My sleep is total shit. I am up all night with strong visions, releasing old pain, disconnecting with those from the past, feeling intensely for others. It is around 5 am when I last checked a clock and now it is 9 am. I sense the need to head to another place to slumber.
So I leave my Swedish (and tranny staffed) Rundhouse and head north to Klong Dao beach. I have utilized trip advisor for guidance for a new location and feel like a fat tourist on a two-week holiday. I am treating myself for an evening or so in a more resort-ish abode, comparatively, a place with individual bungalows on the beach with air-conditioning (a huge luxury) and outdoor private bathrooms. It is the nicest place I have stayed yet on this journey with a king-size bed with spectacularly clean white sheets, a faultless mosquito net, all day electricity, hot water shower, and free WiFi. Continental breakfast is included. Hurrah!
I feel spoiled, l am a queen.
I lay on the beach again, sapping in all that is beautiful and then some sun salutations. With every salutation I send an offering to another, or to the elements, as suggested by Dharma Mittra. It is a pleasant way to pray. I am blessed with perfect weather, the rain showers of the past couple of weeks (I am told) choosing not to return.
In some ways I feel like I made a left turn and should have gone right, or perhaps the other way, for all on this also nearly empty beach are tall and very, very blond. It is a paradise of Scandinavia and I am the dark, dirty, and short creature. A hobbit with curls. I cannot hide and so I won’t.
Menus of the beach-side restaurants all include Swedish meatballs, goulash, and thin pancakes with lingonberry sauce in addition to the traditional dishes of pad Thai, papaya salad, curries, etc. Mini-marts on the main street offer salty black licorice and Scandinavian snuff, smelly chewing tobacco in little plastic tins and I ponder briefly where the Ikea is located. Skal, Cheers! to the brothers and sisters of the north. I have fond memories of my Norwegian roommate in Brazil, watching him stuff tobacco in his mouth after consuming liberal quantities of bread and cheese. I smile and send him love.
Reading “The Kite Runner” lounging in the sun I cry. I think about all of the Afghani people displaced by war. I think about the schism between the Muslims, the innocent children, the layers of irrational jealously. I feel disgusting lying on an exotic island, drinking greedily from the wealth of life I enjoy regularly.
I pull it together eventually, reminding myself that we all come into this existence with different karmatic contracts, with distinct lessons to experience, and that I should not be with sadness but use this opportunity to foster more compassion and optimism. We can all use our own energies to help construct a healthier and more equal world. Loving service, repairing the world, Tikkun Olam.
Street market dining with the locals and then meditative walk up and down the beach where I hang with the countless poi spinners. The night is clear and the color of the fire intense. Kids release lit Chinese lanterns into the sky, watching them float higher and higher until they disappear into the darkness. There are no rastas on this beach it seems but a few places offer reggae music.
Next to my hut is a couple from Vancouver Island, he originally from Quebec and with a sweet French accent. She is impressed, twice, that I am traveling alone. We sit and converse for a while, sharing all the tricks and trades of long-term roaming through Asia. They too are enjoying street cuisine out of plastic bags and with their hands as it is often served, the food authentically spicier, a quarter of the price than dining in the beach-side restaurants, and more kind to the local economy.
I pass out in my bungalow chateau around 9 pm. Sleep is calling me strongly.