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Dressed & Ready

Aimlessly, I wandered through the inside of the temple.  Not a single individual acknowledged my presence and those that did seemed as disoriented as I was.  A Thai man with his face mask pulled off stopped shoveling noodles into his mouth, attempting to help me.  Though I appeared to be listening to his insubstantial English, my focus was fixed on the corpse he was leaning over, actually… eating over.  A white cloth covered the body, leaving only the feet exposed. 

Time stopped.  Introverted, I went.  Returning to my customary internal nomad tent, a slow reveal occurred.  In every direction, on every table, gurney, and ground, white cloths rested.  Walking through, as I desperately searched for guidance, I was blinded to my surroundings.

Consciousness revisited to find the man still speaking and pointing.  Nodding, I headed off determined to avoid stepping on the sea of white cloth.  The walking space seemed to narrow as my awareness returned.  Breathing was obstructed as my cloth face mask, now drenched in sweat, stuck to my skin, filling the holes of my nose and mouth as I gasped for air.  The cloth reached deep into my mouth, nearly hitting the gag reflex in the back of my throat, confirming little to no oxygen was present in the surrounding environment.  Nose breathing was immediately declined, as if two socks had been plunged up and inside of my nose.

Pushing through the temple, searching for air I sprinted out of labyrinth, finding an unmanned spot at the edge of the courtyard.  Masterfully, I kept my composure assuming my presence was being monitored.  Casually, I threw my body to the ground and ripped the mask from my face.

Somehow, I had managed to bring myself to tears through the intense activity of getting dressed into a not-so-sanitary suit.  My most significant achievement had been successfully avoiding passing out or vomiting while making my way through the temple and courtyard.  Narcissism was convinced that someone had noticed, and that within seconds I would be asked to leave.  However, that was not the case.

Sensible Monks

Corpses blanket the grounds in constant rotation from refrigerators to tables to piles.  Chickens and dogs aggressively attempting to pitch in, pick at the bodies resting along the edges of the piles.  If there’s organization within all of this, it’s difficult to discern.  It seems that various people make various decisions at various times, and all somewhat random.  Everyone seems to be in motion with some form of generally ineffective business.  Those not doing tend to argue about what and how things should be done, however this is mostly inferred seeing that English is rarely spoken. 

Two women consistently pass through the rows of bodies spraying disinfectant which quickly numbs your nasal cavity from the stench.  Three phases of smell cyclically rotate through your olfactory senses: rot, sea water, and disinfectant.  Each isolated odor becomes excessive and quickly unbearable.  Fortunately, the rotation allows a sensation of relief from each of the previous discomforts.

From the outside, this well-intentioned conglomerate of strangers attempts to accomplish something respectable, however aside from the Thai Army and a handful of the volunteer doctors, the only common thread is inexperience.  In every direction, the only thing constant is the reminder of disaster, and as well-intentioned as the participants may be, no one has the slightest idea of how things should be dealt with.  My naive expectations imagined clipboards, and groups carrying out activities, and workers building things, and people passing out food and clothing.  Always envisioning the clipboard holding individual pointing you in the right direction where you would soon be instructed what to do.  To my surprise, it was not like summer camp, it was like a disaster and in a disaster, nothing like this seems to exist. 

Complete sensory overload leaves you without option, aside from absolute surrender.  Drown out the sound, drown out the smell.  Forgive the rot that sits in your mouth, behind the sweat filled cloth that lines the inside of your gums with each and every breath.  Detach yourself from senses and in an undistinguished manner, functionality returns.

A visual evolution occurs and the environment morphs into a poorly decorated sound stage for an under budgeted B-film, on the back lot of a dilapidated Hollywood studio.  The surrounding presentation of death and disaster doesn’t seem to fulfill the expectations my eyes have been trained to assume.  Generally, the layout of the set would be better organized and the production designers would have come up with something much more impressive, instead of a mess of thoughtlessness strewn together in chaos.  Nothing made sense and nothing seemed real.  This must be that denial thing I always hear about.  Death and denial.  The denial of death.  The avoidance of an incomprehensible ideology that we will restlessly banter about during our period of un-dead participation.  Regardless, of the validity of the notion, it was too late and thoughtfully irrelevant.  Identifying with the idea of denial allowed the fears and the questions to quickly disintegrate and I was grateful for the band-aid.

As the sun was edged towards the horizon, the crowd grew thin.  Behind the face masks, very little human contact or communication would occur and over time it was as if I were surrounded by the same similar looking stranger.  The monks moved through the temple with a fearless and purposeful nature.  No need for face masks.  A strong sense of faith connects them to an inherent will, protecting them from the surrounding germs and bacteria.  Slow and gentle.  Quiet and warm.

One specific monk pulled my attention as he floated through, untouched by the less than harmonious state of the space.  Distracted by nothing, his thoughts and intentions were unknown, though his agenda was unbending.  Working his way through the rows of bodies, he would stop slowly next to each one, becoming absolutely present.  Giving each one an equal amount of time and breath, and though his work was subtle it was thorough and effective and in the end, he would be acknowledged by no one, for doing nothing.  For him, this acknowledgment would be plentiful and abundant.

At least, this is how I had imagined it and would have expected it to be.  Sadly, what actually occurred was quite different.  Not so thrilled by the smell, the local monks had departed, relocating to a nearby temple.  The abbot (head monk) had stayed behind, but was rarely seen.    Click here to buy the book!  Hope you enjoyed it so far!! 

Yan Yao

From the distance, it possessed the radiant shimmer of a recently landed, hyper-debaucherous traveling carnival.  Recent enough to magnetize an array of gooey-eyed onlookers, most of whom, had been inadvertently transformed into tourists in their own town.  Noodle vendors, ice cream trucks and soda stands paved the pathway to the entrance, the only character absent was the ticket taker guarding the main gate.  Photo flashes filled the atmosphere, not only from the massive presence of the press, but also from the gleeful kids posing with their families in front of amusement park gates.  Noise was plentiful from all directions, inhibiting my capacity to thoroughly connect with my equilibrium, leaving me subtly stammering in a drug-like haze.  The smell of decomposition had been compassionately repressed to some degree by the smell of stir fried noodles and barbecue pork sizzling just beside me. 

Standing invisibly amongst the crowd surrounding the temple, peering humbly inside, I mapped my route through the crowd and up to the temple.  My nerves too battered to really upon an improvisational approach.  As a blanket of fear comforted my subarctic courage, an undeniable logic entered my head space.

“Maybe I’m not supposed to be here.  Maybe my presence here is less than necessary.”

And that did it.  Forcibly, my body was thrust forcibly, without intention through the crowd and towards the main entrance of the temple.  Becoming quickly aware that I was rapidly approaching a world of oblivion, my motion shifted from forcible to timid, like a meandering vagrant, cautious and hesitant.  Sound and vision distanced themselves from me, as my body became paralyzed.  This was the logical end of the road and the appropriate time to accept my resignation from this fantasy of humanitarianism, if only I hadn’t heard a call from behind.

“Chris?”

I turned quickly, yearning for someone to cling to.  This was not the ideal space for loneliness and my cowardice would not drive further onward without assistance.  Searching for the voice, I could see nothing.  Not a single familiar face was anywhere in sight and no one seemed to be looking in my direction.  Through the crowd, I noticed a man in a ghetto-tinted doctor outfit approaching me.  Anxiety shook my guts until the white cloth was lowered from his face.

“Hey man, what’s going on?  I figured you were outta here.”

“Nope.”

It was Eric, an American guy from the Khao Lak Volunteer Center.  Just prior to coming to Yan Yao, I had spent the last few days helping out in various manners at a volunteer center just south of here.  Eric was one of the few respectable volunteers I had encountered and finding him here was a relief.

“Come on, don’t waste your time here, it’s useless.  Come here, come with me.”

With a childish determination, I bounced in his direction and hid tightly within his shadow as we swiftly passed through the main entrance without question.  The presence of a friend who was already on the inside allowed the haze begin to wearing off and my eyes began to notice the meticulous design of the temple.  On the edges of the courtyard, workers sat at computer terminals entering forensics information, continuously updating descriptions of the recently identified corpses.  Photos of the missing were plastered upon the gates surrounding the courtyard, as Thai Army workers passed with makeshift gurneys carrying fresh medical supplies and cases of bottled water.  Enormous cargo shipping containers lined the edges of the space, which I had initially assumed were filled with supplies until, just in front of me, a door was opened, and I was presented with the intoxicating-ly potent, putrid, disturbing, mind altering stench that I had anticipated, much more so than that of the dog.  The scent pierced my nose and ripped through my body, in through my mouth and into the depths of my taste buds, in through my eyes and deep into my cornea, sending instant drainage running down my face.  The odor seeped through my pores and into my blood stream within milliseconds of the door opening.

Pulling away from the container, yearning for some sort of something that resembled oxygen, my composure depleted as I became aware of the plethora of surrounding containers.  Well over forty in the immediate vicinity and though the number of bodies in each was a mystery, the visual presence of the crates was statement enough.  Anxiety and adrenaline interfered with my breathing pattern and I was quickly comforted by my cohort.

“Joyous little odor there, huh?”

“Jesus Christ!?”

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t get better and you never get used to it.  And there’s plenty for everyone.  Come on, let’s get you dressed.”

Passing through the cluttered insides of the temple, I saw nothing, afraid my safety net might escape and I would be left alone to accept responsibility, something I couldn’t currently stomach.  A few quick turns and we arrived at a dressing area housing piles of pseudo-sanitary clothing.

“Get suited up and meet me out here.  Nice stuff, huh?”

Glancing over the goo-filled attire, I responded.

“Sure.”

“The toughest is the shoes.  See.”  He points at a pile of overturned boots with various unidentifiable clumps of matter pressed into the bottom grooves of the rubber soles, sometimes even seeping over the edges.

“You just gotta get in there.  Some are better than others, but I would avoid touching ‘em with your hands.”

“Right.”

And he was gone.  My eyes were still focused in the direction he headed and just prior to a sense of abandonment instilling itself, a jarring voice called out from behind me.  Jerking back to find a Thai woman pointing at a pile of white not-quite-Gore-Tex hospital attire.  Fearfully, I poked through the unsanitary clothing quickly accepting this reality, quieting my fear of bits of guts and skin.  Picking the first acceptable jacket and a pair of oversized pants, I gleefully dove in as if I were playing a model prepping for a pretentious high-fashion photo shoot.  A quick sift through the boxes of rubber boots and I was ready. 

Bursts of validation busied my ego, as in this moment, I knew exactly what I was supposed to be doing.  The outfit transformed my confidence, granting the credibility that was otherwise lacking.

Next came the gloves.  A pair of thin latex gloves followed by a pair of thick rubber gloves, followed by tightly wrapped white medical tape.  With my new useless hands, I placed a white cap on my head and attempted to tie a knot to hold it in place.  Absolute impossibility.  Five failed attempts and a deep breath later, anxiety began to build and a claustrophobic surge passed through me.  The fun had passed as my vision was stunted by a panic-filled flick.  Never before had such a simple task needed such desperate completion.  Crying was nearing, as sweat poured down my face and into my mouth.  Breathing was difficult and becoming an unlikely luxury.  Ventilation was non-existent within my recently inherited costume, which exponentially added to the external heat of the environment which was already humid and weighty.  Dizziness swirled my senses. 

A tap on my back jerks me around to find a small Thai woman reaching up to help me.  A savior.  My heart immediately relaxed as she wrapped the cloth mask around my face, securing it forcefully in place.  Turning to thank my newfound safety net and embrace this nurturing guardian, she had mysteriously vanished and an abandoned panic was reinstilled.

Images of my comforts floated through me.  My dog, my room, my bed, my car, my cigarettes, my friends and family.  The comforts of convenience were enticing and significantly absent.  A greediness to possess that which I could not, empowered my desires to embrace an immediate and premature departure.  Glancing down upon my newfound persona, my being had found itself deceptively disguised as something useful.  A helper.  A fixer.  A doer.  A be-er.  The idea of masquerading as any one of these options ingratiated my spirit in a somewhat falsified heroic montage of idealistic images that would leave me without the capacity to abandon what was now fixed upon me with not-so-flying colors.  Regardless of my less-than-exceptional surgeon-tainted demeanor, my confidence to stay was not demanding enough to keep me here.  Guilt would serve as my warden, holding me captive within my discomfort.  Without it, my departure would have been certain.

The Road to Yan Yao – Onward

Days Later.

Leaving the decomposing dog behind, the aimlessness of my journey continued as I imposed my leadership skills directly upon the handle bars of the tawdry moped that vibrated frantically between my legs.  The one entity I knew I was equipped to lead.

An hour closer to the center of disaster and I was blessed with a self banter that led me through the final leg of my drive to Wat Yan Yao.  The banter ignited an awareness of my immense ignorance to the situation that I was quickly approaching.  Ego immersion mixed with externally-projected illusory thought structures created a yearning for an imposition of judgment on the inexplicable approaching energy.  Wat Yan Yao.  A temple housing a conglomerate of homeless corpses waiting to be guided to their final resting place.  The awareness of corpses was much more potent than the idea of the actual death.  Thought shifted away from the tsunami, away from the destruction of lives, away from the anguish of distraught families, annihilated homes and eradicated animals, and drifted towards the simple fascination of being immersed within a sea of dead bodies.  Fascination, not excitement.  Not enthusiasm.  Only anxiousness, curiosity and fear of the incomprehensible notion of entering an arena filled with a multitude of dead bodies.  Thousands and thousands of bodies blanketing the surrounding grounds of a dilapidated Buddhist temple.  For whatever reason, thirty years in, and still, the presence of a corpse had been absent in my life.  Never before had I been exposed to a single corpse, let alone a congregation of them.  Equilibrium-altering images blinded my journey, inhibiting the enjoyment of the lush expanse lingering up the edges of Thailand’s coastline and without noticing, I had arrived.  Wat Yan Yao.

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Arrival

Days Prior.  December 26th, 2004 – Boxing Day.

Cramped into the claustrophobic back row of the cabin, the combination of sleeping pills and alcohol kept me distracted from the discomfort of the sixteen hour flight where most certainly I would be losing my life.  Flying was something that seemed conceptually absurd, and especially for sixteen hours over the Pacific Ocean from Los Angeles to Taipei, followed by another four-plus hours onto Bangkok.  Regardless of statistics, the idea of a malfunctioning technology of some sort, potentially placing my mutilated physical body floating upon the surface of the Pacific Ocean, was prominent in my thought process, though never thoroughly vocalized to the surrounding company of strangers.  Instead of embracing a discipline to move through the contradicting anxieties, I would make the less admirable choice and continue drinking.  Avoidance in some ways could be labeled a discipline, I suppose, just not necessarily an impressive one.  The toilet wall was immediately behind me, restricting my miniscule, coach-class seat from reclining more than an inch backwards, not to mention the thrillingly, recurring odor that added significant depth to the atmosphere. 

Sixteen hours passed nearly unnoticed and I arrived at the Bangkok airport to find the smiling faces of the Thai people joyously welcoming tourists to come and abuse their people and take advantage of their belittled economy.  Stepping outside of the airport, a blanket of humidity invaded my skin, providing a gentle welcome and inspiring a momentum that would at least present the necessary energy to get me to Khao San Road.  Delirium was the only substance my adrenals could secrete and equilibrium was fleeting.  The necessary components to complete this first phase of the journey were simple… a taxi, some Thai Baht (cash), and a hint of brain function.  Simple.  An ATM sat to my left, and a crowd of belligerent taxi drivers to my right. 

“Where you like go?”  The Taxi Driver said briskly.

“Khao San.” I cautiously replied.

“Khao San, okay, we go.”

Khao San Road was commonly described as a traveler’s ghetto.  Aside from the street vendors, it was entirely possible to avoid all aspects of Thai culture and immerse yourself within a smorgasbord society of crossbred counter-culture from around the world crowded together within a claustrophobic quarter-mile stretch. 

Retrieving my cell phone from my bag to make the customary confirmation call of my safe arrival, it rang immediately upon powering up.

“Hello?”

A friendly voice responded urgently…

“Are you there?  Are you okay?”

“Yep.  I made it.  A bit fucked from the flight, but I’m alive.”

“But you’re okay?  Were you in Phuket when it happened?”

“When what happened?”

“The tsunami dumb ass.  What do you think?”

“I just landed.  I’m still in Bangkok.  What tsunami?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“I just got off the plane, what happened?”

“Are things crazy in Bangkok?  How are the people?”

“Well, I’m still in the taxi, but the driver seems to be nice enough.  What happened?”

“A tsunami hit the coast of Thailand, thousands of people are dead.  It’s a mess.  You have to come home.”

“What do you mean, like a big wave kind a thing?”

“Yeah, a tsunami.”

“Phuket or Samui?”

“Phuket, Phuket.”

“Wow.  Thousands dead?”

“They don’t know yet, but it was huge.”

A moment passed as the reality sunk in.

“I gotta figure out what’s going on.  I’ll call you back.”

I called to the taxi driver.

“Hey, was there a tsunami?”

“Oooooh yes, very bad.  Many people die.”

“In Phuket?”

“Yes, many.  Is that where you’re going?”  the taxi driver said.

Phuket was very near where I was going. Generally, I wasn’t fond of making extensive plans prior to arrival, however the only arrangements that had been previously booked and paid for were these:  A  flight to Phuket, and a room in Khao Lak, a small, developing beach town an hour north of Phuket.

“Actually, yes.  That was my plan.”

“Ooooh.  No good, go to Samui.  Much better there.”

“Right.”

Taking in this newfound reality, my mind calculated my options.  Over the years of watching catastrophe on the news, wishing to participate, yearning to play an active role within the relief efforts, it seemed obvious that there was only one option.  The motivation of my trip would need to be altered.  Instead of paying small amounts of money for Thai people to make my life more enjoyable, I would be making my best efforts to help their lives become functional again. 

“Which hotel?”

I hadn’t noticed a thing on the twenty minute cab ride and we had arrived.

“Uh, Buddy Lodge.”

“There, right there.”

My head was juxtaposed with thoughts of the tsunami and intense chemically enhanced delirium.  I was done.

Check-in.  Crash-out.  Goodbye.

Six hours of sleep later, the internet was aggressively staring me down.  The damage reports were premature and inconclusive.  Hundreds of cities were identified as having minimal-to-no-damage, leading me to believe the disaster was not as immense as it seemed, especially since spirits in Bangkok were high and the party was definitely present.  Continuing down the list, I searched for Khao Lak and without hesitation, there it was…

EXTREME DAMAGE.

Possibly the worst damage in all of Thailand.  No one was going to Khao Lak.  Apparently, only the officials were allowed to fly into Phuket, which was forcing those with families and businesses to take the buses and trains.  Tourist vans and buses were seemingly nonexistent, as nobody actually wanted to go there.  The usual tourist routes to the west had been immediately shifted to the east, towards the island of Samui where the majority of travelers were now heading.

After extensive deliberation, I found that the online booking system was allowing flights to be booked to Phuket beginning a couple of days from now from Chiang Mai, so with an abundance of eager anticipation, I made the reservation. 

“A couple of days??”

Guilt surfaced.  Patience practiced.

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The Road to Yan Yao

January 2005.  Driving away from the crowd, my hyper-exhausted curiosity was somehow stimulated and without my consent, seemed to be peering through the periphery of my less-than-active consciousness.  Without my participation, my bearings shifted and I found myself exchanging the somewhat clumpy Third World highway for a lumpy Third World dirt road which led into a sprawling coconut grove.  It was eternal.  The visual sensation of the passing trees resembled a slow motion, light speed effect as my dilapidated, five-dollar-a-day, twenty-five-mile-per-hour moped struggled to endure the not-so-silky road.  My 1970’s bubble-red velvet helmet bounced upon my head, as the chin strap was loose and the crevices in the road were somewhat jarring.  Eventually, the trees ended and with the assistance of a myriad of sensory stimulating post-tsunami variables, mostly olfactory, my consciousness emerged.  My feet released the pair of inhospitable sandals that seemed to have parasitically crusted over my ankles and touched down upon a desolate beach where a handful of battered long-tail boats unintentionally rested, slightly this side of the shoreline. 

Wandering the shoreline, an ominous quiet partnered with a soothing warm wind further enhanced the contradiction within the engulfing atmosphere.  A tide trickled upon the shoreline, though the water was nearly still.  Serene and inviting, possibly even apologetic, the ocean observed my presence with a hyper-meticulous cautiousness.  With the simple inviting smile of an unaware child, it was longing for the affection it was previously accustomed to, confused as to why it was now so alone.  Resisting my desire to enter, I continued walking.  An intimidating strength glistened with every subtle splashing motion, and yet, the ocean’s intent had never changed and it’s ego had not altered.  However, over the past few days without question, the ocean had evolved and it’s perception had shifted.  But as far as it was concerned, it was the same. 

Nearing the tree line, parallel to the shore, an odor presented itself.  A foreign, somewhat indiscernible smell, engulfed me with a vicious force.  Synapses flared vehemently attempting to identify the perpetrator.  The olfactory system was numbing as the potency became increasingly fierce.  There was really no assessment to be made.  A core-level confidence undeniably knew what that smell was actually stating.  The anticipation of this odor had been curiously building and now, it had finally arrived.  It was everything I imagined it would be.  Indiscernible with a redoubtable force and yet, the source was indeterminate.  Slowly scanning the piles of rubbish, the source was nowhere to be found.  The body must be buried within the debris.  My hyper-exhausted curiosity had snorted some sort of intangible amphetamine, as exhaustion had been thoroughly disregarded and forgotten.  I continued searching.  An anxious enthusiasm vibrated within my sleep-deprived body, much like a child closing in on the treasure at the end of a scavenger hunt.  It was absolutely unintentional.  A contradictory fear-driven excitement stimulated by being so near to something of this stature.  And here I was, in the midst of devastation, about to stumble upon a dead human body for the first time in my life, or at least, that’s what it seemed.

Moments later, less than two feet in front of me, camouflaged within the vegetation, the source revealed itself.  The discovery of a dead human body would have to be postponed, as the odor was coming from the body of a decomposing dog. 

A spacious, basketball-sized hole exposing the inside of his stomach was prominently on display.  Rigor mortis had captured an active portrait.  His face squinting, jaw outstretched, crying out.  The state of struggle was forever present within his lifeless form.  Projected images of his struggle played out in my head.  Rudely interrupted from his usual sleep, on his usual beach, as hundreds of tons of water begin pounding his body without warning.  Invisible currents forcibly pulling without explanation.  A panicked breath sucks in a mouth full of water as his body squirms.  The surface is nowhere in site.  A tree trunk gouges his stomach as his insides singe with salt water.  A confusion that would never reveal itself was forgotten as his body went limp. 

Physically shaking, forcing the sensation to leave my body, I turned for my moped.  And with that, the sensation of tragedy entered my body for the first time since my arrival in Thailand.  Empathy for animals seems to surface more aggressively than empathy for people, or at least, empathy for strangers.

Click here to buy the book, or read on.  Chapter 2 is posted here. 

Here is the introduction to my new book, Boxing Day, which is about my experiences as an accidental aid worker in the 2004 tsunami in Thailand.  I was in Koh Lak, the hardest hit area in Thailand and found myself helping identify and log thousands of corpses.  I tell the story with a sense of humility, to keep it from becoming as heavy as the subject matter may allow, and as honest as possible, give a moment to moment perspective of all the selfish banter that my ego would masterfully create.  I’m posting a few chapters and from there, if you’re interested in hearing more, please feel free to buy the book.  I won’t be pissed, I swear.  Have fun reading and post your comments.  And please note… this is copyright protected and any use other than reading must be approved.

Boxing Day

…

the sardonic journey of a self-deprecating ego

on a cynical quest to make a difference in one of

the largest disasters of our time.

written by

christopher jaymes

Boxing Day – The day after Christmas, the Feast of St. Stephen, the first Christian martyr, is better known as Boxing Day. The term may come from the opening of church poor boxes that day; maybe from the earthenware boxes with which boy apprentices collected money at the doors of their masters’ clients. 

Also, the day the tsunami hit South East Asia and Sri Lanki, taking nearly 250,000 lives.

Introduction

Attraction to disaster seems to be somewhat universal amongst humans.  Chaos always pulls focus, be it a small car accident, a fighting teenage couple, the screaming of a dog getting it’s paw inadvertently  stepped upon, a riot, or a war.  Something draws you in, pulling you out of yourself and into it.  In one sense, the purpose of any sort of art form could be summarized as an attempt to pull your consciousness present, to experience an inner quiet, or a thoughtless moment of feeling, and when done effectively in a manner that pleases your subjectivity, a label is placed upon it.  Sometimes beauty, sometimes esoteric, sometimes dark, or light, or one of a million optional judgmental adjectives.  Natural disasters might be identified as the Earth’s version of art, or even it’s own self-conscious make over, feeling itself become somewhat less than appropriate with it’s current lumps or curves, it shifts to adjust, unaware of the affects it will have on the cellularly-evolved inhabitants currently suffocating it’s surface. 

As I continued to ponder, I realized an echoing internal desire to be a part of every disaster that I had ever remotely witnessed, read about, or was aware of.  Somewhere inside, there was envy.  An intrinsic, childish desire to be a participant within something so significant.  It could be a structure, a synchronicity, an idea, a moment, or a disaster.  Looking back at the hours spent in front of numerous television sets, watching news coverage from the various wars, riots, fires, earthquakes, floods, hurricanes, whatever it may be, there was always something driving me towards it, wishing I could be inside of it.  I wanted to be absolutely inside of it without actually being a part of it.  Without being affected by it.  Without losing anyone or anything close to me.  Without the things in my life being disrupted, and without having to experience any of the suffering.  It was the movie version that I desperately wanted.  The cinematic ride that you couldn’t predict, plan, or buy a ticket for.  There was something so selfishly appealing about being on the threshold of external chaos (much more appealing than internal), living through it, and witnessing a reality of that sort.  This thought process is obviously from someone who has never experienced the consequences of an actual disaster, and though I’m aware of the ignorance that the desire is composed of, I cannot deny it’s existence.

This is my journey into that attraction to disaster, as I accidentally entered a battered Third World country while somehow, just barely and somewhat consistently, escaping my own death.  Hopefully, the portrayal of the tsunami and relief efforts are honest.  In some ways they are, and in other ways maybe they are only to me.  More than writing another story about a disaster and the chaos that accompanies such an event, I present an inner banter that reveals the journey of my ego and the misconceptions I’ve always projected upon the selflessness that I imagined would engulf a circumstance such as this.  Deflating any acts of heroism, into something more honest and real, driven by guilt instead of courage.  Numerous books could be written about the political fallacies of the situation, but I think the words ‘political’ and ‘fallacies’ are identical twins morphed by prehistoric plastically-grammatic surgery and not where I want to spend my energy at this point.  Better that you safely assume, that politics definitely got in the way of productivity and those surrounding the disaster did the best they could with their absolute inadequacy to properly deal with something of this stature.  Not always their best actually, but they at least feigned justification as to why not, which should count for something more than nothing.

What category does it fall into, seems to be the most commonly recurring question.  So, instead of answering that after the fact, I’ll try to explain it now.  It should be viewed as a fictional story, as much as that’s possible.  Is it a fictional story?  As much as a story is fictional.  Yes, it is based on my reality and my experiences.  Yes, much of the information is precise and accurate, however not everything is.

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