Overcoming Stench, Pus and Nonsense

[Cairo, Egypt on 1/18/21]

During the first two years of Covid, I was in South Korea, Serbia, North Macedonia, Lebanon, Egypt and Albania, all countries without lockdowns. Though Lebanon technically had a two-week lockdown during the nine weeks I was there, it was so loosely enforced, it was practically meaningless. In the midst of it, I traveled to the Israeli border, walked around then had a beer by the ocean in Tyre.

Free, I read about horrible lockdowns all over, with those in China sounding most torturous. Social creatures, we need to be among each other daily. It’s soothing to see people doing anything, or just standing around. Deprived of this, people go insane, and this happened to many Americans even before Covid.

Here in Ubon, I’m happy to be in this hotel because across the street is a night market, with its variety of cheap food. This nightly fair reminds me a bit of German Christmas markets, though without alcohol and, of course, the beauty of a giant Christmas tree, gloriously decorated. Still, there’s that festive air, with entire families strolling about. There are many kids, often unattended, for it’s safe here.

[Leipzig, Germany on 12/12/15]

In many countries, the evening stroll is a tradition, with the piazza or night market designed for this. With cars, though, people can drive miles away to eat, in air-conditioned rooms among strangers, but am I not a stranger here? After several visits to the Thung Sri Muang Night Market, I’m already recognized by many vendors, I’m sure, especially now that I have this uncertain, inching hobble. With sores on my knees and toes, it’s a challenge to walk.

During two months in Pakse, I wasn’t just a familiar face in several businesses, but became friendly with their owners. At Hasan Indian restaurant, I talked to Hasan and his wife, and held their 17-month-old daughter. I gave Mumbai-born Yummy travel tips before he headed to Europe. At Liên Hương, the Vietnamese proprietor usually sat at my table for a sustained conversation. At Sésé, I was getting to know its French owner. In Laos six years, he hadn’t returned home and didn’t miss it. During my last meal there, a paté and cheese feast, his two-year-old daughter, dressed like a princess and with her face smeared with cream from a cake, came to my table to say hello.

These small encounters make life worth living, I strongly believe, but that’s exactly what lockdowns took away. Confined to my room, I’m getting a tiny taste of it. Will lockdowns return?

Normally, I go outside at dawn, but yesterday, I only managed to do so after 6PM. Being inside so much, I must make the best of it.

Recently, I observed that many Western products or traditions will be preserved and even renewed in the East. And, “Already, many of the best performers of Western classical music are Orientals.” Supine and disgusting, I listened to Yuja Wang, Chloe Chua and Yunchan Lim, all extraordinary. I also checked out Hiromi Uehara of Japan. She must be among the best jazz pianists alive.

What does it mean when “your” tradition is infiltrated by “outsiders,” and I’m doing it now, by simply writing in English. This explains much of the hostility I got from Unzian morons, I think. When I praised Whitman, some idiot said I had no business discussing Whitman, because I was not on his level. If this is true, then Shakespeare, Cervantes, Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, etc., shouldn’t be discussed by anybody. Makes no sense. What he really meant was, as a yellow man, I had no business even praising a white man, and I may have triggered him further by showing I knew much more about Whitman than he did. With that audience, it’s not hard. Another commenter started arguing with me by citing Thoreau, but not by name, for he thought Thoreau was Whitman.

Recently, I dug up Ira Aldridge, a black Shakespearean actor who conquered England then continental Europe in the 19th century. Before his first London appearance, a critic sneered that with Aldridge’s lips, there was no chance he could pronounce English. Clearly, this white man felt threatened. Most others, though, simply recognized Aldridge’s talent.

From clothing to architecture, the yellow man has adopted nearly all of the white man’s practices, though with tinkerings, modifications and, sometimes, even improvements, and why not?

Consider Chloe Chua. Even her first name is Occidental, but she’s a Singaporean. Though 76% Chinese, Singapore’s official language is English. At age 2.5, Chua studied the piano, then chose the violin at age 4. Nurtured from then by Singaporean teachers, Chua blossomed.

An engineering marvel, the piano has an expressive range unmatched by any other musical instrument, and the violin surpasses all string instruments, so naturally, Orientals have embraced both, just as they have welcomed the Western toilet. The Japanese, though, have added water and warm air sprays, so you don’t even have to wipe yourself.

In the East, western inventions are everywhere, but it doesn’t resemble the West at all. Some who haven’t been to the Orient may think of it as a mess of wet markets, dogmeat stands, rickshaws, gambling dens and whore houses, but at least half of Oriental airports, train stations, bus stations, shopping malls and highways are in much better shape than those in the USA, and there’s minimal graffiti and no vandalism here. Orientals aren’t into wrecking their own habitats. Street crime is also much less of a worry.

If someone has a better solution, learn from him, but adapt it to your needs. That’s the story of contemporary East Asia.

In 2018, 11-year-old Chloe Chua and 10-year-old Christian Li were co-winners of the Mehunin Prize, junior division. Of the four placed after them, three were also Orientals. Those who dismiss outstanding classical music performers as just robots with rapid fingers obviously have no clue.

For her winning performance, Chua clearly had the adoration of the adult orchestral musicians who played with her. Knowing they were witnessing something marvelous, many had this tender look as they smiled, with one violinist even wiping a tear at the end. It’s impossible to not be moved by such passion, artistry and love, and not just for the music, but the world.

When I was sick with likely Covid in Tirana in March of 2022, I lifted my spirit by watching Gena Rowland in Cassavetes films, and by listening to Glen Gould play Bach. Again immobile and shut in, I’m buoyed by Chloe Chua.

Sickness is not just a harbinger of death, but a reminder of one’s tininess, if not irrelevance. With art, though, we can be delivered from stench, pus and nonsense, what’s deluging, more than ever, our sickeningly sad, unmoored world.

[Sidon, Lebanon on 11/11/20]