Opening Scene in the Big Mango

Open with a close-up of a small tornado of flies in front of an indistinct hodgepodge of urban background: there are balconies, doors, windows, buildings, plants, laundry, the effluvia of vertical urban development.

Slowly pan out to reveal a dozen small paper cups on the veranda of a traditional Chinese-style spirit house. Spirit houses are common, and offerings are obligatory in occupied instances, but the swarm of flies is unprecedented. Typically, people put out Fanta or Coke in bottles, fruit offerings, and incense. No incense here, just little paper cups of juice, like the little cups of sacramental grape juice in some of the more conservative churches.

Pause while a brown-skinned man in a button-down uniform swaps out old cups for new; flies buzz indifferently.

A fuzzy figure lurches through the foreground. I'm limping past wearing a large backpack on my back, a smaller backpack on my front, my glasses scratched and my forehead and the bridge of my nose stinging from where I took a faceplant at the train station. Ladies whose living depends upon them selling themselves to people with my gender indications and skin color do not stand up or speak out to get my attention.

Pan out, scan up to the top of the insect whirlwind, focus to the neon in the background: two-foot tall red neon "Carnival Cabaret" with, "GO GO GIRLS" and "WORLD'S ONLY DOUBLE GO GO CAROUSEL" and "LIVE GIRLS" and "TONIGHT!"

Next door, the shop advertises "Offsite Massage."

My hotel is across the street

If I were to believe this rhetoric, life would be real easy.