On the toprope

It is downright eerie to read the New York Times' coverage of the devastation in New Orleans from Khao Lak. Outside of this internet cafe, one can walk down the main road and look to the left to see the stores closed, the diveshops with newspaper stuffed over the windows, and the sporadic tailor trying to sell his suits to the no one that is around. And on the left you can see why. The town is not here anymore. Gone. Wiped away in a single flash by one of mother nature's most powerful weapons. Demolished by the Tsunami. Half of Khao Lak lost their lives, and yet Thailand barely got hit when compared to Indonesia.

And who would have thought that right here in this ghost town where emergency procedures were scrutinized and criticized; where my protection from another tsunami is my hostess's word that "don't worry. If it comes again I'll let you know;" that THIS is where I'd be reading the rants and raves going on in New Orleans because the United States, the "most developed nation in the world" that has been bracing for disaster at an accelerated clip for four years now, cannot handle the situation and people are dying and starving. Human suffering, it would seem, is beyond politics and development. It is beyond geography.

And yet still I sit here amidst the devastation not knowing what to do. Yes, I could say here for three weeks and try to rebuild some houses. But the last time I tried to build a house was with habitat for humanity, and our contributions were that Dan Craig and Ken Scott built a toolbox about which the forman said he was "embarrassed that a member of his gender built that," and I used a circular saw to cut through its own power cord. So carpentry may not be my calling. I just don't know how much I have to offer here. The old "the foundation for doing good is doing well" thing just won't get out of my head.

But anyhow, let's step back from all this for a moment and remember just what it is about life that makes it worth living, shall we?

I boarded the bus in Siem Reap for Bangkok, and was quickly convinced that all the rumors about the road were just exaggerations. The first hour or so (if that) was only a little bumpy, and after a little while a dutch woman gave up here seat with leg room to me, so that she could cram into the tiny little space I had been occupying next to her significant other. Then, suddenly, the pavement disappeared and sans AC all the windows had to remain open. And the door, right in front of me, sporadically opened and closed based on the driver's assitants' smoking habits. Seven hours later we arrived at the border looking as though we'd simultaneously been fighting a war while crawling across the Sahara - covered head to toe in dirt.

Then, stunned, we all crawled into the nicest bus I've ever been on. A double decker with recliners, AC, and all the jazz. Later in Bangkok I would overhear travel agents advertising the trip to Siem Reap on this bus and pushing how nice it would be. I felt a moral obligation to intervene and reveal the truth to the would-be suckers, trying to get the words out through the barrage of sneezes that lasted through the next day.

Back in the middle of the fiasco that is the Khao San Road in Bangkok, my spins again, but doesn't get as much momentum this time. I guess I was just more prepared. That, and the continuous pleas from Moto and tuk tuk drivers to go somewhere with them have become commonplace throughout SE Asia; though still annoying, they no longer make me want to jump the next plane to Europe.

After one day of walking around Chatuchak market - said to have 200,000 visitors per day with 12,000 stalls to visit, we found it much less crowded, less exciting, and impossible to find anything you were actually looking for - I spent the next wandering around trying to find a cheap way to get to the embassy of Myanmar.

Matt Bruce once said (or wrote) "Climbing, just like traveling, is not always bold...so many people comfortably tie into a toprope, where they assume no risk. They never get the opportunity to discover where their limitations disappear." Well, I tied right into that toprope when I gave up my journey for the embassy and dropped my passport off at a travel agent who would get the visa for me. Then I found the bus station, spent a few hours hanging out in KFC with two other Americans on thier honeymoon trip around the world (michaelshannonwt.blostpot.com), and rode to Railay Beach.

In Railay westerners outnumber the locals even in the offseason (now) and you'd be hard pressed to find the local bowl of noodle soup in the morning. Thus, everyone speaks english and eats the "American Breakfast" before heading out to do some sport climbing.

I hook up with a few local guides to head out and climb, and am fully impressed by my own ability to get in with the locals so quickly. However, it is quickly apparent that no English will be spoken except to me, and that they are infinitely better at climbing than me. I ponder the fact that moving from place to place and constantly changing languages is akin to re-living the terrrible, awful first bit of being an exchange student - when you can't understand a damn thing - over and over again. So I find some lethargic brits and jump on board with them. Ironically, despite my status as toproping re: traveling I jump onto the lead re: climbing because, well, they're just that lethargic.

The next day, after sleeping off the hangover until noon, we jump on the rock at around one. Quickly, we tire out, but keep pushing it. Around five or so, I hop onto a 5.11 - well within my capabilities at home, but out of practice and worn out, this is a little much for me. I give up, leaving some gear up high, and instead try to climb the 5.10 nearby so I can, theoretically, lower to get the gear I've left from the next anchors over.

The crux (hardest part) of this climb is right at the top, and protected not by a nice solid bolt, but rather by two worn out, decaying ropes slung through holes in the rock. Again, I'm thoroughly worn out and too tired for this climb. So after failing once or twice on the move, I think, "Mike, there is absolutely no reason why you cannot do this. Just do it." So I did. Hit the side pull, swung around, left foot over, I'm at the top. But I'm barely hanging on.

Frantic, I look to the anchor to which I NEED to clip which is just beside my head. I feel about to slide off the side, and in a terrible, terrible move that goes against all laws of climbing, I reach for the anchor itself to keep me up. All this accomplishes is to swing me around so I'm facing outwards before I peel off and become inverted, barreling downward head-first.

In slow motion, I first think, oh crap. Then wow I'm not even going to get hurt. Then ow, but that could have been much, much worse. After the 25 foot fall upside down, I emerge with a scraped up back and a bump on my head.

The brits couldn't stop talking about how lucky I was to be alive.


Lessons: don't climb too hard when you're worn out (esp. leading), DON'T CHEAT, and helmets are good things.

Next day I hook up with 3 Israelis and head out again, this time only leading 5.10 or so, and jumping on the toprope for the 11s as I still have no strength.

Despite the Israelis saying "I don't know HOW you could leave this place after only 3 days!" (It is absolutely magnificent - huge limestone cliffs adorned with stalagtites jutting straight out of the sea. It's a paradise in many ways.) I decide that I am not traveling to be on vacation and drink beers on the beach and go climbing with Israelis. So, today I zipped over to Krabi, where I got a bus to Khao Lak.

And here I am, pondering the nature of...nature.