When I first discovered Wikipedia, it was through an article my brother sent me. The article was about elephants. Elephants being used as a form of public executions in Asia by crushing people to death. I remember opening the link and being completely and utterly perplexed as to why I would receive such a link. Also, I was quite disturbed.
This was the first thought that entered my mind as I climbed onto the back of a 10,000 pound Asian elephant named Lucky. Lucky is in the middle.
Elephants are ridiculously large mammals. Of course, you acknowledge. They are the largest land animals. Everyone knows they are large. Certainly they appear large as you watch them on Animal Planet. They are shockingly large when you view them at a zoo. But nothing, nothing, can prepare you for their sheer enormousness until you are perched precariously on their back looking at the hard ground and their crushing feet.
My roommate and I were in Thailand, in the jungle. Adventurously agreeing to hop on the back of an elephant for an hour trek through the jungle around us. I thought it would be simple. After all, I have ridden on horses before. Felt the swaying of their back as they gently covered the uneven ground. This will be fun! I reasoned.
Nothing about an elephant is gentle. Every pace and sway swings you so drastically from side to side that you desperately cling to your seat and realize that you are now parallel to the ground. Hello stony, uneven ground and monstrous elephant toenails! your brain screams as you paw at the roughly tied seatbelt around your waist.
As we began our trek, the program director took our nervous, smiling picture with our elephant and emphatically stated, “Never, ever, should your mahout get off the elephant. Elephants are very dangerous animals.” We nodded our agreement with wide eyes and gripped our seat with white knuckles.
As we went down the first hill, our seat began to slide – ever so slightly – forward. And as we went up the next hill, our seat slid backwards. Unfortunately, this ground was extremely uneven. Every few feet, we were sliding around on the back of an elephant, nine feet from the ground. Between gasps, I was doing my best to befriend the young man who was our elephant guide.
*Smothered squeal* “So how long have you been driving elephants?” I quickly exhaled.
“Ah, about eight years.” He shrugged, no longer willing to continue a conversation with a coward like me.
About thirty minutes into our hike, we arrived at a flat plateau. All at once, our group’s mahouts slid off the elephants’ backs and stood around lighting cigarettes. I desperately eyed my roommate, breathlessly wondering aloud about the program director’s previous statements. Our mahout, from the ground, shouted up to me, “Don’t ever tell anyone that this ever happened. It never happened.” Not words that inspire confidence.
“Now it is your turn!” He encouraged me eagerly. “Slide down his neck until you are sitting behind his ears. I will take your picture!” I cautiously eased myself, inch by inch, along Lucky’s neck and rested my hands on his bristly head. My legs fit perfectly behind his ears and I could feel his breath.
Our mahout called out and our elephant began to walk. As I desperately searched for something to hold on to, I realized that I had absolutely no control. The elephant could fling me off and do a tap dance on my back with little hesitation. Elephants have a way of doing whatever they feel like doing.
After about fifteen minutes, our mahout encouraged me to slide backwards and get back into my seat. If sliding down an elephant’s neck is difficult, then sliding up it is near impossible. I teetered and clung to Lucky’s short bristly hair, slowly scooting myself backwards and hoping to not get trampled. After a few minutes of struggling, I flung myself into the seat and clung pathetically to my roommate’s hand. “Never let me do that again.” I managed to get out.
A moment later, our mahout shouted up to my roommate. “Your turn!” She looked at me and then down to the head of the elephant. Then back at me and my white knuckled grip on her hand. And then at the ground.
“No thanks. I think I will pass.” She replied.
Smart woman.
I suppose there comes a point where a blank page is a bigger obstacle than a sheer mountain face. When typing words on a page becomes more daunting than running a gauntlet. I have hit that point over and over again in the past several months.
I began this journal five years ago today. I updated at least four times a day to ramble about utter nonsense and wax poetic about attractive movie stars. Then it evolved.
I had never intended this to become a travel blog. Nor a photography blog. But I suppose that is what it became slowly – changing as I unknowingly became something new.
I didn’t notice it after my first trip to Kosovo.
Nor Amsterdam.
After my second trip to Kosovo, I hardly gave it a sideways glance.
In Vienna, I gave more thought to my photography. But never to share.
In Ethiopia, it simply became a way to connect with loved ones despite the hours it took to upload every post and entry.
In London, it became a way for me to remember.
After that, it began to morph again. Once I returned to the states, I was inundated with requests for more posts, more thoughts, more pictures. I received emails telling me how many were reading, how many were expecting me to update every week. And all of a sudden, writing became a chore. Something I had to do. Something oppressive.
But still I wrote. Through my first few months living in Korea.
Through Vietnam.
And Lao.
And Cambodia.
Slowly the entries trickled in as I forced myself to write something. Anything. To put the words to the page and still enjoy it. So I wrote about China.
And visiting North Korea.
It took me months to write about Hawaii.
And Australia.
And yet, Thailand still waits for me to pen my adventures. It is that thought that has made me wait so long to write this again.
I had forgotten that I was writing this for myself. To remember. To see where I have been and remember the hysterical stories that makes each step a joy. Each journey an adventure.
I think I am beginning to see it again. What a five years it has been.
Australia was cold for July. I don’t think I was quite prepared as I stepped off the plane into the chilly air. I was visiting an Australian friend and she drove me to the boardwalk to stroll along the beach. We watched the local “polar bear” club shiver in the shallow shores as we wrapped our scarves tightly around ourselves.
The air was crisp and clear, almost surprising when you stepped out the comforting confines of the indoors. It reminded me of April in London – far too cold and me with only warm season clothing. Apparently I am a poor judge of weather. We drove into the mountains and stared off precipices into soaring valleys, raced down bush back roads looking for wild kangaroos, laid by bonfires and gazed up into a vast sky – counting the shooting stars.
We watched Aussie movie classics, wrapped up in blankets in front of space heaters, sipping homemade soup. Through those movies, she taught me a new country’s phrases, sayings, and social norms enough that I felt like I understood another culture better than any other before. There is an Australian comedy, The Castle, in which the main character stares off into a great nothing and peacefully proclaims, “Can you feel the serenity?”
Last week, I was in Thailand on holiday. Thailand is the Australian tourist location. Everywhere we went, we were assumed to be Aussies. Our last evening, we ate dinner on the beach – watching the sun set over the calm waters. All of a sudden, some workers started their jackhammers behind our restaurant. The couple next to me turned to look at my traveling companion and I and the husband pipped up, “Can you feel the serenity?” I almost choked on my drink. My American friend with me smiled and laughed, but I laughed because I understood in a way she didn’t.
To answer his question: Yes. I certainly can.
I apologize about the delay. I had typed up several entries to readily put online once I had internet access, and they suddenly were deleted. The motivation to retype all the entries that I already wrote was non-existent. I have been through the US, Australia, and back to Korea and haven’t had much of a chance to update. Thanks for waiting so patiently.
Over a month ago, my friend and I were returning to the states via a layover in Hawaii. One of our first goals was to hit the beach and snorkel.
We arrived at Hanauma Bay in a tour van with several other unsuspecting victims. Our driver handed us our snorkels and then inquired about flippers. We requested them and, as he dug through his box of swimming gear, he warned us of the numerous deaths that resulted from flippers. He solemnly handed them to us, looking deep into our eyes, and asked us if we were positive that we wanted to use these death traps. Considering that we were snorkeling in three feet of water, we were not too worried.
The bay is a flooded volcanic crater protected by the government for its unique fish and coral formations. Before we were allowed to swim in the bay, we were gathered into a small room and showed a video with singing fish about not stepping on the coral. After a full 15 minutes of fish convicting me of putting my feet down anywhere, I was starting to panic that I would single-handedly kill off all the coral of Hanauma Bay.
We hiked into the crater, strapped on our gear, and waddled down the the lapping waves. My friend happily swam off leaving me to my panic of killing off the entire bay with my toxic feet. I slowly eased myself down into the water and practiced breathing through the snorkel. Check. One hurdle over. I kicked off to go exploring in my friend’s wake.
Now, there is a slight problem if one has learned to swim in the ocean and not in a pool. In the ocean, you swim UNDER the waves so that you are not repeatedly smacked in the head by them. Imagine the problem of this if you are breathing through a snorkel attached to your head.
The moment I started swimming, everything went downhill. I inhaled a lung-full of water and proceeded to flail around in three feet of water. I began to put my foot down so I could clear my mask, but the singing fish came back to haunt me. I was now drowning and unable to put my feet down because I was terrified of the fish attacking me for killing the coral. After desperately searching for a patch a sand to step on, I gasped for breath and looked at the mine field I had surrounded myself with. As beautifully colored fish swam circles around me, I was convinced they were mocking me with their song. I knew I had to try again in order to escape my precarious position. I took another deep breath and went back under.
I wasn’t drowning! I could handle this! After a few minutes of blissfully floating along the surface, I began to venture farther out. Pretty soon, I found myself surrounded by unbelievably colored fish swirling around my death-flippers. I was captured by the bright coral and unusual fish enough to lower my defenses. Unfortunately.
I suddenly caught motion out of the corner of my eye. Something coming ominously closer. I slowly glanced ahead of me- half curious, half worried. Swimming straight at me was a very large fish, mouth gaping open as if he were singing that dreadful song! I flailed, trying to move desperately out of his way, but he continued to swim towards me. I flailed more, although that didn’t seem to help much. I gulped water through my snorkel, but was afraid to put my foot on the coral in fear of the evil fish ahead. Who knew what tortures he could wreak on a coral-killing, poison-footed human?
So, of course, I continued to drown pathetically until I could drag myself ashore. Needless to say, I don’t suspect I will go snorkeling again any time soon.
There is just something about traveling. The rush of anticipation, the fear of the unknown, the thrill of the unseen. It is almost like perching on the edge of a ravine, drinking in the beauty but knowing full well that with one slip – it could all end.
Or at least that is how I view it, but I have been known to be a bit dramatic.
Last month, I visited the sea (Japan-side) and climbed some breath-taking mountains. My friends and I were beaten away from dangerous cliffs by elderly Korean men, fried snails on a grill only to have them explode on us, and were angerly shouted at by beach authorities who assumed that as foreigners – we must have been littering. It is amazing that, for such a small country, Korea offers such incredible natural diversity. Thus concludes my explanation of why these pictures are in this entry even though it has nothing to do with the rest of it.
Last week, I visited the eye doctor due to my second case of pink-eye this month. The first time, I had a translator at the International Clinic, but this time – in interest of time – I chose to go to another, smaller, clinic. Sometimes I simply forget that nothing is quite as easy as it seems.
It began with finding the clinic – in an obscure building on the third floor. I was given the name in English, but apparently the sign was written in Korean – of course. After several minutes of slowly reading the sign in the pouring rain, I triumphantly burst into the office.
Receptionist: (bows a little) Anyo huseyo. (Meaning hello).
Me: bows back and responds in kind. Gives name and waits for response.
Receptionist: pulls out a massive sheet written in tiny Korean symbols. Begins babbling in Korean, obviously expecting me to respond back to help her fill out her paperwork.
Me: Uh, luni (eye)? (begins violently pointing at my eye because, duh, it is not like I am at an eye clinic or anything.)
Receptionist: (smiles at me a bit pitying.) Con-tact-uh?
Me: What?
Receptionist: Con-tact-uh? (points at her own eyes)
Me: Huh? Mulieyo (I don’t know).
Receptionist: obviously at a loss of how to explain this any other way.
Me: (finally putting together the fact that some Korean words are the same as English, only with an -uh at the end) OH. Contacts! Nae (yes)!
Receptionist: smiles benignly, realizing she wont get anymore information out of me, puts the form away and ushers me into the doctor’s office and away from the gaping stares of the others in the waiting room.
And thus began the next twenty minutes of feeling like an child. The doctor and the receptionist were more than kind considering the circumstances, but I had not a clue what they were asking of me. They would babble a few minutes to me, realize I wasn’t responding with anything other than “I don’t know”, and then begin babbling to each other about me. At one point, in complete frustration, I called our school nurse to translate for me. I, smiling at my genius, handed the cell phone to the receptionist. She explained everything to the school nurse, hung up my cell phone, and happily handing my cell back to me. I, slightly dejected at the thwarting of my brilliant plan, accepted it and dumped it back in my bag. She then grabbed my hand, led me down the stairs, across the street and into the nearest pharmacy – still holding my hand.
I think it is very tempting – despite our own level of understanding – to treat others who do not speak the same language as us childishly. Based on what little she knew I understood, the receptionist earnestly desired to make things easier for me – though unknowingly making me feel silly. It also made me realize the extent to which I still depend on others. Maybe I needed to be made a little humble to allow the kindness of others to shine.
That, and maybe I should go to the International Clinic next time.
