Alan A. Taylor (see #4)

      I listen to a lot of podcasts, on a very wide variety of subjects. Some are mundane behavioral economics stuff, some profane; I like the witty and irreverent podcasts that educate and provide a laugh, but I’ll give any recommendation a listen. One I listened to recently on my old person morning walk was titled, 'Things we learned in 2019' by a consultant named Tom Whitwell at Fluxx, it was a Planet Money podcast. He’s been making a list of 52 factoids since 2014, one for each week in a year. Some made me laugh uproariously, some made me think, others shocked me. Here's a few of my random favorites, the hyperlink takes you to the research just to show you this shit isn’t made up, the only thing original in this blog are my comments in parenthesis. 

1. 28% of people like the smell of (their own) urine after eating asparagus.[Rolf Degen] (I had to listen to that twice to make sure I heard that right. Guess I’m in the 72% that doesn’t sniff their pee.)
2. Advertisers place a single brown pixel on a bright background in a mobile ad. It looks like dust, so users try to wipe it off. That registers as a click, and the user is taken to the homepage. [Lauren Johnson] (Okay, that’s evil. Extraordinarily clever, but still evil.)
3. Peppa Pig tattoos are big in China. [Kenrick Davis] (I have no tattoos, but I’d consider a temporary Peppa Pig tat to freak my wife out.)
4. Using a middle initial makes people think you’re clever. [Wijnand A. P. Van Tilburg & Eric R. Igou] (Hey Wijnand A. P. And Eric R.  - I get it! - Alan A. Taylor)

   

   Alan A. Taylor on the right. Gwyne, about to be freaked out by my Peppa Pig  tramp stamp tat on the left.

5. 54 percent of Chinese born after 1995 chose “influencer” as their most desired occupation. [Charlie Gu] (I take this as meaning they want to be beautiful, get free things and not work. A large fraction of that 54% will not end up being influencers, so I hope they have a good back up plan.)
6. In the UK, marriages between couples over 65 have risen 46% over the last decade. [Cassie Werber] (Hip hip hurrah for hope! My parents once met two 90+ year olds who were celebrating their 5th wedding anniversary. That's one of the best stories I ever heard.) 
7. In a mixed-gender group, when women talk 25% of the time or less, it’s seen as being “equally balanced”. If women talk 25–50% of the time, they’re seen as “dominating the conversation” [Caitlin Moran] (Note to men: shut the fuck up.)
8. A Dutch bike manufacturer reduced shipping damage by 70–80% by printing a flatscreen TV on their boxes. [May Bulman] (I want my next bike shipped in a box that says it’s plate glass. And I’m a serial bicycle buyer and seller.)
9. Every day, WhatsApp handles twice as many messages as the entire global SMS system — around 40bn messages [Benedict Evans] (I love WhatsApp. I got my family on it and communication is so much easier and that’s the best way in the world to get in touch with me. But I react to that ping like a rat being run through a maze.)
10. The web is less than 8,000 days old. [Danny Quick] (8,000 days seems like a smaller number than almost 22 years, but still. So much, so far, so fast. I used to have to talk to people. I’m glad that’s over with.)
11. Amazon customers spend an average of $529 a year. Amazon Prime customers spend $1,340. [David Holmes] (We have Prime. Amazon owns us.)

Kwajalein - 7th tour

     I was traveling in Vietnam sometime in April/May looking for a warm weather winter get away for Gwyne and I when an e-mail popped up asking if I'd consider going to Kwajalein and helping out for few months. Gwyne gave me the okay and this four months turned into seven, but that's the way these gigs almost always work. I briefly considered staying a full year for the tax break, but 'please stay' just can't compete with 'please come home.' It was wonderful to see old friends who I've known for 50+ years and good friends I worked with in Afghanistan. I'm glad I came. I’m also glad I’m leaving. The world is such a big, interesting place. I didn't find the right warm weather place to escape winter last year, so I'm ready to go back and start exploring again. At least that’s the story I’m selling Gwyne.
     It was also fantastic to reconnect with my Marshallese friends. There are very few Marshallese who work on Kwajalein who don’t know me, and that seemed to be a problem for some people. There was a view that I favored Marshallese employees or that they could come to me and I would magically make their troubles go away. Not at all true and my boss knew that. Then one of the three Kwajalein Senators went to her to attempt to get an employment decision reversed. She politely and professionally said all the right things to him, employment actions are confidential and we're contractually obligated to follow all local laws and regulations. He paused and said something that didn't help the perception. At all. When he realized he wasn't getting the result he wanted from her, he abruptly said, "Where's Alan?" Again, not helpful at all.

Same same...but different

     But it didn’t stop there. A few in the upper echelons of management wanted to know why the Marshallese came to me instead of their respective managers.  I listened. I tried to be patient. I failed, and patience is one of my strong suits. Because bluntness is too, I said, “They come to me because they've gone to their managers and they're not getting the answers/resolution they are looking for. I speak Marshallese. I work in Employee Relations. This is not complicated.” I was in fine fettle. When you are a few days away from retirement (again), and you have zero f**** left to give, it's so much easier to speak freely. They said the Marshallese see me as their savior, that I can help them get out of trouble. I said now, now, that's a bit too much, even for me. Like I said, I was feeling cheekier than usual that day. They asked why our conversations had to be in Marshallese and I replied they don't, but most people feel more comfortable talking in their first language. And then remember, I was in fine fettle and feeling very cheeky, I delivered the next line with an absolutely straight face as I stood and was halfway out the door. It's (mostly) not true, but I said, “Well, sometimes we talk about you in Marshallese.  That way you won't know what we’re saying.” I waited for a moment to see their expression, which included a dropped jaw. As you may imagine, it was just the reaction I was going for. 

Triggers

     We all have triggers in life, moments that can revive memories, sometimes good, sometimes not so good. I had two chuckle worthy memories that were triggered a few days ago. I was video chatting with my younger brother Andy on WhatsApp, laughing about our past foibles. Then I went to have lunch at the Pacific Dining Room (PDR). Those were the two triggers and they're related. Here are the memories.
     After I graduated High School on Kwajalein, I didn't know what I wanted to do. I still don't, although I’ve sure ferreted out a bunch of things I don't want to do. In order to avoid adulting, I worked construction for Martin Zachary with a bunch of Hawaiians. Everyone called me Haole boy and that was okay, because that's obviously what I was. Chige Sakamoto was my boss. Chige was Japanese/Hawaiian, he had a wispy mustache, wore green tinted aviator style glasses and always, always wore a white V-neck t-shirt. Chige seemed to take particular pleasure in barking out orders to me which, without variation began with, "Haole boy, COME!"  I was a General Laborer and if you're a General Laborer, you get all the shit jobs and that was okay too, that's just where I was in life. The job paid an hourly rate of $4.50/hour (Chige said I was overpaid), came with a room in the Pacific Bachelor's Quarters (PBQ) which included about 5 roommates and a meal card. That meal card entitled me to three square meals a day. The room at the PBQ ended up being a storage space for my road bike, I moved back in with my parents because well, it was more inviting than living with 5 roommates. That's right, I was a boomerang kid before it was a thing. I set up a fruit dehydrator on the roof of the house. It was a simple affair, a raised wooden box, wire mesh bottom and plexiglass cover to keep the flies and other vermin at bay. It also sat in 4 bowls of water - that was the only way I could keep the ants out. I shamelessly liberated a lot of apples and papayas every day to dry; papaya spears took about 3 - 4 days to dry, apples shriveled up in a day and those who know me well know just how shameless I can be. Andy and I shared a room, and I always had a huge bowl of dried apples sitting on my dresser.  I came back one day and it was empty. Andy said he had a few handfuls. Then he had some more. There's no denying they were quite tasty. Maybe he took a break, maybe not, but he had some more. At that point, the bowl was less than half full, and it was a really big bowl. A few more handfuls, because he was hungry and they were fantastic. He decided he was past the point of no return. He finished the entire bowl, which probably represented 30 apples. Don't judge, we Taylor's have fast metabolisms. We laugh about it today, but I wasn't a happy camper when I came home from work looking for a fruit snack.
     Working construction doing all the shit jobs that Chige liked to give me helped me burn a lot of calories and I ate a lot of food. One day at lunch, they had teriyaki steak - I piled it on, about 4 pieces and cut into it, put it in my mouth, started to chew and then spit it out. Chige laughed so hard he nearly spit his food out. Because I was Haole boy and I was overpaid, but also because it was just funny. Chige slapped his hand down on the table and yelled, “What, Haole boy, you no like liver?” When you are expecting the taste of teriyaki steak and get liver, well, not one of my favorite food memories.
     I had lunch at the PDR a few days ago. The menu at the PDR is mind numbingly boring. The food isn't that bad, it's just repetitive. Taco Tuesday is inexorably followed by Wings Wednesday (full disclosure: I like both). But when I went into the PDR that day there was something new on the menu - Teriyaki Steak. I laughed so hard when I saw that, I snorted. I don't remember them having signs above the food back in the 70's and 80's, maybe I just didn't look. Entirely possible. But now I'm older and sometimes wiser. I looked at the sign, then looked at the meat.  You can bet your bottom dollar I looked at the sign again before asking for a piece, then laughed and laughed some more, all at myself but hey, laughter is good.

Herna Jibwa, - every time she sees me she says, “Hello Alan Taylor!”

Food feels

     The tastes, textures and smells of certain food can transport you right back to the place and setting of when and where you had that memorable food/meal. Does for me at least. Like the first time I had durian. I took a trip from Sumatra to the Riau Islands on a Pelni Line vessel, deck class. A few of us bought a durian and a deckhand opened it for us. If you’ve had durian, you either love it or hate it - there is no in between. I loved it. Whenever I eat durian, I’m right back there, sleeping on the deck on that ill planned trip. Sometimes the memories are wonderful, other times not so much. 'Cause food can be emotional like that.
     I’ve got LOTS of good food feels from when we lived on Saipan. We lived in a village where we were part of the community. Whenever there was some work to be done, we’d do our part which would almost always end with a communal meal. Red rice, which is colored with achiote, but the flavor comes from the bacon drippings mixed in with the rice. Barbecue cooked over tangantangan wood. Kelaguen, which is partially cooked meat, usually chicken and then the added lemon finishes cooking the meat with the acidity. Add some fresh grated coconut and spices and you get...happiness. Lechon (roasted pig) for the bigger occasions. Coco, which is pickled mango/papaya/cucumber. Whatever fruit was in season was mostly in abundance, except after a typhoon. I can eat any one of those items and be instantly transported back to Saipan in my very fertile mind. Perhaps you have noticed there aren’t any Chamorro restaurants in your neighborhood. Mine either, so I don’t get those happy food feels often.
     I had to go to Hawaii to get an MRI on my knee in a very tight window of time and contacted a few old friends, one of whom told me about an event he was going to an event called Off the Eaten Path: Chamorro Cuisine with some hoity toity chef from Guam. Messaged my daughter who lives on Maui. Wanna go gorge on Chamorro food? Anyone who has met my daughter knows the answer. Boom! We're in! Serendipity. Family. Good friends. A couple of wicked smart professors who were riotously witty and irreverent - my kind of people. Good food which brought ALL the good food feels and many good memories back.

     I did have two unusual food memories on Saipan though. Once, I was served a bowl of soup with a cows hoof in it. The soup was just broth, I don’t recall any vegetables or anything else than the big old cow’s hoof in the bowl. And there are sometimes when you just can’t say no. I sipped the broth, I nibbled on the hoof and pretended to like it. But I didn’t.
      My most amusing Saipan food experience? My landlord called me over to eat which happened pretty every time he saw me, but that’s Chamorro culture. He had a bowl of much more palatable soup, vegetables, some kind of meat and it was really good. He watched me for a while with a wry grin on his face. Then he asked how I liked it. I said it was really good and then he laughed and said, “That’s Marianas Fruit Dove and... it’s endangered!” But his response sounded soooooooo much better in a Chamorro accent. 

Detours

     If you had told me 40 years ago I’d be with an ex-Mormon with 4 children, I would have been excited. But I would have tried - very hard - to hide my excitement as I casually suggested a wager against that scenario. You never want to appear to too excited to make a bet you are nearly certain of winning so you try to control your emotions until the bet is consummated. I'd have offered whatever odds you thought reasonable. 100 to 1? Sure. I would have bet big too, because I like a flutter now and again when the odds are overwhelmingly in my favor. Because I have no game, she stalked me. She was a pretty good stalker for an ex-Mormon without, I presume, much stalking experience and now I'm with that ex-Mormon with 4 kids. Didn't expect that detour.
    Some of the biggest detours in life have nothing to do with you. Like this one. My dad went to an interview with the MITRE Corporation down in DC when we were living in Florham Park, NJ in the late 60's. The interview went swimmingly and then they went to lunch. He knew he was going to get an offer, the job was his. Back in the 60's, it was okay to have a tipple along with whatever you were noshing on and they all had something to drink at the restaurant. My dad gave one of the interviewers a ride back to the workplace in his rental car and on the way back, he kicked something underneath the drivers seat. He picked it up, and it was an empty bottle of gin. As he was holding the bottle by the neck, he looked at his potential boss and said, "What the hell is this?" The interviewer looked at the bottle, looked at my dad, raised his eyebrows and then looked straight ahead. And just like that, the job was not his. I talked to my dad the other day and asked him about this, he said if he was the hiring manager, he would have made the same decision. And to whoever drank that bottle of gin, left it in the rental car and to whatever employee that didn't clean the car I say thank you.
     That's right, my dad didn't get that job and we didn't end up moving to the DC area. He moved our family back to Kwajalein in the Marshall Islands a few years later. And just like that, my trajectory was changed. My life has taken all kinds of  unexpected twists and turns, some of them wonderful and serendipitous, some of them tragic. But here's a shout out to my Mom and Dad who had the courage to move to Kwajalein with two small kids in 1964 for the first time and thanks to Gwyne for stalking me...on Kwajalein.

     
   
   
   
     

coherently.orangey.worries

     Ever gone somewhere with someone and gotten separated? How do you find them? Call, ask where they are, walk towards them until you see each other, most likely. But coherently.orangey.worries - 3 words, changes all that. That’s where I am right now, literally.

     I was reading the letters to the editor in The Economist and someone wrote that the archaic address system used in rural France could be replaced by what3words. I had heard of this before, but didn’t look into it at all, I didn’t understand the potential usefulness.
     What is it? An app that’s mapped every place on the Earth into unique, 3 x 3 meter squares. The uniqueness is that every three meter square, in the world, is identified by 3 words. Where I am right now is coherently.orangey.worries. There are some useful components to this - when we lived in Arlington, VA, our apartment had an entrance that was separate from the actual address. 1220 N. Fillmore takes you to a side of the building where there is no entrance. But wipes.metals.flies takes you right to the entrance, where we could buzz you up. When we lived on Saipan, there were no street addresses. You used landmarks to give directions. One of my favorites was the breadfruit tree in the middle of the street - and yes, they built a street that branched out on either side of a breadfruit tree. To get to where we lived in As-teo? strung.outshines.predictive would take you right to our front door. Get lost from family or friends in a large event? What3words will tell them where you are. They can put the three words in the app, tap on navigate to and they’ll find you. My daughter could have used this when she got lost on Khao San Road in Bangkok to find the Internet cafe I was in way back in Internet cafe days. What3words is used in Mongolia for postal deliveries because they have such a nomadic population. Delivery drivers use it in Nigeria. Technology. I’m a fan. What are your 3 words?

Hopeful much?

     We're hardwired to hope. We all hope for different things and plan for all the things we want out of life.  We make those plans because we are hopeful that we don't get sick, that a tragic accident doesn't happen, after we go to school there is a good job waiting for us and we find someone to love and someone to love us in return. If we didn't have hope, we wouldn't plan too much for the future. I listened to a podcast a while ago that asked the question if you knew when you were going to die, how would that affect how you lived? My answer is it would affect how I saved (either squander it all or save more), how I ate (bacon three times a day or muesli for breakfast and salad for lunch), really, it would change everything. But I don't know the answer to that question. So I have hope and I plan.
     Iron Mike Tyson famously said, "Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face." And we've all been punched in the face before because well, life. Sometimes, those punches can knock you down and it takes a long, long time to get up, find that hope and start planning again. Life kind of forces you to put one foot in front of the other because the day after you get punched in the face, the mf sun comes up again. Not cool sun, not cool. Sometimes those steps may seem to shuffle along for a few seasons before you find the spring in your step. I haven't been punched in the face for a while (metaphorically), and that's a good thing.
     All of those punches, the face hits, the body shots and the glancing blows form the emotional scars we all carry around with us and hopefully (there's that hope and change again) as we get older, those punches become love taps and all the hope and planning, muesli and salad eating, saving and exercising pay off in the long run.
     Because I'm a hopeful mf, I'm still planning and looking forward to spending time with my daughter and brother on Maui, time with Gwyne, family and friends, near and far as I try to solve the retirement formula. How about you - what are you planning for?
   
 

Majuro

     A quick hour flight from Kwajalein to Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands and suddenly, you are in the Marshall Islands. I just spent  3 1/2 days there and a lot of memories of living in Micronesia (Saipan) and living on an outer island in the Marshall Islands (Kili) came flooding back.
     A few days in Majuro gave me plenty of time to ponder what’s next for me. Three+ days may not seem excessive, but the NTA hotspots didn’t reach my room, so I was alone with my thoughts for most of the time with no internet access. As a JOMO’s JOMO (Joy Of Missing Out), this wasn’t a problem for me, but I did miss the internet.
     I wandered around the downtown area, and in and out of what are now primarily Chinese owned stores. The produce section reminded me of the selections available when we first moved to Saipan in 1989 - cabbage and potatoes were staples, with a touch of mold thrown in for free. I don’t recall much outside produce available at all in Majuro in the 80’s. And on Kili? Fruit and vegetables consisted of canned USDA pears, that I had on oatmeal, most every day, for a year. Most every day, because we ran out of food sometimes. I have an aversion to pears to this day stemming from that extraordinarily repetitive experience.

Feels like, looks like Micronesia/the Marshall Islands

     I had lunch at the hospital in Majuro with friends and remembered my experience there when it was brand new back in 1987. I was playing basketball on Kili, came down on my ankle the wrong way from my 6 inch vertical leap and it hurt like the devil. They first tried a banana stalk poultice, which is kind of the panacea of all outer island cures and that didn’t work. Then they tried bitbit, which is a type of Marshallese healing massage. That didn’t work either and I’m certain they heard my scream on the other end of the island. I thought my ankle was broken, got on the next plane and somehow got myself to the hospital. There were two young women there who argued about who was going to take care of me and ended up playing janke (rock, paper, scissors) and the loser had to do the intake. She was surprised and more than a little embarrassed when I asked her in Marshallese why the loser had to take care of me, shouldn’t that have been the winner? They x-rayed my ankle, said it wasn’t broken/fractured, it was just a very bad sprain and I needed crutches. But they didn’t have any at the brand new hospital and they suggested I go to Mon Robert and buy a broom and break off the bottom. So that’s what I did and used it as a cane/crutch.
     And there I was, 30+ years later, strolling down memory lane, passing by the court house where I got my marriage license and ambling along the aisles of the same store I bought a broom in to use as a crutch/cane. It was there, probably in the broom aisle, that I had an epiphany. I’m a planner and I don’t have much of a plan for what happens after January 4th, when I leave Kwajalein. I’ve planned for all these years to get to retirement, but not so much for what to do when I get there. I thought I had a lot of life’s answers squared away, but the scale suddenly feels weighted with more questions than answers. I’ve got until about April 2020 loosely penciled in, but that’s about it. For me, the next chapter in life starts off with: I don't know how this story is going to end, but it’s been a hell of an interesting ride so far.

     

Countdown. Again. And side hustles.

     Here we go again. Another countdown, another go at retirement. I think it’s the 4th time I’ve tried to retire. There have been so many failures, it's hard to count. This work gig started out as a 4 month commitment, which turned into 7 months. I’m going to try to make it stick because it would be embarrassing to be a 5 time loser. For one, I’m almost 60. I’m tired of pulling these all day-ers. When you are nearly 60, afternoon delight is the indescribable feeling of putting in ear plugs, pulling the sleep mask on and taking a sweet, sweet nap.
     I’ve thought a lot about how you occupy your time in retirement - reading, writing, continuous learning, exercise, impulsive off season travel and maybe a side hustle or two. Because I'll be retired (again) I guess they'll just be hustles. One of my very favorite side hustles was growing papayas when we lived in Saipan. I had a good six years of abject failure. I did have one year of a few freak seedless, incredibly tasty papayas, but it was total crap shoot. Mostly I'd end up with wild papayas or useless males. Throw in the tropical storms and typhoons, which occurred with frightening regularity, and trying to grow anything there is a labor of love. Then I went to a papaya seminar at the University of Guam (yes, such a thing existed) and learned all of the papaya secrets, and no, I'm not going to tell you. But the next season was, as they say in Saipan farming jargon, jackpot. All of the papayas were either female or hermaphrodite (translation: they all had fruit). The fruit was uniform in size, texture and taste.

     There's my daughter with some of the papayas, and yes, they were all like that. I was a hero. The old farmers in my village came to me and asked me for papaya growing advice. I gave them the same bullshit answers they used to give me when I asked them for their secrets: pick out the blackest seeds. Put them in water, then only plant the ones that sink. Or plant only the ones that float. Only take seeds from the bottom half of the papaya. And they ended up with wild papayas or males.
     The family we lived with? They got all the secrets. And suddenly, just like the prized betel nut that grew in As-teo, it looked like it was a very special place for papayas as well. Just the sweet water and soil, I guess.  They gave me a chunk of land to grow more papayas on, which I cleared with a machete. I was a few years younger then. I could do whatever I wanted to do with the papayas, the caveat was when it was fiesta time, I would donate whatever I had on hand so they could make papaya coco (pickled papaya) for fiesta. And what I wanted to do was eat a lot of papaya and sell some to the high end hotels - that was my side hustle.
     And that papaya growing at one fiesta led to one of my more embarrassing moments in Saipan. Every village had a fiesta to honor their patron Saint. We lived close to the Shrine of Santa Lourdes, and you guessed it, she was our Saint. If you are part of a village in the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands, you participate in the fiesta. You contribute food, money and/or your time preparing the food. I had graduated from the grunt work of peeling garlic and cutting onion to contributing papaya and cooking food - this year, I was helping fry chicken with some guy I didn't know named Ramon who was dressed in ratty Army fatigues. We made small talk for a while, then got around to asking what we did on island, I told him I was a teacher at San Vicente Elementary School, he said he worked at the Court. I asked him what he did there and he said he was a judge. And then it hit me. Ahhhhhh. I had been frying chicken with Supreme Court Justice Ramon Villagomez. Doh.
     Retirement? Like Bill Clinton said, I have more yesterdays than tomorrow’s, so starting January 4, 2020, I’ll be trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up, this time with a bit more urgency.

I've made it

     As a blogger, I've made it. I finally got paid. I have a few different blogs, the most popular is/was the one on Afghanistan. I haven't updated that in years, because I haven't been there in years, but it still gets hits. The piss bottle http://bagrami.blogspot.com/2013/12/the-piss-bottle.html still is quite popular.
     I've written about medical tourism and living in Kuwait and life after work (mostly this blog) and finally thought I'd insert ads that if people click on them, I'd have a few coins thrown my way. That's really the way Google and Facebook work - they know who you are, what you do, what you're interested in and when you click on something I write, they offer you ads that you're interested in. If you click on them, they get money, and I do too. I know this, because I just got paid.
     Per Google's policies, I'm not allowed to say click on the ads. So I don't. But because I'm so flush in cash, after getting paid, I don't have to.
     After making it, I still plan to write. About my most recent trip(s) to SE Asia.

About my most recent work gig on Kwajalein, about life after working. Which again, is going to happen in January. But what am I going to do with my pay out from blogging? I'm going to squander it. All $100.03 of it. 

Corruption

     I think you’ll find corruption no matter where you go in the world, but in some countries, it’s more endemic (or tolerated) than others. In Vietnam, for example, tourists on motorcycles are routinely shaken down (or at least I was) for not having a Vietnamese license. Okay, it’s illegal to ride a motorcycle without a Vietnamese license so you know there’s a risk. But motorcycles are freely rented out to anyone with a drivers license, passport and enough cash and it seems to be only the Western tourists who are pulled over. There is a ‘fine’ to be paid then and there. The police were obviously not impressed with my Marshallese drivers license, which does have a motorcycle endorsement, nor would they accept my international drivers license.

Unimpressive, evidently.

There’s really no point in arguing, you’re in their country, so you’re wrong. At least that’s the way they see it. I just pull out my fake wallet which has my Marshallese drivers license, an expired credit card and 20,000 dong in it and tell them it’s all I have. That’s about 86 cents for those not interested in doing the math. You know you’re going to get fleeced, just smile and enjoy the feeling of fleecing the fleecer. Then I ride down the road, stop, put another 20,000 dong bill in my fake wallet and carefully hide my real wallet.
     Corruption. In 2005, I was sent to a 12 week course in Hawaii at the Asian Pacific Center for Security Studies. There were 105 high ranking military and diplomats from Asia and the Pacific studying regional and global security issues and ways to enhance security cooperation. It was an interesting group and some of topics covered were transnational crime, transparency in government, illegal drug production/distribution patterns around the world, human trafficking and reducing corruption, to name but a few. Small groups were given complicated problems to solve and then present the solution to the entire class; ours was to find the best way to curtail opium production in Afghanistan.
     Right after the lectures, there were always two individuals who raced to ask the first question, one was Colonel Chris Weiker, Canadian Forces and the other would blow into the microphone to ensure it was on before announcing, “I am Trachean, from Bhutan.” There were a few more who enjoyed hearing the sound of their own voices, but those two ALWAYS had to ask a question. As an introvert or what I feel is a more accurate description - a JOMO (Joy Of Missing Out) see link here:  https://www.economist.com/business/2019/01/31/the-two-tribes-of-working-life I was not one of the questioners after lectures. Ever.
     Our team was composed of bright, well educated, articulate and talented individuals who were completely capable of presenting our solution. Even though I obviously wasn’t one of the chatty Cathy’s of the course, when time came to discuss who would present our findings, there was no discussion. Every index finger pointed at me, the sole native speaker of the group. As a JOMO’s JOMO, I don’t people particularly well. But I have a switch somewhere inside me that I can turn on and rock a presentation. And I did. When I was finished, a Colonel in the Cambodian Police who I knew fairly well stood up and said, “Your presentation was well thought out, excellent and thorough. But you forgot one thing.” “Yes sir, what is that?” I replied. He said, “Look at my uniform. Look how many pockets it has. Your budget forgot to put something in my pockets.” His uniform did indeed have six pockets. Now that’s some chutzpah. Here was someone attending a US funded course espousing good governance and anti corruption and he was suggesting our plan would fail because we didn’t include bribes as part of our budget.
     He was right of course, but I think it still took some courage to say that in front of everyone. I clumsily explained that the US Government does not participate in nor condone bribery as part of their foreign policy outreach. But without the help and support of local officials on the ground, any plan to curtail opium production would be doomed. There’s really only one way to get the help and support of local officials in Afghanistan, and that’s by putting something in their pocket(s).
     I’m in Cambodia now, and that Colonel in the Cambodian police I met in Hawaii is now a Lt. General. That’s three stars for those counting. We had dinner last night and then went to one of his families homes.

Sok Sareth, 16 years later. He still looks the same. 

We had a good chuckle over him calling me out all those years ago because I forgot to include bribes in our budget. We caught up on other colleagues, where they were, what they were doing and talked about the price of real estate in Cambodia and what it takes to buy real estate here. Cambodian citizenship is what it takes. Taiwanese pay $500,000, Chinese $250,000 and then there is a lower cost (and longer process) cut rate price of $70,000 for that passport. We talked about new visa entry requirements for the US under the Trump administration (spoiler alert - it’s a lengthier and more complicated process) and he said that from his perspective, China was ascending in world affairs and America was on the decline. Great discussions and an interesting night.
     I have a few more days left in Phnom Penh. While I don’t go into sketchy establishments where you are practically asking for trouble,  trouble can still track you down in Phnom Penh. I’ll be on a bicycle the next few days in this crazy city traffic, so it’s  reassuring to know I have his card and phone number should anything happen. ‘Cause there’s still just a wee touch of corruption in Cambodia.
   
     

My identity

     I am who I am, there’s never been any ambiguity about that, until now. When I was a kid in school I was Al or Alan. As I got older, I worked construction every summer and Christmas on Kwajalein in the late 70’s and early 80’s when I came home from college. The workforce was primarily from Hawaii, so I was haole boy. My boss, Chige Sakamoto seemed to revel in barking out, “Haole boy! Come!” I was the only haole around, everyone knew, it was just who I was. Haole boy.  When I lived on Kili Island in the Marshall Islands, I was ri belle to the kids, or to the youngest, simply belle (ri belle is Marshallese for white person or foreigner). The entire year I was there, every time kids who weren’t in school saw me, the would yell out, “Belle, belle, belle, belle, belle!” My retort was, “Majol, majol, majol, majol, majol!” (Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese, Marshallese!) But it was okay because that’s who I was/am. A ri belle. In Saipan? I was just another American. I remember sitting around with our Chamorro family one Friday evening and they were complaining about Americans on island and how they didn’t respect the local culture. I raised my eyebrows and looked around the group and someone suddenly said, “Oh, but not you guys. You’re okay.” Whew. That’s who I was/am. Another American. I’ve been in Vietnam for a few weeks and have been to some out of the way places where they’re not used to foreigners of any type showing up. The gasps are audible, people whisper and point and then shyly come up and either try to practice their English or ask for a photo with the foreign devil. I have no idea what they call me, but that’s what I am in Vietnam, just another foreign devil. A nice foreign devil, but still.
     But not here in Nha Trang. It’s a weird demographic. There are primarily local Vietnamese, Vietnamese tourists, Chinese and Russians. Russians. Lots and lots of Russians. From 1978 to 2002, Cam Ranh bay, a deep water port about 50 kilometers south of Nha Trang was leased to the USSR Navy. Russian military families migrated up to Nha Trang, which has a lovely, curving beach and started to create a Russian community there. There are now direct charter flights that disgorge even more Russians directly to Nha Trang.

Store for???

     Back to me. Al, Alan, Haole boy, ri belle, belle, just another American, Mr. Dragon (see last blog), foreign devil and now...I’m apparently Russian. I’m clearly not Vietnamese or Chinese. I stay in $25 - 30/night hotels, so I’m not taken for a ragged Western backpacker, clearly, I must be Russian.

Pretty sure they’re Russian

When I go into a store to buy something, they say, Spasibo (thank you). Da. Nyet. But this is what I say to let them know I’m not Russian: Я не голосовал за Трампа. Translation: I didn’t vote for Trump. Reclaiming my identity! Reclaiming my identity!

Mr. Dragon

     I was first exposed to dragon fruit in Phnom Penh, around 1998. I have a pretty good knowledge of tropical fruits, but dragon fruit was brand new to me. I was teaching 4th grade in Saipan way back then and a former teacher from Kwajalein, who was teaching at an international school in Cambodia got in contact with me through a mutual friend. He was interested in coming to Saipan and wanted to know if I’d answer a few questions about working and living on Saipan. We had an AMA (Ask Me Anything) session via e-mail and I gave him what I perceived to be the good, bad and ugly about living and teaching on Saipan. After a few more work/life discussions over e-mail, he told me he was taking his middle school class to Angkor Wat for a field trip and asked if I wanted to tag along.

1. I repeat. He was taking his class to Angkor Wat for a field trip. Wow.
2. I asked my wife for permission (really, I begged. Angkor Wat was on my bucket list) and she generously gave me a kitchen pass.

     Before my wife could change her mind, I quickly made reservations and within a few days I was on my way to Phnom Penh. The visa on entry process, including a payment of $20 in US cash, was interesting. Process is not exactly the right word. It resembled a rugby scrum, with everyone waving their $20 in a semi circle, trying to push their way forward to get the visa raj to take your money and stamp your passport. I eventually made my way to the front of the line, got my visa and floundered out into the hot, sticky air of Phnom Penh.  David’s wife Nam had kindly offered to pick me up at the airport.  I hopped on the back of Nam’s moto (the ubiquitous 110cc motorcycle in SE Asia), and silently thanked myself for being a light traveler - I had a small duffel bag, she put that between her legs and I held on for dear life as she beeped her horn and weaved in and out of the chaotic Cambodian traffic.  She took me to their apartment, where I met their daughter, Tu. David came in a bit later from school and Nam quickly prepared an unbelievable meal. The food was excellent, but every aspect of the multi course meal stood out because of her exquisite presentation. Things that seem special to me (cutting chile or green onion, putting it in ice water so it would curl like a flower, for example) were normal for her. Every plate had the exact amount of garnishing in the same place, and perhaps because I’m not a gourmand, it was quite impressive. At the end of the meal, she plopped down what looked to me like big chunks of Gouda cheese on a plate for dessert. Red skin on the outside, yellow on the inside. I experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance, after such an incredible meal, the dessert was these huge hunks of cheese? But no, that was my introduction to dragon fruit. The fruit itself didn’t overwhelm, it wasn’t an OMG moment like the first time I had mangosteen or rambutan, but it certainly piqued my interest. There were seeds in the yellow flesh and I asked about them, how the plant grew. Both Nam and Tu told me that dragon fruit did not grow from seeds, like a banana, you had to take the shoots and transplant them. When they said that, I started taking those tiny black seeds out and putting them on the side. Challenge accepted.
     The trip to Angkor Wat with those rascally middle schoolers is another story, but Angkor Wat did not disappoint.
     I’m in Vietnam right now and it seems like every fruit - mango, longan, lychee, rambutan, the queen of fruits, mangosteen and the king, durian - are all in season. There is also no shortage of dragon fruit. I took an 8 hour train trip from Ho Chi Minh City to Nha Trang a few days ago and saw where all of the dragon fruit in the world is grown. At least that’s what it looked like to me as hours and hours passed with nothing but dragon fruit plantations on either side of the train. Seeing all of the dragon fruit brought back fond memories of David, Nam and Tu and the humorous dragon fruit discussions we had. Nam and Tu were adamant that you couldn’t grow it from seed, I said I’m going to try; they had a good time teasing me saying that it wasn’t possible.

    More dragon fruit than you can shake a stick at. 

     I had no idea about how it was grown, didn’t even know what type of plant it was. But I’m a curious fellow (and a little stubborn as well) and gave it a shot. When I got back to Saipan, I was able to start and grow some dragon fruit plants. They even flowered, but they never fruited. When David, Nam and Tu finally came to Saipan, we had them over and I casually led Nam and Tu over to my dragon fruit plants and said, “Oh, what are these? Where could they have come from? Are these dragon fruit plants?” They were stunned. We had made an agreement in Phnom Penh. If I was able to grow dragon fruit from seed, then they would have to call me something other than Alan. And for the rest of the time they were on Saipan, Nam and Tu honored the deal and  called me by just one of the many names I go by..Mr. Dragon.