The Squeaky Robot

A Meddling Robot in a Human's World

Burmese Days

Posted on February 18, 2015

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These days I’m in Myanmar, and these days reliable Internet isn’t a thing anymore and neighborhood-wide power outages are very reliable. All my writing regarding this country so far is scrawled on the backs of forlorn receipts and tickets, and I’ve nowhere to put them (Posting a post about why I can’t post has taken me two hours.) For the best, though, as Burma is one of the most compelling places I’ve ever been and it would be a shame to squander it in a dusty Internet cafe surrounded by teenage boys playing World of Warcraft. So until I’m forced to leave this place that has so captured my heart, so much so that I’m seriously considering moving here, The Squeaky Robot will take to Instagram, where things are fast and food-filled!

Pookie

Posted on February 9, 2015

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I spent my last night in Bangkok watching older women doing Tai Chi in Romaneenart Park. I intended to sit there and read a little, but then Pukky (pronounced “Pookie”), a freelance business consultant, joined me. We talked for a long time about all things, and when her Tai Chi friends took a break, they sat with us too.

As much sensational attention as this city gets abroad – the Red Lights, the drugs, Khao San – these places in reality cover a few blocks of pavement out of thousands. What is left is everything else: a city just as chaotic and calm as the next, with people from more walks of life than our tiny brains can fathom, and troupes of smiling ladies doing light cardio together in the purple glow of dusk.

Phitsanulok

Posted on February 5, 2015

Phitsanulok is a place you go if you want absolutely nothing to happen to you. In the best way possible. A quick Google search of the small city will reveal that it was the birthplace of kings and the epicenter of central Thailand’s ancient military strategies. But the place is devoid of foreign faces, making it a sweet departure from the tour-ridden roads of Old Chiang Mai.

What was left was color and schoolchildren walking home and people carrying on, glimpses into a Thailand that is just for Thais.

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The cat wasn’t sure if I was real and I wasn’t sure if the cat was real.

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They were snipers in another life.

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There Can Be No Us

Posted on February 3, 2015

I’ve just now arrived in Phrae, a low-key town with airy teak houses and unpretentious local food. A car backfires in the distance every ten minutes or so. Locals emerge out of their dark shops as they see me walking by; they smile and wave while encouraging their timid children to do the same.

The lady who owns this guesthouse has a scattered mind. She is bustling around the place while posing me questions: What’s my name? How old am I? Do I have a boyfriend? she asks while absorbed in her tasks. No, I say. She stops her bustling and looks at me intently with thick glasses that make her eyes look comically large and says: Freedom.


I will never claim to be on a spiritual journey; I will also never attempt to “find myself” via travel. Knowing oneself has less to do with one’s geographical coordinates and more to do with mental work that is honest and unabashed and often ugly. Traveling with the intention of leaving your problems behind is like running from a grenade that’s still attached to you.

That being said, there are larger contemplations on my mind and it’s still unclear whether my journey through Asia will aid or abate them. I’m attempting to recover and heal from things that happened and didn’t happen, needing to square with uncomfortable flashbacks and haunting regrets that still make me shiver. I’m trying to reckon with my father’s miserable death not two years earlier. I want to know how I can be the best possible version of myself, and then even better.

These affairs are compounded by my resounding aloneness here in Northern Thailand. Beyond the cultural immersion and good books I’ve brought and compelling conversations with affable strangers, I am still utterly alone in my thoughts and steps. I think it speaks to the nature of my struggles. Just like I choose precisely what I do day to day – what I eat, what I see, whom I talk to – only I can make better what I deem in need of fixing.


My dental hygienist couldn’t believe my plans; much of my extended family was dismayed by the news that I was leaving again. They were probably scared for me, unable to see the value in solitude and travel. “America is the best country in the world,” my grandpa, who didn’t speak a lick of English, sagely advised. “You need to be here, with us.”


Two days into my stay in Bangkok I met a Brazilian guy my age. While I couldn’t – and still can’t – define my trip with sound precision, the rough plan and general purpose, our ideas operated on a similar wavelength: he’d given himself eight months to backpack around Southeast Asia and India before returning to Sao Paulo to pursue a career in civil engineering, maybe.

I spent three full days with him exploring the city. It was so easy to be around him. We saw eye-to-eye on most things philosophical and personal, we were both very energetic, eager to see as much of Bangkok as we could, and we even walked the same pace.

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In that situation, it would be easy and natural enough to continue on together for at least a couple more stops. But in our connection, there was also this unspoken mutual understanding, the way I understood it. Our journeys were not to be shared. The people along the way mattered but they also didn’t matter at all. Whatever he and I were trying to achieve, the mere lengthened presence of another would tarnish that somehow, some way.

It’s me, not us.


I said my goodbyes and set off without looking back. A familiar serenity overcame me, the one that tends to accompany my brand of detachment. With no one around, I could be in my head again for better or worse. I could sit and observe and wonder and dream; I could think about my dad, as I’m still unsure how I want to remember him. I could take the knowledge that addressing one’s issues is a matter of going deeper into them, sifting through them, facing them, accepting them, before they could become benign fixtures of a past long gone. Companionship at that very moment was the most overrated thing in the world: it was just me and my backpack, large but light; there could be no secrets between the two of us because it already knew what I carried.

After navigating the Sky Train into Bangkok’s center, I found the small bus station and hopped into the back of a local pick-up truck. We started rolling as soon as I entered. A little girl sat across from me, wind whipping her long black hair into swirls, as she coolly stared at me, my backpack, at me, my backpack. A few stops later, she smiled and waved goodbye as her mother ushered her off the truck.

As the girl grew smaller and smaller with distance, I wasn’t entirely sure if I was on the right ride. But I didn’t worry. I didn’t care. If I didn’t know where I was going, anywhere was alright with me.

Sweet Waan

Posted on January 27, 2015

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In the ancient capital of Siam, Ayutthaya, crumbling ruins, palaces and monasteries decorate the earth. Decadently-carved prangs, a Khmer-type tower common in Buddhist architecture, protrude over tree tops and buildings. Their deadness suits this sleepy river town, and their lofty presence coexists in modern life with impressive nonchalance.

One of the most grandiose sites to see is Wat Chaiwatthanaram, built to commemorate King Prasatthong’s victory over Cambodia. It was once the King’s home and later a royal cremation tower. Royal people would go there to become royal ash, like Prince Thammathibet who was beaten to death in 1746 because he indulged in scandal with one of his father’s concubines.

Inside such a weighty and resplendent monastery, the hallowed grounds of venerated kings where powerful people lived and burned, sat two tiny people eating tiny bananas: yours truly and a seventy-year-old named Waan. She sat in the cool shade of one the prangs, only in the company of a giant stone Buddha adorned with flower offerings and ceiling murals of wood and black lacquer. She was selling these bright yellow flower necklaces to the tourists who would sporadically file in, for the place was mostly deserted save the 120 gilt lacquered maravijaya Buddhas that lined the square periphery (maravijaya, my one-dollar guide book tells me, is a pose that Buddha adopts immediately following the triumph over death and evil).

She called out to me, pointing to her flowers. She told me in rough English that they’d give me luck if I gave them to the deity who sat cross-legged over her shoulder. This seemed like a good deal to me, so I bought one and dressed the Buddha.

I couldn’t think of anything else to do in that specific moment, so I sat down and started talking to Waan. She was an enthusiastic conversation partner, asking about my age and origins, career and travel plans. “How many children do you have?” I inquired. “8,000,” she said smiling, showing off the gaps in her teeth. We continued to talk at each other for a while in a playful way, when she hurriedly began opening her bag of mini chartreuse bananas. She gave me one and she gave herself one, and we ate them together like feasting kings in a happy, thick silence that couldn’t be described, only felt.

Welcome to Bangkok

Posted on January 21, 2015

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I left Hanoi over two months ago. There was no real reason I left, other than my mom said she missed me. So I flew home.

And now I’m back. You can expect some photos and some words regarding Southeast Asia, both mainland and maritime, and probably definitely beyond. I’ve obviously got none of it planned. This lack of commitment is deeply satisfying.

Here is a picture of some monks in Wat Pho preparing for their Pali examination (Wikipedia tells us that Pali is a “dead language that is widely studied because it is the language of many of the earliest extant Buddhist scriptures.”) It made me think: how different I am to a monk! And: what can someone like me learn from their lives of steadfast dedication?

Black Hmong & Red Dao

Posted on November 4, 2014

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Even a short three-day trek reveals the diversity of the Tonkinese Alps. There are five ethnic groups in Northern Vietnam and they all have boundless subdivisions, each with its own culture, dress and dialect. The way to say “hello” in one village would not pass in the next!

If you find yourself wandering to the region, consider a trip with Sapa O’Chau. It’s an amazing community development project that gives work and education to local youth.*

The Spring of Magical Thinking

Posted on October 28, 2014

I began with translations. My friend Phuong and I would sit in the Manager’s office discussing the nuances of our ancient text and which English words would be the best to communicate them.

“Around the mountain of Hong Linh, silver clouds disperse. The Lam River is formed by two flowing branches, one transparent, one opaque. Night falls on the river, lie and listen to the sloshing of the waves.”

The scripts were replete with such prose, heavy on folkloric scenery and the most noble occasions in Vietnamese history – battles won, maidens saved, lands conquered. Always a lotus in a distant mist, forever a drum ringing through still mountains.

Consuming these banal narratives for hours on end, it was not difficult to see why the theatre was struggling. Its substance was tired, outdated, irrelevant to Vietnam’s modern aspirations, one the fastest growing nations in the world. Hanoi and its populace were looking forward and were eager to move that way: high-rise projects across the city, iPhone case stores sprouting on every street corner, a near obsession with anything new. It is no surprise then that appreciation for thirteenth century folklore and traditional music lingered mostly among the oldest generations and tourists searching for depth and novelty in their travels.

It was painful seeing three hundred empty seats night to night, dedicated and talented actors playing their passion for no one. I proposed some ideas to the director and through a series of casual decisions on everyone’s part, it was settled that I should market the theatre to Hanoi’s tourists.

A lobby full of patrons mingles amongst each other amicably, sipping on royal lotus tea in delicate blue-white china. People soon file – efficiently but on their own accord! – into the dark arena, heavy with anticipation of the colorful spectacular about to effloresce. They had come to Ha Noi for this.

Hau, the in-house marketer, was twenty-seven and three months pregnant with her second baby. From the start she would hold my hands and arms frequently, and she began every one of her rough Viet-English translations with “excuse me.” No doubt the result of a tedious job and heavy responsibility at home, Hau looked chronically tired even through her smiles. It seemed that she was the one to take the brunt of the theatre’s failures, mostly through misguided reprimands from higher-ups and an air of lofty expectation that surrounded her every task, as if each of her singular actions had to have a tangible result in terms of increased audienceship. “Excuse me, I hope you help us,” she’d repeat in a way that was deliberate and cautious.

Hau became my point person because our roles were similar and her English was the best among theatre staff. We’d be on the street before every show, Hau in her traditional dress with a handful of flyers, and me informing oddly-shaped Westerners about details practical and abstract – how much was a ticket? Did the ornate costumes mean anything? To collide on foot – this was the theatre’s chief strategy at the time, and it was tragically contingent on the weather and general luck.

What we needed most was new promotional materials. I designed new ones, but there was no money for more than a few hundred prints. They had ordered thousands of pamphlets with more information any guest could possibly want, blocks of summaries and irrelevant details in a pale mustard hue. This would all be manageable had they been factual, the gravest error being incorrect show times and days.

This meant hours of daily extra work for Hau, printing out strips of sticky paper with the correct times, then painstakingly applying two on each pamphlet. A stack of one hundred would take over an hour to complete, and we needed them for outreach to hotels and travel agencies. We’d labor away together on this inane but necessary task, if only to best siphon our time and human capital.

The lights dim and there is a decrescendo of hushes among the audience. Suddenly the ringing of huge hefty drums reverberates through the room. Their faces are lit up green and red, and the sea of floating heads show looks of wonder and excitement. The show was beginning.

The first few weeks were permeated with impromptu meetings with random groups of men, saturated in rice wine and enveloped in clouds of tobacco smoke, who would only comment on my skin, height, weight and face. My attempts to discuss strategy and short-term action were met with hearty laughs, for it was, as it was explained to me, customary of professional dealings in Vietnam to first focus on light chit-chat and building good personal rapport with colleagues. I noticed, though, over time the theme of these meetings didn’t change.

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“I’d like to give a discount to students. Many tourists think the tickets are too expensive for an hour-long show.” After a lot of smiling in my direction, one of the men got up to fetch the vodka.

We’d go back to our office without any slight satisfaction surrounding our agenda, and continue stickering.

Laughter erupts as the Mandarin’s bumbling attendants have tied themselves together 101-Dalmations-style in pursuit of a sly assailant. They’ve been tricked into drunken stupor. What comedy!

We could have said it was because of the rain, but we were too hard on ourselves for that. There were a few weeks of all-time low attendance and several show cancellations. Actors in full make-up and costume would float around the lobby, talking, smoking, playing with their kids, waiting to do a job no one was interested in. I would stand there tenuously, looming, as I felt cast in self-judgement projected onto others: Here was the foreigner who was supposed to help us, and now she’s just standing there, judging herself. Can you believe that?

Not one harsh word was directed towards me, only constant generosities and smiles – this time with a bluer flavor – but I would hesitate saying the same for Hau. By then I knew the difference between neutral and harsh Vietnamese. Besides, Hau’s sweet tired face said it all.

“What a show that was,” Fran from Minnesota beams to her son as they file out. “And pictures with the cast, too! What a show that was.”

By the end, it felt like trying to stop a colossal wave from reaching the shore. All we could really do was listen.

My contract ended in July, and I chose not to renew. On the last day I clambered up the dark stairs for one last time to say goodbye to Hau, to tell her she could call me anytime to help her sticker the mountain of useless pamphlets that sat tauntingly in the corner.

The stairwell was lined with dusty black-and-white prints of a show in action, flaunting the bold-faced greats and an age when everyone here was more alive. I followed these up to the third floor offices, now quiet and empty. Hau’s light was on.

“I’m not good at this,” she said, slouching in her chair, her eyes small and despondent. “It’s just me here, I do not know what to do.” The rotating fan in the corner became stuck and started clicking, clicking, clicking. “It’s not your fault,” I said. My eyes glazed over as I stared intently at nothing. “You know what? I’m not good at this either.” Hau smiled as she fiddled with her hands in her lap.

We sat there listening to the despairing fan as this thick truth hung in the leaden air of our office, the one of delusions lost, not really knowing what to do with it but deciding to finish the day on our own terms.

Conversations with an 8-Year-Old Hanoian

Posted on October 14, 2014

“I like to read about histories and dinosaurs and the universe!” she says wide-eyed. “Teacher, remember the video we watch? The universe is getting bigger and bigger as we talk!” Her arms stretch high over her head as she illustrates the vastness of the cosmos. Then she collapses into her chair, exhausted by the mysteries of our existence.

“There could even be aliens,” she exhales.

I see Hang three times a week, Saturday through Monday. I tutor her privately and in a group lesson. She’s also my Teacher’s Assistant for a raucous bunch of six-year-olds. Although she’s only one or two years their senior, she speaks and reads like a proper fifth-grader.

Sometimes she takes her role as a TA very seriously, marching around with a ruler and throwing the students stern looks. Other times she makes a fort in the corner of the classroom and reads a book. I occasionally ask her for help with clarifying directions, but in general I regard her as a free agent.

Hang’s house is also a school. Table and chairs occupy more square footage of their downstairs than actual free space. The walls exist simply as backbones for the towers of books leaning against them. Every evening, dozens of students of all ages work diligently on arithmetic and calculus problems, and Hang’s mother, Trang, flies around, correcting and advising.

“I must separate my brain,” Trang says. She must go from basic algebra to space-time mathematical models that trouble her most brilliant Master’s-level students in a matter of seconds. All the while wrangling her one-year-old son, a blundering pudgeball who leaves aftermaths worthy of tornadoes in his sorry path.

It’s a known fact Vietnam is notoriously hard on its students, all competing for funding and university placements that are elusive at best, but its teachers can suffer as well. Trang is working all the while she’s awake, and there’s really no such thing as vacation when her students have exams to pass and futures to seize.

“I want to be a teacher like my Mum. And, Teacher, I want to speak English like you.”

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We study together in the attic of their house, in a small classroom with glass walls all around like a makeshift atrium for fake plants and dusty curtains. On the edge of Hanoi proper, the windows frame grasslands, farms and construction projects, alive and abandoned. Funnels of smoke peppered throughout the fields rise into the silver sky.

“When I am old and brilliant I will go to America to see you. They will give me money.”

“Who will give you money?”

“I will get IELTS paper, TOEFL certification, and I will be brilliant in maths and English, and they will give me money so I can study and live in America!” she exclaims.

“That’s great, Sweetie, and know that you already are brilliant!” I say in a sad voice that I can’t help.

She covers her mouth with her hands, hiding her gap-tooth smile.

“Oh, Teacher! I tell you I read there could be water on Mars?!”

“Wow!” I say. “Perhaps there is.”

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