Transitions: Back to America Pt. 2

 

April 2012

Then things started to look up for me. Around April my transition back to a stable life in the states started to take shape, just in time for it to be over.

It must have started with a joke with a friend. Harley, who had just finished his service in the Peace Corps in Cameroon, had recently moved back to his home New Mexico. When I had asked him earlier about his plans after Peace Corps, he told me he would probably stay in New Mexico with his parents. I told him it would not last long. Sure enough, after a few weeks in New Mexico, I talked to him online and dropped on him the Anchor Man quote “I think after this is all over, you and me should get an apartment together.” It was in jest, but I also meant it. And he was totally down for the idea.

So we moved into a shared house together. I was thrilled to move out of my terrible living situation, and to have another friend around. Plus the people we moved in with were the kind of people that we could live with.

Soon after, I managed to get out of my restaurant job in Bellevue. I replaced it with two restaurant jobs which were a big step up. I had caught wind that I had no chance of advancing from my position at my job in Bellevue, so I figured if I would be a busser, I might as well work closer to home and make more money. One job was at a popular seafood restaurant that was something of a Seattle icon. It attracted tourists, elderly regulars, and boat people. It wasn’t the best group of customers or co-workers, but it was a huge restaurant that provided a steady and reliable income. The other was something of a dream restaurant job. It was as close to an enjoyable service industry job as I could have imagined. It had a mature and friendly staff, a respectable clientele, and a chef that was recently named one of the best in the country. It was by far the best restaurant job as I could have asked for. It was the rare service industry job I could take a bit of pride in.

With things in order, I could enjoy my last summer in Seattle for a while. I had a Peace Corps application in the works, but I had no idea when I would be leaving. It could be anywhere from August to the following winter. I felt like I was finally getting things in order. Plus I was lucky enough to have Lise come and stay with me for the summer. My previous living situation had made her last visit complicated. Now we were free to enjoy each other’s company and have some truly memorable times together. We spent time canoeing Lake Washington, going to Capitol Hill Block Party and camping. It really made the summer perfect.

So now I was waiting to hear from the Peace Corps. I had been jumping through their hoops for months. I don’t feel like going through the details of that, but it was a long process of doctor appointments, dentist appointments, endless paperwork, visits to various government offices and going to copy shops. I even had to go back to Idaho once to get a dental exam because the corrupt dentist in Seattle (recommended by the Peace Corps) said he would need to do over $700 worth of (unnecessary) work to sign off on my paperwork.

After constant waiting, I received a phone call saying that my Peace Corps invitation had been sent. They said that I would probably be going to sub-Saharan Africa. This was a good thing. My dream was to be going to a French-speaking country to go to West Africa. I had done everything possible to set myself up for a French-speaking placement. I didn’t have the formal education in French that was required, but I had studied French on my own for three years, especially in the last few months. I had taken a Clep exam and passed with a high score, which qualified me for a French-speaking placement. I will be honest that my ambitions for joining the Peace Corps were not entirely altruistic, and I wanted to be able to greatly advance my abilities to speak French for many reasons. I had put a lot of personal effort into learning the language and wanted to be place where I could hone these skills.

I figured that the invitation letter from the Peace Corps, which would include my country of placement, would arrive within a few days. Unfortunately the Peace Corps seemed to send it at through the slowest possible means. It got there after about eight days.

Mama called me, saying the letter had come. My heart pounded, yeah yeah yeah, dramatic lead up to my announcement. I was incredibly nervous of course. She told me I was being sent to Rwanda on September 11.

My reaction was tempered by many factors. I was excited to finally know. I was shocked by how soon I would be leaving. It was a tight squeeze. Peace Corps is required to notify you at least 8 weeks in advance, and mine was exactly that much. I can move quickly, but this was still overwhelming. Lise would be staying until two weeks before I left, and I was doing all I could to not be distracted during her visit. I knew that two weeks between her visit and leaving for Rwanda would be nuts.

As far as Rwanda, my reaction was mixed. Yes, it is a Francophone country, but it didn’t mean much. For many reasons, the country has recently switched to English, especially as a language of instruction. This was very important, since I was going to be in the education sector. Also, because of how homogenous Rwanda is, I would not be trained in French, but rather Kinyarwanda, which is spoken throughout the entire country. On the other hand, I was excited about being placed in a country that I completely did not expect. It was a curveball that I welcomed. I had many dream placements, such as Guinea, Togo or Cameroon, but I also kind of wanted to be put in a country that I knew nothing about. Rwanda fit the bill. Of course I had read a lot about the genocide over the years, but I knew that there was still so much to learn. Plus it was in a region of Africa that I was very unfamiliar with. It was East Africa and Central Africa at the same time. It had close historical ties to the Congo, but was also geographically close to East African countries of Tanzania, Kenya and Uganda. This was a region that I had always overlooked when it came to traveling, but again, my ignorance of it was a big plus.

My job assignment as well gave me pause. I was placed in the teaching sector, most specifically English teaching. This was definitely not my top choice. Over time I had developed a somewhat cynical view of the idea that teaching English to people in developing countries was going to help the country’s situation. For example, teaching children English in a place like Mali or Cambodia seemed like it would only provide opportunities for a few people in the tourism sector or maybe the lucky few that got into international business. It did not seem to be the kind of thing would have a significant impact in alleviating poverty. Plus, tourism in developing countries is very volatile. Take Mali, for example. A year ago tour guides most definitely benefited from their ability to speak English. Now that it is unstable and tourism has dried up, it is no longer putting food on tables or supporting industries.

However, Rwanda was unique. The whole country, which spoke French as its international language, has decided to switch to English. One of the major reasons for this (among many) was the fact that many of the neighboring countries are Anglophone. Rwanda is trying to promote valuable economic ties with countries like Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania, rather than the troubled Francophone countries Burundi and Congo, which are far more troubled. The country officially changed the language of instruction in schools from French to English just a few years ago. It has obviously been a difficult change for the country, but it is a change that I feel I can support. It is not because I think that one language is better than the other, but it seems that English will be a more valuable language for Rwandans than French. This is why I feel good about my efforts to help Rwanda in their transition from French to English. Still it is ironic, as I was really hoping to use the Peace Corps to improve my skills in French.

I was also conflicted in a more selfish way. As far as my job with the Peace Corps was concerned, I was hoping for a role that would set me up to learn more about development. I did not feel that English teaching was very different than other posts where volunteers were able operate more like NGO or development workers. It is something I really had a desire to get involved in for the sake of my post-Peace Corps life. At the same time, I know that teaching English as a second language would give me the skills to teach English anywhere in the world, if I so wanted. In the future, if I am ever in need of a decent job abroad, my experience with the Peace Corps will give me a huge advantage if I need some work teaching English.

Once it all sank in, I felt overwhelmed with how soon I was leaving. Eight weeks is not a lot of notice. I had to continue working the two jobs I was about to quit, move out of my house, continue the never-ending barrage of Peace Corps paperwork, make visits to friends in Phoenix and my sister in Indianapolis, and squeeze the most time out of the time I still had with Lise in Seattle. It was an intense last month. Every time someone asked me if I was excited or nervous, I had a difficult time mustering any emotion. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was too busy to contemplate the fact that I was about to spend the next 27 months in an African country I knew relatively little about. Perhaps it was because I had left the country blindly for various reasons in the past and now I was getting used to it. Maybe it was the fact that the Peace Corps was not my first choice of options, but rather the next logical move in my life. Maybe it was all of those and more. It is impossible to say.

When it finally came time to leave home on Sept. 10, I can say that I still felt very little. Of course I was sad to say goodbye to my family, and I knew I would miss them. On the other hand, I had done this before, and knew what to expect. My best guess to explain my calm and tempered mood was that my excitement and my nervousness were counteracting each other, leaving me to appear bored and boring. I wanted to muster up strong emotions, but then again, I knew those would really come flooding in the moment I stepped off the plane. Just like usual.

Transitions: Back to America pt. 1

 

2012

Returning to America this time was the hardest. Before when I had been away for a few months, I was coming back to school, which gave me some stability. This time, I was returning to Seattle with no job, no place to live, and less money than I had ever had before. One time I had been able to live in  my car during the transition, but this time I wouldn’t even have that. I felt lucky to have a bicycle so I could get from place to place faster than on the bus. One difficult aspect of my transition, though, was not knowing what friends were still around, and who I could count on for a place to crash. In college I had tons of places to stay, and I would try not to wear out my welcome. Three years after college, people had left Seattle, moved to the suburbs or had living situations that were not conducive to guests.

The worst part, though, was the feeling that maybe I really needed to grow up. I had my college education, but what had I done with it? Worked a couple of internships, turned down a small newspaper job in favor of traveling for 15 months? Now I was almost 26, and applying for restaurant jobs. I could never say that I regretted it though. People always say, “Joey, you are so lucky that you are getting to travel when you are young. I wish I would have done that!” Everyone wants to drop everything, and go see the world, but steady jobs, marriages, mortgages, kids, etc. all seem to get in the way. This is something that drives me to not give in yet. As much as I feel I am not progressing in my life, I also know this is the time to go out and live life like I want to. College loans are breathing down my neck, and I can only postpone the real world so long. It feels like now or never, because once I commit to anything close to a 9-to-5 it will feel like its over. I guess these were the things I had to keep in my mind as I faced my dire situation. I had a lot of things to get in place.

The friends that were still around for me when I got back were angels. I could not have survived without John Borges letting me crash on his studio floor regularly, and he never made me feel like I was staying too long. After the hospitality I received from strangers in places like Morocco, Mali and the Philippines, I had forgotten about the generosity that can exist back home. With several of my friends, it was alive and well.

The transition was filled with ups and downs. It was obviously great to catch up with so many people I had missed. Trying to find a place to rent without a job, or to find a job without a home are big challenges. Which should come first? I couldn’t really afford much on the housing front. However, getting a job when you didn’t know what to put down as an address, and you don’t have any experience in the last year and a half was tricky. Being a terrible liar does not help with any of this either.

After about three weeks, I finally started to make some progress. I rented a room in a shared apartment in a house in Chinatown/International District. It was a sketchy part of town, but also a neighborhood I had always wanted to live in. It seemed promising at first, however, it ended up being a seemingly endless terrible situation. I should taken a hint from certain parts of the lease agreement that this place would be screwy. For example, the fact that the landlord specified that the use of profanity was forbidden on the premises. Every day seemed to present a new reason why this had been a terrible idea. For example, I learned on my first night that the house had no heat. Incidentally this was also the night of Seattle’s annual blizzard. I had very few possessions at this point. I was sleeping in my warm weather sleeping bag on the floor, and was wearing almost every scrap of warm clothing I had. The next morning, I walked to the nearest restaurant, a Chinese noodle shop. It was not heated either and provided little comfort from the blizzard outside. However, the hot noodle soup for $4 still felt like a blessing. That day John hooked me up with a warmer sleeping bag, and a small space heater. Blake lent me a warm hat and some gloves. Everything was slowly coming together, although my living situation would only get weirder.

One of the two guys that lived in my unit was almost never around. Sometimes I would hear him coming home at 2 or 3 in the morning, but I almost never saw him. The other man, Patrick, who was probably in his late 40’s or early 50’s had some psychological issues that I would become exposed to on one of my first mornings. The entire time I lived there I only heard him speak two words to me. Both of them were “hi”. Both happened the first time I met him. On my second morning, I woke up to him screaming profanity at nobody. He was in his room, cursing at somebody that seemed to be in his space. At first I thought it was a threat to me, but as it persisted, I realized he was screaming at the voices in his head. When I was around him, though he never spoke. Sometimes I would hear the profanity-laced diatribes through his door, but I never saw him speak in person.

When I moved in, there was nothing in the pantries. No food, no pans, no plates, no pots. Nothing, except one paper bowl, which I was always too afraid to touch. The refrigerator had one package of hot dogs, one gallon of milk with a plastic bag on the mouth in place of the lid, and one Styrofoam to-go container from the roommate I would never see, that stayed there for weeks until I threw it out. I would eventually learn that Patrick kept all of his belongings inside his room. When he cooked rice or hot dogs (which seemed to be his two staples) he would bring the pot or pan necessary to the stove outside his door. He would shuffle with his head down between the stove and his room. Like him, I got used to eating in my room, as the common areas were too awkward to linger in. He also didn’t seem to use the bathroom. That was fine with me. The strange part, though was that during his morning routine (which appeared to be quite rigid) I would see him dumping buckets into the toilet. He had a lot of cleaning supplies and seemed to be something of a germophobe. He used plastic bags to touch things like doors and knobs. I found his behaviors fascinating, however, I always felt sympathy for him. He seemed to have a difficult and lonely life. I always felt like I should try to engage him, maybe be something of a friend to him. However, he seemed so distant that I felt I could not talk to him.

And then there was my bizarre illness. Soon after coming back to America, I was diagnosed with schistosomiasis, also known as bilharzia. It is a parasite that is endemic in Africa and can be contracted from swimming in certain bodies of water. It is spread through snail feces and lives in water. It enters through the skin and makes its home in a variety of organs. I had not expected to get it, since the parasite cannot usually live in moving waters and we had only been swimming in the Niger River in Mali. It was a complete fluke that I had even been diagnosed. During a blood test at a doctor in Seattle, they noticed something strange. My doctor, after hearing where I had been traveling, took a stab at the thought that I might have schistosomiasis. He had taken a class in tropical parasites when he was in med school back in the 70’s and had a vague memory of what schisto looked like. Most American doctors would never encounter this in their lives, so it was a complete fluke that he figured it out. I had had suspicions that I had something wrong with me because my body had been doing some strange things since I had left Mali nine months earlier. Most of it, however, I just equated to my traveling lifestyle. The symptoms of schisto are so varied and not that intense for a while, that it is easy to overlook them. I had had a few bouts of fever, one of which led me to a hospital in the Philippines, where they diagnosed me with a urinary tract infection. This was a misdiagnosis, as it was actually a couple months after that episode was over that I noticed pinkish hue in my urine, signaling a bit of bleeding somewhere along the way. In Cambodia I got a couple of unexplained abscesses on my leg that exploded into black and bloody infected mess. A fellow traveler and nurse prescribed me some antibiotics that seemed to do the trick. In India I had developed a rash on my legs, but hey, that’s India right? In addition, since I had left Mali, my bowel movements had been completely out of whack. But then again, I seemed to be in a completely different country with a new diet every month or two; so chronic diarrhea barely raised an eyebrow.

The doctor prescribed me a round of de-worming medication that is also regularly used on dogs. I immediately informed the other three guys I had been traveling with on the Niger River. Jordan, the Australian, had also known something was wrong with him, and had been going to different doctors for months, without solving his problems. It is a lot easier to know when something is wrong when you are back in your home country, however, much harder to diagnose. Since Jordan is a vet, he simply prescribed himself the same dog de-wormer. Blai had also gotten really sick when I visited him in Spain, and the doctors at the hospital could not tell him what was wrong. He quickly got the medication he needed. Jonathan, however, who doesn’t seem to believe he is capable of getting sick (except maybe those TWO times with malaria) didn’t bother getting the medication. His excuse was that he was in New Zealand, where he could not afford the health care. I am still not sure if he has been treated.

The medicine was a single giant dose, and it made me feel terrible. It was like all the symptoms I had been feeling occasionally and mildly for months came back with a vengeance for a last hurrah in my body. I had a terrible fever, blood in my urine, etc. But then it was gone. The rash eventually went away, but it was replaced by some other itchy bites all over my legs. It looked like I had brought back a second parasite from India. Just like my first time there, I had brought back some stowaways. Scabies. It was not a surprise, considering that I was volunteering with a bunch of men who were rife with scabies, plus my guesthouse was filthy. It was an easy fix once I figured it out, though I realize it is pretty disgusting. All things considered, though, for 15 months of travel, mostly in developing countries, those illnesses were a small price to pay. Especially since I had thrown an incredible amount of caution to the wind, and had drank whatever came out of the taps or water pumps, and sometimes wells everywhere from Morocco to Mali to Cambodia to India. That is also not to mention whatever street foods, barbecued organ meats and fertilized eggs I had eaten along the way.

In the meantime, I had been doing a lot of job searching. It was the worst season to be looking for restaurant work in Seattle. I wasn’t about to start applying for journalis jobs, since I was still applying for the Peace Corps. I wasn’t qualified for much more than restaurants and newspapers, which caused me constant stress and mild depression. I finally landed a job bussing tables at a casual restaurant a short bike ride away from home. After accepting the job, though, they informed me that there had been a mistake, and that I had been hired for their new location in Bellevue, a 45-minute bus ride away. I had been back in Seattle for a month, and it was my first offer. I had to choose whether I would start working in Bellevue, officially selling my soul, or hold out for something better. I chose to take the job. I was grateful for the relaxed and friendly atmosphere of the restaurant, as well as the easygoing management, but that was where the positives ended. I should have been hired as a server, but I was too desperate for work, and was willing to take anything. Moving up was never an option either, since the management liked my work ethic as a busser, and didn’t mind the sub par customer service of several of the servers. It was a depressing job that complemented my depressing living situation. I just had to keep reminding myself that I had put myself in this situation and that it is one of the consequences of the traveling lifestyle I had chosen for the last few years. I reminded myself to tell people about these parts of my life when they act jealous of my ability to travel so much. I feel like I pay my dues in a strange way.

It wasn’t all bad, though. One of the highlights of my return to Seattle was the photo exhibit I had I had open at a gallery in Pioneer Square for First Thursday. It felt amazing to have a series of photos on display. It was from the series of portraits I had done in Kolkata. It was the first time I had had my work on display in a gallery and it felt strange. I also had to learn a lot about the process of displaying work. Previously, my work has only appeared in newsprint and online. I had to learn how to print my photos in a digital lab, how to cut my own mats, and how to place the photos in the mats. I can thank my friend Ish who taught me everything I know now about that process. It was a big investment too. I had not anticipated how much the high quality paper and mats would cost. I figured, though that it would be an investment, and it would probably pay off after I had sold enough prints through the gallery.

Unfortunately I over-estimated how many people would be interested in buying these large portraits. I didn’t sell a single print in the two months they were up at the gallery. This was a huge blow to my ego and wallet. I was really only hoping to break even. Now I was left wondering if the $700 and dozens of hours I spent printing and matting were all a waste. Seeing my work on display in  Seattle’s most famous arts district did feel great. Surprisingly it also gave me a great chance to see a lot of the people I hadn’t seen since coming back. I couldn’t believe how many of my friends had come to support me on the night of the opening, including the McKernans, who had come all the way from Portland. That was worth more than I had imagined. Plus, Mama and Papa came all the way from Idaho for both receptions. That also meant a lot. In the end it was easy to ignore the major loss on my investment. Now I don’t have to wonder too much if I should be trying to get my work on display in galleries. It doesn’t seem like it’s for me.

Korea. This one time I was in Korea.

Dec. 17, 2012

Just before landing outside of Seoul, the flight attendant announced that the local time was 10:30 PM, and that the temperature was 18 degrees Fahrenheit. It dawned on me that Korea was in a very different part of the world than I was leaving, and that Thailand had proved enough of a distraction for me to not realize what I was getting into. Luckily I only would be spending 18 hours there.

As I walked through the terminal, I noticed two guys dressed in, what looked like African clothing. They were wearing pants and shirts from cloth that was in the style of kente cloth from Ghana. They were each carrying a djembe on their back. As I got closer, I saw that they were indeed Korean and one of them had a Ghanaian flag sticking out of their backpack. I was curious about what they were just coming back from. Unfortunately, when I tried to talk to them, they could not respond, since they spoke no English. I wondered how they had gotten by in Ghana without speaking English. I’m sure they had a wonderful story.

It looked like it would be too late at night for me to get into the city without paying for an incredibly expensive cab. So I agreed to meet up with my friend, Jenna, the next morning. I had met Jenna a couple years earlier when we interned together at The Arizona Republic. She was now teaching in South Korea.

Since it looked like I would be spending a cold night in the airport, I went to the Korean Air desk and asked if it would be possible to access my checked bags. They were so kind and polite, and without question they brought me my bags. I went through it, found my jacket, shoes and socks, and gave it back. I had very little for warm clothing. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, so this jacket and shoes would hopefully be enough for my hours.

I wandered the airport, I read, I sat. There was not much chance of me sleeping. Finally at 6 AM I took the first shuttle bus into the city. I was sitting near some people who had just flown in. They looked Korean, but spoke English with American accents. I chatted to them briefly, but after it came out that they were from Vancouver and I was from Seattle, they went back to talking amongst themselves. Had I offended them, or was it another Canadian snob that didn’t want to associate with Americans. Maybe I’m paranoid.

I had felt wide awake when I got on, but by the time we started to get into the city, I was dozing. I actually slept a stop or two past my stop. Luckily I was able to figure out where I was and head in the direction I was trying to go. Stepping out of the bus was shocking. It was incredibly cold, especially since I had been in tropical climates for most of the past six months. I was trying to walk towards the central transit point, but it was so cold, that I needed to get inside a building to warm up. I discovered a network of underground malls. None of the shops were open, and it was only a little bit warmer, but it was good enough. I used the network of underground shops to get closer to the central bus station. When I rose to the street level, I found a sleepy market area. It was early and it was Sunday, so not much was going on. I saw some food stalls and a couple of fishmongers. It looked like this would have had a lot of potential on a different day. I bought a little snack from one of the vendors. It was some sort of pastry, shaped like a fish, with a sweet filling made from a bean paste. With a little imagination it was like chocolate. The bit of human interaction in this desolate market made me forget the bitter cold.

Further on, I knew that I needed a real meal. It was still hours from when I was meeting Jenna, so I took my time to get to the station. Almost nothing was open, due to the hour and the fact that it was Sunday. The only thing I was able to find looked like something of a casual chain restaurant. I was really enjoying being in a country that I knew absolutely nothing about and had never had much interest in being in. It forced me to be humble and really learn from simply being there, even though it was just a matter of hours. The menu, luckily, had pictures, and I pointed to something that looked warm and not too expensive. I appreciated that although this was a chain restaurant, and could be considered fast food, that they had not completely taken a completely American approach to it.

As I ate my hot soup (it was not bibimbop, but was maybe in the same genre) a group of college-aged people came in. I had been the only patron until then. I watched them order, and slowly became surprised at the fact that they seemed to be having trouble in their ordering. They had all looked at the menu for a while, while talking amongst themselves. I had not thought that they were foreigners, but as they tried to order, I recognized a serious language barrier. I eventually realized that they were Japanese exchange students. It seemed interesting that of all the people now in this restaurant, nobody was Korean. The food was good, and maybe I started to see some light in a cuisine that I had always shunned. When I was done I headed to the station, which was not far way at this point.

Regardless of it being a Sunday morning, the station was busy. If I had known anything about Korea beforehand, I would not have been surprised at how well dressed everyone was. It was one of the rare times when I became conscious of how scrubby I looked. I was supposed to meet Jenna at ten, but when 10:30 rolled around I decided to give her a call. Turned out she had overslept and was just getting on her way. She lived an hour away, so I did what any sensible young traveler would do on a random layover would do. I sampled the local brew. I gained a great respect for Korea, for the fact that not only did they sell beer at the bus station’s convenience store, but it seemed at least a little bit appropriate to drink it right there in the station. Also, it didn’t count as drinking in the morning, since I had not slept the night before. So don’t judge.

While I waited, I noticed a calligraphy artist doing what turned out to be a public promotion for their calligraphy business. They were doing free calligraphy for anybody that got in line. So I got in line, and had a piece done for me that I heard later actually costs quite a bit in normal cases. I felt like I was packing a lot of little cultural experiences into my short layover.

Jenna finally arrived, and we took a cab to a cool little neighborhood that seemed to have a lot going on. I wish I remembered the name of it. We walked to a street that was pedestrians only, where food vendors and cool shops lined the walkways. Jenna took me to a cool little restaurant where I would finally have Korean bbq done properly. Everywhere else I’d seen it, I hadn’t bothered, since it was usually really expensive. We took our shoes off upon entering, a custom I can always get down with, and sat on the floor at our short table. They brought us a sample of meats and an array of condiments and pickled…things. I can’t pretend that I know anything about Korean cuisine or culture. We cooked our meats on the barbecue that sat at the middle of the table and ate away. The meal was tasty, filling, but not heavy. There seemed to be a lot of balance involved. Although I was only in Korea for a matter of hours, I felt like I did enough to say that I have been to the country.

I felt so lucky to have a friend that would come show me a good time on a whim. It really meant a lot to be able to have this experience while I was there. Unfortunately we only had time for lunch, and after, we went back to the station, so I could get back to the airport in time. Korea seemed interesting, though. I don’t know if it had some of the things that I really like in countries that I enjoy being in, but it had something alluring. Maybe it was the fact that it seemed so distinct in its culture. East Asia is about as far from America as it gets culturally, although Korea has an undeniable American connection. This looked like it could be fascinating. The food has never grabbed me, and the drab buildings provided a less than inspiring urban landscape. However, there was an atmosphere, maybe a smell in the air, that seemed distinct and different enough to make me consider this a place to return to; to figure out and explore. I think only time will tell if Korea ever turns up again on my itinerary.

Now it was back onto another luxurious Korean Air plane, heading back to America. Korea was officially my last stop on my 15-month, three continent, 13 country adventure. Can I sum up this trip in a succinct little conclusion? Should I bother? Is this trip ever really over? Would America even seem like a final destination, or just another long layover? I am already writing this from another country, nine months later, and while I feel like that was a distinct journey, I don’t know if it warrants treating it like the end of an era. I’m still traveling. I’m still learning. I’m still adapting. I’m still trying to explore and figure out this world as much as myself. So considering that, no, maybe there should not be a conclusion. Let it ride?

Wild Hogs

Dec. 10, 2012

The next few days on Ko Pha-Ngan provided a few little adventures, but nothing as serious as the Full Moon Party. One of the days we decided to go out to the island that was just a couple hundred meters off shore. There was a sand bar between our islands, so when the tides were not too high, we could walk and swim across without too much difficulty. In the middle, waves were crashing on us from both sides. Although nothing had led us to believe that the island was inhabited in any way, we immediately saw signs of life when we got there. There were a couple of little Buddhist shrines in a grassy clearing. As we walked further in, we saw a couple of small shacks. As we got closer, one of them appeared to be an abandoned bar. It started to get a little creepier as we weren’t sure whether anyone might be around or not. We started to follow a trail and it took us up to a few wooden bungalows that also looked abandoned. It looked like this had been something of a guesthouse at some point. It was hard to tell how long it had been since it was used. It wasn’t listed in any of the guidebooks, so it was probably built fairly recently. Decay in the tropics happens quickly. We went inside one of the bungalows. The mattress was off the bed and covered in mold. Even some of the wood seemed to be rotting. We found a magazine that seemed to be the Thai equivalent of Maxim. It was dated just six months earlier. The trail petered out shortly after passing the few bungalows so we turned back around. Although it was incredibly creepy to walk around this little ghost hostel, it seemed like it would have been an awesome place when or if it had ever been open. I thought it would be fun to come back out here during the lowest tide and bring things to camp and have a bonfire. Nobody else was that interested, plus it would have been difficult to get our things across without getting them wet.

A couple of the days we rented motorbikes to explore the island. We rode to a trail to a waterfall that was not all that impressive (dry season), but it had great views. We stopped for noodle soups, conquered steep hills, found a rope swing and enjoyed the green scenery. One thing that I did not like about the island was that the tourists seemed to greatly outnumber the Thais. I have a hard time with that dynamic. Although we had come for the beach and the island atmosphere, I feel that I travel because of the people I meet. The fact that we were a big group on a touristy island meant that we would not be interacting much with locals. However, after riding around a bit, I was glad that we had chosen to stay at the place that we had. We were secluded from the towns that were just overrun with tourists, guesthouses, trinket shops and bad western restaurants. At one point in our ride, we stopped at a place suspiciously called “Lady Bar”. We had not taken much notice in that detail though. Other than a young white couple playing pool, we were the only people there. A woman in her thirties served us our drinks and tried to chat us up. I had a hunch where it was going and kept my distance. She told Henry, with a smile and a wink, “You are so handsome.” We later suspected that this lady may have been a boy. This was lost on Henry, and after we left he gloated, saying, “Did you hear? She thought I was the most handsome out of all of us.” I responded, “No, she thought you were the most likely out of all of us to pay for sex.”

I enjoyed Ko Pha-Ngan and I guess it was a fitting way to finish this long travel. It was not as rugged and far more mainstream than most of what I had done in the previous fifteen months, but perhaps it would make for a more normal transition back to America. Going back after a traipsing around obscure Indian states or a river in Mali would be a lot more difficult than a traditional beach holiday where I was surrounded by westerners anyway.

After a healthy dose of the island, we took the ferry back to the mainland. We encountered a strange phenomenon during our transit. It was the backpacker that is stuck in a tube. We realized that most of the people we were around had paid for package deal all the way back in Bangkok, where all of their transport was arranged and paid for in advance. And even those who have not signed onto a package trip are steered into this tourist tube and don’t bother trying to get out. When our minivan got to Surat Thani, the main town and transit hub not far from the ferry, we were dropped off on a random street near a tour company office. All the other passengers were herded off the van and into the office to wait for their connecting mode of transport to either their next island or back to Bangkok. We tried to ask where the main bus station, but nobody would give us a straight answer. They asked where we were going. I knew they just wanted to get us onto one of their buses that would be inevitably more expensive, and, as far as I’m concerned, carried a higher risk for theft or scams.  We knew there was a bus station in the city that had connections to Bangkok, but nobody wanted us to find it. We walked away from the tour office and tried to find somebody who spoke English to help us out. It wasn’t long before we had some reliable information, but it wasn’t the best news. It sounded like the bus station had moved and was no longer centrally located, and that the odds of catching a bus to Bangkok at this time were not very good. We decided to relax and have a night in this mostly ignored town. This was probably one of the few good decisions we made so far in Thailand.

We checked into a comfortable and surprisingly cheap hotel room. It even felt luxurious compared to our rustic beach huts. We proceeded directly to the nearby night market. The food on Koh Pha-Ngan had been expensive and mediocre at best. Now we were back in actual Southeast Asia, where the night market, rather than the hostel, feeds the hungry masses and fried noodles, curry and steamed dumplings, rather than banana pancakes, reign king. Even in Bangkok we hadn’t eaten as well as we did in our two hours in the Surat Thani night market. We ate ourselves silly. We didn’t know most of what we were eating. We just walked around, saw what looked good and put it in our mouths. The night in Surat Thani was actually a far better final memory of Thailand than our time on Ko Pha-Ngan.

The next morning we were up early enough to see the monks walking around collecting alms. We made our way to the bus station and quickly found ourselves heading back toward Bangkok. The bus was surprisingly fast, especially compared to the train, and we were back in the capitol before dark. This time we chose to stay near the horrid and infamous Khao San Road. When we had first been in Bangkok, it had given the Cameroon crew the biggest culture shock of the trip. Nobody actually wanted to go back there. Unfortunately, though, its cheap prices and other convenient amenities lured us in anyway. It always happens to me.

As much as we were against the idea of Khao San Road, we managed to enjoy ourselves. We met some other travelers at a street side bar, and hung out with them. They were typical Southeast Asia backpackers. Nice company, but not so interesting. Then we met a couple guys from Togo. They were far more interesting to talk to, so Harly, Paul and I spent an hour or two hanging out with them, practicing our French and talking about Africa. I had always seen the occasional African in Bangkok, Kolkata and Phnom Phenh, and always wondered what their story was. This guy explained that many of them originally come to play soccer. Maybe they have been recruited by a team or perhaps figured they could get on a team on arrival. This explained why all the Africans in Kolkata said they were soccer players. Unfortunately one of the Togolese guys told us, things don’t work out for most of them as they plan. And since most of them have obligations to a family back home, who expect them to come back with big soccer money, they turn to various forms of crime to support themselves and their families. This explained the reputation the Africans, specifically Nigerians, had in India and Thailand. I had heard that Nigerians ran the cocaine trade in India and various other unsavory activities in Thailand. I was glad to be finally getting a little more of the whole story. I’m sure there is a lot to learn about the African Diaspora in Asia. Perhaps that will be worth another trip this direction.

The next day we languidly departed our filthy flophouse and went back to the guesthouse we had stayed at the previous week. This was simply to pick up some bags we had left there. It was my last stop before heading to the airport. My flight was at 5:30, so it was time for me to start making my way to the airport. As I said my goodbyes, I mentioned how I was always paranoid that I would screw up the 24-hour time that is always on international plane tickets and confuse a 15:30 time with a 5:30 PM time. This was something that I really did worry about every time I headed to the airport. However, this was the only time where I actually did make the mistake. When I got to the airport, I found a bench and an outlet before even checking in, and opened my laptop. The first thing I did was double check my ticket. That was when I realized that my flight was leaving at 3:30 (15:30), not 5:30. I looked at the clock. 2:50. I grabbed my things and ran to the Korean Air check-in, half-expecting them to tell me that it was too late to make the flight. Then began a long series of events that seemed constructed to help me miss my flight. I got to the counter, and as luck would have it, they decided to have a trainee help me. The trainer sat patiently behind them as they slowly asked me all the necessary questions. They made plenty of mistakes, and the trainee calmly, but slowly, helped them along. My urgency was completely lost on them. When I tried to check my bag, they said it was overweight. I started throwing my things all over the place, shoving heavy items into my carryon bag and into my pockets. I got my boarding pass and ran toward security. Then I was blindsided by the customs line I had to get through first. The shortest line had ten people in it. I found myself behind a couple of French girls who looked like backpackers. I started speaking to them in French, explaining that my plane was leaving soon and if it would be at all possible if I could cut. They were more than understanding, and even encouraged me to go right to the front. Everyone was surprisingly happy to let me go ahead of them. I needed it desperately, and finally felt like I was catching a break. On the other side, the security line looked long, but it moved fast. I hustled through and found myself in the terminal with about fifteen minutes before takeoff. I had just enough time to get to my gate, and check my email. I was heading to South Korea and had plans to meet up with a friend during my 18-hour layover. The only problem was that I had not done a good job of getting in touch with her about our plans to meet up. The logistics of how I would get into Seoul had not been laid out. Checking the email didn’t help much either. Either way, I was just grateful to make it onto the plane in time. Peace out, again, Thailand.