"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." - The Beatles

(Part two of two, which is less a travelogue than a stream of consciousness kind of summation of a lot of lingering travelling thoughts and emotions, yet still delivered in an amusing, anectodal sort of way)

Man, is it hard to write a blog in Bali. And during a 15 hour layover in the Changi Singapore Airport. And in the half an hour frantic scramble at Narita airport (which is slowly sinking and has flights that depart for Detroit 15 minutes apart in adjascent gates. Talk about confusing!) between the 7 hour flight from Singapore to Tokyo and the 11 and a half hour flight from Tokyo to Detroit. And when you get back to Washington, DC after travelling for 48 hours. And in the ensuing collage of a week that involves reunions with friends, family and a return to a life that seems a lot like the one you remembered and were dreaming of returning to while waiting for the train in Varanasi that was four hours late, but in actuality is very different. And even after that.

I remembered reading in my travel health literature (which was voluminous) before I left, that people sometimes experience reverse culture shock upon returning home. So, not the shock of seeing a poor child begging in the streets of Delhi or the sight of a Burmese girl with traditional painting on her face that is both decoration and sunscreen or even observing the brilliantly planned and executed subway system of Singapore, but the shock of seeing your own home, your own culture with new eyes. You see, I've changed (in ways that I think aren't necessarily perceptable to even those closest to me) because of this experience. I feel a love and kinship with a whole different part of humanity that I went 26 years of my life without knowing. I distinctly remember looking at the map of our route over the Middle East as we headed towards India (way back on June 23rd) and thinking that this place on a map would soon become a face, a smell and a landscape that held a distinct memory for me. No longer would I be able to think that Delhi and New Delhi were synonymous terms that could be used interchangeably, because I understood just how much the New meant to the people of India (particuarly the "former" outcastes). How could I possibly teach the book Shabanu, set in the desert of Rajastan, to my 6th graders without thinking of Harish and my motorcylce ride through the streets of Jaipur in the setting sun? How could I feel uncomfortable in a new setting or meeting new people after travelling in Northern India on my own and gaining a confidence that can only come by feeling completely alone and totally alive? Yet, in many ways, I do feel uncomfortable in my own setting, in my own culture. I think this reverse culture shock thing is real and it has the feel of an emotional sort of hangover. (It makes me think about how a woman might feel dealing with post partem depression. Everything that has been new and challenging and exciting is now over, and you are faced with a sort of re-examination of yourself that is difficult. And I'm sure there's some actual biological emotional issues going on there as well, but that's what it makes me think of) I want to be able to look at every person I see with the open mind and welcoming heart that I so graciously applied to the people I met on my trip. It was easy (well, not always, but certainly most of the time) to be open, to be totally myself, because I had nothing to lose. I felt that by giving myself completely to the people around me, I would learn more than if I held back, remained careful. And I think it worked. By exposing myself and being willing to have people take me with them into their world, their culture and even their homes, I was getting more in return than I ever could have hoped for. I try to think about how exactly I would have responded if I had been walking down a street in DC and a young boy (particuarly of a different race and at night) had come up to me and asked me to follow him down barely lit streets to his home. Would my reaction have been different? I think assuredly so. And why? What was it about me that had so dramatically changed that I felt like this was a good idea now when a few months earlier, I would have laughed at the notion. What was different? Me or the place that I was in? Honestly, I don't know. I think that all of my experiences in India and Southeast Asia have given me a sense of clarity about the world around me that I never had before. How the world is much more about me and you, family and friends, life and death than MTV, CNN or sound bytes. The experience has also left me much more confused about why I don't give the people around me the same benefit of the doubt that an entire group of people in a different country got so readily. I'm quite sure that I can't sustain the feeling of excitement and newness that travelling brings on in my daily life, but can't I treat people the same way as I did when I was there? I hope that I can and I hope that I can bring a part of my experience, my new self into the lives of the people that I interact with because I think that when I give of myself the most, allow myself to be the most vulnerable, that that is the point at which I come closest to fulfilling my quest for enlightenment. So while I spent much of my time visiting Hindu temples in India, the Gurudwara in Amritsar, the place of Siddhartha's enlightenment in Bodh Gaya and first sermon in Sarnath and seeing mosques from New Delhi to Lombok, I feel that the truest place to sense spirituality is within your own self (I also read Karen Armstrong's religious history called "Buddha" which may be influencing my thinking at present. Incidentally, if you ever want to know something about religion or religious history, just find Karen Armstrong's book on the subject and read it. She is my hero.) Your relationship with God/Vishnu/Allah/Guru Nanak/Krishna/Nirvana must ultimately be your own. It's not in a field in India any more than it is on a wave in Bali, but in a place that you must discover within. The outward journey that I took to view far off lands and meet different people may have taken me around the world, but it is the depth at which I travelled inwardly that gives me pause. I feel as though I've been given an opportunity to peer deeper into myself than I ever could have had I remained at home becuase it forced me to examine my motivation for life. I really hope that I can be the inspired traveller, able to tackle challenges, greet strangers, absorb culture and enrich lives in a single bound, but I realize that I'm not there yet. Until then, I'm going to keep giving as much as I can because it's infintely more fulfilling than taking, and I need all the love that I can get...

"You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em..." from "The Gambler", sung by country music star Kenny Rogers, forever immortalized by the Kenny Rogers Roasters "red menace" Seinfeld episode.

The blog (in two parts) in which the author discovers that his writing style is eerily similar to one J. Maarten Troost, author of the novel Sex Lives of Cannibals (which has nothing to do with the sex life of a cannibal), pauses to reconsider his role as a unique, authentic voice in the world of travel literature (having already admitted to ripping off both Bill Bryson and Lonely Planet), then confidently charges forward with the assurance that A. the author is not really an author and B. there cannot possibly be another writer who uses parenthetical asides as much as this author (and if there is, God help that long winded soul).

Mynamar (Burma in the West, though definitely Mynamar in actuality) was the place where I almost gave up. Threw in the towel. Went home crying to mama. After our return to Thailand, where we stayed at the even more elegant (than the Angkor Century) Marriot Resort and Spa (complete with poolside service that signaled both the end of my caffeine and alchohol month long fast in the same day, introduced by the ringing of a gong and an incredibly impassioned cry of "Happy Hour!"), Erika, Jen, Jeannie (our new travelling companion) and I headed for the airport and the wilds of Mynamar. We were all in good spirits as we boarded the plane, knowing that the adventure that lay ahead of us would jump start our travelling spirits after the lush accomodation and living of the previous two days. With the kids long gone and the prospect of a mostly unexplored (by Americans) country ahead of us, we hurredly ventured forth. Perhaps that was our first mistake. You see, in Mynamar (Burma) there exists what we like to call an un-democratic government model. The country is for all intents and purposes run by the military. This has led to a less than free exchange of ideas, a unilateral political voice and a financial market that excludes most free market enterprise. All of this we knew in advance (thanks to the Lonely Planet pioneers), but nevertheless we touched down in Mynamar (Burma) with the full expectation of being able to access our vast American financial resources. Even after we landed in Mynamar (from here on out on account of the fact that I'm getting tired of writing the alternative in parentheses every time and that I believe that this is the name of the country as is, despite US objections) and realized that the sum total of our financial resources lay in Jeannie's prescient stash of 4 $100 dollar US bills (plus the three of our $130 worth of odd cash, of which the author had a whopping $12), we quickly bought airline tickets to Mandalay, our first destination. Total amount for four tickets from Yangon to Mandalay: $340. Discovering that they neither have ATMs or allow cash advances on credit cards (or accept credit cards of any kind at any hotels in all of Mandalay), priceless. This took us the better part of the afternoon to discover (an afternoon which included a somewhat lengthened stay at the Mandalay airport. Jen, having lived in Benin, Africa for three years during her Peace Corps stint and I, having just come from barter happy India, decided that the initial price of 10,000 Kyats (local currency) was far too rich a price to pay for the 45 minute ride to town. We knew that the guidebook had stated a price of 4000 Kyats and even with the yearly 30-35% inflation rate typical in Myanmar, there was no way it should cost us that much. 45 minutes later, we all agreeably jumped in a cab (the last cab, that was only there because it had come back after dropping off the other last fare) for 11,000 Kyats (a substantial ten cent increase from the previously quoted price.)) When we arrived at our hotel of choice, Erika and I headed up to check out the digs. There was one quad room (that's right, me and three lovely ladies in one big room) available with AC and an only slightly depressurized shower (it was OK, we were roughing it now), we took the room for a total of $16 US dollars and headed up to check out the roofdeck. The setting sun provided the perfect metaphor for our attitudes over the next hour. Beautiful sunset and buoyant spirits, replaced by darkened sky (with raindrops) following our conversation with two French girls (Mynamar is full of French people). They had just assured us that our optimistic plan of finding a bank that did cash advances on credit cards was utter folly as they had checked every one they could find in the entire city (the second largest in the country).

That night at dinner, we officially entered "refugee" mode.

Over a plate of fried rice and bottled water apiece (which thankfully ran us to a grand total of about $4.50), we formulated a plan for survival. The first decision was to pool our resources together as a group to insure that no one of us spent the money that could potentially alleviate us of our current predicament (I willingly contributed my $12 to the proposed plan). Next, we resolved to scrap our plan for an early morning boat ride to the ruined city of Mingun in favor of scouring the streets to find if these French girls were telling the truth (or merely exhibiting their anti-US country sentiments. jk) We would then see if we needed to take the 16 hour train ride back to Yangon, the capital, which did possess at least one bank that did cash advances on credit cards. A sullen walk back to the hotel and a few unsuccssesful phone calls to hotels later, we settled down to bed in more somber moods than we had brought with us to this exciting new country.

The next morning we headed first to the government touruist office (we wanted to avoid using government money, called FECs, if possible, but we were desperate). Nada. Then to the swank government hotel, the Sedona. Nothing doing. Then next door to the other hotel (can't remember the name). We could take out a total of $100 dollars if we agreed to get two rooms for $130 apiece for the night. Yikes. Then to a final hotel, which after much questioning and group translation, managed to get across that there was one place that did cash advances on credit cards ($100 limit per person). Score! We had decided the night before that regardless of the outcome, we would have to head back to Yangon by train that evening in order to take out enough cash to actually head around the country. It was either that, or a flight back to Bangkok and an adjusted itinerary. We arrived at the gated office of the financial oasis, were quickly ushered in, and then undertook the two and a half hour process of getting out cash. I tried first. Credit card denied (it turns out that it was my bank's system being temporarily down, but at the time it was a crushing blow to my vision of rescuing our group from its financial deficiancy). Jeannie was thankfully accepted (she was subsequently given the nickname Sugar Mama because she had in effect paid the entire portion of the Myanmar trip for the group thus far) after navigating the anti-censor web pages that allowed the office to circumvent the government denied access to rebel pages like Yahoo and Hotmail. With our shiny 76,000 Kyats in pocket (Jeannie's pocket), we headed off for an afternoon of sightseeing.

The temples were nice (I met two young Buddhist monks, James and Bill, who graciously showed me their English workbooks and read Pali tablets of the teachings of the Buddha to me, which they could read, though not understand), the boat ride to Mingun the following morning gave us a good view of Mandalay and its river life from the perspective of a irruwaddy dolphin and the ride to the train station in the smurf car (a blue colored truck with seats in the back for two, though capable of carrying four people with packs if necessary) was memorable, but it was the train ride that I will never forget. We got on the train at 4:30 pm (we thought on the correct track. Much like India, it was sort of a guessing game) and sat in the "upper class" coach, with reclining seats, but definitely without AC. It was smokin' hot. We were all drenched in a matter of minutes. It was sometime between the peeling of my legs of the leather arm of the chair and the 14th request by a boy who had hopped on the train to sell me water, that I decided that it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if we didn't get that money in Yangon. What if we just had to head back to Bangkok, sit by the pool and leisurely await our trip to Singapore and Bali. That wouldn't be the end of the world, would it? Upon the lurching start that signaled the first 15 seconds of our 16 hour overnight, non airconditioned journey, it didn't seem like it would be. Luckily for me, our refugee group was not ready to fold 'em just yet. When the guy came through the car and asked if we wanted beers for the start of the journey, our moods picked up a bit. When we headed to the dining car and ate a fabulous meal of sweet and sour chicken and guzzled another round of beers over a three hour game of spades, it picked up even more. The 30 minute stop at 2:30 am in the bustling town of whoknowswhere was a bit of a set back (especially when realizing that bugs had died in the sweat on my arms), but we arrived to a spectacular, fog drenched early morning scene of farmland outside of Yangon.

After a quick journey to Exotissimo, the travel group that had arranged accomodation for Erika in Thailand and Cambodia, we had arranged for airline transportation all around Myanmar, booked hotel rooms (including one on an elevated hut in the center of Inle Lake!) and $150 dollars apiece in US cash all with the swipe of a credit card. We ended refugee mode (which had in actuality lasted less than 48 hours) that evening with a lengthly hot shower each and a meal of as much as we could eat. The remainder of our journey was spectacular (more to folllow readers), but it was our time in refugee mode that will probably stick out the most. The group dynamic was amazing as we all picked each other up when we needed it and managed to stay positive throughout. Some call it "travellers luck", when things work out despite your best efforts to the contrary. I think it comes with the right attitude and a real sense of how far you can go before you need to fold 'em...