Independence Days

This is the second Fourth of July I've spent abroad.

Last year, I spent America's birthday in Peru, knocking back Pisco Sours. This year, I celebrate my country by riding on Wonton's back.

Wonton (that's what I hear the guide call him, anyway) is the elephant taking me on a journey through the exotic, Mae Wang River Valley. I had signed up for a one-day trek through the valley, a two hour drive from Chiang Mai.

I'm with eight others on this trek, none of them American. There are two Dutchmen, both young, very tall, and very friendly. A little too friendly. There are two elderly men, also Dutch. They may be partners, but I never ask. There are two brothers from Indonesia And there is a father with his daughter, both from Vietnam. It's like I'm in the Amazing Race, except I don't have partner. Except Wonton, who'll be anything you want him to be if you keep feeding him bananas.





I spend an hour with Wonton, before saying goodbye and hopping on a bamboo raft. The raft is narrow and porous. We're advised to take off our shoes, lest we get them wet. The guide knows his stuff. With each twisting turn, water slips up from the cracks of the raft, drenching my shorts. I spend the last five minutes of the ride with my ass hovering half a foot over the raft, my arms pushing me up. "Are you uncomfortable?" The guide asks me? "Oh no, I'm good thanks. Just trying to keep dry."

After toweling off, we trek through a tribal village, taking pictures of the farm life and the villagers. The young Dutchmen go crazy with their SLRs, pointing them inside the huts, snapping away at the women putting their babies to sleep. The father from Vietnam turns to me in disgust. "How would you like it if they came to your house and took pictures of you?" I nod, hoping he didn't see me take two pictures of the cutest baby in Thailand.


*I couldn't resist...*

We stop for lunch. We talk over vegetable soup and rice. One of the brothers from Indonesia tells me of his time in New York ("It was very cold"). One of the old Dutchmen tells me of his stay in Orlando ("I HATED it!"). I tell of my time in Amsterdam ("Oh, it was fantastic. Especially those Space Cakes...").



The rest of the day is spent walking up and down the valley, through rice fields where the farmers let us try our hand at planting stalks. We stop at a waterfall and let the mist cool us down. We walk through another village, only to find the villagers not at home. Our guide leads us to a set of picnic benches away from the village. Everyone talks to their companions about the sights they've seen. My eyes wander and catch a glimpse of a rooster scooting down the road. I follow it, trying to take a candid picture. The villagers look at me like I'm insane. I'm not. I'm just an American.

We pile into our minivan bound for Chaing Mai. Everyone passes out from the long hike. I put on my iPod, Coldplay filling my head. "Strawberry Swing" is on repeat. I close my eyes. What am I doing here on the Fourth of July? Shouldn't I be home with friends, pigging out on hot dogs? Shouldn't I be catching fireworks off the Redondo Beach Pier? Shouldn't I be out in the L.A. smoggy sunshine, feeling proud to be an American? Whatever. I've been there, done that. I hadn't fed bananas to an elephant. I hadn't ridden on bamboo. I hadn't planted rice in the mud.

I wonder if every Independence Day should be spent in a foreign land. For new experiences. For stretching yourself. For doing things you never thought you'd do. For being truly independent.