Sweat soaked and delirious in unflattering khaki, I smell durian:
the notorious stink of custard, sweet side alleys, and jungle sunset,

Tourists dream of cheap cloth and translators, 
hungry for golden temples, sticky with mango flavored fervor. 

English gets you plastic shoes and psychedelic old world charm. 
The markets sell the same words over and over again.  

My khaki is washed clean by sudden thunderstorms. 
I am running and panting and floating and hot again.