Sunni Dawson

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Zero.

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Starting from zero. 


I had a conversation recently with a mid thirties man who had moved countries and was thinking of moving countries again. He expressed to me his sadness and concern about having to ‘start from zero’ again when he does this.


Zero meaning finding and fitting into new communities, finding employment, a home and then working towards owning something at a much later stage than he would like.

It’s an interesting concept zero. It implies nothingness. Having nothing from which to attempt to start something.

I’ve started from zero a few times this past year. Well, to be correct, it’s been more than a few times. I’ve moved cities, homes, jobs, countries, types of work, diets and friend circles. 

I could not have predicted all the changes that I would experience in 2014. Some were intensely challenging, some intensely draining, some intensely fun, some intensely motivating, inspiring and some intensely connecting.

I have learnt more about myself, my friends and family. I have learnt more about about my abilities to adapt to continual change (even continual dramatic change). I’ve had so much fun progressing my work skills in new and interesting ways. I’ve expanded ideas.

I’ve gambled and taken risks. A lot of them.

One of the biggest was packing up a life in a fabulous new city to live in a remote island in the Gulf of Thailand to write. I have no idea of the outcomes of this adventure. I haven’t had anything published before. I haven’t taken any writing courses. 

Yet a huge cheeky smile creeps onto my face when I think of what I’m doing here. I’m expanding my skills, having super amounts of fun and challenging myself in so many other ways.


When I really think about it, I am not, and have never started from zero at all. I have me and all my life experiences, education and laughter. 

Life experiences = at least 10 points. 
Education = at least 5 points. 
Laughter, well at least 2. 

And let us not forget the points for friends and family even if they are far away.

I am lucky. I have an education that many others around the world don’t have. I am fortunate to have been born in a lucky country. A very lucky country with mostly free health care, accessible education, fresh air, good housing options, generous amounts of food and nutrition. I have had some great work opportunities that have increased my confidence and skills. 

I understand that many around the world don’t have these same opportunities and may in fact feel like they are starting at minus 5 or minus 10 or 30. 

But most people have themselves and could give themselves a few points or more for a couple of things (whether it be family, friends, great cooking skills, business sense, capacity to learn or laugh). I understand why people may not give themselves any points.

I may have given myself minus zero points earlier on in my life. That is another story.


Why I love zero


But let me tell you why I love zero.



Starting from zero helps a person question their own expectations, societal and family expectations, privilege and allows so much potential for other life options and ideas to arise. For example, who told me that I should be doing a certain thing at a particular time in my life? Is it useful for me to follow the elusive, ever changing views of a particular person, group or society? 

And others, such as what skills do I currently have that I could use to go and do what I want to do? What old ideas, concepts or things can I now put behind me, so I can move forward more easily?


Zero is freeing. Completely freeing.

And zero is a circle. A big open circle that can be expanded, stretched and filled. 


I want to fill in my zeros this year with many more learnings, love, joy, friendship, tasty delights, planet shifting ideas and loads and loads of belly induced laughter.



Because there is nothing to fear in zero. Zero is just a place to start anew (but with the knowledge and learning you already have). 


What do you want to fill your zeros with this coming year?

Travelling KL style…

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I spent the last week in Kuala Lumpur, or KL as its affectionately known to locals. I have to leave Thailand every 60 days for visa requirements. The inevitable conclusion to scoring a 1500 Baht airline ticket (about $30 USD) was being KL bound. The next few blogs will be about some of my experiences there.


Travelling in a new city always fills me with nervous excitement, so much fun to explore! My favourite way to explore a city is by foot. Second, train.


I like the trains in KL. They are airconditioned and clean. If you travel during the day you can usually get a seat. It is also easy to get where you want to go. This is apart from trying to work out which train company you need to use, gazing in bewilderment at the four company options and asking very friendly random strangers who in turn asked other incidental strangers, all working towards helping me answer my question.


The footpaths on the other hand are an entirely different

matter. Unless a person plays close attention to their steps it is very likely that one will trip over advantageous concrete, planks of wood, quick drops or tyres. Added to this is negotiating with motorbikes. Motorbikes freely use what footpaths exist, forcing passers by to jump a little too quickly out of the way.



Eavesdropping


It intrigued me that a couple of trains had two

carriages dedicated for woman only. Here are some of the signs for this. It makes me super happy that lesbianism is condoned in the carriages too.


Women from all backgrounds enforce this women only rule. One Chinese-Malaysian said to an Indian-Malaysian man slouched with his feet over the seat. 

‘This carriage is for women only.’

He ignored her. 

About 6 minutes later, he abruptly got up and moved to the front carriages. She went to his seat, slapped it several times, making humphing sounds before sitting down.

A little while later a Malay-Muslim women in a headscarf saw a man on a seat opposite her listening to music. She sat in the seat next to him, leaning over in a quiet voice,

‘Excuse me Sir, this carriage is for women only.’ Silence.

In the same gentle tone, ‘Excuse me Sir, this carriage is for women only.’

Gruffly he moved to a seat in front, then moved out of the carriage altogether.



Being included


A group of Indian-Malaysians sat around me in a carriage. Playful laughter, jeering, mobile checking ensued.

A little while later, a bespectacled girl made eye contact with me.

‘Hello. Where are you from?’

The dark haired princess to my right groaned. ‘I am sooo sorry.’

‘No, no, that’s totally ok. Hi. I’m from Australia. Are you from Kuala Lumpur?’

Nodding, ‘Yes’.

‘What’s your name?’ More groans from the princess beside me.

‘Sunny. Like a sunny day.’

‘Oohhh. That’s nice.’

‘What’s your name.’

She slumped, eyes shifting out the window, ‘Mathuram’

Tilting my head slightly more and smiling, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I hoped you wouldn’t ask me my name!’

The other girls laughed.

‘Oh, why?’

‘I don’t like my name. I like Evelyn. Evelyn is a nice name.’

Smiling, ‘You could change your name.’

Princess to my right, ‘Yer, when she’s 18 and legally allowed to live on her own!’ More giggles.

‘What TV shows do you like?’

‘Well I don’t watch much TV. Ummm, but I recently bought  ‘Orange is the new black’.’

‘I haven’t heard of that show.’

‘I also bought Breaking Bad.’

‘Oh Breaking Bad. Have you seen it?’ 

‘No, not yet, but I’ve heard its good.’

‘Yes, it is. You should also watch ‘Americas Next Top Model.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘Umm, I don’t know’, pausing, ‘it is very interesting.’

The girls held out their hands to touch me goodbye, smiling, twittering as they exited the train.


My most treasured train sign


By far, my favourite sign in the monorail was the ‘no indecent behaviour’ signs:


Absolutely no kissing allowed. 


At least not between women and men.

Me, You, Creative ???

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A few people have wished me well with creativity on this venture of writing a book.

I always have always seen artists as different from me. A unique group of beings that are on par with the great avatars of history, able to create works that transport people to places yet unseen and lives yet unlived.

This elite group of beings have been gifted these magical powers to create pieces of work that are mesmerising, reflecting themselves and the world around them. Expressing life in unique forms.



I always thought creativity belonged to these celestial beings and I had no right to be apart of it. 





I have long been an avid supporter of art. All forms of art. Going to new cities and places, the first things I look for are the best street art haunts, walks to understand the architecture, galleries and museums. My admiration and thirst has never been satiated.

I never considered myself one of them. 



Even when I took up a strong interest in photography, and spending time, maybe a little too much time, annoying my friends and family with more and more requests for pictures. Usually of the same thing or person from different angles. As you can imagine, it can get pretty tedious for the subjects, ‘surely one shot is enough?’ and ‘that’s enough now Sunni’ was a regular refrain.





Me playing with dots!

Even when I designed strategic plans with tapestries of colours and designs for ease of comprehension and reference, plastered my office walls with colourful posters, mind maps and quotes, I did not see this as being creative. Or my home, with collections of art from around the world, I still considered myself an appreciator, not a creator.


Not an artist.

Even with the great care and reckless abandon I approached to cooking feasts for my friends and family. I rarely use a recipe and I like to be inspired by cuisines from around the globe, adding a diverse range of flavours to devise unique creations of love and happiness.

I still didn’t consider myself a ‘Creative’.

And this journey here, I considered myself to be writing a book. Not being creative. I’m just writing a book. I am not an artist. I am not one of those amazing beings.

But then a thought emerged this week: I am creating. I am. I am.

I have joined them. I have joined the realm of the artists! (squeals).


At last I’m one of them!



Then a new thought came: everyone can be in the realm of the artists. Everyone is everyday. Everyday people are creating something: a perfect cup of coffee, a memo to their boss, a home, a smile to a stranger, a great conversation, an argument, a more or less powerful body.

We are all creating all the time. Some creations are deemed more or less valuable, depending on the person’s point of view. 


Some people may deem that they are not creative. And not recognise they are creating anything. But everyday we are creating something: our lives. This may be a cliched statement, but every action we take we are creating something which becomes what we live.



I like the idea that we are creating things all the time. I also like the thought that they are artistic creations. That means I can be an artist everyday, in most actions I take. I can ask myself what wonderful artistic conversations shall I have today? What artful food shall enter my body? What artful writing shall I make? 


Maybe to be human is to be an artist. 


Or dancer. 🙂

From Russia with love….

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Alternative title: A drunk Russian, his wife and a broken Brazilian thong.


This afternoon’s writing was like trying to type on my laptop at the bottom of the Gulf of Thailand sea without being electrocuted. 


    It all started about lunchtime. I  noticed a mid 20s couple. He chewed some food and drank a large Chang. Somewhat abruptly, the wafer thin, long haired brunette with pretty and precise features got up wiping tears from her eyes and ran down the stairs. The blonde chunky male quietly drank his beer, looking over his shoulder occasionally.


 About 40 minutes passed. He got up, paid his bill and drove away. 

 Another 40 minutes passed. He was alone. He spoke to the restaurant owner. He drank another large Chang.

I spoke to the Restaurant owner. She said they were from Russia and he was very worried his wife is gone, as ‘she little bit brain problem’. She asked me to talk to him.

‘Hi, I hear you can’t find your wife. Does she have any money? Maybe she went back to your hotel?’

‘No, no, she does not have any money. I have money.’

‘Oh.’

‘I am really worried. My wife is, how do you say it, a little bit autistic?’

Nodding. ‘Ok, does she get a little too stimulated when there is too much happening around her?’

‘Yes, yes. It is a problem.’

‘Ok, do you want me to try looking for her then?’

‘Yes, please, I have looked, but I cannot find my wife. I will pay you any money you like if you find her.’

He pushed his chair back suddenly and went to tower over a tiny waiter, ‘You local? I pay you 30,000 Baht if you bring back my wife.’

I simultaneously attempted to calm him and save the big eyed waiter, ‘Its, okay. We will help you look for her. Don’t worry about the money.’

‘No, I pay you. Where are you from?’

‘Australia.’

‘You have dollars there. I pay you $1000 dollars if you find my wife.’

I smiled, ‘It’s okay. I will go now and look for your wife.’

I spent the next hour wandering up and down the beach asking locals and farangs whether they had seen a stunning Russian brunette. The mid afternoon heat baked my being. I put up my umbrella in an attempt to shelter my pasty whiteness from the sun’s blaze. Unfortunately it did not prevent my skin from getting blotchy and swollen. I looked in quiet places, I looked under trees and at the back of houses. Nothing.

As I was climbing back up the hill, I slipped. I looked down in horror. One of my thongs that I bought in Rio De Janeiro broke! My Havanas!


My beautiful Havanas!





The day could not get any worse for me. 






I hobbled back to the restaurant. As I reached it, I saw my new friend hunched over a glass of rocket fuel, slurring to himself, a little dribble emanating from his mouth.

Unlike Mr Connery, it didn’t appear that he could handle his alcohol, or at least not 2 litres of beer and three quarters of a bottle of Thai diesel fuel, straight. 

I pulled over a chair to his right side. 

‘I have just tried to look for your wife. I haven’t yet been able to find her.’

‘Where is my wife? Where is my wife?’ He emphatically slurred, letting his hands fall down his body and hunching over further.

‘We are trying to find her. Has she run away like this before?’

Smiling, slurring, ‘Where is my wife, where is my wife?’

‘We are trying to find her. If we could talk about your wife a bit more maybe it will be easier to find her.’

‘Where is my wife? Where is my wife?’

I went to talk to the Restaurant owner. She suggested I give him some water.

I brought a big bottle of water to the table. 

‘I think some water might help.’

‘NO! Where is my wife, where is my wife? I pay you. I pay you.’

‘I think it might help if you drink some water.’

‘No!’, he thundered his arms over the table, smashing the glasses to the ground. Broken glass spread around him like little bits of his dream wife. He  started speaking Russian or gibberish, I couldn’t discern which. He guarded his broken glass like he was guarding his home. ‘It’s mine.’


I slowly calmed him down, speaking in a low, quiet voice. He started drinking water. I told him I would look for his wife again if he gave me his motorbike key. He refused. I kept trying and he kept repeating his mantra, ‘Where is my wife, where is my wife?’.


After some time he suggested we walk together to look for her again. I agreed. I asked everyone along the road we met. Only one had seen her about 4 hours earlier, ‘Me think she Asian because she tiny, but then me see, she Farang.’

We seemed to be getting somewhere, when he blurted ‘We go back to restaurant now’. I realised it was no use questioning his under water decision making processes, so we meandered our way back. I found the name of his accommodation (a 30 minute drive away across the island) and got the restaurant owner to call it. They had not seen his wife. 

He decided to get on his bike. I told him it was too dangerous. He needed to be alive for his wife. He replied, ‘My wife is everything to me.’ 

‘That is why you need to be alive.’ 

He drove like a drunk snake with legs, winding his way in the middle of the road, using his feet to push himself along.

I stood there in disbelief as I watched him disappear over the hill. 

A short while later the restaurant owner informed me ‘I call from hotel. The wife, she came. She ok. Me told them to wait with her in her room because he tell me she want to make kaput.’

She paused, shaking her head, 

‘He not a little bit crazy. He big crazy!’



To bike or not to bike?

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Living on a remote beach in a tropical, sweat inducing climate, the only way to get around the island is by motorbike. Or pay expensive ‘taxi’ rides in songthaews, which are beat up old Utes that you have to grip onto very, very tightly. To loosen ones grip would be to play with your life. It seems like drivers here find it immensely pleasurable to drive very fast up and around narrow curvy, hilly roads. Its like riding a cheetah going for its prey, inflicting terror in its passengers with each fast paced pounce, becoming more and more likely you are going to slide off and land harder than a coconut hitting the ground, most likely cracked.

Pushbikes are out of the question, unless you are either:

  1. Sadistic;
  2. Would like to die a horrible death by sweat, blood, a combination of truck and motorbike tires, and potentially a cliff;
  3. Sam Hill who cannot only traverse the roughest peaks,  but with has the talents of Evel Knieval, having abilities to jump, slide and remain balanced on sandy, wet, hilly, curvy roads between motorbikes, songthaews or the occasional truck.

Locals and tourists alike ride motorbikes. Its the cheapest way to get around the island. ‘Refueling stations’ are like these, just pull up, open her up, leave the money in the coconut, and away you go! 🙂


But, motorbikes are death traps. What they don’t tell you in the tourist brochures for the island or any one of the islands around Thailand, is that many tourists die each year from motorbike accidents. One local Farang restaurant owner told me of three deaths in just the last two years alone. And of course they were all Farangs (tourists).

But even more regularly, its the non-fatal accidents that cause a lot of destruction. Every single week here I see at least one Farang with a head, foot, leg or arm injury. All from the bike. It usually inhibits them from doing anything, especially swimming in the warm salty waters that lap the delectable beaches, or preventing them from continuing their holiday journey.

The reasons are numerous: 
This a ‘better road’ but it is as slippery as a nipple
and as holey as a sponge!
  1. The roads are perilous. Full of pot holes, sand (think slippery ice), dogs and any number of other bikes or songthaews trying to compete for some space.
  2. You drive on the left side of the road. This is an issue for the generous amount of Europeans, Russians, Israelis and the occasional American.
  3. The guileless young Thai men who speed along like its their last chance to reach enlightenment.
  4. The cocky male tourists who believe they are newly anointed Kings of the island.
  5. The drunk or drugged drivers (aka collision masters).


On the flip side, there are safe drivers around. Every Thai woman I have seen drives slowly and sturdily. But this does not counteract the rabidness of these roads.

Tree poses are suppose to be straight!             



 I have contemplated driving like a Thai woman. I do have to mention here, however, that I am particularly   uncoordinated. My sense of balance has always been called into question (think chubby blonde 8 year old repeatedly falling from a bar one foot off the ground in gym class). I reassured myself in my yoga classes in Brisbane, that my complete lack of balance, primarily evidenced by my failing at even the most basic tree pose, was to allow my fellow class mates to think ‘at least I’m not that bad.’






What I currently do is walk to most places. I walk the 20 minutes or so to my favourite cafe (this isn’t a stroll mind you, its a blazing 3 hill walk there/ 4 hill calf pumping return). Or if I’m in the mood, a 40 minute scorching hike to the next town. It means my reach to other places on the island is limited. It also constrains my nightly activities (as taxis don’t exist at night and walking past unleashed dogs viciously defending their territory in the dark, is more than a little terrifying!).

It would be nice to expand my reach. What I am currently doing keeps me focused on what I’m here for: writing. It keeps me in close quarters, concentrating my craft and life here. On the other hand, expanding my reach could stimulate new ideas and creative outcomes. Or hospital visits.





To bike or not to bike, that is my question…


The Farang Divide, Part 1. Frog poison, yoga and all night partying!

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Farang is the Thai word for foreigner. You are always a Farang in Thailand. Always. Even if you’ve lived here for 20 years, have children here, establish a dog shelter, or have had the incredible honour of meeting the King, you are still a Farang.

Farangs generally come to the pretty coconut laden island of Koh Phangan in 2 distinct groups: to party or to do yoga. Even if you come to start up a business or to live out your years here, you still fall into one of these 2 groups. Either way you are trying to find yourself or move away from yourself.

The ‘Spirituals’


Farangs in the ‘yoga/spiritual’ scene in Koh Phangan are quite simply fabulous. There is a glorious spectrum of spiritual/ alternative/ healing sessions, workshops and courses a seeker can enrol in here.  They start with your average bodywork/massage, to esoteric messages from your spirits, workshops on open love and tantra, aura readings, aqua therapy, meditation, fire ceremonies and my new personal favourite: Shamanic Frog Poison Medicine.


I almost want to go to an individual healing session to find out what Frog Poison Medicine could do for me. Almost.










Besides writing, Farang watching is one of my favourite pass times. You have Farangs here who emanate continually smiley goodness like they are in the permanent state of holy communion with the palm fronds of eternity. 

Others mope around like grumpy wombats, overtly put out by the heat, sweat, mold, dirt, mosquitoes, stench and lack of perfect English skills of Thai people. 

Many are here ‘processing’ their navels, lives, ex-partners, mother issues with earnest faces and sad hearts, looking for any opportunity to latch on to someone or something that may take the pain away. 

The Party Beasts


‘Buckets’ (from Google images)

Some just dull the pain in a constant state of alcohol, drugs and pot, one hit leading into a buzz of another, the body and brain begging for more. They live their lives like the whirring of a blender, days whizzing continually into one long painful eternity.


Full moon party (from Googe images)
The more buckets the merrier! (from Google images)

Farangs who are here to party primarily gather in the hotbed of incestuousness: Haad Rin. Haad Rin beach in its prime, in its high season supremeness, contains every sort of sodomy and excess possible. Jumping fire ropes, slippery slides of jelly, buckets of peerless poison: Thai rum (one sniff is likely to bleed a person’s nose dry) with sugar highs of coke & red bull and any number of blends of secret herbs and spices enabling eyes to swim in the back of cortices. This enables a whole range of liberated responses to follow: the abilities to perform great feats; the dancing abilities of Michael Jackson; becoming the greatest of sex gods (I’m the motion of the ocean, baby!); the regalness of John George IV of Saxony, allowing him to piss wherever he wants (including in front of you, beside you and around you).

Just some of the crowd (from Google images)

  I stay well clear of this hub of   hedonistic play.

A typical morning in Haad Rin! (from google images)












The Farangs I encounter in my bungalow hood, on my stunning sun-sets- over water beach, tend to be more chilled, more enjoying the moment, could go out and party, but could equally enjoy a quiet night reading in a hammock sipping a Singha or two.

Its a nice space to hang out. I also take advantage of the yoga hood restaurants where veggie delights of all descriptions satisfy my incredibly high requirements of sensationally tasty food. But I have no desire to do a course, workshop or session. Nothing is enriching and challenging me more than this current task I’ve set myself. 

A beautiful Brazilian restaurant owner imparted this yoga/party group divide to me. She said:

‘I am not in one of these groups. But I love my life here. It is a relaxed, peaceful and beautiful life.’

Me: ‘I don’t fall into one of these groups either. I am here for a different reason, to write.’

‘Ahhh, that means you are happy with yourself.’

Beaming, ‘Yes, yes I am.’

I walked out of the shop content with this knowledge. Knowledge that it was true. It’s a nice space to be in. There are improvements to be made for sure, but these can evolve in time. And I’m ok where I’m at. Happy.