Cappuccino With A Country Monk

Cappuccino with a Country Monk

by David Calleja

November 22, 2011

On Good Friday, Christians connect with God. But as I ran across Flinders Street station and raced down the stairs while clutching a bag of donuts and a take-away cappuccino spilling everywhere, I found myself drawn to a Buddhist monk on the Werribee train, headed for Melbourne’s outer western region. He was a calm figure amidst the noisy carriage. For the first two minutes, we looked all around us, making eye contact occasionally. Neither of us said a word. I offered him a donut in an attempt to start a conversation, forgetting that monks do not eat after midday. But my faux pas broke the ice. This is how I befriended I Saw (pronounced Ee-sor).

“I have not seen my family since I was 15. My parents let me leave home to study as a novice monk at a monastery in eastern Burma. Every day, I would wake up at four a.m. and collect food from residents. We would visit their homes or they would line up to donate food as I walked past with the other novices,” I Saw told me. He said that rice, curries and meat sandwiches were his favorite foods. Unlike senior monks, novices were allowed to eat meat, I Saw said, and this helped get him through a long day. He did not mind the classes, but found the sunset chanting and meditation sessions challenging.

“Whenever a novice broke the rules, a senior monk hit us on the leg with a stick; it hurt very much. Nowadays, such practices have become less frequent because parents complain about bruises appearing on their children’s legs,” I Saw said. He did not say how many times he was punished, but just thinking about being struck on the shins with a bamboo stick made me shudder. If I was in class, I

would definitely have had the most bruises. I admitted to I Saw that I could not sit cross-legged.

“Show me,” was his response.

My face grimaced as I tried crossing my legs into a bow, making a spectacle of myself in the process. A few painful seconds slowly passed before I began to fidget. I Saw leaned over and whispered, “Okay, no problem. You sit on your knees like woman.” The public humiliation of showing my inflexibility now over, it was time to return to our conversation. What did he like to do in the minimal spare time he was allocated each night?

“For one hour, we were allowed to read before the senior monk would switch off the lights. So when the lights went out, I hid under the blanket and switched on my torch to continue reading stories and comics—about Buddha, or famous people in Karen history. I like the story about Pa Da Mei, the first Karen monk,” I Saw said. Taking a quick glance, I noticed that our conversation had attracted the attention of others. A child sitting in the next allotment of seats asked his mother something about why I Saw wore a mustard and burgundy robe. His mother explained that a monk was similar to a priest. A second passenger asked I Saw if he had met the Dalai Lama. The initial look of excitement on the passenger’s face disappeared when I Saw said no before providing an in-depth response of Buddhism’s meaning, obviously not the answer the passenger was hoping for. I shared his disappointment, if only because it was costing me valuable conversation time and a chance for me to arrange a second meeting. In the end, I Saw and I hurriedly exchanged phone numbers and promised to catch up again.

On a cold and windy Sunday two weeks later, we met again, this time at Southern Cross railway station. The arranged time was 12 o’clock. I glanced at my mobile phone; five minutes to go and no sign of I Saw. I ran between platforms and the coach departure dock. Twenty minutes had passed and I Saw had still not appeared. In between frantic dashes, I missed four phone calls because my phone did not have reception. When my phone finally rang, I asked where he was. The anxiety in my voice made me sound like a parent looking for their lost child. I Saw calmly said, “David, I am near some food places. Go up the stairs and you will find me.” After running up a flight of stairs, I could not see him. Then out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of I Saw’s robe. He was sitting down at a table in the food court area.

When we finally saw each other, I did not know whether to express relief or frustration. “You look tired, David,” I Saw said to me, noticing the sweat dripping down my forehead. He apologized before saying, “I came here early. I live in Wan….Wan…Tarrr.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out a pen and notebook so he could write down the word he wanted to say.

“Wonthaggi,” I said, referring to a town in country Victoria.

“Yes, David. That is where I live. It take me four hours to get here. Last night I stay with my friend, and I go home this afternoon.” I smiled because I admired his commitment to honoring our agreement.

The least I could do was ask if I Saw wanted something to drink. He asked for a cappuccino.

For a short time, we stared outside the large tinted windows overlooking the platforms, sipping on our coffees while watching adults and children dressed in their favorite football team’s jerseys, armed with matching club flags and other paraphernalia, walk towards Melbourne’s Docklands Football Stadium.

“David,” I Saw began, “In Burma, one cup of coffee can cost up to 2,400 Australian dollars.” I snorted in amazement because I thought I misheard him. Maybe he meant Burmese kyat, so I asked him to repeat the price.

I shook my head in amazement. “How do you like the taste? Is our coffee here worth $2,400?” I asked.

I Saw smiled. “It is like tea, only bitterer. When I buy a cup, I make sure the senior monk does not catch me,” he added with a smile.

Another awkward silence ensued. I Saw knew what I was going to ask him about, and must have been prepared with an answer.

“David,” I Saw began, “You probably know about the war in Karen State, and the political situation and human rights matters in my country. That is why you wanted to ask me on the train, so what I say will not be anything new. But you are curious and ask a lot of questions.” He then proceeded to describe about life sleeping in dense forests, hiding in villages from Burmese Army soldiers. But I Saw was lucky enough to make it into a Thai-Burma border camp, where he taught Karen language and Buddhist chants to children, and developed a close link with another family in the camp who looked after him. They still speak by telephone occasionally. When I asked I Saw about his prospects of seeing his birth family again, he remarked, “this will only happen when my homeland is peaceful.”

In spite of everything that has occurred, I Saw has always maintained a positive outlook. For example, I Saw told me how much he loved adding bamboo bark to soups or curries in dishes he cooked at the camp. Bamboo bark, he said, gave dishes extra flavor. He also spoke enthusiastically about life in Wonthaggi.

“Every evening after English classes, I walk along the beach. It is very soothing. On Saturdays I take driving lessons. I have been learning for a few months. It is nerve wrecking, but I am getting better,” I Saw said.

It seemed like I Saw and his life in the small Victorian country town were really coming together.

“What is one thing about life here that fascinates you?” I asked.

“When I first came here, I loved to sit in the cafe and watch people exchange money when buying a coffee or food. Monks do not need money in my country. We require only happiness.”

I looked into the paper cup and saw the frothed milk clinging to the bottom, a sign that our meeting was nearly over. Before we parted ways, there was time for one more request. “David, there is so much knowledge to discover in the world. Come to Karen State and document life in the villages and forests. You will get all the happiness you want.”

With that, we shook hands and professed to meet again in the future.

Hopefully, I will have as many chances to gain more wisdom as I have opportunities to consume cappuccinos.

Cappuccino With A Country Monk

Hanoi, Quy Nhon and My Bargaining Curse

Hanoi, Quy Nhon and My Bargaining Curse by David Calleja
Published in Foreign Policy Journal - September 20, 2011

http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2011/09/20/hanoi-quy-nhon-and-my-bargaining-curse/

From the moment I arrived at Hanoi’s main bus depot late at night after a 27 hour bus ride, I had a bad feeling about what would transpire. The only available transport to my guesthouse near Hoam Kiem Lake was a taxi driven by a sleazy looking driver twirling a toothpick in his mouth. Noticing the absence of xe om (motorcyclists), I reluctantly agreed to get inside, knowing that I would probably end up paying an inflated price for my journey. The driver continually took wrong turns, stopped to make personal calls without switching off the meter and even drove on the wrong side of the road. He should have been paying me danger money for surviving the ordeal. When I refused to pay the driver’s fare, it triggered a major argument. He threatened to throw me out of his car and drive off with my backpack, so I opened the door and yelled out that he was trying to rob me. Embarrassed and exhausted, he relented, accepted my price, which was half of what he originally asked for, and ordered me to collect my things and get out.

From this moment, I would be cursed in dealing with motorcyclists. But it also extended to the art of bargaining. The following afternoon, a street vendor sold me a photocopied book for US$8. After he walked away, I opened the book and pages started falling out. A Guatemalan-born wrestler whom I had befriended at my guesthouse said he had bought the same book for US$1. Even the guesthouse owner scolded me for being naïve. “If you can come to Vietnam and pay eight dollars for bad quality book, then you are rich…and stupid.” He was right. I withdrew from all bartering exchanges for two weeks, until I got to the provincial city of Quy Nhon (pronounced hwee ngon).

It must have been a slow day, for when I collected my belongings, five motorcyclists in their 50s and 60s surrounded me and started pulling my arms in different directions. Being tugged and pulled in different directions is no fun. Throwing away the language of diplomacy, I yelled at the drivers to stay away and called them piranhas before turning my back to commence the 10km walk into town. I barely made it past the front gate before I selected a random rider who then demanded 50,000 Dong (US$3). We then got into a heated discussion. It took us nearly five minutes to agree on 30,000 Dong, only because we were both tired of hearing each other’s’ voices. Less than halfway into the journey, the bike slowed to a crawl before the driver eventually pulled over. “No gas,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and flashing a row of betel but-stained teeth, suggesting that I deserved to be left stranded. In an effort to save face, I dug into my pockets, smiled and handed over 50,000 Dong. But the driver snatched my money and then wheeled his motorbike away. He was not concerned in returning my conciliatory gesture. It had only taken me thirty minutes to develop an arch enemy.

I dropped my backpack in frustration and rummaged through the front compartment, pulling out a photocopied map, trying to make sense where I was. For 15 minutes, I stood rooted to the spot before a middle-aged man sided up to me. He explained that I was standing in front of his noodle shop. Taking pity on me, he noticed how dehydrated I looked and ushered me inside. A few moments later, his wife brought me some tea. “Where you go?” he said in a helpful voice. I showed him the map and circled the spot where I wanted to go. He studied it, scratched his head and then said, “My daughter speaks English. I get her,” before disappearing. Moments later, a young woman wearing sunglasses and a T-shirt with Snoopy and Woodstock from the Charlie Brown Show came over and stood in front of me. “You lost? I help you”, she asked, before I told her in broken Vietnamese the address I was looking for. She looked at my map and conversed with her father in Vietnamese, fingers pointing everywhere. “My daughter take you on motorbike,” the father said. “I take you to foreigner place,” his daughter added, referring to the guesthouse. The scooter sank the moment I sat on it.

“You big man….fat,” she said. I did not know the Vietnamese wording for “I’m not fat, just big-boned.”

The bike made several spluttering noises upon acceleration, attracting the attention of pedestrians. I thought that the two-wheeled curse would strike again. In a desperate attempt to will the scooter to my destination, I repeated the mantra of The Little Engine That Could – “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can”. It must have worked because I reached my destination. My emergency motorcyclist refused to accept money from me, but requested that we practice English together upon our second meeting at her father’s noodle shop, to which I agreed without hesitation before we said our good-byes.

I was so happy not to be stuck in the middle of nowhere, any request would have sounded reasonable. My elation, however, was short-lived. A message posted on the front door read, “Sorry we have moved. See you there. Management.” The woman who had dropped me off was no longer in sight. Once again I was on my own, clueless as to which way to turn. I was convinced that the first xe om possessed a voodoo doll resembling me, and kept driving the needle deeper, inflicting bad luck. I stared across the ocean and focused on a statue in the distance, who turned out to be 13th century military commander General Tran Hung Dao. A national hero in Vietnam, General Tran cuts an imposing figure. His stance of pointing north is a gesture to show invading forces the way out of the country. It is said that his 1284 speech entitled Hịch Tướng Sĩ, or Proclamation to the Officers, inspired his troops to defeat the Mongol Army, through the heroic acts of past warriors. Victory, he said, would guarantee serving officers eternal immortality, whereas failure would curse future generations.[1] Reflecting on my own situation, I thought that the General was telling me to leave if I would not change my ways.

I took the opportunity to walk by the shore. Fishermen worked feverishly to prepare their boats for catching fish at night using giant nets. Children played football with a plastic bottle on the sand, or hide and seek in discarded jeep and tank shells. Had I not turned around to catch a glimpse of the xe om who yelled out “Hello foreigner!”, I would not have seen a signboard sitting outside the guesthouse I was seeking. After checking in and unpacking, I developed the urge to hire a motorcycle and get out of the city altogether for the day. But I accidentally held the accelerator after starting the motorcycle, sending me flying into a table and set of chairs in front of a passing pedestrian. She stared and erupted into laughter when I got up gingerly. Brushing myself down, I handed the motorcycle to the guesthouse owner. When she asked why I had changed my mind, I said that I liked bicycles more, but to her I did not sound convincing enough. It obviously came across as an excuse for chickening out. “You are afraid,” she responded. Afraid of what, I had no idea, but she probably knows my inner fears better than me.

For three hours, I rode around town, happy not to crash my bicycle. I stopped by a park where children and their parents and grandparents were flying kites made of plastic and crepe paper. Kids squealed as their kites flew in the air and crashed to the ground. Watching one fall was like viewing a plane shot in slow motion. I managed to catch the image I wanted so much; watching families congregating in large numbers while undertaking one of life’s simple pleasures in a small town. At the same time, I wondered whether my presence was unsettling to the locals. It is not every day that a foreigner on a bicycle arrives in a small town armed with a camera, taking a series of photos. When two elderly citizens sitting on a nearby bench started to stare at me for a prolonged period, the time felt right to move on.

As the sun slowly descended, I headed to the esplanade, passing a group of young men revving motorcycles and listening to pop music. When I rode past, a row of cold stares greeted me, as if I was invading their turf. Further down the road, young couples walked hand in hand, and children chased my bike shouting, “Hello, where you go? Where you from?” One boy stuck his middle finger up at me, which shocked me a little. While figuring out why he had done it, a young mother carrying her new-born baby stepped out from the footpath and stood directly in path. I gripped the brakes tightly as the bike shook and tires screeched. Once the bike had stopped, she placed her child in the basket connected to my handlebars, its legs kicking in the air due to the basket’s small size. “You want baby?” she added before backing off, her baby letting out a ferocious cry. I called for her to take her kid back, but she stood and did nothing. I started to panic, thinking that she would run away. Behind her sat a group of women and men, one of whom called out “You buy baby, two dollar? One dollar?”—a sentence which everybody seemed to find amusing. The woman did remove her child from my basket, and my short-lived nightmare was over. When I asked a local worker at the guesthouse about these people, he replied that incidents like this were common. Maybe it was a beggar’s racket, or just a group of homeless people. Either way, the experience left me rattled and I wanted to get out of the area. But it was late and I would have to wait until morning.

I rose half an hour after sunrise and took a walk to watch fishermen haul in their nets. Thankfully, my accomplices from the previous night were nowhere to be found along the beach. As I stared across the sea, I imagined the voice of General Tran Hung Dao instructing me to visit the Cham Towers immediately, or that the opportunity to appreciate its beauty would be lost forever. Unwilling to take a chance on riding a motorcycle again, I organized for a local xe om to take me up to the hills. As luck would have it, my xe om for the day was the same one I argued with over the fare. A scowl instantly appeared on his face and I assumed the worst. Maybe this time, he would leave me stranded in the countryside, the ultimate humiliation. But he simply told me to hang on tight. Only when we reached the Cham Towers did he speak to me.

“You go see towers, learn respect. I wait here.” The severity of his voice tone suggested that he still had not forgotten our encounter. When I asked if he would come with me, he declined. “Your lesson,” he said curtly.

Reaching the hill’s summit, I spent time appreciating the structure of what were once old temples. The Cham Towers, unlike other temples with fewer remains, is not overrun with tourists. But I spent less time checking out the structure and more time reflecting on my thoughts. Gongs from a distant pagoda rang out, providing me with the chance to understand how I was responsible for my own bad luck the previous day; the motorcycle breaking down, getting stranded, the close call of having a baby dumped in my bicycle basket. I could have avoided all of this if only I had shown more restraint and commonsense when it mattered. Thirty minutes must have passed before I headed back. The xe om was waiting for me at the bottom of the hill and asked me why I had taken so long. I told him that I needed time to myself.

“What did you learn?” he added.

“If I don’t give respect, I will be lonely,” I said.

“Very good,” he said to me. “You make this mistake, you have nobody. Arguing to save a little money will cost you more than you think. Remember that.” He then urged me to hop on the motorbike, as dark clouds appeared overhead. The last thing I wanted was to be drenched in rain, without the protection of plastic coats.

Looking at the vast stretch of hills on the long road back to Quy Nhon, I concentrated on ways to alter my own behavior The last thing I wanted to do is prolong my curse in dealing with local people and deal with more consequences resulting from my own actions, an act that did not require me to study the work of Principles Of Military Strategies, as General Tran Hung Dao once did for his famous address. All that was needed was for me to stop dwelling on the past and ensure that through my own actions, I would follow the right path and receive good fortune for my remaining days in Vietnam.

Note

[1] General Tran Hung Dao’s Proclamation To His Officers, Translated and Adapted by George F. Schultz, Link: http://www.webcitation.org/query?url=http:...-10-25+09:59:39.

Hanoi, Quy Nhon and My Bargaining Curse

Postcard from Soweto - January 1999

Postcard from Soweto - January 1999

by David Calleja

May 21, 2011

 

Published in Foreign Policy Journal: http://www.foreignpolicyjournal.com/2011/05/21/postcard-from-soweto-january-1999/

 

My doctor tried to persuade me to change my mind about going to South Africa in November 1998. He told me about an acquaintance whose friend had been shot while attending a funeral in Johannesburg. I put that down to bad luck. When he accepted that nothing would stop me from going, he advised me to “make myself as inconspicuous as possible” because he wanted to see my photos, not an autopsy report.

The day before I went to Soweto (an abbreviation for South West Townships), a hairdresser dyed my hair tomato red because I wanted to stand out for my visit. When the mini-bus driver arrived to pick me up, he took one look at me. “So Ronald McDonald is finally coming to Soweto,” is what he must be thinking. He introduced himself as Adolph – “but not that Adolf.” In a way, it reminded me of the Monty Python’s Life of Brian film scene when Reg (John Cleese) from the Judean People’s Front movement formally declared their newest recruit as “Brian that is called Brian.”

The possibilities could be enormous. This is probably the only driver in South Africa who can tell travellers to “F off” without getting sacked, as in “You have to take the F off the end of my name and replace it with ph.” How could this guy explain to a group of elderly Jewish people that they could trust a man whose first name was similar, but not quite the same as, a 20^th century tyrant, as opposed to being left in the middle of Soweto?

With an estimated 1.3 million residents spread across more than 30 townships, it makes up over one-third of Johannesburg’s population (2008 estimate, Soweto Integrated Spatial Framework). Adolph is proud of the township, home to Nobel Peace Prize winners Nelson Mandela, South Africa’s first black president and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Soweto also houses the Hector Pieterson Museum, a monument to the 12 year-old boy shot and killed by police on June 16, 1976, known as The Soweto Uprising.

“You cannot understand the past without seeing, breathing and feeling Soweto. All this talk of ‘Go to Cape Town because the weather is perfect for scuba diving.’ So what? Tell me one beautiful woman who can live under the sea and I will marry her.” Then he flashed a trademark smile, laughed and added “Don’t tell that to my wife.” He introduced me to Vincent Matlou, my guide and protector, and an African National Congress (ANC) political activist from the 1970s during apartheid’s bloodiest days. Vincent and Adolph assured me that I would be in safe hands and leave with some wonderful memories. Adolph excused himself, saying that he had to return to downtown Johannesburg and that he would return to collect me in just over 24 hours.

After enjoying a snack of spiced sheep’s brains, Vincent spoke about the dangers of being a student activist in the 1970s. “I was tortured and given electric shock treatment while my head was under water.” He observed that what the two of us were doing – having a discussion on the street – was unthinkable in his time; we would have aroused suspicion among the authorities, and that I could have been arrested by simply talking to a black man. He fled to Tanzania in exile, and would not return until the African National Congress (ANC) was taken off the list of banned organizations in South Africa and he felt comfortable enough to put the nightmares behind him. Both he and his wife started up their own tour company, Phomolong Tours, one that would promise the authentic Soweto experience – homestays, meeting remarkable people, experience the excitement of shebeens (drinking holes) and the mandatory braai (BBQs), and the friendliness and vibrancy that bounces off Soweto. But when his wife passed away, he lost the passion.

These days, he loves to smile and laugh; appropriate, considering that South Africa had been reborn under the manner of the Rainbow Nation, where everyone would co-exist in harmony, a new chapter consigning the painful past to history. But it also jogged my memory of a particular close call I had in Paarl, a small town famous for housing the Vincent Verster (now Drakenstein) Correctional Centre, where Nelson Mandela spent the final three years of his prison sentence before his 1990 release. Three homeless men threw some rocks at me and shouted abuse in Afrikaans, offended by the sight of me walking with a black girl. The sight of us together, she explained later, triggered their anger, but she shut the antagonists up by calling them “white man’s dogs”. Thankfully, the stones did not hit us because the men were too drunk to aim properly.

Every foreigner wants to stay in the slums for a night; nobody would live here by choice. That is why homestays are conducted in the safer confines of Soweto. But it is the warmth and sincerity inside the house that counts. I remember being introduced to Petrinas, a middle aged woman. “We’ve been expecting you,” she said to me. A table full of food was waiting for me – roast chicken, vegetables and beer. I felt honored and embarrassed at the amount of food on offer; surely my visit did not carry such significance. “Come, eat and drink. You are too skinny,” Petrinas said, pinching my cheeks. I tried to counter her statement by saying I had actually put on weight, but her friend added, “You should be jolly and fat like me,” wiggling her hips and letting go a high-pitched laugh. My face had turned the same color as my hair. “He’s a cutie, this one. Very shy, though, just like our three darling angels,” Petrinas added, referring to three young sisters who smiled at me and quickly got back to their room. “They are nervous about speaking with you.”

After breakfast the following morning, I spent a short time speaking with the girls about their classes, as well as joining in their game of hand-slapping, demonstrating my lack of coordination in the process. Before the girls left for school, Petrinas handed me a card. On the front was a smiling President Nelson Mandela with the South African flag in the background. The greeting inside the card read “Soweto loves you”. Next to the printed message was a handwritten message and signed by everybody in the household. It said, “To David, hope to see you soon ’cause we gonna miss you badly. With love, the Mshwakalowe family“. I felt a tear run down my cheek and splash onto the card. I was also issued with the name ntando, meaning “the appreciative one.”

It has been more than 12 years since my visit to Soweto. Hopefully it still loves me.

_____

Author’s note: The host family’s name has been changed to Mshwakalowe for privacy reasons.

Postcard from Soweto - January 1999

Fiction - Hanging By A Thread

Hanging By A Thread  by David Calleja “School is prison for the mind”; these were the words inscribed in blue ink across Col’s English exercise book in 1988. He seemed destined to be dragged through high school labelled a nerd.

There are no auditions when it comes to determining popularity level in high school. Verdicts are handed down arbitrarily by bullies, the beautiful but not necessarily attractive people, sports jocks and anybody with more friends than Col. Nerds existed for two functions; to provide test answers at gunpoint for illiterate school tough guys who were incapable of putting one and one together, or as replacement punching bags. Maybe mathematics questions should have been phrased in the following fashion to give unintelligent thugs a fighting chance in the classroom:

Johnny beat up three students during his lunchtime hour on Tuesday. He threw two jabs and a right hook at each student. How many punches did Johnny throw overall?

Col cannot remember the exact day and date when he endured the latest episode of hell; only that he was a Year 9 student. He was running late for English class. If the coordinator saw him heading towards the building, there would be trouble, possibly after-school detention. His eyes are bleary from crying and lack of sleep. Sweat is dripping down his forehead and arms. Col’s mind has been preoccupied with dreams about getting bashed the day before. It was the latest in a series of nightmares, each over something menial. If not for being on the grounds of a Catholic school, he would have cursed God for not blessing him with the ability to fight, run, swim or play a musical instrument, something that would grant him immunity from a confrontation. Demonstrating academic excellence in class or showing diligence with homework did not impress the bullies unless they could personally profit from it.
Col ran up the stairs two at a time, puffing and panting at the end before entering into a brisk walk. Ms. Swanley, the English teacher, scolded him the moment he entered the classroom, declaring that his tardiness showed a lack of respect to everyone who made it on time. If only she knew some of these angels she harped on about were amongst the worst bullies Col faced, responsible for his fear of turning up.
“Why are you late, Col?” she yelled.
He apologised meekly, but she remained unsatisfied with the response, scowling profusely to emphasise her disgust.
“What time is it now, Col?”
Col looked at the clocked on the wall and answered nervously. “11.40.” He hated being put on the spot.
“What time does class start?”
“11.30.”
“So how late are you?”
“Miss, is this Maths or English?”

Groans could be heard from around the class, a sign of disapproval at his attempted humour or sarcasm, whatever his answer was supposed to be. ‘If one of the more popular students in class said the same thing, there would be hoots of laughter,’ Col mumbled to himself.
“Thank you for your sarcasm, Col,” Miss Swanley said. “Maybe you would like to find a seat and open your book to page 45.You can start reading for us.”

There was an empty seat in the back corner of the classroom, but to get there Col would have to squeeze through a maze of desks and avoid the vultures eyeing him off. Outstretched legs accidentally tried to trip him up as he squeezed his way through to the corner.  Col heard a voice say, “we’ll get you after class, freak.” The safety of the desk with his name on it seemed distant, for every step felt like walking a mile in the desert.

Col opened the book and started babbling on about some text that he did not know or care about. Incessant distractions such as coughs, cat-calls and the odd paper missile or eraser fragment led him to stammer through a couple of paragraphs. Nothing actually hit Col, but the insecurity of being struck by something was enough to make him stop mid-sentence a few times. Then his mind began to wander; Last week in woodwork class, two guys grabbed Col’s arms and placed in his hands in the vice, tightening the bar as a third guy punched Col in the stomach, before submitting him to a painful arm lock and shouted, “I now declare you a nerd for life.” Memories like these were drowning Col in a pool of misery, rotting away his brain and desire to try hard in school.
Switching back to the book, Col hit a word which caused him to stutter - “ca…cata…catastrow,” he said before giving up. His brain was paralysed because of last week’s woodwork class moment.
“Catas-trophe, Col. Catastrophe,” Ms. Swanley said. Her correction provided the queue for collective laughter from the entire class. “When you’re ready, everyone,” she screeched in an attempt to regain control of the class. Ms. Swanley called on somebody else to take over, ending Col’s public humiliation.

For a few moments, Col had been left alone by everyone. Such moments were rare; it was like a stay of execution. It was time for him to take advantage of this lull. He pulled out his diary, a journal for recording odd thoughts and simple pictures. Col was not a great illustrator; he drew stick figures; a macabre comic strip of the schoolyard as an urban battlefield. There were days where Col depicted himself as a larger figure carrying a weapon, getting even with the teenagers who tormented him. This was the closest to revenge that he could realistically get. Each picture was accompanied by commentary and divided into chapters. Although the journal had no title, Col was already mapping out a vision beyond the realms of a pictorial account of his school world. He giggled to himself at the thought of adapting the show for live stage. Bullied – The Musical, the posters would read, with a cast of hundreds of unfortunate souls in drab-coloured and ill-fitting uniforms hounded every school day. The voiceless would receive the plaudits, the critics pelted with garbage. Then a moment of inspiration entered Col’s head and he wanted to record this historic entry.

Col started to write down the words “School is prison” before his diary was unexpectedly yanked away by somebody sitting in front. Col lunged desperately to try and get it back but in the process tilted his desk. It crashed into the chair directly in front of him before hitting the ground. Naturally enough, it caught everybody’s attention, including that of Ms. Swanley.
“Boys, get out! Go to the coordinator’s office!” Ms. Swanley yelled. Her face looked as if it would implode.

Both Col and the other student, whose name escaped him, walked out of the room. A rough voice hissed “you’re dead” in Col’s direction as he walked past, waiting for the instigator to disappear from view down the stairs.  As Col dragged his feet along the carpet, he suspected that he was being stalked. The snipers were following him like ghosts, ready to strike at a vulnerable moment. He tried to think of something else, anything would have done. ‘School is a prison for the brain’ – that would make a great title for my journal’, Col thought to himself. He longed for some water at the taps just near the staircase. His heart was racing, not just because of what happened, but at the thought of explaining the whole situation to the coordinator. He took a long sip of water and braced himself for a descent into hell.

Suddenly, Col was tackled from behind and carried by his arms and legs. Looking ahead, he could see that he was being taken towards the concrete barrier, the last step before being thrown over a flight of stairs. Screaming for help was out of the question, for he would be either unconscious or dead by the time any assistance arrived. Col’s body went limp as his legs dropped over the barrier, hit a pole and then dangled in mid-air. He felt like jelly, ready to throw up. Clinging to the barrier in desperation as sweat started to run down his face and arms, he struggled to look up. Peering over the barrier were three smiling faces - Les, Ren and Biff. Les, the unofficial leader, was a tall gangly guy with the charm of a snake. His sidekick Ren rarely spoke, but it always seemed to be when his superior told him to. Biff was an obese baby-faced assassin with a grin seemingly as wide as his waistline.

“G’day Col, I hope you’re well,” Les said sarcastically, a huge grin beaming across his face. “Just hanging around?” Ren and Biff, void of adding anything comprehensible, simply laughed and smiled. Col began flapping his legs about in the same manner a trout wriggled after being caught by a fisherman. He was ten metres from a sickening fall. Beneath him was a sea of brown tiling, and it appeared closer when Col’s hands started to lose grip.

Biff placed one boot menacingly close to Col’s left-hand, looked down upon him and grinned before going through the motions of spitting without discharging anything from his mouth. From the look on his face, it brought him a great deal of satisfaction. Anything could happen from here. The three tormentors, as Col called them, could play a game of This Little Piggy, removing his fingers one by one. Or they could stomp on his hands. Instead, the three tormentors raised their feet over the concrete barrier and went through the motions of standing on Col’s hands, only to pull out at the last second. For nearly one minute, this cat-and-mouse game went on. Col wished that they would just hurry up and get it over with, into medical care. The only question was whether it would be for physical or psychological purposes. Here he was, a human piñata dangling, waiting to be chopped down. But the problems would not end there.

As part of the recovery process, Col would have to disclose full details, thus breaching the unofficial schoolyard code; thou shall not name names. The penalty for breaking this law would most likely be daily beatings.  Col would have to lie. Then the interrogations would begin; parents, teachers, the year level coordinator, the Vice-Principal and Principal. They would all conduct a witch hunt for the culprits. Col could not win. He was hanging by a thread and would have to take the fall – metaphorically or literally. All he wanted was for this scenario to end.

And so it did. The three tormentors whose names Col did not want to think of anymore got bored with watching him dangle over hell. He was granted clemency. In an act of evil faith, Les, Ren and Biff lifted up a helpless Col up over the barrier, brushed down his jumper and patted him on the back the same way a sports coach would congratulate a champion athlete.

“Remember Col,” Les said. “Nothing happened, OK?”

With a signature cunning smile, both Les and his sidekicks faced the staircase and walked down the steps, laughing hysterically as if the whole matter was a joke. For thirty seconds, Col stood silently, trying to make sense of what just happened and wondering if it was real or a very bad dream. The sweat beads cascading down his back, chest and arms bore testimony to a brush with death, or at least Col thought at the time.

Although there were officially three or four hours of school time left, Col had consciously decided to switch off for the rest of the afternoon. His brain and soul were effectively on strike, unwilling or unable to absorb any new concepts or instructions. Beatings, lectures, they were all the same. Col simply could not take his mind away from why he had been singled out. How would he cope with this? Where would he draw the line? Col felt overwhelmed. Deep down, he longed to live out the fantasy out of his journal and become the muscle-bound character depicted in his journal, striking back brutally. Realistically, however, the bullies had kidnapped his dignity and pride, leaving Col with no other recourse but to simply put his head down and get through the day. For Col seemed destined to serve out his remaining school days on the frontline as a demoralised soldier with other nerds, fighting off wave after wave of bullies on the school ground, with no sign of a ceasefire in sight.

Col clenched his hands into a fist and punched the air before marching down the stairs to face the wrath of authority. The spineless revolution had begun.

Published in Hackwriters March 2011 - http://www.hackwriters.com/Col.htm
© David Calleja March 2011
davidcalleja1973@yahoo.com.au

Fiction - Hanging By A Thread

Meeting Elvis in Vietnam

Meeting Elvis in Vietnam
by David Calleja

Elvis is not dead. The King has come back as an elephant and lives in one of Vietnam 's most famous nature reserves. I have experienced riding bareback on an open path and even sang the opening lines of "Love Me Tender" to him. My intention is not to offend fans of Elvis Presley but simply give an insight just how far his popularity extends. I have a gambling tour guide to thank for all of this.

Although the Central Highlands city of Buon Ma Thuot is not on every visitor's list for destination, it has a reputation of being Vietnam 's national caffeine capital. In March 2011, the city will host an international coffee festival. It is also home to some of the tastiest rice paper rolls. Buon Ma Thuot's tourism slogan may well be "You're In Flavour Country." But there is a greater attraction more addictive than the region's coffee and rice paper rolls - Yok Don National Park.

Slightly larger than Hong Kong, Yok Don National Park is a popular destination for domestic and international visitors wanting to experience elephant riding and overnight stays with ethnic minority groups such as the E De and Jarai who live in the nearby hills and farm the land according to traditional practices, Huang, my guide for the day, told me. He also mentioned that grounds near the elephant tracks may become home a resort to cater for wealthy holidaymakers. 

Having met several individuals committed to becoming tour guides in cities such as Hanoi and Hue , there was something different about Huang. He admitted to being a regular gambler, unafraid of wagering large sums of money on sports. When I first stopped by his small office, he did not launch into a sales pitch outlining why only he could deliver the perfect tourist package. His first question was, "Which country should I bet all my money on to win the 2008 European Football Championship?"

As a non-gambler, I confessed to not having the slightest idea. An unknown large quantity of money could be riding on what I say. I ended up suggesting Italy . Huang immediate disagreed.
"Ha! They cost me 600 dollars last night because they lose to Holland ." At least I knew where he stood on the matter. To make things even worse, Huang explained that he also had to buy everybody drinks for all 20 of his friends. "I regret being popular," he added.

Before becoming a tour guide in 2003, Huang taught mathematics at a high school between 1997 and 1999 on the outskirts of Buon Ma Thuot, earning $USD50 per month; "standard rate," he says. While he received lots of respect from his colleagues, students and their parents, his mind was distracted by the lure of Vietnam 's steadily growing tourism industry, making more money by chaperoning middle-class families from Saigon and international visitors on short-term stays. Flush with extra money, he participated in card games and eventually found sports gambling. "I could never go back to the classroom," he said. "Imagine if the school found out if I gambled. I would lose face, no more respect." Being a tour guide helps to cultivate his entrepreneurial spirit. It has also fuelled his desire to improve his English.

"What about France ? You think they are good, David?" Huang asked me.

"Why would you support a former colonial power?" I said quizzically.

"Because I love the colour and smell of money," Huang said with a grin. "You know, in the 2006 World Cup, my gambling losses were so bad, I had to sell my Yamaha motorbike. I loved that bike, it was like my identity. But gambling is a hard habit to break, like drinking and smoking."

Gambling is illegal in Vietnam , but motorcycle (xe om) drivers play card games avidly during their down time, especially when shop closes for their lunchtime siesta. When it is time for large scale football tournaments like the World Cup, football fans are not scared to bet large sums of cash. They adopt a team, wear replica shirts, paint their faces and sing along to the tune of pounding drums. Huang says that he sometimes gets into the face-painting activities, because it makes him feel like he is at the ground, just metres away from where all the action is taking place.

"Are you as passionate when Vietnam is playing?" I asked.

"No, they not win much," Huang said.


I really was fascinated by Huang's love of football. He was certainly more into the sport than me. But I was also keen to speak about where we were heading today. Huang said that Yok Don was home to domesticated elephants, buffaloes, monkeys and the elusive white tiger.
"When the park had lots of trees, it was not rare to see the white tiger. But deforestation, logging and more tourists has sent the tigers and wild elephants west towards the Cambodian border," Huang said to me.
Before we left the city bound to take the bus, I received a warning not to be shocked at the condition of some of the elephants. All sorts of gruesome possibilities entered my head at that point, and I could only hope that he was exaggerating.

The bus arrived to take us into the countryside that would stop near a dirt path leading to an entrance for the Yok Don National Park . It was full of city dwellers going home to spend time with their families and help plant rice for the upcoming wet season. I could feel 40 pairs of eyes scanning me; their prolonged glares, combined with the stifling humidity, make me feel like a roast pig on a rotisserie. To my right was a vacant seat, but since a lady was breastfeeding her young baby, I opted to stand. An elderly person was more deserving of the seat. Passengers of all ages and occupations - police officers, businessmen, farmers, mothers, and students - were on board.

We soon left the centre of Buon Ma Thuot, the symphony of buildings, orderly traffic, outdoor food stands and war statues quickly replaced by an endless sequence of dirt roads filled with holes, farmers riding bicycles and rice paddies. Suddenly the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a runaway calf, and I hurtled forward. I avoided colliding with the mother nursing her baby, but still felt a thud. Fortunately, it was my hands which hit the window. It startled the child, and as his wide brown eyes passed glances with mine as I attempted to regain my composure, I thought this would send him into a crying fit. Thankfully it did not. Students in neatly pressed uniforms of white and blue giggled as I straightened myself and offered a sheepish grin.

Huang, who was standing in front of me, whispered, "Try not to stare directly at people. They look scared of you because you are different."

I urged for somebody to break the ice. Then a female student sitting behind me stood up. I assumed that she was about to get off the bus, so I moved aside as far as I could. Instead, she smiled and  spoke a few words in Vietnamese to Huang as I looked on.

"David," Huang said, "This girl would like to practise speaking English with you."

The girl sat back down again and asked me to sit next to her. Looking at Huang for assistance as if to ask for help, I initially stood next to her seat, but out of fear of offending her, I sat down. Her skin was darker than most people I had met in Vietnam , a sign that she may have been a member of one of the ethnic groups from the region.

Speaking softly, she asked me, "Where you from?"

"Úc", I answered back.

"Oh-stral-e-ya?" she said, to which I nodded and said, " Australia ."

She smiled and clapped her hands with excitement.

"I am in 11^th grade in school, learn English seven year now," she said. We went through a simple question and answer exercise, covering topics of interest, favourite colours and if I liked Vietnam . For the more complex words, she wrote down a sentence in her note pad in Vietnamese and handed it to Huang, who then translated everything into English.

After a short conversation, she opened her book to a different page and showed me some sketches of farm animals, the countryside, portraits of her family, and a drawing of a house on stilts. As I looked through the drawings and said how beautiful the drawings were, she saw my digital camera that I had been holding. I took it out and showed how to operate it. She was intrigued by simple functions such as watching the lens zoom in and out and held it carefully, before I taught her how to flick through pictures of different places I had been in Vietnam ; cities, towns and villages she may never get to see. In my mind, her black and white sketches of the same images that I needed a camera to capture would have been amazing. After taking some photos out of the scenery outside as our bus slowly drove past farms, she told Huang that it was her first time at using a camera, but could not make sense of all the buttons and noises. "It is easy for me to draw," she said to me with a smile.

Before getting off the bus, she pointed to a picture of a girl in full tribal clothing. "That is me," she said. "I am E De person." It was a very beautiful sketch, complete with a full length dress. The E De ethnic people are a group who lived in the outlying hills of Yok Don National Park . They live predominately in southern Vietnam .  
As the bus slowed down, she got up. "Now I am near home. Tomorrow I help plant rice with my family. Thank you for talking," she said.

"Thank you too," I said, smiling back.


She stood in the aisle, waved to me and said, "Goodbye, Australian friend.", before stepping outside. Then the door slowly closed, the engine roared into gear and the bus took off.

About fifteen minutes later, it was time for Huang and myself to get off. We walked for an hour in the humid conditions, with Huang noticing that I was perspiring a lot. He told me that the previous wet season did not start on time and that 2008 could be a repeat. "The forest around us is dying, because there is no rain," he told me. There were tree stumps but few animals. The healthiest part of the forest, Huang said, lay deeper in the jungle heading towards the Cambodian border. "Years ago, wild elephants used to roam here. But the forest is disappearing so there are none left. You will be riding older, tamed elephants." When I asked him about the younger elephants, he tried to shy away from the subject, but then he said that ethnic minorities, such as the E De and Jarai, killed elephants for their ivory tusks and made traditional jewelry and medicine.

"That is against the law here in Vietnam ," he said.

We then walked in silence for a while. Maybe he had a bit more to say about the topic but did not know the right words to express his views. Maybe he did not want to sound offensive to a foreigner in case he developed a bad reputation. In his trade, no tourists means no income.

Finally we reached the elephant reserve, and both Huang and I got what we wanted - some shade and iced tea, which I purchased for him. Huang said that he would negotiate with a Mnong native to select an elephant for me. The Mnong people are divided into three categories based on their geographical location in Vietnam ; Central, Eastern and Southern. An elderly man appeared from a hut to pick an elephant from the herds of six. Each was bound by a rope and tied to a tree. Five out of the six elephants had their tusks removed, which was described to me as part of the domestication process as a sagfety measure. One elephant, however, had only half a tusk and roared persistently. I wondered if he was passing on a signal to be put out of his misery.
Huang called me over to say that my elephant was now ready. "The guide has picked an elephant for you. His name is Elvis."

I was astounded. "Elvis?" I repeated in disbelief.

"Yes, Elvis," Huang repeated. He then gave me a brief biography of the elephant. A rich American who regularly visited Vietnam named the elephant after the world's most famous vocalist. He was a fan of Elvis Presley, and the name stuck. While this may not sound glamorous, it would have been more of an insult to a revered creature to be named after Justin Bieber.

The M'nong guide was already seated on the elephant's neck. He crouched down, whispered a few words into Elvis's ear. I hoped it was something to do with handling me with care. Then he looked at me and said a few words loudly. Huang relayed the message; "he wants you to get on elephant." How was I supposed to climb up? I had no ladder. Before I could think of an alternative, two men rushed over and worked in tandem to give me a boost. One of them squatted and the other patted his shoulder while pointing at my foot. "Come, jump," he said. I placed one foot, then the other, on my makeshift ladder. What happened afterwards was nothing short of a calamity. I wobbled while two guys attempted to push me up high enough so that I could get on board Elvis. I probably outweighed both of my helpers. The whole production resembled a circus act; I am surprised that nobody got hurt. As I slid onto Elvis's back of the great beast, the ride was finally ready to commence.

"WHACK!" Down came the guide's bamboo stick on the elephant, who responded slowly. He stopped and started, not appearing keen to being taken out for a test ride in the heat. My guide used his feet to direct the elephant and tapped plants and trees as he told Elvis to stay on the walking track. Every few metres, Elvis would stop to eat leaves as a means of keeping up his energy, something my guide did not like. I did not mind how much Elvis ate; he was carrying two individuals weighing a total of about 140kg. This is slightly less than what Elvis Presley weighed when he died in 1977. One thing that both the king of rock and roll and the elephant had in common was calorie consumption. It is said that an adult Asian elephant consumes around 96,000 calories per day, reportedly the same amount that Elvis Presley consumed daily in the last 18 months of his life.

I marveled at Elvis's agility to weave between low-hanging branches and trek through mud. For me, this was definitely something special. Like every animal in captivity, he longed to be with his own kind and other endangered species in a promised land of dense forest, far from this tourist zoo. The last time I got anywhere this close to an elephant was in 1999 while touring the Kruger National Park in South Africa, along with 11 other backpackers and a veteran of the Zimbabwean Civil War in an all-terrain vehicle. This time, I was riding bareback, where one false move could have resulted in a fall from seemingly dizzying heights.

When the time came to return to the original departure spot, I patted Elvis on the back, thanking him for returning me safely. This time, I was able to use a makeshift platform to hop off the elephant so that I would not break anybody's bones in using a human stepladder. Before my time with Elvis was over, I wanted to get a look at his face and stroke his trunk. Working up the courage, I approached from the side and attempted to reach my hand over to pat him. But I was unsuccessful; Elvis pulled away - he was not keen on getting too friendly with me.

In my desperation, I sang the opening lines to "Love Me Tender" in a low voice, enough to ensure that it did not attract too much attention. But anything invoking Elvis by name is never going to be a low-key affair. Huang, the Mnong guide and anybody else in the vicinity looked on bemusement, for they must have thought I was crazy for singing a love song to an elephant. By my reckoning, "Hound Dog", accompanied by some dodgy hip-wiggling, may have caused a catastrophe.

It has been nearly three years since my ride with Elvis. He may have never caught a rabbit, but he is definitely a friend of mine.

Long live The King of Yok Don National Park.

Meeting Elvis in Vietnam