To Release A Mighty Load
Below is a short story I wrote for the GEIST Magazine Literary Postcard Contest last year. I’ve decided that it probably didn’t win, as I’ve now received a year’s worth of Geist issues and haven’t found my story printed amidst its pages yet. You can read it here instead! The rules were: less than 500 words and you had to include a postcard. My postcard looked a lot like this painting above but was a photo.
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TO RELEASE A MIGHTY LOAD
Michael J.P. Hall
“Gotta get out,” he mumbles crawling over me to the gaping window. I’m worried ‘bout his head gettin’ lopped off ‘cuz they’re driving so close to the buildings, but he dumps half a bottle of water over his head, shakes like a dog, and seems to have everything under control.
That was an hour after we crawled into the floral-print hellhole. An hour after we felt the soggy, carpet foam pressed against our backs, and whatever sweat-juice had been festering in there first made contact with our skin. Sixteen hours in a sleeping compartment a foot too short and only slightly wider than a bench! Made weak by tropical heat! Sautéed in an olfactory stir-fry! And this is the deluxe option! We splurged!
We’re sucking down water bottles like shop-vacs just to keep our mouths from seizing. We’re squirming, punching each other, fighting for centimetres until it’s night and freezing wind dries the sweat-juice and stabs us with chills. “Christ Christyn! Close the window!” he snaps, but we find there is no window there, only fragments of broken glass.
Lucky bastard falls asleep with the quick-dry towel over his chest leaving me alone in the dark. Tectonic plates are patiently crushing my bladder. I keep waking up, terrified that I’ve peed my pants. When I can’t take it anymore I crawl over my brother and step all over the Goans sleeping in the aisles, and stumble my way to the bus driver who is dodging farm animals and streaking lights on the pitch-black highway.
“Stop!” I tell him.
“Not making late!” he yells, and bobbles his head the way Mumbaians do.
I can’t stop thinking about that MARS water bomber that used to put out forest fires on the Island. She’d materialize above you with those Pratt & Whitney corncob engines tearing holes in the sky, then dip her greedy belly into the water with such gigantic thirst you thought the very lake would be sucked dry. Then, burdened with the weight and strain of sixty-thousand pounds of water, she’d grunt, and heave, and leap back into the air, banking a 180 as hard as she could, and climb, and climb, back into the shit, high above the scorching pines, until it seemed the very physics of the plane could hold on no longer, that it would surely buckle, collapse and possibly implode under the colossal pressures if the pilot did not at that exact instant, pull the lever, and release her monumental load upon the fiery hellhole below.
Mike was still asleep when I snatched the quick-dry towel, held it between my legs, and felt relief pour over me in waves so strong I nearly cried. Next morning he asked me if I’d seen the towel…
I told him I wasn’t proud of littering.
Adventures in Japan Part 2 - Health Promenade
A typical Tokyo tourist tends to tread tremendously on their toes. That is to say, if you’re up at the crack of dawn and out drinking shochu and green tea ’til the last train in an attempt to squeeze every last drop of travel adventure out of your days, you’re gonna have some sore feet. That is why, after a long day of walking the beat, it’s important to do a few laps at your local health promenade.
An accidental discovery, the health promenade located in Hamacho Part near our hotel offers a short course of sharp and smooth stones as well as a log-featured bridge to walk over all of which hit different pressure points on your feet. Its a self-admininstered reflexology session, and two laps around the promenade will put the spring back in your deflated gait like nothing else.
Adventures in Japan Part 1 - WOMB
Halloween 2009, Chris and I attended Womb, which is one of Tokyo’s best night clubs. The Plump DJ’s were headlining, and I was very excited about the show, as I had seen them spin new years in New Zealand in 2007, and they were outstanding. Our costumes were a little bit budget, but given our baggage size restrictions I think we did okay. Chris wore a plush lobster on his head, and I bought this weird frog head that turned out to be quite successful (more on this later).
Finding the club proved to be a more difficult task than we assumed. The difficulty was exacerbated by regular stops at Lawson’s (7-11) to procure One Cup of Happiness Sake’s — later revealed to be the drink of choice amongst Japan’s homeless — and a few language barriers. We met a group of Japanese party kids on the train, and could you believe it?!! they were also going to Womb! We followed them for about fifteen minutes through the alleys of the Shinjuku area and of course we made a few more stops at Lawson’s to re-up the One Cups. Half an hour later, after winding through narrow alleyways and trying to stay dry we arrive at ROOM, not WOMB and by now we’re pretty faced and completely lost, but we keep the spirits high and backtrack and get some more one cups and finally get back to Shinjuku station and start over.
Womb is possibly the coolest club I’ve been to in recent history. No pressure at the door, individual coin lockers for your stuff, and vending machines to sell drinks so you don’t have to waste time at the bar. The place is a small with a high ceiling housing the largest disco ball I’ve ever seen– at least three meters wide.
The trains stop running at midnight in Tokyo and the doors for the show were at 11, so this means when you’re partying in Tokyo, you’re in it for the long haul. Plump DJ’s killed it. Amazing show, high-energy set and kept me dancing all night. What really sets Womb apart from other venues is the multi-sensory experience. It got full in there over the course of the evening, and I mean scary full — where the stairwells and hallways were as rammed full with sweaty bodies as the dance floor. There was no escape from the heat, but as the Plump’s set hit it’s various climaxes, they would release these clouds of fog and cold air into the main room that felt like complete catharsis. To me it meant that they knew it was too hot and too crowded and that they were keeping it that way for the experience. Really advanced stuff. Eight hours of second hand chain-smoking was a bit hard to take, for a pink-lunged, West-coast Canuck.
Perhaps the most amazing part of the experience however was at the end of the night. Its about 7:30 in the morning when we leave and there’s a man standing at the door with his fingers pressed to his lips. “Shhhh,” he says with a bow, and despite being completely wrecked everybody respects the fact that the club is in a dense residential neighborhood and remains completely silent. Completely! You can hear birds chirp as dozens and dozens of party zombies stumble out to the main strip. It was probably my favourite moment in the entire trip.
THE FROG HEAD: So apparently I went as Keroro Gunso, a beloved anime character who was the head general of a race of frog beings who came to conquer planet earth. After retreating the rest of the frog platoon forgot to take Keroro with them, and without an army behind him, the poor frog is relegated to living his life under a kid’s bed, forced to do the kid’s chores. The costume was a big hit!
Just Divorced!
I first conceived of the idea of a Just Divorced photo shoot while driving around with my friend Jovo who had experienced a cathartic release upon getting divorced. The concept was to explore the idea of divorce as celebration, as release. I had the idea of Jovo jumping out of the back of his 82 vandura with a blow up doll and a “Just Divorced” heart across the rear. Well, as the prep for the shoot continued, the ideas got more and more concrete, and I got interested in parodying wedding images in general. We came up with four set ups an on Sunday September 20th, we shot them!
The shoot was a success with local models, Little Vegas, Gisela Cardenas and Stephanie Manou joining Jovo for a fun shoot, last sunday.
The final images are viewable by clicking the image below.
Assisting on the shoot were expert model wranglers, confetti tossers, and light manipulators: Matthew Power, Michael Gardiner, and Brandon. I would like to thank Melissa Dutchak for producing the “Just Divorced” sign and I would also like to extend an extra special thanks to Christyn and Bogey for allowing us to throw rice and confetti all over their front lawn and turn their living room into a green room. Thanks!
Below are some behind the scenes pics from Michael Gardiner’s iphone.
Photo A Day Insights
It’s been almost a month that I have been taking my camera with me almost everywhere I go. Its been a month of serious looking, examining, mental framing, and risky driving maneuvers as I pull over on the sides of busy roads to shoot something that caught my eye.
Its been fantastic.
But perhaps the most exciting insight I have gleaned from this project so far, is confidence in the knowledge that great images are literally just under my nose. Two of the last three images I have taken are within tennis-ball-throwing-range of my kitchen, and that has re-opened my eyes to the visual world around me. I almost can’t not see pictures everywhere I go at the moment.
Check out my progress: PHOTO A DAY
MJPH
TRIP REPORT: Mt. Matier Northeast Spur
BACKGROUND INFO
Mt. Matier is a prominent mountain in the Joffre Group, about 45 minutes north of Pemberton. Its peak can been seen from Joffre lakes, while its sizable glacier (Matier Glacier) is responsible for feeding the three green Joffre Lakes. Last summer Chris Ouston and I attempted to climb a 5.9 alpine route on Matier, approaching from Joffre Lakes however, we had to turn back due to bad weather and some poor route finding decisions. This time we approached via Ceriese creek side, which climbs the Anniversary Glacier up to Matier Galcier and to the summit. We decided to do the less complicated Northeast Spur route that would require no rock climbing.
DAY 1: Ceriese Creek to Keith’s Hut
After packing a chili-bin with beers, ice and slamming the trunk, we abandon my car on the edge of Highway 97. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.
We make quick progress through trails and a clear cut before our first challenge was set before us. With fifty of sixty pounds on our backs, and no snow-shoes on our feet, we were post-holing up to out shins, knees or thighs with every step. By mid morning the snow had developed the consistency of soft-serve ice-cream and this slowed us down considerably. In addition to the obvious frustration of constant ankle, and knee twisting, taking giant steps out of each hole wears a man down physiologically.
We encountered some route finding complications as well. Following the occasional piece of flagging tape, we were stumbling through a cut block for the better part of an hour before we decided to blaze our way through the forest. We maintained an south eastern course, using the creek as a reference point and were greeted (occasionally) by the trail. With the soft snow and routefinding issues we managed to turn a two hour trip to the hut into a six hour, back and leg busting slog. Profanity was bellowed. Small critters and birds scurried away. It there were bears in the area, they must have been scared off.
We arrived at the hut well before sunset however, and had the place to ourselves. Things were looking up. After a cup of hot chocolate we rigged up a static line off the main frame of the hut and practiced ascending the line with a Texas Prussik set up.
During a game of cribbage I received the highest-scoring hand of my life. I drew five 5’s and Chris cut a jack, hand worth 28 points. There is only one better hand in the game, a 29, which would have required me to have the jack in my hand and my opponent to cut the last 5.
DAY 2: Keith’s Hut to Mt. Matier Summit and Return We are suckers for punishment. Yes, we’re up at 5 am and out the door by 6 but this was three hours too late!!!! As we leave, the sun has already had an hour on the upper section of the glacier and we are breaking through the snow’s surface with each step.
Our crampons and lighter packs make the going easier, but with each passing minute the work to pull each foot out of the Dairy Queen-esque snowpack is more laborious. We were also worried about avalanche conditions, so we stay high on the glacier, near the rocks. There is no wind at all. Sweat cascades down our faces, and fogs our glasses. After three hours of grueling climbing we reach the glacier col, and welcome a cold breeze helped to solidify the snow and cool us off.
The Hot Rods pepperoni sticks we had packed as reward for making the col turned out to be stale and rotten. I ate mine anyway.
We switch to short rope technique for ascent to the summit of Mt. Matier. We are on the north face where the snow was much harder and consistent. Kicking steps with our crampons is easier and we make great time up the spur. The snow averaged a 45 degree angle, which is very manageable. The climbing requires some transitions from snow to rock, but we manage to make the ascent without placing any protection. Near the summit we discoverer the ridge to be heavily corniced and take a conservative line to the summit.
The descent is fast and fun. We experiment with placing picket protection and running belays, and as our confidence increases, even simulate some falls. The return from the col to the hut is the most difficult section of the day. The snow as super wet — think extra large Sprite Slurpee — and our concerns with avalanche are heightened. We move quickly through the series of chutes, with burning thighs made it to the safety of a rock bench.
With only half the day gone we decide to practice our crevasse rescue technique and found an appropriate cliff. We placed rocks in my bag and threw it over the edge to simulate a victim and made a pulley system to haul it out. Worked perfectly.
We spend the remainder of the day catching rays in the hut and drying our gear. Perhaps the most fortuitous event was the discovery of a full, ice cold beer in the snow outside the hut. JACKPOT!
DAY 3: Keith’s Hut to the car. We leave early to take advantage of the harder snow and the walk out proves to be a simple activity. We make it from Keith’s hut to the car in about three hours walking past our two-foot-deep footprints from two days before. We were enjoying victory beers at the car by 9 AM!
CBC Literary Awards Finalist
Line of Control, my account of two weeks traveling through Kashmir made the shortlist of 22 finalists in the creative non-fiction category of the 2008 CBC literary awards.
I consider it a real honor to be shortlisted in a contest that lists authors like Michael Ondaatje amongst its previous winners. For more information on the awards and to view the finalists, click here.
Public Street Reading Announced
I was really excited when about a month ago I was invited to read my short story Bukowski My Boilermaker for the Vancouver leg of the Word on the Street Festival. I somehow imagined a small venue, dark and full of coffee where I could ramble on without consequence. What I did not realize - until I looked it up online a few minutes ago - is that I will literally be reading on the street - at the corner of Homer and Georgia. So, I will be a ranting lunatic at the corner of Homer and Georgia, talking about this time this guy told me he’d kill me if I ever laid a hand on him again. It will be good. You should come. That’s Sunday September 28th, 1:00 PM For information on the Festival itself please visit this site. |
Perspective in a Single Piece of Paper
While on a run the other day, a conversation with my friend Lauraunt took a quick turn towards our unchecked habits of accumulating rock climbing gear. I own two large rubbermaid tubs at home, stuffed to the tits with great climbing stuff, and though much of it is used often, I still find myself driving home after an adventure siting lists of new toys that would dramatically improve my life.
A QUICHE LIKE FRANCE
“It didn’t really turn out how I wanted, I think.”
“Really? It looks good.”
“It tastes good, its just the pan was too big so I had to build this wall of crust across the pan so it wouldn’t spread too far.”
“But the wall appears to have held.”
“Yep.”
They eat a while.
“So…I guess the quiche is a bit like France.”
“Like what?”
“Like France.”
“Like The country?”
“Yeah. Ocean to the west, mountains to the south, river to the north. Nothing to the east. My social studies teacher told us its why France was at war so often throughout history. It had no natural border to the east, so it was a continued fight to define and contain the nation.”
They eat some more.
“Do you like it.”
“Its delicious.”
FRESH PHOTOS!
Well, those last three months of traveling kinda got pretty busy and I didn’t get to post any photos. I’m starting to post them on Flickr slowly over the next month or so. The first batch are from my first few days in Thailand.
Please click the photo to see em.
FEELING TIME
I have been greatly concerned with time lately. Since returning home I have had the overwhelming feeling of it passing too quickly and without enough effect, like trying to drink water from my cupped hands except I’m epileptic and standing on the back of a fast-moving truck. The whole business reminded me of an encounter I had at a party five or six years ago:
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I was nineteen at the time and was attempting to rip it up at a large house party full twenty-something acting students - a typically cold demographic if you don’t happen to be casting director. Ice breaking was difficult, so to avoid the dreaded, “you what have you been in?” question, to which I had no response (I’m not an actor was a guaranteed deal breaker) I began asking people about their greatest fear. After several unsatisfactory minutes I met an actor friend of a friend who had recently “made it” with a Tim Horton’s commercial. He had no specific answer but turned the question on me. What was my greatest fear?
I told him I supposed it would be waking up an old man and wondering “what had happened.” People often complained of time moving faster as they grow older, and I had begun to feel it happening to me. Life was full and busy, but the end of a semester at University seemed to pass with the speed of a fifteen minute recesses in first grade.
“There’s a simple answer to that,” he had said. “It has nothing to do with age however, but our relationship with the world and with time.”
“Tell me,” I had said as the rest of the party faded away.
He leaned forward. “This is truth,” he said, “and this is fact: a person only experences the sensation of time passing when they are engaged in the world. When people are in their heads thinking about the past or the present they are not engaged in the world before them and thus do not feel or experience the passing of time. Generally, as people age they become burdened with thoughts, with responsibilities, plans and regrets that pull them from the present moment.”
“Ok.” I said, he had an intensity that made you unable to look away from his eyes.
“So,” he said, taking a drink from a water bottle, “do you remember how you got here? Do you remember the route you drove, what colour cars were in front of you when you made different turns? Probably not. We become good at repetitive tasts which allows out minds to drift off into the timeless world of thoughts. When you learned to walk it required your whole mind, now its nothing, its like breathing. So we spend more and more time in our heads, and because we only spend a fraction of our waking lives engaged in the world, time appears not to exist. Its not that there’s less of it, you see, time doesn’t exists, but our perception of time is lessened because we spent so much of our life experience, thinking.”
“So what do you do?” I had asked him, as my mind thought about all the different situations where I had been lost in thought. It made sense.
“Well, right there,” he said. “You lost it right there, didn’t you? You where off in thoughts instead of listening to me.”
“Yeah. I was.”
“Okay, well you just have to catch yourself doing it and remain focused here and now. It takes work, but its like working out a muscle, the more you use it, the stronger it gets. If you try and approach the world like a child does, and spend your time engaged in the world you’ll find there’s no reason to ever be bored or confused, life is nothing, but what’s right in front of you.”
Upon returning from traveling I have found myself wound up in the make believe world of thought: part of me remembering details and adventures from my trip, with the rest of my time taken up with planning for the future. I must remember to follow the advice of my friend’s friend who made it big in the Timmy Ho commercial: remain in the moment, absorbing details, and always strive to experience the subtle changes of life. Practice the art of feeling time.
Incidentally, and I did ask, his greatest fear was discovering hair in his food.
MJPH
The Joy of Jetlag
I watched seven films on the plane. Which is to say that it was a long flight, and which will also suggest that I didn’t sleep much for those 24 hours. Additionally, I can personally attest to not sleeping the fourteen before the flight from Hanoi with various “last minute details” to sort out. All of which implies that I had been up for a long time, and thus would explain - as I stood amidships waiting for the bathroom to switch to VACANT - how I was suddenly able to look down, past my feet in purple complimentary Singapore Airlines socks and not only see the stuffed piles of baggage in the holds below our seats, but beyond them to the 33,000 feet of freezing cold air and the mighty pacific Ocean.
Christyn and Boggie found a tallish zombie with TV shaped eyes and lungs full of two-stroke Hanoi exhaust wandering about International arrivals and decided to take him home. He proved to be most unsocial, running exclusively, as he was, on excitement and airline coffee, but was able enough to recount a few quick stories and dole out a present or two before retiring to a refreshingly chilly East Vancouver sleep on a soft, horizontal and non-moving bed.
The story actually begins with the zombie boy waking up in his sister’s apartment, a delightful and nostalgic place where the intermingling of him and his sister’s lives were present in all-colourful detail. It was strange to be home, surrounded by photos, paintings, CDs and kitchenware that had been such an important parts of his life just six months before. All day he kept having the sensation that he hadn’t left for his trip at all, and the last six months had been a long and detailed dream perhaps beginning the night of his going away party and ending a day later. An email from Rachael that morning definitively proved that he had been away (YES!).
Jet lag is one of the true gifts of international travel, it permits you to remain distant and unattached from your surroundings: I walked out onto Commercial Drive at 5 am, as wide awake as I would be at 5pm to make some observations.
The air in Vancouver is immaculate. I spent a good half an hour this morning simply breathing and enjoying not only the quality of air, but its temperature. It was the olfactory equivalent of drinking a cold beer after a hot day’s work.
I enjoyed the effortless transaction of conversation realizing how much effort we actually put into every bit of communication when we are in non-English speaking countries. It was relaxing to not have to think and to be fluid and automatic in my behavior.
Though its wet and soggy, Vancouver is beautiful. As much as soupy monsoon heat was getting to me after a while I was more than a little overwhelmed by the freezing rain when I landed at YVR. As I walked around however, I observed that it was cherry blossom season, and this is only made possible by the changing of seasons. Rain is part of what makes this place what it is. I had found my pea coat amongst my sister’s things anyway, and whatever nostalgia came along with its adornment was quickly engulfed by its practicality and warmth.
So long, land of smiles.
Well, its my last night in the stinkin’ hot Bangkok and I’m actually sad to be going. I accidentally spent over a month in this friendly little country and have had a bloody fantastic time.
Having been seriously Bangkok’d (not hard to do) we decided to take a train to splits-ville a few days ago. We spent the last three or four days, train hoppin’ north of Bangkok, managing to find some sweet little towns (THE PHOTOS!) Thoughts now turn to Vietnam where Rachael and I will meet Michael Gardiner and Chris Ousten for two solid weeks of adventure.
Time is coming to a close, so its head’s up and full speed ahead.
WHAT? MONKEY! LAUNDRY?
I wasn’t always scared of monkeys. There was a time even a few innocent weeks before when I would delight in watching our simian brothers: the fireball sun slid behind Mosques and roof-top kitchens and laundry lines became the playgrounds for nature’s greatest thieves. With a chai in hand and a hot wind at my back I would happily spectate the unfolding drama from my safe, marble guesthouse laughing heartily at the crafty fellows and the comical misfortunes of others.
My feelings changed one hot morning in the tiny Rajasthani town of Pushkar. Christyn, my sister and eager travel companion was “taking one for the team,” rolling about in our hotel room in mild delirium with a hung-over case of Delhi-Belly. She had finally fallen asleep and I left her in sweaty peace intending to return shortly with water, the strongest available painkillers and those sweet milky treats from around the corner she liked so much. I closed the door quietly, as two panting, red-faced English travelers came bounding up the stairs.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, imagining perhaps that they both had the runs and something was going around.
“Redass ‘n the courtyard. E’s big.” The first one said, while the second, not bothering to catch his breath pushed me on his mission upwards.
“Redass?” I said, “You mean a monkey?”
“Yeah,” he said looking behind him, then me directly in the eyes. “A monkey.”
After what seemed like a long time looking in my eyes he shoved himself past me. The sounds of flip-flops smacking marble and laboured breathing slowly faded away ending abruptly with a slamming door. I took a few steps forward and looked over the metal banister.
Sitting contently in the middle of the grass courtyard sat a large monkey. He picked at himself, and (it seemed to me at the time) caused no immediate concern to anyone. Having never seen a monkey so close before I seized the opportunity to get a better look. I slid another few steps along the banister, past the edge of the rail and carefully took a few steps down the stairs.
Seemingly out of nowhere Vijay, the hotel owner came sprinting into the courtyard with the fast-legged style of Toshirô Mifune in Kurosawa’s samurai flicks. He dropped a full-sized fire hose in front of him, picked up the giant brass nozzle and with a formidable and impressive battle cry, hurled the mighty nozzle at the monkey.
The monkey easily strafed the first impact, dodging the first blow that left a sizable divot in the dry grass. I was so stunned, so caught up and confused by the intensity of unfolding events that I didn’t notice myself powerlessly drawn towards the scene. Vijay reeled the hose back and launched it again with deadly accuracy before the monkey could properly get its bearings. Taken by surprise, the monkey was forced to make a last desperate minute leap out of the way. To compensate, he jumped off one of the courtyard walls, swung up a banister onto the first level and was sent hurling towards me.
It was roughly about this time when a new mental image of monkeys developed in my mind. The idea of monkeys as fun, playful creatures that I had happily accepted until that exact point in my life was suddenly in direct and violent conflict with the spindly naked monster I saw flying towards me. I was shocked by its speed, its agility and precision; no matter where it flung its body, it used ninja-style rolls and grace to transfer itself in a direction it wanted. Before I had seen playfulness in his eyes, but suddenly I saw flashes of violence, of a life fighting for survival. In his bared rows of white teeth I saw weapons to my flesh. The words, “RABIES,” “AIDS” flashed before me. And if all this wasn’t enough, he made a sound that sent icicles through my skin; a deep low breathing sound, like a group of lifetime smokers gasping for their collective lives. That sound communicated everything to me: this monkey had nothing to fear from me, nothing to loose in an attack, and he knew it.
“Make the fast running!” I heard Vijay bellow from below, breaking me from trance.
Ladies and gentlemen, I “made the fast running” faster than I have every “made the fast running before”. Inspired by a brand new fear and the encouragement of my esteemed friend and hotel operator, I pushed those eight rupee flip flops to the maximum of their intended performance. I gained big speed moving over the stairs but miscalculated the slipperiness of the floor and skidded out, crashing my knee into the wall. It was a bad landing but I knew I had to keep moving - the monkey was on the banister behind me. I lunged forward, skating with my feet and galloping with my arms, leaping for the door to my room.
Christyn jolted into a defensive karate pose on the bed as I crumpled onto the floor, pushing the door shut with legs. Pillow marks creased her face and her posture had the tension that life reserves for those torn from deep sleep.
“WHAT?” she screamed at me, disoriented, confused, distilling all possible questioning to a single, definitive point.
“MONKEY!” I retorted, in pain and shock, distilling all available information into a single, definitive, answer.
“LAUNDRY!” she yelled, jumping off the bed and throwing the door open.
Holding my throbbing knee I crawled to the door in time to see the monkey climbing up the final of the hotel’s five floors of banisters. My favourite white shirt and Christyn’s new shawl were clenched in his small hand. The monkey paused a moment to look back upon us before he disappeared over the cement roof.
“I paid 35 rupees for that shawl,” Christyn said before doing a zombie walk and face-planting on the bed. I’m not sure she was ever even awake.
So it goes that in those fleeting moments in the small dessert oasis of Pushkar, India, my relationship with monkeys was forever changed. I limped down to the market to get our supplies (the list now including anti-inflammatory pills and ice) walking past the divots in the courtyard and Vijay spooling his weapon. As I watched him reel in his hose I knew that my days of watching those playful creatures romp about on unguarded rooftops were gone, because these days I cannot possibly conceive of or look upon a monkey without the stinging association of flying fire hoses, stolen laundry and out-of-shape English travelers.
Son, Things Get Worse, Before They Get Better
Leaving paradise is always a difficult business.
No matter how hard we try, (as if we try at all) we allow ourselves to slip into a blissful naivete about our lives when we get to these beaches. We side-step our problems choosing wisely to focus on all the details that make life worth living, AKA: eating, drinking, sleeping, climbing, laughing. Its a good life, but after weeks of this living in the now business; waking up to monkeys swinging through the trees, taking deep. self-fulfilled breaths of humid morning air, and making the tough choices about where to have breakfast, lunch and dinner, after all this, “relaxing” business, exposure to real world beyond our little Pra-Nang peninsula is pretty goddamned intense.
I’m sure making the border run through the tiny Thai town of Ranong and over the river to developing Myanmar and back is a challenging ordeal by itself, but when you throw a slow-moving mind and body into the mix, the journey takes on epic proportion. Regardless with no days left on our Thai visas we fought our way out of Tonsai, surviving endless longtail waits, bumpy rides in the back of trucks, ladyboys undressing me with their eyes, and bus rides involving hours of endlessly repetitive Thai pop. We slept whenever possible, then rammed our way through customs, hired a real son-of-a-bitch Thai boat driver to take us to Myanmar, baking in the sun like chicken satay while he tried to push counterfeit American greenbacks on us. We made some enemies, won some friends, and manged to procure the necessary stamps and drink a Myanmar beer (its no Budweiser). We cooked the other side of our satay skin on the way back, making it to the bus station in time to endure the slow, rickety, twelve hour ride to Bangkok.
I’ve recently learned that my beloved Plushmobile is dead. Yes dead. She’s filled with mold won’t start even with a new battery. I do believe I would start crying if I wasn’t so high on Thai iced coffee and mango stick rice. Leaving paradise is not for the faint of heart.
We’re in Bangkok for the next few days waiting for the Vietnamese embassy to have their way with our passports,then with luck, karma, and a few more coffees we’ll be off to Vietnam to meet my friends Michael and Chris on this, the last leg of my current adventure.
Myth and Wisdom
Though traditional wisdom will tell us that “a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush,” in Tonsai, two Birdy’s in your hand is almost a guaranteed onsight.
Intercepted Intra-spinal Communiqués
From: Hemispheric Control and Memory
To: Department of Language and Concepts
Priority: HIGH
Subject: Lack of Communication
Date: March 8th 2007
Dear Mr. Lombardo,
Sir, we are most dissatisfied with the cooperation we have been receiving from your department of Language and Concepts. On several occasions over the last two weeks we have attempted to contact you and your staff with serious concerns about evaporating concepts. These are base concepts upon which the very consciousness of the Michael Organism has been delicately constructed. Given the current behavior of the Michael Organism, we feel we are in serious jeopardy of loosing the following concepts, which will have a profound effect on its state of consciousness and relationship to the greater world.
1. Certain days of the week including but not limited to: Monday, Thursday and the blanket term “weekend.”
2. Time. It has come to our attention also that The Michael organism has been operating by shadows cast upon parts of the beach instead of the well established global time apparatus we have been working from for decades.
3. A shirt and other articles of clothing including also, the sock and even the belt. The Michael organism was quoted yesterday as saying… “I don’t remember what this thing is for…” - Sir he was holding a very dear T-shirt of his!
Our staff have compiled a list of 314 concepts that are endangered however based on your continued lock of communication I will not endeavor to bother you with more details. Know this…we are taking the matter up with Cerebral Command and expect and intervention within days.
Most disapprovingly,
Lance Monstrosi, Hemispheric Control and Memory
From: Muscle Strength of Flexibility
To: Stomach and Digestive Services (lower)
Priority: NORMAL
Subject: Dude sweet!
Date: March 6th 2007
Dudes!
Hey! We’re are like, totally digging the rice and veggie diet with occational blasts of sugar (mango sticky rice and coffee!) The ambient heat and light eating are making things run real smooth down here bro! Muscle development is up and we’re like totally stoked!
Oh, also get more of those cocconut shakes down here. With the metabolic rates we’re rockin’ we can take it.
Keep the yang up! We’re sending 5.12!
Steveo!
To: Department of Language and Concepts (Spiritual and otherwise)
CC; ALL FRONTAL DEPARTMENTS (Group a)
From: The Big Boss - Cerebral Command (BPSM)
Priority: NORMAL
Subject: Congratulations
Date: March 10th 2007
Mr. Lombardo,
We wish to congratulate yourself as well as all those in the D.L.a.C. for their breakthrough of March 8th 2007. As you may well be aware, the Michael Organism has been seeking to climb a grade of 5.12a for a number of years. Though both Muscle and Flexibility Control and Stomach and Digestive Services have been especially helpful over his efforts these last two years, there has been a blockage in the concepts department; truly, the Michael organism did not himself believe possible of achieving this end.
It came as a surprise to us on March 8th 2007, when the Michael organism made the breakthrough and established new concepts of ability and limits. Sending 5.12a may be a small and insignificant number by itself, but its power as a symbol of achievement is exciting to say the least not only to the D.L.a.C but to the many systems of the Michael Organism themselves. May I suggest that we usher in this new era with godspeed and goodwill.
Let’s kick some ass people!
Cerebral Command.
The Boss. MSFG, ENG, BSCi (Hon)
Ton Sai
Ladies and gentlemen: I’ve been some places and I’ve climbed some rocks. I’ve eaten great food, and lived of $10 a day. I’ve had great suntans and been surrounded by fantastic and interesting people, swam in sunsets, and had bathroom showers with a view… but I’m not sure I’ve ever had them all at once.
Tonsai is a sport climbing mecca in south western Thailand where the climbs are steep, plentiful, juggy, and the living is nice’n'easy. Rachael and I have a sweet bungalow and are quite satisfied just trying to keep up with all the activity here. The climbing is great, and I’m feeling like one healthy s.o.b. We may stay a month before cruising to Vietnam. Why let a good thing go?
I’ve got SO MANY amazing photos to post, but internet is expensive and the computers are insufficient, alas, perhaps an electo-set slideshow shall be in order when I return.
MJPH
The Ugliness of Tourism
Though we travel to discover and explore the beautiful and profound crannies of the globe, it has been my repeated experience that ugliness seeps out of these nooks just as often. Perhaps it is nothing more than greed - the selfish desire to possess these places ourselves, to deny the existence or validity of the other’s whose pilgrimages mirror our own so closely - but obviously as travelers we must be more diplomatic, we must accept our responsibility as ambassadors and conduct ourselves with poise, grace and most importantly, thanks.
To be honest traveling is a strange and privileged phenomenon and one that can mess with your head after a few months if you don’t keep yourself in check. Where else in the world do we spend our days doing nothing but consuming: consuming sights, images, tastes, sensations. All day it is our privilege to consume full time, but these privileges are often mistaken for rights.
An experience at Angkor Wat:
I am at Ta Prohn, one of the most popular temples of ancient Angkor not only because of its size and beauty, but also because the keepers of Ta Prohn decided not to tear down all the trees, choosing instead to leave it in a state of overgrown collapse. The result is amazing; 300 foot trees towering above the ruins, their massive roots twisting between the carved sandstone pillars and bas-reliefs.
In this temple there is one area in particular that makes Indiana Jones fans sprout wood themselves - I would estimate more photos are taken here than anywhere else, save maybe Angkor Wat itself at sunrise which is another story entirely. As I stumble onto this scene about fifty Chinese tourists are waiting impatiently in a mob fanning themselves and pushing past each other for pole position. Each one wants to climb up onto the ruin and have a photo taken giving a peace sign. To the immediate right of this seething group of sun-visors, wide-brimmed sun hats and clashing floral-print parasols are four or five art photographers each armed with thousands of dollars on camera equipment hanging off belts, straps and packs. Each of these art photographers (no doubt solitary humans with limited social integration skills) want the whole scene to themselves - they want to capture the perfect light filtering through the silk-cotton tree onto the ancient ruin and dedicate all their millions of pixels to the perfect exposure.
It began with the art photographers asking - with frustration and spite spilling from their lips - if please, they could just have one goddamn minute with the rocks and trees. The Chinese tour guide, diplomatic, speaking some English and wishing to avoid a scene, holds back one of his Chinese telling everybody to wait for half a second. As a volley of shutters release another group of twenty or thirty Chinese comes spilling into the area and seeing that nobody is standing in front of the ruin, dive right in. The art photographers scream in passive-aggressive mumbles of Czech, or German or Japanese, while the Chinese tour group that was held back starts screaming in high-pitched mandarin at the second group.
Not taking well to being screamed at, the second Chinese tour group starts yelling back. In a matter of seconds we’ve got two ladies paired off, screaming, pointing and spitting the lowest of Mandarin syllables at teach other, threatening blows and scratching each other’s eyes out as the two seas of plaid and flora fabrics hold them back. The groups fan themselves nervously, embarrassed at this complete loss of face. The art photographers are actually saying things like, “I can’t fucking believe these people,” and busy themselves with switching lenses and applying lens caps, believing perhaps that they have no role in this scene.
It seems like everybody is itching for blood.
Your humble narrator, made more or less ill by the scene and the heat, decided to leave without photo. He found an old Italian woman some 20 meters away at an equally beautiful and totally empty cranny. She sat there slowly painting the rocks and trees in a small journal and offered me half of her cookie.
“They are making crazy,” she said gesturing behind her in a manner that seemed quintessentially Italian. “Five years ago, there is four of five peoples. Now everybody want a be crazy.”
I sat with her until my heart rate returned to normal, thinking about how delicate cultural relations really are.
Cambodia
I had no real mental images from either Cambodia or from Angkor Wat itself which was the source of excitement for this trip, and certainly one of the reasons why I choose to travel there. Sure I had a rough idea about what India would look, sound and taste like before I went, we all know New Zealand is beautiful and green, but Cambodia? What does Cambodia feel like? What does it look like? What is its food?
The trip was a journey of sorts - of overcoming dust and oppressive heat and laughably maintained “highways”, of wrapping our heads around the scales and sizes of her achievements and confronted with the harshness of her tragedies. With my new group of Kiwi, English and Canadian compatriots we settled in a cheap guesthouse content to avoid the rust, cobwebs and rotten walls in the bathrooms and be thankful that the water was not too hot.
We attacked Angkor Wat for three and a half days, minds blown on a daily, and sometimes hourly basis. On whatever map you may be looking Angkor Wat appears to be a cluster of temples. I knew it was big, but when we drove past a huge lake I looked at the map and wondered why I couldn’t find it on the map. After some orienteering it turns out that “lake” was a moat for Angkor Wat temple and putting this massive body of water in the context of the small square drawing on my map blew my mind. This place is the size of Manhattan.
For three days we raced around on rented bikes, tuk tuk’s and hitched rides exploring ruins of this ancient civilization and trying to find the best places for sunrise and sunset all done under the oppressive Cambodian heat. I have to say this is the first time in my traveling experience that I’ve been totally content to be a tourist. Normally I go to great effort to merge with the culture I’m in, but Angkor Wat is different. Yep. I was there with my Thai pants and camera and scarf wrapped around my head, sucking water bottles to survive and all the while battling against endless ebb and flow of Chinese.
The ruins were incredible, and some moments - like being pulled behind farmer’s trucks on my bike along the roads to Siem Reap, exhausting from a days exploring, awash in pink lotus sunsets and the sweet smells of burning garbage - were among my favourite of my entire trip.
Angkor Wat
Today the world is filled with so much beauty and happiness I almost feel sick.
South Asian Ping Pong
Ping Pong, and yes in this extended metaphor I have been cast as the little white ball. The thing about ping pong is that those cute sounds and cool chalky exterior can quickly be dominated by lightening fast paddle swats and dervishes of ungodly backspin. Hell sometimes those balls are hit so hard they break!
After loosing the coin toss in New Zealand a fast service sent me spinning in Singapore, adjusting to humidity, jet lag, and trying to find a place to store my 80 litre pack for the next two months. (As an interesting side note the bag ended up at a Malaysian guy I picked up hitchhiking’s sister’s husband’s mother’s place in a west-Singapore suburb.) After hot food, cold water and a short goodbye to my bag, I was sent on with mad top spin, racing to catch another plane to Krabi Thailand.
I arrived at night and (as is quickly becoming custom) my taxi driver pointed out all the best spots to get Bravo Juliet’s, grunting and using hand gestures to ford the wide rivers of his limited English. A night was spent in Krabi, calculating currency conversions, swatting flies and eating anything cheap in the night market.
The next morning it a cheaky net shot - a well-delayed and amateurishly piloted flight to Bangkok where I hoped to sort of details of my Indian visa and flights. Things India often react poorly time, so when I did my logistic arithmetic, adding the week of Visa wait time with the thousands of Baht flight cost, the sum was to grab carpe diem by the scruff and travel to nearby Cambodia.
I had wanted to return to India for a while, had even dreamt about it, but lately I’ve been more concerned with moving forward (upward, steady or otherwise) and so I vetoed my half-baked India plans in favour of something new. Cambodia promises to be exciting and, best of all, cheap.
So I’m back in control of the game, having taken hold of those cosmic ping pong paddles and am looking forward to applying some deadly backspin on Cambodian soil.
