02/20/2012
Dearest Rocks,
I have been travelling in Southeast Asia since January 9th now. I am writing this first generic entry from a toilet in Chiang Mai. Perhaps it's a crude image but I do find some poetry in the parallel between the day's bodily digestions and those of the mind. There is more ease in the flow, literal or figurative (depending on the nature of the day's consumptions, be they diuretic, fibrous, or parasitic) of one's bowels than there is in that of words, but every motivation helps.
I find it easier to think when I am moving, or when everything is moving past me. One of my favorite places to write, if I must sit (more ergonomic a position than that of writing while flopping about), is on a moving train. There is something endlessly cinematic in the linear progression of the environs, frame by frame. The stimuli are endless. They trigger the thoughts
to rise and wane, involuntarily like breaths or, to bring it full circle, like movements, (fugues even!)
I am evading a birthday party at the moment.
That of the niece of Nice, the owner of this guest house (named Number Nice, pronounced 'Number Nigh', perhaps a pun).
I have not been able to figure out if Nice is her real name or a nickname she appropriated as a means of self-reinvention or perhaps for falang (foreigners) ease of pronunciation.
<flush. Now for the surrogate imposition of flow, sipping coconut juice, one thought at a time. >
The horrible notes of uninspired Asiatic pop-tunes (or shall I just say "pop-tunes fresh off the belt") compete with the aroma of my sip. Smog-inducing moped growls vainly attempt to drown out the lilts of love sick in C major. Resounding clinks and the clutter of guffaws and abrupt singingsalong supplement the lacking percussion to the sappy ballad swells, soon to be replaced with a diva club dance track, to the expectation, yet chagrin, of those turning in early at 9:30pm in order to rise for a dawn trekking-package song-theao (a truck-like vehicular of sorts, used to shared-taxi passengers around the city, for a price cheaper than the private tuk-tuk) pick-up.
I have yet to go on such a trek. Perhaps I am spoiled by the ease of access to the National Parks of the U.S. and to friends who are interested in joining for epic adventures, but the whole deal of having someone show me nature, maybe an elephant ride and a village human-zoo style, for money, feels so nauseatingly contrived that I have not even considered entering a tourist booking booth. That is a lie; I walked into the climbing and caving center once seeking climbing partners from those posted on a personal ad wall within, and stopped to inquire as to the cost of the caving trek. Too expensive, even for the one that requires no extra gear whatsoever. I politely said I would be back and we both knew I wouldn't but politely pretended that we didn't.
There is some amount of guilt I have been experiencing for the past month or so. One such cause of guilt is regarding not trekking, especially during the transient dry season. I feel like I should take in all this place has to offer, aside from a week at a farm and little walks in the countryside around it.
I have mostly been reading, eating new fruit, biking around town, and drinking boba tea. I have finally been able to break the evil spell of being an editor for 5 years. I no longer catch myself 3 pages past the point where I stopped absorbing the story and started scanning for grammatical and spelling errors. No, the fact that I have actually found errors of both kinds serves me no solace, so don't ask!
So far I have read two Douglas Adams books ('Restaurant at the End of the Universe', and 'Life the Universe and Everything'), 'Catch Me If You Can' by Mr. Frank Abagnale Jr, a modicum of Sea of Poppies (Amitav Ghosh), and am half-way through Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell.
The Douglas Adams has been most appropriate for travel. It manages to discuss travel and the (search for) meaning(lessness) of everything without bogging one down with, though making plenty of allusion to, real history and the present reality, without making one feel like they may be missing the point because they fell asleep when that whole decade was covered. He remarks also, on many properties of human nature, while keeping a sense of humour about it all.
It did not take long for me to start dreading Abagnale's story, as his rate and scale of cons increased. I need not be reminded of so many horrible elements of humanity, including how easily people overlook things that are out of the ordinary when faced with a pretty face, status, dinner, and trust by association. The dude's first con was his own father for christ's sake! The Abagnale lens did little to boost my DNV of optimism when faced with the droves of tourists and the trade associated with them. I soon became bogged down by the superficiality of most interactions around me, and constantly uncertain of the meaning of the word 'friend' so easily thrown about by the "locals".
Ghosh is a good author but historically referential, making it a bit of a chore to wade through. I recognize the value of his story. It speaks of voyages into unknown and battles for land possession in its midst, and this is, of course, appropriate for me to chew on in my current context.
The compelling nature of diurnal journal unfoldings and unorthodox time-progression, draws me to Cloud Atlas, as it has almost a Moby Dick flow to it, followed by a Crying of Lot 49 detective style, followed by the dystopian future. It definitely dons one their sea legs. Thus, I am still reading it.
I am seeking "Razor's Edge" at the good bookstores around here, as a friend told me it is why he left his home state for the first time, never looking back.
I also want to finish 'A Stranger in A Strange Land', which I started during my farm stay, only to find out it belonged to a fellow named Willow and that he was looking for it, after having left it to lie about the common space/eating area, for a couple days untouched.
Science Fiction, or whatever you call it without offending the author, is serving me well in my here-now.
Knowing that I have these books (including the ones I have been unable to find) and many more gold mines downloaded into an external drive as well as a netbook/tablet hybrid should make one wonder why I am bothering with bookstores and printed books on paper, along with their undeniable weight. I wondered this myself, as I planned so diligently for such things with such solutions. But hard as I try, I cannot seem to shake the rediscoverd love of holding a book, getting lost in its pages, unplugging from everything (both a power source and a proximity to the interwebs), dog-earing the shit out of it, splashing soup and lemongrass juice on it, then leaving it to be found, whether in a hostel library, a hotel drawer (better if next to a bible), or the newfound method of returning it to the same bookstore for half price, or selling it to a different bookstore for a bartered-upon compensation.
The latter has been an intrigue of sorts for me.
The bookstore seems on its way out. Physical books are getting heavier on the back and
and the wallet, due to the kindles and amazons. It is silly for local libraries and travellers to get involved with one another. Thus, was born, in many travel circuits, the library-bookstore hybrid.
If you don't return the book, no skin off anyone's back. It probably went to good use anyway. If you do return it to a store, you lighten your load, and get some fluidity for a few pad thais or another book, be it in the same city or the next. I like Chiang Mai as a bookreading city. It has good bookstores, as it's the second largest city in Thailand, has an active ex-pat scene ensuring a wide variety of languages as well as genres other than pulp, and is a given on the traveller's northern circuit of this country, but it has less smog/density/sex-trade/mafia/chaos than Bangkok, the largest city in Thailand. On the other hand, Bangkok is the place you fly into, and out of or through, whether it's home or to your next Asian destination. This makes it a good place to stop and pick up/drop-off some books, for/from your enjoyment somewhere else; this gives Bangkok book import/export status, I presume, if solely speculating about the used books category.
My first trip to a bookstore here, did not go so smoothly. My friend-by-familial-proxy, Miles, who was flying out of Chiang Mai that day to take yet another course in massage, this time in Luang Prabangh, Laos...<'Take a Load off, Annie' has just blessed my ears...uhgain>...was running some last minute errands. Purchasing books was one of themone of them, and I decided to tag along by bike (I, on a rented cruiser whose breaks had a 3 meters stopping distance at regular cruising speed when fully compressed, leading to a few close calls in this bedlam that is traffic) to get a quick tour and save his life if he happened to pass out after being on his fourth day of hydrated calorie-free starvation.
We walked into our first bookstore where he efficiently handed a notebook turned to a title/author filled page to a human behind a desk at a computer. I ambled about, looking at the wares, not planning on buying anything today as I prefer to have more time...(oh yessss, Hurt, the Johnny Cash cover resounds from the guest house across the street!)...seeking out my sword or wand, finding the book that calls to me most. In order to not backtrack next time, I whipped out my iPhone and proceeded to take photos of the covers of the most promising leads so far. After my third shot, I looked up to see what appeared to be the ex-pat shopowner pausing from sorting a mound of books to angrily shake his head at me with all his being. I asked him how he was doing, as a courtesy. " I know what you're doing, and it's not okay." I inquired politely as to just what it was he thought I was doing. " People treat bookstores as store fronts for Amazon." and continued to look angrier like he was planning on launching his senior over the paper mountain by shear force of willpower to pummel me or send me out onto the sidewalk on my opportuning behind.
I proceeded to feel wronged, as it is a personal crusade of mine to fight the phenomenon of people thinking they know everything about you just by looking at you and loading their thorny-sided narrative all over you and yours. I told him that I was not doing so, and attempted to explain what I was doing, already infinitely tired of this eternal fight.
"How do I know that?" he petulantly responded.
"How do I know you don't have slaves in your basement and aren't overcharging me for these books," I fumed?
"You can see the prices right there."
I summoned as much patience as I could, telling him that the point still stood.
The fact that he doesn't know does not mean he should assume the worst about any given human.
I proceeded to ask him if he had "A Stranger in a Strange Land" to direct the conversation somewhere savory and routine. He pointed to where I would find it. I was unable to.
Miles was wrapping up at this point as they had none of the obscure books he sought. I stood silently waiting. He asked if I had found what I had been looking for and I told him I just wanted to leave rather than search any further for I had been judged for no reason. This was audible to the owner, and I didn't care. Miles and I departed and found books elsewhere. I considered walking past the first bookstore with the book I ended up buying from a competitor (the sword: 'Restaurant at the end of the Universe') waving in my hand but decided it would be spiteful and we continued onwards.
Despite his method of delivery snagging a hangnail of mine, the man had a point and I found it to be illuminating. I can only imagine his frustration with the kindle bearers that stomp around using his labors while contributing to the death of bookstores worldwide. We managed to both trip each other's tripping wires. Ha! I still buy/sell books elsewhere (rather than the unfortunate first shop) but feel his pain. Having spoken to other bookstore owners about this general phenomenon since, I now know, he's not the only one that suffers due to this state of affairs.
And anyway, a white classically-proportioned blonde American (though of Russian birth) female travelling in Southeast Asia, there's some amount of discrimination I need to expect and be callous to, lest I go running home to the cave from whence I came. It's hard. On better days, I just tell myself people are being people, as they are everywhere. Some endlessly curious about the unfamiliar, some scraping to get by and don't care who you are just that you can contribute to putting bread on their table, some hopelessly prejudiced, some horny and mentally undressing anything with the proper organs and, less-importantly, a pulse.
On worse days, I feel like a mark and/or hated. There are these glares that no smile nor nod will melt and it is hard to be thoroughly convinced that I just don't know how to read foreign faces. And I alternate between guilt as to what "we" have all done as tourists and settlers and colonists; The "we" that there is no reason not to lump me into. We pervert and destroy culture. We complain that the pizza we ordered has raw dough and that this "American Breakfast" is nothing close to its namesake. We gloss over all the local faces, unless we are seeking some sweet local ass for the night, in search of our own types. We talk 'energy', or food, or souvenirs, or beer. We talk how cheap everything is compared to home. We're loud and obnoxious. We bombed this country or that, we passed through this country or that for the ladies or the opium, or for a summer farm. It means nothing that we often improve the quality of life with our financial injections through the tourist industry.
We all look the same and mean the same and will continue to for all of time. We call this the 'Land of Smiles' but conveniently disregard that many smiles are granted us as part of the tourist package. We give you an unrealistic ideal to strive for, of blinding white beauty, pointy of nose, and tall of stature.
As a woman, observing other women debasing themselves to be felt up with the possible promise of a meal or, better yet a future of being provided for while fetishised for their epicanthic folds and subservience, I feel vicariously embarassed, like I too am doing this myself, selling you what you want me to be, because I can convince myself somehow that this is all I am good for, what I want, and that this is the way of things.
Sometimes I want to stay in a cave or deep in the jungle so I don't have to observe the atrocities of humanity, it doesn't really matter whether it's back in 'the West' or here. The world is full of some pretty horrible shit. And, at least, some 'we's do what we can to be attentive to it and attempt to change it without constantly cowering and feeling horrible about everything all the time (my usual MO).
On medium days, I just choose not to wear a chip on my shoulder, and not care that someone may hate me without knowing me nor why. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, whatever it may be and the onus is on me whether I take it personally. And I should just suck it up for there are people possessing other physical qualities, such as a dark skin tone, who get this type of shit all the time in many more regions of the world. The least I can do, as a friend recently told me, is "not be such an asshole all the time."
One further step is to think where my money is going. A shop where everyone is a tourist and that looks like it is geared towards western sensibilities of decor is less appealling as a place to eat than one where everyone is Thai and that is located further from the tourist hot-spots. Working on a farm and paying a small amount to subsidize food and lodging while sweating my ass off puts much needed funds towards farmers, rather than an industry geared towards making my kind feel good and love me long time (while hating me long time underneath their breath).
It felt really good to turn the tables a tiny bit and learn Thai massage from my favorite masseuse, Pi Jem, and then give her massages that relaxed her so much she would fall asleep sometimes during the lesson, and hope that I didn't notice. I asked her how often she gets massages and, of course, she said she doesn't usually have time.
We then decided it would be prudent for it to be ice-cream time.
I can't wait to practice this new tool on my momma, and my loving friends, who ask nothing, and just give, give, give.
It also felt good to show older women at small soup stalls just how much I love their soup, in the little Thai I know, and to return to their stalls time and again, remembering their names.
It also feels good saying no to plastic and styrofoam and not dumping my trash
on the ground.
I sat in a cafe one morning, and a woman pulled up on her bike and ran in to excoriate the baker-owner and her son about how expensive their sandwich was, how few tomatoes it contained, and to educate them regarding the dangers of keeping the cucumber skin on the cucumber slices, and to top it off, how they have a disgusting "thai mind", that they "care nothing about customer satisfaction," punctuated by a resounding "I'm never coming here again!" I shared sympathetic glances with the owner and squeezed her shoulder, saying thank you and that it was delicious, and that she and her son should let it go, shake it off, and that I understand it is hard and why they think that woman is crazy.
It is, of course, not all bad. There do seem to be plenty of genuinely happy people around me most of the time, feisty older women with the vivacity and vigor of teenagers, tight-knit families testing the shocks all piled on one puppy-steered scooter, droves of giggling and guffawing friend circles of all-ages spilling all about the street, gossipping ladies giving massages in large plazas full of mats, scooping soup, mango sticky rice, and boba to school kids on a break, or tickling each other while taking rests from sweaty heavy physical labor in the fields. Everywhere I see Thai customers, too, getting massages, strolling about the night markets examining the wares, snacking on every which delicacy.
A truth of the matter is that many are resilient to the powerful feet of the stompers and all are human.
The party has become silent, and now there are travellers in the guesthouse across the street singing all the covers they know; appropriately, 'dock of the bay' has just lived its last note.
And soon will my wakefulness.
More on covers and cultural comparisons next time.
Sweet dreams to all of you who are just now starting your workday,
Part Sky
