Black Friday

Dayao, Hunan, China

Still half asleep, I traipsed down the dark staircase and across the school campus. I noted a stillness in the air that I had never associated with Dayao; mornings were usually marked with a stray firework or the frantic bay of some animal making a break for freedom. The school, too, usually echoed with a chorus of student voices or the bellow of conversations as teachers paced the stairs between their classes.

But that morning those same stairs were vacant, and I knew before I'd made it to the first landing that the schedule had changed sometime in the early morning hours, and--yet again--no one had told me. Sure enough, a glance into the nearest classroom showed sixty students contorted over a ream of papers, tousling a spare hand through their hair. Another test day.

I walked up another flight of stairs to the teachers' office to learn the details of the schedule change. A geography teacher, whom I always saw in the office but never in a classroom, greeted me sleepily, and confessed he hadn't the slightest idea how long the test would last. He predicted at least through the morning. Possibly through tomorrow. He sounded like a Camus protagonist.

I sat down at a desk and waited for someone better informed. I sighed and shut my eyes for a moment. If the students were testing all morning, then I can return to bed, I thought. But the image of my students' frightened faces and furrowed brows passed through my head, and I felt guilty. Whether I returned to sleep or not, at least I didn't have to take a test.

A minute later, six male teachers, protected against from the morning cool by thick black jackets, talking over each other loudly, gathered around a laptop. I walked over to them, figuring that between the six of them they could deduce whether I could return to bed or not. I began to speak, but was interrupted by loud--and distinctly bad--music erupting from the laptop.

It took me a minute to recognize the ungainly voice of Rebecca Black. If I hadn't been introduced to the youtube sensation two weeks prior while visiting a friend, I wouldn't have known about the noisome music video making viral ripples throughout the Western world, rivaling sneezing mice and baboon farts as the worst internet video of all time. No one, I thought, could take this video seriously.

Shocked to hear her infamy had spread to China--and that her video was accessible without the censored youtube--I stood near the teachers awkwardly, wanting to make some comment so that the teachers would understand this was not a fair representation of American youth. We might be more cosseted than most, but not everyone's parents paid a few grand so their teen daughter could pollute the internet with a music video.

This was the third time I had seen "Friday", and if it hadn't been for the seconds ticking off on the bottom of the screen, I would have sworn it was the longest. I held my breath about halfway through as the video approached its nadir of shoddiness. As Rebecca sang about the days of the week (or, at least, Thursday through Sunday), I prepared to interrupt the video with an explanation I'd been working out in my head since the video began. I moved to speak, and then noticed the teachers' heads moving in what was unmistakably a head bob.

The second part of the video felt far faster, and at its end the teachers' nodded quickly in approval. "Hao! Hao!" a few said. "Very good!" I was then informed that one of the teachers had "discovered" the video the other day and wanted to use the morning test as an opportunity to show it to others.

"What a great song," said a teacher whom I didn't know well. "It's great you're teaching our students English so that they can learn songs like this." I swallowed my prepared words (and my pride), and muttered a polite thanks. "You should learn to sing this song at karaoke," said another. "It'd be a hit."

I watched in horror as the sitting teacher moved the cursor back to the beginning of the song. "Excuse me," I spoke over the opening notes, "When do regular classes start again?" The sitting teacher looked taken aback that I would interrupt the video over something so trivial as the schedule. "The test lasts two days," he said. "You needn't teach today or tomorrow."

"Thank you," I said sincerely, though I don't think he heard. I sauntered toward the door, and after a backward glance at bobbing heads, I left the office and returned to bed.

Dark Beer and Prawns

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Around nine at night, I was struck with an awesome idea for a short story. The plot was vague but the characters were clear enough, and surely their conversations would build into a satisfying story. A night cafe across the street boasted dark beer and prawns. Missing the former through geography and the latter by my own choice, I ordered a beer and began to write.

An IT genius had just met a scientist whose life he'd been commissioned to destroy. The scientist didn't know it, but the IT genius' pocket held a flash-drive that could eradicate decades of groundbreaking work. The scientist began to tell the IT genius all about his work, and the IT genius began to doubt his own. My beer came, and for a moment my characters began to edge on something almost interesting. Then their conversation began to wane, and--turning over onto a fourth page--I realized that nothing on the past three were worth the ink that had written it. I closed my notebook and took a sip of beer, trying to clear my mind. Perhaps there was a way to salvage this yet.

"Excuse me?" asked a voice from the table to my left. "What should I order? This is my first time in East Asia, and the food is...strange." His voice had a faint accent, but it was clear he spoke English well. Hiding behind sunglasses and a large fanny pack, I noted he didn't travel much.

I took the menu from his table and began to thumb through it. No wonder the poor man was confused. The menu was trilingual, not in that everything was labeled in three languages, but that food items were labeled in either Malay, Tamil, or a vaguely comprehensible version of English. Sometimes a picture would appear instead of words. Staring into the void of the faded pictures, I put the menu down, and nodded toward the sign at the entrance. "Have you ever had prawns?" I asked.

"Prawns?"

"Prawns. They're like shrimp. Big shrimp, I think." I paused and confessed, "Actually I'm not entirely sure what a prawn is. Seafood anyway."

"I see," he said. The waitress appeared and he ordered spicy prawns. He also ordered another beer. Then he said in a single breath, "When in Rome do as the Romans do, and I never disliked seafood. So where are you from then?"

"America. Michigan."

"Ann Arbor?"

"No, but I know a lot of people who went to school there."

"Good school," he interjected.

"Yes," I confirmed. I thought to ask, "Did you go to school there?"

"Michigan? Heavens, no! I was studying in Isfahan. But I'm from Shiraz."

"Shiraz? You're Iranian?"

"Yes, but the province is better than the wine, trust me. Have you ever been?"

"No, I--"

"It's a shame you should go," he interjected again.

"I would like to, but the visa..."

"Yeah, don't tell me. My dad's in Houston now, and I can't get a visa to the United States."

"Sorry about that," I said solemnly.

"It's not your fault."

There was a pregnant pause. "Why don't you sit at my table?" I asked. My table was better located next to the night market, which--apart from to write bad fiction and eat prawns--was why someone would choose to sit in the restaurant at all. He moved over to my table, leaving an empty bottle of beer behind him. "Are you traveling alone?" I asked.

"Well, yes and no. I'm traveling with my mother, but she's been ill and in the hotel room for three days now."

"I'm sorry. I hope she feels better soon."

"You apologize too much," he said. "You're not response for Iranian-American tensions or my mother's health." He took a sip of his beer. "Still, thank you."

I rarely find myself with nothing to say, but at the moment I had nothing. I awkwardly sipped my beer again. "I'm going to Serawat tomorrow," he said quite suddenly.

"Serawat? I hear it's beautiful. I won't have time to go there, but I hope you enjoy it all the same."

"I hope so too," he said. "I'll be there for a year."

"Are you working?" I asked.

"No, studying. My friends all think I'm crazy. No one's heard of the university, let alone Serawat."

"What are you studying?"

"IT."

For a fleeting second, I thought about mentioning my aborted story, then realized that it was neither appropriate nor relevant. I tried to think of something that was appropriate, and couldn't think of anything that fit with an Iranian studying IT in Serawat and drinking beer in Kuala Lumpur.

"Why did you choose Serawat?"

He smiled glumly. "It was far from home. And I needed a change of scenery. I figured a Muslim country would be an easy first step." He instinctively looked at his beer. "Well, sort of Muslim country anyway," he sighed. "You probably think I'm a bad Muslim for drinking." He stared at me, expecting an answer I could not discern.

"Not at all."

"Well, I'm not. I'm not supposed to drink, I know. But God is ever returning and most merciful. That seems to be our relationship really. I mess up and he returns anyway." His voice was flat, but I heard the unmistakable ring of humor. "I bet you've never seen a Muslim drink before," he continued.

"No, I've seen it a fair few times," I replied, uncertain where this was going.

"Where." He did not accent the word as a question.

"A few places."

"Where's that?"

"Jordan, mostly," I said. "I studied there for a while. Though I had Muslim friends in the States too."

"Jordanians. They hate Iranians, you know."

I sighed and sipped my beer again. "I don't think think the Jordanians really hate anyone. There are some misunderstandings, sure."

"Like what?"

"Political rhetoric engenders social misunderstanding," I said. Then I blinked, trying to understand my own words. Unaccustomed to speaking unadulterated English, I was growing unpleasantly used to saying such sentences.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I laughed.

We talked for a while, and I introduced myself as much as anyone can over a glass of beer. I told him I was teaching English in rural China, satisfied in most ways but not in others, and that the New Year's break had allowed me the much needed opportunity to travel again. "Do you like traveling?" I asked him.

"It's all right. Apart from the sick mother and the strange food it's been a good experience," he said. He sounded sincere. "I have to admit though, I'm a bit terrified."

"Terrified?"

"Yeah. You see, I've never travelled before. And now I'm committing to live in Serawat, and almost no one travels there."

I had to admit I would be terrified too. I tried to comfort him by telling him that Serawat was supposed to be a very lovely place, and that any travel experience is really more what you make of the place than what the place offers you. I wasn't sure if I was being helpful or pontificating.

Our conversation turned to other topics, nothing profound, and yet nothing dull either. Yet such conversations are soothing for strangers who are far from home without a clear idea what the immediate future will bring. It was good simply to share company and fears, and a tall glass of dark beer.

"You know," he said. "I should probably return to the hotel. I made it seem like I'd make a quick trip down here, and I've been here a while."

"Of course," I nodded. I doubted there had been such a time limit on his dinner, but I agreed that our conversation was over, and we were both satisfied. He got up to leave. "Good luck in Serawat," I said.

"Thank you. Where was it you said you'd be next year?"

"I have no idea. It changes every few minutes, so it's not really relevant now."

He looked slightly confused, but nodded politely. "Well you said it's all what you make it."

"True. But at this point it's just making it happen."

"It'll come together," he said. "I didn't know I was going to be in Malaysia until a few weeks ago. And look how it turned out? Or at least, I hope it turns out..."

I smiled. "I'm sure it will." I stood up and shook his hand. "It's been a pleasure meeting you," I said. He responded with similar pleasantries, and I watched as he and his fanny pack disappeared into the night market. I returned the notebook I had closed in anger a few minutes before. I happily drew squiggly lines through the first four pages, and began afresh.

Colonial Baggage

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

It was getting dark, and the picture wasn't coming out at all. I knelt down closer to the ground and brought the crudely written political graffiti squarely within the camera lens.

"Why are you taking a picture at that angle?" said a voice to my right. "You can see the bridge much better from the other side."

"Oh, yes," I stammered, feigning intense interest in the bridge itself, and not the distasteful message written on it.

"Where are you from?" asked the man. He leaned back against the bridge and set his bag on the ground. He intended to talk.

"The States..."

"The States? There are fifty of them. Which one?"

"Michigan."

"Oh, I know people from Indiana," he smiled.

I smiled back and almost said "I do too" before I realized he might think I was mocking him. I fumbled for something to say about Indiana when my thoughts were truncated.

"So tell me. There are nearly two hundred countries on this planet. Why did you come to mine? Why choose Malaysia?"

This was a very fair question, but not so very easy to answer. An exceedingly cheap ticket to Kuala Lumpur didn't seem like a satisfying answer, and--as I reflected on it--it wasn't merely the bargain flight that had brought me here.

"I've been living in China, and I was interested in seeing other aspects of Asian culture."

I heard the stupidity of my comment as I was saying it, but hadn't been wise enough to abort my words before they were finished.

"Asian culture? There is no 'Asian culture.' "

I tried to refine what I said ("I meant see a different Asian culture."), but the man didn't seem to hear.

"Do you think Malaysian and Chinese cultures are similar, and that their intersection is 'Asian?' "

He was right to call me out, of course, but I really thought he was being a bit unfair. I was tired from the flight and confused by the circumstances, and every thought that went through my head sounded dull and problematic. Thankfully my new friend began talking again. "What do you do in China? Business?"

"No...I teach. English."

"Oh. A good salary I presume?"

"Not really. I'm a volunteer technically."

"A volunteer? Now that's just dumb." Again, I had no idea what to say. I stammered out a few sentences in an abject tone. "Why do you people do that?" he continued. "Do you think we can't learn English without you?"

I had no idea how to answer him, and tried my stab at a few diplomatic words. "I just figured its sort of a valuable skill, and it feels wrong for me to make much money off a skill I have by accident of birth."

"That's very noble," he lamented.

I muttered a thanks, unsure if being "noble" was anything to be thankful for.

"You really should have learned something about Asia before you came here. You just had a vision, I'll bet. A dream. You wanted to come to Asia to help out. Be altruistic. Maybe learn something about 'Asia' while you're here. Well, maybe you should have learned something before you came."

I really thought he was being unfair, but kept enough composure to ask, "I'm sorry, what is it I should have learned?"

"You teach English, so you should have learned something about English. You have no idea what English is. So tell me, what is English?"

What is English? I had never met someone who had asked so many difficult questions so quickly. I was beginning to assume that most of his difficult questions were rhetorical, and I waited awkwardly for him to continue talking. He didn't.

"English? English is the fourth largest language in the world--in terms of native speakers. It's the language of Shakespeare, and of my parents and grandparents. It's the de-facto language of international communication..." I listed a few other things even dumber than these and the man listened politely.

"All very true. Let me add something to your list. English is status."

"Status?"

"Yes. Most people here don't learn English as a means of communication. They learn it because it's cool. It's chique. Everyone here wants to be just like goddamn Madonna or fucking Leo. They want to move to Los Angeles and make it big. They want to leave the country that's been there ancestral home forever and immerse themselves in your culture."

I had to admit there was a softened form of his argument I agreed with, and I conceded that I had met people who wanted to learn English with the express purpose of leaving China. "But I really think most of my students are very proud of being Chinese," I argued, "And--whether they know English or a dozen other languages--they don't want to leave China and certainly don't want to be from anywhere else."

"I agree with you that they might not want to be from anywhere else. You have to understand that English means something here that it doesn't mean anywhere else."

"I don't follow at all," I sighed.

"Of course you don't. You're American." Then he added, with no pause, "Will you get tea with me?"

We walked over the bridge I had been pretending to photograph and turned down a side-street. He said there was a quiet place at the end of the road that the tourists never go. The tea was cheap, he said, and good. We took a seat a booth and each ordered a tea. We quietly sipped for a moment, and began again.

"So you're saying that people in Asia should not learn English?" I said, still genuinely confused.

"How's my English?" he asked hostilely.

"As good as mine," I whimpered, realizing I had--not for the first time in that conversation--said entirely the wrong thing.

"As an American you should know how difficult it is to speak another language well. I wouldn't speak English like this unless I thought it a wise investment of my time." He smiled. "Of course Malaysians should learn English. But it's the reasons why they learn English that I'm concerned about." He paused for a moment. "Americans come to Malaysia and go home saying that Malaysians are so nice. They like how we smile. They like how we laugh at the Americans' jokes. They like it because they feel so 'welcome' here. They like how they can be rude slobs and say terrible things but the people here will still treat them so well. They like a country they can visit and feel like they're not even in a country, but some sort of imaginary world in which their actions have no social consequences."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Americans tell me about it all the time. They talk about how Malaysians are always treating them; always picking up the bill. Americans don't have to worry about a goddamned thing. No one bothers to learn Malay. I mean nobody. Even the American businessmen who live here for years can't speak a damn word of it. Tourists never try."

"I ordered tea," I offered.

"You tried to order tea," he snapped. "Would you like to have this conversation in Malay?"

"Well no..."

"Right. So my point is that Americans have successfully colonized Malaysia even though we live in a postcolonial world. I don't even want to talk about economics. I want to talk about cultural colonization. Can you name one Malaysian director? One Malaysian poet, writer, or pop star? How many Americans do you think everyone outside on that street can name?"

"But you can't divide economics and culture," I said. "It's through America's economic prowess that it's successfully exported its culture."

"Don't just blame yourself," he said. "We're responsible for it too. We could just say to hell with it all and just close our borders but we haven't done that."

Not knowing enough about the situation to speak, I opted to say nothing at all for a long while. Then I said, "You said earlier that there are good reasons to learn English, reasons apart from to gain status and to self-colonize. What are those?"

"Oh," he smiled. "Where there's only one really."

"Yes?" I asked.

"To tell you everything I just said. I don't care how white you are or what your native language is. I don't care if you have money, if look like an American movie-star or happen to be one. You have colonial baggage in my country and I don't expect you to forget it."

I picked up the bill.

Westward Leading, Still Proceeding

Changsha, Hunan, China

I woke up to knocking on both sides of my body. To my right, a thin finger pecked incessantly on the frozen window, precipitating a headache for my head that rested on it. To my left, the taxi driver cautiously poked my shoulder as though ensuring I was still alive. "Wake up," he said hopefully.

I hadn't slept the night before, but I was still embarrassed to have nodded off in the taxi. More awkwardly still, I noted that I had fallen asleep cuddling my backpack. "It's because of the cold," I explained to the driver, showing him my broken zipper and paper-thin jacket. He smiled doubtfully and nodded toward the window. An old man was still tapping. I cautiously opened the door, hoping the old man would step out of the way. "Wait a minute," I moaned in groggy Mandarin, as I swung my backpack from my embrace and onto my back.

"Changde? Changde?" the old man said hopefully. "Are you going to Changde?"

"Yes, actually." I was surprised and relieved. I had been expecting a good ten minutes of aimless bus searching, sent ten different directions by as many people who didn't know where the Changde bus was, but didn't want to appear unhelpful to a foreigner. "Can you take me to Changde?" I asked.

"No," he said curtly, as though though that was the most ridiculous question he had heard in a good while. "Of course not. But I know someone who can. Seventy yuan."

That sounded about right. "Show me where he is," I said. He smiled and walked off down the road. I paid the taxi driver and followed.

It was Christmas Day, and the weather seemed about right for southern China. There was no snow, but it felt like there should be. The wind blew through my jacket as though through a broken screen, and I felt my ears pulsate from the cold. We passed several groups of travelers aggregated around street fires, warming their hands as they waited for their buses.

I noted that the man had moved a good way ahead of me, who seemed to avoid the nasty game of human Frogger by letting the cars honk and skid around him. My, does he walk fast, I thought to myself. Though he was not running, and was--by a generous estimate--a mere fraction of my height, I couldn't keep up with him. I had met only a few people who walked faster than I, and certainly no man of his age. I began to trot, folding my arms to protect myself from the wind.

It went on like that for a while, the small old man race-walking and I slowly trotting. The buses had fallen far behind, and I wondered if the man knew where he was going. "Excuse, me," I shouted ahead, "Where are you taking me?"

"It's a special bus," he said, not as an explanation, but as though it were common sense. "A special bus", I grumbled to myself, and thought of the street fires several roads back. Then I thought of the roads, and realized that they were gone. Instead we were rising, leaving the array of Changsha streets below us. Oh God, I thought to myself. He's taking me on the freeway. My ears had never felt so cold.

"Where are you going?" I called again. "The highway," he explained--which, in Mandarin, has the far more sinister name of "high speed big road." I mumbled to myself about the absurdity of anyone walking onto a freeway on-ramp, and it wasn't until the first car zipped by me that I realized I was the real idiot for following him. "It's about half a kilometer ahead," he said.

We hugged the side of the road, and I saw the frozen city below me to my right and confused cars whizzing by to my left. "Thank God the roads aren't icy," I muttered. I saw in the distance a group of people waiting where the highway diverged from the off-ramp. As we came nearer, their features became clearer, and I read in their expressions an annoyance at the cold, but no particular discomfort from huddling together on an onramp. When we finally arrived, I noted they were all staring at me. In Dayao I had grown rather used to the stares, but my exotic appearance usually garnered fewer stares in Changsha.

It was then I realized I was still wearing my Santa hat from the night before. You idiot, I thought to myself. But don't take it off now; it'll just make things more awkward. And no wonder your ears are so cold.

We stood together like that for an uncomfortable while. The old man seemed particularly proud of himself, as though he had just brought home a trout from a pond full of bass. There were so many of us that we spilled over into the right lane, but most cars moved over and didn't seem to care. I noted more than one driver's head crane, and though I imagined it was because there were people on the highway, that seemed normal enough to everyone else. The only thing strange was me. Damn this Santa hat, I said to myself.

The old man was moving among us, collecting seventy yuan. He took my money and told me the special bus would be there in about three minutes. He paused after counting my change. "So, you're from Xinjiang, right?" he asked.

"No," I said, for what what I estimated was the hundredth time. "I'm not Ughyur."

"Oh," he said. "Really?"

"Really."

"You look Ughyur," he said, more to himself than to me. He paused for a moment, ostensibly hoping I would explain myself.

"I'm American," I said.

"American!" the man shrilled. Like a true thespian, he threw back his hand onto his forehead in what I feared would be a swoon, nearing knocking his furry black hat to the ground. "He's American!" he shouted to the rest of our frozen group. A few people gave a perfunctory smile, but most ignored him. "I haven't met a foreigner in a very long time," he said smiling. His distant persona of the perturbed window-tapper and determined speed-racer instantly dissipated. The bus was approaching.

"A real American!" he said to himself smiling. The bus stopped beside us, blocking traffic in nearly every conceivable direction. The door opened and the ticket-taker stepped out reluctantly onto the road. "A real American," the old man repeated, pulling the ticket-taker over to me so that we could be properly introduced. "I want you to be sure this man has a seat on the bus. No standing for our foreign friends." The ticket-taker showed a mild interest in me (or, based on his gaze, in my Santa hat), and returned to the bus to greet the other passengers. One by one they entered the bus, but the old man was not ready to let me go. "Make sure he has a seat!" he yelled toward the bus. He then began to speak rapidly about a great many things I didn't entirely follow. Though he spoke Mandarin remarkably well for his generation, after a sentence or two his accent decayed, and a sentence or two after that he switched to the local dialect entirely, and I struggled to follow. I then realized that he was really speaking to himself, and that I was merely a sort of unwilling muse in a great many thoughts he needed to put words to. Everyone else was on the bus.

The ticket-master appeared at the door. "Are you going to Changde then?" he grumbled.

I walked toward the bus and stepped onto the ledge. The bus began to move before the door was closed. From the ledge I heard the old man's last cry, "Make sure he has a seat!" The door slammed shut and I looked over the seats, scanning for a gap in the sea of heads. "No seat, you were too slow," the ticket-taker said, with the air of a teacher chastising a student. He picked up an ice-cold pail from off the slippery ground. "You can sit wherever you like," he said.

A Light in the Night

Somewhere in Guatemala

Guatemala City wasn't far from Antigua. There was little I had been sure of during this trip, but I knew this. I remembered the ride from Guatemala to Antigua a few days earlier. It hadn't been particularly long then, and I wondered why the reverse seemed so long now. An old man next to me had just woken up.

"Excuse me," I asked. "How far until Guatemala City?"

"Guatemala City?" he grumbled.

"Sí."

"This bus isn't going to Guatemala City," he explained. He yawned, and closed his eyes. Our conversation was over.

"Excuse me," I said to a woman to my right, "How far until--"

"This bus isn't going to Guatemala City." She had said the same words as the old man, but unlike his words, hers showed concern. Her muscles contorted into an expression I had seem countless times during my travels, as though I were some sort of beached whale that didn't have the wherewithal to find the sea again.

"Oh," I sighed. I was getting quite used to getting lost. "Where am I going then?"

She told me the name of a small town not far ahead. When we arrived, she showed me the bus stop where I should wait for another bus to take me back to the capital. "Are you sure you'll be all right?" she asked. Her smile was genuine.

"Yes, of course." And I meant it.

A few hours later, I still meant it--meant it to each of the passersby who stopped to ask what I was waiting for. In the late afternoon people seemed to fully substantiate the woman's claim that a bus was coming soon. When night came, they became doubtful. And when the last of the lights turned off in the small store in front of me, the last of my optimism flickered out with it.

Shit.

There was nothing to do but wait. I had nothing but a notebook, and no way to see what I was writing. Then I remembered the novel in my bag, but I couldn't even see it let alone read it. I could do nothing but stare off into the darkness.

It wasn't a jungle--in the proper sense--around me. But if I hadn't seen it in the daylight, I might have thought it so. A low buzz ran like a bass, and occasionally the measures were marked with the scurrying of small feet or what sounded like the flap of wings. I looked around me at the few buildings that constituted the town whose name I had forgotten. People wouldn't build here if there were anything too ferocious, I told myself.

The night grew darker, and I forbade myself to look at the time. What good will that do? I thought. I had a fleeting thought that maybe time is a lot like money. Both mean nothing unless someone else shares your conception of them. Listening to the forest behind me, I knew there was no one awake who thought in those terms.

The street was growing lighter, and I walked to the side of the road, staring down the street where the bus had disappeared so many hours ago. There was a car coming, slowly. Of course, I had only seen headlights, but I knew enough about my own luck and public transportation to know it wasn't a bus. And yet as it approached, I saw that it was was large--whatever it was--and it was slowing down.

It looked rather like an apologetic van. Perhaps it had begun as something else, but pieces of metal were attached to it at odd angles so it seemed to have grown out somewhat. It gave the impression of an insect with badly damaged wings.

The driver in the front spoke out to me. Against the grumble of his ailing engine, I couldn't hear anything he said. I put a hand to my hear and shook my head. The engine died out, and the man repeated himself. And yet again I didn't understand.

He was speaking a Mayan dialect, and spoke it quickly. I spoke in Spanish, and asked him to do the same. There was no comprehension. I recalled the previous day in which I had hitchhiked with a Mayan family who spoke no Spanish at all. Yet that had been at some distance from Guatemala City. Apparently I was in a similar place--perhaps the same place for all I knew--because the man seemed confused that he wasn't being understood. I suppose he has a point. Spanish isn't the native language here anyway.

In time our charades ended, and the deafening noise of his engine began again. He and his vehicle inched forward so slowly that I thought I was going to have to push, until it hit a dip in the road and gained some speed, disappearing into the night.

I fumbled in my bag instinctively, trying to find something to pass the time. I felt the grooves of my harmonica, and did not resist the temptation to play quietly for a moment. Why do my travel plans always end this way? I thought.

It's because you don't plan, said a nasty voice in my head.

The nasty voice had a point, but as I thought on my lonely bench and the deserted bus stop, I realized I would have traded all the fine linen and hotel reservations in the world to be where I was right then.

A tall streetlight--hitherto dark--flickered to my right. In a moment the bus stop was bathed in a faint glow. I looked at the grooves of my harmonica again, and returned it to my bag. I withdrew my novel--bought from a vender in San Salvador who only seemed to sell Márquez--and began to read.

Thank God I got on the wrong bus, I thought.

El Ladrón y La Gringa

San José, Costa Rica

Though I had no idea where I was, the intersection felt important. The streets were wide by Costa Rican standards, and their convergence--at the corner of San José's largest city park--seemed central. But as I neared it, I noted that no cars were passing through. Instead, all four lines of cars stood locked in a deadly face-off, honking and rumbling, but not moving.

Looking for the cause of the commotion, I easily passed through the busy intersection, weaving between still cars and jolting ocassionally at their honks. On the other side of the road, I soon identified an altercation that had undoubtedly lead to the chaos.

Though there were but two combatants, their argument had drawn a large number of spectators and peace-makers. The on-lookers engulfed a small (and terrified) boy caught in a headlock by a much larger, college-aged woman. Her blonde hair and awkward style of dress suggested that she didn't hail from San Jose.

And as she yelled--which she did repeatedly--my suspicisons were confirmed. She was American. Looking toward the spectators, she motioned toward the small boy in her grasp and cried, "¡Es un ladrón!" He's a thief. Her accent was terrible, but the spectators seemed to understand--or at least comprehend that the boy had presumably done something to land in a headlock. The boy struggled and cried, and through his cries and her grasp it became evident who the real criminal was. "Cálmate, gringa," I murmured under my breath.

"¡Es un ladrón!" she garbled stupidly, her red tourist hat beginning to fall off her head as she shook the boy. Seeing no positive response, she continued to yell idiotic things. She then desperately removed one arm from the lock to motion to the boy as though the crowd were somehow unsure whom she was addressing.

Everyone appeared to be waiting for the woman to explain exactly how the boy was a thief or (more properly still) for her to release the boy and discuss the matter in a more civil and less dramatic way. A tall man moved in toward the couple, and said something to them that was lost over carhorns. But whatever it was, he was able to gingerly pull the pair apart and lead them to the sidewalk where I was standing.

The woman seemed very upset now, or at least frustrated that her fifteen minutes of flagging fame had come to so anticlimatic an end. Gasping, she explained in broken Spanish that the boy had tried to sell her drugs. I waited for her to justify the "ladrón" label, but she never really did. Instead, she continued to talk about "drugas"[sic], receiving little more than blank and ocassionally frustrated stares. After a few minutes of not being understood, she pointed a frustrated finger at the crying boy and said simply: "marijuana".

I began thinking nasty things about the woman, and was horrified at my thoughts. Most snobbishly, I questioned how someone with Spanish that poor could really be a reliable witness to a drug offer in Costa Rica. Far more relevantly, I wondered why she wanted to be that witness at all. The boy, holding his neck where the woman had held him, was kneeling with his head on the sidewalk, his head drenched in his own tears.

Ignoring her victim, the gringa added further details to her stoy. She had gone up to the boy to see if he was selling gum, because--apparently--all Costa Rican children double as gum salesmen. She then became "disgusted"--this word was in English--when she learned (or thought) he was selling something else.

The attention of the crowd was running low, and people began to disperse. A man helped the boy to his feet and told him to run along. More people left and the cars drove on.

"Did you see that?" the gringa cried in English, suspecting--correctly--that I could understand her. Insted of replying, I walked away to show her that I too was "disgusted." A kind Costa Rican woman put an arm around her as the last people walked away. I moved on too, and found a nearby bench where I could try to put my thoughts to paper.

My thoughts never did come together clearly, but a number of loosely connected threads began to tie together. I thought first of the Monroe Doctrine, and though it has been two hundred years since its adoption, Americans still believe they have the right to police Latin America. Inspired by an unfailing belief in the superiority of American justice, the history of Latin America is littered by a series of interventions that draw the legitimacy of American justice into serious question.

Of course, the tragedy of the American notion justice is not unique to Latin America, nor is it--by any means--flawed only only in its international appropriations. Within our borders, it fails far more than it empowers. And perhaps therein is the principal that ultimately governs it--the paternalistic notion that an enlightened few have the right to dictacte ethics and their enforcement for the many. That is, at least, how Latin American cases seem to work. When the Latin American people have been included in discussions of American intervention, the only voices tapped are those on whom the United States can rely to support its capitalistic and hegemonic agenda, those voices who will cave to the bad commercial and environmental agreements the United States has thrust upon its southern neighbors. The people never seem to matter.

The phenomenon of American tourism--from which I cannot stand apart--parallels American interventionism. At its core, tourism in Latin America seeks to identify where Latin America can be useful for the American traveler, never the opposite. The impressions and experiences of the American tourist in Latin America are therefore eternally preoccupied not with questions relevant to Latin Americans, but instead with building and enhancing an Amerocentric view of the region--to essentialize not only differences between an American and Latin American way of life, but to prioritize the American--and through it to rectify the perceived inadequecies in the Latin American.

That is, anyway, what I see when I look to Latin American history. And that is undoubtedly what I saw when I watched the woman in the red hat. She believed she saw differences in law and enforcement in Costa Rica, but read them not as cultural variations but instead as a transgression against the infallable notion of American justice. And it was not enough to simply recognize the differences in legal enforcement, or even (unwisely) to comment on the perceived superiority of the American system. Instead, she believed that the onus was on her to be that police force, to bring about a stars and stripes notion of justice to a group of baffled Costa Ricans who had plenty of other more important things to worry about.

If she did anything, she drove home the point that it is insufficient to blame the American government or its partner capitalism for American interventionism in Latin America. The blame extends to all of us as individuals, who tour the world with perverted notions of our own cultural and legal superiority and our promise to extend it to others. That is, for me, what the woman in the red hat did and sought to do. Through her nationality, language, race, and birth, the woman believed that she could identify crime in Latin America and rectify it.

American intervention in Latin America has destroyed families, ecosystems, governments, economies, and people. I thought with horror that I had seen its most recent victim, upset not by governments or corporations, but by a tourist--too blinded by her own notions of justice to identify the redness on the boy's neck as the real tragedy.

Far off in the distance, I felt ill as I watched a young boy stumble home alone, undoubtedly too young to fully understand the history of American inventionism. As he rubbed his neck and limped onward, I felt grieved that he was not too young to feel it.

SJO

Near San José, Costa Rica

The bus I was waiting for had left hours ago, a taxi-driver told me. He had hailed me down as I paced back and forth at the abandoned bus-stop, clearly looking lost and stressed. The way he saw it, I had essentially two options: to ride with him and pay a sum so large even he admitted it was outrageous, or wait for another bus that almost certainly wasn't coming.

I was now visibly frought, and the taxi-driver told me that he didn't envy my decision. Best decisions are made without pressure, he said, so he would wait in the taxi while I made up my mind. I pulled out the paper with the hostel information, looking for any sort of guidance. As I unfolded it, it was odd to recall that only a few hours had passed since I'd booked the reservation--or, indeed, since I'd finally booked the trip. As I stood alone at the bus-stop, enclosed by vacant streets (minus the one taxi), I saw the consequences of my impulsivity. Cheap flights do not necessarily imply smooth logistics, I noted.

The paper gave a street address, and said that a yellow bus would come by the terminal frequently and stop a few blocks from the hostel. I looked again at the sign hanging over the bus station, that clearly told me I was in the right place. The taxi-driver himself had admited this, but said that as I had landed so late there was little point in waiting now. It was hard upon midnight. The taxi honked its horn.

I returned to the hostel paper, simultaneously wishing that the taxi-driver would drive away and persuade me to get in his car. Then I noticed that the paper had said something I hadn't noticed before--that the hostel gate would be locked at midnight, and any tardy travelers would be left outside and forfit their deposit. I looked at the time and groaned. I was going to be one of those travelers. Well Andrew, I thought to myself. This is going to be quite a memorable night.

Part bus, part deus-ex-machina, a shuttle emerged from the darkness and pulled up alongside me. And then my heart sank--it wasn't yellow, and its destination sign was for another city. As the bus doors breathed open, I stupidly stared up at the bus driver. ¨Thirty-fourth Street and Third Avenue?" I asked doubtfully.

"Nobody knows where that is," the bus driver said politely, taking advantage of a teachable moment. "Here, we talk about things being next to other things. What is your hotel by?" he chortled.

I stared at my paper dully. It said something about the Toyota Building, but given the awkward English I was unsure whether it was part of the directions or an advertisement. Not knowing what else to do, I answered, "El edificio de Toyota." The Toyota Building.

"Yes, of course!" The bus driver said, "get in." I looked at the paper one last time. The bus didn't match the paper's description or the taxi-driver's. He gave me a foreboding look from the other side of the road, shook his head, and murmured, "no."

I smiled at him helplessly and boarded the bus. I had no idea where I was going or if the bus was going there. And as the bus turned left at the first road, I saw my last hope fade; by my calculations San Jose simply couldn't be anywhere but to the right. Oh well, I thought again. If I'm going to be without a place to stay, it's probably best to be on a bus instead of in the street. And there was something decidedly romatic about being on a bus going nowhere. That is, I supposed, until we got there.

Still feeling claustrophobic from the plane, I opened the window and welcomed in the new climate. The air was warm and humid, but pleasantly so. The few people still awake waved at my head, protruding from the window like a canine on a joy-ride.

We drove for fifty minutes or so, and I knew then that the gate was certainly closed and that I had landed in Costa Rica without a place to sleep. Live in the moment, I told myself. It'll all work out.

The scenary faded and houses appeared in its wake, all of varying sizes and colors, perfectly interlocking with each other and the hills they rested upon. What a beautiful country, I thought.

The bus stoped, and I was instantly anxious for it to move again. The driver said something to the passenger behind him, and then like a game of telephone the message was gradually passed back to me. It was my stop. Disappointed (and nervous), I left the bus, and felt the eyes of the whole bus on me as I awkwardly turned in circles looking for something that would tell me where I was. The bus driver smiled, and continued to wait for some sign I was in the right place. I faked a thumbs-up and a smile and walked in a random direction. He smiled and drove away. Shit, I thought, as I took in my surroundings. A few palm leaves blew in the night breeze, and a stray napkin floated through the air like an airborne jellyfish. I'm totally alone, I realized.

I returned to my paper and it deciphered something about Taco Bell. I wander around the block a few times, and finally run into a man who was sweeping in front of a restaurant. "Excuse me, where is the Taco Bell?" I asked.

"You came all the way to Costa Rica to eat at Taco Bell?" he replied. "It's closed anyway."

"No, no," I said. "It's so I can find my hotel."

He seemed much happier and pointed me in the right direction. The directions then said (as I understood them) to turn two blocks north. I had no idea what way that was, and tried every direction until I found something that looked sort of promising. "Look for the blue house" it said. In the moonlight and the streetlight, everything seemed blue.

Eventually though, I found a gate that said in peeling letters, "JC Friends". I went up to it, and tried to pull it open, but my fears were confirmed. It was locked.

A few cats jumped around on the yard on the other side of the gate, each appearing quite happy to see me. I comforted myself knowing that the cats would probably very much like to let me in if they could. One of them purred and brushed his body up against the gate's bars. I felt happy.

A police officer appeared in the distance, and it occurred to me how bad it would look were I caught staring through a locked gate at one in the morning. Perhaps I should try and find the Parque Central and just sit on a bench, I thought. It would be better than talking to the police officer anyway.

The cats were growing more excited by the second, and one put out a paw and playfully touched my leg. Other purred and rolled over. Then the door to the building opened, and a dark figure walked across the yard. The cats scurried away and pretended to look angry at me.

"Andrew?" he asked.

"Sí..." I answered shakily.

"I've been waiting for you."

I felt guilty and overjoyed at the same time, and he onlocked the gate and let me through. The cats instantly stopped feigning their anger, and instead blocked my way to the house at the end of the yard, circling around my legs and purring. It was a lovely greeting after a stressful night.

We (including the cats) passed into the lobby and the man went to the computer. "We only have three guests," he said. "I decided to wait for you because I couldn't stand having just two." I thanked him profusely, and moved my items to my room, sent a brief email, and went to bed.