While my friends and fellow cyclists back home are sending me links to great, well maintained, informative and entertaining blogs on the underground life of cycling in Seattle (observe new link "sally forth!")...I am busy disregarding all common sense, caution, upkeep and well, everything I have ever been taught about cycling and general courtesy.
If you've been following along on the life and times of yours truly, you may recall a previous entry making mention of a cycling event. I was recruited to head a project involving students from a local highschool and English speaking tourists to encourage pedals over petrol, and give the kids a venue to gain confidence speaking English...allow me to say here, that I have never prayed so hard for an event, as I prayed this morning for the uneventful outcome of this one...
What I am attempting to poetically state, is: HOLY SHIT! I JUST PLAYED A PRIMARY ROLE IN LEADING 21 KIDS FROM A LAOS PUBLIC HIGH SCHOOL, ON EVERYTHING FROM A BMX TO A BEACH CRUISER, AND EVERY SIZE, SHAPE AND COLOR OF BAD CHINESE SUSPENSION, ON A 24KM RIDE WITHOUT A SINGLE HELMET, IN THE MIDDLE OF TRAFFIC, W/ NEXT TO NO 1ST AID, ONLY MY ATTACHED HAND PUMP, MULTI-TOOL, AND TWO SPARE TUBES, TWO (LITERAL) BUNCHES OF BANANAS, 100 LITERS OF WATER IN A TRUCK AND A PAPER ROSTER (NOT ROOSTER) OF NAMES...on a tour of Vientiene...with out a single scratch.
I do not know how to explain the number of times, in the last few hours, I have secured and re-secured my place in cycling hell. If for no other reason than the fact that I was making deals w/ the devil: my soul in exchange for these kids safely home at the end of the day. I swore if I survived this event, I would blog and purge my guts of the last week and a half, since I've been holding back. I have so many stories, so much to say, so many thoughts. It's been overwhelming to try and sit down to tell all.
The last week has been a brutal combination of my rediculous, over-active head, intense heat, no exercise, great friends, bad teaching skills, amazing ideas and oportunities for the future and an inability to focus on anything other than what's in front of my face. I have taken to reading the classics and decided the truth of my existence is that I, like the rest of humankind, demand to know the reason why I am here. Virginia Woolf is an amazing writer and I can only handle a few pages at a time. Robinson Crusoe, is as big an idiot about the world as I am and he's 200 plus years old. Shogun is a really big book, and a great story. Sticky rice is an amazing product. Jesus was Lao. Chelsea (football) Stadium, had to ban celery because fans kept throwing it at the refs and the "other" team, when they scored...and it made international news. They make pink toilet paper here, and I love that. I still can't believe there wasn't a single scratch on one of those kids by the end of that ride. George Bush is a fucking idiot and I keep having to explain to people here that we don't all agree w/ him, we aren't actually like what you see on Jerry Springer, and just because I look rich here, doesn't mean I can actually afford to live in America. The Lao people could but Subway out of business in a matter of hours w/ the rockin' "sub sandwich" on real french (freedom) loaves. The French know how to make ice cream! And croissants! And incredible, fatty, rich food! If it can be made out of rice, these people have made it...50,000 times, 100,000 different colors and 1,000,000 different textures. I know how to read that many zeros effortlessly because I have been dealing in Laos, Kip and I have to be that rediculous w/ my over exageration because there are in fact, a rivaling number of products made from rice. I've tried eating half of them in the last 2 weeks. Beer Lao is a beautiful thing. People are dumb. People are amazing. It's likely I am bi-polar. I have an offer to return here in 4 mos and stay for a year. My head can't decide which of 500 possible commitments available to be made, it should freak out over first...so we take turns. I miss the mountains. I love the people. My new friends from the school and the students alike, make it easy to want to return...knowing I am missing out on my nieces back home, makes it hard to want to stay away for long.
I am still in shock from the cycling. Can't conjure a big enough, loud enough or rediculous enough victory dance for the success of such an insane event. I don't even know how we got the permission from the school, much less the kids parents, to let us take them out! I think the school (the one I've been working for) director, just signed a piece of paper saying he'd be responsible for their safety, and away we went. Top it off with the fact that 3 local cycling teams showed up to accompany us, which then brought their own traffic controllers (men on motor bikes w/ bull horns for the front and back of the pack) who appeared out of nowhere, and we had a bloody parade! It was amazing! One girl nearly fainted at 6km, where we made a break for bananas and water. 12km was free coffee, compliments of a local coffee producer and a tour of the coffee roasting process for the kids. Jacked up on sugar and caffiene, and now w/o the love of our cycling teams (they took the coffee and ran...not thinking much of our rockin' 12km/hr pace), we shoved 'em all out for a back-track to start. It was (everyone sing along w/ me here) FU-CKING BRILL-IANT!!!!!!!
So, that's a start. I am still tromping around in my dorky bike gear, so I'm going to go ditch that for now and take a victory swim in the 100+ degree weather we're sporting here in Laos. I have to go recover my sense of sanity and promise to emerge refreshed w/ extensive interviews and opinions. Love love.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
what about it
What I was trying to tell you, somewhere between my own self conscious editing and your girlfriends sweeping sabotages, is that I love the mountains. I love them because at least when there's a physical mountain in front of me, I can climb it. I can cuss at it. I can struggle and push and fight w/ it. When there's no mountain, I make one. I make them in my mind or in my heart...those mountains are far harder for me to summit.
I saw those pictures you took, of mountains in far away lands, and my heart cried. I know what I want, and I was momentarily distracted by an invisible view: I want to climb every mountain. I want that huge expanse of blue sky and sharp, fresh air shot in my face. I want the vertigo, looking out over a pass I just spent inumerable hours struggling to climb. I want the mountains, and I want the people who burn for the same. I want those people beside me so long as we seek the same path. Then, to not pretend we share something once we realize we've parted ways. I want my life, as big and open and undefined as those skies. As ever changing, unpredictable and unapologetic as the views. I want the mountains shouting vertical, holding adamant, solid indiference beneath my feet. I want the wind hollering at my chest, "Are you done fighting yet?!?!". I want to stand in the presence of others who can't sit still knowing there is something else in life that they seek to find, to experience, to know. I want to burn, to bask, to devour, absorb and inhale every moment of my life and rest in the moments of hysterical exhaustion, knowing I am not settling. Knowing I am being absurd. Knowing it's soley my insistance that drives me believing I can only find peace on a mountain top. I want to sleep knowing I am pursuing what I love, even when it takes the shape of 500 days rest and 1,000 consecutive feasts of shite filled, cream cookies. So long as it's what makes my soul soar, my heart full and my senses alive. I want my life. I want to live it fully...and, I do not want to fear the richness of being still, of being in love, and of being loved in return. I do not want to overlook the fact that mountains come in many forms and incredible, breathtaking views often appear in the most unexpected places. I do not want to be so focused on that peak and a fantasized view, that I forget the beauty that is standing right in front of me. I do not want to apologize for my reach. I do not want to beg forgiveness for my hunger. I want to be...and be okay with that...all that it entails...
Something like that anyway...that's roughly what I want (which I was not attempting to tell you). That is how I feel about mountains though, and approximately what I was trying to tell you before I caught and curbed myself from spilling dramatic, proverbial guts. As for your hawk-eyed friend, damn. You scored. I'm paying extra for the luxury of icey cold in my room. Only difference is mine has a button I can push to shut it off.
I saw those pictures you took, of mountains in far away lands, and my heart cried. I know what I want, and I was momentarily distracted by an invisible view: I want to climb every mountain. I want that huge expanse of blue sky and sharp, fresh air shot in my face. I want the vertigo, looking out over a pass I just spent inumerable hours struggling to climb. I want the mountains, and I want the people who burn for the same. I want those people beside me so long as we seek the same path. Then, to not pretend we share something once we realize we've parted ways. I want my life, as big and open and undefined as those skies. As ever changing, unpredictable and unapologetic as the views. I want the mountains shouting vertical, holding adamant, solid indiference beneath my feet. I want the wind hollering at my chest, "Are you done fighting yet?!?!". I want to stand in the presence of others who can't sit still knowing there is something else in life that they seek to find, to experience, to know. I want to burn, to bask, to devour, absorb and inhale every moment of my life and rest in the moments of hysterical exhaustion, knowing I am not settling. Knowing I am being absurd. Knowing it's soley my insistance that drives me believing I can only find peace on a mountain top. I want to sleep knowing I am pursuing what I love, even when it takes the shape of 500 days rest and 1,000 consecutive feasts of shite filled, cream cookies. So long as it's what makes my soul soar, my heart full and my senses alive. I want my life. I want to live it fully...and, I do not want to fear the richness of being still, of being in love, and of being loved in return. I do not want to overlook the fact that mountains come in many forms and incredible, breathtaking views often appear in the most unexpected places. I do not want to be so focused on that peak and a fantasized view, that I forget the beauty that is standing right in front of me. I do not want to apologize for my reach. I do not want to beg forgiveness for my hunger. I want to be...and be okay with that...all that it entails...
Something like that anyway...that's roughly what I want (which I was not attempting to tell you). That is how I feel about mountains though, and approximately what I was trying to tell you before I caught and curbed myself from spilling dramatic, proverbial guts. As for your hawk-eyed friend, damn. You scored. I'm paying extra for the luxury of icey cold in my room. Only difference is mine has a button I can push to shut it off.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
enter
House lights to half.
House lights out.
Curtain up.
Stage lights.
Enter: Clueless white girl w/ big, black eye.
Enter: Communication gap
Enter: Social misinterpretations translating as hostility and predjudice
Enter: Self consciousness and severe questioning of motives
Enter: Class of 7 Laos students ranging 10-14 yrs of age w/ attention span of 3 yr old and attitude to rival that of clueless white girl
...get the picture??? Ha. Ha ha. Ha...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
I swear I'm coming home, moving my shit back to Montana, settling my ass into a construction business and getting a dog! Screw all this worldly perspective and broadening of horizons! What is this but another oportunity to clam up into the self inhibited shell and fear the world of collapsing sky? Why is it so hard for me to leave myself alone? So fucking difficult to imagine maybe the world doesn't want to kill me, cheat me, loathe me? What is it w/ people? That we're all so scared of each other, we can't make it out of our own stupid, spineless, narrow minded, conspiracy theory heads, long enough to see we're all doing the same damn thing?!?!? I know I'm being an idiot! I know I'm creating my own experience, and I STILL can't get my head out of my ass long enough to overcome my momentary defeat of being refused at a market stall! Two actually. I feel like an outsider. I look like an outsider. And hell if I know how to break the ice and quit finding it necessary to appologize for things I do automatically, that offend the hell out of the locals! Direct eye contact? Yep, "aggressive". Motioning w/ your hands, pointing or rapid motion? Uh huh, "aggressive". Inability to speak the language??? Can you say "DISADVANTAGE"? And that's the PC term.
Part of me puts my head down and starts getting ready to bulldoze. Part of me is reconcilled by the thought that I only have to do this for another couple of weeks and then I can go home. Part of me refuses to let this be my final note here, and stands back up to dust off and try again. The best part being, that I know I can and will go home, and do this same thing in my own country. I will inevitably find the "enemy" in my own back yard, and stand there yelling obscenities at it for days, only to realize I'm yelling at my own reflection. Did anybody get an owners manual w/ this life? Could you forward me a copy, because I am in desperate need of...of...I was going to say comprehension, but maybe what I really need is an enema. Squeeze tight honey, that's right. Now, just hold on, as tight as you can, to aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the shit you can muster.
You know, I really think that blogs are the therapy of the future. Hell, the therapy of the now. What better venue to listen to yourself bitch and complain (for free! hello?) and then have the opportunity to go back and re-read your session, thereby given the chance to both vent and reflect. Vent and reflect. Vent and reflect. Sounds like a bad dance move or exercise to release...I'll stop there. Knowing all along, that you can then proceed to release your "expression" into the open, public forum of the internet, full of people...just like you. God bless 'em, me, you, whoever, whatever. Anybody have any good ideas for foreign language class activities?
Enter: Deep breath and gratitude.
Lights out.
Curtain.
House lights out.
Curtain up.
Stage lights.
Enter: Clueless white girl w/ big, black eye.
Enter: Communication gap
Enter: Social misinterpretations translating as hostility and predjudice
Enter: Self consciousness and severe questioning of motives
Enter: Class of 7 Laos students ranging 10-14 yrs of age w/ attention span of 3 yr old and attitude to rival that of clueless white girl
...get the picture??? Ha. Ha ha. Ha...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
I swear I'm coming home, moving my shit back to Montana, settling my ass into a construction business and getting a dog! Screw all this worldly perspective and broadening of horizons! What is this but another oportunity to clam up into the self inhibited shell and fear the world of collapsing sky? Why is it so hard for me to leave myself alone? So fucking difficult to imagine maybe the world doesn't want to kill me, cheat me, loathe me? What is it w/ people? That we're all so scared of each other, we can't make it out of our own stupid, spineless, narrow minded, conspiracy theory heads, long enough to see we're all doing the same damn thing?!?!? I know I'm being an idiot! I know I'm creating my own experience, and I STILL can't get my head out of my ass long enough to overcome my momentary defeat of being refused at a market stall! Two actually. I feel like an outsider. I look like an outsider. And hell if I know how to break the ice and quit finding it necessary to appologize for things I do automatically, that offend the hell out of the locals! Direct eye contact? Yep, "aggressive". Motioning w/ your hands, pointing or rapid motion? Uh huh, "aggressive". Inability to speak the language??? Can you say "DISADVANTAGE"? And that's the PC term.
Part of me puts my head down and starts getting ready to bulldoze. Part of me is reconcilled by the thought that I only have to do this for another couple of weeks and then I can go home. Part of me refuses to let this be my final note here, and stands back up to dust off and try again. The best part being, that I know I can and will go home, and do this same thing in my own country. I will inevitably find the "enemy" in my own back yard, and stand there yelling obscenities at it for days, only to realize I'm yelling at my own reflection. Did anybody get an owners manual w/ this life? Could you forward me a copy, because I am in desperate need of...of...I was going to say comprehension, but maybe what I really need is an enema. Squeeze tight honey, that's right. Now, just hold on, as tight as you can, to aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall the shit you can muster.
You know, I really think that blogs are the therapy of the future. Hell, the therapy of the now. What better venue to listen to yourself bitch and complain (for free! hello?) and then have the opportunity to go back and re-read your session, thereby given the chance to both vent and reflect. Vent and reflect. Vent and reflect. Sounds like a bad dance move or exercise to release...I'll stop there. Knowing all along, that you can then proceed to release your "expression" into the open, public forum of the internet, full of people...just like you. God bless 'em, me, you, whoever, whatever. Anybody have any good ideas for foreign language class activities?
Enter: Deep breath and gratitude.
Lights out.
Curtain.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
shine on
Don't do it you little shit, I thought. I had watched the woman sweeping the sidewalk, shoo the dog away from her. There was plenty of grass to the right of the walk, and nothing but traffic on the left, including me, out for a morning bike cruise. Don't even think about it you flea-ridden mut. The dog took one look at me, paused, and then dove into my wheel. Awesome. My first Asia bike wreck. No helmet, and I didn't even get to keep the dog. I did however, get to slam my shoulder into the road, bounce my head off the pavement at appx 15mph and mess up my hair. Damn it.
Lucky for me, and everyone else involved, when I think I might actually be hurt, I get quiet. Then, I get pissed off. Wanted to kill the dog. He was long gone. Wanted to yell at the woman who had shoo'd him into my path, not even bothering to see if I was okay. Decided against it. Wanted to make sure my face was still attached. It was. Picked up my bike and water bottle that had escaped on impact and threw them at the side of the road, then stood on the sidewalk and well, cried.
A woman in a car and a man in a tuk-tuk, who had seen it all go down, pulled over to help me. I wasn't hurt so much as scared and I could see that a lump was forming under my right eye. Fucking dog. Of all things! Whatever. I couldn't stop crying and didn't quite know what to do. A few minutes of confusion, and I got in the car w/ the woman who was speaking English, bless her. I gave my bike to the guy in the tuk-tuk, to follow us, and half hoped he would disappear with the cursed thing. I'm thinking to myself that I know better than to be running around w/ useless break pads, but I'm not sure that would have made a difference. I would likely have just thrown mysef over the handlebars instead of run into the dog...I can't believe I got into a bike wreck w/ a dog.
The woman brought me to her house, the tuk-tuk dropped my bike off and I thanked and paid him 50 cents--still love this country. She, Pu, led me to the bathroom, gave me a towel and helped me clean my scratches, then put iodine on everything and sent me to the couch, "to help you relax".
"Thank you. Thank you so much." I said. I was fine, am fine. Still, I wanted a moment to freeze. Freeze and cry my heart out becuase I didn't know what else to do.
"I need to get back to the g.h. I am supposed to meet a man at 10:30 about a teaching job"...looking like I just made out w/ someone's fist. Sweet. For the moment, just breathe. Breathe through the momentary shock...of plowing into a dog. I can't help laughing and crying at mysef and the stupidity of the situation. I give it a few minutes before picking myself up, cussing the dog, my bike, my idiotic refusal to change brake pads, and now I'm ready to ride again.
Back at the guest house, I retreive my clean laundry. Looking the underwear-counting-laundry-man square in the eye, pretending like I don't appear to have just had my ass handed to me, puffy eye, dirt and torn fabric decorating my right side...becuse it's important to defend one's sense of pride regarding underwear. I need a cup of coffee and a shower.
All that and an interview later, I am here to tell you that I will begin teaching English at a small, Vientiene college, on Monday. In addition, I've been recruited to help brainstorm and organize a student cycling event. The goal: To encourage biking, over driving cars and motorbikes, while providing a venue to speak English.
"Bicycle to Speak English" he says, smiling.
Somehow, this is to fit w/in my three week, Vientiene window. And I now have an offer to stay for a year and be provided w/ a decent (for Laos) paying job and endless opportunities...dear god, when it rains it pours.
Lucky for me, and everyone else involved, when I think I might actually be hurt, I get quiet. Then, I get pissed off. Wanted to kill the dog. He was long gone. Wanted to yell at the woman who had shoo'd him into my path, not even bothering to see if I was okay. Decided against it. Wanted to make sure my face was still attached. It was. Picked up my bike and water bottle that had escaped on impact and threw them at the side of the road, then stood on the sidewalk and well, cried.
A woman in a car and a man in a tuk-tuk, who had seen it all go down, pulled over to help me. I wasn't hurt so much as scared and I could see that a lump was forming under my right eye. Fucking dog. Of all things! Whatever. I couldn't stop crying and didn't quite know what to do. A few minutes of confusion, and I got in the car w/ the woman who was speaking English, bless her. I gave my bike to the guy in the tuk-tuk, to follow us, and half hoped he would disappear with the cursed thing. I'm thinking to myself that I know better than to be running around w/ useless break pads, but I'm not sure that would have made a difference. I would likely have just thrown mysef over the handlebars instead of run into the dog...I can't believe I got into a bike wreck w/ a dog.
The woman brought me to her house, the tuk-tuk dropped my bike off and I thanked and paid him 50 cents--still love this country. She, Pu, led me to the bathroom, gave me a towel and helped me clean my scratches, then put iodine on everything and sent me to the couch, "to help you relax".
"Thank you. Thank you so much." I said. I was fine, am fine. Still, I wanted a moment to freeze. Freeze and cry my heart out becuase I didn't know what else to do.
"I need to get back to the g.h. I am supposed to meet a man at 10:30 about a teaching job"...looking like I just made out w/ someone's fist. Sweet. For the moment, just breathe. Breathe through the momentary shock...of plowing into a dog. I can't help laughing and crying at mysef and the stupidity of the situation. I give it a few minutes before picking myself up, cussing the dog, my bike, my idiotic refusal to change brake pads, and now I'm ready to ride again.
Back at the guest house, I retreive my clean laundry. Looking the underwear-counting-laundry-man square in the eye, pretending like I don't appear to have just had my ass handed to me, puffy eye, dirt and torn fabric decorating my right side...becuse it's important to defend one's sense of pride regarding underwear. I need a cup of coffee and a shower.
All that and an interview later, I am here to tell you that I will begin teaching English at a small, Vientiene college, on Monday. In addition, I've been recruited to help brainstorm and organize a student cycling event. The goal: To encourage biking, over driving cars and motorbikes, while providing a venue to speak English.
"Bicycle to Speak English" he says, smiling.
Somehow, this is to fit w/in my three week, Vientiene window. And I now have an offer to stay for a year and be provided w/ a decent (for Laos) paying job and endless opportunities...dear god, when it rains it pours.
chopping block
I have memories of growing up, standing in the kitchen next to my mom as she peeled and hacked apart raw meat for family dinners. She would wrinkle her nose and pick away, saying things like "This makes me want to be a vegetarian." and "Anyone who wants to be a meat eater, should have to prepare it too."
Mom taught me that one should know where food really comes from, not just what shelf to find it on in the grocery store. I completely agree. This trip alone has inspired me to go home and raise my own food, in particular chickens...specifically roosters. I dream of the day when I can strangle one of the little buggers w/ my own two hands, or walk out my front door at 3 a.m., and apply a well aimed sling-shot projectile into it's cock-a-doodle-dooing-arse and not be commiting some horrible crime against another person in another country. Then, fry it up and enjoy the hell out of the fruits of my labor. Alas, this dreamy pleasure will have to wait, and I am straying from my point.
Point being: There is a lot to be said for knowing the intricate details of dirtywork. It makes a person greatful for finished products, even simple ones. Mom says it makes a person, "connected to the whole experience." And so it was, that I found myself feeling "connected" to my dirty laundry this morning.
Now, you have to understand, that it's almost rediculous NOT to have your laundry done here. It's not the Princess affair you might think, and I have done plenty of laundry in a variety of ways to prove that very point to myself on this trip. For a mere dollar, 80 cents if you are willing to walk a few blocks, you can have your clothes washed (a helluvalot better than the soapy-rinsing-in-the-shower that passes for "clean" on the road), dried, pressed and returned to you in a few hours. No drippy mess on your slick tile floors. No need to clean up drippy mess w/ single supplied towel that would serve better applied to clean backside. No luxury mosquito breeding ground created from hrs of wet clothes humidifying your concrete-cell-haven of a room...do I actually feel guilty enough to keep defending myself here? It makes sense. Furthermore, I have a deep appreciation for anyone who does my laundry, ever since I went to college, right Ma?
So, like any other day, I stuffed my little pile of laundry (may I say that I pride myself on just how little that pile is, and remains...James), into a plastic bag and brought it down to he "front desk"--in this case, a collapsable card table that indeed looks likely to collapse under any ill-placed weight. I fully intended to drop my little bag off, have it weighed, pay and walk away to retreive it later tonight. Oh no. Not today. Today I am to feel "connected."
"Laundry?" I ask the guy perched in an equally dodgey and likely to collapse, red plastic chair. I recognize him as one of the guest house attendants. He's about my age and speaks a little English. Thank god, because my Lao is useless.
"How many?" He asks me.
"I'm sorry? What?"
"How many?" He repeats, and opens the bag, pulling out my fisherman pants.
Oh god, please don't pull out my dirty laundry right here in the front entry, I'm thinking. And that's exactly what he does.
To my own, somewhat amused horror, I watch a man my own age, who I might share a 20 words of english w/, count my dirty underwear and well worn, inside out, bike shorts, in the g.h. lobby. Me, trying to maintain my composure as he made no delicate show of trying NOT to touch my underwear--we all know the thumb and forefinger "pick", complete w/ pinkie in air and look on face. It was an intimate affair, just the two of us...and a wall of silence as I tried not to run, hide or take over and slap his hands out of my increasingly exposing laundry bag.
Of course someone would eventually have had to do this, otherwise how would they keep all the laundry straight? I've just never had to stand there while someone did it. Nor did it occur to me that a man my age would be doing it. I just didn't think about it! Like having to answer to the trick of piling your dirties on the top of any bag you know will be searched by the airlines. "Bastards," I always giggle to myself when I'm doing it, but hope to god I am well out of sight when they get around to the digging. Much more amused by the fantasy of "sticking it to the man", than I am of answering for my mischief. But I never actually mean any mischief w/ my laundry here!
He got to the end and a sock, which had escaped the first sensus, fell on the floor. He started to pull everything out again and I couldn't bear it. I was actually getting pissed at this point. "I'll go find the sock and bring everything back" I said, grabbing the bag and it's contents.
I went back to my room, found the missing sock, carefully counted EVERY piece of laundry, and brought it back. "Thirteen" I said. "And, thank you." As I sprinted for the door.
Moral of story: Know the in's and out's of your own dirty laundry so someone else doesn't have to tell you.
Mom taught me that one should know where food really comes from, not just what shelf to find it on in the grocery store. I completely agree. This trip alone has inspired me to go home and raise my own food, in particular chickens...specifically roosters. I dream of the day when I can strangle one of the little buggers w/ my own two hands, or walk out my front door at 3 a.m., and apply a well aimed sling-shot projectile into it's cock-a-doodle-dooing-arse and not be commiting some horrible crime against another person in another country. Then, fry it up and enjoy the hell out of the fruits of my labor. Alas, this dreamy pleasure will have to wait, and I am straying from my point.
Point being: There is a lot to be said for knowing the intricate details of dirtywork. It makes a person greatful for finished products, even simple ones. Mom says it makes a person, "connected to the whole experience." And so it was, that I found myself feeling "connected" to my dirty laundry this morning.
Now, you have to understand, that it's almost rediculous NOT to have your laundry done here. It's not the Princess affair you might think, and I have done plenty of laundry in a variety of ways to prove that very point to myself on this trip. For a mere dollar, 80 cents if you are willing to walk a few blocks, you can have your clothes washed (a helluvalot better than the soapy-rinsing-in-the-shower that passes for "clean" on the road), dried, pressed and returned to you in a few hours. No drippy mess on your slick tile floors. No need to clean up drippy mess w/ single supplied towel that would serve better applied to clean backside. No luxury mosquito breeding ground created from hrs of wet clothes humidifying your concrete-cell-haven of a room...do I actually feel guilty enough to keep defending myself here? It makes sense. Furthermore, I have a deep appreciation for anyone who does my laundry, ever since I went to college, right Ma?
So, like any other day, I stuffed my little pile of laundry (may I say that I pride myself on just how little that pile is, and remains...James), into a plastic bag and brought it down to he "front desk"--in this case, a collapsable card table that indeed looks likely to collapse under any ill-placed weight. I fully intended to drop my little bag off, have it weighed, pay and walk away to retreive it later tonight. Oh no. Not today. Today I am to feel "connected."
"Laundry?" I ask the guy perched in an equally dodgey and likely to collapse, red plastic chair. I recognize him as one of the guest house attendants. He's about my age and speaks a little English. Thank god, because my Lao is useless.
"How many?" He asks me.
"I'm sorry? What?"
"How many?" He repeats, and opens the bag, pulling out my fisherman pants.
Oh god, please don't pull out my dirty laundry right here in the front entry, I'm thinking. And that's exactly what he does.
To my own, somewhat amused horror, I watch a man my own age, who I might share a 20 words of english w/, count my dirty underwear and well worn, inside out, bike shorts, in the g.h. lobby. Me, trying to maintain my composure as he made no delicate show of trying NOT to touch my underwear--we all know the thumb and forefinger "pick", complete w/ pinkie in air and look on face. It was an intimate affair, just the two of us...and a wall of silence as I tried not to run, hide or take over and slap his hands out of my increasingly exposing laundry bag.
Of course someone would eventually have had to do this, otherwise how would they keep all the laundry straight? I've just never had to stand there while someone did it. Nor did it occur to me that a man my age would be doing it. I just didn't think about it! Like having to answer to the trick of piling your dirties on the top of any bag you know will be searched by the airlines. "Bastards," I always giggle to myself when I'm doing it, but hope to god I am well out of sight when they get around to the digging. Much more amused by the fantasy of "sticking it to the man", than I am of answering for my mischief. But I never actually mean any mischief w/ my laundry here!
He got to the end and a sock, which had escaped the first sensus, fell on the floor. He started to pull everything out again and I couldn't bear it. I was actually getting pissed at this point. "I'll go find the sock and bring everything back" I said, grabbing the bag and it's contents.
I went back to my room, found the missing sock, carefully counted EVERY piece of laundry, and brought it back. "Thirteen" I said. "And, thank you." As I sprinted for the door.
Moral of story: Know the in's and out's of your own dirty laundry so someone else doesn't have to tell you.
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