Marco Etheridge's Blog, page 2

Book Review" "Werewolves in Their Youth" by Michael Chabon

Werewolves in Their Youth by Michael Chabon
My rating: 4 of 5 stars








The story of author Micheal Chabon's rise to literary fame is an interesting tale, a lightning strike in a world of rejections and frustrations. Chabon wrote a novel as his masters thesis while working on an MFA from the University of California, Irvine. Without telling Chabon, his professor submitted the novel to a literary agent with the result that the manuscript was the prize in a bidding war amongst several publishing houses. At twenty-four, Michael Chabon was a best-selling author. A very long and ultimately abandoned novel followed. Chabon poured his frustrations into "The Wonder Boys," a novel that became a bestseller and a Hollywood movie. He followed up on this success with two volumes of short stories. The second of those collections is "Werewolves in Their Youth." Before we get to the review, I am compelled to say that I am an avid reader of Micheal Chabon's work, but up until now I have not read his shorter fiction.

There are nine stories in this collection and they are all very much worth the read. The author drops well-developed characters into the maelstrom of life and leaves them there to sink or swim. The struggles faced by the protagonists include floundering marriages, a very troubled youthful best friend, and an unthinkably unwanted pregnancy. Each of the characters is given the opportunity to experience revelation, rise to redemption, or drown in self-created chaos.

Chabon is a master wordsmith and these stories serve to highlight his talents, as well as to enthrall and reward the reader. The first eight stories are similar in theme, although very different in situational plot and outcome. The exception is the ultimate story, "In the Black Mill." This strange tale is an homage to the fiction of H. P. Lovecraft, although with much better dialogue than Lovecraft ever managed. As a literary aside, consider this quote by Stephen King: “H. P. Lovecraft was a genius when it came to tales of the macabre, but a terrible dialogue writer. He seems to have known it, too, because in the millions of words of fiction he wrote, fewer than five thousand are dialogue.” (King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir Of The Craft)

I highly recommend "Werewolves in Their Youth." Readers who are fans of short fiction will not be disappointed by these finely crafted stories, and aspiring writers may well learn a thing or two about the craft. This collection of short stories is listed in Stephen King's suggested reading list for writers wishing to hone their chops. If the reader is looking for a very solid collection of short fiction, "Werewolves in Their Youth" is a fine place to start.

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Thanks for your interest in my book review. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story "Mac, Dickran, and The Kid" has recently been featured at Literary Yard. You can check it out here:

"Mac, Dickran, and The Kid" at Literary Yard

Or perhaps one of my novels? All of the information is at my website:
Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!! 

Book Review: The Plantagenets by Dan Jones

The Plantagenets: The Warrior Kings and Queens Who Made England
by Dan Jones


My rating: 5 of 5 stars





"The Plantagenets: The Warrior Kings and Queens Who Made England" is a fascinating history of the two-and-a-half centuries that transformed England from a Norman colony to a European power. First published in 2013 by Viking, Author Dan Jones' tome documents the Plantagenet line with a clear overview, an attention to detail, and a fine pen. The book is very engaging and readable, yet it remains a fine work of history.

As documented by Mr. Jones, The Plantagenet line in England begins with Henry II and ends with the downfall of Richard II, or 1154 to 1399. These two kings bookend a ferocious and flawed set of rulers who cobbled together what we begin to recognize as England. During this era, French and Latin give way (finally) to English as the language of the newly-minted bureaucracies. It was a bloody time as well, full of invasions, sieges, treason, and the gruesome punishments that followed. Readers with a sense of the macabre will not be disappointed. There are quite enough poor sods beheaded, hung, and drawn and quartered to keep even the most ghoulish enthralled.

Writing history for the general public is a chancy game. A dry, academic tome appeals only to dry academics. The other end of the spectrum is splashy, historical fiction; with heaving bosoms atop the castle battlements. While this may appeal (to some) it does not inform. Happily, Dan Jones pioneers a path between the two extremes. The book is very well written, engaging, and yet remains informative and detailed. Along with documenting the saga of bigger-than-life kings, the book dispels a few cherished historical saws. Despite Winston Churchill saying it was so, Edward II most probably did not die of a red-hot poker inserted into his body. Sorry to disappoint.

The original hardcover version comes in at a hefty 540 some-odd pages. Readers of a historic bent should not be deterred. I found Mr. Jones' history of the Plantagenets to be an entertaining and captivating page-turner. I have read a great many histories of this era, and for my money, this is one of best. I look forward to the companion volume on the Wars of the Roses.

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Thanks for your interest in my book review. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story "Mac, Dickran, and The Kid" has recently been featured at Literary Yard. You can check it out here:

"Mac, Dickran, and The Kid" at Literary Yard

Or perhaps one of my novels? All of the information is at my website:
Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

The First Short Story of 2020!

Happy New Year to everyone, and happy Year of the Metal Rat. The first month of the year has been a mixed bag from a literary point of view: Excellent reading, productive writing, and determined submissions. The only thing missing from the new year was an acceptance. I am happy and relieved to announce that the drought of acceptances has been broken.

"Mac, Dickran, and The Kid" is an homage and the second of a trilogy of stories set in New Orleans. Some of you may have read the first story, "The Busker," which was published last year at Literally Stories.

The Busker at Literally Stories

The homage in the story is to Doctor John and Leon Redbone, two musicians who influenced my life, and who we recently lost. So, without further ado, here is the link to the story. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please, tell another reader. Word of mouth is the best gift any Indie Author can receive.

Mac, Dickran, and The Kid at Literary Yard






















Thanks for your interest in my blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story "Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" has recently been featured at MEF. You can check it out here:

"Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" live at MEF!

Or perhaps one of my novels? All of the information is at my website:
Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

Das Rentier kehrt zurück -- Eine Weihnachtsgeschichte

Seasons Greetings! I wish that I could offer everyone an extravagant gift, but I’m just a starving writer. As such, I decided to write a Christmas story, “Reindeer to the Rescue.” This is my gift for this year. It is offered in the spirit of the holidays, complete with the typical holiday tropes. I have already posted this story in English, but here is the Deutsch Sprache version for my friends on this side of the Pond.

Liebe Grüße und Frohe Weihnachten,
Marco


Das Rentier kehrt zurückEine Weihnachtsgeschichtevon Marco Etheridge
Ein dickbäuchiger Mann saß am Ende des Tisches, auf seinem kahlen Kopf schimmerten kleine Schweißperlen. Im Kamin knackten Holzscheite, und der Raum war warm. Der Mann glättete seinen buschigen Bart, der über seinem weißen Feinripphemd hing, und blickte den langen Holztisch entlang. Zehn Stühle standen um den Tisch, auf jedem saß eine winzige grün gekleidete Gestalt. Der dicke Mann schüttelte den Kopf, seufzte, und erhob seine Hände.„Ich denke wir sollten beginnen. Ich wünschte ich könnte die Besprechung mit guten Nachrichten einleiten, die habe ich jedoch nicht. Ihr seid alle erfahrene Elfen. Wir sind seit Anbeginn zusammen, also braucht es kein Schönreden. Wenn wir nicht drastische Maßnahmen ergreifen, wird es das letzte Weihnachten für uns als Team gewesen sein.“Der dicke Mann ließ seine Hände auf den Tisch fallen. Er sah zu seinen Elfen, einer nach der anderen, und sie zu ihm. Keine der Augen blinzelten. Die Elfe zu seiner Rechten rutschte auf ihrem Stuhl.„Glaubst du wirklich, dass es so schlimm ist, Boss? Ich meine, ich weiß dass die letzten Jahre hart waren, aber sind wir wirklich schon so weit das Halstuch zu werfen?“„Die Spielzeugindustrie zerstört uns, Pepper. Kinder wollen kein selbstgemachtes Spielzeug mehr. Was sie wollen ist billige Plastikware von SpielMobil und SpielzeugSindWir. Eltern müssen nicht bis Weihnachten warten. Ein Klick auf dem Computer genügt, und Bingo! Gratis Lieferung in zwei Tagen, ohne eine Liste an den Weihnachtsmann zum Nordpol schicken zu müssen. Du fragst ob es wirklich so schlimm ist? Sie machen uns zunichte. Wir sind überflüssig geworden, obsolet.“Ein Raunen ging durch den Raum.„Und als wäre das noch nicht genug, bekomme ich schon Drohbriefe von Anwälten aus der Thanksgiving-Truppe. Sie beschuldigen uns des unrechtmäßigen Eingriffs. Als wäre der Black Friday unsere Idee gewesen! Wer nennt einen Feiertag auch 'Schwarzer Freitag'? Das klingt doch mehr nach einem neuen Börsencrash.“ Eine ältere Elfe zur Linken räusperte sich.„Snowball, du möchtest etwas sagen?“„Ich erwähne es ungern, Chef, aber die Verdrängung durch die Konzerne hat massiv zugenommen seit wir die Rentiere gefeuert und die Lieferung an DHL abgegeben haben.“Der dicke Mann fasste sich mit seiner plumpen Hand an die schweißnasse Stirn.„Ich weiß, ich weiß. Herrje, erinnere mich bloß nicht daran. Damit hat der ganze Schlamassel begonnen. Ich muss zu viele Rumpflaumen gegessen haben als ich diese Entscheidung traf.“Der Weihnachtsmann blickte zum anderen Ende des Tisches.„Ja, Bushy, sprich.“„Möchtest du dennoch die Statistik der Braven und Unartigen haben?“   „Ich glaube nicht, aber lass sie uns trotzdem hören.“„Ich bin die Zahlen mehrere Male durchgegangen, und das Ergebnis ist immer dasselbe: die Zahl der Unartigen war noch nie so hoch. Wenn das hier ein Pferderennen wäre, 'Brav' wäre ein dreibeiniges, blindes Pferd, und 'Unartig' wäre Pegasus.“Der Weihnachtsmann warf Bushy einen prüfenden Blick zu.„Warst du etwa wieder auf der Rennbahn?“Bushy zuckte mit den Schultern.„Eine Elfe muss sich auch irgendwie ihren Lebensunterhalt verdienen, Boss.“Der Weihnachtsmann wedelte mit den Händen, so als ob er damit schlechte  Gedanken verscheuchen wollte.„Jetzt ist es aber genug. Die Frage ist, wie wir wieder zurück ins Spiel kommen! Was uns zum nächsten Punkt, Operation Rentier, führt. Pepper, wie geht die Teamzusammenstellung voran?“Die Elfe öffnete eine rote und eine grüne Mappe.„Es gibt gute und schlechte Nachrichten, Boss. Wir haben Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Comet und Cupid. Sie sind hier am Nordpol und scheinen in ziemlich guter Kondition zu sein. Vixen hat noch ein paar persönliche Angelegenheiten zu klären. Donner und Blitzen haben wir in einem Aschram in Indien gefunden.“„Einem Aschram? Warte, nein, erzähl es mir lieber nicht. Schaff sie einfach hierher. Was ist mit Rudolph?“„Das ist die schlechte Nachricht. Wir haben Späher in alle Richtungen ausgeschickt, aber niemand kann ihn finden.“„Diese alberne Rotnase ist eines unserer Markenzeichen. Er muss mit dabei sein, oder wir sind am Ende.“Der dicke Mann schlug derart mit seiner wulstigen Hand auf den Tisch, dass die  Elfen alle aufsprangen.„Hört zu ihr Elfen, wenn ihr nicht als eierbemalende Tagelöhner beim Osterhasen landen wollt, schlage ich vor, ihr findet Rudolph.“
Ein schummriger, subarktischer Lichtstrahl drang in die kleine Hütte. Sein schwacher Schein fiel auf einen billigen Couchtisch und erleuchtete dabei eine leere Wodkaflasche. Eine Kaffeetasse lag neben der Flasche, ihr Rand verklebt mit einer Kruste aus getrocknetem Eierlikör. Von einem niedrigen Bett in der Ecke kam ein schnarchendes Geräusch, unregelmäßig und abgehackt. Das gurgelnde Geräusch stieg und fiel, und mit jedem Anstieg leuchtete ein roter Schimmer auf.Vor der Hütte knirschten schwere Stiefel in tiefem Schnee. Das Knirschen hörte abrupt auf, und wurde abgelöst vom Geräusch einer gegen die Eingangstür schlagenden Faust. Das Klopfen war unnachgiebig, und drang selbst in die dunklen Träume der schnarchenden Gestalt. Das Geschnarche kam ins Stocken und hörte schließlich auf. Aus der Dunkelheit drang ein lautes Stöhnen und kaum vernehmbare Worte.„Geh weg.“Das Klopfen hörte jedoch nicht auf.Ein dunkler Schatten in Form eines kleinen Rentiers erhob sich träge aus dem Bett. Das Tier senkte sein Geweih, zielte auf die Tür und sprang los. Es stolperte prompt über den Couchtisch, warf ihn um, und landete unsanft vor der Eingangstür. Das Klopfen hörte auf, und eine piepsende Stimme drang in die Hütte.„Rudolph, bist du es?“Das benebelte Rentier hob seinen Kopf.„Kannst du das Schild nicht lesen? Draußen bleiben! Das ist sehr verständlich, oder nicht?“„Ich sehe aber überhaupt kein Schild.“„Oh, naja..., ich war dabei eins aufzuhängen, also geh schon weg.“„Rudolph, mach die Tür auf und lass mich rein. Der Rote Mann hat mich geschickt. Komm schon, Rudi, ich frier mir meinen Allerwertesten ab.“Ein Hauch von Erinnerung erwachte in Rudolphs trübem Gehirn.„Benny, bist du das? Was zum Kuckuck machst du denn in Finnland?“„Was denkst du denn das ich hier mache? Der Boss schickt mich. Wir bringen das Team wieder zusammen und wir brauchen dich. Jetzt öffne schon die Tür.“Rudolph erhob sich mühsam vom Boden und langte zur Türschnalle. Ohne auf das Eintreten seines Gastes zu warten, schleppte er sich zu einer zerlumpten Couch und rollte sich auf fleckigen Laken zusammen.Benny die Elfe warf die Tür hinter sich zu. Er wickelte den Schal von seinem Gesicht und rümpfte angewidert die Nase.„Heilige Weihnachtsgans, Rudi, hier stinkt es gewaltig.“Rudi schwenkte ein Huf in der Luft.„Mein Rehlein, Claire, hat mich vor ein paar Wochen verlassen. Sie hat die Kinder zusammengepackt und ist zu ihrer Schwester gezogen. Kann sein, dass ich den Haushalt ein wenig vernachlässigt habe.“Benny machte zwei Schritte in den Raum und stolperte über die leere Wodkaflasche. Es gelang ihm, sich gleichzeitig auf den Beinen zu halten und zu fluchen. Das verkaterte Rentier auf der Couch schaute nicht einmal auf.„Um Himmels Willen, Rudi, das ist nicht alles was du vernachlässigt hast. Du siehst aus wie der Tod auf verschimmeltem Brot. Was zum Teufel machst du eigentlich in Finnland?“Rudolph blickte mit einem halbgeöffneten Auge zu der Elfe.„Ich bin ein Rentier, Benny. Gibt es für ein Rentier einen besseren Ort zum Verstecken als hier?“Die Elfe zuckte mit den Schultern.„Okay, blöde Frage. Wohnt deine Schwägerin denn in der Nähe?“„Fairbanks, Alaska.“ antwortete Rudolph, mit einem Huf in der Luft.„Das hier scheint nicht leichter zu werden, oder? Okay, vergiss es. Wir haben dich monatelang gesucht, und das war keine einfache Angelegenheit. Santa hat mich geschickt um dich abzuholen, und er ist nicht in der Stimmung, ein nein zu akzeptieren. Du musst dich jetzt zusammennehmen und mit mir mitkommen. Draußen steht ein schöner, warmer Wagen und in Helsinki wartet schon das Flugzeug auf uns.“Rudolph schüttelte nur den Kopf und lachte bitter. Seine Nase flackerte und warf dabei einen roten Schein über sein mitgenommenes Gesicht.„Ist es Santa schon in den Sinn gekommen, dass ich vielleicht gar nicht gefunden werden wollte? Abgesehen davon bin ich nicht in der Verfassung, irgendwohin zu gehen, falls du das noch nicht bemerkt hast. Und dort angekommen wäre ich für niemanden von Nutzen.“„Darüber mache ich mir keine Gedanken, Rudi. Der Rote Mann hat mir aufgetragen, dich zu finden und zurückzubringen. Zuerst putzen wir dich ein wenig heraus, und dann überlegen wir uns, was wir wegen Claire und den Kindern unternehmen. Zur Zeit sehen die Dinge nicht so rosig aus in der alten Heimat, also was hast du zu verlieren?“Rudolphs Augen streiften über das Chaos in der Hütte.„Naja, vielleicht hast du Recht. Sag mal, gibt es in dem alten Flugzeug immer noch eine Bar?“„Natürlich, Santa genehmigt sich gern hie und da einen feierlichen Tropfen. Warum fragst du?“„Weil wir sie brauchen werden.“„Rudi, es sind nur drei Stunden bis zum Nordpol.“„Eben.“Benny massierte sich mit seinen behandschuhten Fingern den Rücken seiner spitzen Nase. Für einen langen Augenblick stand er mit geschlossenen Augen da, als würde er an bessere Zeiten denken. Dann hob er seinen Kopf und atmete bedächtig aus.„Brauchst du etwas Zeit zum Einpacken oder so?“„Ich bin ein Rentier, Benny, was habe ich denn schon zu packen?“
Die Schlittenhalle stand am Rande des Nordpolkomplexes. Sie war lang und innen offen, mit einem gewölbten Dach und breiten Holztoren die weit zur Seite rollten. Eine Ansammlung von großen roten Schlitten stand in einer Reihe unter dem gezimmerten Holzdach. Rentiergeschirre hingen an den mit Holzpaneelen versehenen Wänden.Neun Rentiere standen in einem lockeren Halbkreis im schattigen Hangar. Hufe klackten nervös auf dem Steinboden. Rudolph stand hinter den anderen und fühlte sich hilflos und verängstigt.Der Nordpol war so wie er ihn in Erinnerung hatte, und dennoch fühlte sich alles seltsam an und fremd. Zu viele Jahre waren vergangen, zu vieles hatte sich verändert. Rudolph schüttelte den Kopf, und ging in Gedanken alles durch.  Erst kam der Schock, als der Weihnachtsmann das Team auflöste. Die nächsten Jahre verbummelte er dann am Nordpol bis ihm das gezimmerte Dach auf den Kopf fiel.Finnland schien eine gute Option zu sein. Rudolph bemühte sich zu integrieren und an die normalen Rentiere anzupassen. Für einige Jahre funktionierte es. Er hatte einen Job, eine nette kleine Hütte und ging mit einem süßen Reh namens Claire aus.Rudolph gelang es, ein normales Rentier vorzugeben, sogar als die Kinder zur Welt kamen, aber es war alles nur gespielt. Er wusste, dass es nicht echt war, und Claire wusste es auch. Rudolph begann wieder ein wenig zu fliegen, immer im Geheimen, und immer nachdem er getrunken hatte. Das Ergebnis war verheerend. Immer öfter kam Rudolph ganz zerfleddert und frustriert nach Hause, während Claire immer besorgter wurde.Eine dröhnende Stimme unterbrach Rudolphs Gedanken. Ein dickbäuchiger Mann in einem roten Fliegeranzug schritt durch das offene Eingangstor. Ein Kader von Elfen folgte ihm auf den Fersen, jede bekleidet mit einem grünen Overall. Der Weihnachtsmann machte vor den Rentieren Halt. Eine unangenehme Stille verbreitete sich im Raum. Hufe scherten, da und dort war ein Räuspern zu hören. Der dicke Mann ließ einen schweren Seufzer aus und begann zu sprechen.„Willkommen zurück am Nordpol. Es ist wunderbar euch alle zu sehen.“Er warf einen kurzen Blick auf seine Notizen, dann schüttelte er den Kopf. Er warf das Klemmbrett zu einer der Elfen und drehte sich mit einem traurigen Lächeln zu den Rentieren.„Wir kennen einander nun seit vielen Jahren, zu lange für irgendwelche vorgefertigten Reden. Ich möchte mich bei jedem einzelnen von euch für das Auflösen des Rentierteams entschuldigen. Meine Absicht war gut, aber das Ergebnis war desaströs. Ich habe nicht nur dem Team geschadet, sondern auch Weihnachten.“Ein hübsches Rentier meldete sich zu Wort.„Boss, das ist doch alles Schnee von gestern. Im Moment ist Weihnachten in Gefahr. Wie sieht denn der Plan aus?“Der dicke Mann schaute hinab auf seine frisch polierten Stiefel und rieb sich dabei mit seinen pummeligen Fingern die Augenlider. Als er den Kopf hob, glänzten seine Augen.„Danke, Vixen, direkt auf den Punkt gebracht, wie immer. Ja, Weihnachten ist in Gefahr. Dieses könnte unser letztes Jahr werden, aber ich will nicht aufgeben bevor wir es noch einmal versuchen. Noch ein Flug, noch eine Chance, die Welt daran zu erinnern, was Weihnachten wirklich bedeutet.“Das größte Rentier kippte sein Geweih zur Seite.„Ja, Donner?“Das Rentier sprach mit einer tiefen, klangvollen Stimme.„Wir sind alle mit dabei, Chef, sonst wären wir nicht hier. Aber wir haben seit zwanzig Jahren keinen Schlitten mehr gezogen. Wir sind alle etwas eingerostet, einige mehr als andere.“Da kam ein Husten und ein Scheren von Hufen aus dem hinteren Teil der Gruppe.„Wir haben das schon untereinander diskutiert. Wir Rentiere sind bereit, es zu versuchen, aber ich denke dass es besser wäre, endlich mit dem Üben zu beginnen, als hier im Hangar herumzustehen.“Der Weihnachtsmann klatschte seine Hände zusammen.„Du hast Recht, Donner, genug gelabert. Wir haben nur sechs Wochen bis zum Heiligen Abend. Wir werden erst mit ein paar Aufwärmrunden beginnen, dann machen wir weiter mit dem Abflug und ein paar solo Flügen. Formationsfliegen wird etwas später dran kommen. Okay, wir haben das alle schon mal gemacht, also lasst und loslegen!“Der Weihnachtsmann drehte sich um und schritt zum offenen Tor, der Elfenkader an seinen Fersen. Die Rentiere folgten, Rudolph schlurfte als letzter hinterher.Sie trainierten unter dem beständig klaren Sternenhimmel des Nordpols. Die Rentiere sprangen und stolperten, stiegen auf und schwankten, und Weihnachten rückte immer näher.In einer dieser langen, kalten Nächte stand der Weihnachtsmann da und beobachtete die Rentiere. Er sprach zu der Elfe neben ihm.„Und, Pepper, wie machen wir uns nach mittlerweile vier Wochen?“Die Elfe überflog die Notizen auf ihrem Klemmbrett bevor sie antwortete.„Donner und Blitzen machen eine ziemlich gute Figur. Sie waren immer die stärksten, das ist also keine Überraschung. Vixen hat ein paar gute Bewegungen drauf, beinahe wie in alten Zeiten. Dasher ist robust, und Prancer tänzelt zwar nicht gerade, aber sie machen beide Fortschritte. Comet und Cupid werden auch schön langsam warm, aber sie brauchen noch etwas Zeit.“Santa nickte bedächtig und blickte starr hinaus über den glitzernden Schnee, der sich gegen die dunkle Nacht abhob.„Und eben das haben wir nicht, Pepper; Zeit. Es sind nur noch zwei Wochen bis Weihnachten, und morgen haben wir den ersten Testflug mit einem Schlitten. Wie geht es unserem rotnasigen Rentier?“„Naja, Boss, er scheint sich vom Eierlikör fernzuhalten, was sehr hilfreich ist. Im Moment sind acht von zehn Starts erfolgreich. Vielleicht sollte ich morgen den Testflug lenken, um das Gewicht gering zu halten und so. Nichts für ungut, Boss.“„Ho, ho, ho! Alles klar, Pepper. Bist du sicher dass du das machen willst?“„Nur keine Sorge, ich werde meinen Sturzhelm aufsetzen.“
Rudolphs Herz klopfte wie wild in seiner Brust. Sternenlicht reflektierte in den silbernen Schnallen seines Geschirrs, das von den Schultern bis zum Rücken lief. Hinter ihm standen acht Rentierpaare in lederne Stränge gespannt. Schnee knirschte unter ihren Hufen, und Leder knarrte in der frostigen Luft. Pepper die Elfe saß auf der Schlittenbank, die Zügel in der Hand. Ein leuchtend grüner Sturzhelm war eng auf seinen Kopf geschnallt. Peppers Stimme schallte vom Schlitten.„Denkt daran, es ist nur ein einfacher Testflug. Nichts Ausgefallenes, okay? Wir gehen hoch, ziehen ein paar Kreise um den Komplex, und kehren mit einer sanften Landung zurück. Seid ihr alle bereit?“Das Geschirr klimperte als die Rentiere im Schnee scharrten. Pepper hob die Zügel.„Okay, Rudolph, zieh uns hoch!“Rudolph zog schwer gegen das Geschirr, während seine Hufe Schnee verstäubten. Die Rentiere hinter ihm machten dasselbe. Das Geschirr zog sich enger, und der Schlitten glitt über den Schnee. Sie rannten nun, schneller und schneller. Rudolph stieß sich mit seinen Hinterbeinen ab und streckte seine Vorderbeine in den Himmel.Zwischen seinen Hufen sah Rudolph die schneebedeckte Landschaft verschwinden. Das Geschirr hinter ihm zog gleichmäßig, und er wusste dass der Schlitten ebenso in der Luft war.Ein Funke Hoffnung entfachte in Rudolphs Herz, nur um gleich wieder erlöscht zu werden von einer Welle aus Zweifel und Angst. Sie durchströmte ihn, dunkel und bedrohlich, und betäubte seinen Verstand. Seine Konzentration war gebrochen, und seine Hufe begannen zu wanken.Rudolphs Vorderbeine taumelten in der Luft, und er steuerte hart nach rechts. Er versuchte verzweifelt seinen Kurs zu korrigieren. Der Zug der Rentiere folgte ihm schwankend nach. Hinter ihnen schaukelte der Schlitten vor und zurück in der kalten Nacht.Pepper wurde beinahe vom Schlitten geworfen. Die Zügel fielen aus seinen Händen als er sich am Schlittengelände festklammerte. Nach links kippend, mit wild zappelnden Hufen in der Luft, fiel der gesamte Zug vom Himmel.Nur eine große Portion Glück und eine massive Schneewehe rettete die Mannschaft vor dem totalen Desaster. Rudolph steuerte direkt in den weichen Schneehaufen, gefolgt von den anderen Rentieren und dem Schlitten. Eine riesige Schneewolke stieg in den Sternenhimmel. Ein mit Elfen besetzter Abschleppwagen rollte aus dem Hangar. Glöckchen läuteten in der Dunkelheit als der Wagen Richtung Schlittenwrack rumpelte.Die Rettungselfen schaufelten die Rentiere aus dem Schneehaufen und befreiten sie vom verhedderten Geschirr. Der Schlitten wurde an den Abschleppwagen gehängt. Eine traurige Prozession machte sich langsam auf den Weg zurück zum Hangar. Die Elfen zogen den abgestürzten Schlitten, und hinter ihnen torkelten die Rentiere. Als letzter kam Rudolph, sein Geweih tief gesenkt.
Als sich die Aufregung rund um den Absturz ein wenig legte, zog sich Rudolph in einen einsamen Winkel in der Schlittenhalle zurück. Er kauerte zusammengerollt auf einem Stück alten Teppich und starrte auf den zerstörten Schlitten.Die Stille wurde unterbrochen vom Knarren einer Holztür, und dem unverkennbaren Klang von Hufen auf Steinboden. Es war Donner, der sich neben Rudolph hinsetzte; das stärkste Rentier im Team. Aus Angst, was das größere Rentier zu sagen hatte, begann Rudolph als erster zu sprechen.„Es tut mir leid, Donner, ich habe es vermasselt und den Flug total verhaut.“Donner sah Rudolph an, sein gewaltiges Geweih zur Seite gekippt.„So siehst du es also?“„Natürlich, ich bin gestolpert und habe alle anderen mit runtergezogen.“Donner betrachtete eine Weile den Schlitten, so als ob er seine Worte abwägen wollte.„Das ist nicht was ich gesehen habe, Rudolph. Wenn das Leitrentier stolpert, müssen das die starken Zugtiere, das nächst folgende Paar, ausgleichen, bis das Leittier wieder auf die Beine kommt. Das zweite Paar schützt den Ersten, und so weiter, der Reihe nach bis nach hinten.“„Aber du und Blitzen wart hinter mir.“„Genau, und wir haben dich hängen lassen. Blitzen ist dir nachgelaufen, und ich habe den Zug lockergelassen. Und das Ergebnis war, dass ein kleiner Fehler außer Kontrolle geraten ist und das ganze Team mitgezogen hat.“„Ja, und mein Fehler war es, der die ganze Sache ins Rollen gebracht hat.“„Fehler passieren. Was zählt ist wie wir damit umgehen. Das war nur ein Übungsflug, unser erster gemeinsamer Flug in zwanzig Jahren. Niemand wurde verletzt, und der Schlitten kann repariert werden. Du musst darüber hinwegkommen, okay?“„Ja, aber...“„Warte, lass mich dir eine Geschichte erzählen. Vor einigen Jahren habe ich eine wichtige Lektion gelernt. Ich war immer ein starkes Zugtier in der Reihe, sogar als ich noch ein Frischling war. Ich war sehr stolz auf meine Stärke, doch hat mich dieser Stolz auch geblendet. Eines Tages wurde ich mit einer schwierigen Situation konfrontiert, in der mir Stärke allein nicht weiterhalf. Um die Aufgabe erledigen zu können, wurden andere Fähigkeiten benötigt. Und wie sich herausstellte, kam dieses Talent vom kleinsten und jüngsten Mitglied der Mannschaft.“„Wow, hast du das etwa im Aschram gelernt?“Das große Rentier grinste.„Nein, das habe ich von dir gelernt, Rudolph. In jener nebligen Nacht vor vielen Jahren, als der Weihnachtsflug beinahe abgesagt werden musste, hast du alles gerettet.“Donner erhob sich zu seiner vollen Größe und dehnte dabei seine Hinterbeine.„Ich werde mich jetzt besser zurückziehen. Wir machen morgen wieder einen Testflug und ich muss bei vollen Kräften sein. Wir sehen uns in der Früh.“Rudolph beobachtete Donner wie er über die Steinplatten schritt und durch das Tor verschwand. Er fühlte Donners gütige Worte noch in der Luft hängen, und den Hoffnungsschimmer, der erneut in seinem Herzen erwachte.Die Heilige Nacht war leuchtend und klar. Ein elektrisches Knistern lag in der arktischen Luft. Rudolph stand am vordersten Punkt des langen Rentierzuges, mit acht starken Rentieren hinter ihm. Dünne Dampfschwaden strömten aus ihren Nasenlöchern, vorbei an hohen und stolzen Geweihen. Rudolphs Blick schweifte über die verschneite Startbahn, und seine Nase leuchtete in der Dunkelheit.Der Weihnachtsmann saß auf der Schlittenbank, herausgeputzt in seinem schönsten Weihnachtsanzug und der besten Mütze. Die mit Fell besetzten Ränder des Anzugs waren sorgfältig aufgebürstet, und das lange Ende der Mütze fiel locker zur Seite. Der Bart des Mannes war gekämmt und gestriegelt, seine Stiefel geputzt und poliert. Der Weihnachtsmann nahm die Zügel in seine behandschuhten Hände, und befühlte ihre Oberfläche.Der Schlitten war voll beladen mit Geschenken, auch wenn die Rentiere den Eindruck hatten, dass die Ladung diesmal kleiner und leichter war als in vergangenen Jahren. Die Elfen wussten Bescheid, ebenso der Weihnachtsmann, aber sie behielten das Geheimnis für sich. Vixen hatte sich getraut danach zu fragen, als der Schlitten beladen wurde, Santa jedoch gab ihr nur ein kurzes Nicken und Zwinkern zur Antwort.Die Zügel spannten sich, als sich der Weihnachtsmann zurück in den Schlitten lehnte, und ebenso spannten sich die Muskeln der Rentiere an, als sein schallendes Lachen ertönte. Rentierhufe gruben sich in den Schnee, alles wartete auf sein Kommando.„Ho, Ho, Ho-Ho! Los, Dasher, los, Dancer...“Schon presste Rudolph seine Schultern gegen das Geschirr, und die anderen Rentiere taten es ihm gleich. Der Schlitten zischte vorwärts. Eine sprühende Wolke aus Schnee erhob sich hinter dem schneller werdenden Gefährt.Rudolph spürte die Zügel aus Leder auf seinen Rücken schnalzen, ein vertrautes Zeichen von Santas erfahrener Hand. Er sprang in die Luft, und das gesamte Team sprang hinter ihm her. Sie stiegen in den nächtlichen Himmel auf, die Hufe bewegten sich im Gleichschritt. Der Rentierzug machte eine lange Drehung Richtung Süden, Santa und der Schlitten flogen gleichmäßig hinterher. Und dann, in einem Aufblitzen von Lichtern und Glocken, waren der Schlitten und die Rentiere in die Nacht eingetaucht und verschwunden.
Es war eine magische Nacht, und die Rentiere fühlten sich durchflutet von diesem Zauber. Sie flogen wie eins, umkreisten die ganze Welt, während der Weihnachtsmann lachte und Lieder sang. Der Schlitten fuhr hinweg über entfernte Länder, stets begleitet von dem Geräusch fliegender Hufe und Santas fröhlichem Gelächter. Und wohin sie auch kamen hinterließen sie eine Spur von kleinen Päckchen an Betten, Feuerstellen und Kaminen.Der Weihnachtsmann und seine Rentiere flogen weiter und schneller als sie jemals geflogen waren. Kein Kind wurde vergessen: Christen Kinder und Chanukka Kinder, Muslime und Buddhisten, Orthodoxe und Kwanzaa Kinder, alle fanden beim Erwachen ein Geschenk, das ihren Morgen erhellte.Auch die Erwachsenen wurden bedacht. Bauern und Bedürftige, Präsidenten und Premierminister, die Ungezogenen und die Braven; ein kleines, glänzendes Päckchen kam zu ihnen allen.  Eifrige Finger rissen an der schimmernden Verpackung. Unter dem bunten Papier fanden alle Hände dasselbe Geschenk. Klein genug um in eine Kinderhand zu passen, war da ein geschnitztes Herz. Die Herzen waren aus Naturstein gearbeitet, oder aus poliertem Holz, und alle waren sie in Form und Größe gleich. Eine Inschrift war zu lesen, in vielen verschiedenen Sprachen, jedoch immer mit dem gleichen Text: Schenke Mich Weiter.In den frühen Morgenstunden des Christtages legte der Schlitten eine perfekte Landung am Nordpol hin. Die Elfen lösten das Geschirr von den Rentieren, und der leere Schlitten wurde in den Hangar geschoben. Die Rentiere marschierten hinter dem Weihnachtsmann und den Elfen, mit hoch erhobenen Geweihen.
Die Weihnachtsfeier am Nordpol dauerte den ganzen Tag und bis in die nächste Nacht. Lichter strahlten, Augen leuchteten, und die Herzen waren voller Freude. Santa war fröhlich wie ein Kind, die Elfen lachten und sangen, und die Rentiere waren stolz und glücklich. Nachdem das letzte Lied verklang, zogen sich die Elfen und Rentiere in ihre Schlafgemächer zurück. Alle bis auf einen.Rudolph war viel zu aufgeregt um zu schlafen. Es war schon weit nach Mitternacht als er den Weihnachtsmann in seinem Büro aufsuchte. Rudolph schob sein Geweih durch die geöffnete Tür, und fand den Raum erfüllt von Kerzenlicht und dem Duft von Tannenzweigen. Santa sah von seinem Tisch auf, mit einer Lesebrille auf der Spitze seiner Nase.„Ich hoffe ich störe dich nicht, Boss.“„Ganz und gar nicht, Rudolph, komm herein. Was für eine schöne Überraschung.“Rudolph trat in den Raum. Feuer flackerte im Kamin, und die Flammen tauchten den Raum in warme Farben.Der dicke Mann griff nach einer Zeitung von einem Stapel auf seinem Tisch.„Ich habe gerade die Kritiken über unseren Flug gelesen.“„Und was sagen sie?“„Im Großen und Ganzen nichts Schlechtes, im Gegenteil.“Santa hielt die Zeitung ins flackernde Licht.„Wir haben ein paar gute Schlagzeilen gemacht. Der Kurier schreibt: Der Weihnachtsmann steigt wieder auf, und die Süddeutsche hat: Rentier kommt zu Hilfe, was schon näher an der Wahrheit dran ist. Aus London kommt: Claus im letzten Augenblick;ganz schön raffiniert. Natürlich ist nicht jeder erfreut. Gesternschreibt: Der Weihnachtsmann – jetzt ein Sozialist!“Rudolph musste grinsen.„Ich wette die landen damit auf der Liste der Unartigen.“„Ach, da waren sie ja schon vorher, mein Junge, schon lange. Aber sag mir, weshalb wolltest du mich sehen?“„Ich wollte mich bei dir bedanken, Santa. Danke, dass du mir noch eine Chance gegeben hast. Danke, dass du an mich geglaubt hast.“„Aber Rudolph, in Wahrheit muss ich dir danken, und das tue ich hiermit, aus tiefstem Herzen. Ich war derjenige der das Team auseinandergebracht hat. Mir ist klar geworden, dass wir alle im selben Boot sitzen, oder besser, den selben Schlitten ziehen. Ohne dich hätten wir es nicht geschafft, das ist die Wahrheit.“Rudolphs Nase leuchtete im Feuerschein und er hielt sein Geweih in die Höhe.„Glaubst du, dass wir es geschafft haben? Dass wir Weihnachten gerettet haben?“„Das wird die Zukunft weisen, mein alter Freund. Was wir jedenfalls geschafft haben ist Zeit zu gewinnen. Nächstes Jahr fliegen wir wieder, wenn das Team es möchte. Kann ich auf dich zählen?“Rudolph konnte sein Herz in der Brust fühlen.„Gibt es hier einen Platz für mich? Was ich meine ist, ich möchte Claire und die Kinder bitten zurückzukommen, zurück nach Hause zum Nordpol.“Der dickbäuchige Mann brach in fröhliches Gelächter aus.„Ho, ho, ho! Nichts würde mir mehr Freude bereiten, Rudolph. Das hier ist dein Zuhause. Hier wird es immer einen Platz für dich geben, auf ewig.“Rudolph nickte und drehte sich dabei weg, um die Tränen zu verbergen, die in seinen Augen schimmerten. Als er sich zurückdrehte, lächelte er.„Vielen Dank, Santa, und Frohe Weihnachten.“Der alte Mann nickte, sein Gesicht schien röter und fröhlicher als Rudolph es je gesehen hatte.„Frohe Weihnachten, Rudolph.“


                  

Myanmar Finale: Paying the Piper in Reverse

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, people... Yes, time is an inexorable force, and now we must go. Must we? Yes, Traveler, you must. The long haul was upon us: Mandalay to Yangon, an overnight in Yangon, then a late evening flight to Bangkok. There would be no reprieve in the Big Mango, no precious extra few days to hang out in the food stalls of Chinatown. Get Thee hence; back to the cold, grey stone of Northern Europe.

And for the first leg of Paying the Piper, so it went. The only hitch was my bad choice of Tuk-tuk pilots, an addled young guy who really didn't know where he was going. We got to the bus station, but not without a bit of tension. The Mandalay-Yangon VIP bus really was a deluxe coach, complete with treats and drinks. Nine hours of sun-drenched countryside later, we were crawling through the rush-hour clogged streets on the north side of Yangon.

A jitney cab got us to our hotel, another slog through more snarled traffic. The center of Old Yangon may not have huge traffic, but the outskirts make up for that in a big way. We arrived at our hotel, a posh and modern little tower in a quiet and unlit neighborhood. Compared to our last Yangon digs, we were out in the sticks. Finding a curry place proved to be a bit of a walk and frustration, added to by the fatigue of a long bus ride. We finally found a local joint, and were waited on by a couple of twelve-year-olds trying to act like adults. I am reasonably sure no Farrang had set foot in this joint in a very, very long time.




















The day dawned hot and bright; our last in Yangon, our last in Myanmar. Our flight time was around seven PM, so we had the whole day to kill. There was a lovely walkabout, a pagoda (of course) and a quiet lake with shady tea-shops. The morning rolled to afternoon, and the demands of travel reared their heads.

An evening departure is great for the outgoing flight, but a bit more challenging for a return. Imagine you are a good traveler in a hot SE Asian city. The flight leaves at eight PM. Even with the latest check-out possible, there are hours to kill, and those encumbered with baggage. One arrives at the airport a sweaty mess, then climbs into the silver tubes for twenty hours or so. Such are the travails of an evening departure. Faced with a very late fights, it is often easier to just book the guesthouse for another night, take a last-minute shower, and arrive for the ordeal fresh as a lotus.




















And then the limbo beings, the long stretches of waiting, queuing, boarding, waiting, flying, deplaning, and repeat. It starts at Yangon International with the comically stern immigration folks, then the interminable baggage line. We wish to be out of the lines, which only gives us more time to wander the weirdness of the airport waiting area, amongst the wasteland of duty-free shops and strange snack-bars.





















A savvy traveler can pick up some bargains at the duty-free. I found MacArthur's whisky, the very same as peddled by our cute plaid girl at the BBQ joint, and only nine bucks the bottle. While I am sure that this is a mighty-fine libation that would impress the hell out of my Cigar-and-Scotch friends, I had to let this bargain pass. (Scott, My Brother,  if you are reading this, I can feel your shudder of disgust!)




















The plane lands at Bangkok and I can feel the pull of the Big Mango. This is torture, to stop in Bangkok for a few hours, never to leave the airport. My One and I mope about the cavernous concourses, talking wistfully of the food orgy that we are missing out on. Just two days, a day, is that too much to ask?

We have a few hour layover at Suvarnabhumi Airport, plenty of time to contemplate the Myanmar adventure. Far better we should talk of that, of what memories we carry away with us. After all, no one really wants to read about the tortures of twenty hours in the aluminum tube.

The Traveler's Wrap:

Burma is Myanmar, and Myanmar is not Thailand. I did not have any clear expectations of Myanmar, which is always a good starting point. If you have never been to Southeast Asia, everything will come as a surprise, and lucky you are. If you are familiar with Thailand, Myanmar may actually be a bigger surprise. I believe that Myanmar draws as much cultural influence from the Subcontinent as it does from its neighbors to the East. During our time here, I often found myself feeling I was in Sri Lanka, wait, no, Kerala, or... perhaps Mae Hong Song. And yet Myanmar remains its own land, unique and yet somehow familiar.

Burma is Myanmar, and Myanmar is not homogeneous. This country that was once Burma, a country overlaid with many, many ancient peoples and kingdoms, is still a land of many cultures. The Bamar, or Burmese-speaking people, are the majority, but they make up only about 68% of the overall population. There are Shan, Kayin, Rakhine, Mon, Karen, and many more ethnic and tribal peoples, many with their own dialects or separate languages. This diversity is a source of both strength and weakness in Myanmar society. The diverse mix of peoples and customs make Myanmar society richer, but have also led to problems and violence, both in the past and present. The plight of the Rohingya people, in particular, continues to be a significant human rights issue, and a black eye for the current government of Myanmar.

Burma is Myanmar, and Myanmar is a land of that offers a wide variety of cuisine. From a bowl of mohinga, the standard fish curry soup breakfast, to an evening curry cooked "until-the-oil-comes," there are many culinary surprises to be sampled. Regional specialties such as Shan Noodles have become standard fare here. A first-time traveler to Myanmar will experience dishes for which he or she has no prior reference. The bean-paste concoctions of Mandalay are a good example of this. I have never had anything quite like them, neither in the rest of Southeast Asia, nor in the Subcontinent.

Myanmar offers many surprises for the traveler willing to veer from the Tourist Trail. While Myanmar's travel industry is relatively young, the guidebooks have succeeded in laying out established routes. The well known destinations of Inle Lake, Bagan, Bago, or Shwedagon Pagoda, are all worthwhile sights. We enjoyed each of them. Yet veer only a little from the established routes, and Myanmar will surprise and delight. Our accidental side trip to Meiktila, for example, provided a fine view into local culture. Any country is more than the sum of its most famous attractions, and Myanmar is no different in that regard. Mixing with the local folks, sampling the local dishes, watching the progress of daily life from a shady perch in a tea-shop, these are all part and parcel of learning a new country.


























The airport hours passed, along with the waiting and queuing. The silver tube lifted off from Bangkok, and we settled in for the long flight. The Piper must be paid, and pay we did. Read, sleep, talk, eat, watch movies on the tiny screen; the time passes. The cabin goes quiet and dark, and the silver tube flies through the night.

The cabin stirs slowly to life, the flight attendants move about, and the breakfast carts begin to bash the elbows of those still sleeping. We stretch and yawn. The window shades are raised and passengers blink against the invasion of light like so many moles. Another airport, another wait for baggage, and the sigh of relief as both bags appear. Passports are stamped and we are back in Vienna, back in the efficient gleam and glare of the First World.

The train that takes us home is clean and comfortable. The windows are sealed against the outside world. There will be no slow clattering, no clouds of insects invading the coach. I already miss the clouds of bugs. The train takes us to Meidling, and the escalator to the U-Bahn. Then we are walking, wincing at the cold.

Another trip has run its course, and another land added to the wondrous memories I carry with me until the next journey. Thank you for joining me on this adventure. I hope you enjoyed it. Until next time: Travel well, travel often, be well, and be kind.





















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Myanmar Chapt. 17: The Ultimate Mandalay Walkabout

Time swirls, magical new places appear and fade behind, and then comes the penultimate day. Tomorrow we must begin the journey home, back to the grey and cold of Northern Europe. Yet penultimate is not ultimate. We have one more day in Mandalay.

I want to see the shores of the Ayeyarwady River, so we walk out into a blazing hot morning. The street devolves as we walk north. In front of our hotel, it is wide, dusty, and sun-baked. We pass the fire-tower, wave to the firemen, dodge a few Tuk-tuks. After a few long blocks, dusky trees spring up from the edges of the street, and the buildings shrink to older shop-houses. Red and blue sunshades push out into the pavement, narrowing the street to a meandering lane. We have entered the busy market zone, and the business of the day is in full swing.



























To walk through an open-air market in Southeast Asia is to be immersed in a sensory tidal wave. The eyes take in enormous heaps of unfamiliar fruits and vegetables, piles and pyramids of colours and hues. There are mountains of garlic, white bulbs stacked like the skulls of the fallen. Eggs climb in towers so tall the weight alone should crush the shells. The carcasses of chickens gleam white and yellow from atop battered trays. Eels wriggle in protest at their impending doom, splashing water across the hot pavement, or a sandalled foot.

The sense of sight is overwhelmed by the olfactory. This is no mere bouquet, no tickling scent to tempt the passerby. Walking past the heaped mounds of dried fish, the air you breath is the scent, and the scent is the air. It borders on an assault, keen and acute. I am not leaning in from the outside to sniff a delicacy. I am engulfed in the cocoon of a single overpowering sensation, a sealed bubble that transports me to rocky, sun-pounded shores, drying seaweed, and fish-fish-fish-fish. My feet manage to shuffle past the fish vendor. I am released from the spell, only to be caught up in the next sensuous drift.

There is a soundtrack to the film of sights and smells. The calls of vendors mix with the babble of bargaining aunties. Scooters, Tuk-tuks, and Jumbos weave past the shopping throng, tootling their horns or shouting warnings. The tinny speakers of cheap radios blare in a cacophonous buzz of competing music.

I love all of it, unabashedly and truly. A hot, smelly, noisy street market is one of my Asian hallmarks. Noodle soup for breakfast and bustling open-air markets; these are a few of my favorite things. They serve as welcome home mats spread before my traveler's door. Relax, they say; you are back where you belong.

If I were to lose my sight, I would move to Bangkok and never leave. Let me live in a place where the smells and sounds and tastes can splash images across my mind's eye. If I am sightless, then damn subtlety to hell. Let me have jarring diminished chord progressions of sound and scent, played by a deranged jazz-man of the senses.




















The street was squeezed down to a narrow lane, the market growing tighter and more congested. We crossed over a fetid drainage canal, and turned to follow its course. The market fell away behind as we walked a quiet lane between half-ruined walls. We were entering a shady district of monasteries.

The grid of Mandalay was left behind, and with it the craziness of Mandalay intersections. Many of the intersections in that monstrous checkerboard are uncontrolled. There is no stop sign, no traffic light, no yield sign; nothing. It is a free-for-all, governed only by the need to get somewhere, tempered by a Buddhist sense that it is wrong to cause harm. The result is a wonderfully comic vehicular ballet of polite horn-tooting, braking, and acceleration.

Here is a little video I made of the chaos in action:

The Ballet of an Uncontrolled Mandalay Intersection



























We are walking up a shady lanes, past monasteries shielded by walls overgrown with bougainvillea. The faces of little monks pop to the open windows, like robed jack-in-the-boxes. They smile and wave, like any other school children distracted from their lessons. 

Past the monasteries, the neighborhood is a tangle of lanes lined with low-slung teak shophouses. It is as if we have stepped into another city, leaving the orderly squares of Mandalay far behind. This is familiar territory, resembling so many tangled enclaves in so many other SW Asian cities. There is a pagoda of course, Chanthaya Pagoda, and the golden stupa hovers above the labyrinth.




















Turning past the pagoda, we descend a narrow footpath into the beating sun of midday. We have come to the Thinga Yarsar Canal. A long teak footbridge is reflected in the mirror of still water. It is picture-postcard pretty, but better to look than to smell. The water of the canal is fetid; a sluggish soup of who-knows-what. It does not smell nice, Friends and Neighbors.

As we head out onto the teak bridge, we can look straight down at the sludgy water lapping the thick pilings. Without the benefit of the reflected sunlight, the canal is a sick green colour, the kind of green that only exists in graphic novel illustrations. It is of a hue that is alien to this world.

I think to myself that nothing could live in this miasma, and just as quickly I am proved wrong. There are schools of minnows cruising the upper few inches of the soup; thousands and thousands of the little wrigglers. While I am pondering how anything survives this toxic water, a whiskered mouth gapes open; a hideous, disembodied maw. There were more of the tentacled mouths, surfacing like miniature servants of Cthulhu. They gasped, puckered, gasped, and then sank beneath the day-glo green. Right gave me the creeps, it did.




















On the far side of the canal we passed the empty city amusement and water park. The ferris wheel was idled under the beating sun. We threaded our way through a few more narrow lanes and emerged onto the throbbing arterial of the Strand Road. A line of blessed shade tress rose on the far side of the dusty boulevard, and beyond that lay the Ayeyarwady River.

Unlike mad dogs and Englishmen, we know enough not be the anvil under the hammer of the tropical sun. At least we knew it today. We found the first likely looking local bar, set up shop on the shady terrace, and spent the next bit of time soaking up tepid drinks and watching the river roll by. There was a lot to watch.

The Ayeyarwady is a busy river and a major transportation route. There were a great many boats scattered up and down the silty banks. There is not much in the way of docks or piers. Very little survives the swirling currents of the river in the height of the rainy season. Cargo is loaded and unloaded by hand. Gangs of coolies hand-carry the loads on rickety plank gangways. They were at it under the beating sun, toiling like a line of ants. Everything they toted looked heavy: Sacks of rice, bags of cement, huge bundles of whatever. Just watching them made me tired.

Eventually we turned our faces back toward the center of the city. It was time for cool showers, clean clothes, and our last dinner in Mandalay. But before I could peacefully settle down to my meal, I needed a haircut.
















If you desire immersion in a truly cross-cultural experience, look no further than a chair at the local barber chair of whatever odd city you are in. It could be the track-side barbers at Hua Lamphong station in Bangkok, a Cambodian tonsorium in a dusty crossroads town, or even my Türke barbers here in Vienna. The guidebook is not going to help you with the local version of "Take a little off the top and cut the sides close."

Smiles, goodwill, and hand-gestures; that will get the job done. Once they recovered from the surprise of a Farrang walking out of the night, the young crew of Myanmar barbers sprang into action. A chair was offered, the apron spread, and then we got down to business. Pointing is great in a pinch. I pointed to a Number Two trimmer attachment and motioned to the side of my head. My young barber's face lit up. "Okay, Numbah Two." We were off and running, hair falling everywhere, while his compadres gather around to cheer him on.


























I ended up with a decent haircut for about a buck, and my guy got a 100% tip. The crew did not even make fun of my bald spot. Smiles all around, everyone is happy, and we vanish into the night.


























Okay, sure, we had Myanmar BBQ last night, and we are having it again tonight. What can I say? It was a different joint, at least; a full city block from the prior joint. The Mandalay folks love a BBQ dinner and, you know, when in Rome...  Skewers, dammit! Everything tastes better served on a stick.

Thus ended out last evening in Mandalay. Sated and tired, we rode the elevator to the rooftop bar. The kids brought us almost-cold soda. We watched the geckos hunt insects, drank our drinks, and let the night run its own course. Mandalay may be slow to grow on a traveler, but I am going to miss this town.





















Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story "Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" has recently been featured at MEF. You can check it out here:

"Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" live at MEF!

Or perhaps one of my novels? All of the information is at my website:
Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

Myanmar Chapt 16: Making Merit on Mandalay Hill

The sun beats down on the wide-flung grid of streets. We are bound for Mandalay Hill, the geographic feature from which the city took its name. It is a long walk, so we are aboard a Tuk-tuk,  whizzing past the endless moats that surround the Mya Nan San Kyaw, the last palace. This was the seat of the Burmese king from 1859 until Burma fell to the British colonizers in 1887. Times got a lot harder for the palace after that, of which more later.

But we are not here for the palace. A pox on palaces! We are on our way to climb Mandalay Hill, to make merit, to grab the Oh-So-Important Mandalay sunset photo. Therein lies the two reasons to walk up the hill.

Most local folk who climb the hill do so to make merit. One climbs barefoot to the top of this 240 meter hill, stopping along the way to pay respect to the many Buddha statues along the stairs. Walking barefoot up a great many unevenly spaced stairs whilst dodging the occasional offering left by the temple dogs does require a certain heightened awareness. Think of making merit as acquiring karma through good acts, not unlike counting out Hail Marys on a rosary.

Tourists flock to the top of the hill for the panoramic view. At the very tippy-top of the hill are the wide terraces that surround the Sutaungpyei Pagoda. Mandalay is spread out far and wide below the hilltop, and the summit has become THE spot for a sunset photo. In my ignorance, I thought the steep climb would keep the number of tourists to a minimum; ignorance being the operative word.


























So, where were we? Sorry, we were whizzing along the sun-baked streets of Mandalay in our trusty Tuk-tuk. A long, hot block from our hotel is an odd tower, a gangling bolted-up metal thing that juts above the shop-houses. Of course I had to inquire. It turns out that the structure is a fire watch for the main fire department. During the time we spent in Mandalay, I walked by the fire station many times. The men at the station took to laughing and waving. I suppose they thought some poor village in the USA was missing an idiot.


























Before we could whizz by the palace, we had to whizz past the market. There is always a market. To answer the oft-asked question: Yes, the meaty bits sit out in the heat. And yes, the locals eat the meaty bits that have been sitting out in the heat, as do we when we go to the BBQ joint. And, yes again, most everyone seems to survive. My only advice is this: At a certain point it is best not to know.

There are a great many places in the world that are not so obsessed with refrigeration. Take eggs, for example. Tall stacks of eggs are a common sight in any Southeast Asia market; great honking stacks devoid of any mechanical cooling. Shocked Western visitors stop to photograph the deadly food peril. And yet I remember open trays of eggs sitting atop the counter of my local store. My Grandmothers would devil the eggs by the dozen, making huge trays of the things. Rafts of deviled-eggs would sit outside for hours amongst the jello-molds and pigs-in-blanket; all of it washed in the mid-summer Kansas City heat.

Somehow we kids all survived, including myself, and now I am whizzing across Mandalay in a Tuk-tuk...




















We finally arrived at the foot of the Mandalay Hill, paid the Tuk-tuk driver, and dodged the local shills who offered to guide us up the hill. The process is simple: remove your shoes and socks and start climbing. The main route to the top of the hill is the southern stairway. The stairways are covered to protect pilgrims from the sun. While the stairways are indeed shaded, they are also hot as hell. Any merit acquired during the climb will be well-earned.


























We climbed, we dodged doggie landmines, and we climbed some more. There were local folks going up, local folk coming down, and a lot of monks sitting here and there. There were a very few Farrang sweating their way up the long stairways. In fact, there were only a very few Farrang in Mandalay, or at least that was my impression. They certainly were not out walking around the streets. But they must be here somewhere?


























There are small monasteries, satellite temples, and large pagodas scattered all over the hillside. The stairway runs back and forth between them, and always there is another incarnation of the Buddha. This particular Buddha was urging us on, pointing the way to the top of the hill.




















The steep stairway climbs to a plaza, an open temple area, another small pagoda. The legs say "This is it!" The brain knows that it is a lie. And then there is the sign, put there for the benefit of the Farrang: You ain't there yet, Bubba. There is a lot more merit to make before you see the summit.




















And... the joke got stale about two signs below. But wait, the punch line is still to come.
















Then we are at the top, unmistakably the top; the summit, the end of the stairs. I know this to be a fact because I can now see the elevator, and the punch line to the joke.

"Well, gee, Bob, where are all the tourists at? I don't see hardly none of them on these purty stairs!"
"You're a fool, Edgar, as Mama always said. Them tourists ride a Tuk-tuk to the top, right up that twisty road yonder. Then they pays a bit and rides up the rest of the way in that there elevator, the one that's made to look like a pagoda."

Bob and Edgar are both less fools than I. There was a mere half-hour left in the day, give or take. The door of the elevator opened, disgorged another load of tourists, then hurried back down for more. The terraces surrounding the Sutaungpyei Pagoda were teeming with tourists, both local and foreign. A gentle jostling had already started along the railings as folks positioned themselves for the sunset selfie.




















More folks were arriving by the minute. The Sunset Race was on. Pretty quick, they would be packed in tighter than green Mara on the march. 

The name Sutaungpyei translates to "Wish-fulfilling," more or less. I was wishing for a little elbow room and far fewer people. We fled down a small stairway and found a nearly abandoned terrace perched below the mob scene. This little ledge offered the twin benefits of relative peace and an absence of no smoking signs. The view was not greatly lessened by the loss of three meters in elevation.





















I savored the merit I had acquired on the long, sweaty climb. I discovered that my savored merit paired nicely with a local cheroot.




















The sun did set over the town, and over the mighty Ayeyarwady to the West. We good pilgrims gave out with the usual sunset exclamations: "Oooooooo... Aaaaaaaaahhh." All was well in the world, and peace reigned over the land. It was time to head down the stairs.

The ghostly glow of fluorescent lights cast weird shadows down the stairways. The shadows made it more difficult to see the dog poop. Take your awareness with you, Pilgrim! The descent of the stairs was lonely and delightfully spooky. As few people walked down as had climbed up. We finally reached the end of the many stairways without anything squishy between our toes. A few Tuk-tuk guys swarmed us as we donned out shoes, but they were disappointed. We set out on foot into the glow of the evening.




















The walls of the former royal palace are two kilometers on a side, and the entire thing is encircled by a wide moat. Broad sidewalks run along the outside of the moat, a rarity in SE Asian cities. By day, these sidewalks are a baking inferno, but at night they become the city's promenade. Folks in athletic gear do their fitness walking in the relative cool. Young couples canoodle in the dark shadows of banyan trees. Traffic sputters by on the four boulevards that complete the huge square.

The palace looks better by night than by day, and better from the outside any time of day. The walled compound once held the last teak palace of the king, but that was bombed and burned during World War II. During the Battle for Myanmar, this walled fort was a bastion for the Japanese forces, with the British besieging them. The Brits blasted and bombed the huge walls, trying to force a breach, but with little success. Finally, the British decided to invade the fort through the sewers. They did so, only to find that the Japanese had escaped using the very same sewer tunnels. 


























We navigated the darkened grid of streets until we accidentally came across the BBQ joint I had been trying to find the night before. Full of acquired merit, and knowing that everything tastes better when served on a skewer,  it was high time to acquire some dinner.

Plates of food appeared, and kept appearing, until our table was a litter of charred skewers and crumpled napkins. When we could finally eat no more, we sat and watched the evening unfold.

The BBQ joint was also a happening little bar, and there was a promotion of a sort going on. A nearby table was festooned with a plaid table cloth and many bottles of the local version of Scots whisky. A pretty young woman was presiding over the display, clad in a plaid longhi and a matching plaid tam o' shanter. It was an epic collision of cultures. A fifth of this fine whisky was going for about eight bucks the bottle, and that is how the Myanmar men drink it. The bottle is plopped on the table along with the requisite number of glasses. The whisky is accompanied by tepid cola or water, and the gentlemen get down to it.

The festivities were still going strong when we rose to take our leave. Our small army of cheerful servers wished us well into the night. With our bellies full, and whatever merit we had left, we made our way home. Mandalay may lack the immediate picture post card appeal of other Asian cities, but given time, this city can work its way into a traveler's heart. So it had been today.





















Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story "Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" has recently been featured at MEF. You can check it out here:

"Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" live at MEF!

Or perhaps one of my novels? All of the information is at my website:
Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

The Road to Mandalay (Distorted)

Here we are in Bagan, Myanmar, were it is hot and sunny and wonderful... and then the fabric of the false-time narrative tears. The reality, unsupported by the shredded net of travel memory, is that I am not basking in heat and sun. I am in the cold and grey of Vienna, and a virus is running amok in my head and lungs. When I came to this morning, my lungs sounded like a couple of junk-store cheese graters being used in the back chorus of a Tom Wait's song. So... fair warning; things may become a bit disoriented.

Let's give it another go: Here we are in Bagan, packed and ready, yet there is no sign of the bus, minivan, or any other form of conveyance. We did out part. We went to the bus guy, forked over the kyat for two tickets aboard the VIP bus, and were assured of a pickup at our hotel. Our friendly desk guy calls the bus company. Nope, they have no Farrang to pick up at the Gold Star. And so Nyaung U ends at it began, in confusion and uncertainty. I trot down the hill to the bus guy's kiosk while My One guards the bags. Trotting in the tropics produces some sweating (good sweating, not the fever sweats I have right now). Then come the phone calls. Yes Sir, all is well, the bus company is running behind, they will meet you at the guesthouse. So... more trotting, this time uphill, knowing that there will be a pickup waiting when I arrive and, sure enough, there it is.



















Of all the phrases bandied about on Southeast Asian travel posters, the term 'VIP Bus' is the most fantastically chimerical. Somewhere, in some alternate universe, they must exist; giant, air-conditioned behemoths gliding down smooth highways, whilst sarong-clad beauties serve delicious treats from bamboo trays. People keep buying tickets for VIP buses, so there must be hope, however misplaced and groundless I believe it to be.

I was under no such delusion, therefore I was not disappointed. We rolled into the shabby bus park and boarded the typical Chinese half-bus. Our assigned seats were the worst of the lot: back row, behind the rear axle. This is the seating zone where the basic laws of physics multiply every road dip and bump to the magnitude of amusement park rides you never liked in the first place.

But who cares? We are on the road to Mandalay. How romantic is that? Those were the very words of Rudyard Kipling; the title of his poem. It is also the title of a few films, a few songs, and probably two hundred blog posts. Oops, there is the fever again... focus... focus... where are my drugs?

The bus ride was five hours along the East bank of the Ayeyarwady River valley, heading north along the hot bottom lands. Not far out of Nyaung U was the site of a major attack and river crossing during the 1944 campaign to retake Burma from the Japanese. The British kept the attention of the Japanese focused on diversions directly across the Ayeyarwady at Mandalay. Meanwhile, the Brits snuck an entire army down from the Northwest and crossed the huge river at Nyaung U. That crossing opened the route to the battle of Meiktila, and the eventual encirclement and capture of Mandalay.

Less than an hour out of Nyaung U, we crossed a lowland area along a tributary river. The shoulder of the road was lined with people begging at the line of buses and trucks that lumbered by. Clouds of dust rolled over the poor families with their arms held out, imploring. As best as I could ascertain, these desperate folks were Rohingya people, displaced from the nearby state of Rakihine.

To quote from a UN independent investigator:

Yanghee Lee said in a report to the General Assembly circulated Friday that living conditions for the remaining Rohingya in northern Rakihine State “remain dreadful.”
The Rohingya can’t leave their villages and earn a living, she said, making them dependent on humanitarian aid whose access “has been so heavily diminished that their basic means for survival has been affected.”
Sources: UN Report, AP News, October 4, 2019



















Mandalay, so exotic as to be the title of a Kipling poem and the name of a Las Vegas casino. Unlike the casino, there is no 'Bay' in the real Mandalay. The wide-flung city sits alongside the banks of the muddy Ayeyarwady River. There are lots of sandbars, and a big, marshy lake, but no bays.

This is the part of the story where I cut exotic notions to shreds. Mandalay is not an exotic, mysterious city. On first inspection, Mandalay may be the most boring Southeast Asian city that I have ever visited. But, as Treebeard says, 'Let's not be hasty..."

Okay, yes, the first thing one notices is the giant, orderly grid. Imagine you could magically appear in Bangkok, Phnom Penh, or Saigon; then take three steps in any direction. Guess where you would be? Lost, that's where. Most SW Asian cities are a labyrinthine maze of tangled lanes bisected by huge, noisy boulevards. They are wonderfully impossible to navigate.

Mandalay, on the other hand, is more like a very hot version of Manhattan. The north-south streets are numbered 1st Street to 49th, and the east-west streets are 50th to 90th. There are no avenues, so you will just have to take it in stride. The other thing that is remarkable about the Mandalay streets is that they are very wide, very straight, and easily walkable. This ain't Yangon, bubba.

The explanation for all of this is very simple, and very tragic. During World War II, Mandalay was flattened by aerial bombing, and not just once. The Japanese army was forcing the British to retreat from the length of Burma. The most horrific onslaught on Mandalay came in April of 1942. Japanese planes bombed the city with incendiary bombs, killing thousands of people and burning down tow-thirds of the buildings in the city. As an oft-cited quote states: "A city that had taken a thousand years to build was destroyed in an hour." It was the worst attack, but far from the only one. The British bombed the city as they pushed south in 1944.

The war ended in 1945, the British recaptured Mandalay, and the rebuilding process was begun. The rubble was cleared away, the charred teak skeletons carted off, and a modern city grid was laid out. British colonial control would last only three years after the end of World War II, but the colonists left their stamp on modern Mandalay.

























Any Walkabout in Mandalay is likely to be a long trek. The city blocks are really big, so a perceived jaunt of ten blocks is a substantial walk. So it was that I led My One on a walkabout too far. Mandalay has few Farrang, and those few are mostly contained in the small tourist zone north of the old palace grounds. If you want to experience being 'The Other,' take a hike in Mandalay.

There were pagodas, of course. This is Myanmar, after all. But the architectural style was completely different to anything we had seen thus far. We walked until we did not find the silly place I was looking for. It was no more than an excuse, a phony destination to justify a walkabout. My One reminded me that it was long we had walked, long since we had eaten, and time to rectify both.
























The gloaming of the day finds us deep on the streets of Mandalay, with the Buddha watching over us, and the Naga watching over the Buddha.


















What Mandalay may lack in twisty lanes and confusing streets, it makes up for in a solid and varied food scene. We stumbled onto a Burmese-Chinese joint, over ordered, and settled into a feast starting with dumplings. Who doesn't love dumplings? Forget the fact that about four more platters of food followed the phalanx of tasty dumplings. Yes, I admit it, I overdid it just a bit.

   

















No matter the town, My One and I will invariably walk to or through the local night market, without any foreknowledge of where it might be. It's true: Drop us blind-folded into the dark streets of, say, Ubon Ratchathani, and one of us will lead the other directly to the food stalls of the closest night market. So it was this sultry Mandalay night.



















Tired, fed, walked-out, it was time for smokes and drinks on the rooftop bar. There were insects of course, and geckos skittering after them. A huge moth landed above our table and would move no further. I believe he was as tired as I was.

In any good traveler tale, the fever sufferer would be laid out in a hammock under a banyan tree. "Quinine, quinine..." a rasping whisper, an outstretched and trembling hand. The truth is, I was as healthy as a horse in Mandalay. I had to come home to Vienna to get really sick. Hooray for Northern Europe and easily-acquired viruses. Hopefully the false-time narrative will be restored, allowing me to acquaint you with the real Mandalay, a city that is not easy to love at first sight. But that will have to be the work of tomorrow's post. I think I've done enough damage for one day.





















Thanks for your interest in my travel blog. I do hope you enjoy it. If you liked what you read here,  please tell another reader. Word of mouth is the most precious gift an Indie Author can receive. 

How about a free short story? My short story "Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" has recently been featured at MEF. You can check it out here:

"Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale" live at MEF!

Or perhaps one of my other novels? All of the information is at my website:
Marco Etheridge Fiction

You can check out books, blog posts, book reviews, or even get a free book. Just look for the big button that says "FREE BOOK." It's kind of hard to miss. Happy reading!!

Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale

Seasons Greetings! I wish that I could offer everyone an extravagant gift, but I’m just a starving writer. As such, I decided to write a Christmas story, “Reindeer to the Rescue.” This is my gift for this year. It is offered in the spirit of the holidays, complete with the typical holiday tropes. There are (hopefully) a few laughs, a heart-warming moral, and the normal holiday schmaltz. I do hope you enjoy it. Feel free to share the story if you are of a mind to. Meanwhile, Happy Hanukkah, Splendid Solstice, Happy Kwanzaa, Merry Christmas, or whatever other means of celebrating you choose to indulge in this holiday season. Be well, be happy, be kind.

Very Best Holiday Regards,
Marco





Reindeer to the Rescue: A Christmas Tale

By Marco Etheridge

“I suppose we should get this thing started. I wish I could throw out some good news to kick the meeting off, but I’m fresh out. You guys are all senior elves. We’ve been here since the beginning, so there’s no use sugar-coating the situation. Unless we can pull off something drastic, this is going to be our last Christmas as a team.”

The fat man dropped his hands to the table. He looked to his elves, one by one, and they back at him. No one’s eyes were twinkling. The elf to his right shifted on his stool.

"Do you really think it’s that bad, Boss? I mean, I know the last few years have been tough, but are we really ready to throw in the shawl?”

“The corporations are killing us, Pepper. Kids don’t want hand-made toys anymore. They want cheap plastic stuff from Amble-On, or Lectro-Mart. Parents don’t have to wait for Christmas. One click on the computer and Bingo! Free shipping, two-day delivery, and no need to send a list to Santa at the North Pole. You ask me if it’s really that bad? They’re burying us. We’ve become redundant, an anachronism.”

There were murmurs up and down the table.

“To top it all off, I’m getting threatening letters from the lawyers over at the Thanksgiving Group. They’re accusing us of encroachment. As if Black Friday is our idea! Who names a holiday Black Friday? It sounds like another stock market crash.”

An old elf on the left cleared his throat.

“Snowball, you want to say something?”

“I hate to mention it Chief, but the corporate incursion got a lot worse after we grounded the reindeer and subcontracted our deliveries to UPS.”

The fat man slapped a stumpy hand to his sweaty forehead.

“I know, I know. Criminy, please don’t remind me. That’s what started this whole mess. I must have been high on sugar plums when I came up with that idiotic notion.”

Santa pointed down the table.

“Yeah, Bushy, speak.”

“Do you still want the figures on the Naughty-Nice Ratio?”

“Probably not, but let’s hear them.”

“I ran the numbers multiple times, but the results keep coming back the same. We’ve never had a Naughty Factor so high, never. If this were a horse race, Nice would be a blind, three-legged gluepot, and Naughty would be Pegasus.”

Santa gave Bushy a suspicious look.

“Have you been hanging out at the track again?”

Bushy shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“An elf’s gotta earn a living, Boss.”

Santa’s hands were waving in the air, as if warding away naughty thoughts.

“Enough, already. The question is, what are we going to do to get back in the game? Which brings us to Operation Reindeer. Pepper, how are we doing on rounding up the team?”

The elf flipped open a red and green folder.

“It’s good news and some bad news, Santa. We’ve got Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Comet and Cupid on board. They’re here at the North Pole and seem to be in decent shape. Vixen is clearing up some personal issues. We’ve located Donner and Blitzen on an ashram in Southern India.”

“An ashram? Wait, don’t tell me, just get them here. What about Rudolph?”

“That’s the bad news, Chief. We’ve got scouts out everywhere, but no one can find Rudolph.”

“That silly red-nose is one of our trademarks. We’ve got to have him, or we’re finished.”

The fat man slapped a meaty hand down on the table, and every elf jumped.

“Listen, if you elves don’t want to end up painting eggs in an Easter Bunny sweatshop, I suggest you find Rudolph.”

* * * * *

A dim, sub-arctic light leaked into the one-room cabin. The weak glow of it fell across a cheap coffee table, illuminating an empty vodka bottle. A ceramic mug lay next to the bottle, its rim coating with the drying crust of old eggnog. From a low bed in the corner came the sound of snoring, irregular and ragged. The gargled noise rose and fell, and with each rise there was the faintest glow of red light.

Outside the cabin, heavy boots crunched on deep snow. The crunching noise stopped, replaced by a gloved hand banging on the cabin door. The pounding was relentless, penetrating even into the dark dreams of the snoring figure. The snores faltered and stopped, replaced by a long moan. Words gasped out of the gloom, no louder than a whisper.

“Go away.”

The knocking did not stop.

A dark shape lurched up from the bed, the form of a small reindeer. The reindeer took aim at the door, lowered his antlers, and charged. He tripped over the coffee table, upset it, and landed in a heap before the door. The pounding stopped, replaced by a squeaky voice.

“Rudolph, is that you?”

The bleary reindeer raised his head from the floor.

“Can’t you see the sign? Keep Out; that’s pretty simple, don’t you think?”

“I don’t see any sign.”

“Yeah, well, I meant to put up a sign, so go away.”

“Rudolph, open the door and let me in. The Red Man sent me. C’mon Rudy, I’m freezing my tuchus out here.”

A spark of recognition began to coalesce in Rudolph’s addled brain.

“Benny, is that you? What the hell are you doing in Finland?”

“What do you think I’m doing? The Boss sent me. We’re getting the team back together and we need you. Now open the door already.”

Rudolph forced himself from the floor and reached for the door latch. Without waiting for his guest to enter, he staggered to a dirty couch and crumpled onto the stained cushions. Benny the elf slammed the door behind him. He unwound a scarf from his face and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Holy holly boughs, Rudy, it stinks in here.”

Rudy waved a hoof in the air.

“My doe, Claire, she left me a few weeks ago. She packed up the kids and moved to her sister’s place. I guess I sort of let the housekeeping go.”

Benny took two steps into the cabin and promptly tripped over the empty vodka bottle. He managed to keep his feet and curse at the same time. The ragged reindeer on the couch didn’t even look up.

“Jeepers, Rudy, that ain’t all you’ve let go. You look like death on a cracker. What the hell are you doing in Finland?”

Rudolph squinted at the elf with one eye.

“I’m a reindeer, Benny. What better place for a reindeer to hide out than in Finland?”

The elf shrugged his shoulders.

“Okay, stupid question. Your sister-in-law’s place, is it close by?”

“Fairbanks,” said Rudolph, waving a hoof toward nothing in particular. 

“This isn’t getting any easier, is it? Look, forget it. We’ve been trying to find you for months, and it was no easy thing. Santa sent me to bring you back, and he isn’t in the mood to take no for an answer. You gotta pull yourself together and come with me. There’s a nice warm car outside, and the plane is waiting for us in Helsinki.”

Rudolph shook his head and laughed a bitter laugh. His nose flickered, casting a red glow across his bedraggled face.

“Did it dawn on Santa that maybe I didn’t want to be found? Besides, I’m not in any shape to go anywhere, in case you haven’t noticed. And I wouldn’t be any good to anyone once I got there.”

“That isn’t my worry, Rudy. The Red Man told me to find you and bring you back. Once we get you cleaned up a bit, we figure out what to do about Claire and the kids. Meanwhile, it doesn’t look like things are too jolly around the old homestead, so what have you got to lose?”

Rudolph’s eyes wandered around the mess of the cabin.

“Yeah, you may have a point there. Tell me, does the old jet still have a bar onboard?”

“Sure, Santa likes his drop of the Christmas Cheer. Why are you asking?”

“Because we’re going to need it.”

“Rudy, it’s only a three-hour flight to the North Pole.”

“Exactly.”

The elf’s fingers and thumb squeezed the bridge of his pointy nose. He stood there a long moment, eyes closed, as if recalling jollier times. Raising his head, he blew out a long, slow breath.

“You need some time to pack a bag or something?”

“I’m a reindeer, Benny, what the hell would I need to pack?”

* * * * *

The sled hanger stood at the edge of the North Pole complex. It was long and open inside, with an arching timber roof and great wooden doors that rolled wide. A collection of large red sleighs stood in a row under the timbered roof. Leather harness and tack hung from the planked walls.

Nine reindeer stood in a loose semi-circle inside the shadowed hanger. Hooves clicked nervously against the flagstone floor. Rudolph stood behind the others, feeling useless and frightened.

The North Pole was just as he remembered it, yet everything felt foreign and strange. Too many years gone; and too many changes. Rudolph shook his head, running it back through his mind. First there was the shock of Santa retiring the team. Then a few years of idling around the North Pole, until the timber walls were pressing in on him.

Finland seemed like a good idea. Rudolph tried to blend in with the other reindeer, regular reindeer. For some years, it seemed to work. He had a job, a nice little cabin, and he was dating a cute doe named Claire.

Rudolph managed to play the ordinary reindeer, even after the kids were born, but it was just an act. He knew it was an act, and Claire knew it too. Rudolph took to flying a little, always in secret, and always after he’d been drinking. The results were disastrous. Rudolph came home battered and bruised, while Claire worried and fretted.

A booming voice broke through Rudolph’s thoughts. A fat man in a red flight suit walked through the gaping doors. A cadre of elves followed in his wake, each wearing green coveralls. Santa paused when he reached the reindeer. A moment of awkward silence followed. Feet shuffled; throats were cleared. Santa let out a fat man’s sigh and began to speak.

“Welcome back to the North Pole. It is wonderful to see you all.”

Santa paused to check his notes, then shook his head. He threw the clipboard to one of the elves and turned back to the reindeer with a sad smile.

“We have been together a long time, too long for any canned speeches. I want to apologize to each of you for breaking up the reindeer team. My intentions were good, but the results have been a disaster. Not only did I hurt the team, I hurt Christmas as well.”

A beautiful reindeer spoke with a clear voice.

“Santa, that’s all water under the bridge. Right now, Christmas is in jeopardy. What’s the plan?”

The big man looked down at his gleaming black boots, daubing his eyes with pudgy fingertips. When he raised his head, his eyes were glistening.

“Thank you, Vixen, direct and to the point as always. Yes, Christmas is in jeopardy. This may be our last year, but I don’t want to give up without one more flight, one more chance to remind the world of what Christmas really means.”

The biggest of the reindeer shifted his antlers.

“Yes, Donner?”

The reindeer spoke in a deep, resonant voice.

“All of us are onboard, Chief, or we wouldn’t be standing here. But we haven’t pulled a sleigh in twenty years. Everyone is a bit rusty, some more than others.”

There was some coughing, and a shuffling of hooves from the back of the group.

“We’ve already talked it over amongst ourselves. We reindeer are ready to give it a go, but I think we would be better off practicing than standing around the hanger.”

Santa slapped his hands together.

“Right you are, Donner, enough of my gabbing. We’ve only six weeks until Christmas Eve. We’ll start off with some warm-up runs, then move on to take-offs and a few short solo flights. Formation flying will have to come later. Okay, we’ve all done this before. Let’s get to work!”

Santa turned and walked toward the open doors, the cadre of elves on his heels. The reindeer followed, with Rudolph shuffling along last of all.

* * * * *

They trained under the perpetual starry night of the North Pole. The reindeer leaped and stumbled, soared and bumbled, and Christmas Eve loomed ever nearer.

On one of these dark, cold nights, Santa stood watching the reindeer. He spoke to the elf at his side.

“We’re four weeks in, Pepper. How are they doing?”

The elf consulted a clipboard before responding.

“Donner and Blitzen look pretty good. They were always the strongest, so no surprises there. Vixen is showing some great moves, almost like old times. Dasher is rough, and Prancer ain’t exactly prancing, but both of them are making progress. Comet and Cupid are coming along as well, but they could use more time.”

Santa nodded his head, his eyes gazing out across the darkling snow.

“And time is the one thing we don’t have, Pepper. Only two weeks until Christmas, and tomorrow is the first test flight with a sleigh. How’s our red-nosed reindeer doing?”

“Well, Chief, he seems to be off the eggnog, which is a big plus. Right now, he’s managing about eight-in-ten for successful takeoffs. Maybe I should pilot the test tomorrow; keep the load light and all. No offense meant.”

“Ho, ho, ho! No offense taken, Pepper. Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Ah, no worries, Santa, I’ve got my crash helmet.”

* * * * *

Rudolph’s heart was pounding in his chest. Starlight gleamed on the silver buckles of the harness that ran over his back and shoulders. Behind him, linked by the same leather traces, eight reindeer stood in pairs of two. Snow crunched under their hooves, and leather creaked in the frosty air. Pepper the elf was perched on the bench of the sleigh, reins in his hand. A bright green crash helmet was strapped tightly to his head. Pepper’s voice squeaked from the sleigh.

“Remember, guys, it’s just a simple test flight. Nothing fancy, okay? We go up, we do a few circles around the complex, followed by a nice, smooth landing. Is everyone ready?”

The harness jingled as the reindeer pawed the snow. Pepper lifted the reins.

“Okay, Rudolph, take us up!”

Rudolph pushed against the harness, his hooves kicking up a spray of snow. Behind him, all the reindeer did the same. The harness tightened, and the sleigh slid over the snow. They were running now, gaining speed. Rudolph pushed off with his hind legs, his forelegs reaching for the sky.

The snowy surface fell away beneath Rudolph’s hooves. The pull of the harness was smooth behind him, and he knew that the sleigh was airborne as well.

A spark of hope kindled in Rudolph’s heart, only to be extinguished by a wave of doubt and fear. It flooded through him, dark and dread, numbing his mind. His concentration broke, and his hooves faltered.

Rudolph’s forelegs tangled in midair, and he veered to the right. He struggled frantically to correct his course. The line of reindeer veered with him, slewing from side to side. Behind them, the sleigh swung back and forth in the cold night.

Pepper was almost thrown from the sleigh. The reins fell from his hands as he clutched wildly for the railing. Heaving back to the left, hooves scrabbling in the air, the line of reindeer plunged from the sky.

It was only luck, and a huge drift of snow, that saved the team from total disaster. Rudolph careened into the soft mountain of snow, and the reindeer and sleigh followed. A tall, white plume rose into the starry night. A crash wagon loaded with elves rolled out of the hanger. Bells clanged in the darkness as the crash wagon lumbered towards the wreckage.

The elves dug the reindeer out of the snowdrift and released them from the tangled harness. The sleigh was hooked to the crash wagon. It was a forlorn procession that made its slow way back to the hanger. The elves towed the fallen sleigh, and the reindeer staggered after. Last of all came Rudolph, his antlers hanging low.

After the hubbub of the crash died down, Rudolph sought what refuge he could find in the solitude of the hanger. He lay curled on a bit of old rug, staring at the damaged sleigh.

The silence was broken by the creak of a wooden door, and the unmistakable sound of hooves on stone. It was Donner who sat down on his haunches beside Rudolph, the strongest reindeer on the team. Dreading what the bigger reindeer might say, Rudolph spoke first.

“I’m sorry, Donner, I screwed up and ruined the flight.”

Donner looked at Rudolph, his great rack of antlers cocked to one side.

“Is that how you see it?”

“Sure, I stumbled and brought everyone down with me.”

Donner stared at the sleigh for a moment, as if weighing his words.

“That’s not what I saw, Rudolph. If the lead reindeer stumbles, the heavy pullers, the next pair in the harness, they’re supposed to compensate until the lead can regain his footing. The second pair have the leader’s back, and so on down the line.”

“But you and Blitzen were behind me.”

“Exactly, and we let you down. Blitzen veered with you, and I slacked the pull. As a result, one small mistake got out of hand and took down the whole team.”

“Yeah, and my screwup started the whole thing.”

“Mistakes happen. It’s how we recover from the mistakes that matters. This was just a practice flight, our first in twenty years. No one got hurt, and the sleigh can be repaired. You have to shake this off, okay?”

“Yes, but…”

“Listen, let me tell you a story. Some years ago, I learned an important lesson. I was always a big pull on the harness line, even when I was just a yearling. I took a lot of pride in my strength, and that pride blinded me in a way. Then I found myself in a tough situation, where strength alone wasn’t going to cut it. A different set of skills was needed to get the job done. As it turns out, those talents came from the smallest, newest member of the group.”

“Wow, is that something you learned at the ashram?”

The big reindeer smiled.

“No, I learned that from you, Rudolph. That foggy night years ago, when the Christmas flight was in danger of being cancelled, you saved everything.”

Donner raised himself to his full height and stretched his hindquarters.

“I better call it a night. We’ve got another test flight tomorrow, and I need to be at my best. I’ll see you in the morning, Rudolph.”

Rudolph watched as Donner strode across the flagstones and disappeared through the door. He felt the kindness of Donner’s words still hanging in the still air, and the spark of hope that had rekindled in his heart.

* * * * *

The night of Christmas Eve was clear and bright. The arctic air felt brittle and electric. Rudolph stood at the lead point of the long harness, with eight strong reindeer behind him. Misty vapor swirled from their nostrils, past antlers held tall and proud. Rudolph looked down the snowy runway, his nose glowing against the darkness.

Santa sat atop the sleigh bench wearing his finest dress suit and hat. The fur trim of his suit was carefully fluffed, and the hat cocked at a jaunty angle. Santa’s beard was combed and brushed, his boots polished and gleaming. The big man lifted the reins in his gloved hands, testing the feel of them.

The sleigh was loaded with presents, yet the Reindeer thought the load smaller and lighter than in years past. The elves knew, and Santa knew, but they were keeping their secret. Vixen had dared to ask as the sleigh was loaded, but Santa gave her only a nod and a wink in reply.

The reins tightened as Santa leaned back in the sleigh. Reindeer muscles flexed at the sound of Santa’s booming laugh. Reindeer hooves dug into the snow at his urging.

“Ho, Ho, Ho-ho! Now, Dasher, now Dancer…”

Rudolph was already pushing his shoulders against the harness, and the rest of the reindeer as well. The sleigh flew forward. A sparkling cloud of snow rose behind the speeding sleigh.

Rudolph felt the leather reins flick against his back, the signal from Santa’s expert hand. He leapt into the air, and the reindeer team leapt behind him. They soared into the night sky, hooves pounding in unison. The line of reindeer banked in a long circle to the South, with Santa and the sleigh gliding smoothly behind. Then, in a twinkling of bells and lights, the sleigh, and all of the reindeer, vanished into the night.

It was a magical night, and the reindeer felt the magic flow through them. They flew as one, circling the entire globe while Santa laughed and sang. The sleigh passed over distant lands with the sound of flying hooves and Santa’s jolly laugh. And everywhere they went, a trail of small gifts appeared on hearths, bedsides, and mantles.

Santa and his reindeer flew farther and faster than they had ever flown before. No child was forgotten. Christmas kids and Hanukkah kids, Muslim and Buddhist, Three Kings and Kwanzaa children, each awoke to find a gift to brighten their morning.

Nor were the adults forgotten. Farmers and fakirs, presidents and prime ministers, the naughty and the nice; a small, gleaming package came to them all.

Eager fingers pulled away the bright wrappings. Beneath the colored paper, every hand found the same present. Small enough to fit in the palm of a child’s hand was a carved heart. The hearts were wrought of polished stone, or gleaming wood, but they were all of the exact same size and shape. Each heart was inscribed with words written in many languages, yet every message was the same: Give Me to Someone Else.

In the early hours of Christmas morning, the sleigh made a perfect landing at the North Pole. The elves unharnessed the reindeer, and the empty sleigh was pushed into the hanger. The reindeer marched behind Santa and the elves; their antlers held high.

* * * * *

The Christmas celebration at the North Pole lasted the entire day and into the night. Lights sparkled, eyes twinkled, and hearts were glad. Santa was as merry as a child, the elves laughed and sang, and the reindeer were proud and happy. When the last song was sung, the elves and reindeer tucked themselves into their beds, all except for one.

Rudolph was too excited to sleep. It was after midnight when he found Santa in his office. Rudolph poked his antlers through the open door, into a wash of candlelight and holly. Santa looked up from the table, spectacles perched on his nose.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Santa.”

“Not at all, Rudolph, come in, come in. This is a lovely surprise.”

Rudolph stepped into the room. A fire blazed in the hearth and the dancing flames made the room cozy and bright.

The big man raised a newspaper from a stack on the table.

“I was just reading the reviews of our flight.”

“And what do they say?”

“On the whole, they’re not bad, not bad at all.”

Santa tilted the paper towards the flickering light.

“We’ve got some good headlines. The Times reads Santa Soars Again, and the Herald has Reindeer to the Rescue, which is closer to the truth. And from London we have Claus in the Nick of Time; clever, that. Of course, not everyone is pleased. Flux News writes Santa Goes Socialist!”

Rudolph broke into a grin.

“I bet that will land them on the Naughty List.”

“Ah, they were already there My Boy, already there. But tell me, what did you want to see me about?”

“I came to thank you, Santa. Thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for having faith in me.”

“Now Rudolph, the truth is that I should be thanking you, and I do, from the bottom of my heart. I was the one who broke up the reindeer team. I’ve come to realize that we are all of us rowing the same boat, or rather pulling the same sleigh. We simply could not have done it without you, and that is the truth.”

Rudolph’s nose glowed in the firelight and he held his antlers high.

“Do you think that we did it, Santa? Do you think that we saved Christmas?”

“Only time will tell, My Old Friend. I think that what we have done is to buy ourselves some time. We will fly again next Christmas, if the team is willing. Can I count on you for that?”

Rudolph felt his heart swelling in his chest.

“Would there be a place for me here? What I mean is, I want to ask Claire and the Kids to come back, to come back home to the North Pole.”

The big man broke into a jolly laugh.

“Ho, ho, ho! Nothing would make me happier, Rudolph. This is your home. There is always a place for you here, always.”

Rudolph nodded his head, turned away to hide the tears glistening in his eyes. When he turned back, he was smiling.

“Thank you, Santa, and Merry Christmas.”

The fat man nodded, his face as red and jolly as Rudolph had ever seen it.

“Merry Christmas, Rudolph.”

"Orphaned Lies" Goes to Print at Dime Show Review

Dime Show Review has just published its print edition for 2019, and I am thrilled that my short story "Orphaned Lies" was chosen for this edition. i would like to extend my thanks to the editors at Dime Show Review, particularly Ms. Kae Sable.

This beautiful trade paperback is full of great fiction, poetry, and non-fiction works. And one short story from me. Remember, books make great gifts! Seasons greetings to all the readers out there!