Like many yesterdays, today was high in stress, exclamation points, shocking surprises - mostly bad, very serious setbacks, crises (that’s a plural, mind you), dull rain, bad communication, ridiculous misunderstandings, obnoxious people, water leaks, wasted food, moody crews, scheduling problems, 12 1/2 hours at work, doubts, distance and loneliness.

But, erasing all this, topping it, nullifying it, I got not one, but many lovely smileys, zeros and ones of digital love. Straight from Brooklyn. What more could one ever ask for? I am, still and always, the luckiest guy in the world and dragons had better stand clear because I will fend them off.

«  We think, sometimes, there’s not a dragon left. Not one brave knight, not a single princess gliding through secret forests, enchanting deer and butterflies with her smile. What a pleasure to be wrong. Princesses, knights, enchantments and dragons, mystery and adventure ...not only are they here-and-now, they’re all that ever lived on earth! Our century, they’ve changed clothes, of course. Dragons wear government-costumes, today, and failure-suits and disaster-outfits. Society’s demons screech, whirl down on us should we lift our eyes from the ground, dare we turn right at corners we’ve been told to turn left. So crafty have appearances become that princesses and knights can be hidden from each other, can be hidden from themselves.  »

Richard Bach - The Bridge Across Forever

« When the bus driver jabbers that he will have to stop at the Police Control, I immediately smell trouble. No stops have been planned and he should know that we have all the necessary authorizations. What’s worse, I don’t remember noticing any kind of control booth on our way to town.

He pulls over in a dark empty street, far away from the Saigon airport and even further still from the harbour, and I no longer have to smell it: trouble is here. The French passengers, still a little shocked by the harassment at Customs, don’t really know any better and are looking around with worried faces, probably wondering if the all-inclusive package to Guadeloupe wouldn’t have been a safer bet.

I put on my most reassuring smile and explain that there must be a misunderstanding which I will sort out at the « Control » with our driver, who has already jumped off the bus and is waving for me to follow him. I fall in with his stride, mentally noting that the houses lining the sinister street do not look at all like official buildings and worriedly looking around for a reassuring sign in the short-lived headlight halo of the rare cars driving by.

The man turns purposefully into an alley, walks across a porch and into a small inner courtyard. Still not a single light in sight. The Vietnamese must keep enforcing a good old curfew to save electricity.

We pass through a metal gate, climb a few steps and just as I am getting ready to turn around and bravely run back to the bus, the driver opens a last door and walks in. Heart beating fast, I follow him. My relief in finding relative lighting inside is soon hampered by the austere look of the room we’re in. Between four walls, a desk, a chair, a lamp. The walls are dirty and naked, the metal desk is barren and the chair occupied by a meager, stern looking woman wearing a military uniform. And as for the lamp, its articulated head is pointed straight at me.

There is no time to lose. I tap into my classical repertoire and manage to label the place under the « Communist interrogation chamber » category with a daring cross-reference to James Bond and Midnight Express.

My driver whispers a few words in Vietnamese to the uniform and then retreats to the back of the room, away from the light and out of view. I’m still unsure whether they are trying to scam me or if this is really a misunderstanding but my blood runs a little colder.

The uniform then addresses me in her language. I don’t catch a single word of her sentence and have to reply with a gesture of ignorance. She repeats her statement, punctuates it with a new comment and shows no sign of speaking anything else than her mystifying dialect. I nervously attempt communication in English, then in French, without any luck.

Tension is building in an almost tangible way.

She obviously wants something and her patience is failing. I ask the driver behind me to explain our situation but his English is so primitive that he doesn’t seem to get it, unless he’s simply refusing to help. I suspect that money would probably solve our issue but I don’t have a single dollar - or franc - on me. My concerned thoughts turn towards the passengers waiting outside in the dark bus.

Suddenly, a door I hadn’t noticed opens on my left. A man in civilian clothes and wearing thin glasses, short and hunched forward, walks in and speaks to the uniform as if continuing a conversation started in my absence. I must be nervous. Crazy options are already going through my head, from a visit to the local jail to the wild escape through the streets of Saigon.

The newcomer, seeming to rank higher on the scene, addresses me first in Vietnamese and next in a hesitant and almost incoherent English. The driver immediately starts answering in Vietnamese, in an affirmative manner that makes me fear he is confirming against my will that we are here for a control; so I interrupt him, hoping for it to be a display of authority but not arrogance.

Using a telegraphic-style English without pronouns or conjugation, I attempt to claim our rights and explain that we have been doing the shuttle between the airport and the harbour with a clearance issued by the proper authorities. I am aware that said authorities must have granted such clearance after the shuttling of some money from a hand to a pocket, but I at least have my official crew landing pass and show it to them. They don’t seem to like that, as if they had just lost an ace in their hand.

I must have been in here for 10 minutes now. The two Party officials are arguing with each other and don’t seem to agree on the procedure to follow. My driver is getting agitated behind me. It suddenly dawns on me that he might well be in on this, hoping for his share of the prize. I know only too well how everything is negotiated under the rising smell of money in the new Vietnam, and I still remember how our landing fees keep rising for no reason from one trip to the next.

On the other hand, there is a possibility that the incredibly sluggish communist bureaucracy alone might be responsible for this mess. There doesn’t seem to be, in their narrow minds and in the related rules, a clause applying to the present situation, and obviously lacking either initiative or freedom or both, they just don’t know what to do.

Then, abruptly, the opposition gives in. The man leaves the room and the woman waves me to the door with a snort and marked disdain.

I lower myself into thanks, open the door, think of slamming it behind me, but decide not to after reconsidering the local jail option.

Outside in the street, the bus is still there, which almost surprises me. My passengers are quiet and tired. I would like to comment on the incident but since that would only stain the image of the perfectly oiled machine that was supposed to welcome them to Asia, I simply announce that everything is finally in order, apologize for the delay, and we get on our way.

The driver hasn’t said a word since we walked out; I don’t break the silence, annoyed at him and rather suspicious. Once we reach the ship, I unload my travelers under the impatient watch of the bridge - it’s late and they were waiting for us to sail. More Party officials are present, gauging the boarding group, probably wondering how high to inflate the landing tax on our next layover.

I definitely don’t like the remains of the communist regime. »

Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam - 1994

A few days ago, after working an entire night up in the Vancouver skies, I walked home around 4:00 am, following the madness south on Granville Street as clubbers were pouring out into the chilly morning air. Then I sliced my way through a quiet West End and got home just on time to realize I was still in great shape and the day was dawning. I jumped into a pair of jeans and onto the bike and scrambled to Coal Harbour’s section of the Seawall with Abe and the Martian. A slightly dull sunrise was brewing but it would have to do - despite appearances, I’m not up that early and in photographing mood that often.

I passed by the nesting swan which strangely seemed to have gained a few eggs and was once again sitting next to her treasure in a very un-motherly pose. The Seawall was as nice as ever, empty, seemingly abandoned. I went as far as the 9 O’clock Gun and took a series of bracketed exposures of the sunrise on Burrard Inlet and then headed back home, where I raised Brooklyn via VoIP. Sigh.

It was Sunday and I could afford to nap, which I did shamelessly. But come late afternoon, I returned to the Seawall for my regular Stanley Park run. The scene was changed, the Seawall unrecognizable. A thick crowd strolled along the water as far as the eye could see. I had to slalom between human obstacles pretty much the whole way. People had come out, on this very nice afternoon, like spring buds on a grateful tree.

As I finished the loop, I noticed that  shores were partially exposed by the tide and many balanced stones had been laid out in the usual spot. It was stoningly beautiful and I instantly decided to come back right away with the camera.

I ran home, showered, jumped on the bike again and was back at the stones before sunset. Again, a grey, dull and cloudy sky. But it was one of the most amazing displays of balance I had ever seen. Abe clicked away until the light faded. I looked at my watch. It had been 24 hours since I’d taken the aerial post-sunset shot of the city lights, the night before. I’d slept a few hours, and been three times on the Seawall. A typical Vancouver day.

« The ship’s tender drops me off on an lonely pier to which are tied up a few rusty fishing boats, almost all leaning to one side as if to show their long seafaring experience, just as John Wayne wore his hat tilted sideways. But I’m not fooled by the trick and I can feel they are simply tired and worn out, aspiring to never again leave the harbour’s calm waters and this dock they now use as a crutch... »

March 27, 1994 - Lombok, Indonesia.

It certainly isn’t unexpected. The initial memo arrived a good week in advance, followed by a memo confirming the memo, and finally an email repeating both memos and sealing the deal. An annual building-wide fire drill is to be taken seriously. Well, I had intended to. But as it turns out, the week has already gone in all kinds of deviant and stressful directions, and today, 30 minutes from the bell, I am feeling very strangely disconnected from this plane of reality. My temperature is fine but I might be having visions. There are fevers a thermometer cannot detect.

Earlier, I crossed over to officeland from my outpost, feeling like a peasant who leaves the countryside to walk into a busy and dangerous city. There were armed officeguards walking around with grim faces, applying the law. I recognized Rules, with his round glasses, Policy, boring but ever-watchful, and Etiquette, stiff and always so proper. I was there to inquire of who was the Floor Warden on this 20th floor that is now my den, but having found out and about to retreat, I noticed that the massive officephotocopier was looking at me with menacing intensity. A few seconds of distraction on my part caused an officelemming to interpret my lasting presence as a sign of interest and the Book of Answers was laid flat on a table. « Let’s see, she said, who is the Floor Warden on your floor. » She meant the Deck. It was my floor but it no longer is, since I now hibernate on the 20th.

« Ah, she added, you and M. are the floor wardens, good. » She was about to close the Book when I raised an eyebrow. « That’s interesting, I said. M. no longer works for us, and I am now here on the 20th. » She looked puzzled. The Book had become one of Questions. « Well, then, she hesitated, who would..? » « That would be the supervisor on duty, I answered. I’m probably still technically the warden, but the odds of me being present on the deck in case of a fire are microscopically thin. » « Ah, she said again, that’s good. We’ll have to update the book. » She slammed it closed with satisfaction. Things had been rectified, in her mind at the very least. I could have sworn the photocopier had crawled an inch closer to me.

So I left officeland behind and climbed up here to the Deck. It was 9:00 am and I had a half hour before the drill, which I intended to use wisely by briefing the troops like I’d seen in movies. We had elected to stay closed to the unsuspecting public until after the exercise to avoid having to force people to walk down 40 flights of emergency stairs, or leaving them behind alone with my favorite teddy bears, which would have been even worse. But the troops had been summoned early so that we could prepare and rehearse.

...

I clear my throat. « The whole purpose of a fire drill, I begin in my best speech tone, is to prepare for the real thing by removing improvisation from the future situation and ironing the kinks. We are going to pretend this is real and... » I have to stop in the middle of a brilliant sentence, having caught a movement from the corner of my eye, over by the north windows. But the three troopers on duty and I are supposed to be alone on the deck. I make a mental note to drink more water later. Fighting to reconnect with my train of thoughts, I finish the briefing. That motion again, just over there, to the right, it was blurry but I saw it.

K. and A. head downstairs to set up the ticket desk. Hurry back up, I silently press K. I want out of here. It’s 9:15. I discuss a few more things with J, orange vests, PA system, different alarms, coconut buns. Then I decide to head down myself. I opt for the freight elevator, press the button and wait. It’s 9:20. I’m cutting it  close. Suddenly feeling a presence behind me in the otherwise empty kitchen, I slowly swing around and find myself face to face with a semi-transparent green smile. A ghost. A thing. Floating in mid-air. I knew we weren’t alone! Bloody fever. I think I’m sweating a bit.

The ghost is rather funny looking, reminding me of the little guys in Ghostbusters. It points to its watch - yes, it has one - and waves a finger at the elevator. I nod, this is taking forever. I glance at the call button. It’s no longer lit up. I press it a half-dozen times. Nothing. The elevator has been turned off. Rats.

Sprinting around the perimeter to the glass elevators, I push the call button. Nothing. These are off too. Then I realize the obvious: they have cheated! They, the building security, have turned off all elevators 10 minutes early. The little green blob has followed me and giggles. He thinks it’s very funny. But my carefully conceived plan is unraveling. K. will be stuck downstairs and will not witness the evacuation procedure. I, on the other hand, have no desire to witness anything and just want to get it over with, I have a paperwork nightmare to attend.

I go back to find J. and we wait for the alarm while I discover that the ghost has many friends. As I rub my tired eyes, they are appearing from everywhere as if gathering for the drill. They seem excited and completely lack discipline, bullying each other around, which because of their lack of substance results in rather gooey exchanges. And the funniest thing is that J. never seems to notice them. He is oblivious to their presence, looking right through them at me and talking seriously about leaving the wounded behind.

The alarm rings. An unearthly voice advises us to stand by for evacuation. The specters around us boo and cheer, enjoying themselves tremendously. J. makes an announcement of his own and leaves to sweep the deck as I man my station by the empty exit. When he comes back, unaware that he has three green ghosts holding on to his legs in a comical attempt to slow him down, fighting with each other along the way, we discuss politics and agree that the alarm bells haven’t been what we expected, then we head down. The ghosts swarm the staircase with us, rushing through every door they find, counting the floors in a chorus as we pass them. I figure we won’t have done all this for nothing after all. We will have entertained Vancouver’s afterworld.

40 stories lower, we emerge into the street and cross to the rallying point where people are standing, talking about the weather and sports. My reality is still unphased. I have a headache. But the funny green things are gone. They trickled out one by one as we were getting closer to the ground. Maybe they can only live up high. Maybe it’s a sign that my fever is receding. I need an aspirin. I have to get out of here. I have to move forward. Now. This is not a drill.

It’s here again. I can feel its warm breath on my face, like a dragon’s caress; it comes and it goes but never fades for too long. It’s the colorful wind of change, it has returned. I was expecting it patiently, facing East where the bright star appears at last, so that I could catch the first glimpse of a whisper. And now I know it’s upon me, and I am bracing myself, and I will let go when it hits me, willingly and with such relief. This place that has seen me grow will become a memory among others, but it will remain forever the source of the fire that consumes me, it will turn to coals and glow in the dark, and I will rise in a new dawn. New footsteps will mark a path, and what seems blurry now will come into view, and it’s when the mountains ahead seem impassable that I’ll most remember having eagerly traveled towards them. And the only thing more extraordinary than what has happened is what now will. This is our time.

All right, all bitching and joking aside, oxygen or not, on TV or in his bathroom, watched by Oprah or his cat, he still did it. Se-ven-teen minutes and four seconds! Without breathing. And without passing out. Kudos. Now get a life. Or find a good cause!

Photo: New York Times