Tim & Kim

I wasn't looking for Tim & Kim.  But it's not the first time during my trip that a very fortunate circumstance materialized out of the ether.  Once again, one seemingly meaningless decision, one small turn of luck, led to a series of events that drastically changed the course of a few days for the better.  This time I happened to decide to go off to the little visited village of Gorgora, a small community on the northern end of Lake Tana.  I happened to meet up with Yosef and his five students, who were in the process of hiring a boat to visit the island monasteries of the lake.  Because Yosef happened to be Dutch, the boat operator happened to mention to him that there was a Dutch couple – Tim & Kim - that ran a community-based resort nearby.  Yosef happened to decide to visit the resort rather than the monastery that was supposed to be the final stop on the lake tour.

And so it was that I arrived at Tim & Kim’s Village, which sits seven hundred and fifty meters off the dirt road that is the main drag of Gorgora.  The scene is picturesque.  Eight or so stone cabanas – rooms built almost exclusively by Tim’s own hands – dot the hillside that tumbles down towards the lake.  Tim shows me which room is mine and advises that I need not use the en suite showers, as a more suitable bathing option might be to hop into the blue waters of Lake Tana.  Taking his advice, I walk the dirt path down to my very own three thousand square kilometer bathtub, take off my clothes, and go in for a dip.  As the sun begins to set over the surrounding mountains, I wrap myself in my towel and return to my room to get ready for dinner, a meal I share with Tim and Kim alone, as today I am the only guests staying at their little slice of paradise.

Turning this piece of Ethiopian dirt into this beautiful resort did not come easy for Tim and Kim.  As Tim put it, he and his wife are "survivors".  Literally.  Tim has had malaria nine times.  Kim three, once to the point of being so ill that she had to be admitted to the nearest hospital's intensive care unit (two hours away).  Tim's been stung by a scorpion, which he likens to having his arm on a barbecue for twenty-four straight hours.  They've dealt with hyenas, rabid dogs and thieving employees.  They've slept with chickens and cows and spiders and rats.  But mostly, they've learned what to me seemed like a painfully frustrating lesson on working with the local Ethiopian community.  Nearly every item in their resort - the lamps, the windows, the tables, the light switches, the beer, the sugar - came with a different story of disappointment or incompetency, of things being built incorrectly or not delivered as ordered or being overpriced due to senseless government price caps.

Beside a bonfire, Tim and Kim tell me these stories insisting they are not frustrated, that they have survived by adjusting their expectations.  But their tone tells a different story.  They seem genuinely disappointed to reveal that they no longer harbor any hope - as they once did - that someday they will turn over the resort that is the fruit of their hard labor to a local Ethiopian.  Instead, they say without a hint of embarrassment, they are quite sure that their replacement will have to be a faranji, a foreigner.

And no wonder.  The local schools are hardly able to provide the type of education we in the west are accustomed to, the type of education we would like to think is a right - not a privilege -  for any child.  Before Tim and Kim there were few school supplies.  There was no kindergarten.  But thanks to their effort there is now.  And someday soon, thanks to their organization's sponsorship, there may even be foreign educated teachers to pass on the knowledge that those in the local community have never before had the opportunity of obtaining.

What Tim and Kim have accomplished is amazing and inspiring.  They have installed a water tank, drastically improving the health and lives of nearly all of Gorgora's five thousand residents.  They sponsor a local swim team, giving the Gorgoran youths a sense of purpose.  They employ seventeen people from the local community, providing a steady source of income and self-esteem.  They even administer a very haphazard kind of health-insurance for their workers, pooling all tips from guests into an emergency fund.  On the day I left their resort, Tim was accompanying one of his worker's to southern Ethiopia, as the couple's non-profit organization had raised enough money (around $800) to perform a life-saving cleft-palate repair operation on an employee's child

Sitting under the Ethiopian stars, I listen to Tim and Kim in awe and admiration.  But I am worried, and I share my concerns.  What happens when one of the workers gets too ill and their insurance fund cannot cover the treatment?  What happens when their seventy-two year old worker is no longer able to work?  Will they not feel a sense of responsibility?  Will they not be stuck paying out of their own pocket for these people who have come to rely so heavily on their help?

The couple ponders my point in silence.  Finally, Tim speaks up.  If their modest insurance fund cannot cover a sickness, the worker will die.  If the seventy-two year old former beggar can no longer work, he will go back to his life on the street.  "This is Africa", Tim says.  "We don't have the luxury of planning for contingencies.  If an emergency comes up, we deal with it if we can.  If we can't....  well, this is their reality."

Maybe it is because they recognize the limits of what they can do that Tim and Kim tell me about their various projects without a hint of pride.  To them, they are only doing what anyone would do if confronted with the reality they face everyday.  And they know that in the end they are merely plugging holes in a dam that is gushing with leaks.  They tell me that more important than the individual projects is that they are able to establish a self-sustaining business that can benefit the community for years to come.  Tim and Kim's biggest hope is that one day the locals will be able to stand on their own.

My hope is that they don't lose hope.

How Blessed Is This Day

It's the night before Easter in Addis Ababa.  The walk to the Holy Trinity Cathedral for Midnight Mass is not one I would want to do alone.  During the day, the streets of Addis are teeming with all sorts of sweet, savory and unsavory (often it seems mostly unsavory) characters, but at night they are empty, and the dusty, unlit roads radiate a sense of desolateness that is eerie.  There are no neon signs, no pedestrian promenades, no commercial centers, no rows of restaurants or stores, no tall modern buildings to light up the sky.  Addis has none of these.

The gate to the church is guarded by a mass of humanity.  In the shadows of night they have no faces, no arms, no legs.  They are a huddled stack of blankets, wrapped up to guard against the surprisingly chilly night they will spend on the street, as they always do.  As we walk through a hand reaches out and shakes slowly, inquiring for alms in the international language of jingling change.

We enter the church grounds, following the sound of the distorted voice chanting in Amharic, booming across the city from the top of the church spire.  We round the corner, and there they are.

There are hundreds, no thousands, each and every one wrapped in a long white shawl.  Some hold long wooden staffs, some burning candles.  They are old and young, some obviously wealthier than others.  I assume they fill the entire inside of the church, but I can't confirm.  I can barely get near the door.  They spill out onto the steps of the church, onto the platform below, around all sides of the church, filling the church grounds.  They sit on blankets like it was a rock concert.  They lean against statues and trees, they sit between cars.  Some are standing, some are sleeping.  All are perfectly quiet.

The priest's chanting slows to a beautifully gentle speaking voice.  Every twenty to thirty seconds it pauses and the worshippers chime in with an equally soft melodic murmur.  They stand up and prostrate.  At one point they applaud wildly.  It goes on and on into Easter sunday.

I am new to Ethiopia, but there is something in the service that feels unique and uniquely Ethiopian.  It is definitely Christian and definitely African, and yet the dress and the melody and the setting lends a Semitic feel to it.  I wonder where else in the world can it be like this.  Somalia?  Sudan?

At some point there is a massacre.  I don't know when or how, but when I wake up on the morning of Easter Sunday the street corners are stacked high with goat hides and it is not so uncommon to see someone walking the street with a bag of meat or a severed goat head.  The fifty-five day vegetarian fast has ended, and they are celebrating the return to the eating of flesh.

This day is a quiet day on the streets of Addis.  Nothing is open, no stores or banks or internet cafes (the few that exist), only the ubiquitous coffee shops, selling what is regarded as some of the world's best java.  The minivans with the howling conductors come by only every few minutes rather than every twenty or so seconds.  It even seems there are somehow fewer homeless on the streets, as if they too are taking the day off.

I like Addis this way.  Tomorrow it will go back to the roads crowded with people and old vehicles spewing black smoke, the pickpockets, the disabled and dirty asking for change, the prostitutes with their supposed fifty percent HIV infection rate, the homeless and filthy children, the near post-apocalyptic reality that can be the day-to-day street scene.  This is how Addis is, at least as it seems to me, in my very brief encounter.  It is something I will always remember, something I could never forget, even if I tried.

But of course, even on the normal days, there is more to it than that. They are here somewhere, those devotees, behind closed doors, that quiet amidst the madness.  I will remember them too.

Impressions of the Middle East

People get ready for that [taxi] to Jordan.

Lodged between the rugged cliffs of the Jordanian desert is Petra, a valley that was home to a B.C. city and that now bears the remains of hundreds of deep and sometimes ornate tombs carved into the rock.  It's dope, I'm into it.  I'm especially into the long day hikes up into the surrounding mountains during which you might stumble across the occasional Bedouin goat herder who invites you into his simple home for tea.  Some hot tea, some soccer with Bedouin kids, some goats, some fantastic views across the rocky desert landscape... like I said, into it.

I don't have much else to say about Jordan.  Really, the point of this post was to drop the Curtis Mayfield references I've been storing up for months in preparation.

Since this is the Middle East, I guess I can provide some political commentary.  You ready for it?  Ok, here goes...

That there are entire swaths of the planet that I can't just stumble around meeting people and exchanging handshakes and smiles is stupid.  That there are whole portions of the city of Jerusalem or entire villages in Israel where I can't go without fear of getting harassed is stupid.  That I can't even come to a tourist center like Petra without experiencing (very slight) undertones of fear and animosity is stupid.  Hey world, grow up.

Really took you to school there, didn't I?

Anyway, tomorrow I leave Jordan to do what any respectable JewBu (Jewish-Buddhist) does after a pilgrimage to Asia and Israel.  Travel through Ethiopia, duh!

Here's a (long exposure) picture of the Treasury at Petra at night.  That shit's just carved right into the rock face.  Not bad, huh?

Talk to you from AFRICA!

This is Israel

"Allahu Akbar."  I stir on Friday morning, awakening to the sound of the muezzin's call to prayer, the Muslim's voice booming from the loudspeaker sitting atop the spire of the nearby mosque.  This is Israel.

I am in Cana, an Arab village a day's walk out of Nazareth along the "Jesus Trail", a Christian pilgrimage route stretching across the Galilee, the land of Jesus' ministry.  I am nervous and excited as I have a lofty goal for the day: to walk thirty kilometers, turning the hike from Nazareth to the Sea of Galilee - normally a four day trek - into a three day trek.  Rolling out of bed I pack up my possessions into the bag I am to carry on my back, and walk into the living room of the Arab-Christian guest house that lodges the various hikers and pilgrims who pass through Cana as they walk the trail.

"The Kingdom of God is like a Jesus Trail marker.  If you know where to look, it is always there to guide the way."


Entering the living room of the home-stay guest house I am confronted with eighteen Christian pilgrims, seventeen students and a professor, from Eastern Mennonite University in Pennsylvania.  Sitting in a circle of couches, the class conducts their morning session as each student takes a turn to complete the sentence "The Kingdom of God is like..." with something they had seen on the first day of the walk.  Grabbing my breakfast of hard-boiled egg, pita and hummus, the professor kindly asks if I would like to join, and though I politely decline the invitation, I continue to listen as the students share their analogies.

"The Kingdom of God is like a field in the Galilee.  It may be obscured by trash and pollution, but the beauty is always there if you know how to look."  

I smile to myself.  This is Israel.

By 8:30 a.m. I am on the trail and hiking out of Cana, into the beautifully forested hills of the Galilee.  Seeing the Arab town of Tur'an after less than two hours of walking, I note with pride that I am making great time.  Pleased with myself, my mind begins to wander into complacency and when I return to mindfulness, I realize I haven't seen a trail marker in at least ten minutes.  Time for some navigation skills!  Looking at a map, I realize I now have two options:  (A) backtrack at least ten minutes uphill and pick up the trail wherever I had lost it or (B) hike towards the highway I can spot in the distance and walk along the road until it crosses the trail, a route that will shorten my total walk for the day.  Option B it is!

Hmmm, I soon realize.... walking along a busy highway is not fun.  And, those clouds... yep, and now it is less fun as it has started to rain.  So, okay, we're at a crossroads.  Do I to continue to hike in the rain, for another two kilometers on a busy highway, and as a reward for making it off the highway, possibly have to trudge my way through the mud for another twenty kilometers, or is it better to cut my losses, swallow my pride and hop a bus to Tiberias, the nearest Israeli city of significance?

Reasonableness wins this battle (don't get used to it fella!), and within a half hour I had found a bus going my way.  Sweaty, wet and muddy, I pay my eleven shekel fare and sit down next to a green clad Israeli soldier, passed out in his seat and clutching an automatic rifle in his lap.  This too is Israel.

Ok Noah, time to regroup, here's the new plan: arrive in Tiberias, rent a car and drive north exploring my way through the Galilee until I reach my friend's couch in the Golan Heights, then spend the next day hiking the Golan.  Thrilled with the new itinerary I send my friend a text message and then drive to the Christian holy spots I had hoped to hit on the trek.  First was the Church of the Multiplication of the Loaves & Fishes, a small and tranquil church commemorating one of Jesus' supposed miracles.  Next, a short walk over to the Church of the Primacy of Saint Peter, a Franciscan church set right on the shore of the Sea of Galilee on the spot where Jesus transferred leadership of the church to Peter.

It's a beautiful walk downhill through gardens towards the water and the church.  The sun is bright, the weather is warm, and, well, I begin to hear heavenly music.  Okay, I know I'm visiting some pretty holy sights here, but really, am I having visions (hearings?) now??  As I round a corner the chanting grows louder, and nearing the church, I see that the singing is coming from a group of Franciscan pilgrims, fifty or so Catholics dressed all in white, performing an outdoor mass in a shaded area overlooking the Sea (sanity, you are mine again you beautiful son-of-a-bitch!).  Backed with two nylon string acoustic guitars and a softly tapped conga drum, the Christian's voices drift across the grass and out into the sea, speaking out wonderfully moving and beautiful minor melodies giving praise to the Lord.  Does the setting sound too good to be true, too fantastic and idyllic, out of a movie or a story book or a Christian propaganda film?  Well, this is how it is, I swear, it's true! (unless I really am crazy).  The service is mesmerizing and beautiful and I sit until the mass culminates in the Eucharist, the priest distributing the blood and body of Christ directly into the mouths of the followers.  Uh-huh, this is Israel.


I hike up to the Mount of Beatitudes, the overlook where Jesus gave the Sermon on the Mount  ("Blessed are the..."), to see unparalleled views across the Sea and hills of Galilee.  And then to Capernaum, the home base for Jesus' ministry over two thousand years ago.  It's now 4:30 and I check my phone to see my friend in the Galilee has responded to say that her couch is not available for the night.  So once again a decision must be made.  Looking at a map and giving it little thought, I decide to go to drive north to Tsfat, a hilltop Orthodox/Hassidic/Kabbalistic/Artsy/Bohemian Jewish community and spiritual center.

My trusted Lonely Planet recommends a place called Ascent as the most affordable option in Tsfat, so, not reading past the price line, I head there looking for a place to spend the night.  Walking into the "guest house" at 5:15, Ascent is a whirlwind of activity, as the staff and guests prepare for the town-wide (and country-wide) shutdown that is to come in a few hours as Shabbat begins.

"Hi, do you have a bed available."
"No reservation?  Um, ok, it will cost 195 Shekels for a bed in the dorm."
"195 Shekels?!?  My book says 45...."
"It's Shabbat.  It includes meals and services and the courses."
"Oh, I don't need all that.  Just a bed is fine."
"....um....  no.  You do need it.  You want it.  There is no option."


So it turns out that had I read further in the guidebook, I would have seen that Ascent is not really a hotel, but a Chabad house, a Hassidic center for housing Jews and teaching them in the ways of the Jewish tradition (and in Ascent's case, the Hassidic and kabbalistic traditions).   And so it is that by the time night arrives, I find myself in the center of a circle of orthodox Jewish men, holding hands with a black-coated, black-hatted, bearded Hassidic rabbi, spinning each other as we dance to the sounds of the Jewish mystics.  Oh yea, I laugh... this is Israel too.

My last stop for the night is Shabbat dinner at the home of the Leiters, a Hassidic family of eleven children (to date) and thirteen grandchildren (to date).  As Rabbi Mordechai walks me to the home of my hosts, he asks how it was that I heard about Ascent and ended up in Tsfat that night.  I begin by telling him it was an accident, and then relate my story about the hike, the lost trail, the rain, the text message from my friend, and at the end Rabbi Mo laughs, slaps me on the back and with a smile in his eyes like he was party to his own private joke, tells me it was "quite a fortunate accident."

And my dinner with the Leiter clan....?  Delicious food, noise, confusion, family, prayers, caring, more delicious food, stories, interruptions, spiritual discussions, even more delicious food.  Everything you might expect, plus an extra dose of intensity.  This is Israel after all.

  

I Get My Kicks Above the Waistline, Sunshine

Ladies and gentlemen, do not, DO NOT, adjust your monitors, you have in fact just witnessed a Murray Head reference. I usually find big cities kind of whatever - you know, being the big, bad and jaded New Yorker and all - by I'm pretty amazed by Bangkok.  And I gotta say, being back in real civilization, well, it ain't so bad.

I don't know what it is about Thailand - the beaches, the lady-boys, the massage parlors, the all-but-legal prostitution, the 7-11s - but something about this place attracts a very unique kind of tourist you don't really get anywhere else.  I typify the guy I'm talking about as muscular dude with a ponytail, wearing a tank-top in order to show off his tattoos.  He is EVERYWHERE.

Now, I know what you're thinking:  "Noah must dig the shit outta that place, it's just his scene, man."  Well, at least that's what you're thinking if you're one of my seven regular readers - my parents, my sister and my four grandparents - all of whom know all too well about my affinity for Thai prostitutes and regularly use the phrase "dig the shit outta, man."  Well, yes, but somehow I was able to pull myself away from the brothels and into an eight day meditation retreat at Wat Umong, a forest monastery outside Chiang Mai.  On the Saturday of the retreat the Wat became flooded with Thais whose sons were being inducted as new monks that very day.  The families were picnicking, talking and laughing, visiting the temple's lake to feed the fish and release turtles, as all the while the new monastics smiled on with excitement and nervousness.  It was a day of celebration, like a summer graduation barbecue we might have in the states.  It was a joy to be around and made me remember, riiiigggghhhttt, this place ain't totally twisted after all.

So yea, Thailand, I can dig it.

Writing this post reminded me of a party I was at in New York a few years ago.  We were all having a great time and one of my friends - let's call him Andy - well, he had a few drinks.  Waking up the next morning remembering only bits and pieces of the night before, Andy checks his phone to see he has a missed call and a voicemail from his grandmother who lives in Florida:  "Andrew - did you send me a texting message last night at 2:00 in the morning??"  Uh-oh, Andy thinks,  he has some vague memory about his phone going missing the night before, and so he looks back into his text history.  Sure enough, text to Nana at 2:34 a.m.:  "Let's get weird!".

Now Andy has a good sense of humor, so he couldn't help but smile, but still he was slightly irked that someone had crossed this line with his family and wanted to know which of his jokester friends was responsible for the offending text message.  So he starts an investigation.  I don't think I'll ever forget the time I was subjected to the inquiry:  "Noah, did you ask my Nana to get weird last night?"

Andy asks around, but none of his friends will fess up.  Confused - I mean, who wouldn't want to take credit for that brilliant piece of texting - Andy finally gives up the search.  A week later, Andy is relating the story to a female friend, when the truth comes out.... "Um, Andy, I was there in Peter's room with your phone when this text message was sent.  And so were you.  You sent it.  And you thought it was hilarious."

Yep, it turned out that the prankster who sent the enticing invitation to Nana to get weird was none other than Andy himself!

I'm pretty sure that story isn't  funny unless you know Andy, or you're the kind of person who enjoys a good Murray Head reference, or you've just spent eight straight days in silence staring at your navel.

Anyway, big news in terms of the whole trip thing I'm doing.  Tomorrow I leave Asia.  That's the bad news.  The good news is that the trip isn't over just yet, as I am flying not back to the US of A, but instead to the biblical land of milk and honey.  ISRAEL!! The great news, at least for you my dear reader, is that perhaps this means that I'll be writing about something other than Buddhism/monasteries/meditation, trekking and death.  Maybe.

Also, I don't actually have an affinity for Thai prostitutes.

Peace out Asia!  Stay weird!!

Or...

Method #3:  Just get the fuck off the main tourist route.  Big fan of northern Laos.  Huge.

From the Rubble to the Ritz to the Rubble

Hi.  I used to blog.  Here's what's been going on.

My wonderful, amazing, supportive family (minus a few key members) came to visit and together we traveled through Cambodia and Vietnam for a couple weeks.  Life was grand!

Marble floors and staircases!  Then my family left and I went back to the slums.

It's unfair for me to really make any assessments on either Cambodia or Vietnam since I was in each for such a short period of time.  But I think Vietnam is winning thus far for both quality of food and craziness of traffic.

(If your desire for some feedback on the Cambodia/Vietnam experience isn't satisfied by the above, well you can blame Steven, Dale and Sarah, all of whom were offered an opportunity to guest-post on the blog, but none of whom took the bait).

The reality of traveling through Southeast Asia (with the exception of Myanmar) is that there are a lot, like A LOT, of tourists.  This fact is especially pronounced in Laos - where I currently sit - which has a much more back-country feel than its neighbors.  Right now I write to you from UNESCO World Heritage protected Luang Prabang, a magical old riverfront town of beautiful Buddhists pagodas, wats and gardens -- and guesthouses and restaurants serving hamburgers and pizzas.  There are a lot of safron-clad novice monastics wandering the streets, but they are vastly outnumbered by tourists.  I like to pretend I have some special justification for being annoyed by all of this, though of course I'm no different than anyone else.

My biggest gripe with the situation is that the local people are so jaded by all the travelers, that it makes it difficult to actually interact with them as real people, since they're usual content to play their role of "local" and stick you into the role of "tourist".  But I've developed two mechanisms for breaking down these roles and getting a little more of what I want out of the travel experience.  The first is to occasionally sit down and play some music with one of the acoustic guitarists that are ubiquitous throughout Southeast Asia.  I've yet to find an Asian who doesn't get a kick out of a strumming/singing white boy, so sitting down to play is a good way to open them up to hang.  Although I've discovered that for the most part the only song I know how to play that they recognize (and as far as I can tell the only American song they know that isn't sung by Justin Bieber) is Jason Mraz's "I'm Yours".  So I've tried to be chill, but been so hot that I melted many many times in the past months.

The second way I'm able to really break out of the tourist box (though here this aim is really secondary) is to go dharma bum.  This, by far, is my favorite thing about Southeast Asian traveling.  The way this works is that I show up unannounced at the gates of a monastery and with my bags piled on my back I charade to the first monk I see that I would like to take up residence.  This monk than goes and finds an "English speaking monk" who speaks no English at all, and again I mime that I would like to sleep and meditate at their temple. I am then transferred to a third monk, this time the abbot, and after assessing my acting skills, he gives the okay.  The monks then set me up indefinitely with food and lodging free of charge (though of course you are expected to take on some daily chores and I always make a donation before leaving).

The most recent of such stays was at Wat Nakoon Noi, a forest monastery burried in the woods about forty minutes outside Vientienne, where approximately twenty monks, ten dogs, fifteen cats and fifty chickens make their home amongst the various wooden huts sprinkled throughout the trees and dried leafs.  The monks were kind enough to offer me a space to sleep on the floor of the main pagoda, although I must admit that between this simple "bedding", the monastic food, the outhouse toilets and the bathing facilities (or rather the complete lack thereof), this was probably my roughest accommodation to date, which is saying something.  But hey, it's good for the soul.  The all-expenses-paid package also included a daily 3:30 am wake-up call that began with the banging of a gong, and lasted a full half hour as every one of the seventy-five or so aforementioned animals responded to the gong and each other by howling, barking, screaming and crowing in their loudest voice.

Unfortunately, language is usually a significant barrier during these stays, and the problem becomes most pronounced during the time for meditation instructions.  The first reporting/question session at Nakoon Noi provides a pretty typical example of how this normally plays out:

Noah:  When I'm sitting and I feel discomfort or pain or agitation, I notice that my mind then adds another layer of irritation onto it.  Like all there is in the first instant is this not-yet-labeled sensation, then my mind creates an entire storm of agitation around it that very quickly manifests as actual physical discomfort in my chest. Actually, I see four separate moments that happen very quickly:  First, the sensation, second, my mind doesn't like it and labels it as pain, third, irritation arises which creates a physical manifestation and fourth I physically remedy the situation or squirm trying to fight the urge.  Although if I'm mindful enough sometimes I can catch the mind before it develops through the entirety of this process.  My question is, when I see the pain or discomfort, what should I do?  Should I make a mental note of it?  Should I continue noting it superficially until it dissipates?  What if it doesn't dissipate?  Should I dive into it deeper and really investigate what the sensation is itself, what it consists of?

English-to-Mandarin Translator:  [Smiles and laughs, nods head, speaks for forty-five seconds in Mandarin]

Mandarin-to-Laotian Translator:  [Speaks for twenty seconds in Laotian]

Monk:  [Speaks for about forty-five seconds in Laotian]

Mandarin-to-Laotian Translator:  [Speaks for twenty seconds in Mandarin]

English-to-Mandarin Translator:  "Yes.  Follow breath, in, out".

I mean.... all I want is some real words of wisdom!!  Something like "open up your mind and see like me, open up your plans and damn your free, look into your heart and you'll find the sky is yours, so please don't complicate, our time is short."