Thursday, March 20, 2008

Chapter7:CROSSING BORDERS into UNKNOWN. Tibet, Lamplight Unto a Darkened World







Chapter 7

Crossing Borders into the unknown








“He was a stranger, in a strange land”

-R. Heinlein






Tom finally felt comfortable leaving India. He was to spend a night in Varanasi, and it had lasted nearly two weeks. He didn’t want to leave until he had solved the paradoxical, and highly puzzling, mysteries India presented. Now, satisfied that he ‘got it,’ it was time for him to move on - to Nepal. He said goodbye to the Brits, settled his bill at the guesthouse, and wound his way down the ancient alley-like streets through the early morning darkness, until he reached a major road. Once there, he expected to have to wait for a rickshaw, but he was surprised as one magically appeared beside him.

“How much to the bus station?” he asked the driver.

“50 rupees, sir.”

“That’s too much. How about 30?” Tom countered.

“40, and that’s my final price,” said the driver without rancor.

"O.k., lets go. Just get there quickly.”

“I will indeed,” he promised.

“I guess I learned something from Susan after all,” he commented to himself. “At least I get better prices!”

As Tom jumped into the motorized rickshaw, he felt a breath of relief. This day’s travels started the last leg of his trip to Kathmandu. India, with all of its complexities would fall behind; as the mountains made their silent siren’s call to his soul. While Delhi was intense in its conflict, and Varanasi intently devout, the silence of the Himalayas called out to him.

“Isn’t that a contradiction?” he wondered.

“Silence, calling to me?“ he laughed. Yet, it made sense in a weird way.

“What’s harmony? Is it balance, with silence thrown in?“ he questioned himself randomly.

“My mind’s running everywhere these days...”

The ever-present reminders of the cycle of life in Varanasi were certainly calming. Yet, he still felt a nagging disconnection with nature.

“Sick and starving dogs at your feet, vultures circling above in the sky; and anemic cows roaming the streets,” he reminisced, already.

Then, he reminded himself that the animals weren’t intentionally abused. They were just forgotten in the press to survive. His thoughts rambled on, as the driver swiftly navigated through the near empty, early morning, streets.

“Here, sir,” said the driver, as the battered rickshaw came to an abrupt halt.

“Thank you. Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Yes sir. See sign? Noble Travels Tour.”

“Ohmmmm, ok.”

Once inside, he paid for his bus fare for the bus trip over the Indian border into Nepal.

“Here is your ticket, sir. Breakfast is across the street, here is your coupon.”

As Tom took the tour agent’s papers, he headed across the street. Hungry, and tired, he looked forward to a good breakfast. His hopes were dashed, however, as he approached the lean-to shack that was the ‘restaurant.’

The only saving factor was an angularly handsome man who was seated at the rough-hewn plank table.... he looked normal; yet, intriguing. He was just finishing his sandwich, and asking for another, as Tom approached. Holding down the urge to stare directly into his ice blue eyes, Tom walked straight ahead to the table, and the man rose to give him space to sit down. Their eyes met for an instant – though seemingly suspended in time. As Tom sat down, the final blow came as the stranger spoke to the cook with a casual, natural, French accent. At that moment, Tom realized that they would be travel partners. He was fascinating, a walking curiosity. Standing a nearly impossible 7-foot tall, with long blond hair, he introduced himself as Jacques, with a warm gentle smile.

“Just when I thought I’d be alone for awhile,“ thought Tom, “I meet Mr. Rough and Sophisticated.”

It was hard to retain his composure, while simultaneously dealing with the feelings of growing affiliation between them. It made Tom nervous. He liked being around charming and confident guys like Jacques, but initially he still felt shy...and, he guessed, intimidated by them.

If he was honest with himself, he wanted to be more like them; and therefore, he wanted to spend time in their company. He always learned something; and the strong feeling of an intimate male bond was something he couldn’t deny. To Tom, being around men like Jacques was incredibly fun. But still, not being sure about what the person was really like, he was cautious. Thankfully, two Dutchmen sat down at their large table.

They were a welcome distraction, a father and son duo. The dad was fifty-five, and flustered by the environment. The son was 27, slightly balding, yet reasonably fit, and armed with a ready smile. He introduced himself as Fredrick, and smiled warmly at Tom. The tableau was complete. Seated in a ramshackle shack at a broken-down table were three, soft spoken, men…all trying hard to not show the temerity in their hearts.

Tom felt stuck. He didn’t want to hurt the Dutchman’s feelings, nor ignore the Frenchman’s subtle interest in striking up a connection. Then, he felt a wave of amusement. Forcing a smile, Tom talked to Dad about the weather, and allowed the situation to calm down. Marveling at the man’s apparent clue-less-ness, and those around him, Tom reminded himself to retain patience.

“Later,” he thought, “there’s time. The bus trip is almost two days long. Anyway, the French mustn’t be given too much attention too early on. They prefer to warm up to interaction,” he commented silently.

So Tom turned his attention to a young British woman who was trying hard to look comfortable in a sari; and, to the elderly Dutchman and to talk of tulip bulbs. Everyone was content to keep a friendly superficial intercourse; although Tom could tell that the young woman was interested in developing drama.

“Yes, I figured the best way to really learn Hindi was to come to India and Nepal for six months. I try so hard to fit in; yet I’ll always be a damned ‘white face’ to them! They are manner-less, totally manner-less! I must get away to see friends in Kathmandu, to retain my good humor,” she whined.

“Yeah, right,” thought Tom silently. “She might as well be Queen Victoria, with that imperialistic attitude. No wonder she’s still clueless after three months of ‘immersion.’”

The woman lacked acceptance of, and respect of, Indians as individuals and as a society; and, she viewed everything as an extended anthropological analysis. Any smart Indian, and most of them were, would spot this in her immediately; and then play dumb monkey for a while--until they tired of the game. Then for final fun, they would drive the poor ‘observer’ crazy with inconsistencies, lies, misdirection, and general ‘running about the bush’ behavior.

“Too funny!” Thought Tom.

Part of Tom wanted to clarify the situation for her; then, he felt her treatment was probably justified, for such cultural arrogance and condescension. But Tom had finally accepted that many people didn’t really want to know the truth; they preferred a self-replicating drama sequence. It started with denial, then public shock at the audacity of other people who didn‘t adhere to their version of a warped reality. After that, they publicly anal-ized and re-reviewed the situation until they’d bored everyone to numbness over the ’injustice of it all.’ Finally, they went onto another new drama incident.

If Tom ‘intruded’ by trying to help them break the cycle, they didn’t appreciate it; and often ended up shooting the messenger...him. So after playing this all out in his head, as she chattered on about the complexities of Hindi dialects, Tom gently interrupted her continual stream of words with a suggestion.

“I think you might find the solution to your frustration with Hindu’s through a thorough examination of Buddhist precepts and practices.” Basically advising her to look at a discipline that required daily self-review.

After that, he eased his way away from the table; and walked towards the tour bus. Jacques had already moved, and was talking to three people by the bus. The discussion was in animated French…with wide, expressive, hand and arm movements. The other three were ‘trust fund’ children, trying hard to look punked-out and counter-culture. The largest one was strongly built, and attractive in a Rambo sort of way. Yet through his tough exterior, a nervous little boy peered out; kept in close tow by his Amazonian Madame--his six-foot, attractive, girlfriend. With close-cropped spiked hair, headband, and tight-fitting camo shirt, he looked like a character directly from a video game.

“Too funny!”

Alongside the couple was a Jewish Frenchman, barely 22, who was trying his best to hide a good education, and strong feelings of self-consciousness, behind frizzed-out hair and body piercings. Jacques floated with subtle ease among the cartoon characters. He smiled at the men’s jokes, listened to her perpetual complaints, and flattered ‘Mr. Rambo’ with compliments on his physique. He was poetry in motion, and Tom smiled despite himself. Jacques returned Tom’s eye contact, and confirmed their mutual understanding with a subtly sly smile; re-affirming their initial encounter.

After watching his backpack kicked, stuffed, and buried deep into the rear cavity of the battered bus, Tom felt that he needn’t worry that it would be stolen easily at some rest stop. Thus reassured, he proceeded to mount the irregular, well-worn, metal stairs into the bus. Filled with hopeful anticipation, he walked down the aisle of the bus, and glided skillfully past empty seats and entreating stares. People didn’t want to sit alone, but smart ones didn’t want to sit close to a bothersome person either. Moving, as not to stop, he approached the three-seat arrangement containing Jacques and the other French travelers. Tom glanced towards Jacques, with a smile to gauge his interest. Once he felt comfortable that his entreaty would be welcome, Tom casually asked if the open seats were reserved.

With a sly, clever, smile Jacques replied: “No. You are most welcome to join me here.”

And so, their pact began.

The bus left its deserted side-street location, and pressed on with an odd urgency through the newer commercial part of the city. Crashing through the crushing congestion of manic city traffic, the bus roared onward, with horns blaring. The driver showed a total disregard for anyone, or anything, in his way. Thus was the law of Indian city streets.

Old traditional street vendors with hand-drawn carts, traditional spice sellers, and holy cows, clashed with the Shanghai-styled shinny silver bicycle rickshaws, motorized three-wheeled contraptions, and new cars. All fought for precedence, position, and advancement; yet they had one thing in common: they wanted the almighty Rupee...at all costs. The intensity of the populace was palatable.

Desperation mixed with greed. Poverty mixed with affluence. In totality, it was a brutal example of tradition warring with an inexorable, homogenized, Western capitalist influence.

It was a relief to be in one of the big, if more cumbersome, forms of transport. Tom felt less at risk of dying, or losing a major limb. Yet while he sat safely above the fray of the street, he felt despair for the human angst playing out below him. The relief of touring was tainted by the knowledge that few would ever leave this world. Jacques smiled gently, acknowledging that he understood Tom’s consternation. With this shared awareness, Tom’s angst evaporated.

Tom spoke first: “So, where are you from?”

He started the verbal conversation, because he wanted to confirm his instincts about their non-verbal communications .

“Mar Say, in Southern Frauonce,” he replied without hesitation.

The guttural baritone of his voice rolled with the fluid, almost sensual, French syllables...and threatened to put Tom into a mesmerized trance.

“This was how the French conquered,“ thought Tom. “Through their beautiful language and expressive, yet very subtle, passions.”

He then forced himself to snap to attention. Tom dared not show a sappy, cow-eyed appearance; although he felt like he was going to be lulled there anyway, by Jacques’ soothing tone of voice.

“Oh, that's a wonderful place to grow up, eh?” Tom replied quizzically.

“True, true. I enjoyed life there, but...I will be gone for a few years...”

Sensing a touchy topic, Tom softened his inquiry to general information gathering.

“So, how does your family feel about you taking two or three years to travel abroad?”

“My mother, she seems to understand. My father...wellll, I moved out at 16 years. As for my girlfriend? We just broke up! It is a very long story.”

With all that revealed, Tom felt it would be best to change the subject entirely, and to lighten the mood. Leaning closer to Jacques, he spoke in a conspiratorial hushed voice: “I have to commend you on your listening skills.”

“How so?”

Motioning to the French woman behind them, between the two other French guys, Tom said: “listening to all of that, like you really cared!”

Laughing, he simply responded “Women...Oui!”

That started their long conversation.

Soon, they closed the physical gap that separated them with intimate and friendly conversation. Occasionally they stopped talking, to gaze into each other’s eyes for confirmation, or to smile agreeing smiles. After a while, there wasn’t any sense of distance between them; and their conversation felt comfortable, warm, and inviting. Talking privately, sometimes directly into each other’s ear; they gradually felt comfortable expressing things with physical affirmations such as pats on the back, and joking jabs to each other’s ribs. All differences dissolved into the mutual glow that was building between them. It felt good to Tom to have someone to share things with--on a deeper level than his prior travel companions.

Throughout the day, the bus rammed its way through village after village, and sped up as it approached populated areas. The driver pushed forward at a breakneck speed.

The men talked about likes, dislikes, and their life dreams. Each episode of discussion was followed by mutual smiles, a long quiet period of reflection, contemplation of the changing countryside, or sleep. It was relaxed, serene, and very pleasing for both.

As the day progressed, the countryside subtly changed. With windows open, and air rushing through, the smells changed as well. Gone was the smell of the streets. Gone was the thin haze of pollution that shrouded ’modern’ Indian cities.

The brick-walled plots of property gave way to larger areas of land, bordered by two-foot clay dikes, and hand dug irrigation canals. The crops, however, were poorly planted and sparse. Tom wondered why the cities were so overpopulated, and the countryside was virtually empty.

“Why aren't there more crops being grown to feed the starving people in the cities, instead of growing tea? And, what in God’s name, keeps the people living on top of each other in cities, and the surrounding slums?” Tom puzzled.

On one of the bathroom stops, Tom asked the English woman what she thought of the situation; and she was quick to reply that property ownership was the issue. Massive tracts of property were owned by a privileged few, and the majority of people were kept in the cities on purpose. Appalled, Tom knew he was truly in a foreign world. The outdated social caste system was still perpetuated, and it fostered the tragic state of affairs. The Hindus retained enough of the nearly extinct Buddhist traditions to include the concept of Karma . So they could merely blow off other’s unnecessary suffering as ‘Karmic debt from a former life.‘ Thereby rationalizing pure greed, with widespread abject poverty as the consequence. Burdened by these thoughts, Tom stared catatonically out of his window…while Jacques dosed, in forgotten slumber.

After nightfall, the driver increased his speed, and pressed on for the border of Nepal. The travelers grew anxious at the protracted length of the journey. As was typical, the driver’s estimate to reach the border had been a lie…they arrived well past 9p.m.; in complete darkness. The driver stopped amidst a large crowd that appeared from nowhere, and loudly announced that they had arrived at the border. He yelled that each had to obtain their own entry Visa into Nepal. Then, they were to pass through Indian immigration before they walked across the border into Nepal. The process made sense to Tom, but the method of doing it was totally unclear. The bus was literally submerged in a sea of agitated people...all screaming about something. The buses couldn’t cross the border, so they dropped their passengers off just before the border, and then left them to their own devices.

“The sales brochure for the trip sounded so much more calmer than this reality,” commented Tom.

“So this is Nepal?”

Girding himself for the worst, Tom exited the bus and headed for luggage compartment in the back. As soon as he stepped off the bus, however, he was accosted by Indians trying to sell something, trade currency, or to convince him to stay at their ‘hotel.’

“Some hotels!” Thought Tom disgustedly.

The ’hotels’ were haphazard shacks, which looked as though they were about to fall over. Waving off the demanding Indians, he pressed his way to the back of the bus to get his backpack. After he retrieved his large backpack, he attempted to collect his thoughts before heading into the crowd again…it was impossible. He tried to remain calm, even though inside he was abroil with a surge of anxiety.

“Jesus,” he thought, “what a frickin nightmare!”

The oppressive nature of the aggressive vendors, and passerby, was overwhelming. As protection against it, the tourists spontaneously formed into small groups before attempting to enter the thronging mess. Safety in numbers seemed to be the unspoken strategy. The tourists felt safer together, yet the crowd quickly swallowed the small groups up, as they cautiously ventured into the mêlée. Tom decided to take a solo approach. He had been separated from Jacques almost from the start, and couldn’t see him anywhere...such was the mass of desperate humanity. Tom pushed his way politely, but persistently, through the crowd and towards the small emigration building--armed only with his passport, papers, and jangled nerves. The open pole-barn building was packed to capacity with people from the bus; and, three very bored Indian officials who enjoyed their power over the fate of the cowed tourists. Tom quietly waited his turn for the pompous review of papers, and the required exit stamp on his passport to leave India. As the woman ahead of Tom presented her papers, all of the lights of the makeshift border town dimmed; and then blinked out. The loud confusion quelled slightly, as everyone took in the new state of affairs. Within minutes, candles were lit everywhere. They cast a dim, hazy, glow in the dust-choked air.

Fearing that the lack of light would stop his exit, Tom dug through his backpack until he found his new compact flashlight...a special travel gift from his friend in Washington. Trying to be helpful, he handed it to the Indian official who was struggling to read the woman’s passport ahead of him. The process was nerve wracking for all of the passengers; because they knew that being denied exit or entry would mean being stuck in the isolated Godforsaken place for an indeterminate period of time. Additionally, the officials made every indication of doing exactly that to whomever they didn’t like.

With a grudging nod the man accepted Tom’s flashlight, and continued reviewing the woman’s documents. The review took over ten, excruciating, minutes. All the time, Tom wondered how it could take so long. It seemed like they were looking for excuses to keep people from leaving, so that they would be forced to spend money on their side of the border....with their shyster friends.

“Or,” he thought, “they’re waiting for a bribe.”

Tom didn’t really understand the delay. If they could find a reason...however inconsequential.... to deny exit, they did. It was clear that the economy in the border village was rigged to fleece the tourists, and that kickbacks were the government official’s main source of income. It was also obvious that the corrupt officials were the only law in the no-man’s land between countries. Tom grew even more nervous, as he became aware of this fact.

“What’s taking them so long?” asked the Dutch dad directly behind Tom. “I just want to get across the border and get some food...then, get to bed,” he whined like a tired child, oblivious to their real predicament.

Tom understood the man’s feelings. He was exhausted from the long trip too; but he also knew that patience was the key to a painless passage.

“Hey,” he advised the younger Dutchman a whisper. “You’d better tell your dad to be patient, these guys like to jerk people around--especially if they know it’ll cause more discomfort.”

“I will. He’s just wigged-out about the whole experience. He’s out of his element.”

“I am too,” he confided. “But I’ll let you know what’s up, as soon as I figure it out.”

Tom didn’t care about the obvious corruption; it had been the same at the train station in Delhi. He was just concerned that he would not understand how to bribe them in the right way, and then get stuck in the shantytown. The official finally stamped the woman’s passport, and handed it back to her with disgusted reluctance. Just as he stamped her passport, the lights flickered back on in the little village; and there was a collective sigh of relief. He set Tom’s flashlight down, and reached for Tom’s passport and declaration forms. With a cursory glance he stamped it, and handed it back to Tom.

Tom was instantly relieved, and then motioned for his flashlight. The official made a negative protest, shook his head ‘no,’ and said the word ‘keep.’ He then put it into his desk drawer, quickly. Discussion over, expensive flashlight gone!

It wasn’t the issue of the flashlight; Tom could see that it would be handy to have with the problematic electric power. It was the shock that it was simply taken without explanation, without thanks, in an autocratic manner. Unwilling to risk his exit from India, and aware that his passport flew through ‘the process,’ Tom didn’t contest the issue; and walked out of the building, and immediately across the border.

His unexpected bribe worked well, and he didn’t dare defeat himself through a useless complaint. He accepted his loss, and moved on.

As soon as he crossed into the real ‘no-man’s-land’ between borders, he was struck by the large vacant space that was amazingly free of the crazy hucksters. It felt like a real ‘no man‘s land,‘ a place between countries. It was good to be free of the badgering opportunists, but Tom was weirded out by the totality of the eerie nighttime darkness and abrupt silence. He was suddenly immersed in dense impenetrable jungle, which walled in either side of the narrow dirt road and absorbed all sound and light into its mysterious vastness.

The minute Tom stepped over the Nepal side of the border however, he was accosted by people selling tourist trash, hashish, and hotel rooms. Ignoring them all, he walked alone to the immigration building of Nepal. After filling out long VISA application forms, and hastily assembling extra passport photos, he got in line to wait his turn.

He presented everything to the non-communicative official, and was told that he needed thirty U.S. dollars for the application.

“Indian or Nepali Rupees are not sufficient. It must be U.S. dollars! Now you must be moving along. Next!“ he was told dismissively.

Tom stood baffled, and then realized that he was surprisingly surrounded by Europeans with U.S. dollars in their hands! He was the only American there, and the only one without American currency. The irony was too much.

He had an emergency $20 bill buried in his wallet, but he’d purposely kept most of his money in Indian and Nepali Rupees. He instantly had an awful image of re-entering the crazy mass of desperate people outside, and trying to deal with the ruthless moneychangers on the streets. His face must have reflected a flash of despair; because upon seeing his dismay, the Dutch son asked if he needed money. Laughing, Tom told him the joke.

“My father should have change,” he offered kindly.

Feeling a bit sheepish, knowing Fredrick’s interest in him, and his obvious absorption with Jacques, he thanked him. But before he could accept the offer, a Norwegian man handed him the ten dollars that he needed. Overwhelmed with his forthright generosity, he accepted the money, and promised him a beer for the favor.

“Not to worry, man. It’s my pleasure. I know how it feels to go through the hoops with these buggars. The moneychangers will fleece ya! It’s a racket, you know. It even says so in my handy dandy Lonely Planet Guide book !” he said with a laugh and an effervescent sincere smile.

Thanking him, and Frederick for his offer, Tom no longer felt alone. He handed his papers and money back through the window, and the official shoved them back out and motioned him to the next window, and another long line.

Girding himself, yet again, Tom shoved the papers back in the window.

“You told me all was o.k. I just needed thirty dollars, U.S.. Well here it is, please give me my VISA now!” He said loud enough for everyone to hear.

Within minutes he had his VISA, and was ready to go to the ’Hotel’ accommodations that were included in the transit package. He wandered to the porch of the building, and began repacking his backpack. When he was finally done, he looked up to find that everyone he knew had already gone. All, save the Dutchmen. The beleaguered father was mumbling something to himself as he recounted his money--in plain view of the border predators. Thieves didn’t dare enter the concrete area in front of the makeshift Nepali immigration center, but they were eagerly eyeing the tourists from the fence. A mass of them pressed against the chain links; without even trying to hide their eagerness to tackle their prospective targets, once they came within range.

Tom had never felt so ‘sized up’ before, except maybe in Delhi. But even there, things and people were moving too fast for much to happen—he just held onto his wallet, and keep moving too. Tom turned towards Frederick, and helped him with his backpack.

“How about I wait for you two; and then we’ll go to the guesthouse together?”

With Tom’s rescue from the fray, Frederick was visibly relieved.

“Your father aught not count his money in such plain view,” Tom added, nodding towards the jackals.

“Oh jeez, he is!” he said in surprise. “Well, lets go on then! Come on father, we must be leaving...can I help you with your pack?”

“Well, yes, I suppose we should. Let’s be going then. Thanks for the hand with the pack.”

Tom, emboldened by his rescue by others a few minutes before, led the two Dutchmen through the dimly lit streets to the relative safety of the guesthouse.

The guesthouse was a total mess. All of the tour rooms had already been assigned by the time they arrived. They were shown to a large, starkly empty, dormitory room with five unclaimed wooden cots. Totally exhausted and disappointed, Tom threw down his pack on the closest one in a gesture of futility.

“Anyone for a beer? I really need one!”

Smiling, the Dutchmen walked with him to the improvised rooftop restaurant and ordered beers and food. As their conversation progressed, Tom found that the Dutchmen were quite nice guys; yet he had very little in common with them. His thoughts drifted to Jacques.

“Where is he?” Tom wondered silently, sadly.

They’d done everything together on the trip, so he expected that they would share a room. Hurt, confused, lonely and tired, Tom tried to block out his rush of feelings. Then, Jacques magically appeared next to their table.

“Hullo, Toe-mass. Got a beer for me, mate?”

Both were glad to see each other, and they discussed the poor room arrangements. Jacques had also been assigned to a room full of strangers.

“The only way to get what we want is to ask for it, and pay more. They are eager to please, and automatically assume that we want the lower cost dormitory rooms. Lets give it a go,” Tom said eagerly.

So, they went to the front desk and requested a double, private room - citing the fact that they always stayed together. With an odd grin, the man told them he would prepare a room for them.

For Tom, the evening went from desolate, and him feeling near desperate, to entrancing. They showered, made the bed, and lounged around discussing life, the world, and whatever topic that came to mind. All the while, Jacques smoked hash and Tom drank his beers. Jacques had made cigarettes out of tobacco and the hash that he’d bought while they were separated.

“So sorry to lose track of you, Toe-mass. I exchanged my monies, and bought dis,” he said, as he held up a small bag of hash for Tom to see.

That was all the explanation that Tom ever got, or wanted. He wanted to believe the good in his new close friend; and he dismissed the hash as just one of the things lots of people did in Nepal. It didn’t mean he approved of it, nor wanted any himself; but he allowed Jacques the space to be himself - without judgments. As the evening wore on, they drifted into a dream state; both from exhaustion, and the chemistry each had imbibed. Their eyes met, and they held steady, with unabashed consideration. And then, they smiled. They achieved a mutual understanding. Both felt close, and safe in their little room. For Tom, it felt good to be so close with Jacques, and he knew Jacques felt the same way...eyes never lie. They both needed the reassurance of another person’s close presence. Breaking the spell, Jacques got out his didgeridoo...a big tubular thing; and asked Tom if he would like to hear him play.

“Sure, never heard one before. Its sure big!”

“Yeah, its native to the Australian aborigines. I would love to go there. Australia, that is; and learn from them directly. Maybe some day....” he said wistfully, as he brought the object to his mouth.

His mouth encircled the large open end of the wooden instrument. Then unexpectedly, a resonate humming began; and swelled up, with the unique baritone bass of the wooden thing. The sounds weren't exactly like a big horn, but more like a bassoon with a full, warm, embracing sound. It was the weirdest thing Tom had ever heard, and it completely floored him. He could feel the vibrations of the huge humming thing as Jacques coaxed it into a tribal-like serenade. It made Tom shudder all over. He smiled, despite himself, and asked: “do you mind if I lie down and listen?”

Motioning ’no problem’ with his large and expressive eyebrows, he kept his rhythm going and the music continued on...swelling larger and larger, then abating slowly with a seemingly warm flow of sound and motion. Tom closed his eyes, and tried to put himself in the native culture and environment that would produce such a sound. He couldn’t do it. It was just too alien for him to really understand. But he did understand that he liked the warm and reassuring resonate baritone of it, and the raw masculinity of the experience. Also, he was happy that Jacques was doing it for his pleasure and enjoyment. It felt good.

Tom fell asleep not long after Jacques finished playing...spent and tired. It was a welcome respite. He barely managed a “good night big guy...” as he fell into a deep slumber.

They awoke the next morning, relaxed and refreshed, and lying close to each other in the bed. It felt safe, natural, and calming in the strange land, to find a kindred soul--and to know that neither was hung up on appearances or pretense. Tom knew that if this had happened with some of his close male friends at home, bonding with experience and drink and then waking up next to each other the following morning, they’d probably freak out, and act weird. Tom assumed it was just the French in Jacques that simply said: “c‘est la vie,” with a disarming smile.

“Its all good,” Tom said to himself, and began to pack his bags.

“We have to hurry, Jacques, the bus leaves early today; and we’ll miss breakfast.”

“Well, I never miss out on food!” he said with a flourish.

Tom laughed, and replied: “Ummmm, well, this isn’t exactly haute cuisine we’re having today, so I wouldn’t get too excited!”

“Anything is wonderful, if one is hungry enough, no?” he said with a playful grin.

“Well, I can see that there is no way to burst your bubble today. So, I won’t even try...”

“Oui, you want that I burst what?”

“Its a euphemism…a figure of speech. A way to say that you’ll be happy regardless of what happens today.”

“Oui, that is true... très bien!”

































©Tibet, Lamplight Unto a Darkened World…the American Delusion, a Parody of life ( L'illusion Américaine, une Parodie de Vie); is copyright protected, by author, Patrick Mahoney. Online Internet Reproduction/Propagation/Quotation Encouraged, with this citation. Any Printed reproduction, other than for personal reading, requires written permission by author, patrickm at http://patrickm.gather.com/ or patrick1000000000@yahoo.com




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