Disclaimer: this post is very much an obnoxious, overly
optimistic, “It’s all about perspective” message. For those cynics out there, best to stop
reading now. Or continue on with an open
mind, but you’ve been warned.
“I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures!” I can’t tell you how many times people have told me
this over the past few weeks. After two
years in Africa, hitch-hiking in truck beds, wandering alone through the bush,
and living 20 miles from the nearest American, a couple months playing tourist
in Southeast Asia hardly seems adventurous.
But I suppose that 7-ish weeks of largely-solo travel in a foreign
country qualifies as “adventurous”, even if I have every intention of earning
glorified beach bum status.
Until today, my trip had gone relatively smoothly. After 19+ hours of travel from Bangkok, I arrived on
the island of Ko Pha-Ngan to my private bungalow just a five minute jaunt from
the beach. I’d downloaded a photo of the
beach a while back and every time things got rough in Swaziland, I’d whip out
the photo and let my mind wander: “Only __ more days…” We’d learned the hard way from our trip
to Blyde River Canyon, South Africa in
May that Google images can sometimes be deceiving, but I was pleasantly
surprised to find that Hat Salad Beach was everything I’d dreamed during those
tougher moments in Swaziland: soft white beach lined with lush green palm trees
forming a stunning contrast with the clear aqua ocean. My tropical paradise. I grabbed a beer and headed straight for the
beach. The combined effect of severe
sleep deprivation, the intensity of the sun, the booze, and the relief at
finally having arrived at my destination sent me into 12 hours of blissful ,
uninterrupted shuteye.
I woke up feeling refreshed and set out for a run to explore
the area. As I ran through the clusters
of shops surrounding each beach, I found myself overwhelmed at the abundance of
advertising. Apart from the occasional
Coca-Cola billboard or the vibrant MTN logos signaling the availability of mobile
airtime, advertising is hard to come by in rural Swaziland. Dining options are limited: chicken stew or
beef stew? Rice or porridge? Not too many choices. I didn’t expect the reverse culture shock to
fully set in until I set foot on US soil, but I felt it the moment I landed in
Bangkok. I was relieved to escape the
bustle of city life, but here it was again: so many options! Thai massages, mani/pedis, full moon parties,
kayaking, happy hours, diving excursions, boat tours, 10-page menus with 50
different stir fries. You’d think that after
two years of such limited variety, I’d welcome the plethora of options. Quite the contrary. Not to mention that my post-Peace Corps
budget didn’t exactly afford much wiggle room for such activities.
I finally decided to splurge a whopping $6 to rent a
motorbike and set off to explore the island.
And it was incredible. It was one
of those wind in your hair, sun on your back kinda days where you just want to
scream “FREEDOM!” (Maybe this solo
travel thing is making me a bit crazy, I can’t be sure…) I spent the day
putzing around from beach to beach, sipping fresh coconut water straight from
the coconut, and making up for two years of sun-deprivation (for my thighs and
stomach, that is). This was the island adventure I’d been dreaming of. On my way home I set off to explore one more
beach in an attempt to nail down accommodation for the remainder of my time on
the island. The sun hung low in the sky,
reflecting against the water and illuminating the fishing boats sprinkled
throughout the bay below. It was
breathtaking. Talk about heaven on
earth. And then the paved road came to
an abrupt end and the road turned to an uneven spread of rocks and sand. Considering my sub-par motorbike skills, I
decided to head back, abandoning my curiosity to explore this final hidden
beach. What I failed to consider was
just how difficult it is to pull a U-ey (how do you even spell that?) on a
steep incline. I figured the safest
option would be to switch off the motor and manually maneuver the moped to face
back up the hill. What I failed to take
into consideration was the sheer mass of this girly pink bike. As I struggled to shove it back up the hill,
I made the impulse decision to lightly tap the gas to give it a bit of a
kick. So as I stood beside the bike, I
did exactly that. Terrible idea. Within two seconds I had lost control of the
bike and watched it spin off the road and crash into a pile of rocks in the
ditch below. Crap. Not exactly the “adventure” I had in mind to
report back to my friends at home. I
stood there in disbelief for I don’t know how long, sweat dripping down my face
from my matching pink helmet, wondering how in the world I was going to hoist
that massive bike back up onto the road and simultaneously praying that if I
somehow managed to do so that it would still run. I look around to realize that this dude had
been observing me the whole time I’d been struggling through what should have
been a simple U-turn. We make eye
contact and this scrawny twenty-something kid hobbles over on his busted flip
flops to greet me in broken English. I
desperately beg him to help me and together we somehow manage to hoist the bike
out from the ditch. I’m still not
entirely convinced that this barefoot, probably asthmatic, twig-like guy was
real. For lack of a better word, I may
go so far as to say he could have been an angel. I’ll never know. I do a quick inventory and am thankful to
find that the bike has incurred only minor injuries: a couple scratches and
some slight dents here and there. As I
putz on back to my bungalow, I can’t help but laugh at myself. I’ve lost count of the number of times in the
past two years that I’ve thought to myself “my life is a JOKE”. This was one of them. My pride has been beyond repair from the
moment I began collecting classic Peace Corps poop stories. This
was just another story to add to the books.
And to my bank account.
It was all fun and games until I cruised back into the rental shop where
I was greeted by the disapproving Thai girl who had witnessed my less-than-graceful
exit as I first set foot on the bike that morning. It
didn’t take long for her to summon her mother, about half my size, who promptly
whipped out a clipboard and pen to record the damage. Note to self:
don’t sign papers in foreign languages without fully comprehending what’s
at stake. In case you’re wondering, 550 USD
were at stake. No, not 550 Thai
Baht. Not $5.50. Five hundred and fifty dollars. My first thought: that’s like 1/12 of what I
earned in TWO YEARS in Peace Corps. My
second thought: that could cover my expenses for THREE MONTHS in
Swaziland. My third thought: Well, I
used my Peace Corps passport as collateral, but I’m not travelling with that…so
I could just bolt out of here…. But I’d just spent the afternoon reading a book
about the importance of integrating my spiritual and everyday life (for the
record, the point is that there shouldn’t even be a distinction) and decided
that Jesus probably wouldn’t approve of such a stunt. My tears were entirely ineffective on this
heartless woman who was probably thinking to herself “haha! Sucker! Shopping
spree for me!” When I planned for this
trip I made two separate budgets: one titled “For if I’m feeling stingy” and
one titled “Cheese Girl Budget.” (For those missing the cheese girl reference,
cheese girl is the term Swazis use for spoiled city girls inept at rural
living). Exorbitant motorbike repairs
did not factor into either of those budgets.
So what started as a cheap $6 adventure ended as $550 hard earned
dollars down the drain.
Two years ago, I would’ve sulked in a self-pity. Peace Corps volunteers love to grovel at how
little we earn. (I’ve never understood
this, we are volunteers, aren’t
we?) We pull the #helpmeimpoor card far too
often. But the fact of the matter is, at
the end of the day, I have the money. It’s
not how I intended to spend it, but I just got paid for my service. I’m not stranded on this island with no way
home (although that wouldn’t be too bad…).
I’m alive. And more than
anything, I’m here. In Thailand. On this island with breathtaking views around
every corner. I am blessed. I’m having one of those classic perspective
moments where I am reminded of the insignificance of my plight relative to the
death, disease, poverty, injustice, and abuse that I’ve witnessed over the past
two years. In the end, that absurd sum of
money that I just forked over isn’t going to send me onto the streets. I am fortunate that I have gracious and
loving parents who are eager to house me until I get settled into this whole
business of real life. I don’t mean to downplay the value of the ridiculous
fine because $550 is a lot of money. I
try not to think about what that much could buy for my friends in Swaziland:
school fees, a roof, books, uniforms, food.
But for me the implications of such a loss aren’t quite as drastic. It means a few less pina coladas. And opting for dorm beds in hostels over
private bungalows. And a couple more
months of hand-washing my clothes. And a
couple more weeks of sporting my disintegrating bikini rather than splurging on
a new one. And certainly no more
motorbike escapades. As for the
abundance of activities that had overwhelmed me? Not really an option anymore. And that’s okay. If Peace Corps has taught me anything, it’s
how to differentiate between want and
need.
Those are wants. Things that the Western world tells us we
need for the ultimate island vacation: fancy cocktails, decadent spa
treatments, guided adventure tours. I
came here to reflect, to process, to relax.
I have the beach and God’s breathtaking creation – everything else is
just fluff.
So, there you have it for all of you wanting stories of my “adventures.” Not exactly the adventure I had in mind, but
an adventure nonetheless. So cheers to
perspective, to the end of a short-lived cheese girl life, and to 6.5 more
weeks of hopefully less-costly adventure!
post-accident selfie
looks fine to me...
can't complain too much
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