Saturday, October 25, 2008

Rajasthan.

Here is where i wish you were.

A short plane from Delhi. A brief trip into the desert. Step off into the heat; dry heat, dead still heat off the sand. The desert is near. Enter the arrivals lounge and almost taste the colors and the shapes. Sari's with rose prints upon electric green, deep purple, sky blue, and pure yellow, polish the room. Colors unchanged by time; tradition in sweeping satin folds. A greeting party of dark faces, large noses, sharp noses -- pierced with gold rings and studs. White eyes hold almond iris pools, and smiles sheen. Family, all are family, are being welcomed with a shower of flower petals. Women are laughing, moving across the floor. Younger generations touch the feet of elders; a blessing. Bangles clink clink, anklets shing shing. A baby cries in the fray -- the only frown in the room. Here, in an airport arrivals lounge, true joy cannot be disguised. Here I find it. I think you would too.

Step outside with bag in hand. Auto-rickshaws wait. A group of four, five, or six lounge in the backseat of their black and yellow carriage with sandals off and their feet propped on the silver frame. This is the ready position. One hundred Rupees from the airport to the home stay; my home for the next five days. I pass over the prepaid fare. My driver chooses me, grabs my bag and sets it inside. I slide in after it. We motor off with a putt putt and we are on our way. Traffic appears sparse on this side of the city; on this side of the afternoon. A few motorbikes carry on beside us. Round the bend, a camel pulls a cart and driver. My head pans to catch a glimpse, I stare until the sandy dromedary drops out of sight.

Welcome to Rajasthan.

We arrive at a house; the home where I will sleep. I thank the driver, shake his hand and look him in the eye, then step into the shade. The house is quiet. A marching blue elephant adored in golden jewelry is painted on an indigo wall. A basket leans. A clay pot stands on a ledge. Passed on to the staff, to the family, I am led through a doorway hung with tapestries. I am led to my room, across a tiled courtyard in the center of the house with shade and relief for bare feet. With lounging sofas and reclining pillows, I accept the want to do absolutely nothing. This is my relief.

Unpack, wash, change, and walk. Walk into Jodhpur.

Taste a lassi mixed with cardamom, sugar, and butter. Sit, enjoy the stares and smiles of curious children and pleased adults. Wander back alleys with bicycles, holy cows, flowing saris, and floating platters of sweet milk tea. Here are bangle shops, barber shops, kite shops, textile shops, provision shops, sari shops, poster shops, "tyre" shops, whatever-you-need shops. Here the air is still and hot. Motorbikes putt-putt with mustached drivers -- smiling drivers. "Welcome to India!" a man yells at me while buzzing past. A camel waits, chews emphatically, defecates on the pavement; the cart behind her is being loaded with bamboo for ladders and furniture. Across the street, five shops in a row, all build, send, receive these material supplies, five shops in a row. The market bustles. Sari's move in flocks -- grandmothers, mothers, daughters, great-grandchildren -- generations move through piles of sandals, printed tees, spice, and fruit. Sensitive noses sneeze. Tailors sit stitching zigzams and seams, their barefeet pump the pedal beneath and their methodical fingers move.

India is where all my fears and dreams collide in a tangled mess. My surprise of a seemingly well-off small boy who says hello, asks my name, and then chases after me to ask for five Rupees. An auto-rickshaw ride for free. A beggar, a frail woman with child in arms, following my steps with her plea. Invitations to tea. Back to my room, I crush tears sorting through the wreckage of faces. Eternal collisions; beyond human. I am outside myself again. Here on my bed, dressed halfway for heat, in a house, in a home, in the western reaches of India.

Friday, October 10, 2008

A reflection of my father.

I am my father's son.
In a steel sugar bowl reflection, curved distortion, I glimpse a face.
Unkept hair, reaching length.
Eyes straight ahead looking at someone else, far away.
Mustache growing in brown stubble, not black;
soft not hard, the remnants of a boy.
Preliminary minutes, a child before man.

A photo of him in my mind.
Barefeet stand with bare chest before a blue bus.
Arms at sides.
The chiseled physique of genetics and obvious youth.
One apart from several.
Unkept hair.
A pair of short blue shorts.
Periwinkle eyes straight ahead, enchant a camera lens.
A moment captured in a shuttered snap.
Here adventure once moved in a time not my own,
once danced beyond the photo frame.
A scurry of feet, the rant of ecstatic voices.

I only view a frozen piece,
a jammed kaleidoscope caught mid-turn.
A picture of he, but a picture of me.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

A labor of solitude. (Shattered thoughts.)

Why have I not written here? I have no answer. Parchment pages have absorbed the ink of a burning pen and one is gone, spent of all black dye in a matter of 14 days. An intentional effort. A labor of solitude. It is work to become great but why write with the expectation of becoming so? Write for yourself. Try to decipher the mind. Become unhinged; bent in the way. It is pointless in battering inevitable motion with human complaints, yet I continue to rant over the speed of an unbridled mind -- the speed which my incapable hands will never match. Is the reality of what I write now only found in interruptions of my reading? What I want to write versus what the pen drags, versus conclusive drafts, versus preliminary concerns.

Less than two weeks and yet I am ages behind my mind's eye. A vestige created by a walking pace.

[Stalwart stone houses. Rice grows in the alley. Steady autumn eyes arouse mine mid-stride. Blink, gone. Cramping legs. A grunting howl and a toenail chips. Who chopped the green banana tree and where does he sleep tonight? Dainty crimson petals dry pink upon green stems. Evergreen striations droop with thick pine nectar. River streak shrinks as heightened canyon walls flip the scale. Inverse relationships. Oxygen drops, pressure rises. Gasp at twilight, wheeze at dawn. Shroud of breath. Anatomy and mathematics. One foot. Two feet. Climb with the mind. Five thousand four hundred times 39.37.]

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Unknown to me.

Guests -- unknown to me, familiar with the table. Sunlight spills onto wood, fading into the grain with passing clouds -- unknown to me. A fly, a housefly, crouches, prays in the shadow near my open book of empty lines and inky etch. Smoke spools skyward, stopped by the ceiling, floating out the open door, from the nostrils of mustached men, smooth faced men, stubble faced men -- unknown to me; my face is shaven. A large glass bottle, half empty, holds tomato sauce and residue upon its cap. One small fork with back bent spine and faded sterling sits a companion; the odd couple. Dragonfly alights on cement post, fans its wings to the sun.

On this day a school visit. A hill ascent. Blue shirts dark against the sky on clear afternoons, trousers a shade darker. Students stand beneath the peepal tree. The body above matches the body mass below -- stretching, sprawling. The future of a nation rests in the branches, the eaves of past growth, and rests from a climb to top of a hill. They stare at me, a stranger. Their ideas -- unknown to me.

Monday, September 8, 2008

A river stone.

Monsoonal waters have prevented most swimming other than that which can be done at the edge, but a pool made by a change at a fork in the river, a fork that formed two narrow tines, two slivers of creek, set an offering. Here at this edge we dunked beneath the heat and into a cool still. We bathed, shared a single bar of soap; Sarasvati and her cousin on one side, Joseph and I on the other. Nepali boys scampered across the rocks and boulders tossing fishing nets. The sun moved west, a late afternoon herald. Time moved. Joseph and I stood at the bank looking to the opposite shore. We hurled stones across the waterway torrents, I from a boulder and he from the ground. In a step from atop, a twist at my torso, my ribs, and a hurl through the air. Legs, back, shoulder, elbow, wrist, fingers, release. Spinning from the side, slicing through the air, gaining curve and sinking to the earth.

*Crack*

Stone meets stone.

From here on my stone; river boulder, sun baked tower. A grunted toss that bears me to baseball mitts and leather cracks from cowhide communication. For a moment I am free. No poverty; economic disparity. Barefoot, and a pair of blue shorts, my skin offered to the air -- the sun, the star of the Milky Way at my back. I reach down, my fingers grapple, grip another from the pile at my feet. A smooth stone, a river stone. Legs, back, shoulder, elbow, wrist, fingers, release. Synapses, muscle transfers -- in this moment, all that I want to know.

*Crack*

Stone meets stone.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Beige.

A lazy day falls through the panes and lights my journal page. Rain outside the window, small vanishing streaks caught in an instant against dark backgrounds. Drops sound off a tin roof, a deceiving drumroll. Between the two my mind is undecided on the effects of a walk in this rain, so I sit and move to other things. The crossword in front of me. A small clay colored pot of black coffee. A mug of the same grain. A silver teaspoon, untouched by a granule of sugar or a drying drop of bitter brown, is cradled in a saucer; its silversmithed edge shines with a pool of the sterling sky. My pen cap clicks on and off, I am stumped.

While I still grapple the truth , there is no place I need to be other than here. I am in Nepal and the Himalayas send a crackle through the air.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Anger, shock.

My lips are closed with the weight of blank expression; only I know my anger. I stare deliberately across the room, cursing under my breath. (I don't want to be this way.) I drag my eyes back to the page. I count the numbers in between paragraph breaks. I read to pass the time. Now I read for completion not comprehension. To complete another minute. To finish the last thirty. I am still waiting my turn. Warmth moves through unseen channels in my hands. My fingers curl and extend, quick like the legs of a scurrying insect I flex them in attempt to retard this building aggression. Constant movement feels a necessity. A turn of the page. A scratch to my face without an itch. This is movement, expressed alone for the sake of my mind that knows better. Feelings, they wander. On these my feelings dwell: pushing crowds on narrow streets, noisy vendors, putrid rain, aggressive beggars, yellow cab horns, side mirrors inches from my middle, an ejaculation of mud onto my legs, body odor and grease. These I add and multiply, I exponentially package them. And then my turn comes. I sign the book and drop the pen onto the page away from a hand that awaits a return. Leave me alone, I think and take my seat. I don't want your kindness.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Unwritten law.

In every culture there are unwritten laws. While breaking written law can assure you trouble, breaking unwritten laws can certainly do the same. For example, at the dinner of an extravagant event with prestigious guests you could break wind and receive many questionable glances. You have just broken an unwritten law. Just like written law the penalty can increase for repeat offenders. If later in the evening, at the same dinner and social event, (all dinners are), you are standing in a small circle of celebrated individuals and you commit the crime again, with guests who will easily recognize your earlier blunder, you may lose a networking opportunity, which could mean a job opportunity, which could mean the absence of a salary, which could mean you are evicted and put out on the street. Your life changes all because of a puff of gas; an unwritten law, broken. Now this is an extreme example, but you see my point. (It would be a unique circumstance but I suppose that in the right situation this would not be impossible.) In some ways, what is not clearly stated can have a greater consequence than what is. Wouldn't you rather get speeding ticket than be on the street because you are viewed as an impolite flatulence maker?

Every culture has unwritten laws. Some cultures, while different, have many similar unwritten laws. Some bear almost no resemblance to each other and some are very complex. Some unwritten laws of the past that have been entrenched in society over a long period of time may today seem utterly ridiculous and completely impractical for the age that we are in now. But since they are unwritten, at times if the culture and period call for it these laws slowly slip away. A strange existence.

Some unwritten laws are important since they can work for the well being of society as a whole. Some are ridiculous when given much serious thought and may prove to be impractical over the passage of time. And some are imperative; an absolute necessity. Breaking the unwritten laws of this last mentioned category can hurt you. They can even get you killed. The unwritten laws of Bangladeshi traffic are of this kind.

Today on a bus back to Dhaka in the rain, I sat next to a young man who seemed about my age. Over the course of six hours our conversation meandered, eventually reaching the traffic situation. I am always interested in getting the local feeling about the situation since mine will always be that of an outsider. I have ideas, but I need validation. He then told me that in the past few days, on this same road, with the same destination, in similar conditions, he had counted 28 traffic accidents. Most of them were minor, though one truck was split in half. Nonetheless, at one point twenty-eight collisions on one road in six hours happened. (No one was drunk, beer is hard to find in Bangladesh.) Moments after he told me this I felt our bus tires slip off the road onto the gravel side in a rushed maneuver around some thing. I forget what this thing was; I was looking out the window, not in fear but with awareness of this movement. My companion turned to me and smiled, "just don't look," he said. "That's what we do. We just don't look and act like we are going to make it." Good advice if you can accept it.

Sometimes I look at the fronts of Bangladesh driving schools and think to myself that I would probably fail. I might just make it onto the road and never leave because I am afraid of turning back against oncoming traffic. "Just one more intersection!" I would probably say. "I will do it at the next one." This is Bangladesh traffic. It is like a competition in which everyone forgets they are on the same team. This time also has many unique participants. Taxis, goods trolleys, buses, trucks, cattle, carts, rickshaws, bicycles, and people. I like to categorize these as big, bigger, and small. (I will not clearly define which is which, big, bigger, or small, since the laws I a about to state are applied in a relative fashion depending on who you are.) To me, the first and most obvious unwritten law is: small makes way for big or bigger. This can be restated as: big wins. When a bus is rocketing down a road, all the various traffic mentioned above can come into play. People will be walking on the sides of the road and pedaling their bikes and rickshaws. From your position on the bus it may not look like they are aware of the enormous mass of metal and peeling rubber that is headed their way, but on the majority they are. They understand the unwritten law and they respect it. As the bus, being big, is coming their way, they, being small, will move onto the side of th road. If necessary they will move farther, into the grass, onto the sidewalk, or into the irrigation ditch, dragging their cows and bicycles with them. Also interesting is that many of the people do this with their backs to traffic. They use their senses, as well as habits introduced through time and experience, to follow unwritten law for the sake of their well being. This is the first.

The second I will mention is not as apparent unless you are in the middle of it: this is the law of movement with expectation. I am convinced that this rule occurs throughout Bangladesh and for the sake of the best example I can think of, (there are probably better), I will use the countryside. The roads in these areas are almost always in two lanes and two lanes only. They also seem to have a buildup of potholes, bumps, ruts, and cracks that are not repaired as often as similar problems in the cities. Now no one likes to run over a pothole, it can be harmful, and since most potholes and other forms of crumbling asphalt seem to form at the sides of the road, buses prefer the middle. Actually, buses take the middle. There is a serious issue with two buses hurtling head on down the road; your mind and heart will tell you so. But neither bus slows down. They get closer and closer. Closer and closer, until the unwritten law of movement with expectation takes effect and both buses swerve back into their actual respective lanes at the last possible second, sounding their horns the entire time. Meanwhile the people and small things on the sides of the road move; they move with expectation. The buses move at the last second in expectation that the opposing bus (so they are led to think according to the law), and the rest of traffic moves farther over to the sides, knowing that they are smaller and with the expectation that the buses will move back.

Unwritten law; breaking it can kill you. I am sure there are many more relating to traffic just as there are many relating to everything other aspect of life, but these two are important, that much is certain.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Traffic jams and a palace.

Scattered throughout Bangladesh, or at least throughout the northern Rajshahi division, are old, sometimes rundown, palaces that were built by wealthy landowners of the past. Tajhat Palace is one of these and on my second day in Rangpur, I decided to visit.

An afternoon rain began to fall as I made my way to a fleet of waiting rickshaws. Waiting for the storm's eventual end, I stood on the curb just inside the eaves of a small shop selling strange out-of-touch-with-the-world art, but was soon invited to sit inside. Two boys pulled up chairs next to me. They looked like trouble. Neither of them spoke much English but the one named 'Rabbi' (pronounced Robby) spoke enough to invite himself on my trip. I figured it couldn't be that bad, and it would also be helpful to have someone to negotiate with the rickshaw drivers.

"Come on," I told him and motioned with my hand. The rain had just died.

The first drivers we came to listened while their bicycle taxi was still rolling forward but they shook their heads with a grimace. Tajhat Palace was not so close -- about five kilometers, which I thought should be a lot in the midday heat for a man who pedals to make his living, but if he agreed who was I to argue; the truth is I couldn't really, the only Bangla I know is Bhalo achi (I'm fine). That won't get me far.

Our search did not take long, and the third driver we came to agreed to take us.

"Thirty Taka," Rabbi told me.

"Okay," I said. "Thirty Taka."

"Okay," Rabbi said again.

And we were off.

Daily there are occurences in life which are new to me. Sometimes I see things and am shocked, like when I saw the way buses in Dhaka appear and drive as if they are in war. Other times I am shocked but wish that I took a bigger hit, such as the time when I saw a lady with exposed shriveled breasts and clinging skin dying on the walk outside bus station while flies danced on her skin and everyone else danced around. There are so many sights I have never imagined, yet they happen everyday; just like bicycle rickshaw traffic jams.

They line up from the front tire of one to the rear axle of the next. In lines sometimes two or three rickshaws wide, they push each other into almost complete paralysis until it seems that the only one who can move is at the front of the line attempting a righthand turn against oncoming traffic. Somehow they manage to resolve this mess with half-passioned cries and bell rings. Everyone has a bell. Attached to their handlebars, or more frequently on the front fork with a trigger on their left grip, these silver domed bells create a small concerto when traffic is at a lull but this music dies in the chaos of a jam. Stuck in the center of all of this, most people stared at me. Who wouldn't? I am tall, white, with unruly blonde hair and I am sitting on an elevated stage. What a sight.

"What are you doing here?" their eyes asked me.

"Just trying to be friendly," my eyes responded.

Smiling received mixed results. Some sent back only dark-eyed stares, but a few returned smiles and cocked their head to the side; a friendly gesture in Bangladesh.

After several more jams, one being a car vs. rickshaw battle on a one lane bridge, we made it to the edge of town. Here goats lied on the front steps of closed shops and cows grazed in small green fields enclosed by moss covered brick walls; crumbling remnants that the eye insists are from long ago, but so much here has this appearance of age from both weather and use.

Within 30 or 45 minutes we arrived at Tajhat Palace, and our driver made it alive. The palace was beautiful. Tucked away into a small grove of trees, this particular mansion was built by a wealthy jeweller and landowner in the mid-19th century, but now laid empty except for a few exhibits displaying archaelogical leftovers from the region. The exterior had large white-paned windows and walls made of red brick with a mix of others built of cement and plaster. In the midst of a sprawling lawn this rajbari sat, guarded by a crumbling wall and an amiable guard who asked me to take his picture at the gate.

For as long as we could in the oppressive humidity, we wandered about, Rabbi said "Okay" a lot, some people took my picture, and without getting to involved we left. I tried to get Rabbi to explain to the driver that I wanted to see a nearby Hindu temple but again he responded only with "Okay" to my patient insistence and we took off in the wrong direction.

When things began to look familiar again Rabbi stopped the driver and we stepped off onto the high sidewalk. Then there was a problem. The driver, who had at first only asked for 30 Taka, now wanted 100 more. I know its not a lot of money, I am more than willing to be gracious, but the principle of the matter is that I was getting ripped off. I was nice. When we arrived at the palace I gave him extra, but I was not going to be a pushover. With patience I relayed my message to Rabbi and handed the agreed upon amount to the driver. Rabbi said "Okay" as I expected and in a mess of Bangla sent the message to the driver who began to get angry.

Now when a white person visits Bangladesh just to travel, its something odd to many people; but when a white person is standing on the sidewalk in northern Bangladesh explaining himself in English to a boy who only says "Okay" and a moustached man who is getting fired up and speaking about it in passionate Bangla, its a show. Within a minute, a crowd had gathered around me. I was at the center with Rabbi while our driver turned back and forth to random people, ranting. Everyone had something to say and it was getting loud. Someone even asked me what my country was, which for a moment took me away from the matter at hand, and I managed a smile. Young security guards, shop owners, random passersby, beggars, everyone; they all had an opinion. Thankfully, in a country which sees few Western travelers English speakers usually find me. A helpful student rode up on his bicycle into the small mass of bellowing Bangladeshis and asked me what the problem was. I explained to him and again the message was relayed to the driver. The driver was slow to accept, but in a slow manner he began to walk back to his bicycle. My helpful assistant then told me, "lets go," and I pushed out from the center. I was very grateful to this student who then offered me a ride on his bicycle and I sat down on the back. He dropped me off, I thanked him again, and tired from the day walked through the front gate of my guesthouse.

It was a day well spent in Rangpur.

Saturday, August 2, 2008

Old Dhaka.

A layed mix of labyrinthine streets with connecting dark alleys set in between open front shops; a dreamland for wanderers and bibliophiles on vacation. It would be exaggerating to say that people here are untouched by a modern world, we all know ideas can travel faster than the technology and machinations they produce, but in a congenial spirit of curiosity and olden truths that shape their care for the traveler, this city creates a period of its own. While not yet spoken, there is a sanctity for the wanderer; welcoming cups of tea that I have not drank of anywhere else. These principles crash into your heart with a barrage of questions and opinions that reach your ear from fifteen directions, but the smiling faces from which these words emanate hold no threat.

"Take your time," Asia beckons. "Come, sit in my lap and watch the cusp of civilization embrace those who wait."

The reward is the process. A daily move into a past attached to the sinews of the present. Some fibers run stronger than others; some places have a history, a weight you can feel in conversation as a Bangladeshi man emboldens the mosque behind him with a spring in his words. I imagine there was a spring in his step as well, just at the moment he saw us.

I have never been such a curiosity. Kyle, a friend revisited in Bangladesh, and I have walked through streets with tiny shops and bicycle rickshaws that squeeze onto a narrow lane that has acted in spite of changing times -- holding the same relevance as it did centuries ago. The challenge is avoiding the scrapes of rickshaw bolts as our eyes flit to meet those that stare from their shopfronts. Metalworkers, sarong sellers, instrument builders, and tea makers; they all look to us.

Friday, August 1, 2008

A border crossing.

I move in and out of both mind and body while I crossed the border into Bangladesh. Heat and swaying palm trees, bicycle rickshaws pedaling by and colorful trucks of an airy blue and yellow adorned in Bangla script. Beggars mingling with waiting crowds. Large pure white clouds drifting above, juxtaposing the trash strewn on streets below. Long tiled corridors, empty and dimly lit within the shade of 3:05 p.m. A few pulsing fans in the ceiling above the waiting lines. Muslim men in caps and long white robes, and Bengali women in traditional salwar suits. Waiting room couches filthy and stained in another dim opening tucked out of late afternoon heat.

A guard shakes my hand at the iron entry gate. I make eye contact, smiling from the corner of my mouth. He cocks his head to the side and beams in return. I enter a crumbling courtyard, but caught up in a merger of past and present, fail to take everything in.

[What would my family think if they were standing beside me? What would they notice in different ways than I do? What would they point out? What colors would they see?]


The boy who has led me across the road and through the gate now leads me through an archway with 'ARRIVALS' painted in bold white yet obvious brushstrokes. We step into the foreign passport line. There are two or three people in front of me but my young red-shirted attendant takes my passport, steps to the side of the waiting line, and slides my passport beneath the dirty window. It is grabbed on the other side with a reaching right hand while the line continues to function according to order. A man waiting in front of me turns his body ever so slight and reaches back with a happy question: "What is your country?"

"America," I tell him with a returning smile.

"Oh!" he smiles with all possible teeth showing. He gives me his name. He is from Assam and he too is on his first trip into Bangladesh. The usual questions pass with the speed of expectation. His passport is stamped and handed back.

"Maybe see you there," he says. With a smile to say goodbye he walks away.

I rest my hands on the counter. In his mode, the officer behind the glass pages through my blue passport with its faded golden United States emblem on the cover. *Stamp*...*stamp*. A departure card is torn and set into place. *Flip*, my book of stamps is closed and passed back to me. I can now enter Bangladesh.

My young attendant appears at my side again. He takes my passport from me and inspects its pages as he walks a steady line to the door. Whether fulfilling his positional duties or performing his job to personal standards, I do not know, but I stay with him in each step and hold an expectant palm in front of his chest; asking without words. We walk outside and satisfied he sets it in my hand. "Thank you," I tell him. There is no response.

There is a feeling of elation and a sense of power in the moment your passport is stamped and you cross the imaginary and yet real lines that separate one country from the next. Some people do not have this privilege, not out of any fault of their own but because of politics. I have the privilege and I am honored in every stamp that is added -- every stamped press from a generic ink pad to a generic passport page contains the symbolic potential to become something much more. Bangladesh accepts my footsteps with waiting.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Movement and sound.

Here it seems that every restaurant is tucked in a corner, or set into an opening small enough that you cannot look inside unless directly in front, but large enough to move hungry crowds in and out in a flurry. While the door may only be wide enough to allow a peek, here movement and sound are enough to pull your senses the rest of the way.

The movement: a new generation in jeans and t-shirts, or older men that appear to have just stepped out of a storybook in their white kurtas, thick beards grown with the years, and old thick rimmed glasses with deep lenses but simple character in their frames. The women enter in colorful saris draped over and around. Primary colors, absent in this unstitched cloth, are replaced by violet, Oxblood, magenta, periwinkle, tangerine, and Han purple.

The sound: it changes. Chatter spoken over reckless taxi cabs, and rickshaw wheels that *click clack* on rough streets. A busy kitchen with an atmosphere of its own in fierce spices, aroma and heat. A Sikh man with an orange turban, tightly wrapped, and iron bracelet speaks the few words necessary to instruct his staff in their grimy t-shirts and cuffed jeans. Sometimes there is only silence, but this is a neglected sound in itself. Since most eat with their fingers there is the rare scrape of fork against plate, but at times only silence.

Now here I sit by myself but enjoy the minutes I have in this atmosphere. Everything is worn and in dark spots it shows. The places where plates and bowls have slid in minute increments, back and forth; the vinyl covered seats, cracked to open stuffing inside. Neither are ancient by age; only by use. Those who slide in and out; who sit heavy with drooping fat, the weight of the years, or heavy with empty stares, the weight of the mind. Those who move fast in order to continue the night, or quiet groups of companions without words in their midst.

And then there is me. I sit alone but soak in this tiny room of atmosphere and heat. I listen for the stories in the cracked plaster and crooked picture frames. Those that have been written and the ones still to come. Today my story is in India, but it is more than my story alone, it is yours too. We are much more alike than we are different. I feel in Kolkata and you feel from where you read.

I do not understand all that surrounds me, but I will keep trying. I am chasing after change, trying to comprehend its monumental movements or sneaking reforms. Maybe change is chasing me. Maybe it makes all that difference that I am moving; I refuse to be stagnate.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

My heart, my mind, my God. (From the airport.)

Tears pooled upon her eyelids that had been given careful attention in the half hour between our momentary parting and a reunion. It was a somber reunion; one leading to goodbye.

She rode with me in the cab and words were barely spoken. I looked out the window for most of the trip and squeezed her hand tighter when her searching eyes caught the corner of my vision.

We arrived at the airport. Check-in was flawless. It was time to go.

Standing in a cold room of glass and steel, I gave her a red journal with a letter on the first four pages that instructed her to fill this book with hopes, fears, and loves. I insisted that she take a small wad of bills -- the taxi fare home and a little bit more. Before the revolving glass entrance I held her and squeezed her tight. She wrapped her arms around my back. I forgot the people below who stared up at a short kiss; I forgot about everyone else.

At passport control we stood together one final time, and words moved from my mouth to her ear. "No promises," I said, and she nodded. "But you will always know me."

With head turned, I walked into the opening of a frosted glass barricade and pressed my last words through the air with a raised palm and spread fingers.

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My heart, (my mind), and ("my God").

For 6 1/2 months I have been traipsing around Southeast Asia, but now my ticket has come and its time to move. In one hour and twenty-two minutes I will be on a plane to India. I hope the flight is longer than I expect. I don't know how ready I am. (But remember Seth, no expectations, you can't have them.) It might be shocking. (It might be beautiful.) ("This is not your plan.") I am afraid. I shouldn't be. ("I am with you.") That Indian man at check-in made a horrible lusting sound as he walked near Chon. (You cannot base an entire population on one man.) ("Aren't you guilty of the same? Though not always verbally, or even with your eyes, then surely with your mind.") This isn't mine anymore; it never has been. Take it from me. (Nor is it mine.) ("I have you.")

"At the least, bear it bravely if you cannot
bear it cheerfully." - Thomas A. Kempis

Monday, July 21, 2008

Tomorrow brings change.

I cannot make any promises. It is not that I cannot keep them, but if I did it would break your heart, and break my own.

Tomorrow I fly to India. I do not feel ready to go, to leave your strength, but I have to step in the only direction time allows me: forward. This is more than me, this is my calling.

Last night I stood on the bridge over the canal and I said goodnight for two hours. Was it really that long? Did the morning already come? I can still taste the night.

Life is moving at a steady clip, but it races in the final hours. I will not drag my feet, but if I can I will stand in place while the world rushes on.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Its 3:00 a.m.

I am sitting in my room. I just arrived back at my guesthouse after seeing the last showing of the Dark Knight with Chon. On the ride home, as we sat together in the back of the cab I noticed her silently counting with her fingers in her lap.

"What are you counting?" I asked her.

"Three days left in Bangkok," she said to me, referring to my flight on the 23rd. "Today is the twentieth."

We parted ways at the "T" in the road and I turned on my heel to look at the empty raining path behind me, though once again I did not expect to see anything.

Friday, July 18, 2008

"Choke dee. Choke dee."

In a split second, my breath is gone.

I am standing on a narrow road of white cement slabs. I close my mouth and pull air in through my nose. All that I smell is of earth and oxygen, all that I see is color and shape. Before me are green shoots of rice -- tiny bundles saturated in green within a placid field of earthen walls, topped by a carpet of grass. These walls are the borders from one field to the next. Prepared by diligent human hands, omnipresent cycles of mother nature, now set through a history of planetary shifts and cycles of weather, now meticulously carry the weight. The well-being of a nation rests before me. My eyes, my father's eyes, must change in hue to match the gray sky above; still friendly in spite of overcast billows. In the distance, shafts of sunlight slice through humid cloud openings in places unknown to me, unknown to all except those who backs perhaps receive the blunt weight of heat. In front of me, an abandoned shelter stands on rotted wood stilts at a junction of green borders. A resting place for farmers, it once provided shade but now belongs to the sky and to the earth. Behind me is nothing but the same -- a jigsaw of borders and fields; green, green, and gray.

In a split second, my breath is back.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chon invited me to her home. I accepted. I keep telling myself that nothing can happen between us, and that's how the story goes. But to stay in a small Thai village in the far north with acquaintances who have quickly become friends was something I could not pass up.

It is the unknown which I now readily accept, yet in the moment I stepped through the open-fronted house belonging to Chon's "Paw" and "Ma," I began building something that will last. I sat down waiting, and Chon's "Ma" greeted me with a beaming smile and grabbed my forearm, feeling it with a squeeze and welcoming me once and again with the words, "Choke dee. Choke dee," (Good luck. Good luck.).

In the past five days...

I have lived with new friends in a traditional Thai village, I have stared at fertile fields of rice just planted by callused hands, I have listened to Buddhist chants in the early morning, I have sat cross-legged on a bamboo table for three meals a day, I have slept on the floor, I have stared at mountains and fog on rainy northern Thailand afternoons, I have sat comfortably in rooms for hours where words of English are rarely spoken, I have danced in the rain with 100 villagers, I have picked fruit that tastes like candy, I have been laughed at out of care, I have been blessed by grandmother ("Yai"), I have been missed in my absence from the village, and now I have cried.

In the past five days.

Soon, it will have been seven months since I first left my home in Joliet, but I suppose that it is only one of my homes. Now I know that to go back to the north, to the village of 100, would be to go back home.

Life is surreal.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

A short pause.

Maybe "A Long Pause" is a more appropriate title for this entry. My writing has suffered lately. Journal pages, that is my actual journal pages, were once separated by hastily written dates in order to reach the heart of my writing; the center of my mind's energy. Yet lately my paged book has become an unfinished sentence with clips of inky memories scrawled in a rush rather than for pleasure. Its not that nothing has happened -- in the past three to four weeks I have revisited Bangkok with a fresh perspective, visited old students and friends in Kanchanaburi, made a new friend (through conversation about music) with the guy who was handing out condoms on HIV/AIDs day at Nongkhao school, and went on one of the sweetest dates in my life where everything and nothing really happened. Lately, I just haven't loved writing. Lately, I haven't loved myself. Maybe though, I've loved myself too much. Selfishness is the center of the fall, the fall takes away from who I am, so taking away from who I am takes away from my writing.

There are many stories to speak of, but tonight I want to write about the most recent. This is a short pause to speak of something light-hearted, something soft, and kind. Maybe this is what I need to write to get back to where I was.

Tonight I went on a date.

Her name is Saichon; "Chon" for short. She is from the north of Thailand, but now lives in Bangkok with her two sisters, Pai and Fon. Believe me when I say that they are quite the silly bunch; in fact, they are self-proclaimed "dting dtong" (silly in Thai). The three of them live together in the northern part of the Banglamphu area while Pai studies at a university in the city, and Fon, who has graduated, works for a company. Chon has also graduated, with a bachelor's degree in biology, but while helping her parents and waiting for an opportunity to study medicine, she works at the four star Princess Hotel in the center of the city. This is where I agreed to meet her yesterday afternoon.

With the mobile phone I was lent from the wonderful teachers in Nongkhao, I called her when I arrived and waited in the lobby. I stared in awe at my surroundings. I don't think I've ever been inside a four star hotel. Beyond the glass doors and staff with double breasted suits and golden buttons was humid oppression, but inside these tall clear windows was a polished floor and a room cold with air conditioning. Everything was in its place. Earthy red-toned vases held single flowers purposefully set into balanced existence. Stacked on black granite slabs, they led your eye to silver steps and steel; the entry to a restaurant with folded linen napkins and empty tables.

My phone rang. It was Chon.

She was waiting in the connecting hallway to MBK -- a massive shopping center where every inch of floor space is covered in art, shoes, and t-shirts; a Thai-European hybrid fashion world. I saw her before she saw me. She was standing against the wall, waiting. Wearing a gray classy top, dark short-but-modestly-cut shorts, and white flats with a red stripe on the toe; she looked "cute."

We slowly wandered the hallways, getting a little lost, but eventually finding our way to the sushi restaurant downstairs.

"You can order, I like it all," she told me.

We both started with a frosty drink, hers watermelon and mine lemon, and then moved on to a large California and a Caterpillar sprawled across a white platter. We laughed through struggles to eat the enormous California roll and laughed at others in the restaurant doing the same. My mother has done well in sending several blackmail pictures of the early Wyncott years and Chon certainly laughed at these.

On a Sunday night, masses moved through the restaurant in the gourmet food center of the Siam Paragon, but we sat still, not moving from our table while people swirled around.

"What do we do now?" she asked me. Our table was now cleared of food and the bill was on its way.

I asked her, "Well, do you want to go back (a wrinkled brow) or go to a movie?" (a nod and a smile).

A movie it was.

She bought two massive drinks, and I bought the tickets. We stood up for the king, and we saw Wanted. It was ridiculous, but it didn't matter.

As the credits rolled we stepped out and slowly made our way back to the beginning; taking in everything as we went. We stepped onto the escalator going down and she asked me how long I would stay in Thailand. I told her I was leaving for India in a week and a half. Then it was quiet.

We took the number 15 bus and leaped off at Phra Atit Road, and after mentioning my hunger we made one final stop: a tiny Roti restaurant with two narrow floors sandwiched in a street of restaurants, bars, and cafes. Sitting in a tiny upstairs room Thai music videos sounding from an old TV we sat at a folding table with small stools and shared a late night snack of roti and masala.
We walked back, slowly as always and discovered our streets were leading the same way until we reached a "T" in the road.

"Goodnight," I said. "See you again soon."

"Goodnight," she said.

I walked back to my guesthouse along the river without looking back until I was too far off to expect anything other than an empty path.

She is Buddhist, I am Christian. She lives in Bangkok, I live in Joliet. Those two speak much, but there are more. Let's just name two. We are far apart, yet close for a night.

This was a short pause in my recent complexity for something soft and kind.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Give everything you are, even if its sound.

I have crossed back into Thailand, and again no questions were asked about my lack of an onward ticket out of the kingdom; just a quizzical look through the pages of my passport and a stamp in red ink: JUL 25 2008.

As I walked to awaiting transport with a small group of others making the same trip from Phnom Penh to Bangkok, some girls approached. They were of all different heights but only one size: tiny. They had umbrellas but some were without shoes. One of these little children was immediately at my side. Being only half my height, she took twice as many steps to match my pace and used her fingers to hold the handle which extended into a spider-framed orange canvas above my head. Across baking asphalt and almost no trees, she walked with me.

I immediately felt horrible. I knew what she was expecting.

It would take a heartless pig to ignore their pleas, but in turn it takes misappropriated passion to give them a dollar and walk out. Some tourists will say they have no money -- a horrible attempt at escape in my opinion -- but I cannot lie. You look into those almond eyes and downcast lips and lie. I don't believe these girls are fooled. They are smart. They have their tactics, but this does not change the heart of the matter. Whether or not they are begging for pimps or cruel parents, whether or not they spend their money on something most would deem insignificant, whether or not their pouting lips are forced, they are still begging children. They are barefoot, filthy, bug-eaten, snot-nosed, empty-bellied, kids. My heart allows me nothing more than, "no, I'm sorry."

I looked around for food, but I saw nothing; only heat, dust, and pavement. I looked for something to give, and then I remembered.

The shortest girl in the group, was standing across the way, puffing her cheeks with air and expelling it with the soft force of her short fingers. I looked in her direction, and mimicked her as best I could. Her head turned and she smiled. Then she moved. For a moment she disappeared behind a standing motorbike, and then there she was standing in front of me; smiling with tiny gaps in between new adult teeth. She waited staring at me with an open mouth. I filled my cheeks and made the sound again.

*PBLTTTTT!*

She puffed her tiny cheeks with a breath and forced it out with two equally tiny fists.

*PBLTTTT!*

We laughed.

The game continued until she showed me something new. Stacking her fingers, one behind the other, she contorted her hand and showed it to me, begging me to do the same. When I failed miserably she took my hand into hers and counted as she tried to stack my clumsy fingers in the same way. I laughed at my failure, and she giggled while trying to show me again as if I was missing a step in her instruction. She smiled each time I tried, until we moved on again. She had something to show me.

A garbage bag strap was hanging like jewelry around her neck and a tiny impression near her stomach showed that there was something on the end of that plastic string. She rolled up her shirt every so slightly to show me what was in hiding. In a tiny, clear plastic bag was a pile of miniature toy animals and two silver coins -- her possessions. There was six Thai Baht in her bag, but she wanted to show me her animals. She pulled out a handful. A purple monkey, a yellow lion, a blue bird, and a few others.

"Oh!" I said, fingering through the plastic molds and desperately trying to remember the Khmer names for each. But I couldn't think of anything and it was time to go. I began to stand up.

"Bye bye," she said.

As I sat down in the border shuttle van, she repeated it again: "bye bye."

With the sliding door open, I took a breath and pressed air from my cheeks one more time. She returned fire.

The door slammed shut, but she was still there; looking through the window, moving her head left and right to catch me in between seat shifting occupants. She waved her hand, and I saw her mouth those two words again and again; "bye bye."

I caught her eyes, waved, and we left.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

People were stopped -- they were staring.

Whenever I finish teaching at Pek Vanna Foreign Language School, whenever a break occurs between 5:00-6:00 classes and 6:00-7:00 classes, there is a traffic jam. A mob of motorbikes, bicycles, and feet. In the madness my eyes lie to me. Flashes of color appear as hundreds when maybe there is only a hundred. Silky black ponytails swish through the air as young girls chat with each other from motorbikes. Young boys lead bicycles out of the gravel lot organized for their transportation alone and mount the pedals with a walking start. Everywhere there are faces, legs, arms, and book bags. Sky blue school uniforms from the preceding high school hours, and the latest imitation fashions for those who had time to change with the change of schools. I believe that every one of these students is passionate about learning, but the passion of freedom is overpowering, and chaos is birthed. This is the story every evening, but tonight was different.

People were stopped -- they were staring.

Usually I follow routine and catch a ride back to the pagoda where I eat dinner by 8:00. But tonight, I wanted to send an e-mail. Without having to ask, I was offered a ride by Mr. Narin; a short man with inquisitive eyes and a demeanor which gave him the appearance of always being deep in thought. He dropped me at a crossroad near the internet cafe, and I thanked and assured him I could walk the remaining distance.

"See you tomorrow," I told him.

So I began. First, I strolled into the mini mart on the corner, buying two ice cream cones, merely to satiate my craving, but also hoping to see a beautiful face; a beautiful Khmer girl behind the counter. Our relationship has been formed on lingering conversation that builds each time I push through the glass doors. Day one: I am a teacher at PVA and you are a cashier. Day two: my name is Seth and your name is Dalise; and so it continues. I stalled at the ice chest and looked down the aisles -- she was not to be seen. I closed the freezer door and walked to the counter with two cones; one chocolate, one vanilla. This would be a much shorter trip.

My heart beat faster. What was I about to see?

As I neared the internet shop, I noticed the light wasn't on. The street appeared even more dark now with this expected familiarity locked and quiet. Oh well, I thought or maybe mumbled. It wasn't urgent, and remember, I'm learning to roll with things. I returned pace to my stride and walked on, now to find a motorbike taxi to the pagoda. At the usual spot I saw several parked, across from the roundabout. So as not to play with a wad of cash in his eyes, I turned to a dark wall and presorted my fare for a now familiar route. Finished I faced the street again and while still halfway across, I made eye contact in the dim light, waved my hand once with palm to the ground, and continued across the road while my driver started his bike.

A grim sound registered in my ears.
*ticka-ticka-ticka
*

He had a floppy hat with a camo print pulled down close to his ears, and the chinstrap fashioned against his jaw.

"Wat Nokorbachey," I told him. "Bei pawn."

He held up three fingers just to confirm the amount, 3,000 Riel, and I sat down while nodding in agreement.

I like this part of travel. I know where I to go; I don't need a map. I know what to say; I only know a little Khmer, but I know enough. I am a regular; sometimes I have the same motorbike who remembering me repeats my destination before it leaves my mouth. For the most part, I know these streets. I know where to eat, where to buy bread, where to buy newspaper, where to find cheap food and cheap beer, where to develop photos, and where to make local phone calls.

On the back of the bike, in comfortable familiarity, I opened one of my ice cream cones and took a bite of the chocolate flakes which had begun to melt on top. Though immediately I wondered if I should have opened it at all. Before we could really begin, we slow to a halt. There is a traffic jam. Again my eyes deceive me, but this one is different.

Motorbikes clotted the side of the road. People were stopped -- they were staring. My driver made an exclamation in Khmer. I didn't understand. On the left side, a few of the curious had moved, but they were stopped from pushing any further. Police had control of the scene. My heart beat faster. What was I about to see?

Focused on getting me to my destination, my driver began to creep through the gawking throngs. Over everyone's heads, I then looked, and a street scene began to move like a well-planned slide show; piece by engaging piece.

A large cargo truck was stopped; at a complete standstill.

Fragments and chips were scattered beneath its front.

A grim sound registered in my ears.

*pshh*
*pshhh*


Glass was everywhere.

Weaving about, I caught a view.

A man held a can of white spray paint and shook it, up and down.

*ticka-ticka-ticka*

He continues his task.

*pshh*
*pshhh*

He was outlining marks where a limp body had just laid on the pavement, most likely minutes before.

I wanted to look away, but I keep looking.

There were flashing lights, and whoever was laying on the asphalt moments ago had just been dragged away.

Glass was everywhere. Everyone was staring. It appeared a motorbike was involved, and with this thought, I doubted there were survivors.

I was glad we did not stall. My driver raced on up the road. I actually pushed the rest of my ice cream cone into my mouth. I surprised myself, though I know the world is becoming less shocking to me. But this moment of awareness, this slide show on the street, brought me face to face with my own mortality. I won't stop riding motorbikes, but I was reminded, life is fragile.

A tear welled on my lower eyelid. I smelled the night air around me. It was cool on my skin. I was alive, but someone was not.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Pagoda Boys.

From the beginning of May until the end of the June 2008, I lived in a pagoda in rural Cambodia. In the countryside of Kampong Cham, I was gracefully invited to make my home. I accepted.

The subjects of the photographs at the bottom of this entry, these boys and men, hold a special place in my heart. These are my roommates.

Pagoda boys make their living in the temple. They serve the needs of the monks through transportation, cooking, cleaning, and other duties; and in return, the monks give each of them a place to sleep and a passion to learn.

Looking at their faces, a casual visitor would almost never assume that some are destitute or that some face family issues completely out of their hands. But this is the case for several. In portraying this subject, my roommates at Nokorbachey Temple, above all I do not want to show anything that is wanting or devoid. Poverty certainly touches their lives, but the resilience of their hearts moves beyond material. I want the viewer to see the beauty of their hearts, the charm of their eyes, the sparkle of their smiles, and the nonsense of their humor. These are my friends. We speak in broken English and Khmer, and some of us rarely exchange words, but our smiles have broken the boundary lines between cultures.

These are my roommates.



Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Driving lessons.

Venerable Vandong now has a bobblehead in his car. It nods yes as he abruptly slams on the brakes, only to release and do it again. We are inching closer to the makeshift garage under the pagoda. Release, slam. Release slam. My head bobs too. This is a monk's driving lesson by night.

------------------------------------------------------------

Late last week we were slowly ambling in the direction of town. I didn't look over at him much then, but the robed driver seemed to be tense.

"How do you feel?" I ask.

"Uh... maybe not good sometimes," he says. He laughs and his entire body shakes, his enormous head waggles, and his eyes almost shut completely.

A slow SUV is in front of us, but at first Venerable Vandong does not pass. I don't say a word. He sits with his face leaning in and both hands gripping the wheel. He finally builds courage and we slide around the black Lexus. Cars like this are still a strange and sore sight for my eyes in developing Cambodia. I understand this Lexus just as much as I understand monks that own a car they cannot drive; a car in which they install a new stereo, plush seat covers, a bobblehead, a pine tree air freshener, and a second air freshener in an overly glamorous perfume bottle that sits glued to the dash.

"Maybe the driver the same me," he comments, looking back to his passing maneuver. Venerable Vandong continues his monologue.

"When you drive so slow, many people call you a 'tourist driver,' he says. He laughs jovially with most of his comments.

Now we are going faster. As we pull into town he slips the car in between two pedaling girls and I catch a glimpse of a petite figure on the bicycle nearest my window.

"Oh, very good," I tell him, commenting on the tight squeeze he just moved through, "but maybe better for me if you would have bumped the beautiful girl. Then I could have stepped out of the car to help her. 'Are you alright?'" From the passenger seat I mimicked lifting a fallen girl from the ground.

Venerable Vandong shakes with laughter and then runs with the joke. "Where is your house?" he says. "What is your phone number? Please give me." He shakes again, straight from the belly.

I had to laugh, not just at his joke, but the combination of all these vivid images of life in the past month: the bobblehead dog he most likely personally picked, monk's comments about the mysterious opposite sex, and now driving lessons in Kampong Cham.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Monks, me, and kung fu

Last night I tried to explain culture shock to Venerable Sokheun. It was difficult. He could not get past the idea that this shock is only relative to the cost of the country. For example, since Cambodia is inexpensive, it is therefore easy. I sighed in the midst of listening. I tried to explain what it would be like if he came to America on his own. Hopefully he understood a little by the end so that my next trip to Lazy Mekong Daze in town to play pool will be thoughtfully accepted.

Another visitor soon joined the conversation, but this time diverting the subject to vocabulary.

"Seth, I want to ask you a question," Venerable Koemva began.

"Sure," I told him.

We then launched into a discussion of the word operator described in terms of Cambodian farmers, and presenter in terms of group settings. As always, with mispronunciation and improper words, laughter follows in these lighthearted conversations. Soon the room was full of orange robed monks.

All of them can speak English at different levels, but by this time in our relationship everyone has input for the circus of English and Khmer. Whether in words or in laughter; at my expense or at the expense of the absent.

As the room filled with chatter the television was silently broadcasting across the room. We talked about Laura Boof, George Boof (this is the pronunciation of "Bush"), Hillary Clinton, English teaching methods, body hair, beautiful girls, monkeys, and farts. A typical night in the pagoda.

Suddenly, the volume escalated as a Chinese kung-fu movie hit the airwaves of CTN -- the Cambodian Television Network. Conversation was subdued by silence as the stares of what was now ten, or maybe eleven people fixated their eyes on a film genre that rarely disappoints in the pagoda: over the top, often bloody, slapstick, Chinese subtitled with Khmer dubs, kung fu movies.

I laid on the floor, shirtless, while a monk snuggled up beside me. The cooling night air brought some relief but a fan still stood on the floor turning back and forth. For a moment, I forgot my allergies, frequent stomach problems, and the problems with teaching.

It was kung fu night in the pagoda.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Education

Out here you roll with things.

On a Friday night, I was sitting on a mat outside the pagoda with two friends when Mr. Undia, a balding middle-aged Khmer man who frequently wandered into the pagoda, now wandered over to me in shorts and sandals, a cigarette dangling on his lips. He had tar plastered in between each front tooth and as he flashed a smile he invited himself onto our mat. Somehow, I paid for his beers. In a few past interactions, the only conversation piece he seemed to focus his energy on was self-assumed stereotypes of all foreigners based on his few interactions. He welcomed himself into the conversation with more of these ideas. As my disposition grew cloudy he then asked if I would accompany him to the university at which he taught. [Good follow up, I thought.] Wanting nothing more than to sip my beer on the lawn with friends, I was not in the mood to think about teaching.

"Do I need to teach?" I asked without looking at him.

"No, tomorrow students have a exam. You just come with me," he said.

"What time?" I asked.

"6:30 AM."

I pondered the possibility. I could easily see being manipulated into teaching something. Like when Venerable Sokhuen sends me alone into his class with the only instruction being, "its up to you." This isn't some malicious attitude, but when I am not prepared it is sometimes unsettling. On the night of this invitation, I was not prepared to be unsettled.

Even so, I told him, "Okay. But I will need you to make sure I am up in the morning."

"Alright," he said baring his teeth yet again in a smile.

The following morning, a grim sunrise was on my face as I sat with Mr. Undia for breakfast at a folding metal table just outside the school. Another man made his way over to us, with a confident but apathetic step. He was the director. After a few bites of his breakfast, a cup of coffee was brought, and he introduced himself.

"Where are you from?" he asked in an ascending tone. This was his introduction.

"America," I said.

"Ah," he hummed, "Ameri-shit."

"No, America," I slowly rebuttled in a low tone.

"What state?" he said.

"Illinois," I told him.

"North, south, east, west?" he asked.

"Northeast. About 60 kilometers south of Chicago," I said.

"Ah," he said again, "so Northeastern University."

"No, I went to school in Indiana; Indiana Wesleyan University."

"Is that a Catholic school?" he said.

"Its a Christian school," I told him, but I immediately regretted that response. Catholicism is part of Christianity after all. "Its a Wesleyan school to be specific," I added. "A private school."

He asked me more questions, about the pagoda, teaching English, writing the proposal -- the expected questions -- and then one not so expected question.

"What did you learn?" he said casually.

This caught me off guard. It was not that I hadn't thought of this before, just that I've never been asked before. I began to answer but was cut off; it was time to begin my morning at the university, but the question still stuck with me. One sentence shifted my attitude from apprehension to curiosity. Now I was beginning to see him as an educated man; disgruntled but detached from an ineffective system of education.

"What do you think of this curriculum?" he asked me in the office.

I stared at the whiteboard with class names sealed in peeling tape. Four years to a bachelor's degree in management, or four years to a degree in English.

"Its shit," he said before I could answer.

I only smiled.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

I never had to teach that day, but only sat at the front of the class in a blue plastic chair. At a desk, I thought more about the events of this morning. About my reluctance to help, about how tired I was in neverending cultural pressure, and about how bad the education system really is. As my mind fired faster than I could write, I sat in front at a desk no different than those at which students sat, but on mine sat a whiteboard eraser, a stack of tests, and plastic flowers, pink and yellow, fixed in a styrofoam block and placed in a tiny wicker basket. Mr Undia, slightly balding, and slightly bellied came to stand at my side and stared at me. As rising light brought with it heat that creept up to this second storey room, I could see the sweat on his neck as he looked down at me. This time though he smiled not only with his teeth, but with his eyes. I did not want to come this morning, but I'm glad I did. For him it appears that just my presence is a big deal.

Even so, something was missing. He asked me if I could commit to teaching literature. I told him no, but this time I returned his smile with one of my own.

Now, the morning was complete.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

I am everyone.

In cities like Phnom Penh, there is an ugliness.

Black smoke lines stream from tailpipes long past due, sticky plastic trash collects in sidewalk piles, rotten fruit and dead fish slop on seller's tables, and wild dogs of incestuous breed prowl the gutters.

But there is beauty in its rhythms.

Here you can walk to the beat of traffic light ticks and hike over broken tiles scattered by tree life beneath. You can move to the neon glow of restaurant lights that snap down the street into domino life, or pick a straight line across motorbike traffic and with unfounded faith know that they will stop.

In the city sprawl of Phnom Penh, I know no one and no one knows me. Today I am a virgin and the city is a whore. I feel every sensation of its filth and beauty, in scent, sight, sound, and touch.

Today I can be anyone I want to be, and if I choose, no one will ever know.

Here in the midst of millions I realize that I am everyone.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Pictures.

This is going to be a short post.

First, I want to apologize for the lack of photographs on this blog. Most of you know that I have been taking thousands of pictures, but I have neglected to put them online. Because of viruses that can, and have, infected an SD card of mine, I have avoided connecting to any machine that has the slightest potential of risk. Unfortunately, this means waiting until I reach a safe computer before posting pictures, (very rare).

Second, I want to inform everyone that I have found a safe computer, and a better method of uploading. I now have several pictures posted on my Flickr site...

(http://flickr.com/photos/86005420@N00/),

...and will be posting more in the future. On this site you can view a larger image and comment if you click on the image. Hopefully soon I will have some comments of my own that will give you a little background on each photograph I've taken.

Third, I'm still in Cambodia.

Love,
Seth

Thursday, May 8, 2008

"Maximum."

On the first day I considered content to be most important and I took his word. But on the second day, my patience was wearing and I had to look. Moving to the top of the essay portion of Venerable Vandong's proposal, I read the instructions just to be sure that he was correct in a "ten page" length for this attached portion.

"It says 10 page maximum!" I exclaim to him. "That means it does not have to be ten pages!"

For the past day, he has pushed me into believing that we needed to reach 10 pages in his very first essay. Yes that's right; this is his very first essay and I am teaching him to write it.

I continue, desperately trying to get him to understand my example. "This means that it can have five, or six, or seven."

"Or eight," he adds in a serious manner.

For a moment I stare blankly. Whether at him or at the air I do not remember. For a moment I want to pull my hair out, but somehow I resist and start laughing. This is the laughter of insanity, misunderstanding, frustration, innocence, humor, and spending more time explaining than writing.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Sick in the pagoda.

I live in a pagoda now with a host of Buddhist monks.

Visiting the small city of Kompong Cham, I came across a volunteering opportunity and committed two weeks of my time; ten days left at this point. Based on the discovery of my university degree, a monk named Ven. Vandong ("Ven" meaning "Venerable," a title bestowed upon monks), asked me to help him write a project proposal for the organization he has founded, BSDA (Buddhism and Social Development Association). BSDA has provided free education and cultural development for over 1,000 children in Cambodia. Most of them are extremely poor, while there are many who have no parents, or have been pulled off the streets of Kompong Cham, from begging, child slavery, or maybe worse. With over half the population of Cambodia under the age of 18, this organization is truly fighting for life, just as much as it is fighting for change.

The particular proposal I will be working on, concerns improving the lives of the impoverished and underprivileged communities in Cambodia by raising awareness of social accountability in local government. Hopefully, the people of Cambodia can establish for themselves a more active role in governmental policy.

For the length of my volunteering, I will live with the monks.

I sleep on a wooden bed, I eat after they do, I study English with them, I sit with them in my room, and I watch an 80's, Chinese language, over-the-top, Kung-fu movie with them. Many of the monks are in their mid-twenties.

Their kindness is overwhelming. It has proved itself from the beginning, but recently, when I was sick.

...............................................................................................

My stomach was bloated -- swollen past normality. Three times I threw up, but it remained the same with nausea rolling in my belly. Muscle twitches and tiny cramps strained random tendons. In this weakness, my body's state seems to be the only concern in this world; I think of little other than its improvement.

This is reprove for the frailty of man; the selfishness that binds me, and how sickness rules the human state.

In this time, I missed my family immensely. My mother's care is like none other. My father's willingness to tuck me in a blanket or make tea to soothe my throat and stomach-- never ending. Knowing that I am missed in my half-a-world-a-way absence increases my longing.

In this sickness, its as if all my doubts and misunderstandings of a culture not my own, all my personal insecurity, fell into a single moment. They fell into a single pile. I wanted the familiarity of a worn, plaid blanket of navy blue and crimson, and a pair of brown pillows my father stitched -- made for comfort, not for style. I wanted to nibble saltine crackers and to sip 7-Up; not be offered rice porridge and hard-boiled eggs. I wanted a bathroom with a toilet to sit on and paper to use; not a squatter with a dipper and water at my side. I wanted familiarity. I did not want to give a spoonful of food resistant contemplation. I only wanted second nature. But necessity always leads to action.

My sickness surged on.

In the morning I made a third trip to expel contents of my stomach. I rushed to the bathroom, thinking of the toilet near the floor, but finding it in use, I darted out a side door and convulsed in yellow.

A monk came by and said to me, "Are you alright my friend? Do you need my help?"

"I think I'm alright," I replied, my nose dripping.

My body shook again. In a arched crunch my back and abs tensed. I stopped for a breath.

"Here, do you need me to do this?" He began to rub my back and massage it in gentle taps.

"Thank you," I said while in a squat, hunched over a ledge, at the top of a cement flight of stairs. "Thank you so much."

"There," he told me with a smile, finishing his act of care.

I rinsed my face in the bathroom and walked back to my room, trying to contemplate what I had just felt. I was stopped multiple times along the way, with smiles.

"Did you eat yet?"
"What is wrong"
"Do you want to take a bath?"
"If you need it, the bathroom is just around the corner."

...............................................................................................

My sickness lasted for three days and two nights.

In this time, visits from monks never stopped. They never stopped inquiring on how I was, nor asking me if I had eaten yet. I went to a doctor, was given pills. I had a traditional Khmer treatment applied to my stomach -- crushed herbal leaves with oil. I can now eat again, and even though the day after left me in slight fear, the taste of Cambodian food will draw me back in. It already has; out of necessity and desire.

This was not quite home, but looking back, a lesson in kindness and a bed that Someone great prepared for me.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Neutral morsels.

"Here, for you."

With thumb and pointer, Mr Bun Saret, my hired motorbike driver for two days, pushed a small black morsel to my face. Sandwiched between his fingers; almost unknown to me. Maybe it was better this way. At times its better to move without knowing.

I took his offering between my finger and thumb, and before my face could react, a small beat punched through my body. I began to laugh, in shock and with humor. It wasn't that I'd never seen bugs before, or seen them eaten. In Thailand, almost nightly, a cart rolled by with locusts, cockroaches, and six-legged crawlers. In Laos, giant grasshoppers and equally large roaches were sold on skewers -- from the street to our overloaded pickup truck. But now, there was a big difference. This locust was in my hand and I was expected to eat it.

I continued laughed through a big open-mouthed smile, "I've never eaten anything like this before."

"Its good," he said. Mr Serat pulled a white glass bowl over; the bottom of it filled with dead, cooked, locusts. He popped one in his mouth and dropped the legs on the floor. "In Khmer, the people like this with beer."

In a jolt, I tossed it in my mouth.

*Crunch*
*Crunch*
*Crunchcrunchcrunchswallow*

This was not quite the nut and pretzel mix. Slightly salty, but not the same.

"Mm..." he gestured towards me with that bowl. I cracked up laughing at his expectation, and I took another.

[My mind always churning. How did I get here? I wonder while chewing. What would my family think of this?]

I had a couple more. I don't know why. Maybe to please my gracious host.

[These aren't bad. I taste a little salt. But mostly neutral. I'm going to stop, now.]

He looked at me.

"Oh, finished," I told him.

He grabbed a few more, pulling the legs off and after tossing the slightly charred body in his mouth, he nibbled off a tiny bit of meat on the locust's upper thigh, throwing the knee and the foot to the floor.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Ban Lung is colored rust.

Making full use of my visa, I spent the rest of my time in Laos; up to the very day of my stamp's expiration. I stayed in a bungalow on the island of Don Det, a small getaway out of the supposed thousands created in the waters of the Mekong, and in the heat of the day, when no one attempts to leave the slight comfort of a shadow, I laid in a hammock and read The Road by Cormac McCarthy, while sipping a chilled Coca-Cola with a straw.

I wish I could have had a Coke in my hand as I crossed the border into Cambodia. A single wooden shack with three officers and four pens stood as a roadside checkpoint into what appeared to be a wasteland. I was stamped into Cambodia.

While waiting for others making the crossing, I walked to the center of the road and stood there, watching nothing apparent. Without a bend in sight, a hot tarmac strip ran to the horizon. The land on either side, choked and sputtered in the dust. Here you could hear the earth in a dry whisper counting the days to the start of the wet season.

Storms are arriving with night time frequency. Soon I hope, the skies will break.

Stopping only for lunch in the town of Stung Treng, I hopped on a four hour, bumpy minibus to Ban Lung, where I spent my first two nights.

Again, dust clogs the air, prompting even a few foreigners to cover their mouths with a scarf, while most of the locals handle this rusty air with tenacity and little concern. A few naked toddlers run about with white smiles peeking around the corner, their dark skin colored in orange splotches, and motorbikes ride past with a cloudy tail of filth; their riders covered from head to toe.

I noticed that many of the women here wear matching pajama tops and bottoms, in the middle of the city and the middle of the day. Red with floral patterns or yellow with something else. This is a bold fashion statement in the rusty dust of Ban Lung; or maybe its merely a comfort statement. With socks and sandals, or just sandals alone, these women of all ages stretch out from their shops in patterned pride.

In physical features and the sounds of language, I am beginning to mentally note the subtle differences between Thai, Laos, Vietnamese, and Cambodian; and even though I am surrounded with their presence, there are times that I am physically stunned by the beauty of the people here. Only the most bitter hearts can resist a smile. I certainly know mine is not bitter.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Evil has red eyes and green legs.

In Pakbeng, I was sitting in a poorly lit restaurant when a praying mantis dropped from the ceiling and onto the floor, gliding just past my ear. I jumped in my chair excitedly and immediately leaned in for a calculated, closer look. He (yes, it could have been a she -- I didn't check), was about 4 inches long, of bright green color, with beady red eyes and a triangular head that moved on a swivel. I took my navy blue cap, and bade him to creep upon it so I could get a closer look, but elevating him from the floor to my table, he charged at my chest with aggression, and in my surprise I shoved him back to the ground.

I watched him, now standing in the center of the room. His head slowly turned as he looked for revenge.

An adorable 2 year old Asian girl, with hair in bobbing, sparse pigtails that stand on either side of her little round head, is happily trotting around the room. But now her interest turns to this new green plaything.

I look to the devilish mantis. His head turns. With a slow, creaky door, I'm watching you turn, he looks to this charging toddler.

Barefoot, she flops her tiny feet across the room and in reaching him, bends her knees ever so slightly and in quick momentum arcs from her waist to the ground. In one fell swoop she tries to grab a new curiosity in a tiny hand.

Red menacing eyes send signals to instincts. He crouches and at the last second, shuffles away.

She is determined. She lifts her tiny torso. Her red capris and white dress with tiny red polka dots flows with her movement. With two more wobbly strides she moves, and stopping quickly, her body sways like flagpole on a windy day, before abruptly, she bends to the ground again.

He doesn't move. Now he's looking right at her.

A chunky hand descends.

He is waiting.

Fingers open.

I imagine his beady eyes are burning with hate.

She has him. Her body springs back to standing, her pigtails move in this sudden breeze, and for half a second, the room is quiet.

"WAHHHHHHHHH!"

She screams. Tears roll down her cheeks. In her tiny clenched fist, a tiny green beast pinches her skin.

Older brother to the rescue.

He tears the bug out of her hand and smashes it in his. He cradles her in his arms, and slowly her wailing fades, with tears still cascading slowly.

What an evil bug. What a harsh lesson. But somehow, cute.

The bad bus.

[8:40 a.m.]

The man at the ticket window slothily counted putrid smelling paper Kip. I leaned on the counter, shifting my stare from his eyes to the money passing through his hands. Maybe I wasn't intimidating enough. He didn't look at me once.

He unlocked a drawer out of my sight, and slid a pile of inflated cash into his desk. Eyelids propped only half open stirred not in their glaze of monotony. Wiry glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and black hair stood frozen, parted on the right with bangs overhanging a slight pout held in round cheeks. All these features heaped together into a pudgy face finally acknowledged my awaiting eyes in a sleazy shift. He wanted every measure of power available to a ticket seller, including redefining customer service.

"Vientiane," I said for the third time.

I signed my name on a clipboard and pushed 100,000 Kip through the window. He picked his rubber stamp, assigned me seat number 8, and pushed my ticket through a plexiglass half-circle.

"When does it leave?" I thought there was a bus scheduled at 9:30, but just to be sure, I asked him.

"About one hour." And with that he assumed the same place as before; he returned to his paper, eyes downcast and pudge hanging.

This encounter ended at 8:50. Now its...

[11:20]

...and we have just begun to pull out of the lot. Either this bus is truly operating on the laid back Asian watch, or the sellers want to fill every single seat. Probably the latter. At least five red plastic stools propped up passengers in the rubber matted aisle, and we would pick up more along the way.

For a moment, I miss punctuality. The timeliness of the Metra train that pulls away from sprinting passengers only 10 seconds late, or the rush of the "El", with its warning beeps and ensaring doors.

[11:35]

We have moved just next door to a fuel station and now here we sit, in a line, behind a utility truck, while motorbikes squeeze in the cracks. How hard would it be to fuel the bus beforehand, I wonder? Or is this another example of faulty logic? -- case and point, the woman in front of me, that has repeatedly tried to force her seat back into a reclined position, not looking once for mechanical failure, or the more obvious reason: that my legs, propped up on the wheel well, are cramped against the back of her chair. She repeatedly smashes my kneecaps.

[11:44]

Its almost noon and we still haven't fueled. I guess this is the first stop for bathroom breaks too.

[11:50]

Fast forward.

[9:17 p.m.]

More kneecap smashing.

Fast forward again.

[11:30 p.m.]

We arrive.

After three 15-20 minute driver cigarette breaks, two potty breaks for a whining two year old, and a long stop for lunch, I finally arrived in Vientiane. I walked around the city in the dark of half past eleven and moved from full guesthouse to full guesthouse -- finally settling for a bed in a scorching room that kicked me out at 6:30 in the morning for guests that had made reservations.

Now I'm sweaty, with no clean laundry, and a visa that expires in 4 days, sitting in an internet cafe, and listening to Bush, while a prolonged, on-and-off, 2 week abnormal stomach eats at me after I fed it a danish pastry and two cups of coffee. Sure, not Laos food, but comfort food.

This is my life. Now.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

A lost perception.

The smiles I get from my friends at the Ancient Luang Prabang Hotel are purely jovial. I watch them work in black slack stride with sandaled feet and neon green polos. In their interactions with other foreigners, I am able to see something I have lately neglected.

My perception of size has been greatly altered in almost 4 months spent in Southeast Asia, to the extent that I forget my towering height that reaches at least a foot above the crowns of their small round heads. This size worked to my detriment when picking out a shirt in the market one week ago -- the polo was about one size to small -- so I have proceeded to slowly with pressure pop the threaded seams that bind my arms and chest. At times I have also smacked my head in short doorways or ducked with a whoosh to avoid lumps from bamboo sidewalk awnings.

Now, watching my dedicated friends working in the presence of a pair of six foot white women, they appear to be small fantastical elves in the presence of giants; attending to their work with honest duty but jumping into character when catching my watchful eye and returning it with a gleeful smile. The truth of my perception.

I have made plans to leave Luang Prabang by tomorrow morning. My already extended visa expires on the 26th, so I will slowly make my way to Cambodia. The route: from here to Udom Xai, to Pakbeng, to Sainyabuli, to Pak Lai, and back to Vientiane before going to the border, straight south. A roundabout way to see the north -- its people, rivers, and mountains.

[A diversion from my normal writing; in the facial features of a woman four tables out, I am reminded of someone I once pursued to the best of my knowledge. In hiding romanticism of my years, I chased with letters from west to east. With concern for every word, I wrote in my exhaustion. Beneath a polyester rainfly or a starlit sky, and with embedded dirt in the whorls of my fingertips, I painted in monochromatic color. But with more grace than ever before. I don't know what will happen to these letters. Have they embedded themselves in the heart of their recipient, or will they wash away like the black once upon my fingertips? In a tenderly sharp jawline, and thoughtful forehead furrows, I see pieces of someone I know.]

Monday, April 14, 2008

And then there was starch.

Hearing that Luang Prabang was the pulse of Laos at the three (or sometimes five) day New Year's celebration, I decided to make a return visit.

Today, is day three of the festivities. Each has been marked with massive processions, as a migration of cheerful and many drunken Lao people make their way to a single place. On day one, that was an island on the far side of the Mekong.

I watched as at about 2:00 in the afternoon, hordes loaded tiny boats that rocked with the excited passengers. After they finished loading, they then overloaded before *put-putting* across the river. From my spot on the shore, looking to the island opposite, all I could see was a mass of bodies without room to move, while full boats continued to offload and sit in a traffic jam on the water, amid cheers and splashes.

I missed my ride across the river with To, but it worked out fine since I actually ended up bumping into my friend Nick, from the bus ride. He invited me to "enjoy" with his friends and family, so of course, I sat with them. Together, we shared a meal of a unique delicacy.

The blood of a duck had been drained into several small bowls and mixed with green onions and other various innards. Peanuts were strewn across the top and as this pure red substance slowly hardened into a jello-like consistency, I spooned a runny piece out and with a gulp to push down my weak stomach, I took a bite. It wasn't that bad. My eyes triggered my stomach into a brief fight, but I resisted and ended up having several more bites, before retiring from my bowl of duck blood.

After finishing dinner, we placed the head of the duck in a bowl and covered it with a plate. In our circle of celebration, we took turns shaking this makeshift container all about, until setting it down on the table we lifted the plate and revealed the direction of the pointing beak. Like an arrow, the beak pointed at people in our circle and whoever was at the receiving end of this point, had to drink a glass of beer.

As the sun began to disappear into cloudy skies, we danced in the streets rubbing ash from burnt, crusted kettles on the faces of passing motorbikes and anyone else within our reach. I have quickly learned that this is another custom of the Lao New Year. With an ashen face, and a full belly, I happily returned to my room, on the evening of the first day.

Day two, the masses went to a waterfall, Kuangsi, about 30km from here before returning for a parade with the new Miss Lao New Year, in the midday heat of a Lao summer.

In the midst of all this heat and bustle, in the middle of Lao river migrations and parades in traditional wear, there is a central element I have not yet mentioned -- water. Two elements -- water and flour; three, if you count the black ash of crusted kettles.

For the duration of this festival, the entire country participates in a water fight and no one is safe. Small children run around with supersoakers, pickup trucks with 15 in the bed cruise the streets, with the 16th passenger being a rubber garbage bin full of water, and then a few scoops in the hands of gleeful Lao teenagers; just to make sure everyone gets a good dousing on the driveby. It doesn't matter if you are wearing a suit, or riding with your girlfriend on a motorbike. You will get wet.

And then there was starch. Out of the center of crowds you can sometimes see a puff of white, an explosion of fluffy dust -- the aftermath of a random handful to the face.

Now, take these two small mentioned instances, and multiply them from one side of the city to the other. From the mountains in the north, to the plains in the south. The entire country is wet.

Today, day three, the parade will continue in a direction opposite to which it waltzed yesterday. And today, I expect much of the same.

(Correction 4/16 - starch, not flour)

Friday, April 11, 2008

Here, just like home.

Every Lao special event must, as a prerequisite, have chest-high floor model speakers pumping out hundreds of watts in bass lines. Riding on the back of To's motorbike, I felt the wedding party before I saw it. I felt the sound eating through the air, stopping only with a slap on my face that bounced into dissipation. Along with a mutual friend Kao, who rode at our side on his red motorbike, we parked in a pack of 30 others. We fixed our hair and checked our teeth in tiny circular side mirrors, and then walked in the direction of commotion.

In the paved front of a colonial style white house, folding metal tables with legs splayed beneath tablecloths of blue were set. Each one had two bottles of water, three large bottles of beer, clear plastic cups, and a tin bucket of ice to chill our drinks that would sweat in the heat of a Southeast Asian April. Slightly deflated balloons hung from tree stems. Clay flowerpots wore their latest fashions in evening glory. Lao girls in traditional skirts and dresses waltzed in with grace and their dates followed alongside in button downs, polos, and slacks.

As we entered, we dropped our invitations and gifts into a box for the bride and groom. A line of greeting stood, making the first stop a platter with two tiny pewter chalices. A shot of whiskey was poured and with a smile from the wedding party we downed our drinks, and we bowed in greeting while liquor slid down our throats with a warm aftermath.

We took a seat near the back with two mutual friends of To and Kao, and in a few words between sips of beer on ice, we watched tables fill. Miniature clouds of flies danced beneath fluorescent rods of light, mimicking in their dance the commuting throngs below. Conversation built, and now, even bashful voices spoke in the mask of music and tone. We talked of relationships, girls, dancing, Lao wedding customs, and the burden of being shy.

With most of the guests assembled, a voice halted the music and announced that two families had now become one. We smiled with applause and I ducked in close to To for a brief translation. But with an abrupt ending, numerous chairs began to back, scraping the pavement as they did so, to make way for the dinner feast.

In the most populous continent in the world, you don't get a place by waiting in an organized queue -- you make your place. At a mini-mart, the first person served is the one who first places his goods on the service counter and asks how much. The same principle applies to parking spots, bus seats, lane changes, and intersections. A meal is no different. You must assertively scoop rice into your bowl and ladle chillies, spinach leaves, pork cutlets, shredded chicken, mushrooms, carrots, basil leaves, potato slices, and hard-boiled eggs into your possession. I think this is just a cultural mannerism, maybe built out of necessity, but still carried out in love. No ill will is held towards those who dipped their spoon first, or who with long arms cutoff the entry of a shorter. With full plates and seats retaken, goodwill replaces a rush as if nothing ever happened.

My palate expresses its pleasure, and I smile at my table companions.

"Sap bor?" (delicious, isn't it?) Kao asks me.

"Sap lai!" (very delicious!), I express between a gulp and a bite.

As the night moves from feasting to dancing, Kao, To, and I take leave of the wedding and move to a Lao nightclub. We now sit on wraparound artificial leather couches with yet another group of friends and acquaintances. Conversation makes brief appearances, but in the dark I contentedly sit and think, watching life unfold in the faces of a world once unknown to me.

In these faces of bronze skin, dark hair, and lovely smiles, I see something that in sound may reveal itself as simplistic, but in sight holds a lasting impact. That is, that the essence of our human existence, though separated by space, is felt with the same measures.

Here, there are people too bashful to dance. Here, there are girls that dance in a group of friends, waiting for a man to make a move. Here, there are broken hearted wallflowers, womanizers falling into their own game, aging party girls feeling weary, and drunken middle-agers who no longer care. Here, there are shy people who can't talk to the girl across the street, bold ones who should probably slow down, straight A students who feel out of place, and academic jokers who couldn't feel more at home. Here, there are dreamers, lovers, quitters, failures, and seekers. And we are all much more alike than different.

Here, is perhaps the greatest evidence for Someone greater than ourselves, and that is, we all hope.

Here, just like home.