The Official Language of Lucifer

After three months of mopey, self-indulgent PTTD (Post Traumatic Travel Disorder) I decided I wasn’t making enough of an effort to fit in with my own people.

So when my good friend Carolina suggested we go to church so that I might stop obsessively baking molasses cookies and instead find a purpose in life, I said, ‘Oh Jesus Fucking Christ, are you shitting me?’

I’m an agnostic. That means I don’t know, and I don’t know if you know. You know?

It’s the most commitment-phobic belief system out there and I enjoy all the ways it allows me to be wishy-washy, flippy-floppy, and as detached as possible to any depth of thought related to the spiritual meaning of life.

It’s how I like to live my life in general. Being agnostic also allows me to make fun of every organized religion in equal measure, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Christian evangelicals.

‘It’s not an ordinary church,’ said Carolina, who has in fact has accepted Jesus into her heart. ‘My friend invited me - he worships in Tongues.’

Ooh. What?

‘You know, the kind of service where people are possessed by the power of God and start speaking His language. Tongues.'

Wait a minute. If God is American (and - obviously - he is), he speaks English. Anyone who grew up in our education system knows other languages don't matter because other countries don't matter.

We are his favorite. He is ours! He is monotheistic. We are monolingual! We are so meant to be...

So, what's with the foreign chitchat, Ubiquitary Master of the Universe?

'God doesn't actually speak a language, he speaks through people in different ways. Didn't you go to Bible camp? Anyway, if we’re lucky, you might get to see an exorcism. I know how much you like underworldly projectile vomit... tempted?’

How could I possibly say no to this? I have only seen such novelty on the Holy Trinity, Sky Angel and GOD1, GOD2, GOD3 and GOD4 channels. To see the omnipresent power speaking in Tongues through real-life Auburners?

I probably should have seen the following as a sign from the King of Kings (or whomever):

1. The Tongues church is located in a shopping center called The Great Wall Mall.

2. It is located adjacent to an acrylic nail salon with Hello Kitty clocks in the window and abuts the Saigon Musics & Video store.

3. I’m pretty sure this church used to be a Korean kimchee joint, because I was smelling spicy boiled cabbage and vinegar all through the homily.

Okay, so it wasn’t the classiest temple of worship I’ve ever seen, with mirror-lined walls and an industrial kitchen in the corner. But there was a lot going on when we walked in. The Live Tongues Band was belting out some gospel jams while three preachers skulked around the haphazard pulpit, one with arms outstretched to heaven, one sitting down looking sort of bewildered, and the third on his knees, petting the carpet and chanting.

Chanting… in Tongues?!

No, I could understand him saying something about sacrifice and forgiveness. In English.

Sigh. False alarm!

The Tongue-gregation was in various stages of musical rapture, with lots of people periodically hollering Hallelujah!, singing off-key and just moving with the spirit, man.

The spirit moved me to sit down right away and try to blend, wondering if people could sense I was a fraud. I clapped a little to help with the acculturation and smiled encouragingly at the little girl in the front row who knew every lyric and projected like she was auditioning for American Idol.

But why was she not singing in Tongues, the Official Language of Lucifer?

I did the mature, rational thing I always do when trapped in an Asian shopping mall full of earnest evangelicals with overstimulated hippocampi: I started giggling. A lot.

‘Oh my heavens, Julie, what are you doing!’ Carolina was annoyed with me.

‘Dude, I’m really sorry, but this is hilarious… and did you really just say ‘oh my heavens’?’

‘I feel so guilty right now. It’s like we’re making fun of their faith! It’s so wrong.’

‘Yeah… so, so wrong. Hey, do you think we’re going to burn in the eternal flames of the abyss?’

Conveniently, I don’t believe in hell and I think people would be less stressed if they didn’t either.

‘You might. I’m a safe bet. Here, learn something.’ She handed me a Bible.

Ugh.

This was getting so boring. I felt duped. Like Carolina had brought me to a real church with real freaky fundamentalists, not speaking in real Tongues.

‘If I don’t see an exorcism in five minutes, I’m out of here!’

'The demonic extraction and Tongue convos happen later in the afternoon,' Carolina's friend whispered to us.

Riiight. That's what they all say.

After an hour and a half of sitting politely through an elementary lecture on setting priorities, dressing appropriately, and the difference between good (Christians) and bad (me), we slipped out and went for dim sum.

Then I went home. And pulled out the molasses.

Hot for Crimson

Sunny, our affable hiking guide, told the Brazilian Princess and me we had two options: spend the first trek night in a local villager's home, or sleepover in a Buddhist monastery.

Immediately visions started popping into my head of spunky young novice monks waking us with gentle Burmese chanting in a bright, sunlit building domed with flowers and bells gently ringing in the breezy courtyard under frangipani trees.

Elders would meditate with us, peacefully emancipating our attached western minds and inviting us into an enlightened state of nirvana - all before breakfast!

And very fit 20-somethings, wavering on their faith to this monastic lifestyle and all the silly celibacy it requires, would sagely ask us for our worldly guidance, in the privacy of our sleeping quarters, obviously.

The Brazilian Princess is not actual royalty, but she has princess, er, tendencies. After a month of traveling through Southeast Asia together, I counted on her to demand only the best bungalows (with a discount, damnit) and send back imperfect Tom Kha Gai even from street vendors.

BP is something else, but we bonded over our common commitment to support local people as much as possible. And you know, hot monks need help, too.

Without even a sideways glance, we both shouted to Sunny, 'We'll take the monastery!'

We were on a three-day hike through the hilly farmlands of Myanmar, trekking from Inle Lake to a Kalaw in Shan State, one of the country’s few areas open to foreigners.

It’s not the easiest country to travel in. Fly Myanmar Airways, and you might as well give your stash of freshly printed US dollars directly to the rather unfriendly military regime. Buy a train ticket, and you hate Aung San Suu Kyi.

But travel by foot? Support local people!

Tourists don’t really come to Myanmar – about 300,000 did last year, and only four percent of those were American. “Am I the only Brazilian to ever travel here?” BP asked when we turned in our visa applications in Bangkok, spooked by her own trendsetting.

Mostly Thais, French and Chinese tourists come here, usually on organized tours that support government-run transportation, hotels and entertainment.

Locals hate tour groups. But supporting the government in some ways is unavoidable – even privately-owned hostels and eateries have to pay a 12 percent tax to Uncle Junta.

By coming independently, BP and I could spend our kyat the way we wanted. And that way was village by village, with the promise of a little interfaith fling with brown-eyed, bald men of the crimson cloth just over the muddy hills.

We climbed.

Six long, highly anticipated hours later, we arrived, sweaty but ready to mingle. One elderly monk, head hanging in the ennui of religious servitude, was there to soberly greet us. Sunny neglected to mention this monastery had been neglected and only three monks lived in residence. None of them were under age 75.

It was the darkest monastery ever on earth, ever, in every sense. Teak wood blackened by cooking smoke suffocated the lodge-y space, dotted with apathetic Buddhas and an endless wall of bald, cotton-swathed monks unsmiling and emaciated in Polaroids documenting what appeared to be the most depressing days of their lives. Even the candles kept dimming on their own accord, embarrassed they had to shed light on such gloom.

The Head of Monks was a silent blob of skin and bones morosely hanging out in the darkest corner of the monastery with a single, flickering candle moodlighting his grump. His black-rimmed spectacles were peeking from beneath a pile of plush polyester blankets that featured smiling orange kittens in a field of pink roses.

He only moved to pass gas - loudly and with the unapologetic flourish unique to old men. When we said hello, he farted and groaned in reply.

It was like spending the night in the palliative care unit of a haunted geriatric home, but less fun.

Clearly, this was not the hot monk orgy I'd had in mind.

In Myanmar, the big vice is chewing kun-ya, a cocktail of betel leaves, areca nuts, something dodgy called ‘slaked lime’, something even more questionable called ‘cutch’, and – don’t quote me on this – I swear I saw the kun-ya hawkers in Rangoon smear in Elmer’s glue.

Anyway, chewing this blob gives you this wildly charming bleeding-from-my-gums look that I normally associate with meth addicts.

Men chew it. Monks chew it. I chewed it and promptly spit it out, which is what you’re supposed to do. It was hard to tell if the red soil was enriched with iron, or leached with loogies.

Turns out the Head of Monks is a big kun-ya chewer. I don’t know if it’s related, but he started complaining to Sunny that he was being tortured by bad spirits on his left arm. I suspected living in one of the nine layers of hell might've had something to do with it, but I'm sure Dante is banned in Myanmar, so I kept my mouth shut.

The old man was in luck, though. Sunny happened to be moonlighting as a black magic exorcist that month. You know, when he's not hiking two princesses through Myanmar's lake district... He is a man of many hats!

Sunny performed a 30-minute exorcism that closely resembled a Swedish massage. Then bam! It worked. Almost like magic. The Head of Monks was this close to forming a wrinkly smile as he hobbled away, grumbling in Burmese and hawking up more holy red phlegm to be deposited by our flip-flops.

With monastic intrigue going way over our heads, BP and I voted to spend the next night in the village with garlic farmers. There was more betel spitting, but less flatulence.

Eduardes

It seemed I was meeting Eduardes at the pinnacle of his possession.

Earlier in the day I had come across Vermont Lew, an affable carpenter trying to cope with the dissolution of his 25-year-marriage by traveling through the most remote villages of Indonesia and waving at every passerby and shouting, 'I'm Misterrr Lew! From Am-er-i-ka!'

Lew is a very proud Jew who picked Indonesia after the Israeli ambulance charity, to which he contributes annually, ignored his requests for two months of ride-alongs.

Lew was nonplussed and for the last two weeks, he has been driving around Flores, a lush island east of Bali, with Eduardes, a slight, 50-something Indonesian with dark skin and light eyes.

Eyes cursed by the devil, actually. No, literally, by demons, or at least this is Eduardes' self-diagnosis brought on by symptoms common to all possessed people:

1. inability to sleep
2. inability to eat
3. constant cough that could easily be mistaken for The Devil's own voice

To combat these problems, Eduardes took to obsessive Bible reading late at night, with the book 3 inches from his tired, evil eyes.

'See, it started out great the first few days, but then he just got weirder and weirder,' Lew said, his unkempt white mustache waggling from side to side while his eyes bulged from behind thickly prescribed glasses. 'I kept having to wake him up and watch the road! Kids! Dogs! Golly, he just stopped paying attention sometimes, and it was just the weirdest thing.'

I nodded, as if having a devil-gripped Indonesian insomniac operate a moving vehicle for 14 consecutive days in a hazy shade of Lucifer is totally normal. I couldn't really disagree, having no experience with possession myself.

After dinner, Lew invited our random group of German, French and Americans a ride into town to visit the Internet cafe. What's a girl to do when presented with an opportunity to ride with the devil?

I was the first to jump into the car. Eduardes ambled in, apparently perturbed Misterrr Lew had interrupted his meditation on speaking in tongues. It was dark at 9 p.m. and Eduardes peeled out onto the road and took us through a scenic tour of the ditch before we righted the wheel and he brought us back to the left side of the road.

Eduardes was coughing and hacking every few seconds now, making little retches and filling the car with the burpy air of would-be vomit, if there was anything in his stomach to regurgitate. Halfway to town, he became distressed for no apparent reason and started chanting.

'Jesus. Jesus. Jesus...'

All under his breath and between hacks, but it was loud enough. If anybody needs Jesus in this world, it's this guy. Being the seasoned traveler, the epitome of cultural respect and communication, all I could do was giggle. Luckily, he ignored me.

After some wrong turns, we ended up at the cafe, where Eduardes proceeded to pace for an hour before announcing to the group we would have to leave, he needed to do some *reading*.

The next morning, I heard him promise Misterrr Lew he'd seek a doctor and a priest to help exorcise his demons, or at least give him some cough drops.

I hope the devil lets him rest.