ISO Humanity

Built between the 9^th and 13^th centuries, the Angkor Wat complex is the world’s largest religious monument. It spans 400 square kilometers, an area the size of New York City’s 5 boroughs. It was the most extensive urban complex of the preindustrial world with a population of around 1 million people at a time when London had a mere 50,000. It is not clear what lead to the decline of this great civilization, though invading neighbors and drought are popular theories. Today, the complex lies in various states of gorgeous ruin, as the earth it was constructed from slowly reclaims it. Most of us have seen photos of Angkor Wat and are familiar with Cambodia because of the genocide that occurred during the late seventies. But as I traveled through small villages outside of Siem Reap and spoke with locals living in present day Cambodia it occurred to me we should be talking less about Cambodia’s past and more about their struggle for a secure and prosperous future.

While in Cambodia we had a driver named Viphop. A soft-spoken man with an ever-present smile his demeanor was more like that of a monk than a cab driver, calm and stoic. I immediately liked him. Over the course of seven days, he accompanied us to destinations on and off the beaten path in his 1995, silver, Toyota Camry. The car was beautifully maintained for being two decades old and Viphop was proud to be 3 years into the 4 year payment plan on the used vehicle. Viphop took us to secluded temples, a floating community and a stilt village of 1,000 people that one year prior had all but been washed away. He insisted we go to the Cambodian Circus; “This must not be missed,” he stated firmly. When we failed to get tickets the first day, he mentioned it again, then again the next day until we had tickets firmly in hand.   I am grateful for his insistence, as the show was one of the most heartfelt performances I’ve ever seen…

The Cambodian Circus was co founded by eight Cambodian men and women who spent several years of their childhood in a Thai refugee camp. While in the camp they received art therapy to overcome trauma suffered during the Pol Pot regime. They returned to Cambodia in 1994 and opened a community center and school for the arts with the goal of rebuilding their village and helping others deal with the mental, social and economic scars left by the genocide. The product of the school and the massive amount of collective healing and passion it evoked was a world-renowned performance. This unique story-telling odyssey of acrobatics, contortionism and music conveys the tragedy, hope and optimism of Cambodia.   It is stunning, engaging and emotional and it’s all done in a small plywood arena with a few wrestling mats, a dozen cardboard boxes and a couple of metal cylinders and poles. Imagine the artistry of Cirque Du Soleil performed in someone’s garage by 7 vibrant young people from circumstances unimaginable to most of us. Now seat yourself literally at the edge of the stage, with no rail or rope dividing you from the performers. So close you’re hit by beads of sweat and can hear the labored breathing of bodies hard at work. So near you feel like at any moment you’ll become part of the show yourself. Now imagine these talented young people towering 3 to 4 stories above you, having climbed no props other than each other’s shoulders, with no safety net and only a few thin mats and an audience of a couple hundred people to break their fall. This is the Cambodian Circus.

Back in the car, Viphop shares his thoughts and concerns on modern day Cambodia. During the Pol Pot regime, 25% of the population of Cambodia died from starvation, being forcibly worked to death or execution. Money was abolished, religion banned and health care eliminated. Anyone who was educated, wealthy, suspected of disloyalty, part of a minority group, etc…was considered “rotten” and “removed”. Doctors, lawyers, teachers, policemen, monks… We all know the story. But what I failed to ever consider is how you go about rebuilding a country when the majority of the remaining population is illiterate or undereducated and traumatized. It is a complex question with no simple answer. Viphop shared that after the war (the Khmer Rouge continued to wage war on Cambodia for 17 years after Pol Pot was deposed) monks (those not killed) were some of the few remaining citizens with knowledge and training enough to teach. So education began in the monestaries. But rebuilding a population with the depth and breadth of skills needed to support a functional economic, political and social ecosystem is a slow and onerous task. During this process, poverty and lack of basics services was ever present creating fertile soil for corruption. Twenty years later this corruption manifests itself in big and small ways. For example, while waiting in the lengthy customs line at the airport we were approached by a customs officer who asked if we’d like to use the “express line”. We looked around and didn’t see an express line so we assumed there was a misunderstanding. Five minutes later (and no further along in line) he approached and asked again. We finally realized what was happening and out of sheer curiosity said “sure”. He took our passports, marched us past a couple hundred other tourists and promptly got them stamped, skipping the finger printing process normally required. We then marched to a corner in the nearby baggage claim area and handed him the equivalent of 5 US dollars.   A small bribe, but if the officer “helps” a handful of people from each flight during a day he’s a wealthy man by Cambodian standards.

Then there are greyer areas. Not so much corruption as people finding creative ways to survive or improve their circumstances. Two of Viphop’s grown children are teachers. When we asked about the current state of education in the country he shook his head sadly. “Education in Cambodia is free, but the uniforms, books, notepads and pencils are not. Many people cannot afford these simple items and therefore cannot send their children to school, or must make a choice to only send one” he explained. Upon further discussion we also learned that truancy was a problem in many villages and teachers, severely underpaid and overworked, sometimes take money from students to forget about the absenteeism upon speaking with parents. Now, class sizes can be 35-40 students with no teaching aide so one could argue that the absence of a few disengaged students may ultimately lead to improved education for the rest. Regardless of how you feel about it, it’s one small example of an array of tough choices faced by people across all professions trying to make the best of an extremely difficult situation.

I don’t want to leave the impression that Cambodia is all gloom and doom. People are incredibly warm and kind, tourism is on the rise as is nutrition. But a generation after tragedy struck it is still in an incredibly fragile state.  Land rights, an equitable judicial system, access to education, guaranteed nutrition, are all big problems to solve. For me, this experience reinforced how short our attention spans can be. News comes at us so quickly from so many sources it’s easy to lose site of the fact that every horror we hear about leaves behind a trail of destruction, bestowed largely upon innocent people, that is difficult and slow to heal. But how do we stay engaged and become part of the solution when there seems to be a new and different crisis every time we turn on the news? This is a question I’m wrestling with and have no answer to. What I do believe is that the Cambodian Circus is a good analogy for the current state of the country. One misstep could lead to dire consequences….

In elementary school, we went to the library once a week. Next to gym class it was my favorite hour between Monday morning and Friday afternoon. The library had several attributes that brought me joy. First, there was a large, sunken in reading area to play in. It had a giant, sloped ramp on one end to roll down and ultra-wide, stage like steps on the other that my friends and I used to rehearse our favorite tunes. Then there was the smell. The smell that books have that still leads me to purchase physical copies of them rather than convert entirely to audio books. The book smell was accompanied by a mélange of rubber cement, ink and Pine Sol cleanser. No wonder I loved to read, I was probably high from the fumes.

But the best feature of the library was the magazine rack on the far back wall. Positioned in a seldom visited dark corner, it was a tired looking, four tiered, brown shelf that gave the impression it met a requirement on the library checklist yet wasn’t exactly a cherished fixture. To me, it was a precious gift that ignited 35 years (thus far) of wanderlust. National Geographic, it’s crown jewel always positioned on the top shelf, offered my first glimpse of the exoticism that existed beyond our dairy farm and my hometown of 500 people. Brazil, Papua New Guinea, Borneo…

My first night in Kota Kinabalu Borneo was spent at a collection of carnival-like hawker stands called the “night market” eating fresh fish and sauteed morning glory. This giant outdoor dining hall was clad in plastic table clothes and a sea of weathered banners exhibiting faded photos of menu items. Every banner at every stall was nearly identical. The market occupied several blocks of the central waterfront and was filled with droves of hungry locals and a smattering of tourists. The food was fantastic, but I was surprised and mildly disappointed at how well developed Kota Kinabalu was. Restaurants on every corner, plenty of shopping centers, even a Starbucks. The Borneo of my childhood imagination had no paved roads and people lived in houses on stilts in the jungle…

The next morning I set my disappointment aside and headed to the northern tip of Sabah to spend a night in a Rungus longhouse. The Rungus are the largest indigenous group of Borneo. Many still live in communal dwellings that house several families under a single roof, with several longhouses making up a village.   The longhouses are sparse, made primarily of rattan and bamboo with thatched palm roofs. They are elevated on stilts to create cool, circulating air in the hot dry season and to protect from flooding during monsoon rains. This was a sizable step closer to the National Geographic vision I developed when I was eight, made even more sizable by the fact that bamboo and rattan don’t join together like brick and mortar. As a matter of fact, they don’t join together very well at all. Which means many things outdoors end up indoors, particularly at night. Things like geckos and mosquitos are expected and can be tolerated. Bats, rats and other creatures that scurry in the jungle are a bit harder to ignore. All this plus sleeping on a hard, thin mat under a stuffy mosquito net fit perfectly with my idea of Borneo. However, the group of kids sitting around a picnic table on the lawn watching a movie on their computer did not.  Sigh.

Rungus Longhouse

The remaining week of the trip was spent between two safari locations, one on the Kinabatangan River and the other in Danum Valley. Here’s where the National Geographic articles finally leapt off the pages and into view. Wild orangutans, silver and red leaf langurs, long tail and pig tail macaques, wild bearded boar and proboscis monkeys too many to count. Three species of hornbills, stork billed kingfisher, comb-crested agamid, water monitor lizards and crocodiles.  Even the most unlikely and coveted animals on the list made an appearance on the final night, a slow loris and western tarsier. But one moment above all left an indelible imprint in my collection of memories. While out on a daily afternoon safari searching for orangutans, our guide received a call that a pair of pygmy elephants had been spotted down river. Borneo pygmy elephants are endangered with population estimates ranging from 1,000-3,000. Our guide made an immediate u-turn and raced toward the site. It was at this moment that dreams and reality merged, like two sides of a zipper coming together in perfect alignment.   I was racing down the Kinabatangan River, wind in my hair, mist on my cheeks, in pursuit of an animal sighting few ever get to witness. I closed my eyes and gave thanks for being alive, for the good fortune of being in this moment and for dreams that occasionally make their way into our reality. It mattered not if the elephants were on the bank when we arrived, as this moment was perfect.

Sukau Rainforest Lodge Safari Group

Many people I know have been to Bali.   It made my travel list because people consistently describe it using a shower of superlatives – “the friendliest people I’ve ever met”, “a religious experience”, “supremely beautiful”. One Seattle woman I know loved it so much she bought property and built a house there. Now having been, I concur with many of their sentiments. The Balinese are incredibly friendly and adaptable, quick to smile and to lend a hand. The landscape outside the bustling cities is stunning; greens in so many shades my well of words would run dry trying to describe them.   There’s a spiritual vibe that pairs beautifully with the terraced rice paddies and colorful residents, both Balinese and imported. That said, I also found Bali to be like a library full of hidden revolving doors that led to contrasting experiences.

It’s true, Bali is beautiful by nearly anyone’s standards. It’s also incredibly crowded with overdeveloped stretches of beach dripping with trash and underdeveloped roads clogged with motorbikes, tour buses and belching trucks. There are almost no stop lights and it’s a toss up which is more dangerous – crossing the street or walking down the sidewalk, a veritable mine field of ankle busting holes, piles of rubble, puddles of unidentifiable liquid and stray dogs. Yet amidst the chaos are innumerable paths and alleyways leading to tranquility mere meters from the street. Small inns, spas and restaurants set amidst ancient temples and blooming pink lotus ponds nearly silent from the sound of traffic. Healthy organic juice within a stones throw of anyplace you stand in Ubud or Seminyak. Yoga studios for every type of practice imaginable lead by some of the best yogis in the world and quality spa treatments that cost a pittance.   And the icing on the cake is the amazing service that comes with each and every stop.

I felt this contrast, this tension of place, almost immediately and it was reinforced throughout the trip. For example, when I met a group of four, tough looking men sitting in a circle on a dusty courtyard gently massaging the most beautiful roosters I’ve ever seen. It caught my attention to see such tenderness paid to these birds when thousands of neglected (and sometimes rabid) dogs roam the streets in desperate need of care. Not to mention this careful caressing was being delivered by men who at first glance could have passed for heroine traffickers. After striking up a conversation I learned they were fighting cocks, accessorized with razors where their spurs used to be to ensure the fight ended in one rooster’s demise. I didn’t witness a fight but I got to see the roosters practice…that was enough of a show for me to get the point.

Then again when I took an evening stroll through a town called Petulu where thousands of Egrets return each night to nest and feed their young. It’s quite a site to look up at the trees and see thousands of large white birds and feathers outnumbering leaves.  A live National Geographic episode ripe with up close encounters of bird behavior – feeding of young, tending to nests, fighting for a good branch and inevitably, relieving themselves. Everything eye level and above was a delight; let your eyes wander to the ground and it was another story. We were given umbrellas by our hosts that started out tan and ended up heavily speckled after a couple hours. I’ve never seen such copious amounts of natural fertilizer nor have a smelled such a stench and I grew up on a farm.  Rwabhinneda.

All that said I loved Bali. The beauty, the people and the culture far outweigh the inconveniences and you can be assured that if you visit, no matter which door you choose you’ll be rewarded with an experience worth the while.

“Wildness reminds us what it means to be human, what we are connect to rather than what we are separate from”. ~T. Williams

New Zealand is Mecca for those who love the outdoors. One of the things that impresses me most about New Zealand is its ability to make nature accessible in endless forms that seem to work in harmony with the land and with people.  For example, hundreds of trails pass through farms or forests owned by private citizens who appear happy to share their bounty. And despite people “trespassing” on their land, I haven’t seen a single piece of litter or graffiti on one of these trails. It’s refreshing and harmonious and we’ve attempted to make choices during the trip that align with this philosophy.

Our time here began with a farm stay near Paua Bay on Banks Peninsula. Many small farms open their homes to guests as a way to help stay solvent as farming subsidies and wool prices decline. Our host family was one of two remaining (out of forty original families) who have farmed the land on Banks Peninsula for seven generations. The warmth of our hosts, fresh vegetables from the garden and sheep sheering were delightful but the highlight was a demonstration of the working dogs used to move 4,000 sheep around the property. Australian Kelpies were used to heel the animals, driving them towards their destination while Border Collies herded them, keeping the flock from breaking apart. It was fascinating to watch the distinct role of each dog and their ability to react to commands. The same family of dogs have been bred and used for as many generations as the farm has been in operation and their trainer (the daughter-in-law of our hosts) has earned a reputation for being one of the best in the country.  The dogs are impressive and spirited; evidenced by friendly nips both Bill and I received while trying to photograph them up close.

Herding dog at Paua Bay Farm

Sheering sheep at Paua Bay Farm

Our next encounter with nature was swimming with the world’s smallest dolphins in Akaroa Harbour. These tiny dolphins weigh a maximum of 100lbs and only 7,000 remain, 1,700 of which live in this area of New Zealand. We were initially hesitant to do this, knowing the Hector dolphin’s endangered status. But in true Kiwi fashion the experience is designed to be entirely on the dolphins terms, not the humans, and there’s virtually no interference with nor disruption to their natural habitat. The dolphins are not fed, enticed or entrapped in any way and the guides make it clear they may or may not choose to interact with you. That said, they are curious in nature and often want to play. So, we took our chances, signed up for an excursion and hit the jackpot! Our group of 10 swam for nearly an hour with 30-35 dolphins who raced, dove and spun around us like slippery grey torpedoes. Our guide nearly had to fetch a harpoon to get me out of the water…this was definitely a highlight of the trip.

Searching for Hector’s dolphins at Akoroa Bay

Since then we’ve been making a circuit around several national parks – Nelson Lakes, Abel Tasman and Kahurangi. Each one has offered incredible scenery, challenging hikes and sunshine aplenty. Getting there however, has blown the transmission on one rental car and left the second smelling like a bon fire whenever we reach a trailhead. It seems in New Zealand the roads are also built in harmony with nature. Blast a hole through a mountain or reduce the grade on a hill to make driving safer?   Hell no! Guardrails? What’s that?! Shoulders? Forget it – that would infringe on a foot of forest… The Kiwis appear to live by the Theory of Darwinism; if you’re not capable enough to figure out how to navigate the roads well…you may die. Here’s the description of one such “hill”, Takaka Hill, en route to Abel Tasman National Park: “A very exciting and sometimes very exposed, unsecure driveway with innumerable twists and turns across marble karst rock formations with hairpin turns up to 320 degrees”. It’s 26km (16 miles) from beginning to end and takes 60 minutes to cross. Don’t forget you’re driving on the opposite side of the road. I have to admit, my perspective on “protecting a species” changed a bit when I became the species whose environment wasn’t being altered in a way that tipped the scales to my advantage. Three weeks still left in New Zealand…let’s hope I’m evolved enough to make it to the next leg of the trip…

Ridge trail to Mt. Robert, Kahurangi National Park

Abel Tasman National Park

Though a few days have passed, I feel compelled to post about my last outing on Aitutaki in the Cook Islands. While I’m not a religious person, I find positive expression of faith by other people uplifting. For that reason, I often seek out a service or ceremony to attend in the local religion while traveling. My chosen sermon on Aitutaki was one of the best I’ve ever experienced and left me yearning for a weekly dose of The Island Spirit.

The Cook Islands Christian Church was built in 1828 and is the oldest church in the fifteen Cook Islands.   Carved entirely of limestone it resembles a sacred white cave, but with better lighting and simple, stained glass windows.   The pastor is a jolly round islander, with small black eyes and full cheeks who resembles a tan Burl Ives. The Sunday I attended he wore an oversized suit that hung loosely on his broad shoulders; navy jacket , dark green pants. An understated ensemble compared to the remainder of the congregation. The island women pride themselves on brightly colored dresses and expressive, hand made hats. The dresses are made from local fabric often adorned with Maori patterns and the hats range from freshly strung frangipani (gardenia) wreaths to elaborate designs that would grace the pages of Vogue. The common denominators being an abundance of color and a small oval shell in the center of the top of the hat. Imagine the Kentucky Derby meets Maui and you have the right idea…

The sermon itself was in Maori so I didn’t catch the theological highlights.  This was ideal as it cleared a path to feel the experience. I closed my eyes and absorbed the singing of hymns that had the distinct beat of Maori song. Imagine a regular volley of voices passed from men to women. The chorus is sung staccato – brief, strong exclamations of words similar to the fire breath used in yoga or the breathing exercises taught in birthing classes. Tribal and passionate. Beautiful. I felt like I was on a vaka (Maori canoe) being rowed to Tahiti 200 years ago.

The non-singing elements of the sermon were no less enjoyable. More than once the pastor delivered an impassioned speech with a stern face that resulted in ripples of laughter from the congregation. The same response was elicited from several men who seemed to be giving testament. Standing, they would gesture wildly while telling their stories then their faces would melt into mischievous, boyish grins and the audience would echo in laughter. There was a consistent thread of joy, lightness and humor throughout the two hour experience that distracted from the fact that I was soaked in sweat from the blazing heat and my ass was stuck to the wooden pew.   I was grateful I had chosen to sit in the back so I could sneak away before the end. I had worn a dress and hadn’t taken into account that my only method of transportation into town was a bike. A man’s bike that required me to pull a Britney Spears getting on and off it. All well and good in the privacy of your own accommodation, not so good in a sea of departing Sunday parishioners.   So I left a bit early, sparing a scene and reveling in the Island Spirit…

Next stop – New Zealand

Arriving on Rarotonga in the Cook Islands I was welcomed by one of the great charms of travel – local vernacular. On the drive from the airport to the villa we were told our hamper would arrive between 9:30 – 10:00 the next morning. Since this was the first stop on the trip I was tempted to explain that we didn’t have any dirty laundry yet, but I opted to say nothing. The hamper arrived the next morning filled with papaya, paw paw, local breads and fresh squeezed juice, just in time for breakfast and a chuckle.

As the days went by, a couple things struck me about both Rarotonga and Aitutaki. The first was the inescapable view of the lagoons that surround the islands contrasted with shimmering white sand. Varying in width, the lagoons are a myriad of visual striations ranging in color from robin’s egg blue to bright aquamarine and spotted with dark patches where coral reefs lay mere inches beneath the surface. Over the next few days I was amazed at how dynamic the color was; every changing angle of the sun, every passing cloud, every vantage point from the beach yielded a different visual effect, each seemingly more beautiful than the last. I spent a considerable amount of trying to find the right words to describe the colors accurately; to no avail. Suffices to say it is one of the most stunning and pristine places I have ever seen.

The second thing that intrigued me was that most houses on the island had graves in the front yard. In The Cooks, the deceased must be buried on your own property. In some ways it seems logical that a culture that reveres its elders and places a high value on family would keep the dearly departed close. Then I learned that most land in The Cooks is leased and steady emigration is resulting in a slowly diminishing population, particularly in the northern group of islands. When I inquired about what happens to your ancestors when the lease is up or a family moves away the answer was simply “You must take them with you”. At this point, and out of courtesy not to offend, I stopped asking questions and let my imagination fill in the blanks. I now gaze upon those dark patches in the lagoon with a slightly different perspective…

The internet connection here is extremely slow; perhaps a subtle message that pictures wouldn’t do it justice. I’ll still try to post a couple once I’m in a location with a stronger connection.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” ~ Mary Oliver

As I walk down the front steps and away from my home it occurs to me that one can never be fully prepared for what’s ahead. Yet there is such possibility in the unknown! I’ve paid my bills and sent in my taxes. My car and home are being looked after; my best friend knows how to access the safe deposit box should I not return. Hours of preparation have been spent, adequate peace of mind has been gained and I could not feel more free walking away from it all.

No alarm.
No meetings.
No place to be, yet anywhere to go.
No obligations, but a deep sense of purpose.
One big, grateful, open heart.

As I stand in front of a blank canvas I’m both thrilled and terrified at the possibilities that lie ahead. First stop, the Cook Islands…13 hours from now…

Happy holidays everyone!  I hope this year has been good to you and those you love. 2014 was a year of great contemplation for me. After much consideration I’ve decided to leave Starbucks after 18 (mostly) terrific years and pursue my dream of traveling more. On January 4^th I’ll begin a trip around the world, or at least as far around as my budget will take me…I’m looking forward to all the adventure and mishaps that come with such a leap of faith, but most of all having time to think, to discover, to connect with friends and to explore a different pace of life.

Here’s to a year we’ll all remember!  I look forward to connecting with you in the months to come…