I almost got torpedoed on the way to work today. True story – sort of.

To be completely accurate, a pile of torpedoes almost sideswiped my friends and I as our car vied for on-ramp space with a flatbed truck carrying said weapons and an army jeep. Strapped to the truck with a few cables, they sailed past my window just close enough to make me a pacifist.

As the truck passed us, we stared at the little propellers shrinking in the distance and wondered about whether or not the driver ever saw us and about local weaponry transportation regulations. I imagined what would happen if one of those cables snapped and all those heavy cylinders tumbled onto our black Corolla. Think of the call home from the hospital:

Mom? Hey, it’s Shiloh. I’m in the hospital, but I’m fine. Just a skull fracture. We had a minor collision on the highway. Fortunately, the torpedoes weren’t armed, so no one died in an engulfing tidal wave of fire and shrapnel. It’s all good.

However, to be honest, nearly dying  – or at least being party to the ruination of a perfectly good paint job – in an entirely unique way made me feel cool. I think that if you have to die or pay for property damage, why not go all out? Why not involve yourself in a highway torpedo collision in Asia? It sounds like a swell idea, and if the event results in an obituary, at least it’ll be a real page-turner.

I moved here for many reasons, one of which involved stories. I love to write them and photograph them, but I want to live them, as well. A tale has to be lived before it can ever be written, and I don’t want to miss out on my own just because I get wrapped up in those of other people.  Asia’s a good place to find the kind of stories I want to write and live, and I’m sure all the other travelers out there can identify. Since I moved here, I’ve consumed a fried cricket, watched elephants amble down the street and celebrated Christmas Eve harnessed to a zip line that flew me through the jungle. As of today, I’ve also survived my first, almost assault with deadly weapons.

One of my ultimate goals is to be the kind of grandmother who tells stories over dinner that are so enchanting, her grandchildren refuse to leave the table hours after they’ve finished their pot roast. I’m a lousy cook, so this plan had better work. If the kids can’t stomach the beef, maybe the torpedoes, crickets and elephants will make up for it. I might be underestimating the atrocity of my culinary skill, but I think the stories will be enough for them. Therefore, I must thank the whole of Asia and the wonderfully interesting culture it has born. It has done my hypothetical descendants a service. It has done me a service, as well.

by Shiloh Lane
I grew up in a very small town in Kentucky; I went to college in another very small town in Kentucky; and when I went to “the big city” to go shopping, I really just went to a slightly larger small town in Kentucky. It suffices to say that I didn’t meet a lot of strangers growing up, and when I did, chances were high that I would see them again eventually – probably at a high school ballgame.

That’s partly why I find traveling so interesting – strangers flit in and out of my life as easily as fireflies danced in and out of my grasp when I was a kid. People become a blip on my radar, and then they’re gone forever, which  sometimes makes the relationship between the general populace and myself unpredictable.

I’ve discovered that people do crazy things when they don’t plan to see you again. More often, though, I’ve discovered that I do crazy things when I don’t plan to see you again – like forego social grace in pursuit of a photograph. My mother will be mortified to read this, but I find that dignity can get in the way of some really great shots. A few days ago, I was shooting at a crowded Buddhist wat, or temple, and I stumbled across a shot of discarded shoes lying on a mat as a line of worshippers knelt barefoot in the background. In a few seconds, my chin and my camera were on the pavement while my butt stuck straight up in the air. I should have probably been more lady-like, but I got the shot and I made people laugh.

I also love the stories my brief encounters create, the weird little tales I use to make my roommate smile. That same, sweltering day, I was taking a break from shooting while chugging water. My skin was slick with perspiration and my hair looked like Richard Simmons’ curly mop does after 30 minutes of Sweatin’ to the Oldies. Yet, for some reason, one man thought I was a great photo opp. He told his wife to sit next to me and smile, which she reluctantly did. She must have really loved him because I stunk badly. Although it was strange, I like to think that 20 years from now, their family album will hold pictures of his wife with opulent statues of Buddha, his wife in front of gorgeous temples and his wife next to The Random Sweaty Girl. I feel privileged to be that sweaty girl.

It’s really memorable, though, when someone you don’t know does something that makes them feel like family. When I left America, I sat next to two elderly women on one of the three planes it took to get to Southeast Asia. I didn’t know their nationality; I just knew that they were from Asia and that I didn’t speak a lick of their language. Yet, they still grew very concerned over my eating habits. When I didn’t feel like consuming the food, they insisted I do so, and a few hours later, they kindly offered me vegetables in a sandwich bag.  When I tried to sleep, they made sure I had a blanket. They reminded me of my own grandmother, only with healthier snacks. I miss them a bit.

I feel like traveling creates it’s own culture, one in which people often care less about what they do because they will never see you again and one in which generous actions mean so much more for precisely that reason. I’m not trying to philosophize or say anything particularly meaningful, I just found myself mulling over the moments we create with each other and contemplating whether or not any of those people will write about me in their blogs. I also wonder if my airplane grandmothers are flying right now, adopting more kids fresh from college who could use a few good vegetables doled out from sandwich bags. I hope they are, anyway.

A Whiff of Progress and Pad Thai

Considering the fact that you have no idea who I am, I’m not exactly sure how I should begin this post. I guess, to be completely cliché and obvious, I’ll start with: Hi, my name is Shiloh.

I’m a writer and photographer who’s lucky enough to be working in and traveling through the world of rice and geckos known as Southeast Asia. Matt asked me to contribute to his blog.

I love it here.  The landscape is exotic and gorgeous, the people are generally kind and I can get an hour-long massage for $8. I never thought I’d say it, but I’d pay an Asian woman to dig her knuckles into my calves any day.

However, four months ago when I first landed, I wasn’t a fan. Believe it or not, Asia is different than America. No, really. I think there might be 30 public trashcans in my city, which kills me because, as a twenty-something programmed by liberal media to think the fate of the world depends on the ultimate destination of my plastic water bottles, I don’t litter. I also had to get used to paying for toilet paper in public restrooms and prying the Chaco’s off my feet every time I walked into a house.

What really got me, though, were the smells. I never thought they would bother me so much, but you learn a lot about yourself when you uproot your life and move to the opposite side of the planet. I learned that I’m a picky smeller.

Asia has a smell, just like a person’s house has a specific odor. It’s a mixture of spicy food and pungent incense with a slight tinge of musk. It’s not bad – just strong – and it made my roommate throw up on her first day.

There’s also an absence of smells such as the warm, comforting fragrance of cinnamon candles like the ones my mother burns around Christmas and the scent of vanilla body wash. Apparently, Asian people prefer flowery bath soaps. Therefore, my apartment smelled weird, I smelled weird and the country smelled weird.

Strangely enough, though, my hypersensitivity to odors has become a testament of my acclimation to this place. Flower-scented soap isn’t such a big deal anymore, and I haven’t smelled the continent since the first month. It’s like I’m practically Asian, except for my curly hair, pale skin and propensity to prop my feet on furniture.

But seriously, my dulled nose is a sign of progress. It means I’m more comfortable in this country and with this new, world-traveling version of myself. I’m an overseas writer who has just learned one of her first lessons in a foreign land: that a place is home when you can’t smell it anymore.

-Shiloh Lane