Christie Ruth, You are so lovely! I am filled with so much joy as I stand in front of you today.
And look at you! You are so beautiful. Even after these four short years into our courtship, when you walked down that aisle, you took my breath away.
And sweetheart, I have to say that this wasn't the first time that you have made my heart skip a beat for the love that I feel for you.
It's that mischievous smile when you've got a surprise up your sleeve. It's your willingness to explore new places and even get sweaty and muddy for an adventure. It's your clear thoughts when we have to wrap our minds around something complex. It's your desire to always be learning new things and how quick you are to learn them. It's the trust to cry on my shoulder and share your fears when you're feeling down. It's your courage in the face of the unknown and your willingness to be by my side as we discover it. It's the masterpieces that you create with a paintbrush and the clever words that you craft in their written form. It's filling the room with sounds from your cello or using your sweet voice and singing every word to any Louis Armstrong or Ella Fitzgerald song that is within earshot. It's the care that you show for others and how sensitive you are to their feelings. It's patiently listening to all of my wild ideas and farout dreams (and not calling me crazy, at least to my face). It's the patience and never ending Love that you have shown me over and over again despite our differences.
Yes, as I reflect on our life together thus far, I realize that my heart has skipped a beat because of you——Over and over and over.
And each time I have discovered more of your wonderful qualities (and a few of the quirks) that have convinced me that I would be a fool if I did not make this commitment to you, today.
And so, Dear Christie, just as we have explored the mountains together, I will summit all of our life's peaks with you. And as we discover the valleys that we will undoubtedly be required to cross——I will be by your side. And if we are faced with cold winds along the way, I will be there to warm you.
I give my heart to you and all you have to say is 'I Do' and it is yours forever.
I love you.
Hers
To call our last four years together unconventional would be largely understated. Some things came easy; the love, the laughter, the good times and the crazy adventures. Others were a bit harder; the distance, the inevitable goodbyes, not knowing when I would see you again, just that I would. There was the start of new careers, the opening of new businesses, the new cities, new homes, and new friends.
Sometimes when I look back, I think, "We did this all wrong. How much easier would things have been had we married years ago, fresh out of school, wide-eyed, and virtually untouched by the outside world."
But oh how different would my vows to you have been, had we chosen that route.
Though I would never profess to know the right or wrong way, I do know one thing; The feelings I have for you today infinitely surpass the love I had for you those years ago. It has been strengthened by the challenges and transformed by the journey. And oh what a journey it has been.
When I first met you, I was captivated by your curiosity for adventure and your passion for life. Your spirit was contagious and over the years, you have instilled in me a deeper desire to explore, create, and become the person that I long to be.
It thrills me to think of the future, and there is not an image in my head without you right by my side. I think of the many places we will go, the things we will learn, the people we will meet, and the friendships we will create, and know that our love for each other will grow deeper every day.
I know it won't be easy, but I do know that it will last. I know because every time we have a rough day, you remind me that we're on the same team; "team Max and Christie" as you like to call it. My promise to you today is to never forget how lucky I am that you chose me to be on your team. I cannot wait to start our lives together in this beautiful place.
I love you, Max. You are my whole life, and I devote it to you completely.
"Jump!" I yelled, the train quickly picking up speed. Max had just woken me in a panic, from a half-asleep stupor. It was 3 o'clock in the morning. We had spent the last few hours on the most uncomfortable train ride of my life.
I know, I know, every story I tell starts with how unbearable the situation was…but really, it was unbearable. We hadn't eaten anything for at least 12 hours, and I felt as if I hadn't slept for days when we boarded the train just after midnight, hopeful we'd finally be able to catch some shut-eye. My still-healing leg was swollen and sore and felt as if it was going to burst with the stress I put it through that day. I had GROSSLY overworked it, and now I was paying the price. The second we hobbled onto the train (after having to chase it down with me on Max's back, and our new-found Burmese friends running my crutches along side us), we knew sleep would be futile. It was the loudest, most rickety train yet, and like all other night trains in the country, had lights brighter than the sun. (Come on, it's a night train people!!)
I managed to doze in and out due to sheer exhaustion (and the fact that my sweet Max, sensing my discomfort, stood up in the aisle so I could have his seat too), but it was definitely not a restful slumber. My swollen leg would slam against the wall or my other leg, with every jerk of the train, giving me a shock of pain each time. I found myself wishing I was a monk so I could at least wrap my robes around my face and block out the light like my resourceful neighbor.
Max had managed to find a seat next to an old Burmese man who took pity on the poor boy standing in the aisle, barely holding on, trying to keep his eyes open. He sat next to him and drifted off on his shoulder, but was soon jolted back to reality when the train came to a halt and he realized it was our stop. He rushed to wake me, and though I felt like death, we quickly scrambled to collect our bags and get off the train, knowing it wouldn't stop for long. We started down the aisle, Max carrying all our bags while I hobbled quickly behind him on my crutches.
Then the train started to move.
"Hurry!" I yelled, as we approached the door. The train was picking up speed and I could see Max's hesitation. "Just jump!" I screamed, not giving it a second thought. I didn't care if I broke my other leg, I was not staying on that train. Max gave me a quick glance to make sure I was decided, as he flung our bags into the darkness. He then leapt out onto the platform and after finding his step, started running alongside the train with arms stretched wide open to catch me. I hesitated for just a second, looking into his worried eyes, but knew there was no other way. I tossed out my crutches and then did something I'd only seen in movies. With the adrenaline racing through my veins, I hurled myself into his arms--bad leg and all.
We stumbled together for a few steps as he caught me from falling, and I'd never been more relieved to be on solid ground.
Cue tears. (yes, again)
Now, where were we going that we would put ourselves through so much trauma only days after being discharged from the hospital?
Whoever said, "never go to bed angry" obviously didn't go backpacking across Southeast Asia on their honeymoon. I don't care how much you love each other, when two people are continuously put in uncomfortable situations and are with each other 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 5 weeks straight, there is bound to be some…tension (unless of course you're Mother Teresa and you married the Dalai Lama. In which case, you are too busy saving the world to care about reading this silly story anyway. Aaaaand I'm pretty sure you broke some rules).
We arrived at our guesthouse way past dark after what was supposed to be just a short walk to see some caves. We ended up getting lost in the jungle (yes, again), and I was at my wits end. Sure, we didn't have to spend the night out there this time, but I was so tired of feeling lost and not knowing when we would find our way home. That and I had started the evening off with a "number 2" emergency and had to use some kids old math homework for toilet paper. It wasn't pretty.
You see, I'm all about planned and calculated adventures with just a hint of uncertainty where Max thrives on the risk. I can't say I didn't know this before we left on our honeymoon, but it certainly became much more evident as the days passed and we found ourselves time and time again in sticky situations. The problem is, I'm also very stubborn, and hate nothing more than being the party pooper. So, day after day I would consent to adventures that I never would have conjured up on my own. And honestly, most days were great! We saw things and did things I never would have been able to without Max because when you just go with the flow, opportunities often present themselves in just the right moment. And that's where the really good stories are made.
So, after finally finding our way out of the jungle that night, I did what I wasn't supposed to do, and went to bed angry. I woke in much the same way, feeling as if I was totally useless on this trip and dreading the 3 hour motorcycle ride back into town. Max knew I wasn't excited about being back on the bike, and we barely spoke to each other before taking off.
After about 30 minutes on the road, my attitude changed, ever so slightly. The sun was shining and the views were beautiful, and I hated myself for being in a bad mood. I still didn't like being on the bike as I didn't feel safe with the huge pack on my back, but I promised myself I wasn't going to say one word to Max about slowing down, or not passing people, or any of the many other things that made my heart race. For just a second I felt content and I knew I could make it through this trip.
Oh how quickly things can change.
"Hold on," Max said, surprisingly calm. I was immediately jerked from my thoughts back into reality and tried to wrap my head around what was happening. I noticed we were on the wrong side of the road, in the middle of a right-hand turn, teetering along the gravely shoulder. He was trying to slow down and steer us ever so gently back onto the road but it was no use. We were going too fast. I don't remember the details of what happened next, but I remember the second I realized we weren't going to make the turn. I leaned into Max and braced myself as we hit the gravel and the bike slid out from under us, sending us skidding down the rocky embankment. But not without leaving its mark.
I didn't feel any pain at first. All I felt was a flood of anger and resentment for motorbikes and for this whole trip. I noticed Max was okay, as he climbed his way up to assess me, and that's when I looked down at my leg. It was gaping open, fat and tissues protruding, and I could see right down into my bone.
I lost it. But not in a grossed out, shocked, going to pass out kind of way. After all, I'd seen way worse wounds than that in the ER. But as I looked down at my leg and started to feel the pain of the impact, I felt strangely…relieved. I felt relieved that I was finally justified for hating motorbikes. I felt relieved that I would never have to get on another bike in my life if I didn't want to. I felt relieved that for a second I wouldn't feel bad about forcing us to slow down and reassess how the trip was going. I ripped off my helmet and the pack and started to bawl.
Max quickly came to me and upon seeing the wound, started to lose it himself. He shot out a stream of disconnected apologies as I sat, holding my leg together, telling him I wanted to go home in-between sobs. Only seconds passed before he was able to flag someone down, a local man in a truck, and before I knew it, I was placed into the cab and we sped away, leaving poor Max to fend for himself with a bike he wasn't sure would start. There were no words exchanged as we didn't speak the same language, but it was obvious I needed medical attention and he appeared to know where he was going. I was still sobbing and holding on to my now very painful leg, not knowing how long I would have to do so, seeing as we were in the middle of nowhere in rural Laos. The driver was obviously aware of my distress and sped as fast as he could and in less than 5 minutes we were at a little field clinic.
We pulled right up to the door of the very poor looking building, and a group of men rushed out to help carry me inside. I was still bawling as they laid me on the gurney and a team of healthcare workers began to get to work. Max arrived just as they started to irrigate the wound and I was so relieved to see him. I quickly realized that my anger was never really meant for him, and remembered how much I loved him and needed him close. He held me and sobbed countless apologies as they worked away on my wound. The pain was almost unbearable as they would lift up the flap and scrub and squirt away at my open, cavernous leg. I kept telling Max to insist that they stop touching it because I thought it could be broken. I also didn't notice anyone opening any sterile packages and quickly the nurse in me kicked in and I started to freak out about infection and admittedly had thoughts of going home with one leg.
It seemed hours before they finally finished sewing me up and as soon as they were done, everyone disappeared, including Max who went to go see if he could fix the bike. I was left lying on the bed for about an hour, trying not to move my leg, as the pain would worsen, and resting my puffy eyes. I felt like the biggest baby as I lay there, curled up on the plastic covered gurney.
Then I realized I had to pee.
I waited and waited, hopeful that Max would return soon and be able to take me to the bathroom as there was no way I could make it on my own. I contemplated yelling for the nurses who were probably off in some room in the back of the clinic, chatting about how wimpy white girls are. Just as I was about to pee my pants, Max showed up with a fixed bike and a ride to get us to the next town to catch a bus. He knew I wouldn't be getting back on that bike even if I could.
He wheeled me to the bathroom and held me up as I peed into the squat potty on the ground. I tried my best not to pee on his feet and couldn't help but think about how romantic this was. Not many couples get to experience this kind of vulnerability on their honeymoon and I was strangely grateful for it.
Epilogue:
We spent the next 36 hours on an excruciating trip to the international hospital in Phuket. I won't go into details, but it would involve a lot of cars, buses, planes, taxis, wheelchairs, and a whole lot of good samaritans that made the journey much more bearable. We would spend the next week in the hospital, receiving IV antibiotics to combat the budding infection, caring for the wound, and spending way too much time catching up on our wifi. I wasn't able to put any pressure on my leg for about 2 weeks and would experience crushing pain every time it dipped below the level of my heart. I relied on Max for everything and he really came through.
China has been and always will be the king of knock-offs. They've got everything from Prada bags and Ray Bans to iPhones and even the Mona Lisa. It doesn't stop there though. Just about anything that has been done well elsewhere, you can bet will end up in China with one letter slightly morphed and a cheaper price tag. I'm sure if you looked hard enough, you could find Chinese versions of yourself walking around…and probably with better style. I mean, come on, they have a white house??
Now, I'm not opposed to this in the slightest. I'm all about copying. I copy recipes, hair do's, styles, art, and have even been told on occasion that I have a Canadian accent. I'm a total poser. But, I'm of the policy that if you're going to copy something, copy it better than the original.
Someone should have told that to the ladies (or maybe children?) that made my wedding dress.
I'm not sure why I decided to order a dress from China, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I was an ocean away from any dress shops living on Kauai, and time was running out. That, and I could have a dress custom-made, for just under 200 dollars. It sounded too good to be true, but my curiosity and frugality got the better of me and I decided to go for it. I picked out the style (a copy of an allure gown I'd had my eye on), sent in my measurements, and hoped for the best. After all, most of the clothes I owned and loved were made in China anyway--how bad could it be?
A couple months later it came. I opened up the box, leery to say the least, and…I was pleasantly surprised. The lace was beautiful and the ivory color was just what I ordered. And then I tried it on. Now, you know those internet posts that go around about what a Barbie's measurements would be had she been human-sized? Well, somehow my Chinese seamstress must have lost my measurements and just assumed that I was a human-sized Barbie doll. It was about a foot too long, and the bust, which was at least 5 sizes too big, sat very comfortably…at my chin. Not your best work, China.
So there I was--2 months to go until I walked down the aisle, living in Waterton (which was just about as good as Kauai when it came to wedding dress shopping), and back to square one. That's when a miracle happened. I told my house-mate Holly about the Chinese debacle and her eyes lit up. And not just because she was amused. She explained to me that the style of the dress was awfully similar to the one her daughter was married in. Then she went on to tell me that her daughter had been divorced shortly after and wanted nothing to do with the dress, abandoning it in her closet. We rushed to said closet and pulled out what I can only describe as exactly what I wanted.
Now, I'm not superstitious, but I was a little concerned about the possibility of being married in a gown that someone had worn only to be divorced shortly after. Talk about a bad omen. But when we asked her daughter for permission, she said the most beautiful thing, "Of course you can wear it. I would love for such a bad memory to be turned into a good one." It was settled. And after a few adjustments and alterations, I made it my own.
A few days before the wedding, I tried it one last time to show my mom and sisters. As I came around the corner, my 2 year old nephew, Andrew, had just the reaction I was hoping for...
"WOWWW! You're my favorite!!"
Max's was almost as good.
I'll take that look any day.
Oh, and if anyone knows of a barbie in need of a wedding dress, let me know, I may be able to help her out.
I don't have a bucket list. Not a real one anyway. It's not that I don't want one, maybe I'm just too lazy to write it down. Or maybe it's something a little more complicated, like the fact that I have a really hard time committing myself to things enough to put them on paper. Either way, it doesn't exist outside of my ever-changing mind. But in that chaotic head of mine, there are a thousand things I want to do, sights I want to see, food I want to eat, and people I want to meet. And every day the list grows larger and larger. The more I see and do, the more I want to see and do. It's a vicious cycle. I blame the internet….and my husband.
Anyway, if I did have a bucket list…Yi Peng would have been on it. And if it's not on yours already, don't worry, it will be.
We made it to our guesthouse in a little town just north of Chiang Mai, Thailand after a looooong day of backpacking, and had just enough time to get settled before taking off for the festival. Even though the event was to take place over 15km away, we decided to make the journey on bicycles, so we could enjoy the scenery and wouldn't have to worry about finding transportation amidst the chaos after the show. So, Max put his amazing navigator skills to the test and we made it to the entrance of the festival just as the sun was setting.
We could already see several lanterns floating into the dusky sky, and quickly purchased a few of our own from the vendors along the path. We had practiced the night before with some newfound friends in Chiang Mai and by now we were experts at sending these babies off to their starry home. So, lanterns in tow, we walked our bikes down the path to the entrance of the park where the real magic would take place. As we approached the gate, we started to hear the chanting of the monks and knew we had made it.
Before the actual "Yi Peng" or "Floating Crown" send-off takes place, there is a ceremonial chanting of the monks. This goes on for hours and hours before the sun sets and then the devotees are finally allowed to send of their prayers in the form of floating lanterns up into the night sky. It's a beautiful and spiritual event for all that attend...and there was definitely not a lack of attendees that night.
Once inside, the magnitude of the event really hit me. All the sudden we were in a crowd of people larger than I had ever been in in my life. There's no way to put a number to it, as I'm not sure how big the area was that we consumed, but I could have sworn it was in the millions (Max says it couldn't have been more than 15,000 but who's to say?). We did however manage to squeeze ourselves forward quite a ways before our bodies finally lodged into a tiny nook and we could go no further. This would be our home for the next couple of hours whether we liked it or not.
There we stood, already sweaty from our bike ride and the intense humidity of the air, listening to the monotone sounds of the chanting monks, trying not to move so as not to bother the strangers next to us, but finding it utterly impossible. I found myself so relieved it wasn't like a crowd at a concert. There were no cat calls, no mosh pits, no drunken fans, just thousands of devoted Buddhists, and curious onlookers like us, all squished together to experience the magnificent event.
More and more lanterns were making their way up to the skies as I stood, sweat pouring from my face, breathing in the heat from the hoards of people on all sides of me. I leaned my back against Max, trying not to acknowledge the fact that I wanted to puke. I looked up at the lanterns, some of which would get stuck in the trees above us, and I couldn't help but think of what would happen if there was a fire. There would be no escape.
I was more claustrophobic than I ever have been in my life, but at the same time, I didn't care one bit. The happiness and excitement of the crowd was contagious and I was thrilled to witness it.
By now, hundreds of lanterns were being sent off, turning the black sky into a sea of floating jellyfish. We thought it was almost over, so Max and I decided to set off our own lantern. We let the wick slowly light, trying not to set anyone on fire, and watched as the hot air slowly expanded the lantern until it just couldn't stay in our hands any longer.
As we were about to send it off together, there was a sudden halt to the chanting, and then a chorus of gasps, and "oohs" and "aaahs" in every direction, accompanied by angelic-like music over the loud speakers. I immediately forgot what I was doing and ditched poor Max holding our "love lantern".
What I saw as I turned around was unlike anything I could have imagined. For a moment I was oblivious to anyone and anything else in this world. The feeling of wonder was so overpowering as I stared up into the once ink-black sky, and watched as thousands of fiery prayers made their way toward the heavens.
When I finally let Max back into my world (and after I apologized, sorry for abandoning him with our lantern), we embraced each other and just watched, silently. We hoped the moment would last forever, but knew that even if it didn't, we'd have many more moments, just like this one, to mark off our invisible bucket list.
I did not enjoy planning my wedding. You would think with how long Max and I dated, that I'd have a scrapbook with my chosen colors, the type of dress I wanted, the flowers, food, you name it, and that all we'd have to do was reserve the venue and we'd be good to go. I didn't. I guess the options were just too overwhelming and I was (am) an unhealthy combination of easygoing yet picky….mixed in with a whooooole lot of indecisiveness.
A few months before the wedding, my future sister-in-laws and I were on a walk in Waterton, trying to make some decisions about the upcoming event. There was a lot of back and forth about all the options, the things we'd seen, the things that would make it memorable, and after pulling teeth to get me to tell them what I wanted, Jasmine said something that really changed the way I thought about the wedding. She said, "So, if there were no limitations, what would your dream be for your wedding weekend?" It sounds simple enough, but I hadn't been thinking of it in that way up to that moment, and it really made all the difference. The ideas started to flow and for the first time since our engagement, I was beginning to get really, really excited.
One of the ideas we came up with that day on the walk was to take the family and friends on a boat ride the day before the wedding. It was the perfect way to give our visitors a sample of our home in Waterton without killing them on a strenuous hike (which we learned the previous summer was not the best idea--sorry, dad). We also thought it would be fun to get both sides of the family together before the wedding to break the ice and give them a chance to connect with each other in a casual setting. So, complete with a wiener feast before boarding, we loaded our guests onto the Miss Waterton and cruised down the lake, chatting, laughing and otherwise disrupting our poor tour guides. It was definitely one of my favorite parts of the weekend.
There are very few things that can get me up at 4am. Well, 2, to be exact; Christmas and incredible sunrises (the latter only on special occasions). And one particular morning, in northern Thailand, it was such an occasion. We had heard about this place where you could climb up to watch the sunrise above the clouds and say "good morning" to Laos across a border of seemingly endless mountain tops. We were intrigued to say the least. Enough so to wake up at 4am to make the journey...on a motorbike, of course.
We rode in the cold, damp morning air for 2 hours, our ponchos flying in the wind, trying to forget the previous day, where we had ridden through a rainstorm and were soaked to the bones before finally deciding to cut our losses and go back to the guesthouse. We thought we had planned it right, to be on top of the mountain just as the sun was coming up, but as with most things, it took longer than expected and before we got to the top, it started to get lighter and lighter and we began to see the most magnificent views.
I wondered at the mysterious beauty of the heavy fog, gently masking the tree-dotted hills, revealing just a glimpse of what we had come to see. We continued on, a little disappointed that we had missed the sunrise at the top, but with high hopes nonetheless.
We rode the last half hour yelling "PHUU CHIIIII FAAAA" at every turn, anxious to see what had pulled us out of bed at such a disgusting hour. We hiked up the short trail in no time, and along with several other tourists, peered out, astonished at what we found...
Nothing. Nothing at all.
The fog had created a thick, impenetrable wall, completely consuming any hopes for a view. We watched as the other tourists took awkward photos of themselves against the white backdrop, obviously disappointed at the waste of their morning. One by one they returned back down the trail, defeated. Max and I weren't about to give up so fast. We walked down the path a little further, out of the sight of the few other tourists who remained and did some yoga, checking the view every couple seconds so as not to miss anything.
We did this for almost an hour and hadn't seen a single break in the fog. But just as we were about to head back down, we saw it.
It was as if the heavens were opening and we could look them in the eyes. The fog was no longer able to withstand the sun's piercing rays, and yielded to it's majesty, revealing a tiny glimpse of the mountains below. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. But this time we weren't going anywhere. And thank heavens we didn't.
There we were, the only ones left at the top, watching the ribbons of fog rush like waves of water over the land, revealing a world totally hidden only moments before. It was better than Christmas.
Max held me tight to his chest as I sobbed. I couldn't decide if I was sad, scared, or mad, but at this point, it didn't matter. The lateness of the night made hope of a rescue futile. It was obvious we would meet no further travelers on the path until morning at the earliest, and with no gas in our tank, and no end in sight, that left us with one option. We both knew what neither of us was willing to say; we would be spending the night in the jungle.
I listened to the loud buzzing of the insects and started to imagine myself sleeping on the cold, muddy earth, not knowing what kind of animals could be lurking in the blackness of the trees. Just as I was concluding to myself that the best idea would be to sleep with my helmet on, Max noticed a man-made drainage system of sorts. It was the first sign of life we had come across for a long time, and for some reason it gave us hope. I suppose any sign of humans, when you feel like the only humans in the world, will do that to you. We decided to try and start up the bike one more time to see what we could find. We really had nothing to lose.
After a couple tries, the bike started up. I had little faith it would make it around the next bend, but I reluctantly donned the pack that I was beginning to loathe, and hopped on the bike, willing to give it one more try. We backtracked to the fork and took the other path, and in less than 5 minutes we saw it; a glint of light up a little hill. We rode up on what I'm sure was just fumes, and saw the most humble looking gathering of stilted homes I'd ever seen. They were the homes of the tribal Akha people, an indigenous mountain group who live off the land in every sense, hunting and gathering for subsistence and staying virtually untouched and unschooled by the outside world. When we rode in on our motorbike late that night though, they were much more than that.
There was no electricity, but we could see glints of light coming from the fires and candles through the slits of the wooden walls of their homes. Everything was quiet and everyone was tucked inside the safety of their homes for the night and for the first time in my life, I had an overwhelming feeling of envy for a people who, by the world's standard, had way less to be envious about. I envied them because they were warm and had full bellies, but most of all, because they were home. They belonged there and I longed to feel the same.
We approached the first house, a little unsure of how we would be received, especially so late at night, and said one of the few words we knew in Lao, "sabaydee", or "hello". Little did we know, they didn't even speak Lao, but their own tribal language that sounded to me even more foreign and incomprehensible than Lao. We walked around the outside of the home, hearing unsure whisperings from within, until finally a teenaged boy emerged from the front door. Now, I'm not sure how word travels in a town with no cell phones or electricity of any kind, but for some reason the children seem to just know when something exciting or new is going on, and just as in the previous Hmong village, all the sudden we were surrounded by them on all sides. We tried our best to communicate with the teenaged boy that we needed gasoline, but of course he couldn't understand a word that came out of our mouths, or our absolutely ridiculous gestures.
After getting nowhere with words, we decided to take him over to the bike and show him the gas tank. That did it. He recognized our need immediately and walked us into the center of the village to another home, the trail of chattering children still at our heels. A woman opened the door, surprised to see two white people, covered in mud, and looking absolutely out of place and helpless, surrounded by what I'm sure were all the children in the town. He explained to her our situation and she went back in the house to pull out 3 old water bottles filled with bright red fuel, a common and very relieving sight for our sore eyes. We paid her, took the gasoline, and before we left, tried to get directions out of the forest. It's impossible to know how much understanding was going on, but there was a lot of pointing, grunting, and looks of absolute confusion. Eventually we realized they were trying to tell us it was going to be several hours still before we would make it out of the jungle and they gestured that we should just sleep there for the night. My first thought was "absolutely not, I'm getting out of this jungle tonight if it's the last things I do!". And then I remembered the confusing forks in the road, the darkness, the mud, and the rumbling in my tummy. Max and I counseled with each other in a language that obviously intrigued our entourage of staring children and, though leery about the circumstances, finally decided it was probably the best of the bad ideas.
The teenaged boy then took us across to another home that we could only assume was where they put wandering lost guests and gestured for us to take off our shoes before we climbed the stairs to the dwelling. Although it's a tradition in Laos to do so upon entry to homes, and even stores and shops, I was a little taken aback to be asked to remove my shoes to enter a dusty, wooden hut in the middle of the jungle, with pigs and chickens running around underneath and cats, dogs and mice roaming the interior. But of course I didn't want to offend our willing hosts, so I quickly removed my very muddy, very thrashed, favorite pair of boots (of which Max still owes me another pair), and walked up the stairs to our new home for the night.
We entered a large room with nothing but a few bamboo mats to cover the wooden planks of which you could see straight through to the ground beneath. There were obviously people living here with some bedding and a small candle for light still burning, but there were no adults in sight and we had no idea what to do. We must have looked confused, because finally our child host helped us lay out a couple mats in the corner and gave us some blankets to use. After we got "settled", Max went to go move the bike and I was left, alone in the large room, surrounded still by the group of curious children, starring at me with their beautiful brown eyes, waiting for me to do something. The silence was awkward, so I did what I know how to do best and whipped out my iPhone.
We spent the next several minutes listening to Frank Sinatra, and going through all the videos and pictures I had on my phone, and although I loved seeing the smiles on their face as they saw photos of snow for the first time, I was relieved to be out of the spotlight when Max returned and slowly, one by one, they exited the house to calls from their own mothers beckoning them home.
Max and I didn't speak as we laid down to "bed" that night, but held each other to stay warm and tried not to think about the mice scurrying around us...or our still-empty bellies. I was so grateful to have a roof over my head, but I couldn't wait for daylight when the sun would warm the earth once again and light our path out of the jungle. It wouldn't be long now.
Daylight did come, but verrrry slowly, and at 6am I couldn't sleep through the cold anymore. The village was already a buzz, people preparing for the day, getting ready to go back out to the fields just as the sun rose. Max had already been up, watching the villagers go about their morning duties and helping the woman we would discover was our real hostess feed the animals.
It felt so strange to be there. We got a sense that we weren't quite welcome by the adults, and later recognized that it was probably because they just didn't know what to think about us. I was so grateful that I didn't have to sleep in the mud with the tigers, but I still couldn't wait to get out of there.
We filled up the tank with gas, and as we were about to head out, our hostess gestured us to come eat with her. Although I was a little leery about what would be on the menu, my stomach couldn't resist, and it turned out to be one of the best meals we had on our trip--exaggerated only slightly because of how starving we were. She made a deliciously seasoned rice porridge, steamed greens right out of the jungle, and an amazing "salsa"-ish dip. And of course, the Lao staple…sticky rice. We sat around a short table, on tiny wooden stools, our knees at our chests, and ate with our hands, trying our best to communicate our gratitude. We paid her what was probably more than she made in a week (about 5 dollars), and were off.
Though the daylight made finding our way a little less daunting (and less scary), the trail itself didn't get any easier. The mud was just as thick and deep and the bike still couldn't make it up most of the hills. There were places where the prickly vines would start to creep in over the road and grab at our clothes, trying to tear them from our bodies. One such incident left me with half a fingernail, and more upset than ever. The scenery was magnificent, but I couldn't let myself appreciate it. We had taken this adventure way too far and it wasn't over yet.
By about noon, I started to notice the road widening, more people working in the fields and a few houses here and there. We were getting closer to civilization! I started to regain hope, but unfortunately, once again, it was premature. We came across a stream over the road that was a little deeper than expected and as we tried to ride through it, the loose chain got caught and broke. We were sitting ducks. I didn't freak out. I didn't start crying. I just got off the bike, waded through the water and sat myself with the pack on the other side. I couldn't be surprised anymore and anything short of the tiger I feared, jumping out and eating me, was not going to set me off.
A kind boy, also crossing the river on his bike, tried helping Max find the missing link in the stream, but it was fruitless. They, too, eventually crossed the river and after looking around for something to fix it with, realized it couldn't be done without finding a new part. That meant getting into town. Max would have to borrow a motorbike from a young boy whose house was just across the stream and ride the last 20 kilometers out of the jungle into town to get the piece. I would stay with the broken bike...as collateral.
The first 4 hours at the stream were actually quite peaceful. The day had gotten warm, and I took off my wet, muddy jeans so they could dry in the sun, and wore just a t-shirt and the shorts I had on underneath. I laid down by the water in the shade and watched the local kids swim naked in the water, having the time of their lives, while I listened to every podcast I could before my phone died. I had a lot of time to think about the situation, and once again, I envied the carefree way the children played in the stream, so at home with this place. I wished the situation was different and that I could just jump in the water and play with them, with no worries, and no hesitation.
Then I started to get antsy. Max had been gone for about 5 hours when I had figured out that it shouldn't have taken more than 3, tops. My mind started to race as I thought of all the things that could have happened to him and how helpless I was stranded in the jungle by myself. I packed up all my stuff in the backpack and started to walk down the road toward the town because I couldn't sit any longer. I quickly turned around when I remembered I had no water and walking in the hot sun was probably not a good idea. I sat by the water again for a few minutes and again got up to walk down the road, worried that anything could have happened to Max by now. I did this back and forth a few times before, during one of my attempts, a group of boys in a truck offered to give me a ride into town. I had no idea how I would find Max once I got there, but I had to do something. They looked innocent enough, so I got in the truck and started down the road. About 15 minutes into the drive I saw him, 6 hours after he had left, he was coming back down the road, on the bike, with the missing piece for the chain and a carton full of Lao noodles. I yelled for the boys to stop and jumped out of the truck, relieved to see my sunburned husband, but furious all the same.
We rode back to the bike, and with the help of the local men, Max went to work trying to fix the chain. I quickly devoured the noodles, and then watched in anticipation as they fiddled for about 20 minutes before the piece broke and we were back to square one. As I was contemplating the thought of having to stay another night in the jungle, the men offered to throw the bike in the back of their truck and take us out of the jungle. I couldn't have been happier at the suggestion. So, as the sun was starting to set again, we loaded up in the truck (5 of us in the cab and Max holding on to the bike in the bed), and rode the rest of the way out of the jungle on that muddy, treacherous road that I never wanted to see again in my life.
Getting back to the guesthouse that night was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I stood in the (almost) warm shower, washing the jungle from my sweat-stained body, my open nail-bed stinging with every drop of water, and couldn't think of a time I had felt more at ease. I realized that night for the first time that home is a state of mind. This was the feeling I was envying of those people in the jungle; it was safety, security, and a sense of belonging. And that night, there in that guesthouse in a tiny town in northern Laos, I was finally home.
I don't like motorbikes. But not for lack of trying. I wish I liked them (as does my husband), but I just don't. Yes, partly it's because I'm an ER nurse and I've seen what happens to people on motorbikes, but in reality it's much wimpier than that...I find them incredibly uncomfortable. Of course that's not an absolute, and I'd be lying to say I haven't had a few rides where the weather has been perfect, the scenery spectacular, and the feeling of freedom and excitement overwhelming. Unfortunately, a series of rides where most, or all of those elements have been absent, finally helped me admit to myself, and my heartbroken husband, that it's just not my thing. The following is one such example.
It all started with the elephants.
We had just crossed the border from Thailand into Laos, and settled into a darling little teak guesthouse in a town called Luang Namtha. We woke early and decided to rent a motorbike for the day and explore the surrounding villages in hopes of finding some elephants. It had been about 2 weeks since we arrived in Southeast Asia, and had yet to see, let alone ride, any of these magnificent creatures. Max knew I was getting antsy to do so. We spotted an "elephant camp" on the map a couple hours away, and made it our goal to track it down. Without another thought, I hopped on the back of the bike and we were off, not to return for what would turn out to be the longest 36 hours of my life.
It was a hot, sunny day, and the ride started out beautiful. Time flew as we passed by countless rice fields, green, rolling hills, and darling little villages with uniformed children riding their bikes home from school, and old men lounging in the shade of their shops, waiting out the heat of the day, so they could get back to work. By early afternoon we were starting to get hungry and with no restaurant in sight, we picked up a couple staples from a roadside shop; potato chips for me and disgusting fake strawberry Oreos for Max. And, of course, a bottle of water which disappeared quickly. It wasn't great, but it was just enough to tide us over until we found something a little more...substantial. We took a short detour north to say "hello" to China across the border, before we turned off the road up into the hills in search of the elephants.
We never did find the elephants. Nor did this "camp" actually exist. But after winding up the narrow, bumpy dirt road for miles, past thousands of banana trees, what we did find was a tiny little Hmong village, where it was quickly apparent that the villagers rarely, if ever, saw white people. As we rode past ramshackle wooden houses and old women dressed in their traditional Hmong-style black gown with colorful headdresses (still thinking we may find some elephants), we started to accumulate a following of little children.
When we realized it was a dead end, we got off the bike. By now we had at least 15 children buzzing all around us, faces bright with wonder and excitement of their new-found guests. We whipped out our iPhones, found a photo of an elephant and started asking around. They quickly recognized the animal as a "Ya-ma" but made it obvious that there were none in the area. I was defeated, but I couldn't get enough of their curiosity, nor could I resist their beautiful, dirt-smudged faces as they would light up at our strange gadgets. I wished we could spend all afternoon with them going through every photo we had, but it was getting later and later in the day and we decided to make our way back toward home.
This is when things changed for the worst. Using the same map that had already let us down with the elephants, Max spotted a motorcycle path that cut right through the jungle--a shortcut. We started down the "road" toward the path and suddenly our nice comfy ride became a thing of the past. The road was covered in huge potholes sending us up into the air and bounding back down on the hard seat of the bike every 2 seconds or so. After 3 hours of this, I was exhausted. My head was pounding, my butt was bruised, and my back was aching from the heavy pack that I had to carry. Aaaaand I was hungry. I don't tend to handle things well when I'm hungry. We arrived at the turn-off for the motorcycle path at about 5:00pm. We only had a couple hours of daylight left and though I was leery about going through the jungle so late, Max assured me it would be much quicker than going back on the road we came, and I wasn't about to spend another 3 hours on that torturous, pot-holey road. Jungle it was.
Now, I don't use the term "jungle" loosely. This was, by far, the thickest, most jungl-y jungle I had ever encountered. We'd heard of it's greatness and majesty from the trekking guides who tried to lure us in with stories of tigers and leopards that still traverse it's floor. And we were definitely not prepared to be there. But, excited to be on a shortcut, and ready to be back at the guesthouse with a comfy bed and a hot plate of Lao noodles, we sped away into the jungle with nothing but half a tank of gas, our sore bottoms, and a pack with a couple jackets, the guidebook, a map, our camera, and a few left-over disgusting strawberry "oreos" from lunch.
The first 20 minutes or so were great. My spirits were high despite being tired and hungry, and I counted down the "mile posts" we saw along the way after Max told me they marked how many miles until we were out of the jungle. He couldn't have been more wrong. Higher and higher we went on the cliff-side jungle road as we wound through a canopy of massive, ancient trees and brush so thick it would be impossible to penetrate without the path. I'd never been scared of tigers up to that point in my life, but it's funny how new fears develop so quickly in a new environment. I waited for one to pop out at us at every turn while the sun set and the path got really, really muddy. It happened slowly, but by dark we were riding through thick, deep mud that soaked through our shoes and pants up to our knees as we had to balance ourselves through the puddles. And the puddles got harder and harder to make it through. The bike would skid to and fro in the sludge as we tried to "gun-it" through and would sometimes slip out from under us and dump us into the mud.
With the sounds of the jungle getting louder and louder as the night crept on, we trudged forward, always thinking we were almost there. At times, the bike would get stuck and couldn't make it up the steep, muddy hills, so I would have to get off and stumble through the mud with the heavy pack on my back. At this point I was so exhausted and hating every muddy moment. Max was made very aware of my discomfort. After what seemed like days of this, we saw our first sign of life--no, not a tiger. It was a teenage couple on another motorbike heading who knows where, but for some reason I felt so relieved following behind them. Maybe it was just the company--human company. We followed them for quite some time, cold, wet, muddy, and sore, but glad to have some locals to follow. And then we started to see lights. "Finally", I thought.
As we got closer we realized they were not city lights, but flashlights from a tiny little jungle village. My heart sank. The teenage couple stopped and gestured that they were going to go eat some food at a house in the village. In hindsight, we should have stopped and stayed with them, but the night was dragging on and we thought we'd better just keep going and get out of the jungle before it got any later. Max thought for sure it wouldn't be much longer. So, alone again on the path, we rode on. The road didn't get any easier and I found myself getting more and more upset and discouraged with every turn that didn't lead to an exit. I knew though, that if anyone could get us out of this mess, Max could. And then we started to run out of gas.
The muddy hills that before were almost impossible to climb, were now absolutely impossible as we had barely any gas left in our tank. I was trudging up almost every uphill portion because the bike couldn't handle my weight with our heavy pack. Max would frequently beat me to the top, park the bike, walk down the hill, and carry the pack up because I was so tired and so upset. We didn't speak a word to each other as we sloshed through the mud up those steep hills. We just kept going, and once at the top, we mounted the bike again to see how far we could get. Each time it took a little longer for it to start-up. A few more twists and turns before we met the first fork. This wasn't on the map. There was no way of knowing which way to go, so we took the one that looked the most travelled and followed it down...deeper, deeper, and deeper, until we got to another fork. At this point we were virtually out of gas and I was long out of hope. We got off the bike and Max looked around to see if there were any hints at which direction we should go, but there were no signs, and even if there were, they certainly wouldn't have been in English. We were alone. Still in the heart of the jungle. Hungry. Cold. Exhausted. Soaking wet. Covered in mud. And now lost. I started to cry.
When I was in elementary school, my older sister spent 18 months on a religious mission in Honduras. The thing I remember most about her stories was how she wouldn't stop telling us how "lucky" we were. Sure, we never went hungry, we never had to sleep outside, and we were (mostly) always fully clothed--though usually in someone else's hand-me-downs. But to my little elementary brain, the thought of being "lucky" was a new one. I was happy, no doubt, but I definitely didn't feel as though I'd won the lottery. After all, I had chores to do every day, 11 brothers and sisters to try and get along with, a freckled face, and not a single puppy-dog. Life was tough.
I recently returned home from quite the unconventional honeymoon. For those who don't know Max and I, that's how we like to do things. I've been hesitant to write about my experiences on the trip--not because I don't want to share, but because I don't know where to start. I could just show you beautiful photos of beautiful places that make you want to quit your job and become a bum (and believe me, I do have some of those), but I would never forgive myself for the injustice of undermining the moments that were truly spectacular. And to me, the most spectacular moments are not just the most beautiful. In fact, sometimes they are downright ugly.
We spent 5 weeks in Southeast Asia, visiting Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar and each day brought with it so much learning and adventure. Putting words to my thoughts, short of writing a book, seems impossible. So, instead, I have decided to pick out just some of the stories and places, and people that really opened my eyes, and made me believe what my sister couldn't say enough those years ago; I am lucky. And not in that "Oh I'm so glad I have it better than them", kind of way. That couldn't be further from the way I feel. In reality, the more I have traveled, the more equal I feel with my human counterparts across the globe. I am lucky, though, because I've been given opportunities to understand that a little better, and it has opened up a whole new way of looking at life, and the people in it. Now, I'm not going to go as far as to say something selfless like I have become a better, more compassionate, loving person through all these experiences. Unfortunately, that isn't true. But by writing them down, I hope one day I will be wise enough to recognize the goodness and blessings I have seen, and have the courage to let them change me. For now, though, I will be content with just feeling lucky.