My Paradise island crew (minus 1 swimming Frenchie.) We roll deep.

The Universe conspired to make my sojourn on this unknown island one of cosmic proportions.

Each natural element aligned and shone unabashedly before me in a myriad of forms. The life force of the pregnant moon breathed awe-inspiring life into me and my Paradise companions each night. Even days away from completing its monthly rotation, it appeared as though each night we were all on some other planet where the moon is always full. It’s affect was extra-humanly.

At night, phosphorescent light glowed and swirled between the undulations of our fingertips in the salty sea reminding us once more how connected we are and how much life is teeming all around us, even if it just takes a wave of a hand underwater to see. The feeling is nothing short of pure joy.

The “we” and “us” I refer to is the community of friends I made on the island. Each residing in our own wooden bungalows on the beach, we came together to eat, drink, marvel, and discuss the merits and challenges of this life of travel and this world we navigate. Choosing to lead these lives independently of one another, it amazes me just how seamlessly we connected. It’s as though the constellations converged on this small stretch of beach – which I hadn’t even really planned on going to – connecting Thai, Australian, Italian, French, British, German, American, and New Zealanders in a cosmic boom that brought with it the most beautiful calm you can imagine. It was beautiful and I will cherish it forever as we all continue on our respective paths, knowing in my heart it wont be the last time our paths will cross.

Between us we’ve adopted so many new customs on all our travels and lives, seeing who knows how much of this beautiful planet and its people, speaking on average 2 languages fluently and learning new words in different dialects every day – the simple beauty and the monumentality of these endeavors begins to strike a chord. Seems like the more one realizes the need to carry on in this kind of life, the clearer is becomes that it’s not always just you achieving your dreams, but a whole Universe guiding you, illuminating your path and other seemingly disparate paths along the way. As one uncertain step connects with the other, I fully embrace the purity and the power of faith, trusting that everything is as it should be.

And everything, ladies and vagabonds, is beautiful.

Ups include amazing sunsets, coffee on our terrace, random excursions to the Princes’ Islands, kick ass food, and wonderfully helpful people.

Ahhhhh the island....

Ya, that's called wrapped deliciousness.

Downs include being eaten alive every evening by some sort of bug that thinks both Jen and I are delicious, trying to figure out how in the hell to pay our bills when I can’t read Turkish, nor can I manage to find someone who speaks English, nor is the internet being helpful AT ALL, rioting, tear gas, and being lost all the time.

On the bright side, all the goods are making me smile and all the bads are making me laugh just because I’m finding the smallest difficulties quite hilarious.

Something, something, bank, something something, other bank. I never thought I would actually say I miss Los Angeles DWP.

Paradise or Prison?

Over a year ago, I remember reading Thurston Clarke’s book, Searching for Crusoe, about 13 of what the author determined to be the “last real islands” in the world. Since his name bore an eery resemblance to Thurston Howell, the well-to-do gadabout from “Gilligan’s Island”, I assumed he was an authority. The eleventh island he covered in the book was Phu Quoc, Vietnam, renowned for its beauty as well as the prison on it that was the former abode of VC POWs. The title of the chapter was “Frightening Islands”.

Our trip to Phu Quoc took a grueling 14 hours, despite being only 140 miles from Ho Chi Minh City. We took a taxi to a bus; the bus to another bus; that bus to the town of Rach Gía, where we took another bus to the port-town, Hon Chong, where we caught a ferry to the island. After that we took another, hour-long taxi ride to the hotel. That was Friday, 12am to 2pm.

On Saturday, there were no horns honking, or loudspeakers calling “Anyone want some cakes?” in Vietnamese. We woke to the soothing sounds of the Gulf of Thailand lapping against a porcelain beach, and the sight of a nectarine sunrise peaking through the thatched roofs of our bungalows. Except for Kevin and Bryan, our crew. They woke to the sound of the backhoe laying a septic tank next door. According to the Vietnamese government and their infinite wisdom, Phu Quoc will be the next Singapore. So instead of preserving the island’s natural beauty for tourism, they’re laying pipes and leveling ground. So we followed suit, and unleashed 400cc’s of rented motorbike fury on the jungle roads. We were lost the whole time, so we drove as fast as we could. We came across (in this order) a deserted coral-sand beach, a nest of angry hornets, dozens of dump trucks, and a big, weird dam down an empty and disused road in the jungle.

Our deserted beach on Phu Quoc.

The dam view of all of the dam jungle.

Sunday was the crowning moment of our weekend. We woke up mid-morning after a good old-fashioned (mini) beach bonfire Saturday night, and climbed into a one-hour taxi ride to the ferry dock, prepared for another 14 hours of travel. One problem: there was no ferry. Double-check the tickets. Yep, 12:30pm on Sunday, November 30th, 2008.

We took a walk to the nearest ticket-seller and found to our incredible dismay that we had been sold passes to a ferry that doesn’t exist. No ferries out, no ferries in, no buses, no helicopters, no submarines. We split up, Matt, Kevin and I refunded our ferry tickets while Brian and Bryan scrambled to the airport to find a flight out. As the last plane left the tarmac, we realized we’d been stranded. We had classes to teach, and the all-important Monday episode deadline. But, as it turns out, Phu Quoc was, and continues to be, an island prison.

The retro ticket counter.

The next day, we woke up at 5:30am skeptical of our chances, rushed via taxi to the airport and waited for standby tickets to Saigon. The first flight left at 7:30- one standby ticket- Matt left to catch an early class. The next flight, 8:30- two tickets- Brian and Bryan. Finally, after 2 days and 3 and a half hours of irritating the standby clerk, the final flight left Phu Quoc at 11:00, with me and Kevin aboard. Arriving in Saigon, we faced more disappointment, realizing that our misstep had placed us a week behind our production schedule, and episode-less for Monday.

So Thurston, I couldn’t believe before how such a lovely place could earn that chapter’s name, but now I know. I’ve come to realize that no matter how lovely a prison can be, at the end of the day, it’s still a prison.