floating lotus flowers

On the first of November, the bungalow we were staying in put up a glimmering gold-metallic banner with red letters spelling out "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year" in both Thai and English. A few other shops and restaurants hung the same sign, but unlike our bungalow, they cut off the part which read "Merry Christmas".

Either way, a New Years sign seems a bit untimely in the month of November, unless you're following the Thai lunar calendar. Because, if you did, the decor wouldn't seem out of place at all.  Actually, it would be strange not to see it.

What I was looking forward to was not the Thai New Year, but what preceded it: Loi Kathrong, a festival to pay respects and ask forgiveness to the goddess of water, Pra Mae Khongkha. It occurs the night of the full moon on the 12th lunar month. It also happens to coincide with the annual floodings, which seems fitting.

In some parts of Thailand, the holiday is also celebrated on the same day as Yi Peng, the lantern festival. Millions of paper lanterns are lit and float gracefully across the sky.  Sadly, due to the protected rainforest on Koh Chang, the Yi Peng celebration was prohibited.  So instead of lighting up the sky, we lit up the waters with slices of banana trees covered in banana leaves to resemble a lotus flower. 

After attending a festival in a nearby city with its staged plays, street markets selling everything from clothing to fried cockroaches, games for children, and stations to receive blessings from monks, we went back to the pier in our little village of Bang Bao and made our wishes for the new year before lighting the candles and letting our kathrong float off into the ocean.

Forest monks

One afternoon, thirteen of us crammed into an open air taxi; which appeared to me like a smaller, cleaner and more modern version of a dala dala. We were told we were going to visit a special Buddhist monastery, one with meditating monks - the only of their kind on the island. For an hour and a half we drove up hills, around corners, and through highly touristic villages, all the while trying not to jab an elbow in the face of the person sitting next to us. We only later found out that the monastery is located a mere 10 kilometers east of Bang Bao. But due to a number of mountainous hills, no road was ever created to connect the two locations. Instead, those in Bang Bao have to drive the entire perimeter of the island to reach the monastery. On our return, we opted for a boat ride instead.

The monastery is located on top of one of the aforementioned mountainous hills, surrounded by trees. It houses four small sleeping huts set on stilts (one of which being the resting place of one or two deceased monks in a coffin hanging off the underbelly of the hut),

an unpretentious temple,

a few other one-roomed buildings and places of worship. The four living monks spend most of their days sitting in meditation, or walking along a prayer path in order to release pent up energy.

The local is quite beautiful, not to mention peaceful.  Yet, I don't see how the monks manage it.  I'd be bored in minutes... (I can't manage to meditate for more than 10 minutes, none-the-less years).

Isn't it, like, an unwritten rule or something?

As touristic as it is, you really can't visit Thailand without riding (and swimming with) an elephant. It may even be borderline compulsory.

no inhibitions

With rare exceptions, I don't mind making a fool of myself.  I'll try new things (as long as it's not compromising to my health, such as eating monkey brains or jumping out of an airplane without a parachute or something).  I'll ask to join in on things, like a Thai karaoke session, held in an open garage, if it looks fun enough.  After all, the worst that could happen is that I'd look like a fool while receiving a rejection, or in this case, while singing a song in a language I can't understand.

Then again, I didn't hear any complaints, and everyone was enjoying themselves despite the music.  Plus, they even asked us to come back the next day.

Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay

For two weeks I lived in a fisherman's village.  Roads are wooden docks which branch off one main dock, houses are built on stilts which sit over the water, and a long cement pier leads to a beautiful, non-functioning, lighthouse. There are 4 restaurants, a handful of souvenir shops, a couple bars, an internet cafe/bakery/coffee shop, numerous massage spots, and a 7eleven at the village entrance.

Generally, I wouldn't take a 10 hour flight, a near 6 hour bus ride, an hour long ferry, topped off with another 40 minute long bus ride to reach a remote fisherman's village at the southern most tip of a island in Thailand, where I would confine myself for the following 14 days.  But this wasn't any given trip.

Months before, I came across a workshop to learn a few techniques in Thai Yoga Massage.  The 5 hour workshop flew by, and I found myself eager to learn more.   The thought of taking lessons to be certified intrigued me, but the thought of taking lessons in Thailand had me sold.  That was really all it took for me to make the long journey to the little village of Bang Bao.

The Thailand I didn't see

Days before my trip, various colleagues came to me and asked if I was still going due to the floods.  I'd smile and say that I'm bringing my swimming suit just in case. It amazed me how nervous they were... but then again, I avoided all news-related articles on Thailand.  Because, had I seen this before I left, I might have gotten nervous myself.

(From the moment I flew into Bangkok until the moment I flew out from it, I didn't see any flooding.)

A rude awakening

It feels like a dream.  If it weren't for my photographic evidence, I might believe a dream is all it really was. A dream that I was abruptly woken up from.  One I wish I could return to by rolling over and shutting my eyes as tightly as I can.  But every dream must come to an end at some point... and it's only the flashbacks that I can hold on to.  The ones that make me escape my reality for a split second and feel the warmth of the sun glowing on my skin once again.

Monday morning as we were taxing into our gate, just before 6:00, the pilot announced over the intercom, "... and the current temperature is 2 degrees."  (Celsius, that is - otherwise I would have died).  I had just left near 90 degree Fahrenheit weather for temperatures in the 30's.  A thick gray mist loomed outside.  I garnered all the courage I could to step out of the plane.

Two hours after we landed I was home and showered, but barely awake. At that point I had been up for over 30 hours, and I was beyond exhausted. But I made my way to work.  Because that's what you do when you've used up every possible vacation day (all 5 weeks of it).

I biked in the cold, bundled in a hat, scarf, mittens, coat and boots.  My eyes were so tired, my vision was blurred.  The gray mist didn't help.  But I arrived in one piece, although a bit drained.  I turned on my laptop to find more work waiting for me than I could have ever imagined.  I was overwhelmed. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend I was still in Koh Chang, Thailand. Right then my manager walked in.  She took one look at me and said, "I'm so sorry you had to come back to this."  The word "this" encompassed more in my mind than what she was implying, and my exhaustion overtook my emotions.  So I cried.  And then through my tears I laughed in embarrassment.

That was Monday.  Today is now Sunday.  There is still a thick fog covering the city.  The weather has warmed up a bit, but the sun has barely made an appearance since I've arrived. So I hang on to the flashes of memories which feel more like a distant dream, and I feel better.