The Tree of Happiness.

Ever since I arrived in Thailand I have noticed the phuang malai, the garlands of jasmine, marigolds and roses, which the Thai hang on their house shrines, or near a little statue of Buddha or even in their car. I seem to have to buy one now and then, and hang it in my room, just to give it some color. The picture in the background is of the Tree of Happiness, I was told.

Temple pet.

Indulge me, I happen to like photos like this and besides, my mind constantly drifts to Athena, my dog, who is waiting for my return (I hope). Do dogs forget their owners? 

Free finches for good luck.

The past few days, I had seen this wizened women walking around, and later at one of the temples. I had made some pictures from afar. What intrigued me today were the baskets she had with her. As I came closer, I saw that they contained birds. In surprisingly good English, she said that she would let them free which would bring me good luck. Naturally, I had to cross her palm with a banknote, but it was worth the experience to me, and being able to take a couple of shots from close by.

Now, I am going to sit back and see if some good fortune will come my way.

Look at that smile. I think she is the smartest business woman in Chiang Mai.

House Shrine.

I love this house shrine. She looks a bit of a material girl with that bag of money and that demanding little hand.

Little lotus blossoms.

Rain started beating down after lunch, and I decided to seek refuge in a massage place, that also does manicures and pedicures, because I needed to spruce up a little. As I entered, I looked down at the feet of the woman, opening the door. They were really dirty, but I decided to go in anyway. The gay helper, was more interested in the color I would choose, than giving a massage to one of the four English girls who also came in out of the rain. Everywhere you go, there seem to be a few too many people to handle the work, and this gives an impression of disinterest. Thai seem to be obsessed by removing hairs from their body, with their nails. They are the kindest people, and are said to be hard workers, however there is obviously a lot of hidden unemployment. I had 3 people attending to me, and still got a really bad manicure. My 7 year old niece could have done better. I did however have the best cup of tea since I arrived in Chiang Mai.

As soon as the rain let up a bit, I decided to move on but it didn't take long before I was drenched again.

I had seen Lila every day as I walked to my hotel, so went in there dripping generously around, for a hot oil massage. Lila is more upscale; still a massage is only around $ 10.00 to $ 25.00. Feet only, a mere $ 6.00.

I think I could have held the little lotus blossom lady assigned to me in the palm of my hand. Yet her size did not prevent her from pummeling and squeezing me in ways I would not have thought possible. Neither have I ever had the experience of having someones knees in the small of my back whilst they were pounding on my shoulders. This was one hefty massage, I tell you.

The Notebook.

Although I talk to a lot of people, traveling on your own can be a quiet business. You share your experiences by writing to friends and family, and of course, a blog is a great way to document what you do. I do not keep a journal, because I have found that I never look at them again. The past is the past, and you carry the best memories with you anyway. I do use notebooks to jot down ideas for art work; make rough little sketches and make notes on things I see. The same note book is used for planning and keeping track of times and dates. I have a moleskine agenda, but my life at the moment does not have much in the way of appointments. My last note book is almost full and I thought this was the time to look for another. The Sunday Market was a good place to look for this. You can buy these at home, I suppose, but where is home?
The background is saa (mulberry) paper printed in Thai (I think), and is probably some religious text. The pompoms are made by the local ladies, and they were surprised that I wanted a handful of loose ones, because they are usually attached to bags and clothes.

It looks like Blogger is back to normal. I have my header back at least.

Blogger has a problem.

I have just checked other blogger blogs and many of them are having a problem with their header. It's blogger that has a problem.

Rain is pelting down today, but I won't notice much of it as I am going to my Thai cooking class in a bit. I got soaked yesterday afternoon, and sat out the heaviest cloud burst having a foot massage. All the pampering you can indulge in here!

In the nut.

House Shrine



The smell of lemongrass is everywhere. Normally, a pleasant smell, but in excess it is as if you cannot rid yourself of it. When I leave my room, a swirl of the scent always manages to find my nose. It will follow me for the rest of my life, and will forever remind me of Thailand.

Upon arrival, the guesthouse I had booked, was full. I slept next door in an overpriced boutique hotel and might just as well have been in California. It was lovely, but I am a bit of a romantic when traveling, and prefer a place with atmosphere, which I quickly found.


The room is dark though, with only a tiny window, but it has airconditioning, a roomy bathroom and anything else I might need. I have been adopted by Tatar, a young man, who speaks excellent English and who tells me about daily life in Chiang Mai and the surrounding countryside.



From the first conversation we had, there was one word that I didn't understand. I heard him say 'nut'. 'Here in the nut', and thought it was a Thai word for the region. Yesterday evening, again the word kept appearing in the conversation and I had to ask him what it meant. It was 'North'. 'Here in the North'. The 'th' is not an easy sound for foreigners to make.



I travel for the feeling of where I am, not so much for the things one has to see or do. I wandered in and out of Wats (Buddhist Temples) yesterday, did a little bit of shopping, but hardly bought anything. Tatar says not to waste money on the tourist shops, but to wait for the Sunday market, which will be right outside of my hotel on the main street. People from the villages bring their crafts for sale at the Sunday market. I am not looking to buy much because I am traveling light, and there isn't space in my luggage. In Bangkok, I bought some beautiful turquoise beads from Afghanistan and I will be looking for silver beads from the Hill tribes. I want to make a necklace for Marianne, and I know she likes things that are "different". I will do my best to find unusual beads and make a design that she will like. The stones themselves are very heavy, so I cannot add much weight to it. My niece (7), picked up the whole strand and said, "Oooof, who wants to put that around their neck?"
 In fact, I have not seen any silver beads in the many shops. Even the area, where on my map, it says 'silver beads', there were no beads to be found. Maps here are not very reliable. The main streets are shown, but the myriad of little allies are not, so you have to ask or guess where something is. The saa paper store was in a little back ally, and I was fortunate that an expat school teacher walked me there, otherwise I may not have found it.



I might have danced naked on a table last night. After dinner, I felt like a sundowner and ordered a gin on ice. When they brought me the glass, I thought it was water. Two lonely ice cubes floated in a glass filled to the brim with gin. I decided that a third of it was more than enough. Wisdom comes with age, thank goodness.

The train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai.



Close-up of temple decoration.

 When Bangkok is left behind, and as the rice fields come into view, your lungs fill with the freshness of the country side; as when swimming submerged and breaking the surface for air. The fiery orange and crimson flowers of the Flame trees; the fresh green of the rice field; the flowering weeds along the tracks makes one forget the hustle and bustle of the city.  I boarded the three wagon train at 8:30 a.m. to start the 12 hour journey to Chiang Mai. A bunch of young backpackers were in the other section of the wagon, but they were quiet, and most slept. A Chinese gentleman down the aisle made himself comfortable with a little pillow under his head, and I settled in. 12 Hours seemed like a long time. My legroom was minimal and the seat a little thinly stuffed, but I had a folding table, like in a plane, and the uniformed hostess brought coffee, juice and a bun, which raised my expectations, which. unfortunately, would not be met. Lunch eventually consisted of white rice, and some pieces of what I think was dried chicken. Later I saw the Chinese gentleman empty a little bag of fish sauce over his rice, which I must have overlooked, but which would have immensely improved the flavor.
I had my breakfast at the station prior to departure, and one food stand displayed 'Mexican buns' of all kinds. I have never seen these steamed buns in Mexico, but they must sound exotic here. I ran my fingers over the bun in the train, and it was as soft as a baby's cheek. I should have left it at that, as it didn't taste like anything much and the bright green interior, was .....well, a bright green interior. Nothing more. Perhaps you are only supposed to caress these little buns and not eat them.
By 10:30 we were surrounded by highly professional, crisply measured rice fields and large agricultural equipment, crowded at time with flocks of white herons, dotted with an occasional larger grey and black heron, waiting patiently, staring at the water for his midday meal to swim by.
As you slowly continue up into the mountains, lotus covered ponds and canals accompany you for miles, and the rice fields change into smaller, more rustic rectangles until you are in the foothills, where they are no longer seen and are replaced by lush tropical vegetation.

Thailand is a clean country, and even the train's toilets were clean, with running water and soap. I have seen far worse, even in Europe. I don't mind using a squat toilet, but this one would not hold still for even a minute. I must have looked really pleased with myself when actually getting out of the little door, in the rolling train, balancing on every ridge that I could find, so that I didn't have to get my shoes wet. It was probably water anyway, but I wasn't entirely sure, as I didn't think that the backpackers' sense of balance was any better than mine.

The Jim Thompson House.

I had never heard of him before, but Jim Thompson seems to have been an interesting man. An American, he stayed on in Asia after WWII, and built a home with 6 traditional teak Thai houses. Most of these houses that were dismantled and brought to the capital were at least two centuries old. Thompson was also implemental in reviving the silk weaving craft and started exporting Thai silk abroad.

A mysterious man, who went out for a walk one day in Malaysia and never returned. Nothing was ever heard of him again.

The interior of the house is filled with his collection of Asian antiques.

There is an excellent restaurant and gift shop and it's a good place to meet other tourists for a chat and a moment of quiet in this busy city.

Where is the Thai Dick Blick?

Heliconia magnificus

This morning it was as if a giant's stomach was rumbling; low, ongoing thunder, which ended in a heavy rain shower.
 For someone who lives in the desert a tropical rain shower is a thing of delight. I sat outside for a while, on my veranda, and enjoyed the clattering of the rain. I was going to go out today but with the cosy darkness of a rainy day, I think I will get out the few things I have been able to buy to draw and paint.


On my way to The Jim Thompson house, I saw someone who was clearly a Thai artist and fortunately he spoke some English, because I wanted to know where he got his art supplies. He said MBK, but I am told that that is like a big dollar store. Mind you, I have sometimes found interesting things to use in my artwork at a dollar store.


I have already been able to purchase water color paper, watercolor pencils and colored pencils. My sister in law, who lives here bought me some smooth paper which should work well with the colored pencils.

Today I will use what I have, but I have already read that there is an art supply store in the Old Siam Plaza and a Chinese art supply store in Chinatown (even more interesting). I really like seeing what is available in other countries. Reading quite a few art blogs from over the world, it's amazing what people have available to them locally. In a city like Bangkok, which appears to have everything one might possibly wish for, it seems that art supplies are tucked in the remotest corners. 

I like not taking anything with me, and then seeing what I can find, and what I can make with that.

Floating Market

In spite of being interesting, the floating market is a huge tourist trap. It's all so doubles There are many tourists and people need to make a living but yet we don't buy at these tourist traps. Algodones just over the border from Yuma has become something similar. Since the recession, the vendors have become a nuisance, and the result is that I simply don't buy anything. They are not a nice nuisance, because I know the difference between disrespect and desperation. The last trinket I bought in Algodones was from a newcomer. I had seen something interesting some time before and had to make quite an effort to find the small man from the south of Mexico, as he had moved his location on the side-walk from the popular main drag to a side street. I am assuming that they pay someone for their couple of square yards. When the purchase was made, I was about to walk off, but suddenly turned around to ask something, and saw the man was crossing himself and thanking god for the sale. I walked back to the border thinking how hard it must be to make a living with things no one really needs.

Be prepared at the floating markets in Thailand that the skiff you rent will take you to almost every vendor along the market, and that you have to put on your kind face and say 'no, thank you' many, many times. It was only when Jack said in Thai: 'We live here', that we were spared this. So glad Jack has gotten to lesson 6 already. You aren't out of the heat of it yet though, because there are so many boats milling around, that you have to remember to keep your fingers and anything else that may hang slightly overboard, inside the boat because if nott it will surely get crushed. The old lady handling the boat yells loudly at other handlers, but just as loudly at her human cargo and I tell you, Thai is a musical language, but not when it is shouted and yelled.

I am not known for my elegance when getting in and out of small boats. Getting in went well enough, although I eyed the green slush that was supposed to be water, with some trepidation. I then folded my legs into the lotus position because there wasn't more room for legs and the seat was perhaps 5 inches high. Come to that, I took a local bus in Holland in which I couldn't sit straight either and I am not all that tall in the land of giants, which Holland is.

Lotus position didn't last long as my legs started to sleep. With pins and needles, I moved my legs into other more intricate positions. If I could have put them in my neck, I would have, but I can't.

When we reached the jetty, I knew I may have to make a spectacle of myself and I was helped by two men, who each grabbed an arm and started pulling. The helpers were tiny, and I think I could have carried each under an arm and not be any the worse. It was a spectacular spectacle, mind you. Although,I may just give up using small vessels for a while.

Ma-Lee, little Jasmine.

Now that I am sitting here I might as well post this picture I took of a little Thai girl. I am in Thailand now, but I will probably be posting some things on Holland and France in between my adventures in Thailand. I also have some drawings that I made that I shall post soon.
Outside there is a thunderstorm and tropical rain comes clashing down. A perfect day to catch up on correspondence and blogging.

Warm Welcome

The regular readers of my blog will have noticed that I have not posted in quite a while. I am traveling and although I think of my blog regularly and have lots of ideas, I simply haven't found the time, the peace of mind and the quiet I seem to need to write, draw or work on my blog.
I was given a warm welcome in Holland, land of my birth, in more ways than one. The weather was lovely and warm for the time I was there and is highly unsual in April. Living in a desert, as beautiful as that may be, doesn't provide much in the way of color certainly not like in Holland. There was color everywhere, but especially the tulip fields were head turners.

The Insatiable Tourist.

Old postcard from Egypt.

I must have been 8 or 9 the first time I went to Egypt. I have memories of staying at the Winter Palace in Luxor, where there was always a man sitting outside your door, who would run errands or get fresh drinking water. That made an impression on me, as much as did, riding in a calesh to see the sights.

I am really not as old as Methuselah but the other day I saw the City of Petra on a travel channel and my mouth fell open when I saw the many tourists there. I am beginning to realize that because my traveling started early in life that I visited many placed in the Middle East and Africa, before they were big tourist destinations.

I was in Petra, when the Bedouins still lived there, and all you could buy was a hot Coke and bottled sandscapes.

When I read old travel books, I sometimes wish I could have visited a place all by myself and wander around without a group and guide to be seen. But it is, as it must be, and I am happy that many people can travel and see the wonders of the world because it a wonderful thing to be able to do.

Nevertheless, it is really special if you travel to a destination and find it relatively undiscovered by tourism. To, for example, see the early morning sun rising over Palmyra, from your tent, camping on the grounds of the dilapidated and run down Hotel Zenobia, which is, I see on the web, quite smart now. When I was there it looked more like a deserted train station.

All in all I have whetted my appetite for some travel now, although that generally takes very little, but I am somewhat out of practice besides flying these days, is not a very inviting way to transport yourself, and transport is the right word, in this case. It is no longer is exciting. It used to give me a little thrill to know that I would be flying somewhere, but now I seriously wish that ocean liners still existed. That was a way to travel. Unfortunately though, only for the rich, so if I travelled 70 or 80 years ago, I probably wouldn't have been able to, because I don't think I would have been rich enough. Better be satisfied with what I can do!

Blog anniversary: 3 years!

The Big Hat.

Your life experiences build you layer upon layer into whom you eventually become. It is also the life experiences of those whom you encounter along the way, that influence you in becoming who you are. As a woman, I have a strong admiration for women who disown certain conventions and seek out the experiences that make them multi-faceted and very interesting. I can name a few from the past, Baroness von Blixen, Mary Kingsley, Margaret Mead, Delia Akeley and Isabella Bird a.o. If you think that there are no modern day women who adventure out, then names like Jane Goodall and Alicia Colson come to mind, but granted I can find very few and most are scientists. However on the bright side, there is Sophie, who writes a blog journal about her hotel in the West African town of Djenne, Mali, where she has settled. Sophie, in turn introduces Edith Watts, of Papua New Guinea, in her October 18th, 2010 blog entry. Fascinating women. But they are not the only ones. Many women these days travel the world (outside the tourist circuit), live in little known pockets of the world and do interesting things. One day, future generations will hear of them, only, right now, it is not easy to find them even on the internet. 
Let's hope that they are keeping journals. 

It was Sophie who mentioned "wearing the big hat" when writing about Edith Watts and when I was going through my black and white photographs from a while back, I found this one of my mother.

Rome.

It seems like a very long time ago that I worked in Italy. I have had some wonderful opportunities in my career to get to know other places better. You work on your assignment during the day, and in the evening you have to find a restaurant to eat and take your camera along. This was not such a good shot but I have been Photoshopping and added some purple, some pink and a vignette and I like the results. Got to start somewhere to learn. The picture was taken in Rome.

A great big melting pot.

 

I dream about this. Ripe, sweet figs.

Last spring I planted my third Mission fig tree and again during the summer I lost the tree. I am determined to try again. Though I must admit, I don't see a lot of fig trees around here, so I might be trying the impossible.

I must have tasted my first fig, picked from a tree in our garden, when I was about 5. That's when it all started and since then I am always looking for fresh figs. When I am unable find them, dried figs, but even better, fig jam will do as a replacement.

One of the best lunches in my life was when we took a boat in Istanbul to see the beautiful old houses on the waterfront of the Bosphorus. Towards midday the ferry docked in a small town of which I have forgotten the name. There we had to wait for several hours to take the same boat back to the city.

I found my way to a long line of women in front of the public toilets and I paid some money for a piece of paper which was very frugally handed out by a woman in a black caftan and scarf. I looked at the 2 sheets of paper that she gingerly had laid in the palm of my hand and hopefully looked up at her. It was clear that it was all I would get.

Walking down the main street we bought bread, grapes, olives, cheese and figs and we found a place on the banks overlooking the water to have our picnic. If you have never eaten fresh Turkish bread then you have missed something. The perfect combination of these simple foods and the luscious, ripe figs have left a lasting impression on me and added to my fig fascination.

When I was visiting my mother in Holland this fall I passed a Turkish grocery store and outside stood a basket with ripe figs. Soon the shop-owner and I were picking out the best and ripest fruits for my dessert that evening.

Holland has become a great big melting pot over the years and when I am there I much enjoy shopping a little at the Indonesian toko for my spices, and at the Turkish or Moroccan grocery stores for the things I cannot find in my area of the U.S.

Bocas del Torro

When you travel there is always a story to tell.

Sitting in a steamy, rather overfull bus somewhere on a road in Panama (I usually travel by public transport in Latin America), I speculated if I would make it to my final destination on time that day. There had been a little rockslide and it had taken some time to clear the road before we had been able to move on.

I was headed for a small island between Bocas del Torro and Bastimentos, and still had to make my way from Almirante, through the Chiquita plantations to the island of Colon by way of water-taxi and then on to the island. The prospect of staying in an eight room Caribbean guest house on a remote island with white sandy beaches was exciting to me and I was also ready to stay in one place for a week.

Only one of the rooms was to be mine of course, and there were no glass panes in the windows but hurricane shutters. The island had no electricity but there was more than adequate compensation: the sound of waves running up the beach, fresh fish for dinner, a mosquito net to sleep under and a lantern to read my book by in the evening.

When I finally reached the jetty from which I was to take a boat for the island, darkness had already fallen and I was told that no one would be willing to take me there now because of the risk hitting the coral reef.

When in despair, show it! The man in the tatty grass hat who approached me said he would take me for $50.00 (the usual going price is $5.00) and I accepted without thinking twice because the sirens of the island were calling me...rather loudly.

The moment I nodded, things started happening. The little crowd of onlookers suddenly became part of a flurry of activity and I realized I had just bought dinner for them all. My bags were lowered over the flimsy wooden quay into a well of darkness and an animated discussion in Creole flared up.

For the time being, it seemed no one was in the least interested in me so I peered over the edge of the planks to see where my belongings had gone. My eyes widened as I saw the really small vessel swaying to-and-fro in the  iridescent, oil slicked water. It was definitely a considerable way down from where I was standing which made it look even smaller.

The realization that I would have to lower myself that far down to get to the  boat, which was also in perpetual motion, was so daunting that I think fear dulled my brain, and the next thing I knew was, I had dropped myself from a standing position, with a great big thud, to sitting flat on my rear. I looked up at the astounded faces above me while the rickety jetty shuddered. Without giving a thought to any splinters that might end up in my behind, I scooted forward and before I knew it, had plopped myself into the boat.  I can't say how I plopped into that boat, but no other word covers the action that got me there. It was a totally brainless maneuver. No one was more amazed than I, that I had, granted very unelegantly and in a very unconventional way, ended up in the boat.

I rewarded the round whites of the eyes gazing down at me in puzzlement from the dark above with a broad encouraging grin and precariously settled myself down in the middle of the boat. I was ready to go. I did hear a soft "She be a strange one" in that delicious english they speak in the Caribbean.

As we left the harbor of Bocas, under the dark sky without a moon, I relaxed a little but chugging out to sea it slowly dawned on me that I was soon going to be in an enormous expanse of water bound for a practically unhibited island with broad shouldered men who would have no trouble tipping me overboard or worse. I brooded about this as one of men lay flat on his stomach at the front of the boat with a torch and yelled instructions to the other at the engine where to steer, so that we wouldn't hit the coral reef. They seemed busy enough though, to forget about me being in the boat.

Still, I could hear my mother's voice ringing in my ears: always be careful Elza. Well, I hadn't listened to her this time, had I?

Our progress was slow. Very slow. Not a light to be seen, even as we neared an even darker mass than the surrouding blackness, which was indicated to me that this might just be the island. Not a light anywhere. Inside my head it was even darker as I scolded myself for having being so impetous and impatient.

We went back and forth along the shoreline of the island to find where I should be dropped off and finally, we saw a faint glow and then a long jetty loomed up. It was too soon for me to be relieved though. Had I just faced a downward drop from a jetty, I was now looking at having to climb my way up to a jetty that towered above me as the boat rolled beneath my feet. Despair was becoming a familiar little companion on this trip.

From above there came a hand, a rather small hand which belonged to a very small man from my perspective as I stood in the rolling boat, and looked up at the dreaded height of the jetty. The swell of the waves raised and lowered me while I knew I was never going to get up there and contemplated my alternatives, when the hand from above grabbed mine, and strong hands were placed on my behind and before I knew it I was unceremoniously heaved onto the wooden jetty above me. Delivered like a sack of beans.

As I mustered all my dignity, I put on my hat, picked up my little rucksack and strode, on very wobbly legs, over the jetty towards the faint light under a tree.

As I emerged from the dark, I passed the other guests as they sat at their evening meal and I managed a calm and friendly, "Good evening", pretending I was returning from an evening stroll on the beach, while being very aware of their amazed faces as their eyes followed me, their mouths agape. "She be a strange one", each must have thought in their own way, as I disappeared into the darkness again.

Playing For Change | Peace Through Music

Playing For Change Peace Through Music

This is brilliant!