Writings From the 'Loin

Burma Journal 5 Aug 2010

2010-09-30T14:09:00.000-07:00

It’s late and I am tired. I don’t think I have digested today’s events well enough to provide analysis, but I have to write before I forget. Before I came to Burma, I had some e-mail correspondence with a guy my age that I will call “Tom”. I met him in Chiang Mai when he asked to interview me for a short documentary. I soon found out he was from Burma, and since I wanted to know more about life in Burma, I asked to exchange e-mails. When I decided to visit Burma, I contacted him. He is from here in Mandalay and asked if I wanted to meet some people who are working for social change in Myanmar.

All I really knew about Tom is that he ran a facebook group dedicated to creating social change in Myanmar. I envisioned myself meeting with a bunch of college students who got together and talked about change and revolution. I came all the way to Mandalay expecting just that. (8 hoursby bus to Bangkok, 2 hours flying to Yangon, 14 hours bussing to Mandalay) I went to the internet café this morning to see if he had scheduled a time to meet or responded to my e-mails. I read about 65 happy birthday e-mails, but nothing from Tom. I was a little discouraged because I had no other plans and no idea what I would do with my time in Mandalay. Then, on facebook, he chatted me. “where are you?”

“I am at an internet café in Mandalay.”

“You mean you are at NetCom on computer #2. I am behind you on computer #12.”

Shocked, but cautious not to cause a scene, I slowly turned around.

We shook hands without really saying anything, finished our computers, and left.

I rented an oversized rickety bike with no breaks and we rode off through the heat to meet his friends. We rode first to the YMCA where I was led into a dark room, all blinds closed, only the glow of the screen saver and the light from a cracked door. His friend was maybe 40 and runs outreach programs for youth. Education, English, computers. He says he helps the youth of Mandalay find hope. Our conversation was more like a formal interview. He simply asked, “Ok, you are here, what do you want to know?” I was not ready, but years of practice in awkward situations allowed me to proceed like I had a list of well thought out questions.

In Burma, its hard to get money, even if you receive a grant, there are no good banks to transfer the money to. You have to find someone to smuggle in cash. That is one of the main obstacles to doing work here. He says his staff get very poor wages. They need help translating for their website and people to help edit their fundraising proposals.

From there, lunch at a corner café, my first meal in over 24 hours. I had eaten since the snacks I bought in Yangon, which is a shame because I love Burmese food. We sat in the back room where we could talk without others hearing or seeing. From there, we rode our bikes on a grid of broken flooded streets to a large monastic school. It serves over 6,000 students free of charge. About 1,000 of which live at the school. Mostly they are orphans- 95 orphans from the cyclone in 2008- a couple hundred kids from various ethnic groups (Shan, Karen, Karenni, Kachin) and lots of little monks. The girl who showed me around moved to the school in grade 4. Now, 18 years later, she is a teacher and still lives at the school. There are over 200 teachers. Also, a free medical clinic, a library, internet, cabinetry school and sewing school.

The school started small and is run by a monk, whom I was privileged to meet. Same question, “So what do you want to know about my school?” I praised his efforts and then launched into my questions. He gets money through the bank of Myanamar, but at a disadvantaged exchange rate. In Burma you can deposit only in dollars and withdraw only in Kyat (pronounced Jet)- at the govt. rate (600:1 instead of the street rate of 1000:1).

He has been to America twice- to meet with congress and the state department about sanctions on Burma and their effect on non-profit organizations. He has a friend in San Francisco and promised to come to dinner with me on his next visit.

From there we rode around the oddly dusty yet muddy roads looking for other “friends,” finally arriving at an internet café. This time, a man in his late 50’s, “What do you want to know?” I did not even know who he was or what he did, so I began with, “Who are you and what do you do?” Turns out he runs a support group for people living with HIV/AIDS. He helps them combat discrimination and works with faith leaders to use their sermons to combat stigma. He helps them access medical help and is a friend throughout the struggle. In Myanmar, it is illegal to meet in groups of more than 5, but for faiths, it is rarely enforced, so he works with Buddhist, Christian, and Muslim leaders to network faster and disseminate information quickly to the masses. He is nominated for a special award from UNAIDS for his work.

About 5 minutes into our conversation, he asked if we could leave. He was uncomfortable talking in the internet café. We left to the same corner restaurant I had been to earlier with Tom. We sat at the same hidden table in the back. There, we talked about everything. We talked about social change and transformation, about the government spying and the lack of support for people living with HIV/AIDS. He told me of a current man he was working with. When he was diagnosed with AIDS, his family disowned him. He was kicked out of the house. He went to the hospital and was not allowed admittance. In time, he found my new friends outreach group who negotiated with the man’s family to let him stay in the sister’s extra room. He also found a doctor that was willing to see him. The man had terrible gain green from unattended bed sores and infections from the street. His health has improved, but he is still going to die. Hopefully with less pain and certainly with more dignity and support.

After that we went to another friends home. This time a peer, 25 years old, who works on environmental issues in Myanmar. I was invited into his home, which is sort of a risk for anyone. We drank gross Burmese orange soda and talked before all 3 of us loaded onto one small scooter and rode to Mandalay Hill. We walked up the hill cause the scooter would never have made it, me in my broken fake Puma sandals that I got in Guatemala a few years back, them in proper shoes. We arrived at the top just in time for the sunset, gorgeous views of the rice patties, spotted with temples, and the flooding Irriwady River. It looked like a giant lake, miles across. At the top, a Burmese girl stopped me. “Hey, I remember you from the internet today. You were computer 2, I was computer 1.” Its strange being noticed and remembered. The 3 of us watched the light disappear, conversation changing with the colors. Girls, politics, music, Burma. We hiked down in the dark.

We separated for dinner and met back up, all 3 of us overloading the motorcycle all the way across the city to an open air bar/restaurant, on the outskirts of town. There we met a man drinking whiskey and talking with other men. As soon as we arrived, he excused himself from the group and joined us at a different table. He is the leader of the United Muslim Association and the UDP political party. He was well drunk and talked openly about his political goals, to sow divisions amongst the top generals in Burma. He concluded that the people would not be able to have a revolution unless there was division within the government itself. “They are not robots. They are people, and some of them must yearn for change too.” However, he has very little hope of this happening anytime soon. We talked openly for about an hour. 3 Muslim men, smoking and drinking and me, with rice and a Coke imported from China. In time, the man got too drunk to make much sense and I was getting worried about riding with my certainly not sober friends on the motorbike. Turns out they were worried about something else.

We left the bar and precariously sandwiched ourselves back on the motorcycle. On our way over I asked where we were going and my friends replied, “we are going to meet another friend, actually it’s my brother. He is a member of Al Qaeda” I laughed, thinking they were obviously drunk/joking with me. “No seriously, he is.” “Al Qaeda Burma?” I laughed. “Yes, exactly, but its confidential.” Tom interrupted, “ But don’t worry, for some reason he likes Americans. He is not going to blow you up or anything.” They both laughed. We stopped at a nightclub of sorts. It was dark, lit only by a few neon lights and a stage where they were having what was advertised as a beauty pageant. The pageant consisted of pretty girls in nightclub dresses walking around and having beer-drinking contests. We walked over to a table where the brother was waiting, seats reserved just for us. To our left were 3 men who looked like monks in regular attire, smoking and drinking. The rest of the tables were full of middle aged, slightly overweight men. The waiters were all teenage boys and the entertainment, all girls, with numbers on them. The brother leaned over to me and offered me a drink. “No thanks. I don’t drink.” “Yes you do. Tonight you do.” “No, I really don’t, thanks though.” He seemed satisfied, but then hailed the waiter and ordered a drink for me. I told him again, “I don’t drink at all, like ever.” I put my arm around him and leaned in. “You see, I am a good Muslim.” He smiled a giant red beetle nut smile and cancelled the order. The other two laughed.

We sat and watched the girls dance and drink their beer until the music stopped and the lights came on. All the girls were loaded into 2 trucks. Tom explained that after the show they are driven to a hotel of sorts where they are auctioned off to the men who were watching. It can be as little as 5 dollars for sex and up to 60 dollars for a whole night with a girl. Tom says the girls only see a small portion of the money, as little as 50 cents. The rest goes to the club and the hotel.

As we left, Tom pulled me aside and explained what I had been wondering the whole time: why we had come to the brothel in the first place. He says they had good reason to believe the secret police had been watching us throughout the day and the best place to throw them off was a night club, where they all hang out. He said the place was full of police and army men because they are some of the only men who can afford it. Them, some monks, and apparently members of Al Quaeda. Who would have thought the safest place in Burma would be a brothel?

We rode, an awkward sandwich on wheels, back across the dimly lit city, the air getting cooler along the mote separating the old and new city. Now its time to sleep.

A story from "the middle"

2010-09-14T14:15:00.000-07:00

This is an Al Jazeera report from Mae Sot, the border town where I suffered with Dengue Fever and wandered around for a few days. I am still typing up my journal from Burma. Law school is killing me, but I will get the rest up soon... until then:

2010-09-03T22:25:00.000-07:00

4 August 2010

Burmese Birthday

2 Somosas and a Banana Roti for 20 cents. Burma is quite the place. I spent the morning walking around Yangon in the rain, eating from street vendors and trying to find the friends I made yesterday. Not much luck.

Now, I am sitting on an over-air-conditioned bus to Mandalay. The man sitting next to me has "Freedom" tattood down his forearm. It is obviously an amateur job, but its a poignant reminder of what is missing in Myanmar. Freedom. The bus is just waiting to leave. 10,300 Kyat ($10.30). The taxi across the sprawling yet rural feeling city was 5,000 Kyat. Only twice as much to go across the whole country.

Sam, the kid that runs the guesthouse, talked to me for about an hour practicing his American accent. He prefers the American accent over the European and he is baffled by all the Europeans who don’t like Americans. He says we speak strong. He goes to the cinema with his friends in Shan State, near the highly touristed Inle Lake. He says they go to comedies and try to laugh when the foreigners laugh, even though they don’t understand why sometimes.

Last night the other man that runs the guesthouse told me about love and sex in Burma. “You are lucky. In your country, the women touch you back. Here, they just lay there and only the man touches, but you are not lucky because your women leave you. It’s hard to find lasting love in America. Is that true?” Yes, I told him. It’s so true. He recounted rural Burma life. You can only date in secret and in the dark, sneaking to the girl’s house in the night and whispering that you like her (only after getting permission from the villages head of bachelors). She will tell you to wait for her decision, maybe a week, maybe a year, but you have to go back every day until she says yes or no. If she says yes, you hurry and marry so you can have sex.

I got an email today detailing reports out of Eastern Burma, about attacks by the SPDC (the Orwellian name for Burma's military government: State Peace and Development Council. Unfortunately they provide neither peace nor development and don't even allow many residents to be part of their state) against rural villagers. They bombed and burned several villages this week. The people are fleeing… likely to Thailand. I feel so strange being in a country that is killing its residents. I am here on a bus with A/C and a flat screen TV and thousands of villagers are being hunted and killed in the same country. The police officer that stopped me from walking in front of a government building works for the same regime that is CURRENTLY killing its people.

I don’t know what to say.

I am on a bus. It’s my birthday.

There are no other foreigners

Maybe we are all foreigners

Lost in a world far from home

Strangers in a strange land

Talking, helping, hurting, killing

Will we ever get home?

Burma: My introduction

2010-09-02T13:47:00.000-07:00

3 Aug 2010

Yangon, Myanmar (Burma)

I made it. Last year I wrote in my journal, “Next summer I want to go to Burma. I don’t know how I will be able to though.” I arrived via Air Asia from Bangkok. I made a potentially disastrous mistake by failing to change money before I came. I arrived with only Thai Baht and you have to pay a 30-dollar visa fee upon arrival. 30 dollars literally means 30 dollars, and not just any dollars- crisp clean new dollars. An American guy overheard me explaining my situation and offered to sell me dollars for Baht. 60 dollars. He was teaching at a school in a northern province and had 15,000 US dollars in his duffel bag, for the school. Anything over 2,000 is illegal, so he was nervous. When I cleared customs I went to departures to look for more people to exchange Baht to dollars with. No one, for 2 hours. Finally, I found 3 very nice French backpackers who sold me 200 Euros at a good rate. The 200 Euro bill was clean and crisp and fetched a higher rate than smaller bills. Thank the Lord for nice people. Oh yes, back to customs, I was harassed about my money too old. They then told me they would take my old money if I paid 50 instead of 30. I gave them 40 and asked for change. The 3 men stared. I said “I know its 30, you owe me 10 dollars.” One said, Give me more and I will let you through. I said it louder, “Its only 30. Give me 10 dollars.” I was drawing too much attention. They gave me the ten dollars and I got through.

Now I am staying at Golden Smiles Inn. It’s just that, a very friendly place with very friendly staff.

I walked, wandering for 4 hours tonight, ending up totally by accident, at the Shwedagon Pagoda, one of Buddhism’s holiest sites. I debated paying the 6,000 Kyat (about 6 dollars) fee to enter because I thought the money might go to the government. I was assured that it goes only to restoring and maintaining the site. I hope that is true. I hired a guide, which is rare for me, but I got good vibes from the guy and I made a goal to talk to as many local people as possible. We talked for 2 hours, covering a range of topics, always resorting to hushed tones when anything sensitive came up, which in Burma, is often. “The security is everywhere. They don’t wear the uniform. It could be you or me or anyone. Nobody knows.” Later, “You are lucky to travel and visit other countries. I am 31. I have never been outside Burma and I have no money to travel in Burma.” “My country is so poor but some people, they have so much. In Yangon, we have one Rolls Royce and 2 Hummers. Who has that much money? How did they get it?”

I walked back into the city in the dark. A young man, who looked maybe 20, came from a gate and made eye contact. I said, “How’s it going?” He mumbled, and started walking behind me. He followed me for maybe 30 minutes, stopping where I stopped, turning where I turned. I stopped to eat dinner. He took the table next to me. I chatted with the gaged-eared boy who ran the place and my follower just watched us. When I got up, he followed. Finally, when crossing in front of Sule Paya, the 2000-year-old pagoda in the middle of a round about, he called out to me. I could not understand, but I waited for him and we walked toward my hotel. Hs English is very basic, my Burmese non-existent. He wanted to talk though, so we sat on a planter under a tree in front of Independence monument, one of the darkest spots in the area. We worked hard to communicate. He said is 28 and a teacher, not married, no girlfriend, “I don’t like.” He wants to meet at 10 AM tomorrow, same spot. I said OK. It crossed my mind that he is gay, but I don’t think so, and I don’t care unless he thinks I am looking for more than just to talk. We will see I guess.

The Middle

2010-07-22T06:41:00.000-07:00

Looking back on the weekend in retrospect, I can piece together why certain things happened the way they did and perhaps why I felt the way I felt. However, I still cannot fully understand how I survived and with so much success.

Turns out the fever and rash I was experiencing were Dengue Fever. I did not want to admit it at the time, even though the thought had crossed my mind. But I had something to accomplish an

d I was not going to let Dengue Fever or anything else get in my way.

I had arranged with my student's cousin the night before, to meet with her friend and go out to the camp together. Right before we were scheduled to meet, I got a text, “My friend is sick today, so he cannot go with you. Sorry, you will have to find the camp alone”

I believed that he was sick because I could feel his sickness. I could feel every sickness existing along the border, raging in my body. I was slightly discouraged, but confidant I could find the camp. After all. I had directions, “Go out to the Asia highway. Drive your motorcylcle toward... toward.... drive your motorcycle.....” I could not remember. Where was I driving? “I just need to go out to the highway and I will see a sign that will jarr my memory. First, I need to eat. I have to have food” I got the motorcycle, and was driving into town to get food when the whole bike started shaking violently. “No!!!! not a flat tire. I am too tired to do this” I could not be too tired. I had to change the tire. Eating would wait. I wandered around the town looking for a place to change the tire. I could not understand anyone. No one was speaking English. No one was speaking Thai. I got directions and forgot them right away. 1 hour later, I finally located the Yamaha store. It had been right down the street the whole time.

While they changed the tire, I sat in a chair sweating. Head spinning and throbbing, eyes hurting, muscles aching, and I fell asleep. It must not have been too long, because they were still fixing the tire when I woke up. Were they still fixing the tire? I could not remember where I was. I stumbled out to the curb. “Where am I? What country am I in

?” “I am near the border, but what border?” I am in India. No, this is Bangladesh. Nicaragua. I am here, near to Bhutan. No. Burma! Thailand. I am in Thailand and I need to make it to the camp.

I was panicking. I honestly thought I would not remember where I was and I would not make it home... ever.

I paid for the tire and rode off. 20 minutes later, I passed the Yamaha store again. 20 more minutes, I was still in the town. Where is the highway? I could not find anything. Food! I still needed to get food. I had not eaten and I was so thirsty. I did not want to eat, but I knew I had to eat. So I forced down some bread and yogurt and I took off.... the wrong direction. Luckily I have a mind for mountains, and even in my state of delirium, I recognized the mountains from my motorcycle ride the day before. I was going the exact opposite direction, which was convenient, cause I could just turn around. Before I did, I stopped my bike. I looked around. I asked for clarity. I explained out loud what I was trying to do and that even though its not important to everyone, its important to some people. I just needed a little more strength and a little more focus.

3 hours after I left, I finally found the highway. I still did not know what city I was going toward, but once I found the highway, I felt a click inside my brain. Like a switch full of warm energy. I smiled and thats all it really took. I needed to have a smile on my face if I was going to make it to the camp.

I rode my motorcycle for about an hour along a winding highway. I passed 3 police chec

kpoints. I had been instructed to lie to them, but there was no need. They saw my western face and flagged me right through. After all, why would a western kid like me be looking for a refugee camp?

The road drops from agricultural plains into a valley with sharp limestone ridges, clouds and mist obscuring the tops of the cliffs so as to make them appear unending, heaven meeting the earth.

After about an hour, bamboo houses began to appear, and before I knew it, I was in the middle of the camp. Barbed wire fences lining the highway, making it clear that I was in no ordinary village. Just then, the rain came. Heaven literally met earth and I was getting soaked. The camp is over 7 kilometers long, housing between 40 and 70 thousand refugees. There are many different gates, opening to many different zones, none of them labeled.

I had to find zone B5. The grandma lived in zone B5. My back was hurting. My head was aching. I was soaking wet. I pulled over and hid under a bamboo shelter. From there, I sat watching people pass. I had to find someone to help me. My phone had no service and I would never find one person in 40,000 unless someone helped me. I had to pick a nice person, someone who speaks a little English and who has a good heart. I could not pick a cop or a guard or I could be arrested or made to leave. No one had uniforms, so I had to choose extra wisely.

I picked a young man with his girlfriend standing under an awning. Her smile was disarming and he treated her so gently. I knew they were my best bet. I showed them the pictures I brought from America. Pictures of the Karen new year celebration in Utah. Pictures of my students playing in a band with other Karen people. They sat talking to each other for long enough that I thought they had forgotten me. I was about to walk away, when the young man said, “OK, we go. You follow me” He escorted his girlfriend to a group of her friends getting in a truck and then he jumped on the back of my motorcycle. His name was Bway.

We made our way to a gate where Bway knew the guards. He showed them my pictures and talked them into letting us in. We walked into the camp. Everything was bamboo and rivers. The paths were muddy flows and we walked right through the middle of them. We stopped at a house to ask for directions and were immediately invited in. The whole family looked through my pictures. They gave me water and they played guitar and sang. One of them joined us on the search, running ahead to find the right way. We crossed wood plank bridges and wandered through a maze of bamboo houses before they stopped and said, “This is the one you are looking for”

I approached slowly and saw Moo Doh and Elve's grandma rocking side to side on the ground under the stilt house. I got her attention and she looked at me so confused. I pulled out the pictures and handed them to her. She did not seem to recognize anyone. My new friend interjected and explained who I was and what the photos were. The grandmas aged face lit up when she realized who she was looking at. She touched their faces as if they were really there. She quickly got to her feet, climbed the ladder into her house and returned in finely woven traditional Karen clothing. She invited me to join her family in the house. We all sat on the bamboo floor while they passed the pictures and talked about each one. My new friend translating their questions as best as he could.

“Do they go to school in America?” “Do they do well?” “Will Elve go to post-high school?” “How many Karen live in Utah?” All the answers made her happy.

I took pictures of the grandparents and the others living there, who I assume are relatives. The grandpa put on his best clothes. They posed, looking straight forward, not smiling. Bway was trying to make them laugh. He asked them to move closer to each other. The grandpa reached down and grabbed his wife's hand. When they held hands, I thought about all that they must have been through together. I imagine they had been married about 50 years. 50 years of war. 50 years of constant fear and attack by the Burmese army. I thought about what they must have survived together, the jungles they had walked through and the rivers they had crossed. The bombs they had avoided. The homes that they had lost. But here they were, living their final years in a refugee camp, still holding hands. My smile returned and I forgot I was sick.

After the pictures, the grandma got nervous. She was worried the police would catch me at their house. It was illegal for me to be there and I did not want to get them in trouble. The visit lasted only 30 minutes or so, but it was worth all the pain and effort. I am so happy I made it.

Bway walked me out of the camp and told me his story. He is only 20, all his family is dead. He is being resettled in 2 months to Australia... all alone. I gave him my e-mail and told him to write me with any questions when he gets to Australia. I wish I could do more. All I can do is hope that someone will show him around Australia and be kind to him like he was to me.

The rain stung my face the whole way back to Mae Sot. My body ached, but nothing could make me sad. I had done what I came to do and I could finally go back and rest.

I slept and woke and walked 2 miles to the bus station. The 6 hour bus ride took 8 and I did not have a seat the whole time. I had a plastic stool that collapsed every time he went around a sharp curve. There was no A/C and I could not tell if I had a fever or if the whole bus did.

Back in Chiang Mai, I got diagnosed with Dengue Fever. My whole body is covered in rash and itching. I have been sleeping about 18 hours a day the last 3 days. I wake up, scratch myself until I am too tired and I fall back asleep. I have been to the hospital twice, and I should be recovering soon.

I appreciate everyones support.

Conversation with a Strong woman.

2010-07-18T06:29:00.000-07:00

"Are you sure you are OK til your friend comes?" I asked a young woman who just spent the last 14 days trekking through the jungles of the Karen State (Burma). I did not realize how ridiculous that sounded. If anyone is OK waiting for a friend to pick her up, its this girl. "Is it dangerous?" I asked earlier. "Yes," she replied, "but for Karen people its normal."
I was sitting and conversing with a young woman whose bravery and dedication to her people surpassed anything I could comprehend. What do you say to someone whose relatively short life has been filled with so much stress and pain that smuggling medical supplies through a land-mine ridden jungle war-zone is just normal?
This is what I said (abridged)
"So did alot of your family resettle?"
-My parents and little brother and sister resettled to Canada. My older brother is in Nebraska.
"Did you choose to stay in Thailand?"
-Yes. (staring blankly off into space)
"So, do you have an ID card to work in Thailand? How do you live here?"
-Yes, I have a work permit (still staring)
"Oh good. I know it can be hard to get them"
-Yes, this is confidential. I used to get arrest every day. I bought my ID, paid money. That is why I do not resettle
"Do you plan on staying here in Mae Sot forever? Or maybe only a few years?"
-I dont know. I have to see. I travel alot.
"Really? What for? Around Thailand?"
-I go back and forth between here and Karen state.
"Burma! Across the border? Oh wow. Is that dangerous?"
-Yes, but for Karen people its normal.
"What do you do there? Do you have to walk?"
-We bring supplies, have meetings. We go by foot, by boat, and by walking, but we have gaurds"
"Wow, umm (me staring off into space) thats so brave.... You are so brave. (stare)..... Is the government still attacking the Karen?"
-(She looks me in the eye) Yes. Always.
"You are so brave.... Elve wants to come back to Thailand and be a nurse. Does she want to work with you?"
-All my relatives resettle (pause, thinking) yes. all of them except my grandparents in the Camp and my aunt, my dad's brother, he is still in Karen state. Cannot be resettled.
(I mumble) "so you are alone... lonely....... How often do you go to Karen state?
-Maybe 3 times a year, but for me its more, for special trips. I just got back this morning.
"You just got back -today- wow- thanks for meeting with me. You must be so tired"
-Yes, I am a little sick I think... from walking. We walk full days into the night.
"Through jungle.."
-Yes, on paths, but we have guards. Defense force.
"wow..... What do the Karen people think of Aung San Suu Kyi? Do they care about her?"

-Some, they care, but for me, personally, she can do nothing to help my people.

"Cause she is in prison..."

-Yes, but even if she got out, she could not help my people. Still, I stand in solidarity with her and her struggle as a woman.

Our conversation went on for over an hour. Perhaps equal time talking and sitting in silence staring. I told her stories about her cousins in America. She thanked me, but she never smiled, never laughed, just stayed flat, rigid, and kind. She took some of the photos I brought to give to her aunt (uncle?) in the Karen state on her next trip. I cannot post a picture or her name because she is in Thailand illegally on a fake ID and is also wanted by the Burmese government. I am inspired by her courage, but saddened that she has had need to be so courageous.

Ice Ice Baby

2010-07-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

Sometimes pictures speak louder than words. Here are a few shots of me and my friend Ice. Ice lives on a commune for mothers fleeing abusive situations. We teach them human rights lessons once a week. If I am not in charge of giving the lesson, I like to go to the daycare and play games with Ice. I have taught him a few tricks like putting puzzle pieces on his feet, kicking them off, and trying to catch them (he has not quite mastered the catching part yet) He has really warmed up quite a bit since I first met him. Last time I went, he saw me and smiled. The girl working in the daycare said it was the first time she had seen him smile. He is a pretty serious kid most the time. I am glad we can have a little fun.

Energy in the Sky

2010-07-12T09:07:00.000-07:00

I have lost 8 kg since arriving in Thailand. Clara and I hiked to Doi Suthep after work. I felt like skipping the whole way. As the sun set and the bugs and birds and creatures chorused jarring medleys around us, I became elated, almost requiring a harness to not run off into the forest leaving Clara alone. Doi Suthep glowed profoundly against the night. Thick billowing clouds reflecting city lights and shouting back with crashes and lightning. I could have stayed there all night, lighting pulsing with my blood. No red trucks at night meant we had to call Win for a lift back into the city. He left a romantic date at a rooftop restaurant and came to retrieve us. We stopped at a lookout halfway down the mountain and let the warm moist breeze of the imminent storm take our cares away.

Electricity circled the city in spastic waves and one by one the four of us commented on the feeling. “this is my first time watching lighting from a mountain” “Me too, its incredible” “Me too” When it was my turn, just silence. How many storms have I watched from the mountains? How many bolts have I dodged while running from mountain peaks? How many times have I stood above a city and shouted down to all the world that I don't have anything to worry about? Lightning is inside me and nothing makes me happier than to share it with my friends.

Meet Win

2010-07-12T08:32:00.000-07:00

WIN-

Win says that the Thai speak with a melody, but he takes it to a whole new level. The tone and cadence of his English borders on campy or gay, but somehow he manages to remain entirely masculine while doing it, and it makes the girls go crazy for him. The rhythm and tone spike and fall dramatically even within a single word. "I luuuuv you. You are my number ooune" If he were not Asian, he could never get away with it, but he pulls it off nice.

Win In Thailand, the ideal person looks East Asian, (Korean, Japanese, or Chinese). Light skin and East Asian features. Tall, with a 6 pack and anime hair. Win is 20, and he fits the profile perfectly. So much so, that Thai people don't think he is Thai, and regularly talk about him, assuming he cannot understand. As we walk through the mall, people comment, "What is that Japanese doing with Farong (white foreigners)? Do you think he is gay? Look, he is Japanese. usually shakes it off, but occasionally embarrasses them by speaking in perfect northern Thai.

Win takes me to his gym to work out. He knows everyone there and it is obviously as much a social event as a workout. He does not even bother to change his clothes, opting to stay in his fashionable skinny jeans and puma high tops. The gym assigned me a personal trainer and I was working on my back as instructed. Win came up and said, "If I were you, I would not work on your back, girls cannot see your back, work on your arms, they can see that more" Win readily admits he is materialistic, and looking good is a high priority. He also has no qualms telling people where they might fall short. "Kyla, you are very beautiful and you have a good shape, but I can see your rolls and you could lose some weight" He actually asked the waiter at our restaurant to turn down the lights because the girls look better in the dark. "You both look so beautiful, in the dark." "Kyla, if the new girl is jorgeous (I am still working on the hard G sound with him), then you will be my number 2, but for now you are my number one" When a girl asked him how old he thought she was, he checked her out thoroughly and concluded that with the wrinkles, she must be 29. She was 23 and quite offended. Win could not understand why she might be mad. He likes older girls. His last girlfriend was 29.

Win has essentially raised himself since age 10 when his mother died. His father is a military supplier and spends most of his time away entertaining clients. He woos them with an unrivaled hospitality. "My father taught me that you cannot win someone's heart with money, you have to use your mind and your sense of hospitality. He takes care of his clients and makes sure they have the best time and that every need is taken care of." The message has resonated with Win and he shows me the same kind of hospitality. Every meal is an experience. We go to only the best restaurants, followed by only the best deserts. We ride around in his BMW M5 or his Nissan Maxima tasting the best of Chiang Mai and practicing English.

2 years ago Win entered a Thailand-wide talent search contest to form a new boy-band. He won the whole contest, but his father would not let him be in the band. Win had to stay in college and he had to study law. The boy band dream will stay a dream. Still, Win shows no remorse for not being able to claim his fame and prize.

Other than not being in boy-bands, Win's father only has 3 rules that Win cannot break.

1) Never ride a scooter or motorcycle

2) Never become, date, or have anything to do with the lady-boys (Thailand's famous transgender people)

3) Always stay on top of your studies.

He broke the first rule when he was unfit to drive home, so I scooted him across town

He broke the second rule when he and I had to edit a manual educating Transgender people about their legal rights and how they can access health care.

I am trying to make sure he does not break the 3rd rule, but I think he might be just by hanging out so much.

3 things

2010-07-12T08:27:00.000-07:00

Tze told me he only needs 3 things in life before he can be happy.

1) Japan Wood Sandals (the platform kind that I don't think anyone wears anymore)

2) A Micro-pig (the miniature pet pigs you keep like a dog)

3) A pack of Marlboro Smooths

I wonder what my top 3 are.

XXXXXL

2010-06-26T00:03:00.000-07:00

Sorry, I seem to have misplaced my camera, so I am short on pictures.

What I wanted to take pictures of may not have fit in the camera anyway. I am too fat for Thai clothes. The first week in Thailand I went to the mall to buy some replacements for the 4 red shirts I packed. (Who packs 4 red shirts to go to Thailand in the middle of a Red Shirt revolution?) I did. I went into the first store because I could see it had a bunch of really cool shirts. The lady worker walked up to me and said, "Sorry. No, no." Then she motioned to by stomach. "Too big". I went store to store. Same thing. Nothing my size, or only really ugly shirts my size. I told my Thai friends and they said they would take me shopping where I could get clothes my size. We went to an outdoor market. Stall after stall we went and my friend kept asking if they had clothes that would fit me. Each one of them looked at me, shook their head and pointed to another stall. Finally, totally discouraged, my friend Win said, "I know where we can go, Export" Export, it turns out, is a store full of clothes made in Thailand, that were supposed to be shipped to America, but for some reason weren't. We walked in and there was a shirt at least 5 feet wide hanging on the wall. 5XL. I was in the right place.

Phuket Airport

2010-06-23T04:36:00.000-07:00

Across the waiting room and behind a glass a wall, a stream of glassy-eyed tourists are taking their first breaths of Phuket air. Across from me, my friend is groggy and recovering. What a difference 2 days can make. 2 days of riding around on my scooter. My face and neck and arms are burned by the sun, seared by my lack of precaution, lack of protection.

2 more days in Phuket and my conscience might be seared as well. The arrogance of people using this country to do what they would never do at home.

Last week, on the way to the JDC, Tze pointed out a shirtless couple riding a motorcycle. (the girl had a bikini top). "Not polite" he said, "but they are farong (foreigners) so its OK." Tze's understanding is encouraging but the couples lack of understanding is symptomatic of so much that is wrong with Thailand. Over a hundred miles from the beach and they are riding through a city like they would never ride through Sweden or London. Like no Thai person would ride through Chiang Mai. This is their playground. It does not matter that it is someone else's home.

Patong is the same mentality amplified to an absurd extreme.

Innocent sounding ping pong shows are actually a huge tourist draw, one of the most popular and ubiquitous events. They feature women shooting ping pong balls from their vagina. The show escalates to women opening bottles of beer with it, inserting whole bananas, and that is where I asked the descriptions to stop.

A few interns thought it would be important to attend a show to understand what the women go through. They wanted to understand so much, some of them went twice.

I am not sure if I follow the logic, but then again I have only the description in my mind, shocking me to disgust- they have vivid close up images. On the other hand, they were well drunk by the time the show started, so maybe the images are not so vivid after all.

Reporting From Kings Project

2010-06-07T09:44:00.001-07:00

Being Immersed:
The sun is setting over the hills, orange glow reflecting off the lake onto the patio of my weeklong lakeside home. This is luxury living. People pay money to stay in places like this. I guess I did too. Maybe when I wake up tomorrow and hike through the hills I will think differently, but this feels like a retreat, a splendid vacation. People also pay to work now that I think of it. My sister is a hiking guide at a spa that recently changed its name to “Biggest Loser Resort” in conjunction with a reality TV show where fat people compete to lose weight by working out. The spa makes millions off making fat people work. HAHA.. Maybe this summer is a weight loss program for me. If anything, it would be a wonderful added bonus.
Day 1
Turns out most communication is non verbal. Either that or filling bags with dirt is a remarkably simple task to learn.... scratch that. Our two teams combined filled 21 bags with dirt during our morning shift. The workers need to have 200 bags to make the two dams we were working on. 7 law school students could not keep pace with 2 50-something-year-old men. Why are some skills so valued and others not? Imagine filling bags with dirt for 8 hours. My oversized fake 501 jeans were soaked all the way through. My white boxers now totally blue. It felt remarkable. Doing something and immediately seeing the progress. I think something in human nature craves results. I am used to working in areas where the results are ambiguous and come very slowly. A semesters worth of reading and thinking boils down to one test which translates to one grade that when put next to other grades makes a cumulative number from which prospective employers base a portion of their assessment of me. What crap. Part of me would rather fill bags of dirt with some of the most cheerful people I know, and I don't even speak their language.

Tze Time
I like to tell stories. I also like to write stories, but sometimes, when I meet a truly interesting person, I just want to listen. Tze is in town and it could not have been better timed. Everyone was pretty exhausted and only drank lightly before heading off to bed. I stayed outside on the patio, amidst an orchestra of bugs and the laughs of lizards, talking with Tze. He told me the whole history of Thailand and the history of Burma, and the tenets of Budhism and his view on politics and Thai culture and dating and life. I can maybe thank a bottle of Chang for opening him up a bit, but it was so nice to sit and chat and listen to a totally new view of the world. I feel satisfied and dare I say “immersed” for the first time this week. I don't know that I will have another opportunity to have an intimate conversation like that with a Thai person this summer, but I look forward to working with Tze on any project.

Saem, the Dam, and the special light.
Saem and I walked to the dam and laid on our yoga mat beds looking up at the stars. She says she has never seen the stars so clearly before. It was hardly clear at all and I felt remarkably spoiled because I grew up in the desert and slept every summer night on my tampoline under clear star-filled skies. We saw a light in the sky. It looked small like a satellite, moving smoothly before it grew larger and larger becoming a bright orange ball of glow, then fading back down to a dot and sailing out of sight slowly. In all my years sleeping under the stars, I have never seen a light like this. I told Tze when we came back to check on us and he told Porn, our house mom. She consulted her husband PeTam and together they explained that it was a special light that usually only monks see to remind them of something special from their past life. They said they both had never seen such a light in all their lives, but they hope to one day. Tze said maybe we were Thai in a past life and that is why we got to see the light. I don't know about any of those theories, but this is a special place and I love being out here.

Kids are Kids, but these kids are also grown-ups
The school does not have enough supplies. The alphabet chart has “Uicon” (supposed to be Unicorn) for the U animal. X is xmasturkey, all one word. The is no A/C and we could not even find paper to play a game with. The kids in grades 1-3 range in age from 5-12. Some are tiny and some are quite large. They wrestle and goof off like any kids, but when it comes down to it, they watch out for each other. They make sure everyone gets a turn, that the big kids dont always win the games, and that they cooperate despite our complete failure to speak Thai. Sumchai is 12. He has some kind of physical disability but his english is the best of all the kids in the class, and he was eager to translate our directions into Thai. I was eager to let him. Each day he would hug me and hold on until I made him let go. What will happen to kids like Sumchai? I feel terrible for walking into his life for a week and then walking out. Friday when we left, he hugged me and said, “No see you tomorrow” and he ran away.

I make it rain.
All week we wanted rain. Anything to cool the air and make our furnace house more bearable. Sometime during dinner, Nur managed to finagle a saw and a hoe from PeTam and cut up a dead tree. A fire was burning on the beach before the sunlight was all the way gone. No one wanted to join him because the hot hot heat was already too much. I felt bad for Nor sitting down by the lake all alone so I told them I would go to the fire and do a rain dance to make it rain before bedtime. I swear, I took the energy from the fire and called in the storm. I know how preposterously superstitious that sounds, but it really really worked. The fire went from hot under clear skies to horizontal from the wind with thunderheads piling over our lake. They all came down and we danced. The rain lasted all night. I tried not to take all the credit I was given, but really, would rain dances be so popular for so long if they never ever worked?

Those British Bastards

2010-05-28T04:48:00.000-07:00

I live about a block from a temple. Next to the temple is an upscale restaurant. If you listen close enough and tune out the sound of Thai airforce jets on training drills and dogs barking, you might hear the bellicose chuckling of the fat Brits sitting around glutting themselves to an early grave. Tables full of expat kings gorging on cheap food and women 40 years their junior. The women sit silent. The men tell tales of riotous times and posh living. I ate there once and watched as one particularly obese Brit sat in a white linen outfit eating from 3 plates, a back brace and bright blue socks with sandals. A young Thai woman on each side. I tried to hide my outrage, but I could not contain the mimicking. "Oh hohohoho, Charles, you always were a cheeky bastard weren't you. HAHAHAHA. Good thing our kids don't know our women are younger than their children, muhahahaha. If Helen hadn't taken half my money I would have two more girls each night, hahahaha" Colonialism is alive and well in Thailand. They are not conquering land, but they are still conquering people.

The sex trade is big business.

Today, I went to the bookstore to pick up a Thai/English phrase book. Next to the book I bought was a whole row of books dedicated to teaching foreigners how to say things like, "I like younger women", "I want to sleep with 4 girls tonight, is thatOK?", "Do you like pain?" and it gets MUCH more explicit from there. The books are available in English, German, Swedish, Danish, Spanish, French, Japanese, Chinese, and maybe more. Can you imagine your grandpa walking into a Thai bookstore to get a phrase book designed solely to speak to Thai

prostitutes?

I would love their faces on billboards outside their London flats or their Florida tract home. Outside their country club, a big flashing sign for their friends and wives and stockbroker sons to see. "Grandpa supports human trafficking"

Fresh Things.

2010-05-26T03:44:00.000-07:00

Meet Tze: (pronounced Tee, like the letter or the drink or the thing you golf with). Tze makes Thai style noodles. Like Thai Ramen, but a bajillion times better than ramen. His noodles are fresh, never dried, never frozen, and mixed with fresh kale and crispy pork (name your meat). He gets up every day at 5 to make the noodles from scratch. By 9 he comes to work at BABSEACLE (where I am doing my internship) He goes to the restaurant during lunch to help his mom with the lunch rush and then comes back to work until about 6:30. Then he teaches us our Thai language class and hangs out with us until about 10, when he goes home and gets ready to make more noodles the next day. He does this 7 days a week, even on Thai holidays. He is only 23 and definitely one of my favorite people... and his noodles.. definitely my favorite noodles.

Leaving the Loin

2010-05-15T07:21:00.000-07:00

I left San Francisco at 1:20 am Friday and arrived in Hong Kong at 5:45 am Saturday. The flight was only 14 hours, but 29 hours passed on the clocks. I spent almost the whole flight sleeping, which is remarkable considering I was on the 64th row, seat 1 of 10 in the row. Man was not meant to fly coach, or I just got really spoiled flying first class to India last year.
I had directions to my hostel by way of train, but I decided to find a bus that would take me into he city instead. I saved 60 Hong Kong dollars by taking the bus, plus I got to see some incredible sights along the way.Like colorful piles of shipping containers, stuffed full of plastic toys and cheap electronics, waiting to make the trek across the pacific. Next stop: San Francisco, after that, someones birthday party, then, the final million years will be spent decomposing in a landfill on the outskirts of every American town.I did not really know where to get off the bus, so I just got off when I felt like it and it turned out really well. I was super close to my hostel, so I dropped my luggage and went out... at 7:00 am. I wandered til I should have been good and lost, but I ran into the elders (Mormon missionaries) and they gave me directions to a ferry that would take me across the harbor to some hip shopping district where I could look back and see the city.I thought I listened to the elders directions, but apparently I didn't cause I just got on the first ferry I saw and it went about 40 minutes away to this island that has no cars and no buildings over 3 floors. Truly unique in Hong Kong, and actually much cooler than Prada. I decided to explore the island and ended up hiking all over, buying swim trunks, and swimming in the ocean, right next to a huge power plant.

All dressed up for Muni.

2010-05-02T01:19:00.000-07:00

4/24/10

5-to Ocean Beach

These buses vibrate like the coin operated beds you see in movies but are never so fortunate to actually encounter. I am on the 5 to Ocean Beach.
Across from me a woman is propped up quite comfortably reading the Chronicle. She is making no attempt to contain herself to one seat. Her cheap convention style book bag draped sloppily onto the adjacent seat. Her bare chubby legs spread open as if she is straddling a bucket of popcorn. She just switched the Chronicle for "Real Simple" magazine. Her purple metallic round hairy potter style spectacles magnifying all sorts of advise she will likely never take. She is wearing white tennis shoes, white tube socks, and very short white shorts. On knee is scabbed and both legs are spotted orange with fake tanning cream. The collar of her white polo is twisting out from under her over-sized blue sweatshirt. Her graying pony tail pulled through the back of her white cap. Loads of jewelry and make-up. She definitely spent time putting this ensemble together. Unfortunately, any chance she had of looking classy is overshadowed by the jiggling of her orange and white legs. Her shorts so short they disappear into the jiggling. Skin meeting skin. She is somebody's grandma. I hope she has a good day.

How many San Franciscans does it take to change a tire?

2010-04-20T00:34:00.000-07:00

6th and Harrison

My friend came out of class around 7:00 pm at the Academy of Art to find the tire on her Jeep flat. She got out her jack and raised it to its max only to find that the max was not high enough. After 40 minutes on hold with her insurance roadside assistance, she had still not talked to anyone who could help so she drove on her flat to the nearest Chevron. I got word she was down there and decided I would be a man and go help. I literally ran through the Tenderloin to get to her and her Jeep at the Chevron in Mid Market. I actually stopped and walked the last half block so I could catch my breath and look like I had not run. I was there only a few minutes before the professional tire changer arrived in his semi-sized tow truck. We looked on as he walked back and forth between his rig and her Jeep. He did not seem to know what he was doing at all. Twenty minutes passed and he had still not touched the flat tire. He had backed up his truck and pulled it forward and backed it up again. Then he rigged up the jeep to be towed. We really thought he was just going to tow her Jeep away. Then he raised up the front of her jeep as high as he could with the hydrolic lift. He piled up a bunch of wooden blocks under the back axel and then lowered the Jeep on them. The blocks creaked and shifted and barely raised the Jeep up at all. Definitely not high enough to remove the tire. He tried this over and over and over before finally admitting (after some strong prodding in Spanish) that his jack had been stolen and he was just trying to come up with an alternative. We admired his creativity, but at this point it was 10:00 pm and the homeless people were swarming us. The tire man called in his friends. 2 more professional tire changers came in another giant semi-sized tow truck. They had a floor jack. I thought we would be on the road in no time. 1 hour later, after all 3 of them working together to figure out the jack and piling up more wood on top of the jack to get it high enough, the tire was changed. But by this time, one of the homeless people had become very concerned for us and started screaming expletives in Spanish at the poor guys trying to change the tire. I should have just given him the dollar for beer that he asked for up front. Instead I engaged him in a big discussion about how I had more debt than he could ever hope to have and how my friends insurance was paying for the whole thing so he did not need to worry. I sounded like such a freaking lawyer. We got on the road about 11:30 and I got dropped off back at my tower in the loin. Outside I can hear fighting and glass breaking. I am not sure if its bottles or car windows and honestly I don't care. Just dont ever get a flat tire in San Francisco, unless you happen to have 2 semis, 3 professional tire changers, a homeless man to curse at the workers, and a friend to keep you company.

Reflections on Mia's Muni Birthday Party

2010-04-09T20:09:00.000-07:00

3/21/10
N-Judah
Last time I rode this line it was Mia's 19th birthday. She wobbled on the laps of her friends, clumsily sweeping her bleach blond hair and adjusting her halter top to keep her boobs inside. Everyone on the train knew it was her birthday, but I'm not sure anyone sang along with her inebriated harem. It was a harem in search of a man. And I happen to be sitting across from the perfect man. He heard the sirens call and walked back to the party, presenting a key-chain sized rubix cube as a birthday offering. Mia swayed wildly on her friends laps, rotating the cube in her hand as deliberately as her drunkenness allowed. Frustrated, she began shouting expletives before announcing her inability to perform the task at hand. Despite her make up and cleavage, she was impotent when it came to the rubix cube. Luckily for Mia, no one was judging her for her skills.

Excerpt from a letter to a friend

2010-04-09T18:42:00.000-07:00

Fall 2009
I am currently looking out my 14th story window. Literally straight in front of me, across two cities and a bay, is the Oakland temple, just a pointy white dot symbolizing eternity. If I could go by way of crow, I could be there in minutes, but limited in my capacities, I will have to find another way. Rising from the streets to my window, the city echos with sirens and the schizophrenic arguments of the resident scavenger population. You could film a zombie movie here without any makeup. The staggering stumbling drunkenness, the crazed crack induced muttering. The violent outbursts over park benches and drug money. This is where I live, in a horror film of humanity.... but really that is just the surface. There is alot of good to be found on these streets.
From the same window I can also see Bloomingdales, nordstroms, Union square with Prada, Gucci, and Berk's favorites, Zara and H&M. 2 blocks away to $500/night hotel rooms and thousand dollar handbags. Sometimes the locals here will wander there to do their daily gathering (Most of them stopped hunting millennia ago), but by and large, invisible boundaries keep people in their place. Still, the only real difference in the two worlds is the price of the self indulgence, not the emptiness its masking.

Wikipedia says of my neighborhood (the Tenderloin): “"In addition to its rich history and diverse community, there is significant poverty, homelessness, and crime. It is known for its immigrant communities, single room occupancy (SRO) hotels, restaurants, artistic community, and large homeless population."

"Squalid conditions,homelessness, crime, drug sales, prostitution, liquor stores (more than 60 in 2008), and strip clubs give the neighborhood a seedy reputation."

"The extension of the Tenderloin south of Market Street in the vicinity of Sixth, Seventh, and Mission Streets is known locally as Mid-Market and is "Skid Row," or sarcastically as "the Wine Country," an allusion to "winos" (street-dwelling alcoholics)."

"The Tenderloin hosts many dive bars, including some left over from when the neighborhood housed large numbers of merchant seamen such as the 21 Club[4] and the 65 Club."

"...there is evidence of a community living here several thousand years ago, and when the area was excavated in the 1960s for the BART/MUNI subway station at Civic Center remains of a woman dated at 5,000 years old were found." (proof that early inhabitants of the tenderloin did indeed hunt)

"There are a number of stories about how the Tenderloin got its name....Another is a reference to the neighborhood as the "soft underbelly" (analogous to the cut of meat) of the city, with allusions to vice and corruption, especially graft....Yet another story, also likely apocryphal, is that the name is a reference to the sexual parts of prostitutes (i.e., "loins")."

"[Boedder Park] is often unused by children and is commonly occupied by drug addicts and intoxicated people during the daytime."

I wish Wikipedia were wrong on this account, but unfortunately, my daily eye-witness confirms the editor knew what s/he was talking about.
I live here because the rent is an affordable $1215/month for my small studio. Add that to my $40,000 annual tuition and I am suffering under undo amounts of debt. Fortunately for me, debt is really fashionable right now. Its the perfect all-purpose accessory. It pretty much goes with everything you want and all the hip people have it. I fear I have always been a hipster at heart. This is just quantitative proof.

Gauntlet of Humanity

2010-04-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

Nov. 21, 2009

Powell and Market-
Not far from me, a man is locked in one of those self-cleaning restrooms San Francisco copied from Europe. He is screaming. Hardcore style, like Converge or Countervail. A group of tourists stopped to see if he was alright, but the mangy midsized smoker guy passing out flyers in front of the bathroom told them to go away, "Oh him? He is fine. Don't worry about him"
I wasn't worried
Walking here from my place is a gauntlet of humanity. Man talking to air. Women fighting over cans in the trash. Man holding up Snoop Dogg poster, "Isn't this beautiful? This is beautiful, just wonderful". "Got change?" "Bra, you got change?" "Hey, can I bum a cigarette of you?" Oh gross, human poop. I only live 2 blocks away, and those are only the things I failed to avoid. I forgot to mention the countless streams of urine that flow with the mortar lines on the brick sidewalk, from the walls of vacant buildings to Market Street. San Francisco's grand boulevard.
Midsized mangy smoker man with fliers is chasing the teen couple that just emerged from the escalator. "Wow, this is cool" says teen boyfriend. "we're late," says teen girlfriend. "I don't care, this is really cool." TARGET. Midsized Mangy Flier guy swoops in. HIT. You gotta move fast around here. Keep moving. Look deliberate. I put my hood on. I sing to myself. I keep my scruff. I am almost immune. Is that a good thing? hmm. Think about that. I am off to Walgreens to get some candy to sneak into the movies.

As Far West as I can Go

2010-04-09T17:38:00.000-07:00

11/7/09

How quickly the sound of waves can heal. I'm at the Marina, way out by the yacht club. The bay is inexplicably rough today--- blue sky, no fog-- light steady breeze. The Golden Gate Bridge- firm and strong.
I woke up comparably early this Saturday- as the 4 Brits I let crash at my place slept off their hangovers. Not my favorite couch surfers so far.
I couldn't study in the library. It felt too empty, even when people started streaming in.-- I couldn't sleep there either. -- So I left, to wander, 49 bus down Van Ness to Union.
I couldn't enjoy the boutiques & cafes- empty with vanity. Another day I might have thought it quaint or hip or local and classy. Today- even organic dog treats and upscale fair trade kids clothes seemed predictable and tired--- rather than laughably absurd.
I just want to swim with the sea lions, pop up and bark and honk and be found endearing, and then cloak myself in the dense damp deafness of the bay.
The waves just got bigger. The timing synced to maximize the power, revving up and charging the steep beach- colliding with the sea wall, foaming at my feet, naked in their Chacos.
On the way here, in front of an apparently forgettable, but no doubt cleverly named boutique, a well made-up middle aged Asian woman was trying to wash off the dog poop smeared across the the sidewalk.... by spraying Windex on it. She stood a few feet away, half bent, spraying vigorously. Her immigrant forbearers should be proud. Their progeny is truly a San Franciscan... in the most stereotypical way.
There is a boy, maybe 6 years old, only 20 feet down the cobble stone wall from me. He is cleanly kept- missing two teeth- and squirming excitedly- watching the waves. His sister keeps talking to him, trying to get him to play, but he cannot be bothered. Each wave is some kind of adventure. If my Spanish were better and the waves not so loud, I could tell you what he is saying, but it doesn't really matter. He is enthusiastic about the waves and their power.. and the more he watches, the more he is learning... In 40 years, he will use a hose to wash down his sidewalk.. or a bucket of soapy water- a wave of cleaning power. He too is a San Franciscan... although possibly most overlooked.
The sun is starting to set over the Presidio. Autumn shadows stretching into an early night. I miss the desert, but I can make this home. This is a beautiful place to call home.

-Pete

Before I Begin, I Must Remember

2010-04-09T17:21:00.001-07:00

July 18, 2009

On a small cliff above a cascading waterfall dropping down into Yosemite Valley, the lower part, where the road forks. Merced? Fresno? Berkeley? Where am I going? Back to Upward Bound. DON'T THINK THAT THOUGHT- just let your legs dangle over the cliff- look out- the lowering sun lighting up a granite crag jutting from an evergreen forest. The water smashing against stone on both sides of me almost completely masks the sound of tourists cruising in their cars on the bridge above me. One arch, supporting a series of arches, supporting a plane, covered in asphalt and oil stains. -People- we always want access. I am trying to relax my jaw- stop clinching my teeth- Relax damnit! You are in nature! -Nature- what is natural? What is real? Water carving stone. Was ice. Was clouds. Was ocean. Was the stuff keeping the pilgrims afloat until they washed up on these shores and marched and moved and cut and grooved and now.... on my one day off, I'm here. Under a bridge, above a waterfall, looking at a canyon and wondering why college is so important after all. After all the neurons firing, after all the paper pushing, the pens writing, the keys typing, the lasers printing, the glasses magnifying, the push push push, after all that fades away, the most beautiful things will still be rocks and water and trees and breezes.