It's The Land, Our Religion

[Olargues, 8/24/17]

Since everything, cathedral, lime leaf or spoon, has a history and social context, nothing is uninteresting, except to snobby retards, of course, for they wouldn’t be moved by the Scrovegni Chapel, much less an honest plate of rice noodle rolls.

Called cheungfan in Cantonese, it’s bánh cuốn in Vietnam, with a mention in a 14th century text. At Bangkok’s Batongo Cafe, you can get the Hakka version with strips of beef jerky. In southern Vietnam, it’s degenerated into bánh ướt, with just the rice noodle skin, unrolled.

I thought of bánh ướt this morning because I had it here, in Phnom Penh. The road to damnation is cursed with a billion short cuts and mirages. These are your cheese, bread, beef and president. If you close your eyes, Joe has the mouthfeel, flavor, contour and chemical tang of any genuine hot dog, left in the sun too long.

A five-foot-tall woman with a tray of sandwiches just walked by. Wearing brown shirt and pants, she had “GET NEW” on each of her butt cheeks. Already, we have layers of cultural history to peck at and peel.

They also have sandwiches at Big C, a convenience store just three yards from me. I walk in to see there’s a special of “BUY 1 FREE 1” on “BURGER WITH THAI SAUCE.” To make sure I don’t shove one into my pants, a security guard lurks behind me. In Vietnam, too, “burger” just means anything in a round bun, but notice the English virus.

Cambodia’s baddest rapper is VannDa. His biggest hit is “Time to Rise.” Although a rousing nationalistic anthem, its title is in English, and the imperial lingo is also vaselined into its lyrics.

“I said time to rise.” “You hear me?” “They tryna beak my soul.” “They might lose control.” “Pull up!” “I wanna know.” “Yeah, now we know.” “I said time to rise.” “Everybody wanna be like me.” “On VD, on VD, on VD.” “On VD, on VD, on me.”

Mother tongue, homie! You ain’t going to rise if you’re in awe of what’s diluting, if not threatening, your culture, so you must dig down, deep, deep, deep, into your blood saturated soil and history, if you wish to stay upright, much less rise.

In Olargues, France, population 674 as of 2015, I stumbled upon this graffiti, “C’EST LA TERRE, NOTRE RELIGION.” It’s the land, our religion!

“You’re so full of shit, man! You keep yakking about being rooted, as you drift all over the fuckin’ place, and here you are dissing English in this ESL English you’re so proud of. Get a life, fucker!”

I hear you, but I’m a special case, boss! To get paid, I must crank out these Englishy articles at an insane pace, but seriously, though, American English is still my most nourishing soil, with all the fertilizers and pesticides to keep my deformed self growing! It’s still my milk, plus sized mama!

[Writing station in Phnom Penh on 3/3/23]

As a universal effort to reach unprecedented heights, the Tower of Babel was such a monstrous project, all of humanity had to be enslaved. That’s why it had to be sabotaged, but not by God, but the slaves themselves. To assert their distinctiveness, these wretches invented languages that reflected, as emotionally true as possible, only their tiny corners of the Tower of Babel.

Without words to vouch for what you’ve seen or suffered, you’re a slobbering zombie.

Actually, those ancient Jews got it backward. There never was any Tower of Babel. It’s being built right now. In its shadow, most cower, with many enjoying the shade, but together, we must destroy it.

Writing at a plastic table al fresco au sidewalk, I hear chatter or songs from a distant universe. The man who sells me beer speaks Vietnamese, though, but I can see him processing everything. Since it’s nearly impossible for him to respond spontaneously, I can’t crack a joke. Understanding it the next day or month, he may laugh to himself.

Catching me munching on silkworm pupae, one of his four daughters cracked up, though. That’s for hicks. Still, I later spotted her eating rice with her hand.

I’ve mentioned talking to Southeast Asian dogs and cats in Vietnamese, and the reason is obvious. Though my words are unknown to them, my cadence is not. Though an illiterate retard, I am from the neighborhood. Turning to each other, they sigh, “This fool can’t talk, but he’s trying.”

Adrift, we’re soothed by the familiar, if only momentarily. Two decades ago, I visited a friend who had adopted a Cambodian boy. Just two-years-old, he clung to me and wouldn’t let go, even as I stood at the door, ready to leave.

“That’s enough, Sokhem, Linh has to go home,” his white mother said, but Sokhem, too, wanted to go home, so he clutched me even tighter.

Five years later, I visited my friend again. This time, there was also Salmee, a 3-year-old girl adopted from Nepal. Older and more Americanized, Sokhem kept his cool. Salmee, though, also clung to me.

When it was time for me to leave after a one-week stay, my friend, her husband and Sokhem saw me off, but Salmee was nowhere around.

“Where is Salmee?” I asked.

“She’s in her room. She’s been crying for an hour.”

As a Vietnamese, I can occasionally be mistaken as a Cambodian, but there’s no way I can pass as a Nepalese, so I couldn’t have been anything like Salmee’s dad reappearing. Still, I was much closer than her adopted father. Beyond language, I pointed to her lost universe. Maybe it wasn’t a factor.

When your land is poisoned by toxins or a toxic ideology, you, too, must flee.

Though hundreds of thousands of Cambodians had to escape in terror, this land has retained its essence, so many native sons have returned, voluntarily. In Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand, I’ve met the repatriated, and in Mexico, too.

The pull towards the source of Agent Orange, Depleted Uranium, Jewjabs, endless war and infinite bullshit is still much stronger, however, so let those who wish overstay their tourist visa, arrange a fake marriage or cross into its wide-open southern border.

Compulsively bursting bombs, she also lifts up her dress, so if you still have limbs, crawl right in, towards that flatulent gust in the flickering light, “Conquer we must, when our cause is just.”

Transgendered and progressive, she expertly twerks. Has the world seen a preachier cocktease? Whether thundered by Obama or slobbered out by Biden, it’s the same shamelessly hypocritical sermon.

As always, don’t listen to what they say. Watch what they do.

[Phnom Penh, 2/27/23]

[Olargues, 8/24/17]