Song: “Exit Sign” – Hilltop Hoods
My breathing slowed in Pokhara. The streets were just as noisy and the people just as cutthroat as anywhere else. But, for the first time in my life, there was nowhere else to run to. I was as far away as I knew how to get. My body, mind, and soul all knew this, and the committee unanimously decided to shut down. I twirled my feet in luxurious sheets and watched hilariously dubbed movies. I strolled the sparsely populated streets until I found cafes to sit in, where I would write and drink tea as the day passed. Something grew in the back of my head, tiny roots digging deep into the freshly excavated gravel… a general understanding… And one day, sitting on the side of a pier, birds angrily circling above, I knew.
What did I know? I had no idea. But still, I fucking knew.
The following morning found me on the bus back to Kathmandu. The ride was even more jarring going (mostly) uphill, but aside from one stop for lunch, the hellbent driver made good time. With wobbly legs I stepped off the bus and into the wild throng of traffic. Horns blared and engines roared. I was a veteran by then though. The streets of India, Cambodia, Vietnam, and Nepal are an immersive education in human indifference. There is only one course: to walk through it all without a sidelong glance.
The waters of the sea parted.
I found a decently priced hotel near to the main taxi hub and laid down on the bed, clothes on, ready to spring up in the morning. I awoke to a searing pain in my stomach. Before I was fully conscious, I was on my knees on the cracked tile of the bathroom. Streams of orange vomit shot from my mouth into the shower drain. I repeatedly tried to rise, desperately grabbing for any kind of handhold, but was forced back down. Waves of nausea wracked my body for what felt like hours. I was immensely grateful that I had shelled out the money for a hotel with a private bathroom…
As I stared at the ancient, mold-stained grout, I considered the possibility of death. I had been close before, in other foreign countries, far away from ‘home.’ Peru. Colombia. Greece. Mexico. The Philippines. But this was different. Absolutely no one knew I was there. My internal organs could rupture, blood spewing across the narrow bathroom, and no one would find me… Even then, who would they call? They would probably just pocket my cash and dump my body on the packed dirt street…
Somehow, I made it to the airport. I stood through the longest customs line of all time, then barely made it to the bathroom. A security guard tried to stop me but I roughly shoved him to the side and sprinted down the hall. If he had followed me, he was most likely quieted by the sounds that emerged.
All of the security guards were staring when I tried to go through the stanchions again. My legs were weak beneath the suddenly oppressive weight of my pack. My hands trembled and shook. Thick beads of sweat erupted from my forehead, hot as a furnace. I made it halfway through the switch backs before I realized I wasn’t going to make it. I beelined for the bathroom, tearing out the belts from their respective poles, a bull tearing across the fenced-in fields. One of the security guards, a grin plastered to his greasy, pockmarked face, lifted the last belt for me. I ran through, muttering my thanks.
It took two more attempts to get through security. When I did, I went straight to the convenience store, where I collapsed in line, still holding a bag of candy and two bottles of what looked like ginger ale. No one stopped to help me up. I don’t know how long I laid there, or whether I was conscious or not, but when I rose, I proceeded immediately to the clerk. She disinterestedly took my money, handed me change, then popped her gum.
The flight was mercifully smooth, and the stewardesses clearly saw that I was close to death. They pulled me from my original seat and put me near the back of the plane, where I had an entire row to myself. Then they plied me fizzy beverages and water. I must have lost consciousness, because I awoke to being buckled in, several blankets around my body, and a pile of cookies in my lap.
Sometimes it’s just going to be alright, you know?
I taxied to my hotel on Koahsan road. It was hard to remember just a few months before, when I had dashed down these streets with friends, grabbing meat on sticks and chugging beers while hanging off of street signs… There was no excitement now. The novelty was gone, replaced by the grim realities of pavement desperately holding back a relentless jungle. This was a transitory land and I was simply water rolling off of a leaf…
I clearly had Salmonella, plus the lingering effects of whatever had poisoned my guts in India. I was completely spent. When the taxi dropped me off, I walked straight through the bustling street, evoking screeches of tires, screams of protests, and tinny horns from dozens of scooters. My eyes stayed straight ahead. It was, quite literally, the only thing I could do.
As I walked I was bombarded with the customary offerings. Food. Wine. Drugs. Elephant pants. Prostitutes by the dozen. I didn’t care. Memories pelted my awareness in brief snippets and fragments:
…dancing on the tables of China town, holding a bag of Bao buns…
…standing atop the temple, looking out over the city…
…the giant bus station, hordes of angry travelers pushing, pushing, pushing…
…looking back over my shoulder, trying to see her face. Angry talons gripping my arm as I steered the scooter out of the ditch…
…sipping tea in the treehouse, feet intertwined…
…”I am never letting you drive again!”…
Cities, places, and faces darted in and out, a frenzied kaleidoscope. A fever dream. My feet staggered forward.
…Chiang Mai. Hat Yai. Koh Lipe. Malawi. “Shave off that damn moustache man.” Cape Town. Kuala Lumpur…
…“I wish you’d kept it.” She said with a wink. I turned and placed my hands on the railing and looked down. Forty stories below, the streets of KL stretched out, occasionally obscured by passing tufts of cloud. In the distance, the grand Petronas towers were lit up, a shining beacon…
The memories changed from shotgun blasts to machine gun fire. The video feed had skipped, red lines crossing the jolting images, the volume peaking and silencing randomly. I didn’t know if I was still walking. The deep, biting pain in my shoulders from my backpack was the only way I knew that I was still alive.
…Siem Reap. Angkor Wat. Monkeys. Monkeys. More fucking monkeys. Walking out of the ruins, dogged by the megaphone-toting guides, hiding against the stones with several old, gap-toothed women. All of them began to touch my arm, sliding bits of string across the bristling hairs and tying small knots… It was good luck. Great luck. And it only cost…
…Stuck in Phnom Penh. The streets closing in, rage and shame bubbling up and through my pores, a viscous yet oily sweat… I had to go, had to move, move, move, NOW…
…Hanoi. Less monkeys, more scooters. Swarms, legions, HORDES of SCOOTERS… The streets were choked with these screeching banshees, all of which were flying around one another, completely disregarding any potential pedestrians just trying to eat a bao bun in peace…
…The Indian embassy. After four interviews, I was finally approved. Right at the buzzer. It was the Lunar New Year, and the office shut down for weeks afterward. I clutched the stack of papers tightly to my chest, desperately trying to tamp down the rising gorge. I felt a buzz in my pocket. I needed to take a minute to get everything straight. I was on my way. To India. To peace. To belonging. To fucking transcendence. So why did it feel so much like…
I couldn’t find the damn hotel. I had walked this road a dozen times; seen the same vendors and pop-up bars. But now, I couldn’t do it. I was stuck, stranded, and completely lost.
I did the only thing I could think of to do: ordered food on Grab, entering in the address of the hotel, and waited. Eventually, a driver roared through the press and took a random turn, right near where the hotel was supposed to be. I picked up my things from the side of the road and hurried after him.
***
The next morning, I was on a direct flight to Madrid. There is nothing good or humane about flying with Spaniards and, after a few days spent pestering the various embassies for asylum, I had quickly tired of the country in general. I bussed my way to Lisbon, then took a train South, to the Algarve. The wind bit deep into my skin, still used to the jungle and thick, porridge-like humidity. I found a resort offering a special and collapsed.
For a week I could be found either lying in the shockingly plush mattress, meditating on the white cliffs nearby, or writing at a nearby cafe. The days melded into one. My strength returned in giant swaths. I had briefly told the employees of the resort about my health problems. They took special pleasure in bringing me various food items. I couldn’t walk through the halls without a donut or banana randomly appearing. I learned to wave them off quickly, lest their kindness bring me to tears.
I already knew I couldn’t stay. I had held Portugal high on my list of potential ‘it’ spots for so long, the realities were hard to bear: tour busses, throngs of overly dressed tourists, overpriced restaurants, the buzzing thrum of helicopters and jet boats… I knew I had to finish the book quickly. I couldn’t get a visa, the money was running out, and there was something chewing at the hems of my jeans…
It was a great stop along the path. But it wasn’t home and it never would be. I had to keep moving.
***
I had been through this airport before, but this was with new eyes. Very, very tired, but new nonetheless. I was so used to the long lines, customs, and visas by now that I sleptwalked through the process. The next thing I knew, I was standing on yet another airport sidewalk in another foreign country, wondering where the hell I was going to go next.
“My friend! Hello my friend!”
Now, when anybody says this to you in a foreign country, it is important to remember that they are not your friend. Rather, it is the opposite. This is the phrase used by people who are trying to take advantage of you, typically street hustlers and criminals who want to charge you exorbitant prices for routine and mundane services or want to take you somewhere where other people can do the same. Usually if you hear the words ‘my friend’ you should immediately turn around and give them no part of your day. But it just so happens that hustlers are some of my favorite kinds of people. And I don’t mind paying for a good time.
“What’s up buddy!” I said, setting my hands on the open car window. “Do you know a good hostel?”
He nodded enthusiastically and grinned. All of his remaining teeth were brown, chipped shards. His eyes shone with the burning gleam of the desperately poor.
I hopped in.
The car was unmarked, with no meter, or any other kind of sign. He was perilously thin, obviously malnourished, and there were two small pictures of his daughters taped to the front of the visor in front of him. At least, that’s who he claimed that they were. This could be the family car, shared by dozens of people, and those little girls could be the children of a very distant family member. It didn’t matter. I halfheartedly listened as he told me about how one of the girls had cancer and the other a cleft lip (which was miraculously healed in the picture I could see) and enthusiastically interrupted him.
“…see my friend-“
“Have you ever ridden a camel, buddy?”
“Umm, yes. Yes! I have. It is great experience. I have-“
“I’ve got a tour. But it’s something you would take your girls to, right? A fun time?”
“Oh YES, my friend. Very fun! Like Brendan Fraser, you can run across the desert!”
I laid back in the seat, smiled, then pulled two cigarettes from my pack. I lit both and handed him one. He looked me up and down. Some of the energy drained from his body, and his voice dropped a full octave.
“Assalamualaikum,” he said. Then he took a very long drag.
What does that mean?
***
It only took a few days in Marrakech to feel completely overwhelmed.
I understand the draw. The first few weeks in a developing country are non-stop adrenaline. The fast-paced, humming and buzzing lifestyle is a necessary thrill to experience. The problem was, after months of this, my system had become overloaded. And two weeks spent lounging in a resort hadn’t been enough to fully reset the lizard brain lurking at the top of my spine.
I needed peace, quiet, and a warm balcony. And there was absolutely zero chance of finding that in the Red City. I navigated my way to the nearest bus depot and, after two rounds of negotiations, bought an overpriced bus ticket. I helped a young couple lift their massive suitcases onto the bottom of the bus as their children crawled across their bodies. The father was sweating, causing rivulets of zinc oxide and bug spray to roll down his sunburnt forehead. He looked at me and breathlessly mouthed what I am guessing was ‘thank you’ in a language I cannot speak.
“Assalamualaikum, amigo,” I said.
I found my seat in the air-conditioned bus and leaned back with a sigh. Something must have clicked off, the constant switch of ‘survival mode’ deactivating, because I rapidly fell asleep. It couldn’t have been longer than five minutes before I snapped awake to gentle prodding on the outside of my arm.
Her hair was wild, a tangled nest amongst which two radiating eyes were set like gemstones. She was dressed in tight black spandex from neck to ankle, all of which was highly evident as she sidled in towards the window seat. I waited a moment then retook my seat.
It was the customary moment I had grown so used to. Feeling the pull, the faintest flicker of yearning… then callously squashing it down, grinding it into the pavement like a half smoked and fully regretted cigarette. I had seen them smile in similar places around the world, half-hearing the timid advances. I had resolutely put my headphones back on and either stared ahead or out the window until they went away. I could feel her settling in next to me. I reached my hand out to the massive headphones, tucked into the pocket of the seat ahead…
And I slid my hand across the seat, turned slightly, and introduced myself.
She was Spanish, shapely in all of the right places, with a wild mane of hair that shot backwards and out from her head. Her arms bristled with goosebumps, which she tried to hide with a loose-fitting sweatshirt that she pulled from out of her bag. The lines in the corners of her eyes crinkled into small but well-defined cracks. She had a curl to the corner of her mouth that spoke of countless things…
We talked for hours. The bus ride was long and tedious, a straight shot across the dusty pseudo-desert. Aside from the occasional car wreck or flea market, nothing happened outside the window but pale dirt. For some reason, I quickly found myself opening up. We spoke of things that only Seekers can know. Loneliness, alienation, dark nights, higher planes, and the unmeasurable depths of experience one goes through along the path to truth. I stared into her eyes, rippling pools of mahogany and pine, trying to imagine what-
She’s hiding something. Or running.
There were red flags. A few casual references to ‘lovers’ and ‘experiences,’ and why she was traveling in the first place, things I had no interest in knowing. I brushed them off and changed the topic. There was a pull there, but I could feel the sharpened pikes bristling in the sun. My walls were high, immeasurably so, and lined with countless countermeasures. I didn’t just see the games now. I saw the lies before they were told; the path before even reaching the trailhead. She laughed, bubbling fountains of amusement, and asked good questions. The way she angled her head when she laughed was enough-
She just wants to use you.
At some point she had dozed off. The soft sounds of snoring darted in from multiple directions, punctuated by the furtive squeaking coming from underneath each of the seats. Her head lolled with the swaying of the coach, until it finally came to rest against me. After a few more minutes, she had firmly taken up residence on my arm.
I am just a strong shoulder. A walking, talking ATM. All they do…
She snorted softly and dug in. Her small head rested perfectly in the crook between my neck and shoulder. Drool began to seep through the thin cashmere sweatshirt I had bought in Nepal. The curtain was mostly drawn across the window, but a narrow slit caught the forever raging sun. Thin, persistent beams darted in, flashing across her curls of hair and soft skin. I dug my heels into the floor beneath, leaned back, and made myself into a better cushion.
When she awoke, she didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, she raised her hand and gripped my bicep. Then she snuggled her thick hair into my neck, snorted softly again, and fell back asleep. I smiled and closed my eyes.
***
The screech of seagulls tore across the muted roar of the ocean. We walked across bleached concrete, firm and resolute despite the waves desperately hurling themselves against the other end, where massive blocks were haphazardly piled in some semblance of a jetty. The wind was fierce but warm. Hucksters and street vendors called out their wares. Sun poured from above in a relentless stream.
We stopped at the first cafe we found. I pulled the heavy backpack from her shoulders and set it down next to mine. Coffee and pastries appeared. I slowly sipped and watched the wind play with her ears. I couldn’t hear a word she was saying, but I was really enjoying watching her say them.
She was waiting for another bus. I had spotted the pick-up area as we had walked in and picked a seat where I could see it arrive. The sounds of the medina pressed against us, but these were secondary to the thrum and hum of blood coursing through my ears. She had my heart racing.
Just chemicals. Don’t-
“You can’t hear a single word I’m saying, can you?” Her question took me off guard. This must have been written on my face. She leaned forward and smiled, then dragged her chair forward until her knees were intertwined with mine.
“Honestly? No. But I am enjoying our conversation immensely.”
She laughed at that and took a cookie from the tray in front of me. I saw a black van, one of the nice ones, pull in front of the sign I had identified earlier. A driver jumped out, lit a cigarette, and began to stretch.
“I was just asking where you are headed next, you know, after this place?” She asked. Her eyes were soft now, her lips drawn, her face… sad. The wind died down.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“I hope I see you in Amsterdam.” She said, “I will see you in Amsterdam! You have to manifest these things!” Her face lit up with childish enthusiasm, a belief in the giving powers of the universe radiating from every corner.
We laughed at this, albeit for different reasons. Manifesting is a privilege reserved for flowers. I am no flower. I am a tree, if anything. And all trees know how to do is dig, build, grow… and shed. I’d already told her about the apartment I’d rented there in Essaouira. There was more than enough room there for any kind of story we would want to write. She’d ignored it. I grabbed my coffee cup and drained it.
“Your chariot has arrived! I’ll walk you over.”
She became visibly agitated as we approached the van. I handed her bag back to her and she grinned. Faster than I could react, she darted under the bag, slid up my chest, and kissed me right on the cheek. She lingered a half-second, her hand on my chest, my arm still straight, holding the heavy bag out, now above her head. She laughed and rolled away, grabbing the bag and walking backward.
“I will see you in Amsterdam!” She stated, emphatically.
I could feel her soft kiss lingering on my unshaven cheek. It wouldn’t hold up for long under the withering rays of radiation. She turned and took three steps towards the van. Then she slowed, her narrow shoulders drooping. The moment stretched, a brief flicker of hope darting through the darkness I hadn’t realized was there. Her chin turned, as if she was going to look over her shoulder…
But then the door to the van darted open and she was gone. I thought back to the airport in Nepal, remembering how small and alone I had felt… I could feel the agonizing grinding of my organs… All of the miles, piled on one another, just a furious attempt to find meaning and belonging in the eyes of others… The sun shocked me out of my stupor. I hadn’t moved, still watching the gleaming van ahead. I raised my hand in a brief wave, then turned away.
I slid my headphones on. A Bob Dylan song was playing. I lit a cigarette.
“That’s not how it works, darling,” I said aloud. I turned back toward the medina and began to walk to my apartment.
Assalamualaikum.
