Parlez-Vous Anglais?

I’m in Madagascar, staying in a hilltop bungalow overlooking the beach called "Coucher de Soleil". The name of the place, if my long forgotten French serves me correctly, translates as “Sleep of the Sun”. I think what they mean is "Sunset".

I can think of lots of worse names for a place where you bathe with cold water from a rusty 50 gallon drum, flush the toilet with a bucket of water from the same drum and brush your teeth over the toilet because there’s no sink. There's also non-stop squawking from the resident parrots and the soul-numbing “thump-thump-thump” of the devil’s music emanating from the bar nearby until 2 each morning.

I’ve been in 18 countries in the Pacific, Asia and Africa in the last 16 months, and this is the first time I’ve felt intimidated by the language barrier. Ironically, it’s because everyone speaks French!

I sat through a LOT of French classes in high school and even in university, so I feel embarrassed that I’m not more proficient. But in my defense, and with apologies to Miss Crichton, most foreign language classes of that era focused on reading and writing and passing tests, rather than on actually speaking French.

Just two days ago I was in Zanzibar, greeting people in Swahili. After five weeks in Kenya and Tanzania, my vocabulary included the words for “please” “thank you” “how are you?” “I’m fine” “good” “I’m sorry” “I understand” “foreigner” (I heard that word a LOT, preceded by what I feel certain were colorful, if not complimentary adjectives. My favorite, if for no other reason than it sounds exactly like what it means is “hakuna matata”….”no problem."

In those countries, I was obviously an outsider and didn't encounter many other foreigners, relatively speaking. Nobody expected me to speak the language with any degree of fluency, and people seemed genuinely surprised and delighted that I was making the effort. But here, the place is crawling with French people, so even though I blend in more on the outside, I feel much more conspicuous when I open my mouth to speak, because all the foreigners here (with a few exceptions like myself) speak the language fluently. Do you follow my somewhat twisted logic?

That said, I had managed catch a taxi (which I shared with a couple from Barcelona who only spoke Spanish...but that's another story) find a place to stay and even make a feeble attempt at negotiating a lower rate.

Yesterday I found a dive shop, and entering, I confidently said "Bonjour! Comment ça va?" then sheepishly told the proprietor "Excusez-moi...je ne parle pas Français tres bien." He told me in French that my French was better than his English, which made me feel good, even if it was a bald faced lie. I've heard that the French are loathe to speak English, but at least he had the decency to appeal to my ego.

I left there not sure whether I had signed up for a scuba diving excursion or as a cabin boy for a voyage to Mozambique, but when I “retourned” this morning, I was relieved to find that in addition to two French divers, there were three guys from South Africa and a fellow from the Netherlands, all of them conversing with one another in English. I had to laugh when the dive master assigned the Dutch guy and me to each other as dive buddies and he leaned over and said “Man, I thought I was the only one in this country who doesn’t speak French!”

Not that it matters underwater, except that when diving outside the U.S. or Caribbean, your pressure gauge is calibrated in millimeters. When you’re accustomed to beginning a dive with 3200 pounds per square inch of pressure in your tank, you don’t want to look down ten minutes into your dive, 75 feet under water …(sorry, make that 22.7575 meters) and see the needle resting on the number 200.

This afternoon I rented a motorcycle and rode around the island. At one point I was stopped at a police road block. He carefully flipped through every single page of my passport, looking intently at each visa stamp, and his facial expression indicated that this was a grave situation indeed. He was speaking rapidly in French the entire time, and kept repeating a phrase I just couldn’t make out.

“Je ne parle pas Français tres bien” I said. "I don't speak French very well."

He kept repeating it.

Finally I said “Plus lentement s’il vous plait” which I hoped was something close to a very polite “Could you repeat that more slowly please?”

“Avez-vous quelque chose pour mois?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Pardonnez-moi, je ne comprends pas” I replied "I don't understand"….as the light bulb in my head begain to come on.

“Avez-vous un cadeau pour mois?” he repeated…this time a little more sheepishly.

As he said that phrase, my mind suddenly expanded to give me a bird's eye view of the entire scenario as well as total recall of every bit of French I had ever studied.

My thought process went something like this:

1. I’m in a foreign country

2. It’s one of the poorest countries in the world

3. This guy’s got my passport so he knows I’m American, which to him means I've got buckets of money

4. He’s holding in his hands a document containing page after page of visas from countries I’ve visited, which only confirms his suspicions that I am filthy rich.

5. From the dim, dark recesses of my feeble memory, I somehow managed to dredge up the cobweb covered, dim, dusty recollection that the word "cadeau" means "a present".

6. This is a shake down. A stick up. Highway robbery. Literally.

With a huge smile on my face, feigning total lack of comprehension, I said again “I’m sorry, my French is really bad” while taking my passport from his hands and once I’d safely retrieved it , I asked “Quelque chose pour vous?”...”A present for you?”

“Oui!” he said smiling, happy that I had finally understood his request.

“Au revoir!” I called over my shoulder, as I sped away, a fugitive from justice.

The Monk And The Motor Scooter

I was standing in the middle of a rickety bamboo bridge, hoping it wouldn’t collapse beneath me before I could get a photo of the sunset.

I had endured a four hour nausea-inducing ride up a winding mountain road, crammed into a mini-bus with 13 other travelers. Arriving in the small town of Pai, Thailand, I managed to find a thatched hut for $6 a night.

But crossing this treacherous bridge was the only way to get there. Each time I walked across it I held my breath until I reached the other side. And at night, it was black as pitch, so without a flashlight you were in real danger of putting your foot through one of the many holes in the flimsy walkway.

It was almost dark, when out of the corner of my eye I saw an orange-robed figure approaching. We chatted about this and that, and just as the sun’s last rays were dissolving into the night sky, I asked if I could take a photograph of his hand. Chuckling, he obliged my odd request.

We continued talking as he made his way back to the local temple where he was staying. His name was Piak, a 52 year old Buddhist monk who was on vacation and traveling around Thailand for a few days. He told me about his daily routine…arising at 4 o’clock each morning to meditate and pray, and then walk the streets, carrying the traditional metal bowl which monks use to collect contributions of food for their breakfast.

When I told him I’d like to make a small donation, he invited me to come with him to the temple, explaining that it would be improper to accept such agift on the street, and that there was a ceremonial blessing that should be bestowed on the giver.

A few minutes later we arrived at the temple which was completely dark and Piak led me across a grassy expanse to the guest quarters. He unlocked the door and flipped on the light..his tiny place made mine look like the Taj Mahal.

Without any sort of preface or explanation, he went to his room and did not return. Pretty soon I heard the droning sound of his voice as he began his evening prayer ritual. The heat was stifling, so I went outside and sat on the steps and decided to meditate as well, assuming he would eventually emerge from his chambers so I could give him my donation and leave him to do whatever it is that monks do.After about half an hour, he emerged with a bunch of newspaper and a stick of of glue. I wasn't sure if this was part of the ritual he had referred to earlier, but as it turns out, these were materials he had procured to repair the holes in the screen door which were admitting mosquitoes to his already spartan accommodations.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to paste newspaper to a screen door...I hadn't...but it’s an exercise in futility. It requires the patience of Job….or a Buddhist monk…to stick with the task long enough to have any hope of success. But succeed we did, and by now I was eager to be on my way.

“So...I’d still like to make a donation if that’s...”

“Please…sit” said Piak, gesturing to the floor and seating himself on a cushion.

He explained that as a monk it was important that his head be slightly higher than anyone else in the room. Wrapping his hands in a piece of decorative cloth, so that they did not come in direct contact with the money, he extended them towards me. I placed my gift in the cloth, which he immediately wrapped up, and then launched into an incantation which made me feel as if I was being bound up in some sort of cosmic bubble wrap which would protect me from being run over by a motorcycle or falling through the bridge on the way home.

We chatted for quite a while, and as I got up to leave, I told Piak that I had really enjoyed meeting him, and that the following day I was planning to rent a motorcycle and tour some caves nearby.

“I want to come too” he responded.

“Do you mean you want to rent a motorcycle also?” I asked.

“No...too expensive. I ride with you!”

I was dumbstruck.

The next morning, Piak had very definite opinions about what type of motorcycle we should rent, choosing the most expensive option.

Since it was my money we were spending, and I hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in 25 years, I opted for a moderately priced scooter with automatic transmission.

The next few days were a joyful journey including hikes to waterfalls, crossing tranquil bridges which arched over quietly flowing streams, walking along peaceful paths through the forest, exploring caves and temples and chatting with other monks.

We talked extensively about Buddhism, and he expounded upon some of the more than 400 precepts that monks must follow. Among the many beliefs we shared, one which we agreed upon whole-heartedly was that the most important moment in our lives is right now.

We even made a brief stop at an elephant camp so Piak could rub noses with a creature which in Thailand is a symbol of wisdom and which Aristotle described as "the beast which passeth all others in wit and mind." We also made a couple of stops at remote hamlets so that Piak, despite the fact that he was "off duty", could distribute food and sweets to the village children.

These moments were interspersed with him shouting at me to slow down, me admonishing him to keep his helmet on, his chin strap fastened and not to ride side saddle, and at the end of the day booking separate rooms so we could spend some time alone.

Everywhere we went, we elicited stares of disbelief, and I realized about halfway through the second day that I was wearing an orange t-shirt, which kinda made us look like we were sporting jerseys from the same team.

Near the end of our journey, as dusk was approaching, we passed a mountain vista which was breath-taking. I wanted to pull off the road to take a photograph and savor the view. As I slowed down and signaled, I could hear Piak behind me saying “No! No! No!” As we eased onto the gravel shoulder, slowly coming to stop, I shifted to neutral and coasted to the spot where we’d have the best vantage point.

Without warning, the front wheel slid out from under me and the scooter went down, sending both of us tumbling into a tangle of arms and legs and handlebars and saffron robes. I frantically scanned my body to determine whether I was hurt. My next thought was “Is Piak injured, and if so, how badly? If seriously, then how will I get him to a hospital?” All of this took a fraction of a second. As I turned to him, his eyes were closed and he was completely immobile.

“Are you O.K.?”

He didn’t respond immediately, and I felt the panic rising in my chest. What if he’s dead? How will I transport the body? Who will I notify? Would it be easier to simply bury the corpse in a shallow grave and drive off?

He opened his eyes and blinked, and as we tried to untangle ourselves, a knot of yin and yang, east and west, jeans and robes, sacred and profane, and a cumulative total of 104 years of life experience, I started to laugh. We were both unharmed, except for a few minor scrapes and cuts. The only casualty was that the hot exhaust pipe had burned a hole in Paik’s robe.

We made it home without further incident and before we said our final goodbye, I asked Paik if I could take one more photograph of him. Eager to oblige, he walked with me to the bridge where we had first met. He looked beatifically into the setting sun.

I said goodbye to my saffron-robed friend, and trudged across the bridge to my hut, feeling a little melancholy that I wouldn’t see him again.

The next morning, I found a multi-colored bracelet lying on the bridge, and I still have it on my wrist as a reminder of the man with whom I shared a magical and mystical trip.

Months later, I was chatting with another traveler whom I met in Vietnam, and we were comparing notes about the various places we’d visited. She asked me if I’d heard about the severe flooding in Pai. I told her I hadn’t.

“Yeah!” she said…..”I don’t know if you know where the bamboo bridge is, but it was washed away completely.”

I thought of what a perfect metaphor that bridge was….spanning the gap between all of us...and how, despite our differences, all human beings have far more in common. Knowing that the bridge had been swept away was a reminder to live in the moment, seizing each opportunity.

You never know what a day will bring.

Noah's Ark

Malindi, Kenya:

I think I may have stumbled upon Noah's Ark.

When I tried to explain the historic/religious/archeological significance of this to the three guys smoking pot inside the boat, they seemed confused.

1st World Problems

The Trouble With Quotes...

Courtesy of Greg Miles and www.PonderAbout.com

Move Wildly Through LIfe

Bait and Switch

Malindi, Kenya:

When I checked into "The Rhino Room" here at the African Pearl Guest House, I was delighted to find the walls covered in murals of Kenyan wildlife. But when I got ready to go to bed, I could not for the life of me find the light switch. I was trying to figure out how to unscrew the light bulb, which was completely out of reach, when I did one more thorough search and discovered the switch hidden in this painting next to the bed. And after 3 days of cold showers, I asked the housekeeping lady if there was a secret to getting hot water. Her response? "Yes...move to a room that has hot water."

Not Kosher

5:30 a.m. My alarm goes off in Malé, Maldives. I jump in the shower and as the dark sky turns to half light I am out the door to the ferry across the harbor to the airport where I spend my few remaining rufyiaa on breakfast by the waterfront as the sun comes up.

12:00 noon I arrive in Doha, Qatar where I am met by my sister’s best friend from high school, who takes me to the Diplomatic Club for a feast fit for a sheik, followed by a tour of the city.

5:30 p.m. Sundown at the camel race track where I watch a procession of hundreds of dromedaries in the waning light.

11:30 p.m. Back to the airport with Janice and my new friend Youssef to catch my connecting flight to the Seychelles.

12:00 a.m. Going through passport control I roll my eyes at another passenger as a child at the far counter squawks over and over and over again like a manic parrot...“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

“With my luck she’ll be sitting in the row right in front of me” I joke.

12:45 a.m. I am mistaken. She is seated 3 rows in front of me. And her squawks have increased both in pitch and in tempo.

Flight departs Qatar for Seychelles.

1:30 a.m. The passenger to my left has been wracked with paroxysms of coughing since before take off. He begins to complain of leg cramps and I begin to consider euthanizing him to put him out of my misery. Mercifully, the flight attendant reseats him somewhere out of earshot. Hopefully his new seat mate is deaf and does not contract tuberculosis.

As I step into the aisle to make way for him, a flight attendant approaches me with what appears to be a pizza box. “Mr. Langford….I believe you ordered the kosher meal? If you’ll open the box for us, we’ll start preparing it for you.”

“What the…? I didn’t order the kosher meal...I promise!"

The entire cabin crew is Muslim.

"I’m not even Jewish!” I add hastily.

As I take my seat, my sleep-starved brain cannot make sense of this. Suddenly, a light bulb comes on over my head. It is not the reading light. It is the realization that for the first time in 15 months, having made all my own flight arrangements along the way, I have emailed my sister to book this series of flights for me since she's good at finding rock bottom prices on everything from airfares to housewares. Despite my hours of research, she is able to save me about $600.00 in less than 10 minutes.

A dim memory begins to take shape...the last time she made travel arrangements for me was 12 years ago when she and I were flying to our brother’s wedding together. On the return trip I was traveling solo, and when meal time came, the flight attendant approached me and, looking at her clipboard, asked “Are you Mr. Langford?

“Yes...that's me” I responded.”

“I just wanted to confirm that you ordered the Hindu meal.”

She got me then, and she got me again 12 years later.

2:30 a.m. I curl up in the fetal position on the three adjoining seats in an attempt to get some much needed shut-eye while trying to ignore the immovable object poking me in the rib cage.

5:30 a.m. I am awakened after 3 hours of fitful sleep by an announcement that our flight will be landing in about an hour. I feel like something the cat dragged in and my mouth tastes like something the cat stepped in.

6:30 a.m. I arrive at Mahe Airport, Seychelles.

Just to see if I can do it, I have arrived in this country with no guide book, no map, and having done absolutely no research. My only contact is an Italian chef named Lucio whom I have never met but with whom I’ve had several email exchanges. I found him on a website called couchsurfing.org where travelers can meet people who are willing to host them for free. I have less than 1 hour to get to the ferry pier.

I somehow manage to stumble through immigration and customs despite the fact that I am sleep-walking, my entry card is only partially filled in, and my evasive answers regarding my accommodations while in the Seychelles arouse suspicion. The truth is I’ll be staying with the chef at the resort where he works, but I can’t give the the name of the resort in case they call to confirm my reservation, which I don’t have. I also fail to satisfy the immigration official’s inquiries as to how and when I’ll be leaving the country. That information is stored on my laptop which is in my bag, and I'm using my limited brain function to remain upright. Against all odds, he lets me go.

Finally, I am questioned thoroughly by a representative of the local drug enforcement administration, and even though I am squeaky clean, by this point I'm feeling anxious and rattled and am unable to maintain eye contact. I really don’t know why they let me in the country. I wouldn’t have.

After my interrogation, I have just enough time to dash to the ATM machine and withdraw US$200.00 worth of local currency.

7:00 a.m. The clock is ticking. I sprint across the terminal to find a representative of the ferry company which will take me to the island where my host lives. I am told to wait nearby…that a shuttle bus will be along directly. But I have no way to reach him besides a phone number and an email address. I can’t wander into the resort with my backpack on and ask for the chef…that will blow his cover, because employees aren't allowed to have guests.

I search the terminal for a place to by a SIM card for my phone, and manage to find a newsstand that has just unlocked its doors. I purchase a SIM, but the girl behind the counter can’t figure out how to activate it. Plus, her fingernails are so long she can’t operate the touch screen on my iPhone. I’m really starting to panic…if I miss the bus, I’ll miss the ONLY ferry to the island of La Digue until tomorrow.

I emerge from the store frantic…has the bus already come and gone without me? No…all is well. I board the bus, get to the jetty, find the ticket office, purchase a fare. In the meantime, I've managed to get my phone working.

7:30 a.m. I board the ferry. Once again I have made it by the skin of my teeth, despite my complete and utter lack of planning.

9:30 a.m. I arrive at my destination without puking, which is more than I can say for many of the other passengers. We tie up at the jetty and disembark. I phone Lucio, realizing that I have traveled several thousand miles and 48 hours to stay with someone whom I know absolutely nothing about. He tells me to meet him at a grocery store called Gregoire’s, which he says is about 10 minutes away on foot. This is starting to feel like an international scavenger hunt.

I spot a guy with dreadlocks and a wool cap who's the spitting image of Bob Marley and ask him for directions. He tells me it’s way too far to walk with a heavy backpack...20 minutes away at least. And now it’s starting to rain. As luck would have it, he has one last bike I can rent for $10 a day. I accept his offer. Note to self: Never ask a guy who rents bicycles how far away something is. Of course he’s gonna tell you it’s too far to walk, even if it’s around the corner.

Keep in mind that the backpack containing all my earthly possessions weighs about 40 lbs. And my carry-on bag containing my computer, charger, hard drives, a jacket, my toilet kit, flashlight and raincoat and weighs another 10lbs. or so. Ever tried throwing your leg over the cross bar of a mountain bike with 50 lbs. strapped to your torso? I wish I had a video. Even funnier was my dismount...let’s just say my bike and I invented a new dance called “The Seychelle Shuffle.”

11:00 a.m. After chatting with Lucio, he goes back to work and I take a shower and fall into a deep sleep and dream that the heavens have opened, filling my backpack with rainwater.

1:00 p.m. I awake from my coma to discover that my dream was a premonition. I go outside to find that the rain is coming in at a 45 degree angle and that my shoes, which I left on the front porch, are soaking wet.

Puppy Dogs, Unicorns and The Heart Of Darkness

A lot of professional photographers I know are loath to photograph sunsets…or cute kids or animals. Because it’s way too easy and it’s been done to death. Anyone can do it.

So every time I photograph one of those subjects, I feel a little bit sheepish. Like I’m slam-dunking a basketball on a children’s playground. But I do it anyway…for the same reason I listen to Karen Carpenter singing “Close to You” whenever it’s playing in the elevator. It’s a guilty pleasure.

I always wince a little when someone says “Wow! That looks just like a postcard!” I know they mean this as the highest form of praise, but what I hear instead is “That's trite. Boring. Predictable. It's the same photo any grandmother with a point-and-shoot camera could have taken if she'd been there.” We've all seen those postcards in every gift shop between here and the Point of No Return.

Even worse than the “postcard” compliment is the one word response…"Nice”.

This one is usually uttered by self-important, self-absorbed, self-indulgent, self-centered, self-involved, self-seeking, self-conscious, self-loathing, selfish advertising agency art directors with a heart of darkness who subscribe to "Self" magazine.

These are the same guys who dress in all black and wear über-hip sunglasses from Germany and wouldn’t be caught dead in shorts and a t-shirt or shopping at Target or getting a haircut that costs less than $75.00. They’ve had a complete sense-of-humor-ectomy, so the closest they come to laughing is when they affect a completely deadpan expression as they monotone the words “That’s funny.”

Some of my dearest friends are art directors. And some aren’t.

In my over-active imagination there’s this scenario where some art director who once owed me $15,000.00 and strung me along for 90 days sees my sunset photo (yes, I’m thinking of someone in particular...even in my fantasy I can hold a grudge!) and, brandishing his pitchfork, beckons one of his minions. “That’s it!” he says, stroking his goatee. “That’s the one! That is the quintessential sunset and I must have it! Money is no object! Bring that sunset to me now!”

I can’t be bothered to respond to his emails, so he phones me personally and says “Mr. Langford, we’d like to purchase exclusive rights to use your sunset photo from now until eternity for worldwide print ads, brochures, leaflets, annual reports, textbooks, bus stops, point of purchase displays, packaging, airport kiosks, baseball caps, t-shirts, movie posters, coffee mugs, key rings, trading cards, refrigerator magnets, school lunch boxes and banner ads on every website on the internet. And billboards in every major metropolitan city in the world, including La Paz, Bolivia. And on the big screen in Times Square. Our client is MegaCorp., a conglomerate of Sony, Time Warner, Microsoft, CocaCola and Nike. Name your price.”

I’ll let you know how that works out.

Nothing To Write Home About

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then, is not an act, but a habit. :: Aristotle

I want it to be funny.

And soulful. With just the right amount of insight and poignancy without being sappy or tying everything up in a neat little bow. I want it to be honest and provocative and to raise questions. And I want to retain a vulnerability and a child-like curiosity about the cosmos.

In other words, I want my writing to be a blockbuster, laugh 'til you cry, lump-in-your-throat, chart-topping, best-selling epiphany every single time.

I suffer from the delusion that if I just chisel it, whittle it and sandpaper it long enough…that if I rearrange the words and sentences and paragraphs in every possible permutation, I’ll get it right. And that is the death of creativity.

That approach will whip the very life out of any artistic pursuit, and turn it into a scientific endeavor. Instead of dancing like nobody’s watching, I often feel paralyzed by the criticism of the imaginary reader in my head who’s thinking “This is crap!” That voice, of course, is mine. Someone once told me "Fill the balcony in your mind with a standing-room-only crowd of your biggest fans." Why is it that I listen to the handful of jeering hecklers in the cheap seats?

It’s not like I have any shortage of material. Even when I’m not traveling to exotic destinations, I have something to write about every single day. I live in a world that is filled with humor and poignant, mystical moments and lots of joy and plenty of sadness. I am perennially curious, and frequently filled with wonder by things I can’t explain, and skeptical of those who think they can.

When I have an experience I want to recount, a story I want to tell, a feeling I want to convey, I often think in grandiose cinematic terms: a screenplay, complete with storyboard illustrations, lighting diagrams, camera angles and an orchestral soundtrack.

And so I begin to write. Except that I’m not tapping on my computer keys, or putting pen to paper. It’s in my head. And that kind of writing goes nowhere. It's too much trouble for me to actually do it. Or I'm too tired. Or there's not enough time. What!? I've got nothing if not TONS of time right now.

But I want it to be polished…primo…perfect. With just the right amount of alliteration. I’m not talking about grammar or run-on sentences or dangling participles. I want it DO something to the person reading it…whether it’s a eliciting a chuckle, or a sigh, or a memory, or sharing my skewed perspective on things.

And so what it comes down to is what I know already. It’s the dilemma of every artist. If I sit and wait for the muse to grace me with her presence, I might miss dinner. It’s not like Mozart banged out a greatest hit every time he sat down at the piano. And I feel certain that Mr. Van Gogh used up a lot of yellow paint before he before he got those sunflowers just right. In fact, he didn’t sell a single painting while he was alive.

And yet I let my fear of putting anything mundane out there keep me from writing. And perfection can stand in the way of a lot of great art. Someone once said "Art is never completed, just abandoned."

I feel certain that Sir Isaac Newton, the inventor of gravity, would tell you that it’s not every day an apple falls on your head. There’s a lot of hard work and tree shaking and days with no apples.

So even when there’s no tangible payoff, any kind of artistic pursuit has to be a regular discipline. Sitting down at the keyboard...whether it's a computer or a piano, picking up the brush or the camera or the pen. Stepping out on the tight rope and realizing that falling or failing aren't even remote possibilities. I mean...how bad can it really be? If anything, it’s one more lesson in how NOT to do it next time.

And by the way, I've been working on this for about 6 hours and I’m still not happy with it. But I'm gonna walk away. And come back and fiddle with it some more later.

Even when I do not feel like work, I sit down to it just the same. I cannot wait for inspiration, and inspiration at best is a force brought into action by effort.

Igor Stravinsky

Losing Face: Part 2

Today I behaved like a complete and utter jackass.

Those of you who know me are probably thinking “What else is new?” But in today’s episode I took jackassnosity to a whole new level. If there were Academy Awards for being a jackass, my performance would have garnered me an Oscar in every category.

Because it’s the rainy season here in southeast Asia and I’m tired of getting soaked to the skin, I’ve been searching everywhere for a rain poncho. I've tried on several, and I even purchased one in Thailand, but it never lost that inflatable swimming pool smell, and besides, it was traffic cone orange. Whenever I wore it, I felt like a complete dork...not to mention the fact that I could be seen from weather satellites orbiting the earth. Like Christopher Columbus searching for the New World, finding “El Poncho Perfecto” had become my quest.

About five days ago, I went to a huge market here in Yangon, Burma. There must be at least 500 stalls selling everything from knock-off handbags to fake designer clothes to copies of famous painting to pirated DVD’s of Lady Gaga videos with Burmese subtitles. It is maze-like in its complexity. Even with an iPhone and the Google Earth app, Magellan couldn’t navigate his way through this place.

And then...I found it.

It was a thing of beauty...blue nylon with a sheen like a mallard’s feathers. Reinforced loops at all four corners so that it could be used as a ground cloth. A hood with a drawstring. Heavy duty snaps. And it rolled up easily into a small light-weight pouch. Everything you could want in a poncho and more.

As the angels sang and rainbows filled the skies, I tried to bargain with the shop-keeper. But like an expert poker player who knows he has already won the game, he stuck to his guns and I ended up paying way too much. As much as it rains here, I figured it was a good investment.

The very next day, the heavens opened and a torrential downpour began. Rain was pelting down like buckets of BB’s and the wind was blowing so hard that the deluge was coming down at 45 degrees. I whipped out my handy-dandy poncho, and, like Clark Kent transforming into Superman, felt invincible...and as water-tight as a duck’s you-know-what.

Later that afternoon, when I returned to my guest house and removed my Wonder Poncho, I noticed a strange smell. I sniffed and noticed that the smell was stronger. Turning my waterproof garment inside out, I discovered to my dismay that the entire surface was covered with mildew, which, when activated by my sweat and body heat, smelled like a basement where camping gear has been stored all summer.

I immediately turned on the shower, spread the poncho on the tile floor and began scrubbing it with soap and hot water, but to no avail. It was then I discovered that not only was my poncho a petri dish, but it also had multiple small holes in it.

“Sexual intercourse!” I exclaimed as I scrubbed harder, but the only thing going down the drain was the pride I had felt in my Perfect Poncho. And worse still, I knew it was the only one the store had in stock.

Returning to Yangon a week later, I decided to return the poncho and try to get my money back. I knew from the outset that this was a fool’s errand, but having spent a good sum of money, I decided it couldn’t hurt to ask.

I was mistaken.

Unlike the States, where you can purchase a surround sound home entertainment system and then fill all the empty boxes with rocks and return them for a full refund as long as you have your receipt, such is not the policy here in Asia. “Caveat emptor” is the Lating phrase for “once you’ve bought it, whether you like it or not, you own it.” Buyer beware.

I returned to the market place, feeling like Theseus entering the Labyrinth. But unlike the hero from Greek mythology, I had no beautiful Ariadne waiting for me, and no thread spun from gold to help me retrace my steps.

For about an hour I searched in vain, walking up and down the cramped aisles until my head was spinning. At long last, I passed a stall where I had inquired about raincoats on my previous visit to the market. As I described the shop and the salesman I was looking for, a passerby overheard me and led me straight there.

En route, the wind picked up, blowing over an umbrella covering a food stall. I grabbed a nearby bucket of water and hung it from the bottom of the stand supporting the umbrella. Problem solved. A stranger was doing me a favor, and here was the opportunity to pay it forward.

Putting on my biggest smile, I entered the shop and approached the salesman.

“Hi, I was here the other day and you helped me...I bought a poncho. Do you remember me?”

“Of course!” he said, returning my smile.

“Well, I have a small problem...I wonder if you can help me. The poncho is...”

“...dirty inside?” he responded, finishing my sentence for me.

“Son of a b***h !!” I shouted (inside my head) as my blood pressure went through the roof. I couldn’t believe this joker had ripped me off and then so blatantly tipped his hand!

My head was about to explode, but I kept an even tone of voice. “Yeah...and it’s got a lot of holes in it too.”

“I exchange for you...no problem.”

But it was too late. I knew I’d been had, and he knew it too. Furthermore, he didn’t have another poncho like the one I’d already paid too much for, so I knew he’d offer me one of lesser quality since mine was top of the line and not agree to make up the difference in price. Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.

Blinded by pride and principle, I refused what could have been a quick and simple solution. Discovering that the poncho was defective was one thing, but finding out that this knucklehead had taken me for a ride was another matter entirely. My blood was boiling.

“I have a suggestion” I said, struggling to maintain my composure. “How about I give you your poncho back, and you give me my money back?”

Jerry Seinfeld in his heyday didn’t get the kind of side-splitting guffaws and gales of uncontrollable laughter this elicited from all the salesmen in the shop, several of whom had gathered to eavesdrop on our conversation.

“I’m not leaving here without a refund...or a poncho exactly like this one, but without the mildew and the holes!

The salesman turned and walked away, still chuckling.

“I’m your worst nightmare” I heard myself say, the volume and pitch of my voice rising. “I’m not leaving Yangon for another three days, and I’m gonna camp out here and tell every customer who comes in here what you’ve done”.

“No problem” he retorted. “You stay here three days...three months...three years. No refund.”

I’m not one to make idle threats. In my foolish haste I had brashly announced my ill-conceived plan, and now I had to show I meant business. I sat down on a nearby stool, rolled up the poncho in my lap, and tried unsuccessfully to adopt an attitude of cool detachment.

A few minutes later, a customer walked in. I stood up and approached him.

“Do you speak English?” I inquired.

“Yes.”

“I bought this poncho here, and they sold it to me knowing that it was dirty inside. It’s also full of holes and now they won’t give me my money back. I thought you should know. Be very careful before you buy anything here.”

I smugly returned to my perch, certain that my boldness would do the trick.

“You should check inside of poncho before you buy. No refund.” the salesman admonished, a smirk on his face.

A few minutes later, a group of potential buyers entered the store. Again I approached them, and like the Ancient Mariner, told them my tale of woe. They left the store without purchasing anything, and I was certain this would induce the salesman to rethink his position. Instead, in an angry voice he shouted “You very unlucky man!

Having spent the past several days touring the country with a guide who is a devout Buddhist and who repeatedly spoke about karma and “non-attachment”, I felt my face growing red with embarrassment and shame. But I’d gone to all this trouble and climbed way up here on the skinny branches and now was no time to lose my nerve. Like Davy Crockett at the Alamo, I decided to make a stand.

We all know how that story ended.

Despite having had my epiphany about non-attachment, my hubris fueled my audacity as I began to explain the concept of karma...in a country which is 98% Buddhist! He stared at me blankly as I told him “what goes around comes around.”

“I’m Muslim.”

“Have you noticed that none of your customers are buying anything? So...do you want to give me my money back, or shall I just sit here?

“You have bad mind! You only think one way!” my adversary rejoindered.

Ouch! That hurt. I knew he was right.

To make what should have been a short story even longer, I realized that I was going to spend the rest of my natural born days banging my musty-smelling, poncho-shrouded head against a brick wall, and given the fact that my visa expires in two days, my extended stay would result in ever-mounting fines from the government, followed by imprisonment.

My resolve began to soften.

I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details except to say that at some point I wised up to the fact that I was self-righteously trying to impose my beliefs about what’s right and fair on a guy who fundamentally and categorically wasn’t gonna budge and who had clearly and emphatically told me so from the outset. I left with my tail between my legs and my self-control and dignity smeared all over the floor.

I caught a cab which took me to the wrong address, hiked to a repair shop to be told that it would take 6 weeks and $170.oo to fix my camera and was given incorrect directions to a bookstore only to discover that a guide book for Sri Lanka (my next destination) is not to be had at any price in the city of Yangon. And then I stepped in some chewing gum.

Besides being a complete ass, I had set foreign relations back further than the Bush administration, and to top it all off had wasted quite a bit of what little time I have left in this beautiful country filled with people who have been nothing but friendly, helpful, generous and kind to me.

Except one guy, who taught me a valuable lesson: Look both ways before my karma runs over my dogma.

Footnote: I neglected to mention that I did eventually exchange the Almighty Mildew Holey Poncho for a cheaper one. I wore it for the first time yesterday and apparently it's made of some kind of ultra-suede which not only doesn't repel water, but absorbs it. You get wet slower, but when it's completely soaked it weighs about 5 pounds and I'm guessing will take about a week to dry in this humid climate, by which time it should have a nice coating of mildew.