Christmas in October

If you've ever packed up your life and moved--next door, across town, around the world, it doesn't matter--then you will be familiar with the feeling of dread that sits on your chest while you pack your life up, simultaneously sneezing from all the dust. Dread because, even if you are excited (and I was), when you begin to question when you became that packrat (not quite a TLC hoarders special but...) that's really only the start of the existential crisis. 

Fortunately my moving-savvy friends reminded me that on the grade scale of Life Experiences, moving is up there as one of the most stressful. Dartmouth University even has the life change index scale that you can calculate how many stress points your current life is at (google it, for serious). 

Not needing to calculate the metrics of how much I'd blown up our lives, I settled for packing up the flat in a scattergun move from this room to that room, throwing my life's hoarding into four piles: donation; storage; packing in suitcases; packing into boxes for shipping. Paul continued working from home around my daily meltdowns.  Sometimes we'd have a whole argument, from start to end, in under five minutes. He's a minimalist and I'd prefer not to live in a white-walled asylum. Yin and yang. 

TLDR: moving is shit. We survived. 

And now it's October, we're nearing the half term break and I poorly calculated in the best way possible when the boxes we (I) packed would arrive. Due to geopolitics, the typhoon season and other end-of-the-world moments, our boxes took the long way around the horn of Africa, getting stuck in an unusually long customs queue in Singapore. And yet, they still arrived one month earlier than I anticipated.

So today I woke up to my seven boxes being delivered. I was nervous; having lived with the two suitcases I brought on the flight for two months it all felt a little unnecessary. The flat's been fine, a little sterile but otherwise fine. Call it residual moving trauma, call it Paul's minimalism rubbing off on me. 

This was short-lived. Staff dropped off my boxes, shut the door behind them and I went to town with my scissors. A frenzied glee took over as I traversed nearly 4k steps pacing between boxes and the two bedrooms. Every unwrapping was like a warm hug from my past life coming to greet me, reminding me I am both the person who packed these boxes two months ago and the person I am today. There were tears; it was a genuine reunion. I spent the day in a state of glimmer and joy. (And yes, Frank's hot dog costume was at the top of one of the boxes.)

So now the flat is decked in textiles, giant cushions, artwork, prints and postcards from our travels. Tonight I used my stick blender to make my favourite soup and opened a beer with the bottle opener that should have gone in my suitcase. It made a change from using a teaspoon to mutilate the lid open.

It's not quite our London flat but we're not quite our London selves. And that makes this 34-degree October Christmas day so very full of promise.

A Dog's Life, Bangkok Edition

Hello, October! We're nearly reaching the two-month mark of life in Thailand--it feels like we've been here longer. I'm still comparing my adjustment to my China move, struggling to understand how two situations 10 years apart can be simultaneously similar and juxtaposing.

Full disclosure: moving is hard. Moving with two people is harder. Moving with two people and a dog with separation anxiety that you've tried to drug with a dinky dose of doggy CBD oil is the hardest yet. 

I should preface this with the fact that our 'dog' is an 8-year-old, 3.6kg miniature dachshund who picked up some bad habits when the world shut down during Covid. Remote work became part of Paul's permanent plan and with his parents down the road, we had ready-made doggie daycare for the odd long work days, evenings out and travels out of the country. Frank loved our flat in London. He'd lollop from room to room following the sun spots on the east-facing balcony to the west-facing living room. He loved his loops around the park twice a day and the proximity to Paul's family. 

And then we moved to Thailand. 

It turns out the flight, something we mega stressed out about, was the least of our worries. Frank flew with Paul in the cabin and there was minimal fuss. The dog refused to use the toilet but was otherwise fine.

And then we arrived in Bangna, a suburban enclave of the city far removed from your imagination of what Bangkok is. Beyond the mundane nature of our neighbourhood, the main problem with this suburbia is the lack of grass or parks within a walkable distance. That and the proliferation of soi dogs, Bangkok's semi-cared for, semi-feral street dogs. More on this later.

Maybe it was all too much too soon for Frank; the sights, the smells, the sounds became all encompassing. He has clung to us. Only BKK is not nearly as dog friendly as London and so he has to stay home more than he's used to. When we leave him, we're greeted with a puddle of saliva twice his body length upon our return; his paws are licked to soaking. He scratches at the floor and cries. It's absolutely heartbreaking.

'Dog Friendly' Bangkok 

At the weekend, we're trying to find our new normal. But 'dog-friendly Bangkok' is a bit of a misnomer thus far. There's tons of dog-friendly cafes. Only in town. And there's excellent doggy daycare facilities and boarding places. In town. And some shopping malls have designated themselves 'pet friendly.' Also in town (and completely next-level unhinged). But the BTS, the city's excellent public transport that avoids the omnipresent traffic, is not pet friendly. So a taxi it is. 

At Central Eastville, a mall that touts itself as 'pet friendly,' you're greeted with next-level madness. People push their corgis, huskies, three tiers of pugs in dog trolleys around the mall. These dogs do not use their paws. There's a 'running' track on the roof and dog yoga classes on special holidays. And because Bangkok, people also bring their Mexican hairless cats, their chinchillas, their parrots for a day out to see and be seen. It turns out pets are something of a status symbol in Thailand and the infrastructure has opted not to keep up with a group of people who sometimes haven't cleaned up after their beloved pets in the past. So there's really no middle ground for pet lovers; you're either pushing your pup in a trolley or hiding him at the bottom of a canvas bag to get through the park. Because even the parks are largely designated not dog-friendly. 

Benjakitti Park in the city centre is one exception. The dog-friendly section is spacious, leafy and green and spans the width of the main park itself. It's glorious. But the remaining 3/4 of the park is decidedly not pet-friendly. We got chased off by security guards on bicycles before knowing the reality. There are a few other gems we've yet to try; Nong Bong Park is apparently lovely. And we'll get there, perhaps once we've mourned how easy everything was for Frank back in London.

The Soi Boys 

Down our street (or soi) a motley crew of street dogs that sort of have humans but mostly don't live their lives roaming the neighbourhood. They mostly sleep under parked cars, scratching themselves and wandering the food market waiting for people to drop them bits of sustenance. Paul calls them the Soi Boys. And true to his form as a tiny dog with a Napoleon complex, Frank absolutely hates them. 

The Soi Boys are largely harmless but there's one territorial scruffy, grey lady dog who's taken to growling at people who get too close to her 'territory.' One of our colleague's named her Fluffy. And six weeks ago, Frank, from his perch in Paul's arms, squared off with Fluffy, who lunged for him and got Paul's leg instead.

Paul is now the proud recipient of a series of precautionary rabies jabs, 5 vaccinations given over the course of a month.

This story will one day be funny. So will Frank's separation anxiety. In the meantime, we despair just a little bit. 

Relocation, Relocation, Relocation

So it's been another hot minute since my last post where I said it had been a hot minute from the previous one. That's a lot of hot minutes. In the age of rampant climate change, no surprises there.

In reality, life has been kind of a lot. The last thing I've wanted to do after work was use what remaining brain space I had to write, even about something I love doing. Burnout is real, it's ugly and it's robbed me of quite a bit of joy. 

Fortunately, the September 2023 version of me recognised the tell-tale signs and took some steps to remove the toxic faction (my employer) from my life. And because I don't know how to do things by halves, instead of relocating in London, I decided to blow up my life, Paul's life, Frank's life and accept a job in Bangkok. Yep, Thailand. 

The journey from December to today, Tuesday 3 September 2024, has been mired with literal and metaphorical potholes. Degree certificates lost in the annals of the USPS; being ghosted by the Thai agricultural pet import office; Paul's toxic workplace dramas; packing, sifting, shipping, moving out of a flat we've lived in for the better part of 10 years. 

But ultimately, on the 7th of August, we trudged to Heathrow, boarded separate flights to BKK (Paul and Frank--in the cabin!--via Amsterdam with KLM) and me direct with Thai Airways. We all arrived the next day. We all got through customs. This is a far larger hurdle than words can describe.

Three weeks later, here we are. Emotionally bruised and battered, sweaty for sure, but ready for the adventures of life abroad once again. 

My basis for comparison is the move to China (ten years ago!) and I've been doing a lot of weighing up the challenges. 

• Some things are the same: delicious food; cheap foot massages; good cost of living; annoying proximity--anti-proximity?--to public transport. 
• Some things are easier here: the culture is outwardly very friendly; English is understood more widely; the politics are far less censorial; there's a swimming pool in my apartment!
• Some things are harder: Frank has mega separation anxiety and our network of Frank watchers is thousands of miles away; parks, public transport, most places are not dog friendly; the heat is real, persistent and clings to you constantly.

Perhaps the biggest difference is my brain. It's older, more fearful and painfully outwardly cautious. My imposter syndrome is real; I'm much more aware of the gremlins in my mind than I was last time. 

One takeaway in all of this however is that I'm so happy I blogged my time in China in detail. I was on my own for the first five months, I had time to write. As I read back on those early days, the wild mood swings and inner woes of my younger self have stood as reminders to be kind and compassionate to myself in this process of Life Abroad. 

So if you have somehow stumbled across this blog as a random stranger in the midst of a move across the city/country/world, may this too be your reminder that the early days are hard. They're also fun. And a complete cognitive overload. They mean going to the wrong dog park all the way across the city by accident; and being an extrovert when you're really not; and paying through the nose for a loaf of sourdough because you need hot buttery toast on a Saturday. The early day horror stories becomes the ones you love to tell one day. Be kind to yourself. 

Writing it out is permission to myself. 

2023 in Review

So it's been a hot minute. The time between blog posts seems to be getting bigger and bigger, perhaps made worse by the continuing responsibilities of my day job. And my attempts to juggle my life with my day job. I do firmly intend to come back to this space. I find it a beautiful memorial to my adventures in the world, even if no one really reads this. 

As I dig into the archives, this year has seen a return to pre-pandemic travel. I've tried to make the most of each school break. To that end, we've gone far and wide: 

• February half term: Lisbon 
• Easter holidays: Israel and Palestine 
• May/June: school trips to Bosnia, the Peak District
• Summer part 1: Berlin, France and Switzerland 
• Summer part 2: Guatemala and Mexico 
• August Bank Holiday: Florence 
• October half term: Pembrokeshire, Wales

Considering I'm not halfway through blogging 2022, I'm not holding myself hostage to strict deadlines. But I'll get there eventually. 

Plus, 2024 looms and promises some big adventures. I can't wait.

The Actun Tunichil Muknal (ATM) Caves

This is a post without pictures. But do not be dissuaded, this may be the most epic travel experience I've ever had. (Also the tour link below contains lots of pictures.)

Our journey took us from Caye Caulker to San Ignacio, a modest town close to the border of Guatemala. The town is a jumping point for three main things: a border run to Tikal National Park; adventure travel; more Mayan ruins. 

Despite my love of travel, I'm a bit of an adventure chicken. But I let myself be peer pressured by both my tour group and the lovely staff of Maya Walk Tours into taking a caving adventure into the Actun Tunichil Muknal caves, lovingly abbreviated as the ATM caves. As their website will tell you, the caves have been deemed: the number 1 Sacred Cave destination in the world by National Geographic. Indeed. 

Discovered by archaeologists in 1989, the caves were once home to the ancient Mayans. Evidence of burials, rituals and human sacrifices are everywhere and to this day, around 20 human skeletons still reside in the cave. Because of the ecosystem inside, these remains have been preserved to perfection. The cave's main chamber is home to the Crystal Maiden, the likely remains of a 17-year-old boy who was drugged (voluntarily or otherwise) before being sacrificed to the gods. We didn't know any of this until we were in the cave. Probably for the best. 

The Journey

We were promised the adventure would be: easy (lies); not claustrophobic (also lies); epic (truth). The journey involved helmets with head torches, close-toed water shoes, mandatory life jackets and no cameras. In 2012 a tourist accidentally dropped his camera on a 1,000-year-old skull, fracturing this precious piece of history. And so, we left all personal effects at home. 

And so, we set off by van, a roughly 1.5 hour drive to Tapir Mountain Nature Reserve, where our hike to the cave would begin. From there, we traipsed 45-minutes through the forest, fording three streams at knee, waist and chest height to make it to a small spring. We swam across and into the mouth of the cave and the ensuing darkness. Cue a 3-mile stream network that we traversed in the intimate glow of our head torches all the while scrambling over rocks, ducking underneath them and admiring the stalactites and stalagmites that formed from the condensation and darkness. The crawl spaces were narrow and at one point, we had to duck until a narrow rock formation underwater in our lifejackets. Beware if small, tight spaces are not your thing.

At the end of the three-miles a scramble and ladder takes you up 12-feet to 'the Cathedral', a chamber of sacrifices, home to the Crystal Maiden and numerous pieces of pottery, both intact and broken. This is where you get rid of your water shoes and pad around in socks, carefully exploring what archaeologists have carefully marked and measured. It was truly haunting and otherwordly. 

Our tour guide was incredibly knowledgeable and wove his knowledge of Mayan culture with that of the archaeological finds as we sat in front of the site of sacrifice. In fact, all the guides have extensive training with the Belize tourism board who closely monitor the number of visitors per day. 

And so, spooky stories told, we did the journey in reverse, somehow a bit more daunting given the scramble down the rocks. Our return was dotted with 'wildlife', both a bat and a giant spider of the dark graced us with their presence at crucial moments. 

Our eventual return to the starting point saw lunch waiting for us, including pitchers of the iconic 'panti rippa', a boozy concoction of coconut rum and pineapple juice that was poured liberally. And so, we drank into lunch grateful to be out the other side of the cave and not left behind somewhere in one dark alcove or another. 

And so, even without photographic evidence, my humble travel suggestion is that the ATM caves are not to be missed. If you're near Tikal and looking for an adventure, divert your trip for a couple of days. You won't be disappointed. 

Bosnia by Bus

Throughout the four days, we spent the bulk of our time on a coach, watching the beautiful scenery whizz by. Elvis, our tour guide, provided a wealth of knowledge on the various biomes we drove through. Despite the country's small stature, smaller than the state of West Virginia, we drove through deciduous forest, mixed mountain coniferous forests and broadleaf lowlands. This all sounded considerably more compelling when Elvis was telling us about it. 

On our last afternoon we ended up on the outskirts of Zvornik, a tiny town on the river Drina bordering Serbia. The Drina is one of those historic rivers, empire making and breaking, as such. Our view was brief, unremarkable but also idyllic. 

So Bosnia may not be on the trip radar of places to walk, hike and relax but give it a second thought. I can imagine summertime, unencumbered by a group of 15-year-olds would be pretty damn wonderful. 

Srebenica

We coupled the first two days of the Bosnia Memorialising Conflict trip with a third day of long bus journeys to Srebenica, three hours from Sarajevo. The winding journey took us through some stunning scenery that was the backdrop to the war from 1992-1995. 

Our first stop took us to the Srebenica Memorial Centre, housed in a former battery factory turned UN Dutch Peacekeeping site. The center has been thoughtfully turned into a memorial of the events leading up to the genocide that saw at least 8372 Bosniak men and boys killed, women and girls raped and thousands displaced, at the hands of Rakto Mladic and the Bosnian Serbia forces. 

The memorial spans two floors, covering the people, stories and aftermath of the events. In one room, we watched the footage from Mladic's trial at the ICC in the Hague in 2017 before taking a seat to hear Hasan Hasanovic speak. His gave his testimony to the genocide he witnessed, to the deaths of his loved ones. We hadn't anticipated this, nor had we prepared our students. And there are no words to do his pain, his memories justice. We spent much of the rest of the afternoon silently processing, wondering how humans have let this happen over and over again. 

A few hundred meters down the road, the Memorial cemetery is a final resting place for the many thousands killed. According to our tour guide, Elvis, a young Bosnian who was born just after the war ended, human remains are still being found to this day--some through anonymous tips, others through excavation and building projects. 

We walked around in silence for a bit longer, trying to understand the scale of the suffering.

Sometimes nothing makes sense. But it felt important to bear witness to these dark days and these innocent people. Hasanovic made that clear, that we must pass this message on. Because even in the most remote parts of the world, injustice takes some very typical forms, and we must learn or we'll be damned to repeat history.