Exotic living is exotic–birds, fruit, plants, insects, all of it. Ants have been part of daily life since embarking on this adventure. (I’m so petty I won’t even bother with a blood-sucker nod here.) In Ubud (Bali) ants ruled the bathroom: they’d come out to play at night and be all over everything in the morning. Some little flying shits were attracted to the bedroom light in Bedugul (also Bali), so my sarong (Thanks, Bridget!) was shoved into the crack in the middle of the door. This was the first of the “bug barricades”. The second followed a morning in Kep when upon waking we met a “bazillionapede” with a coat of armor that might have protected it from a squish by scooter were one to try (this has since been a subject of much debate). Neither of these bug barricaded rooms hosted mosquito nets. Our room on Phu Quoc not only had this extra layer of protection, but also luxurious air conditioning! Despite this, I really wanted the windows open when the temperature went down the first night. I learned my lesson quickly when that turned out to be an invitation for everybody to hang out in our room. This also marks the creation of the “bug catchin’ cups”, because no one wants to murder unnecessarily. (Except mosquitoes, who can get it any time. I’m counting bodies.) So, the windows were closed, aircon turned on, and our third bug barricade erected.

Rainy season is fast approaching in Vietnam. This was evidenced in powerful storms that would literally ebb and flow throughout nighttimes. One storm began during dinner. There were frog-filled lotus ponds in the yard that had overflowed, and our normally shy amphibian neighbors were now inhabiting the walkway home. Of course I stopped to say hello to every one of them, happily ignorant of their having received the secret invite to our room that evening. Perhaps I was handing it out, come to think of it.

Bug barricade up and mosquito net down, we readied for bed while the rain pounded and pulsed against our home. I heard a scratching at the barricade and delightedly announced to Dave that it was effective! So of course he peeked to see who was trying to get in. A wee frog, attracted to the cool tile in our air conditioned room, was surely seeking respite from the muggy wet outside. The barricade withstood its advances, maybe at first. Maybe this was already the second frog. Because as soon as our lights were off we heard the hopping around. Not just hopping, either–lightly jumping headfirst into stuff by diminutive bodies! These bitty thumps encouraged a discussion about what to do. They couldn’t really bother us, though they might leap into the mosquito net a few times. What if they got into our luggage and peed or something? Frogs always pee, I remember fondly from my country upbringing. In the end, naked and giggling, we chased down–holy hell could they leap!–and caught two little frogs in our bug catchin cups. We then rummaged through everything they’d had access to, satisfying ourselves that we wouldn’t be transporting live animals through Vietnam.

Then came the question of how to relocate these two tiny party crashers. As they sat under their traps, still against the cool tile they’d so bravely reached, it occurred to us that more may be waiting beyond the bug-cum-frog-barricade. The rain had waxedand waned in this time, but hadn’t ever fully abated. When we finally broke down the wall and opened the door, me tittering in anticipation, there were no frogs impatiently awaiting entry. I wouldn’t call it disappointment but I’d absolutely had a more impressive sight in mind. And so, without ceremony, our slightly unwelcome houseguests were gently returned to their home, and the bug barricade re-erected.

Hammocks are ubiquitous on Phu Quoc. The definition of ubiquitous. A corner store that offers a three-item menu could have up to ten hammocks ready for clientele and employee use. Our homestay had five rooms and six hammocks. The gas station attendants have hammocks, never mind the beach.

It stands to reason that hammock at a gravesite in a place full of hammocks may not mean much, culturally. (Also, it could have been taboo for me to take this photo–I don’t know.) To me though, upon seeing it, I felt all the goodness of grief, a beloved emotion among the many I so often feel. I will often tout the benefits of grief (akin to the feels in my last post, I see grief as a necessary aspect of a happy existence) and I do love dead things. I think everything dead still tells a story, if you let it, and often better than the living.

I love the idea of comfortably lounging with a loved one departed. Who wants to stand in the elements six feet above a coffin and talk to their lost beloved? I can’t believe any of our deceased would like us to uncomfortably lean from foot to foot for an entirely too brief conversation. They never wanted that in life, anyway. Why not stay a while?

I also love the idea of grieving while physically comfortable. So often when loved ones die we find ourselves crying publicly, awkwardly, on hard surfaces or while standing; definitely with too many eyes around and not enough genuine empathy. Hammocks offer comfort, almost as though being held, and even a bit of privacy if you let yourself sink in.

I can’t stop thinking about this place, and the love I imagine resting calmly there.

There are a lot of sayings about how in order to have the highs you need the lows, the yin and yang of life, complements. One of my personal favorites I think is Gibran, “Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?”

The thing about a trip like this is just that: some days are rough. Foreign places: money and transit systems, foods, people… it will all wear you out. Dealing with social expectations, being othered by smiles and stares and shade alike, the treatment of my–or any–female body, ordering food, random touching, garbage and waste on the streets, animals in pain… the list goes on.

The kind of day when you’re totally alone and misunderstood and pretty much done leaving the house? My friend Charity once called it a “Taiwan day”. We had something to attach it to, being expats, but I have those days in the States a lot, too. Taiwan days can happen anywhere, for lots of reasons. Carving space for your own adventure in an unfamiliar setting is, in a word, strenuous.

That is why we call this an adventure. It’s not a vacation. Vacations are for relaxing, as they should be! There have been beautiful days–weeks even!–of peace on this trip, but there have been a fair amount of Taiwan days, too. Once in a while, on the very worst of these days, I’ll find myself sulking quietly, thinking faith in people is something I’ll have more of tomorrow, maybe. It is from one such place that I write now, avoiding the news cuz gods know that wouldn’t help, beer in hand, aircon and TV on, pants off, pout on full.

As much as I’ll appreciate licking my wounds tonight, even as they are fresh I am certain that the highs match the lows. I am certain that I can handle, and enjoy, the whole adventure. And I am desirous of nothing less.