It just got harder out here

Another day another so-called feminist putting back the movement 10 years.

Lily Allen making a comeback was not the worst news I'd heard all week. Sure, she's slightly annoying with her posturing lyrics and accent that conflict with her privileged lifestyle. Yawn. However, what I always did like about Lily Allen was that she wasn't afraid to be a little pudgy and to wear trainers and that she was successful despite her non-conformist attitude to the industry's idea of beauty. I admired her confidence, if not her music.

Once Lily started getting more media attention for her miscarriages than for her albums I began to feel increasingly bad for the fallen starlet. As women our worth is measured by the outside world by few, but tangible things: our beauty, or career choice and our ability to conceive and carry a pregnancy to term. Like it or not, this is a fact, and here Lily was failing, publicly at the one thing that we women are supposedly designed to do. I defy any woman, regardless of her attitude towards her own familial desires, to not feel a twinge of sadness and of inexplicable guilt upon hearing that a woman can't get pregnant. But Lily retreated from the public eye, opened a boutique and finally achieved her baby success. Not once, but twice. This was very happy news, not just for Lily and her fans, but for women everywhere.

Now that Lily is back in 2013 with her comeback single I was expecting more. I'm pleased that she aimed her new single at misogynistic idiots like my old buddy Robin Thicke, but she's gone about it in the wrong way. A woman who has been through what she has should know better. Writing lyrics about how she "don't need to shake my ass for you 'cause I've got a brain" while at the same time panning to the many scantily-clad twerking women in her video. She's created a hierarchical system within the confines of her own video. The women who are dancing around her aren't the same as her. Lily is saying she is better than them. Lily remains fully clothed (a la Thicke) and drops to the ground lazily as the other women drop and convulse and lick their fingers at Lily, because it is Lily who is writing their paychecks. They are performing for her, not with her. She is using them for her amusement, she is not part of their group. Lily pouring beer over the ass of one of her dancers while she laughs is just as offensive to me as if a man had done it. Objectification is objectification, it's not clever. And if you're a woman doing it to another woman, it's almost worse.

It's the same issue I had with Britney revisited. These women have the wrong idea. Show me your own body if you want to take a stand against objectification. Miley Cyrus may be a tit, but she's a tit willing to show us her own vag and not exploit someone else's.

I won't jump on the bandwagon and claim that Lily is racist. I don't see that. She just made a dumb assumption, as many others who haven't seen a music video post 2000 does. That only rap and R&B artists use women as props in videos and that only rap and R&B artists are black. But that's just not true and if anything it makes Lily look ignorant, but not racist. A woman who knows exactly how hard it is out there should have known better. She had a massive opportunity to produce thought-provoking, intelligent commentary about the industry which she has been a part of for a decade, but in order to sell records and cause controversy she took the easy option. What a shame.

As a final bone of contention the word "bitch" is repeated over 20 times in a video running just over 3 minutes. The result is that word being tossed around the screen like a grenade but no one running for cover. Who are these bitches that Lily insists are being hard done by? Well if her video is to be believed it is those who surround her. Those she motions to and laughs at, but not Lily herself. Just those she degrades with words, objects and costumes. I'd like to know how hard it ever was for Lily Allen out here, because something tells me that things just got a bit harder.

Mistress Maldives

The Maldives is the vacation equivalent to taking a Valium with a glass of red wine. You don’t need to think here. All the thinking is done for you. When to eat, what to drink, where to swim and even what your idea of romance is. If it isn’t a Jacuzzi-topped luxury suite, you’re fucked. This brainlessness attracts a certain type of customer (so many copies of Fifty Shades of Grey!) and that’s not to say that it’s wrong. These people must work very hard to be able to afford this place. They probably get very few holiday days in the year and want to spend them doing as little as possible, and if that’s your thing then yes, this is indeed paradise. It’s the seductive mistress of destinations. You know what you’re going to get with a mistress: Sparkling conversation, laughs, a few drinks and some hanky panky to finish the evening off. Winning.

But what if what you want is something unique and surprising with a few hidden tattoos and a sneaky Prince Albert? Well then, look elsewhere. The Malidves is all organized fun and crowds of people you hate but can’t escape. I am the luckiest person in the world to be able to enjoy this place with my very good friend whom I haven’t seen in ages. I’m having a great time, but if I were here with Steve I’d have drowned him by now.  Steve and I are nearly in our 9^th year of marriage and that’s not to say that we can’t have a good time in each other’s company, but both of us want more. We want to discover things and make places ours and one can’t do that here. Nothing is yours. It’s all manufactured to feel like it can be anyone’s. Nothing too specific or special. It’s one size fits most.

Being here with girlfriends is ideal for me. And I’m thankful for that, as this place couldn’t feel less romantic in my opinion. I’m flanked by honeymooners at all times and watching them has become a great way to pass the time, but I doubt I’d ever run into any of these people on any other of my travels and again, that’s ok. I’m not judging. I’m simply observing and it’s fascinating.

On Disco Night I was treated to what seemed to me to be a peek into these couple’s bedrooms. Some gyrated seductively, pressed into each other’s pelvises with urgency. They pretty quickly vacated back to their jacuzzi suites. Some flailed their arms and legs about with the rhythm of a frying egg. These were my favorite couples and I think they might be in it for the long haul. Then there were couples who’d been either married for ages, or married later in life. Hands in the air, giving no fucks, they danced until I was afraid some of them night vomit and a few probably did. I have yet to identify any gays on the island, which is sad for me, but I don’t really think I know any gay couples that I believe would enjoy it here. It’s way too straight and really, really white.

There are also a large amount of Cougars here. Older women with their toy boys strolling on the beach hand in hand like a living advertisement for online dating. There are pudgy German tourists hogging the sun loungers and not speaking to each other and there are families here too.  Older parents with their older children, young mummies with their toddling pink bundles and families who decided to put off Disneyland for one more year and whose restless 7-year-olds search for something to destroy.

After over 3 months in Sri Lanka, working 7-day weeks this is the perfect way for me to unwind. I have a beautiful room, lovely company and outstanding scenery. This place has been so good for me. It’s forced me to relax in a way no other destination ever has. Even swimming with sharks this morning I was all “what? A shark? No biggie.” And actually swam at it. I’m so relaxed I’m losing brain cells.

But to really enjoy a place to the point where I want to go back again and again I need to be able to get lost. I need to be able to find something new every day and know for sure that I haven’t seen it all yet and as incredible and beautiful as this place is, I feel like I’ve seen all there is to see and maybe I’m ready to go home.

Stuck in the middle with Foo

This morning I set out at 6:15am with Bernie and Sheella for some early morning snorkeling. Now I’d been snorkeling before in Thailand and found the whole experience unpleasant. Bobbing drowsily up and down on waves while often inhaling mouthfuls of salty, foamy liquid without even so much as a glimpse of a fish. The whole experience felt like one big awful oral encounter to me.

But the water here is like glass. It’s so clear and incredibly calm, so I thought I’d tag along. Bernie is an accomplished diver, so I felt safe enough. She generously gave me her mask and snorkel as she had goggles and flippers and is a great swimmer. I splash about a lot, but never really go anywhere. Anyway, what I saw this morning was mind-blowing. It was like the first time I’d been to the theatre or stood up by myself on ice skates. Something inside me sang and I felt totally peaceful and full of curiosity and hope. I know that sounds silly, but it’s how I felt.

I porpoised about in the water and followed the other girls fingers with my eyes and was continuously amazed. We saw blowfish, black and white clownfish, triggerfish, angelfish, sharks and loads and loads of Nimo’s Dory. This was all just outside of the villas. And we were the only ones on the beach. WHY?! Why aren’t there hundreds of people in the water?

From this first encounter I was hooked and Bernie signed me up to go out on the boat to the big reef a few hours later.  I was super-excited when I boarded the boat and took my seat next to a girl with candy floss hair. Our guide told us to stay seated until we reached the reef and proceeded to try and tell us about the types of fish we might see and how far out to swim. One of the other people, whose name I found out was Foo, stood up in the middle of our guide’s explanation and tried to get to the front of the boat. All of his friends started to laugh. The guide asked him to stay seated and he plopped down like an angry child, not in his seat, but at the feet of our guide. At this stage I realized that I was about to have no fun on this trip and most likely going to try and drown someone.

Our lovely guide proceeded to try and tell us more about the fish, but Foo wouldn’t shut the hell up and refused to keep his ass touching a surface, so our guide gave up. My heart broke a bit for him as he must have such an incredibly hard job and these jackasses couldn’t even be bothered to shut up for five minutes to listen to the advice, which of course could save their lives.

I was one of the first off the boat armed with Bernie’s underwater camera and a belly full of expectations. What I saw dwarfed any of my preconceptions. Coral for miles. All different kinds, colors, textures and I imagine from the way the fish were nibbling, flavors. There were red fish and blue fish and neon-finned fish and big lethargic fish and quick nimble fish. Fish that came at me for a closer look and fish that swam faster away form me than they would a predator. I was having such a nice, peaceful, meditative time under the water until CRASH!

The water exploded around me and dropped a curtain of bubbles and foam. The beautiful creatures I’d been observing all disappeared. I turned my own head to see Foo, having cannon balled into the sea now flailing around like an idiot, nearly drowning himself despite the life jacket that strained around his middle. My submerged head was just shy of his jerking limbs so I swam sideways to escape him. Then, one by one, in spite of our guide’s instruction to NOT jump into the sea under any circumstances; the bodies of Foo’s crew all cut through the water amidst a cacophony of screams. Even under the water I could hear them shouting, laughing and splashing. The fish had retreated.

I lifted my head long enough to locate them all and try to get as far away from them as possible, but they were fast. Swimming backwards, the current was sweeping them my way and none of them were paying a damn bit of attention the where they were going. A young German took a flipper to the mouth as I fled further out to avoid this circus of idiocy. From behind, our guide glided effortlessly and with incredible speed towards someone on the other side of the reef. Within seconds he had retrieved the bemused explorer, sputtering on a lifesaving raft.

All this calamity made me nervous and I couldn’t catch my breath. I managed to pull myself through the waves, thick like butterscotch but nowhere as sweet. I checked as I gulped down mouthfuls getting to the boat. I boarded the vessel, dropped off the camera, grabbed a life vest and got back onto the water. These fuckers were not going to ruin this for me. I placed the open vest under my belly and kicked far out to the other side of the reef and instantly regretted not taking the camera back out with me. There were whole new shades of blue and purple, red and green. All around me and all alive. I floated like that for a good fifteen minutes before Foo and his crew came and shat on my day again.

I got back on the boat, exasperated with the behavior in the water only to find some of Foo’s crew spraying each other with a water hose and paying no mind to other people’s belongings, which they were saturating. They pulled on the pathetic contents of their speedos and then promptly all picked their noses as if it were a choreographed routine. Cursing my luck at choosing the wrong boat I waited for our departure. Our lovely guide clambered back onto the boat after having to go and fetch another of Foo’s crew who’d gone too far astray.

At this juncture Foo approached our guide and thrust his camera too forcefully at the guide’s delicate chest. “You!” Foo exclaimed and then motioned for the guide to get back into the water. The adorable guide, clearly used to this kind of treatment dropped back into the crystal waves and proceeded to dive for the beautiful photos Foo was too inept to capture himself. He did this for over 30 minutes and when he finally reappeared he was greeted with a lukewarm “thanks”.

Foo stumbled clumsily over to candy floss hair and the rest of his gang who had now all re-boarded the boat. He scrolled through the photos excitedly, all the while stomping on my foot as he shifted his massive weight with the waves. I can safely say that I did not like Foo. His presence and the presence of his awful friends nearly ruined my experience, that is until the boat started up again and Foo fell over on his face. After that the world was a beautiful place again.

Lookin' Good!

Lucky me. I’m sitting here in what can only be described as paradise. Seriously this place looks photo shopped. I’m surrounded by the most stunningly beautiful beaches ever created, and lush greenery whose brilliance can’t even be captured on film. All the while the soft breeze being seductively coaxed from the immeasurably still waters is gently kissing my face. The pillow-soft mattress on my double bed in the sand has proved to be a reliable base from which to nap, work and observe. Though I could easily stare open-mouthed out to sea every day I’m also surrounded by other, more familiar scenery. That of women and men in their swimming gear.

All sizes and shapes are represented here: all colors; from the darkest purple black to the brightest magenta. This place is a human swatch that Dulux would be envious of. As I lay here still fresh in my whitish blueness I can’t help but wonder that if I’m watching them, who’s watching me?

I think most people know that I have an above average body confidence level. That’s not to say I expose my body and flaunt it, but I know how to dress for my shape and never apologize for the cellulite on my thighs. I have to admit I am pleased with the amount of other seemingly body confident women on this island. I think as women we spend far too much time telling other people how unhappy we are with our bodies, but really, we like them just fine and are happy to unpack our bodies once far out of the eye line of out nearest and dearest. Why is it not ok for us as women to tell other people, especially women that we like our bodies?

I remember very vividly being in Thailand with a friend and the conversation turned to what physical attributes about ourselves we would change. Now this is always an incredibly boring, and at times it would appear infuriating conversation to have with me because my answer has always been the same. “Nothing.” On this occasion my answer was met with an incredulous stare and garnered the response “Nothing?! Wooooow!”  Said with bite. Then she quickly gave me the once over and sighed in that overly-judgmental way people do when they don’t want to say anything mean, but not saying anything is always meaner. 

Now I’m no Samantha Brick. I’d never claim that I am incredibly attractive or that my physical appearance has won me loads of admirers and gifts. It hasn’t. But that’s not what real beauty is about to me. I don’t measure my attractiveness on anyone else’s scale but my own. And I’m doing just fine. As women we are always comparing ourselves to others or obsessing over a tiny imperfection that only we can see. I say we stop. You look good, girl. I look good. Let’s all look good together and stop coveting other’s noses and placing values on out appearances rather than our intellects. Why is it that if someone called you stupid it would hurt so much less than if he or she called you ugly? You’re not ugly, so why does that word always make women turn inwards on themselves? 

I recall a very long time ago when I was just 20 and in a fight with my friend’s boyfriend about the way he was treating her. He ran out of defenses so he decided to call me “ugly”. I just laughed in his face and said, “Come on, now. We both know that’s not true. You can do better.” I might as well have slapped him. He then said that it must be great to be me because no one could call me ugly. I told him that “people can say it all they like, but that doesn’t make it true”.

Ladies, it’s OK to admit that you like the way you look. You don’t need to qualify that statement with “but, I’d like to lose some weight.” Or, “I’d look better if…” That kind of shit is really boring. If you allow yourself the one little luxury of admitting you’re pretty you’ll feel good too. Life can be incredibly difficult and challenging. Why must we make it tougher by being so damn hard on ourselves? I had 12 pieces of bacon for breakfast, 2 waffles and champagne and I’m still sat here in my bikini. Guess what? I look pretty badass.

Karma Chameleon

While I don't profess to be an authority on Buddhism or its teachings, I still have a few thoughts on the topic. Not a day goes by when I don't see someone professing on Facebook or on TV that if something bad has happened to someone through the intentional or unintentional actions of someone else that "karma's gonna get them." Or better yet "karma is a bitch." Well I have to disagree. In the basic principals of Karma, intent is the key as to whether or not this perceived wrongdoer will succumb to the same ill fate they have caused for the victim. According to Buddha.net  

'Generally speaking, all good and bad action constitutes Karma. In its ultimate sense Karma means all moral and immoral volition. Involuntary, unintentional or unconscious actions, though technically deeds, do not constitute Karma, because volition, the most important factor in determining Karma, is absent.'

So, to  anyone that believes that the person their partner cheated on them with will fall prey to karmic retribution. They probably won't. You should just get on with your life and feel relief that the person who hurt you is someone else's problem now. 

The basic principals of Karma are simple- you reap what you sow. If you do good things, no doubt good things will happen to you. It may take awhile, but relax and continue to live your life well and you will reap the rewards of being a good person. If you waste energy on negative thought and wishing someone else ill will because they have done something to you, then you are not living your life well. You are living it in the past with a vengeful mind. If you keep perpetuating the negative, no positive will come your way. Simple.

I believe that karma neither rewards nor punishes it just exists to keep you on the path you are on. Karma is not a threat, it is as a promise. Live well and think of others and the same will be done to you. Live poorly and be nasty to others the same will be done to you. Karma is not something to be thrown in someone Else's face, as you have no control over someone else's karma.  

The next time someone is bad to you try forgiving them and moving on. Karma's gonna get you.

Do you know what your shirt says part 2

Rock and...Dest? Of course.

Now is this people who love films or the people who play lovers IN films? This t-shirt makes you think.

Probably not.

Do you know what your shirt says?

Always sound town of record red zone OK! Well....OK?

The resounding response is "yes." But they don't know. Hell, most of the time I don't know because it's nonsense and that's what makes it great. I've decided that the international community (all 10 of you who read this) should get to enjoy too.

This guy is not impressed if you ogle his footwear. 

I'm lookin' cool in the whip. You dudes lookin' Jell-O. Obvs. 

To make you feel my love

Sri Lanka is a beast. It is a gorgeous, reckless semi truck crashing into my chest everyday. Sometimes it hits so hard that I think I can't breathe, but I blame the exhaust fumes, suck air through my o-shaped mouth and focus on something else. To focus on what it actually is, this force that is forcing me to relent to this bone-crushing weapon of mass emotion would be too much, because it's too many things.

I get asked daily "do you miss home?" My answer is always the same "no." Because to allow myself to feel that would be taking up space where I could feel something else. Of course I miss home, I miss him and I know that intellectually. But I can't feel it. I can't feel anything. I won't.

I've seen the most incredible people doing the most amazing things. And we overuse that word. Seriously amazing things that probably don't seem amazing because you've not lived without it long enough to miss it. Building and laughing and touching hands and hair and creating choruses of laughter. They guide and create and they use themselves all up and then find more stuff to use up from somewhere else. A somewhere else I don't have anymore. "Do you cry when these people leave?" Of course the answer is the same- "no." I can't. I can't feel it. I won't.

When my plane touches down, when I am in the taxi on my way home...maybe then, maybe I'll let myself feel it then. When I'm surrounded by people who know me and love me...maybe then. But not now. Because once I start feeling I won't be able to stop and then there will be tears of happiness and of sorrow and for everyone who has left and for everyone who is coming and for everyone I will leave here. And I won't want to leave here.

I can't seem to think straight. The twine of the net around my chest strains and frays from the pressure and I'm dying for a release. Always just one second away, but I can't let that happen. I won't.  Because this isn't about me. It's bigger than that. Bigger than I ever could have known and maybe if I'd known I'd have been too scared to come. But I'm here and it's so beautiful. Even shutting it out is beautiful. This dull persistent aching is the sole reminder that I'm still human, I haven't lost the ability to feel, I've just put it on hold.

So please don't be offended that when we speak I cut it short, or that my smile is hesitant and all at once fixed to my face like a hook in the wall. Try not to think it odd that I stare at your jumper and not into your eyes. I'm just holding it together and making sure that everything is great and please know that everything is great, it's just a different kind of great than I'm used to.

Bitch, please.

It's been awhile since I tapped into the real world and had a look at what was happening outside of Sri Lanka. Terrorist activity, government shutdowns, Kimyae stepped out post baby, but all of this news was overshadowed by the most important issue in the world right now...Britney Spears' new video.

Now I know that I should have known from the catchy title: "Work Bitch", that I wouldn't enjoy the song. And I don't. But the naive part of me expected the video to be about strong, powerful women excelling at their professions. I wanted to see mothers, farmers, CEOs and a damn female president in this video getting shit done. I should have known better to expect any kind of feminist statement from someone who once declared herself "not a girl and not yet a woman."

Now I have no beef with Britney as an artist usually. I've even paid good money to watch her lip-sync her greatest hits, but the images in tis most recent video skipped past sexy and landed in "ring the alarm" territory for my feminist sensibilities. In order to "get a Lamborghini and drink martinis" you gotta "work bitch." And the suggested profession in the video is that of a prostitute. A woman who is blindfolded writhes around in a glass box up lit with red light a la Roxanne.

Anyone who has been to Amsterdam knows what this image suggests. The Red-Light-District is not the place to gaze at affluent women who "party in France" as the song would suggest. It's where the most trafficked women from Eastern Europe end up after being promised things similar to Britney's lyrics. Most of them are held against their will and living in hell. But hey, Britney's advice remains the same "You gotta work bitch."

I'm sure Britney will defend her creation by claiming it empowers women, but how is it ever empowering to be called a bitch? I get it, we're reclaiming the word, it's ours to use, blah, blah, bullshit. It is a word that we should be trying to eradicate, not perpetuate as some pet name for all women. It's a nasty, negative word and we shouldn't be using it to describe each other, especially not to encourage each other. Call me a bitch, I feel vindicated in giving you a bitch-slap. Hey, you earned it.

My issues with Robin Thicke aren't to dissimilar from those I have with Britney at the moment. Why do we have to degrade women to sell records? Calling women bitches, parading them around bare-breasted or whipping them as they choke on a Dr. Dre Beats speaker system is the new normal; and all of it is gagging me on it's misogynistic stench. More so it's worrying that this is trendy. Miley Cyrus can ride butt-nekked on a wrecking ball all she likes. It's her body. But Britney whipping the already barely-there panties off a woman who is crawling on her hands and knees doesn't say empowerment to me. Yet this shit song will be a floor filler. Can you imagine a band putting out a song called "Work Dickhead" and all men flocking to the stores to buy it or knock people over to dance to it in a club to prove that they will work, because they truly are the biggest dickhead of them all? No.

Ladies. Let's cut this shit out. Don't call each other bitches, even to sell records. Going to work means a lot more to most of us than getting spanked or sold, so let's keep it real. This shit is eroding the position in society we have fought so long to achieve. And before anyone accuses me of overreacting, I'm not. I'm reacting full stop. Something many of us have stopped doing when we believe something is wrong. I am reacting to a world-famous pop star calling every other woman out there a bitch. I am reacting to her video that perpetuates the idea that women are objects. Objects to be sold, beaten and called names and if we buy this record or dance to it we are telling her that it's ok.

Killer of cockroaches.

Yes that's right. I have in the past 2 1/2 weeks killed 15 cockroaches. Drowned them, squished them, sprayed them. trapped them and fed them to the alligator fish...you name it, I've murdered one of the massive buggers that way all with the help of may incredible roommate who suffers from night terrors. The other night I was woken up to the news that there was "a man wearing a mask in the room." W.T. actual F.? I took this news surprisingly well and explored the room reluctantly with sleepy eyes and the light from my phone. Upon inspection there was no man, just a mosquito net. Perhaps it was at one time wearing a mask, but by the time I shined the light its way it had cleverly removed it. She and I are an awesome team though, she gets scared and I sleep through it usually. I really have pity for the poor bastard who takes my place in the room once I've cleared out unless they are a heavy sleeper. She says some insane stuff in the wee hours, but I adore her. Crazy nocturnal behavior and all.

As well as cockroach genocide; I've also been doing other stuff. I've been playing with a parachute, clinging for dear life to the outside of bus doors as we snake through the streets and my butt gets grazed by countless bike's handlebars. I've been doing the Hokey Kokey (Pokey to those of you in the US and those of you who do it RIGHT), I've been being bullied by children and laughed at by adults for no other reason than that I'm white. It's all a bit different, but it's never boring and at times this place feels like home. Hot, sweaty, stinky, crazy home.

My house mother enthralls us with tales of her unhappy marriage and has advised me to get my own "special friend" in Sri Lanka, as going without "the sex" for three months for a married lady is the worst thing she can possibly imagine. Although she herself is not having any of "the sex" with her own husband. Opportunities are rife in Sri Lanka. Not a day goes by when someone doesn't get felt up on the bus or shouted at in the street. The sight of our reflective flesh apparently really does it for them. Porn is very new here and all the porn that they get is western, so they are under the impression that all us white girls are up for it. Even the monk at the temple I teach at is a bit flirty. Naughty monk.

I have become accustomed to the dirt and now eating with my hands is a less messy affair, though now I've gotten a bit complacent. At one point I was using anti-bac every 15 minutes. But now I've gotten a bit slack. Eating without washing your hands here creates the same fear as I imagine having anonymous unprotected sex does (never done it for the record.) At the time you know it's wrong and dangerous, but you're too focused on the joy of the act to pause and potentially ruin the moment and the pleasure. Why stop at a sink that never has any soap? It's more about ritual than practicality then. It's a risky game, this bacterial roulette and every time it happens I spend days wondering what the consequences of my poor hygiene choices might be. Touch wood I've not been sick yet. Or gotten lost. All in all I'm doing OK. In fact I'm doing bloody marvelous. I may just open my own extermination business once I return to the UK.

In 2 weeks it will hit me...

But not yet. I'm not freaking out yet.

Sure, no one was there to get me at the airport. So what?! I threw my hands up, laughed at the sky and after 45 minutes called in the reinforcements (Steve ) for help. But panic I did not! My voice cracked but I did not cry. Even after an hour passed I remained dry-cheeked. This is an accomplishment.

Once collected, the car drive that threatened a premature death with every swerve and honk of the horn was taken in stride. I gripped not the shit-handles or clenched my teeth. I merely surrendered. I almost freaked out, but not yet...

Being escorted into my prison barracks with a single, paper-thin mattress on a dubiously twisty metal frame invoked no anxiety. "Charming!" I screeched as I mentally swept the cobwebs from the ceiling and the bugs from the walls. I have identified 4 kinds of ants in my residence so far; kitchen ants, bathroom ants, table ants and bed ants. But I am not freaking out yet. Not just yet.

Crossing the street with it's choking fart-smelling streets and crazy "get out of my way motherfucker" scooters and buses like a demented Frogger has proven both challenging and rewarding! Every time I make it to the other side I yell in my head "I lived!" No freaking out.

My host family has 5 dogs, 50 roosters and a gigantic alligator fish (yes. it is what you are picturing) that co-habitate with me. They bark, crow and threaten at all hours. They smell and itch and lick in equal proportion but I am not freaking out yet.

My house is shared with 9 other people and my room is shared with 3 of them. None of whom I have met, but apparently they all have an empty water bottle collection and enjoy sprinkling the floor with various food stuffs like wedding confetti. But no one is celebrating. Our communal areas are filled with once lavish furnishings and crawling walls, what I thought was a jar of coffee turned out to be ants. I am the latest contestant on Sri Lanka Survivor and I am not freaking out.

There is no Wifi and no internet without a journey. There is no Facebook and no Blogger and no communication with my husband I can access by craning my head round a door. There is no one here. Not yet. But I am not freaking out.

Currently 4 volunteers are in hospital.

There is no hot water. Anywhere. Ever.

It is horrendously hot. Everywhere. All the time.

No air conditioning anywhere. Ever.

I booked my stay too long for my 90 day visa, so I need to change my flight.

But I'm here. I'm doing it. I can never undo it and I won't regret it. I will learn to love it like a replacement hamster and forget that I ever didn't love it before. I will pilgrimage to beaches and run into the sea. I will put smiles on faces and teach people new things, I will be of use and make myself useful. They say anything worth doing is never easy. One day I will say this was worth it.

But not today. Today I'm freaking out.

It's been awhile

Hello from sunny, beautiful Thailand! They say one night in Bangkok makes a hard man crumble, well I've had 14 of them and I'm feeling a little crumbly myself. So I have done a little reflecting...

5 things Thailand will teach you

1. This is not your fucking country. Things move slowly here, people don't necessarilly queue up and just because those two things are facts, you can't decide to be a dick to people. No one here is on your schedule. No one here cares what you need to do. They are busy living too and shouldn't we all be a little more considerate of each other? Thailand will teach you patience.

2. You can buy anything in Thailand, but that doesn't mean you have to. Girls, drugs, animals...it all has a price. But think about it. That girl is someone's daughter, those drugs will make you act like an idiot and probably land you in Thai prison and that animal is drugged to fuck. Stop touching it. Thailand will teach you restraint.

3. It's damn hot here! Remember why you escaped your own country? Probably because you were cold! Try to remember that when you are navigating the humid, sulferic, smothering streets and stop pushing people and sweating on them. Relax for a minute and feel how nice the heat is on your pale, western skin. Why are you wearing your Chloe kaftan with your cashmere leggings anyway? That's just idiotic. Thailand will teach you modesty.

4. You will never look as good as the Thais look. Leave your makeup at home, forget your blow-dryer. Bring tinted sunscreen for your face and a lot of hair-ties. Get used to how you look in a ponytail. Jewlery is unnecessarey. You will sweat under it and it will leave what I lovingly call a "sweatlace" on your shirt. Gross. These beautiful Thai women and Ladyboys will make you look stupid. You'll be a graceless, red turnip of a woman hobbling along like a wounded animal on her too-high heels and we will all laugh at you. This is the perfect time for you to buy those harem pants you think are cute, but that you daren't wear in NYC for fear of being laughed at. Wear them here and be a hero! Thailand teaches you confidence in your natural self.

5. Smile for fuck's sake! You're in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Get that judgy, shit-smelling look off your face and give in to the charm of this amazing country. You'll be a better person for it. Thailand teaches you to not take yourself so seriouly.
There are many other fantastic lessons from Thailand, but these are the essentials. Now go pack your bags. I'm waiting for you.