Tibetan Dogs On The Prowl

There is an old joke about Tibetan street dogs that is more than part true.

Why do you need two sticks to take a shit in Tibet?

One to hold onto and another to beat off the dogs.

I never had occasion to relieve myself in the cities of Tibet, however more than once I found myself confronted by packs of dog.

Vicious snarling mutts descended from the famed mastiffs of the Himalayas.

Scared.

You bet I was.

They were everywhere in the 90s.

The Tibetans considered them sacred.

The Chinese authorities decided the kill off the mongrels.

By the thousands.

But they live on.

By the millions.

Free Tibet Now And Then

Back in 1998 I went down to Washington with my father. The ostensible purpose was to visit my cousin Cindi in Annapolis. My secondary reason was to protest against the World Bank with the Free Tibet Society. My father was comfortable situated with my cousin, her daughters, and husband. He had his crossword puzzle and a glass of white wine. I mentioned the demonstration and my old man said, "Aren't you a little too old for fighting with police."

"This will be a peaceful gathering."

"I don't want to get a phone call from the police." He handed me the keys to his car.

"I don't plan on getting arrested." I had never been caught by the cops during the anti-war movement in my youth.

"You're not as fast as you used to be." Cindi had been with me on Boston Common for a massive gathering protesting the invasion of Cambodia.

"I won't do anything stupid and at the first sign of trouble, I'm out of there." She was right. I couldn't outrun any pursuit other than by fat people.

"If you're going into DC, then parking could be difficult." Her husband gave me his pass for parking in the National Geographic HQ. He was an editor for that esteemed magazine.

"I'll be back before dark."

"If not, we'll send out a search party." My father held up his glass for more wine. It was almost noon. No one said anything. He was still mourning my mother.

Traffic into DC was light and I drove down New York Avenue to the center of the city. Various convoys of black Ford Suburbans sped past me. The SUVs were loaded with crew-cut men with steroid-thick necks. They were out-of-town reinforcements for the DC police.

During the early 70s I had protested against the Viet-Nam War with a college friend from Northern VA. We also drank at the Tap o Keg on Wisconsin Avenue. After parking my father's car under the National Geographic offices, I phone Tom McNelly's old number. It was disconnected, so I started searching through the crowds for my Tibetan friends. Finding them was an impossible task and I found myself in front of the World Bank HQ, as the buses were bringing in the delegates for their meeting. A phalanx on cops pushed us back.

I said, “Hey, I’m moving.

The cop in front of me jabbed my stomach with his nightstick.

His second hit was on my wrist. I hadn't done anything wrong, but I had had enough and retreated to the National Geographic parking lot, where I retrieved the car and drove back to Annapolis to drink wine and eat soft-shelled crab by the harbor. My father asked how it went.

I told him, “As I expected.”

"Glad you're in one piece." We clinked glasses and he said, "Free Tibet."

"Free the world." My cousin and her husband joined the toast.

It was a good cause.

Ganden Mud

In 1995 I went up to Ganden monastery with my friend Tim Challen. The Red Guard had destroyed the temple complex during the Cultural Revolution. The Tibetans were finally rebuilding it in the 90s. I joined the volunteers in tramping around the roof singing Louie Louie. It's an easy song to learn and a good one for tramping in the mud. Free Tibet.

The Sky Of Road

In my earlier years I traveled the world.

I loved seeing vistas such as this one.

I'll see them again, although maybe not the north side of Mt. Everest from Tibet.

Lhasa Guitar Boy

Shot By Tim Challen

Hell on Earth Tibet

After my youngest brother's demise to AIDS in 1995 I traveled to several of Asia's most holy sites to expiate his sins.

Some of mine too.

My main destination was Lhasa and I spent two months there drinking beer and walking around the Jokhrang, the Tibetan cathedral to Buddhism.

The Chinese presence was noticeable with soldiers posted on the outskirts and undercover police scattered amongst the pilgrims to suppress any mention of the Dalai Lama.

The authorities were also engaged in tearing down the old section of the city to erect modern buildings, mostly because the Central Bureau understands that order brings power and chaos brings disaster, however few people in the West about the wholesale destruction of Tibetan Culture, especially when their heaven of consumerism is collapsing like a castle of sand.

Only one voice is heard in this desert.

"Tibet has become "hell on earth," Dalai Lama said to the public on the 50th anniversary of the failed uprising in 1959.

On that day 300,000 Tibetans gathered around the grounds to prevent the Chinese from arresting their spiritual leader.

Their blockade was futile and the Dalai Lama fled over the Himalayas to conduct a campaign of non-violence against the Chinese occupation of his homeland. Fearful of another outbreak against their authority such as the 2008 Losar uprising the Chinese security forces have reinforced the high plateau with hordes of police and soldiers.

No reporters are allowed within the old boundaries of Tibet and all tourists have been issued restricted visas.

Only rumors filter from Tibet, as the Dalai Lama promotes the Middle Way to contest the Chinese rule.

"I have no doubt that the justice of Tibetan cause will prevail if we continue to tread a path of truth and nonviolence. We have to prepare for the worst. At the same time, we should not give up our hope."

Ireland never gave up hope.

Not for 400 years of British occupation.

I can only pray that Tibet can triumph against the odds.

Tibet go bragh.

Freedom will come one day, for in the words of the deceased IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands, "Our revenge will be the laughter of our children."

Bad Road In Tibet

My visa for China was running out at the end of October 1995. My overland departure to Nepal had been delayed by a massive avalanche smothering Tibet-Nepal Friendship Highway, but the staff at the Snowlands Hotel in Lhasa announced that a rough track had been opened through the fall area and I bought a ticket to Kathmandu. The bus only went as far as Shigatze, where we switched to a van, since the makeshift road couldn't support the weight of a fully loaded van.

We reached the distressed stretch in the afternoon. The driver hadn't exaggerated about the condition of the road and he suggested that we walk across the freshly cleared half-mile path.

"Rock fall. Hit van. Die."

He wasn't joking.

Some of the stones were bigger than a house, although a few tourists complained about the walk.

I ignored their whining and hurried to the other side of the fall. The rest joined me a minute later, but a German tourist lingered, shooting pictures of the impressive chasm with his Leica.

Someone shouted and we looked up the steep slope. A gigantic rock had shaken loose the grip of the scree and was starting to tumble gathering speed. The tourist was in its path. We yelled to him, but he was focusing the lenses on the Himalayas.

"My husband," cried a middle-aged woman. "Hilf ihm."

Like what?" I asked, for he was too faraway from safety to help him.

"Something," pleaded a German woman.

"There is nothing to do." The Tibetan guide shook his head. The man's fate was in the hands of the Gods, but we continued to shout.

He finally heard us and waved with a smile.

We pointed at the bounding boulder and he realized the danger, running to the right. The rock bounced in that direction. He juked to the left and the boulder followed suit. The tourist froze in his tracks, as the stone bounced in the air.

His wife screamed.

Her husband was destined for death far from Germany, except the boulder landed twenty feet before him and caromed over his head to smash down the slope to the river below.

The German woman sobbed with relief, as her husband rejoined her. All the Tibetans touched him for good luck. The man laughed foolishly, knowing in another path of existence he was dead.

The van traversed the dirt track and the driver muttered to the guide about stupid tourists.

They understood the power of the mountains and fear fate.

We reached the Nepalese border at sunset. The van dropped us at a hotel. I stayed at a different one than the Germans, because he had used up his life's allotment for luck and being around him wasn't a risk for anyone other than the foolhardy. The Tibetans felt the same way and we drank beer, toasting the stars and heavens and the Himalayas.

With respect.

Because they deserved it.

Ganden Sky Burial

A mango tree shaded our old house in Sri Racha. Birds roosted on the branches. Our next-door neighbor hated the tree. Its leaves fell into their yard, even though the tree's spread of shade cooled down both houses.

My neighbor only saw the leaves and the other week she called up the electricity office to trim the tree, while we were away in the country.

Upon my return I wanted to confront her about this assault on my tree , but Mam advises to keep a jai yen on these matters, since a cool head is easier to live with than a hot heart.

The next day I smiled at my neighbor without humor. She smiled back wondering how I would right her wrong. I smiled again communicating that my revenge was only in my mind and she smiled with gratitude. The Thais have more names for a smile than a Wall Street banker has for ripping off money from the taxpayers.

This week a small bird fell from the tree in front of Fenway and me. Its mother swooped to the ground and attempted to get its baby to fly, but the little bird was grounded by a broken wing.

Fenway was almost four year-old. He grabbed the little bird and put its body in a box, promising to heal its wing.

"I want to be doctor."

"Good boy." My grandfather had been a doctor in the Great War. I hoped that his skill might have been passed down to my son, but his mother knew the truth.

"Let him dream." It had been a long time since either of us had been so young.

"Bird will die." Mam was a fatalist.

"Not up to us. Up to Buddha."

We fed the little bird rice and its mother came to visit the stricken bird. Our efforts fell short and three days ago the little bird expired in the night. In the morning Mam asked me to bury the bird.

"Is that what Thais do with dead birds?"

"I not want cat eat." The Thais buried nothing.

"Okay." I sat down at the computer and searched google for 'thai bird burial'.

Tibetan sky burials covered the first five pages and no narrowing or broadening of the search words returned a traditional Thai bird burial ceremony, so I decided to give the little bird a sky burial.

Years ago I had been trekking around the Ganden Monastery in Tibet. Tim Challen and I were accompanied by two Canadian women who had been attending the Women conference in Beijing. Scores of golden vultures were gliding to a cliff top overlooking a fog-shrouded river. A gargoyle of a man stood over a human body. He held a savage cleaver in both hands. His bald head glistened with sweat, as he hacked the corpse into smaller pieces. A monk watched from a short distance. His prayers were a mantra caught by the wind. The vultures came to his call and swallowed chunks of flesh whole.

"What are they doing?" The girl from Toronto asked with wide eyes.

"It's a sky burial. Tibetans and Zorasterians believe that putting a body in the earth defile the world, so they let the vultures take them." I had read about this rite in Francis Younghusband's journal about his invasion of Tibet.

"It's disgusting." Ann was a homeopathic nurse. She hated the sight of blood.

The burial butcher waved for us to come closer.

The two girls argued against our interference with the sanctity of this moment.

Tim and I hadn't traveled thousands of miles to miss such a sight.

"If you want to keep walking, go ahead." Tim was a young man of 18.

"You can't be serious." Ann's friend was a squat feminist who had little use for men other than cadge food off them.

"Dead serious," I said and Tim and I joined the sky burial, as the two women stomped off in anger.

The vultures hobbled over the rocks to pick at the flesh. Their skull dipped blood. The sun broke through the clouds. Tim and I looked at the dead man's face. He wasn't wearing a smile. The monk lifted his hands from prayer to indicate that this was the way of the eternal wheel. We left before the butcher chopped apart the skull. Some things were better left to the imagination.

"What are you going to do with the bird," asked Mam that evening.

"A sky burial." I wrapped the little bird in plastic.

"Nang fan?" Thais burned their dead.

"Yes." I went outside and chucked the still body onto the roof. I didn't bother to say any prayers. I didn't know any for dead birds.

"So that sky burial?" Mam asked with Fenway hugging her legs.

"Same as they do in Tibet." I didn't explain about cutting up the bodies.

"I not sure."

"I've been to Tibet. I know what to do with the dead bird."

Farang bah." The Thais thought all westerners were crazy and I know what they would do with my corpse, if given the chance.

It had nothing to do with the sky.

Showing Your Humanity

During my treks through Tibet and Nepal I encountered herders on the trails. Each time they stuck out their tongue. My Sherpa guide explained that this custom proved that they were not a reincarnation of an evil spirit and human.

This greeting was repeated with regularity and I pondered how many evil reincarnations wandered the high country seeking hapless souls.

Even Albert Einstein picked up the practice to show he was a normal person.

Politicians generally don't stick out their tongues. They look ridiculous and voters don't want their leaders to look ridiculous like Pierre Trudeau.

Or John McCain.

Politicians prefer babies, although they act the way they want to act on cue.

Shaking hands has worked for many pols.

Although nothing reveals humanity more than eating food like Jimmy Carter jawing on ribs with his brother Billy.

Or George W Bush gnawing on a corn cob.

And Barack Obama scarfing a hot dog.

Ronald Reagan chomping on pizza.

And what about Gerald Ford.

A true man of the people.

Not everyone is so human.

George Bush # 1 had jaws.

Hillary Clinton had a small mouth.

And Donald Trump just wants something in his mouth so bad.

Of course me I love fried clams from Tony's on Wollaston Beach.

Like Putin I like my beer.

Guess the KGB boss is more human than I thought.

But I still would want him to prove it by sticking out his tongue.

His heading a soccer ball doesn't count.

Then again neither does Trump sticking out his tongue, because evil can be tricky, especially from a man who lies about his baldness.

BIrd Funeral

A mango tree shades the house in Sri Racha. Birds roost on the branches. Our next-door neighbor hates the tree. Its leaves fall into their yard. The tree cools down both houses, but the neighbor only sees the leaves and the other week she called up the electricity office to trim the tree, while we were away. I wanted to say something to her, but Mam advises to keep a jai yen on these matters, since a cool head is easier to live with than a hot heart. I smiled at her without humor. She smiled back wondering what I would do to right her wrong. I smiled again communicating that my revenge was only in my mind and she smile with gratitude. The Thais have more names for a smile than a Wall Street banker has for ripping off money from the taxpayers. This week a small bird fell from the tree in front of Fenway and me. Its mother swooped to the ground and attempted to get its baby to fly, but the little bird was grounded by a broken wing. Fenway is almost four year-old. He grabbed the little bird and put its body in a box, promising to heal its wing. His mother and I knew the truth. Mam was younger than me, but it had been a long time since either of us had been three years old. We fed the little bird rice and its mother came to visit the stricken bird. Our efforts fell short and three days ago the little bird expired in the night. In the morning Mam asked me to bury the bird. "Is that what Thais do with dead birds?" "I not want cat eat." "Okay." I sat down at the computer and searched google for 'thai bird burial'. Tibetan sky burials covered the first five pages and no narrowing or broadening of the search words returned a traditional Thai bird burial ceremony, so I decided to give the little bird a sky burial. Years ago I had been trekking around the Ganden Monastery in Tibet. Tim Challen and I were accompanied by two Canadian women who had been attending the Women conference in Beijing. Scores of golden vultures were gliding to a cliff top overlooking a fog shrouded river. A gargoyle of a man stood over a human body. He held a savage cleaver in both hands. His bald head glistened with sweat, as he hacked the corpse into smaller pieces. A monk watched from a short distance. His prayers were a mantra caught by the wind. The vultures came to his call and swallowed chunks of flesh whole. "What are they doing?" The girl from Toronto asked with wide eyes. "A sky burial. Tibetans and Zorasterians believe that putting a body in the earth defile the world, so they let the vultures take them." I had read about this rite in Francis Younghusband's journal about his invasion of Tibet. "It's disgusting." Ann was a homeopathic nurse. She hated the sight of blood. The burial butcher turned around and waved for us to come closer. The two girls argued about the sanctity of this moment. Tim and I hadn't traveled thousands of miles to miss such a sight. "If you want to keep walking, go ahead." Tim was young. 18 years old. British. This was something neither of us would ever see again. "You can't be serious." Ann's friend was a squat feminist who had little use for men other than cadge good off them. "Dead serious." Tim and I joined the sky burial. The two women stomped off in anger. The vultures hobbled over the rocks to pick at the flesh. Their skull were red. The sun broke through the clouds. Tim and I looked at the dead man's face. He wasn't wearing a smile. We left before the butcher chopped apart the skull. Somethings were better left to the imagination. The little bird didn't require such a strenuous effort. I went outside and chucked the still body onto the roof. I didn't bother to say any prayers. I didn't know any for dead birds. "What you do with bird?" Mam asked with Fenway hugging her legs. "I took care of it right." "Sure." "I've been to Tibet. I know what to do with the dead bird." I certainly know what they would do with me, if given the chance.

NOTHING BETTER THAN PIZZA by Peter Nolan Smith

Back in 1995 I left the USA after the death of my younger brother. My plan was to visit the holiest places in Asia. I was a non-believer, but believed this pilgrimage would help Michael's soul in eternity.

By late August I had reached in old Yunnan city of Lijiang in Southern China. My hotel room had a view of the Jade Snow Dragon Mountain farther up the valley. Most travelers visited the old stone city with its traditional Naxhi influences and then headed off to hike the Tiger Leaping Gorge on the Yangtze River.

I skipped the hike down the swollen gorge. It was rainy season and the footing was treacherous on the dirt paths.

Returning backpackers reveled each other with the legend of a lone Israeli hiker who fell from the trail and broke his leg. His cries for help were drowned out by the rushing rapids and he died of starvation within 20 feet of the trail. The story sounded like a myth, since the nationality, sex, age, and year changed with each telling.

Still I refused many offers from passing tourists to join their trek.

I was happy in Lijiang and became friendly with two Frenchmen laying fiber optic cables between Lijiang and Dali, another tourist destination to the south. They asked why I was here. I explained how my younger brother had died of AIDS. We drank beer to Michael's memory. They said that they had been working on the project for a half-year without a break.

I suggested a day's holiday.

"And go where?" Jacques had traveled most of the roads of Sichuan.

"Chengdu is twelve hours away." Yves had recently driven back and forth to pick up a transformer. "The roads through the mountains were scary and the food is the same as here."

"My guide book says there is a ski slope on the Snow Jade Dragon Mountain, but none of the locals know anything about it."

"Pas vrai? Le ski ici?" Yves laughed in my face.

"Maybe they have a chalet with fondue."

"Fondue. Je reve du fondu," Jacques whimpered with an often dreamed desire. "Could it be possible?"

"Only one way to find out. We can drive there."

"Non, let's bicycle." Each of us had rented a bike to travel around Lijiang. It was a fairly flat town.

"On Sunday?"

'Pour-quoi pas?" Yves and Jacques had off both days of the weekend.

"Weather permitting." The Snow Jade Dragon Mountain related to the Himalayas. Storms brewed in the high peaks at all times of the year, but Sunday morning the clouds had cleared on the summit and the three of us met for a quick breakfast of rice and eggs.

"On y va."

Yves was very fit and was soon out of sight, while Jacques and I pedaled leisurely up the gradually ascending road with the wind in our faces.

The Snow Jade Dragon Mountain gleamed in the sun. We reached the top of the pass in three hours. At the base of the mountain a badly weathered billboard announced our arrival at the ski slope, which was actually was a chute for toboggans. Skiing in Yunnan had been a lie, but that came as no surprise, since the Chinese adapted many western trends to their culture without shame.

Yves waited at a restaurant serving rice and noodles in a chicken broth. The Chinese tourists happily slurped at the warm food. Jacques oared noodles from the bowl to his mouth.

"So much for the Jean-Claude Killy ski resort."

"At least they have beer." Yves had built up a good thirst after the long bike ride.

After several beers the Frenchmen and I descended on dirt trails through ancient villages and our conversation turned to food.

"The food here is better than most of China," I said, but after a month's stay in Lijiang I had punched two extra holes in my belt.

"I am starving't on noodles and rice." Jacques came from Nice and sighed, "I am dying for bouillabaisse and a bottle of vin blanc."

Yves countered by extolling the oysters of his native Normandy, while I praised Lobster Newburg from Boston's Durgin Park.

"Oysters, bouillabaisse, Lobster Newburg." Jacques spat on the ground. "China has none of that."

"They don't even have simple foods like a baguette and cheese." Yves licked at his lips with a dry tongue.

"There's no cheese in China or baguettes, but there is a pizza shop in Kathmandu."

"Kathmandu? That is a thousand miles away." Jacques frowned at this choice. "We will not be going that way."

"But I will and I'll write to tell you all about it, because there is no better food in the world than pizza. My younger brother and I ate pizza at Villa Rosa in Wollaston once a month. I hoped that they served it on the other side of life.

"Peut-etre." Yves wasn't a true believer in pizza, but Jacques said, "J'adore le pizza."

"Moi aussi."

A month later I bid fare-well to the Frenchmen. They were stuck in Lijiang for another half-year.

"Write us about the pizza. We will be waiting." Yves wished me well.

"Better yet, mail us one. Stall pizza can't be any worse than noodles." Jacques was serious and gave me $20.

A day later I traveled north to Chengdu, where I caught a flight to Tibet.

I stayed in Lhasa two months.

Everyday I set fire to aromatic fir branches and circled the Jokhang Temple every day counter-clockwise and clockwise. I taught English to rinoches or reincarnated monks and workers. I told them about my dead brother. They graciously offered to pray for Michael. I wrote a letter to the Frenchman telling them that the food in Lhasa was even worst than that of Lijiang.

"Burnt hairy yak meat and rancid butter tea loaded with salt. Next week I'm heading to Kathmandu for pizza." My visa for China terminated in seven days.

I hitchhiked on the Sino-Nepal Friendship Highway across the bone-dry plateau to the Himalayas. A tourist van picked me up in Gyantze. The highway wound along the Bum-Chu River. The only signs of civilization were the Chinese checkpoints. After Tingri the road climbed 16,900 feet to the Yakrushong La. The snowy peaks stretched from east to west without a break. The pass was higher than any mountain in Europe. It was almost impossible to breathe.

The driver stopped at a caravansary.

Noodles and broth.

The inn's walls were carpeted by fat flies. I ate nothing. Even the beer looked dangerous.

That evening we arrived at the border of Nepal and booked a cheap room in a cheap hotel in Zhamgnmu. The filthy dining room served rice and noodles. I drank beer from the bottle.

In the morning caught a mini-van bound for Kathmandu. I refused all food on the road. Pizza was on my mind. We reached Nepal's capitol within five hours. I checked into the Yeti Hotel. The cheapest room was $20. I asked about pizza. The desk clerk gave me directions to the restaurant and a rickshaw conveyed me to Fire and Ice located in a new building close to the Royal Palace. The clientele was divided between rich Nepalis and homesick westerners. I ordered a small l'Americano with pepperoni and a large bottle of Kingfisher beer. The waiter brought a glass filled with ice. Ice could be deadly, but I had survived yak meat in Tibet.

A half hour later the pizza came with a knife and fork.

I stared at the plate for several seconds. The pizza looked nothing like the pie from the Villa Rosa.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?" The waiter must have seen my expression of disappointment on the faces of other pizza lovers.

"Nothing at all."

The pizza was nan covered with clouts of goat Nepali cheese topped by a thick ketchup sauce. The pepperoni sweated on the heated pizza. I lowered my head to the plate. It smelled like pizza and I picked up a piece. My first bite told the truth. This was Nepal and there wasn't any better pizza within several thousand miles. I took a bite.

"How do you like the pizza, sir?" asked the waiter.

"It's the best this side of the Himalayas." I ate every crumb. My younger brother must have been laughing from the other side and I asked the waiter, "Can I have two to go and packed them really well."

"Yes, sir."

I got to the Kathmandu Post Office ten minutes before closing.

The clerk secured the pizzas in a shipping box and I wrote the Frenchmen, "I love pizza."

And the pizza in Kathmandu certainly tasted better than yak meat, then again anything tasted good when you're hungry.

Three days later I was stricken with giardia. My intestines had been poisoned by bacteria. The source of infection couldn't have been the pizza and I blamed the ice for the beer.

It was the usual suspect in the Orient.

For a week I suffered from diarrhea, abdominal cramps, nausea, loss of appetite, passage of gas from more than one orifice, and horrible weakness. My planned trip to Annapurna was postponed by the illness. The hotel staff was very helpful. They dealt with stomach ailments on a daily basis and knew of one cure.

Tea and toast for seven days.

Once I was better, I put myself on the scales at the hotel.

175 pounds.

I had lost nearly fifteen pounds.

And my first real meal was pizza l'Americano at the Fire and Ice.

Plus three Kingfisher beers.

No ice.

Nothing was better than pizza and my younger brother, Michael, knew that too.

Both in this life and the Here-After.

A Red Line In The Afghan Sand

Throughout April 1975 the NVA and Viet Cong drove the ARVN from every province. Troops threw away their uniforms. Artillery was abandoned on the road. M16s were tossed into rice paddies. It was Thân ai nấy lo or 'Every man for himself' and all combatants and civilians fled the countryside for Saigon hoping that the Americans saved them from their communist countrymen.

Not a chance and in the last week of April the artillery shells crated Tan Son Nhut Airport's runways and exploded amongst the hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese government officials and their families seeking flight to anywhere, but Saigon. The Viet Cong had countless scores to settle from the Ten-Thousand Day War or Resistance War against America. There were lists. The names belonged to generals, touturers, intelligence agents, spies, or quỷ quyệt or snitches, thieves, drug dealers and every genre of criminal parasites, but not even a man with a brick of gold there were only so many seats. Chaos ruled the airstairs. Everyone remembers Herbert Von Es' foto of the last helicopter from the US Embassy roof, but the last US soldier to leave Vietnam was General Homer Duggins Smith, a friend's father, from the airport and he never looked back on that day as anything than a miracle. At the end of Operation Frequent Wind. Rear Adm. Donald B. Whitmire told his men: "The sooner we get out of here, the faster we'll get a Budweiser."

There are no Budweisers anymore in Afghanistan. The Taliban have seize control of Kabul. Thousands of foreigners are stranded in the city along with thousands of Afghanis employed by the USA. The American media continues to harp on the similarities to Saigon, except there has been no shelling of the Airport. No rounding-up of soldiers. The refugees are allowed to enter the terminals as planes come and go to countries willing to accepting the fearful. The Taliban is happy to see them go. Less mouths to feed. Less of a threat of insurrection. Better they should go, but they will never be welcome back.

The victors have told the the American military that the red line for departure is August 31, 2021, as promised by President Biden. Eleven more days. Time to get your ass in gear, because there are only two options.

Stay or go>

Me, I would have already been 'went'and I don't drink no more.

Allah Akbar.

Doppelganger 2021

Throughout the last two years Sharif and I had worked together on various projects for Ole Yellah. The German restaranteur has her ways. She expect things to be done perfectly even if no one has done them before. Even she.

Sharif and I do our best. Our best is not perfection. Ole Yellah likes to raise her voice. We can deal with it in short doses.

Sharif and I live on Clinton Hill a block apart.

Outside of work we run into each other often and he introduces his friends from the 'hood.

None of them remember my name, because all white people look the same.

Randy is a bum on Myrtle Avenue. He and his wife had once owned a brownstone apartment in Fort Greene. She regularly threw him out for his alcoholic abusive treatment, but always welcome her drunk husband back.

Several years ago the wife told Randy that she had an offer for the apartment.

$1 million.

His share was half and he said sell it.

$500,000 should have lasted 10-20 years.

Randy blew his money on drugs, drink, and stupidity in less than two years.

Randy now camps on the sidewalk in front of an Italian restaurant.

It had been home for almost a month.

"He's lived everywhere in the 'hood. Under the BQE, in shelters or the park. Anywhere close to crack. That old white man will sleep anywhere, if you can call a drug coma sleep." Sharif was no stranger to sleeping in strange places, but the ex-gunman has had an apartment on Flushing Avenue for over ten years. "Randy's fucked up, but this neighborhood ain't no stranger to fucked-up."

A week ago a rasta friend ran into Sharif and said, "I can't believe it, but I seen your boy. That old white man was sleepin' on the sidewalk."

"No way. He got a crib for free for a long time."

"Well, I seen him. Swear it." Sharif thought it over and said, "Shit, that ain't my boy, That's Randy. He's a crackhead. My man only a drinker."

The old coke fiend hadn't touched anything since he was released from Rahway and called me.

We had a good laugh about his friend thinking I was randy.

Ole Yellah laughed even harder. She had known Randy and his wife before he lost everything.

I couldn't see the similarity, but Ole Yellah's husband said, "There is something."

Risteard had a point. Not much of one, however we call still joke about Randy II and I've never said a word about sleeping on the Manhattan Bridge stumbling home from the 169 bar. My refuge was a work space with a wall of steel I-beams. I was wearing a tan tropical suit. The night wasn't cold and I wrapped myself in a plastic sheet. No one bothered me and I woke near the dawn and walked the rest of the way to Clinton Hill.

A man of the street.

Anyone can be one, but there was only one Randy adn I wasn't him.