Amateur Traveleur

Behold the ugly tourist.

I wanna pet the tigers! I wanna ride the elephants! I wanna go to the ladyboy show, the ping-pong show, the show-it-all show. I wanna get fucked up, bro. I wanna fuck, bro. This is Thailand, homeboy; we can do whatever the fuck we want! And it’s cheap.

Frenetic streets. The ladyboys make puckering noises at me as I pass by. Look he laugh, she says and her friends start the cat calls. I step over a beggar woman, child at her side. I side glance, side pity, but don’t slide a hand in my pocket for at least 5 baht. Just keep moving.

On the other side of the street is the prostitute beat. More calls, winks, beckons, toothy grins. As I am alone, they think I am like the other white men walking the red light: the middle-aged, paunchy, crooked smiling men; men out shopping; without-shame men; tank-topped, lascivious. Relentless. A woman grabs me by the arm—Come on sweetheart, we’ll have fun—and I push away, push on toward the Saturday Night Market because You just have to see the Saturday Night Market if you’re in Chiang Mai.

Hey man, you wanna tailored suit? You wanna Nikes? You wanna handmade scarf—fine Thai silk, man, fine Thai silk. Honey, I want some of those Thai pants. I want a Chang tank-top, man. Yo quiero. Je veux. Ich will. Wŏ yào. There is nothing for me at the market, but since I just had to see it, I go and walk the stalls, snapping pictures, clutching my camera, white knuckled.

Back in the Old City, I sit down in the atrium of a high class hotel. The swarming buzz of motorbikes outside is constant, as is the smog, as is the heat. The concierge smiles. She is beautiful. There is no point in talking to her, as she is the kind of beautiful where all the men talk to her; what’s the point?

I talk to her.

I wanna know how to say Yes and No in Thai. I wanna know how to say How do you get to _________. I wanna know how to say I’m sorry.

She obliges a lesson, looking at me directly in the eyes, as if searching for wicked deeds I’ve done. I try not to look away.

“You know you could take classes at the University here,” she says. “Thai is a beautiful language.”

It is, I agree. She teaches me phrases and the tones are light and airy, like the tickling fizz from a glass of cold Coke. Her English is excellent, better than my Thai will ever be. I ask how she learned it so flawlessly.

“I studied it on my own. I watched YouTube videos and TV. I love America and I wanted to move there, so I studied until I could speak fluently.”

Wanted to move there, I ask? Not anymore?

“I married a French guy. I tried to live in France, but I hated it. So now we live here again. It is nice living here. Thai people are so friendly and warm. The French were too cold. My husband is that way too. But I will change him. Maybe Americans are that way too: Cold. Maybe we will just stay in Thailand.”

I see. I put my hands together as if in prayer, say Kop khun krap, and head back into the streets. A suffocating, sweaty man is on a second floor balcony taking a Muay Thai lesson. He huffs and puffs and sweats more and tries to kick a punching bag but only succeeds in a light hit, the bag moving as much as it would from a breeze. Then two punches and a kick that misses and he sits down in a chair. The young man training him chuckles and the guy comments to his buddy, This is bloody ‘ard!

I walk past three monks, robed in the bright orange of embers alive. They smile and nod and turn into the Wat to continue their devotions. I pause from afar and take a picture. I want that quintessential monk picture.

The food market is pullulating. The aromas are humid, a billowing putrefaction. Flies burrow in the nooks between fruits, rats scamper out of the trash, there is always something wet across the asphalt floor. The market clings onto the street by its tendrils. Traffic passes just a meter away.

A woman with buzzed hair sits seemingly pugnacious at her stall. I’m afraid to point at the lukewarm soup, a purulent yellow with islands of fish carcass, and to say One please, as I gesture. I haven’t even tried to learn to say One or Please. The concierge never taught me. I never asked. So in English I point and say One please. The buzzed hair woman scoffs, fills a plastic bag, maintains her icy mien, and says in clear English, Sixty baht. I pay and run away, off to a table amid the throngs of carts and vendors. I open the bag and the soup suppurates into my bowl and I plunge my spoon in like I’m doing amateur surgery. The soup is wildly robust, a jungle deliciousness. The fish is soaked through with yellow spices, and the broth is thick. I am satiated, not left wanting.

I consider going back to the concierge, but remember that my life has been filled with such heartbreaks, that fleeting love, and the last thing I need in Chiang Mai is another. I find solace, albeit loneliness, in my guesthouse room. The mountain hamlet I had hoped for while planning this stopover does not exist, not in the Old City of Chang Mai at least. But Bhutan awaits and in Bhutan I will be a teacher, I will live with the people, I will be in the mountains, and I will be far away from any tourist. The sick leviathan that has consumed places like the Old City of Chiang Mai and is gnashing at it whilst its good citizens and bad tourists and good tourists and bad citizens collapse onto one another, will not consume me.

The air-conditioner hums, waves of hospital-like air fall onto me, diaphanous sheets from an arctic sky. I’ll hole up here a bit longer. Until it’s time to move on again.

An Update of Sorts

“Sorry. My Japanese no good. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Joshua. We are happy that you are back in Japan. It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, Horie-Sensei. Long time. Yes, Japan in I am. I am happy.”

“And you are off to Bhutan after this, eh Joshua? That’s incredible. Your wish has finally come true. You worked hard for it, didn’t you? It pays off, hard work. It always does. Finally, Bhutan! I hope to go and visit you.”

“Yes, Horie-Sensei. To Bhutan. Please coming and visit me. Yes. Lots of fun.”

The sun has set on the Jogasaki coast and the twilight has just begun. Horie-Sensei, Suyama-san, Ōhashi-san, Iga-chan, Kawamura-kun, and Rina-chan have all turned on their headlamps. The effect on the trail as we return to the fisherman’s inn is less than desirable for easy walking. We march in a line and the penumbra jumps and darts with our movement. It is hard to find good footing with such capricious light.

My headlamp is off because I think it is still not dark enough to merit using it. I am therefore an aberrant point in what would otherwise be an even, organized line of lights. It is one of many characteristics that marks me as different from my friends. I am alien from them in so many ways and now, with my headlamp off, it is just one more sign that there is a gaijin—a foreigner—among them once again.

My steps through the forest are less deliberate than they ought to be, a sign of growing fatigue. I have been in Japan only four days, but the omnipresent symphony of language, etiquette, and customs, along with full days of climbing, has exhausted me. I want to return to the inn, slip into my yukata, and sit on the tatami mats and drink tea. There will be an expectation to talk to my friends, as well there should be, and so I am attempting a walking rest in order to be ready for the Japanese that is sure to come.

“Hisashiburi, ne?”

Yes, it has been a long time. As I walk along the path, I think about what that time consisted of. The memories feel like hot sediment, mixed and dirty, still sifting themselves into organization, into something I can understand.

At one point there in the land of stars and stripes I was a defiant rebel against a racist regime called a “No Excuses” high school. Despite good intentions, the school covertly told these amazing students that they deserved less than their affluent, white-counterparts, that they needed to be obedient and strictly ruled over. I took arms with students who were angry at something none of us could quite define, something that we all knew threatened our happiness and well-being, like an invisible, suffocating smog. We fought in our way, creating a classroom that worked,  that was humane, challenging, fun. It was a safe haven among the school’s totalitarianism and rampant disorganization. But, as happens with injustice, I lost the fight. My students lost an ally. I was forced to leave them to fend for themselves.

But that time is over now.

I studied at a university. Perhaps I even learned something. I have a new, crisp diploma that says “Master” on it, but that, I’m afraid, conveys nothing about the knowledge I have nor about that which I still seek. But that piece of paper did prove to be my ticket to Bhutan, a ticket to that day at Jogasaki, a ticket to a three week visit in Japan and Thailand. That’s all diplomas are really, if used appropriately: tickets to something else, somewhere else.

I also fell in love—a visceral aching, a drunken stupor, nervous instability, terrible fear of loss—and I yearned for her. I spent winter snowstorms seeking her warmth. I spent spring days hoping for a chat at that café, a sharing of her brilliant ideas, an attempt at recognition that we were great for each other. But, once again I confronted the fact that, as it has been forever now, I am still a disciple of Not Yet, who sets forth the pillars by which the wanderer strictly adheres: Fall in love but do not stay in love, Do not call one place home, Do not create a life that you cannot escape. These are not tenets by which to build a relationship, and so I set off again, knowing that Not Yet took something from me as a sacrifice, as penance that, in exchange, will reward me with auspicious travels to come.

Still, it’s light enough to walk without my headlamp on. But whether it is an insult or not, I recognize my failure to embrace the Japanese way and I silently reprimand myself. I turn my headlamp on and the line is complete, all of us join together as dusk descends. We retire to the inn, one at a time taking our shoes off at the entrance, stepping into guest slippers and making our way to the tatami matted room. I slide the door to the room open and join my friends, sitting on the floor around the low table. Each of us reclines, stretches tight, aching fingers and shoulders and arms. We are lightly dusted in climbing chalk, slightly burned and sun fatigued.

“Why did you choose Bhutan, Joshua?”

“Mountains. Culture with no tourists. Teaching for the Bhutan happiness goal.”

“Subarashi, ne?”

“No, no, no. I need it. In America, many bad feeling. Many bored feeling. I need to live in other country. I really do. Life is turning happy again now.”

“Oh, I understand.”

Horie-Sensei has organized the perfect return to a country that I love more than as nostalgia. I offer to pay for the littlest of things and Horie-Sensei calmly explains, “Joshua, I am Japanese. It is very important for me to be hospitable. Your happiness on this trip is my happiness.” He refuses. I look up an expression that I’d like to say to him, but I cannot remember if it is exactly what I want to say: Osewa ni natte imasu. You are treating me with kindness and care.

We leave Jogasaki and we return to Fukushima, the place I called home three years ago. It feels like a waking dream, and I wonder if I ever left. Could it be that all of that time in America never happened? 

Not much has changed in Fukushima, nor in the sleepy hamlet of Ishikawa-town. The ramen shop still serves the chashumen that I have been craving for years, the elementary students still race off to school in their uniforms, raising their hands high in the air before crossing the streets. There is still a nightly call from the town’s intercom, wishing everyone a good night’s sleep.

I could just as easily settle back into that Japanese life I once had, spending time with good friends, teaching simple English lessons to four and five year olds, studying Japanese daily. But there is still a tapping at my shoulder, Not Yet reminding me that there is a world to see. Before I know it, I say goodbye to my friends, and we say, "Mata aimashou!" Until the next time. 

I am at Narita once again, boarding the plane. A quiet snow descends on the airport, and I am lifted to the next destination.