The Squeaky Robot

A Meddling Robot in a Human's World

Posts tagged “water

Bioluminescence

Posted on April 11, 2015

I ventured to Koh Rong, a highly-rated undeveloped island twenty-five rocky kilometers from Sihanoukville, only for the bioluminescent plankton. I experienced these glowing micro-organisms about a decade ago in Puerto Rico, and so I was propelled by an innocent but somewhat misguided hunt for an experience that was probably once in a lifetime, as all experiences tend to be. I hopped off the creaking ferry into a den of beautiful Europeans who above all wanted to party and they wanted to do it now. The main beach vomited neon with strings of shacks competing with each other, all claiming to have it all – Dorms! Bar! Food! Wifi! Laundry! – and while it was only ten in the morning, each blasted its own variety…

Hundred-Mile Wilderness

Posted on July 19, 2013

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   A ten-hour road trip north of home and I find myself in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness, a notorious section of the even more notorious Appalachian Trail. This is my brother’s trip, though. I’m just along for the ride, offering just my driver’s license and extensive knowledge of the perfect s’more.

   My brother and his friend are avid fishermen. They discuss fish as if there is no other topic to be discussed. They eat their meals quickly and expel from their seats when they deem socially acceptable in order to make it back to the swimming hole before dark. They happily navigate sluggish brown water down to their waists and then happily pluck squirming leeches from their legs. It’s all part of the job.

   It turns out that all people, from 0 to 150 years old, can teach us something. My brother, eight years my junior, has already grasped something it took me much longer to learn: there is more joy in the routine, the effort and the attempt than there is in the catch.

   While they fish, I sit in a kayak with my camera and wait to catch the sunlight.

The Unbelievable Lightness of Being

Posted on March 6, 2013

The sticky air of a South Asian country during monsoon season is thick like batter. I would sit on the balcony rail outside my room, let my legs dangle in the batter, and feel the sweet breeze of an oncoming storm. Then the roof and wire monkeys would flee, and, on cue, the clouds would roll in assertively, as if with exaggerated self-opinion. In August, the lush and sprawling Kathmandu valley saw rain everyday. Never a light drizzle or a modest shower. No, it was the season of street waterfalls. Violent in looks, soothing in symphonies, I would find a seat on broken steps and look on as the floods boldly evaluated gutter capacity. I’d watch smoky brown street rivers rush hurriedly toward me…