Friendship Park - San Diego CA

As our car made it's way through the abundance of wild flowers, the wall emerged, stealth like. It crept unforgivingly from the depths of the ocean, and persisted over peaks and valleys until it dribbled off into the distance. When the meadow falls away, what remains is a stark, soulless, compound completely at odds with it's name; Friendship Park.

I breathed in the salty air and indulged the warm wind on my skin. I felt no kin to this place and my blood ran cold as I navigated the suspicious gaze of border patrol. This was hostile ground.

The hands on the steel clock marched with precision, and people began to filter into the tiny courtyard 'gifted' to families eager to catch a glimpse of loved ones left behind. Like moths to a flame, bodies clung to the mesh fence, fingers desperately searching for a connection through the tiny windows in the gunmetal grey.

Mexico.

I approached the fence, head bowed in reverence, intimidated by the power it wielded. This was a mighty beast and it dominated far more than just the view; this fence had the power to divide people, attitudes, culture and land.

As I stood before it, my hands reached out tentatively to explore the cruel voids that hinted at the other side. I could only catch flashes of color and there was of course no tangible proof of what lay beyond. I willed the sound of sobbing to stop but my mood succumbed to the sea of heavy sighs around me.

Crunch.

The twisted sound of metal on metal raised the hairs on the back of my neck; four humorless minions heaved open the heavy gate between North and South, sweat stained uniforms betraying their cool demeanor. Music poured through from Tijuana, a delicious soundtrack to the vibrant life that could not be snuffed out by our sober greeting.

Silence. A ceasefire.

I edged along the border until I could peek through the gate where an old lady stood just inches away from me, her feet occupying another land, another life. Her skin was burnt by the sun and deep trenches forged pathways across her face. She met my gaze with a generous smile and I responded with a nervous twitch, acknowledging my 'privilege' and how arbitrary it all was.

Six families crossed  the border that day, granted just three minutes by the US government to hug their loved ones on the other side. Three minutes counted. Three minutes logged. Three, unnatural, minutes.

And the world looked on unmoved.

I wrestled with the irony of Friendship Park. This should be a happy place where lines drawn in the sand dissolve to accommodate those divided by the border. In San Diego the ocean teases the shoreline and wild flowers blossom freely throughout the desert landscape, surely something good could grow from here? But it doesn't. This border is quiet but not peaceful, near but not close, pretty but grotesque.

Friendship Park is a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Chiang Mai - Part Four

I wake up instinctively as the car rolls to a stand still in a small arid clearing not far from the main road. The sun is unforgiving as I try to find a quiet corner of shade to change my shoes. I speculate on what Mr. Cher will be like, picturing an intimidating native with a stern face and an obvious disdain for intrusive 'farang'. Instead however, I hear the approaching sound of a light trot and from around the corner comes a bounding Peter Pan. Mr. Cher is entirely different to the begrudging local of my imagination, and endears me to him immediately with his gentle boyish charm. Tong explains that he'll meet us in the village at the end of the day, so we bid him farewell and dissolve into the wilderness.

It doesn't take long to discover that although Mr. Cher speaks very little English, he's more than a little proficient in the art of mime. He's also diligently learnt the foreign words for everything that might be interesting to a bumbling tourist like myself, and I find his efforts incredibly sweet. Before we enter the forest he stops at the edge of the clearing to fashion me a hat from a giant leaf. I'm certain he realizes it will make me look ridiculous, but I happily accept the challenge which makes him belly laugh down to his sandals. Instantly bonded, he hands me a long reed of grass which he demonstrates how to transform into a whistle. And so we begin our trek through the countryside like the Pied Piper, disturbing Mother Nature with our glorious racket.

The beauty is mesmerizing and we explore secret pathways with ease as Mr. Cher warmly greets the few people we come across. Everyone here is self-sufficient and the diversity of plant life is baffling. We soon establish a 'guess what it is game', and I'm excited to discover plants for soap and antiseptic alongside tobacco and cinnamon. We amble through flower farms, vegetable patches and tiered crops, across jungle, bridges and waterfalls. Mr. Cher delights in making propellers from leaves and guns from bamboo, and our intrepid adventure is interspersed with the magnificence of comfortable silence.

I feel peaceful and uninhibited as the sun sets and we arrive at the village. Greeted by a cheerful Tong, there's not a soul to be seen except for one man and his three-year-old sidekick. He invites us to drink at what they've affectionately named their 'Hillside Starbucks', and I eagerly sample the home brewed coffee made from beans grown in the village. Resting ahead of the long drive home, we casually chew the fat in a communal area proudly decorated with newspaper clippings documenting the community. I feel grateful to have tasted the kindness of the Sko Karen people, and happily accept the invitation to stay with the tribe if I ever return to Chiang Mai.

As the village comes to life with the return of its occupants, Tong folds me into the car along with the gift of coffee and a homemade strainer. I wind down the window to wave goodbye to Mr. Cher, and with that, close the door to another unforgettable experience.

Mr. Cher

Flower farm

Waterfalls, bridges, fishermen

Tiered farmland

Mr. Cher's bamboo gun

The Sko Karen village

Hillside Starbucks

Chiang Mai - Part Three

After two days of negotiating crowds, I head to the Chiang Mai hills in search of a more spiritual experience. I hire a local guide from the Sko Karen Tribe and a chirpy middleman named Tong. I warm to Tong immediately and his enthusiasm is a tonic, nothing is too much trouble and he skips breakfast to arrive half an hour early making sure I "wouldn't have to wait."

We head to Wat Phra That Doi Suthep better known to Westerners as the Temple on the Hill. It's about 15km from the city and during the drive, I'm totally consumed by Tong's stories of a life too full to match the youthfulness of his face. He tells me that before he began working in tourism, he was a soldier patrolling the refugee camps on the Myanmar border. He was also in complete contrast, a monk. I discover that temporary ordination amongst Thai Buddhists is extremely common. So much so that young men who haven't spent a period of time as a monk are euphemistically referred to as 'unripe'. Tong spent three months in rural Chiang Mai practicing meditation and studying the scriptures. Multiples of three being a significant time period for Thai men entering into the monastic community, and three months being the time it takes to read the scriptures from cover to cover.

As we arrive at the temple I'm immediately disappointed by the hoards of people loitering around the entrance, and it's difficult to appreciate it's beauty underneath a facade of commercial tat. It's a far cry from my romantic expectations and a million miles from the serenity my mother described when she visited the same temple back in 1967. Still, I try to ignore the panic of being trapped in Buddha's Disney and climb the three hundred and nine steps up to the top.

The view is nothing short of spectacular and I feel suspended in time as the crowds dissipate into irrelevance and a feeling of calm rescues me. Tong invites me to meet the Abbot, a kindly looking man who agrees to bestow a Buddhist blessing on me at Tong's request. Tong guides me through the ceremony and I nervously follow his instructions terrified of making a massive faux pas. Offerings made, disasters avoided, the Abbot concludes by dropping a tiny rope into my palm that I'm instructed to tie around my wrist. He of course is unable to do this as touching a woman is breaking one the staggering 253 precepts (or vows) a fully ordained monk must adhere to.

After a curious tour of the temple we jump in the car and head deeper into the hills stopping off at Tong's favourite restaurant where he's keen for me to try traditional Northern cuisine. He orders me Khoa Soi, a famous dish made with yellow noodles and a rich, milky curry broth which is so outrageously spicy, not even the fresh coconut I hastily order manages to calm my mouth from what can only be described as a third degree burn.

Still hungry but too British to say, we wind our way through the countryside where we finally manage to lose civilization to hundreds of paddy fields. We're on our way to a designated meeting point where Tong will introduce me to a mysterious Mr. Cher. This is the man who knows every inch of the hills and will be responsible for guiding me to the village of the Sko Karen tribe. With thoughts of Bangkok and a belated concern that no one actually knows where I am, a post lunch fatigue takes hold of me and I drift into sleep ahead of the final chapter of my Chiang Mai adventure...

Tong

Monks blessing the Chiang Mai football team

Temple girl

The view from the hill - distant Chiang Mai

Colourful corridors

Paddy fields

Chiang Mai - Part Two

On my second day word of mouth takes me to the Elephant Nature Park. Unlike the majority of animal attractions being peddled at every corner, Lek and her team have created a genuine sanctuary where a loving ethos is the only agenda. The elephants are not working to entertain the thousands of backpackers passing through Chiang Mai every year. This is their home, and its doors are thrown open to willing hands eager to make contact with these spectacular animals, and educate themselves on the miserable reality for so many of them.

The setting is indeed a sanctuary and not just in practical terms. Nestled in a valley that's bordered by a river and surrounded by forested mountains, this flourishing landscape provides a happy ending for so many heartbreaking stories. Like Jokia, a gentle old lady rescued for a fee of two thousand dollars from illegal loggers. She was forced to work through her entire pregnancy and sadly lost her baby not long after giving birth. Heartbroken, Jokia refused to eat and depression eventually took hold of her. In a savage attempt to get her working again, the loggers blinded her in one eye with a catapult, but she refused to move and so they took out her second eye along with her spirit. Such cruelty is impossible to fathom and I sob uncontrollably as I gaze up into her weary face. No one should know such suffering and I wonder about the hundreds of animals that were not quite as 'lucky' as Jokia.

With less than a full day to make a difference, I throw myself into the relaxed routine carved out by the other volunteers fortunate enough to stay at Lek's farm. Duties include preparing the food, feeding the elephants and restocking the pantry after the animals have been fed. Feeding time is like babysitting and I giggle as my mischievous ward insists on hurling the vegetables back in favour of watermelon which he seeks out with his hungry trunk. Bellies eventually full and alliances formed, we then take our giant toddlers down to the river where the remains of the day are spent frolicking in the water. Elephants love bath time and relish every cold bucket of water thrown in their direction. Totally drenched from various counter-attacks, the time quickly comes for reluctant farewells and I jump on a bus headed back to the city.

In the haze of so many happy encounters it would be easy to forget the reason why we were all there to begin with. As I leave however, I'm dealt a harsh reminder when I pass a solitary female recently admitted and shunned by the herd. Hideously underweight and covered in open sores, these wounds are a result of the bullhooks used by elephant trainers. As I stare out the window at the retreating farm, I consider the day's lesson and the reality that most tourists will be seduced into unknowingly supporting this animal cruelty...

The Elephant Nature Park

Jokia

Elephant Pantry

Bathtime

Boisterous Baby

Chiang Mai - Part One

I'm so tired my face hurts. It's 4am and I lie there disorientated as the alarm clock screams cruelly in my ears. Due to rescheduling at work, I missed the overnight train Northbound and I'm forced to take an early flight the next morning. I'm disappointed to be denied the romance and discomfort of the fifteen hour sleeper, as well as the views of Chiang Mai and it's surrounding countryside at sunrise. However, I'm happy to escape Bangkok for a few days, and the only child in me looks forward to the comfort and familiarity of solitude. 

As soon as I land in Chiang Mai I feel the burden of worry fall away. The heavy smog of the Bangkok skyline is nowhere to be seen, and the tree lined streets and delicious fresh air come as a welcome change. There's something vibrant and carefree about this place and it oddly reminds me of an Asian Venice Beach. Shabby chic shop fronts, adorable coffee shops and stunning boutiques give you the feeling that Chiang Mai is stylish, relaxed and quietly confident. Yes, there are a lot of tourists but the city is so full of personality that you don't mind sharing it.

I drop my bags at the hotel and resist the urge to sleep in favour of A Lot of Thai - Chiang Mai's top cookery school and host to Gordon Ramsay. Run by Yui and her husband, this course is the perfect blend of facts and fun served up in a wonderful home environment. The tone is set when Yui swings by to collect you in the family campervan, a glorious VW from the mid 1960's. After dropping her daughter off at school, we head to the the local market to pick up the ingredients for my lesson. This exotic wonderland can only be described as a circus of the senses, and I amble distractedly through the maze of foreign goodies. Yui guides me through my shopping list and patiently answers all of my questions before we hop in the van and head home to meet the rest of the family. Over the next few hours I make (and eat) an impressive feast of Pad Thai, Red Curry and Tom Yum. Under Yui's expert supervision I manage to create three authentic and surprisingly tasty dishes that got me so excited, I broke my personal rule of not photographing food. 

Sleep deprived but blissfully happy I head back to the hotel for an early night. As I turn into the street a traditional Thai funeral begins it's journey from a neighbouring house. Desperate to photograph the life and colour that spills onto the road, I think better of it and quietly stand back to let the procession pass. It's one of those moments you commit to memory... The vibe is carnival, and to a soundtrack of heady music, a sea of smiling faces greet me warmly as they dance by en route to the temple. I'm fast falling in love with this soulful city and before I even get a chance to remember the day, I tumble onto the crisp white sheets and slip into a contented sleep.

Temple Colours

Market Food

A Lot of Thai Cookery School

Pad Thai Triumph

Three Kings Monument

Dear Jane

Miniature man cowering in your Eskimo empire
Mute till the end, is she undeserving of words?
Comfortably preserved, neat and tidy in exile
Marooned on an island of impenetrable ice.

Warrior woman thrive in the discomfort of abandon
Censorship stunts you, love inhabits your land.
Recover yourself gently, Eskimo living's not for you
A gift you've been given so dance freely again.

Bangkok - Weak One

After a long night wrestling sleep I groan in disbelief as the alarm cruelly interrupts my dozing. Although I had the foresight to choose a cheerful Bob Marley song the night before, I now find myself resenting his dulcet nagging as I fall out of bed disgracefully. This morning I jump straight back into the merciless Strike Back schedule, but as I leave the hotel I'm reminded of life outside of fiction by the sounds of protest rising in my consciousness with every waking minute.

The read through comes and goes and spirits are high as we get together for the first time. I take a moment to look around the table and commit to memory the faces that have grown so familiar over the last three years. I feel inexplicably comfortable in this disfunctionality and my heart is squeezed as I find myself drowning in the middle of another 'last'.

The next few days slip by quickly and I'm completely in my element as I push myself to perfect every challenge. But as the week draws to a close, my body is already under a great deal of stress and I feel frustrated and anxious about the lack of time. I decide that a day dedicated to anything non Strike Back is the only remedy, and so I rally the troops to go in search of some soul fodder.

We choose Bangkok's Chatuchak market and jump on the Sky Train to the end of the line and what is apparently the world's largest weekend market (according to Wikipedia). This place is indeed vast and from the perch like position of the station platform, Chatuchuk looks like a sprawling township.

As we descend into the madness I'm endeared by the bewilderment on my companions faces. The bold, sensory overload throws the eyes wide open, and immediately our group is separated as we're each tempted in a different direction by one of the hundreds of food carts that greet us.

The market is made up of an outdoor circuit and a mesmerising indoor bazaar. It feels fictitious in it's magic and I'm totally seduced by the myriad of paths that endlessly twist amongst the unexpected. We avoid the live animal quarter but otherwise amble without direction, occasionally stopping for some fresh coconut water or a Thai beer at one of little bars nestled in the heart of this charming oasis. Our mooching satiated, we head to the outskirts through a wonderful collection of local art, and find ourselves eating yet again before haggling with a tuk tuk driver to take us home.

As I lie in bed recovering from my frenzied ride across town, the fuzziness of the day dissipates and I suddenly feel marooned and a million miles from home. This nomadic lifestyle is rich in adventure but the price tag reads that my life and my love feel unsettlingly distant. I manage to push my melancholy aside and harness my thoughts to the overwhelming demands of the following day. Production begins and in spite of my doubts, I'm determined to conquer in a job that I love.

The sun rises on my first morning in Bangkok