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.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

What not to give.

The Luang Prabang National Museum occupies what was once the royal palace, so that every room has a regal air. The floor is of long, dark wooden planks and white walls are graciously interrupted with beautiful crown moulding and glass murals depicting traditional Lao lifestyles. This building itself should be housed within a museum.

Though there were many paintings, period furniture sets, and meticulously carven amulets that drew my eyes to their extravagance and yet simple placement, the final exhibit was quite humorous. Apparently, the United States and Australia need a lesson in the constitution of beauty.

In the final part of my circumnavigating walk, gifts to Laos were in glass display. The Japanese sent vases and plates of the most beautiful porcelain and with magnificient flowers in full bloom and brushstrokes of Mount Fuji. Myanmar and Cambodia sent ornamental silver dishes and platters. The Chinese gave carvings of jade. The Vietnamese sent more gifts of this ornamental splendor. India sent white stone-carved elephants and Buddha amulets.

Now we come to Australia, and their gift is a boomerang. Finally, my home country, has blessed Lao society, with among several symbols of the Land of Liberty, a model of the lunar module.

What says "lets be friends" more than a miniature, scaled, plastic and metallic, space landing apparatus?

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Out of many, one.

Robert Mugabe seeks to continue his stranglehold on Zimbabwe, the Chinese try to salvage an Olympic year, Cuba plans to lift bans off electric toasters, the Dutch exercise free speech, Botswana looks to bring diamonds home, CERN searches for God, Bear Stearns tapes a $2.00 note to the doors, Barack deals with a fanatic mentor, I question who I am, and my family sells their home.

Meanwhile, a Lao family struggles to pay for dinner.

[In the midst of consistent global strife, no turmoil feels greater than our own. But if you stop and listen, you can hear outside pressure build.]

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Slip.

An image enters my mind of my Nana's house. I am running on the sidewalk that fronts her yard when suddenly the toe of my shoe scrapes the pavement. I am wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and just playing with my friends; but now I am falling. I close my eyes and put my hands out to catch myself but momentum presses me forward. My knees slide against the grit of cement and my hands lead the way. My skin is abrasively torn at my palms and at my knees. I am crying now, both from the sight of blood and the touch of pain. My childhood friends are ahead of me. I look through squinted eyes and watch them look back for an instant, but that's all they do. I am alone on the sidewalk, and surely, I will scar.

Though in my despair, I find encouragement in the scribbles on the opening page of a new book. "Page 117" it says, in orange marker. This is what it says:

"CHRIST. My son, what are you saying? Consider My sufferings and those of My Saints, and cease to complain. You have not shed your blood in resistance; your troubles are but small in comparison with those who have suffered so much, whose temptations were strong, whose trials so severe, and who were proved and tested in so many ways. Remember the heavier sufferings of others, that you may more easily bear your own small troubles. If they do not seem small to you, beware lest your impatience be the cause; and whether they be small or great, try to bear them all patiently.

The better you prepare yourself to meet suffering, the more wisely you will act, and the greater will be your merit. You will bear all more easily if your heart and mind is diligently prepared.

...

Always be ready for battle if you wish for victory; you cannot win the crown of patience without a struggle; if you refuse to suffer, you refuse the crown. Therefore, if you desire the crown, fight manfully and endure patiently. Without labor, no rest is won; without battle, there can be no victory.

THE DISCIPLE. Lord, make possible for me by grace what is impossible to me by nature. You know how little I can bear, and how quickly I become discouraged by a little adversity. I pray You, make every trial lovely and desirable to me for Your Name's sake, since suffering and affliction for your sake is so profitable to the health of my soul."

-Thomas A. Kempis: The Imitation of Christ

I have fallen. And I cannot stand up alone.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

In three words.

I love Laos.

I wish you could see my journal. Every single day, my pen swoops, jots, dips, curls, and blots ink upon gridded pages. It is a mess of words, diagrams, arrows, circles, hand drawn maps, phone numbers, and Lao language. Still, my thoughts are incomplete. This blog is but a sliver of my understanding; even my journal cannot retain or keep pace with my mind.

Some nights I sit down and look at these pages, or stare at a blinking cursor, knowing that I have much to write, but not knowing where to begin. As I try to keep up with my thoughts in Laos, I am also slowly chipping away at an essay about my old home, which as of April 11th, will be officially sold. So many thoughts eat my brain, but feeling the need to type, here is a brief summary of a day in Vientiane.

I sat in the park upon a mat and practiced language with a beautiful Lao girl, I went to the Cambodian embassy by motorbike with a new friend named Zack (pronounced "Zock" in Lao), I received one of the best haircuts in my life from a Lao barber, I went to lunch with Zack and had noodle soup and Pepsi, we went to a snooker club and I lost 15,000 kip learning to play, and I was told that I speak more Lao than people who have been here for 2 years.

I'll stay another day.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Not so aromatic.

On several occasions, finding myself to be merely a face in the crowd, I have become completely engrossed in recording the differences in travelers. While I am not much of an anthropologist, I usually make time to record these various styles and mannerisms in my journal, so that someday, I may have a short compendium of their breeds.

Here is an example of a recent encounter, dated the 25th of March, 2008.

"There are many different types of travelers. The one immediately to my right is of the 'I-don't-shower-often' crowd; (although, I have actually never seen a crowd of this type before, its probably for the better of my health). His nose is red with clogged pores and pimples that have sprouted near its overhanging base. He is also an obvious fan of manga. I glance at his computer monitor and see doe-eyed comic girls in knee high socks, who by yelling in excitement illicit concentric circles of sunlit rays blasting around their faces. Please don't move too much my tiny-internet-cafe-sharing companion, for there are ill-favored cross breezes aloft."