I <3 Laos

I miss Laos. I missed it since I landed in Bangkok, and I've been missing it ever since. "It is hard to pinpoint what it is precisely," I tell my mother over the phone, "but there is something about Laos that makes it a beautiful and special place. I want to go back."  It is possibly a combination of the gentle nature of its people and the accidental landscape. It is the frugality combined with a clear sense for beauty. It may be the communist - buddhist way of living. Or the sight of people riding motorbikes as they hold colorful umbrellas; or the intense green of the rice fields; or the incense burning at every temple as monks dressed in orange clothes take care of the shrines dutifully; or the spicy meals combined with tam-tam-"ing" with Beer Lao and Lao-Lao. It is probably that during this trip and work sessions I laughed more than I have laughed in months, and that our partners took great care of us during our stay. Since my return to the US I have asked everyone the same question: "Can you believe I let a stranger take my passport from Xieng Khouang to Vientiane to process my Thai visa?" I guess in Laos I learned that you can actually let go and trust that things will be alright;  my passport was there a week later waiting at the Xien Khouang airport right before our flight. How can you bring some of what you have learned into your life? Do you think that the actual experience is enough to internalize and absorb the new perspectives? "Do not underestimate how much you actually learn or grow after each trip, even when you are not able to articulate it,"I repeat to myself.  One insight after this trip - that I can't yet dare to mutter - revolves around the idea that probably living the simple/frugal life is the way to embrace complexity. As I struggle to write this coherently I remember how Khamdee, Sinthone and Mr. Maus taught us how to dance to Lao music.  Actually, who cares about complexity when you can dance and bump your hips once in a while.

Khamdee

- Where are you from?- Khamdee asked me to inform the waiter.- I'm from Mexico- I replied. - Is that in America?- the waiter asked; - is it part of the United States of America? - No- I replied. - It is the country right below the US . - Oh! I understand -he said before continuing with his duties.

Laos

I'm watching Cartoon Network in Thai even when I should be sound asleep by now. It took us 24 hours to get to Vientiane and now we are 12 hours ahead of our circadian cycle. "It is interesting when traveling this far feels so natural," I told Sean as we boarded the plane from Bangkok to Laos. Just a few moments earlier we bumped into Will at the airport on his way to Laos from Indonesia. A few months ago we also bumped into Will in Amsterdam when we were traveling together to Nigeria. "Laos will be a very unique place, a bit untouched by modernization" I recall reading a week earlier. "We are going to get noticed, in a good way," Sean says as we find our sits on the plane. "Do you think I might pass by Laotian?" I asked knowing the answer.  "We also eat spicy food in Mexico,"I told Khamdee - our host - as we ate sticky rice and spicy sauce for dinner, but the concept of a Mexican or Hispanic identity means almost nothing in this context.

How do you choose the right words? It has been so long since my last post that I feel responsible to write something worth of such a long silence. It is not that for the past month nothing worth sharing happened. On the contrary;  it is that sometimes you just need a time off. Summer isn't over yet so I'm sweating as I write, which is a little unnerving.  I have new roommates at home and I met new friends, so as always life and who you share it with keeps changing. My Mom came to visit and for ten days we talked endlessly. "We should stop analyzing everything," she concluded after one of our lengthy conversations. "Can we just relax and let life do its part?" Immediately after we spent another hour analyzing why we were so analytical.  Truth is we sometimes force ourselves to have total clarity on what to do, where to go and how to do it. Total clarity is a myth. Is it? As I'm struggling with words here, Polina has brought her notes to the dinning table and is now working on one of her projects.  She sings without knowing that I'm writing about her singing; without knowing that for a moment her humming becomes the piece of inspiration.  Am I being too hard on myself by trying to write even when I don't feel like it? Or is it necessary to keep the writing going as an exercise of persistence and discipline. See? I'm already analyzing something that is not even worth discussing, not when I'm so tired and my only real inspiration is to go to bed.

"No one owns an umbrella in Lima," I recall Javier saying long time ago. It is true. In Lima there is no rain, they have never experienced a thunderstorm, and they don't know what it means to hear the windows rumble to the vibration of thunder. "That is why no one cares to clean their rooftops," Johnny exclaimed as we stood by the window at Javier's apartment overlooking Callao. Humidity turns into garua, a permanent drizzle that penetrates your bones during winter time. Lima's grey sky lasts from March and until November when the horizon starts turning blue. "We say our sky looks like a donkey's belly; a solid grey," Javier says without any concern or apology to the sun-lovers. There is of course a romantic melancholy to this monochromatic state. As we drove from Callao to Miraflores we could see the islands that spread along the coast almost fade in the backdrop as the surfers along the beach were getting ready to ride the waves. In Miraflores all the high-rise buildings were covered by an intense fog and I couldn't stop singing that famous waltz inside my head. Déjame que te cuente limeño, ahora que aún perfuma el recuerdo, ahora que aún se mece en un sueño, el viejo puente, el rio y la alameda. For a moment I wished I had a story with a scent, a dream and an old bridge slowly covered by this fading fog.

Paula and I met at a gallery in Chelsea last week. Her work was selected as part of an art exhibition in which all pieces were produced in ceramic. “The curator owns a ceramic factory in Mexico, he called artists to submit ideas that could be produced in that medium,” she said while strolling around the gallery holding a glass full with tequila. After the opening we had diner at the classic New York City dinner on 9th avenue. It’s been quite a few years since we last met; and even longer since we had a proper and inspiring conversation. Our most recent encounters had been mere coincidences, bumping into each other at art galleries and coffee shops in Mexico. Paula was my production and project-planning teacher in college, and since then our lives have been intertwined in all sorts of ways. She produced a documentary about Javier -my ex-boyfriend- and me as an example of a creative couple; the quasi-ideal love-work relationship, that broadcasted nationally in Mexico. “Am I crazy or I saw you on television?” Fidela asked every time I visited her at my grandmother’s house. Paula moved to New York in 2003 for six months to support my television project. In 2006 we stopped talking after she got into a relationship with Javier short after we had split up. It was by chance that in 2008, while in transit returning from London, we met at a waiting line at the Kennedy airport and were forced to face each other. No apologies were needed; at the end we both understand life as a complex network of lives and stories. I’ve always admired Paula’s devotion – almost obsessive – towards art and beauty. “These days I’ve been fully dedicated to Le Porc Shop,” she said before getting a piece of meatloaf into her mouth. A few years ago she created a furniture brand in an attempt to save the family business; her father had owned a furniture factory for years but cheaper imports from China consumed his market share. As Paula goes deeper into her mashed potatoes I think this is a kind of poetic redemption; all the unsold pieces at the factory are now being transformed by Paula and guest artists. “We are recycling all the unsold furniture and creating new designs,” she says in her melancholic voice. “It is my duty, to keep the family factory running and reinvent it.” After dinner we headed to the after party for the show at Wooly’s in Tribeca where LCD Soundsystem was supposed to be playing. “All the current great Mexican artists are here,” Paula said not counting herself in, “some of these people don’t even talk to me when we met at exhibitions in Mexico.” From my standpoint Paula is a much greater artist, and I believe in a few years someone will say the same about her, without the pretentious part. “Look, that is the guy from LCD Soundsystem,” she said. “Really! We were accidentally rubbing elbows for a few minutes!” I exclaimed in a clearly starstruck moment.

Sylvia and I left the airport before sunrise towards downtown Santiago knowing we had to be back at the airport at 11:00 am. Our flight to Bolivia was cancelled at the last minute, so we had to fly to Chile and catch a plane to La Paz. Four hours don't seem enough to get a sense of a city, but we were eager to get as much of it as possible. The airport bus left us at Estacion Central, were we took the subway towards downtown, getting off just by City Hall. "Do you think Michelle Bachelet is already there?" I asked completely forgetting that Sebastian Piñera has been in office for more than a year. "She is probably sleeping," Sylvia answered. We walked by the Cathedral and the main city buildings while early commuters were rushing to and from the subway stations and as local coffee shops were setting their tables at the Plaza. "What are a Mexican and a Colombian doing in Chile?" a police officer asked flirting; we just smiled. We had a hot cappuccino to fuel us and kept our freezing discovery walk through Bellas Artes, Brasil Avenue and Concha y Toro in the Republica neighborhood. "Look!" I exclaimed, almost speechless. The winter sunlight had discovered the Andes framing the buildings in the background. Sylvia and I shared our curiosity for graffiti, as in a way it helped us unearth or decode some of the spirit or the untold stories of the city. As we rode the subway and waited for the bus that would take us back to the airport I asked Sylvia if she considered this as a real visit. "We read the newspaper and talked to the locals, I guess that counts," she answered as two fat stray dogs approached us. Just in case, we bought a box of Chilean alfajores and a Condorito comic book at the airport before boarding the plane that would fly us through the Andes into Bolivia.

I'm melting in my living room, ready to pack for Bolivia, drinking coffee and eating half a bagel. The pre-summer sweat has started but we know the real humidity is yet to come; are we going to survive it? I turned 33 and celebrated for the first time in Mexico in 8 years. My Mom baked a chocolate cake and Victor organized me a party at his house by the lake. It's hard to come back to New York after being so pampered. In New York, as it has always been, things change by the season. Spring has brought me a new group of friends with whom I feel at home, and Oscar is moving out of the apartment to live with Troy, his boyfriend. Life as always is complex, hectic and beautiful. In the midst of the craziness of on-going travel and getting new roommates, we had the luxury to spend all day yesterday drinking mimosas and having brunch at the boathouse in Central Park. We talked about quantum physics, fetichism and dating - all with equal depth. "What a beautiful Sunday!", we all expressed at different moments with a sigh. "Where are we going for dinner?" Alex questioned as the sun started to sank behind the trees in Central Park. I love to be with friends that want to stay together from breakfast until dinner. "Anyone wants to ride the Vespa with me?" Pepe asked and I volunteered without hesitation or minding my high heels. I've seen New York from all sorts of angles, but riding down 5th Avenue and uptown on Park during a sweet Spring Sunday afternoon has been so far one of the most beautiful sights of the city.

Last Thursday Lily and I sat under - or immerse - into Ryoji Ikeda's monumental projection of binary codes decoded into a multimedia symphony at the Park Avenue Armory. It was indeed an absorbing experience, but after a few minutes we started feeling uneasy. "How do you think the security staff endure it all day?" Lily asked. "Do you think they are inserting information straight into our brains?" I replied. The night before I've been to a 3-hour meditation and chanting session. The teacher, a man from Cote d' Ivoire, led us through extreme (at least for me) breathing exercises that, as Ikeda's projections, completely transformed the state of mind of those in the room. After the Armory we left for Soho. A friend of Lily had curated a show with artists working in art restoration. It was a contrast to go from a one-man-at-the-Armory to a collective show of artists not fully recognized as such. Most artists were foreign-born, from Uzbekistan to Peru, and their printed bios seemed as important as their artwork shown. As the writers who edit other people's work, artists that work on restoring the art of others are required to have exceptional skills, but are demanded to limit their personal interpretation, and to certain extent, their self. Who decides how much art is worth? Who decides which art is to keep and restore? When with a group of friends we opened Local Project, a gallery in Long Island City, we decided that we would keep our doors open to all artists as long as they were involved in the production of the show. The space was/and is, very successful, although as an underground organization it runs the risk to be seen as unserious. What is interesting for me is how powerful it is to recognize someone's work; provide the opportunity to present to the world, and have the world come and see them - being at the center for a moment. As Lily and I were ready to leave for yet another cocktail party, I noticed that someone had left a price tag in the restroom. For me, it is not only about what you see on the walls or what is happening at the show, but the stories behind it that matter. For someone this show must have been really important to buy a $54.99 size 9 dress to wear, and even get changed at the restroom right before the opening.

It is already May 16th. It is already 2011. I'm almost 33. Las fechas siempre llegan, my Mom would say, regardless of your readiness. Do we all ask what have we done with our lives? Do we all ask if we had make the most out of time? A few days ago Lily and I went to the opening at MOMA of the Francis Alys exhibit. It has been the best exhibition I have been in a while, as it is - in his own words - an allegory to process, rather than a quest for synthesis. Do we need to have an objective for every single thing we do? I like how Alan Watts describes it. In music, one doesn't make make the end of the composition the point of the composition. If that was so, the best conductors will be those who play faster; and there will be composers who play only finales. We cannot miss the opportunity to listen and dance to each bit of music - but we sometimes forget to make meaningful the ordinary. An intense fog covered New York today, a white cloud filling the space between buildings, and in a strange way, pausing time.

A few weeks ago Jessica, Sylvia, Matthew and I met for an afterwork drink with the Ambassador of Seychelles; Ronny, as Jessica calls him. He is one of the few great storytellers I have ever met. After two hours of conversation about his life, we learned more about the islands than we probably know about the history of any other country. "I was born in Africa because many people from Seychelles migrated to Africa when the British were developing the east coast of the continent." A he spoke Sylvia and I quickly searched for the sites he mentioned on the iPhone, trying to picture the island formations, the coral reef and the beyond-luxury resorts that charge more than $5,000 per night. We also learn the challenges islands face. Their airport and runway will be submerged under water due to sea-level rise from climate change and placing windmills might prove more a problem than a solution. "Where are you going to put a windmill?"he says, "if you place it on top of the mountain, the hotels and tourists will complain about the sight of it; they are not pretty. So then, are you going to destroy your coral reef to place it offshore? Or, are you going to sacrifice the scarce flat land you have to put the damn thing?" he continued jokingly. "Have you ever heard the noise those things make?" As we walk to the subway station Matthew and I concurred that this is the reason why we love New York so much. The city's diversity makes you feel part of the greater world, even when in such diversity you can also feel isolated. It would be almost impossible to have a beer with someone from Seychelles, or even Africa, in Guadalajara. To be honest, most people in Mexico - or the US - have never heard about Seychelles. "My uncle migrated to Papua New Guinea, but he never came back to Seychelles. He must have been eaten; they use to eat people there." I could still hear the Ambassador's voice as I walk home under the rain.

During our last day in Nigeria, we sat under the shade of an old tree to wait for our flight to depart from Calabar to Lagos. Our flight has been cancelled or postponed for the last three days as a result of the elections; which ironically have been cancelled and postponed as well. Feeling stranded in a foreign country is not pretty; luckily Gills, our friend and colleague from Yankari, is still with us and really knows how to smoothly navigate the Nigerian system. Translation is not about understanding the language, but about understanding the context. By now, we have already befriended Eddie, the airline clerk who has been trying to help us get into a flight. He has joined us for a beer as we wait under the tree by the airport. “When we see a plane landing, then you can go to board,” he responded to our concern about the boarding time while pouring into his glass the last bit of Heineken. “I love Pancho Villa, he was selfless and cared for the good of his people,” he exclaimed to our surprise after a moment of silence, “that is what we are missing in Nigeria, a real leader.” The flight got delayed a couple of hours, so we kept the rounds of beer running until nightfall when Moki, our Cameroonian driver, decided we should just get into the gate to wait for our plane to arrive. I have mixed feelings. I’m not sure if I could cope with the lack of reliability in a system, but at the same time, the lack of control allows great moments like this to happen; this feeling is not at all foreign as a Mexican. “The history of Latin America and Africa have much in common in terms of colonialism, but with the great difference that Europeans came to Latin America to live, but they came to Africa to extract natural and human resources. They never got established here,” Eddie remarked before saying goodbye.

"What is the name of the movie you are producing?" the immigration officer asked me as he pulled me aside into the small interrogation room. I'm not quite sure if answering that we are producing a soap opera to promote Cross River gorilla conservation will do any better, so I remain quiet. I was once deported from Peru as a result of an overnight change to an immigration law, leaving me stranded one full night at Lima's airport eating causa peruana with the guards. I'm not sure spending a night at the Abuja airport would be as pleasant. "We are not producing any movie," I finally answered. A cool thing about my job is that I get to learn from a wide variety of people and themes. Last week I was in Mexico working with the State government on Chiapas in the planning of a telenovela that will promote women and indigenous people's rights along with sustainable development; this week I'm working with a group of Nigerian and Cameroonian experts on a radio drama that aims to inspire the pride and preservation of the remaining 250 Cross River gorillas. I read somewhere that the former president of Colombia, Alvaro Uribe, is a great pretender. He is able to appear an expert on any topic after five minutes of debriefing. I'm not claiming to seem as an expert of any kind, but I can certainly tell by now a few stories about gorillas, Ghanian fish mongers, Bolivian youth and Chamula communities. "It is not about the story, but about how you tell the story," Meesha will say quoting her mother.

We are listening to Kraftwerk as Sol stops to take a picture of me writing and drinking wine to then go back to her LP collection and select the next album to play. It's been a while since the last time we met. She selects Do you really want to hurt me? from Culture Club; we already listened to Daniel Magal and other Argentinian jewels from the 1970's. Her studio is located at the now vacant Crane Studios Building, the "graffiti building" in Queens, decorated with old collectible objects and an electric pot to prepare her usual mate. "Sol, may I use your computer to write in my blog? I want to write about this." She agreed without hesitation. "Che, Brenda, I read in your blog that Pico died in November," she said to me earlier, before plugging in her headphones and playing DJ. I have always felt some sort of admiration and creative connection with Sol. Her latest body of work titled Please Don't Leave Me explores the concept of absence and reminds me of an old project I worked on right after Javier left titled After You Left. She now plays Talking Heads. "Do you know that this album cover was designed by Chuck Close?" she asks; "the first I came to New York I went to CBGB to track their origins. I was a fan." I ask if she ever watched them play live, but by now she is dancing by the turntables and barely listens to me. Breakfast in America is now playing out loud. We might be the only ones having a blast in this now deserted and forgotten building.

Mi Abuela (My Grandmother)

Mi Abuela died today although in a way she had departed years ago. Her longtime disease not only affected her memory, but her ability to talk, walk or lead any sort of human existence. I saw her for the last time during the summer of 2010. I sat by her and caressed her head while telling her stories from her youth; she glanced at me for an instant before getting back into her permanent state of oblivion. As I was growing up, Mi Abuela represented many things to me, she was the closest connection I had to my father, an example of generosity, femininity and elegance, a strong advocate for my education and the reason I was so spoiled. She was the only person I know to wear red lipstick and spray Chanel #5 before going to bed; she was beautiful. She also was the only person I know to get so much pleasure from giving herself and anything she had for the well-being of others. "You should get rid of the old if you want new and better things to come", she used to tell me as she de-cluttered the house. She was obsessed with cleanliness. My fondest memories from childhood are those times at her house; large family gatherings, debate conversations at the kitchen, exploring her closet, playing with my cousins and staying over to have the opportunity to sleep hugging her (and her Doberman). "Promise me two things, that you won't marry young; you need to study and enjoy your life before committing to a man," she asked me repeatedly. "The second thing is that you should never pluck your eyebrows; they are beautiful just the way they are." I have kept my word for the first one, but have diligently dismissed her second request. I have to confess that I feel some kind of guilt every time I visit the Indian beauty parlor by my house.

It was a sunny day in New York and even when the wind reminded me the winter is not over yet, walking around the Farmer's Market at Union Square made me feel nostalgic for all the days I've been out traveling. Capuchi and I sat at a bench in Washington Square Park while a man played Black. "I've never heard a street musician playing Pearl Jam before" I told Capuchi, "they mostly play music form the 1970's. Do you think this is because we are getting older?" We might. Living in New York is deceiving about age; you will always find someone younger that has settled and seems more mature than yourself, and someone older that hasn't assimilated adulthood. Some of my girl friends are considering motherhood and Georgina has suggested that I freeze my eggs just in case. "I still struggle to feel as a director at my job, I feel too young" I mentioned to Josefa over brunch today. "Brenda, we need to stop underestimating our experience. Men dream high and women try to stick closer to the ground. We should dream too." I guess we can dream and keep the quality to become unassuming leaders.

We arrived in Ghana during the last days of the Hamatan season when winds blow from the Sahara carrying sand and tainting the atmosphere with a translucent veil of fine dust. “It looks as if we were in another planet”, Shoshana expressed as we were standing by the ocean staring directly at a white moon-like sun. It is hard to summarize one’s experience in a new place as it involves so many layers of emotions and thoughts. It is also hard as we bring a preconception of the place or we naturally try to compare it to what we know, to the place we come from. “The most surprising thing,” Sean pointed out, “is that at the end of the day you find out that we are basically the same.” And so it is. In Ghana family and community ties are important, young girls fall in love and are afraid of getting pregnant, children love to have their pictures taken and there is a football field every two kilometers. In Tekradi people gather at the local market to sell their products, women carry buckets and trays over their heads with smoked fish, fufu, tomatoes, plantain, shampoo, shoes and fresh vegetables to sell. In Ghana, as everywhere else, people enjoy laying under the shade of a big tree on a warm and humid day, women make a special effort to look attractive, people like sharing stories and a week of intensive work is rewarded with a cold beer and dancing Nigerian hip-hop. “Guinness is much better in Ghana than in the UK,” Kwesi mentioned while driving us around Accra, “when I lived there, we use to look for Ghanaian or Nigerian imported Guinness even when it was very hard to find.” Sometimes is in the small things that you find the greatest differences.

"Somewhere around here is where Antoine de Saint-Exupéry must have crashed his plane," I told Shoshana as we were flying between the Algerian and Mali border. I almost cried when I saw the Saharan dunes from the plane, and landing in Africa for the first time gave me emotional chills. I'm now laying in bed at the hotel in Accra watching CNN and jet-lagged as hell, wondering what new experiences tomorrow will bring. I never imagined myself traveling this far, but I always pictured myself collecting stories; life stories. "Aren't you acting a little bit paranoid?" Victor suggested after I asked if I could wash my teeth with the water from the sink. "Probably it's because of the malaria pills," I suggested as I scanned the room for mosquitos.

My eyes are closing.