Tucker Elliot's Blog, page 11

Book Review: Suck It Up, Princess

This is an easy review to write: buy and read this book. It’s an extraordinary and inspirational true story. Perhaps the most remarkable aspect is that the author, Dahlia Mikha, does not seek to inspire or motivate—and she refuses to accept the fact she’s also a role-model—but with humor and humility she is all of the above.

Dahlia’s life changed forever while still a teenager. Diagnosed with Wilson’s disease—“your social life goes down the toilet”—it would have been easy to simply give up on life. Instead she shunned sympathy “because it made me feel weak” and “hated pity” and “hated people feeling sorry for me”—and she decided to suck it up and confront her disease with unbelievable amounts of wit, sarcasm and grace.

If you or someone you love has ever struggled with a medical diagnosis, this book will inspire you. It’s laugh-out-loud funny even as it is heartbreaking and gut-wrenching … but most of all it is a poignant account of what it means to be human.

This is one of the best memoirs I’ve ever read and I highly recommend it: 5/5 stars. You can use this Amazon affiliate link to read more about the book.

The Rainy Season: “a ticket to Afghanistan”

An excerpt from The Rainy Season, by Tucker Elliot

In the days after 9/11 the home economics teacher at my military school in Korea had students baking cookies for snipers. That probably sounds strange. It felt surreal. Our small army post had brought in snipers from Seoul and placed them on the roofs of our housing units and school buildings. Just one of the many things I hadn’t prepared for in college. We also had military police riding school buses and patrolling our hallways. They carried M-16s loaded with live rounds. The MPs got a lot of cookies, too. Most of the classroom windows had to be covered with dark-colored bulletin board paper. Our military post was surrounded by a vertical city of three-and-a-half million people. We didn’t want student silhouettes lighting up the scopes for any Johnny Jihad snipers that might have found a perch high above our perimeter wall. Students weren’t allowed outside for recess either. Instead of the playground our students used the library and cafeteria—though not for reading and eating. Sometimes we’d march students up and down the stairwells just to burn off excess energy. Or to give mental health breaks to workers in the library and cafeteria. We also had to cancel after school sports and extra-curricular events.

My principal obviously wasn’t going to China.

Not anytime soon.

We had constant briefings from the military command. We were told to blend in and be vigilant, but no one told us how to do those things. Somewhere in Washington D.C. a PowerPoint was being tweaked. But we hadn’t seen it yet. Meanwhile, the media said “live your lives or the terrorists win” and most of us were on board with that. But we were also on board with the snipers hanging with us for a while. If that was a contradiction then so be it.

The military went to war for our country.

So did military spouses. So did military brats.

My principal had been with the Department of Defense for three decades. His name was Ray and he was a tall, imposing figure. His tendency to be abrupt was often mistaken for impatience. In fact he just didn’t like wasting time. There really is a difference. He was honest, quick and decisive when settling routine matters but he was deliberate and uncannily intuitive when counseling teachers or students. Ray had been an airman before he was an educator, and now he was leading military students and teachers in a crisis unlike any that our school system had ever faced.

“We have to be normal for our kids,” Ray said. “Nothing else will be. Not for a long time. They need homework, quizzes, essays and tests. They need structure and assurances. It’s not going to be easy. I don’t care. We’re going to do it anyway. We’re going to help each other. And we’re going to be successful.”

It was tense, and stressful—but we did our best. Not just for our students and the soldiers stationed in Korea with us, but for our country and military at large, our families and friends back in the states, and with heavy hearts we did our jobs in honor of our colleagues in New York and D.C. and western Pennsylvania who persevered daily in classrooms with circumstances far worse than ours. We did our best to move forward and be normal so our way of life could get back on its feet and give the finger to a group of radical terrorists. As athletic director, I thought moving forward and being normal meant our athletic teams should be competing. But it was a decision for the military command and for sure no one was going to ask for my opinion.

I began every day by asking Ray, “Any news on sports?”

He would answer, “Nothing.”

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. That’s how it felt.

Then one Monday morning I asked, “Anything?”

Ray looked up from his desk and said a single word. “Shanghai.”

“What about Shanghai?”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Okay.”

Ray said, “I’m sending you instead.”

“To Shanghai?”

“You’re in here every day begging for something to do.”

“With sports.”

“I spoke with the superintendent. Sports and extra-curricular activities are going to resume next week.”

“Finally—”

He waved his hand to cut me off. “First you have to go to Seoul for updated force protection training. Then you have to brief our coaches and athletes on new procedures. Then sports can start up again.”

“Great—”

He waved again. “They’re faxing travel orders for you to fly to Seoul.”

“Okay—”

“After Seoul you’re going to Shanghai.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to go,” he said again. “I could feed you a line and say it’s an honor the superintendent chose to send you in my place. I won’t. He didn’t. I told him you would go because I thought it would force him to cancel Shanghai. But he agreed, so now you’re stuck. The good news is you’ll be back in time to get sports going again.”

“What am I going to do in Shanghai?”

He shrugged. “Buy some whiskey in duty-free.”

“I don’t drink.”

“It’s not for you.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Buy a suit. Wear it. Leave your hat at home. Smile. Nod. Give him whiskey and bow a lot.”

“Him” was the Chinese principal. He’d given Ray some expensive alcohol back in May. Ray gave me a few other particulars and I spent the rest of Monday teaching and adjusting lessons plans for my substitute. I arrived in Seoul on Tuesday evening and got a room at the Dragon Hill Lodge on Yongsan Army Garrison. The security briefing took place Wednesday morning at the DoDDS-Korea District Office, which was on the same post and within easy walking distance from the Dragon Hill.

Every DoDDS athletic director on the peninsula was in attendance.

The district safety and security officer gave the briefing. The SSO was a guy named Harkins. He was early forties with a high-ranking civilian position and a generous salary. Harkins was tall and wide, but fit. He had a high-and-tight military cut and no doubt his personal one-step plan for increased safety and security was to spend more time in the gym. I’d been in a few briefings with Harkins. He’d always been an outgoing, no-nonsense guy. But this morning his eyes were puffy and tired and his affect resembled a defeated warrior.

I gave a concerned look to a few colleagues and got a few shrugs in reply. The bottom line is we were all tired and stressed. None of us had a clue what would transpire over the next few months. Why should the SSO be any different?

Harkins said, “I have a PowerPoint. I’m not going to use it.”

Which would have been welcome news in different circumstances.

“I was a soldier. I fought in Desert Storm. We lost good soldiers, marines, airmen. But this war is different.” Harkins was really struggling. He paused a beat, and when he continued it was with an emotional plea. “Let’s not lose any of our kids. We can’t lose any of our kids.”

I understood why Harkins hadn’t used the PowerPoint.

This wasn’t “updated force protection training.” The only thing that had changed post-9/11 was Harkins had been much more insistent this time. Like cleaning up after lunch. Ultimatums on top of earlier ultimatums. Apparently our new plan was, “From now on you need to listen when we talk about safety and security because this time we really mean it.”

I shouldn’t be cynical.

It was a difficult time for everyone. Maybe it was even more difficult for Harkins. He was a tough, ex-soldier whose country was going to war—only he’d been tasked to fight with something other than bullets. Ground Zero was still burning. What Harkins really wanted was a ticket to Afghanistan.

Book Review: Make Me

This is a smart, fast-paced thriller by an author in top form. It has the same feel as some of the best books in the series—such as Echo Burning, 61 Hours and Worth Dying For—as Reacher finds trouble in a small Midwest town … but at the same time, this one is different.

It begins when Reacher steps off a train and has a chance encounter with a woman. Soon they are allies in a fight with no rules against a town they don’t understand.

Reacher has always been a cerebral brawler. If that’s even such a thing. He uses logic and deductive reasoning to solve problems just as easily as he uses his fists and patented head-butts, and he has morals that are simultaneously complicated and black-and-white.

It makes for one of the most compelling ongoing characters in thriller fiction—but here we see an older, evolved and more vulnerable Reacher. He even uses the Internet on a mobile device.

But long-time readers needn’t worry that older, evolved and vulnerable in some way diminishes his black-and-white mindset that so often leads to snarky dialogue and violent confrontations. I assure you it’s still in play, as illustrated perfectly by this exchange with his ally Chang:

Chang said, “When will he wake up?”

Reacher said, “I have no idea. Somewhere between two hours and never.”

“You hit him very hard.”

“He hit me first.”

If you are already a Reacher fan, then chances are very good that you will love Make Me.

If this is your first time reading a Reacher novel, then you are really in luck: this is number twenty in the series, and now you can look forward to reading the other nineteen.

This is an emphatic 5/5 stars and I highly recommend it for any reader who loves thrillers/mysteries. You can use this Amazon affiliate link to read more about Make Me.

Book Review: Beach Town Boogie

Bart Hopkins, Jr. is a native Texan and a terrific artist with words. Beach Town Boogie is his sixth novel, and like much of his earlier work it is set in Hopkins’ home state. Hopkins writes with sparse, authentic prose that pulls you into the story.

Cass Destry is the protagonist in Beach Town Boogie. Cass is a gun carrying black belt private investigator with a fast sports car and a penchant for running long distances, fast. She’s recently divorced and this week her fast running saved her life … but the week isn’t over yet, and in fact it’s about to get even worse.

Hopkins does a terrific job of piling it on early in the book. It’s humorous at times but definitely ratchets up the tension as the challenges confronting Cass continue to mount. Are they all somehow related? Or is her luck just really that bad?

Cass tells a friend she’s doing the Beach Town Boogie trying to juggle everything and stay focused and aware as a stalker and potential murderer closes in on her.

This is a fast, run read from beginning to end. But don’t think the humor is slapstick and the detective story is cliché—no, not even close. Bart Hopkins Jr. is a talented author who writes intelligent prose that discerning readers will appreciate.

Hopkins understands language and uses it beautifully to create a world on Galveston Island that’s pretty darn close to that magical word “literary”—and I don’t say it lightly. This is a smart book with characters that overcome flaws and face challenges and develop and grow to combat dire situations.

It’s artfully constructed, beautifully written, and highly entertaining.

Highly recommended: 5 / 5 stars.

Book Review: The Hanging Girl

This is the sixth book in the Department Q series by Danish author Jussi Adler-Olsen. The series is set in Copenhagen and Department Q is essentially a Cold Case Unit.

This is a terrific series. However, this is also the second book in a row in this series that was a disappointment. THE MARCO EFFECT was abysmal and nearly unreadable. THE HANGING GIRL was moderately better.

The plot is centered on a hit-and-run that left a teenage girl hanging upside down in a tree. Her case has been unsolved for nearly two decades even as it has ruined the personal and professional life of the police officer that discovered the grisly scene. This beat cop made it his life work to solve the case, but his investigation became an obsession and the only thing he accomplished was to alienate his family and colleagues. As a last ditch effort, the cop calls Department Q.

As usual, Rose is determined to take the case, Carl is reluctant to get involved for fear it will cut into his sleeping-on-the-job time, and Assad is burning coffee and making camel jokes. All of that is fine, it’s part of the allure of the series—a likeable band of misfits that solve decades old crimes—but the actual impetus that compels Carl and his crew to tackle the case is unbelievably absurd.

And even once things get rolling along, there is simply nothing to root for as the reader. There is no urgency to the case. There is nothing dramatic or compelling to pull you in and make you take an interest.

Instead Carl, Rose and Assad attempt to identify a man who seemingly had an affair with every woman in town twenty years ago—and they know he was into fringe religion and sun worship and that he was charismatic and had a great many followers and astoundingly good looks … but no one seems to know where or who this man is today. And we have to read about this for 300-plus pages before he’s finally identified, and it wouldn’t have been so frustrating, except the man they’re looking for isn’t exactly hiding … he’s got a religious compound with a website and everything, and if Department Q had done a simple web search for the man then we could have been spared 300-plus pages of mind-numbing meaningless interviews with “witnesses” who don’t want to help.

But of course then we wouldn’t have a book.

There is also a sub-plot about a woman at the religious compound who is an obsessed follower of the leader and wants to have his babies. As a villain she’s laughable.

I still love this series and I think many readers will find worthwhile entertainment with THE HANGING GIRL—but temper your expectations because it is not up to the standard set by earlier books in this series such as THE PURITY OF VENGEANCE and THE KEEPER OF LOST CAUSES.

3/5 stars

—

I read a free digital edition courtesy Penguin Random House First to Read. I use Amazon affiliate links.

The Rainy Season: “this is our life, but we do not give up”

An excerpt from The Rainy Season, by Tucker Elliot

28

I’m not sure who was more relieved—Soukpa, that I was in Laos, or me, that Soukpa was dressed in jeans and a nondescript blouse instead of the traditional skirt and blouse that she’d worn every day in Jakarta. I clasped my hands in front of my face and bowed. “Hello, Sabaidee. It’s good to see you again, Soukpa.”

Soukpa said, “I really happy you come Laos.” Eel-lee.

“Is this your brother?” A young man stood beside her, and if not for the age difference—Soukpa was mid-twenties, he was mid-teens—then he could have been Soukpa’s twin.

“My boy brother.”

He offered a strong grip and we shook hands.

Soukpa laughed and held her hands about two feet apart. “His name more than your student. I think you call him Pete. Is easy for you.”

Pete’s head was shaved. Maybe he was going to be a monk. I shrugged and said, “Okay, Pete. Nice to meet you.”

Pete wore jeans, tee shirt, and sandals. He smiled and said, “No English.”

“Me no Lao,” I said back, and we all laughed.

“You have more bag?” Soukpa asked.

I had my backpack and the carry-on size suitcase-on-wheels. The duffel bag was in a locker inside Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport. “No, this is everything.”

Soukpa cinched a plastic trash bag around my suitcase. “It rain soon.”

I thought, soon? I was nearly drenched just from standing on the tarmac. I smiled and said, “Khawp jai deuh.”

Soukpa made a big O with her mouth. “So good!”

“Well, that’s all I remember. Hello and thank you.”

Soukpa cinched a second trash bag around my backpack. “I teach you more okay?”

“Sure. I’ll try to learn.”

Soukpa gave my backpack to Pete. “We go now.”

The arrivals hall was empty and quiet. No placard conventions in Pakse. Pete lugged both my bags, and I felt naked without my backpack. Just saying. The parking lot in front of the airport was also empty. A lone tuk-tuk was curbside with its driver asleep in the back, and I didn’t see any taxis. The sky was gray and a steady rain fell. I told Soukpa, “Thanks for picking me up. I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

Soukpa smiled, but said nothing.

I was curious though. “When did you arrive in Pakse?”

“I worry it heavy rain so we come early.”

“You got here this morning?”

Soukpa shook her head. “Three day ago, after Indira call and say you will fly Pakse.”

Three days ago?

Three days ago I was planning painful deaths for Wallach and Mandiri. Three days ago I went to the Monas with Indira’s students. Three days ago … I gave Irma a piece of paper to give to Indira.

Was Indira’s faith really that strong?

I thought, maybe.

Probably.

Yes.

—

Soukpa’s motorbike was a black Honda. It had a few dings, but it was a Bentley compared with Pete’s bike-with-a-motor. Pete’s bike had a large frame—like an adult ten-speed—but his pedals were missing, and in their place was a two-cycle motor with just enough juice to trim your hedges. The motor and wheels were connected by two well-used fan belts. A sheet of corrugated aluminum was welded to the frame above the rear wheel. It made a platform that was handy for transporting items like my backpack and suitcase-on-wheels. Pete used twine to secure everything and then yanked the pull cord to start his engine. It took Pete a good three or four yanks before the engine coughed and spit its way to life.

I gave Soukpa my best “this is normal” face.

Soukpa gave an embarrassed smile in reply. “Sorry.”

“It’s actually kind of cool.”

Soukpa lifted the seat on her Honda and pulled a light jacket from the storage area underneath. “You will see more like it. I think you will be surprise what you will see in my country.” Soo-pies.

“Pakse is a lot quieter than Jakarta.”

Soukpa laughed, Indira-esque. “I almost die when I see Jakarta airport. Oh I feel so scare. I never see life so big. I never see many people or hear loud city. You will not find it here. Lao people are quiet. I think you like it here.”

I nodded and said truthfully, “It sounds great.”

Soukpa had the jacket on now, along with white cotton gloves and a cloth mask that covered her mouth and nose. “You ride with me okay?”

I thought, as if Pete’s bike is really an option…

I said, “Okay.”

Soukpa secured her helmet and asked, “You ready?” Her eyes were big and alive, and her voice was filled with excitement—the way she had been on the train to Bogor, as if this was a big adventure.

“I’m ready, but where are your bags?”

“Sorry?”

“You came three days ago. Where’s your stuff?”

“Oh, here.” Soukpa indicated the storage area beneath her seat. “Okay?”

I straddled the seat behind Soukpa. “Okay, let’s go.”

Soukpa sped onto the main road. Pete puttered along in our wake. The rain fell with slightly more urgency and the wind buffeted Soukpa’s jacket. In the distance I glimpsed the Mekong, and I thought about my dad. Maybe this felt like a big adventure, but in reality it was a struggle between life and death that began beside this same river more than four decades ago. Maybe it would end here as well.

—

The asphalt road gave way to red clay and we could have been in rural Georgia if not for the rice paddies and nón lá hats made famous by Vietnamese farmers and now ubiquitous to Southeast Asia. We shared the road with peasant farmers who used tractors to pull flatbed trailers piled high with fruits and vegetables. An open-air bongo truck filled with women and children sped past, going in the opposite direction, and I spun to take a second look because I didn’t believe it was possible to fit so many people into one vehicle.

“You okay?” Soukpa asked.

“Fine.”

“Hungry?”

I hadn’t eaten a full meal since yesterday afternoon with Indira’s family. “Yes, a little.” Up ahead was a roadside canopy with wooden tables, plastic lawn chairs and a fire pit. A few older women stood in the road and waved meat skewers at passing vehicles. No one seemed bothered by the rain. Fast food, Lao-style. “What are they selling?”

Soukpa began to slow the motorbike. “Meat.”

Well, okay…

Soukpa’s lack of specificity was a bit troublesome. I thought, chicken, beef, pork? Mystery meat? I said, “Maybe I can wait.”

“You sure? Can buy if you need.”

I noticed a man tending the fire pit. He was also urinating. I said, “It’s okay. I’m not that hungry.”

Soukpa sped up. “We almost there. Can buy food beside river.”

A few minutes later Soukpa left the main road and we began to bounce along a poorly grated clay and gravel secondary road. It led to an elevated berm with tall, wispy reeds, wild grass … and the Mekong.

“Here is river. We go boat now.”

There was a staggering amount of commerce taking place. A wooden U-shaped quay jutted into the river and tied alongside it were dozens of boats—square heads, freighters, fishing—and nearly all resembled the traditional wooden boats synonymous with French Indochina. A dozen smaller, flat-bottomed canoes with long-tail outboards cut swiftly through the Mekong’s turbulent current. As we got closer, I noticed little kids were piloting many of the canoes. A market of sorts was set up alongside the river. A lot of cargo was being carried back and forth between boats and bongo trucks.

Soukpa barely slowed.

She navigated through a crowd of people, down a steep embankment, and then eased the motorbike onto the quay. A freighter was moored at the far end. It might have been twenty meters long—about sixty feet. A wooden plank about fifteen feet long and maybe two feet wide led from the quay onto the freighter’s aft deck.

“Hold on.”

I thought, what else would I be doing? I could already picture us on YouTube. We would definitely go viral. Maybe even earn a Tosh.0 Web Redemption.

Soukpa accelerated…

Halfway across the plank began to sag. In front of us the freighter began to roll with the current. Or maybe it had been rolling already. I wasn’t sure, but I was a little worried. I glanced down, but I barely glimpsed the water because by then we were safely aboard the freighter.

Soukpa said, “I go pay.”

Soukpa climbed from the motorbike and made her way to an enclosed cabin where the ship’s crew was conducting its business. I took a deep breath and began to look for some shelter. A moment later Pete caught up to us. It sounded like he was riding a Weed Eater. He never hesitated, just drove right up the plank. I cringed, because my backpack held all my electronics … but Pete and my luggage arrived safely on the deck. I told him, “Different way of life.”

He smiled. “No English.”

Soukpa came back and I could tell something was wrong. “You okay?”

“I so sorry.”

“What?”

“It rain soon.”

I laughed. “It’s been raining this whole time.”

Soukpa shook her head. “It rain soon. Cannot take boat today. I so sorry.”

“What should we do then?”

“We find guesthouse okay?”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

Soukpa and Pete had a brief conversation and then we made our way back across the plank and onto the quay. A fast-minute later we were on the main road toward Pakse. I could see buildings ahead in the distance. I thought, a kilometer, give or take. Maybe three minutes on Soukpa’s motorbike. A steady rain had been falling, but now the sky had different plans. A brilliant cascade of electricity lit up the distant horizon. Fiery red streaks fell from the heavens and shook the earth. A far-reaching arc lit into a magnificent shade of blue as it danced across the Mekong’s turbulent waters. The sky had been gray, but now it shone brilliantly in reds, blues and pinks until finally, and suddenly … everything went dark. The world around us was eerily quiet, and ominous. It stayed that way for an exceptionally long beat. After which it began to rain.

29

The Mekong itself could not have been more turbulent than the waters that flooded the road. Its clay surface was pulverized by raindrops the size of cherry bombs that fell with devastating velocity. If I had blasted the clay pointblank with a shotgun, that’s the image you need to understand how intensely the rain assaulted the earth. A streak of lightning gave us a reprieve from the darkness. It was reddish-orange, and close by, and the thunder chasing after it shook the whole world around us.

In that brief moment of light, I could see Pakse, maybe a hundred meters ahead … but I also noticed the water had nowhere to go—

“Soukpa, watch out!”

—and it swelled and gathered strength until it had only one option left: the water cascaded violently toward us and I feared we would be swept into the river and never be found or seen again. Soukpa struggled mightily to remain upright as the motorbike shuddered and its engine quit. In a matter of seconds the road had been transformed into a riverbed. My feet were under water. In fact the water was halfway to my knees. Soukpa desperately tried to restart the engine. It whined and spewed a mix of smoke and water. But it didn’t start. I quickly climbed from the motorbike and grabbed hold of its frame. I planted my feet in a wide, strong base, and lifted until the engine was fully clear of the water.

I said, “Try it now.”

Soukpa flipped the key and the engine sputtered to life. It raced for a quick three-count, and then it died again.

My feet began to slip, and I was losing my grip. “Hurry!”

Soukpa flipped the key a second time. The engine clicked, but wouldn’t start. She flipped the key one last time. Nothing at all. Soukpa jumped from the bike and we began to push it furiously against the oncoming and rapidly rising deluge. Soukpa glanced anxiously behind us. I did too. No sign of Pete. For ten long minutes we trudged toward Pakse. Maybe one hundred meters. For sure the slowest time anyone has ever run a hundred-meter race. And believe me, it was a race. The storm gave no sign it was abating.

Soukpa said, “You see tourist hotel?”

Ahead and to our right was a modern western-style hotel. It had a circular drive and a covered area for curbside drop-offs. “I see it.”

Soukpa and I began to push harder, but I don’t think we went any faster. All we did was breathe heavier. But at last we made it to the circular drive and higher ground. A slow-minute after that and we were safe beneath the front portico. Soukpa secured her helmet and motorbike and immediately went back into the storm.

“Soukpa, wait. Call Pete’s cell before you go back out there.”

Soukpa shook her head and kept walking. “He no have phone.”

I left my Birkenstocks on the sidewalk and peeled off my ruined socks, and then I chased after Soukpa.

—

The earth beneath my feet and a violent storm were not new experiences—after all, I grew up outside and barefoot in rural Florida with sixty lakes, forty churches, a solitary stoplight and a devastating hurricane season … and after surviving adolescence I’d gone to college in Oklahoma where new student orientation included a session called “Sirens & Shelters.”

And yet I was unprepared for Pakse.

It was difficult to see more than a few feet in any direction. The water stirred the clay, and as it flowed relentlessly through the streets it was shockingly cold and disturbingly blood red.

“Soukpa? I won’t be able to see you if you don’t slow down.”

“Please go more fast.”

“I can’t see anything and the electricity is out in these buildings. If there’s a live power line in the road, we’re dead. If there’s a curve in the road and we walk into the river, we’re dead.”

“Please.” Peas.

We trudged onward as debris raced by and brushed against our legs. I had a few thoughts about rats, diseases and tetanus. But mostly I thought about the Mekong, and how its muddy water had been blood red many times in the past. Soukpa began to shout something incomprehensible. It sounded about two feet long, and must have been Pete’s given name. No response. We came across a bongo truck stuck in the road. Three men sat in the cab—one was asleep, and the other two were smoking cigarettes—but the open-air bed was filled with women and children. Lao-style, perhaps. Though I didn’t see any better options. Soukpa spoke with a woman, but seemed discouraged by what she heard. No one else had seen Pete either. We came across an abandoned motorbike. No sign of its driver. The motorbike was on its side, and like a mighty boulder it made the muddy floodwaters into rapids. We left it untouched, and trudged onward. The rain fell in blinding sheets. I had no sense of time or distance, and no bearing for the road or hotel—and yet the river had a presence all its own. It was just out of reach, a few steps into the darkness.

Soukpa yelled her brother’s name.

No response.

An onslaught of debris pummeled my legs. Soukpa yelled some more. Then in the blood red waters we came across a bike. It was built like an adult ten-speed but without any pedals. It had a platform made with corrugated aluminum and a long strand of twine was twisting in its rapids.

Soukpa was seized with panic.

She yelled her brother’s name again, and again, and again.

Ahead in the distance a wispy shape took form. Pete emerged from the storm. He was lugging my backpack above one shoulder and my suitcase-on-wheels above the other. He waded toward us, against the current.

I lifted Pete’s bike.

We secured my luggage once more on the platform, and the three of us began to push.

30

The tourist hotel had a generator and its lobby was our lighthouse. It was surrounded by darkness, and water. My shoulders ached and my lungs burned. I had a rip in my jeans but no idea what caused it. My feet had a thousand cuts and scrapes and the rain beat against my face with such ferocity that I could not look skyward.

The world lit up again.

For a brief moment I could see Soukpa’s face. It was remarkably passive. We trudged onward, through a blood red river that should have been a road. I don’t know how long it took us to reach the hotel for the second time, but when we finally made it beneath the front portico I felt like collapsing onto the sidewalk beside my Birkenstocks. I shivered, and my legs and feet were numb.

“You are okay?” Soukpa asked.

I doubled over, hands on my knees. “I think so. You?”

Soukpa shrugged. “This is our life.”

—

When I asked the desk clerk for two rooms, Soukpa said, “We no have money. You stay here. We go guesthouse okay? Is more cheap.”

“Wallach is paying for it,” I lied.

Soukpa hesitated a beat. “It is okay?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Khawp jai deuh.” For lying and the room.

“How do I say you’re welcome in Lao?”

Soukpa laughed. “We say it bo-ben-nyung. It mean everything is good.”

“Bo-ben-nyung? It’s all good?”

Soukpa nodded. “It is Lao-style, our life. Bo-ben-nyung. Everything is good.”

“I like that. I’ll try to remember it.”

The rain was steady now—more melancholy than violent—and the sky had lightened considerably. Pete was on mechanic duty beneath the front portico. He had borrowed some tools and was tinkering with Soukpa’s motorbike, but so far the engine had made a few clicks but was steadfastly refusing to start. A group of men had gathered around to watch him work. They didn’t look like hotel staff or guests. I had no idea where they came from, but the scene was reminiscent of Jakarta. How many Indonesian men does it take to park a van?

“Is Pete going to be okay?” I asked.

“He fine.”

“You rely on the motorbikes for a lot, don’t you?”

“For everything.”

“Pete looks frustrated. What will you do if he can’t fix it?”

Soukpa spoke confidently, “He will not give up.”

“I’d offer to help but…”

Soukpa laughed. “I think he have too much help already.”

“Is he good at fixing things?”

“It is his job in our village. Do not worry okay?”

“My grandfather was a great mechanic. He knew everything about engines.”

“He teach you?” Soukpa asked.

“He taught a lot of people—my mom and uncles, my brothers and cousins—and he even taught auto mechanics to high school students. He tried to teach me, but I never learned. My grandfather loved engines though. He had a big shop beside his house with engine parts everywhere. He would take old cars and restore them like new. The bodies, engines, interiors … everything. He also taught me to drive.” I thought for a moment, and then added, “I wish I had listened more. Maybe I’d be able to build or fix things.”

“You are okay?”

I nodded. “Jetlagged, not sad.”

Soukpa was confused. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You are hungry?”

“A little, but mostly I’m just tired. I think I’ll go upstairs now. I’ll get cleaned up and probably just sleep.”

“I ask they send food to your room, okay?”

“Thanks.”

“I also ask they take your clothes and clean.”

“Even better.”

“Your computer is okay?”

“Don’t worry. The clothes inside my suitcase are wet but my computer and everything inside my backpack are dry. That reminds me though. I have a gift for you.”

Soukpa’s version of oh come on was the wide O her mouth made when she was surprised or excited. She made it now, and her eyes lit up much as the sky had done when electricity was dancing across the Mekong. “A gift?”

“It’s from Lucy.”

“Lucy?”

I gave her the Ziploc bag from my backpack. “Open it.”

Her eyes welled with tears. “Oh Lucy, Lucy.” Soukpa’s hands trembled as she unzipped the bag. When she saw the necklace, the tears fell freely across her cheeks. “It is so beautiful. I not have something so beautiful before now.” For a long moment Soukpa held the necklace tight against her heart, and then very carefully she put it on.

“Lucy still sings the song you taught her.”

Soukpa made the O again. “Really?”

Eel-lee?

“She sang it for me in English, too.”

Soukpa began to sway back and forth. She was dancing with Lucy again.

“Where did you learn a Christian song?”

Soukpa brought Lucy’s handmade cross to her lips and kissed it softly, and then she began to sway some more. “My mother teach me many song to help learn English.”

“The necklace you gave Lucy also had a cross.”

Soukpa nodded.

“Was it a gift from your mother?”

“My mother give to me when she come home after learn English in Vientiane.”

“I thought your family was Buddhist.”

“We are.” Soukpa wiped away her tears. She hesitated for a long beat, and then she added, “But my mother was Christian. Are you surprise?”

Soo-pies?

“Maybe a little, but it actually explains a lot.”

“You are Christian?”

“Yes.”

Soukpa fidgeted with her necklace. “Lucy and Indira are Allah.”

“I know.”

“I am Buddha,” Soukpa said, though this time she didn’t sound too sure of it. Soukpa swayed with Lucy one more time, and then she told me, “Thank you for come to Laos. My father will listen for you.”

“Soukpa, that afternoon at Starbucks—”

“No, no. It is okay.”

“Thanks. I am sorry though.”

“Bo-ben-nyung. Everything is good.” Just then Soukpa’s motorbike roared to life. The men that had been watching Pete work began cheering and clapping him on the back. With a triumphant smile, Soukpa added, “This is our life, but we do not give up.”

Ten Things I Learned on the Other Side of the World

Half-a-lifetime ago I boarded a Delta flight to Tokyo with an official passport as a U.S. government employee and a pamphlet titled “Good American, Ugly American” that I’d been instructed to read during the fourteen-hour journey.

I hadn’t even left U.S airspace yet when I had my first strange cultural encounter: footprints on the toilet seat. My pamphlet had a section on squat pots, but it never occurred to me that someone might not know what to do with a western toilet.

Since then I have visited schools in more than twenty countries and four continents, and along the way I’ve had more than a few strange cultural encounters. Here are ten things I learned on the other side of the world.

“New York City taxi drivers are the best.” You might disagree, but consider: I fell asleep in a taxi in Seoul and woke up at the morning fish market as my driver was loading the trunk with the morning catch … and my luggage was in the trunk. In Jakarta, my taxi driver stopped at a mosque for evening prayer … and left the meter running. In Tashkent, my driver picked up multiple passengers, ran a few unrelated errands … and then delivered everyone in random order.


“Ants cost extra.” In any American restaurant, if you find ants in your soup you’ll get a sincere apology and a free meal. In Laos, you have to pay extra if you want ants in your soup. Seriously.


“Please do not stand on the toilet.” If you see this sign, then you’re probably in Central Asia. I think most travelers know it’s a good idea to carry a tissue supply and multiple bottles of hand sanitizer … but you might be surprised to learn that as tourism has opened up in Central Asia the number of western toilets in hotels and restaurants has also increased. Thus necessitating this sign for locals.


“You need a passport for everything.” And I don’t mean the tourists. In many former Soviet republics the citizens are still unable to travel freely and they literally need a passport for even the mundane and routine: take a train? stay in a hotel? legally exchange money? visit the hospital? You need a passport. Many of these same countries also have “disputed” territories where citizens can’t go regardless of their travel documents—Russia, Armenia, Azerbaijan and Uzbekistan to name a few.


“Run from the police.” I was taught to trust teachers and cops to help me if I was in trouble, and to be afraid of them only if I’d done something terribly wrong … but in many countries the only reason people strive to become police officers is so they can extort money from impoverished citizens.


“Motorbikes are not allowed.” I think the word “ubiquitous” was formed just so we’d have a fancy way to talk about motorbikes in Southeast Asia where they are a necessary part of everyday life. But it’s a different story in Central Asia, where many cities have banned motorbikes because they’re too dangerous. Maybe that sounds reasonable, but instead of a cheap and convenient form of transportation the people are forced to flag down strangers in passing cars. These unlicensed cabs usually have unlicensed and unskilled drivers, who navigate haphazardly on poorly maintained roads with little or no regard for pedestrians, traffic laws or other vehicles. That’s much safer.


“Welcome to the Land of the Not Quite Right.” King’s Burgers. Old Army. Veronica’s Secret. Lucci. CFC (Colonel’s Fried Chicken). Five-dollar Polo shirts. Three-dollar RayBans. There’s a reason the DVD you bought from the guy on the corner only cost thirty-five cents. It’s because every time someone stood up to get popcorn the guy filming with his Sony Handycam couldn’t see the screen.


“Let’s grab lunch sometime.” I was visiting an orphan school in rural Vietnam and the teacher said “okay everyone let’s grab some lunch.” Some students ran into the fields, while others went to a nearby pond. They came back with potatoes and turtles, and the teacher made everyone soup. I think I learned to appreciate American schools a bit more than I used to.


“Customer service hasn’t quite caught on yet.” In the heyday of the Soviet Union, people stood in long lines at the market to buy even the most basic items. Somehow the command economy mindset hasn’t completely let go in Eastern Europe and Eurasia. Fun fact: some stores in Armenia still reserve prime parking spots for employees. In many former Soviet republics the currencies are so weak that coins are non-existent, bill denominations start at a thousand, and workers have little or no incentive to be customer-centric. A cashier who rings up your groceries and takes your money is doing you a favor. Would it surprise you to learn that some of the governments in these same countries use Gmail for their official e-mail accounts? I didn’t think so.


“You can buy hepatitis-on-a-stick.” Seoul, Jakarta, Bangkok … find a market, and then find a street corner. Someone will be selling mystery meat. Maybe it’s chicken or beef. Maybe they just call it chicken or beef. But regardless they’ll cook it over hot coals on wooden skewers, and then sell it very cheaply to passersby. The people will eat it, and then very naturally they’ll drop the skewer sticks on the ground … so why do you suppose you never see skewer sticks on the otherwise rubbish-filled streets? But hey, you recycle at home, right?

The Rainy Season: “it was only a couple of chickens”

An excerpt from The Rainy Season, by Tucker Elliot

We made our way outside the station and past vendors selling fruits and vegetables. I even recognized some of the fruits, which sometimes can be a real challenge. One old lady was selling ice cream, and another was selling popcorn. People on the opposite side of the street were cooking and selling fish and assorted meats.

“Chyka waits up here,” Indira said.

There was even an old lady selling hepatitis-on-a-stick. That’s what we called it in Korea, anyway. It was mystery meat cooked over hot coals on a wooden skewer. People would eat the meat and throw the stick on the ground. Then the old lady would pick up the stick and use it again … which is why we called it hepatitis-on-a-stick.

“Chyka will bring students to meet us. They will greet us traditional way.” Indira held her hands about three or four inches apart. “They will offer hands like this. Put your right hand inside. They will take your hand and bow, and touch your hand on forehead. You understand?”

“Not even a little bit.”

I was too distracted, because along with the skewering, cooking, and selling, there was a cage of cute, furry, bunny rabbits. It confused me for about a second. Then I saw the fire pit and a lump of meat in a familiar shape. I cringed, and I’m not even all that sensitive. Soukpa was also staring at the fire pit. She didn’t seem to be upset, though. In fact, her mouth was watering and she was licking her chops.

“There she is. Just watch and do like me,” Indira said.

Chyka was dressed in a coral batik tunic with long sleeves and a skirt. She also had her head covered, something she hadn’t done in Jakarta. She obviously had dressed up for the occasion. I felt bad for coming in jeans and a polo shirt.

The real sight was the boy and girl she’d brought with her.

They were nine or ten years old and all smiles. The girl wore a sarong and the boy wore pants and a vest. Both outfits were cut from the same coral batik as Chyka’s tunic, like the whole ensemble had been one big class project.

Chyka held out her hands, three or four inches apart. Indira offered her right hand. Chyka clasped hold of it, bowed, and touched her forehead against the back of Indira’s hand. The whole thing was repeated, first with me, then with Martin and Will, and on down the line. Chyka greeted every member of the group, all in the exact same way.

Then the kids greeted us.

Chyka had been reserved and quiet, but the kids couldn’t stop giggling.

The girl touched her forehead against the back of my hand. She had long black hair pulled back in a ponytail and brown eyes as big as saucers. She held on to my hand, furrowed her brow, and leaned close toward me. “Are you pak guru?” she asked.

“Does pak guru mean teacher?”

She nodded emphatically.

“Well, yes, I guess I am.”

Her face lit up. “My name is Lucy. I am from West Java, Indonesia. I am nine years old. Thank you for come to visit my school.” Lucy giggled and smacked her forehead against the back of my hand a second time.

“It’s very nice to meet you Lucy.”

Then the boy took my hand and banged his skull against it. He said, “My name is Davi. I am from West Java, Indonesia. I am ten years old. Thank you for come to visit my school.”

They’d rehearsed just like Soukpa. It was cute, sad, and impressive, all at the same time. “Thank you Davi. I’m happy to be here.”

Lucy and Davi went down the line, smiling, giggling and banging hands against their foreheads. They even got a few hugs from Soukpa and some of the other teachers.

We left the train station on green mini-buses that were close cousins with tuk-tuks. They had space enough for seven or eight Indonesian passengers … the equivalent to three or four foreigners. Maybe only two foreigners, if one of them was Martin.

The mini-buses would make a great roadblock on The Amazing Race because the whole system functioned (or not) on local knowledge. The mini-buses had numbers—presumably indicating routes—but no corresponding maps or signs had been posted along the city streets. I boarded with Chyka, Lucy, Davi and Indira, plus a couple random Indonesian passengers. We sat on benches that faced each other in a space smaller than the boot of my Jeep. The rest of our group had to wait for the next mini-bus with the same route number.

A few minutes later we got off the mini-bus near a school with beautiful architecture and landscaped grounds. “Is your school here?” I asked Chyka.

Lucy and Davi laughed at volumes worthy of Indira. Chyka said, “Here is very good school. We take another bus.”

Three confusing transfers later, I told Indira, “There’s no fast way to get anywhere in your country.”

“This is fast way, but we take pretty way back to Jakarta just for you.”

“First class?”

“Oh come on, we did first class on train already.”

The last mini-bus left us beside a becak stand. A becak is basically a rickshaw, only it looks stranger, is less reliable and more dangerous. The carriages are in the front, and the drivers navigate on bikes that could have been imported from Amsterdam during the heyday of the Dutch East India Company.

Chyka spoke Bahasa and pointed at a steep hill. Indira translated, “We go this way, one more kilometer by bike.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Chyka take this trip every day to come Jakarta for conference.”

So then I shut up and got on a becak.

Chyka, Lucy and Davi shared a becak. Indira, Soukpa and the other teachers all followed suit, pairing up to share rides. Martin stood in the street and laughed. “There’s not a driver in Indonesia that can pedal me up that bloody hill.”

I decided to forgive Martin for deriding my coaching skills last night. It was potentially an embarrassing predicament, but he had the good humor to laugh at himself. He was also right. The becak drivers all waved “no-no-no” when they saw him. I climbed from the becak and said, “I’ll walk with you.”

Will shrugged and said he’d do the same.

In the end it was less than a kilometer. We climbed the hill and on our right was a beautiful mosque. A stream cut through the middle of the expansive property. We crossed it on a small footbridge, and on the other side we followed a well-beaten path to the outmost corner of a picturesque field and a cluster of utilitarian buildings.

Indira was waiting for us. “You have your notecards?”

“Yes.” I’d asked her to translate some simple sentences into Bahasa so that I could read them to Chyka’s students.

“Any question for me?”

“No, let’s go meet the kids.”

There must have been five or six buildings total, all roughly the same size. Not that any of them were big. I can estimate square footage with roughly the same accuracy as I can guess ages … but what I can say for sure is that my classroom in Germany (largest class size: 29) was roughly twice as big as the building where Chyka was teaching her orphans.

All forty of them.

The students came outside to greet us. Apparently their outfits had been a class project. All the girls wore sarongs and all the boys had pants and vests. The same basic outfits with a few variations in colors and patterns. All forty students greeted us exactly as Lucy and Davi had done at the train station.

I’ll never forget it.

The door to the classroom wasn’t typical. It was thick and heavy wood-on-wheels, and it rolled open just like the barn door on the farm where my grandmother was raised. The windows in the classroom weren’t typical either. They were square holes. No screens, no glass, no shutters. Just open squares.

The students filed into the classroom.

Along one wall were wooden cubbyholes. Kind of like bookshelves. The room didn’t have any desks or chairs. The kids took mats from the cubbyholes and sat on the dirt floor.

The room was clean. Tidy, anyway. For a room with a dirt floor and holes for windows, it was spectacular. It was organized, cared for, and obviously important to its occupants.

I glanced at the ceiling. It had a blue arrow and the word “Kiblat” to show the orphans the way to Mecca.

Chyka and Indira spoke to the students in Bahasa.

Maybe one of them introduced me. I don’t know. Martin and Will stood near a hole-in-the-wall window. Soukpa sat on the floor with Lucy on her lap. The rest of our group did the same with other kids.

I stood in front of everyone with my notecards. They’d been a great idea last night at Starbucks. Not so much this morning. I managed to get through a few words when I heard a hybrid tsk-clucking noise and thought Wallach had stormed the classroom.

It was only a couple of chickens.

Real chickens.

The kind that walk around clucking and pecking. Which is what they were doing. Only no one else seemed to care, or even notice. This is normal? Obviously I had a little hiccup reading my notecards.

Understandable.

I was talking to forty orphans who had to share a dirt floor with two chickens. No one in college had ever prepared me for this scenario. I stumbled through a few more words, but it was getting ugly, fast.

Lucy raised her hand. “Pak guru?”

“Yes?”

“You can talk English.”

Well, okay. “Will everyone understand me?”

Lucy gave an ultra-serious nod. “More than you talk Bahasa.”

The chorus of laughter and bobbing heads settled the matter. What do you say to that? I’ve no idea. It was simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring.

You see it, right?

How was I supposed to go back to Germany and life-as-normal and teach? How was I supposed to pretend I’d never seen these kids, or experienced this moment? It would be impossible, of course.

The Rainy Season: “the only truth that matters”

An excerpt from The Rainy Season, by Tucker Elliot:

In my mind I’d placed rings around the hotel. The high-end shopping, restaurants and other luxury hotels were in the first ring—Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany’s and dozens of other brand names fit for Fifth Avenue. Not that downtown Jakarta would ever be confused with Manhattan, but persons with substantial means could certainly pass time in Jakarta without any major inconveniences. In the second ring were places like Chili’s, Pizza Hut, KFC, 7-Eleven, Circle K and Dunkin’ Donuts.

We’d left the first and second rings behind after five minutes of driving … in traffic.

In the third ring the streets were narrow and dark, almost sinister. People lit fires on sidewalks to burn trash or cook food, or both. There were steel barricades with heavy padlocks in front of every doorway, and they made every residence look like a prison. They probably felt that way, too. The motorbikes that weren’t playing Frogger on the streets were chained to the same barricades that fortified the houses. Half-naked kids were panhandling in traffic. The first ring glowed in the distance, lit up by consumerism that was brought to Jakarta courtesy of western cultures and Christian nations, and it influenced impoverished Muslims in the third ring, who wore Manchester United tee shirts with “Rooney” on the back, twisting further the attitudes and perceptions of those who were bent already toward radicalism.

Maybe we should build a McDonald’s on every corner and declare victory. Or did we try that already?

The traffic got worse and soon we were at a complete standstill. There were four or five local men in various states of undress standing in the road, but the only police officers in sight were sitting off to the side and seemingly unconcerned about the situation. The locals were ostensibly directing traffic to alleviate the jam, but it was pretty clear they were in fact causing it to further the panhandling efforts of the kids.

Indira said, “Soukpa, close your window.”

Soukpa had barely registered what Indira had said when a hand slammed loudly against the van. Soukpa cried out in surprise and nearly fell from her seat, but it was only a boy, maybe eight or nine years old.

The boy cried through the window in English, “I hungry!”

Soukpa quickly reached into her tote bag.

Indira grabbed Soukpa’s arm. “No,” she said. “You must not give the boy money. You see the men? The boy work for the men. The men will take anything you give the boy.”

Soukpa was horrified. “Who give boy food?”

Will said, “It’s difficult to say no, but Indira’s right.”

Soukpa’s hand came out of the bag with a banana. She had no money to give the boy, but she was prepared to give away the food she had pinched from the breakfast buffet.

Indira shook her head sadly. “I am sorry.”

The boy banged his hand repeatedly on the side of the van. Soukpa was obviously torn, but she put the banana back into her bag. I’d never seen a face with such a pained expression. The boy just banged away, again and again, and his antics drew unwanted attention to our van from the people on the street, sidewalks, and other cars. He screamed, “I hungry! I hungry!” It was uncomfortable, to say the least. Indira spoke Bahasa to our driver, who then climbed out of the van and chased the boy away with a few harsh words.

“I am sorry,” Indira said again.

The city assaulted us with its hellacious cacophony, but inside the van it was eerily quiet.

Indira finally gave everyone a big smile, and then she asked, “How many Indonesian men does it take to direct traffic?” I didn’t say anything because I had no idea if she was being serious. No one else said anything either. Indira laughed and told us, “All of them. The women work and cook and clean and make babies and pray five times a day, but the men have nothing better to do.”

“How long are they going to keep us here?” I asked.

“You do not like my joke?”

“It’ll be funnier after they let us go.”

“They let us go soon, I think.”

The police officers finally stood up. They blew whistles and chased the men and kids from the street. Our van began moving again and a short moment later I saw firsthand how completely the filth and squalor of the third ring had enveloped the train station. Wallach had the right idea, avoiding this place. The van had barely slowed when a crowd of men descended on it, waving and motioning our driver to park in twenty different places.

Indira said, “How many Indonesian men does it take to park a van?”

There was a chorus of “all of them,” and this time it probably would have been funny if not for the women, children and street vendors waiting for us in all twenty different places we were being directed. It was a relief when finally we parked and climbed out of the van, but immediately there were countless people staring at us—specifically at me, Will and Martin—and while most were simply curious, others were outright hostile. My ideal for blending in would be for no one to see or hear me, ever. Good luck with that. Not here, not in this scenario. Sometimes blending in means acute situational awareness and the right attitude. Act as if you belong. Which is why I approached the ticket office the same way I’d left the airport the other night: no big deal.

Being with Indira obviously helped. She made all our arrangements. On that account, Wallach had been right on target. The listed price was 7,000 rupiah per ticket. Indira haggled and finally agreed on 5,000 rupiah. Our group of sixteen would travel for less than ten dollars. Indira had knocked a buck-fifty off the total, which I found incredibly amusing at the time.

I don’t have a lot of experience with trains, but the “train station” picture I had in mind had been formed by Seoul Station and London Liverpool Street. My picture was off just a bit. Well, in truth, I wasn’t even on the right canvas. In Seoul and London the train stations have concourses with high-end shopping and fancy restaurants. The train station we departed from that morning had a dirty 7-Eleven with about half of its shelves stocked.

I bought a bottle of water and sat quietly on the platform.

There were only two tracks, but after a few minutes Indira realized we were sitting on the wrong side. We climbed an escalator that didn’t work, crossed over to the other side, and found benches dirtier than the ones we’d just left.

I decided to walk around the platform. It was elevated and I could see a long line of people standing outside a small grocer across the street from the station.

Indira walked over and said, “It is really sad.”

“What is?”

She pointed at a sign I hadn’t noticed: Western Union. “It is the same in every city in my country, a long line every morning to get money family member send from overseas. It comes from your country, Dubai, Europe, but not from my country. The people will not even take the money in rupiah because they no longer trust it. They will take U.S. dollars from the Western Union.”

“I had no idea things were this bad. If all I had seen of your country was the area around the hotel then I would think everyone in Indonesia is rich.”

“Indonesians believe all Americans are rich.”

“Trust me, they’re not.”

“Indonesians believe American schools are the best in the world.”

“American schools have eight hundred million problems. At least.”

“You can see Central Jakarta from here. See how tall my city is?”

She was right. The skyscrapers and luxury hotels could easily be seen in the distance.

“It is very easy for the people to see, but almost impossible for them to afford. We believe every American is rich because every American that come to my city can afford Central Jakarta.”

“The ones who can’t afford it don’t come. You know it’s that simple.”

Indira nodded. “I know. But here the only truth that matters is what the people can see. The city grows taller, the people here live in the shadow, foreigners shop in stores that are not Indonesian so your money will not stay in my country, but your money will make life more expensive for every Indonesian with no choice but to stay.”

“You’re not going to self-detonate now, are you?”

Indira smiled wryly. “My sister is secretary in Central Jakarta.”

“Is that a good job?”

“If you work for foreign company. My sister is secretary for Indonesian company.”

“What’s the difference?”

“She has not been paid her salary in six months.”

“She hasn’t been paid in six months, but she’s still working there?”

“Yes.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I get half my salary in U.S. dollars. I am very lucky because I can help my sister and my parents.” She thought for a second, and then added, “The only time I think to self-detonate is when I have to work with people like Wallach.”

“He has that effect on people.”

“You are lucky to be American. Do you know why I work so hard for this conference? I will help Indonesian teachers. The teachers will help Indonesian children. The children will help my country.”

“Then I came along and said nobody you invited to the conference had any answers. Sorry about that.”

Indira let loose her outrageous laugh. “Oh come on, Mr. Strange. I tell you many times already that I am not blind. I can see you do not trust easy. I also think you forgot how to trust yourself. But I trust you, and I know today you will help Chyka.”

I really had no idea how to respond.

“You wish to change the topic. I can tell.”

“No, we can talk about Chyka. Is it a good job to be a teacher here?”

Indira shrugged. “A government school is not good. I think maybe four hundred U.S. dollars a month is normal salary. Better than my loners, but still not good. Private teacher is good, and international teacher is rich, but only if you are foreigner.”

The train to Bogor finally pulled into the station.

“Thank you for doing this,” Indira said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I need one more favor.” Indira reached into her purse and came out with a nametag identical to the two she’d given me already. “Please wear your nametag all the time,” she said, struggling mightily to keep a straight face. She clipped it to my shirt before I could protest.

“Did you at least get me a first class seat?”

Indira laughed so hard, she could barely catch her breath. I saw why when I got on the train. It didn’t have any seats.

The Rainy Season: “An indiscriminate giver and taker of life”

Prologue

Its headwaters flow out of the Tibetan Plateau along with the Huang He and Yangtze rivers in an area that is part of Qinghai Province, China. Its name is Lan Xang Jiang—literally, the “Turbulent River”—and it flows southeast through Yunnan Province and the Hengduan Mountains for more than fourteen hundred miles before it turns fully south and takes on a different name for the rest of its journey: the Mekong.

Its currents are no less turbulent in Burma or Laos where the river is a line of demarcation, the place where China ends and Southeast Asia begins—but here its name has a different meaning, given by peasant farmers in Laos who depend on its waters for fish, transportation, irrigation and life.

Mekong is the “Mother of Water.”

It’s an appropriate name given that the river crosses nearly three thousand miles on its journey from the mountainous terrain of Tibet to its delta in Vietnam before emptying into the South China Sea—and at various points along that path you can stand in Laos and look north across its waters into China, south into Cambodia, east into Vietnam, or west into Burma and Thailand.

No matter the border, the Mekong has been an indiscriminate giver and taker of life in Southeast Asia for thousands of years.

It’s a paradox like civilization’s other great rivers—be it the Nile, Indus, Euphrates, Ganges or China’s Sorrow the Huang He—for without its waters life is a daily struggle for survival; yet with its waters life is a daily bet that natural disasters and diseases will visit someone else’s village, because it’s not if, but when it’s going to happen that’s the relevant question.

My first glimpse of the Mekong came from the window seat of an MA-6 at about three thousand feet as it was on final approach to Pakse International Airport. The twin turbo-prop engines and narrow fuselage fitted for about four dozen or so passengers weren’t designed to instill one’s confidence in flying—and the plane being manufactured in China was no help in that regard, either—but for someone who has never had a fear of flying the one thing that was a very real concern as the plane descended through clouds and banked hard to the right was the weather. It was summer, the beginning of the rainy season in this part of the world, and for the last ten minutes the plane had been buffeted up, down, left and right at the behest of high winds and torrential rain—but then the river came into view, and whatever worried thoughts I’d had were pushed from my mind. I stared out the window, trying to take in as much as possible, because this river, more than anything else, was a visible symbol that represented why I’d embarked on this journey in the first place: my dad survived a war that he fought beside this river; my uncle died in that same war; and now I was here because of a war, too—that other indiscriminate giver and taker of life.

This new war began before my nieces were born but it continues today, even as they prepare for middle school, which means the only world they’ve ever known has been one that’s at war, and they can’t picture it in any other form. I belong to the other group—the one made up of people who not only remember how it was before but who, because of this war, have lost something along the way. Not a spouse or mom or dad or brother or sister, like so many others, but a small group of society that lost a part of our humanity all the same.

When you’ve lost something that important you go searching for it.

I did, anyway.

The MA-6 descended rather smoothly, all things considered—though we’d been so low flying over the river that it felt like we were making a water landing. I could see villages, boats and people whose way of life I’d known and experienced only through books, pictures, and videos, but one I’d soon walk amongst. The runway was an elevated strip of asphalt cut through a rice paddy, and the terminal was built to resemble a Buddhist temple. The plane landed and I disembarked with the rest of the passengers onto a tarmac area that was considerably lower than the runway. No doubt it was meant to facilitate the runoff of water during the rainy season. It also meant sloshing with carry-on luggage through seventy-five meters of ankle deep water.

But I didn’t care about that.

I stood on the tarmac as the other passengers scurried to the terminal. The sky was low and gray and I braced myself outwardly against the rain and wind. Inwardly I steeled myself for what was ahead. The first flight on this journey had been more than three weeks ago, but in reality my whole life had led me to this place. I had seventy-five meters left to cross on foot, one final passenger terminal to navigate, and a rendezvous with destiny on the other side—for at that point I would have gone as far as possible by all other means. For the rest of this journey I’d be relying on the river.