My Lips Are Sealed

Today's Thoughts...

Generally, time spent in the classroom is time spent laughing myself absurdly into stitches. I come in ready for whatever antics my students might devise for the day. For example, in a high-stakes, fast-paced, do-or-die competitive vocab race, hearing one student shout breathlessly, a tantivy hand shooting up with dizzying speed : “Obsessed! I am insomniac when I stay up late nights because I am obsessed watching porn!” With quizzical stares, outright giggles, and ten points to his team, the game winds on. (Oh, the things I didn’t need to know about my students…)

But there are other times when it really hits me that I’m carrying on this life in a land not my own, struggling to impart even an ounce of my own vastly limited wisdom on a brood of youth on the precious brink of adulthood in Asia. In southeast Asia. In Thailand.

Times when I ask students their opinions of the materials we dissect in class, eager to hear the revolutionary self-reflection Glass Menagerie has inspired or the eye-opening experience a thorough perusal of A Raisin in the Sun has afforded them, only to hear groans, whines, and lamentations on the “seriousness” of the material, how “stressed” the characters all are, and just how unnecessarily “dramatic” these dramas read to them, these are the times that get me. Glimpses of troubled American lives, of troubled lives in general ,phase them not in the least, try though I might to expose them to the myriad misconceptions of mental illness (Sylvia Plath’s “Lady Lazarus” and Joyce Carol Oates’ “Aiding and Abetting,” my aids), to introduce them to the dynamics of family life in dysfunctional households (Glass and Raisin to the rescue), the prism of faces in the minority spectrum of the West (hats off to Jhumpa Lahiri and Sandra Cisneros), even the captivating lure of a good piece of mind-bending sci fi (courtesy of none other than Ray Bradbury). But I know all this I say. I accepted it long ago. Get over it. Move on. Teach the material and just let it go.

But I still can’t let it go. I can’t just accept that my kids are unfamiliar with the Holocaust, so: we must read The Diary of Anne Frank. I can’t ignore the reality that my students yawn at the Cambodian genocide, so: we must research on the atrocities of the Khmer Rouge. I can’t rest knowing how many know next to nothing of Israel and Palestine, Afghanistan and Iraq, or the general mayhem and fragmentation of the Far/Near/Middle East. So we must screen scenes of Hurtlocker, discuss the themes in Kiterunner, indulge in bits of Caramel. Though I only achieve a fraction of such lofty ambitions as deconstructing and reconstructing their images of the wide, wide West, with all my years of educational training, prep, and yes, literary, historical, and socio-political obsession with the greater world around me, even now, even a year out/in, it still baffles me to encounter this lack of concern with the greater, wider sphere, or as one student put it, the relative chaos of life both outside and inside of Siam’s walls. “Ajarn, we like calm. Not so much drama, so serious, better calm, more normal.” And suffering in the land of smiles isn’t normal? And pain in a world of hair extensions and lipsticked tears isn’t normal? No, there isn’t suffering, or pain, or general malaise and discontent for that matter, only occlusion, the greatest mask of all. If you don’t see it, it isn’t there. Or is it?

When I get essays from students saying that they were blighted (or was it doomed?) with the curse of homosexuality, and despite their best efforts to change, it was fate they should end up this way; or writings that state: “Sooner or later I have to accept my fate that I am ladyboy and no one can be my soulmate. I have to live my life alone,” that’s when I recognize, in Langston Hughes’ well-worn words that the plastic grins and shrilly giggles truly are mere “laughter to keep from crying,” the high stonewalls of a people’s protective façade. Ironically, that’s when Thailand feels a little less foreign. Because in those moments when I want to reach out and hug someone (but don’t because the physical expression would make most kids blush); or when I want to shed my own salty tears of heartache for their dilemmas (but refrain because such an unchecked display of woe would bring me shame), those are the moments when I feel that maybe I too comprehend the method to the madness so to speak.

Still others remind me on a daily basis of how little I really know about this place and the people in it, even after my year of residing here. The very same day we all giggled and guffawed behind raised palms at the hasty admission of nocturnal indecencies/explorations, I sat in my office, eagerly packing and ready to go, finished with a long afternoon of twenty plus student meetings to counsel my students on their progress in class and warn those dancing on the edge of their imminent descent into the depths of academic no-return. One student, a straggler, tip-toed in bowing politely and sitting before me. I had seen this particular student only a few times before, no regular face in our weekly lessons of which eleven classes had already been skipped. I sighed, sucking in air through my teeth, and had to restrain the urge to roll my eyes. It was 5:30 on a Friday, I was ready to go home and had zero patience for the excuses and whinnies of yet another delinquent pupil. Informing my erstwhile scholar of the pitfalls of self-destructive acedia, I posed the questions I ask to each student who is struggling in a class (albeit at this point eroded to a weary and rehearsed monotone as the clock struck 5:34): Is everything okay at home? Are you having trouble? Why aren’t you coming to class [insert: doing your homework/handing in essays/being a student]?

With that same plastic grin, head slightly bowed, came the soft reply, half-apologetic, half-gentle chuckle. As I heard the words, my mind sort of withdrew. I could hear my own bumbling, stumbling response, though from a great distance, some aquatic bubbles in my ears. The student was rising now, leaving and I wanted to reach out a hand, run and give a hug, scream why don’t you stop smiling and cry?! Why are you even in school right now? If this were the States, you’d be sobbing on my desk. If this were the States, you’d be heaving in my arms. If this were the States, I wouldn’t see you for a month, two months, forget the measly eleven classes you skipped. If this were the States… but of course this wasn’t the States, this was Thailand where domestic violence, sexual assault, abortion, death of loved ones, and attempted suicide are secrets of the shadows. In the haunting words of poet Paul Laurence Dunbar:

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

This is Thailand where the sun only shines on those who shine back and life must be lived in episodes of bright white orchids and mountain rainbows. This is Thailand where the mask isn’t merely a defense mechanism: it’s a way of life.

"This land is your land, this land is my land/
From the teak wood forests, to the Phuket islands/
From the rushing waters, to the peaks of Siam/
This land was made for you and me/
This land was made for you and me."

This land is Thailand after all.

Eyes on India-- Installment 6!

Today's Thoughts...

Though the rest of the trip was fairly uneventful, save perhaps the hour-long pseudo-erotic Ayurvedic hot oil massage Allison and I managed to get ourselves into. (That’s the last time I say yes when I walk into a dark room and someone tells me to take off all my clothes.) Before we knew it, we were back on the train bound for Agra and the wonders of that masterful edifice to Eros, the Taj Mahal.

As a city, Agra really gets no love. Everyone trucks in (or trains in as it were) from Delhi during the day to ogle the incredible, unforgettable Taj, and then boogey their way right back the very same night without so much as a peek at what the town really has to offer. So we decided to take our chances on a night or two in Agra, home of the Indian World Wonder. We checked into the Shajahan Hotel/Hostel/Guesthouse, comforted by the no-bones/no-B.S. attitude of the fair and mild owner, his prayer beanie carefully pinned to his slicked down doo. Besides the constant power fluctuations (granted, they were being caused all over the city by the construction for the Common Wealth Games) and the random four hour sermon blaring from nearby speakers at 2 a.m. one Friday night/morning, it was a darn decent place to crash. Neither of us could quite make out what exactly was happening down the street four hours, but whatever it was, somebody surely was riled up about it and wanted the whole world to know. We contemplated trooping down in our PJs just to figure out what all the hubbub was about. Then again I don’t know how warmly we’d be received in tank tops and underwear (really, do you sleep in long woolen pants when its blazing outside?)



The next day at the Taj (after groaning and moaning over a 750 rupee ticket price, compared to the 25 rupees for nationals; WTF?!), we entered the Taj compound for what was to become a 5 hour stint admiring the beauty of its pristine design and form. In the midst of this magnificent splendor as well as the twenty-three photoshoots we or Allison took part in (yes, I was counting), we noticed a scantily clad young girl, high ponytail, and higher shorts, attempting and failing miserably to take her infamous photo of the Taj while groups of men heckled, guffawed, and tried their best at groping her. With her racer-back tank, booty shorts, and kicks on, I unfortunately wasn’t surprised, disgusted though I was by their unseemly behavior just the same. Aunties passed her by, shaking their heads and clucking, tossing those darkness-come-quickly glares at her as they did. Last I checked, the Taj was a holy site, a World Wonder, AND an ancient tomb. Just saying.



We squished our feet into the foamy surgical slippers we were given and slid our way inside, outside, aroundside the immaculate marble. We ran our fingers along the glorious grooves on the corners, traced the looping patterns in the air. It was a serene and blissful peace I cannot fully describe. It was in a word—heavenly. Far more beautiful than any picture can ever do justice. Favorite moment of the day was doubtless our hilarious jumpshot with a random young man, his messenger bag flying and adorable sweater vest throw high as he leaped by Allison’s side. Priceless. In fact, the next day we ran into him in that very same woolen vest with his mother and girlfriend at the Agra Fort. Definitely worth the second day in Agra! Fantastic rosy walls with an adobe-like hue. Brilliantly intricate carvings and stone masonry. And as the story goes, after the king built the marvelous Taj as a tomb for his deceased favorite wife, his son Aurangzeb imprisoned him in Agra Fort where from his window he could watch and pine after his most-treasured alabaster tomb.



Doubtless, besides the awe-inspiring sites of Agra, our favorite pastime quickly came to be rooftop restauranting for every meal we could, the Taj just looming in the distance. At sunset, at sunrise, in the twilight. I’d venture to say that there’s no time that isn’t perfect to eye that masterpiece. Our last afternoon, we climbed the narrow flight of stairs to the stone terrace roof, a picture perfect view of the Taj in the distance. As we chatted up life with our young waiter, a boy of no more than nineteen, we asked him if he liked living in the shadow of fame, hungry-eyed tourists with their oversized cameras pouring into and out of his city each day. He laughed and informed us that he loved Agra, precisely for that reason. “Everybody love my city,” he said. “My city is love to many peoples.” When asked if he had any desire to get out of Agra, out of India, and see the countries and cities and world where all those people come to Agra from, he looked at us incredulously and said proudly: “Why would I go to see the world when in my city, the whole world comes to me?”




I smiled a small smile and took a sip of my lassi, watching the sun dip behind the clouds and the outline of the Taj. In that moment, I understood exactly what he meant.

Eyes on India-- Installment 5!

Today's Thoughts...

I wish I could say that the rest of our time in Jaipur was notedly humdrum and unworthy of mention. But that wouldn’t make for a good tale to tell ;P Sure, we did all the glorious sites like the sparkling City Palace and the famed Observatory.



We ate more unspeakably delicious food at the Peacock Hotel and lining the winding streets of the pink city. Sure I bought more Ali-Baba pants than I will ever know what to do with. But what stands out in my mind are two markedly divergent and singularly memorable experiences. Following our stalking interlude, that very same night we witnessed some of the heights and the depths of our random encounters with a similarly unsettling experience involving a young rickshaw driver.



Our feet were killing us. We couldn’t find the restaurant on the Lonely Planet map. (Really, LP? How you gonna do us like that though?) And so we decided to give up and try our luck back at the Peacock for dinner once more. But not before we had wandered through the market sampling spicy chili roti cakes with sambal and beans, jelabi swirls of sticky syrupy deliciousness (something like funnel cake soaked in heavy syrup), and anything else we could get our hands on for so long that we’d simply forgotten the whole laborious process of pausing our adventure for the tedious task of dining.
Oh, and there was the brilliant evening’s entertainment with the gang of monkeys that took to the streets (or buildings there surrounding), swiping bananas and fruits from unsuspecting vendors and then tossing the carcasses with squealing primate glee onto the heads of the cuckolded merchants. If I had a rupee for every time on my trip a monkey tried to…well, I’d have a whole lotta rupees in my pocket that’s for sure.



The sky had fallen dark long ago during our meandering and it was only then that we finally thought to go back to our comfy cozy abode. The guy walked up out of nowhere, I remember. He was at Allison’s elbow asking where she was from. (At this point, I was used to often being overlooked as the short dark minion next to my gorgeously tall and blonde compatriot. I wonder if perhaps I didn’t call to mind images of those very creatures swinging so joyously above our heads? ;P). She shook her head no. After the fifteen millionth time, you just do have the patience anymore. He prodded further, repeating his question and following up with a “Why are you so mean? It’s just a question.” She was cracking. I could see it on her face. Hold tight! I willed her. Her face remained impervious. Good. We walked on.

Growing frustrated, he jogged to stand in front of her, blocking her path ahead. “Why are all you foreigners the same? Think you’re so much better. So much better than us Indian people. Isn’t that it? I have a rickshaw. I was going to ask where you need to go. But you so stuck-up. So stuck-up.” At that, we stopped. Allison whirled on him, “I don’t want your tuktuk or rickshaw or whatever it is and I don’t want to talk to you because I don’t want to.” “Why so stuck up? So stuck up she is.” I could tell her defenses were crumbling. He muttered on further until she finally burst out asking where this mysterious rickshaw was in the first place. He immediately produced it and for roughly twenty minutes we drove on listening to his rant against all white people, all foreigners who come to his country, think they are so much better than his people, what do you know, you give no one a chance. Not everyone is bad. Not everyone is out to get you. You think bad thoughts and bad things happen to you. Bad things happen to you when you think they will.

With that he turned down a deserted street alley and for the second time in two days, I hurled my person from a moving vehicle and onto the dusty path beside us. The tires screeched to a halt and Allison lept out as well. I don’t know about you, but as my great-grandma used to say—if it stinks, it ain’t gotta be you what sticks around to smell it (…or something like that). Then the obscenities came flying. I don’t think I could quite count the insults and slurs that flew from that tongue at such an alarming pace. All I knew was that I suddenly felt my skin prickle and my heart thud in my ears. And then she came. She must not have been more than five feet tall, but a wee auntie the size of a prepubescent child sidled up from out of the shadows and planted herself, unflinchingly, unspeakingly, and firmly between us and the raving madman before us. With an icy glare even I could feel cut through the nighttime air, she quite literally bore him down. His rage bottled, though still brimming, he grabbed the fistful of cash Allison had at some time produced and raced off, screeching down the block. I turned to the little old woman who was already hobbling away. I shouted thank you and she turned, unsmilingly, and shaking her head clucked, “Beta.” (“Sweetheart”) With a bobble and a nod, she was gone.

Mama India, you baffle me still.

No Place To Home

Today's Thoughts... (special happy birthday to a special birthday somebody!)

When I started the house search for myself and my hopeful-soon-to-be roomie TaReva, we had some basic notions of what we desired in a happy humble abode— electricity, internet, running water, sunlight, security, cooking space, living space, sleeping space, and maybe a dash of greenery by way of a garden or verdant stoop. We were asking too much, far too much. After seeing approximately 26 ½ houses (one we didn’t even make it inside; we just bolted at the gate), I was starting to lose hope. The house was too small. Too big. To empty. To cramped. Too far. Too close. Too unperfect. We’re being picky, we admonished ourselves. Get over it! It’s just a place to sleep and eat after all. I mean, isn’t it?

Forget that we’d gone through View who tried to get us to move onto a farm 2km outside of town and once led me to a gate from which we ran (she, in 4 inch stilettos no doubt) as a snarling hound gave chase at the front gate. Suffice it to say, we told View buh-bye quite a while ago. And then there was Nat; she was a real sweetheart, truly. Except Nat wasn’t so good with directions, and never quite understood that motorbikes simply can’t do the things cars can, like Idk whip it down the highway at 120 km/hr because “this way only take 20 minutes to house, na!” So after seeing her sixth house and spending 45 minutes driving around in the blazing hot season sun, baking, browning, burning to a crisp, sweating unforgivingly, and fuming at her “just a little this way, that way, na” directions, I told Nat we would no longer be needing her services. Of course, there was Oh and Woh and Wee and Yip and Yay, but no such cry of joy ever escaped my lips while I was with them. Uh-uh. Not a one.

Ready to accept defeat, we then met April. Oh April. I should have known something was screwy with this one when she made me meet her at a bookshop and drive her on my moto to the house we were viewing. When I asked where her own bike was, I got a nebulous, “oh not here. Somewheres. Drive this way.” The entire 10 minute ride was pretty much her criticizing my driving (you been here one year! Hahaha. No way! Joke! Joke!) to her wigglinggg, wriggling, and bouncing on my seat (so much so that the next day my seat lock broke and I had to get it serviced) to her obnoxiously pointing out that my bike was spewing black smoke and is that what it always does? Thanks, April. Thanks.

We pulled up at the house and…I had seen it before… the day before in fact. She looked surprised, alarmed, and then pissed that apparently her client was double-teaming the agents on his townhouse. In silence we drove back to the bookshop, bouncing all the way, and she barked at me to meet her at a new house the next day. So foolishly I did. Well actually considering that my bike was broken, I missed the first day’s visit which TaReva attended, warning me of monkeys and Elvis Presleys. So the second day, I arrived. It was an okay house. Nice amenities—kitchen, three bathrooms, jungly walkway to the front door, bungalow. But I immediately noticed precisely what TaReva had mentioned—a giant glass display case filled with monkey memorabilia and faux-autographed framed black and whites of the King (and not his Majesty of Thailand though he hung overlooking all near the door). There were large blown up posters of Elvis and other 60s performers, black and whites of old times Chiang Mai, and primate paraphernalia like cups and bowls and door hangers and figurines EVERYWHERE. We briefly thought for a moment of hanging the King next to the King, but then figured that’d be deemed blasphemous or sacrosanct at the least.

But April assured me it all could go (except His Majesty), that the family had once owned a pub and these were the remnants. Okay… But then there was the problem of the window, 5/6 of which was blocked by the ENORMOUS glass display case. “Can come down,” April nodded smiling. No worries. That’s when I noticed the door… or rather lack thereof. At this, several bells went off, particularly imagining the pregnant pause when I would tell my parents that I moved into a house without a door. I could hear my mother’s warning voice calling me by my full name. That was all the motivation I needed. I called TaReva.

“We can’t,” I heard myself saying over the phone. “I mean, there’s no door. It’s just a screen with a padlock. There isn’t even any glass.” But TaReva suggested let’s come in and talk to the landlords; see what we could work out with sensible people. So today we went and met the sensible folks that built a house without a door, mounted a glass case in front of a window, blocked off a driveway by planting a tree, and decorated their living space with 52 hairy apes (I counted). Needless to say that went great. The case was there they said to hold the figurines and photos. Could it be moved? I mean, the house felt sort of cave-like as it was. Of course not because the scorching rays of the sun would pierce through the three inch glass on the window and like a microscope to a hill of ants, sear the flesh from our bodies in the daylight hours. Sorry, they said it’d be too hot. Pretty much exactly like that. As for the door, they laughed. Security? A thought that hadn’t occurred to them. To much work to put in a proper door or glass panes. Maybe a curtain? How about a nice curtain? Padlocks are so strong after all. And that pesky tree in front of the gate, well that has to stay. Because it’s there already of course and that’s where it lives. The tree, not you. It lives there.

Flushed and breathless, TaReva pondered aloud about the lack of privacy in the bedrooms with windows that face directly into those of our neighbors (students who dorm in the single rooms next to the house). We then received a fifteen minute schpeel about the hand-picking of the students and their good souls and kind hearts and closed eyes even when you step out of the shower in a towel or change and expose a bra or dance around naked and perform wildly ritualistic pagan ceremonies in the wee hours of the night. Well what about friends, we ventured? What about their friends? Well of course they are not allowed to have friends over, ever. Or to smoke, or drink, or stand outside, or talk after 8. Do those rules apply to our house? Do you smoke? No. Drink? Occasionally. Have friends or menfolk over? I have a boyfriend, I squeaked. Does he live here? No. Will he live here? No. Will he visit? Certainly. How often? Just a few times perhaps. Where is he? Indonesia. Consideration... pause... (why was I holding my breath)... and success! TaReva was not so lucky when she mentioned our guitar-playing, dinner-party having friends. Oh, just maybe six of us, maybe some guitars, yes, and maybe some singing, of course some food, Lauren loves to cook, I’m learning guitar, no no, not late at all, maybe midnight? The conversation screeched to a dramatic halt. I waited as they contemplated. I was sweating and I could feel the drops sliding down my nose. So naturally, I fled to the kitchen as she duked it out.

When I came back, a bit more red in the face and thoroughly ready to go, she re-capped the evening’s arrangements—no the glass case would stay, the tree lived there, the door might have a gentle blowing sheet to shield us from fiends in the night, and perhaps, maybe, in a manner of speaking, they could procure a waist-high bush or spritely shrub to conceal our naked forms in the bedroom windows. But under no circumstances were guests to be allowed past 8pm. The owner has to get up at 3am, so not a chance. So we said our good byes to the nice people and hopped on our bikes. Oh! One more question! April said we could get our own fast Internet plan, is that right? Not a chance. Only one line for the whole compound. Ah, yes. Of course. Gotcha.

Hmmm. I guess I won’t be blogging about our days in the house from hell from the house from hell after all.

Landlords: 1.

April: (-∞) Negative infinity.

Lauren and TaReva, oh-ye-pathetic-souls: Zip.

Sawatdii kha, Profesora Lorena!

Today's Thoughts...

Today I had my first Spanish class. Correction, today I held my first Spanish class. Correction still. Today I held my first Spanish class in Thailand. Ahat have I gotten myself into?

When I asked my students in our introductory lesson why they wanted to speak Spanish, many cited the fact that the language is spoken in un sinúmero of countries around the world, which is totally true. When pressed for exactly which assemblage of countries spoke the language, the immediate responses were, in this order no less: Spain, Texas, Mexico, Brazil, and a country in the World Cup, ah, yes, Paraguay. I hung my head— this is going to be a loooong semester.

To their credit, in our first class, my students were downright exuberant. As per course, I informed them a week ago that under no circumstances would I speak English in class. Solamente en español, I warned frightened faces and horrified agape ‘O’ expressions. True to my word, Spanish only I spoke from Hola when they eagerly filed in to Adiós as they traipsed out—¡Hasta luego, profesora! ¡Hasta pronto! It was only then that I realized that whatever my obsession and amor for the language, it HAS been a year since I have held a fluid fluent convo, let alone taught for an hour and a half without so much as uttering ni una palabra inglesa. It was as daunting a task for me as it was for them, if not more so. So naturally I sprinkled in several phrases of Thai (quite a few I didn’t even know I had) and the occasional Japanese (really, now, it’s been like three years, c’mon). After all, language is just a giant word bank in the left cortex, isn’t it? Spatinglish (or Engsphai?)-- hmm, going to have to work on that. On top of it all, I'm pretty certain I vacillated somewhere between channeling Antonio Banderas and Carlos Mencia. Same, same, but different?

By the end, I was panting, they were cheering, and I had spelled Buenas noches three different ways on the chalkboard. My brain still tingled with the collision of tongues tangling in my head as I walked to my moto and heard an excited student call after me: “Odious, teacha!” I paused, flipped through the catalogues in my head and responded somewhat belatedly, “¡Adiós! ¡Hasta mañana!”

Well, learning takes time.

¡Ay Diós mio!

Skin I'm In

Today's Thoughts...

Every so often something happens to remind me that no paradise is paradise untainted, na? Last night had a blast hangin out with friends for the night. We decided to make our way to one of the more happenin clubs in town. As per usu, bouncing around, dancing about, making friends with random tables of folks, passing drinks around between us and our new compadres— a real night on the town. But there’s always something hiding just beneath the surface on these nocturnal jaunts. Always something that nags at the back of my mind when the liquor’s stopped flowing and the cups have gone dry. Suddenly, I look up and I’m all alone. Every single time.

I don’t mean that there isn’t a massive throbbing, pulsating crowd of hip young twenty-something members of the Thai elite bopping and reveling all around, but inevitably whenever I go out with a crowd of my fair-skinned friends, I can’t help notice that I’m quite frequently, almost always, the one getting no kind of play. Not the kind of coquettish play that of course comes to mind, not looking for that per se, but the joyous banter of a dance floor, the witty commentary and jokes of folks just having a good time—almost zilch. Sure I get talked to when I’m asked if my friends are dating anyone, if they like Thai men, where they are from, how long they are here, usually because my mini modicum of Thai is enough to play Hermes and pass the messages along. I get passed drinks just the same because this is Thailand and we don’t discriminate.

But almost never does it happen (unless the new cadre is of the farang variety) that anyone is interested in engaging with me on any, if admittedly superficial, level. So in these moments, I shake my fro bigger, laugh louder, dance harder, and toss back the glasses just a little faster. Coping just fine, really. Not that I blame anyone—who can? In a hemisphere obsessed with bleaching, powdering, unstaining sun-kissed flesh, where is there room for sun-scorched me?

SHEBA
Curly a-fro
Hair not so straight
I bet you don’t love my sassy gait.
I move to a rhythm, yall don’t hear
I shake my hips with women,
But I’m not quite queer.
I watch you and
You watch me
But you can’t make moves
On this Ebony
Delectable Mahogany, skin smooth and fine
Chocolate, Mocha, Licorice divine
If you only knew what’s beneath these layers
Powerful, intellectual, f the naysayers.
So wrapped up in skin so white
Can’t appreciate this hue of night
Powder those cheeks all day long
Translucent, pearlescent, flesh faded and gone.
Doused in the bleach, tryin hard to conceal
Melanin, my best friend, shit's gettin real.
Calumny and lies
That’s all you spread
Typical, predictable
--That book’s been read.
Wish I could teach you just how to see
Black is beautiful.
Black is me.

Eyes on India-- Installment 4!

Today's Thoughts...

Jaipur is hot. Rajasthan is hot. Typically, the desert is hot particularly in hot season—small fact we somehow overlooked. Boiling (literally my skin felt like it was going to slide off my face), we arrived at the eclectic and wonderful Peacock Hotel. Our jaws dropped. Palatially-sized rooms, strong arctic breezes from desert coolers (sort of like a water-powered aircon unit/fan with something resembling a bird’s nest tucked inside; still uncertain of exactly how the contraption worked), oversized king beds, shimmering bathrooms with no sullied streaks of unknown sources—we were in heaven, Peacock Heaven.

Immediately we plopped down on the beds (after a brief rendezvous on our balcony (a balcony!)) and straightaway passed out. When we woke it was dinnertime, which was the perfect time, chowing down on undeniably delicious curry, paneer, aloo, and even some sneakily weaseled warm and large Kingfisher beers. Subsequently and logically, we then we slept some more. In fact, when I think about it, when not trekking on foot in the searing heat or snapping shots (or shots being snapped of us) at national sights, we spent much of our time in recovery from the heat and chaos, sleeping. Not that I minded one bit.



Our reserves replenished, we took to the streets of Jaipur the next day. Suddenly every rickshaw driver was our best friend, every rickshaw our own private “Indian helicopter.” It was hot, the streets long, but we pressed on, politely declining every overeager offer for a ride. Wandering down a random alley, we found ourselves in the midst of one of the inner city’s bazaars. Suddenly the street narrowed to a shoulder by shoulder width and people suddenly appeared bursting from the crannies, cracks, and crevices of every building in sight. The mouth-watering smells luring us ever deeper into the fracas, we stopped at a firepit on the side of the street for samosas. Giggling children, gaping adults, shifty-eyed youngins— all stared in wonder, snickering behind their hands. A small child tried to thump my rear as he passed, chuckling with his friends. I turned and bum-bopped him right back. He squealed, jumped, and raced on laughing.



Fried savories devoured, we wound our way on through the silver market, the gold market, the metal market, the clothing market, the shoe market, the meat market, the veggie market, the market market stopping only to climb our way up the dizzying spiral staircase of a large minaret to see the city skyline. Our tireless guide (and by guide I mean the rando dude standing at the base of the minaret who followed us up and explained in lilting tongue something about a fort and a king and a son and a death and many things I found difficult to concentrate on while gazing into the exquisite midday horizon. Eeerrrrttt! Rewind. So when have you heard me tell a story that didn’t have some rando-crazy-nuh-uh-hold-up kinda ridiculousness goin on?



Oh we wound our way through the streets alright, bobbing and weaving in and out of gorgeous sari fabric shops and precious blacksmith handicraft stalls (prompting my purchase of a several kilos miniature brass theater mask—when am I going to use that again? Right. Never.) And that’s when Allison noticed her. A young woman, not more than thirty, in a faded blue sari, walking not more than twenty paces behind us. I thought she looked a little off particularly given her wild and untied/unbraided hair, so uncharacteristic of most women we saw, but I shrugged and ignored it…until we saw her behind us after nearly half an hour of our wanderings. That’s when I noticed her mildly unfocused gaze and battered appearance. We both turned around stared at her with that cold excuse-me-can-I-help-you? face, but she just stared off into space as if she couldn’t see us. Five minutes later, she was still there. We stopped again, glared again, and this time made gestures for her to get-going. Not a moment’s hesitation, she walked closer, further still. Allison was getting agitated and for that matter so was I. She turned and shouted something at her. People looked, but she did nothing. Didn’t ask for cash, didn’t want a photo, didn’t try to snatch our purses, didn’t appear to want to shank us—I mean our thusfar vocabulary in random street interactions was exhausted and we could find no meaning to her madness. Yet she crept uncomfortably close still. It was unsettling.

Finally, we both turned around, marched to her, which certainly took her by surprise, and demanded to know who she was and what her deal was. Allison threatened to call the police (both of us fully aware that meant nada) and I told her that if she was going to follow us for nearly two hour she darn well better have a good reason for it and grrr! She stared back with sneering eyes (yes, sneering eyes). (A test! Aha! She DOES speak English!) Did we offend you? Hurt you? Wrong you in someway? She just stared. Well, if you've got nothing to say, then GO! I bellowed. She jumped a little and backed up a step. GO! Allison repeated. Still sneering with those now very clearly focused eyes, she backed away only to hide behind a wall and glare. I sighed, shook my head, and that’s when I spotted the minaret. So as Mr. Bubbly Bopping tour guide droned on about something I barely remember, I was searching not merely for the beauty of the Jaipur skyline, but for the trail of our sulking, slinking, spectral companion in the crowds below. Deciding the coast was clear, we descended once more into the melee. Encounter one of five million of inexplicable strangeness.

Eyes on India-- Installment 3!

Today's Thoughts...

It was 4 a.m.: we saddled up like camels preparing for our sojourn across the seas of sand. Combing our way through the dark, we arrived at the New Delhi Railway Station. True to Lonely Planet’s word, the day before every tout and uncle within sight swore till they were blue in the face that no tourist office existed in the ND Railway station. That we had to go to a special office, their special office. That there was a fire; that it was their lunch break; that rabid chimps had taken over the office and held hostage all inside (not as far-fetched as it sounds when I started to notice the oddly copious hordes of primates in Indian train stations). Whatever, we said, we want to see this for ourselves. And we saw it alright, in the form of two tickets issued by an official tourist office employee, posted price to boot. At 4 a.m., tickets in hand, we arrive at the station, sleeping babies and grannies and mommies and poppies everywhere. By about 5 a.m., our train appears to arrive. In our spare time, we had made a friend, a young guy heading to Jaipur to publish his new book on Rajasthani fabrics and the legacy behind them.

Chatting and rubbing our puffy eyes, we slog our way onto the train. We walk the length of the train and platform, with no luck at finding our “air con chair seats.” Disheartened, we assume we’ve been had and head to the car marked with the number on our tickets. A frightening-ish bunker in the wee light of the morn with dozing bodies stretched everywhere, pools of spittle on the floor, and remnants of what I expect must have been last night’s samosas, ah and Mr. Cockroach, the erstwhile tenant of our car. But something doesn’t feel right. Allison inquires if this is the train to Jaipur. Blank stares. Now the first thing that struck me when I got to India was the abundance of English speakers, a foreign concept coming from the khas and kops of Thailand. I tried my luck on a small child—no dice. Our friend did as well and turned to us in confusion— this is the train to DEHRADUN! As in about a gazillion kilometeres north of Rajasthan. His eyes appear panicked. Bloody hell.

We turn to exit and notice that our path of egress has been blocked by other entering passengers. Everyone is suddenly crowding quickly… the train is moving! We push and nudge our way politely to a door. A man stands mouth-wide, gaping at us as he washes his face and shaves in the sink. Allison makes a hurried gesture to the door. He continues to stare, holding his razor. Our friend waves his arms wildly. The man does not budge and the train has gained speed. I turn heel, and squeezing Allison’s hand run in the opposite direction. A single small child is the fatality of this action. Dazed, he lies on the floor, clearly puzzled as to how he got there in the first place. We jockey and elbow past him and the rest of the cabins occupants. I pause at the door. The tracks are now whizzing beneath us. FREEZE. This is the part where I say, “These are the things I’m sure if I ever knew were to exist when I came to Asia, I would solemnly swear to NEVER do.” This is the time when I do them.

Our friend acts first and tosses his bag to the platform, jumping off into a sort of jog. I follow suit, chucking my oversized pack to the ground and reaching for his outstretched hand as he now runs to keep up with the train. We tumble to the platform. I turn, but too late to offer a hand; Allison is in the air. Wordlessly we all rise and gather our scattered belongings. After a moment’s pause, a garbled loudspeaker announces that the train to Jaipur will arrive one hour late. This is Asia after all. We take one look at one another and burst into hysterics.

Passersby stare bewildered and perturbed. We are perturbed. It is something like 6 a.m. Crying with laughter and tears, we collapse onto our bags, our hearts finally keeping pace with our breathing. This is why I came to India.

Morning March

MORNING MARCH
in tribute to the robed figures of the dawn

Burnt with a tinge that touches the sun
The smell of vermilion, a thousand golden orbs
A flame when it dances, blistering heat
Evanescent glow, celestial globe as it sinks
The sound of tangerine, a rush of sanguine winds
Russet, carmine, cerise, a blush of brilliant peach
Gracefully billowing
Constantly winnowing
Light from dark
Truth from life
Higher they climb
Olympian conference
On dorado peaks they sit
Honeyed towers of praise
La paz.