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Tag: Thailand

A Ring to Bind Me

I wear little jewelry.

Mind, I have attempted to wear a bit extra here and there over the years. When I was a teen, I wore on of those obligatory Christian WWJD bracelets. And later I wore the occasional necklace—which don’t flatter me, to say the least. But now I only wear two pieces of jewelry.

I obviously wear my wedding band.

The only other piece of jewelry I wear is a lone ring on my right hand.

Several years ago, my wife and I traveled to Israel to visit friends. While there, we saw Jerusalem in all her glory: back street market hung with silky scarves, ancient stone walls with bullet holes from the 1967 war, many religious relics and locales, and more food than you can imagine. The land is holy to nearly everybody—and not just here, in this city. Not too far from Jerusalem stands a wall, separating Israeli controlled land from Palestinian Authority controlled land. The city of Bethlehem is also a beautiful city, ravaged by war and constant dispute, but like Jerusalem, it is beautiful all the same. Walking down a side street market, I spotted a table covered in Olive wood decorations, nick knacks, chachkies, and whatnots. As I perused the table, a ring caught my eye—simple, unassuming, and made of a material that I never see. I bought that ring and wore it on my right hand. That is, of course, until it broke due to the stress of wearing it, exposing it to the cold Minnesota winter, or simply because I banged it on something. I tried to repair it a couple of times to no avail.

Years later, I strolled a street on the border of Thailand and Myanmar. The heat drove us under tarps giving shade to food booths (and vendors selling probably the strongest iced coffee I’ve ever tasted, but that’s another tale). We spent a week in the north of Thailand in the Chiang Rai area, visiting friends, experiencing the culture, tasting the food (and coffee), and taking in the weather and scenery. It is easy to love Thailand. Everything about that trip brings a sparkle to our eyes. So, when I looked down at one of the vendor tables and saw a handcrafted jade ring, I just had to have it. The dark green jade color seeped into my eyes. I slipped it onto my hand—now completely understanding how Bilbo and Golem felt. It was precious. It had a weight about it. Jade also signifies healing. As a paramedic, this ring was a perfect accoutrement. I wore it for years—that is, until I finished washing my hands and began to dry them on a towel. The ring felt like it was slipping off. But I looked down and, behold, the one ring was broken into two pieces.

I wear another ring on my right hand now. But it’s a simple place-holder. One day, we will travel to a far-away land. That place will touch my soul. And I will again find a special ring to bind me.

 

anthony forrest

Travel Journal, 32

Borders

My first memory crossing an international border eludes me. As I understand the tale, my mother and father carried my baby self aboard a plane and into Canada. They tell me that during the plane ride I became, shall we say, violently explosive. I apparently went through most of my clothing during that one trip. Since then, I have crossed international borders dozens of times. The experience continues to be adventurous. However, I am proud to say that I have not had a similar gastrointestinal event—not yet anyway.

Crossing an international border is almost a religious rite. Whenever I step onto foreign soil, I stop for a moment and mentally mark the event.

I am here.

I am no longer where I was.

Right now, my life is different.

For the traveling visitor, differences in culture, time, food, and simple daily life clearly reveal themselves. In some lands, stores don’t open until almost noon. Some places don’t eat dinner until 10:00 p.m. Some people talk constantly, others never so. One group prays five times a day like clockwork. Another group goes to mass every morning. Some gestures are rude. Other gestures seem rude to us, but not to the people around us.

My wife and I walked into the small, sunlit cement room. Two border guards accompanied us to the desk of their superior. We were crossing from Myanmar into Thailand. (Some minor issue occurred during the crossing, but was easily resolve with our visit to the border guard. But this story is not about the problems, it’s about cultural differences.) Our guard escort handed his boss our passports and he began perusing them. He sat at a low desk with a low chair. He suddenly looked up and made a muffled comment. I leaned in to try and understand him. I eventually squatted down on my haunches, to his level. Immediately, everybody in the room rushed to me and earnestly implored me to stand up. Everybody was saying no, no, no and shaking their heads. One of the guards hurriedly presented us with chairs. We eventually cleared up the issue and were on our way.

I found out later that squatting down in that manner was offensive and eluded to a certain, shall we say, toileting motion. I’ve squatted down so often that it’s mindless and second nature.

Around a campfire.

Looking at books on the lowest shelf.

Talking to a toddler.

Every difference is clear. But the cultural differences that I rarely ever pick up on are my own. It is easy to think that everyone else is different. But thinking that I may be the different one catches me off guard. But we all have differences. Simply recognizing those differences and respecting the culture is the first step to softening those borders. For in finding our differences, we better know our similarities.  

 

anthony forrest

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