One Peddle at a Time

Sitting in the open-air public bus, I imagined rolling into the small town of Chiang Rai, finding a quaint, cozy hotel on the bank of the beautiful Mae Nam Kok river, and surveying bike rental shops until I found my ride for the day. I envisioned mounting the brand new 21-speed, pushing off with my foot, and enjoying a leisurely trek through rolling hills and ancient villages. A smooth trail would guide my journey and a soft breeze at my back would keep me cool and refreshed. I would stop to photograph magnificent, breathtaking views and to grab an ice-cold beverage and exotic fruit.

After a few hours, I would pull up to a restaurant and enjoy local Thai cuisine, my taste buds dancing in bliss. As the afternoon transitioned towards evening, the cloudless sky would fade from baby blue to florescent pink, then burst bright orange and violet red – the sky blossoming before my eyes. In that moment, my mind would clear of every confusing thought, every heartbreaking memory and recurring regret would blur to the backdrop, forgotten forever.

will it fall apart, fade away; black to white, day to night?

Monsoon Nearing

An airy drizzle fell as I sat on the bow of the ferry, making my way across the Bali Strait. Twenty or so Indonesians sat around me, most puffing cigarettes, a few chatting with each other, their words radio static to my ears. Reclining uncomfortably on an anchored plastic chair, I locked my eyes on the horizon and watched the sky dim grey as dark clouds wrapped around the sun.

I had spent the previous few weeks traveling around East Java with a friend. We didn’t have much of a plan other than to drift from one place to the next, allowing the undercurrent of circumstance to direct our path. Each decision had a way of leading to unexpected and even unimagined experiences. Every choice created consequences that could not be foreseen. One day I lectured at an Islamic madrasa, the next day I preached at a charismatic, holy roller church. I once found myself bargaining for a pet monkey, and on two occasions we had to seek permission from community elders to stay overnight in an isolated village. We often came across children who had never seen a westerner like me. They would surround me on the street, inspect my camera, poke my legs, and when I bent down to take photos, they would grab my long, shaggy hair, and tug.

attempt.life