Blind Massage 2.28.10

Is the date right on this? I wasn't liking the writing on this and haven't had much chance to post. So here comes a slough. I will try to add illustrations as I go on my photo management is rotten. I have too many.

After a long day of slogging through different places in HCMC Sophie suggested we take a soothing massage at a place recommended in Lonely Planet – an institute of blind practitioners. Sounds pretty great. We had images of nuns with Zen-like awareness relieving our stress and pain.

Before the session (about $4) I decided to take a pee – had images of some Heimlich manoeuvre on my bladder that would produce some cataclysmic event so I wanted to void my bladder. I had to run the gauntlet of about a dozen betowelled locals waiting by the steam room. I had been wondering where the Sumos hung out. In general the Vietnamese are lean and strong looking – here was a wall of generous flesh. The gentlemen stared at me, gimlet-eyed as I squeezed through their unyielding bulk to the toilet stall. Definitely hostility writ on their faces but I didn’t understand why. I squeezed back through the human wall and suddenly realized I hadn’t flushed – further proof, I am sure of my cultural inferiority.

Once back at the front desk I was directed to a stall surrounded by blue sheets. I was instructed to strip, lie down and wait for my masseur. No towel provided and only the curtain hung between me and the main entrance - so I was presenting ‘squab in a nest’ for the curious gawkers. The table was, in a word, scuzzy, but, in for a penny...

My masseur finally showed up. A young man who introduced himself as Pho. He bent forward and asked, ‘are you gay?’ For a moment I thought he was talking to me in Vietnamese, many of the words are monosyllabic, but I quickly got it. ‘Sorry, No ‘I croaked . Was I in the wrong room? He was silent for a moment then began to work (on my limbs and back). Pho talked noisily to his compatriots in adjacent massage cubicles. Finally he said to me ‘I have many foreigners clients. Do you want masturbate?’ I said ‘No, thanks, not today’. Why did I say that? He paused, then asked me quietly if I would give him a tip? I had a bit of difficulty understanding him at first then I wasn’t sure how to respond. His hands were pretty strong and I wanted to avoid physical injury on the first day of the trip so I suggested I would tip him for his good work. The rest of the massage proceeded, as they say, without incident.

I went down to the sun-baked courtyard to find Sophie sitting under lone scraggy little tree for the shade it offered I was attacked by a swarm of atom-sized fire ants that made a noose-tightening foray on my unmanipulated nether parts. Not since the days of Dien Bien Phu had a more devious assault been launched. I rapidly conducted a clever little anti-pismiric semaphore to the great amusement of the few sighted occupants of the compound and we fled, me doing a flailing pirouette that would have made Pierre T. grind his teeth with envy. Having vanquished the cruel arthropods(?) we hastened to a nearby establishment to consume a gallon or so of Saigon beer for its ameliorative effects.

Soph and I continue to be successful at crossing HCMC streets. Many have done so but I will attempt to describe the means by which one navigates streets in Ho Chi Minh City. Firstly one must envision oneself as a neutrino, passing through a dense screen of motorbikes (electrons)and more devastating vehicles (Protons). The vehicles are often up to 10 abreast, so it is kind of like playing frogger for keeps – but there is a ‘God loves You’ key stuck in the on position and miraculously one achieves the far curb with a feeling which is an incongruous admixture of superiority and humility. I also like to conjure up a bit of Cesar Milan, the Dog Whisperer and walk with certitude and strong energy. I think the drivers will sense weakness and pounce upon it like a tiger on a newborn deer.

And so to bed on my 2” foam mattress. Yum.

On Roots 02.27

We got profiled at the airport. Both Sophie and I were stopped and searched. They were looking for passive-aggressive types. They had dogs sniffing my bag. I was glad they didn’t bite mine off. I was shaken but Sophie bitch-slapped me and told me to man up. That helped. While we were waiting I saw the news on the monitor that poor Miga was beaten to death with a Bombardier torch in Yaletown. Vancouverites seem nice enough but they are so heavily caffeinated that they tend to be unpredictable.

later

An hour from Narita. I have never watched so many movies in my life. My favourite is ‘Where the Wild Things Are’. I loved the soundtrack and while it’s probably not the movie for everyone it is the movie for someone who grew up feeling ‘other’. So many of the fantasies and emotions are familiar territory– or were familiar. I probably won’t see another movie for three months so I guess that was my grist.

I realized about three hours into the flight that I have no capacity to understand the personal emotional impact of actions taken. Just to clarify; I do things and then I am suddenly struck with an unanticipated emotional reaction - I have undoubtedly romanticized the idea of the journey which distracted me from my reaction. Almost immediately after taking off my spirit momentarily tanked - I was going to miss some fixed things in my life very much. Kayla, Evan and Willow appeared in my mind, their faces as I saw them last – I experienced a mild physical shock - I didn’t realize how profoundly I am attached to them. Damn that cat. I briefly experienced a sort of dread - almost a longing which anticipates the time and distance that separate our seeing each other again. I reach out with an emotional thread to my loved ones and friends and determine to keep them close to me wherever we travel.

I thought of a new word for Nancy: marathong. No-brainer. I hope to see some dipthongs in Thailand.

later

landed in HCMC. It's a bazillion o'clock, haven't slept in about 30 hours and don't feel tired, just wired. It's warm and the night is funky in that urban tropical way - diesel, petrol, leaf-mould and something I've never been able to identify. The tocsin of moped and scooters outside the hotel - the punctuation of mechanical dialogue: 'make way', 'my turn', 'go ahead'. 'phuck you!' I will be making digital audio recordings of my envrions as well on this trip and posting those.

No photos worth posting, tomorrow I hope.

Problogue

Travel is a lot of things. When we decide to travel for ourselves I think it is mostly about creating a larger compass for our lives. The net of that idea is a recognition of mortality and capability. We want to collect stories and experiences that enrich our selves, our imaginations and our potential.

Is that it? Collecting sounds very materialistic. Got 'em, need 'em. Still what else is it? Pleasure and pain are certain to lie ahead. Disappointment and delight. The unknown comprises about 99.8% of what we will experience. I remember thinking when I was in Peru that all the things I had thought about - all the imaginings were as nothing to the reality. The feeblest bus ride or hike was infinitely more rich than anything I had imagined. The movie we can play in our heads is mere fantasy, the smell, touch and sight of a foreign place opens us up to the richness and sanctity of our planet; awe at the creativity and will to survive of all living things but particularly humans. Sidenote to that is the constant reminders of the absurd wealth and comfort we (white middle class) enjoy in Canada.

Back to mortality. It's not really where I should be focused perhaps but it is front of mind. While it's not equivalent to throwing ones self off a cliff there is some uncertainty in travel. I went to a concert yesterday. English songs were the foodstuff.

This by Matthew Arnold, mid 19th century:

Ah love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

I suppose I was affected by the idea that we ultimately only have each other. And what of that? Better have strong arms and a strong heart holding the rope. The thinking is kind of Buddhistic. He seems to be saying that all is illusion and life is dukkha, or is that just me?

I do want to say a couple of things about that poem. We have help for pain now, that was, like, one hundred and fifty years ago and thank God they invented oxycodon. And as for the struggle; we hope to avoid war zones but one never knows. We might create one.

Personally I hope for beauty and a challenge. Not too big a challenge though. Kind of Asian Dude Ranch strength please.

c


DUKKHA

"Now this, monks, is the Noble Truth of dukkha: Birth is dukkha, aging is dukkha, death is dukkha; sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, & despair are dukkha; association with the unbeloved is dukkha; separation from the loved is dukkha; not getting what is wanted is dukkha. In short, the five clinging-aggregates are dukkha."

— SN 56.11