In Limbo in Laos

So here’s the absurdity of Asian culture that’s left me stranded in Laos. (OK, so thanks to my parents and the ultimate trump card of a second passport I will never really, truly be stuck anywhere…) But hear me out.

So it was one year ago today I hopped a Metro-North train into Manhattan and gleefully obtained my business visa to go to Thailand.  My year is now up which means I have to leave the country and get a new visa. No problem and kind of exciting to map out all the major cities across South East Asia and take my pick of which one to visit. 

Communist Laos.... not ideal for business, duh.

I choose Vientiane, Laos (yes, that’s the capital) because I’m not really a fan of big, modern, cities, especially when I already live in one. Vientiane is small, full of temples, Frenchness and foreignness – perfect for me, though maybe not for my visa run. Laos is one of five remaining communist countries in the world and probably one most people would never think of when playing the country game on some long, cross-country road trip. Places like Lebanon, Lithuania, Luxembourg or even Libya are more likely to pop out ahead of Laos and that’s really kind of sad.  Anyway, if I had thought of this I might not have come here. How many business visas does a small, oft-forgotten, communist country typically issue anyway?   It’s not exactly a hub of commerce. The answer….

Zero. I now know this for a fact.  (To my defense I did check their website before I left to confirm they issue business visas. It states they do and I even used their checklist to make sure I had all the required documents. See, right here….  http://vientiane.thaiembassy.org/vientiane/en/consular/consular_check/ )

So I tuk-tuk off this morning arriving at the consulate shortly after the 8.30 opening. I obediently get my number and wait with all the soon-to-be Thai tourists applying for more standard visas. My number gets called, I go up and handover my paperwork. He reads through everything slowly and deliberately.  I then realize from his questions he has no understanding of what a business visa is. Neither does his colleague. He declares he ‘can’t decide’ and then tells me to step aside and wait.

I sit for ten minutes.  Nothing happens.  My passport and paperwork now sit under a newspaper on his desk. I’m confused. Why am I waiting? What’s going on?

So I go back up and ask.  It turns out he can't decide, so we are waiting for Boss. Boss may or may not know about business visas. Boss is across town at the embassy. Boss has not been contacted. Boss cannot be contacted. Please sit and wait. Boss doesn’t come down to the consulate every day. Boss came down yesterday. Boss is very busy this week. Boss cannot be asked for help. Boss may not show up. Please sit and wait.  Boss cannot be told there is an issue they need help with. Boss cannot be summoned because culturally that would be insubordination. Please sit and wait.

Instead….

Lynn must sit and wait. If Boss does not arrive today, Lynn must come back tomorrow. Lynn must sit and wait. If Boss does not arrive tomorrow, Lynn must come back the next day.  Lynn must sit and wait. Boss may come. Boss may not come. Lynn must wait. Boss must not be contacted. Lynn must wait. Boss is very busy this week. Boss has a conference. Lynn cannot call Boss. Boss must not be disturbed. Lynn is disempowered. Lynn must sit and wait…..

Update: No Boss today. Tomorrow I go back. 8.30am – 4.30pm. Tomorrow I will sit and wait…..

Island Tour

This trip has worked out well. Next month will be my one-year anniversary in Bangkok, but I’d yet to visit the islands. It’s not that I haven’t been travelling – I’d spent parts of the first four months of the year on four different continents - but that was also the problem, too much long-haul and not enough exploring in my new backyard.  So knowing I wouldn’t be needed in the office for a span of two-weeks, I bought a one-way ticket to Krabi and ended up with a pretty diverse adventure.

Koh Phi Phi

First stop was Koh Phi Phi - made famous by Leonardo DiCaprio and The Beach – and my quest to finally get dive certified after talking about it for years.  The island didn’t disappoint in terms of beauty, but I felt like I met my 20-year old self there laughing at my wheelie bag and refusal to get on the bar for some shots and drunk dancing.  Of course I mocked the jar of peanut butter she still carried to make up for all the 10am breakfasts she could never get up for. We battled over her disappointment of my private room devoid of bunk beds and a litany of European languages yapping from corner to corner.  I asked if she ever wore shoes, she asked if ever wore a bikini.   In the end we made peace and parted on good terms – her wishing she could afford the dive class and me photographing my certificate. 

I overnighted in Phuket Town, a former Portuguese trading port with colonial architecture, quirky shops and art galleries. This was my city stop and my B&B was one of the funkiest I’d ever stayed in. http://www.quiphotel.com/  It was full of whimsical furniture (think Alice-in-Wonderland), Americana collectibles and electronics that could have been pulled from my parent’s basement – rabbit ear TVs, short wave radios and turntables. The reception desk was a converted car. Hanging on the wall outside my room was a giant aerial photograph of the New York skyline which made me wonder if somewhere in Manhattan there sits a hotel boasting photos of Phuket. It’d be like some alternate universe with really nice symmetry.

Paddle!!

Next, I headed out on a two-day overnight kayaking adventure in Phang Nga National Park. We paddled on flat waters circling limestone islands, explored hidden lagoons full of mangroves and battled a monkey who stole pineapple from our lunch. Just me, the guide, two British med students and random encounters with fisherman, heron, egrets, kingfishers and a rare white-bellied sea eagle. Oh yeah, and the fruit bats who attack the local’s mango and rambutan trees at night then dangle in their secret bat lair by day.

After five days of physical exertion I booked myself into a 4-star luxury resort on Phuket’s Panwa Cape.  I was upgraded to the Honeymoon Suite  on arrival (don’t know why) and entered as the sun was setting across the bay. There were fireworks and a giant Buddha statue, a la Christ the Redeemer, sitting on the hilltop opposite. It was so perfectly relaxing I immediately extended my stay and never left the grounds, refusing to commit to anything more than daily spa treatments. Of course that was really my plan from the start, to do nothing... I was in the islands just to trade my dining room office for a sun-soaked balcony with sea view work set-up…. And yes, I got stuff done. I learned that to-do lists melt like ice cubes in the tropics, vanishing with ease under solar powered dedication.

I arrived at my last stop today – a small beach community at NaiYang wedged between a National Park and the Phuket airport. (That does sound a little counter-productive, but it's really nice to enjoy my last few days without stressing over potential traffic jams on the way to the airport.) The town is really just a single lane road following the shore, canopied by trees and buffered from the Andaman Sea by a beach of golden sand.  Restaurants and huts line the road with women offering outdoor massages along the beach.  I love the vibe and simplicity – it’s probably the last scene I needed without really knowing it. All in all a well-balanced trip.

Update: I wrote the above section last night but didn’t get a chance to post it.  Below is an update from today…

I’m in a little bungalow that steps right out onto the beach.  I took a walk along the road today and found an old dilapidated hotel across the street.  It was some big Miami style art deco construction from the 80’s with giant balconies that the jungle had reclaimed. It was beautiful in a haunting way and eerie how some of the foliage looked like planned window boxes with flowering greens spilling over the edge.  I wandered around wondering why it was abandoned and wrote it off to the same economic collapse that’s left hundreds of half-finished buildings littered through Bangkok and the hillsides of Phuket.  But the longer I stayed the more uneasy I felt. It was obvious that this hotel had been finished- there were light fixtures, teak wood ceilings and the hotel’s name in grand, but fading letters.  This place had been finished, this place had had life.  There was something unsettling about the way tiles and wiring peeled from the ceiling like water damage….

Crown Nai Yang Suire Hotel

Tsunami.  A quick google search confirmed it.  The water had risen to the second floor and standing before it made the magnitude of devastation so apparent. I saw the water so high, the force of it so strong. Superstition and a lack of funds prevented the hotel from being either renovated or torn down.  So now it stands as a ghost hotel tangled between nature and development, a tragic reminder. 

Ironically, at least one current listing for it still exists. Would you like to book a room? http://www.sbyphuket.com/hotel/phuket/naiyang/crown_naiyang/crown_naiyang.htm

Tsunami

Sometimes my nightmares consist of tsunamis, churning waves and drowning.  Often I’m sitting in front of a giant floor-to-ceiling plate glass window looking out at some magnificent view when the waters rise up violently and shatter the glass.  I am caught in the tumbling force of water, somersaulting and sinking. As a child I was told if you die in your dream you die in real life. I now know this isn’t true. I have drowned countless times in countless ways, but for me there’s always an escape – an alarm clock, my cat or just a panicked return to waking.

When I arrived at Koh Phi Phi in Southern Thailand I wasn’t sure how, if at all, it had been impacted by the Tsunami in 2004. I was naive in hoping it had been spared or that maybe just one of the two main beaches was affected, but the island is shaped like a dumbbell with mossy, limestone mountains weighting the ends and anchoring the sandy strip that connects them. Beaches run the length of the strip on both sides. They are divided by a buzzing community of hostels, cart vendors, open air bars, dive shops and local families who live in between. When the waves came they flooded straight across, wiping out everything from beach to beach.

As I walk the island's interior I think about that day. There are no cars here, just a maze of narrow alleys lined with flimsy buildings that block the breeze and corrode beneath the sun. The stone walkways feel like claustrophobic chutes and I wonder where I’d run. The options are limited and my panic seems real.

I watch the locals going about their routines. What was that day like for them? Those here now… those who survived. There's an elderly man sweeping fruit peels from the cobbled path, a teen pushing a towering cart of bottled water, a woman selling ferry tickets to safer shores. Each has a story, a decision, a moment of chance or luck that allowed them to still be here. Their great escape. How? I wonder about their loved ones who didn’t make it. Are they grateful or regretful?  

Just how much does this island grieve beneath the stalls of leather bags and seashell bracelets? Do the tattoo parlors recognize a different kind of pain? I won’t pretend to know the horror or sorrow, but even so I am moved. I am saddened by the immensity of loss. I ache with empathy and compassion. For them it’s ten years past. For me it’s only just today.

I am told it was the tourism community that brought Phi Phi back to life.  That travelers and Western volunteers played key roles in returning to the island to clean up and rebuild.  I’m told it was the dive companies who took charge of clearing the waters, retrieving trash, debris and broken pieces of life from the seabed.

  

Gazing across the bay I can’t imagine how the clean-up was even possible. The volume and scale must have been devastating, the contents of just one mini-mart seems like an overwhelming burden to clear, add to it hundreds more shops, restaurants, hotels and homes. Unlike other holiday communities where locals simultaneously rely on and resent the temporary masses rolling through, I'm told Phi Phi has nothing but gratitude for its steady stream of visitors. Tourists are welcomed and valued as the source of recovery. I can’t say if this is true, but the people are certainly friendly.

Today, there’s not much sign of any of it – just a small family resort built from reclaimed wood with four memorial longtail boats. Each is named in honor of a loved one the owner lost.  The market stalls and massage houses are back as they were before. Pierced college students flirt and chug beer in the sand where churning waters tormented so many. Cats mew and scratch in the trees that survivors clung to in panic. Fire jugglers spin lit batons teasing guests with near misses on beaches where victims fought for air. Pounding rhythms of youthful dance parties wipe out any lasting nighttime echoes. Life has moved on and the locals have appeared to let go. If you weren’t thinking of it you may never know it happened, but that would be a sadder story yet. 

Unexpected

I’m sitting at dinner fighting phantom bobbing and rolling from spending most of the past three days on a boat or under water doing a dive certification. My dinner companion sits at a desk halfway round the world connected to me by the blanket of wifi that covers Koh Phi Phi. I send her photos of my beachside table with its evening views, plastic chairs and floral tablecloth. My pineapple salad, journal and Lonely Planet creep into the shot.  I have traded work-from-home for work-from-beach.

We chat across the miles as I eat.  A Call to Prayer sings out from the neighboring mosque and tangles with the pounding bass of Eminem that escapes from the karaoke club on the other side of me. Unexpected. This is Thailand.

Set among the overflow of tattoo parlors, elephant print pajama bottoms and wrinkle-free backpackers, I realize the shopkeepers all greet me with a Chinese ‘ni hao’ and not the Thai ‘sawadee.’ My feet are constantly wet from sun-proof puddles in rainy season. They navigate an island devoid of motor vehicles where abrasive honks are replaced by the whimsical chimes of a bike bell. Crowded families of three pedal by or maybe it’s the woman with the Pomeranian balancing on the handlebars. Tonight it was a young girl cycling past at bedtime in her nightgown.  Unexpected. Unexpected like the man carrying a monkey dressed in yellow corduroy pants held up by bright red suspenders. Or the endless restaurants offering a mix of Thai and Italian cuisines. Nothing more, nothing less and nothing to explain it.

A man takes my photo and speaks to a friend in a language I don’t recognize. He tells me it’s Nepalese. He grew up there and also Burma. I guess he’s 25.  Now he lives in Phi Phi, runs a small shop and specializes in languages - Nepalese and Burmese, plus Thai and French and Italian and German and Swedish and Spanish and more he doesn’t mention. He says he learns them because not everyone speaks English and that Chinese is a struggle. Unexpected. He deserves so much more for his efforts.  

A London Attack of Old

The events of last Sunday have brought on a lot of self-reflection and discussion about male/female roles.  My initial reaction that night was anger towards men; for not being there, for sleeping on the job, for being indifferent, for being the perpetrators. I simultaneously craved and resented them. But really, wasn't it kind of unfair? I was walking home alone, from dinner with girls. What was I expecting? Superman?

So, I thought a little more and realized it really tapped into a different event. An event from years ago in London – another attack, another intervention. That’s what I was truly reacting to....

It was a late Sunday afternoon in the summer and I was returning home after a weekend visiting my aunt and uncle. I was walking out of Ealing Broadway tube when I heard loud, angry voices – a man and woman.  There was something in the tone that made me hesitate. Something that said, don’t walk home, stick around.   

Even though they were on the same side of the street as me, I crossed the road to get a better view.  The man was stocky, tattooed, 5’10, dark hair. The woman with him was slight in build and backed into a corner. Their argument had already escalated. She had growing panic in her voice -  it echoed off the buildings. 

I stood beneath a bus shelter looking at all the other people, half waiting, half calculating. It was a gorgeous evening and there must have been dozens, if not a hundred or more people walking around. The common was nearby, along with 2 or 3 pubs and a number of shops. Plenty of people, plenty of potential rescuers.

Now there was terror in her voice. He had both her arms in his grip. She was screaming at him to let her go. I felt a charge. Time was up. I did not think. I just reacted. I marched off the curb and aimed for the man. I am only 5’6”. I was always scrawny. I was always weak. Skinny Lynnie. Thin Lynn. (Today maybe not so much.)  

There was a fair distance between us. I kept thinking -  Someone else will get there first. Some guy will get there first.

No one did.

I remember grabbing the man’s arm and digging my fingernails into his flesh. “Is there a problem here?” He just stared at me with the same anger he’d been pushing on her. “She asked you to let go of her.” There was an intensity, an uncertainty, and suddenly, another presence.  

A woman.

A woman had come and stood next to me. I never saw her, but I sensed she was plump and middle-aged, maybe a Sunday school teacher or mother. Frumpy. A brown jumper. The man looked from me to her. His eyes were hard, but then they changed. Her presence diffused him.

He let go. 

As the first woman ran off, I turned and looked back at the street. All the Sunday evening pedestrians were stopped in their places watching. Men, women, lads from the pub with their pints half raised. Dozens, if not a hundred or more people dotted the area surrounding us.  All of them watching, just me and another woman acting.

That night I cursed them all. I shamed them.  The adrenalin was gone and the fear and anger had set in. I shook. I cried. I blamed them. I blamed them all for forcing me to be the person to step in.  Where were the men? Where were the men?? I screamed it in my head – dozens, if not a hundred or more times. I threw a fist at my pillow. Where were the men??? I’m only small, I can’t defend myself. Why did they make me have to do that?

I never found out who the assisting woman was.  I never really saw her, I never ever thanked her. But to this day I am still so grateful. And to this day, I have never forgiven the men.

Women Are the Weaker Sex

Last night I was mugged. They didn’t get my bag, but they took my sense of safety and calm. While some may say I won, I'd say it was draw - what they did get was far more valuable.

It happened two doors down from the gates to my building. It was 9.45pm on a Sunday. The street leafy and residential with security men at the end of every driveway. I was walking home alone after dinner with girlfriends thinking about our discussion of current events – Israel/Palestine, Russia/Ukraine, the doomed jetliner. We ate fried morning glory and commented on how lucky we are to live where we do. From consulates to tour books, all rate Bangkok as safe as London or NYC.

I didn’t see the motorcycle or the passenger jumping off. I only heard the heavy running steps and then saw feet. I knew. I clutched my bag tight. I screamed – a voice I didn’t recognize, a voice that sounded foreign.  He tugged. I tugged. There was something long and white in his hand – a baton?  A rolled up piece of paper? I wondered if he’d hit me. I froze. Then he let go and disappeared off on the back of the bike. 20 feet away a security guard sat in a folding chair. He slept through it all.

Women are easy targets. We are weaker. We are more vulnerable. I know this.

 Shaken, but unhurt, I posted news of it on Facebook. My female friends responded immediately, along with one Irish guy from my days at Guinness. Some women called, some emailed, some IM’d, some facetimed. I needed them. I needed their comfort, their words, their understanding.  I felt less isolated and more stable with each voice of concern.  They understood the fear of men - the fear of being attacked and the horror when it happens. 16 women reached out - some I haven’t talked to in years. And only one man.

Violence against women is real; whether it’s the Gaza Strip, Crimea, Indian rapes, Nigerian kidnappings or just a mugging on a pretty street in Bangkok. Women understand the fear. Men don’t.

Last night I thought of male friends and ex-boyfriends. I wished one of them had been there to walk me home or give me a hug and promise me he’d look out for me. In those first moments, I craved a man’s comfort, their protective strength- the feeling of security that comes from having a guy beside me. While the female voices rolled in I wondered, where were the men? I wanted their words, their understanding and reassurance. I wanted a man to stand up for me. To be angry on my behalf. To don his cape and rescue me. I wished for a man who'd insist on walking me home and who wouldn't believe me when I say I can take care of myself. I wished for a man who'd do it out of genuine concern and not some vague sense of duty. I wished for a man who wouldn’t let me feel guilty for recognizing my vulnerability, for asking him to go out of his way. I wished for protection in the old-fashioned damsel-in-distress kind of way. I wished for a guy to ask if I was ok.

Today’s women are supposed to be strong and proud - "We don't need men!"  I feel pressure to live up to that. To not cry. To say it doesn’t bother me. To say it won’t beat me down.  Some say I am bold and independent. I say bullshit. Inside there’s a fearful little girl ashamed to show her weakness. Ashamed to admit her dependency. Ashamed to admit she doesn't want to do it by herself. Ashamed to admit these things that are right here on this page. All I really want is to curl up and let someone take care of me.  I am weak. I will lose a cat fight to a cat. I am tired of pretending.

Last night, I went back down to the street. I spoke to my building security guard. Yes, yes he told me with the famous Thai smile and nodding head. It happens all the time – his face lit up as if we were talking about the frequency of rainbows on the horizon. He pointed out all the security cameras. The owner’s son was translating and delivered the news like a pot of gold.  Neither was alarmed, concerned or in any way consoling. I felt betrayed.

I was mugged once before, 2.5 hrs in to a 3-month backpacking trip through Central America. That time it was two men in a car. That time was more violent. That time I didn’t tell anyone until after I came home. Except one friend knew - a guy - he never followed up. I lost friends and made enemies that summer. I was diagnosed with PTSD. My mom was concerned. My dad didn’t want to know.  

I have talked to male friends about my worries before. They dismiss it and tell me not to live my life in fear. I don’t. I live it in a perpetual state of risk assessment and avoidance. Personal safety crosses my mind of a daily basis. For men I wonder if it even happens monthly? They say goodbye to female friends at the bar and their thoughts turn to… hot dogs? Porn? Game of Thrones? The hot Thai chick across the street? I say goodbye and immediately enter into navigational assessment. How dark are the streets? How populated is the sidewalk? Should I step aside to let the lone guy behind me pass? Does the resident homeless guy look high tonight?  How rowdy are the boys? Will a moto rob me if I walk?  Will a taxi car-jack me if I drive? Does the driver look too drunk?  Why does he keep staring at me in the rearview?  Is he turning where he should turn? Dammit, what’s the safest way outta here??  Then there's the real question  - where exactly does pro-activeness turn to paranoia? After last night I’m really not sure.

Women have tactics and plan Bs and safety networks. Mostly they work. Mostly men are unaware. A few months ago a friend in another ‘safe’ Asian city helped a guy home who was too drunk to make it alone. She carefully put him to bed, turned to walk home and was attacked on the way. Another found herself in a dodgy Bangkok taxi with a young driver who wielded a crowbar and enough English to demand all her money. These are the stories women live and men dismiss.

Today, I feel angry. I want a man to listen. I want a man to feel my insecurity. I want a man to have instincts for a woman’s safety. Most of all, I want a man to walk me home.