Thursday, September 18, 2008; 1:57 AM
Genghis Khan has officially pissed herself into exile. The real Genghis Khan once had the second largest empire in world history (behind Britain); he controlled 22% of the world’s landmass. This Genghis is different though- no army, no horses, no unification of a continent and-a-half; she is trying to conquer with her pee! After twice on my bed, twice on the coffee table and about 30 times various couches, rugs and items of clothing, this little fur ball has peed herself across my whole house.
The cat had an owner, a Mongolian girl who got knocked up and fled the country, leaving her coat hangers, some instant noodles and a cat named Malaknatat or Ulaanbaatar or something in a language where-too many consonants are shoved together... Apparently, her name translates to “little egg” and (in all fairness) she is about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I want her dead though. I have taken to calling her Genghis Khan, and cannot help but make jokes about how can she can’t even conquer a litter box, or how – I must be the Song Dynasty (or was it the Yuan?) because I’m gonna conquer her little kitty ass.
Recently, I came into my room to find a puddle of cat pee, seeping into my mattress, infecting the lesson plans and spelling tests that were laid out across my bed… I have to tell the kids… In America, we like to say, “My dog ate my homework,” but this time, it’s a little different – this reminds me of a student I had about a year ago named Ella; she was seven and talked only about her pets…
- Hi Ella, how are you today?
- My fish are in love and will get married soon.
- Great… how was your weekend?
- I have a rabbit.
- Cool, go sit down and get your reading book.
- His name is “Little White”
Conversations with her usually went like this. But one day she showed up to school crying. When I asked what was wrong, she held up her grammar homework; It actually had little bunny bite marks around the corners, and in chicken scratch, she had written a note around the bite marks: Sorry tecHer mybabbit eat the hoeworks paper. I almost cried, it was so goddamn cute.
But this Genghis Khan is wearing on my last nerve. My roommate (who is as much of a bonehead as I am) can only guess that she’s doing it for attention… but all she’s done is forced us both to give her the silent treatment.
I dated a girl like this once; she’d send text messages saying, fuck off, I never want to see you again! The next day, she come to me and ask… How come you never called me last night? And if I ever see her again, I’ll call her Genghis Khan too!
So, a few nights ago, she peed on my bed, again. I pushed her face into it and said BAD GENGHIS!!! I repeated this in Mandarin, thinking that she might be more comfortable in that language. She looked up at me, not in anger, not in embarrassment, but with a face that said- What is that disgusting wet spot and why on Earth would you put my face in it?
Naturally, the room smelled like pee, and naturally I used facial soap, body wash, toothpaste and laundry detergent to wash it out. After all of this, the room smelled like flowery, musky, minty urine. The next day, I took a bottle of bleach and poured half of it out onto the bed. Now, my nose was burning so bad, I couldn’t smell a thing!
I quickly got some towels to soak up the bleach. When these towels turned white, I hung them from a bamboo pole on the balcony. Little did I know, that there was a sink under the pole and in that sink was a small goldfish; a fish that was out there, because Little Egg was trying to eat it, when it was in the house. So, today when I got home, I found a towel had fallen into the sink, bleached the water and killed our fish! And now I’m convinced I’m going to hell, for killing a fish, and its all Mlatraskatat’s fault; she’ll surely go to kitty hell….right?
Besides that, life for me is eerily, wonderfully, fantastic!
I went to my second Capoeira (Brazilian dance fighting) class tonight, which is kind of like Yoga, except for- after all the stretching, the people hit bongos and weird single-stringed guitars and do somersaults, while pretending to kick each other in slow motion. The dancing and the music suggest that Peyote (or whatever hallucinogen the Incas were using) made it East into the sugar fields of Brazil. I found the 14-year old Chinese boy who kicked me in the chest and said to him, “Tonight, you can’t kick me in the chest.” He is fourteen and I used to teach fourteen year-olds, so I had no choice but to use my stern “teacher voice.” He looked at the ground.
When Chinese people are confronted or put into an awkward situation, they instinctively look at the ground, knowing that eventually the problem (that being ME) will disappear. I started studying this language so I could order food without onions, mushrooms and MSG (always in that order) and so I could tell girls that they were beautiful.
After learning those phrases, I moved on, and know I have come to the point, where I can share my dissatisfaction with people’ s behavior. This means more often than I’d like to admit, my Mandarin skills are used to make others look at the ground.
Chinese people have real troubles with waiting on line. By “troubles,” I mean… they don’t do it…ever. At least once a day, while buying noodles, rice, tea or ice cream, someone shoves me out of the way so they can order first. Locals speak louder and quicker than me, so most often, this pushing method works… I am put on the back burner, while some asshole (who got there after me) gets their tea, or afternoon treat BEFORE me.
When I was unable to speak the language, I’d playfully shove them back, and they (like the cat) would look at me with puzzled expressions, thinking, Why on Earth is this guy pushing me?
Now though, with my expert linguistic skills, I can say things like, “I arrive number one say noodles, you number two… understand?” or, “You touch me to move, but I talk ice cream, you have given me rude.” Somehow, my disgusting grammar gets across, and they look at the ground.
This occurrence is bound to happen buying food from street vendors or getting on the subway, but a few days ago, I was in a doctors office, with my arm in the table-mounted blood pressure machine when a man barged through the door, pushed me put of the way, bending my arm 180 degrees, to ask the doctor where the bathroom was.
It is so common, no one here really understands any other way of doing things… after the man left, I commented to the doctor that the guy was rude. The doctor looked at me for a moment, “No, he needed the bathroom.”
The other defense mechanism here is for people to just change the subject. I say, “You pushed me and shouted at the noodle seller, that is rude.”
The reply, “It is very hot today.”
Recently, I came to school and entered my classroom to find that all three of my Word Walls (poster-sized lists of the current vocabulary words) were peeled off the walls and sitting on the floor.
My boss came in and I asked if a wild animal had come into my room overnight. She didn’t get my joke, so I pointed to the grounded word walls and shrugged my shoulders.
She nonchalantly nodded her head, “The handwriting was messy, so I tore them off the wall.”
She expected me to reciprocate with a nod and that would be the end. “I think it was quite rude of you to pull the off the wall; you could have told me first.”
This obviously made her uncomfortable… we sat in silent for about 60 seconds. Finally, she replied… “I got a cat yesterday!”
I hope it pees on your bed!
But back to my Capoeira class. Today went the same as last time; my feet hurt, my legs hurt, my back hurts, the teacher shouted about asses and chaking, Arnold talked about powah stomping his feet as he said it. As the class was wrapping up, Cristian (the female teacher) said, “Now we must do da Samba!” A dozen nerdy, skinny white boys and a few equally nerdy Chinese people, one Austrian and the 14-year old kung-fu kicker all got in a circle and shook the asses like something out of Havana nights.
In the movie Fight Club, Tyler Durden has a line where he talks about the duality of each person that attended the meetings… cubicle losers by day, Gods by night… something to that effect.
After the bongos stopped, everyone changed back into their suits and ties, their shiny black shoes and dark-colored socks; they got on the subway and went home, where they’d spend the rest of their nights on facebook or EBay or cheerleader.com. They’d mix back into the normal world, mixing with strangers not knowing that these people could do handstands for 45 seconds or dance the Samba.
My feet still hurt though…
Besides a malicious cat, a dead fish and a bleach-stained bed, my new house is awesome… I live on the fifth floor and am spitting distance to an Olympic-sized swimming pool. After about 2/3rds of a lap, I am ready to pack up and go home… I think it takes me longer to cross the pool than it does to drive to work in the morning.
My home is adjacent to a riverside bike path that goes from downtown Taipei all the way to the ocean. Tuesday is my day off and I ride the path each week, with no shirt on! Yesterday I did it and I rode right into a swarm of grasshoppers or locusts or something.
I am getting to know the local eateries, which include a place called Jake’s Country Kitchen (they sell Burritos, blueberry pie and chicken fried steak), an Indian restaurant (the service is terrible, the food is delicious and laxatives are a part of each recipe… even the tea makes me shit) and a fantastic deli (the owner insists that I all her Jackie-O [because she is elegant] and insists that every sandwich I buy has mustard… each day I tell her that I hate mustard, and like a Jewish grandmother, she says, “But mustard is really delicious with pastrami”).
I live close to a Chinese school and started classes last week. I am in private classes with an incredibly sexy, 26-year-old teacher. Her skirts are short enough to be illegal in most countries on this continent and I don’t really hear a word she says to me.
My school is great. After the world wall incident, the boss is overly-nice to me, I get free lunch everyday and I have my own classroom. My kids are babies (kindergarten and first grade) and are having trouble accepting my highly academic, strictly regimented classroom routine.
All the kids are cute as buttons and I have trouble telling them what to do, because most of the time, when they screw up, it’s adorable. I have a girl named Sami who insists on hiding under her desk, at least 12 times per hour. When I hound her for 3 or 4 minutes, she pops her head up and says… “So funny.” Another girl is named Patty; she is a firecracker and finishes most assignments before I am through explaining them. So, as I am saying, “Please take out your green phonics book and open to page 7” – she interrupts to say:
“Teacher I done.”
I reply, “No Patty, you have to say I’m done.”
This happens 30 times per day, and each time, she shrugs and says, “Teacher I done.”
Another girl named Winnie was given a bootleg copy of Mamma Mia for her birthday, and replies to all of my comments with a simple, “Mamma Mia!!!” When we have silent time, or nap time, I catch her singing ABBA songs under her breath.
For boys, I have a guy named David who loves, loves, loves to hug people. He often jumps out of his chair, hugs me, breaks his pencil and then says, “Teacher can you this (he mimics a pencil being sharpened) for me?” I do it each time, and two minutes later, he breaks it and does the same thing. Just yesterday, I saw him put his eraser in his backpack, walk up to Patty, hug her and ask, “Can I borrow your eraser?”
As far as friends go, I currently have four of them.
One is my roommate. He is from Chicago and worked in finance before getting bored and moving to Taiwan. He hates it here, but when I asked him if he’d leave, his reply was, “Well I can’t leave yet, I bought a bed.” I asked him what he missed about home and he said, “I miss my bears.”
I’m such an idiot, I cocked my head and said… “You have pet bears!!?”
He laughed and said, “It cost like 40 bucks per month to download the games!”
I asked if he liked the girls here and he said, “I often think about putting one in ach pocket and just walking around town like that.” The funny thing is, this guy is so damn jolly and friendly, I just shrugged and smiled… it almost sounded like an OK thing to do coming from him.
My other friends are a brother and sister from South Africa. The sister likes fashion and talks about make-up a lot. She said she would rather be really good at make-up artist than have a face so pretty that make-up wasn’t necessary. Her brother works at a Pizza Hut, but he’s convinced that he’s a chef or a food extraordinaire.
He often invites me over to drink 2-dollar wine and eat American cheese, claiming that it’s a “European custom.” I don’t have the heart to tell him 7-11 wine bottles and individually wrapped slices of “cheese-product” are a white-trash “Fresno custom.”
My fourth friend is a coworker named Leslie. She is in charge of bringing whiteboard markers, textbooks and other garbage to my classroom. She also got a new cat and asked me to help her name it. I suggested Julius because he looked tough and assertive (its actually a kitten who hasn’t opened his eyes yet) and ever since, she thinks I am the cat’s meow (no pun intended). She is teaching me to read and write Chinese, which is akin to studying heart surgery defusing bombs.
I live in a super-rich area, where a lot of the people are foreign nationals or locals who have spent a lot of time abroad. Taiwanese law says that anyone with money or hoping to appear that way MUST drive a black BMW or Mercedes with tinted windows, so I see a lot of those.
Many of the women seem to breathe money, in a gross, “Beverly Hills” kind of way. They wear stupid hats and giant diamond pendants on their shirts and hire Indonesian slaves to carry their groceries or children.
Supposedly people are snobby here, but Taiwanese don’t seem to have a snobby gene anywhere in their bodies. People here can pretend to be uppity or fancy, but a generation ago, their country was a clump of dirt, littered with rice fields and the people haven’t yet gotten a chance to embrace these western feelings of self-entitlement; except when waiting online for tea or noodles of course. I suppose the only snob I’ve met is… myself.
English speakers are definitely more common here, and that means most of the foreigners (white people) can’t speak a lick of Chinese. This makes me somewhat of a superstar wherever I go… foreigners and locals alike, are constantly amazed at my ability to speak Mandarin.
So… this is the life that I’ve built up in about 3 weeks, though it seems like 6 months already.
Leaving the states and coming back to this island last month, I have to say I had my doubts. My heart was stretched across an ocean, not knowing where it belonged; I was in a big disgusting city without a friend in the world. I landed here in a ruthless, tropical rainstorm that didn’t stop for 6 days. My motorcycle was broken and I was sleeping in a hotel where the chambermaids insisted on barging in without knocking, to clean my shower or vacuum the floors at 9:00 in the morning.
I’d wake up startled, ask them to come back later and try my best to look angry. The woman would shrug and say, “Don’t worry, it’s not a problem,” as they continued to push a vacuum over my dirty underwear and candy bar wrappers.”
My hotel was between a huge night-market (like a county fair, without the rides) and a nursing home. I loved to walk between teased-haired-teenagers dressed like Martians, eating fried food on sticks and buying Snoopy toys and dozens of old people in wheelchairs, drinking Oolong tea and playing Mahjong. At night, I’d eat chewy steak and French fries, while mouse-sized cockroaches ate the crumbs and drops of sauce from between my toes.
As the apartment hunt started, things were looking more and more depressing. I got in touch with a bunch of local realtors and my cellphone had more Li’s, Chen’s and Chang’s than… no, I can’t make a Chinese phone book joke here.
I got quite fluent with apartment topics, and leared to say things like:
- I wish live in your house. (I’m calling about the apartment)
- Does it have a place where one cooks rice? (kitchen)
- Is there a glass hole to see things? (window)
- Which hour can I go your there and look look. (Can I come by to check it out?)
One place I looked at (during the long rainstorm) had a basketball-sized hole in the ceiling and was flooded with half an inch of water. Mr. Li assured me that he’d fix the hole before I moved in… Thanks Mr. Li. Another one had tunnels in the floorboards and cockroaches strolling in and out… when I referred to the holes, Mr. Chen said, “If you’re going to live in Taiwan, you have to get used to our ways.”
My favorite though, was Mr. Chang’s apartment. I met Mr. Chang in a Mos Burger (Japanese version of Mc Donald’s). He overheard me talking on the phone to another realtor and asked if he could sit. Mr. Chang must have been 200 years old; he was frail and sweet and nearly dead. When we talked, he liked to hold my hand.
He explained that he had an apartment for rent, and it could be mine for 400 dollars per month. He (still holding my hand) told me about the fans in it, the closet and even the paper towels that he’d leave there, no charge. At times, I’d laugh, but none of this conversation was a joke to him.
He invited me over to take a look, but said it was a little far. He showed me his rickety, tireless, World War II bicycle and offered to ride it, while I sat on the luggage rack. Unsure with his ability to chew, let alone ride me around on his bike, I offered to drive my motorcycle. I had meant that he could ride his bike and I’d follow, but the next thing I knew, he was on the back, holding on to my neck.
He directed me down the windy alleyways of Taipei, reminding me to watch out for cars and stray dogs, while pointing out all the conveniences of the neighborhood. “You can walk a dog in that park!” “That haircutter is very professional.” “In the winter, they sell apples here.”
We were putting along, Mr. Chang was rambling, when all of a sudden a speed bump came out of nowhere! The next thing I knew, my scooter is a little lighter, and MUCH quieter… I looked back to see Mr. Chang on his ass, in the middle of the road. He sat there, completely casually, as if he had planned to get off at that moment… “Sorry” he said, and jumped back on.
We got to the building and Mr. Chang pointed out the ample parking, the security guard (who had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette in his mouth) and the “functioning” elevator. He repeated this several times.. “It is functioning. Some elevators are broken, but not this one.”
We got to the house to find his wife snoring on the couch. Things work differently here, and realtors seem to camp out at these places when they’re not occupied. He jolted her awake and ordered her to make tea for us.
While she boiled the water, Mr. Chang showed me the bathroom, the kitchen, the handcrafted ceiling and ample closet space. The apartment was a complete dump, but he had tea brewing, I had almost killed him moments before, and he was holding my hand again, so I couldn’t really get up and walk out yet. Then, Mr. Chang got really serious, he gripped my hand tightly and put the TV on mute… “I should also tell you,” he said into my ear, “you’ll have cable, but (he put his finger over his mouth in a shhh) we don’t pay for it.”
Mr. Chang continued, “Cable costs about 14 dollars per month, but we have an illegal hook up.” He gripped my hand tightly, “So, when you move in, you can watch it, but keep the volume very low, so that no one hears it.”
I laughed, I couldn’t help it; I looked at Mrs. Chang, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, while washing the tea pot, I looked at Mr. Chang’s dead-serious face, I thought of all the shit-holes I’d seen in the past week, I felt the tight grip of a cable-stealing, ancient Taiwanese man, and I laughed and laughed and laughed.
At that, tea was served and Mr. Chang spoke to his wife in Japanese (because of Pre World War II Japanese occupation, old people here often speak Japanese). He then grabbed my hand again and said, “So, 500 dollars per month… what do you say?”
I started to explain that the previous price was 400 dollars whet he wife interjected… in Chinese now. “The boy is very handsome, let’s give it to him for 400.”
Mr. Chang pretended to think for a minute, though I knew they’d planed this. “Ok,” he said, “Because my wife likes you, you can have it for 400 dollars if you sign the contract right now.”
I told him I’d come back the next day, and after hounding me for 20 minutes, Mr. Chang let me leave, under the condition that I called him as soon as I woke up to give my final answer. I deleted his number and never talked to him again.
Two days later, I found my current apartment, thanked God for throwing me a bone and haven’t looked back since. Things are looking up now; I am not homeless, I am not friendless, my heart (for the time being) is comfortable on this side of the Pacific and my motorcycle is running perfectly.
That’s all I got. Thanks for making it this far.. 12 pages…. Missing you and loving you and missing my Hooty.
-Matto
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Taiwan Numba 3
This was number three, written in the early days (late November, 2006)… at the time, I was pretty alone, alienated, culture shocked and loving every minute of it… I was especially fed up with 3rd world city air, urban life and Chinese food.
I am doing well. I am still happy and usually feel good about being here. My Chinese is getting a little better and I am learning to write and read a little. This weekend, I borrowed a friend's motor scooter and took a trip up to the mountains. I found an abandoned amusement park; I had no choice but to get out and look around. It was creepy as hell, like a scene from a good ghost story.
Among the wreckage, was a rusty carousel, half of a giant roller coaster and a haunted house. The haunted hose was right out of a ghost movie... the entrance was a clown's mouth, there was a rotted, wooden beam blocking the doorway. I had no flashlight, I was being attacked my mosquitoes and I was scared shitless... but I couldn't help but go in and wander around.
The inside was pretty damn creepy, but without light, I gave up pretty quickly. Since I arrived in Taiwan, I've had an irrational fear of being attacked by a pack of street dogs; this is so far from the guy who used to cuddle them in th streets of Mexico.
Anyway, as I exited the ghost house, I heard the loudest, deathliest scream I have ever heard in my life... I was sure the 16-year old girl I heard was being killed. I jumped, and before I knew it, the victim was in front of my face.. this made me scream!
Finally, the two of us calmed down. The victim was a young Chinese girl, hiding behind her boyfriend... he looked at me blankly, she looked at me as if I were the assailant... the three of us just sat there staring for a minute or two.
I sink you are the ghostaa... she finally said.
I apologized and walked away.
I also found a great place to go hiking; the air was free of pollution and motor scooter exhaust, giving it a foreign, woodsy smell. The views from the top were great too! On the way home, I passed by a restaurant called "Plaza de España." I am sick and tired of fried rice and chow mien, and am now jumping at the chance to eat anything different. I decided to give it a shot. I talked to the cook, a Taiwanese guy who spoke no English, but spoke decent Spanish. It turns out…he studied to become a chef in Sevilla! The restaurant walls were covered with pictures from his trip across Spain. I couldn't help but look around the restaurant and ask myself, What the hell am I doing in Taiwan?... with all the incredible places on Earth, how could I spend a moment in a place I didn’t really like? The food was great, and I assured him that I would drive the 30 minutes again soon, just to eat there.
I am realizing that everything (American food, Hanes underwear, Guacamole, Pesto Pizza, etc.) is actually available in Taiwan. Through my quest across the city, I have found Kirkland Soymilk, corn tortillas, good pasta sauce, refried beans and Cinnamon Toast Crunch! All of the mentioned items are ridiculously over priced (3 or 4 times prices at home), and are all imported. A can of clam sauce goes for four dollars! A quarter pound of peeper jack goes for six! I really hate to pay prices like these, but this food really helps to cure homesickness. I am doing well. I am still happy and usually feel good about being here. My Chinese is getting a little better and I am learning to write and read a little. This weekend, I borrowed a friend's motor scooter and took a trip up to the mountains. I found an abandoned amusement park; I had no choice but to get out and look around. It was creepy as hell, like a scene from a good ghost story.
Among the wreckage, was a rusty carousel, half of a giant roller coaster and a haunted house. The haunted hose was right out of a ghost movie... the entrance was a clown's mouth, there was a rotted, wooden beam blocking the doorway. I had no flashlight, I was being attacked my mosquitoes and I was scared shitless... but I couldn't help but go in and wander around.
The inside was pretty damn creepy, but without light, I gave up pretty quickly. Since I arrived in Taiwan, I've had an irrational fear of being attacked by a pack of street dogs; this is so far from the guy who used to cuddle them in th streets of Mexico.
Anyway, as I exited the ghost house, I heard the loudest, deathliest scream I have ever heard in my life... I was sure the 16-year old girl I heard was being killed. I jumped, and before I knew it, the victim was in front of my face.. this made me scream!
Finally, the two of us calmed down. The victim was a young Chinese girl, hiding behind her boyfriend... he looked at me blankly, she looked at me as if I were the assailant... the three of us just sat there staring for a minute or two.
I sink you are the ghostaa... she finally said.
I apologized and walked away.
I also found a great place to go hiking; the air was free of pollution and motor scooter exhaust, giving it a foreign, woodsy smell. The views from the top were great too! On the way home, I passed by a restaurant called "Plaza de España." I am sick and tired of fried rice and chow mien, and am now jumping at the chance to eat anything different. I decided to give it a shot. I talked to the cook, a Taiwanese guy who spoke no English, but spoke decent Spanish. It turns out…he studied to become a chef in Sevilla! The restaurant walls were covered with pictures from his trip across Spain. I couldn't help but look around the restaurant and ask myself, What the hell am I doing in Taiwan?... with all the incredible places on Earth, how could I spend a moment in a place I didn’t really like? The food was great, and I assured him that I would drive the 30 minutes again soon, just to eat there.
My landlord is slowly, slowly furnishing my house… I came home one day to find a huge bookcase blocking my apartment door; weeks later, there was a toaster oven in the hallway… today, it was a TV! I don't have cable, but I do get 4 or 5 network channels- 100 % Chinese I should add. I make my choices between local news, Korean soap operas and game shows involving green slime and people being spanked.
The soap operas or dramas are sometimes set in modern-day, contemporary society. Obviously they are in Chinese, but they seem to be typical love stories, only they will have random kung-fu scenes in the middle; like a man will be walking down a crowded city street and see two people kissing, and accost the man. Then, out of nowhere, a slow motion, Matrix fighting scene will start. Others seem to be set in feudal Japan or Korea and feature bad actors with pony tails and extravagant costumes.
The game shows are usually pretty hard to figure out, but their odd sense of humor comes though anyway. On one show, a dozen young guys and girls all sit on the stage in high-school-style desks, wearing typical school uniforms. An old man and woman stand in front of the students and try to make them laugh. The man once dressed in a frog suit once and as a French maid another time. The man and woman usually sing awful Chinese ballads or just groan and make weird noises. The students try their best not to laugh, but this usually only lasts a few seconds.
While we (in the states) get prizes for winning these games, in Taiwan, the losers get punished. So… when the student laughs (usually a girl) she must bend over her desk and the teacher will spank her with a wooden mallet. They play a honk or bonk sound, similar to those you hear on Mexican game shows, and the girl's butt is covered with a colored box (on the screen) that must say ouch or bang in Chinese.
Another show is identical to fear factor. In a country where people commonly eat tofu marinated in rotten milk and seafood, fried goose blood, chicken hearts on a skewer and fish head soup, I can only imagine what they eat on fear factor. Each player has a little red bucket and puking is quite common.
I am learning that we take it for granted that the US is a country of immigrants; I know lately this is only a lefty, hippy thing that Mexican lovers tend to say, but it really is true. We take it for granted that cities in America (even Penasquitos) can hold white people, Latinos, Asians, Black people, etc. and none are typically out of place. Sure our society may be more friendly to certain races, but no foreigners are looked at as actual aliens. Taiwanese cities (even the big ones) don't seem to have any non-Asians. In Taiwan, immigrants come from the Philippines, Thailand and Indonesia mostly; I assume they are not treated too well.
As for white people, we really are treated like saints. But we are also treated like true outsiders; we are gawked at and alienated. I have learned the word for foreigner: wai-guo-ren (literally "outside person"), and at least 3 times a day, I hear this word in side conversations, around me. It isn't malicious on their part, but it is puzzling that I can be such a big deal to them. Proof of this is that people are really sweet here, always overly helpful and eager to practice their 6 words of English with me. I have traveled to other nations where white skin was seen as wealth, and the friendliness I encountered was obviously coming for a price to be negotiated later.
Here, helpful people and friendly strangers are just that. On a long bike ride one day, I came across a huge park, where families were barbequing and singing karaoke from TV's mounted in the back of pick-up trucks. Within moments of my arrival, a family had called me over to join them. They spoke no English (they barely even spoke Chinese) yet we tried our best to communicate. They gave me disgusting, oily sausage from their Bar-B-Q, they gave me shrimp and taught me to suck the brain out and they gave me squid jerky. They then brought on the rounds of hard liquor, which tasted like stale whiskey. We laughed at our inability to communicate; I politely forced down the liquor and food and was on my way as quickly as I had arrived.
My Chinese is not close to passable, its really not even good enough to be called embarrassing. Through my conversations with people who speak a little English, I have found a common pattern. Almost always, the questions go in order:
1) Where are you come from?
2) Can you say Chinese?
3) Are you student?
4) How long you come Taiwan?
5) Where are you live?
6) Why are you come Taiwan?
I’ve thought about printing a t-shirt witht the following:
-California
-No
-No
-Too long and Not long enough
-Your mom’s house
-I have no f---in idea.
Because of this- now predictable sequence, when spoken to in Chinese, I just respond in this order. Chinese is a very difficult language to pronounce, meaning that after 5 months here, I still can't correctly pronounce the word for beef, bathroom or my own city. When grunting and burping out this puzzling language, I usually repeat each word half a dozen times, changing my tone and emphasis until the people understand me. Most conversations (at the pool, with waiters and waitresses, while buying tea, etc) go something like this.
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Meigouren (America people)
Chinese Person: eh?
Matt: MEIgouren (AmErica people)
Chinese Person: eh?
Matt: MeigouREN (AmericA people)
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Wo shwo ee-dien-dien jongwen (I speak little Chinese)
(more eh?'s and me repeating myself)
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Wo engwen laoshir (I English teacher)
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: ooo (five)….. here I get really nervous because I can't say
the word month……. I just say the word five a lot.
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Dali (I usually have to repeat this one close to fifty times,
and even then I assume the person gives up on me and just says ohh.
The conversation goes on like this, and often seems to work out okay. Though at other times, I get very puzzled looks. I imagine it has happened that someone asked me the time, or whether I'd like coffee or tea with my dinner, and I replied English teacher.
Things are going and going here and mostly going well. I went to my first American-looking supermarket tonight, where I bought olive oil, garlic, Chili sauce, a can opener, a frying pan and some Chinese noodles. That’s it!
The soap operas or dramas are sometimes set in modern-day, contemporary society. Obviously they are in Chinese, but they seem to be typical love stories, only they will have random kung-fu scenes in the middle; like a man will be walking down a crowded city street and see two people kissing, and accost the man. Then, out of nowhere, a slow motion, Matrix fighting scene will start. Others seem to be set in feudal Japan or Korea and feature bad actors with pony tails and extravagant costumes.
The game shows are usually pretty hard to figure out, but their odd sense of humor comes though anyway. On one show, a dozen young guys and girls all sit on the stage in high-school-style desks, wearing typical school uniforms. An old man and woman stand in front of the students and try to make them laugh. The man once dressed in a frog suit once and as a French maid another time. The man and woman usually sing awful Chinese ballads or just groan and make weird noises. The students try their best not to laugh, but this usually only lasts a few seconds.
While we (in the states) get prizes for winning these games, in Taiwan, the losers get punished. So… when the student laughs (usually a girl) she must bend over her desk and the teacher will spank her with a wooden mallet. They play a honk or bonk sound, similar to those you hear on Mexican game shows, and the girl's butt is covered with a colored box (on the screen) that must say ouch or bang in Chinese.
Another show is identical to fear factor. In a country where people commonly eat tofu marinated in rotten milk and seafood, fried goose blood, chicken hearts on a skewer and fish head soup, I can only imagine what they eat on fear factor. Each player has a little red bucket and puking is quite common.
I am learning that we take it for granted that the US is a country of immigrants; I know lately this is only a lefty, hippy thing that Mexican lovers tend to say, but it really is true. We take it for granted that cities in America (even Penasquitos) can hold white people, Latinos, Asians, Black people, etc. and none are typically out of place. Sure our society may be more friendly to certain races, but no foreigners are looked at as actual aliens. Taiwanese cities (even the big ones) don't seem to have any non-Asians. In Taiwan, immigrants come from the Philippines, Thailand and Indonesia mostly; I assume they are not treated too well.
As for white people, we really are treated like saints. But we are also treated like true outsiders; we are gawked at and alienated. I have learned the word for foreigner: wai-guo-ren (literally "outside person"), and at least 3 times a day, I hear this word in side conversations, around me. It isn't malicious on their part, but it is puzzling that I can be such a big deal to them. Proof of this is that people are really sweet here, always overly helpful and eager to practice their 6 words of English with me. I have traveled to other nations where white skin was seen as wealth, and the friendliness I encountered was obviously coming for a price to be negotiated later.
Here, helpful people and friendly strangers are just that. On a long bike ride one day, I came across a huge park, where families were barbequing and singing karaoke from TV's mounted in the back of pick-up trucks. Within moments of my arrival, a family had called me over to join them. They spoke no English (they barely even spoke Chinese) yet we tried our best to communicate. They gave me disgusting, oily sausage from their Bar-B-Q, they gave me shrimp and taught me to suck the brain out and they gave me squid jerky. They then brought on the rounds of hard liquor, which tasted like stale whiskey. We laughed at our inability to communicate; I politely forced down the liquor and food and was on my way as quickly as I had arrived.
My Chinese is not close to passable, its really not even good enough to be called embarrassing. Through my conversations with people who speak a little English, I have found a common pattern. Almost always, the questions go in order:
1) Where are you come from?
2) Can you say Chinese?
3) Are you student?
4) How long you come Taiwan?
5) Where are you live?
6) Why are you come Taiwan?
I’ve thought about printing a t-shirt witht the following:
-California
-No
-No
-Too long and Not long enough
-Your mom’s house
-I have no f---in idea.
Because of this- now predictable sequence, when spoken to in Chinese, I just respond in this order. Chinese is a very difficult language to pronounce, meaning that after 5 months here, I still can't correctly pronounce the word for beef, bathroom or my own city. When grunting and burping out this puzzling language, I usually repeat each word half a dozen times, changing my tone and emphasis until the people understand me. Most conversations (at the pool, with waiters and waitresses, while buying tea, etc) go something like this.
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Meigouren (America people)
Chinese Person: eh?
Matt: MEIgouren (AmErica people)
Chinese Person: eh?
Matt: MeigouREN (AmericA people)
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Wo shwo ee-dien-dien jongwen (I speak little Chinese)
(more eh?'s and me repeating myself)
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Wo engwen laoshir (I English teacher)
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: ooo (five)….. here I get really nervous because I can't say
the word month……. I just say the word five a lot.
Chinese Person: blah blah blah blah
Matt: Dali (I usually have to repeat this one close to fifty times,
and even then I assume the person gives up on me and just says ohh.
The conversation goes on like this, and often seems to work out okay. Though at other times, I get very puzzled looks. I imagine it has happened that someone asked me the time, or whether I'd like coffee or tea with my dinner, and I replied English teacher.
Things are going and going here and mostly going well. I went to my first American-looking supermarket tonight, where I bought olive oil, garlic, Chili sauce, a can opener, a frying pan and some Chinese noodles. That’s it!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
I saw a chicken being slaughtered yesterday........
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Near my home is a huge market, more like an open-air bazaar, I suppose. It’s an area the size of a football field, under a huge red and white tent. It’s overcrowded with tables and stalls; people selling fish (live and dead), noodles, dumplings, meat of all sorts, fruits and vegetables. In the typical Asian fashion, whole pigs sit next to slices of cake, next to live chickens, next to Sashimi stands… its a wonder the whole country hasn’t died. These markets are more common than supermarkets here, and I assume this is where most of the country buys their groceries.
For hundreds of years, while Europeans had salt to cure their meat and the Middle East had spices galore, East Asia never caught on to any of this. Without proper refrigeration and without any preservation, a careful, maybe paranoid culture developed. Still to this day, though refrigerators are as commonplace as motor scooters and temples, Chinese culture has an obsession with freshness.
Many Americans would claim the same marriage to fresh food, but here, the rule of thumb is, If I didn't see it alive, I don't know how long its been dead.
This means these huge open air markets are chock full of chickens in cages, shrimp sitting (or walking) on ice, pathetically blinking their eyes, fish flapping around in a few inches of water and pig legs, still complete with split hooves and furry legs.
I have been frequenting these markets for about 3 months now. I've noticed the small cages crammed with chickens; I've noticed the live sea creatures and I've definitely noticed the meat being sold. Subconsciously I obviously knew what was to come of these pets everywhere, but I had never realized the brutality of it all.
As I walked yesterday, I stopped to watch a woman wearing thick, rubber gloves. She pulled a live chicken out of its cage while it clucked and kicked. She slammed its neck on the bloody rim of a trashcan and sliced its head off with a cleaver. The head fell into the garbage, sitting on a pile of hundreds of others. The body, wings still flapping, legs still kicking, fell to the floor, resting atop dozens of dead chickens.
The whole process, from cage to headless, must have taken less than 10 seconds. The woman did it without hesitation, not as if he'd done it before, but as if he'd done it hundreds of times that day. She did it with the ease that I type my name MATT; 4 strokes... I could probably do that with the absence of all five senses… a reaction… there is no doubt I my mind that this woman could kill a chicken without her five senses… an act that would have taken me hours to prep for and months of therapy to get over.
She never noticed me; had no idea that someone was traumatized by her actions that day (no… I am NOT a vegetarian, yes… I know the hypocrisy involved here, no… I have never drilled for oil, picked a head of lettuce or built a home either), had no idea that I felt guilty about my eating habits for a couple of days, had no idea that his action would ever be deemed important enough for someone to write 1,560 words about it.
The punch-line here is not that I have gone vegetarian now, nor is it to say that the Chinese are savages. I am merely pointing the small differences in culture or people’s lives and how mind-boggling they can be.
Why are we so afraid of being reminded where our food actually comes from? Why are they so afraid of food that was frozen, shipped for 6 hours, delivered to a market and wrapped in plastic?
The list of small cultural idiosyncrasies could go on until my hands fell off. Why do we eat chicken breasts, but not their feet? Why do we eat fish, but not their eyes?
Culture seeps into every corner of one's existence, how one wakes up, how they walk, how they get to work, how they greet others each morning, how they get ready for bed, and everything in-between. It’s all dictated by their upbringing, by the community and the people that raised them.
Most of these details go unnoticed, even to the watchful eye of a foreigner. It is no wonder that immigrants tend to stick with their own people. The list of everyday occurrences here that make me slightly uncomfortable is long and constantly morphing. And on parallel, I can only begin to imagine all that I must do to make these people's teeth cringe.
The traveler takes these differences as exciting awakenings; a good traveler must think of himself as an anthropologist/ sociologist, using these changes in perspective to see himself and his culture. And to see that we do in fact have our own culture, that we are unique, (for good and for bad) this is a priceless gift, one that every human deserves.
I listen to University students across the US, complaining of our lack of culture and scoff… they’re not even worth the thirty seconds it would take to prove them wrong… When did we decide that it takes dragon puppets or candy skulls or bull fights to signify a true culture.
The working immigrant however, never asked for this enlightenment. For him, these cultural divides, these points that are lost in translation, are just another headache after a long day. I guess Tom Sawyer said it best: Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do. Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.
I am still having fun asking myself if I am in fact an immigrant. Do immigrants need to have dark skin? Must they come from a poor country? Must they themselves come from poverty? I have met white people here, people from first world countries who came to Taiwan to escape poverty. Are they immigrants? And wages for people of my educational background are in fact better here, so is poverty all relative? If I am $ 30,000 in the hole, with no savings, but I am well fed and have a car… what is my economic status?
At home, foreigners are almost always treated as second-class citizens. They are often feared, sneered at, marginalized and trampled upon. Yet I have been embraced here, the locals toy with my lack of ability to communicate, wait for my pantomimes, let me draw pictures of chicken legs and rice and often offer me forks with my meals. They almost always wear a smile while I take their time to explain my distaste for onions.
And for the life of me, I can't figure out why… I am not in Zimbabwe; I am not in El Salvador; I am in a developed nation. The people here have money and spend money, meaning that I am not the only source of income to these countless people who baby me. I am just another customer, another person on the street, another bus passenger.
It isn't even my American passport that makes me loved here, but my white face and protruding nose (it is quite common for children to come up to me, touch my nose and run away, while women like to call it beautiful). This is still relatively uncharted territory for the Australian businessman, or European vacationer; there is a definite air of curiosity and mysticism regarding white people here.
So… is it just curiosity? If America didn't have large populations of virtually every ethnicity imaginable, would we also be so friendly to the outsiders? While the Chinese seem to be excited, are we jaded by all who are not like us?
And then again, I must ask… do reasons always exist? Perhaps the Chinese history, and these tales of fresh meat have nothing to do with the chickens kept in cages. And perhaps I am dealing with a different culture, one that enjoys my company, when mine doesn't particularly enjoy theirs. Maybe it’s all that easy…
I haven't found the person whom I should thank for this one, nor have I gotten down the proper pronunciation for the word thank you. I am trying my best though and have not gotten any sneers for my poor pronunciation.
*This was written almost two years ago, when I was still a freshman to Taiwan and I have to say I am no longer amazed by what I see... it is less and less often now that I look twice at anything I see here. I'm more and more used to it all and realize that this was written at a time when I was still a backpacker to this nation. Now I don't know what to say... I have overstayed my anthropologist phase and am now in my - I don't know what to call it- phase. But I can properly utter the words for thank you, onions, and quite a few others.
Near my home is a huge market, more like an open-air bazaar, I suppose. It’s an area the size of a football field, under a huge red and white tent. It’s overcrowded with tables and stalls; people selling fish (live and dead), noodles, dumplings, meat of all sorts, fruits and vegetables. In the typical Asian fashion, whole pigs sit next to slices of cake, next to live chickens, next to Sashimi stands… its a wonder the whole country hasn’t died. These markets are more common than supermarkets here, and I assume this is where most of the country buys their groceries.
For hundreds of years, while Europeans had salt to cure their meat and the Middle East had spices galore, East Asia never caught on to any of this. Without proper refrigeration and without any preservation, a careful, maybe paranoid culture developed. Still to this day, though refrigerators are as commonplace as motor scooters and temples, Chinese culture has an obsession with freshness.
Many Americans would claim the same marriage to fresh food, but here, the rule of thumb is, If I didn't see it alive, I don't know how long its been dead.
This means these huge open air markets are chock full of chickens in cages, shrimp sitting (or walking) on ice, pathetically blinking their eyes, fish flapping around in a few inches of water and pig legs, still complete with split hooves and furry legs.
I have been frequenting these markets for about 3 months now. I've noticed the small cages crammed with chickens; I've noticed the live sea creatures and I've definitely noticed the meat being sold. Subconsciously I obviously knew what was to come of these pets everywhere, but I had never realized the brutality of it all.
* * *
As I walked yesterday, I stopped to watch a woman wearing thick, rubber gloves. She pulled a live chicken out of its cage while it clucked and kicked. She slammed its neck on the bloody rim of a trashcan and sliced its head off with a cleaver. The head fell into the garbage, sitting on a pile of hundreds of others. The body, wings still flapping, legs still kicking, fell to the floor, resting atop dozens of dead chickens.
The whole process, from cage to headless, must have taken less than 10 seconds. The woman did it without hesitation, not as if he'd done it before, but as if he'd done it hundreds of times that day. She did it with the ease that I type my name MATT; 4 strokes... I could probably do that with the absence of all five senses… a reaction… there is no doubt I my mind that this woman could kill a chicken without her five senses… an act that would have taken me hours to prep for and months of therapy to get over.
She never noticed me; had no idea that someone was traumatized by her actions that day (no… I am NOT a vegetarian, yes… I know the hypocrisy involved here, no… I have never drilled for oil, picked a head of lettuce or built a home either), had no idea that I felt guilty about my eating habits for a couple of days, had no idea that his action would ever be deemed important enough for someone to write 1,560 words about it.
The punch-line here is not that I have gone vegetarian now, nor is it to say that the Chinese are savages. I am merely pointing the small differences in culture or people’s lives and how mind-boggling they can be.
Why are we so afraid of being reminded where our food actually comes from? Why are they so afraid of food that was frozen, shipped for 6 hours, delivered to a market and wrapped in plastic?
The list of small cultural idiosyncrasies could go on until my hands fell off. Why do we eat chicken breasts, but not their feet? Why do we eat fish, but not their eyes?
* * *
Most people here, from construction workers, to doctors, to bankers nap for about an hour each day; they just put their heads down on the desk, while construction workers and road workers lay down on the sidewalk. Why do we regard naps as childish and slightly embarrassing?Culture seeps into every corner of one's existence, how one wakes up, how they walk, how they get to work, how they greet others each morning, how they get ready for bed, and everything in-between. It’s all dictated by their upbringing, by the community and the people that raised them.
Most of these details go unnoticed, even to the watchful eye of a foreigner. It is no wonder that immigrants tend to stick with their own people. The list of everyday occurrences here that make me slightly uncomfortable is long and constantly morphing. And on parallel, I can only begin to imagine all that I must do to make these people's teeth cringe.
The traveler takes these differences as exciting awakenings; a good traveler must think of himself as an anthropologist/ sociologist, using these changes in perspective to see himself and his culture. And to see that we do in fact have our own culture, that we are unique, (for good and for bad) this is a priceless gift, one that every human deserves.
I listen to University students across the US, complaining of our lack of culture and scoff… they’re not even worth the thirty seconds it would take to prove them wrong… When did we decide that it takes dragon puppets or candy skulls or bull fights to signify a true culture.
The working immigrant however, never asked for this enlightenment. For him, these cultural divides, these points that are lost in translation, are just another headache after a long day. I guess Tom Sawyer said it best: Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do. Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.
I am still having fun asking myself if I am in fact an immigrant. Do immigrants need to have dark skin? Must they come from a poor country? Must they themselves come from poverty? I have met white people here, people from first world countries who came to Taiwan to escape poverty. Are they immigrants? And wages for people of my educational background are in fact better here, so is poverty all relative? If I am $ 30,000 in the hole, with no savings, but I am well fed and have a car… what is my economic status?
At home, foreigners are almost always treated as second-class citizens. They are often feared, sneered at, marginalized and trampled upon. Yet I have been embraced here, the locals toy with my lack of ability to communicate, wait for my pantomimes, let me draw pictures of chicken legs and rice and often offer me forks with my meals. They almost always wear a smile while I take their time to explain my distaste for onions.
And for the life of me, I can't figure out why… I am not in Zimbabwe; I am not in El Salvador; I am in a developed nation. The people here have money and spend money, meaning that I am not the only source of income to these countless people who baby me. I am just another customer, another person on the street, another bus passenger.
It isn't even my American passport that makes me loved here, but my white face and protruding nose (it is quite common for children to come up to me, touch my nose and run away, while women like to call it beautiful). This is still relatively uncharted territory for the Australian businessman, or European vacationer; there is a definite air of curiosity and mysticism regarding white people here.
So… is it just curiosity? If America didn't have large populations of virtually every ethnicity imaginable, would we also be so friendly to the outsiders? While the Chinese seem to be excited, are we jaded by all who are not like us?
And then again, I must ask… do reasons always exist? Perhaps the Chinese history, and these tales of fresh meat have nothing to do with the chickens kept in cages. And perhaps I am dealing with a different culture, one that enjoys my company, when mine doesn't particularly enjoy theirs. Maybe it’s all that easy…
I haven't found the person whom I should thank for this one, nor have I gotten down the proper pronunciation for the word thank you. I am trying my best though and have not gotten any sneers for my poor pronunciation.
*This was written almost two years ago, when I was still a freshman to Taiwan and I have to say I am no longer amazed by what I see... it is less and less often now that I look twice at anything I see here. I'm more and more used to it all and realize that this was written at a time when I was still a backpacker to this nation. Now I don't know what to say... I have overstayed my anthropologist phase and am now in my - I don't know what to call it- phase. But I can properly utter the words for thank you, onions, and quite a few others.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
turks and turkey and living so far away
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Last Sunday, my roommate came home with an authentic, turkey and avocado sandwich. She offered me a bite and I was immediately reminded of my old life; a life where a sandwich like this was as common and beef noodles or fried rice is in Taiwan. I then realized that it had been about a year since I had had a decent sandwich. Since Sunday, I've had been craving my own.
I now sit at one of the two or three decent deli's/ markets in all of Taichung (a city of over a million) savoring my own overpriced, undersized turkey sandwich. I've come to call this deli the "2000 NT (60 USD) Store" because I've never been able to go in without spending about 2,000 dollars on various goodies.
As I stroll around the deli and stare at their array of comfort food (Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Kirkland soy milk, corn tortillas, Swiss cheese, the list could go on), I feel oddly depressed. During my first few months in Taiwan, these rare "Western Splurges" – meals at Friday's or even KFC- brought me an unimaginable amount of elation. I'd run in jumping up and down requesting half the items on the menu, smiling from ear to ear.
But these days, I seem to find it all depressing. I paw at my sandwich, but all knowing that I could have had it cheaper and better at home. I sip on my Corona but know that it will never replace a New Castle or a Sierra Nevada. I watch CNN in English, but know that I can't flip to American Idol or Sopranos (and I hated TV at home).
These crutches that foreigners use are supposed to bring us back home; they should bring us back to our respective comfort zones. But they tend to remind me of a home that I loved, a home that is ohh so far away, a home that doesn't exactly feel like home anymore. Looking at American cans and American jars and American candy with a simultaneous feeling of familiarity and surprise –
"Ohh I forgot about Swiss Miss", I have to ask myself…."When did it come to this?"
Paradoxical and contradictory… I know. Reminders of home have become reminders of homesickness for a place that we long to be but dread going back to. These small escapes from Taiwan aren't really helping us escape, but making us feel a little more trapped on a small island, where you can't drink the tap water or sufficiently speak the language.
Paradoxical, yet every foreigner everywhere reading this knows what I'm talking about.
Political and Economic theory talks a lot about "pushes" and "pulls", in regard to immigration. Countries like Mexico, India and Morocco "push" people while The US, the UK and Spain, respectively "pull" people in.
The dynamics of this are quite different when you have a majority of affluent people (the average foreigner in Taiwan) leaving affluent nations to come here. There are ex-pats here who came to escape drugs, poverty, unemployment or basements in their parents' house. But I'd say the majority, like myself, came to escape boredom, they came because they were curious.
The wanderer's heart has a collection of memories and experiences where the average person has empty holes. People that have been through these experiences will forever have a special bond that others won't understand. But the wanderer's heart also has rips and tears that will never heal.
God knows none of us will ever go home and see a 7-11, a garbage truck or a motor scooter quite the same. And all of us will have a new tear brewing, no matter where we end up on the map. Maybe we'll stay here, but we'll all miss something. Maybe we'll go home, but we'll all miss something.
As I finish my Snapple and take the last few bites of my sandwich, I can't help but think of the countless foreigners in Beijing, in Tokyo and Buenos Aires, also trying to find a piece of their own heart in an overpriced, less than perfect meal form home. I can't help but think of the Chinese people across the world settling for overpriced, less than perfect beef noodles. I can't help but think of the Mexicans finding tears as they go to sleep in Oklahoma or the Turk in Germany, shedding a tear in an imperfect mosque.
Millions of people across the world feel political, economic or just-plain desirous pushes and pulls to get them moving, but a very small percentage act on these forces. It's hard all over the world, and God knows that most have it harder than us. But that doesn't discount the fact that we have torn hearts.
No one deserves a medal for this, but it is something worth recognizing…
Last Sunday, my roommate came home with an authentic, turkey and avocado sandwich. She offered me a bite and I was immediately reminded of my old life; a life where a sandwich like this was as common and beef noodles or fried rice is in Taiwan. I then realized that it had been about a year since I had had a decent sandwich. Since Sunday, I've had been craving my own.
I now sit at one of the two or three decent deli's/ markets in all of Taichung (a city of over a million) savoring my own overpriced, undersized turkey sandwich. I've come to call this deli the "2000 NT (60 USD) Store" because I've never been able to go in without spending about 2,000 dollars on various goodies.
As I stroll around the deli and stare at their array of comfort food (Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Kirkland soy milk, corn tortillas, Swiss cheese, the list could go on), I feel oddly depressed. During my first few months in Taiwan, these rare "Western Splurges" – meals at Friday's or even KFC- brought me an unimaginable amount of elation. I'd run in jumping up and down requesting half the items on the menu, smiling from ear to ear.
But these days, I seem to find it all depressing. I paw at my sandwich, but all knowing that I could have had it cheaper and better at home. I sip on my Corona but know that it will never replace a New Castle or a Sierra Nevada. I watch CNN in English, but know that I can't flip to American Idol or Sopranos (and I hated TV at home).
These crutches that foreigners use are supposed to bring us back home; they should bring us back to our respective comfort zones. But they tend to remind me of a home that I loved, a home that is ohh so far away, a home that doesn't exactly feel like home anymore. Looking at American cans and American jars and American candy with a simultaneous feeling of familiarity and surprise –
"Ohh I forgot about Swiss Miss", I have to ask myself…."When did it come to this?"
Paradoxical and contradictory… I know. Reminders of home have become reminders of homesickness for a place that we long to be but dread going back to. These small escapes from Taiwan aren't really helping us escape, but making us feel a little more trapped on a small island, where you can't drink the tap water or sufficiently speak the language.
Paradoxical, yet every foreigner everywhere reading this knows what I'm talking about.
Political and Economic theory talks a lot about "pushes" and "pulls", in regard to immigration. Countries like Mexico, India and Morocco "push" people while The US, the UK and Spain, respectively "pull" people in.
The dynamics of this are quite different when you have a majority of affluent people (the average foreigner in Taiwan) leaving affluent nations to come here. There are ex-pats here who came to escape drugs, poverty, unemployment or basements in their parents' house. But I'd say the majority, like myself, came to escape boredom, they came because they were curious.
The wanderer's heart has a collection of memories and experiences where the average person has empty holes. People that have been through these experiences will forever have a special bond that others won't understand. But the wanderer's heart also has rips and tears that will never heal.
God knows none of us will ever go home and see a 7-11, a garbage truck or a motor scooter quite the same. And all of us will have a new tear brewing, no matter where we end up on the map. Maybe we'll stay here, but we'll all miss something. Maybe we'll go home, but we'll all miss something.
As I finish my Snapple and take the last few bites of my sandwich, I can't help but think of the countless foreigners in Beijing, in Tokyo and Buenos Aires, also trying to find a piece of their own heart in an overpriced, less than perfect meal form home. I can't help but think of the Chinese people across the world settling for overpriced, less than perfect beef noodles. I can't help but think of the Mexicans finding tears as they go to sleep in Oklahoma or the Turk in Germany, shedding a tear in an imperfect mosque.
Millions of people across the world feel political, economic or just-plain desirous pushes and pulls to get them moving, but a very small percentage act on these forces. It's hard all over the world, and God knows that most have it harder than us. But that doesn't discount the fact that we have torn hearts.
No one deserves a medal for this, but it is something worth recognizing…
crossing over with Max
In August 2007, I went to Cambodia for a few weeks, This is my worst:
Cambodia is a different planet from Thailand. There are no sidewalks, only mud. There are no roads, only mud. There is no food, only pots of rotting vegetables and meat swimming in E-coli. There are no homes, only shacks.... I mean shacks! Most would be unfit for a lawnmower or a pit bull in the states. There is an abundance of 12 or 13 year old kids driving motorcycles. Men everywhere approached me to "have a girl"..... I don't see how anyone could maintain an erection in a country like this.
I walked around the small border town... it was one of the few times in my traveling career when I thought
"my parents worst nightmares have come true."
Everyone here is evil and wants to eat me alive. I am vulnerable and they all know it.... I have no way to communicate and they can all team up against me. I have more money in my pocket than these people have seen in their lives... The people just smiled and waved at me though........
I went back to my hotel bar and met 2 French girls and a Russian guy named Max.... we ended up spending about a week traveling together.... it felt like a cartoon where the animals are looking for gold and they all end up on a mission to find it together.
Together, we departed together (the 4 of us) for a small town in the south-eastern tip on Cambodia. It was raining and raining and raining all day long....thick, heavy, wet rain. The bus ride was probably the distance from LA to San Diego, but it took us over 6 hours. Sometimes the road was paved, other times it was gravel, most of the time it was red mud. We got stuck several times, we pulled Camry's and vans out of the mud and we kept saying
"wow........ not like America, ha ha ha." The Russian drank Vodka all day.
Cambodia has no bridges, so every time there was a river, we had to drive the van onto a boat and cross the river on the boat. The boat was actually 4 canoes tied together with twine. Each crossing took 45 minutes, we would stop and take pictures of mud and children with no clothes on.
We ate rice and ecoli and took more pictures of poverty and bushes. The countryside had nothing but shacks.... by the end of the trip I was saying to myself..."Those rich bastards have a blue shack, all the other shacks are made of brown straw." The nicest shacks were made of plywood or even corrugated metal. The slums were just straw or leaves. It felt odd, it was impossible to see this and not feel sad or depressed or helpless or something...... I couldn't imagine for the life of me what their lives were actually like...... or what I looked like to them.....using a camera worth more than their year's salary, so I could take pictures of their children, who were swimming in mud puddles.
The scenery was really breathtaking...... endless forests and fields of bright, bright green, dark red soil, mountains creeping up into the clouds, rivers crisscrossing everywhere and rice fields, rice fields, rice fields.
We arrived in a desolate beach town called Sihanukville, which was supposedly known for its white sand and clear water.....but it rained lions and tigers for the 5 days I was there. I spilt a hotel with Max the Russian, the Russian who sang in the shower.
The Russian was traveling with a tiny knapsack....... all he had was an extra shirt, a bottle of Vodka, a toothbrush and a snorkel...... I was quite curious how this guy ended up in Cambodia with nothing but a knapsakc, but the language barrier was preventing me from finding out. His English was terrible; we tried to talk (imagine Russian accent).
Matt: How did you end up in Cambodia with nothing but Vodka and a snorkel.
Max: In Thailand I go to Pattaya... beautiful snorkel but girl is more expensive.
Matt: "Hey Max, do you want to go eat dinner?"
Max: "What is this word.... dinner?"
Sometimes he would talk to himself in Russian...and while shitting or showering he sang to himself. I asked him why he came to Cambodia and why he only has a tiny bag, unfit to go to school with..... he said (Russian accent)
I In Moscow talk with girlfriend bad things fighting and we both feel not so good...... I tomorrow next day get airplane to Bangkok and will swimming in sun." He didn't even bring shoes! Max kept talking, "Bangkok very good, but girl too expensive... Now Cambodge, I am king! Take many girl for small moneys... then use my camera for the proofs!
He showed me his cellphone, and scrolled through a dozen or so pictures he'd taken, all of prostitutes or bar girls he'd encountered on his journey; Max especially liked pics of girl's asses. Max's English was almost non-existent, but he could discuss three things and he repeated them to me hourly- girls, Tom Yam (a spicy Thai soup) and the beach.
Later on in our journey, Max and I bumped into a German girl in a restaurant; she could speak Russian, but not English, but soon her Austrian boyfriend came along, he could speak German and Enlgish.
Max hadn't met any Russian speakers since his trip started two weeks earlier... so he excitedly told her his whole story, she then translated to the boyfriend, who translated to me. Here is Max's story, told to me third hand, while I sat next to him, eating Tom Yam; Max insisted that I buy Tom Yam anytime we ate together.
About 2 or 3 weeks ago, I got in a huge fight with my wife. She was angry because I forgot to shut the door when I went to work that morning... I told her to shut the fuck up, and we haven't talked since. The next morning, I woke up on the couch and went to work. When I got to the office, my boss came in to see me. He was waving around a plane ticket, saying he had a ticket for Bangkok, but couldn't leave work. He asked if I was willing to take it.
I graciously accepted, but was then told that the plane took off in less than 3 hours. I ran home, but my wife had changed the locks. I quickly ran to a drug store, bought a small bag, a snorkel, a pair of flip flops and some sunglasses.
I landed in Bangkok, wearing my suit and shoes (from work) but left those in my first hotel room. I used the extra space in my bag for a bottle of Vodka.
This was Max's story. Max was a sex tourist and a total bonehead, but he was very friendly and I found him to be quite endearing. Later that night, Max invited me out to a bar to see a girl. When I declined, Max noted that I had turned him down on this 3 nights in a row. Max asked me if I was gay.
Matt: I'm not gay Max... but I do have a girlfriend in Taiwan.
Max hit me on the arm.
Max: That is okay.... I have the wife!
That night, Max hopped in the shower, sang some Russian songs and went out to explore Cambodia.
I read my book for a while and went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, Max was gathering his belongings and running out the door. Outside the hotel window, there was a black Mercedes and a shady, Russian-looking guy outside, smoking a cigarette. In the back seat were four teenage Cambodian girls.
Max hugged me and explained that me met an ex-KGB member who offered to put him up in a 4-star hotel, where he'd pay for all the food, the room and the girls. Max was genuinely scared that he'd offend me, but tried to explain that he was low on cash and almost out of Vodka.
After that I hopped more buses to cross more bumpy roads, seeing more lush green fields and more shacks. I'd go on to have more fun, but never met any more Max's.
Cambodia is a different planet from Thailand. There are no sidewalks, only mud. There are no roads, only mud. There is no food, only pots of rotting vegetables and meat swimming in E-coli. There are no homes, only shacks.... I mean shacks! Most would be unfit for a lawnmower or a pit bull in the states. There is an abundance of 12 or 13 year old kids driving motorcycles. Men everywhere approached me to "have a girl"..... I don't see how anyone could maintain an erection in a country like this.
I walked around the small border town... it was one of the few times in my traveling career when I thought
"my parents worst nightmares have come true."
Everyone here is evil and wants to eat me alive. I am vulnerable and they all know it.... I have no way to communicate and they can all team up against me. I have more money in my pocket than these people have seen in their lives... The people just smiled and waved at me though........
I went back to my hotel bar and met 2 French girls and a Russian guy named Max.... we ended up spending about a week traveling together.... it felt like a cartoon where the animals are looking for gold and they all end up on a mission to find it together.
Together, we departed together (the 4 of us) for a small town in the south-eastern tip on Cambodia. It was raining and raining and raining all day long....thick, heavy, wet rain. The bus ride was probably the distance from LA to San Diego, but it took us over 6 hours. Sometimes the road was paved, other times it was gravel, most of the time it was red mud. We got stuck several times, we pulled Camry's and vans out of the mud and we kept saying
"wow........ not like America, ha ha ha." The Russian drank Vodka all day.
Cambodia has no bridges, so every time there was a river, we had to drive the van onto a boat and cross the river on the boat. The boat was actually 4 canoes tied together with twine. Each crossing took 45 minutes, we would stop and take pictures of mud and children with no clothes on.
We ate rice and ecoli and took more pictures of poverty and bushes. The countryside had nothing but shacks.... by the end of the trip I was saying to myself..."Those rich bastards have a blue shack, all the other shacks are made of brown straw." The nicest shacks were made of plywood or even corrugated metal. The slums were just straw or leaves. It felt odd, it was impossible to see this and not feel sad or depressed or helpless or something...... I couldn't imagine for the life of me what their lives were actually like...... or what I looked like to them.....using a camera worth more than their year's salary, so I could take pictures of their children, who were swimming in mud puddles.
The scenery was really breathtaking...... endless forests and fields of bright, bright green, dark red soil, mountains creeping up into the clouds, rivers crisscrossing everywhere and rice fields, rice fields, rice fields.
We arrived in a desolate beach town called Sihanukville, which was supposedly known for its white sand and clear water.....but it rained lions and tigers for the 5 days I was there. I spilt a hotel with Max the Russian, the Russian who sang in the shower.
The Russian was traveling with a tiny knapsack....... all he had was an extra shirt, a bottle of Vodka, a toothbrush and a snorkel...... I was quite curious how this guy ended up in Cambodia with nothing but a knapsakc, but the language barrier was preventing me from finding out. His English was terrible; we tried to talk (imagine Russian accent).
Matt: How did you end up in Cambodia with nothing but Vodka and a snorkel.
Max: In Thailand I go to Pattaya... beautiful snorkel but girl is more expensive.
Matt: "Hey Max, do you want to go eat dinner?"
Max: "What is this word.... dinner?"
Matt: "I will travel to Phenom Krun... I heard it is a nice place."
Max: "I don't know this word... niceplace."
Max: "I don't know this word... niceplace."
Sometimes he would talk to himself in Russian...and while shitting or showering he sang to himself. I asked him why he came to Cambodia and why he only has a tiny bag, unfit to go to school with..... he said (Russian accent)
I In Moscow talk with girlfriend bad things fighting and we both feel not so good...... I tomorrow next day get airplane to Bangkok and will swimming in sun." He didn't even bring shoes! Max kept talking, "Bangkok very good, but girl too expensive... Now Cambodge, I am king! Take many girl for small moneys... then use my camera for the proofs!
He showed me his cellphone, and scrolled through a dozen or so pictures he'd taken, all of prostitutes or bar girls he'd encountered on his journey; Max especially liked pics of girl's asses. Max's English was almost non-existent, but he could discuss three things and he repeated them to me hourly- girls, Tom Yam (a spicy Thai soup) and the beach.
Later on in our journey, Max and I bumped into a German girl in a restaurant; she could speak Russian, but not English, but soon her Austrian boyfriend came along, he could speak German and Enlgish.
Max hadn't met any Russian speakers since his trip started two weeks earlier... so he excitedly told her his whole story, she then translated to the boyfriend, who translated to me. Here is Max's story, told to me third hand, while I sat next to him, eating Tom Yam; Max insisted that I buy Tom Yam anytime we ate together.
About 2 or 3 weeks ago, I got in a huge fight with my wife. She was angry because I forgot to shut the door when I went to work that morning... I told her to shut the fuck up, and we haven't talked since. The next morning, I woke up on the couch and went to work. When I got to the office, my boss came in to see me. He was waving around a plane ticket, saying he had a ticket for Bangkok, but couldn't leave work. He asked if I was willing to take it.
I graciously accepted, but was then told that the plane took off in less than 3 hours. I ran home, but my wife had changed the locks. I quickly ran to a drug store, bought a small bag, a snorkel, a pair of flip flops and some sunglasses.
I landed in Bangkok, wearing my suit and shoes (from work) but left those in my first hotel room. I used the extra space in my bag for a bottle of Vodka.
This was Max's story. Max was a sex tourist and a total bonehead, but he was very friendly and I found him to be quite endearing. Later that night, Max invited me out to a bar to see a girl. When I declined, Max noted that I had turned him down on this 3 nights in a row. Max asked me if I was gay.
Matt: I'm not gay Max... but I do have a girlfriend in Taiwan.
Max hit me on the arm.
Max: That is okay.... I have the wife!
That night, Max hopped in the shower, sang some Russian songs and went out to explore Cambodia.
I read my book for a while and went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, Max was gathering his belongings and running out the door. Outside the hotel window, there was a black Mercedes and a shady, Russian-looking guy outside, smoking a cigarette. In the back seat were four teenage Cambodian girls.
Max hugged me and explained that me met an ex-KGB member who offered to put him up in a 4-star hotel, where he'd pay for all the food, the room and the girls. Max was genuinely scared that he'd offend me, but tried to explain that he was low on cash and almost out of Vodka.
After that I hopped more buses to cross more bumpy roads, seeing more lush green fields and more shacks. I'd go on to have more fun, but never met any more Max's.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
bang bang
In August, 2007, I spent about 3 weeks in Cambodia... here is my best:
13 Aug 2007
I rented a book fit for the the Wicked Witch of the West and followed my –not to scale- touristy map I ended up on a dusty, rural, dirt road. There were cows the size of VW bugs blocking the road and naked children jumping rope and kicking hacky sacks- hacky sacks are HUGE in Cambodia. The road was understandably full of pot holes and ruts and my bike wasn't handling it too well. I asked a person if I was going the right way and he assured me that it was down this road, so I kept on trekking.
Exciting event 1 : The bike chain broke.
I continued pushing my bike through the dirt, hoping to find a bike shop on this road, with nothing but dusty shacks selling dusty Pepsi cans and farms.
In contrast to the polite Californian rain, which always gives 2 days notice and always starts out slow to give us ample prep time, Asian rain comes out of nowhere and comes with brute force.
Exciting Event 2: It started raining hard as shit,
I was without raincoat and the drops were actually stinging my skin. The people around me kept on kicking hacky sacks, jumping rope, walking with cows... as if nothing was happening, but I could barely walk.
The dirt road became thick, slippery mud in about 30 seconds.
Because I am an idiot, I still kept going, but this clearly wasn't my day. I was slipping and sliding all over the place, my shoes were sinking into this swamp, and I was pushing this POS bike around.
Exciting Event 3 : Dith!
God decided to smile at me and out of nowhere came a tuk tuk.
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/6/62/PICT2817.JPG
A tuk tuk is like Cinderella's beautiful carriage, except they replaced the handsome white horse with an old, smog spitting motorcycle. For the first time on my trip, I was actually happy to see one of these morons and I gladly accepted the ride. He spoke English, he loaded my bike into the cab and he knew how to get to the Killing Fields. If I thought I was slipping around a lot on my feet, this motorcycle was ridiculous… the backend was flying around left to right, spitting mud on my carriage, but I was cool right to left and I was right behind him the whole time, enjoying the ride.
Exciting Event 4 : Dith is a bigger bone-head than me
We went a few kilometers and then the damn thing ran out of gas! The man informed me that just up the road a little, he knew of a woman who sold gasoline from 2 liter soda bottles, he said he'd push us to the "gas station" and we'd soon be on our way. So this guy is pushing his little South-East Asian legs off but not getting far at all (because of the mud). Sitting in the tuk tuk, I started to feel like some kind of slave driver, so I got out and I pushed with him.
To refresh your memory- Rural Cambodia, still pouring rain, 2 idiots (one of them with white skin and a huge nose) are pushing a motorcycle taxi through ankle-deep mud, passing cows and rice farms on either side. Then, a garbage truck came flying down the road, honking his horn- thanks (The Asian sign for, "I'll hit you if you don't move.").
Exciting Event 5 : America is good man
As the truck passed us, it went through a puddle and splashed us like a scene from a cartoon. Both of us were covered in wet mud, from head to toe; even in my mouth. The tuk tuk driver was worried about the 10 dollars he was hoping to squeeze out of me, so he's apologizing and using his muddy T-shirt to wipe my face and arms off.
At this point, I was laughing uncontrollably, as we're still trying our best to push this fucking motorcycle taxi with my decrepit bicycle hanging out the end. The man, relieved that I wasn't upset, was now saying to me, "You are good man." "America is good man."
I concurred.... "Yes, Dith (his name was Dith) America is a good man."
Finally, we made it to the gas lady, we filled up a few liters and we were off to the killing fields. I wandered around the fields, while my tuk tuk man "waited-me" outside. After I was done, I got in the tuk tuk, ready to go to my hotel. The man turned around to talk to me. This happens often and usually the next question is, "You like lady?"--- but it was 2:00 in the afternoon! This guy surprised me though and said, "You like machine gun?" I pause for a minute, taken off guard.
"Yeah, Doesn't everyone?"
Exciting Event number 6: You shoot big gun
"Very close, is shooting range. You shoot big gun, I take you picture, so cool."
I guess I wasn't ready for my adventure to end, and I had a few hours before my bus, so I said OK. We drove back to the "main road" and down another short muddy road and ended up at what looked like a restaurant or something.
Cambodia had a civil war/ genocide... Well it turns out (who would've guessed) the Soviets and the Vietnamese were supplying the bad guys with an excessive amount of weapons and the Americans were funding the counter-insurgency, hoping to meddle without actually meddling.
When the war finally ended, the country was left with a huge number of guns, grenades, rocket launchers, etc.
I don't know if there is something in Buddhism that teaches this, but Asians are by far the most inventive, most entrepreneurial people on Earth. It is because of this that Taiwan and Korea are doing so well these days, it is because of this that China will rule the world one day, it is because of this that the Cambodians built shooting range, where people can fire M16's, Ak-47's and Tommy Guns.
I went in and sat down, and was handed a "menu." Aside from beers and sandwiches, the menu had a list of various guns, flame throwers and rocket launches with prices next to them. At the bottom of the menu, in big letters it read:
YOU MAY NOT TAKE ANY PHOTOS OF THIS MENU.
I got an Ak47, because it sounded the coolest. I went inside a proper, cement shooting range and the guy told me what to do. I fired 25 bullets in about 90 seconds, I paid him 30 dollars, I took some photos and that was it.
We tuk tuk'd home in the rain, I packed my bag and now I am in Siem Riep. My clothes are stil covered in mud.
13 Aug 2007
I rented a book fit for the the Wicked Witch of the West and followed my –not to scale- touristy map I ended up on a dusty, rural, dirt road. There were cows the size of VW bugs blocking the road and naked children jumping rope and kicking hacky sacks- hacky sacks are HUGE in Cambodia. The road was understandably full of pot holes and ruts and my bike wasn't handling it too well. I asked a person if I was going the right way and he assured me that it was down this road, so I kept on trekking.
Exciting event 1 : The bike chain broke.
I continued pushing my bike through the dirt, hoping to find a bike shop on this road, with nothing but dusty shacks selling dusty Pepsi cans and farms.
In contrast to the polite Californian rain, which always gives 2 days notice and always starts out slow to give us ample prep time, Asian rain comes out of nowhere and comes with brute force.
Exciting Event 2: It started raining hard as shit,
I was without raincoat and the drops were actually stinging my skin. The people around me kept on kicking hacky sacks, jumping rope, walking with cows... as if nothing was happening, but I could barely walk.
The dirt road became thick, slippery mud in about 30 seconds.
Because I am an idiot, I still kept going, but this clearly wasn't my day. I was slipping and sliding all over the place, my shoes were sinking into this swamp, and I was pushing this POS bike around.
Exciting Event 3 : Dith!
God decided to smile at me and out of nowhere came a tuk tuk.
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/6/62/PICT2817.JPG
A tuk tuk is like Cinderella's beautiful carriage, except they replaced the handsome white horse with an old, smog spitting motorcycle. For the first time on my trip, I was actually happy to see one of these morons and I gladly accepted the ride. He spoke English, he loaded my bike into the cab and he knew how to get to the Killing Fields. If I thought I was slipping around a lot on my feet, this motorcycle was ridiculous… the backend was flying around left to right, spitting mud on my carriage, but I was cool right to left and I was right behind him the whole time, enjoying the ride.
Exciting Event 4 : Dith is a bigger bone-head than me
We went a few kilometers and then the damn thing ran out of gas! The man informed me that just up the road a little, he knew of a woman who sold gasoline from 2 liter soda bottles, he said he'd push us to the "gas station" and we'd soon be on our way. So this guy is pushing his little South-East Asian legs off but not getting far at all (because of the mud). Sitting in the tuk tuk, I started to feel like some kind of slave driver, so I got out and I pushed with him.
To refresh your memory- Rural Cambodia, still pouring rain, 2 idiots (one of them with white skin and a huge nose) are pushing a motorcycle taxi through ankle-deep mud, passing cows and rice farms on either side. Then, a garbage truck came flying down the road, honking his horn- thanks (The Asian sign for, "I'll hit you if you don't move.").
Exciting Event 5 : America is good man
As the truck passed us, it went through a puddle and splashed us like a scene from a cartoon. Both of us were covered in wet mud, from head to toe; even in my mouth. The tuk tuk driver was worried about the 10 dollars he was hoping to squeeze out of me, so he's apologizing and using his muddy T-shirt to wipe my face and arms off.
At this point, I was laughing uncontrollably, as we're still trying our best to push this fucking motorcycle taxi with my decrepit bicycle hanging out the end. The man, relieved that I wasn't upset, was now saying to me, "You are good man." "America is good man."
I concurred.... "Yes, Dith (his name was Dith) America is a good man."
Finally, we made it to the gas lady, we filled up a few liters and we were off to the killing fields. I wandered around the fields, while my tuk tuk man "waited-me" outside. After I was done, I got in the tuk tuk, ready to go to my hotel. The man turned around to talk to me. This happens often and usually the next question is, "You like lady?"--- but it was 2:00 in the afternoon! This guy surprised me though and said, "You like machine gun?" I pause for a minute, taken off guard.
"Yeah, Doesn't everyone?"
Exciting Event number 6: You shoot big gun
"Very close, is shooting range. You shoot big gun, I take you picture, so cool."
I guess I wasn't ready for my adventure to end, and I had a few hours before my bus, so I said OK. We drove back to the "main road" and down another short muddy road and ended up at what looked like a restaurant or something.
Cambodia had a civil war/ genocide... Well it turns out (who would've guessed) the Soviets and the Vietnamese were supplying the bad guys with an excessive amount of weapons and the Americans were funding the counter-insurgency, hoping to meddle without actually meddling.
When the war finally ended, the country was left with a huge number of guns, grenades, rocket launchers, etc.
I don't know if there is something in Buddhism that teaches this, but Asians are by far the most inventive, most entrepreneurial people on Earth. It is because of this that Taiwan and Korea are doing so well these days, it is because of this that China will rule the world one day, it is because of this that the Cambodians built shooting range, where people can fire M16's, Ak-47's and Tommy Guns.
I went in and sat down, and was handed a "menu." Aside from beers and sandwiches, the menu had a list of various guns, flame throwers and rocket launches with prices next to them. At the bottom of the menu, in big letters it read:
YOU MAY NOT TAKE ANY PHOTOS OF THIS MENU.
I got an Ak47, because it sounded the coolest. I went inside a proper, cement shooting range and the guy told me what to do. I fired 25 bullets in about 90 seconds, I paid him 30 dollars, I took some photos and that was it.
We tuk tuk'd home in the rain, I packed my bag and now I am in Siem Riep. My clothes are stil covered in mud.
Dear Friends,
I still live in a foreign, often strange, often funny country. Though I don’t write it down as often as I used to, my life is still foreign, often strange and often funny. Here are a few from the past few weeks.
The point of this is that I had a crowd of Chinese people rolling, crossing oceans and historical divides and doing it all in Chinese. Notorious BIG once expressed the pleasure he felt from “rocking” a crowd of thousands “from the front to the back.” Ss someone who considers himself to be pretty funny, this experience gave me a similar feeling.
The one that will stand out 10 years from now though, is a student named Lucifer. I taught him English conversation for the past two years. Because of me, he can flawlessly say things like, I seldom go to the movies, or What are some of your hobbies and interests? When I met Lucifer, his English name was Andy, but there were three other Andy’s in his class. He came to me one day and asked that I call him Damien; a week later it was Satan; eventually he settled on Lucifer. If these seems odd, consider that I’ve had students in the past named Azzip (whose best friend was Pizza), Garfield, Helios, Piggy, Duck, Dinosaur, Amigo (she was a girl) and Isnt (so many opportunities for Abbott and Costello scenes).
Anyways, back to Lucifer. At this point, I’ve taught (not exaggerating) over a thousand high school students and I’ve found some patterns. In a class of thirty, about 4 will despise me- they’ll wish death upon me and make it fairly well known (hence yelling FUCK YOU while throwing hot dogs). About 20 will be completely oblivious to my existence… rarely noticing that I am in front of them with a book and a white board. The remaining students want nothing more than to be with me 24 hours a day. These kids show up 5 minutes early to class and leave five minutes late. They come up with reasons to hang around, like sweeping the floor, erasing the white board, ratting on their classmates who cheated or talked during silent time, asking what to study for a test that is three moths away, etc. When I try to escape to the office, they just follow me there.
In the first few months of teaching, I loved these kids. They noticed how wise and wonderful I was. They gave a purpose to my otherwise useless existence. They listened to me and nodded their heads. By October of my first school year however, I wanted to be left alone during break time. I didn’t care who cheated on which test, I didn’t particularly care what Rebecca did last weekend. I wanted to go to my office alone and bitch about my students. This is hard to do with students present.
Lucifer was one of those kids that was always around, but I liked him. He showed me his international coin collection, and I made it a habit to get a few coins for him when I went abroad. He’d bring me ice cream or chocolate sometimes. I asked him once, how his high school exit exams were going once… They are very (he paused for a moment) BULLSHIT! I smiled… I liked Lucifer and I liked watching him as he went through these monumental years of his life.
So… I was particularly excited to congratulate him at his graduation; I bumped into him as the ceremony was ending… I gave him a hug and asked how he was feeling…
I feel… I feel I don’t understand… I am so happy, but really too sad.
Often, broken English pads simple statements, giving them a very profound quality. I liked that this emotion mixed him up; I liked that he had a whole life of bitter-sweetness ahead of him, though he didn’t really know it yet.
I am a man though, so I don’t crying
I lied to him… I told him that I cried at my graduation and was proud of it. Lucifer looked down for a minute… when he looked back up at me he had tears in his eyes…
Really?? He asked in a choked voice.
I assured him that it was okay… I told him that any grand moment from that point on may make him laugh or cry, but that the most special would do both. We parted ways, I went back to my office, remembering why I had wanted to be a teacher in the first place, 100% sure that I knew what to do with my life.
It is actually illegal for a foreigner (I am a foreigner) to teach kindergarten. The manager of the school, a Harvard educated woman named Catherine, assured me that when the police come for their monthly inspection, I will be notified by a secret code over the intercom and I will have a few moments to leave the classroom and hide in the attic.
I can’t help but remember hiding our cat in the garage when the landlord came by to visit.
I still live in a foreign, often strange, often funny country. Though I don’t write it down as often as I used to, my life is still foreign, often strange and often funny. Here are a few from the past few weeks.
***
Last night I went out with a good friend of mine, a fellow teacher from Oklahoma. Accompanying us was his Taiwanese wife, half a dozen of her cousins and friends and a few other Americans. Somehow, the table became centered around me, and before I knew it, I was telling the whole group a story about my teenage years, when (among other things) I spent my free time dressed as a bumble bee, handing out balloons to children of white trash families. This invariably led to my story of the time that I was accosted by a mentally disabled preteen (while dressed again as a bumble bee) who proceeded to hug me so hard I thought I would turn blue from a loss of blood and oxygen to the head. In the end, his parents pried him off of me, while I gasped for air and the boy screamed and cried. The point of this is that I had a crowd of Chinese people rolling, crossing oceans and historical divides and doing it all in Chinese. Notorious BIG once expressed the pleasure he felt from “rocking” a crowd of thousands “from the front to the back.” Ss someone who considers himself to be pretty funny, this experience gave me a similar feeling.
***
I stepped in quick sand today. After sitting through two hours of Indiana Jones, the worst two hours since the last terrible movie I saw, I said that I didn’t believe in quick sand. It does, and Taiwan has it; it almost killed me today. It may have ruined a pair of shoes too. I recently got into a band called Dengue Fever… I recommend listening to them.
***
***
Last Friday was our high school graduation. It felt so strange to think it was just another Friday for me, but for many of these kids, it was one of the real turning points in their lives. One of my ex-students would be going onto study Engineering at Penn State; this kid, Taiwanese through and through, got 60 points higher than me on the American SAT! Another of my kids would be moving across Taiwan to study for his teaching degree. Another kid named Jay came to me and shook my hand. He looked me in the eyes and apologized (he threw a hot dog at me in class once- not as a joke, he threw it while he shouting FUCK YOU). I then looked him in the eyes and apologized for calling him a “real asshole”- teachers make mistakes too.The one that will stand out 10 years from now though, is a student named Lucifer. I taught him English conversation for the past two years. Because of me, he can flawlessly say things like, I seldom go to the movies, or What are some of your hobbies and interests? When I met Lucifer, his English name was Andy, but there were three other Andy’s in his class. He came to me one day and asked that I call him Damien; a week later it was Satan; eventually he settled on Lucifer. If these seems odd, consider that I’ve had students in the past named Azzip (whose best friend was Pizza), Garfield, Helios, Piggy, Duck, Dinosaur, Amigo (she was a girl) and Isnt (so many opportunities for Abbott and Costello scenes).
Anyways, back to Lucifer. At this point, I’ve taught (not exaggerating) over a thousand high school students and I’ve found some patterns. In a class of thirty, about 4 will despise me- they’ll wish death upon me and make it fairly well known (hence yelling FUCK YOU while throwing hot dogs). About 20 will be completely oblivious to my existence… rarely noticing that I am in front of them with a book and a white board. The remaining students want nothing more than to be with me 24 hours a day. These kids show up 5 minutes early to class and leave five minutes late. They come up with reasons to hang around, like sweeping the floor, erasing the white board, ratting on their classmates who cheated or talked during silent time, asking what to study for a test that is three moths away, etc. When I try to escape to the office, they just follow me there.
In the first few months of teaching, I loved these kids. They noticed how wise and wonderful I was. They gave a purpose to my otherwise useless existence. They listened to me and nodded their heads. By October of my first school year however, I wanted to be left alone during break time. I didn’t care who cheated on which test, I didn’t particularly care what Rebecca did last weekend. I wanted to go to my office alone and bitch about my students. This is hard to do with students present.
Lucifer was one of those kids that was always around, but I liked him. He showed me his international coin collection, and I made it a habit to get a few coins for him when I went abroad. He’d bring me ice cream or chocolate sometimes. I asked him once, how his high school exit exams were going once… They are very (he paused for a moment) BULLSHIT! I smiled… I liked Lucifer and I liked watching him as he went through these monumental years of his life.
So… I was particularly excited to congratulate him at his graduation; I bumped into him as the ceremony was ending… I gave him a hug and asked how he was feeling…
I feel… I feel I don’t understand… I am so happy, but really too sad.
Often, broken English pads simple statements, giving them a very profound quality. I liked that this emotion mixed him up; I liked that he had a whole life of bitter-sweetness ahead of him, though he didn’t really know it yet.
I am a man though, so I don’t crying
I lied to him… I told him that I cried at my graduation and was proud of it. Lucifer looked down for a minute… when he looked back up at me he had tears in his eyes…
Really?? He asked in a choked voice.
I assured him that it was okay… I told him that any grand moment from that point on may make him laugh or cry, but that the most special would do both. We parted ways, I went back to my office, remembering why I had wanted to be a teacher in the first place, 100% sure that I knew what to do with my life.
***
I got hired to teach in an ESL kindergarten for the next school year. The government (non-linguists that they all are) is convinced that teaching English to five year-olds will hinder their ability to fluently speak Chinese in the future. This not only contradicts all linguistic research done in the past 100 years, but discounts that most of these children are already bilingual (Taiwanese and Mandarin). It is actually illegal for a foreigner (I am a foreigner) to teach kindergarten. The manager of the school, a Harvard educated woman named Catherine, assured me that when the police come for their monthly inspection, I will be notified by a secret code over the intercom and I will have a few moments to leave the classroom and hide in the attic.
I can’t help but remember hiding our cat in the garage when the landlord came by to visit.
***
I’ve recently developed an addiction to batting cages and air hockey.
***
missing you all, love mattto
Friday, February 22, 2008
As they pulled it off of my leg, blood squirted everywhere and I shrieked like a school girl.
I know that this trip has been severely lacking in interesting emails. I have now come to expect that if I leave my house for more than 48 hours, something funny, something dangerous and something totally awful should happen, and I genuinely enjoy writing these things down and sharing with all of you.....
Any good trip, any significantly interesting vacation for me involves one of those rare, very special moments... those times when I say, "What in God's name am I doing here?"... "I would give anything to be at home, watching CSI right now (I don't even like CSI)"..... "Oh, merciful God, please get me out of this one..."
These moments come in the Mexico City bus terminal at 2:00 AM, they come when waves are pounding you against a sharp coral reef in Costa Rica... and they come in Borneo's jungles, when the sun has set, its pouring down rain, your lost and you have leaches in your shirt...
I've been traveling in Malaysia and Singapore for about 2 weeks now. I've been riding clean, state-of-the-art subways, lazing on perfect, white sandy beaches and eating sanitary food at reasonable prices.... while this sounds nice... I could have done this all at home..... so why did I come on vacation anyway???
I met up with Brent (my coworker/ only male friend in Asia/ new traveling buddy) a few days ago and we went to a nice beach on mainland Malaysia (think of China, go South.... keep going.... STOP) that is about where Malaysia is.
It is a really beautiful country, about 1 degree north of the equator. The cities are nice, the country side is awesome.... palm trees, ferns, vines, grass, wild birds, etc.
The population is about 1/3 Native Malays (something like Polynesians), 1/3 Chinese (like China) and 1/3 Indians (from India)... Things come together and it seems to be the real "melting pot" of Asia.....
Somewhere in history, someone brought Islam here as well, though I insensitively refer to it as a "good" Muslim country....
Yes.... the official religion here is Islam.
No.... The numerous Buddhists, Christians and Hindu's are not beaten or persecuted
Yes... Many of the women wear scarves on their heads
No.... they don't wear bee keeper suits,
No... women are not forced to wear anything Muslim-esque
Homosexuals aren't too common, but they are not beaten or jailed. Women hold jobs, drive cars and walk the streets freely.
No... I haven't bothered to mention that I am Jewish... haha
Because of such a diverse culture, the "local" food ranges from Chinese to Thai to Indian to all sorts of mixes of the 3..... I had sting ray curry one night!!!
So as I said...... mainland Malaysia was beautiful, relaxing and culturally fascinating.... but it wasn't really all that exciting. I needed to find dirt and grime and stomach parasites- so that I could really unwind... Also, Brent (who barely left Kansas before coming to Taiwan) deserved to have some fun too....
Our dreams came true in Borneo.... Yes.... Borneo.... Borneo.... Borneo... Borneo is an island, somewhere south of China and the Philippines, north of Australia. I know what you are thinking.... No one goes there.... only Crocodile Hunters and weird uncles who drink to much and have tattoos go there.....
I am the weird uncle and I..... am now in Borneo.....
Brent and I arrived a few days ago and this is 3rd world heaven... the streets are dark and dirty, the local men have shifty eyes and gold teeth, the local women wear little clothing and have dragon or snake tattoos....
We landed in the evening and hopped a night bus across the island. The bus twisted and turned for hours, up and down dark mountain roads.... everyone threw up their fried noodles and beef satay... At around 2:30 AM we arrived in the small town of Sandakan... the bus let us out in the pouring rain, thick, heavy, malicious, monsoon rain, there was no taxi in sight, the thugs and prostitutes smelled us and started to circle around.... eventually we found a taxi, a hotel, we went to sleep.
We woke up yesterday and went to the Orangutan Sanctuary. There, we walked on wooden planks through a jungle that looked, to me, like the San Diego Zoo. Finally the skinny bridge opened up to a large area with trees and ropes leading towards a raised central platform... there, on the "stage" a group of 5 or 6 of the brown apes congregated and waited for little dark men to feed them bananas and milk.... they introduced the apes to us.... "This is Patrick"....."Vanessa here loves to be tickled"... “Sean is having a bad hair day.”
Chinese, British, Swiss and French tourists pulled out over-priced digital cameras, made monkey faces and clicked away.... Brent and I did the same....
The monkeys got full and swung away, into the jungle... we exited the park and as we were leaving, we saw two skinny, white guys run out of the jungle, rip off their shirts and start to beat each other...
I came closer to them and realized that they were covered with little, black twigs... and the twigs were moving... and the twigs were leaving small puddles of blood in their wake....
I thumbed through my guidebook (guidebooks really know everything).... I cross referenced- "twigs" "black" moving" "blood"........ the book spoke up..... Borneo's jungles have LEECHES.....
I slyly walked over to the skinny, bloody, white guys who were now holding cigarette lighters to one another, and I thought of something clever to say.... "You got a leech... huh?"
"One?" .... one of the guys replied- he had an Irish brogue [you can do one in your head]
"Fuck..... I got 'undreds of 'em! Its a great 'ike but you'll never make it like that!"
I looked down.... I was dressed pretty much like the Irish guys... sandals, bathing suit, thin cotton t-shirt… the big difference was my legs and torso weren't covered in small puddles of blood.
The Irish bloke continued..... "Me mate here, he went barefooted.... fuckin' terrible idea... as for me.... I lost my flip flop about 3 kilometers in....." He had one tired-looking flip flop dangling off his foot.
"Hmmm.... it's a good hike though?" I asked....
"Fuckin' excellent mate."
I looked at Brent.... Brent looked at me....As for me... I am a total idiot and never believe warnings when I should.... as for Brent..... he is from Kansas.... where I assumed.... people are constantly facing leeches and scary wild animals....
We silently nodded to each other....
A shady-looking Malaysian man was watching all of this and trying his best to eaves-drop, or, maybe like us, he was just wondering while the young Irish lads were half-naked and beating each other.
He motioned for Brent and I to come his way. We obliged and, in a hushed tone, (like a drug dealer or bootleg DVD seller talks) he asked, “Can I interest you in leech socks? I have raincoats, leech socks, mosquito spray, whatever you need.” I had read about leech socks in my guidebook. They sounded a little fruity to me; like they would be marketed to the same people who buy walking sticks for trips to the zoo, or Kevlar-enforced hiking boots to walk the trails of Yosemite. But after watching these boys swab blood off of each other’s torso and legs, I would have bought leech sunglasses or toe rings if the guy was selling them.
The sock dealer brought us to his taxi (a true entrepreneur) and popped the trunk. In the trunk, were stacked boxes of everything a retard like me would have forgotten: sunscreen, bug spray, sun glasses, tan colored hats, shoe laces, flashlights, disposable cameras, compasses and finally… leech socks.
Leech socks look more like a Christmas stocking than a sock; they are tall, white booties, made of thick cotton. At the top is a cinch tie, to keep them up around the calf. For a total price of 5 or 10 bucks, we got 2 pairs of socks and a couple of disposable raincoats. We put our socks on and the man offered to duct tape them around the top; we decided to maintain an ounce of dignity and denied his offer. He slammed the trunk and offered us a last piece of advice: “Get some salt.” I politely informed him that I wasn’t familiar with the indigenous Malay’s eating habits, but these white boys from America had no plans to eat any leeches on our hike. The man looked at me cock-eyed. Brent hit me.
“Salt kills leeches!” Brent was annoyed.
We tied our socks, put on our famous blue raincoats (Brent’s was actually clear) and hugged and thanked our dealer. We snuck into a small café, and I stole a saltshaker, while Brent created a diversion.
With that, we set out on the trail of excitement and wonder. The path started out wide and clear of plants, snakes and blood sucking annelid worms. We scoffed at the Irish boys, doing terrible impressions of their accents while thinking of other reasons that Europeans were not as tough as us.
“I’m just terrified of cats,” I said, in my Irish/ Scottish/ British accent.
“And what about snails, they could give me a heart attack,” Brent added.
“We should work 6 hour days and get 3 months off work every year.”
This went on until the trail led us into a puddle of mud, which became a swamp, which became a stream, which became a river. Soon, there was no trail at all and we were trekking over logs, through waste high grass and around leaves the size of a small elephant. Then we heard the hard slap of raindrops on the canopy of leaves above us. Because it had so many levels to go through, we didn’t feel the rain for a few moments, but soon enough, rain drops the size of whiteboard markers (I’m a teacher) were falling on us. We were soaked and pissed off and then Brent reminded me that leeches come out in the rain.
I saw the first leech on the toe of my indestructible bootie. He was no wider than a guitar string and about an inch long. I thought it was a twig, but it was crawling around, blindly. I screamed like a nancy and jumped higher than I have ever jumped in my life; I could have slam-dunked a basketball (but I was in a swamp in Malaysia, not a school playground).
I started breathing so hard that I thought I would hyperventilate. My voice went 3 octaves above its normal pitch; “Brent…fuck! Fucking kill it! Save me! It’s gonna kill me! Shit!”
Brent doesn’t show his emotions the same way I do; He paused for what seemed like an eternity. He spoke slowly and calmly, “Matt, relax, stop acting like a Taiwanese Junior High School girl and stand still for a minute so we can remove it.”
I was busy jumping around and shouting the F word, so I heard none of this.
Finally, I calmed down and Brent tried to flick it off. Our first lesson of the day was- leeches are like wet boogers, they just don’t flick. This little fucker stood its ground, like it was glued to me! Brent then tried to grab it and pull it off... nothing! Finally, we remembered the salt; we shook a teaspoon’s worth of salt on him (I wanted to put the whole shaker on him, but Brent advised against it). Within a few seconds, the little guy curled up, lost his grip and fell to the forest floor.
With this, we started to act more cautiously: We put our hoods up over our heads, we cinched our socks enough that blood flow was restricted to the feet and ankles, we devised a hip-holster for the salt shaker. I was wearing a long-sleeve raincoat and shorts, which meant I had about 2 inches of exposed skin, below my knee. Other than this, and my hands and jutting nose, I was totally leech proof. Brent had jeans on, but short sleeves. We both agreed that if one of us were to walk around naked, the other could take his clothes and be 100% safe. Neither of us was willing to make this compromise though.
The hike went on and on. The trail got less and less like a trail until there was no trail at all; we might as well have been the first people in history to walk there. To prevent people from getting lost on trails that are poorly maintained, there will often be markings every 100 feet or so. Luckily, here, there were orange spots painted on many of the tree trunks.
We stopped every 30 or 40 seconds to examine each other and then spill salt on every black line we could find. We both cursed a lot, but after the 100th leech, I lost my voice and with it, lost my ability to squeal like a fruitcake. After about an hour, my legs got sore and I stopped trying to jump out of my skin. After close to 1000 kills each, if got boring. We said “goddamnit” and “Fucking asshole shit” more as a courtesy than anything else. Eventually, it came to either of us stopping every few minutes, looking down at his leg or arm, looking back at the other and lazily saying, “salt.” After that, we even lost the energy to smirk or laugh at the leeches curled up, pathetic, little salt-covered bodies.
About 90 minutes into the hike, we were tired and cranky, soaking wet, thirsty and running out of salt. Brent stopped and asked, “How long do you think this hike could be?”
When we had first started the hike, I had seen a rusty sign on the trail. It read, Nature Sanctuary 10 KM. With an arrow pointing down the path. Now, you can call me an “ignorant American,” or a “moron,” or any other mean names, but I just don’t get the metric system. I have lived abroad for almost two years now. My motorcycle’s speedometer is even in kilometers, but I still don’t know what the hell a kilometer is. When I saw the sign, I did some quick math; I had recently read that the new Ferrari could do 0-100 Kilometers in 3.4 seconds. I also knew that one time, I went on a hellish, 9-hour bike ride, that ended up being about 75 KM’s. By my calculations, this meant that a 10 KM hike would take no more than 45 minutes.
I thought about sharing this with Brent. I thought some more. “Its probably about 10 more minutes,” I replied. “The Irish guys said it took less than an hour.” I had pulled all of that straight out of my ass, but Brent seemed satisfied enough. He half-nodded his head and we carried on.
At this point, we got out of the swamplands and started hiking up and down hills. The rain had slowed down a little, but we were slipping in the mud, (both wearing sandals) still stopping to cover each other in salt, still calling the leeches mean names. Another 30 minutes passed. Then, I saw a familiar, rusted sign. I assumed it would say Nature Sanctuary 0.25 KM. I got excited, confident that if I ran from there, I would soon be able drink some water, burn my clothes and find a mound of salt to roll in.
As I approached the sign, a wave of disappointment, followed by thoughts of my “untimely” death shot trough my body. Nature Sanctuary 6 KM. “SHIT!” At first, I didn’t realize that I had said this out loud.
Brent has known me for over a year now and he knows that I don’t run…ever. He’s also knows that I may have a mild form of turret’s syndrome but I don’t usually shout profanities for no reason. He came up behind me… “What’s wrong?”
I placed myself between him and the sign, and made up something about a millipede in my sock. I assumed, if Brent saw the sign, I would get in trouble or something. My plan didn’t work, Brent said, “Hey, there’s a sign behind you.”
We looked together. Brent smiled, “6 KM’s!!!! Great… that’s probably 15, 20 minutes!” Apparently, Brent had read the same article about the new Ferrari. I decided not to correct him, but I picked up my pace a little, knowing that we would follow.
The hike continued. I looked at my watch; it was 6:00 PM. I knew from the past few days there, that the last speck of light disappeared over the horizon at 8:00 PM. I did some more calculations and decided that we’d surely die in the jungle that night. I was getting dehydrated and started to see orange spots on ALL the trees. Also, it was about 80 degrees out; I was sweating profusely, and my head and neck felt like they were on fire. I took my hood off, but then imagined leaches climbing into my ears and making their way to my belly button. Being hot was better than being killed by parasites, so the hood went back up.
I couldn’t decide if we should stop there and build a hut for the night, or sprint the rest of the way, or start screaming for help or just hang ourselves from some vines and admit defeat. I decided not to share any of this with Brent.
We trekked on and on; more swamps, more mountains, more mud, more leeches, more salt. After another hour, Brent stopped dead in his tracks and shrieked. I imagined a tiger, a gang of monkeys, a herd of carnivorous elephants. Any of these would have been better than what I was about to see… Brent lifted up his shirt…he was bleeding! It wasn’t the wound from a cannibal’s spear…it was a leech! The unthinkable had happened and a bloodsucking parasite had made it through the raincoat, through the shirt, through the anger and frustration and broken the skin! We salted the hell out of it and pretended to be tough men about the situation. I didn’t want to pass out cold, so decided against lifting my shirt up at all.
This is when things got really bad:
We finally acknowledged that we didn’t know what a kilometer was but it was much longer than we thought. We acknowledged that we were unhappy, thirsty and exhausted. We acknowledged that the sun was going down and that the nocturnal life of the forest was waking up all around us. Lastly, we acknowledged that if a leech could make it into a shirt, it could also make it into the underpants.
With that, we decided to hightail it out of the jungle and walk at a quick pace. It was decided that leech checks were now less important than getting out of the jungle alive and thus would be temporarily suspended. We never actually said that we were goners, that we didn’t know where we were going, and that we hadn’t the time to get there.
We walked on and on. I fell off a slippery log and into a deep (4 feet) river. Brent got bitten by a poisonous centipede; his leg swelled up twice its normal size. We heard mysterious noises and imagined large animals stalking us. The sun nearly disappeared. The only source of light either of us had was the LED screens on our digital cameras. We both decided our moms were gonna be really pissed that we died this way.
When all hope was lost, we saw a glimmer of light in the distance. We got excited. We ran, we tripped and slipped in the mud, but got up and ran and ran and ran. The light got closer. I imagined it was a restaurant where they sold steak and baked potatoes. Then I imagined that they could do laundry while we took hot showers. I was sure they had special “leech-killing” soap. We approached the light (which was now a few lights) and saw that it was a creaky old pier on the bank of a river.
Anything was better than the jungle, so we ran to the pier. Following our instincts and our wise predecessors, we each stripped down to our underwear and started to beat each other. Brent had a few leeches on his torso, but I was so disgusted, he had to get them off himself. I just stood there and said, “yuck, oooo, disgusting.”
As I took my pants and shirt off, I said to Brent: “I am going to close my eyes. If there is a leech on me, I want you to do whatever it takes to kill it and not let me know at all. I will close my eyes and imagine that I am in a happy place where animals cannot suck my blood.”
I took my clothes off. Brent used the voice that a therapist uses when guiding her patient through meditation: “Matt, don’t worry, I am going to get the salt and remove a small leech from your stomach.”
I used the last few ounces of energy in me to scream as loud as I could. Again I jumped ten feet in the air. Then, I waved my hands rapidly (as if they were on fire) and whined, “Get it off, get it off, I beg you to get it off, I wish I was never born.” I continued mumbling and jumping around like someone going through heroin withdrawals while Brent told me to shut the hell up and stop moving so much. He salted it, it fell off, I dabbed the wound with my crumbled up T-shirt. We simultaneously checked our own underwear and butt cracks with our hands.
When we looked up, there were 4 heavyset Malay guys surrounding us. Two were smoking filter-less cigarettes, one was sharpening a big knife and the fourth was sloppily eating a banana. They were all looking at us, slightly angry, mostly puzzled. They mumbled to each other in Malay, “I am 100% sure they all uttered the Malay word for faggot.”
We then realized that we were NOT in fact back at the monkey sanctuary and that these guys might not really want us on their pier. We expected people to greet us with a change of clothes, a cup of hot chocolate, a smile; instead, we were left with four unwelcoming faces and a big knife.
Brent and I simultaneously jabbered our whole story. We saw a monkey… it was so big… the Irish guy said something funny… we got the socks… I fell… I had stingray curry last week… I couldn’t even understand what the hell we were saying, let alone these poor guys.
Finally, the one with the banana put his hand up. We stopped. “No Englisheee!!” He growled. A light turned on in Brent’s head, he whispered to me,
“Maybe they speak Chinese.” We didn’t bother to ask, we just relayed the story (as best we could) in our broke ass bastardization of Mandarin,
“失去, 飢餓, 疲乏, 猴子, 水蛭, 渴, 驚嚇, 被壓下, 公里, 愛爾蘭語”
“huo tzz, hen da de uen ti, wo men bu shu fu, shui zhe, nagga, bang wou men”
At this, he put his large, calloused hand up again. We realized that he couldn’t understand a word we were saying… I thought for a minute. Through my travels, I’ve come to learn that most people on Earth know at least 5 words in English…
“HELP, HELP, HELP!” I shouted at the Malay pirates. Brent Joined in,
“HELP, HELP, HELP!”
After minutes of debate between the four of them, the men invited us to sit on their pier. They gave us water to drink and with a lot of hard work, games of charades and repeating the word MONEY, MONEY, MONEY, we all gained a better understanding of the situation at hand.
Brent and I had somehow managed to hike a 40-minute boat ride from the Orangutan Sanctuary. There were no roads leading to this pier and even if we could have gotten back to the sanctuary, it was all closed up for the night and there certainly wouldn’t be a taxi or bus to get us from there back to our hotel. We were somewhere on a river and the only way to get out was too hike back through the jungle or take a boat.
Without saying a word, Brent and I both knew that we would have rather swam across the Pacific then set foot in that jungle again, so we inquired about the boat. The man would take us back to town, where we could get a taxi, for as little as 50 US dollars. But the man really didn’t want to take his boat out at that time of night, so we’d have to wait on the pier until morning.
I had no desire to sleep on a pier and I imagined that some leeches were clever enough to find the pier and find us sleeping on it. Brent also looked displeased.
There was a solution though… the men had brainstormed…if we doubled the price, the friendly man (with the big knife) would not only take us in his boat tonight, but he’d even grab his car (which was parked at the dock in town) and take us back to our hotel.
Brent and I talked it over in hushed tones- this felt right even though the men couldn’t understand a word of what we were saying. We both agreed that it must have been very strange for these guys to see two tourists run out of the jungle and beat each other’s half-naked bodies on their pier. We both agreed that they could have charged 10 times that price and then sliced our arms off. We both agreed that we were in absolutely no position to bargain.
We all shook hands and it was established: For the grand price of 100 dollars, the man with the big knife would save the day. As the price went up, his English miraculously got better! Throughout the 40-minute boat ride and the following 40-minute car ride, he told us his life story, about his wife, his kids, about the Philippino immigrants stealing Malaysian jobs and about his true pleasure in helping some good American boys- that time, he didn’t mention the 100 dollars.
Finally, 8 long hours after our trek had begun, Brent and I returned to our hotel room. We thanked god that we didn’t die, we thanked god that we didn’t live in the jungle and we proceeded to dump pounds of salt (we bought a Costco-sized bag on the way home) on all of our clothes.
In the end, we agreed never to enter the jungle again and to spend more time in libraries, malls and mosques, where nothing bad could happen. The next day, we took a tour of the same jungle and watched in horror as a territorial macaque (a monkey about the size of a toddler) mauled our tour guide’s face, nearly taking off her nose and giving all three of us heart attacks. But that’s another story in itself.
Love,
mattto
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