Perhaps one of the most talent writers of his generation, the late Robert Bingham managed to write one novel before his premature demise. That’s a shame for more reasons than one. Bingham weaves literary fireworks with his unique use of language, pitch black wit, and compelling narrative. He had a true talent for putting the reader in the mind of each character and bringing out the character, flaws and all, through their thought and actions. In this debut/swan song, Lightning on the Sun, a down and out expat named Asher tries to better his out of control life by initiating the smuggling of heroin from Cambodia into the US. Of course, this is Bingham’s nihilistic world where nothing goes as planned. His ex-girlfriend, herself looking for a chance to make her life as a strip club bartender better, has her own issues. The unwitting mule is a burnt out journalist who is home on a break from the Phnom Penh bureau. All these wonderfully flawed individuals populate a world in which pain rules. By the book’s end, the events of the story have built up so that when Asher gives the middle finger to his existance, and, one might say, to existance in general, it is uterly beleivable.
Bingham’s language is like that of New England prep school boy who graduated and spent time in places at the opposite end of the affluence scale. Half-dressed in designer threads, half covered in grit. This seems to correspond to the lives of the once affluent people crumbling apart in a place like Cambodia. The irony, which is lost to Asher, is that Cambodia is a place where most people would kill to be in these flawed foreigners. Indeed, some do kill in the attempt to get a little piece of the wealth. This point is not lost on Bingham, who endows his self-centered characters flashes of compassion.
Still, it is more spectacular and sustained missteps of these flawed elites that gives this story its juice.
Bingham would definitely have become one of those writers whose next release readers anxiously await. However, it was not to be. All that remains is this novel and a collection of short stories called, “Pure Slaughter Value.”
3/22/2007
3/20/2007
Pocket Pissing
"Pissing in pockets."
A saying that was imbedded in my mind by a good friend who used it to explain the shenanigans of a certain breed of expats who frequented the back alley cafes of SaiGon’s Pham Ngu Lao Street. These lanes are exponentially quieter and freer of tourists than the main drags of Pham Ngu Lao and De Tham. But still, there can be a bit of drama. After all, this is where the bull shit gets heard.
Not that bullshit doesn’t exist elsewhere. It does. Everywhere, in fact. It’s simply that this small space is where I have found it to be most pronounced. Said pocket pissing takes place on a proportionately epic scale.
This kind of expat chatter is nothing new. Good God, Ernest Hemmingway made himself a legend by capturing the stuff on the page. Tough talk about bullfighting, hunting, fishing, war, death.
Usually, the purpose of this talk is simply the talk itself. Actions, whether real or imaginary, are sometimes performed for the sole purpose of using them in conversation. And there are props. On gentleman used to carry around a set of business cards he’d collected from clients, flashing them during conversations about the import export business. “These are my contacts. And these are just the one’s I carry around on weekdays. I’ve got another one for weekends,” he say (or something to that effect). Eventually, his money ran out. Everyone knew it, but he still persisted, bragging about his business plans. Some of the other guys would encourage it, voicing their own pipe dreams. I guess this is what is meant by pissing in one another’s pockets. “You give me some bull shit, and I, in turn, will give some to you. There, the score is even. We can now both feel that we will now succeed in our personal conquest of this part of the world.”
You feel sorry for them. Then, as the alcoholic beverages flow, things get a little more hostile, and you forget that you ever felt sorry for them.
I’m sure that pissing in pockets is harmless enough. Just remember to take any expat’s advice with a grain of salt. Especially when there are other expats around and alcohol is involved.
A saying that was imbedded in my mind by a good friend who used it to explain the shenanigans of a certain breed of expats who frequented the back alley cafes of SaiGon’s Pham Ngu Lao Street. These lanes are exponentially quieter and freer of tourists than the main drags of Pham Ngu Lao and De Tham. But still, there can be a bit of drama. After all, this is where the bull shit gets heard.
Not that bullshit doesn’t exist elsewhere. It does. Everywhere, in fact. It’s simply that this small space is where I have found it to be most pronounced. Said pocket pissing takes place on a proportionately epic scale.
This kind of expat chatter is nothing new. Good God, Ernest Hemmingway made himself a legend by capturing the stuff on the page. Tough talk about bullfighting, hunting, fishing, war, death.
Usually, the purpose of this talk is simply the talk itself. Actions, whether real or imaginary, are sometimes performed for the sole purpose of using them in conversation. And there are props. On gentleman used to carry around a set of business cards he’d collected from clients, flashing them during conversations about the import export business. “These are my contacts. And these are just the one’s I carry around on weekdays. I’ve got another one for weekends,” he say (or something to that effect). Eventually, his money ran out. Everyone knew it, but he still persisted, bragging about his business plans. Some of the other guys would encourage it, voicing their own pipe dreams. I guess this is what is meant by pissing in one another’s pockets. “You give me some bull shit, and I, in turn, will give some to you. There, the score is even. We can now both feel that we will now succeed in our personal conquest of this part of the world.”
You feel sorry for them. Then, as the alcoholic beverages flow, things get a little more hostile, and you forget that you ever felt sorry for them.
I’m sure that pissing in pockets is harmless enough. Just remember to take any expat’s advice with a grain of salt. Especially when there are other expats around and alcohol is involved.
3/16/2007
The Secret
Every once in a while people living in foreign country get wind of expat secrets, little rumors that are first whispered in the back of sticky-floored bars. Usually they are nothing worth getting excited about. Perhaps someone is whispering that they've found a cool new bar or a lead on a new teaching job. Most of the time, it’s people trying to act important by shelling out the Bull Shite, “pissing in one another’s pockets,” as an Australian friend of mine liked to say.
I became privy to one such secret that seemed to be guarded more than most. Said secret was whispered about in the back several Sai Gon bars (Ok, Ho Chi Minh City for you who have never been there for more than two weeks but insist on correctness without giving any regard to the locals, most of whom call it Sai Gon).
A rather enigmatic teacher, I'll call him Joe (for that was his name) would let slip that he was looking into a new school “somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you. I’ll let you know if it works out. I'm not supposed to tell. That's the agreement.” And that was that.
Well, it didn’t work out for him because he stayed on at the school for another year. One night, for the price of several large Tiger Beers, he let me in on it, using a hushed voice ever though the music was too loud.
“Cambodia.”
“Cambodia?”
“Yeah.”
I thought of Cambodia as a backwater. Even though the border was nearby, I'd never thought of a visit. I always split to Bangkok for visa runs.
This guy went on to produce a flowering monologue about the reasonable salary expected by English teachers combined with the unspoiled, un-globalized vibe and the wild west feel on the streets. He went on to say that expats who had lucked into Cambodia didn’t want to spoil said vibe and feel. Therefore, they were sworn to secrecy, compelled not to sing the praises of Kampuchea.
However, with visions of Cambodia’s violent recent history, and rumors of frequent gun play and anarchy was enough o make most expats wary of relocating even if they had been privy to my Joe's epic account of all that was good about Cambodia.
Having since visited the country, I can say that there is a certain sense of idyll that is gained from walking through this land. However, I’ll say no more. I swore an oath not to.
I became privy to one such secret that seemed to be guarded more than most. Said secret was whispered about in the back several Sai Gon bars (Ok, Ho Chi Minh City for you who have never been there for more than two weeks but insist on correctness without giving any regard to the locals, most of whom call it Sai Gon).
A rather enigmatic teacher, I'll call him Joe (for that was his name) would let slip that he was looking into a new school “somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you. I’ll let you know if it works out. I'm not supposed to tell. That's the agreement.” And that was that.
Well, it didn’t work out for him because he stayed on at the school for another year. One night, for the price of several large Tiger Beers, he let me in on it, using a hushed voice ever though the music was too loud.
“Cambodia.”
“Cambodia?”
“Yeah.”
I thought of Cambodia as a backwater. Even though the border was nearby, I'd never thought of a visit. I always split to Bangkok for visa runs.
This guy went on to produce a flowering monologue about the reasonable salary expected by English teachers combined with the unspoiled, un-globalized vibe and the wild west feel on the streets. He went on to say that expats who had lucked into Cambodia didn’t want to spoil said vibe and feel. Therefore, they were sworn to secrecy, compelled not to sing the praises of Kampuchea.
However, with visions of Cambodia’s violent recent history, and rumors of frequent gun play and anarchy was enough o make most expats wary of relocating even if they had been privy to my Joe's epic account of all that was good about Cambodia.
Having since visited the country, I can say that there is a certain sense of idyll that is gained from walking through this land. However, I’ll say no more. I swore an oath not to.
Theology of Ass-shaking
Indonesia is the largest Islamic country in the world. Given the stereotypes portrayed by the western media, Islamic countries are, by definition, rather conservative.
In Indonesia, this is obviously not the case. At least not everywhere. While there are some instances of "stepping over the boundaries" in regards to morality (the failed Playboy Magazine, for one), Indonesia is a country with a vibrant pop culture.
Take Inul Daratista as an example. Her name, when translated to English, means “the girl with the breasts." I’m not kidding y'all. She is a dangdut singer who has been been at the center of some moral controversies. You see, Dangdut is an Indonesian folk-pop music heavily influenced by Indian, Malay, and Arab music. Inul, along with many other singers of the genre, dance in a way which heavily utilizes their hips and rear ends. You know how Shakira dances? Times the number of hip movements by about 20 and run it on a continuous loop. That’s how Dangdut girls dance. Suggestive? Yes. But by no means overtly sexual.
Daratista dresses conservatively by pop princess standards. Jeez. She wears things some people might even consider wearing to the office, at least on casual Fridays. Still, some people are up in arms, saying they want to outlaw her style of dancing because it is obscene.
This might make the news, but such complaints are not much different from those of conservative groups here in the states.
What does this all mean? Nothing, probably. But still, as the West and Islamic worlds seem to keep bumping heads, one has to pay attention to Indonesia, and notice how pop culture has provided a counterpoint to keep religious conservatives honest.
In Indonesia, this is obviously not the case. At least not everywhere. While there are some instances of "stepping over the boundaries" in regards to morality (the failed Playboy Magazine, for one), Indonesia is a country with a vibrant pop culture.
Take Inul Daratista as an example. Her name, when translated to English, means “the girl with the breasts." I’m not kidding y'all. She is a dangdut singer who has been been at the center of some moral controversies. You see, Dangdut is an Indonesian folk-pop music heavily influenced by Indian, Malay, and Arab music. Inul, along with many other singers of the genre, dance in a way which heavily utilizes their hips and rear ends. You know how Shakira dances? Times the number of hip movements by about 20 and run it on a continuous loop. That’s how Dangdut girls dance. Suggestive? Yes. But by no means overtly sexual.
Daratista dresses conservatively by pop princess standards. Jeez. She wears things some people might even consider wearing to the office, at least on casual Fridays. Still, some people are up in arms, saying they want to outlaw her style of dancing because it is obscene.
This might make the news, but such complaints are not much different from those of conservative groups here in the states.
What does this all mean? Nothing, probably. But still, as the West and Islamic worlds seem to keep bumping heads, one has to pay attention to Indonesia, and notice how pop culture has provided a counterpoint to keep religious conservatives honest.
3/13/2007
Moving Pictures
Before ever coming to Asia, I had a picture of it in my head courtesy of the plethora of movies from Hong Kong, Thailand, and the Philippines. I remember sneaking McDonold’s into the theater while we watched the late 90s Sundance hit, Three Seasons from Vietnam. Of these films, there were some that really stuck in my head not because they were proven to create the most realistic pictures of Asia, but because they were able to present a view that was at once attractive and gritty.
Chungking Express, Wong Kar Wei’s masterful Hong Kong new-wave film was one of these inspiring pictures. Wong owes most of his film’s visual style to Christopher Doyle, the gifted Cinematographer known for helping Wong create the neon-lit new wave noir in the 90s. Doyle is also known as the guy who was able to coax those perfect colors out of SaiGon in The Quiet American (The new one with Micheal Caine).
Doyle’s style is what a jazz riff might look like. One knows that when watching a film photographed by him, the camera could be anywhere. It is almost as if the camaera is another character. But not in music video way or even a “how clever am I” way of many indie films. Case in point is Fallen Angels in which we watch a woman eating Wantons close-up, we watch a scene end as a light is flicked off and a woman exits into the light coming from a dooway. Then there’s the scene all you teenage boys might remeber when a woman pleasures herself as the camera peaks over the edge of her bed. Or we peak through the window into a hitman’s flat as he gets ready to go to work. Watching these always interesting and often beautiful images float across the screen is akin to listening to a great jazz musician riffing or an skilled rapper free styling.
While Doyle and Wong create an noirish image of Hong Kong which might not be the best mirror on the place’s actual atmosphere, it’s energy mirrors the energy that I have experienced in certain places in Asia. Just the feeling that anything can happen at any moment, and everyone’s life is like a jazz riff.
Chungking Express, Wong Kar Wei’s masterful Hong Kong new-wave film was one of these inspiring pictures. Wong owes most of his film’s visual style to Christopher Doyle, the gifted Cinematographer known for helping Wong create the neon-lit new wave noir in the 90s. Doyle is also known as the guy who was able to coax those perfect colors out of SaiGon in The Quiet American (The new one with Micheal Caine).
Doyle’s style is what a jazz riff might look like. One knows that when watching a film photographed by him, the camera could be anywhere. It is almost as if the camaera is another character. But not in music video way or even a “how clever am I” way of many indie films. Case in point is Fallen Angels in which we watch a woman eating Wantons close-up, we watch a scene end as a light is flicked off and a woman exits into the light coming from a dooway. Then there’s the scene all you teenage boys might remeber when a woman pleasures herself as the camera peaks over the edge of her bed. Or we peak through the window into a hitman’s flat as he gets ready to go to work. Watching these always interesting and often beautiful images float across the screen is akin to listening to a great jazz musician riffing or an skilled rapper free styling.
While Doyle and Wong create an noirish image of Hong Kong which might not be the best mirror on the place’s actual atmosphere, it’s energy mirrors the energy that I have experienced in certain places in Asia. Just the feeling that anything can happen at any moment, and everyone’s life is like a jazz riff.
Graham Greene, Literary Stud
I’m sure no one would argue with me if I called Graham Greene a literary stud. The man churned out masterpiece after masterpiece, each one hailed as a classic to this day. My introduction to Greene was The Quiet American. The recent release of the movie of the same title brought this work back into pop culture’s Attention Deficit Disordered mind, but it was well before the movie when I picked up the book in Vietnam. There are bootlegged versions of the book for sale at every spot where tourists could even dream of going. Hopefully Greene doesn’t mind fact that I read a boot-legged copy of his work. I apologize for any turning over in the grave that occured as a result of my purchase. I was instantly attracted to the story’s prose, its plot, and its treatment of morality.
For those who haven’t read it (shame on you), it’s a story of Fowler, and jaded English journalist covering the French War in Indochina. His only remaining joy is his relationship with a young Vietnamese woman named Phuong. This relationship is complicated by Phuong’s sister who is trying to set her up for the future, which involves marriage as a means to gain financial stability. Fowler’s last wife refuses a divorce, making a legal marriage to Phuong an impossibility.
This sets up a series of moral questions involving Fowler and an ambitious young American foreign service officer named Pyle. Pyle’s under the table dealings with the “anti-communist” forces in Southern Vietnam causes unforeseen and violent consequences.
Meanwhile, a love triangle involving Pyle and Phuong complicates Fowler’s political feelings. The book’s ultimate question: Is Fowler motivated by his personal love interests or by what he thinks is right. The reader is not sure, and neither is Fowler. The answer does not even come fully with the end of the book. Greene is the master of besetting his characters with these type of moral dilemmas. He is also a master of cynicism. I like to imagine him in real life as a character similar to Fowler. A guy who sees what is wrong and what is right, but knows it’s not as simple as that. All that can be done is to smirk at all of it.
There is a sense of one-sidedness in the book’s political views: Pyle is a dopey hometown boy inspired by some book written by a pseudo scholar with questionable credentials. There is very little mention of Pyle’s dark side. He’s just too naive for his own good (and for everyone elses good). Still, Pyle’s ideals and bumbling actions on the international stage seem to be a foreshadowing of today’s America as it muddles through foreign lands with pure motives but no clue what is really going on in the places they are trying to “save”.
Someone should have passed out copies to Bush and his posse before they decided to invade Iraq. It might have helped. For all his cynicism and one-sidedness, Greene uses the story to make an extremely convincing point: don’t mess with places you don’t understand. It never turns out well, no matter how pure your motives are.
For those who haven’t read it (shame on you), it’s a story of Fowler, and jaded English journalist covering the French War in Indochina. His only remaining joy is his relationship with a young Vietnamese woman named Phuong. This relationship is complicated by Phuong’s sister who is trying to set her up for the future, which involves marriage as a means to gain financial stability. Fowler’s last wife refuses a divorce, making a legal marriage to Phuong an impossibility.
This sets up a series of moral questions involving Fowler and an ambitious young American foreign service officer named Pyle. Pyle’s under the table dealings with the “anti-communist” forces in Southern Vietnam causes unforeseen and violent consequences.
Meanwhile, a love triangle involving Pyle and Phuong complicates Fowler’s political feelings. The book’s ultimate question: Is Fowler motivated by his personal love interests or by what he thinks is right. The reader is not sure, and neither is Fowler. The answer does not even come fully with the end of the book. Greene is the master of besetting his characters with these type of moral dilemmas. He is also a master of cynicism. I like to imagine him in real life as a character similar to Fowler. A guy who sees what is wrong and what is right, but knows it’s not as simple as that. All that can be done is to smirk at all of it.
There is a sense of one-sidedness in the book’s political views: Pyle is a dopey hometown boy inspired by some book written by a pseudo scholar with questionable credentials. There is very little mention of Pyle’s dark side. He’s just too naive for his own good (and for everyone elses good). Still, Pyle’s ideals and bumbling actions on the international stage seem to be a foreshadowing of today’s America as it muddles through foreign lands with pure motives but no clue what is really going on in the places they are trying to “save”.
Someone should have passed out copies to Bush and his posse before they decided to invade Iraq. It might have helped. For all his cynicism and one-sidedness, Greene uses the story to make an extremely convincing point: don’t mess with places you don’t understand. It never turns out well, no matter how pure your motives are.
Christopher G. Moore Tells It Like It Is, Mostly
Few expat writers are able to transcend their experiences and actually communicate something unique and insightful about their adopted home. Well, our man Christopher G. Moore (not to be confused with plain old Christopher Moore, the unfunny comedy writer) has built a reputation for his his keen observations on life in Thailand.
I had heard so much about Moore, that when I finally picked up his book, Killing Smile, I was expecting a bit of a letdown. Some of the hype came from recognized sources. His books have received the blessings of well-known writers as Gore Vidal. Also, innumerable expats had recommended Moore's books to me. Still, such hype often serves to kill a book before the first chapter has ended.
Killing Smile, however, starts out with a punch in the gut. The energy and deep, dark, detailed emotions give this story its stamina. There were times when the narrative became monotone, but, for the most part, I felt like I was sitting with the characters, witnessing their situations and relishing every minute of it.
The first of a trilogy, Killing Smile begins with a noirish sex scene in which a woman makes love to her husband while her mind is on another man. It is only after his wife's death that Lawrence, a lawyer, receives a cryptic message inviting his the Bangkok. The invitee, Robert Tuttle, is the late wife's long time flame about who she fantasized whilst horizontal with Lawrence. Tuttle is a jaded old hand who knows everything about Bangkok. At least, he knows everything about the skin trade and what makes the girls employed by it tick. Tuttle acts as Lawrence’s (and the reader’s) guide to this fascinating, but small, corner of Bangkok. From my synopsis, perhaps the story seems melodramatic, but it's not. The tone is entirely too dark.
It’s engrossing to read a discussion on the motives and desires of the prostitutes who work in “HQ”, the bar where Tuttle is as much a part of the decor as the ancient jukebox. Even more interesting is the interior dialogue of Tuttle, the jaded old-hand whose motives begin to become clear later on in the story.
However, Moore’s use of this interior dialogue as a central tool of narrative leads to one of the negative aspects of this book. The narrative is sometimes unfocused. Moore switches point of view often rather than letting the reader see things through one character’s eyes. Though switching point of view is a big no-no for most writers, and it saps some of the story's strength here. Still, because the characters, their motives, and emotions are so fascinating, I tended to forgive Moore for his transgressions. After all, this is not just a surface treatment of Bangkok bar life. Moore gets deep into Thai psyche, all the while keeping the reader interested in the conflict between Tuttle and Lawrence. He is very successful in this regard.
Another strength of A Killing Smile is the exceptionally realistic dialogue. Anyone who has spent more than a few months in Thailand knows how the old hands talk. In many ways, Tuttle is a composite of all of them. I’ve met a few men like him in places similar to his local Bangkok haunt.
Moore captures the conversations, personalities and randomness of expat life perfectly. That’s all someone could want from a writer, right?
Overall, Moore scored a smashing success when he wrote this book. I was sad to see the end of this book, and am looking forward to another one of Moore's yarns in the near future.
Lumpini
Bangkok. If you asked people what that name brought to mind, you'd get a plethora of answers. The Robinson Crusoe look-alikes that inhabit Khao San will tell you about Buddhist temples, full-moon raves, or Elephant rides. Head down Sukumvit, and you'd see that the sex trade is as alive as it ever was. There's businessmen out to make a buck or a name for themselves, just as the journalists, many of whom consider Bangkok the hub of Southeast Asia.
If you put all these answers together, you'll get large portions of the whole picture.
There is, however, one thing that I've never heard anyone say. One place that either doesn't come to people's minds, or is a place they deem unworthy of mention. It's a place that I visit religiously when in town: Lumpini Park.
Bangkok is pretty in-your-face with its urban-ness. So perhaps coming to Lumpini Park is a form of escapism for me. But, then again, I was born in a big city, and have chosen to live in or very near big cities my whole life. I am attracted to their energy, the hustle and bustle and all that.
Perhaps the attraction lies in the contrast between the natural and the man-made. Sit on the shores of the lake and you can see the city skyline rising in every direction. And there you are, sitting, maybe tossing some bread crust to the carp. Of course, they may not be carp at all. God knows what kind of three-eyed mutants swim in those waters. Still, they attract me religiously, on the first afternoon of each visit to Bangkok. I spend too long tossing crumbs onto the water and watching the fins creating great turbulence under the surface as the fish jockey for a bite. I know the city is still outside my little cushion of green. I can hear the traffic, see the smog-ringed buildings. I'm surrounded by it, but not in it.
So that's my pitch for Lumpini Park. Good enough to be on par with the city as seen through the eyes of the Robinson Crusoes, skirt-chasers, and suit-and-ties? Probably not. A park? That's pretty damn boring. Just don't forget its there, because it is, and it's a wonderful place to spend an hour.
If you put all these answers together, you'll get large portions of the whole picture.
There is, however, one thing that I've never heard anyone say. One place that either doesn't come to people's minds, or is a place they deem unworthy of mention. It's a place that I visit religiously when in town: Lumpini Park.
Bangkok is pretty in-your-face with its urban-ness. So perhaps coming to Lumpini Park is a form of escapism for me. But, then again, I was born in a big city, and have chosen to live in or very near big cities my whole life. I am attracted to their energy, the hustle and bustle and all that.
Perhaps the attraction lies in the contrast between the natural and the man-made. Sit on the shores of the lake and you can see the city skyline rising in every direction. And there you are, sitting, maybe tossing some bread crust to the carp. Of course, they may not be carp at all. God knows what kind of three-eyed mutants swim in those waters. Still, they attract me religiously, on the first afternoon of each visit to Bangkok. I spend too long tossing crumbs onto the water and watching the fins creating great turbulence under the surface as the fish jockey for a bite. I know the city is still outside my little cushion of green. I can hear the traffic, see the smog-ringed buildings. I'm surrounded by it, but not in it.
So that's my pitch for Lumpini Park. Good enough to be on par with the city as seen through the eyes of the Robinson Crusoes, skirt-chasers, and suit-and-ties? Probably not. A park? That's pretty damn boring. Just don't forget its there, because it is, and it's a wonderful place to spend an hour.
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