Begging Monopoly

Begging. I don’t like begging. I used to give money to beggars. Now, only under a very extreme circumstance will I give a beggar anything at all and in those cases, only food. It’s not that I am unsympathetic, it’s just that I can not tolerate the idea that a stranger who is completely uninterested and unwilling to do anything for me expects me – often demands of me – to fork over my own cash. I just don’t work that way.

Back in the 1980’s when I was living in Brooklyn, there was a beggar at one of the subway stations in my neighborhood. Each day I would see him sitting in the passageway mumbling to himself with his hands outstretched. On occasion, early on, I would drop a few coins in his hands. Then, one day, I realized that I had been passing this same person in the same place wanting the same thing for a very long time. I thought about it. I had had over a dozen jobs over 8 years, moved house five times, put myself through school, bought a car, wrecked the car, sold the wreckage, got married, went from wearing $80 suits to wearing $800 suits… why on earth did I give this man money? His “job” was to profile those people who have money and expect them to hand over their cash, assuring them he had no intention of doing anything other than living off their wages.

Now, granted, this is not a simple subject. The man clearly had some mental problems and Mayor Koch had flushed New York City’s mental hospital funding so the man was at a huge disadvantage (Koch later funded an effort to involuntarily remove the mentally ill from NYC streets). Once the markings of disenfranchisement manifested; soiled clothes, unbathed body, tangled hair, unwashed teeth, deprivation of medication, getting any form of employment was much more difficult. The momentum grew in his terrible plight. However, I firmly believe the number one reason why this man was (and still is as of 2005) begging, is because he makes money doing it. Lots of money.

I know another man in Vancouver, Canada. He is a crack addict. He gets funding from the British Columbia government to pay for housing and food. He uses 100% of his begging income for drugs and alcohol. I’m not making this up – I’ve had plenty of conversations with him. Each night you can find him outside the 7-Eleven on 10^th and Alma asking people for money and cigarettes (retail value of one cigarette in BC is about $0.50CDN). Does he have any intention of stopping drugs or stopping begging? Absolutely not. He likes crack. And the 7-Eleven customers have no problem paying for it.

Why am I talking about this today? It is something that I have been paying attention to here in Laos for over a year. A year ago I noticed only a few beggars on the streets of the central tourism area of Vientiane. Today, I see a dramatic growth. A more official counting by Peuan Mit/Friends-International in October 2004 counted 209 street children in one day. Whatever the actual numbers may be, I am confident in my observation that there is a very real growth surge in the begging industry in Laos.

One of the most notable and prominent beggars in Vientiane, Akiki, sits outside Joma Bakery (the most expensive coffee shop in the city) or next door at the Phimphone Market (one of the most successful retail businesses in the city). He’s a nice enough guy and is respectful to his “customers”. To be fair, I should mention that Akiki has Downs Syndrome. And, granted, it is hard enough for a skilled, healthy, young man to find work in Laos, let alone a person who is mentally or physically challenged. However, there is no way Akiki is going to change his profession. Why? Money. Lot’s of it.

Consider the average monthly wage for a government worker in Laos is 350,000kip/month (about $35USD). One afternoon, I watched how much Akiki earned in 3 hours: 150,000kip. I’ve seen him make less, but certainly those numbers are not unusual. I have even had discussions with others who, like me, have seen him using his ATM card. An ATM card!!!

The other day, right after I posted my last entry, “Coopetition”, I saw Akiki do something which inspired me to write this entry. It was a thought of competition. I was sitting outside the Joma Café when three other street children had approached me for money. I told them no. They were about to approach the other table sitting outside when Akiki jumped up from his spot next door, blew his police whistle, and chased the 3 others away. It seems that not only does Akiki make a Laos fortune at his job, but he maintains a monopoly on his place of business (he does share it with one physically handicapped boy, on occasion).

Is Akiki, or the other alleged 208 beggars in Vientiane to blame for this? No, not really. He may have a monopoly on those two storefronts, but there are plenty of other places to beg. It’s not really the location, it’s those people who fund the industry who are most at fault. And the people who are funding this operation are the tourists – tourists with wonderfully benevolent intentions.

Some people give money to ease their conscience. Others, out of pity. Still, others, really believe they are helping someone. Whatever the reason, at the core of the issue, it is ignorance the fuels the begging industry. People who give money to beggars are ignorant of the problems they are causing – giving money to beggars causes much more damage than relief. Do people really think that beggars don’t talk to each other? Of course they do. And they know exactly how much they can earn and from who they can earn it (maybe, tomorrow, I will elaborate on that one).

Furthermore, behind the scenes of this industry is a much more insidious menace at work. It is often organized crime, the mafia or a mafia, orchestrating the begging circuit. If the cartel came to you safe suburban door and asked for money, exactly how much would you give… to ease your conscience?

Maybe I am opening myself up to a lot of criticism, but it is important to spread the word. Under no circumstances should anyone respond to begging with anything other than a polite ‘NO’. If you feel you must give a portion of your income to the needy, do so in a proper way. Here’s one example: $50 = One below the knee prosthesis - COPE Laos. Using PayPal, about 7% of your $50 donation is NOT used towards helping someone in need; the rest goes directly towards the recipient’s care.

In the time it took me to write this (which included a number of delays and stopping for lunch), I was approached seven times by different beggars. In the same time, I did not see one single Laos national approached for money. It is clear that tourists are targets but it is not only because of the apparently enormous cash roll they are carrying, but also because they do not understand what they are financing: a highly competitive, dangerous, and self-esteem destroying, unnecessary way of life.

Never stand begging for that which you have the power to earn
– Cervantes

Coopetition

Too often people think that one person’s success precludes another’s. This simply is not true. “Miss Hoyle” on MySpace published a list of 33 writer’s contests on her blog the other day. In her introduction she says, “Okay, I might be shooting myself in the kneecap here by sending "my competitors" all this information; but in truth, I think we writers need to work together.”. I could not agree with her second thought more.

One of the projects I intended to complete in Laos was a series of podcasts providing information about major tourist attractions in Laos. Just the other day, an acquaintance asked me how the project was going. I winced. The podcasting project I intended to do was shelved for one major reason: I could not find a Lao national who was willing to put forth the effort to learn about these things and visit the attraction. Despite not finding a co-narrator, I continued for a couple months writing draft scripts for the project, but eventually saw the writing on the wall and abandoned the project.

Today, on Craigslist, I found a site who is looking for exactly this type of thing. Authors/narrators are free to set their own prices (if any) and can publish at their own pace. The site is called Audio Snacks and they want people to submit recordings of guided tours of any place where they have “inside knowledge”. As a result, I am thinking about reviving my own project of podcasting in Laos.

Have you ever seen someone get bent out of shape because someone else got a job, materialized an idea they had or achieved some other form of success? Have you ever felt this yourself? It’s an outrageous reaction to someone else’s success and it is completely in the wrong direction. Success is like love – there is an infinite supply of it. All you have to do is chip in, share, and keep an open mind. There is plenty for all of us and it has a compounding effect on the world.

Dig It

Some things don’t change no matter where you go in this world. Across the street from the café where I write, there is an empty lot. It has been empty a long time. Just yesterday, or this morning, a big pile of sand was dumped. A neighborhood dog is intrigued. I know this dog. I’ve seen him around. We’ve never spoke, but I know his face and he probably knows my scent. He stands on top of the mound. He is king of the new sand pile. He barks at another dog – a blond dog who is slow & numb and doesn’t like being barked at. The other dog, the one on top of the sand pile, he sees his street from a new vantage point. He digs. He digs furiously tossing sand from the top of the pile into the lot, onto the sidewalk, out into the street. The worker with the wheelbarrow comes to take a load of sand to the storefront under renovation; the dog steps off the mound, lets the worker fill the barrow, then returns to his perch. He digs some more.

I wrestle with writers block – two months, now. It’s awful. Some say it’s a fallacy, writer’s block; it doesn’t exist; it’s just an excuse for not writing. I can think of nothing. I delete nearly everything word I type. I can only watch the dog and think how some things are the same the world over. Dogs & new piles of fresh soft sand. Dig. It makes me think of one of my favourite stories, a well known story.

Two boys, twins. One an optimist, the other a pessimist. The pessimist is put in a room piled high with toys, games and all the diversions so loved by little boys. He sits, long-faced, making no attempt to even explore any of the toys. ‘Why?’, he’s asked. ‘Because I have no one to play with.’ He is the pessimist.

The other boy, his twin brother, the optimist, is put in a different room, a room with only a giant pile of horse manure – nothing else. Equipped with no shovel or tool, the boy climbs onto the pile of manure and begins to dig. He digs furiously, excitedly, hopeful. ‘Why?’, he’s asked, “Why are you digging in this big pile of manure?’. ‘Well,’ he explains, ‘with all this manure around, there must be a pony nearby.’.

Thank you, dog. Although we have never spoken, today, you are my saving grace. Not only have you given me something to write about, you have also made me hope there is a pony in here somewhere. Keep digging, doggy, you’ll find your bone, I just know it.

Walking Meditation

There are different forms of meditation; walking meditation, standing meditation, reclining meditation, sitting meditation. The most common form is sitting meditation. Sit down. Get comfortable. Focus. Focus on the chakras. Chakras are all over the body. There are 7 big ones aligned with the spine, the crown chakra sits just above the top of the head. These are energy nexuses. Focus on them. It takes some practice, but it’s not as difficult as it first seems.

I like walking meditation. Years ago – lifetimes ago – I did a lot of sitting meditation. Things have sped up since then and I like to go places, do things, get somewhere. I still practice sitting meditation, but I also like walking meditation. Meditating while walking took some time to learn, but like sitting meditation, it is not as difficult as it first seems. And it opens the door to opportunities.

This month, I’ve decided to give up my motorbike. After a few days of walking, I realized I had been missing too much of my surroundings. The ban, the village, where I live is a nice community. There are rich people and poor people and I like that things are mixed that way. In the center of the ban is a crossroads with two “restaurants”. One is a noodle shop which is very popular with the university students. I’ve eaten there enough times that they know not to give me any chicken feet. Across the road, the restaurant is more like a pub. It’s underneath a house and the ceilings are about six feet high. The floor is concrete but it could just as well be dirt. There are some walls, but not many. Up until the point where I gave up my motorbike, I had never stopped there, even though I wanted to.

Walking back from work one afternoon, I passed by this place. Some men my age were sitting having some beers. They said hello. I said hello. Next thing I knew, we were passing around shots of Lao Khao, rice whiskey – powerful stuff, could be used as nail polish remover as well. On my motorbike, I simply sped past this place and never got to know my neighbors. It’s hard enough being white around here. There’s no way to hide it and there is no way anyone is going to overlook the fact that I am different. Different I can handle. Aloof is something that just isn’t me. As I sped past on my motorbike, it was too easy to label me as aloof.

Meditation is not a matter of checking out – being aloof to ones surroundings. Actually, it is a matter of checking in. It is a practice of getting to the reality, the heart of the matter, the true existence of things. Walking to and from work (I use that term creatively), I get to practice my walking meditation in the very literal sense. I also have more of an opportunity to get to the heart of my existence here in Laos, in my neighborhood.

Before, I was simply speeding past my own life. Hurrying from home to there and from there to home, I was missing what I came here for. I was not fully engaging in a culture I found so appealing, so natural and in tune with my own resonance. Instead, I was just driving through it.

Now, on my way home, I stop off at the “pub” and share a few beers with the guys. There’s a lot of conversation. Sometimes I have a general idea what they are talking about. Other times, I’m completely clueless. I don’t mind it much. I know a few jokes and they laugh like crazy when I tell the guy with seven children “Condom! Condom!”. They know I like Lao whiskey, beer with ice, grilled pork intestines, mint, meatballs. They know I am not above getting down on my knees and playing with the children. The children have a blast playing with the rubber masks I carry in my backpack just for that purpose.

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to have a translator. It felt good to get some feedback. They like me. They think I am a good person. They are glad I am part of their community. They see that I am different than most falang (foreigner). They agree that I am Lao – somehow, born in the States, white with Anglo and Mediterranean parents, I am Lao. Maybe a past life. Maybe a future life. Certainly, in this life, I am Lao, inside, somehow.

Summer's End

The earmark of summer’s end, Memorial Day (or is it Labor Day? I can never remember. The one at the end, the one just before school… I think it’s Labor Day), came and went over on the other side of the world and here in Laos, I got to sneak squeeze a little more time. No one was watching. No Memorial Day. But, I have to let it end, though. I have to get back to it. Back into the flow, back on track and - ouch - nose to grindstone. Summer must come to an end. I squeeze a little more time because there’s no Memorial Day in Laos. The next weekend, or the one after, is the boat racing festival in Luang Prabang. It seems like an appropriate marker.

September 11 is the day for the Boat Racing Festival in Luang Prabang. It’s also Horkhaopadapdin, the day – the very very early morning part of the day – to honor deceased relatives with offerings to assure their spirits that they did good in this world and their memories are respected, cherished, thanked, safe journey wherever you are. Longer boats. The boats on the river are larger than what we know in Cambridge, Dartmouth, Georgetown, Exeter, the Head of the Charles. They are longer and wider and heavier and 50 not 8 men are geared with short fat paddles not long thin oars. The rhythm is still there. The coxswains use drums and some are not coxswains, they just drum and there’s one in the front as well as the back. There might be some in the middle, too. They row on the Nam Kang and not the Mekong. The Mekong is too mighty; harsh and wide and full with obstructions. The banks are closed and the riverside is lined with Lao people and very few tourists – the children dress in their best clothes and some little girls proudly wear new, clean, yellow patterned dresses holding daddy’s hand overwhelmed at the sights and the uncountable faces and knees and packages and dogs eating bones under street side vendor’s tables.

Country folk come in from all over the province. It’s a big day. It’s easy to spot who is cosmopolitan and who is not. I’m told the children used to wear their school uniforms if that’s all they had, but now some wear dirty t-shirts and ripped pants if that’s what they want. They are becoming more worldly. It’s easy to spot who has made special effort to bring the family to see the festival and visit with cousins and aunts and uncles and maybe an eldest son lucky enough to study at Wat Sop, Wat Sene or Wat Phousi. Little boys proudly walk through the crowds with plastic carbines, with plastic AK-47’s, with plastic Luger’s. The men soak themselves in Beer Lao and the women join in as much as they can without forgetting they have children to watch but it’s not a problem because Lao men are just as likely to pick up their crying child and console them.

The races seem tertiary after the street side vendors and the face watching over big bottles of beer and grilled chicken on sticks and sweet Lao sausage. The crowds are overwhelming to me. To many balloons and umbrellas trying to poke me in the face. We retreat across the peninsula to the Mekong side – to a quiet riverside restaurant for an early afternoon sitting of Lao barbeque; it’s called ‘sindha’ or something like that but I like to call it sim card because it sounds like sim card and saying ‘I want to eat sim card’ makes me chuckle. It’s easier to make such jokes when broken English is the standard and I can’t speak the local language.

We could take a bus back to Vientiane. It’s cheaper. $11.50. But it’s not much fun and no longer interesting to me – I’ve done the trip too many times for it to stimulate anything. I don’t even get upset at the power lines blemishing across a stunning pair of limestone karsts north of Vang Vieng. Even the VIP bus – the good one where they give you little packaged sponge cakes and a bottle of water and they give you moist towelettes near the end of the trip just before the tire blows out and by the time we’re all back on the bus and the tire is changed, our hands are dirty again – it’s just not interesting anymore. The flight is six times more expensive. The flight is eight times quicker. I decide to skip the bus ride.

I’m a little torn about flying. My brother tells me not to fly because around here things are not done the way they are done in the west and it’s not quite as safe as the budget airlines who sprung up out of deregulation in the 80’s (was that the 80’s?). My embassy tells me not to take the bus because the Hmong are still ticked off and the jungles north are filled with resistance and it’s been a while but there have been incidents…

The ticket agent hands me back my passport, credit card and boarding pass. I look at the date: September 11. It’s just another day but I can’t help but make the connection. I wait for boarding to begin. For me, it’s just another dead zone strip of time between the festival and getting home. For others, it’s a different new experience.

It’s fun to watch someone fly for the first time. In the waiting area there is a collected excitement about her. Excited on boarding. Excited on take off. Excited even putting her bag through the x-ray machine and she beeps and the man waves his wand around her and that too is exciting. The second time through she doesn’t beep and they make a joke about it. The sun has set and there is only jungle below so no lights to see; only blackness and the reflection of her face in the window. Eventually she eases back into rapid fire page flipping of the inflight magazine. At the back there is a calendar of events, holidays and festivals for 2007. It says the 26^th is the day for remembering and making offering to deceased relatives. I no longer find factual contradictions an annoyance. The 8 a.m. bus can leave at 1:45 p.m. if that’s when it leaves. That’s just the way it’s done. It’s a contradiction. Fact.

I’m glad she’s older. Too old to discover the child thrill of bringing her seatback tray to it’s full upright and locked position then back down and up and locked and unlocked and down and locked and unlocked and locked and unlocked… click, click, click, clickclick, clickclick, click. 5 minutes. 10 minutes. How long will this go on? Glad she’s too old for that. She leaves it in the full upright and locked position. I felt something let go in me when I showed her how to use the seat belt. An old resentment from being too many times a passenger watching the preflight safety demonstration. We roll our eyes, the seasoned travelers, at the flight attendants who have to, by law, demonstrate how to operate the seat belt. Who doesn’t know? She didn’t know. Why would she? It took her a couple tries to master it. I’m glad for the experience, glad I can let go finally. One less thing to irritate me about flying. One more thing to remind me how much child exists in all of us – wide eyed, not knowing, we don’t know everything and when we do, there is always the plane instead of the bus.

Don't Wait

I had a conversation with someone the other day. She was depressed. She wondered, What will do? How will I do it? How can I do anything? I can not do anything. She’s twenty-one years old and doesn’t know which direction her life is going.

Listening to her grief, I thought of my self when I was that age – actually, for most of my early twenties I worried about such things, sometimes sinking into a deep fatalistic depression. I let her vent her fears and concerns for a while and tried to turn her in the direction of a little less self-pity and a little more action.

“You’re still young,” I told her, “you don’t have to know what you’re going to be when you grow up. Don’t worry, it will come to you.”

It’s not very easy to accept such advice. It puts a lot of faith on something that no one can back up without the passage of time. I tried a different, more tangible tactic to help my friend pull herself out of her self-inflicted malaise.

She doesn’t know what she wants to do. That’s ok. There are plenty of times in life when we don’t know what we are going to do next. Eventually, the idea will come and it is at that time we must act. Which brings me to the title of today’s entry, DON’T WAIT.

When we are not sure of what we will do next, that is not the time to sit and wonder what we will do next. Obsessing on our own confusion gets us no where other than more deeply entrenched in our own confusion. It serves only to make us feel worse and make arriving at a decision a painful waiting experience.

Of course, if you don’t confront your problems, they will never be resolved. However, once confronting our problems becomes the problem itself, then it is time to focus our attention elsewhere and allow time – and our subconscious genius – to work out a suitable solution.

I told my friend to table her worries of what will she do and focus instead on how she will do. Worrying about what you will be when you grow up is not helping.

I suggested to her, “Instead of worrying, why don’t you learn how to succeed first.”

The expected blank look came to her face. People all around the world do not know of this method, however, it is viable and very effective. Learn how to succeed and you will succeed at whatever you choose. The secret of succeeding is not a matter of getting lucky or having the right contacts. The secret is to teach oneself how to set goals and achieve them. Be warned, though, learning how to succeed starts small and is greatly reliant on setting realistic goals.

Twenty-one years old. Don’t know what to do. Don’t know how to do it. Can’t do anything. It seems like a very short dead end street to me. But look over there, not too far off this path is another path. A path begging to be explored. It’s a path where specific, measurable, achievable, realistic, time-based (SMART) goals can be set and reached Set your sights low at first. I will make sure all my bills are paid and all my accounts are up to date each Friday for the next two months. Maybe that’s too aggressive. For five consecutive days, I will wake up each morning before 9:00 am and make at least one phone call to a prospective employer. Eventually, your goals will become more complex as you master setting and achieving goals. Then you will be prepared to do what you want to do when you grow up.

It’s not so much a matter of what your goals are. It’s more a matter that you train yourself to set smart goals, approach them with clarity and determination and recognize the rewarding feeling of accomplishing what you said you would do. It’s a very useful technique for strengthening the success muscles. Something I wish I had learned twenty years earlier. Something I wished I knew about when I was sitting around, feeling sorry for myself, wondering what I would be when I grow up. I could have been spending that time teaching myself how to succeed so that once I figured out what I would do, I would have some experience in achieving my goals.

Amateurs

There’s a reason to my lack of posting lately. It has to do with a newspaper article I read poolside at the Nana Hotel in Bangkok (fifteen stories of perversion in Sukhumvit). The article was a review of a book called “The Cult of Amateur: How today’s Internet is killing our culture” by Andrew Keen. I can’t find a copy of the book here, but I’ve read a number of reviews and reader-reviews. Most people say the same thing: it gives provocative insight, but goes off the rails in some areas. Regardless if the book is good or bad, it’s existence and general sentiment has made me think a little bit more about what I’m putting out in blog form.

There is a compounding element that has added to my paralyzed efforts. Much of the content I produce is based on Buddhist philosophy. One of the Buddhist principles is to not disseminate false information (ubiquitous in all faiths... I think). Ethically I do have some responsibility to be accurate when presenting any material; personally, I feel this even stronger in the context of religion or spirituality. While never presenting myself as an expert on the subject and using some good-ol’ fashioned doing the best I can, I hope to maintain some form of immunity.

I read those words and can not help but wonder: Immunity from what???

Do we need immunity in order to speak or act or write? Do we need licenses – certifications of authenticity – to empower us to share an idea, opinion or belief? Is the onus on the speaker, and not the listener, to define what is fact and what is conjecture? If so, I need to shut up a long time ago.

Similar to the padded playground where no one learns to be careful because they don’t understand how much broken bones hurt, people are trying to muzzle free, misinformed, communication. Long before the world became literate (or started down that path), Og was free to go up to Toh and grunt for as long as Toh would entertain him. Toh never believed Og’s grunting, but he would listen to it from time to time, just to get another perspective. Toh is a brave man for taking his chances with the myriad misinformation outside the padded playground.

The cult of amateur goes back much further than the internet, so does the killing of culture. Amateurs have been badly fixing their own tools, poorly advising their children, inappropriately consoling their heartbroken friends and a doing a bad job with a whole plethora of other things for centuries. They’ve had no formal training, often gave lousy advise and disastrous results have followed. Other times, a laymen has provided good advice leading to healthy marriages, community progress, even scientific or artistic breakthroughs. Sometimes, it’s not even the quality of the advice but the cathartic nature of communication itself which spawns a bright ending.

So, if communication – and I stress, communication of unwittingly false information – is the death of our culture, how long ago did our culture begin to die? Certainly no one ever thought that cats would steal the souls from sleeping infants and no one ever told another person that bathing was a deadly act. No chef ever told another that tomatoes were poisonous and there was never an educated person who believed the world was flat.

My opinion, which is always to be regarded with great skepticism, is that the cult of amateur is exactly what defines culture. It is the expert who categorizes culture, yet it is the amateur who constitutes it. Nothing new is happening here. Og and Toh grunted. Horace Greeley duked it out with the penny press. Oprah hosted the highest rated talk show in television history. Og, Toh, Horace and, I believe, Oprah, had no college education, no doctorate in anything and certainly no credentials other than they experienced, they listened, they decided what they believed and then they spoke up – sometimes inaccurately with disastrous results. Calling Horace and Oprah amateurs isn’t really fair since they are experts in spinning information. However with the clarity of retrospect, ask a General and not a newspaper editor where to send troops; ask a therapist and not a talk show host how to save your marriage.

Are we a culture who buys into bogus beliefs? Certainly. Yet, it isn’t the people spewing those beliefs who need corrective action. It is the audience who must question the source and the validity of anything they hear or read. It’s a scary world out there. You will be on your own deciding what to believe and what to dismiss. Have faith that you, too, will make a bad decision from time to time. You will probably also say something that isn’t exactly true. But don’t worry about killing your own culture, it’s been dying for a lot longer than you think.

[By the way, some things in this entry I looked up on the internet. It’s definitely all true, because someone put it on a website.]

Answers?

Do you have the answers? Are you sure? It may come as a shocking surprise but not all that we think is true. It may be true for a while, but all things must come to an end. Perhaps information is not excluded from this.

An expert on smell and scent claims that not all things have a smell. He explains that for something to have a smell it must emit molecules the size of 16 carbon atoms or less in order for it to have smell. He sounds quite certain of this. However, I can not help but think of the koan ‘if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?’. If something emits a scent larger than 16 carbon atoms, a size too big for our olfactory system, is it void of scent or is it us that is void of perception? Here is where I, the layman with no scientific training, and the expert, with a vast repertoire of research, must part ways.

We are an audacious species. We know only what we can think. And we refute that which is incomprehensible or indiscernible. Yet that does not prove it does not exist. We have ghosts and spirits and psychic activity on the fringe of our accepted common knowledge to occupy the time of rebellious thought pioneers. But what lies beyond this fringe area? How vast is the space which exists beyond the universes? How vast is the space which exists beyond our thoughts?

As a child, we believe that mom and dad are gods. Later, our teachers become emperors and empresses. Hormones kick in, teenage rebellion overtakes our previous knowledge and mom, dad and teachers take an icarian dive. We grow even older and outrunning the cops changes from exciting to pure stupidity. Time passes and we slip from resenting our seniors to the asking those more experienced for advice. Age seeps in and, eventually, we end up liking elastic waistbands because they are more comfortable, more practical, like cataract sunglasses.

Answers change and we need to accept this. We need to acknowledge that what might have been perfect yesterday is only tolerable today and tomorrow we have no taste for it. That is only the tip of the iceberg. How much of what we know is absolutely wrong, and yet we all buy into this mass hypnosis from lack of energy or fear of going against the grain?

This could go on forever. But I know I have vinegar to buy and a lamp to fix and a few other errands to run. Perhaps I will see a ghost at the market. Perhaps I will levitate with my packages over the chaotic traffic. Perhaps I will discover that my reserves of love are three times the size of a molecule I can smell. I don’t have the answers, only observations.

Who?

During last night's dinner conversation...

Shakespeare, William Shakespeare, the famous playwright?
hmmmm... I've never heard of Shakespeare. I've heard of Britnay Spears.
No relation.

An explanation of the terms genius and bubble gum followed.

Something to Say?

One of the most uncouth things a person can do – and one of the most frequent faux pas of falang in Southeast Asia – is to raise their voice. Raising one’s voice shows a myriad of flaws. It shows loss of self-control. It shows unnecessary disrespect. It shows ignorance to local culture (when in Rome…). Most of all, it shows everyone within earshot the skid marks in your own underwear.

This morning I skipped the 7:30 departure to a particularly good dive location. I wanted to sleep in. I wanted to rest a little extra before heading back to the mainland and my quiet and orderly existence in Laos. By habit, I woke at 7:00 a.m., checked the time and opted for more sleep. At 7:55, I was awakened by voices outside. I could hear the voices, but could not make out the words. I slid back into sleep. The voices continued. By 8:05, I abandoned by grandiose thoughts of sleeping until 9 or maybe even 10; the voices showed no sign of stopping.

I listened more closely. Was someone telling an exciting tale of last night’s adventures? I hoped so. I got up and went to the bathroom. I tried to peek through the ventilation slits of the concrete wall to see what was happening outside – I thought of my nosy ex-wife who always peered through curtains and wanted to know what was going on with other people. I couldn’t see the men. There were two men. I could tell from the voices. One was English. The other I thought to be Thai. The Thai voice was trying to express, to console, to empathize, to find a suitable solution. The English voice spoke over and beat down on the Thai voice – he did not want to hear, he only wanted to have his say, to assert his rightness, to aggress his own absolute perfection. The Thai voice was calm and rather quiet. The English voice was everywhere and demanding. Did he want a refund? I thought of a trip to Jamaica years ago when a honeymooner wanted a refund in early October because the brochure failed to mention the daily rain in the Caribbean in October. I pissed, dressed and walked outside.

Stepping onto the porch, the words were now discernable. Bed bugs… I didn’t put bed bugs in the mattress… It’s your fault… if anyone is responsible for bed bugs it’s you. The Englishman had a long brown shit stain flowing out of his mouth. The Englishman thinks the Thai intentionally wants itchy guests who will tell others about a crappy resort where conditions are substandard. The Thai is patient and as I step out onto the porch, the conversation ends. The shirtless Englishman with an homogenously rebellious tattoo on his lower back walks away with flippant gestures and aural puss seeping into the sand. The Thai is smiling, not because he has won or because he is happy or because he enjoyed an 8:00 am pissing contest or because his other guests had to listen to this nonsense – he is happy because he knows there is no point in being unhappy. His day can not be ruined because of someone else’s bad behaviour and miniscule suffering.

How is it done correctly in Thailand? How is it done correctly anywhere in the world? Calmly approach. Make it quietly clear than a problem has occurred and a discussion is warranted. Step into a private area, a place where no one has to endure your own dirty laundry. Have your conversation. If voices are raised, they are raised in a cloistered fashion. The matter is exposed, a solution is presented and all people walk away with at least an agreement to disagree. Then, maybe the guy in bungalow 3 will sleep a little later than normal and have nothing to write that day.