They Only Eat Their Husbands

by Cara Lopez Lee

  At first, I missed the trail and found myself on Princess Cave Beach, at Outer Princess Cave. At the entrance to the shallow cave stands a libidinous little shrine to the Cave Goddess. Scattered around the shrine, stands what looks like a collection of wooden clubs, several of them two or three feet tall. They aren’t clubs, but penises of outlandish sizes, monuments to man’s self-delusion, painted lurid colors and draped with prayer scarves. Before the Cave Goddess statue sits a table filled with offerings, not only of flowers and incense, but beauty products like lipstick, perfume, and soap. A wooden plaque tells the story of a princess who fell in love against her father’s wishes. One day she came to pray to the Cave Goddess, a deity of love and beauty. The princess ended up staying in the cave with the goddess, where she remains to this day. Assuming she came to pray for help with her love life, this sounds like poor service to me.

  While the penises were diverting, they weren’t what I was looking for. Determined to find the trail to the hidden lagoon, I asked around until I found an American who knew the way. He guided me back to the path I’d taken to the beach, and pointed up to a steep rocky slope alongside the path. A thick rope hung down from an unseen distance above. No one had mentioned that rope climbing would be involved.

  I took a deep breath, grabbed the rope, braced my legs as if I knew exactly what I was about, and started climbing. I’m not a climber, and my intrepid progress up the rope was strictly Inspector Clouseau-school. The knotted ropes continued up the hill, stinking of body odor, sweat, and fear, and slick with slime that made my hands slip. I had an awkward time hauling myself up one protruding rock, and bounced into a jagged piece of limestone, punching a small but impressively bloody hole in my knee. Seeing this as a dare, I continued. Sean’s voice spoke in my head: “When you get up in the morning, you never know what’s going to happen.”

  Halfway up, I ran into two guys coming the other way, who warned, “You might want to know it’s even steeper on the other side. You have to rappel straight down into the lagoon.”

  “Is there a rope on that side, too?”

  “Yeah, the ropes go all the way. It’s just steep—almost vertical.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

  After about ten minutes, I reached the top, and a minute later, hit the steep downhill descent. Those guys weren’t exaggerating. This was one serious slope.

  I looked up and spotted a young guy coming down behind me. He had the fit, at-ease look of someone who belonged on a cliff, and wore a t-shirt scribbled with the slogan, “no fear.” Must be an American.

  “No fear?” I said. “But it wouldn’t be any fun without some fear.”

  “Who’re you trying to convince, me or you?”

  Hearing a young woman’s loud laugh, I looked higher. She might not have been a mountaineer, but her ponytail, muscular legs, and look of cheerful concentration all told me she was an avid athlete. The volume of her laugh told me she, too, was an American.

  “Oh you laugh,” I said. “But just wait until you get to this section.” With that, I attempted to rappel down the steepest segment. Even if I’d been a trained climber, I had no harness or climbing gear. I was only hanging onto the rope, hoping that it was securely fastened to the rock above and that my hands wouldn’t slip. I chose the wrong path down and hit a dead end. To rejoin the correct route, I had to pull myself partway back up, then swing across a gap. My first effort ended in a body-slam against the rocks.

  “Shit!”

  “Are you okay?” no fear’s voice floated down.

  “Yeah. Just frustrated,” I said, panting.

  I tried again, this time leaning away from the wall and splaying my feet more firmly in front of me. I swung across and planted my feet on the rock.

  “Very good!” the woman called down. “Thanks!” I called up, feeling like an idiot.

  About half an hour later I reached the bottom. The lagoon was empty of water, except for a one-inch puddle with pathetic aspirations to become a pond. The rest was mud. I’d expected a large, sparkling pool, something that might invite a swim. But the lagoon is fed by seeping ocean water, and I hadn’t thought about low tide. I smirked at yet another of my life’s dramatically under-fulfilled expectations. “Well,” I thought, “what else do you expect from expectations?”

  Once I got over the missing water, it was quite beautiful: a deep circular hole in the mountain, surrounded by steep cliffs. Even in this hidden place, the fertile tropics exploded with the vivid greens of uncontrollable life. About a half-dozen people stood down there with me, pacing like animals in a cage. Our heads turned in unison as an echoing screech bounced off the walls. A large owl soared across the lagoon, landed in the large puddle, and stared at us. The owl circled and landed a few times, as if to let us know this was his territory.

  I struck up a conversation with the two people who’d come down behind me. James is from Colorado, and Carly is from Boston. They’re not a couple; they met on Railay. This climbing Mecca is overrun with Germans, Swiss, Swedes, and other Northern Europeans, but scant few Americans. So the discovery of compatriots was sufficient for the three of us to form an instant bond. Together, we climbed back the way we came. Afterward, they invited me to join them at the Sunset Bar to—what else?—watch the sunset.

  First, I excused myself for an ocean dip to rid myself of sweat and grime. As I bounced through the water on the balls of my feet, a sudden sharp pain slapped my ankle. I instinctively grabbed my foot, and nearly did a face-plant into the water. I lurched back to shore, fell onto the sand, and examined my ankle. A tiny trail of welts wound around my limb. What to do? No clue. I wrapped my sarong around my waist and limped to the beach bar to join my new friends.

  “What happened?” Carly asked.

  “I have no idea.” I lifted my sarong to show them the welts.

  “You probably got stung by a jelly fish,” James said. “You know, I’ve heard if you pee on it, it’s like a natural painkiller.”

  Carly and I giggled at his earnest advice.

  “I know it sounds gross,” he said. “But hey, if it works . . . ”

  “Urine is acidic,” I said. “So how would peeing on it make it sting less?”

  “Yeah,” Carly said. “This whole urine business sounds like shitty advice to me.”

  I declared that I had no intention of testing the medicinal benefits of peeing on myself, then closed the debate by lowering my sarong over the burning trail of pink circles. Carly complimented me on the sarong, a maroon print covered in small golden elephants.

  I said I’d only bought it a few days ago and it was quickly proving to be my handiest multi-use item: “I’ve already used it as a dress, a skirt, a towel, a blanket, and a bathrobe.”

  Carly said, “It can also be used as a tote to carry things to the beach, a sling to carry a baby, a table cloth, a wall-hanging . . . I wish it was more acceptable to wear them in the U.S. I’d wear one all the time.”

  “No one would blink an eye in L.A.,” I said.

  “We must have something that versatile in the States,” James said.

  “Duct tape?” I suggested. “That’s pretty versatile. I carry it in my pack.”

  “Why?” Carly asked.

  “In case I rip my backpack or something. I’ve already torn the duffle that I use to carry my pack on planes and trains. Duct tape patched it right up.”

  “Yeah, but can you wear it like a skirt?” Carly said.

  “Ouch,” I said.

  James chuckled, but Carly threw her head back and laughed with belly-busting abandon. She exuded intelligence, minus cynicism. I envied her rare blend of youth and self-confidence. I wondered what I would do with such incredible power. I wondered if she was even aware of it.

  Our conversation was unabatedly pointless and, as three lone travelers high on unexpected companionship, we could care less. I ordered a fruit lassi—a Thai
version of a smoothie, made with pineapple, orange, yoghurt, and ice—and talked animatedly with my friends of the moment, until the sunset whipped the sky into its own fruit froth.

  I longed to stay, but the boats to Ao Nang don’t run at night, and I had to return to my bungalow. As the sun slipped under the horizon, I left my friends and headed for the beach, where the few straggling boat pilots sang out, “Aonang-Aonang-Aonang!”

  I lifted one lugubrious arm in reply. “Ao Nang.”

  As the boat skipped across the rising waves like a thrown rock, drenching me with spray, the sky turned to Hadean fire. I fell back into loneliness as one might fall into the arms of a vampire lover.

  ayutthaya, thailand

  I arrived at Wat Phra Makathat as the sun bathed the crumbling temple ruins in the mellow, golden glow of afternoon—the color of memory. Numerous stone Buddhas sat in mute meditation. Most of them were missing their heads, as if they’d decided to finally remove, once and for all, the distraction of thoughts.

  The conical towers of broken brick and stone reminded me that beauty is both timeless and ephemeral. They gave testament to the former splendor of Ayutthaya, Thailand’s capital from the fourteenth to eighteenth centuries, a wondrous city of palaces and temples pointing to the sky. Most of Ayutthaya’s graceful buildings were burned or toppled by the Burmese during one of that country’s many attacks on Thailand.

  Amid these broken pieces of Thailand’s violent past, atop a low brick wall, silent and smiling, sat a young, shaven-headed monk. His saffron robes were a dazzling contrast against the backdrop of earthen red brick and blackened grey stone. He introduced himself as Wutthichai. His voice caught me by surprise; it hadn’t occurred to me that a monk might speak to a woman. I knew he wasn’t supposed to touch one.

  I pressed my palms together to make a wai in his direction and said, “Sa wat dee ka.”

  Smiling, he returned my greeting and asked where I was from.

  “I’m from America.”

  “Oh, but this is good. If it’s okay, I can practice my English with you?”

  “I would enjoy that,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “Do you mind if I take your photo when we are done?”

  “Okay.”

  I sat near him on the ruins, keeping a polite three-foot distance between us. As a woman in Thailand, I’ve fallen into an unconscious habit I call “monk awareness”: that is, I always make note of whether any monks are in my vicinity, and when they are I give them a wide berth so they won’t risk touching me.

  Our conversation was rudimentary due to Wuttichai’s limited English and my ignorance of Thai—beyond a few simple phrases, like “Sa wat dee ka!” (Hello) and “Sa bai dee mai?” (How are you?). He told me that he’s studying humanities at a Buddhist University, and that he’ll probably remain a monk for another two to four years. He’s only twenty-one and not sure what he wants to do when he becomes a layman again. After four years of celibacy, that one would be a no-brainer for me, but I didn’t dare make such a joke to a man I’d just met, much less a monk.

  “What is your profession?” he asked.

  “I do not have a job now. But I was a television reporter.”

  He drew himself up and widened his eyes into an exaggerated expression of surprise. “So, I know television. But what does a television operator do?”

  “I am a television re-por-ter, not an operator. I tell stories for the news.”

  “You work as an operator for the news? And so you work with camera?”

  I gave up trying to correct him, as he hammered me with questions about what an “operator” does and I tried my best to explain.

  “You have much knowledge for someone who is so young,” he said.

  “I am not so young. I am thirty-five.”

  “Nooo! You seem much younger than that,” he said.

  This time my eyes widened with surprise as I thought, This monk is flirting with me! I know that Buddhist monks, unlike Catholic monks, don’t have to take a permanent vow of celibacy. Yet I’d expected him to be as asexual as an amoeba.

  As both our conversation and the daylight began to run out, I stood to take my leave.

  “May I give you my information,” he asked, “so we may write to each other and I may practice my English some more? We have talked and exchanged some ideas, so I think we are friends now.”

  “Yes, I’d be happy to write to you.”

  I’d never before exchanged contact info with someone while trying to avoid physical contact. I could swear the young monk was turning it into a game. First, I wrote my dad’s address on a business card and, instead of handing it to Wuttichai, I set it down on the ruins so he could pick it up without touching me. I thought that was the end of it. Then he asked, “May I have your email address, please?” He set the card down on the bricks again. I picked up the card, wrote my email address on it, and set it back down. He picked it up again. “And will you write down the date you will return to the USA?” He set the card back down, and I picked it up again. This exchange went on until I was struggling to contain my laughter. All to avoid touching a woman. Gee, a girl could get a complex.

  When he had all the information I could possibly fit on the back of a business card, he allowed me to take his photo.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It was nice to meet you.” I made another wai in his direction, holding my hands near my forehead in a sign of respect.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will send you an email when you return to the USA. Take care of your heart while you are traveling. You are my friend now and I will worry about you.”

  The young monk’s phrase stuck with me, as if I’d come to these ruins to hear it: “Take care of your heart.” Looking around at the Buddhas, I saw that the war that had destroyed their heads had failed to reach their hearts. Maybe I’ve come to the right place to repair mine.

  train from ayutthaya to chiang mai

  How am I supposed to take care of my heart when I can’t even take care of my butt? I’m sitting on a hard wooden bench on the all-night train to Chiang Mai, and every rail in the tracks is sending a personal insult to my ass. Overhead, a few useless fans faintly stir the recalcitrant air. I’m surrounded by Thais and the musical chirping of Thai chatter and laughter. Apparently most foreigners just aren’t up for an all night train-ride crammed into fourth class with wall-to-wall bodies and no air conditioning.

  At nightfall, a pretty girl wearing a long ponytail and a ball cap sat across from me. She might have been anywhere from fifteen to twenty, but then most Thai people look young to me. We both gazed out the window into the darkness, which gave way to an intense orange glow as the night caught fire. Flames raced across open fields, and the smell of smoke drifted through the train’s partially open windows. The ball cap girl confirmed my suspicion, leaning toward me to say, “Farmers. They burn old . . . plant, so they can make new one. This is normal. You don’t worry.”

  After a pause she said, “You hear about big fire Kao San Road?”

  “Yes, really terrible.” It happened a few nights ago. While I was sleeping at Chai’s place in Bangkok’s backpacker ghetto, a Thai family was burning in their beds just a block or two away. An entire block of buildings burned down in the conflagration. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to act the gruesome tourist and walk past the smoking ruins for a look.

  “The newspaper say the owner did it on purpose, for the insurance.” The girl shook her head, and her ponytail swished from side to side. “This man is a murderer. He want money, but his family now dead. What good his money now?”

  As night wore on, the chatter and laughter ceased. Bodies sat, squatted, and curled in impossible positions as passengers tried to capture a few minutes of sleep on the tiny, hard benches. Some sat with their heads or feet in the laps of friends or family. The ball cap girl pulled the cap’s brim low over her eyes, crossed her legs in the l
otus position, and turned to lean her forehead against the window.

  By midnight the fires had ceased and the night was black as pitch. The only evidence that we still moved was the feel of the train rocking beneath me and the sound of the wheels: allalone-allalone-allalone-allalone. I leaned my forehead against the window and caught the reflection of my eyes, where the fires of relentless memories continued to burn. Tears spilled down my cheeks. Wanting to avoid notice, I cried silently, not moving a hand to wipe my tears, tensing my muscles to keep my shoulders from shaking.

  A voice broke through my thoughts, shy and tentative, the sweet hum of a small bird, “Excue me.” I didn’t move. Softly again, “Excue me.” Another pause. Then, singing, “Hey-you.”

  I turned from the window, to the sympathetic face of the ball cap girl. I had thought her asleep, but she was sitting up, holding a tissue in her outstretched hand. I gratefully accepted it, turned back to the window, and wiped my eyes. But her kindness only made me cry more.

  Reaching across the empty space between me and other people is the way I broke my heart in the first place. The only way it will mend is if I allow people to reach back across the empty space to me. But that’s become such a long distance to cross.

  Sheer Madness

  Thirty-five years old—Kathmandu, Nepal

  My screams were just a reflex. The corpulent, five-inch cockroach scuttling across the floor didn’t scare me so much as surprise me. I’ve become quite used to burly bugs and rats and all creatures creepy crawly. My simple room at Pooja’s Guesthouse is just two hundred rupees a night (about three bucks). At that price, insects are ambiance.

  A moment later, the power went out in Kathmandu’s Thamel district. Soon, candles were flickering in windows throughout the jumble of buildings crowded together like a child’s building block city.

  I escaped the dim indoors for a walk through the last smudge of dusk in this persistently rattling, honking, chattering town. Like a crying baby, the city demanded my full attention. Bicycle rickshaws, cars, pedestrians, motorcycles, and cows crowded together in narrow, dirt-paved streets without lanes or apparent rules. I’ve given up trying to figure out how to survive Asia’s traffic, simply hoping fast reflexes and the odds will be in my favor. Although I didn’t get hit, I soon got lost in Kathmandu’s web of nameless roads. The strong air overwhelmed my nose: diesel and spices, dust and oils, animals and vegetables and deodorant-free humanity. Every second person wanted to sell me something: trinkets, tours, clothes. “Excuse me, madame, come inside, please. Only looking, no buying. Looking is free.”