Cambodian Cacophony

Sunrise with no saving the alarm brings a day already full of light. I was awake long before though, the mosquitoes, heat, neighborhood pig herd, and the Wat concert to thank. But that is a joyful thing because a new day is never like the one before along the streets of Phnom Penh. Pants and button up shirt, sandals, backpack, and pick up the helmet on the way down the stairs, 100 cc’s of power awaits. On the moto and up to the gate, out the gate and into an already churning world. The neighbor’s dogs are doing everything to get in the way as I dodge the random dirt piles and boat-sized potholes; I switch into second and leave all that behind setting up another set of hazards just yards beyond. Chicken hovering near my path to the left and naked child running along the edge of the road to the right, center is the only option but will that oncoming car allow me the alternative? Drop into first and wobble precariously as I squeeze myself between indifferent car and crying child. Tough jam, one in what will be many. Police on corner, maybe they won’t notice my skin and look for a salary. Hang a left at the guesthouse swinging clear of the small hut across the street where the motodops gather and are never up to good. Flash into third and lower my visor the truck carrying a village in its bed greets me with a cloud of dust and smoke. I decide to chance the right pass but think twice when the sidewalk is occupied by a cow, two older ladies in no hurry to move, and a cane juice stand. Lean to the left and blow by the truck going into fourth as I swap electrons with a hard charging Land Rover coming the other way. Turn right and regret that time is short and that I would not be able to stop in for pork and rice. The beggar kids wave at me as I pass asking for the privilege to watch my moto as I eat but I jet on and they turn their attention to the next client. I come to a stop and gaze both ways. Toul Kork is alive and the paved road is a post-apocalyptic terror. The police man on the corner is not armed and therefore doing no good as he waves his baton, his partner knowing better is sitting in a chair in the shade. I test the throttle to confirm power and being my slow path to the right lane. I ride up the left sidewalk and then slowly zig-zag between oncoming traffic, always inches from disaster but never out of bounds with cultural norms. I cross the center line that divides nothing and carve a place out for my passage, elbows sharpened for any who dare tread. There is no time to appreciate the never ending line of shacks along the edge of the road offering me tires, fruit, phone cards, and red light faltering (God bless the speed). Drop into third as the traffic circle spins like a great galaxy offering space only to the brave. Into second as I find the pace and try and avoid the rusted bumper of the 1950’s Peugeot on my six. Soldier’s checkpoint on the left, what they want besides pride is not known but I put into effect my white pass and continue on cutting to the right as I leave the gravity of the circle and let loose into third. Come to a stop at the Chinese stoplights and watch the people find no use for them. Join a breakaway pack that sees red as green and bludgeon our way in a most terrific flying wedge left turn. Shift up to top gear and attempt to keep up with the newer 125cc’s around me. Cut off one of the numberless 1992 Camry’s and get only a smile. Point myself down Rue Nehru and ponder the journey ahead, half a city to go as the first beads of sweat creep out. Cyclo driver plods along trying to keep pace with an ever faster world and I decide to slow down and appreciate a world I love and a people who bless me. Sun beating down, months before rain returns, weak from recent fever, trouble ahead and behind, but all I do now is watch my speed and praise God at 45 kph.

The Last Stand of a Winless Pyrrhic

Fame is forever fleeting and dreams are never more than hazy windows into nothing. The pursuit of self is a hollow venture outfitted with pride and girded with vanity. One can almost come under a spell, believing that they are bound for altering a generation (for God of course!...?) and are somehow justified in unreachable goals and pipedream aspirations. What then of the man who makes paper towels his whole life and his fruitful ministry whatever that may be? How can I be any more than him, and why would I ever want it? Should my days find me in a small town with small dreams should I consider my impact small and my end reward less than large? The cult of the self trumpets its charity and worthiness but invites no one in. But that I could live in any time but right this very second when my finger strikes these keys. Just when things are fine in our fortress we are bashed with our own limitations and crash in flames, humbled by our own hand. The flames stretch ever higher and we only add fuel as we turn inward in the midst of a most terrible aftermath and leap back into the bonfire. Here we find our greatest crime, those times we know too well when every bit of planning and pre-conceived aggrandizing goes sickening awry and we disintegrate in the face of minimal aggression. The crime is not then our crumbling wall of secret pride but our refusal to take the hand extended to us as we sit amongst the imploded ruins of a life we thought we had control of to being with.

War is best played on a level playing field. But war in no way involves play and what is level where hatred stirs and human reason is discarded. Of course we have a thousand reasons why we should or could or had to. And I know there is a place for it, but one wonders if way back at the beginning back at the dawn. When the blood of such an innocent one was first let flow, maybe we could have stopped a progression that has led us to our placated bloodthirsty society. Or am I wrong? Is there a place for it? Here we find ourselves in five feet flood waters that are rising by the second and treading a fine line between tossing aside a truly gracious, ultimately loving, dare I say sovereign friend and an unwitting, good-natured, ultimately kind, but shackled acquaintance.
What is it then to you? What great empirical truths can you wring out of the wind and dirt? Did you find faith in wood and iron? And what again is faith but a series of letters arranged under influence of several languages denoting a pre-assigned meaning that seems to speak to something beyond what your weak eyes can see. Our faith calls us to leaps of fate or is the answer already been called into question? Our God pulses thru creation but what can truly be understood concerning this without constructing and understanding the symbols? A circle, in the geometrical tradition, is a pencil leaded shadowy arc never ending. But what marriage hasn’t been taught the depths of meaning that a circle can generate? You are standing on a belief that faith must be engaged if salvation is to be had but what concrete ruminations can be found in this sentence? What daresay can one have in a world of vanilla poets, grey tinted glasses, and emotionless observation?
Let us now bring our argument around full square. You write in fear as the dark saps your pen and cry out against the untouchable as if dreams are only dreamt at nose length. How then can you understand war dear one, or the dear friend who allows it? Daily do we find ourselves teetering on the brink of short-changing our creator. Bringing glory is our goal but then again what is glory but an idea that must break out of the heart shaped box where you hold imagination hostage and seek a ransom from something that you could never even describe. How can we worship God without knowing why we capitalize the “g” dear one.

Down the slippery roads of Catahula Parrish I flew in haste. My cell phone at my side had long since given up hope of finding a friendly tower and I was slowly being reminded of the joy only known as hash marks blend together and miles are logged. I was born under a wandering star and raised in a restless world. With my lovingly created mix CD challenging me with its complexity and my mind wandering to times ahead and lessons learned long ago (yet forgotten somewhere along the way) I skimmed the bayous and looked out on a world suddenly alive to me again. In a weekend when a dear friend found love I found my way back on the path. So God what then? Shall I only find peace in travel and consistent blur? You do realize that doesn’t sell well to those that love you and those auditioning (are there any?) to begin. I guess I had forgotten the thrill found on unknown roads and unfolded maps. A traffic circle in Alexandria, a park in Vicksburg, a draw bridge in Sicily Springs, and Loretta Lynn’s restaurant, oh the adventures that lie just out of the reach of my daily stupor. For some, two years in a far away gauntlet would suffice but I find myself compelled on. Let us just say then that I re-found anticipation on Bayou Bluff and joy in a newly grasped sense of adventure. Now on to settling the wreckage of my melancholy holiday and running towards the glorious position of being weak in His strength.