USF - VOLUME TWO!

Same same, but different. For Michael Hall's latest blog, visit Upward Steady Forward: Volume 2

I'm Lush Triumphant!

I submitted a story to a creative non-fiction contest called Lush Triumphant about a year ago, and low and behold it has been selected for publishing! It will be published in the forthcoming issue of SUBTERRAIN MAGAZINE.

Subterrain is having a party for the release of the issue and yours truly will be reading from "Bukowski My Boilermaker." The event is this Tuesday April 24th at the Montmarte Cafe on Main street. Show up about 7:30 or so to get a seat.

The Joy of Jetlag

I watched seven films on the plane. Which is to say that it was a long flight, and which will also suggest that I didn't sleep much for those 24 hours. Additionally, I can personally attest to not sleeping the fourteen before the flight from Hanoi with various "last minute details" to sort out. All of which implies that I had been up for a long time, and thus would explain - as I stood amidships waiting for the bathroom to switch to VACANT - how I was suddenly able to look down, past my feet in purple complimentary Singapore Airlines socks and not only see the stuffed piles of baggage in the holds below our seats, but beyond them to the 33,000 feet of freezing cold air and the mighty pacific Ocean.

Christyn and Boggie found a tallish zombie with TV shaped eyes and lungs full of two-stroke Hanoi exhaust wandering about International arrivals and decided to take him home. He proved to be most unsocial, running exclusively, as he was, on excitement and airline coffee, but was able enough to recount a few quick stories and dole out a present or two before retiring to a refreshingly chilly East Vancouver sleep on a soft, horizontal and non-moving bed.

The story actually begins with the zombie boy waking up in his sister's apartment, a delightful and nostalgic place where the intermingling of him and his sister's lives were present in all-colourful detail. It was strange to be home, surrounded by photos, paintings, CDs and kitchenware that had been such an important parts of his life just six months before. All day he kept having the sensation that he hadn't left for his trip at all, and the last six months had been a long and detailed dream perhaps beginning the night of his going away party and ending a day later. An email from Rachael that morning definitively proved that he had been away (YES!).

Jet lag is one of the true gifts of international travel, it permits you to remain distant and unattached from your surroundings: I walked out onto Commercial Drive at 5 am, as wide awake as I would be at 5pm to make some observations.

The air in Vancouver is immaculate. I spent a good half an hour this morning simply breathing and enjoying not only the quality of air, but its temperature. It was the olfactory equivalent of drinking a cold beer after a hot day's work.

I enjoyed the effortless transaction of conversation realizing how much effort we actually put into every bit of communication when we are in non-English speaking countries. It was relaxing to not have to think and to be fluid and automatic in my behavior.

Though its wet and soggy, Vancouver is beautiful. As much as soupy monsoon heat was getting to me after a while I was more than a little overwhelmed by the freezing rain when I landed at YVR. As I walked around however, I observed that it was cherry blossom season, and this is only made possible by the changing of seasons. Rain is part of what makes this place what it is. I had found my pea coat amongst my sister's things anyway, and whatever nostalgia came along with its adornment was quickly engulfed by its practicality and warmth.

So long, land of smiles.

Well, its my last night in the stinkin' hot Bangkok and I'm actually sad to be going. I accidentally spent over a month in this friendly little country and have had a bloody fantastic time.

Having been seriously Bangkok'd (not hard to do) we decided to take a train to splits-ville a few days ago. We spent the last three or four days, train hoppin' north of Bangkok, managing to find some sweet little towns (THE PHOTOS!) Thoughts now turn to Vietnam where Rachael and I will meet Michael Gardiner and Chris Ousten for two solid weeks of adventure.

Time is coming to a close, so its head's up and full speed ahead.

WHAT? MONKEY! LAUNDRY?

I wasn't always scared of monkeys. There was a time even a few innocent weeks before when I would delight in watching our simian brothers: the fireball sun slid behind Mosques and roof-top kitchens and laundry lines became the playgrounds for nature's greatest thieves. With a chai in hand and a hot wind at my back I would happily spectate the unfolding drama from my safe, marble guesthouse laughing heartily at the crafty fellows and the comical misfortunes of others.

My feelings changed one hot morning in the tiny Rajasthani town of Pushkar. Christyn, my sister and eager travel companion was "taking one for the team," rolling about in our hotel room in mild delirium with a hung-over case of Delhi-Belly. She had finally fallen asleep and I left her in sweaty peace intending to return shortly with water, the strongest available painkillers and those sweet milky treats from around the corner she liked so much. I closed the door quietly, as two panting, red-faced English travelers came bounding up the stairs.

"What's the matter?" I asked, imagining perhaps that they both had the runs and something was going around.

"Redass 'n the courtyard. E's big." The first one said, while the second, not bothering to catch his breath pushed me on his mission upwards.

"Redass?" I said, "You mean a monkey?"

"Yeah," he said looking behind him, then me directly in the eyes. "A monkey."

After what seemed like a long time looking in my eyes he shoved himself past me. The sounds of flip-flops smacking marble and laboured breathing slowly faded away ending abruptly with a slamming door. I took a few steps forward and looked over the metal banister.

Sitting contently in the middle of the grass courtyard sat a large monkey. He picked at himself, and (it seemed to me at the time) caused no immediate concern to anyone. Having never seen a monkey so close before I seized the opportunity to get a better look. I slid another few steps along the banister, past the edge of the rail and carefully took a few steps down the stairs.

Seemingly out of nowhere Vijay, the hotel owner came sprinting into the courtyard with the fast-legged style of Toshirô Mifune in Kurosawa's samurai flicks. He dropped a full-sized fire hose in front of him, picked up the giant brass nozzle and with a formidable and impressive battle cry, hurled the mighty nozzle at the monkey.

The monkey easily strafed the first impact, dodging the first blow that left a sizable divot in the dry grass. I was so stunned, so caught up and confused by the intensity of unfolding events that I didn't notice myself powerlessly drawn towards the scene. Vijay reeled the hose back and launched it again with deadly accuracy before the monkey could properly get its bearings. Taken by surprise, the monkey was forced to make a last desperate minute leap out of the way. To compensate, he jumped off one of the courtyard walls, swung up a banister onto the first level and was sent hurling towards me.

It was roughly about this time when a new mental image of monkeys developed in my mind. The idea of monkeys as fun, playful creatures that I had happily accepted until that exact point in my life was suddenly in direct and violent conflict with the spindly naked monster I saw flying towards me. I was shocked by its speed, its agility and precision; no matter where it flung its body, it used ninja-style rolls and grace to transfer itself in a direction it wanted. Before I had seen playfulness in his eyes, but suddenly I saw flashes of violence, of a life fighting for survival. In his bared rows of white teeth I saw weapons to my flesh. The words, “RABIES,” “AIDS” flashed before me. And if all this wasn't enough, he made a sound that sent icicles through my skin; a deep low breathing sound, like a group of lifetime smokers gasping for their collective lives. That sound communicated everything to me: this monkey had nothing to fear from me, nothing to loose in an attack, and he knew it.

"Make the fast running!" I heard Vijay bellow from below, breaking me from trance.

Ladies and gentlemen, I “made the fast running" faster than I have every “made the fast running before”. Inspired by a brand new fear and the encouragement of my esteemed friend and hotel operator, I pushed those eight rupee flip flops to the maximum of their intended performance. I gained big speed moving over the stairs but miscalculated the slipperiness of the floor and skidded out, crashing my knee into the wall. It was a bad landing but I knew I had to keep moving - the monkey was on the banister behind me. I lunged forward, skating with my feet and galloping with my arms, leaping for the door to my room.

Christyn jolted into a defensive karate pose on the bed as I crumpled onto the floor, pushing the door shut with legs. Pillow marks creased her face and her posture had the tension that life reserves for those torn from deep sleep.

"WHAT?" she screamed at me, disoriented, confused, distilling all possible questioning to a single, definitive point.

"MONKEY!" I retorted, in pain and shock, distilling all available information into a single, definitive, answer.

"LAUNDRY!" she yelled, jumping off the bed and throwing the door open.

Holding my throbbing knee I crawled to the door in time to see the monkey climbing up the final of the hotel's five floors of banisters. My favourite white shirt and Christyn's new shawl were clenched in his small hand. The monkey paused a moment to look back upon us before he disappeared over the cement roof.

“I paid 35 rupees for that shawl,” Christyn said before doing a zombie walk and face-planting on the bed. I’m not sure she was ever even awake.

So it goes that in those fleeting moments in the small dessert oasis of Pushkar, India, my relationship with monkeys was forever changed. I limped down to the market to get our supplies (the list now including anti-inflammatory pills and ice) walking past the divots in the courtyard and Vijay spooling his weapon. As I watched him reel in his hose I knew that my days of watching those playful creatures romp about on unguarded rooftops were gone, because these days I cannot possibly conceive of or look upon a monkey without the stinging association of flying fire hoses, stolen laundry and out-of-shape English travelers.

Son, Things Get Worse, Before They Get Better

Leaving paradise is always a difficult business.

No matter how hard we try, (as if we try at all) we allow ourselves to slip into a blissful naivete about our lives when we get to these beaches. We side-step our problems choosing wisely to focus on all the details that make life worth living, AKA: eating, drinking, sleeping, climbing, laughing. Its a good life, but after weeks of this living in the now business; waking up to monkeys swinging through the trees, taking deep. self-fulfilled breaths of humid morning air, and making the tough choices about where to have breakfast, lunch and dinner, after all this, "relaxing" business, exposure to real world beyond our little Pra-Nang peninsula is pretty goddamned intense.

I'm sure making the border run through the tiny Thai town of Ranong and over the river to developing Myanmar and back is a challenging ordeal by itself, but when you throw a slow-moving mind and body into the mix, the journey takes on epic proportion. Regardless with no days left on our Thai visas we fought our way out of Tonsai, surviving endless longtail waits, bumpy rides in the back of trucks, ladyboys undressing me with their eyes, and bus rides involving hours of endlessly repetitive Thai pop. We slept whenever possible, then rammed our way through customs, hired a real son-of-a-bitch Thai boat driver to take us to Myanmar, baking in the sun like chicken satay while he tried to push counterfeit American greenbacks on us. We made some enemies, won some friends, and manged to procure the necessary stamps and drink a Myanmar beer (its no Budweiser). We cooked the other side of our satay skin on the way back, making it to the bus station in time to endure the slow, rickety, twelve hour ride to Bangkok.

I've recently learned that my beloved Plushmobile is dead. Yes dead. She's filled with mold won't start even with a new battery. I do believe I would start crying if I wasn't so high on Thai iced coffee and mango stick rice. Leaving paradise is not for the faint of heart.

We're in Bangkok for the next few days waiting for the Vietnamese embassy to have their way with our passports,then with luck, karma, and a few more coffees we'll be off to Vietnam to meet my friends Michael and Chris on this, the last leg of my current adventure.

Crankin' Though Cafe Andaman 7b (5.12b)

Oh No, Disappointment !!!

To all my friends excited about reading my story in the Globe today, I can only tell you that it must have only been published in the Toronto edition or some such thing. They tell me it was on page 12 of the travel section and was accompanied with a cartoon drawn by the paper's cartoonist. .

Having read the web version (available HERE ) I can tell you that they story was dramatized, edited and homogenized before publishing. Best to read the real deal below.