The other side of travelling alone

I came away to Phuket because I was supposed to be on a diving week with some friends and a boy I was dating. He turned out to be dickhead no 426 (and invited his ex girlfriend diving) so I thought why waste the paid for plane ticket,  at last minute, I ventured off to Phuket, solo. To the lovely Serenity Resort & Spa.

http://www.serenityphuket.com/index.php


It’s amazing when you travel alone what can happen to you that rarely occurs when you have friends around.

Firstly, I made friends with the lovely AOF who was my host at the resort.  I told him my story of why I was here alone, and that I was a writer, and asked if he had a room that had a lovely view that I could seek inspiration from and create my stories.  He upgraded me to a two bedroom master suite. I promise you this place is bigger than my condo in Singapore. It’s well over 2000 Sqm with a huge balcony overlooking the pool and beach in front.  Just Magic!

You are alone for as long as you want to be in this world of travel. On this trip however, I really wanted to have some solitude, me time and most importantly, rest time.  Not to sound ungrateful, but I’ve been entertained by many little situations and people that have wanted to share my company.

With out going into too much detail, I’ve been given financial advice in the pool and an invitation to dinner by an Englishman here doing a 6 week Thai Boxing Course.  He was married, so I said no!  I was then approached in the turquoise waters by a devilishly handsome French man wanting to get to know me better; that was until his beautiful topless girlfriend came trawling into the waters.  I thought, "hmm nice boobs",  got the giggles, bit my lip and bowed out gracefully of that situation as well.  I stopped at a random restaurant in the middle of the island and lunched with some boys from Germany, they were hilarious, and boys on tour definitely. They didn’t believe I was 37; not a day over 27, they were sure. God love them, if they had more facial hair I may have stayed longer. They didn’t look a day over 21.

Then came the silver foxes, three. Oh I had been spying these over my sunglasses during the time that I did have alone, midway in reading my “MBA in 10 days” book.  I’d been out on my scooter exploring the island, and decided it was time for a sundowner, a head splitting frozen Margarita. Just as I came to the bar, there they were. Gillies, Andy and Izzy. All incredibly handsome, addictively charming, fit men in their late 40’s.  I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy their company.  I was invited to dinner, to tour the local Thai weekend markets and feast on the local delights. Whilst this struck on my Big Sheila foodie chords, no was the answer. But ...I did suggest that I might come and have a drink with them after dinner.

I was too chilled after my day on the beach and didn’t want to rush, even for these foxy silvers. This is going to make me sound like a bore, but I didn’t go. I came back to my palace, showered, threw on "Sexy in the City 2" to watch with dinner, and got into a nice chilled zone and sense got the better of me.

My hotel phone rang off the hook; the Silver foxes intent to track me down, however, at my age and experience, I know when a man has that look in his eye, and this night would not be early, calm or without a story. And at my age and experience, I know when to know better, especially when all three foxes had that look. It was enough to just know. I was happy being alone.

The other side of being alone on holiday is Facebook and the mobile phone always lets you know people are thinking of you. Phone calls from Catherine telling me she’d had breakfast with Bethwyn, talking about how special they both thought I was, which melted my heart to know I was in their thoughts. And Pete, my darling friend from Greece, called to tell me he loved me and in his glorious spiritual bohemian ways, remind me that love is all around, but it starts with me. And darling, Sophia reminding me to define my boundaries, to set filters and keep dickheads out of my life.  Funny how people choose to call you at opportune times! (maybe it was her ringing in my ears saying no to the silver foxes!)


Having some me time has also inspired to branch out and travel alone further afield.  I've got 3 weeks off work, so I've booked a trip to Argentina in December. A little glimpse at my intinerary:

First off, I’m going to get my file of the authentic Argentina Beef farm, and herd me some cattle at Estancia Huechahue (pronounced "way-cha-way"!).  A working cattle ranch in Argentine Patagonia. Big tick in the box for me of must do's in life.  Then, next,  a group of 8 of us will ride on horse back across the Andes into Chile for 10 days.  Amazing. 7 hours a day in the saddle, my ass will be either rock hard or red raw!  Just sounds magnificent (check out the links below).  Next, I will venture to a remote Estancia Cristina, where I will spend Christmas nestled with in the Los Glaciers National Park. It looks like something out of "Legends of the Fall". (Where's Brad? I wont comment any further there).  It's so remote, to get there I will sail for 4 hours through the Argentino Lake among icebergs and mountains.  Afterwards, I set off on a 6 day trek through the national park and into the glaciers further to touch and feel more of Patagonia’s mysteries an marvel at the blue marble icebergs.  I'll spend New Years eve on Patagonia Glacier, slightly different from drinking too much champagne at some random party somewhere.  I don't think I'll get a snog at Midnight, but it just looks and feels perfect!  Finally, I’m going to round off my trip with some time in Buenos Aires, where I think it would be rude not to learn the tango! Not a bad little plan to hatch from a beach in Thailand hey!

Some links for you to look at:
Horse Riding across the Andes:
http://www.huechahue.com/index.php?language=eng&section=acr

The Estancia Cristina Lodge:

http://www.estanciacristina.com/english/contactos.html
The 6-day trek

http://www.antarespatagonia.com/programas/5.asp
The Hotel in Buenos Aires:

http://www.vitrum.com.ar/
A Youtube shot of the Glaciers I will be visiting

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4UYpOOn9Ro&feature=related

I’d recommend the Serenity Resort to anyone that wanted a little special treatment in a more boutique style hotel in Phuket. It’s not a massive resort filled with every Tom, Dick or Harry and Leiu-phoa (his local underage girlfriend). It’s intimate and lovely.

What is also lovely is to know that we humans by our very nature are inclusive and seek to share as a normal way of life. And as I always say, everyone has a story to tell. I’ve enjoyed this time alone, and have taken pleasure in my little interludes as much as my quite time.  Funny, I haven’t been able to nail this dry MBA book, probably also why I’ve been open to people approaching me. And as for Argentina, I feel that this is going to be one incredible journey. What a great way to set myself up for the New Year and maybe some new beginnings.

And as for new beginnings and new experiences, let's see what comes in next year! Like movies, I feel like I'm setting this up for a sequel post in 2011. .... I'm excited.

Talk soon,

TBS

p.s – he he, as I’m writing this from my balcony I’m getting fox calls from below. My Silver foxes are asking me to join them by the pool today. I love how there is nothing more reliable than the male ego! Hmm, might write about that next! ☺

The other side of the Killing Fields

I’ve chosen to publish this from the raw format I wrote in that day: Here it is. Today I went to the S21 Torture Concentration Camp and the Killing Fields in Cambodia.

I’ve had one of those days whereby people have warned me, tales have told me and the world all knows, but somehow, when you are there, personally there, no-one can prepare you for what you will experience in that moment.

Our day started at the Tabitha Foundation, talking though the whole house building process. It was comical to start of with, telling us stories of how Tabitha are now responsible building the house foundations because teams before us we’re not so crash hot at the laying the foundation of the houses as a result, there were some casualties. So we were just here to hammer the floors and walls. Hammer, hammer, hammer - warned to watch for our thumbs, because it was bloody painful to get hit, time after time. We all laughed and joked and then there was silence for we were about to be told the truth of why we were here.

Nari, our host, told us of her story. She apologised for her broken English and she asked for us to bare with her and hoped that we would understand what she was trying to convey. There was no need to do so, we would all know in our heads, hearts and minds that what she was sharing was an honest reality of years of anguish, not quite reconciled.  By the time we had heard what she had to say, even those that had been there before, would be hit by a wave of sorrow and sadness, empathic to her cause.

The Khmer Rouge had told her entire family, and in fact the entire town that they needed to flee from Phnom Pehn for three days to be protected from a threat of war. They gathered with them a small amount of clothes and money to see them through a short stint away from home. Three days turned into three and half years, she told us.  She was stoic until this point. Then the glisten of tears formed in her eyes.

She told us she was separated from her family and forced to live with girls her own age. She was just 14, so young, so little, so innocent.  I knew girls her age, and what it was like myself.  No-one was allowed to show or express any kind of emotion or fear with the each other. They were forbidden to feel she explained. Their clothes were removed and they were forced to wear black.  Numb, isolated in confined communities frozen by horror of what may happen to them if they did not obey.

Her chin started to quiver and her eyes well. To me, it sounded surreal.  I couldn’t relate to what she was saying at first; incredible the strength and power of denial; I simply didn’t want to. Watching her and listening to even the sound of her voice, so raw and emotional, even some 32 years on, was too greater force for even my defiance to last.  My nose went first, then my eyes over flowed, a tear dropped to my chin; quivering, my chest felt rock hard as my mouth and lips swallowed my deepest breath. I was now completely connected to what she was saying.

She told us that she and the other teenagers worked form 4am and worked until 9pm, all day in the fields with hardly any water or food to eat. And that they all feared the night the most. She said again, they hated the night. She paused. And my chest sunk. Tears were streaming down my face. I knew what she was going to tell us was not going to be the entire truth. I could see sorrow and shame on her face. She didn’t need to tell us all, but a story was given about people never returning after the night visits, and that was enough.

She paused and cried. I could tell on her face she wasn’t telling us the whole truth. There was so much more to her story. Our camera’s stopped at this point and the room was still. Completely still, we were with her, even those that had been before.

I didn’t want to go to the Killing Fields. I had hoped to visit an orphanage instead; I wanted to deny this experience. However, I chose to follow the group and get on the bus to go there. The group satisfied my need for distraction with great chatter and talk.

Arriving at S-21, Dougie,our leader, explained that lunch was at the restaurant opposite at 12pm, at this point it was 10am. He told us, if anyone needed to retreat before lunch, they could. In my mind I heard if you don’t like this - get out.

I had said to a few of the group that I wouldn’t cope too well with this, and each agreed, there was no protecting any of us from what we were about to feel walking into that place.

Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, the former Security Office 21 in “Democratic Kampuchea” was created by the orders of Pol Pot. IN April 17, 1975. Office 21 was called S-21 and designed for the detention and interrogation, inhuman torture, and killing after confession from the detainees were received and documented. From the moment I walked in, I felt it, a tight ball of hard torn hot energy in my chest. I felt sick. Immediately. I’d taken literally ten steps inside the compound.

We stopped at the signpost that framed the circumstances. Pol Pot had tricked the people into highlighting that were doctors, lawyers, teachers or what he had called Intellects and they were all captured and brought to S-21 to be tortured to understand remove them from society. These people were tortured for names of others, or merely because they had been educated or considered a threat to the communist regime.

Nari had cried earlier saying that what these people had gone through was nothing like the days of Hitler, because he didn’t kill his own people. Pol Pot had no regard for his own countrymen. It was all about killing off the strong to have control.

I walked around the grounds solo. I wept constantly. I walked past trees where prisoners, innocent teachers and doctors had been tied and tortured to an inch of their life. The marking on the tress were as if some one had taken an axe to the raw wood, but we knew, I knew, that there had been flesh before the wood was hacked out.

I broke away from the others and took myself to the rooms where there photographs of all the prisoners. I was hung of energy, overwhelmed by the sense that I was actually in the room filled with photos of every single victim killed. Hundreds of them, black and white faces in front me was paralysing my body, yet my face felt tears. There was so much sadness and sorrow in this room, and it wasn’t just mine, it was with every single person alive, walking through that room, not wanting to make eye contact with a living being, lifiting their glaze on to the eyes of the photos.

I wanted to walk out, it was overwhelming, but then I noticed a look on one mans face in a photo. It stoped me. I caught my tears in my throat and walked towards him to look closer. I was intrigued, there was a look of something more than a victim, it was almost a smerk. There was anger in his eyes and defiance in his expression. I sighed, a real “fuck you” expression, actually.

I’m fascinated by micro expressions and what our face really tells what we are feeling. I was compelled to look and wanted to see more “life” in these photos. In fact, most of the men had these looks; it was a look of “you might torture me, you might do inhuman acts to me, but you wont break me”. There was real courage in some of these men’s expressions. My breath drew so much deeper and stronger by seeing this.

Then I looked at the women. You could tell the ones that had been raped and molested. There was a look of shame in most of their eyes, some mixed with anger, so mixed with sadness. There certainly were no real blank expressions, masks maybe, but if you really looked, you could see. Essentially, there was a story on each of their faces, I didn’t need to read about the electrocutions, hangings, tree beatings, and rape or fingernail removals to know they’d been through a living nightmare.

We lunched and moved on to the Killing Fields. Again, I didn’t want to connect with what my head knew would be a horrible experience. Six of us hired a guide. Sitting under a tree beside the shrine of the 9000 skulls that were recovered, we were told that Khmer Rouge were instructed not to waste bullets, rather, these men, woman and children where killed using axes, pickets, rakes and and tree trunks before being kicked into a dug out grave.

The first grave we saw had 486 bodies in it. It was the size of a billiard table. I started to convulse with nausea. I had just read in a book that it was teenagers and boys that were the killers, these kids were brain washed, or forced to do these murders and the vision of these hinaus acts were making me sick to the stomach.

We walked further round the pathways of the fields. There were floods in the near by damn, so to our horror, the bodies were starting to come out of the ground. Clothes, bones and teeth were randomly poking out of the dirt track. They had only recovered 9800 of the 20,000 bodies that were believed to be slaughtered there.

We then came to path where the burial site laid for woman and children. Beside which, stood a mamouth tree, a oak with a wide glorious trunk. I had read about this in the bus on the way there, the young vigilantes would smash the babies heads against the tree trunk and then throw them in the pit. Pol Pot believed that he had to kill the root of the tree, and that meant, to kill the family of the intellects so that no survivors could seek revenge. At the moment, I really could visualise it. Oh. Smash. I didn't want to feel at this point. I didn't want an imagination. Floods of salty water dripped into my mouth again, streaming, my shoulder sunk and my body wanting to turn but so heavy. I wanted to see anything but this.

I turned and there was the “Hanging tree”. This tree was where men that were noisy as there were being killed were hung to silence them.  This is not what I wanted to turn to see. My mind rife with imagination- I saw spindly bodies hanging from these magnificent out reaching branches, all blowing in the wind, hanging there. Silent.

At that point, I utterly lost it. I didn’t want to connect with this any more, I wanted denial so much and  wanted to be back in that place before I got on the bus, happy with no experience. I was so scared to run because I was afraid that I would tread on burial grounds and for a moment I felt completely trapped.

I am not religious but I said a pray and I asked for forgiveness - so I ran. Back trough the path beyond the hanging tree, out to a wooden seat next to the soda stand. All I could do was curl my body in a babe shape and hug my knees. I was a mess with wetness from tears and streaming snot - I had no tissues left, and all I had to use was my shorts. I felt sick.

These innocent people were killed because they were educated. As I felt sick for the dead, I also felt such remorse for those who had been force to kill, because even if they were not formally brought to justice, they had their own life long penalty of mental anguish and nightmares of what they had done to their fellow countrymen. That in itself would be utter torture to a man corrupted by a force stronger than he.

The whole way back in the bus everyone was silent. No chatter, just very pensive, introspective people, all very shaken, moved by what they’d just seen.

The other side of what I experienced is this – apart from the bloodshed and physical torture, what kept creeping into my mind was this - that in our lives, in our work places and families, this kind of behaviour is prevalent in our every day worlds and we just come to accept it.

Meaning, that we are conditioned to either conform to a culture, a way of life because we are told, “that is just the way it is”. The ever prominent “just because theory” that I talk about often. It is what is because that’s just the way we do things, and common folk fear to have the presence, or the confidence to question, because of the trepidation of exile.

We’re conditioned to it. Society wants us all to be the same. Insurance policies want us all to be married, banks wants us to have a mortgage, families want us married no matter what, companies want us all to fit in to the “culture” and do what we’re told. The government wants us to all conform to regulation for order. And so on….

In so many ways we have people controlling us every day of our lives. It’s so rare that people stand up and say, “you know what, how does a big fat no sound, I’m going to do this……!" And you know what, when one says it, I can assure you, there are a majority of people in that group that all think it, but wont come forward. Condition is what we know.  What we know is what we are comfortable with. No matter how awful it might seem. It’s too scary to change. Do you know what I’m saying??

 Is the responsibility of being a member of society really democratic?

I got incredibly upset that no greater force such as the United Nations did anything to stop this atrocity. But then I came to realise that forces are greater than what any of us realise. Politics, socialisms, communism, culture, peer pressure, fear, desire, belief, religion. Family. Love.


What about the individual? Nari was the only survivor of her family. She was alone, striving to create a world that was better for her people. She is a survivor.

I always want to say something inspirational at the end of all of my blogs, but for now I'm focused and really care about telling the story.

But here goes; bless the survivors of the world - no matter what you have had to endure, somehow you're not alone.


TBS xx

The other side of building houses in Cambodia

I’ve just returned from 4 days in Cambodia and to be honest, I’m still processing the whole experience. It was one of those trips that, on paper looked to be pretty incredible, daunting and exhilarating all in one, but it could never be truly understood what it would the genuine impact would be like until I actually was there to touch and feel it first hand.

Here is our story.

A group of us, Bob and Boobette the builders, all went to put together houses, 16 in fact, for a little community an hour’s bumpy ride from Phnom Pehn. The estate we created were shiny rich green-tinned one-roomed Cambodia chalets on stilts. Each with three windows all fitted with the very natural Russian Air conditioning (rush in air) and bamboo flooring throughout. The big glorious green front door (as all Asia front doors should be) opened to a lovely wooden stair case that lead to the playroom down stairs and chill out area, or better known as the best place to rest the hammock.

The Cambodian dream; prime real estate; rice paddies fields out of your left window, the lou shack to your right, the main road close by, the local school upon your back door steps - location, location, location.

At lunch time we would transform ourselves into Santa and his elves and shower the children with presents, balloons, eye masks, pens and texters, rainbow coloured everything, noisy blowy things, more balloons and all sorts of shiny stuff that kiddies dreamed or heard about from other villages. It was Christmas every lunch time for these people.

Then, it’s paparazzi time, happy snaps everywhere with the children, and pucker up buttercup. Snap, snap, snap. Oh how cute, lots of giggles, lots of cuddles and so many of us have fallen in love.

The other side of this story is that as more Bob the builders came year on year, and that the total number of houses built per year had grown from 400 in 1996 to 1053 houses in 2010, the joy of Christmas has become more like the mad rush of the Christmas sales frenzy – everyone desperate to grab or get their hands on something shiny before some one else did.

The angels stopped singing, and the fantasy was cracking a little bit now – the happy faces turned to desperate ones, the kids scratched, the mothers whipped and the elves turned instantly into frightened white volunteers from Singapore. The dusty frenzy to grab that balloon was a sure sign that spirit of giving had naturally created an element of competition amongst our village, innocent, cute brown eyed beloved Cambodian families. If it were Willy Wonker and Chocolate Factory, someone would have fallen into the chocolate lake for sure. It was a little scary to be honest.

The naïve spirit of giving from the white people, from us all, has transformed our harmless people into aggressive snatching animals, clutching to have something materialistic because their community had elevated the value of these giving’s as status maybe? Has our commercialism turned their purity into ugly rivalry? Funny isn’t it, we think we are giving, yet, by our mere hope of philanthropic joy, we have created something far worse. Have we in fact turned these families and children into even more desperate people? Have we forced our inflated importance on material possession on these people? I'm still thinking about this.

Overwhelmed by these unexpected scenes, I stopped to take in what was really happening. These people live on less than a $1 a day, families that shelter their whole extended family in room that is 5M/5M sqm with a rickety door, windows that have no cover from the rain, the house is on stilts so they don’t wash away with the floods, and their feet score from the nailes poking out of the bamboo floors because our builders hammering techniques weren’t so great. Then there is the tin that is like razor blades, and if leant on out a window that hasn’t been nailed flushed against the wood frame, can cut through skin like butter on a hot day. I went to work to hammer the upstanding nails, and push down the tin that was not flush on the window frames. Actually, we all did from my team on that last day.

You know what, the Green tin is a recognition of the work and markings the Tabitha foundation, to represent progress in the community.

Each house cost just under 1000 USD to make with raw materials, and all the family had to do was contribute 40 USD to Tabitha to earn their new abode. Not a bad deal really! Prime real estate.

The extended families I mentioned are as old as I am. I made friends with a traditional dancer who looked about 18 in her photo she showed me, but she was probably more my age now. She had 2 kids, but no husband. There was one old woman there. But the elderly were scarce, they didn’t exist, they were extinct.

These communities were the young generations of Cambodians that were survivors of the Pol Pot regime. These were people were the new world that had lived beyond the hinaus crimes of the Khmer Rouge.

The reality of what these people had been endured was going to be far beyond anyone’s comprehension. Like words on a piece of paper, words like S-21 and the Killing Fields were “titles” I had chosen to block out because I knew they represented pain and blood shed. All until I was faced with the cold hard reality of these from the dawn before.

I will not be alone when I say that I have returned from this journey a slightly different person. Our leader Dougie said on the last night dinner that he would say that we all knew each other better, knew the country better and have learnt so much more about humanity, ourselves, our partners and friends throughout this trip, lessons that none of us would forget. He was right.

My building buddy Bill said, that he believed that this was a time when people were as real as they could be and therefore was the best time and way to get to know people. He was right, it was such a raw experience for all of us. Each and every person on this trip at some point came away with a new friend, or bond that we will cherish.

It’s incredible how in the face of diversity and hardship, or rawness of life’s cruelties, we get in touch with our real love for human nature and find ourselves drawn to the noble need to nurture. To nurture our friends, our families, our partners, our loved ones, our new found friends less fortunate and finally remembering for ourselves.

Like I said, I haven’t quite reconciled this experience yet, and maybe I wont until I do it again. But I will say this; help those that are not as strong or fortunate as you. You don’t have to build a house, or give them stuff that is commercial, you can simply extend a simple olive branch, but in your own special way, you can give back. It’s really simple.

Lots of warm and fuzzy.

TBS

xxx

P.s - Thank you to every one that supported this trip. You will never be forgotten.

I have written a separate blog about the trip to S-21 and Killing Field