Kill the Babies

Dear Catholic, pro-life friends of mine,

I need to tell you something. Something I have kept quiet about for sometime now because I did not want to strain our friendships. But the time has come to tell you that:

I do not want to kill babies.

I am pro-choice.

And this still does not mean that I want to kill all the babies.

But I do want you to read this.

Thus the “catchy title”.

I am writing you this letter because on the 25^th of April, 2015, Mexico City passed a law to legalize first-trimester abortion. And I support whole heartedly the decision to legalize abortion clinics in Mexico.

But this decision prompted some strongly worded and pro-life campaign petitions to arrive, uninvited, into my inboxes.

and I would like a chance to respond.

So.

I am pro-choice.

But.

If I’m honest.

I have been, at times, little fuzzy about how I feel about abortion.

Ever since Eddide Vedder wrote the words “pro-choice” on his arm on MTV unplugged (and after some research), I have argued for the right for women to choose to have an abortion... or not. But when a close friend of mine told me, she had had an abortion, the news rattled me more than my liberal heart would have liked.

Why? Probably because at the age of 19 my mother fell pregnant out of wedlock. I have always admired my mother’s strength of character, to accept, so unconditionally, her responsibility and change of direction in her life. And had my mother decided to terminate the pregnancy, my sister would not be here. And the thought of a world without my sister, frightens me.

My mother’s strength is of course her own, but it was founded in her family’s support and love for her. My mother also grew up in a time when career (albeit life) options for women in a small Australian country town were sort of… foolhardy and “cute” (read: unrealistic). My friend was not in the same boat as my mother when she found out she was pregnant, not even in the same ocean, yet I still found her decision difficult to come to terms with.

I was 19 myself at the time. And when I spoke to my mother about it, she said that if I had been in the same position, she would have encouraged me to abort the pregnancy as well. She regretted absolutely nothing, but understood that there are more visible opportunities in women’s lives these days. And besides, who knew, perhaps my sister would have arrived later, at more convenient time if she'd made a different decision.

I know you, my Catholic friends do not believe this.

But some people do. It all depends on what you believe.

An Atheist friend of mine and her husband have recently been trying to get pregnant, but without success. When she and I spoke about the possibility of artificial insemination, she, to my surprise, was very uncomfortable with idea. Mainly because of the process of disposing of the eggs. Those eggs that did not become a baby, would be later be discarded. For my friend, those discarded eggs were lives she was ending and she felt she would mourn for them even after giving birth to an actual baby. But for me, artificial insemination was simply a bunch of cells and chemistry congealing on a petri dish. Discarding them, would be like throwing out out-of-date chicken eggs from the fridge.

I know. This doesn’t really make sense. How could I be so “whatever” about the “lives” in a petri dish and yet a little icky about my own friend’s abortion? Aren’t they more or less the same thing? When did I think a bunch of cells became a life? What was the difference between a petri dish and a womb? I’m sure the Buddhists would have an answer, the Catholics another, the Atheists another, but me, I was and still am, way less confident to say anything with certainty.

If my Atheist friend’s discomfort with artificial insemination and my own “kill the babies in a petri dish” attitude proves anything, it’s that the concept of “life” is different and difficult for all of us, no matter what our religious, spiritual or moral persuasion is. There is a group here in Mexico called, “Catholics for the right to choose” . There are Buddhists monks who have been jailed for inciting religious hatred. There are even Hindu scientists! This world is full of hypocrisy and complexity and none of us are immune to or innocent of either of these things.

I am pro-choice.

I am pro “a woman’s right to choose”.

But sometimes I don’t even know what this means. I know it means that I want both my mother and my friends to do what is right for them, in that moment of their lives. But in this “abortion debate”, we have become so lost in the language that we silently shout at each other, that it feels like the words have lost their meaning. “The selfish murdering of an innocent life” or “the termination of an unwanted pregnancy” are two ways to say the same thing. But now, they are just slogans, not dissimilar to nike's “just do it”. They represent an attitude, a devotion to god, a side. No longer to the words actually hold meaning (although the abortion debate would be a little different if “just do it” was the pro-choice slogan).

The problem with this loss of meaning within the debate is that we have started to demonize each other as either monstrous or idiotic respectively and the firey, empty language that we use disconnects us from the “other”. And isn’t connection with one another the whole point? Of, like, you know, existence? Isn’t that God’s challenge for us?

I don’t know. You guys are the experts on that.

What I do know is that that urge that pushes you to share emails and whatsapp messages with me about the moral dangers of abortion clinics, is the same urge that inspires me to write this letter about the dangers of the not having abortion clinics. We are both trying to change each other’s mind.

In a conversation a catholic friend of mine and I once had about the matter, she agreed that there should be exceptions for extreme cases, like rape or if the mother’s life was in danger or, I added, finding out after the fact that the father was a climate change denier. I was not trying to make light of the issue, but instead I was trying highlight that what is considered an extreme case to one may differ for another. And who gets to decide what is an extreme case and what is not? A ballerina’s cut-short career may be equally as damaging as an abusive husband and father. A come back I gave my friend a one point during the discussion was, that if men could have babies, there would be an abortion clinic on every street corner. It’s a silly, make-believe idea and it’s the kind of exaggerated language that diminishes my argument. Rest assured, I did not come close to changing her mind. Although, it's still an interesting idea.

The fact is though that abortions, like sex before marriage, have always happened and will continue to happen. Whether you believe it is "right" or not. There is a “subculture of illegal and often unsafe abortions (that) exists in nearly every country of overwhelmingly Catholic Latin America”. They will happen and they will be performed in backyards, tin sheds and garages with coat hangers, drugs or violence. And so, as Mexico bloats in population and strains under the weight of half the nation in poverty; as 43 students lie dead and unaccounted for; as the drug cartels police and politicians roll their fat bellies in corruption and death; as air pollution stifles the earth’s lungs so we no longer hear her scream; as we “selfishly murder innocent lives” around the world for oil; as drones bomb schools; as babies starve; as women are executed in the streets; as beheadings are filmed as proof of religious righteousness; as people walk into a abortion clinics with guns and kill those charged to protect, I feel the need to softly and gently say that:

I am pro-choice.

If only because it acknowledges the befuddly, imperfect, mistake-making, dunda-headed hypocrites that we all are as human beings. And because it recognises that this is not easy, this is not clear cut; because what is “right” for you is not necessarily right for someone else. And because we need to talk about it, with love and respect for one another.

If you don’t believe in abortion, don’t have one. But allowing a woman to choose what is best for her body and life, is not declaring that I am are right and everyone else is going to hell. 2,000 – 3000 women die each year in Mexico alone from illegal abortions. If legalising abortion clinics protects the lives of those living, breathing, human women, imperfect as they may be, then of course, I support, without doubt, their right to choose. 

I believe it their right to choose, not yours. By banning abortion clinics, you take away women's choice, women's free will. And if I remember correctly, didn't God (him)self grant us our free will? 

I respect that you fundamentality oppose the act of abortion. It's a difficult subject for all of us. But instead of demanding the closure of abortion clinics and instead of demonising those women who do choose to terminate a pregnancy, all I ask of you, is to love them. As God commanded in John 12 34-35, "as I have loved you, love one another". As Catholics and people of faith, I ask that you bring the compassion, the beauty and the humanity of your religion to these women, and forgive them and accept them as befuddly, imperfect, mistake-making, dunda-headed human beings, sinners if you will, just like me and just like you. Counsel them in the way you believe is best, but ultimately, allow them the opportunity to decide.

With respect, sincerity, and love,

Sarah

Bullfighting in Mexico

"Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you." 

- Ernest Hemingway (taken from Death in the Afternoon).

My friend Anahi, is a lovely, very devout Catholic lady who is kind, sweet, and sincerely generous. When I asked her what her favourite movie was, Anahi replied "the DVD series of the saints"...

...

I wasn't really sure what to think of this. And I was actually a little terrified by her religious zeal.

Who.

The.

Fuck.

Enjoys.

Religious reenactments?!?

(Aside from the obvious exceptions:

)

But as I came to know her, I found, pretty quickly, that she is also highly intelligent, and the combination of her religious beliefs and intellectual vigour makes her incredibly interesting and damn good company over a glass of red wine or three.

Then, one day, while explaining the history of the tranquil neighbourhood of Coyoacan she told me her favourite sport was bullfighting...

...

W

T

F

?

And so to understand this matching of 'lovely religious girl' with 'violent blood sport' (and to experience something I never would have thought of experiencing), I accepted her invitation to the penultimate bullfighting bout for the season.

"We can leave any time you want." She prefaced as we entered Plaza Mexico. I had warned her that I might cry.

I used to be a vegetarian. And I believe that the way a culture treats its animals, is a reflection of it's humanity. I believe that, as humans, we have the capacity for compassion and we should make our life choices based on compassion for others and other things in our world. And it is our responsibility to protect those 'things' (animals and/or people) that are unable to speak for or protect themselves. Just because we have power doesn't mean we need or should assert it over the powerless in violent displays. In fact, I would say true power doesn't - yet the corrupting nature of power means we so often do.

"I see the story of my life play out on the sand" Anahi told me when I questioned her about her fascination with the sport as we took our seats and flagged one of the roaming beer sellers. "Sometimes I am the matador, sometimes I'm the bull."

Of course I love the poetry of this. And reading Hemingway could turn anyone into a bullfighting enthusiast.

But as the games began, I could not change my view that bullfighting is barbaric and archaic. And that if it was ridded from the world, I would be happier. Let it be written about in romantic, poetic and historical prose that speaks of honour and narrative and passion and death - all aspects of being human. Let us learn from it retrospectively. Because compassion and empathy are human qualities too. Let's make the choice for compassion.

Bullfighting reeks of man's (yes, man's not women's) lust for blood, lust for conquering the wild and natural world to prove and prove again that they are powerful. The matadors are renowned for their womanising behaviour and highly arrogant sense of selves - again a manifestation of our human need, to control, to conquer and to feel powerful. Sex, death, blood, story-telling - human pathways to manipulate power to be sure. But, I would argue, not the only ones.

I watched as the bull was slain. Time and time again a majestic and strong animal fought to defend itself in world it does not know and against a cruelty which it cannot comprehend. It was humiliated in front of a jeering crowd, it's majesty striped from its kind and in a final insult it was dragged away; leaving nothing behind of itself, its fight or of its beauty, save for a trail of blood in the sand.

But I didn't cry.

I didn't cry because this country, my beloved Mexico, is barbaric and archaic as well.

Projected statistics can suggest that 120, 000 people were killed by the 'drug war' in Mexico between the years of 2003 - 2012. That's almost as many people that were killed in the Iraq war during the same timeframe. Some of the bodies of those 120,000 were dumped in the desert, others were strung up and hung from a bridge in Zacatecas and others were never discovered; their killers leaving nothing behind of those people, their fight or their beauty - not even a trail of blood in the sand.

Until recently, the richest man in world was Carlos Slim, a Mexican businessman. The girls I teach are driven to school every day by chauffeurs, have maids and vacation in Spain. There are certainly wealthy people in Mexico. And yet 42% of the population live under the national poverty line and with approximately 800,000 of those people living on $1.25USD per day, and most of those 800,000 are indigenous peoples. It's not a fair world; it is not a fair fight.

Girls across Mexico are still taught in schools that marriage is the sum of a woman's life. Yet Mexico has the worst rate of gender violence against women in the world, with 38% of Mexican women affected by physical, sexual or psychological abuse. I'm certainly not equating marriage with these figures. These figures can be more closely be associated with the 'drug war', but it feels that priorities and focuses are a little out of whack when considering these statistics. A matador asserts his masculine dominance, and slays his weaker rival.

Yet I have found safety and comfort in living in Mexico. I have seen some of the most breath taking vistas I have ever had the luck to breath in. The country is alive with energy. Dry earth, damp rainforests, volcanoes, fault lines, monkeys, flamingos (apparently) and beaches that cleanse the soul or simply offer a cocktail, the twinkle of a matadors jacket, the chorus of ole. It's beauty lies in it's ecological and cultural diversity. And as you bus your way across the country, music rises from it's scorched earths and plays to those who have the heart and the stomach to hear it.

From my experience, Mexican culture is, at its heart, a creative one and this is certainly linked to its poverty, its history of revolutions, and the people's need to find ways of doing things that is outside the usual way of doing them. It's a positive energy which approaches life not encumbered by only one way of achieving things. Mexican life and bullfighting can be an art or a blood sport, depending on your persepective.

It is a brutal and beautiful place and the clash of these very raw, very honest and very human qualities is what I love about this country. And that conflict is found in every person I have met here.

I have found a complicated and endearing home for myself... a complicated and (hopefully) endearing woman.

Considering this dichotomy of brutality and beauty, bullfighting makes sense here. As the UNESCO site states:

"Traditional sports and games are part of intangible heritage and a symbol of the cultural diversity of our societies." 

The rich and the powerful (and Spanish) of Mexican society come to be entertained by the murder of a mighty animal. As the bull, fierce and frightened and unpredictable bucks his way, blinded by the lights, into the ring, the matador prepares himself for the for the first of three stages of the "fight". First, the dance, then the betrayal, then the final goodbye.

The matador: masculine and proud, versus the bull: masculine and proud.

What is the metaphor here?

Is the matador facing himself? Is he fighting the greater evils of the world? Is he toppling poverty? Is he saving women from gender violence? Is he and his challenger representing everything I love and hate about this country on the bloodied sand upon which we lay our scene?

"The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love"

We read our own narratives into the fighting of the bull. The bull slain, the hero victorious, and the applause thus fades.

***

Anahi and I discussed abortion as we left the stadium (because we like to tackle the easy subjects). Me, of course, being pro-choice and her, of course, being pro-life. How could she enjoy and be entertained by the murder of a regal bull? And yet not agree with the termination of a unwanted or dangerous pregnancy in a country that is massively overpopulated? And how could I be disgusted by the killing of an animal (we do it everyday for food), and yet advocate for the murder of an innocent child?

How?

Because we are complicated beings. We are contradictory and difficult to understand. Because we all have the ability to be and believe in cruelty and compassion at the same time.

Because sometimes we are the matador and sometimes we are the bull.

Join the Dots.

Dear Interwebs,

After a recent facebook post it has come to my attention that I have, at times, a predilection for over sharing, and rather dramatic prose. And why would I feel sheepish or embarrassed about this tendency? Just because I live in an age where, when I'm feeling a little unbalanced, I have access to an online network of almost EVERYONE I'VE EVER MET and with whom I can share intimate and revealing blathery goopiness and love life woes that expose me as somewhat neurotic and not the calm and collected, politically active woman I pretend to be. Why would this be a bad thing?  

Despite the vulnerability hang over I'm feeling from my last marital status update, I'm ever so grateful to those unexpected friends and old favourites who answered the call for a little hand holding on the fbs and in other virtual worlds - like email. And this affirming loveliness was enabled by you (the Internet). And no matter how over earnest it all was, it made me feel much less yucky and lonely. And that should not be under appreciated. This exchange of ideas, advice and exclamation points is, among other things, human connection. Arguably, the most complicated and simultaneously joyous aspects of life. And that's why, despite broadcasting my "feelings" to 462 people (10 of which I actually speak to) - you're pretty great. 

So while you're encouraging language to shrink; while buses are filled with isolated bodies in their own phonelands flirting with you; and the New York Times might slowly be fading because you're making everything free; our need and capacity for human connection is not diminishing.

Whether it's on facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, blogs, email ...(etc forever) and whether it's sharing favourite music videos, tv show trailers, news reports, cat memes, wise cracks, tony abbot hate or moments of personal uncertainty, human beings across the globe are transmitting little pieces electronic data and love to one another and connecting with other human beings. 

And it is for this reason that I appreciate having you in my life. 

So thank you. 

Much love,

Sarah.

P.S. Please pass my love on to my sister. I see her often in my fb news feed but we rarely actually speak to each other directly. For no other reason than we're busy... "connecting".

She laid them out in front of her

She laid them out in front of her.

Photos of the faces of the men she had slept with.

Sometimes, she just needed perspective.

Whenever she felt like she wasn’t achieving anything she’d take out the photos and spread them out on the dining room table, or sometimes on her bedroom floor. She had only once taken them into her studio – but that was dangerous. They interfered with her work.

With a cup of peppermint tea beside her, she laid them out in front her.

Her finger would trace the details she had enjoyed the most about each different man; his nose; his crooked chin; his cardigan; his glasses he’d left on the side table; his broad shouldered shirts she’d worn to make breakfast; his six o’clock shadow that had left her reddened and worn the next day; his smile.

Some, she would linger on, as her memory flipped through its files in search of a name. Her finger would tap lightly on his cheek as she thought.

She would always get there in the end with a small sigh of recognition. And when she did remember, she would say his name out loud in breathy voice laced with relief, his name whispered with fondness (usually) and a nostalgia would then curl its way onto her lips, folding them into a wistful smile. They were remembered.

Then she would place the photographs one on top of another, in no particular order. And return them to the bottom draw where they were stored. Then she would leave her dining room, or her bedroom and return to her studio. She would approach her worktable, look, pause then remember what she was doing and where she was up to and continue to work.

Centro Historico, Mexico City Federal Districo

I arrived in the dumb-early morning and as if in an art house film, I watched from my taxi's window a city move past me; a city that sprawled beyond the street lamps and evaporated into the darkness. 

Mexico City.

I couldn’t remember a time when I hadn’t wanted to come to Mexico. And there I was. In Mexico. Sweating at 5am. And hoping my taxi driver wasn’t going to rob me.

A bouncy night clerk showed me to a bed at the hostel and I napped.

Groggy, I awoke, with a sense of nervous excitement tinged with foreboding… because I’m nothing if not dramatic.

I lay awake, with the city pulsating outside and I worried that I would be disappointed. With Mexico, with life, with love. And what then? What happens when disappearing isn’t enough?

I lay there listening to other tourists getting ready for their days and I remembered not 3 weeks earlier, my friend Dan had talked at me about Carl Sagan. I listened to him explain for a good 20 minutes that Sagan was an astronomer, a “science communicator” and – according to Dan – a total babe. 

‘What are you interested in at the moment?’ Dan had asked when he had finished and was faced with a strange silence. A wave of what was now a familiar emptiness returned. ‘Nothing, really’ was my response, one fraught with self-esteem issues. It was a whingey disposition that I couldn’t shake so the reply hung flaccid and damp in the air.

And now? …

I was in Mexico. 

Had anything changed?

I got up without an answer, needing coffee & an orange juice to deal with such a heady question. I padded down the cool steps of the hostel. My hand hovered for a moment over the front door handle. 

Was anything going to change?

I tugged at the door because it was heavier than I had expected until I realised it was a push not a pull door anyway, so I pushed with an umph and then I stepped out into the blinding heat and the chaotic streets.

And disappeared.

***

In Centro Historico, the indiscriminate sun pummels the large slabs of imposing Spanish architecture, that crumbles above. It dries the blood and dog shit on the torn footpaths underfoot. And it blushes the sweaty cheeks of Gringos who tower over the squish of people in Ciudad de Mexico.

It’s hot.

It’s energetic.

But it’s slow.  

It’s no secret that my inner rhythm is not the quickest. So the Mexican pace should have come naturally. But I was still on Melbourne time. I was still a little harried, a little late and a little encumbered by lists of things to do. And despite my general slowness, my gait is a quick one especially so when on a hunt for caffeine and “jugo de naranja, por favour”. There are as many people in Mexico City as there are in the whole of the continent of Australia and it felt in this moment that all of them wanted to get in my way.

There was rubbish and cracks and holes and boarded up crevasses to trip over, bump into or fall down. And so: I tripped. I bumped. I fell.

Taco and toastado vendors yelled at no one in particular that they had both Tacos and  Tostados ¡que sorpresa. At least I guessed that’s what they were saying, mi espainol es terrible, lo siento.

Cars were piled up at red lights and the drivers were without concession for lazy tourists, who were still blinking away the jet lag.

Brunch. Coffee. OJ. A wander and a wonder. The sun began to set.

Despacio.

A cool breeze relieved the tingly, reddening skin and the shade became shadow.

As the sun evaporated into the edge of the city the night felt ominous. But as I searched for a restaurant for dinner, I found that the night brought with it a peace. A quiet. With intermittent bursts of life and light and laughing, a sense of possibility unfolded.

It felt as if there was something else going on here. Something I didn’t know about yet. Like… As if there was a secret river running under the city, or… something.

It felt like there may have been a place hidden from the sun and the shadows, somewhere. A place that could only be accessed through a hole in the ground and climbed down to by a grimy, moss-laden ladder.

Maybe I was just imagining things. I have a habit of doing that sometimes.

But if there was a secret river I had no doubt that it would be a place the artists, the teachers, the astronomers and the total babes would ride atop in gondolas, pontificating and lamenting, as has been their want throughout the ages.

Here, we would speak a secret language, one that everyone knew, but didn’t know they knew until they arrived. It would be here that we’d drink tequila or rum or whiskey or beer or mezcal or pulque and talk until the sun threatened to rise.

We’d gorge ourselves on ideas and conversations then throw them onto the walls like fabulous cream pies. They would plop and thwack and slide down the walls to finally crystalise into our art, our songs and our stories.

And we’d float.

And think.

And wonder about the stars.

We would yell-talk across the water and clash our champagne glasses together. We’d hold hands and kiss each other lightly and laugh like fireworks at a carnival.

And as that sun would begin to rise outside, sleepy and floppy we’d float, not wanting to acknowledge the approaching day with its insistent needs and demands and lists of things to do.

A beat here. A moment. A pause. Un pequito ensueno.

Or not.

Well fed and safely back in my hotel, I realised all of this was outrageously whimsical, silly even.

Maybe there was no canal under D.F.¹, perhaps there were no pretentious hipsters breezily sailing by each other underneath the city. 

But I was, for the first time in a long time, curious and interested and I wanted to investigate. Even if it wasn’t true, that tingle of possibility was beginning to change the colour of my eyes, here, at night, in Centro Historico, Cuidad de Mexico, Distrito Federal, Mexico.

(1) In the time of the Aztecs the site of Mexico City was an island in the middle of Lake Texcoco. Before the Spanish invaded there was a complex floating economy and trading system on the lake. When the Spanish invaded and over took this area, they drained the lake and filled in the area to build the city that is now known as Mexico City. The contemporary city now rests on the site of Lake Texcoco and due to natural irrigation and water table, water still needs to be pumped from the underneath the city. Thus the city is unstable and slowly sinking, the evidence of which can be seen through the lopsided cathedrals and buildings throughout. Whether there are mysterious (and accessible) canals running underneath the city with artists and astronomers afloat on them still remains to be proven. 

Conversations in Krabi

Dear Dave,

By the time you get this I’ll be in a Thai resort with a bunch of Aussie tourists and their children, who will no doubt have names like Ragan and Shylar. It will be a type of hell to be sure, but not all together unpleasant and one must be grateful for the bogan as well as the lovely things in life, I guess.

Besides, beneath the crisp white of resort bed sheets, lies no imprint of someone who is not there… It’s a time to starfish the fuck out of that King sized bed.

But I’m not there yet.

Right now, I am in Bottle Beach – a small shack-filled village on the coast Koh Pha Ngan where the wifi and electricity are unreliable at the best of times and the toilet paper is not necessarily included in the price of a room. But with a cold Singha beer, a plate full of Pad Thai in front of me and the gentle lapping of a turquoise sea at my side - it’s certainly a small slice of paradise.

A small slice of paradise - Bottle Beach, Koh Pha Ngan

It has been 10 hours since we parted ways. And I imagine you are in transit somewhere, heading home. And I’m here, writing, because without wifi or electricity there’s not much else to do except hand write a letter or 6. And time alone, even when spent in paradise, can get a girl thinking about what has gone before and all those mistakes she’s made.

If saying ‘Nah. Thanks though’, to your offer of a pre-bought breakfast from   7-11 last night, was my first mistake, my next was less a lack of good judgment and more a rather flakey-girl-vaug-o-how-the-hell-did-that-happen type of mistake. The type I have unfortunately become famous for. Funny. I always thought I’d be fabulously famous, but you take what you can get at this late stage.

As you know, the day began with our sleep-encrusted farewell as you left at 6 am.

And I waited, with an empty stomach and visions of black coffee to keep me company.

The mini bus arrived and after a fight to the death with a cloud of mosquitos and some whingy Canadians, I made it to the ferry port, scrunched and stiff after my ride. Here, I and the other hundreds of baggage laden tourists were herded onto the awaiting boats. I positioned myself to overlook the water as we pulled away from the port, bound for the east coast islands of Thailand.

As the boat surged onwards I became lost in a thread of thoughts as intricate as a Tolkin map. Now, I am not comparing my trip to Koh Pha Ngan to the Fellowship of the Ring - my toes might be a little hairy but I’m in no way Hobbit-like. But Tolkien, Pratchett and Adams were nerd authors we had gushed over as we sat in the hotel lobby in Krabi. And since nerd gushing is the best kind, I wanted to reference it.

There were many conversations in Krabi. Some of them interesting, some hilarious and others of not much import, but they were easy.

Inevitably though our exes began to swim around in our cocktails and conversations. And exes are a dangerous topic of conversation, especially so during a surprising and light Thailand fling. I know that everyone has exes at our age. So I can’t explain why the cocktails and conversations in Krabi made my boots so heavy.

It was this conversation I stopped at in my thoughts on the ferry to Koh Pan Ngan.

I remembered that I had once declared that I never wanted to get married. I just wanted to travel and have wonderful love affairs around the world. I was young and romantic and probably slightly retarded back then. But, in a way, that’s sort of what I have been doing – so a double fist pump for achieving one’s goals. And a small sigh in honour of the lost loves along the way.

I guess, when I had made this wish I didn’t realise how much of a short stop these ‘love affairs/one night/three week/six month stands’ would make me feel or how much I would long to be important to someone. It would seem, these ‘lovely love affairs’ are always ‘nothing serious’ and while I have been travelling around the world, and whisked away with romance, I have also been talking about men’s ex-girlfriends.

A lot.

I have been held long into the night, while comforting men about past, present, or future relationships… with other people. I have been kissed tenderly by men who have made me the ‘other woman’ without my knowledge. And I have had dirty, long weekends smeared with chocolate and champagne with men who were not my boyfriend and never would be.

And there I was.

With you.

For two nights.

In Krabi.

Half way around the world.

And talk.king.exes.

Was this just another one of my short stop bad decisions? Was it the conversation or the cocktails that made me feel a little lonelier?

The boat smashed through the moundy waves, spraying me as I kept a keen eye on the horizon so as not to puke as I have a want to do on boats. And my thoughts continued to wander around. And landed unexpectedly for a moment with my friend Tim.

Tim is older than me. And after a mega serious adult break up, he moved to Berlin. He wasn’t ‘running away’ (a term we railed against for ourselves when describing our overseas adventures), he wasn’t trying to ‘reinvent’ himself or squeeze love out of the situation. He just wanted to discover something else.

Why did we seem so afraid of this ‘something else’?

Tim is one of the most intelligent and grounded people I know, and of course completely mental (a quality you and I had enthusiastically upheld because the most interesting people and partners were always mental). But there we were slamming down conversation and cocktails. Together. In Krabi. And we weren’t embracing our ‘next’. It felt we were caught in acid-like looping in a labyrinth of ex lovers. A type of hell to be sure.

Exes are a terrible topic of conversation.

The boat splashed some more and the water made funny shapes on my t-shirt where my boobs and belly protruded. Like a whacky wet t-shirt competition where I was the only competitor. I thought you’d laugh at this. And I remembered that despite a short melancholic aberration, we had laughed a lot in Krabi.

I let the water splatter my sunglasses and the wind billow my hair to aero- dynamic effect. Here, I wasn’t afraid nor was I sad. Maybe Thailand was good for a person. Maybe our little rendezvous in Krabi was not a mistake – maybe it was just company for two slightly mental people and a lovely moment in time.

Or maybe I was just light-headed from having not eaten anything for 18 hours.

The ferry docked; I disembarked.

I was in a sawngthaew on my way to somewhere when I was told I was on Koh Samui. And not my intended port of Koh Pha Ngan.

I was on the completely wrong island.

Fuck.

Big Buddha pier was the only place the next ferry would leave for Koh Pha Ngan that same day. The ferry would leave at 1:30. It was now 12:30. And Big Buddha pier was on the opposite side of the island. And so it was a race against time of ‘TheAmazing Race’ proportions.

I jumped on a motorbike taxi and we balanced precariously, and admittedly rather dangerously on the bike with my oversized luggage and set off, clock ticking.

Then.

It started to rain.

This was not a saggy, dampening drizzle. This was a tropical storm downpour with big, fat drops smacking against everything and leaving nothing dry.

Yet another of my many mistakes. I thought as my fingers twitched convinced I was not going to make it.

But, soaked to the core, I made it to the pier in time for the next ferry. I made it to Koh Pha Ngan and finally I made it to a longtail where I traveled into the setting sun and turquoise sea, bound for this small slice of paradise.

***

I’m staying in a shack literally on the beach. The sea is warm, the sun not too stingy and the coconuts are fresh.

My beer and dinner are finished. And as I listen to the gentle lapping of the sea against the white sanded shore, I have no doubt you’ll find your wildly adventurous, intelligent and kind-hearted mental woman. She’ll appreciate your gentle, sexy-as super smart brain and she’ll get your jokes (and hopefully you get hers too because otherwise it could get awkward).

We’ve made mistakes Dave, and we’ll probably make them again but mistakes as I’ve learned today – however many or few – lead to an interesting adventure, a good story or just somewhere else – which sometimes, is just as good. And the beer just as sweet.

Chok Dee to that.

Love,

Sarah.