I Left My Heart in Thailand

 

I loved Thailand. I loved the food, the locals, the water, the wildlife, I even loved the tourists that I had the opportunity to cross paths and have conversations with. There was matcha flavored everything and cats literally everywhere (on the roof, under your chair, in restaurants napping on top of the ice cream coolers). Despite the small detail that I could only effectively communicate with about 10 percent of the population, it was pretty much a Hattie paradise.

 

We are heading into our month 5 in Malaysia (or were, when I started drafting this) and while I’m excited about what’s next, part of me is mourning having to leave Thailand.

 

But that’s not really what this blog is about.

 

This blog is about a sunny morning in Khao Sok National Park, on our last full day in Thailand.

 

We needed to travel from Bangkok to Penang for debrief, and we also needed a little bit of green and a break from the city.

One of Thailand’s oldest rainforests was a very doable halfway point.

 

We got an overnight bus which stopped at one am for our complimentary Thai dinner (because why not) and before we knew it we were surrounded by the trees and mountains of Khao Sok.

 

Once we arrived, we only had about 24 hours before we needed to be on our bus to Penang, so we dropped off our stuff, had a snack, and piled into the bed of a truck to go see some elephants.

We were enjoying the view of the mountains, the wind in our hair, and the fresh air after a month in the city. One of my teammates mentioned the fear that her hat was going to blow off her head.

Mere seconds after she said that, my hat blew off my head, and I looked back just in time to see it fall in the middle of the road and disappear into the distance behind us.

 

Now, let me backup a little (unfortunately not literally because then I wouldn’t be writing this blog) and describe this hat to you. Under most circumstances, I am not the kind of person who wears hats (ironic, I know), but I figured it would be good to have one for the world race. This particular hat is one my family has owned for years. It’s a light camo green colored “life is good” baseball cap with a pink heart on the front. For the sake of this trip, this hat moved from being collectively owned by the family unit as a whole to being specifically mine. The design was a little too saccharine and banal for me, so I hand embroidered an anatomical heart over top of the cartoon one. I used a nice burgundy thread which I actually had to pull apart since it was a little too thick for the lines I wanted. I embroidered parts of the design more than once, sometimes removing a good 30 minutes of work because it didn’t look quite right. The embroidery is intentionally not centered to give the whole design a pleasing asymmetry. When I was finished, the hat suited my personality much more, and I was excited to take it on my adventure with me.

 

Return to me, in the back of a truck, in the middle of the mountains of Thailand, having to very quickly come to terms with the sudden loss of- for starters the only hat I brought with me, but more significantly, this piece of art I put not necessarily blood sweat and tears into, but time and identity (and possibly also a little blood. I’m sure I poked myself once or twice working on it).   

There were probably other things I could have done, like tap on the window and try and mime to the driver that we needed to go back and get my hat, but that option didn’t occur to me until later. My immediate preoccupation was, as I said, coming to terms with the situation.

 

Now, here’s the thing: there is only one hat in the entire world that looks like this hat. Because of this, it would be a very reasonable reaction to be completely devastated by it’s loss.

On the other hand however, there is only one hat in the entire world that looks like this hat.

 

The road was quiet, but busy enough with backpackers and locals that I felt absolutely certain someone would find it (possibly within the hour) and adopt it.

My teammates suggested we look for it on the way back, but we never saw it, and I hope whoever found it was surprised and delighted by it.

 

Months ago, when I was working on it, I had no idea I would end up leaving it in the middle of the road in a small town in the mountains of Thailand, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked the concept.

It feels very significant to have made something so completely unique, to have carried it to the other side of the globe, and then to leave it there.

I like to think of all the places this object might go- this thing that has been touched and altered by my hands.

I love to think about the person who might now own it. I wonder what they’re like, where they’re from, and where they’re going. I wonder what they like to eat for breakfast, and what they can see from the place they are currently standing.

 

Even more incredible is the idea that I may run into my hat again one day. A familiar image. A new face. It’s out there somewhere, even as we speak.  

 

For me there is an unmistakable poetry to all of this. It feels as though months ago when I was sketching and stitching, I was working towards this moment. This moment in the back of a truck when I would look back, and see a green baseball cap disappearing into the distance behind me.

 

It is possible to touch the lives of people you’ve never met.  

 

We are in Malaysia now. We are staying in Penang and volunteering at a local soup kitchen. I’ll tell you more about all of that later. I’m enjoying our time here. But it would be unfair of me not to admit

that I left a little piece of myself in Thailand.

 

I can still picture it. There on the road, surrounded by forest. Green mountains rising in the distance behind it. A bright, clear day, with a few fluffy white clouds resting gently along the edges of the sky.

 

My pack is lighter by the weight of one hat

and someone somewhere, has found a treasure.

Much Love,

Hattie