A Poem for Thailand

I especially love Thailand in the morning.
I say ‘Thailand’ at the risk of sounding reductive. This is about ‘my’ Thailand, the one I have seen, heard, smelt, felt, grown to love.
This poem came to me over the course of a few mornings, cycling through sleepy Thai villages as they yawn and wake to the day.


Oh Thailand
with your long-billed herons
stand, balance, stock-still
in the wake of the morning –
walk like an Egyptian

with your
squatting women
clean silver water basins
engravings twisted like molten hair

with your truck loads of
Burmese and Laotian workers
colorful socks over their faces –
they zip up their moths
and I hope it is just for the Sun

Oh Thailand
with your
cheeky children dressed
as if ready for some Army brigade
hanging from their handle bars

with your
plump sprouts
who dangle from the seat of Daddy’s motorbike

with your
monks who carry
hand-rolled cigarettes
and sling-shots to scatter
the birds

with your
boldly-painted houses
perched squat
pink roof
brick stamped on
electric blue
orange walls
purple trim
all with the grace of
tin-can wind chimes

with your colored wars and
tattered flags

with your porches
too many bird cages

Why so many bird cages?
Whose song are you catching, Thailand?
What is the tune of your earthen pulse?

I hear your song, I hum along


The Beauty of Human Emotion


It’s not hard to feel as if natural beauty rushes down to greet you the moment your tires hit the road. Sunrises peek above the cresting spine of hills, padi root themselves against the tousling wind, and bulls sprawl languorously in the cool mud – all along this gorgeous unfurling road. Having grown up in urban Singapore, I drink it all in.

But I worry about going too fast. I fret about not being present enough, about not looking around with fresh eyes. “Am I just breezing through without fully appreciating all this beauty? Am I becoming jaded?” – it’s this little voice that helps me take the most from the scenery so far. This has been helpful, not doubt, but on one ride I wondered whether this was a bias which left out other types of beauty. Beauty that we often let slip by – too busy or too blind to notice that which is couched in the mundane and ordinary.


Thailand, you are a land of rolling hills and verdant green; but today I will introduce a wonder closer to home and heart but no less awe-inspiring. Human emotion – in its rich weave of textures and colours – is beautiful.



Monks that we befriended in Songkhla, Thailand and went alms collecting with.

The classifier for the monks in Thailand is ruup, which means picture. Ruup is used because the monks are the images of Buddha. Beyond the saffron robes and the arms-bowl, it is sometimes hard to imagine the person before, or behind, the image of the Buddha – as a man, a son, a grandson, or as the village boy. These relationships and the emotions invested in them became real for us during the three monk initiation ceremonies that we have been invited to (or at least found ourselves stumbling upon). All three have been slightly different, but each has revealed an intimate slice of the confluence of emotions that spills over on that important day.

Like a sunrise, these emotions are revealed slowly to all those who have the patience to wait and observe. We saw cheery greetings and handshakes from friends and relatives from the village or the next. We saw pats-on-the-back and firm squeezes of the arm with the men, and tittering conversation and excited hugs with the women. We saw the proud 70-year old matriarch commanding the entire production line responsible for lunch. We saw the grandfather receding to the background, slowly sucking on a cigarette deep in thought.


Production line to keep everyone well fed and happy at the ceremony



Enough food for the entire village: Marcus tries his hand at cooking as Kei creeps behind. Look at the size of that scoop!


We were farangs (foreigners) in spandex and sunblock. We were first fed and fussed over in great hospitality. However, when it came to the most intimate moments of the head-shaving, we inadvertently dropped away. We became invisible observers within the entire village now pulled in a tight orbit around the not-yet-bald heads of two initiates.



Girl offers a bar of soap, and lady with the ceremonial bowl of water and flowers looks on as the father begins the shaving.


The whole scene of the head-shaving. Undoubtedly a whole village affair.

Shaving an initiates head is an operation that requires an entire village. There is a buzz and bustle of activity as everyone tries to help. Some manage to help more than others, and clearly no one is an expert. A man snips away with a pair of scissors ineffectively, only to be joined by another with a razor. The razor is dull; he gets shooed away as the men impatiently shout for more razors. In the interim, women seize this opportunity with ceremonial bowls on hand to sprinkle water and flowers on the initiate’s heads. At this point, a whole pack of fresh razors arrive and the operation continues. The two initiates belong equally to the village, and relatives and friends swarm and rotate between both. A mother blinks away a tear in her eye, dipping her head away from eye contact. She smiles bashfully and shakes her head. A younger sister manages to break an initiate’s concentration long enough to win herself a reassuring smile. The initiate returns to his rites or thoughts, as his hair falls soundlessly into the leaf he carries.


Mother and son sharing a moment before the shaving begins.


The finishing touches. Just the sideburns and the eyebrows left.

Like a sunset, these emotions flash for a glorious instant, and then disappear. The outsider, grateful for her momentary invisibility, blends into the moment without disturbing it. She is bombarded with the unadulterated intimacy of a family’s affairs – each unspoken nuance played preciously over one’s face and hands, every person intertwined with every other person in a mutable web of relations.

The initiates, now with shaven heads and eyebrows, wear white and gold robes. They smoke cigarettes while the conversation mills around them. The first part of their initiation is over. They will soon be accompanied in a procession to the temple where they will fully become monks.

It would be foolish for me to believe that I can fully understand or empathise with the whirl of raw emotion on display that day. Travelling makes one acutely aware of the rift that cultural context can present when it goes unappreciated. I found out recently that it is common for men in Thailand to become monks for a few years (either as a probation period for an extended stay, or as a form of devotion), and that becoming a monk is often an intentional decision to achieve merit for one’s parents, especially one’s mother, who cannot become a monk herself.

While I have the benefit of knowing this now, I will still never know exactly what the mother felt as she shed tears that day. Emotion is ephemeral, vastly personal, and impossible to capture or to claim. It probably doesn’t help that as humans we are terrible communicators of emotion too. We communicate emotion clumsily thorough words, actions or images; we use lego blocks of interior experience to construct crude approximations of meaning only to never find out how accurate we actually were.

It’s strange but maybe this is precisely why emotion is beautiful. We will most probably never be fully competent in accessing and communicating emotion, and we are just as likely to forever keep trying. But when emotion is shared in its special, fleeting, dysfunctional way – whether in the village affair of monk-hood, a mother’s tender gaze, a girl’s winning birthday smile, or in a moment of kinship despite being culturally worlds apart – the beauty of emotion offers its magic to you. The beauty of warmth and love of sunsets, serenity and knowing of the oceans, and the beauty of emotion – the ones that bind us all – waving and rippling on the rolling hills, unfurling on this gorgeous road we call life.

All we have to do is to look for it.


Pi Sao (older sister) Joe and her 9 month old daughter Chong Kuan. Ban Thung Maha, Thailand. Chong Kuan’s eye is swollen because she has a mosquito bite on her eye.


We celebrated Kung Ten’s (literally dancing shrimp) 15th birthday at Surat Thani, Thailand. We were all honoured to receive t-shirts from her which reads ‘Surat Thani…by Kungten’. Thanks to her, we now have a proper band name and band T-shirt! Watch out for the Suratthanis by the Kungtens / The Dancing Shrimps. What an inquisitive and sweet girl with an amazing voice.


Our second night at Pi Sao Joe’s and Pi Chai (older brother) Joke’s house. We were invited to stay over at their house when they saw us at their shop and we ended up spending a full day with them and their friends riding horses, catching crabs, picking durians and coconuts, and going to the beach. We cooked this meal together.



The Things They Carried

“The nomad places little value on what he cannot carry.”  Prof. R. Patke | Yale-NUS College | 2013

NB: Clicking on a picture will link to a high-resolution shot.





















A Day in the Life

4:30 (in theory)  Wake up – thanks to the beeping of Anshuman’s watch or a chorus of roosters



5:00  Eat a breakfast of fruit, bread, and occasionally Maggi Mee



5:30 – 6:00  Get on the road!



7:00  Our first Breakfast stop (hopefully after about 25km of riding)



7:30   On the road again…



8:30   Stop to take a photo of someone and their chakrayan (bicycle)



9:30  Get lost, ask for directions with exaggerated hand gestures and our disintegrating map



10:00  Shade and Food Break



11:00   Stop to take a photo of a cock fight



11:30 – 13:30   Eat lunch and chat about life, our families, methods of applying sunscreen, our favorite foods, etc.



13:30  Start riding, only to realize that Kei has a flat tire



13:31 Fix itIMG_4374


14:30  Stop to take a photo of someone and their chakrayan



15:00 – 16:00 Ask for a nearby Wat (Temple) where we can sleep. Arrive at the Wat.



16:00  Laundry Time




17:30 – 18:00 Find Dinner (likely at a Monk Initiation ceremony/ party)



18:30 – 21:00 Group reflection, writing, reading, wander around, walk, pray with monks, Push-ups with Master Marcus, Abs with Anshuman, Yoga with Kei



21:00 (in theory)   Long- awaited sleep!


The Basikal of Malaysia

Despite how short our one week stint in Malaysia was, we definitely captured many interesting shots of the bicycle and its various uses. Much of this was possible with the help of our lovely host and translator Ru, who sped us around in her ‘Ru-mobile’ to hunt down various aunties and uncles on bikes.

To continue my previous post ‘The Technology-Practice of the Bicycle”, I hope that this post will help to bring out the mutable relationship of the bicycle and the user, and the ways that this instructs both cultural and organisational changes. By stringing these photos into broad themes of function, heritage and transference, and emerging cycling culture, we hope to make some sense of the story of the bicycle and its users in Malaysia.



The first thing that we noticed about the bike in Malaysia was its diversity in its appearance, form and function. While the creativity within these various uses were immediately evident, what struck me was how closely the form of the bicycle suited the needs of the user – sometimes in really interesting ways. In an age where we look for the swankiest and the snazziest toys to own, some of the folks in Malaysia made me think about valuing a piece of technology for exactly what you need, and not for the blinking lights, the bells and the whistles.


This bicycle was converted to a food cart. The bicycle no longer works and its tires have been flat for ages but it functions perfectly fine as a food cart. Similar food carts create a distinctive street food culture in Butterworth, Penang. This particular cart sold cai fan (mixed rice), alongside another cart selling liang cha (cooling tea). Both vendors were equally pai seh (embarrassed) about posing for a photograph though. This photo shows how the creative use of the bike has both cultural and organisational (economic) effects in interesting ways!


Of course, the bicycle is still a very common method of transport for children to get to school. This boy is one of many whom we saw as we were on the road. The bike that he uses is typical of the Chinese produced bikes commonly found in the bike shops of Malaysia.


This man is a Karang Guni (rag and bone man) we saw in Butterworth, Penang. Note how he resourcefully maximises the real estate on his bicycle by using bungee cords, wooden boxes, a basket and his handle bars.  This bike is one of the oldest ones that we have seen, but it suits his purposes perfectly.


We saw this boy in Merbok, Kedah. This was one of the snazziest bikes that we had seen in a while. He claims he uses the bike on weekends to go mountain biking. We didn’t see any hardcore trails but he might have been referring to he hill we climbed the next day. We saw few but notable numbers of other similar users of the bike. This may be a sign that the bike is becoming increasingly popular as a form of recreation for the privileged.


This lady cycles to work at a biscuit factory daily. Her bicycle is an example of the locally produced bikes that used to be very commonplace in Malaysia, but is no longer produced. She mentioned how she spent a long time looking for this bike after her old bike became spoilt beyond repair. She has been holding on dearly to this bike for 20 years since. She has held on to this old model for so long because the low bar allows her to step over easily to get on. She knows how hard it is to find a similar bike nowadays, and so would rather constantly fix it rather than replace it. We chanced by her again at the bike shop changing out her broken seat!


Heritage and Transference

We managed to uncover a bit of the heritage and nostalgia surrounding the bicycle. The older generation seems to have fond memories of the type of bicycles that were commonplace back in the day. We saw a common trend of this heritage being slowly and inadvertently lost to a new form of cycling culture.


This is the first bicycle shop that we visited. The man has run the business for the past 16 years, and got into the business because it was good money at the time. He says that he no longer holds the old antique bicycles because no one wants them anymore. When asked what the biggest change all these years has been – he repleis that bicycles are no longer a means of transport for the poor, but increasingly a recreational vehicle for the rich.



We barely caught this lady as we drove past. She proudly shows of her bike after some coaxing and gave us high fives afterward. She said that she has been using the bike since she was a teen. Despite her age at 70, she continues to ride, and even carries loads on her rear rack.


This is one of the oldest bike shops in town. Check out the metal roof! If you look beside Ru, you see the same lady who has come to fix her broken seat!


Although the exterior and interior design of the shop has not changed much, its interesting how all the bikes that they hold are all new models, mostly produced in China. When asked about this, the owner mentions how they once had a huge shipment of old locally produced bikes which they found impossibly difficult to sell off. This shows how the changing preferences of consumers organises and changes the industries of the bicycle from within.


Ru remembers this exact same uncle from her childhood! When asked if his son is going to take over the shop, he shakes his head and says that his son works at a company in town and that the shop will just have to close down. Although he looked slightly disappointed, he seems to have come to terms with this.



Ru reminiscing about the times when she was a young school girl who used to cycle her bicycle here to get it fixed.


This lady brought her son to fix his bicycle. She says that she used to frequent the shop when she was young. She no longer cycles much, but she returns to the shop with her son whenever necessary. The owners of the shop mention how their customers are predominantly the children of their past consumers. To me, this spoke of transference and renewal of the bicycle culture in Malaysia. Although the heritage may be increasingly lost over the years, this transference passes a bit of it on to the next generation.


 Emerging Cycling Culture

As the bicycle culture of the past slowly fades away, we see how the bicycle is nowhere near dead, just in a different form. We witnessed how most riders were predominantly the old and the young. This section captures the spirit of the bicycle being carried on.


In Malaysia, kids start to ride early. This is Edam with his bicycle. Taken in Merbok, Kedah.


Kids can only ride if bikes are produced to their size. Check out how small this frame is! Meant for kids 4 and up.


We saw multiple fluorescent adolescent bike gangs. These bicycles are predominantly fixies and very popular with the young. In this picture you see three bigger boys and one smaller boy with a less loud bike. Before this picture was taken the smaller boy took off the cap of his older friend and tried to pose with it. Observing these social dynamics and understanding how much the bike can be a form of identity and of social grouping, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if the boy ‘graduates’ to a similar bike in a few years time!



This boy rolled by on his back wheel while we were making a rest stop. It shows how the young are using the bike as much more than merely a means of transport!


The week in Malaysia opened our eyes to the different forms and ways in which the bicycle continues to evolve within Malaysia. Do similar trends continue in Thailand and beyond? Can anything be said about a greater Southeast Asian story about the bike and the emergence of a new cycling culture distinct from the past? Does Thailand hold on to its heritage in a different way? Stay with the chakrayan chums to find out!

The Novelty of Bicycle Touring

We’ve had many amazing experiences with the people we’ve met on our j0urney so far. We might say that these specific experiences were never our intention, our doing – they were  what we hoped for but never dared to expect. Instead, in the wake of these experiences, we attribute them to chance, coincidence, to God, or to the kindness of humanity. I realised however, that we give ourselves less credit than we deserve. I think we have crafted, or at least put ourselves in the position to receive these experiences, simply through the act of bicycle touring.

Ratchakorn saving us and our chakrayans

Ratchakorn saving us and our chakrayans

We have cycled for 13 days and if all our eyes served us well, I can safely say that we have not encountered even one other touring cyclist on the road. We are rare, a novelty, maybe even a specimen that the locals take around to show off what they’ve found. We are foreigners touring on chakrayans.


Selfie on a moving Rescue vehicle

Rao khon Singapore, kii Chakrayan bai Hanoi (We are from Singapore, cycling to Hanoi). 

Singapore naksiksa (Singaporean students)

Phom khon India (I’m from India)

Chan khon America (I’m from America)

Each of these phrases are always greeted with raised eyebrows, an exaggerated “ohhhh”, and a quick repetition of what we just said by whom we addressed to the other locals gathered around. Amazement, curiosity, intrigue, wonder, surprise, excitement. They smile, and each to their own degree, shower us with food, water, lodging, conversation, joy and friendship.


Kungten’s Birthday Party!

We’ve gotten used to the sight of ourselves, rolling into town sweaty and grimy, with fully packed panniers strapped onto our bikes, reflective vests, good morning towels, yoga mats and sleeping bags. But for anyone else, we are a sight to behold.

Rest stop - eating maggi mee mammee mee style

Rest stop – eating maggi mee mammee mee style

This novelty is what attracts such experiences and such kindness; we chose this, consciously unwilling or unconsciously willing. They might be amazing people, but they definitely do not shower all of their kindness on just anybody. Amidst all our gratitude, we must not forget to thank ourselves and our bicycles (Gio, Trudy, Martha, and mine yet to be named) for going the distance and crossing that bridge that leads to people’s hearts.


P.S. forgive my bad Thai


One of the first phrases that any traveler must learn to say in the local language is ‘I don’t understand.’
The Thais say ‘Phohm mai khao jai.’

phohm is a way to refer to oneself
mai is a negation
khao means ‘enter’
jai is the heart

‘Phohm mai khao jai’, translated literally, means ‘It didn’t enter my heart.’

Looking for Trouble

IMG_3927We like to think of ourselves as travelers, and not as tourists. We humor ourselves, much like little boys stuck in their pilot/pirate/policeman phase. We aren’t to be blamed, mind: the traveler is obviously cooler.

The tourist traps herself  in her conveniences. She has flights to fly, sights to see, luggage to lug, and hotels to hote. The traveler revels in the very opposite. She packs two pieces of underwear and a toothbrush, and hopes to figure out the rest along the way. The traveler loses the way, drinks the water, and sees the things that Lonely Planet does not show. Like a gambler or a lover, she receives more because she gives more.

When the Chakrayan Chroniclers first set out, we wanted, in this way, to be vulnerable. We were all ready to ride the rough road and eat the funky food. We were four students (inclusive of beautiful white woman), hoping to ride our bicycles for thousands of kilometers. Of course things would go wrong!  Our bikes would become seea (Thai for ‘broken or spoiled’), our stomachs would become seea, and we would definitely lohng the thaang (lose the way). We would be clueless, helpless, and dependent, with a language barrier to boot.
I couldn’t wait.

But then the rough road and the funky food gave us a miss.
It turns out vulnerability is something you must seek out. It does not just come when called.
Upsettingly enough, none of the bikers have fallen ill yet. It turns out the roadside stalls have been serving us factory-packaged ice and boiled water the whole time. When we lohng the thaang and ask for directions, the people are too polite to tell us that we are lost. They point encouragingly in the direction that we are headed, and assure us, with an oddly formed thumbs-up, that we’re on the right track. When we ask directions for Highway 408 from Songkhla to Nakhon Si Thammarat, they politely direct us to the more comfortable ferry that connects the same two cities.

Without even realizing it, we are being turned into tourists. We often find ourselves at 7-Elevens, museums, bubble tea stores, and once even at KFC. I realize only now how badly we must stand out, we with our spandex and our sunglasses and our fanny packs. We want to be lovers and gamblers, but I sometimes wonder if our roses are too garish and our banknotes too big.

The Technology-Practice of the Bicycle

Anshuman and I acting our age

Anshuman and I acting our age

As touring cyclists, the bicycle is undoubtedly central to the experience. The technology of the bicycle becomes our predominant method of transport. However, even with slightly more than a week of road under us, we have naturally begun to see it as more than just that. It’s almost silly how we give a steel frame and two wheels that much emotional investment. We call them names:  Trudy, Martha, Gio, and (tentatively) Walla Walla. Those with new bikes worry about scratches, dings, dents and persistent KTM (Malaysian railway company) stickers.  Anshuman even has his own ritual of elaborate bicycle maintenance that he religiously follows to keep Gio well-oiled and happy. For most of us, the bike goes beyond merely  getting us from point A to point B. When we lock and chain them up at night, we do so not only because we fear losing our means of transport – but also because the bike holds sentimental and emotional value in its connotations of home.

While highly idiosyncratic and personal, these notions on our part may guide us towards a deeper understanding of man’s conception and relationship with technology. In some way, our concept of the bicycle has broadened beyond the utilitarian appreciation of its uses. Perhaps technology cannot exist in isolation – but must be assessed from its dynamic and relationship with its users, and its resultant effects.  Arnold Pacey’s triangle of technology practice is a framework which may be helpful in helping us understand this phenomenon. Ultimately, Pacey believes that a technology never ever stays as merely that; the effect of man’s changing relationship with any technology has effects which ripple out through time, geographies and cultures. In response, Pacey invites us to look beyond the ‘restricted meaning of technology’  to notice the inevitable cultural and organisational aspects of technology, in the triangle of ‘technology-practice’


rys_1.png (385×287)



We’ll use the bike as an example to try to grasp this ‘general meaning of technology’.

Technological aspects:

Includes the technicalities of how the gears interact with the chain, crankset and casette to produce multiple speeds, how the inner tubes need to be of a certain PSI in order to perform optimally, how the braking different braking systems utilise (V-brakes, cantilever brakes etc.) different mechanisms in order to be effective

Cultural aspects:

How the bike may develop as a status symbol which functions as a signifier of wealth, sophistication or privilege (those snazzy sport bikes?); how the bike may be used as a symbol or a carrier of deeper and less obvious ethical codes or values etc. (the green travel movement heralded by the return of the bicycle?); how the bike may enable a  new and different kind of cultural movement, lifestyle or aesthetic (the huge impact of the bicycle in cities like Hanoi or Beijing?)

Organisational aspect:

How the bike inadvertently or perhaps intentionally includes or excludes different social subgroups; how the use of the bike organises whole industries, employment options, economic prospects (what about the global movement of bicycle production from all over the world to predominantly China? How does that affect these countries?); how the bike enables or discourages certain forms of economic activity etc.

While we will undoubtedly learn much about the technological aspect of the bicycle on this trip – whether from bicycle maintenance 101, patching and replacing tubes, or from hunting down obsolete bike parts in Thailand – I believe that the real story lies beyond that first cursory look. We hope to glean more of the bike’s cultural and organisational aspects through photos and stories of the bikes we see along the way. We aspire to tell the compelling story of the technology-practice of the bicycle throughout Southeast Asia, and in so doing, hopefully uncover the bigger story of its peoples and its places.



A Glimpse

We stop at least four times per day to eat. On each of these occasions, the three water bottles I have consumed in the last hour start to catch up with me, and I ask to use the hong nam (toilet).
While this practice began as merely a mundane necessity, it has become one of my favorite parts about stopping.

Most shop/ roadside restaurant owners use portion of their house as their business. What separates their professional and personal lives is as simple as a thin curtain, a door, a staircase.

I adore seeing the innards of these homes.
The bathroom is a particularly ‘human’ space, what with the disheveled toothbrushes and near-empty shampoo bottles. But often I even get to walk through other rooms on my way to the hong nam (toilet).


Laundry over Malaysian Kampung

I’ve seen:

A fish tank with the largest luohan fish ever
A shadowed living room-cum-bedroom-cum-kitchen
A dusty lipstick among piles of what had to be Grandmother’s jewellry
Walls upon walls of laminated family photographs
Laundry forgotten on the backs of chairs
Holographic Mickey Mouse images and coloring books
Personal shrines for Grandfather, a specific monk, a deity, all of the above
Many many very large box-televisions

There are two beautiful things about these moments:
1) They are accidental, happenstance, raw, real, honest. The path the hong nam happens to be where and how it is. The homes are not prepared for my visit, and I appreciate them for their clutter, or emptiness.
2) They are unrecorded. Even while writing this, it is difficult for me to remember the details of the insides of the unlit homes. I never think to bring my camera (and it would be intrusive), and thus the full splendor of the home exists, for me, only in the moments I observe it.

I love to see where the dishes are washed, which possessions are most central in the room, which pictures are on the walls, how they are slanted, how the headscarf looks when its hanging over the cupboard door…


Signs there must be a little one near

Yesterday I sat at a small concrete table, underneath a blue tarp awning in Songkhla, writing postcards and smiling to myself as the rain jutted fiercely out of the sky. I watched as school children scampered past, with their Scouts-like uniforms, clean-cropped hair, and swinging leather messenger bags.
I’d be kidding if I said I wasn’t drenched. A Grandmother motioned for me to come under her awning. We sat in silence as her saucer-eyed toddler Grandson sneaked his cupped hand out under the sky to feel the rain drops.

People might think that people-watching is a creepy hobby, but I disagree. We want to see how other people are naturally, how they live, how they think.
I often find that my presence (being a white female traveler) alters the spaces I enter too greatly for me to really see them. I get frustrated by how self-consciousness, and I cannot focus on the details.

Under this awning, in the shadow of the rain, I felt enormously relieved – I was watching without being watched.


Preparing Som Thum – Raw Papaya Salad

So, whether it is:
gazing upon school children as they flood the streets to buy their favorite electric green drink and fried after-school snack, or
catching my reflection in an anonymous yet oh-so-personal dresser mirror, or
quietly following behind our new-found monk friends as they receive their morning alms,
these mute  glimpses show me the daily, the mundane – things which can never rightly be told with our few Thai words or many exaggerated gestures.

On my way back from the hong nam I linger just a while longer – not ready to face the bright sunlight, the bicycles, the journey, the movement. I breathe in all the somehow-familiar newness and feel grateful for all that means  ‘home’.


Toddler running bare in Sakom Beach