Boy excitedly uproots.

To Ye Whom Reads,

Windmill enthusiasts are a spread-the-love kind of bunch, thus extent you a heartfelt invitation-


- to blow on over to The Humble Life of the Windmill, a fledgling non-profit blog determined to sustain the dignity of Windmills* the world over.
* Wind Turbines are not constituents of the Windmill family. Ignore them.

Careful now, not to catch your head in the clouds on the way over.

Think of it as a Prelude.

Some of the more interesting things that befeall me in the past (and last) 24 steaming hours, here in Bangkok:

• One night worth of partying with a cast of 3 sisters - Lin, Phou, and Whan; aged 25, 36, and 40; each with uncanny physical resemblance to an archetypal witch - and Chai, safely my closest friend in Bangkok, who just so happens to lug people around in a spotless sky-blue tuk-tuk complete with small glittery disco ball that swings like a pendulum from the awning. It seemed the bar we attended served only whisky, whole shelves of Samsung lining the wall as if defending it. So whisky we drank, intermittently snacking on delectable skinned rooster claw. Not long til: Phou hit the deck, face down, though not before brandishing the ominous scars on her shoulder and wrist, pink and agleam, explaining between slurs that two dastardly Thai men jumped her only two weeks ago with a knife but without reason- "Thai men no good." The poor innocent little thing thence hit the floor with a thunk. As did my heart.
  

I am at the airport, my luggage is checked in. It is 3:23pm. The plane boards 4:10pm.

• I got a massage in a beautiful quaint old abode with tumbling curtains, lifelines on the walls, as the sun hung low but proud on one of Thailand's 20 annual Buddhism-invoked national holidays yesterday. Shut-eyed as the masseuse mounted me, light as a feather, fan whirring above. Meanwhile, another much older lady got conversing with me, a sort of Thai ambassador - have you been here? have you been there? you really ought to check this part of Thailand out. As the massage migrated shoulderwards, so too the ambassador migrated topic, to one dominating any half-inquisitive tourist's mind when in Thailand: the ol' ferang/Thai romance. Many many men come Thailand and romance Thai girl, she said. I know I know I know, I said. Thai girl show Thai him food, tradition, good heart, often guide him around south-east Asia too. And sometimes, she whispered, they even have sex - she very lucky girl, good girl, smart girl, get to see world. Thence she moved on to divulge Thai men's cheating ways; it's customary of Thai men to sleep with women other than their wife, invariably younger, for a fee. How women learn to accept it, expect it, move on forgive think of other things whilst still maintaining the marriage and its reputation. About here the massage ended, thorough and immense. I flopped over with open eyes to thank the masseuse; she was 4 foot tall, 24 years old, completely devoid of a left eye. Her smile glared resplendently. As I dawdled out the door the sun was no more, and all I could help think about was the perverse strangeness and ambiguity of this place: Thailand. The hamstrung fury in trying to make sense of it all.
  

3:37pm.

• Ventured to Burger King at the tail end of Khao San Road to order triple whopper with cheese minus mayo - first burger since last time I was at Burger King, tail end Khao San Road, four-odd months ago. The dribbling oil, the soggy bun, the furious explosion of that familiar western goodness. And across the table from me introduced a friendly and sane Israeli magician. He'd been invited to Bangkok to offer a presentation to a slew of magic-affiliated companies. Has developed a remote control chair, wooden, which somehow folds on up into itself like a Mongul contortionist, leaving us with a box easily concealable in one's hand. The Vanishing Chair. He invested a whopping $20,000 of his own into the project and hopes direly the presentation will prevail. I do too. Also learnt: David Copperfield is an Illusionist, not a Magician. This is did not know. Cool magician, this Israeli.
  

3:55pm.

• The taxi driver who brought me to the airport sniffed alot, and grunted, even groaned. Rocked back and forward and gripped the wheel with white-knuckle intensity. Nice enough guy, smiles and some English, but drove way too fast, everyone honking at us, left lane right and back again. We grinded against a Mercedes but didn't stop - no apology, not even acknowledgement. We got to the airport and he asked for a fee: 20 Baht. The meter read 200 Baht. Paid and fled the scene with loud echoing footsteps. No one should abuse drugs, especially not onthejob taxi drivers, especially not onthejob taxi drivers in big bad bustling Bangkok. But there and here you have it: Thailand, in all its depraved glory.
  

4:05pm.

So already 5 months have come and gone. 4 countries. Been fiendishly debating whether time's sped or floated by. He cannot decide. To be home oncemore will be a surreal phenomenon: to feel like a foreigner amid familiar things. Monumental epochs have littered the trip throughout- remarkable, dreamy, immense, poignant episodes- much unrecorded on the blog as I felt time abroad was too precious a commodity to spend in a sterile internet cafe, procrastinating and eventually typing, or because I didn't think the content appropriately public (a dear Thai friend of mine, for one, passed away not so long ago in a very unceremonious fashion. This, a hard thing to write casually about, a hard thing to digest in any form.).
Just know that every single corner I turned, every little glitch of the masterplan, every hair-raising surprise that befell me so freakishly often, the brilliant inspiring people I really actually got to know, from such far flung, improbable places- Angola! Estonia! Colombia!- it was my utmost privilege and pleasure to be there, here, basking in the otherworldly, agenda-free hospitality of locals who didn't have to accept us- nay, who could just as easily turned us and our brazen presence away with the dismissive flick of a wrist. But rest assured, people aren't like that in the east.
And now despite everything's reaching its end, 4:11pm, bag boarding aeroplane as I type, the Bangkok sky outside the window a dull and sullen grey and completely indifferent to my departure, kids who'd pass as angels scuttling around with a balloon shaped like a sausage dog behind me, beside me, with me-

One word keeps flashing through the tableau of my now-weary mind: Begin. Begin begin begin begin.

BEGUN.

All there is now are things to come.

Freeze the clock; look.

Four wooden legs & a mind of its own.

I'd be criminally remiss in not telling you about the frail wooden seat in the foyer of my current (gloriously ramshackle) guesthouse's foyer that is invested with the much-coveted power to turn all who sit on it into ranting lunatics.
Last night an American sat and expounded on the Whitehouse's suspect conduct and motives, a plethora of rote-learned facts evidencing her assertions. Launched into an argument stemming from talkback radio shows; a NASA employee rang in to declare weather manipulation a feasible coup these hypermodern days. To reveal that Hurricane Katrina was not on course to raze New Orleans two days prior. He thought something was seriously amiss about all this.
Then witness her recount her own finely-wrought theories, involving lasers shooting skywards to sculpt clouds thence usher them across continents. All five listeners excuse themselves to the bathroom and sneak out the side exit en route.
We were not laughing.
Again, earlier tonight, a 60-something Austrian with Wittgenstein's toupee spoke in hisses about his anarchist streaks, dope-dealing capital, and clandestine status as a for-hire vigilante, wherein he regularly infiltrates destitute Bangkok prisons to console the wrongly incarcerated- because that's what he does and was born to do.
The intensity in his eyes.
Both sat in that same wretched seat two nights running, you see. What if tomorrow I repose in that ominous little chair and beckon the specter to come speak through me? It's not often that I do this. You could say I'm looking for things to do.

Villa, Vientiane, velociraptors.

Villa's belly is a mount bore with pride. Halfway down the sun-dappled sidestreet, in army boots with undone laces, he leans against his pastel-blue tuk tuk with fireballs streaking its sides, like always. Tourists trickle by in flipflopping flipflops, uncertain eyes, and he nods to them, and they nod back, he grins to them, and they grin back, he yawns a sudden yawn and they're infected with the vibe of this place and they erupt into monumental, time-gobbling yawns too.

More come, looking for something to do, somewhere to go, anything to escape this abyss of stillness, and Villa could capitalise here, could drive them the long way to sights that'll commission him and, still then, overcharge the clients sans their knowledge. But he doesn't even pretend to exert effort in luring them aboard. Not to the airport, not to the disco, not even the 7 stop, all day, Vientiane and Onto Some Outta Town Place Life Affirming Tour. Moreso, unlike his shady counterpart at the end of the street, whose primetime operating hours are all else's forgotten ones, are the darkest and dingiest period of the night, Villa won't peddle marijuana, or speed, nor opium, and especially not square-jawed girls with voices like sandpaper and the odd contagious disease.

Somehow I have gotten talking to Villa- astounding English, this Villa- about Vientiane and Laos at large. He has many erudite things to say. He invites me aboard his tuk tuk and we lie head to toe on either side of the annex, two bellies bursting roofwards in beautiful harmonic synchrony, discussing priorities, the remarkably prejudice-free laymen opinion of Laos service girls, Hamas' victory, all this safeguarded against the midday sun that scorches every last morsel of grunt from those brave, or naive enough to bear it, like those sweat-doused Argentinians labouring past just now, Lao People's Republic singlets, and flip flops flipflopping.

I don't have much to say at this juncture, speaking seems too taxing an activity, but I do manage to force out word that at breakfast this morning I overheard a Frenchman speak of his encounter with a troupe of Australians touring Laos via unicycle. Crazy, those Australians. All Australians. Something surely in the water down under.

He tells me he is purchasing a tuk tuk tomorrow, second-hand, for $1800 US, which should be fun, but only mildly fun. Certainly not worth bouncing around in excitement over. And no, he says before I can think to ask, you cannot have a drive of my new tuk tuk tomorrow. It is the unwritten law, okay?, The Tuk Tuker's Manifesto. Nothing personal.

I tell him:

I had lunch with a fifty-something year old German yesterday, our biking advisor pre-departure, grey shoulder length hair, nose like a witch's, and recounted our recent biking odyssey to receptive ears and insightful inquiries. He returned fire with recounts of his own recent biking odyssey with an Italian freelance journalist investigating a controversial damn project in the farflung east. Though punctuating each anecdote, I say, the German would glance around at the bevy of local beauties dining beside us and wink, then nudge me on the shoulder saying Whaddya think?, and These girls are porcelain dolls, and: I've been in Laos six years now, and the only thing I spend more time on than motorbikes, is chasing girls. I asked Villa how it were possible one of these people, a sex tourist, could be so charming and intelligent and good in the company of males, and morph into such a pheromonal trainwreck the moment female presence precipitates. He can't really answer that one. It's a difficult question to answer.

"Sorry. Waiting for a mechanic. I think the heat's gotten to the engine." Villa directs a few people to the next tuk tuk in plain view down the street. The next tuk tuk's driver is recuperating in a hammock strung from one end of the back frame to the other.

And we sit up. And we're silent. And we lie down. And he tells me I remind him of a young Isaac Newton- no really! And I inform him that it's the second time I've heard that this week- really! And that I like it, least a lot more than being told by the guest house staff, whom are a delightful melange of age and gender and card-playing credentials, that I look beautiful. Just like a woman. And am I, in fact, a woman? We're floating in the tuk tuk, it feels, floating in a languid waist-deep river. I'll be in town for a week still, I spout. Just some downtime to digest the past four-odd months. His bulge is oscillating up and down artfully. What a proud stomach. What a life. He is asleep.

Here I gaze through the laze filming my eyes down to the end of the street, toward the swaying palm trees, wondering what I'll do with the rest of this day, so excitingly young and pregnant with possibility. My gaze drifts eons onward toward a water-starved Mekong and it hits me with a whipneck jolt- I'll buy a bottle of water. Drink it. Guzzle. Spill on the ground, my pants. Hell I'm water-starved at the moment; water's exactly what I need. Right there is what I'll do with the rest of my day, you see.