35 in Bay Head was completely flooded.

The Mantoloking Bridge

The Mantoloking Bridge

To someone who isn’t from Ocean County, New Jersey, these names might not mean much. But Brick Township is where I grew up; for a significant portion of my life, the Jersey Shore was my home. The thought of so much of it being destroyed was surreal and incredibly sad.

For the past week, I’ve found myself occasionally lost in memories of the years I lived at the Jersey Shore. The long afternoons spent playing in the waves and getting sandy and sunburnt while boogie boarding at Brick Beach III. Secretly picking out which beautiful beachfront houses I would buy if I ever had the money. Summers during high school when I worked as a badge checker at Jenkinson’s boardwalk in Pt. Pleasant, slapping bracelets on loud-mouthed Bennys who made the trek from New York to spend a day at the shore. Trips to Long Beach Island and the excitement of getting to play mini golf and go on the rides at Fantasy Island. Getting a taste of freedom when I was finally allowed to walk the Seaside boardwalk at night with friends.

Brick Beach III

Brick Beach III

I remembered the many nights I drove home from work or a friend’s house down Rte. 35 in Bay Head, one of my favorite drives. The road runs parallel to the ocean, a block away from the beach, and was badly flooded during the hurricane. It takes you to the boardwalk in either direction – Point Pleasant to the north; Seaside to the south, and to the Bay Head train station if you want to catch a train to New York City, a trip I made many times. Most of my jobs during my teenage years were located somewhere along that road. It became in some weird way a constant in my existence. Even when I came home from college for summer or holiday breaks, I would drive down 35 because it was in that familiar setting that I did some of my best thinking.

Ironically, my thoughts on those drives often revolved around my determination to leave New Jersey, Brick specifically. By the time I graduated high school, I was hell bent on moving out of the Garden State and never coming back, except for visits. My attitude toward my hometown has softened over the years – it was a nice place to grow up and I appreciate its charms far more now than I did when I lived there. I’ve been living in Asia for nearly three years and have made a life for myself that I love, but it is still heartbreaking to see so many places from my childhood destroyed or washed away, and to know how many people have lost their homes.

Route 35

Sand left behind by the storm on Route 35 in Bay Head

No doubt the shore will be rebuilt over time. The boardwalks will be repaired, new and improved rides will take the place of the old ones. Homes will be salvaged. People will still flock to the Jersey Shore for the summer. But I can’t help feeling sad that, should I have children someday and want to show them where I grew up, many of the places I loved as a kid either aren’t there anymore or won’t be quite the same.

It’s been encouraging and heartwarming to see, via social media, the outpouring of love and charity by people across the shore area as they help one another begin the recovery process. It always seems to be the case that in the face of devastation, the best of human nature appears, which is bittersweet. My thoughts will continue to be with everyone at the Jersey Shore and I look forward to one day visiting and seeing it restored to its full beauty.

I am removed from what’s happening at the Jersey Shore right now, but not so removed that the images of the devastation, and the thought of all of the people who lost their lives and their homes, don’t bring tears to my eyes. Perhaps this blog post is my small way of acknowledging what has happened to my hometown and the surrounding area, and saying that although I don’t live there anymore, I do feel the loss.

I’ll end this with a song from Bruce Springsteen that has been running through my head for the past week, and will always make me think of the Jersey Shore as it was when I was growing up there.

All photos courtesy Jersey Shore Hurricane News 

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October 24, 2012

Mae Tao Clinic: the best and worst of human nature

Note: All information in this post is based on my experience, conversations with a Mae Tao clinic staff member and the clinic’s 2011 report. Be aware that there are some disturbing images and descriptions in this post. All photos were taken by Will Moyer. 

I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands and ground my teeth together. No matter what, I vowed, I would not cry. Not now. There’d be time for tears later.

The man lying in front of me was the victim of a horrific act of violence. The left side of his face was covered in a patchwork of black and red, of skin wounded beyond recognition. His eyes blinked rapidly but he barely moved. His exposed torso was partially bandaged but the cloth strips didn’t conceal the extent of his burns, which crept down his chest and toward his abdomen. Mae Tao Clinic

I shouldn’t be here, I thought. This is invasive, inappropriate. It was not the first time the thought had crossed my mind since my friend Will and I arrived at Mae Tao Clinic earlier that morning.

The man stretched across the wooden table was a day laborer from Burma. He had been brought to Mae Tao Clinic with severe injuries from an acid attack that had been meant for his boss. The boss’ wounds were minimal, our clinic guide told us. The man lying before us while his wife and young child looked on had borne the brunt of the attack.

“His wife tells me he has trouble sleeping,” our guide, Jue, whispered when we turned away from the man. “The acid got into his ear so he has terrible pain in his head. Cannot sleep.”

A day laborer from Burma, who was attacked with acid while on the job. He was taken to Mae Tao Clinic for treatment and now awaits transfer to a hospital in Chiang Mai.

As we walked out of the surgical unit, I looked back one last time and smiled at the man, even though I cringed at the sight of him. It wasn’t his mutilated body that caused me to shrink back. But to look at his face was to imagine his pain and be horrified that one human being could do this to another.

A crisis of conscience

When Will and I decided to go to Mae Sot, Thailand, for a few days for a visa run, Mae Tao Clinic (MTC) had been at the top of my list of places to see. I had read that the clinic provided assistance to Burmese refugees and migrant workers and was eager to see the work being done there.

Until visiting the MTC, I had never before come face-to-face with the cruel realities of poverty and brutality. I had read countless articles about the atrocities being committed against ethnic minorities in Burma, about the crowded refugee camps in which thousands of people are forced to live, the high costs of health care, the plights of migrant workers. None of those articles prepared me for what I saw at MTC: a man whose face had been mutilated by acid; premature babies born in extremely bare-bones, basic conditions; and a prosthetics ward where land mine victims await new limbs.

Land mine victims

A list of patients waiting for prosthetic limbs

When I first arrived at the clinic and saw people gathering outside the pharmacy and surgery areas, I felt a sudden pang of regret. This was a bad idea; I’m exploiting these people. My intention was to visit the clinic in the hopes of writing a piece about it, but suddenly I felt ashamed that I had been so eager to witness the suffering of other people.

And yet I also felt I had to. Having now spent nearly four months in Thailand since the beginning of 2012, I have gotten the distinct impression that there is a great deal of good being done here, but a great deal of suffering as well. I felt compelled to witness that, in order to better understand this part of the world, to grasp the horrors and the goodness happening in places like Mae Sot and, on a more personal level, understand what it was that had always drawn me to learn more about refugees and conflict zones.

By the end of the tour, my regrets were gone. It was one of the more important places I’ve visited in Asia and the experience left a profound impact on me.

The clinic

The MTC provides free health care to refugees, migrant workers, and poor Burmese people who cannot afford care at government hospitals. Treatments here range from eye exams to surgeries to reproductive health counseling, all of which might otherwise be out of reach for the patients who visit the clinic by the hundreds each day. The work here is funded by donations and they are facing a critical shortage this year – a $320,000 shortage, to be exact. Without additional funding, they will have to cut services and staff, of which they are already in limited supply.

Old woman getting eye exam

An elderly woman in the middle of an eye exam. The MTC provides free eye exams, cataract surgeries and eyeglasses to patients.

The maternity ward was one of our first stops on the tour. Nearly 3,000 babies were born at MTC last year. There is one delivery room, as well as a dedicated area for special needs babies. Expectant mothers sleep on wooden tables in a communal room. Some parents are too poor to buy clothes for their newborns. I am of the firm opinion that people who cannot afford clothes and health care for their children should not be having them, but as these women are already pregnant, that point is moot here.

Maternity ward

The maternity ward, where expectant mothers wait to give birth and new mothers sleep with their babies before returning home

To think that this is how so many infants come into this world is heartbreaking. I felt deep despair considering all the challenges these babies are up against before even leaving the womb. Many of them will likely grow up in poverty and in dangerous border zones, and on their first night in this world, they sleep in a hot, crowded room without the comforts of a private crib or bassinette, or the safety of a proper hospital bed.

To be clear, I think the work being done at MTC is remarkable and vital for the tens of thousands of people who visit it each year. I applaud their efforts at providing safe care to the many, many patients who rely on them and to giving newborns as much of a chance as possible at being healthy, under the circumstances.

Children's ward

Sleeping patients in the children’s ward. Common afflictions among the children include malaria, heart disease, and diarrhea.

The in-patient rooms for children and adults consist of a handful of hospital beds and tables. Sometimes there are more patients than there are beds, Jue explained, so some have to sleep on the floor. The ailments they see at the clinic vary widely, she said. Sometimes it’s liver and kidney problems, heart disease, hypertension. During the rainy season, there is an increase in cases of malaria and dengue fever.

In patient room

In-patient housing

The conditions at the clinic were quite basic. I thought of the few hospital visits I have had to make in my life, almost all of which were in the United States. The clean, sterile atmosphere, the curtains dividing the beds, the pillows, blankets, adequate amounts of food. Though I have visited a Chinese hospital in Beijing and found it lacking in a number of aspects, I had never visited anywhere like MTC before and it was difficult at first to reconcile the experiences.

One of the biggest impressions I was left with was how beautiful the people there were, and how quick they were to wave and smile. As we passed the children’s recreation room, a group of young kids were holding hands and singing a song. Jue, who is from Burma’s Karen state, smiled. “They’re singing Karen songs,” she said wistfully. The children singing amidst these conditions was bittersweet and I found myself once again fighting back tears.

Finding the silver lining

By the time we left the clinic, I was saddened by the amount of poverty and suffering I saw there but also inspired. Because of the work being done at Mae Tao Clinic, people who would otherwise go without have access to potentially life-saving health care and resources on keeping themselves and their families healthy.

The experience left me with the thought: in the face of so much suffering and sadness in the world, what can I do? Mae Tao Clinic is just one organization out of many around the world attempting to provide services and care for those who need it most. The volunteers and staff at MTC are proof of the goodness, generosity and empathy in the world and that’s what I want to be part of. The question is how…and I haven’t quite figured that out yet.

Young girls

Two young friends wander the grounds of the Mae Tao Clinic

Update: The man mentioned at the beginning of this piece was transferred from Mae Tao Clinic to a facility in Chiang Mai, where he underwent surgery, skin grafts and physical therapy. He spent six months in the hospital, and was recently released and is now continuing his recovery at home with his family.

Click here to learn more about donating to the Mae Tao Clinic. 

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