Living for the Other...

The ability is even to permeate the root of hair to the hair smallly slightly, from inside arrive the outside to moisten, lock the nourishment composition that tight hair need availably.

so says my shampoo bottle. In English. I think.

But what about the fireworks outside my window all evening? And why is it that the cell phone can do everything except receive text messages all of a sudden? And where are all the 60 watt bulbs in this city hiding?

And what do I do when one of my dearest local friends, who I met by crashing haphazardly into her on a bike a windy day a year ago, and have since been alongside her for all of her firsts (first day out of the nunnery, first time finding a job, first time getting a haircut), and have developed a closeness that counts for true friendship (one of the very few in this city), calls me to say: You are so bad, I try call you for a long time... I'm going to Beijing tomorrow... maybe I will stay forever.

Do I attempt to explain that I lost my cell phone and had almost no way to get her number? Do I immediately take a bus down to the tea house where she is sitting with her luggage and three cousins? Do I accept the huge bag of dried yak meat from her hometown that she has brought for me? Do I go with her to help her pack her suitcase better at her cousin's house? Do I share a bowl of yogurt with her? Do I help her carry the entirety of her personal belongings to her brother's house from which she will leave the following morning? Do I sip another cup of butter tea with her? Do I dash back to my apartment to make her the muffins that she loves from muffin mixes that were sent to me from the states? Do I put together a bag of snacks for her to eat on her three day train ride to another planet? Do I walk back to her brother's house and ring the doorbell to give her one more hug before I, potentially, never see her again? Do I hold back my tears?

Yes... yes to everything, but the last one.

She says: don't cry. Learn more Tibetan.
The truth is I'm confused. I'm confused about the fireworks display haunting what has turned out to be a lonesome heartbreaking day. I'm confused about the cell phone which can do everything except the one thing that I most need it to do. I'm confused about the presence of every wattage of light bulb except 60.

And though I understand every word on my shampoo bottle, I'm confused. I don't understand it at all.

At all.

What my time in Thailand gave me a chance to do (besides be cheated, sweat, and pet tigers) was to become worn out in such a way that brought me face to face with my own depravity. I found that one cannot be possessed of the Spirit and spend an entire vacation frustrated, impatient, and generally awful and not experience a certain amount of conviction. The letter to Thailand was harsh, but if I had to write one to my own heart... it would be unpostable for its vileness.

So here's a story for you:

Once upon a time there was a worm. The worm was cold. Dirty. Tired of eating and drinking the same things. Tired of living in the same crumbling hole. Tired of digging all day and seeing so little progress, nevermind that the worm was blind. The worm wanted a vacation. The worm dreamed of being renewed so that it could go back to being an even better worm. So the worm went to Thailand.
In Thailand the worm was hot, too hot. Still dirty. The worm got tired of all the Thai noodles and curries and western food day in and day out. The worm went from one hotel to the next, traveled all around the country by train and bus and car looking for a place that wasn't a crumbling hole. The worm, rather than relaxing, spent most of the time planning for the next day. The worm became angry, had no vacation, and quit dreaming.
The truth that the worm couldn't escape was that it was a worm. A worm at home, a worm in Lhasa, and a worm in Thailand.
The truth that the worm had forgotten was that it was a worm that was loved, undeservedly so, by a Holy One. And in that truth the worm could find vacation, the worm could find renewal, the worm could be more than a worm after all.

I am the worm.

Perhaps the reason Thailand was so frustrating for me is that I got what I deserved: discomfort, poor treatment, lack of rest. Because what I surely don't deserve (especially after meeting myself in that ungrateful, unholy state) is the limitless joy that comes from knowing that my name is written in the Book of Life and the realization that I get to live it out in the place where the land rises to catch the airplane out of the sky and among a people who are generous with their whole lives.

I'm not worthy, but I am back in Lhasa.

Dear Thailand,

We need to talk. But since you're a country and I'm only a wayfaring stranger a letter will have to suffice.

I have been with you nearly six weeks now. Thank you for hosting me such a long time, I will happily disregard the way you sent me with an incompetent driver into neighboring Malaysia for nine minutes just to renew my visa. I am grateful for your abundance of tropical fruit trees decorating every street corner and daily bath of sunshine. Thank you for your vast array of decent western food and for providing an opportunity for me to spend time with other American friends. I really enjoyed your rare citizen who, bright as a jewel, included me among their friends. Oh Thailand, I have drank deeply of your coconut milk, I have timidly pet your tigers, fed sugar cane to your elephants, swam in your turquoise waters, dined on your various curries, learned your children's songs, made much of your impeccable laundry service, and for all these things, thank you.

But Thailand, who are you trying to fool?

I have also sweat to the point of dehydration and you made me pay for every drop. I have spent sleepless, horrific nights of swarming cockroaches and pulverized knees on your trains and buses, I have dodged human refuse in your streets, have watched your citizens moved like cattle in the back of dump trucks, have witnessed your men become ladies, have seen the blackened, pussy feet of your street vendors... for these things my heart breaks for you.

But that brokenness is only matched by my fury towards you. I have been ripped off, taken advantage of, mocked, and disregarded by you. Thailand, the way that you treat my language, learning only just enough to make me insane and using even that much poorly, should be illegal. I would rather you force me to learn yours. The way you put your swollen, rashy hand over tourist eyes is enough to make me sick. You have sold yourself Thailand. You have capitalized on your beaches at the expense of your people who play barefoot and mostly naked in the dilapidated streets or sit sweating and glassy eyed in the sweltering shade of the three walled homes you provide. You have taught your people how to cheat, confuse, and steal yogurt out of fridges in places we have paid to stay in.

And do you think, Thailand, that I am fooled by the glitter and flash of your golden buddhas and colored spirit houses? Do you expect me to find them exotic? No Thailand, you and I both know that they are just another way that you seek to ensnare your residents and when that doesn't work you leave your women to melt under the head scarves of Islam as their men sell roasted corn on the cob to topless foreigners on your beach!

Enough Thailand! You can't tempt me with your perfect postcards of palm trees as you attempt to ignore the spittle running down the toothless angry van driver's chin. Do you think you are being generous by showing bootlegged English versions of movies in your theaters? Do not think that I will give money to your ancient monk in mustard yellow robes sitting still as a stone in your food courts. I won't. Do not imagine that I am deceived by the bright orange clothing of your novice monks walking the streets and waiting for ATM's. I'm not. And if you thought that a little extra sweetened condensed milk in my tea, or a few nights in a hotel nice enough to make me forget that I'm still with you, or a moment taking a picture with a monkey, or a ride on your incredible ThaiAir is enough to make me forget the way that you stuff clueless tourists into hot vans, the way you overcharge me three hundred percent because you see my white face, the way you think I won't care about or notice your legions of beggars and prostitutes... well Thailand, you are wrong.

You are Asia at its worst because of all your tourist friendly lies. Last year I regretted that I had not given you a chance... but this time I worked hard to love you...

So Thailand, this letter is to inform you that we are, quite irrevocably and finally, through.

No need to write back, though the bulkhead seat on my flight out was a nice touch.

-Kelly