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Filed under: Big Bang, Fotorama, Huarong Home, India Be Trippin', Laos Be Trippin', Nepal Be Trekkin', Operation Engrish Prease, Razorcake Columns
From Razorcake #57, the one with Noam Chomsky on the cover!
The eyes are restless from the fatigue of resting them upon an unmoving landscape. The legs itch, muscles twitching in between the tibia and the upholstered surface it leans against. Its wanderlust simmering and the only cure is to give in, to strap that pack to your back, put one foot in front of the other and let your eyes drink in every dashed yellow line in the middle of the road.
I blame my legs. These non-proportionate stumps that move me around. They loathe when I sit around too much and love it when I push them too hard. Wanderlust is insatiable, and my legs gobble it up. One in front of the other, marching forward because they know no other way. In all my travels, there has been some epic adventuring but I’ve also faced my share of tribulations. Since sharing is caring, I would like to tell ya’lls about some of my low-lights so can you can learn from my own misadventures with these travel tippies.
There’s the obvious:
Pack a pair of flip-flops, as un-punk rock as they may be, will save you from cooties in shared showers and cool your toes when you wanna relax. Don’t worry about bringing a pillowcase for hostel beds, resting your head on one of your t-shirts will save you room in your pack. I always bring issues of Razorcake to read on the road and leave them in hostel lobbies or music shops in places where I know they’ve never seen it. And I never leave without a passport pouch that I tuck into my jeans next to my sweaty crotch cash.
If you’re traveling the People’s Republic of China, don’t buy souveniours that you can buy at your local Chinatown USA (which is most everything). Bargain at every chance, most shop-keepers will give you an opening price that is at least twice of much as it worth, if not more. But know that there’s a fine line between being fair and being brutal, because chances are that if you’re reading this magazine you’re better off than a street vendor in Mui Ne, Vietnam and you spend $3 for a pint of beer all the time so what’s it worth arguing about it with a shop keeper. (Though, hypocritically, some of my proudest shopping moments have been when a shop owner has angrily begrudgingly agreed to sell something to me. [Though, in my defense, living on volunteer salaries in developing countries will drive you batty and make you feel entitled.]) And speaking of monies, always check the big bills you get in return to make sure they’re not counterfeit.
Street food will make you sick, but it’s worth it. Check bottled water caps to be sure it wasn’t shoddily soldered back on after being refilled with dirty tap water. A small squeeze tube of hand sanitizer will ease your mind and you’ll get used to that medicinal smell and start to think it makes your food taste better.
And there are the travel scars that have left me wiser and with a couple good stories to tell:
Laos is the only landlocked country in southeast Asia and is usually forgotten on itineraries. It’s tourism industry is still growing its legs and learning to stand on them and the easiest way to make money is to give the kids what they want, and that’s usually stuff that’ll fuck them up.
Ironically, even though Laos is landlocked, it’s the only country I’ve traveled to where I’ve gone tubin’ down a slow moving river. It’s a lot like basking in the sun with my limbs draped over an inner tube floating along the Sandy River in Portland, except in Vang Vieng there are middle-aged Laotian women squatted on makeshift mini-docks hawking Beer Laos at your lazy drifting body. Naturally, Vang Vieng needs to offer a hearty post-tubing recreational substance abuse.
Every restaurant had a not-so-hidden ‘Special Menu’ that had three mainstays:
Happy Shake with whiskey and fruit
Magic Mushroom Shake or Tea
Opium Tea
Then further down the same sheet, scrawled in loose handwriting it offers:
Happy Garlicbread
Happy Pizza
Happy Pancake
Magic Mushroom Pizza
I especially love how the menu devolves and gets straight to the point at the bottom where it reads:
A bag of weed
A bag of mushrooms
A bag of opium
There’s something beyond sketchy about buying a bag of illegal substances off a menu, so I opted for Magic Mushroom Shake. I could taste the small flecks of mushrooms that had been blended into my banana shake and sat back into the loungey restaurant stall and waited.
The high was weak and gave me a headache. I crawled into my hostel bed and hoped to sleep it away. I felt fine the next morning when I boarded a bus to the capitol city, Vientianne, but was soon burping up a rotten egg smell and knew immediately that traveler’s diarrhea was about to commence.
Our Vientianne hostel felt like a three story building that had been haphazardly converted into a five-storied guesthouse with narrow and steep stairways and wobbly landings. There were only two toilets in the entire building and our room was nearest to the first floor bathroom that housed a toilet without a toilet seat. I had never wished for a squatty toilet so much in my life.
Lesson learned: If you’re going to order off the ‘Special Menu’ make sure a) you don’t have a five-hour un-air conditioned bus ride the next day and b) book a room with its own toilet (and toilet seat).
I am a moderately fit person with very sensitive joints. I was reminded of this on a 45-mile trek through the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal when I wanted to rip out my left knee at the end of the four-day hike. Every step I took during that last morning was painful, it felt something akin to being stabbed in my knee every time I took a step. I started to lag behind and teared up at the thought that I would have to endure it until the sun set again.
Even though all I wanted to do was to curl up into a ball right on that trail, I refrained from collapsing and asked everyone around me if they had Ibuprofen. I must have had about a dozen to get through the day before collapsing in a van and ingesting more sleeping pills to numb all the other parts of my body.
Lesson learned: If I were a smarter person, I’d say that the lesson learned from this trip was to know and understand your physical limitations. But fuck that, because if I let my own physicality limit my movement, I’d go nowhere (have you seen my stumpy legs lately? Instead my lesson learned from this trip was: Pack painkillers. If you neglected to do so, ask everyone you encounter if they have any. Ask directions to the nearest pharmacy, because even if it’s a hole in the wall and looks like a shoddy American swap meet stall—they will have some generic Ibuprofen to numb your pain away.
Hong Kong during peak season is nowhere to be if you don’t have money. Every cheap hostel was booked up and short of sleeping at bus terminals or in neighborhood parks, we had no idea what to do. That’s when desperation went into overdrive and we found ourselves haggling for rooms at places that I’ve lovingly dubbed as ‘hooker hotels.’ These are small rooms that are rented out by the hour, but might sometimes offer a nightly rate with check-in at 10 PM and check-out is sharply at 8:00 AM. It may not seem so bad in hindsight, but when you’re exhausted from working to find a room all day, and when you finally do find one, all you wanna do is to lay in it. Instead, you have to busy yourself and think of all the people who are fucking in it before you can even check in to sleep in it.
When you’re finally laying in your heart-shaped bed, try to ignore the condoms on the counters, the mirror on the ceiling, the stream of 80’s porn on every other television channel and the moaning and hollerin’ of the other patrons. You may also be awakened throughout the night from the ring of the doorbell as, you know, the other rooms are being rented by the hour.
Lesson learned: Even establishments that rent rooms by the hour might offer nightly rates, you should inquire with the management.
I’ve got a few more low-lights that might help ya’ll out, but it’ll have to wait for another time. And to be honest, even the down time during trips can be awesome stories in and of themselves if you handle it right.
And by “handling it right” I mean: always bring a small package of tissue paper, it’ll save you ass literally and metaphorically.
This was originally posted late August of 2008, but I thought this bears repeating so here it is again.
Reminders for myself and others:
- Turn off your lights. It doesn’t take very much of your time or energy, just mindfulness, to save vast amounts of energy.
-Wash your face daily. Especially if you live somewhere, be it Los Angeles or Changsha, Hunan or Chittagong, where soot and grime mix freely with polluted air to land on your precious skin.
- Re-use shopping bags. Again, one of those no-brainers that takes no real effort.
- Drink lots of water. Or coffee.
- Never charge more than you can pay back in each billing cycle. It’s tempting to simply swipe the card and worry about paying it back later, but a 19.99% APR ain’t no joke!
- We’re all hypocrites. Some just better at it than others.
- Stretch. Keeps you flexible and agile for your secret ninja lifestyle.
- Clean up after yourself. Didn’t we learn this in kindergarten?
- Recognize privilege. Class, race, gender, ethnicity, nationality, history.
- Righty tighty, lefty loosey. One of life’s many secrets.
- Eat everything on your plate. You’re a big kid who’s probably pretty adept at gauging what you like and will eat, so if you’ve scooped it onto your plate it shouldn’t end up in the garbage bin.
- Sit up straight. Slouching is so unbecoming.
- Accessorize. The devil is in the details.
- Say thank you. Westerners are sometimes accused of saying ‘thank you’ too often and for unnecessary reasons. If I’m gonna be accused of anything, I’ll take this one.
- Know-it-alls only really know how to say “I know.” But they have trouble listening.
- Moisturize and use sunblock. Take care of your skin, its our largest organ.
– Don’t shove and apologize if you bump into someone. There’s something about overpopulated developing nations (Hello China y Bangladesh!) where manners seem frivolous.
- Know when to be critical and when to bite your tongue. And if you’re one to criticize, don’t get butt hurt if others return the favor. You’ve gotta be able to take it if you’re gonna dish it.
- Wipe front to back. It’s more hygienic that way. This one’s for the ladies.
- Get enough sleep. This reminder is for me (thanks Giulia!).
A week ago I saw Marah in a pair of jeans that looked very familiar. With the pant leg rolled up, I eyed the deep orange inseam serger thread, the small red stitching at the side of the back pocket, and that wash with its very subtle, almost cross-hatch look. Those are my effin’ jeans, I thought.
“Where’d you get your jeans?” I asked, knowing full well Marah is above stealing my worn clothing, but still curious how we both ended up with the exact pair of jeans in this world of disposable clothes and approximately 1,462 choices for denim.
“At Goodwill.”
“Are they Gap jeans?”
“Yeah.”
“I have a pair just like those. They came straight from the factory in Bangladesh, a manager delivered jeans to us after we took a tour of the factory.”
My version was absent of labels and size markings, and the only reason I knew they were intended to be sold at the mall was because of the little stamp that read “Gap Est. 1969″ on the top button.
What a small homogenized world of disposable denim we live in, that Marah would find a second-hand version of a pair of jeans that I received from the garment factory itself half a world over.
I really enjoyed a couple recent stories from The New York Times about how Bangladesh is picking up the sweatshop slack of China, and how China’s factory workers are through sweating.
- Bangladesh, With Low Pay, Moves in on China
- Chinese Factories Now Compete to Woo Laborers
When I was younger, I was a fervent advocate against sweatshop labor (Nike was a four-letter word to me). While at Uni, my younger brother made the mistake of asking what I wanted as a gift for Xmas. I told him I would like a black turtleneck, but only if it was made in the USA. He scoured the mall, and was only able to find a single store that had such a thing in stock. I was touched he went through such an effort, but sadly, I never wore the sweater because it was poorly designed and misshaped.
After having lived in both China and Bangladesh, and having seen the people and families that these factory jobs support, I realized that “sweatshops” in developing nations isn’t a black and white issue- much like most things in life. It’s grey, like the concrete buildings and various machines that hum and buzz at the hands of the laborers. It’s grey, like the smoggy skies of Chittagong and Shenzhen.
Although I know it’s not ideal, and nowhere near perfect, it’s refreshing to see one country’s people finally realizing the strength of their nimble fingers- while also seeing another’s country’s people finding solid work by which to support their families.
All the while satiating this inexplicable consumeristic urge that is our birthright.
BBC News: Bangladesh: 77m poisoned by arsenic in drinking water
In a nation with 162,000,000 folks, 77 million is no small number.
This explains a lot.
Another column, this one for Razorcake #55, published in February 2010. This one sheds light upon what I’ve been struggling with for the past 11 months. Enjoy.
Everything I have—I earned. Or stole, or happened upon, or it was gifted. I don’t have much, but I have more than enough. I have luxuries and burdens; running shoes and weak knees; headphones and nothing to listen to; values and ethics and apathy.
I used to be the most optimistic person, but years of volunteer and non-profit work has made me stop caring. I earned my cynicism.
Everything I have – I earned. I earned this unrelenting ache, this massive cloud that fogs my light, this absence of hope—a hollow, cavernous space.
* * *
Even in this dismal economy, I managed to earn a part-time job with health insurance. I had not seen a doctor in five years and I earned my first physical of the decade. The doctor asked about my family’s health history and I told her about what I knew: diabetes, high blood pressure, cancer. These were measurable in numbers and x-rays. Doctors need to know this history of afflictions because their diseases may be embedded in the double helix that makes up my DNA. We need to know this in order to prevent undue suffering—so that we may earn a pass to avoid the same fate.
It’s frightening, isn’t it? To know that there are things about us that we could know, about the very fabric of how we are built, but don’t. Like how I realized that I knew nothing about the history of mental health that shaped and molded the crevices and bumps of my brain. Like how I had to answer, “I don’t know” when I sat across from my therapist, at my first counseling session ever, after he asked if anyone in my family had mental health issues.
I don’t know. I don’t know because we don’t talk about these things. We don’t talk about the days where the core of your chest feels like it’s been packed in mud. We don’t talk about the days where the idea of talking, of holding a mere conversation, feels like an exhausting obstacle. We don’t talk about the days where we think about how we exist, and how much we want to cease existing, but continue to exist for the sake of our families and friends.
In that moment, I felt I was beginning to understand my father, a reticent man who I thought should have never had children. He was undoubtedly troubled, but did not speak out it. In that moment, I realized that I better understood my father now because of pain. He suffered it through his childhood and a war he never spoke of. I suffered it from the infinite expanse of optimism and hope that blackened into a mound of coal. We saw things, experienced things. They changed us, hardened us, formed callouses and cynicsm in parts of us that used to be soft and naïve.
Perhaps this whole ordeal had been written in my genetic code—this depression and anxiety. I still don’t know, but I want to be comforted in thinking that maybe I understand where I’m from, how I am supposed to be and try avoid the same fate.
* * *
Here’s what happened, in the only metaphor-ridden way I can explain it. My heart used to pound hope through my veins, I thrived on it, on red blood cells bursting with purpose and goodwill. I charged ahead with a smile and righteousness. My head was in the clouds, floating above it all, looking directly into the sun.
Then the sun burnt my retinas. It made me see and know things, it exposed the gaping faults of much of what I had believed in. I saw it in people, in Americans, in Bangladeshis, in Chinese. I saw their misguided attempts and misplaced principles, a system run on public relations photo ops that glossed over the infinite misery of our human experience.
You know that cliché: The bigger they are, the harder they fall? I didn’t just fall, I was yanked down. My head in the clouds, floating from the euphoria of my own high-mindedness when I was shot back down to earth—where there’s dirt and ugliness and humanity. I fell hard, and while I was down, got kicked around a bit too. I learned too much about facades versus realities, and I wanted so badly to unlearn it.
You donate your time, experience and cash to non-profit or non-governmental organizations under the premise that you are helping to alleviate suffering. It makes you feel better, your heart beats a little lighter and you feel proud. When you sit down at a bar, order one too many drinks and pass out on the sidewalk around the corner from the late-night food carts – you don’t feel too much like a louse because, at the very least, you helped out some brown people on the other side of the planet. And then you don’t have to think about it anymore, you did your part.
We don’t think about how for every altruistic act and humanitarian effort that may succeed, there are dozens of lives and unfinished projects that were neglected and abandoned. We don’t think about the salaries of executive directors, the egos of founders or the ghettos brimming with well-meaning volunteers. I didn’t think of it, and then it became all I could think of after I saw it.
We did our part, so we’re done thinking about it. We write our songs, pump our clenched fists, sing loudly to small rooms, to our own piddly choirs. We wear black hoodies and bandanas and call ourselves anarchists without recognizing how much of a first-world privilege it is to even be able to utter those words. We put out records, get Fest AIDS, and seldom question the vapidity of our own sub-culture. Because we’re done thinking about it. I didn’t think of it, and then it became all I could think of after I saw it.
* * *
Everything I want—I must earn. Or steal, or happen upon, or hope someone will gift it to me.
I have to earn back my hope, the optimism I once had. It used to be free, I used to have too much of it, and now I have to earn it back. I have to snatch it, a handful at a time, from sunny days and blue skies. I hope to stumble over it, catching me off guard when I’m in a foul mood. I have to ask those around to me to be patient, to give me time because time is supposed to heal us.
Every ridiculous day where I look forward to something is a victory. Every time I refer to plans for the future is a triumph. I continue to look for another job because I feel like my time is worth something. I still think about what I want to do with myself, because stuff is worth doing. Even if no one is hiring, or there to acknowledge my work, I still try because trying is all I have left.
I’ve done a lot of stuff in my short time, but perhaps the most courageous thing I’ll do is continue despite how much cynicism I’ve earned.
Filed under: Big Bang
[I'm finding a few un-published posts that are being dusted off for your reading pleasure. The following is from April 2009, when I was still putzing away as a literature teacher in Chittagong, Bangladesh.]
From my students’ reading journals:
“According to me, life is meaningless in the absence of challenges. Thus enjoy challenges, face it so that we can recognize the significance of our own life, rather than running way from them.” (JN)
“One doesn’t have to die to see a hell, it is right here right now.” (AH)
“What does ‘waving his manhood in her face’ mean? Is it the act of showing the superiority (dominating her).” (NG) This is in response to a passage from Dan Brown’s Deception Point: “A female English cabinet member had once accused President Nixon of “waving his manhood in her face” when he asked her to join him aboard Air Force One.”
“My father has always wanted me to learn everything. He says that there’s nothing called “girls stuff” and “boys stuff.” He wanted me to learn cooking, dancing, sawing [sic] as well as painting, tiling, fixing machines and everything. When my father, brother and me were making our boundry wall, one of my neighbors said, “Keerthi don’t make the girl do the cement mixing.” Then my father said, “My daughter will know to make a house as well as a home.” (KA)
“When everything goes wrong, when unexpected thing happen to me or when closed ones hurt me, I experience similar feeling. I feel that I’m trapped in a maze. I don’t find an outlet to purge off my negative thoughts. I am facing this situation and I don’t know how to cope with my emotion.” (RK)
“As I mentioned earlier, I am not very much that of a good student. However, I always felt like I am better than others and knew more than them. I really have no idea why did I felt like that way. Maybe because I am a syco. Ms. Amy don’t worry I’ve also started to loose myself I mean my brain.” (AC)
“Last week when I and D went out to buy a grameen card, lot of unwanted things happened. We both were in pants and t-shirts, but we also wore orna covering the parts that needed to be covered. Still everyone on the road stared at us, gave us comments and looked as if they were about to attack us. Bot of us felt really bad as they treated like we were aliens. That day we missed the freedom we enjoyed in our country. One man gave me a very cheap comment which no one had ever told me. That day I felt sorry for myself.” (NG)
“Frankly speaking, I have no understanding on the types of education I’m going to get in the university. Everyone says it’s going to change my life and everything. But I’m not sure how it will change my life in a positive way that I expect always.” Response to “Old Man and the Sea” “I have no understanding of it and I’m not sure that I believe in it.” (DK)
This was written more than a year and a half ago. I’ll admit I was a little buzzed from a cocktail of fruit juice and whatever vodka I purchased at the Thai airport. I can’t recall what prompted it, but here it is in all its desperation, accusation and seeming randomness.
I’m calling ya’ll out.
Sandra Cisneros
Dave Eggers
Muhammad Yunnus
Ira Glass
Mathangi “Maya” Arulpragasam (MIA)
Sam Bailey
Maria Eitel
David Sedaris
Natalie Solomon
I need you guys to pick me. Life, this pulsating beat of Earth, is a game of dodge ball. And as far as I can remember, I’ve always been picked last for that Darwinistic schoolyard game because I was the shortest kid in class and I have no upper-body strength to hurl a cherry ball.
But now I write, and I’m calling you guys out to pick me- not last, not second to the last, but first in our metaphoric dodge ball game.
I need you guys to validate what I’ve devoted the past few years of my life to.
I have a voice, it stumbles out of this five-foot-one-inch body attached to a beer gut. Its high and shrill or low and mumbly. It makes sounds and enjoys it most times when people listen to the noises that squeak out of it.
And I’m calling out Seth Rogen to take me on a date. Seriously. It’s him or Stephen Merchant. Gregg Gillis looks like he likes to party, I’d be down with that. Or that Gordon-Levitt kid, he likes smart girls, right? James Franco should call me when I move to NYC.
Tweeting (twitter.com/amyadoyzie) highlights from Chittagong Bangladesh, spanning Spring 2008 to Summer 2009 and presented to you in categories with my favorite tweet in each section in italics.
The Opposite of a Slumber Party
Still awake. Bad idea, because I’ve gotta get up in four hours to teach! 3:51 AM May 18th, 2008
Burnt Out. 9:19 AM Jul 7th, 2008
Is not sleeping enough. Gah! 7:36 PM Jul 16th, 2008
Just woke up from a nap. Farted and it smelled like coffee. 8:24 PM Aug 2nd, 2008
I need to go to bed at a reasonable time. 4:56 AM Sep 18th, 2008
Wanna know what’s a good time for construction work? How’s about MIDNIGHT?! Chittagong needs to develop alrieady, so I can go to sleep! 1:58 AM Nov 24th, 2008
Also, I only got 3 or 4 hours of sleep last night. My everything hurts. 6:18 PM Apr 19th. 2009
Something is awry when you get up just before lunchtime, have two cups of coffee and need a nap immediately afterwards. I am THAT tired. 2:25 PM Apr 29th, 2009
The most insane thunderstorm ever is really difficult to sleep through. Now I’m dog-tired. 3:06 PM May 3rd, 2009
I don’t think I’ve ever been so consistently tired for so long in my entire life. Insha’allah, two and a half more months. 5:39 PM May 3rd, 2009
I am so tired that it feels like my body is rejecting life. 3:29 PM May 5th, 2009
Three hours of sleep means caffeine caffeine caffeine. 1:13 PM May 17th, 2009
Tired. Pain. Want more sleep. 11:47 AM Jun 1st, 2009
The Randomness of it All
So proud of my folks! They just paid off their home! 15 years! 5:11 PM Jul 19th, 2008
Behind deadline. I should call them post-mortem-lines because I’m sooo late! 2:52 PM Aug 1st, 2008
I have a zit on my nose and it looks like a nose piercing. 1:30 AM Sep 2nd, 2008
I think there is a big zit brewing on my right nostril. It’s soooo hurties! 2:38 AM Sep 25th, 2008
Eating bread that smels like armpit. Fantastic. 12:26 AM Oct 7th, 2008
Had dried ramen for breakfast. How is it possible that I’m more poor than I was in college? 12:40 PM Oct 12th, 2008
I’m continually grappling with why my head is so gigantic. It’s like half the size of my torso! 1:24 AM Oct 28th, 2008
Strippers ruined the wedge. 1:35 AM Nov 20th, 2008
Prediction: binder clips worn in hair as the next hipster ironic office statement. 3:00 PM Nov 27th, 2008
Just discovered that baby powder will make me look less greasy!!!! 6:47 PM Feb 2nd, 2009
Is the prayer call saying, “Free veggie burgers if you love Allah?” 3:03 PM Feb 4th, 2009
Be grateful whereever you are. Unease is not suffering. 9:00 PM May 4th, 2009
It isn’t that I’m unfriendly. I just don’t have enough energy to be friendly. 8:01 PM May 21st, 2009
I just said out loud, “I needed to validate MY nipples.” 4:48 PM Jun 3rd, 2009
I have to shower tonight because I’m out of toilet paper! TMI! 4:00 AM Jun 24th, 2009
Committing Insecticide
I think I swallowed a gnat. Grrrr. 2:24 AM Nov 7th, 2008
I just smacked myself trying to kill a mosquito. But it just flew away and I ended up hitting myself. 12:43 AM Nov 17th, 2008
Gnats keep falling into my Macbook vents! It’s like a gnatty graveyard in there! 3:41 AM Nov 21st, 2008
An ant just bit me. In addition to the myriad of mosquito bites that I’m nursing. Merry xmas, says the insect kingdom. 10:56 PM Dec 23rd, 2008
Just slapped my own face to kill a mosquito. Merry Xmas to me. 4:52 AM Dec 26th, 2008
Five mosquitoes in the last 2 minutes. Tis the season. 1:50 AM Feb 13th
These “ants” (more like mites! But what kind?) are chewing me up! One bit me on the boob the other day! Ugh! 3:49 AM Feb 24th
There’s a gigantic roach beneath my desk. I’m too scared to even kill it. I just keep my feet off the ground instead. 12:34 PM Apr 19th
Pet Peeve #2479 Mosquitoes that hide in toilet bowls. Now I’ve got a mighty itch on my bum. 12:37 AM May 2nd
An ant just bit my eyelid and the pain is intense! 5:30 PM Jun 12th
