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."