A Day of Subtle Wonders

White Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me

Hey y’all,

I don’t know if I made it up – I’d like to think I did – or if I read it somewhere and forgot the source, but the phrase stuck.

“You don’t take a trip. A trip takes you.”

I’ve found that to be true often enough that it’s my philosophy around travel.

Like yesterday, I intended to write the next travel email because I’m starting another workshop tonight/tomorrow, and I was trying to be done with it.

But I simply couldn’t do it because my environment at the time was too wonderful. This is what I wrote in that moment.

“And I can’t write about this right now. I’m in that sweet spot of the Once Café, and there are lots Thai people around me. Women and a child at one table, a couple of Thai youths playing guitar and singing across from me, and a group of young people outside practicing archery. I got a dish simply because I saw it passing by and it looked good – spicy spaghetti noodles made with peppers and bacon, and it was delicious.

This place is overflowing with community.

This scene is so sweet and peaceful, I can’t bring myself to write about the murky bowels of sexuality. It’s so fresh and innocent and happy right now. Why spoil it for myself?

It’s not often that I wander down a road into a local scene. Most of the time, I’m surrounded by other westerners.

This is officially my favorite spot in Chiang Rai.”

Once Cafe, Chiang Rai, Thailand - Photo by me.

My first full day in Chiang Rai, I didn’t do any sightseeing.

I landed in the gorgeousness of the Once Café, where I wrote for hours. And I got the bulk of my piece done while there. I stayed from late morning to late afternoon, ordering cappuccino and snacks as needed.

Except for a couple of teenagers who played guitar and sang, in spite of the jazz playing from a cell phone and a speaker, I had the place to myself on that first day.

It was awesome.

The woman who owned the place took my picture while I was working.

That was beyond flattering because 1) she recognized I was working, and 2) that she found a white woman working in her cafe unusual enough to photograph the experience when I’m the one who’s a tourist.

I noticed her husband was stringing a pretty bad-ass looking bow on my way to the toilet – which had toilet paper! (Yay!)

I asked if he was a bow hunter because my brother was.

“American?” he asked.

I nodded.

“It’s illegal to hunt in Thailand.”

Then he pointed out the archery range they had made of the yard.

I went back a second time, and the It started with the White Temple first thing in the morning. Since the White Temple is about 14 kilometers from Chiang Rai, the guesthouse boss drove me and waited until I was done, and drove me back.

I had gone to the Blue Temple the day before, and although beautiful, it could best be described as the Disneyland of Buddhist temples. It didn’t inspire the reverence of Buddhism in me that the more traditional temples did - especially the simple temples.

It was also packed with people. A sweet guy who worked at the guesthouse shook his head when I told him what I time I had gone.

“That is the worst time,” he said. “That’s when all the tour buses go. The best time to go to the Blue Temple is around sunset. There aren’t as many people.”

He also mentioned that his boss would take me to the White Temple, which is how I lucked out with an early morning ride.

There was nothing subtle about the wonder of the White Temple.

Like the Blue Temple, the White Temple did not inspire the reverence of the Buddhist faith. It’s not intended as a place of worship, really, so much as a stunning work of art. It’s pretty much a giant, intricate sculpture of white plaster and chunks of mirrored glass.

But the White Temple inspired my awe – that was for sure.

Driving up, the place glistened and sparkled, the pieces of mirror reflecting the light of the morning sun.

“Wow,” I whispered.

“Yes…” murmured the boss who delivered me to such a wondrous place.

I’m pretty sure my jaw dropped, and that was before I even got close up.

Talk about a place that survives its hype and even the crowds.

Even first thing in the morning, there were plenty of people there. I’m thankful I wasn’t there later because I’m sure the crowds must have been out of control.

Most of the buildings were white and glistening, but there were a couple of ornate gold structures as well – the bathroom (not sure what that was about) and the Ganesha temple, filled with the OM symbols, pictures and statues of the Hindu Elephant God. I’m still in the dark about the connection between Buddhism and Ganesha in Thailand btw – but they love him here.

The contrast was dramatic, between glistening and glimmering, silver white and yellow gold, which incidentally was the color scheme for Tao Garden’s yin/yang symbols.

This whole trip has been an immersion into the spirit of yin and yang. But for yesterday there was mainly the brightness of yang.

However, there was a creepy, macabre side to this temple as well.

Souls in Torment outside White Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me.

The dark side was represented, the hunger and torment of those souls who have no faith, don’t believe in enlightenment, much less work towards it, was evident in the hanging heads of angry-looking people and superheroes – or maybe they were supervillains.

At the start of the temple, desperate hands reached out to us, one hand with one painted red nail shot us the finger. Some of the hands clutched skulls. Lots of torment and anguish from those who fell between the cracks of grace.

Then we crossed the bridge of that hell and approached the divinity of the Buddha.

My only grievance with the place was that I had to go on a mission to find the Thorani. I now do that at every Buddhist temple I go to. No temple is authentic without her – at least for me. I was getting pissed before I finally did at the end, but she had a place of glory.

Phra Mae Thorani at the White Temple, Chiang Rai, Thailand. Photo by me.

I was back at the guesthouse by 9:30.

I shipped a box of stuff from the post office, visited a traditional temple nearby and felt the reverence of Buddhism once again, then took a nap before my return to the Once Café that was filled with the liveliness I described at the beginning.

There were lots of subtle wonders to be found in that experience. The live music was pretty good too. The older one had a beautiful voice.

This experience was completely different.

Not that I mind.

I’m glad the Once Café, bustling with people and brimming with life, was a part of my yesterday.

Yesterday was one of those days filled with subtle wonders.

Peace,

Mana

Lone Wolf and Ships Passing in the Night

Photo by me

Hey y’all,

Traveling is bringing out the lone wolf in me.

I’m getting into the groove of that dance of solitude and connection. Being with myself and crossing paths with other travelers - usually solo female travelers – where we come together for a brief friendship of time spent in a place that’s not our home.

I’ve been very lucky with the people I’ve met. So much that I found myself craving alone time.

Anyway, when I was in Chiang Rai I spent practically all my time alone, with only the briefest of exchanges since I got here. And I’m good with it.

Of course, it helped that I knew my solitude came with an expiration date because I had a workshop right afterwards. Shared experience is always fodder for meeting and bonding with people.

The last few days I was in Chiang Mai, I buddied around at night with Nadia, who I met the day I checked out of my Thailand base, Hollanda Montri Guesthouse, run by Kiwi Dean and the Widow Su.

Nadia was the one who stared a conversation with me because I was tossing a 5 baht coin in my chronic game of yes or no answers to be found in heads or tails.

“Heads or tails? Which one do you want?”

“Depends on the question I’m asking.”

That’s how the convo started between us.

Nadia’s another seasoned traveler like Kip. Before she married a couple of years ago, she carved out 6 months a year for travel.

Nadia is what I’d call a soft extrovert. She wasn’t boisterous or overpowering, but she definitely knew very well how to meet people easily and connect.

When she met me for dinner in the old city, she had no problem asking the tattooed French guy if we could join him on a bamboo platform where another guy was snoozing in the hammock.

The Frenchman had lived in Thailand for years. Nadia asked him if he’d ever been a scuba dive instructor, which he said he had.

“Whenever I meet a Frenchman with tattoos, it seems they are always dive instructors.”

When the guy in the hammock woke up, she asked him what he’d been dreaming about.

He hadn’t been dreaming at all. He had been sleeping off a hangover.

I was ready for some alone time, or it may have even been her jetlag, but I found Nadia draining when I first met her.

But I squashed it down because she was company before I went to Chiang Rai, and who knows when I’d have a travel buddy to hang out with again?

Nadia was a very lovely woman. She was in Chiang Mai for a Thai massage course and to do her own thing, while her husband goes snowboarding in the Alps. They live in Holland.

Of course, Nadia was very interesting. I learned about a place I really want to go to from her.

“Get there before it’s discovered and becomes expensive,” she said. “It will happen because it is literally an oasis. My husband and I were there for our honeymoon 2 years ago, and it was magical.”

I just might go there next fall. And in the interests of keeping the secret a little longer, I’m not going to say where it is.

I saw Nadia every night from the time I met her until my last night in Chiang Mai when I circled the moat going around the old city of Chiang Mai.

It was so good to do that alone, even the tight spots of navigating near the old wall with vehicles coming at me. I felt light and free walking those 7+ kilometres.

I think Nadia was on the same page. She stayed at the guesthouse on the river and probably got her conversation needs met with Dean.

It’s such a gift to meet unusual, independent people while traveling.

As Natasha had said, traveling takes out a lot of stuff and distills the essence of who a person is. Then on top of that, solo female travelers crossing paths with other solo female travelers is its own magic.

It’s been a relief, this experience of connecting with kindred spirits.

But at the same time, there’s a compromise to spending time with another. Nadia had a very different rhythm than I, and sometimes it tested my patience to alter my pace to meet hers, and I’m not free to go where my feet lead me.

In some ways, that’s a blessing because I do things I wouldn’t have due to another’s influence. In other ways, I was kind of hungry for it – to simply do my own thing when I wanted as I wanted.

Those few days in Chiang Rai were pretty sweet. I got a good recharge before being around others again.

Traveling is getting me back in touch with my inner lone wolf. I met remarkable women in that workshop and made some beautiful new friends. Yet there were also plenty of times when I needed to go be by myself for a while. Usually to write, but often times simply just to be.

It’s a dance of solitude and connection, the alone time of being with one’s self and connecting with other beings for a brief friendship of two ships passing in the night, the horn sounding in the air as we all go our separate ways.

Most of these women I’ll probably never see again.

Peace,

Mana

It Feels Good to Hurt

Image by zseeee from Pixabay

The Patron’s Daughter was the only woman I ever saw who actually paid her way to whoredom.

As the weeks passed, I made a nice little fortune for my silence, enough that I could have lived lavishly for several years, and possibly for the rest of my life if I had chosen to live in modest comfort.

As you can see, I did not.

Oddly enough, I found her degradation excruciating to witness.

After years of hatred and spite, one would think I would have enjoyed the spectacle. But the pain and humiliation was hard to watch. I never understood why she craved it so much.

It was too easy for the Brute, really.

The Patron’s Daughter succumbed to him so readily I was kind of disappointed in her. I expected more resistance. Perhaps excessive indulgence all her life left her restless and hungry in a way I never imagined possible for her.

All I know is that once she got a taste of the twisted mating dance between a sadist and a masochist, she hardly put up a fight.

The following week, the Sorcerer was proven right yet again.

When I came to our meeting place the following week, I half expected her absence.

But the Patron’s Daughter had arrived before me. Pacing back and forth, she was clearly impatient as she waited for me. She was especially nasty when I appeared.

“Am I supposed to thank you now?” she snarled. “Ugly Addie makes a most decorative escort.”

“If my presence is this odious to you, I’d rather get some sleep.”

I turned and made my way out of the woods, but the Patron’s Daughter chased after me.

“Wait! You can’t leave!”

“Obviously, I can.”

“I can’t get there without you! I tried to find the cabin and nearly got lost.”

“So what if you did? I don’t care.”

“Liar! You care about the four gold coins I brought to keep your filthy mouth shut. I think you care about those a lot.”

She had me there.

I stopped.

“You don’t get to say anything nasty to me ever again,” I said.

The words were out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. But that was the first genuine taste of self-respect I ever had in my life. It made me giddy and I couldn’t stop.

“Last week, I saw you rubbing up against the ugliest man I ever saw until you got yourself all a-trembling. Lord knows what I’ll see tonight. Your insults are ridiculous, but if you continue, I will not take you to the Brute.”

The Patron’s Daughter didn’t say anything. I could barely see her with her dark cloak on, but I could hear her breathing. It was the labored heaving of somebody desperate.

“Are we agreed?” I persisted.

“Yes. We are agreed.”

I turned back with her, finding my way through the trees with no trouble.

We came to the cabin in minutes.

The Patron’s Daughter muttered that she didn’t understand why she couldn’t find it earlier, so certain she had taken this path.

The Brute didn’t bother with any niceties. He threw a strange garment at us as soon as we walked in.

“Put this on,” he commanded, and turned to me. “You dress her.”

“I’m no lady’s maid!”

The Brute glared at me.

“You are tonight, and you are whenever I tell you to dress her.”

I was livid, but I didn’t argue.

Instead, the Patron’s Daughter did.

“Is this a corset?”

She held it up.

It was, but the strange garment was only fitted around the waist. It was made out of a dull brown leather rather than satin, and looked dreadfully uncomfortable the way it cinched narrowly at the waist. There were bones sewn all around it, with laces up the back.

 It clearly would show her breasts and her pubis. The corset was ugly and crude, and clearly meant for something other than grooming.

The Patron’s Daughter’s face went white and her small blue eyes widened. She shook her head.

“How dare you! I’m not wearing that whorish thing!”

The Brute smiled and raised his brows.

“Really? Then why do you think you’re really here?”

“To marry the Noble Son!”

I almost burst out laughing, but I bit my tongue in time.

What she said was preposterous after the spanking from the week before.

The Brute practiced no restraint. His laugh sounded like a series of barks from an angry dog.

“The most dangerous lies are those we tell ourselves,” he chortled. “We all know why you’re here.”

For his massive form, the Brute was surprisingly swift as he reached out and pulled the Patron’s Daughter close with one arm.

In less than a moment, he brought his free hand down hard against her rump.

She crumpled against him as the strike landed, her breathing coming in short gasps. Even though the strike couldn’t hurt as much over layers of clothes, I felt my belly tighten.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?”

She moaned softly while his hand rubbed circles over her bottom cheeks.

Then his arm rose above his head and the next beating came down even harder.

The Patron’s Daughter collapsed and a small cry escaped her lips.

“It feels good to hurt, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” the Patron’s Daughter murmured. “Yes.”

Happy Trails, Wanderer

Image by ArtTower from Pixabay

He first saw her from the edge of No Man’s Land, the stretch of forest between two countries. 

The Wanderer squinted, looking at the horizon where a black silhouette ran along the ridge in the land to the west. 

He wondered if this was an apparition born of his loneliness until the shadow turned downhill. Then he saw a horse and rider after they left the halo of the setting sun. They ran for the woods, far from the gates where lawmen would check papers and ask questions. 

He whistled when the fugitive disappeared in the trees. Anyone caught crossing the border in secret would lose a year of life in prison, possibly more depending on the misdeeds that compelled one to flee.   

Turning his gaze east, the glow at the end of day spread across the hills, infusing warmth in the grasses soaked the day before. The rains always started in the limbo between summer and autumn, followed by sun and then rain again.

He knew the rhythm of the seasons well, but felt foreign in his home country. The land of his birth had become less familiar, less comfortable than the places where he couldn’t speak the language. 

The Wanderer was grateful for his last spell of work. He convinced the Patron to pay him with a workhorse doomed for the slaughterhouse instead of the usual paltry wages. The presence of the old mare was comforting besides making travel easier. 

The Wanderer inhaled the scent of grass and enjoyed the last rays of sun on his cheeks.  The clear sky promised nighttime stars, tempting him to stake his camp where he was. Staring into the heavens while drifting to sleep would take him back to faraway lands, to the traveling mates and lovers he met along the way. 

Those memories kept him going when he came back to the solitude of his waking life. 

But he’d be vulnerable in the open fields. After a day or two, man or nature would drive him off, either the closest patron or sheets of water falling from the sky.

No Man’s Land was a safer choice, the canopy of trees providing protection and plenty of forage. He might pass a few weeks in there. The constant moving from one town to the next was wearing him down.

Then the Wanderer felt her stare.

He knew from the tingling along his flesh that it was a woman who watched him. He scanned the fields along the edge of the woods and found her up the hill, too far away to get a good look at her.

But even from a distance, the intensity of her gaze burned into him.

The girl kicked her mount into a canter across the field, circling the Wanderer at a five-stride distance from him. The size of her horse intimidating, the largest stallion he’d ever seen and standing many hands higher than his old mare.

The girl should have seemed overpowered by the animal; her legs didn’t stretch down half its girth. But her back was relaxed in an easy slouch, one hand holding the reins with a loose grip.

The Wanderer turned his nag to keep the girl in sight, and noticed the crest of patronage scarred into the horse’s flank.

But she looked no more highborn than he did. Her blond hair fell in a long braid to her waist, loose strands mussed around her face. Her skirt was tattered and the once creamy blouse dingy from overuse.        

Yet she had what his grandfather always called presence, the quality that commands attention in a crowded room.

The Wanderer observed the girl looking him over, her cool gaze taking in his patched clothes and rucksack. 

Then their eyes met. 

The air snapped around him, teasing along his flesh. 

He noticed that the muscles of her long thighs were taut, her shapely calves disappearing into heavy boots. He could see the silhouette of high breasts underneath her blouse, the curve of her waist swelling into hips. 

When the Wanderer looked up, he flushed. 

The girl’s lips were parted in a knowing smile, her regard penetrating when he met her eyes again. She raised her brows and chuckled, and heat shot through his veins.

“Happy trails, Wanderer,” she said.

He blinked a few times, stunned by her greeting. 

Before he could answer, the girl turned her steed for the woods and clicked her tongue, disappearing into No Man’s Land. 

She had actually recognized him as a wanderer.

Her voice echoed in his mind, the kind of voice he liked best in a woman, deep in tone yet smooth like well-aged liquor. 

She must be an adventurer, one of his own.  

Relief intoxicated the Wanderer and made him restless. Turning his mare towards the break in the trees where she went, he followed the swathe of trampled bushes.

Trippy Thailand of Gentle Reverence, the Buddha, Prostitutes, and LadyBoys

Image by Dean Moriarty from Pixabay

Hey y’all,

Thailand is trippy.

On one hand, this is a profoundly spiritual culture. There are temples and Buddha statues everywhere. Almost every home and business has a spirit house for their dead and any other spirits to live in, and people feed them often with food and sodas. (Spirits really love sugar.)

What I see in all this is a deep relationship with faith and the unseen, which is entrenched in people’s daily lives, the kind of relationship that is not typical in North America.

Thais are gentle people, and there’s delicacy and ritual to their manners that is definitely atypical in North America. Even the classiest, most polite American does not express reverence in their courtesy.

The Thais do. People put their hands together in the prayer position and bow every time they greet and thank you.

If you’re a regular person, the prayer hands are under the chin or at the chest. If one is of higher status, they bring their hands up to their foreheads.

Thailand has strong feminine energy.

On the way here, I noticed my Thai flight attendant had on makeup, but I also sensed he was gay. Yet many of the straight men wear foundation as well in an attempt to make their skin look flawless.

The women are ladylike, soft-spoken, and demure. They’re not as modest as Laos women, but that country is conservative and communist. So…

And on the other hand, Thailand is well…decadent. Although it’s illegal, prostitution is accepted and it’s everywhere.

“A lot of tourists come here to boink,” said Dean. “Sex tourism is huge here.”

Prostitution is not only confined to the cities. All the villages have at least one brothel.

I first heard about this from Robert’s first wife, Lisa.

In the 90’s, she had been in the Peace Corps for 4 years as an English teacher in a small village. But another of her duty calls was to go around the brothels and educate – or try to - the prostitutes about condoms because HIV and AIDS was spreading fast.

“It’s as normal for a Thai man to stop at the brothel and get laid after work as it is for us to stop at a bar to get a beer,” Lisa said. “Problem is, although everybody has sex, nobody talks about it. So it was difficult to teach these girls about using condoms because they got so embarrassed.”

Lisa told me that the girls were sold to the brothels by their parents because their families were so poor that their daughters could support them. And they did. Even the most hardened prostitutes in Bangkok send most of their money home.

From this memory, I took that to mean that brothels were common, and that prostitution was contained therein. I didn’t know about the girly bars or the grittier Thai massage parlors.

Prostitutes were not on my mind as I flew to Udon Thani. Why would they be since I learned about the Red Lotus Sea?

I’m happy I went. The Red Lotus Sea of Pink Water Lilies did not disappoint.

What I didn’t know was my hotel was on a street with girly bars and massage parlors, and an arcade with a dozen girly bars was kitty corner to the hotel.

I like to walk around. It helps me feel out the vibe of a place.  

All my back and forth forays along my street made me aware that the women here were unusually friendly.

“Hello Madame!”

“You want a massage! It will be wonderful experience for you!”

One evening, I was restless and went back out with the vague intention of trying to find the night market.

There were a lot more girls in the small bars along the street. They were young, and showing some skin in tank tops and short dresses.

Thai women are very beautiful, and these girls were no exception.

The girls looked so odd, sitting alone in these deserted bars while men conversed in the Italian café and the Irish pub.

I did see one girl sitting close to a 60ish white guy. She was 20 at the oldest.

Since day had turned to night, the girls were even friendlier than they had been earlier.

I went to the arcade thinking it was some kind of open-air market with various shops and cafes.

Instead, it was more like running the gauntlet.

The night was slow, the men were absent, and I was the only game in town.

“Hello Madame! Come on in!”

“Want to play pool! Welcome!”

The girls swarmed to the edges and called out. The demure standards of Thai femininity keep them from being too aggressive. But the ladyboys are not hindered with reticence.

An absolutely stunning ladyboy with thick, glossy hair, dressed in tight black jeans, a black bra, and high heels undulated her way to me with a big smile and her arms outstretched.

“Hello! Hello!”

She even gave me a hug, took my hand, and tried to drag me into the bar while the other girls of that bar cheered her on, but still hung back.

I extricated myself, told her she was beautiful, and continued on my way to the end of the arcade.

It was around this time that I finally got a clue as to where I was. But the arcade ended at a dead end with no place to go, so I had to turn around and make my way back.

The ladyboy approached again.

“Hello Madame! Come and have a drink with me!”

I actually wanted to. Thai ladyboys are known for their incredible beauty, eccentricity, and charm. I’m sure I would have had a very unique adventure that would have made an unforgettable story if I had said yes.

But.

I didn’t know enough about where I was or what I was getting into. Sometimes you have to forego a vivid experience to err on the side of caution.  

So I shook my head, got out of there, and immediately came back to the hotel where I googled and found lots of information about girly bars and prostitutes and ladyboys.

Apparently, they make a cut off the “lady drinks” that you buy them. There was no mention of spiking drinks with drugs or anything like that.

The next morning, I had my day at the lake.

There was a Thai couple in the boat next to mine. The girl was not demure. She stood and screamed down at her boyfriend/husband hunched over in the bow. My boatman understood what she was shrieking about and chuckled.

Eventually, the boyfriend/husband got riled enough to yell back, but that didn’t shut her up.

I couldn’t understand a word she said, but I was disgusted with the girlfriend/wife. She seemed truly awful.

I urged my boatman to move on from the unpleasantness and the noise.

But all I could think as we made our way through the water lilies was that most of those girls I had seen the night before would have been thrilled if they could have been in a boat on a blooming lake in the company of a man like him.

Even if he was an ass.

Peace,

Mana

The Ruin of Fools

Image by DivvyPixel from Pixabay

Her debasement was the most exhilarating horror I have ever witnessed.

From the essence of the Brute, the Sorcerer annihilated a lifetime of indulgence. The haughty Patron’s Daughter was reduced to a desperate whore in weeks.

Looking back from the perspective of the particular experience I’ve had with the upper classes, I long ago realized the hideous disservice my former Patron and Patroness did their progeny.

Raised with excessive vanity and convinced of their superiority, their daughter and son were rendered helpless faced with the predators who would be their undoing.

They had no skills to make their way through life.

This is the tale about the ruin of the Patron’s Daughter, yet her brother’s fall from grace was no less drastic.

In some ways, it was worse.

A little more than ten years after I came to the Capital City, I heard how their son ended up destitute.

The estate where I grew up had been in that horrid family for more generations than could be counted. Early in his patronage, the son would lose everything because of an elaborate and exceedingly brilliant swindle.

Although the son was as spoiled as his sister, he wasn’t nearly as difficult to please when it came to marriage.

Perhaps it was because he was less beautiful. He married fairly young and seemingly well to a girl as highborn and indulged as he was.

His bride was said to be rather beautiful, not so much as the Patron’s Daughter, but enough that the spoiled son and his parents were pleased with the marriage.

Two years after their lavish wedding, the patron died, and his wife followed within months.

Thus the young couple became the new patron and patroness of the village.

Yet there was already trouble between them.

Like most marriages between the upper classes, there was very little courtship between the betrothed couple. So unless there were strong objections on one side or the other, the parents went ahead with the wedding plans.

It wasn’t long after the sumptuous nuptials, when the couple spent real time together that the blushing bride decided her husband was insufferable and their life tedious.

Rumor had it that she refused to take her place in the marriage bed after their honeymoon.

The sudden rise in stature did nothing to ease her dissatisfaction or make her more agreeable to the intimacy of a husband and wife.

They were in a uniquely vulnerable state.

The wife’s loathing of highborn married respectability and the fact that the young couple was ill prepared for their new responsibilities made them succulent prey.

So of course, predators were quick to appear.

Within months of their ascension, a family of intelligent bandits moved into the village.

This breed of outlaw was not violent. These were the criminal minds who preferred to use their brains to separate fools from their wealth.

The gang of ambitious con artists had their sights on the foolish young patron, new to his position, uncertain in how to wield power, and with nobody to guide him.

How these never-do-wells gained entry to the social circle of the patron and patroness is beyond my experience to figure out.

I heard they had an extravagant story, that they had flair and charisma, and plenty of props to support the illusion of false respectability.

However it happened that such opposites should cross paths, the young patroness fell hungrily in love with the ringleader as soon as she saw him.

Wily creature that young man must have been, he took full advantage of the unexpected gift Fortune had bestowed and seduced the young patroness.

Word had it that the wife’s role was crucial to the elaborate scheme played upon her husband.

Good lord, how she must have despised him!

The swindle cost him everything, and thus, the interminable lineage of that awful family came to an end.

Their fortune made and evidence against the bandits impossible to obtain, the young patroness ran off with her lover and his unscrupulous family, leaving her husband wretchedly poor and suddenly dependent on his sister.

I heard the Patron’s Daughter had been so furious with her brother she made him live in the gardener’s cottage at the back of her property, rather than in the house with her.

Yes, darling Shepherd, the Patron’s Daughter had been able to get on with life.

I hope it reassures you that she fared much better than most girls taken in by the Sorcerer.

Her ruin was subtle enough for camouflage. She even married within her social class. Less than a year after I left, I heard the Patron’s Daughter married a man much older than she, a few years older than her father.

Because she did not sell her heart, her scandalous nature was suspected and gossiped about for years. Her reputation was shaky for the rest of her life.

But she was never caught, nothing was ever proven, and appearances were maintained.

I believe the marriage of convenience suited her rather well, and I’m sure her parents must have been relieved to see her go.

The Bard's Send Off

Image by coritonjes0 from Pixabay

The Bard’s voice was the last to weaken.

He was just barely heard over the muffle of wheels rolling along a well-traveled road.

The driver took care to keep the horses at a gentle pace to make the journey as comfortable as possible.

Inside the carriage, his grandson, their Patron and his wife listened with all their being. They were patient when the Bard stopped talking to catch his breath, their eyes misty. They were certain they would be the last people to have the honor of hearing him speak.

Nothing was left of the vigor he had most of his life.

Flesh over bone all that remained of his powerful build. But his eyes hadn’t changed, his dark gaze as piercing as ever.

The end of his life was near, but the Bard still made the trip to see his grandson off. He had grown into a fine-looking youth, tall and lean, with long limbs and the same black eyes as his grandfather, his face framed with unkempt dark curls.

Their Patron and Patroness insisted on making the journey with them. They claimed their most comfortable carriage was ideal for the peak of autumn when the air was too bracing to ride in the open air. They said they would be honored to take the grandson to port and bring the Bard home.

As thanks, the old man passed the time with one of his tales.

“The wretched fate of the Bounty Hunter spread faster than an inferno. Expensive ladies despaired she would ever be stopped. Men of the world were horrified they should ever cross paths with her. Yet the danger fascinated. Each man wanted to be the one strong enough to resist Ella Bandita, and her conquests were more than ever.” 

His audience laughed, their applause starting two beats after the finish.

“You tell the most remarkable stories,” said their Patron, a twinkle in his eyes. “But I certainly hope I never attract the notice of your villainess.” 

“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said the Bard. “She leaves the good men alone.”

The Patroness grinned at him and winked.

“Bard, I’m getting the impression you admire your Ella Bandita.”

“She’s as wicked a woman as ever lived. But truth be told, I kind of do.”

“Peppo,” his grandson said, rolling his eyes to the heavens. “Are you ever going to admit she lives only in your imagination?”

“I promise you if I ever dreamed her up, I’d force myself awake.”

“You’ve been telling stories about Ella Bandita since I was five,” the youth continued and smirked. “She must be getting too old to be so seductive by now.”

“She has eternal youth.”

The handsome couple smiled at the banter, relieved no tension lingered from the boy’s birthday.

Everybody from the village was at the cabin to wish him well and witness his surprise when the Bard gave his birthday present. The ticket on a steamer bound for the Orient was his last gift to the youth who yearned to travel the world since he was a child.

He was overjoyed until he heard how soon the ship would depart, and then he refused to leave during his grandfather’s illness.

The ensuing quarrel between the Bard and his grandson ruined the celebration.

The carriage turned off the main road to a winding path.

All the passengers were surprised, thinking it was too soon to arrive in port. Yet one glance out the window and the ship the boy would be on could be seen from the harbor. The Bard’s grandson glowed at the sight until he turned to his grandfather, his brows drawn close.

“None of that, Kid,” the Bard grumbled. “This is the most glorious day of your life.”

“I can go later-”

“You go today or you don’t go at all. And you’re going today.”

The Patron looked at his wife, who nodded.

“I don’t think it’s right to leave you now,” his grandson argued. “I can go-”

“How many times do we have to argue about this? I won’t have you watch me die.” 

“I’m seventeen. I’m old enough to handle it.”

The Bard peered at the youth for a few minutes. When he spoke again, his manner was gentle, his voice gruff.

“You have already been mercilessly close to death.”

The color drained from the boy’s face at the reminder of his parents’ murder, but he was swift to recover.

“I don’t remember anything about that.”

“I do,” the Bard said, “and I remember the terrors you had every night for a year.”

“This is not the same thing,” his grandson said. “You’ve had a long life.”

“Death is death, and you needn’t witness mine.”

His grandson turned his head to the window. Swarms of people were in the streets, and he recognized the travelers from the anticipation sparkling in their eyes.

All was festive beyond the carriage, the conversation animated and the laughter boisterous, yet some had tears in their eyes.  Loved ones embraced the passengers waiting for the horn to call them aboard. 

The Patron pulled the latch and opened them up to the world outside, his wife joining him. They were adamant on the need to check in early at the hotel where they would stay the night and make certain of the rooms. 

The driver closed the door behind the noble couple. The old man chuckled watching their backs disappear down a narrow avenue and turned to his grandson.

“I know you don’t understand why I want you to go now,” the Bard said. “Any more than I understand your desire to be a wanderer. That scares me to no end, but isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

“Yes, it is.”

“So, if I can honor your wishes, why can’t you honor mine?”

The youth squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

“It’s rare that one man can give another his dream,” the Bard said, taking his hand. “Will you please let me enjoy this?”

His grandson traced the bones in the old man’s fingers. He still couldn’t believe the Bard was so fragile, waiting for the knot in his throat to dissolve before he spoke.

“Thank you, Peppo. This means everything to me.”

“Then allow yourself some happiness, so I can be a part of it.”

The youth nodded, but all he could think about was that this would be the last time he saw his grandfather.

He wanted to savor this time and pushed his tears away, talking to the Bard with a false cheeriness that didn’t fool the old man.

They were relieved by the return of the Patron and Patroness, their smiling faces easing the tension in the carriage.

“We have a gift for you,” the Patron said.

His wife pulled a necklace from its wrapping. A man with ardent devotion in his features was carved into the silver charm.

“This is the saint who looks out for travelers,” she said, draping the chain around his neck. “He’ll keep you safe.”

The youth started at the sound of the horn calling the passengers on board.

The whistle rang in his ears and his heart pounded and ached. He wondered how it was possible to feel excited for adventure and overcome with sorrow in the same moment.

The Bard swallowed hard, but smiled to his grandson.

“Well, this is your send off,” he said. “Remember to always follow your heart. At least, I don’t need to worry about you crossing paths with Ella Bandita.”

His grandson laughed, relieved he might leave in high spirits like the old man wanted.

“Now that I’m about to leave,” he said. “Will you now admit you made her up?”

“But if I did,” the Bard retorted. “My last words to you would be lies.”

All four of them laughed, clinging to the suddenly buoyant mood.

“But Peppo,” his grandson said. “There’s one thing I never understood. It’s not possible Ella Bandita could eat all those hearts she stole.”

“You got that right.”

“So if she’s real as you say,” he pressed, “then where does she keep them?”

“That’s a good question, and one I don’t know the answer to.”

The Bard pulled his grandson close and held him with the last of his strength, one tear sliding down his cheek.

“Enough about her,” he said, kissing his cheek. “Dreams don’t wait forever, Kid. It’s time for you to go.”

Happy Elephants in Thailand

Photo by Into the Wild Elephant Camp

Hey y’all,

So, yesterday I hung out with half a dozen elephants.

If you are ever in Chiang Mai, the most ethical company for this kind of tour is Into the Wild Elephant Camp. Due to animal activism, many of the companies have shifted away from riding elephants to caring for them.

However, many are still putting these magnificent creatures into pens and chaining them up, and not caring for them all that well. We saw them at other camps on the way to this one.

At this place, the elephants roam the property freely and they are VERY happy elephants.

Here’s the link:

https://www.intothewildelephantcamp.com/

Elephants are awesome! Intimidating, but awesome, and yesterday was magical. Even if I got injured, it was a fabulous day.

For the record, it wasn’t the elephants’ fault. It was the guide’s for guiding me to wet, jagged rocks and mine for not sticking with the direction I had chosen.

I was part of a group of 6 who signed up for the all-day experience. A solo dude traveler from Scotland, a couple from Ireland, a brother and sister from Germany, and me.

As soon as we arrived, we changed into red poncho-type tops, so the elephants would recognize us as their herd.

I think sugar cane helped sweeten them up towards us because that’s the first thing we did. We each got a bag of sugar cane the same color as our poncho, and the elephants were all about us then.

6 elephants for 6 of us. 2 large, fully grown elephants and 4 young and growing elephants.

Sometime next year, it will be 7 elephants because one of them is pregnant. She’s 1 year into it, and we could feel her baby bump on both sides.

Did you know elephants are pregnant for 2 YEARS??!!!! Our guide told us the baby elephant will be about 2 meters when it’s born. Poor elephant mama!

The elephants ignored the 1 elephant/person rule and swarmed to whomever had sugar cane in hand. Since I took my time feeding my elephant, I still had sugar cane when everybody else was out. At one point, I was swarmed with 3 elephant trunks around me.

They could smell the sugar, I tell you.

I guess elephants, like humans, have a thing for sweetness.

Anyway, our tour entailed feeding the elephants, hiking with the elephants, hanging out with the elephants while they fed on anything green, coming back for lunch, feeding the pregnant elephant our lunch leftovers (she was the only one who hung around where we were eating), smashing and mashing the “elephant medicine” – came from the source, various foods like rice, bananas, sugar cane cubes, and bitter root and other stuff mashed together manually to make a ball of vitamin and mineral mush – and feeding them a ball of gunk apiece.

Then we gave the elephants a mud bath and took them to the deeper pond where they rolled around in the water.

Photo by Into the Wild Elephant Camp

We splashed them and they splashed us. But they were definitely more comfortable and playful with the staff who works with and cares for them every day. They acted like giant, goofy dogs – especially the young elephants, who sprayed all of us from their trunks.

The two giants were more dignified. One of them wouldn’t get in the pool with us. The pregnant one did though. But no rolling around in the water for her.

Anyway, to experience this piece of specialness was worth slipping on a rock. That happened at the first leg of the hike. We walked single file with elephants in front of and behind us.  

I had fallen behind with Scottish Joey and the elephants made it to the creek ahead of us. They splashed and sprayed themselves and got the rocks wet. Joey found another route further up the creek bed. I was taking that way, and should have stuck with it because the rocks were dry.

But like an idiot, I listened to the guide who said the rocks right next to the elephants were a better route.

It wasn’t.

Photo by yours truly!

I made it across two rocks before I slipped on the third. I fell on my right shin and flopped gracelessly into the creek.

I was right next to the elephants when it happened, and made some kind of shriek because my leg hurt like hell. The guides got me out of there quickly and the elephants made snuffling, distressed noises and came out of the creek when I did, swinging their trunks and one of the bigger ones was scratching the ground with its giant foot.

“See, the elephants are worried about you! They know something happened and it scared them too.”

I don’t know if that was actually true, or if the guide lied to keep me from freaking out.

I was more than a little intimidated. I felt compelled to bow to the elephants to tell them I was fine, even with blood streaming down my leg.

No OCD concerns about germs, health, and safety over here. One of the guides patted at my wounds with his sandy hands, and the Irish nurse cringed and thought to herself: “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t do that.”

We kept hiking.

Photo by Into the Wild Elephant Camp

Other than asking me if I was all right from time to time, the tour went on and the guide assured me I’d get my leg cleaned up during lunch.

“Do you have antibacterial cream?”

“We have alcohol.”

We hung out with the elephants that ignored us as they fed on the grasses and branches and tore down anything that was in their way.

My throbbing, torn up leg distracted me some, but no way was I going to let that get in the way.

At lunch, my leg did get cleaned up while I listened to the Europeans discussing politics.

It started with Scottish Joey asking if they thought Britain was nuts because of Brexit. Apparently, a big election is happening in Ireland as well. And it struck me how much knowledge they had over the social and political state of their respective countries.

Then it was time for elephant medicine, mud baths and the swim.

Swimming with the elephants was my favorite part, and it was also the grand finale. I forgot my bathing suit, but I still went in.

So yeah, I’m having some gorgeous experiences on this trip.

Peace,

Mana

The Shepherd and the Courtesan Get More Acquainted

Image by Mabel Amber, still incognito... from Pixabay

“How incredible,” she whispered. “You come from singular people, Shepherd. I’ve never heard of such a family. From what I see in this moment you captured so beautifully, your father must have known he was dying and would never see you again.”

The Shepherd nodded.

“You didn’t know how to draw when you were young. So how long was it before you drew this image?”

“More than fifteen years after his death,” the Shepherd said and paused. “I have never forgiven myself for that.”

Adrianna looked up sharply.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” the Shepherd snapped.

“Your father looks to me like the kind of man who knew his own mind. He made his choice.”

“I should have been there,” the Shepherd insisted.

“Were your uncles hard on you when you returned?”

“Not at all. They and my cousins couldn’t have been more kind. They reassured me every day that it gave my father so much peace to see me happy and excited when I left.”

“What was your nature like before you left?”

“I’m ashamed to say I was a very moody and unpleasant companion.”

Adrianna smiled ruefully.

“I can relate. Farming is a brutal labor that never ends.”

“It wasn’t the work I minded so much as the confinement. The stifling sameness day after day after day was unbearable.”

“You were a restless youth.”

“Child. Youth. Young man. Old man.”

“It sounds like your father understood you.”

The Shepherd paused, then nodded.

“My uncles swore he spoke of the morning I left every day with excitement and joy until the dawn they came to find him gone. He didn’t complain once about the pain, and worked every day. They said he had the blessing of dying in his sleep. They said he was radiant when they found him, his expression serene. ”

“If your father was so much at peace with his choice, why are you tormenting yourself?”

“It was wrong of me not to be there. I was all he had.”

“Apparently not. He had devoted brothers and nephews who worked with him every day.”

“I was his only child.”

“And his last vision of you was one of joy, anticipation, and hope. Isn’t that so much better than sullenness and frustration? Or grief and sorrow if he had even let you know he was dying? Your father left this world with the liberated spirit of a man who knew he had given his son the freedom he craved. Yet here you are, fighting the last wishes of a good man with your guilt.”

Adrianna tilted her head to the side and cocked her left brow.

“So as I asked before, ‘why?’ How does that honor your father?”

The Shepherd smiled slightly.

“You make a compelling argument, Adrianna. I never thought of it from that perspective.”

“Is it enough to set you free?”

“I don’t know about that. But right now, I do feel a little lighter.”

“That’s a rich compliment, Shepherd.”

Adrianna chuckled, the gleam in her golden eyes lightening the mood for a moment.

The Shepherd smiled, but he couldn’t help remembering the Wanderer’s story of his grandfather, the Bard, who sent his grandson away to travel, rather than staying to watch him die.

He remembered the bond he had felt when the lonely Wolf told him about that fateful evening on the wharf when he could finally mourn the loss of a man he deeply loved and respected.

Looking back, the Shepherd realized he had made his choice to invite the Wolf to come with him after he shared this.

“Shepherd,” Adrianna whispered. “It seems like you just went very far away.”

The Shepherd smiled.

“I did,” he admitted. “Coincidences are very odd.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shared experiences that make friends out of strangers. It’s a powerful bond that happens immediately.”

A sharp intake of breath, almost a hiss, made the Shepherd look up. Adrianna sat frozen in place, her eyes wide and staring.

“Are you all right?”

The Courtesan shook her head and came back to herself quickly. As if the moment had never happened, she smiled warmly.

“I’m quite well,” she replied. “I agree that it’s a shock to discover common ground with someone I don’t know, a shock which is not always pleasant and sometimes not unpleasant.”

Before the Shepherd could respond, she picked up the sketch of his father again.

“What a remarkable man your father was.”

“Yes.”

A random thought entered the Shepherd’s mind.

“Did you ever see your parents again once you left?”

“No.”

Adrianna’s tone was curt, and she flicked her eyes away when she answered.

“That was impossible, given the nature of how I departed. I think you will understand that after my next tale.”

Adrianna gathered the Shepherd’s sketches tenderly, rolled them and placed them back in his cache before handing them over with a smile. Her ability to recover quickly was unsettling to her guest.

“Again, thank you for sharing, darling Shepherd. I enjoyed your stories this morning.”

“You are very adept at drawing them out of me.”

“Years of practice,” Adrianna replied and grinned. “It is clear I’ve more of a fondness for spinning yarns than you do.”

“And you are a marvelous storyteller,” he said. “I regret that I can’t match your talent.”

Adrianna shrugged.

“I hope you warm up more as time passes. I have a hunch you have much to say and that there is richness to share from your life.”

“That’s not for me to judge.”

Adrianna looked at the Shepherd archly, and shook her head slowly.

“As it stands today, no stories for you. I have a formal engagement tonight and will be out rather late.”

The news caught the Shepherd off guard, and the sharp stab of disappointment more so.

After a few days, he had already grown accustomed to the daily intimacy of long visits and the trade of stories. He realized he enjoyed the company of the most celebrated Courtesan of the Capital City, and was shocked that she wouldn’t be there that evening.

Adrianna peered at him closely. The Shepherd flushed, knowing that his face betrayed his displeasure.

“You are always welcome to join me, darling Shepherd. There isn’t anybody in the Capital who wouldn’t die just a little for the opportunity to meet you.”

“I thank you and your friends for the extensive hospitality. But I’ll have to decline.”

Adrianna chuckled.

“Crowds?”

“Crowds.”

“Well, I definitely anticipated that answer.”

Adrianna stood and curtseyed, her bow low and exaggerated.

“I will finish my adventure with the Patron’s Daughter and the Sorcerer tomorrow night. The tale is rather grueling. A sensitive man like you might want to prepare yourself.”

The Wrath of the Courtesan

Image by Анастасия Гепп from Pixabay

The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.

They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society. 

Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels.  Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world.

 Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist? To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.   

The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men. 

I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her.

Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, hardly worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.

He was a charmer, this man who set all the women against Ella Bandita.

He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience. In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.

His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent. 

Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves. 

He hadn’t been married a year before the Charmer pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating. He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession. 

She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful. 

Dark and fiery with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary. 

Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city. She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective. 

The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.

But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera. 

The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince. They sat across from the Charmer and his wife. 

Adrianna even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking. 

He smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint. 

Then the Charmer made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet.

He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat. The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey. 

Then his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted. He forgot about Ella Bandita once the performance was under, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.

The Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell. 

He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, a life of elegance and leisure. The Charmer was enjoying himself, his privilege too fresh to take for granted.

Who knows why we do the things we do?

Perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent. 

Maybe he sensed the boredom that would come.

All we know is when the Charmer caught sight of Ella Bandita during intermission, she had no trouble enticing him with a new game. 

She met his gaze and grinned. Then she wove her way through groups of ladies and gentlemen, provoking the Charmer with brief glances behind her, eyes glittering when she smiled at him.

And he followed her, this man who had everything.   

The Charmer returned to the balcony with his wife and finished the opera with her. Yet he left their bed and house late that night. 

The next morning, he was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering the same words as those who fell before him.

“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”

A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came.  Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment. 

She had never suffered this indignity before. She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure.

Her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came to call with the dreadful news about her favorite lover. 

Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.

The Saving Grace of Good Friends Yet Again, and Great Ideas From Total Strangers - On the Road #24

Image by Bessi from Pixabay

Hey y'all,

I’ve been hanging out with good friends in Bellingham and as nice as it is, not eventful, exciting, or eccentric enough to write about.

Isn't it odd how that works?

I also my first official event in the lower forty-eight Wednesday night at Village Books in Bellingham, and it was my biggest audience yet.

But I must say, I'm fast losing patience with the brick and mortar bookstores. So far, it's a lot of effort with very little reward. This was a gig set up by one of my best friends while I was careening around the Interior.

Just the kind of thing that keeps me motivated, you know? But being fortified with the support of Susan and Markis, I was going to feel like a rock star even if I fell flat on my face.

Village Books is an awesome venue, the best I've come across for doing my thing because they have a corner space with podium and folding chairs with funky brick columns and whatnot. 

It has a very underground vibe to it. 

They have readings every night, which brings with it a built in audience. I think that there were plenty of people who just come to the readings because it's free entertainment. 

As the storytelling progressed, I had people showing up consistently, which felt gratifying.

Especially since they listened and didn't walk out...but I don't know, maybe I offended many with the concept of God and the Devil playing backgammon in Purgatory every Friday night. 

Susan was the only one who laughed at all, and she even laughed in the right spots, but nobody joined in.

Except for her, I felt like I was surrounded by Puritans. Giving me the stare with their mouths clamped shut. Susan said the energy felt tense out there when I went into "Divorce of Vice and Virtue."

You would think Bellingham wouldn't be so uptight, but apparently not.  

When I announced that the books were $9.95 and I'd be happy to sign copies, there was a mass exodus.

But two ladies, who had come in separately and on time, stayed behind. 

Thank God I've had the experiences I've had - everything from selling spaghetti dinner tickets in my Catholic schoolgirl uniform (when I was a kid, that would be appalling now), to tending bar, to being a hiking guide for the illustrious Gastineau Guiding.  

This event was the equivalent of the busload tourists who did NOT like me, and I did a couple of things any guide with a lick of sense would do.

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

First, I focused only on the friendly faces in the audience. Then plowed ahead and let if roll off me like water off a duck's back.   

I mean why torture myself? Besides my reward was quality, not quantity.

The two women who stayed behind and chatted with me and my friends both bought books, and it's always a reward to sell to total strangers because they got it because they liked what I did. 

One of them, a introverted, young woman named Laura - one of those types who really takes in the world around them without giving anything away -  gave me a great suggestion which I think might save my ass. 

Because two books an event really sucks and I have 700 more books to move.

While chatting, I mentioned the complimentary tarot card reading I offered for those who bought books at certain fairs and festivals and  she asked me if I really read tarot cards. 

I said yeah, I make no pretensions to being a psychic, it was just a gimmick I did to sell the book. 

Then she said she read tarot cards too, and traveled around the east coast doing readings at flea markets.

Flea markets? The light bulb went on in my head.

“Are the booths expensive?” I asked her.

“No,” she said. “They're really cheap.” 

Doing my research on the Internet, there are flea markets everywhere! 

And the rent is cheap....

I'll be at my first one in Seattle manana. Wish me luck! 

Peace,

Montgomery

This letter was from a DIY booktour/roadtrip I did in 2005-2006. I had forgotten about this event, and how that went until I re-read this. Wow. Memories!

The Gentle Grace of Luang Prabang

Photo by yours truly

Hey y’all,

The one thing that really strikes me about the people in Laos is how gentle and demure they are, even many of the men.

It’s been lovely.

Luang Prabang is an odd mixture of elegance and gritty 3rd world primitive. There are charming and picturesque guesthouses, restaurants, and cafes; yet a few doors down is somebody’s basic living, where people are cooking over open fires and eating with their friends and family on the sidewalk.

On one side of the street are spendier restaurants clearly for tourists, while on the other a Mom and Pop stop where the food is delicious, basic, truly Laos cuisine, and MUCH CHEAPER.

The best place to see the early-morning monks going past was the guesthouse at the end of the road where locals set up to give them the rice they cooked with intention and blessing.

I stayed there for $10/night, where kids played in the streets and at the convenience store, they made fresh Laos-style tortillas every day and hung them on racks to dry in the sun.

Yet a block away, at the lovely and comfortable hotel, the people giving alms were tourists. They got their rice from the store across the street – but I’m sure they blessed their rice.

On the main road a block up, it was obnoxious.

Somebody told me the monks put the tourist rice in a different place and fed it to the dogs, because they don’t want to sully the holy rice with crap.

I heard about that from a guide who had been a novice for 7 years.

Orange Robe Tours is a sweet company that gives former novices and monks a place to land when they leave the temple and have some time to adapt from the culture shock.

My tour guide’s name was Sounan. He had been out of the temple for a year, and said the transition had been difficult.

He said novices can join as young as 9 years old, but nobody can become a monk before they’re 20. He also explained that those wearing the orange robes with an open shoulder were novices, and those with both shoulders covered were monks.

I asked him if it were true that the monks can “give their vows back” if they decide they want to be a part of the world again. Yes, they could in Laos. But not in China.

He explained that in Laos, Thailand, and Cambodia, they practice Theraveda Buddhism. In China, Japan, and Vietnam, they practice Mahayana Buddhism.

Sounan explained that the 4 rules for everybody were: “Do not lie, do not steal, do not kill, and no sexual.”

The novices and monks have a lot more rules: “No play sport, no ride motorcycles, do not sit or stand ahead of monks (if you’re a novice)” – are the ones I remember.

Sounan said that many families send their sons to temple because they get a better education and to make them good people. The kids are on trial for a week before the decision is made. He also said that most of the novices came from the villages, that kids from bigger towns and cities like Luang Prabang and Vientiane didn’t want to go to temple.

He said he loved his time there, and still meditates every day twice a day.

I asked him a lot of questions about the similarities I had seen between Buddhism and Hinduism, and he’s the one who said: “Oh, we’re also Hindu.” But he didn’t elaborate.

I asked him about the fierce-looking Nagas – the serpent-like creatures I saw guiding people up to the Buddhas and the temples. Sounan explained that they were the guardians of the temples to keep out evil. And in China, the guardians were dragons.

He told me a legend of how the Naga became the guardian of the temples. Well, sort of. Storytelling here has a rather abrupt quality.

When Buddha was alive, a Naga really wanted to become a monk. So he transformed himself into a human and joined the temple as a novice.

The Buddha knew about it, but chose not to say anything.

But somebody, maybe a monk or another novice, knocked on the naga’s door and walked in, caught the naga in his serpentine form, and yelled foul.

Somehow, the do not lie rule translated into the Naga not allowed to become a monk, but to protect the temples he loved so much.

There was not much of a segue to get to the end. I asked Sounan if this was how the Naga became a temple guardian and he said yes.

There’s an awesome organization here called Big Brother Mouse, where travelers meet with Laos youth so they can practice their English.

I went once.

At first, I started with a bunch of teenage novice monks between the ages of 16-18. Many had been in the temple for 7 years since they were 11 years old, and when I asked if they wanted to be monks when they were 20, one of them said: “I don’t know.”

There was one who knew he wanted to be a monk. He didn’t join the temple until he was 14 (he was 16). It was hard for his parents because he was an only child.

“I miss playing sport,” he said, when I asked him what he missed most.

He’d only been studying English for a year, and he spoke it very well.

I was surprised to hear that the novices went to the regular high school with the other kids. With all their strict rules, that has to be pretty challenging.

“Remember that they can’t touch you or shake your hand,” said the guide who led me to the back patio with a half a dozen novices.

I went to a couple of dance performances where they did their traditional dances as a form of storytelling. This was in the Royal Ballet Theater within the gates of the National Museum. But really, this could have been a performance from a high school.

The costumes and masks were remarkable, but also kind of mismatched, and the dancing was very subtle. I would say it was more a form of physical theater than what we consider the athletic, acrobatic art of dance. They moved their arms and hands a lot as a way of communicating the story.

The women’s hand gestures were very delicate, and a couple of them seemed almost double jointed with how well they stretched their fingers out.

They were telling an epic saga with a different episode each night for a total of 8 or 9 episodes. If I’d known about this soon enough, I would have been able to go to all of them.

But it was just as well. As delicate and interesting as it was, 2 performances were enough for me. Again, very random and abrupt storytelling.

Differences of culture. I’m sure the people of Laos find their storytelling very lyrical and poetic in their own language.

Peace,

Mana

Cave of 1000 Buddhas and Badly Treated Elephants

Photo by yours truly!

Hey y’all,

For my last day in Luang Prabang, Laos, I had the grand adventure of kayaking on the Mekong River for a few hours. The main goal was to see the Pakou caves that were well known for having over a 1000 Buddhas, many of which were hundreds of years old, and many of which were headless. They were made of earth and fell apart over time.

Before we got there, we had the unfortunate experience of having lunch with some poorly treated elephants. That was not part of the tour description by the way.

Activism for the humane treatment elephants has spread far and wide, and has really impacted elephant tourism in Chiang Mai and Thailand. Most of the tours advertised are caring for the elephants and feeding them, but not riding them.

That kind of awareness has not fully reached Laos. I would say what is offered is about half and half. There were still tours advertising a chance to ride an elephant, as well as the humane caring for them.

Not the place we stopped for lunch, however. It was actually pretty frigging awful.

As we were walking up the hill, I heard a rustling in the bushes to my left. At first, I was excited to see an elephant coming out of the brush, swinging its trunk. Then I heard some guy yelling at it, and then I saw the elephant was being used as a beast of burden and dragging a couple of logs.

Photo by yours truly!

Song, our guide, warned me to be careful and to steer clear. I hustled up the hill and past the maligned elephant. But there were 2 more where we’d be eating.

Where we ate, the elephants were chained up and not given much space to move. They seemed restless, swinging their trunks and fluttering their ears, while taking what steps they could to move around. There was no water and no food nearby for them, and they were pretty much hanging out close to their own feces.

Song, our guide, told us to be careful because you never knew when the elephants would be calm and friendly, or angry and aggressive.

Well yeah.

Photo by yours truly

The elephants were clearly not happy. I could hardly blame them. The only kindness extended to the two near our lunch was that at least they were chained up in the shade.

The bitter irony of this was that the eco-touring company’s name was “White Elephant Tours.”

The German kids I was the kayaking tour with were aware. One of them said: “I’m not spending any money here. Elephants are such intelligent animals. They know what’s happening to them.”

Good to see this kind of awareness outside of Portland. Apparently, elephant welfare has spread far; but in Luang Prabang, Laos, it still needs to spread further.

I don’t understand why the elephants were treated so poorly. Luang Prabang used to be known as the land of a million elephants.

Also, from what I’ve seen in the temples, the elephant is one of Buddhism’s sacred animals. In India, the Hindus treat their sacred cows and bulls like royalty. They go wherever they want and do whatever they want. So it’s baffling to me that the mentality would so different in Laos and in Thailand in the recent past.

This was a bit of an unusual trip in that I joined a small group who had been trekking for a couple of days. I had signed up for a sole kayak tour earlier in the week, but couldn’t make it because I woke up with a headache.

Photo by yours truly

Financially at least, White Elephant Tours was very nice. The cost of the tour was $450,000 kip (about 50 bucks). Since I dropped at the last minute, they couldn’t refund my money, which I didn’t expect anyway. But to join this group because everything had already been set and paid for, I only to pay $100,000 kip (or a little over 10 bucks). So I rode in the back of a tuk tuk for 1 ½ hours to pick up three German students and their tour guide, Song, who had been on a 2-day trek and the last leg of their package was to hit the water of the Mekong River in kayaks. We started with 2 guys and a girl. But apparently, the girl didn’t take care of herself during the trek. She didn’t drink enough water and by the 3rd day was so dehydrated that she felt light-headed and nauseous. She didn’t make it to the Pakou caves of 1000 Buddhas. She had the tuk tuk driver pick her up at lunch.

Photo by yours truly

The caves were cool with all the Buddhas, but my favorite part was the kayaking. The Mekong River was far more beautiful the further we were from Luang Prabang.

I love witnessing the world from the level of the water. To see this area from the river is such a different perspective. The water buffaloes at the river’s edge, the fishermen fishing and harvesting river weed. (It’s the river version of seaweed, an acquired taste. A bit more bitter and pungent than seaweed.) The limestone cliffs where there was a pause before the echo were pretty spectacular too.

Photo by yours truly

I love kayaking.

And this was the perfect last adventure before I left Laos.

The bottles of lao lao whiskey with baby cobras and scorpions and green snakes were pretty creepy and macabre. According to Song, they were for medicinal purposes. By absorbing the essence of the snake or scorpion, certain ailments could be healed.

Photo by yours truly. Really, how could I not include a picture!

That puts the voodoo doctors in New Orleans to shame.

Peace,

Mana

The Shepherd's Lone Wolf

Image by Allauddin Yousafzai from Pixabay

She pulled the small pile she had collected.

The Shepherd wasn’t in the least surprised when she pulled the sketch that provoked the rift between him and the Wolf he traveled with for three years.

Her first drawing was the one of the night the Shepherd had met Ella Bandita, her face and clothes covered with blood, the youngest lamb of his flock in her arms, the cold glint of her eyes with one hand gripping the throat of the helpless animal.

Adrianna said nothing as she held it out to him, just raised her brows slightly, waiting. The Shepherd didn’t gratify her with a response, his throat going tight at the image, even after all these years.

To his surprise, she indicated the large paw print at the bottom corner, the mud from that fateful day encrusted in the sketch, the flaw becoming a permanent part of the image.

“What happened here? That doesn’t look like charcoal to me.”

“That was the day the Wolf saw it. He held it down while the breeze was blowing everything about. I nearly lost all my sketches that day.”

“By the Wolf, I assume you mean the Wanderer.”

“Yes.”

“Had he known anything about you and Ella Bandita?”

“No.”

“I take it this sketch enlightened him, then?”

“Yes. I had no choice but to tell him the story of that night.”

“Why don’t you tell me the story of that night?”

“In due time, I’ll have no choice. But this morning, I prefer not to.”

“How did the Wolf handle the story?”

“Badly. He saw me as a liar and a traitor. We had a terrible row and he attacked me. So I sent him away.”

“And…”

“It’s a long story. The next time I saw him, the Wolf had become the Wanderer again, having regained his human form.”

Adrianna paused, leaning back and scowling slightly.

“Does the Wanderer know the measure of your relationship to Ella Bandita?”

“He does now. But I have not talked to him about my time with her.”

The Shepherd’s throat grew so tight, it hurt to continue talking.

“I suppose that’s enough on this subject for now,” Adrianna murmured. “I have no desire to torment you.”

Adrianna went through her chosen pile, pulling the sketches of the Wolf.

Most were those of the Wolf acting as a sheepdog. The images were bizarre, the fluffy and gentle sheep following the path where the Wolf urged them, the lupine shape of a predator, playing the benign role of guide.

Then she pulled out the only posed drawing the Shepherd had made of the Wolf.

“This one is my favorite,” she said.

“Mine too.”

He was especially proud of that sketch where he had conveyed sorrow within the black eyes subtly distinguished from the black fur.

“This drawing alone makes me wish you would allow me to throw a salon in your honor. This is exquisite.”

“I’m honored,” the Shepherd replied. “But I don’t wish to do that.”

“I don’t understand why. There is real artistry in this, conveying human emotion in a wolf is no small accomplishment. You must have taken some care with this.”

“I did.”

“Is it perverse vanity that you refuse the invitation to show your work to others?”

The Shepherd chuckled.

“I suppose that is a convincing argument. But I don’t like crowds.”

“It would hardly be a crowd, dear Shepherd. I promise you a very select audience.”

“I would still have to make conversation and make myself agreeable. That’s tedious when I’m much happier keeping to myself.”

Adrianna breathed sharply through her nose and shook her head.

“Given your reclusive nature, how on earth did you and the Wolf meet?”

“That is also a long story.”

“Must I remind you, darling Shepherd, that we are here to trade our stories?”

Her guest shrugged and relented.

“I nearly shot the Wolf when I met him. He caught me off guard when I was playing fiddle. It was one of those peaceful mornings when it seemed foolish to rush. The field was at the edge of the woods, where the Wolf had been slumbering. Later he told me the music woke him up, and he couldn’t resist coming closer to hear more. Of course, I thought he was trying to sneak up on my flock. I had traded fiddle for rifle within seconds. He begged for his life in human language. I was so stunned I froze. I remember wondering if I was in the midst of a rather peculiar dream. His voice was scratchy from being silent for so long. But it was the anguish and loneliness I heard in him that tore my heart out. I can still hear it in my memory.”

Adrianna nodded slowly, her eyes riveted on the Shepherd. From her expression, he sensed what he said wasn’t enough.

“He spoke up just in time,” he continued. “My finger was already squeezing the trigger, a hair breadth more and he would have been dead. He swore he didn’t want my sheep, and that he only wanted to enjoy the music. It really was too incredible, this lone black Wolf that looked half-starved, but the hunger in his eyes made it hard to look at him. I didn’t have the heart to chase him off. So I invited him to breakfast and to tell me the story of how he came to be a talking Wolf.”

“Fascinating,” Adrianna observed. “The lone Wolf who needed the Shepherd so desperately, he traveled with your flock and acted as a sheepdog. The two of you became legends in your own right.”

“It was a fateful day to be sure,” the Shepherd mused. “I didn’t particularly care for that kind of attention. But the Wolf certainly did.”

“You must have been very close during those years.”

“We were.”

Adrianna hesitated for a moment.

“I hope you don’t take offense when I admit my understanding for the Wanderer’s sense of betrayal.”

“No offense taken. Sending the Wolf away was one of the most painful decisions I ever had to make.”

“Thank you for opening up a bit,” Adrianna sighed. “At least it’s a beginning.”

The Redemption Found in a Gilded Cage

Image by Jo-B from Pixabay

The Rogue returned to society a new man.

 

People were stunned watching him court the Marquis’ daughter since it was rumored he seduced the girl shortly after her debut. Once the surprise wore off, his former mistresses snickered with malicious glee. 

 

Even his friends couldn’t suppress their mirth. Respectability denatured the Rogue, the spectacle of him as a suitor both pathetic and irresistible. 

 

But he bore the ridicule with grace and ignored his detractors with ease. Feeling foolish in the face of indifference, the same ladies and gentlemen awaited official word of their engagement.  All had to admit the Rogue had done very well for himself. 

 

He visited the Marquis and the Debutante every day, arriving in time for dinner and leaving before his host showed signs of fatigue. His manner couldn’t have been more pleasant, but the Rogue never requested an audience with his sweetheart’s father. 

 

With each visit, he intended to ask the Marquis for his blessing. 

 

His near fiancée was a love, eager to please, and with a sensual nature. And her naivety was astonishing. He knew that if she were to be his wife, he could have as many mistresses as he desired and she wouldn’t be the wiser. But he just couldn’t bring himself to propose.      

 

However, the Rogue was still a rogue. 

 

Their courtship continued, and as formal as his manners were to the Marquis and the Debutante when he left, he always came back when all the lights were out save one and climbed the trellis to an open window. 

 

There he would stay until the dark hours of morning. He always hoped to see the vagabond girl when he left and was always disappointed. The memory of his nemesis was with him always.  

 

Finally, the night came when the Rogue was caught.

 

Complacency had dulled his instincts and his timing.

 

Winter was giving way to spring and he had become careless, leaving tracks in the mud to the trellis beneath the Debutante’s window.

 

He didn’t notice, nor did he hear the Marquis enter his daughter’s rooms. He became aware only when the Debutante froze, her face going white as she pushed him off.

 

The Rogue turned to the blank face of the Marquis staring at him in bed with his daughter.

 

“How long has this been going on?” he asked.

 

The old man’s voice was feeble, looking from the Rogue to his daughter and back to him. 

 

The Rogue hesitated, struggling to find a believable lie.

 

“Since the very beginning,” he said.

 

“Then you will marry her, of course.”

 

The Marquis’ mouth quivered and he spoke without looking at them. The Debutante’s weeping echoed through the cavernous chamber.

 

“At least my father will be happy,” the Rogue thought and almost laughed aloud. 

 

He saw a future that would crush him.

 

His marriage would be a lifetime sentence of noble comfort with a woman he had little affection for. He saw the mistresses he would take, wives as bored with their husbands as he would be with his wife.

 

On occasion, he would seduce a virgin debutante during the years he was young enough, but only the really foolish ones and never the beauties.

 

If he was blessed, he may meet another woman like the Duchess who had spirit and imagination. But he knew that was unlikely, for he would never be as desirable as he was when he had his freedom. As time passed, his mistresses would grow older and less alluring until he succumbed and went to the courtesans.

 

Of course, he would only have the best and most beautiful of the profession. He would be able to afford them.

 

The Rogue saw the life that would be his and shuddered. 

 

His instincts came back and he rolled off the bed. He gathered his clothes before he knew what he was doing and leaped out the window.

 

The silence behind him was eerie for this was the worst thing he had ever done. He knew he was destroying the Marquis and his daughter as he climbed down the trellis.

 

He knew this would ruin him as much when his feet touched the ground. One gentleman never humiliated another and got away with it. 

 

But that thought didn’t stop the Rogue from fleeing across the yard to the trees throwing his clothes on as he went.

 

 

But even the Rogue couldn’t escape his shame for the disgrace he would bring on his father. He’d been proud of him for winning the heart of a Marquis’ daughter. There was pain in his heart, but the Rogue kept running, panicked that he couldn’t find his horse.

 

He heard galloping behind him and stopped. 

 

He knew it must be the Marquis coming to challenge him. A duel was the only way for a gentleman to restore his pride after a dishonor like this. 

 

The Rogue was relieved.

 

He was younger and faster than the Marquis, and would be preserved through victory. 

 

He heard the rhythm of more than one horse, wondering if the Marquis sent a posse after him. But he couldn’t run anymore and waited. 

 

The vagabond girl came out of the trees to the right of him. 

 

Then he saw his horse and understood why he heard more than one gait. 

 

He couldn’t see her face backlit by the full moon, her hair shining in its glow. She let go of the reins to his steed, then extended her hand and released one foot from her stirrup.

 

“You can take your horse, Rogue,” she said, “or you can come with me.”

The Exquisite Loneliness of Travel

Photo by Kip Wheeler

Hey y’all,

I gotta say, Kip and Angela have been my travel angels.

They’re leaving in a couple of days and that means I’ll be on my own. So pretty please, send me some love in the form of writing back.

A few people wrote me letters after my last email, and that made me feel really good and connected to my friends back home. But even a short hey-things-are-great-digging-your-updates (at least I hope you do) note does the trick.

The mistake a lot of people make about travel is only talking about travel as an adventure. Of course, that’s true. Travel is as exciting and stimulating and educational and mind-expanding as it’s made out to be.

But it’s also hard.

Travel by its very nature is unsettling and throws people off-balance.

It’s vulnerable to be in a country where I don’t know where I am, where I don’t speak the language, don’t know the customs, or how to find my way around. I need help immediately on arrival. I need help getting around and getting what I need – like food and shelter.

That can be frightening, especially because I take pride in my independence and self-reliance.

And dare I say it, I like to be in control.

I don’t consider myself a “control freak” as the saying goes. Yet that’s not to say that I don’t like having a measure of it – or at least the belief that I have that measure (which nobody really does). However, there is no control when I’m far from home. There’s not even room for the illusion of control.

Traveling can also be very lonely.

Photo by Kip Wheeler

Years ago, I kept an email journal when I was on the road for a year, selling a book of original fairy tales out of my Beast all over Alaska and the West Coast.

Although my friends enjoyed the emails, my biggest regret was that my email journal was incomplete. At the time, I was writing to entertain and thus, was showing off.

But I regretted not writing home about the long stretches of gray – the loneliness when I wasn’t meeting all kinds of people, and the isolation of being in constant motion.

After a point, the only people I could really connect with were others who were also transient.

If I had included those times, I would have kept a more honest record of that experience. This was really one of the greatest and most challenging adventures of my life – and I had that experience on home ground.

Enough of that. Back to my current travels…

I knew nothing about Laos when I got here on Saturday. Kip said Luang Prabang was really chill, really cool, and that we’d enjoy it.

When I got to Chiang Mai, I didn’t expect it to be such a crowded city. I expected it to be more like Luang Prabang.

Maybe it was the happy shake we drank on our first full day here, but I fell in love with Luang Prabang on arrival.

This town has a charm and ease, a beauty and grace that’s irresistible and very romantic. The French influence is very obvious in the architecture here, especially our first guesthouse.

But what really wins me over is the intense presence of spirituality. Luang Prabang is where the boys come if they want to be Buddhist monks.

Whether they stay in that life or not, it is a way for them to get a better education, and many of the novices come as children.

I saw this in Thailand and India as well, but spirituality is such an intrinsic part of daily life, I see it EVERYWHERE. The devotion and reverence to their system of faith – whether Buddhist or Hindu - is truly awe-inspiring and commands respect.

Maybe because nobody is trying to shove their beliefs down my throat?

There are temples and statues on every block it seems, definitely on every street. I think every home and every business has a small shrine on the premises, and many “spirit houses,” a place for the departed to live and hang out.

Our first night, we heard a small group of monks chanting in one of the temples as we went past.

“Let’s hang out a minute,” Kip suggested. “This is the real thing.”

Photo by Kip Wheeler

Angela and I went in and sat for a few minutes. Kip couldn’t join us because he was in shorts.

Remember the “Please dress politely” signs I saw in Thailand? They are even more strict about that here, and want shoulders and knees covered if you enter the temple gates.

Luang Prabang is an early town. Last call in the bars – there is a pretty lively nightlife scene here – is 11:30, and everybody is in bed by midnight because most people want to get up in wee hours of the morning to care for the monks.

Every morning before sunrise, the drums start beating around 5:30am, and not long after that, lines of monks dressed in their orange robes and baskets come through the streets of Luang Prabang to collect alms before going to the temples for their morning practice of meditation and chanting.

The locals sitting in rows with their baskets of rice, and possibly other food, are every bit as much of a sight to see as the orange-robed monks and novices streaming past in their bare feet and their baskets to collect their alms.

It was a few mornings before I got up early enough to see them. It was well worth the effort.

The first morning, I followed them along my street and around the corner to the main street, and watched the variety of locals and some tourists serving the monks.

One group of ladies brought the offering to their foreheads before putting it in their baskets.

The further along the main street we went, the more obnoxious the tourism became. When the monks disappeared down the street lined with tour vans, I turned back.

But this morning, I woke early and perched at my guesthouse.

That was so much easier, much more relaxed than chasing down the same group.

Photo by Kip Wheeler

At least half a dozen groups of monks streamed right by, and I took pictures as they stopped at the group of 4 women lined up to the end of my block. One of the bigger temples is kitty corner to this guest house, which costs less than $15/night.

Of course, Kip found this place.

By 6:15am, it’s done. The monks had all gathered before sunup to start their chanting and meditation practice; the Laos people gathered their baskets and headed home; and I was left with the morning to start this email to y’all.

I must say, I’m loving this budding morning ritual.

Yesterday, at one of the temples, I came across a photographic exhibition of Buddhist meditation. There were even some photos of nuns and laywomen – which were really rare.

Although other forms of meditation are practiced here, Vipassana meditation is huge in Luang Prabang. And that was the primary focus of the photographs.

That gave me pause. Several friends have done 10-day Vipassana retreats in North America. I have yet to gather my courage and willpower to do it, but I’m sure it would help with my out-of-control monkey mind.

Pretty cool, huh?

Such a big world and a small village at the same time!

There is so much more to tell, but I think that’s enough for now.

I’ll have plenty of time to write more after Kip and Angela leave on Friday, which is my tomorrow. Anyway, I’m staying a few more days to do the things I’d like to do that didn’t meet with consensus.

I really fell in love with this place, and I can’t stand humidity.

Peace,

Mana

The Reprieve of Pai, Thailand

Photographer? C’est moi!

Hey y'all,

For the sake of keeping things somewhat current (and to prevent y'all from the impression that I'm doing nothing but weird, twisted, sex cult stuff - don't worry, I'll get back to that), I just spent 4 days in Pai with Kip, and I’m going to Laos with Kip and Angela today.

That Mekong river trip Kip mentioned became a 1 hour flight to have more time in a city with an ancient history, a strong influence from the French colony days when Laos was part of Indochine, and apparently a lot of Buddhist monks and temples. Should be pretty cool.

Anyway, Pai was gorgeous and very sweet, and the only thing that went wrong was that I was horribly sick on my last day and couldn't go on a tour to see the hot springs, pai canyon, maybe get an explanation of the bizarre mural I saw in the temple near the white Buddha, etc.

This is the 2nd time I've been sick since I got here. I got sick at the Tao and Tantra shitshow, but that paled in comparison to everything else that was going on there.

This last is possibly from something I ate, but it occurred to me that the viruses and yuck percolating in Thailand are completely different from the crud in the States and I have NO IMMUNITY.

Awesome!

I guess I'm building some up.

Anyway, I'll spare the ugly details except to say it started at 2 in the morning on Thursday, and my entire body was on fire all day.

I hurt everywhere and I was so bummed out, because I was scared I wouldn't be able go back to Chiang Mai yesterday and would miss the plane today. (Today in Thailand is Saturday, btw. It's so bizarre to think that today here is yesterday for y'all.)

I guess not eating anything and drinking water all day and sleeping for 2 days straight did the trick.

Except for a caffeine deprivation headache, I woke up feeling all right yesterday and was able to come back.

Pai is definitely a backpacker's destination.

It's kind of trippy in that it reminded me of Portland and Bourbon Street in New Orleans in a hippie, international backpacker kind of way.

There's tons of vegan cafes (Sabby, this place is your dream!) and bars that are completely set up to appeal to Western travelers.

But at the same time, it's also very Thai. I'm not understanding the fascination with Superman and Captain America that I saw on the road stop to Pai and then in Pai.

I asked Kip about it, and he didn't have much to say except that people like the superheroes there.

Photo also by me.

There's this odd, kitschy, childlike wonder about Pai.

For example, I took some obscure stairs from the road up to the temple site, and there were Buddha statues and whatnot, but also these joyful kid statues saying welcome.

It seemed out of place, but I guess it's a thing here. Cause I've seen them more than once.

I didn't know this, but apparently, modest dress is required at the Buddhist sites.

There are signs asking us to "Please dress politely" before entering.

I inadvertently broke that rule going into the temple where I saw the weird mural.

I hope I don't go to one of the Buddhist hells for that - but it was an innocent mistake.

Photo by me. Gruesome, huh?

Before I went up the stairs to the white Buddha, a couple of Thai women started shouting at me from their booth, where I had to rent a skirt.

I was wearing denim shorts, which is a no-no.

They were very sweet as they wrapped that skirt around me and it didn't even cost a dollar.

I said this on Facebook, but I really wish I had a knowledgeable tour guide with me.

At the reclining Buddha, many of the murals reminded me of the Hindu pantheon of gods and goddesses, and since they didn't look like hellish scenes, I wondered what the connection was.

Maybe I'll find out eventually.

Apparently, around here, the style of Buddhism is Theraveda, and sometimes even Tantric Theraveda Buddhism.

These differ from Mahayana Buddhism and Vajrayana Buddhism - which is another form of Tantric Buddhism, which I did not know existed until this trip.

What that lets me realize is that there is so much I don't know about the history of Buddhism, and that our Westernized, watered-down version of it probably doesn't even come close to the truth.

Travel is another form of education.

Tantra is following me everywhere, it seems. Not that I'm complaining.

Anyway, wasn't that a stroke of luck that Kip reached out via Facebook as I was enroute to Thailand?

If that's not a sign that somebody upstairs was looking out for me, I don't know what is.

His presence made it very easy to leave a situation - that although there were some gifts there - was really fucked up and triggering the hell out of me.

Kip's an interesting cat.

Running into him again brought back a lot of memories of that time in my life in SE Alaska, and truth is, I only met him once when he came through Juneau on his way to Skagway.

He's been good medicine, even if the reasons why are surprising.

Kip is a great guy and he's loved and admired by all his friends for the gifts he brings. He is not, however, somebody you can go deep with. He is not somebody you go to with your troubles or when you have things on your mind. His housemate, Angela, confirmed that.

"The thing with Kip is you can't talk to him about anything negative. That's just who he is. But he'll keep you in the present moment."

Angela's description of him as on point.

He does keep one in the present, and he is a wealth of knowledge, especially when it comes to traveling on a shoestring budget. In that, the man is a machine.

For example, he found a flight from Tel Aviv to Paphos, Greece (birthplace of Aphrodite) for $15. That is FIFTEEN dollars!

This is while planning his route back to Alaska, taking a few days in the birthplace of Aphrodite before doing an overland train trip across Europe to Paris, where "there are some great deals there," - all of this hypothetical as he's considering his options.

If I wonder about a tree or shrub, or the bright orange, climbing, flowering plant, he will research until he finds it, and then send me the link. (It was the orange trumpet vine.)

He found our fabulous mud huts, and figured out the back road, scenic walk past the long neck Karens into the bustle of touristic Pai rather than the busy road that was kind of nervewracking, and the possibility was constant that I need worry about being hit by a car or a motorbike.

When I was sick, he brought me sugary ginger tea and a packet of electrolytes. I'm pretty sure that's why I was able to kick it after another night.

There's a lot to be said about receiving the natural gifts somebody brings to the table and being thankful for that.

Kip has definitely been my travel angel since I got here. I would have been in a much worse state if I didn't have friends to go to when I left that workshop early.

Kip and company also made for a very POSITIVE start to this journey, because my trip began with them.

If I hadn't dragged my jetlagged butt into town right after getting here, it would have begun with Quixotic Sierra and that mess.

"Well, I guess it depends on how you want to spend your chi," Sierra had said when I told her I was leaving to meet Kip.

Yeah, I think that was a good use of my chi.

So here's to Kip in all his glory!

Peace,

Mana

A Little Talk Over Breakfast

Image by Bernadette Wurzinger from Pixabay

Breakfast was light and for the next thirty minutes, the two of them ate in the peace of silence.

The Shepherd savored his simple breakfast of bread and cheese, thankful for the sweet meat of salted ham, a rare treat he rarely could afford. And the fresh juice was a luxury he had never enjoyed in his life.

Occasionally, his hostess would smile at him warmly as she buttered her bread with a generous spread of a thick red jam, eating her sliced persimmon slowly in between bites.

Other than that, they didn’t speak a word.

The Shepherd was surprised and pleased that Adrianna also appreciated to start her day without morning chatter, listening to the crackle of fire and the savory wood burning smell, the increasing glow of rising morning making a serene start to the day.

Once she was done eating, the young maid didn’t miss a beat, stepping forward and pouring a large mug half full of dense black coffee, then followed it with steamed cream, willows of smoke rising from the mug as she dropped one generous nugget of sugar cane in the cup and stirred.

Adrianna took a long sip, and sighing contentedly, she leaned back and nodded to the Butler.

The Butler dismissed the maids, remaining the only servant in the room, before stepping forward with the morning papers in his hand.

The Shepherd was stunned at what followed.

For more than an hour, the stately Butler meticulously read through every article in the paper, telling the news of government, political competition, business. He even read through gossip and advice columns.

He only stopped when Adrianna made a comment or asked for clarification, leaving room for conversational debate between them.

What struck the Shepherd most was the sharp focus in her beautiful golden eyes.

The dreamy relaxation of morning was over and the Courtesan was back to work.

It was clear that Adrianna the Beautiful committed everything to memory that the Butler read to her. The Shepherd knew from the subtle back and forth motion of her eyes as she listened.

When the morning ritual was over, the Butler dropped the newspaper on the side of the table closest to the Shepherd. Adrianna thanked him for sharing the news and dismissed him, asking the servants to wait until they were gone before tidying the parlor.

Then Adrianna glanced at the Shepherd.

“Well-informed and intelligent conversation is an excellent ability to bring to a salon, wouldn’t you say? Why do you think I’ve lasted as long as I have?”

The Shepherd said nothing.

Adrianna’s left brow cocked higher as she met the Shepherd’s gaze. She smiled slowly.

“Nobody knows I’m illiterate.”

The Shepherd nodded.

“I hope you honor my secrets.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I won’t say a word to anybody.”

“I figured you would. You have the most marvelous sense of privacy.”

“Do you do this every morning?”

She nodded.

“How much do you remember?”

“Not every word or detail, of course. But more than enough to hold my own in the lively debates and arguments that happen at parties amongst the powerful men of the country. That ability has made me some valuable friends.”

The Shepherd flushed.

If he’d had any doubt about the nature of those valuable friends, the sly mischief gleam in Adrianna’s eyes made sure he knew.

Adrianna smirked in the face of his embarrassment.

The Shepherd glanced away.

Noticing the newspaper next to him, he picked it up and skimmed through the articles the Butler had already read aloud. One section he hadn’t covered were the notices of recent deaths.

Startled at the name he recognized, the Shepherd spoke without thinking.

“Anthony is dead! He was found in his bed the next morning after our meeting in the town square.”

He looked up to see Adrianna staring at him. Her golden eyes were wide, and the Shepherd almost flinched at the pain and envy he saw there.

“Anthony,” he repeated. “The Mayor’s son.”

“I know of whom you speak. I heard about it yesterday.”

The two shared a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Were you close to him?”

The Shepherd couldn’t imagine how that could be. Adrianna chuckled.

“Of course not. Anthony’s been dead for all practical purposes for many years anyway. It’s merciful that he’s finally out of his misery.”

The Shepherd frowned, thinking of that raging tower of screaming hearts.

“I wonder if all of them have died.”

“Doubtful,” Adrianna replied. “I’m pretty sure we’ll hear about it if the broken spirits of Ella Bandita have all suddenly perished now that she’s dead.”

The Shepherd said nothing.

Adrianna paused and leaned back.

The Shepherd was careful to keep his demeanor neutral, but he must have betrayed something.

“She is dead, isn’t she?”

The Shepherd turned to her. Adrianna’s golden eyes gleamed as she stared him down. She reminded the Shepherd of a hungry wolf.

“Bloodlust is much to take on in the early part of the day.”

Adrianna smiled grimly and shrugged.

After a moment, her eyes flicked to the newspaper in his hand, and again the Shepherd saw the flash of pain in her eyes.

“How did you learn how to read, dear Shepherd? You may come from people who never suffered the indignities of indentured servitude. But it’s impossible you should come from those who could afford education.”

“The same way I learned how to draw and play fiddle,” the Shepherd replied, relieved at the change of subject.

 

So Much For Love...

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

One afternoon, the Rogue stood at the window from his bedroom, his heart aching as he watched the plain black carriage of the Duchess. 

Then a movement below caught his eye. 

He thought his mind was playing tricks on him when a giant gray stallion trotted down the street. 

But the girl was the same, staring at him through the glass and laughing at him, her eyes shining with contempt. 

He pulled the curtains to shut her out, but she had already disturbed his mood. 

Instead of reminiscing on his afternoon of love, the Rogue was absorbed with an unease he’d never known, wondering how that strange girl had found him. 

After that day, she was always there every time he met with the Duchess. 

For the first time in his life, the Rogue felt alone. He didn’t dare confide to anyone about this, not even his most intimate friend. Seeing his nemesis after a tryst was humiliating, but pride kept him quiet. 

Desperate to evade her, the Rogue started taking risks, insisting the Duchess make love to him in outrageous places. She resisted at first, only to give in to her lover’s demands, her eyes glowing from the thrill of danger. 

But the girl was always the first the Rogue saw after he parted from his mistress, and there was nothing he could do about it.     

As summer gave way to autumn, the Duchess announced she had a perfect solution to the dilemma of separation.

She found a private hotel and rented a suite there under an assumed name. 

The Rogue knew the place well, having been there many times with other mistresses.

For the first time, he felt empty when they made love, wondering if he’d been in these same rooms with another married woman. He tried to push such disturbing thoughts from his mind. 

He loved the Duchess. She loved him. Destiny was cruel. 

The Rogue held onto these beliefs while he dressed and his mistress prepared her toilette before returning to her husband. He took leave with adieus of tenderness, but his step was heavy when he left. 

The girl was outside the hotel. 

She must have stolen some new clothes. Her riding breeches were too big, but otherwise sound. Her creamy blouse was also large, but pristine with sleeves billowing down her arms. The front dipped into her chest, displaying the curve of her long throat. 

She turned to him with another insolent smile.    

The Rogue decided he’d had enough and stopped his horse near hers. 

Being close to her made him uncomfortable. 

During his long career, he seduced the most desirable ladies in society with their soft skin and sweet perfumes. 

This girl had an animal scent that shocked his senses. 

The Rogue had never been afraid of a woman before, but he was unnerved waiting for her to move or speak. 

But she just stared at him until he broke the silence. 

“Why are you following me?” he asked.

“Because I can,” she said.     

“As refreshing as it is to have a woman giving chase, I would prefer you stop.”

“Would you, now?”

Her command of his language was impressive, her accent so light he wasn’t certain which country she came from. Her face made that impossible to discern. 

The Rogue couldn’t stop staring at her. 

She brought to mind adventures he had in seaside towns, going into pubs filled with angry ruffians, men who spoke with their fists and felt more at ease in war than peace. If such a man were to be made into a woman, she would be this girl with her brutal features. 

Her figure was too slender to be fashionable, but her form appealed to him nonetheless. There was strength in her subtle curves, the shadow of breasts teasing behind the cream of her blouse, her thighs’ long muscles hugging the flanks of her mount. 

When he met her gaze again, he was embarrassed to see the return of her insolent smile.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked.

He was startled at first, but shrugged it off.

“I do. But to be honest, you’re not my taste.” 

She smiled and looked into the windows of the hotel. When she spoke again, her voice was taunting.   

“That which is savory today,” she said, “will taste bitter tomorrow.”

“What?”    

“Do you really believe you’re the first?”

The meaning behind her hint sunk its claws into the Rogue, and he was relieved to feel wrath surging within him. Ire liberated him from the fear that had gripped him when he approached her, and it engulfed him further with each stroke of conversation. 

“What are you trying to say?”

“What do you think?” She nodded to the apartments he just left. “Her husband knows all about you, just like he’s known about the others.”

“You filthy liar!”

“Don’t pretend to be such a naïf, or were you so easily duped? A man like you!”

The Rogue found it impossible to believe such a girl could have any information about the Duchess.

“How do you know?” he asked. 

“I was acquainted with one of her former lovers.”

“And how did you manage a connection like that?” 

“The same way I made yours.”

For months, her presence had been a torment. Every time he saw the girl after a rendezvous, the Rogue was reminded he had lost his freedom.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing you make good use of, Rogue,” the girl chuckled. “But that’s not my point. It is I who has what you want, and I’m here for you.”

“I want you to stop following me,” he said.  “If I ever see you again I will report you to an asylum. And I’ll make certain you stay locked up.”

“As you wish,” she said. “But you will want to see me again.”

The girl kicked her mount into a canter and left. The Rogue stared down the avenue long after she disappeared from view. 

He met with his mistress once more after that day. 

He started avoiding places where it was likely he would see the Duke and his wife. 

For the first time, the Duchess had to call for her lover, sending a note on rose-colored paper with her perfume a signature. 

The Rogue came to her. 

But he looked into her sparkling brown eyes and remembered the Duchess loved theatre more than opera. 

Then all he saw was a gifted actress playing her favorite role. 

He looked around the suite of a hotel that accommodated the indiscretions of the noble, and knew the Duchess had taken other lovers in these rooms.  

He could almost hear her crying the same words to another in the same anguished rapture that had overcome his better sense. 

He realized he’d been seduced into a fantasy of love in much the same manner he lured his debutantes hungry for an intrigue.  

The Rogue was appalled to recognize how much the Duchess was his kindred spirit. 

His refined sense of irony made it possible to leave the room with dignity, but he turned back when he opened the door. 

The Duchess was flushed and her eyes narrowed. At least she hadn’t foreseen her abandonment. 

The Rogue closed the door behind him, and the only illusion he ever cherished in his life was destroyed.

Outside the hotel, he looked up and down the street, and realized he was searching for his nemesis. 

She was good for her word, but he found no relief in her absence.

The Shepherd as Artist, the Courtesan as Muse

Image by Fabio Marciano from Pixabay

The images from Adrianna’s story made for vivid dreams, but not enough to deprive the Shepherd of sleep.

How she must have been as Addie, the angry, envious young peasant, along with images of the Sorcerer of the Caverns, the Brute, and the foolish vanity of the Patron’s Daughter that made it so easy for her to be maneuvered ran through the Shepherd’s mind.

But he still opened his eyes at his usual hour, during the darkest moments before the sun rose above the horizon. He was surprised to wake up well rested and alert.

His mind replayed the story in his mind while he dressed in the pants and shirt Adrianna’s servants laid out for him when he woke up.

The fabric was very soft.

The Shepherd appreciated the comfort of the garments, but was grateful they lacked the opulence and luxury of the dressing clothes from his first night.

Adrianna’s attention to detail was truly astonishing.

Besides the clothes, a servant left a washbasin filled with warm water and a cake of soap for the Shepherd to refresh himself. None of these ministrations had disturbed his rest.

He woke up to find everything readied for him. After quick refreshment, the Shepherd made his way to the theater.

Adrianna was already there.

She was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, with her eyes closed and her hands resting on her knees, breathing deeply and her expression serene.

The Shepherd didn’t hesitate to open his pad and let his pencil move freely and steadily.

He worked first on the basic lines of her form before memorizing the serenity and softness of her face.

The curtains were drawn back, darkness slowly giving way to the light of a sun starting its climb to the horizon.

The Shepherd paused to take it in.

Although he couldn’t capture the light with charcoal pencils, Adrianna looked incandescent, otherworldly even. She was timeless and ageless, the deep rose of coming day glowing in the silvery threads weaving through her braid.

In that moment, the Shepherd wished he had color to draw with.

Adrianna remained as still as a statue, giving him enough time to fill in more details before he glanced over and saw her staring at him. Her full mouth curved in a smile when their eyes met.

“Perhaps tomorrow you can join me in time for meditation,” she said in a soft voice.

“I find I’m much more present in my body through the day. The timing is wonderful just before sunrise.”

She leaned over to one side, and stretched her legs out to the side, making a wide scissor with her limbs as her torso curved and hugged the floor.

Pressing her hands into the floor, she pulled her hips up until her body made an inverted V.

The Shepherd hadn’t noticed the twins were also in the theater until they strung the first notes on their cellos.

Their song was very slow with a lingering quality as Adrianna started her dance, stretching to the rhythm of the music.

“This is one of the yoga poses I told you about yesterday,” she called out, breathing deeply and settling more into the pose.

“It’s a marvelous stretch for the entire backside of my body,” she continued after a moment.

“I swear I never suffer a moment’s back pain because I do this every day.”

Walking her hands a few steps further from her feet, she brought her hips to the floor, her legs stretched behind her, her back was straight for a moment.

Then breathing in deeply, she bent her knees and arched her back until her head touched her feet behind her.

This pose was more arduous, and the twins slowed the tempo of their tune even more.

She held that one for as long as she held the first posture.

Then she brought her legs and face to the ground, and bending her knees, brought her torso to rest on her thighs in a fetal position, with her arms stretched in front of her.

The Shepherd sketched brief lines to remember the poses, fascinated with what he saw.

After a couple of minutes, she came up and stretching her legs on either side of her, she stretched over each leg, her head resting on her shins.

No wonder Adrianna had kept the youthful contours of her figure.

She had more flexibility and nimbleness than women more than half her age.

Once she had limbered up enough, she crooked her knees and brought them up, sending her form into a tailspin.

The twins picked up the tempo one beat behind their mistress. Thus the warm up and stretching gave way to her dance.

Having music made a powerful difference in her dance.

The evening before it was fascinating to watch this woman move from her own internal rhythms, or perhaps to the beat of a music heard only inside her mind or her memory of beloved melodies.

But with a sound to dance to and with, her body became more open, deeper and more passionate.

She extended her limbs further, and the quality of her dance had more inflection and more expression.

She was not only dancing to the music, she was dancing with the musicians as her partners.

And the result was devastating.

The Shepherd knew he was inspired from how freely his pencil sketched across pages and pages, making crude shapes and notes for him to draw more intently on later.

His memory stored the most powerful moments for him.

There was no fatigue, no tightness in his hands or fingers that moved from a will of their own.

He lost himself in the preliminary sketches, already picturing in his mind the detailed sketches that would follow.

With the growing light in the room, the Shepherd realized he wanted to start working with some color to fully capture the beauty of this glorious woman.