Sowing Seeds

For the last two days I have planted rice, first in my host’s fields and then in the field of his friend.   I have been walking barefoot, calf-deep in the mud and water, employing the technique I had been taught:  Using my right hand, I’d extract two rice stalks, along with their roots, from a densely packed hunk of sod that I carried in my left hand, and then use my thumb to press the stalks into the soil.  After I had adequately mastered this technique, there were still a variety of subtleties that my Thai companions in the field did their best to illustrate:  One should position one’s hand with fingers pointing down when separating the stalks so as not to necessitate turning the stalk to utilize the thumb-press planting method.  One must be ever mindful of the entirety of the row, remembering the line between two points is always straight but the line between one hundred points can meander embarrassingly.  One must try to keep one’s steps between the lines where rice will be planted; remembering rice planted in a footprint will likely be underwater. 

After the field was fully sown, I sat beside Toon, my Thai co-worker, on a pile of coconuts in the back of a speeding pickup, both of us sweaty and covered in a fine layer of dirt in spite of our attempted ablutions, and I watched the farms and the city streets roll by while the wind beat against my face and I wondered why this moment felt so normal.

   

New Farm

I loitered in Chang Mai for almost a week; wandering between one-dollar-eateries, indulging in the occasional banana shake, and repeatedly sitting down for a few beers with girls that always, frustratingly, turned out to be nineteen, before I finally took the advice of my friend and constant inspiration (Micah) and contacted Daruna Farm.  “The Captain” emailed me back right away saying he had abundant room and work.  I carefully reviewed my finances, trying to figure out how my visa run (required between the 21^st and the 24^th) and the Full Moon Party (Ko Pagnan on the 23^rd) worked into the equation.  I finally turned to Microsoft Excel, taking a few moments to chart my expenses in four scenarios, and decided that my most frugal course of action was to leave for the farm immediately, do the visa run to Cambodia, and decide later about The FMP. 

I had some difficulty getting here.  I missed my train connection, tried to inform The Captain by phone but got, “The number is not available.”, ended up on a packed local bus along with 6 giggly American college students, still couldn’t reach The Captain, couldn’t convince the conductor that I sincerely wanted to get off in Bang Phra, was forced to backtrack by tuk-tuk, became convinced I’d written down the wrong phone number, found the train station, walked around asking people for the white guy who has a farm, gave up and hitched a free ride back to the main road, found an internet café where I established that I had written the number correctly, and received a reply email from The Captain that he had given me the wrong number and he was on his way. 

The farm is pleasant, even if it’s not as idyllic as the last one.  There are buffalos and chickens and although I’m the only WWOOFer at the moment, The Captain is a great deal more talkative than my previous host, so the solitude is not overwhelming.  This morning I stuffed myself with a huge breakfast then spent the next two hours in a nuanced debate of the practical applications of US foreign policy.  I worked for a couple of hours digging ditches, and then took a three-hour lunch break, once again ending up chatting with The Captain.  The man likes to take his time with a story, making sure I have every possible detail.  The exposition always meanders along until he has all but convinced me that it that has nothing to do with the stated topic, but he always gets there eventually.  “I’ve had two run-ins with the police.” He told me at lunch. “The first one was in 1987.  I was walking down by the river and saw some logs that looked like they had been gnawed by beavers, and I was surprised because I didn’t think there were beavers that close to the city.  Then I was walking there another day and I actually saw the beaver….”  I smiled a little; thinking of Grandpa Simpson, (“I was wearing an onion on my belt…which was the style at the time.”) then I leaned back and waited.  This kind of conversational inefficiency irks me at times, as does The Captain’s intermittent tendency to portray himself heroically, but those are minor complaints.  And it’s good to be back on a farm.    

Chrometophobia

After two weeks on the farm it was clearly time to go.  When I arrived I was greeted by a total of 4 WWOOFers and I had expected that number to grow, but after one day the number dwindled to 1 and then four days later I was all alone.  Team Germany stayed only two nights and the expected reinforcements did not show up.  I was alone again for two days, digging up banana trees then planting them in new locations.  The work was not unpleasant and I managed to enjoy those days, but it seemed to be time to find something new.  I left the farm two days ago at 5 am and found 3.22 USD per night accommodations in Chang Mai, a city I know fairly well from my lingering with Sophie back in April. I’ve sent emails to a few other WWOOF hosts and I’m waiting to see where the next few days take me.   

I’m anxious about the future, it seems.  On the road, peace of mind is easy.  The answer to my worries is always in the next destination, or lack of one.  But maybe I’m already finished traveling.  I have become tentative and watchful, suddenly worried that if I make new friends, then I’ll end up buying beers I can’t afford.  I find I have little interest in squandering too much of my precious remaining Balance on visiting another beautiful beach.  And every few nights I wake up from varied but thematically connected dreams, each featuring a new, catastrophic miscalculation of my resources and time.  

I notice that I am checking into a guesthouse in Kathmandu and become concerned, knowing that I must get back to Bangkok before my flight leaves.  I check my accounts and find them all empty and realize I must have forgotten to “carry the one”.  I am being lead by a stranger through the winding streets of an unknown city  and I don’t know where we’re going, but I know I’m lost and that I’ll never find my way back.  

Dirty

The farm is still the farm, but things have changed since March.  Pets have died and been replaced, projects have been abandoned, and torrential rains have brought growth and destruction.  The man in charge is almost the same as before; still stomping around the fields with a smirking grouchiness that does little to hide his love for the dirty joys of owning a farm, but now his bad back occasionally forces him to the sidelines, a position he clearly hates.  The WWOOFing crowd is thinner, seldom more than 4 deep and prone to three day stints rather than the former seven day minimum.  I’ve was alone for two days before a German mother-daughter team showed up last night, and it looks like I’ll be alone again tomorrow, hopefully building a large trellis out of bamboo or digging up banana trees rather than the tedious alternative of pulling weeds for six hours. 

I still like it though.  The air is fresh and wet and the clouds are rolling over the distant hills and yesterday I sat on top of a ladder after hammering nails into bamboo and I looked out over the bright, brilliant green and my hands felt tired and strong and I breathed as deeply as I could and then I let it out slowly.