They Wore Blue

They wore blue beaded capelets that did not completely cover their breasts. Two of them wore only strings of blue beads at their waist. The third had a blue cloth wrapped around her, but it was too short, too thin, and still left half of her buttocks exposed. They laughed at my continual staring, but took no offense to me. They were covered in mostly blue tattoos from head to toe, and some of them referred to legends I knew. So after I stammered my apologies for staring, they waved me over to their booth where they were eating lunch.

The tour guide didn’t want me to go with them. “Fucking whores. They’ll sell you the moment my back is turned.” But the women spoke to me in their native language, that I somehow understood. “He doesn’t like the old ways. He would sell everyone here if that gave him standing over the water. We know you’re staring at our tattoos, not at our nakedness. They tell many stories. Come sit with us if you want to learn them.” I sat with them.

The tour guide abandoned me there, saying he’ll pick up what’s left of me on the return leg of the tour. After he and the other tourists left, the market relaxed.

“Tell me your version of this story, girl!” One of the nearly nude women was pointing to a dragon tattooed on her breast so that it looked like it was trying to eat the areola. The dragon spiraled around the breast while an archer on a cloud was shooting arrows at it.

I explained an eclipse myth I heard, and how the shooting stars are the arrows of the celestial warriors protecting the night sky.

The woman smiled and laughed and remarked my version was close to the original. A big plate of food was brought to us. Rice, steamed buns, sweet pork, savory pork, large green leaves to make wraps from and other portions I could not recognize but they all smelled so good.

They encouraged me to eat, and gave me explicit permission to share their food. They even had the spicy sauce placed to the side than mixed in because they assumed (rightly) I was not accustomed to it. Other folks at the market regarded me oddly, but since the women I was with were friendly with me, so were they.

The day passed with them telling more myths and stories, using each other’s nearly naked bodies as illustrations. Many in the market listened to them tell their stories, and to the versions I had heard. We ate and passed the day in comfort.

A primly and properly dressed woman approached us and started yelling obscenities at the tattoed women. I could not understand the higher-standing woman even though she spoke the same verbal language as the three women I was seated with. Many in the market were amused by the screeching. A few taunted the woman back.

My nearest companion leaned over and asked, “Hey girl, you do know we three are prostitutes, right? Most tourist women from your country look down on us for that.”.

“Yeah, I knew. Are you doing what you want? Am I in danger? Then what business is it of mine?”

They laugh with me and laugh at the woman still yelling. “Who are you to forbid us from sleeping with your husband? He pays us for sex, that is all. You will bear his children. You have his home. We are the [unintelligible] that help keep the fields fertile. Don’t want him to participate? Take him to the cities and chain him like a mad dog!”

A sharp dressed man came up to us. He looked at me oddly. One of the tattooed women gestured at me and explained, “She is our visiting cousin. She has no duties here.”. He nodded and spoke to the women in their native tongue, but I was unable to understand him as well. He left with one of the tattooed women. The others saw my question on my face.

“Not everyone can speak [Between].” More food arrived. The upset wife, having spent her anger, left stormily without satisfaction. Conversation returned to myths and legends. Market life bustled around us. The missing woman returned and shared her gains with the other two. Afternoon tea was brought.

The tour group returned. The tour guide was not happy to see I was enjoying myself. He scowled at the women when they laughed. The tour group was given an hour to eat and relax. He told me (in English) to be ready to leave when the group leaves or I’ll be stranded there.

The tattooed women waved him off with laughter. They teased him saying he was jealous because I had more fun with them fully clothed than he ever did fully naked. He declared he was rich and popular and above dealing with whores.

“Money doesn’t know how a gentle touch can bring releasing tears. Popularity is a heavy leash to carry. Not all whoring involves sex. Be careful who you sell yourself to. Everyone is a whore! Some of us just don’t hide it in fancy titles and rich cloth.”

Around the market, there were many silent heads nodding in agreement. A voice, hidden behind wares, piped up with “And give thanks to the gods for them!” The wave of laughter broke the tension.

I rose to my feet and was helped by a nearby man. As he helped me up, a bag was draped over my shoulder. “You have been good company.” The tattooed women smiled. “It would be bad form to allow you to leave empty handed.”

“But I’ve brought nothing. I didn’t even pay for lunch. And I admit my ignorance, I don’t know what would be the proper thing to do.” I didn’t take the bag off my shoulder, but I did shift it in obvious unease.

The women smiled in knowing wisdom again. “You paid for your lunch by being open and attentive. You paid for the bag with the stories you have told. You are from the [False East], from over the unboundable water. There, money is the only accepted currency. Here, everything you can give, from the work of your hands, to a warm smile, is currency. And you have paid us well.”

I accepted her words, and adjusted the bag’s strap so it went crossbody across me. Waving farewell, I wandered through the market towards the tour group’s pickup point. Just as I reached the cluster of culture-shocked tourists, one of the more vocal tourists sees me. She is arguing with a merchant, with great sweeps of hand gestures and sharp tones of annoyance.

“You! There you are! Where the hell have you been? Never mind, you’re here now.” She comes over and grabs my arm to pull me towards the merchant. I plant my feet and her effort almost knocks her over instead. “I heard you talking to these backwards people, maybe you can explain to this thick head why I am upset!”

“Backwards? Do you really think talking shit about them in the middle of their stomping grounds is a good idea? And what makes you think they don’t know what you’re saying? Not everyone that knows English is letting that be known.” The woman glanced around nervously. “I’m not making any promises. But if you want a Neutral Third Party to take a look at the problem, I’ll take a look. Just don’t think because English is our primary language, that I’m going to automatically side with you.”

She accepted, and even said “please” when asking me to take a look. I came over to a potted plant display, with a merchant standing impatiently beside. Standing next to him, was the man that helped me up from the prostitutes’ table. He looked at me, and winked. I smiled slightly, but made no obvious indication I had met him already.

“I placed an order for a decorative potted plant when we stopped here this morning. The guy spoke English so I know he understood me! I wanted a Feng Shui arrangement!” She was gesturing madly at a beautiful arrangement of plants in a large staggered presentation. One large, wide mouth, shallow pot sat low to the ground. In that were planted a few grasses that did not need deep roots. Set on top of that was a smaller pot, a little bit deeper, a little bit thinner. I knew this pot had no bottom. In one side was planted a thick leafed, squat plant with delicate pink flowers. On this was set another smaller pot, the size of a large bowl, also without a bottom. A broad leaf plant was placed here, with small and delicate white flowers. On this was fourth smaller pot, with another type of flowering plant. On this was the fifth and final smaller pot. Just large enough for a sharp spined plant with a single vivid flower.

The scent of the arrangement wafted up in layers of sweet and floral. The flowers would attract bees and birds. It was large and heavy, not made to be shifted around from place to place since four of the bowls were empty bottomed. On purpose. The plants were chosen for their water needs and effect on the humidity of the surrounding dirt. She would only need to directly water the top most pot. As the water soaked down, the lower tiers would be watered according to need.

I will admit, it reminded me of the Gardenmaster’s realms.

“So, what’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem? Does this look like Feng Shui to you?” The woman was greatly agitated. The merchant was cross. His translator was amused. As was I.

“Tell me precisely what you asked for.”

“Feng Shui!”

“Bullshit. If you had, you would have been tossed out of the market on your ass. Even the tour guide made mention not to use that term here. What did you ask for?”

“A plant arrangement that would bring peace to my home and settle anxious energies.” She crossed her arms and huffed in clear opposition to her stated wishes. She muttered under her breath, “It’s silly I would have to explain to them what they already know.”. I glared at her but said nothing.

I looked at the merchant and his translator and asked if that was how she described her order. They both nodded.

“Lady, you got precisely what you asked for. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. It’s lovely to the eye, and the scents are calming. If installed outdoors, it will support local wildlife. It’s potted so can’t take over the environment. And it doesn’t waste water. If I could, I’d install this in my home! I don’t see what’s the problem.”

“It’s not…”

I cut her off. “If you say that term again, I will not hold anyone back from bitchslapping you. The term is Chinese, which, in case you don’t remember or know your world history, engaged in vicious genocide campaigns trying to destroy these folks’ ancestors. The last thing they want to hear is someone telling them to carry their enemy’s shoes. And on another point, what you think that term means, is not what that term means. It, like “karma”, has been bastardized by the West into a form that means nothing like its original idea.”

“But does it matter we’re not in China? These people are all the…”

I cut her off again. “Woman. You are trying my patience. You made an order. Your order has been fulfilled, to an exemplary state at that. You are refusing to see these people for what they are, and are instead trying to force your misinformed ideals on them. You’re acting worse than a clueless tourist. You’re acting like a damn colonist! Knock the shit off! Either pay the man and say thank you, or don’t pay him and walk the fuck away, but whatever you do, stop digging your grave!”

The tour guide arrived to gather us for our departure. He looked at the potted arrangement and nodded approvingly. A bystander whispered in his ear and his approval turned into a dark and stormy scowl.

“You! Woman! Get on the bus! Now!” He was pointing at the woman I was contending with. “Why did you say the very thing I told you not to say! I will have to pay for your carelessness!” The woman refused. She wanted her Feng Shui arrangement and she wasn’t leaving without it.

I stepped to the merchant and asked him the cost for the arrangement. He (through his translator) explained it was very expensive. Even without the “foreigner” surcharge, it was pricey. But because it was commissioned by a foreigner, the surcharge would have to be included.

“By ‘foreigner’ surcharge, so you mean a ‘pain in the ass’ surcharge?” The translator whispered my meaning in the merchant’s ear. His eye grew large, and his answer was the peals of laughter and vigorous nodding that followed.

I offered to pay full price for the arrangement, including surcharge. But I didn’t want it delivered to me. “Is there a temple, or a shrine, dedicated to water, or water spirits?” The translator said there was such nearby. “Deliver it there, and install it so it faces the water. It reminds me of someone I know, and in his memory I would donate it to the spirits there.” The merchant nodded and held his hand out. The translator insinuated it would be a good idea to pay a little extra. I agreed.

The cost of the pots in American dollars? $45. I placed money in his outstretched hand in three gestures. “For the pots.” $45. “For the market.” $10. “For you.” $10. I folded his hand over the money and thanked him before he could say anything. The translator nodded in approval.

The woman was still arguing with the tour guide. She stopped when she saw the workers were dismantling the pots and preparing them for transit. “Where are my pots going?”

“Your pots? You refused to pay for it, saying your order had not been fulfilled. So I paid for it, and my pots are being delivered to where I want them. Now, shut the fuck up and get on the god damn bus before I lose my patience completely and throw you under the damn bus.” I did not wait for her to answer, but boarded the bus myself.

She stood there watching her precious order hauled away. Everyone else boarded behind her. “Hey, Lady! Are you going home or what? Go cry at home, stop embarrassing yourself!” Another voice, hidden in the bustle of the market, loudly teased her. Angry, she turned and boarded the bus. She had to pass me to get to her seat, and she was so incensed at me she turned her head so not to see me, and almost fell over her own feet.

The tour guide counted heads, closed the doors, and we began the trip home. As I looked out the window, I could see the three tattooed prostitutes waving. I waved back in farewell. I settled down, clutched my new bag tightly, and went to sleep.

~~~

Make of that, what you may.