In the spirit of good conversation.
Leaning across his chair, Mark procured a photo on his phone. It captured a man whose eyes rolled back in their sockets, his arms flailing wildly.
“This guy probably had a white-collar job in everyday life,” Mark posited, “but now he’s possessed.”
He spoke in reference to the Sak Yant, an annual ceremony in Thailand where men receive bamboo tattoos from monks that (presumably) grant them protection and divine energy. Upon the completion of the tattoos, the monks recite incantations and prayers to the crowd of thousands, during which many of the participants enter a state known as Khong Khuen.
Spirits, typically associated with the animals and symbols inked on their bodies, suddenly take control of the audience members. Many approach and even attack the monks, adopting an unprecedented aggression and mannerisms that emulate their designated spirit.
I peered closely at the photo. “Wait, what’s that in the guy’s mouth?” I asked. “Oh, he’s eating a live chicken,” Mark answered, as if I’d asked him about the weather.
Such bizarre behavior didn’t faze him. As a freelance journalist who focused on events and stories related to religion, dark magic, and cultural traditions, the Sak Yant was one of many brushes he’d had with the outrageous and unorthodox. Although Mark was raised by scientists, his experiences cemented his ardent belief in the supernal. “I’ve seen things that defy science,” he furtively divulged.
Another ceremony, he recalled, culminated with the possession of a man by a goddess infallible to fire. “He stood in a large fire while meditating,” Mark said, “and he came out unscathed. Based on how long he stood there, he should have at least had second-degree burns.”
A third ritual, dedicated to the strength of ancient buffalo, required candidates to don helmets with horns; upon possession, they proceeded to headbutt each other. “They were down to earth, literally,” Mark recounted. “They dropped to the ground and were the buffalo.”
Could he have become a buffalo, too? I asked. Or was that not allowed? “Well, probably not,” he replied, looking pensive. “The spirits have to choose you.”
The most fitting spirit for Mark, I determined, was that of Jack Kerouac, if such supernatural brilliance was truly possible. Born in Russia, he left home at age fifteen and embraced an itinerant life three years later, rejecting his parents’ insistence on a scientific career — and secondary education — outright. He’s been on the road ever since, his entire adulthood thus far, and has no intention of stopping to catch his breath.
“I do not know at what point I stopped being a traveler and became a nomad,” he mused, patting his worn backpack. “It’s not a clear line.”
But his lack of schooling fails to negate his vast knowledge, and steadfast opinions, of a miscellany of subjects. During the four-hour bus ride we shared, headed westward towards the island of Java, Mark broached all subjects one typically avoids during an initial conversation.
He compared Putin’s and Trump’s presidencies to those of the leaders before them; he orated on the inefficiencies of the economy and public education as they stand.
He expressed his disdain for the political correctness of modern-day America and archaic institutions like marriage, which he specifically defined as “mutual slavery.”
He openly opined on differences between intelligence and intellect, and predicted that the world will eventually acquiesce to Communism — “The way it’s supposed to be, not the Soviet bullshit way,” he added.
Nothing was off the table; we set out the plates and cutlery and enjoyed a banquet of debate and conversation. He was contrary and blunt, fervent and offbeat, and utterly fascinating.
The intermissions in our conversation were brief. Little time passed before either of us piped us with another idea, a question, or an observation that prompted additional conjecture. Once the bus squealed to a stop in front of Gilimanuk harbor, we continued over lunch by the road, and then side-by-side on the ferry to Banyuwangi.
We didn’t agree on everything; if anything, our thoughts forked more often than they aligned. Some of his opinions hinted at nihilism, reminiscent of a Dostoyevskian character. Although he criticized the contradictory nature of the United States’ ideals and policies, he himself was a walking contradiction.
Despite his praises of the abstract and sublime, and dismissal of the scientific, he appeared to find value only in what he deemed practical and logical. Ethics, he claimed, were based on subjectivity; it is pointless for society to operate based on what is categorized as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’
“It should be banned altogether,” he determined, “in favor of what is simply considered helpful or harmful.”
In regard to relationships, in particular, he shook his head and smiled with disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re married,” he said, running his hand through unkempt hair. He looked out at the ocean, which undulated the boat under our feet. “There’s really no such thing as eternal love. The probability of finding someone, with whom you share those feelings for your whole life, is virtually nonexistent.”
But there are couples who defy those odds, I contested.
“Ah, but they are together for convenience,” he retorted. “They are comfortable and dependent on each other. I have a hard time believing that they are truly in love the whole time.”
“Love is dynamic,” I replied. “It shifts over the years; you change as you grow together. It’s certainly not possible without putting in the effort to make things work, and being willing to compromise.”
At that, he shook his head once more. “See, that is not love to me,” he countered. “If you have to compromise, that indicates incompatibility.”
Surely you’ve fallen in love before, I asked him.
“Only once,” he responded, conjuring the memory of her. “We were 95% compatible. But then I wanted to travel, and she didn’t. So I ended it.” He paused.
“I guess five percent was enough,” I said, filling the silence as the ferry shuddered to a halt.
Mark and I parted in front of the harbor, where we set off in different directions. He’d invited me to accompany him to Mount Bromo, further west, where he sought to document a full moon ceremony.
“They’re going to throw chickens into the crater as sacrifices,” he explained matter-of-factly.
I shared my appreciation for the offer, but declined in favor of Mount Ijen, where I planned to hike in pursuit of its famous blue fire.
“Too bad,” he said. “You would be a good travel partner. You’re sporty and sensible. The latter is hard to find.”
Our paths diverged, as did our perspectives. Among a myriad of discrepancies, I did not desire the impermanence of Mark’s peripatetic lifestyle, nor did he understand what rooted me to my home in California. But a penchant for rich, candid conversation, and an agreement to disagree, was the five percent that we could both believe in.
