D Travels 'Round

Life is a dream at Dream Hotel

For someone that has only stayed in one hotel in Bangkok, and no idea where anything is, deciding on a hotel to find in the massive city can be … oh … just a tad overwhelming.

So, I simply go to Agoda to research hotels.

Given that this trip to BKK — and my escaping Chiang Mai — is a must for my sanity, I decide my sanity is also in need of some posh indulgence.

That’s when I see the listing for Dream Hotel. Five stars. Excellent reviews. In the neighborhood I want.

Sold. Booked.

And, what a dream the hotel is.

The room

After breezing into Bangkok and hopping into a cab, my driver turns down Soi 15 in Sukhumvit and immediately I know Dream isn’t going to let me down. The sparkly, spin-y disco ball cube spinning in the middle of the driveway makes me smile. And, in this moment, I need to smile.

The lobby is swank, sleek … hip. And then, there’s the room.

My oh-so gorgeous room with blue mood lighting under the bed and on the wall. It oozes sexy.

Then, there’s the bed.

It speaks to me.

“D,” the fluffy white duvet whispers, “don’t I look amazing?”

“Put your head on me,” tease the pillows.

Compared to my apartment at Smith, this bed simply looks like heaven.

I toss my carry-on onto the little stand and immediately jump into the bed.

Holyshitmarshmallowgoodnessinasleepingapparatus.

This bed is heaven. Soft. Perfect. If I didn’t have a hair cut/color in two hours, and work to get done, I’d skip the entire day and just pass out.

Which I do later that night after dinner with friends.

Needless to say, the sleep I have is incredibly restful … and incredibly comfortable.

In the morning, I head down to breakfast in the restaurant and grab some food. While it’s lacking in vegetarian options, what I do manage to grab is good.

Then, it is off to the spa for some more ahhhh.

The spa

Because I book in early (before noon), I get a 1000 baht discount, which means the honey body scrub, oil massage and facial is only around 2000 baht AKA highway robbery in America.

In the spa, I disrobe and let my practitioner work the scrub into my dull skin. While it is super sticky (it is honey), the shower at the end of it leaves my skin feeling softer than a baby’s. Super soft. And, yeah, glowing.

Then, time for the massage.

I love massages in Thailand. LOVE. But, this? This isn’t a Thai massage. It is akin to my treatment in Bali at Grand Mirage … gorgeous.

I lay there as she rubs my muscles and try to get over my funk. To get over my rut. I repeat a mantra in my head for more than an hour as she massages my body and gives me a facial.

When the treatment is over, I feel like a new person. And, far happier than I was before. There’s something to be said for just letting yourself breathe.

The pool

Relaxed, I head across the street to Dream’s other location and up to the top floor to get some pool time on the roof deck. Immediately, I head to the bar and grab a white wine and sit back, getting lost in my own thoughts for a bit before I jump into the chilly waters. Once the initial shock of the cold subsides, I refuse to move another inch and just soak as I sit and laugh with my friends.

The bottom line

For the $74 I paid for a king bed each night, this place is perfect. Staff are great. Facilities are nice. Restaurant is a bit overpriced, but I didn’t even mind. This was my mini-vacation. As I leave back to Chiang Mai, I feel like a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I’m ready to go back home. At least for now.

Escaping Chiang Mai

Shortly after my seven-month anniversary as an expat in Chiang Mai, I hit a wall. Actually, I don’t really hit a wall, the walls start to close in around me.

Dramatic as I am, I even wrote that in a Facebook message to my friend one night.

“I need to get out of here,” I cry virtually via instant message. “I just need a break.”

Don’t get me wrong. I love Chiang Mai. I love my life here.

But, living here isn’t always easy.

There are plenty of struggles being an expat. And then, there is my work. My work for Save Elephant Foundation is my life, but it also exposes to me to harsh realities, namely the disgusting abuse of animals that takes place here and around the world, and the often times very hard-headed people who refuse to change their views. The constant battle can be exhausting and emotionally draining.

After a particularly discouraging night, I throw my hands in the air. Well, virtually anyway. In said Facebook chat.

I toy with the idea of heading to Bangkok for some R & R.

Yes, Bangkok.

I don’t like Bangkok. I think it is hot. Humid. Far too crowded for me. I prefer the chilled out Chiang Mai to the hustle and bustle of the big city. But, I don’t want to leave work for too long, and quite a few of the most important people in my life are actually in BKK at the moment. So, I book a cheap Air Asia flight and head down south.

Before I leave for my flight, I sit with Paula down at our local hang out, lamenting how I need a change. (I know, I have no idea how my friends even want to be around my whiny ass at this point).

“Maybe I should book a hair appointment,” I say. After all, whenever I used to feel bad or in need of control, I’d just head to Tonic Salon in Vegas and have them work their Super Model Magic on my tresses.

“You should,” she says over a cup of coffee. “Go and get some highlights and feel better!”

So, I book an appointment.

Then, I’m off to the airport.

As the plane taxis down the runway and takes off into the thick smoke, thanks to burning season, for the first time in a long time I feel relief.

Relief to be getting out of Chiang Mai. Relief to be able to take a couple of days for myself. Relief that I will gain some much-needed perspective on issues which are beyond my control, and yet slowly chip away at me.

From our crusing altitude, a huge smile sweeps across my face and I lean back in the tiny leather seat and feel good.

Even if Bangkok isn’t my thing.

Escape of the Week: Getting Molested at the Mud Volcano

Editor’s Note: This is a guest post from travel blogger Dani Blanchette.

Have you ever immersed your body in a vat of thick, chocolate pudding? Have you ever been crammed into a closet with a gaggle of almost naked strangers? Have you ever voluntarily let random foreigners rub your nether-regions in front of a tour group?

No?

Well, welcome to Volcan de Lodo El Totumo, where all this can happen … and more.

Volcán de Lodo El Totumo is Cartagena, Colombia’s famous mud volcano. Upon arriving we pulled up to what looks like an overgrown anthill with a rickety, home-made wooden staircase up one side. Unless you have a car, the only real way to reach this volcano is by tour (usually from Cartagena), so all at once, you and a few dozen of your not-so-close friends all strip down to their skivvies and climb the 15 meters up to the mouth of the volcano.

As you come over the top lip, you suddenly look down into what appears to be a hideous form of group torture: a pit filled with helpless bodies grabbing and clawing each other to stay afloat in this virtually bottomless mud pit.

As you wait in line, you are thinking to yourself, “Why am I doing this? Can I still back out?,” but, realizing you just PAID for such humiliation, you succumb to the fact that you are cheap and will stick out and get your full money’s worth. Even though, at this point, you could easily just watch, you know you wont. You are also acutely aware that you will also be paying the 3 mil (about $1.75) each to get your photo taken, to get massaged by strange burly men, and to get ‘washed’ by random women, which happens somewhere around here.

As you make your way around the top ledge of the volcano, which “safely” keeps you from falling off the outside by a flimsy rail made by haphazardly nailed together two-by-fours, and doesn’t have anything holding you back from cannon-balling onto fellow mud submerged victims below, you keep thinking that this is possibly the strangest situation you have ever put yourself into, yet you can’t wait to feel the thick mud squishing between your toes, while realizing that you are about to get mud in various nether regions that you usually take pride in their cleanliness

And now you are there.

You loom over the edge of another shabby-looking, handmade, wooden ladder plunging about six feet down into this pit of body parts, and take a deep breath. You hand your camera to a random local boy, who is adorned with a variety of other’s cameras and say either of two words: “photo” or “video.” The only redeeming thing is that this strange person seems to know how to use every style camera; from $20 disposable to $5000 DSLR, known to man. You wonder if you will ever see your precious piece of gear again (because you know each camera is worth way more than the 3 mil ($1.75) this kid will make, as you say “Photo, por favor,” and take that first apprehensive step down the ladder.

One, two three, four, and you overreach the last step, just to hurry up and get that first feeling of the sticky, oozy warm mud on your toes.

It is weird.

There is no other word that describes this better. Weird is actually an understatement. You take another step onto an unseen rung below the mud, then search for the next step – which is distinctly missing. Do you jump in? No. You are aware that this pit plummets to the center of the earth, and you still cling to the sides of the ladder as you move your foot in vain looking for something solid to stand on, something solid which doesn’t exist.

A local man helps ease your confused body into the mud. You sit in it. Everyone does. You can’t bring yourself to let go of the ladder until you are positive you wont sink to your doom. Once you get in a semi-sitting position, the thick mud cushions your body and you kind of float. A few people liken this to the Dead Sea, a place I have never been, so these words of reassurance are meaningless to me.

bodies in mud, mud volcano, cartagena, colombia

You are now sitting in the mud, a single toe still refusing to leave the safety of the submerged ladder rung, when this local who has helped eased you into the buoyant pit, grabs your leg, and thrusts you back towards the mud covered massage men behind you. One of the men grabs you and spins you to the side. Another then pulls you towards the back wall, where you are now looking at others leering over the side, hoping they don’t slip on the uneven ledge above and land on your head, and starts throwing mud on your body.

There is no niceness in this.

Within seconds you have become one of the many unidentifiable mud creatures, and now have some strange guy rubbing his mud covered mitts all over your barely clothed body. There is no shame. Every sexual part of you is being rubbed down in a very non-sensual way. Yet it feels good. The warm mud covering your entirety feels like bathing in a vat of pudding. Slightly egg-smelling pudding. You are holding your head up until this mud massage genie forces it back so you are planking on your back, floating in the viscous dirty liquid. After a minute, he not-so-nicely flips you over and you suddenly have to raise you head again so you don’t suffocate on the mud.

You feel like a human mud-pie. A human mud-pie who is not only voluntarily letting — but paying — a man to rub his hand all over you buttocks, a man who seems to take more time and joy in the women. He really has rubbed your butt quite a bit, you keep thinking.

After another minute of strangely relaxing-feeling molestation, you get flipped back over, and after a final feel-up of your frontal parts, you get pushed off into the horde of mud people. There is no room to lay flat, and as your feet hit someone, they instinctively push your legs down, so not to kick them in the face, and suddenly, without warning, you are standing.

Standing is a relative word.

You are more floating in what you are convinced is a watery form of quicksand. You can feel small harder chunks of mud floating in the liquid below your feet, but there is no bottom to stand on. This is one of the coolest feelings ever. You look down towards where your feet should be and suddenly you are flailing your arms, grasping for any body part you can grab, because you start to face plant. Quickly you realize that wherever you look, your body tries to go. A man behind you grabs your hair to pull up your head as you grab the shoulder (OK, side boob) of a middle aged women. Another women behind you also starts to face-plant, and grabs someone else’s neck, while kicking her feet into your stomach. You nervously start introducing yourself to these new-found friends of yours, and everyone is laughing at how ridiculous this is.

You see a girl with a clean face and feel the need to stop her to rub some mud on her forehead. Some one else puts some mud behind your ear for you. A random foot pops up between you and a guy you are talking with. “I’m in between some dudes legs now,” he exclaims, as you start playing ‘This Little Piggy’ with the toes. This mud pit is akin to a group orgy, and you are really hoping no one decided to relieve themselves in it.

After five to 15 minutes, you think you want to get out and back to the world of personal space. Plus people slip-climbing up the exit ladder (which is covered in a mix of dry mud coated with fresh wet mud), are being cleaned at the top by another local, and the mud coming off their body keeps plopping down into the pit and flinging mud on your face. Mud you quickly realize you can wipe off because every inch of your being is also covered in mud. You just want to get to the washing.

You full-body grab the exit ladder and with extreme effort, somehow make it to the top. Without warning, though you saw this coming, a man wraps his hands around your extreme upper thighs and squeezes down to clear away as much excess mud as possible. He reaches for your upper chest to ‘help’ clean that area, but you pull away, wrap your whole arm on a rail, and slowly side step your way down a slippery, mud-made staircase. By the third step, most of the mud on the bottom of your feet has scraped off and you can stop bear-hugging the wooden rail. At the bottom you find your camera man, who you lost, and he agrees to follow you down a hill to where this supposed shower is.

water, washing, molested at he mud volcano, volcan lodo el totumo

It is not a shower.

It is a lake filled with entering mud people, and exiting humanoids. It is a distinctly dirty lake, whose tide is brownish-gray, and whose bottom is muddy-rocky feeling. You don’t get far into the shallow waters before a women (age anywhere from ‘your-pretty-sure-they’re-not-legal’ to ‘how-are-they-not-dead-yet’) grabs your wrist and pushes you into a sitting position by the top of your head.

Before you can figure out whats going on, water pours down your face and this women is grabbing, rubbing and drowning you with buckets of water. Buckets and buckets of dirty, mud-saturated water rain down upon you. You are trying so hard to time your breaths in the half-seconds you get before the next bucket pours down upon you, you don’t realize that this women has stuck her hand under your bikini top and pushed it to the side. You are now in a lake with the same group of newly felt up friends saying, “Nice to meet you. Here’s my boobies.”

For us girls, the women assume you have zero shame or problem with their water-wrinkled fingers sliding violently in, out, and around inside of your bikini bottoms as they ‘clean’ you with the muddied water. You are also trying to ‘clean’ yourself to hurry-up this situation, in hopes they stop, but they don’t, so you finally give up and just let them do their thing. Remember, you are paying for this, too.

And for the men, don’t be surprised when the ladies reach down under the dirty waves and rip your bottoms off of you. Some try to clean you, some let you do it yourself, some rip your bottoms off then walk away with them to beat the mud out, leaving you crouching and reaching in vain for your confiscated shorts (they don’t go far with them and give them back after however long it takes them to feel they are clean).

This is all done so un-sexy and viciously, that people are standing up only to have whatever stranger is in front of them pointing to whatever body parts are now exposed to the world. Everyone gets to know each other, real intimately, on this trip, minus any carnal desire.

It’s very Group-Sexual-Assaultish.

At the end of the day, you are about $35 poorer, have been inside a live volcano, been lewdly massaged in the most non-arousing way ever, grabbed by and flashed complete strangers, and paid to get completely molested in the ‘dirtiest’ (literally) possible ways ever.

All in all, I say it was a great day.

Getting there: Volcán de Lodo El Totumo is reached through tours sold in just about every hotel and hostel in Cartagena. You can now get to Cartagena, from the USA, to experience your own mud molesting, with JetBlue Airways.

When words fail

For the last 8-plus months, I have been living as an expat in Thailand. I have been living, breathing animal rights — particularly as it relates to Asian elephants — traveling and getting caught up in the same little things I got caught up in when I was living in Las Vegas. Namely, personal relationships.

Cambodia child — When words fail, how about a cute photo of a little Cambodian boy instead?

And, because of this, I haven’t been able to write. Well, write about my life. About the people who make my life my life, because, unlike when I am moving around and traveling, I am stationary. The people in my life are actually in my life. They aren’t fleeting affairs of the heart, random moments with strangers talking travel, wild nights out or quiet nights in watching “Glee.”

This has caused a problem. I want to write. I want to tell you about Gary, the often-times charming older man who used to be my neighbor. I want to share my stories with you about Aaron and the cheeky conversations we have and the amazing support he has given me. I want to tell you about the time Paula and I sat at Ciccia’s House and downed a bottle of Sangsom and our revelations about our lives. I want to dish about the crushes I’ve had. The people who were in my life and left — and the reasons why. And more. But, my problem is I can’t.

For many reasons.

The biggest one is my loyalty to my relationships with these people. Where does it cross the line between writer/blogger and violating the trust/friendships/non-friendships of people? How can I express my feelings I had for someone who may or may not read this without exposing myself when I don’t want to be exposed? The people in my life are extremely valuable and I don’t want to lose the trust we have with each other by sharing my stories here.

Elephant Nature Park — A beautiful relationship I can write about — Lek Chailert and her elephants.

What happens at the end of the day, when I’m living my life and the words I want to share can no longer be shared?

It’s the reason I’ve been quiet on here … I’ve been pondering where I go … what I do with my writing as my life here becomes more permanent.

Then, there is the issue of time. I want a life here. I try to have a life here. When I lived in Las Vegas, I was able to balance work, writing and a social life. Here, it is a bit different. The lifestyle here is what Thai’s refer to as mai pen rai, no worries. It’s so easy to just be walking home from work and get roped into a chat at the local watering hole, grab a beer and get sucked in. And, in the past few months, I’ve actually developed a social circle, which has been wonderful for me, not so wonderful for d travels ’round.

Sure, there are things I plan on writing about. Photo essays I know I will share. Little juicy morsels of life here … just different from the way it used to be.

Oh, and plus, I have this nasty case of writer’s block. And I need to edit my book (which will be out sooner than later, I hope).

I hope you’re OK with that. I hope you still support me. And, I hope my stories can still provide you with what it is you are looking for when you visit here.

What do you want to read about?

The truth about child labor in Cambodia

Editor’s Note: This is a guest post from travel writer Kristin Addis.

The piping hot day in Siem Reap, Cambodia, becomes ever more noticeable as the wind stops grazing the skin and the tuk-tuk comes to a halt outside of the gates of the extraordinary ruins of Angkor Wat. Perhaps you’ve waited your whole life to see these ruins – – I know I certainly had.

Monkeys run across the path in front of the tourists on foot. A captive elephant carries passengers upon his back through the forests surrounding the temple. Hoards of tourists flash their cameras at centuries-old rocks. It is exactly how you had imagined it would be.

That is, until entering the grounds, when a tiny, bronzed hand tugs at yours.

“Miss!” the young girl chides in near-perfect English, “Beautiful post-cards! One dollah, one dollah!”

Another child, this time a boy who appears to be no older than six-years-old, runs up and asks which country you’re from, because he’s collecting coins, and, gee, he would really like to have one from each country. Could you spare some money, perhaps?

Photo courtesy Sailing “Footprints: Real to Reel” (Ronn ashore) via Flickr Creative Commons

I encountered this scene often as I traveled throughout Cambodia.

On the beaches of the south, children had memorized popular American songs as a way to get our attention and start a dialogue with the aim of selling bracelets. In the capitol city of Phnom Penh, children hawked everything from guidebooks to drugs.

These images were heartbreaking every time. As a tourist who can afford to spare a dollar or two, it seems heartless to deny a child this small gift. So, many tourists buy from them, if only to support them slightly, and to feel a bit less guilty.

Some tourists resist at first, or ask questions to justify the donation. These children easily produce a laundry list of reasons why they are selling goods and/or begging:

I have to work to help my family, my parents have no jobs.

I am working so that I can pay for school!

Look at your hairy legs! Like a monkey! I’ll thread them for you! Here, I’ll show you, let me try.

Please help me. You have money, you can help me!

Photo courtesy of sebr via Flickr Creative Commons License

The reality is, these children are not going to school. Their parents may be sitting only a few meters away, ushering their children forward because tourists find it harder to say “no” to children vs. adults. The children know that if they mess with you, joke with you, and warm up to you, they may just make a sale.

Of course you have a dollar to spare, and you may feel better momentarily for what appears to be the alleviation of poverty.

Regardless, the bottom line is, giving to young workers and beggars directly supports, perpetuates, and encourages child labor.

Even worse, these children are often pawns of larger organizations that traffic children, expose them to drugs, impose exceedingly long hours, and take the majority of the earnings.

As tough and hopeless as the situation may appear, the hope for a brighter future lies in schooling. Giving to child workers only supports the easy way out – sending children to work so that they can earn now, rather than giving them the opportunity to learn now and earn more in the future.

This shouldn’t prevent us from giving altogether, however. There are ways to make sure that your money and good intentions go into the right hands.

How you can help put an end to child labor in Cambodia

– Donate time or money to local organizations that support child education and the betterment of local lives

– Buy from street vendors who are of age, and tip where it makes sense to – this supports work from those of a proper age and puts money directly into the local economy

– Check before you donate. Websites like Concert Cambodia help to keep local organizations accountable

*Cover photo courtesy of Sailing “Footprints: Real to Reel” (Ronn ashore) via Flickr Creative Commons

When tragedy strikes the expat life

“D,” W says over the phone, hiccuping sobs, “J’s dad. He’s passed.”

Muffled cries, inaudible words.

“Oh my god,” I manage, feeling the pit of my stomach tighten and tears instantly fill my eyes.

I think I hear her ask me to come to where she is. Even if I don’t, it doesn’t matter. It’s Feb. 27. J’s birthday. And, over dinner with friends, they have just gotten word that his father passed unexpectedly. In Wales.

I grab my keys and rush down the street to where they are. My heart breaking into a million pieces just imaging the pain he is going through.

W stands on the street outside of the restaurant, surrounded by friends. I walk up silently to her and wrap my arms around her. She turns to me, streaks of wet rushing down from her swollen eyes. Her normal smiling face eclipsed by the shock and grief.

I grab her again, hugging her hard.

“I’m so sorry.”

She takes my hand in hers and we walk down the street.

“Come over and have a drink with us,” she manages.

“Are you sure that is OK with J?”

W nods her bobbed auburn hair.

The two of us stand outside the store, waiting for J. He looks up at me.

“Hey, D,” he says softly.

I can barely speak. Just looking at the anguish on his face kills me. I walk up to him and hold him tight, my chest constricting as I fight my own sobs.

He cries on my shoulder and tells me to go back with them to their home.

W and I walk hand-in-hand down the street, her fighting audible sobs as she clasps her free hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

His birthday. His father. His unexpected passing.

The two of them were just getting all of the pieces to fit for their lives in Thailand … and now … tragedy in a time when everything was going right.

We sit at their house, bottle of vodka being liberally poured in the warm February night. The three of us don’t say much at first. We just cry.

I don’t know J’s father, but I know J. And W. The two of them have been incredibly important people to me since I met them in September. Seeing them so overcome with sadness … imaging myself in their position … it just shatters me.

“What are we gonna do? What are we gonna do?” W asks over and over, holding her hands to her head. “It’s your dad. You’ve got to get home. I have to go with you. What are we gonna do?”

I scramble to help them look for flights, researching bereavement policies, figuring out how quickly they can get home.

“Fuck,” J says through tears. “Fuck.”

The tickets are expensive. Especially since they are last-minute.

“What are we gonna do?”

I volunteer to help cover some of the costs, then another friend messages me and says she will cover the remainder of J’s ticket.

“You have to go home,” I say quietly to J. “You have to be with your family. I missed my grandma dying, J. I missed her funeral because I couldn’t get back in time. You are going to go home. We won’t let that happen to you.”

Memories rush back to when my grandma passed away when I was in Croatia. Being alone … being so far from home … it is the worst feeling in the entire world. And those days after death? Forget. It.

When she died from ALS in 2010, I never felt so powerless. So little. So devastated. I would never wish that pain on anyone. And now, here they are, going through something so similar.

Except, thankfully, they are not alone in this country. They have people who care about them. Who love them. Who will help them.

The amount of love the people in my life here have shows no limits, and it took J’s father passing to learn that. As W and I walk down the street to book him a flight, both crying, Nico sees us and his normally bright face clouds over.

“What has happened?” He asks. W can’t respond, so I choke out the story the best I can. We sit down, and he makes W a hot booze-filled drink. Neighbors who love W come by and see her, and stand with her and talk. Later, Nico and his wife and baby, Beau and Bella, and our friend Paula (who also helped cover the cost) come to the house and we all sit together while they grieve.

As the alcohol flows, J begins to share stories of his father with us. Funny stories about his childhood, moments he spent with his dad. Between the laughs, of course, there are tears, but just being able to sit and listen to him … it is what friends do.

The next few days, I reflect.

What do you do when you are an expat and your world comes crashing down?

When my grandma died, it was expected. I received an e-mail from my dad, telling me to call him.

My friends, the other night, in Thailand? They did not.

“We just talked to him three days ago,” she says between sobs. “He was fine. He was fine.”

Life as an expat can be amazing, it can be beautiful, but then there is the other side. The tragic, heart-breaking side. The reality nearly every expat faces but never wants to discuss. The reality of loss.

What do you do when you get word when someone you love passes away and you have to uproot your life in order to get back? What goes through your mind about being so far from home?

Coming home to sadness is never the way you imagine your return to be. You imagine getting on the plane, excited to see people you care about. Excited to re-visit your old life (perhaps). But then … that picture in your mind is shattered. Destroyed to bits with one phone call. With one message.

Someone you love has passed away. You need to come home.

As an expat, it is the biggest fear I have. I consciously made the decision to leave my old life, to leave my friends and family on the other side of the world. But, that fear never ceases. As an expat, I know I miss out on so much. Weddings. Births. Milestone moments. Sickness. Aging. Death. But, it is a choice I made.

Sitting with my friends, witnessing their loss, suddenly I got scared. Petrified.

This could be me. Sitting with my friends. Immersed in grief and vodka and feeling entirely powerless. Utterly helpless. Then, I look at my life. Where I am. What I am doing. And, I have to wonder, what is it worth?

I know my family would never want me to stop what I was doing to come home and wait for the unavoidable. When my grandma was dying, I asked repeatedly if I needed to change my flight to come home.

“No,” my mom would say. “You don’t need to come home and wait for death. You stay. You do what you do.”

Except when grandma passed, and I was alone, and so close to coming home, I was devastated. Heart-broken. Not only for my loss, but for the impact the loss was having on my family. I wanted to be there to comfort them. To ease my pain. To ease theirs. But, as an expat, you don’t get that chance. You don’t get a re-do. You don’t get the last word. Instead, you have to constantly let people who are so far away know how much you care. Know how important they are. Because, you never know …

This post is dedicated to W, J and J’s father, Roger.

Backpacker Basics: Makeup on the road

Editor’s Note: This is a guest post from Mindful Wanderlust.

Traveling long-term is not always glamourous, and it most certainly does not always feel glamourous. I have always loved makeup and how it can transform someone into a glam girl, or just brighten up the skin, and give you a fresh polished look in no time.

I have been a makeup artist for more than 10 years, but now only do it part-time back home. However, I still love every chance I get to play around. While backpacking may not be the best time to wear a full face of makeup (I didn’t even at home) it’s important to take care of your skin while on the road, and it’s always nice to feel a little different on some evenings from all those sweaty makeup-free days.

I bring very little with me on the road, but what I do bring goes a long way.

So, what do you need to go from backpacker meh to backpacker glam?

STILA KAJAL EYELINER

This eyeliner is so soft and easy to work with. It gives a nice sharp black line, or a soft smokey eye. I love it. $18

BIBO ILLUMINATING BRONZER

I’m a big fan of this bronzer as it has a range of color, from the deepest mauve to the palest pink. It is great for bronzing and highlighting. I even use it as eyeshadow. It has a really smooth texture and looks flawless on the skin. $25

GABRIEL MASCARA (black)

Just a good old reliable cruelty free black mascara. No clumping. $15

THE BODY SHOP’S SEAWEED MATTIFYING DAY CREAM

This day cream is a wonderful, light, and non-greasy face cream. Perfect for travel. $16 And, speaking of which …

THE BODY SHOP-SEAWEED DEEP CLEANSING FACIAL WASH

Luckily I have never had any problems with my skin, even as a teenager. I really don’t like applying too many products on my face. The way I look at it is, your skin is living and breathing, the less chemicals used, the better. This cleanser is mild, smells fresh, and does the job. $13

NYX PURE RED MATT LIPSTICK

I LOVE red lipstick. It is classic, and glamourous, and I will be wearing into my old grey years. It can brighten up your face with a dab on the lips and even the cheeks. This brand glides on smoothly, stays put, and the price is right! $6

Lessons learned from seven months as an expat

Today marks seven months of being an expat in Thailand. To say my life has been a blessing these past seven months is not an understatement. From exploring Sri Lanka to blissing out in Bali to rescuing elephants and all of the beautiful moments in between, I have loved nearly every moment.

What have I learned about life as an expat?

Ask for help

When I first arrived to Thailand, I had no idea what I was doing. Visas, work permits, medical care, even the best place to go and get a massage, I was clueless. I solicited people who had lived here to help, locals, social media and more to figure everything out. Don’t think you can just go and have instant perfection (which doesn’t exist). There is a learning curve for life as an expat, and you’re not immune. Even if you think you are.

Get a strong support system

Being so far from the life I know isn’t always easy. There are days where I long for my old life, a more normal and routine life. Having people by my side has been instrumental in getting me through these seven months. There are some people who only come into my life for a short time, and others who have been by my side since the beginning. All of them play roles in my life. I never for a moment thought I could go this alone, and having that support system of people I love, and who love me, is my saving grace for when I get into one of my funks. Speaking of …

A funk is a funk is a funk

Sometimes, you just have to have one. They are unavoidable. Don’t become an expat because you think it will change you. As my friend used to always tell me when I was struggling with depression and contemplating more long-term travel, “everywhere you go, there you are.” Being an expat does not excuse depression, it does not change who you are inside. While I am not depressed anymore, I still have those occasional moments of funk when I want to curl into a ball and cry, or fly home and get a Mom Hug. They are OK. So long as I can come out of them. Whenever I get into one of these funks, I have learned the best thing I can do is just take time for myself. Whether it means going to hang out with elephants or Mr. Lucky, or something as simple as taking a walk and drinking in the beauty and charm of Chiang Mai, it gets done.

Pharmacies are good, doctors are better

Many people come to Thailand and stock up on the prescription drugs you can’t get at home without, well, a prescription. I’m guilty of this, thanks to the ridiculously cheap pills like birth control. But, I don’t abuse it. When I get sick, I go to a pharmacy and tell them what ails me, and they hand me over magic pills of better. But, that isn’t always the case. A couple of months ago, I got really sick and decided I would self-diagnose myself because I didn’t feel like hauling it to the hospital to get a real examination. Thanks to some google searches, I confidently went to the pharmacist, announced I had bronchitis and then asked for antibiotics. Easy, right? Good? Not at all. In a conversation later that day with a doctor friend, who informed me it could be pneumonia and antibiotics weren’t a good idea for me to take unless I knew what I had. Short version of this story: go to a doctor if you get sick. Skip the pharmacy.

Don’t lose touch

With social media and all of the apps you can download to smart phones, it is really difficult to lose touch with the people I love the most. Which is good. There are people in my life who I count on to call me out on my bullshit, give me advice and remind me not to sweat the small stuff. Most of them are on the other side of the world.

Home is where the heart is

I come from Maryland. I lived in Vegas. Home to me is both of those places. But now, home is here. It’s weird when I am out of Thailand and people ask me where I am from. My automatic answer: Chiang Mai. On my little street, in my little slice of Chiang Mai, I have made a home. I walk down this street every day and see my new family here. When I need a smile, I head to Ciccia’s House for some wine and laughs with my new family. Sure, it isn’t my mom, dad or brother, but I have created my own version of “Cheers” here … and sometimes that’s all you need.

The rescue of Lucky the Elephant

“Diana! Mindy! Get off of the truck!” We hear Lek yell from the ground below at us, as we sit huddled under a wooden bench in the bed of a truck beginning to fill up with water. We are soaked. And, the elephant standing mere feet from us on the truck, doesn’t look too thrilled that we’ve come to a stop.

She wants to keep moving as bad as we do.

It’s just after 6 a.m. and Mindy and I have been riding with Lucky, the elephant, since 1 a.m. But, we’ve been traveling even longer.

My adventure to be a part of the rescue of Lucky began a day earlier, at 6 p.m. On Thursday, Jan. 31, to be exact. Lek, myself, two other staff members, two drivers and four volunteers boarded our van and headed deep into the Surin province of Thailand to meet and take Lucky to her new home, Elephant Nature Park.

The drive is easy, compared to the rough roads we hit in Cambodia during my first elephant rescue. But the traveling is not.

Crowded into a van, Lek and I share a three-seat bench, and drive off into the night. I alternate between sleep and ache, trying to always keep in mind the bigger picture: I am a part of an elephant rescue. My comfort is second to what we are doing.

At 7 a.m., when we stop for coffee, stretching is blissful. Then, it is back into the van and a quick stopover in Cambodia to have two staff head to the foundation’s newest project, Elephant Sanctuary Cambodia.

We continue driving, and from time-to-time I am able to close my eyes and let sleep take over. It is never long-lasting. It is never comfortable. But, I don’t care.

We finally arrive to Surin around 2 p.m. I’m off the van quickly, heading over to see Lucky.

Mindy is already there (she arrived a day earlier) and she sits with Lucky, who is chained and rocking back and forth.

She is gorgeous.

And has a full head of hair, something I have never seen before on an elephant.

I don’t dare touch her — she has had enough stress for the day. Instead, I take her in. One eye is milky white, the other slightly cloudy. Blinded by the spotlights from a lifetime of being a famous circus elephant.

You will be free soon. You won’t ever have to perform again.

I wish she could understand the magnitude of what is about to happen in her life.

Elephant Nature Park Truck1 — The truck where Lucky, staff and volunteers will use to drive up to Elephant Nature Park.

An hour later, when she walks onto the truck with no hesitation, I think for a moment that maybe she does.

Less than 24 hours after leaving Chiang Mai, we board the van and head back. Volunteers take shifts riding with her. And, at 1 a.m. when the last two decide they want to be back on the van, Mindy and I decide to climb up the truck and spend the night with her.

It is even less comfortable than the van, but there is something incredibly magical at being able to sit with an elephant being brought to freedom. Wrapped in a blanket, hood pulled tightly over my head, I sit and stare at her.

Even in the dark, her beauty touches me. Against the night sky and the waning moon, the light pink freckles dotting her trunk and ears glow silver.

I stare at her for a long time, eventually falling asleep slumped on the wooden plank near the top of the truck. Finally, I curl into a tight ball and lean my head against makeshift pillows and let my exhausted body relax. I wake over every bump and stop, but that sleep is some of the most peaceful I have had. I know it is because Lucky is there and knowing what Lek has done is so important.

I wake up at 4 a.m. and look at my clock.

“We’ve only been up here three hours?” I ask Mindy. “Oh god … time is going so slow.”

I close my eyes for another hour and then wake up for good when one of the mahouts sleeping on a hammock below tickles my foot.

The black night is giving way to a cloudy and gray morning far before the sun even pokes above the horizon. I stand up on the bench and peer over the top of the truck, looking into the distance.

It looks ominous.

During the night, we’ve headed into the lush mountains … and storm clouds. Ahead, I see a flash of sheet lightening.

Crap.

I gesture to the mahout that thunder, lightening and rain are coming and he looks ahead.

“Down?” He asks me.

I turn to Mindy. Do we want to get caught in a storm sitting on top of the truck? Driving through the mountains of Thailand? Next to an elephant?

Absolutely, we do.

“Mai pen rai,” I say to him. (No worries.)

He smiles, laughs and begins to prepare for the downpour.

It starts slow, just a few drops plunking down on us. Then, the sky opens. The four of us jump down under the bench and situate ourselves near Lucky, on top of a spare tire.

When we stop, Lek calls for us, telling us to come back to the van.

I’ve never been more soaked in my life. I scramble down the ladder and grab some dry clothes and head into the bathroom of the quarantine office we’ve stopped at.

Once we’re in dry clothes, we continue on, stopping for food for us and Lucky before we begin the final trek from Lampang to the park.

Mindy, Lek and I climb back up with Lucky for the last three hours of the journey. Lek sits below with the elephant so she can learn her voice and grow comfortable with us.

When we arrive to Elephant Nature Park, the emotions from the past day hit me when I see the crowd of people gathered to witness Lucky’s first taste of freedom.

Along the feeding platform are about 50 people, all cheering and taking photos. Then, at the medical center, there are even more, filming, photographing, being a part of this elephant’s first moments in her new life.

Lucky walks off of the truck with no problem. I wait until she is off and no one can see the tears which are running down my face. While I was just there to document the experience, being able to witness this rescue, the third now in my life, never gets old. And, my emotions always are the same: I’ve witnessed this elephant get a new lease on life.

And, THAT is a powerful thing.

The faces of Ratanakiri

The little boy’s face in front of me is smeared with dirt, coupled with snot. But, he doesn’t care. Instead, he pushes his tiny, dark face closer to me. Closer to my lens, and smiles big.

Click.

I turn the camera towards him, displaying his chubby little face for him to see and he erupts in a fit of giggles, delighted at seeing his image on the display.

As I move from him and towards other children surrounding me in this dusty village in Cambodia’s Ratanakiri Province, he follows me, jumping into every photo I take and then standing there after, waiting anxiously for me to turn my camera around so he can see his face once again.

Ratanakiri is far off the tourist path (for the most part). It is a bumpy ride 11-hour ride from Phnom Penh, and an even more tretchreous 16-hour drive on mostly dirt roads from Siem Reap. Unexpectedly, I find myself in this village, which has a fine layer of rust-covered dirt blanketing everything from the trees on the side of the roads to the quickly put-together wooden homes on stilts to even the people, including me.

Armed with a bag of clothing and snacks to give to the children, it is only a matter of moments before my boss and I (who are here on an entirely different mission) are surrounded by the village’s children.

For an hour, we snap photos of them before we head out and stop in another village.

As night falls and my boss meets with someone, I wander off towards a small group of kids. They run around me, laughing, mimicking my movements. At one point, I crouch to the ground with them and place my hands over my mouth, over my ears and then, over my eyes. They do the same.

Speak no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.

I sit and stare at them as they follow my lead, marveling at the lives they lead. There is no electricity in this village. There are no iPads, no televisions, barely a radio. Instead, these children live with nature. They live a far simpler life than the children I have met in my days. And, it is a beautiful thing.

I find myself back in these two villages a month later, as we are en route to rescue elephants. Once again, the children crowd us, fighting to see my camera, to play with my iPhone. And, once again, I feel this sense of peace come over me as I sit and am reminded of the little things in my childhood that would make me happy: afternoons sitting outside with my friends, dancing into the sunset, simple moments of nature.

Despite their dire conditions, despite the fact these children will never know Facebook, or Twitter, or likely Gangam Style, they are happy. Even living in poverty, these children sparkle and exude a warmth I feel very rarely with little ones.

Here are their moments:

It makes me wonder: if kids in first world countries who have those iPads, the cell phones, the video games, could come here and see how these children live, I wonder if the next generation would be different?