First World Problems

If you’re reading this on your iPad or smart phone, you’re probably a person who struggles with First World Problems.  

I’ve spent the past two years as a vagabond, sometimes staying in places with no running water, no air-conditioning or heat, sharing a room with as many as 7 other people and sharing a bathroom with 30 other people.  I've slept on the smelly floor of a dive shop or curled up in the fetal position on a sofa too short for my not quite 6 foot length, or lay awake listening to crowing roosters or car alarms or wailing from the loud-speakers of a nearby temple at all hours of the day and night.





When I'm traveling, I seem to have a much easier time adjusting to these discomforts and shrugging them off as part of the adventure...or the makings of a tall tale to tell later. I’m usually able to convince myself that it’s the trade-off for having an amazing lifestyle...trotting around the globe for the sheer joy of it, taking photographs for my own enjoyment, reading for pleasure, writing for fun and lapping up the incredible experiences that fill my charmed life.

I thought I had become pretty adept at letting go of expectations and not being too attached to creature comforts, but for some reason when I returned to "civilization”, I found myself feeling irritated about the smallest things.  Incidentally, I could make a pretty strong argument that what passes for civilization in the First World… instant gratification, decadence and over-consumption of every description, obesity, heart disease and an ever-increasing diet of reality TV and anti-depressants…isn’t really civilization at all.

When I'm whining about running out of breakfast cereal, I try to remind myself of the many people I’ve met during my travels who struggle daily with not having enough food to eat.  I bitch to myself about the barking dogs in the neighborhood where generous friends are letting me stay in their home, while on the other side of the globe there are people I've met who live each day hoping that they don't step on a land mine left behind from a forgotten war.  

I think of the the Kenyan taxi driver who sleeps in his car or the Cambodian parents who have to decide each day whether to send their kids to school during the day or out onto the streets at night to sell trinkets...or their innocence…in order to make ends meet, and I realize that most of the things that annoy me definitely fall under the category of “First World Problems”….








For example:

1.  When I play “Words With Friends” on Facebook I have to sit through a 15 second ad before I can make my next move.

2. The car my friend loaned me for free is hard to park and gets poor gas mileage.

3.  One of the places I’ve stayed (for free) since returning to the States was a luxury yacht, but to go ashore I had to step down at least three feet and walk two and half blocks to find anything to eat.  There were so many choices it was really frustrating.  

4.  I have so much music and so many photos , TV shows and movies on my computer that when I try to do a backup I get an error message that says there’s not enough room on my external hard drive.

5.  I recently got a sinus infection and when I went to pick up my prescription, I had to wait in line for at least 10 minutes at the pharmacy.  Plus, I really need to blow my nose, but I'm completely out of Kleenex.

6.  I’m not supposed to wear my new Invisalign braces while I’m drinking coffee or red wine, which makes it really difficult to wear them enough hours a day for them to actually straighten my teeth.

7. When I go to my rowing lessons in the morning it’s really chilly.  Sometimes the temperature is in the high 40’s...Brr!

8.  At my favorite coffee shop they don’t always leave enough room in the mug for milk.

9.  The “home” button on my new iPhone is harder to press than on my previous iPhone

10. Too many friends have treated me to so much food that all my clothes are too tight.  And scheduling all these meals and happy hours takes a lot of time.

For more First World Problems visit: http://first-world-problems.com

The School of Hard Knocks

Siem Reap, Cambodia:

My growling stomach reminded me I hadn't eaten dinner. I walked about 10 minutes from my guest house to a sidewalk restaurant that stays open late and ordered a plate of fried rice with pork, a bottle of water and an Angkor beer. A healthy meal that includes all your major food groups for $2.50.

Music was blaring from the bar across the street, and vendors from the various food stalls called out to passersby as tuk-tuk drivers solicited tourists with offers of transportation or drugs or sex...or all three. And there were dozens of street kids, many of them carrying sleeping babies on their hips, approaching travelers like me and asking for money.

Right about then I felt a thud underneath my table, and as I looked down I came face to filthy face with a kid who was foraging for bottle caps. His clothes looked like he'd been working in a coal mine. He consolidated his collection of caps into one fist, put on a pitiful face worthy of an Academy Award, and held out his empty, grubby palm.

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't turn him away like I've done with dozens of other kids in 8 different countries over the past several months. I told him to pull up a chair. He ordered the largest item on the menu, which would have fed a ravenous lumberjack...but the waitress told him he could have a chicken thigh and drumstick. When it arrived, he attacked his plate with the fervor of someone who's just been rescued from a desert island.

His name is Nam Chan and he's six years old. It was close to midnight.

Nam Chan's meal was bigger than his head. He ate what he could, and got a take-out box for the rest, and went on his way. As I walked back to my guesthouse to the accompaniment of "You want tuk tuk? You want motorcycle? You want marijuana? You want massage? You want lady?", I saw Nam Chan in front of a convenience store. He came running up to me, jumped into my arms and said "You buy me milk!?"

The needs of the children in this country would fill a bottomless pit.

I've seen just a glimpse of the "before" and "after" version of these kids. I've spent the last couple of weeks volunteering at Anjali House, an organization which provides education, meals and a healthy environment to kids who would otherwise be roaming the city streets 'til the wee hours, going from bar to restaurant to bar selling souvenirs and flowers to drunk tourists.

Some of the kids ride to and from Anjali House in a tuk tuk, which is not exactly like the bus you rode as a kid. To find out more about the work being done here, and what you can do to help keep these kids off the street, visit www.anjali-house.com

Lucky

When I arrived here in Siem Reap, Cambodia a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. After ten months of non-stop travel, I felt road-weary and lonesome as hell.

And then I met a guy named Lucky.

He sits on the curb in front of the ice cream shop where I stop each evening, selling books to passersby. Lucky was born with no arms and no legs. He’s a torso with a head. About as minimalist as a human being can be. And one of the most cheerful, upbeat people I’ve ever met.

"What did you say your name was again? Lucky?"

Seriously?

The other night after he finished work, Lucky and I went down the street to have a frosty adult beverage. He didn’t want to sit in his wheelchair, so I lifted him like a 50 lb. sack of cement and placed him on the lawn chair next to me, holding my breath that it wouldn't fold up and swallow him.

He ordered a beer and some food and when the waitress returned she opened a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. “This should be interesting” I thought. He smoked by taking a puff and then balancing the cigarette on his shoulder. I’m a die-hard non-smoker, but I’ll light cigarettes all night long for a guy like Lucky.

When the food arrived, he asked me to hand him a pair of chopsticks. I thought he was pulling my leg. He gripped them between his chin and shoulder, gestured for me to hand him the plate, then scooped up a big bunch of noodles and offered it to me. My jaw dropped. This guy can’t feed himself and here he is offering me the first bite. I leaned over, nose-to-nose with my new friend, and gobbled up the heaping helping. Then I took the chopsticks and fed him in between cigarettes.

A couple of pitchers of Angkor beer later, we decided to call it a night. Lucky didn’t even pretend to reach for his wallet, so I ended up getting stuck with the tab. As I wheeled him down the bumpy dirt road to the spot outside the now abandoned night market where his brother was going to pick him up, I asked him if he wanted me to wait with him. It was 1 a.m. He insisted he’d be fine, and as I turned to walk away it was all I could do not to take him back to my guest house and get him a room. When I saw him the next day, he was as cheerful and chipper as ever, and even used the pointed nub where his left arm should be to give me an impromptu back massage.

A few days later, I stopped by the ice cream place to get a couple of scoops of rum raisin, and the woman behind the counter asked me how long I was planning to stay. When I told her I’m volunteering at a school for at-risk kids for the next couple of weeks, she got all teary-eyed and said “Thank you for your helping.”

I felt like I had a golf ball stuck in my throat, but I managed to say “You’re welcome” before I turned to ride the bike that’s provided for free by the guest house where I’m staying in air-conditioned comfort in a private room with hot water, a flush toilet, free internet, cable T.V, a double bed with clean sheets every day...and breakfast is included. $15.00 a night, which is more than a guy who sells paperbacks on the sidewalk makes in a week.

I feel pretty lucky.

My Heart is On Fire!

My sister Devra and I had been estranged for more than a year. No visits, no emails, no phone calls, nothing. I also hadn't had any contact with my niece Ellis, who was four years old the last time I saw her.

One day, out of the blue, I received the following email from my sister:

Date: Tue, 9 Feb 2010 16:37:52 -0800 (PST)
To: John Langford john@johnlangford.com
Subject: conversation with ellis

John,
Here's a conversation I had with Ellis while I was driving her to school this morning:

Ellis: Mom. I want you to get married

Me: OK. Me too

Ellis: Can I come to the wedding?

Me: Of course

Ellis: Are you gonna dance at your wedding?

Me: Yep

Ellis: Can I dance too?

Me: Of course. Do you want to dance with me?

Ellis: No, I want my own dance

Me: Who would you like to dance with?

Ellis: Uncle John

About three months and many emails later, Devra needed to come to Austin for a sales meeting, so she and Ellis stayed for the weekend. Devra and I talked until the wee hours, and when I woke up the next morning and walked into the kitchen to fire up the coffee pot, Ellis emerged from the guest room while her mom got a little more shut-eye.

I wasn't quite awake yet, and unprepared for the barrage of questions that are part of a well-rested five year old's morning routine. As I attempted to lubricate my synapses with caffeine, her eyes turned to the woodblock print hanging above my fireplace.

"What's that a picture of Uncle John?" she inquired.

Rather than spoon-feeding her a "grown up" answer, I wanted to see what would happen if I answered her question with a question.

"What do you think it's a picture of Ellis?" I replied

"It looks like a heart and some thorns."

"That's what it looks like to me too."

"Why is the heart on fire?"

"Why do you think it's on fire?"

"I don't know."

"Well, to me, the fire stands for all the good feelings in life, like happiness and joy and love...like the way I love you."

"And what about the thorns?"

"What do you think they mean?"

"I don't know."

"Well, those might mean all the feelings like sadness, or being angry or lonely or afraid."

"I'm afraid of the dark."

"Yeah...I was too when I was your age. But you'll grow out of it."Just then her mom emerged from the bedroom, desperately in need of coffee, so my conversation with Ellis ended.

Later that afternoon, Devra left Ellis in my care while she went to her meeting. I took Ellis to a crawfish boil where I knew there would be lots of other kids there and a trampoline, and mountains of food.

There was a Cajun band playing, and Ellis was fascinated by the accordion, so I asked her if she wanted to dance. She and I have a tradition of turning up the stereo really loud and jumping around like a couple of lunatics, but that's only because I know she won't make fun of me. I'm ultra self-conscious when it comes to dancing in public, especially when I'm the only one dancing and it's broad daylight. But I picked Ellis up and held her hand as if we were waltzing, and we started swaying to the music.

When the song ended and I set her down, she made a bee-line for the trampoline, and pretty soon she was assigning time slots to the other, much older kids. I wandered over to where a group of my friends was chatting and joined the conversation.

Some time passed, and then I heard Ellis hollering in the background. I turned to face her, but I couldn't understand what she was saying as she jumped up and down with a big grin on her face.

"What?" I said.

She continued to shout in her raspy voice, but I still couldn't decipher what she was saying.

Walking closer, I said "What?"

Again, I couldn't understand her reply.

I walked to the edge of the trampoline and finally I heard her clearly....

"Uncle John! My heart is on fire!"

Many thanks and much love to my friend Irene Perez Omer for creating the print entitled "Communion"...a word which has additional meaning to me now. You can see more of her work at www.iconarts.com

Magic Man

This week I had the good fortune to photograph an amazing performer and all around good guy who goes by the moniker Magikhana, also known as Arsene Dupin.

Last night we went out for Thai food, and as we entered the restaurant, we encountered a Jamaican guy with long dreadlocks holding a beautiful, curly-haired baby.  I started making funny sounds with my mouth, and Magikhana balanced the brim of his baseball cap on his nose.  The baby was mesmerized. The dad said "Rastafari!" and gave each of us a fist bump.

  

Magic moments like that appear out of nowhere when I least expect them.

Bad Juju

Do you ever feel like you're at the epicenter of some sort of electro-magnetic vortex?

This past week I had to replace my kitchen disposal after it flooded the area under the sink with what looked like baby vomit. Cost of replacement and installation: $300.00

I also had my car towed. Cost of retrieval from towing yard $175.00. Parking ticket $25.00

And my computer hard drive crashed, resulting in the loss of hundreds of photos and all my applications. Cost of repair: $200.00 Loss of data: Priceless

$700.00 later, I'm still trying to figure out which photographs are gone forever and how many survived. The good news is that while sifting through the wreckage, I discovered a bunch of images I shot in Africa more than two years ago. Turn your speakers up and enjoy!

Music: Miss Q'n by Zap Mama

Stranded

Tonight I went downtown to meet my friends Kinuthia and Leticia, who got married last December.  Leticia is pregnant with their first child, so inevitably the topic came up of whether they'd opt for circumcision if it's a boy.

They're both from the Kikuyu tribe in Kenya, and tradition dictates that a boy's passage from boyhood to manhood takes place around his 13th birthday.  Part of this ritual includes circumcision.  OUCH!  I hope it's a girl.

As I left them, pondering our discussion, I encountered a homeless guy who introduced himself as Max from Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  As we walked the 3 blocks to where my car was parked, Max told about his stint as a cook in Houston, and how he had to give up the bottle after he had a stroke. When we got there, my car wasn't.  It had been towed.

I let loose a string of expletives, not just because of the $200.oo it was gonna cost me to get my vehicle out of hock and pay the parking ticket, but because of the inconvenience and the fact that I've parked in this spot dozens of time without incident.  Well, there was that one time.

Meanwhile, my new acquaintance Max was scavenging for cigarette butts in the cracks in the pavement next to a nearby dumpster, and by the time I got off the phone with the Austin Police Department, I was furious.  What a buzz kill.

As I was commiserating with Max about my misfortune and how much it was gonna cost, he asked "You wouldn't happen to have any spare change, would you?"  

I had to laugh out loud. "As a matter of fact, I do" I replied. "Here's a coupla bucks".

As Max shuffled off down the sidewalk, I had to re-evaluate my situation.  I have a car that runs and a friend nearby I could call on my iPhone to pick me up and drive me to the impound yard. I have a comfortable home that's air-conditioned when it's warm outside, and heated when it's cold.  I have a bathroom with hot and cold running water and a shower that I don't have to share with anyone.  I have a comfortable bed and plenty of clothes and shoes, and a washer and dryer and a stove and refrigerator.  And I never have to worry about where my next meal is coming from. 

And I've already been circumcised.

Felonious Monk

Last night I went out for Thai food with my good buddy Steve. We became friends about a year and a half ago when I signed up for a sculpture class he was teaching. Not only is he a great instructor, but we immediately hit it off and soon became as thick as thieves.

A few weeks later, I had Steve over for dinner and we stayed up 'til 2 in the morning, covering every topic from art to Aristotle, our philosophical fire fueled by a copious quantity of red wine. Steve's one of the smartest guys I've ever met, extremely well-read, a world traveler, constantly curious, and has lots of tall tales to tell.

As I walked him to his car at the end of the evening, I hugged Steve goodnight, and in my somewhat altered state, I wasn't sure if our unshaven faces had simply brushed against each other, or if he had kissed me. I sometimes kiss my guy friends on the cheek, so I instinctively kissed him back.

But as he drove off, I had this sinking feeling that he HADN'T kissed me, and had misinterpreted my spontaneous display of affection. I sent him an e-mail the next day to tell him what a great time I'd had, but received no response, which confirmed my worst fears. Several days went by, and the next time I saw him, I felt kinda sheepish. He was with a mutual friend who asked if we knew each other. In response, Steve came over and gave me a bear hug and a big smooch on the cheek and said "Yeah, we kissed for the first time last week." You gotta love a guy like that.

Last summer, when Steve was relocating his studio from one side of town to the other, he needed a place to stay while he finished out his new digs, so I offered him my spare bedroom. Far from being altruistic, my motives were completely self-serving...underneath my seeming benevolence was a desire to hang out with this fascinating character. I've lived alone for more than 20 years, and Steve ended up staying for several weeks. Unlike most house guests, however, the longer he stayed, the more I didn't want him to leave. We grew really close during that time together, and I now consider Steve one of my dearest friends.

He's an extremely talented and prolific sculptor, constantly reinventing his style and exploring new materials...he's currently creating the most amazing sculptures from discarded car windshields! His prowess as an artist is exceeded only by his humility. He's generous to a fault, a riveting raconteur and an all around good guy.

I was delighted to be invited to a recent surprise party for Steve's 65th birthday. I wish I had a photo of the look on his face when he walked into a room filled with his friends and fans. The walls were covered with several years' worth of self-portraits, secretly stolen from under his bed by his girlfriend, who organized the shindig.

All of the drawings bore the same 7 digit number, Steve's primary form of identification during his 16 year incarceration. Originally sentenced to life without parole, Steve spent most of his time in prison at a federal correctional facility ironically named Terminal Island. Never one to give up hope or his perennial equanimity, Steve continued to read, to learn, to evolve as an artist, and to fight for his eventual release. Last night we celebrated his fourth year of freedom.

I consider it a privilege to call Steve my friend. He recently reprimanded me for failing to call him for help when I had to change a flat tire in the rain. I'd take a bullet for that guy. And I know he would for me.