“Tell me you have a boyfriend, don’t waste my entire night!” Alex the Chilean complains to the truck at large, lamenting the outcome of the previous evening’s events.

Nico, his partner in crime nods, but not too vigorously. Sudden movements would exacerbate the hangovers the South Americans woke up with. Or rather, were woken up to. Joh, their tour guide, had to almost batter their door down to get them up while the rest of the trekking crew waited in the pick-up truck.

“Oh my buddha!” Joh had wailed in mock anguish as he brought the shambling Chileans to join the rest of the group. His Thai spin on the Western phrase of ‘Oh my god’ was one of his favorite catchphrases to use with his trekking groups. “These two, very hurt. Too much beer, too much ladyboys! Oh my buddha!” He laughs as he closes the truck’s rear lip behind the final two travelers.

The whole gang is swaying in the covered pickup truck, making small talk on the ride to their hike. Henry and Meaghan lean on each other, hidden behind twin pairs of sunglasses and saying very little. Pia and Jenny talk with each other about various other locations they’ve been to already, easily the most energetic of them all.

P’ter and Franz politely chat with anyone who’s up for the conversation, which is surprisingly Alex and Nico. The two French girls they’d been wooing the night before turned them down at the last moment. Perhaps it was true, or perhaps the Don Juans weren’t as suave as first presumed? Matt provides token commiseration and goes back to trying to sleep on his arm that he has threaded through the handles on the covered flat bed’s ceiling. He hadn’t had an early night either.

The truck bounces on and he remains conscious.

Giving up on any prospect of further slumber, he engages the neglected Japanese duo in conversation. Of course he asks them about anime, something Matt watches with decent regularity. They agree that anime is awesome. Meaghan even chimes in to profess her love for Sailor Moon. Takuro asks if they knows any Japanese musicians.

“I know… the band that sings ‘Yatta!’?” Matt says

The black haired youths look confused.

He starts singing some of it. “G! R! Double E! N! Leaves! Yatta, yatta, something-something-somethiiiiiing! Yatta, yatta!”

The pair burst out laughing as the other passengers tune in. “This is come… comedians!” Tatsuya sputters.

“Oh, I know, but that’s all I’ve got. And Weird Al is a comedian and he’s amazing in The States, so I figured it would be the same.”

The truck and conversation about obscure cultural references chugs along.

They’re out of the truck now and at the base of a large hill, so large you could be forgiven for considering it a mountain, though it isn’t nearly high enough to have snowcaps in any season. The slopes of the switchback trail are gentle, even if the pre-noon sun isn’t. The backpackers follow their guides up through near-overgrown walkways, rice paddies, and the jungle proper.

Joh has brought along his sidekick, Du-Du. Du-Du is a younger version of Joh, eager to show off his growing English and broad smile. He’s leading the group while Joh hangs back, letting his student strut his stuff. Even in flip-flops, Du-Du outpaces his pack of better-geared followers considerably. He lounges against a few trees up ahead to wait for them, using the extra time to forage for cool things. Cool jungle things.

When they’ve all caught up, Du-Du holds up a stem, breaking and bending it to allow the sparkling sap to collect in the gap that is formed. He blows into the sap– and bubbles shoot out! Pia, Jenny, and Alex laugh in delight before taking up the offer to try it themselves.

Further up the trail, Matt spots a small fern that looks familiar.

“Hey, P’ter, check this out,” he says, and taps the fronds with the bamboo walking stick each of them was given.

The tiny rows of perpendicular leaves fold up towards their stem, and in moments the plant looks completely leafless. Natural origami.

“Ah! How do you know that?”

“I dunno, it just looked like the same plant I saw in Costa Rica a few years ago, so I figured I’d try it out here. I’m glad it worked, otherwise I’d look like an idiot.”

P’ter grins and nods and the pair hurries to rejoin the group.

Once caught up, Matt starts asking the Japanese graduate students for some basic vocabulary lessons. After all, he’s planning to visit Japan in a few months.

“Migi,” Takuro says, raising his right hand. “Hidari,” he continues, raising his left.

Matt spins a quick association to remember. “Migi. Hidari. Mickey Mouse is ‘right’, Italy is ‘left’. Migi. Hidari.”

“Yes!” Takuro beams. “And elbuh,” he points to his elbow, “hiji.”

“Hiji,” Matt parrots, “Hiji.”

“Yes! And there is… comedian, he say: migi-hiji, hidari-hiji!” Takuro is thrusting each elbow out in front of him in time to their names.

Tatsuya chimes in from further ahead. “Migi-hiji, hidari-hiji!” He’s thrusting with his elbows too.

Soon all three are elbow dancing down the winding walkway of a rice paddy terrace, chanting in Japanese.

“Migi-hiji, hida-ahhhh!”

From around a corner Tatsuya’s chanting cuts out.

Takuro runs up ahead to investigate, the American only a few steps behind. Their friend is knee deep in one of the irrigation channels and the entire left side of his body is sloughing mud. The two help their companion out of the little stream and continue on their way. They give the soggy traveler a wide berth.

Du-Du leads everyone out of the direct sunlight and onto a shaded path among the trees. The sharper incline slows their progress and for a while, the only sounds are the susurrations of leaves and twigs beneath their feet. The air is heavy with… life. And mosquitos. Matt swats at the buzzing coming from his right.

Meaghan wipes the sweat from her forehead and takes a pull from her Camelbak. Henry stops to let her catch up to him and fans his face with his hat while he waits. Matt waits with him. They share a look that says ‘fucking hot, eh?’

They’re walking along a rushing stream now. It’s the rainy season in Thailand and the water surges over the boulders that make up the riverbed. These rocks are the only scrap of land not covered in whorled trucks, sweeping vines, and dark dangly things nobody wants to investigate. Even the ambitious jungle cannot claim the rapids. At least not yet.

Joh calls for a break, ostensibly to give the trekking team a minute to catch their breath. His motives are betrayed when he hops across some larger rocks to a drier outcropping to roll something into a banana-leaf paper.

“Is he smoking a joint?” Alex leans over to ask Matt.

“Nah man, it’s just tobacco. They’re crazy about smoking out here. Look at how big that thing is.”

“Oh.”

About fifteen minutes later (roughly the time it takes the guides to smoke a cigar-sized cigarette), Joh makes some bird calls and Du-Du sets off. They trek on.

Takuro teaches Matt the word for ‘water’ (‘mizu’ – ‘Like miso soup!’), ‘tree’ (‘ki’), and ‘ocean’ (‘umi’). Matt imagines that his sister would appreciate that last one. A few months back, before he left for Thailand, Matt had taken her out to Japanese omakase for her birthday, a meal wherein the diners try many different and simple pieces of sushi. Steph had grimaced when she tried the sea urchin (‘uni’ in Japanese), claiming it tasted like drinking ocean water. Matt hadn’t really disagreed. ‘Ocean’ would be easy to remember.

Takuro is as enthusiastic about teaching his native tongue as Matt is to learn it. They go through ‘river’ (‘kawa’ – ‘Like kawasaki?’ ‘Yes!’), ‘sun’ (‘hi’), ‘desert’ (‘sabaku’), ‘yes’ and ‘no’ (‘hai’ and ‘ie’), and ‘thank you’ and ‘you’re welcome’ (‘arigato’ and ‘itashimashite’).

“Teach me English words, prease!” Takuro pleads after Matt quizzes himself on his newfound vocabulary for the fourth time. Practice helps retention.

“Okay, sure. So you know much of the basics already, so I’ll teach you some slang. Repeat after me: ‘Right on.’”

“Ligh’ own.”

“Close, a little more like you’re growling. Rrrrrr-rrrrright on. And do ‘on’ not ‘own’.”

“Rrrrrr-light on,” Takuro tries again. The L-R differentiation is often one of the hardest parts of coming from East Asian languages to English. Many alphabets in this region have only one sound that is midway between what is the two consonants in the West.

“Okay, so that’s close enough, right on–”

“R-light on,” Takuro obediently parrots.

“Yea, right on. So it means like… so you know how ‘yatta’ means ‘I did it!’?”

“Yes.”

“So ‘right on’ is like what you would say if someone else did something cool and you want to say ‘you did it!’ but with a different level of enthusiasm.

Takuro is nonplussed. “‘R-light on’ means ‘yatta’?”

Matt looks around, searching for a method that uses less English to convey one of his favorite phrases. He points to himself, pantomiming running up a mountain, getting to the top, and cheering ‘yatta!’ He points to Takuro, “And you say, ‘right on!’” Matt flips it around, pointing to Takuro, doing the mountain run, shouting ‘yatta!’, and points to himself, “Then I would say ‘right on!’”

Somehow Takuro understands. “You do, I say ‘R-light– ri-ight on’.” He looks like he’s swallowing a mouthful of marbles. Though his pronunciation is getting better. “I do, you say ‘right on’?”

“Yes!”

They wear matching grins.

“And you know how ‘moshi moshi’ is ‘hello’ on the phone in Japanese?” Matt asks.

“Yes.” Takuro ducks underneath a low-hanging branch, holding it back until Matt has passed through too.

“Thanks– arigato! Well, in English, it means something else. ‘Mushy’ is like, how something feels. Mud is mushy. Marshmallows are mushy. Uhhh, boobs,” Matt pokes his own chest, “are mushy.”

Takuro points to a short wooden fence on their left. “Mushy?”

“No, the fence is ‘hard’.” Matt knocks on the wood. “Hard is the opposite of mushy.”

Up ahead, the Germans are laughing. “Mushy tastes like marshmallow!” they hoot.

Matt ignores them and continues working with Takuro.

Rather quickly the English student is listing other things that actually are mushy. “Bed is mushy?”

“Yes!”

Takuro prods his cheeks. “Mushy?”

“Yes! Hai!”

Takuro gingerly squelches his shoe in the muddy banks to their right, cognizant of the real dangers of falling in. “Mushy?”

“Right on!”

“R-light on!” Takuro parrots.

“Close enough!”

The pair had fallen behind during their explanation of ‘mushy’ and are the last to hear the sound of crashing water. They’ve reached the waterfall. The trees open up to reveal a shaded pool of water draining into the river they’ve been following for much of the day. The water has just enough space to mist before it collects in the pool twenty or thirty feet down. A moss-covered tree trunk spans the gap from top to bottom. The small kawa courses over and around it while smaller jets of mizu pour down from the sides of the rocky overhang. The sound of water ripples around the oasis. The entire thing is no bigger than a basketball court.

Everyone drapes sweaty t-shirts in the sun and strips down to bathing suits. The Germans and Chileans wade in first while Henry dives into the deeper end leaving Meaghan to take some pictures. Matt abandons the Japanese to their cigarettes and clambers over the rocks, unsure where Pia and Jenny have gone. He is still not yet over the rocks when foot meets moss meets water. Friction isn’t invited to the party.

“Oh shi–!” the grey-green surface rushes up at him.

A combination of moss and buttcheek cushions his fall and his misstep turns into a slip’n’slide into the water that is suddenly up to his waist. The current is cool, orders of magnitude cooler than the sunny jungle hike. They splash and shower in the blessed chill.

It’s much better to fall into water than mud.

Three hours later, they’ve put the waterfall behind them and conquered the rest of the hill. Eleven sweaty bodies perch on benches sunk into the ground around a large, wooden table. They’re in the central hut, with a half dozen or so smaller huts ringing the perimeter. Joh and Du-Du are cooking dinner in one such structure, steam and smoke billowing from the chimney. The travelers pass the time with lukewarm beer and conversation.

“Oi, I heard you with them Japanese kids,” Henry says to Matt once they have a corner of the ‘dining room’ to themselves. “How’d you just remember all that stuff they were teaching you?”

“Heh, thanks. I think it’s all about making it something interesting and you can remember it. And making something like that interesting isn’t so hard.”

“Nah mate, I don’t have a head for tha’ kind of stuff, but you do. I’m gonna give you a new nickname: The Sponge! Because you just absorb everythin’!” Henry’s Australian accent seems to dial up when in the presence of alcohol.

“The Sponge? Alright, I can live with that one. Hey, you got a Thai bill on you? I’ll give it back, don’t worry. Any denomination will do, as long as it’s not one of the plastic ones.”

Henry runs back to his cabin and returns, note in hand. “Is this like a magic trick, yea?”

“Something like that.” Matt begins to fold. “Tell me, what was it like to grow up in Australia?”

Henry tells him.

* * *

Henry is six, maybe seven years old when his father takes him on a nature hike during a particularly hot day. Hot days in Australia are hot, hitting 45º C or more degrees, easily. With today being one such day, little Henry is worried when Pop parks the car under an overhang near a rock formation and leads them into the swelter and up to the rocks. You’re not supposed to leave your car in the middle of the day, Pop had taught him, so why are they leaving now?

There’s no need to worry after all, since they only brave the sun briefly, just long enough to quickly climb up to a shaded overhang, more a small cave than anything else. From up here Henry can look out and see the flat brown bushland fall away, dissolving into the heat rising up from the ground in swirls like boiling oil. Even in the cave it’s hot. Pop slowly fans himself with his hat and Henry follows suit.

They’re only waiting for a few minutes before the sky dims.

Plink! …Plonk! …Pppt! Plink! From outside the cave comes the sound of rain. Well, not quite rain, this is different, this is… harder. This ricochets. It’s hailing outside.

Soon the drops of hail are the size of pebbles, and shortly thereafter as big as baseballs. Henry’s grand vista out of the mouth of the cave is completely obscured by the weather and he pulls his hat down tight on his head and huddles into Pop for warmth. The temperature has dropped more than 20º C and the ground outside hisses with the shock.

Only a few minutes later and the vista returns, the clouds have passed, and the only sound is that of cracking ice and running water. The pair scurry out of their shelter to find the once-fierce hail melting between the rocks below and the sun up above.

Pop ushers his son back into the car. It was already starting to feel too warm out there.

* * *

Henry is eleven as he sits next to his older sister in his family’s dining room. The pencil feels strange in his hand, which is already calloused from the work that consumes his days.

His family raises sheep. Lots of sheep, thousands and thousands of sheep, the kind of volume takes serious grazing area. Henry’s just come back from a week and a half long tour of the family’s fences in rural Western Australia. The treacherous wilderness isn’t kind to the chicken-wire, so multiple times a year Henry, Pop, and a few others head out to make repairs. Losing a flock to a minor hole would be devastating.

“Jansen family?” the radio crackles.

“…Here!” comes a younger voice from the same box on the table.

“Noted present, Jansen. LaRue family?” the radio intones.

Henry doesn’t look up as his sister flips a switch.

“Here!” she says into the mic.

“Noted present, LaRue. Madison family?” the radio continues.

Henry looks out the window at the setting sun. His family’s house is so remote that he and his sister have to get their schooling via radio and mail in their homework packets once a week. He does his homework diligently enough, but doesn’t really think about it as anything more than a chore. Henry learns through his hands. And who needs History lessons to raise sheep?

* * *

Henry is sixteen and still can’t understand how Pop can stand the smell without a mask. They’re in a holding pen with Henry manning the gate (mask on) to guide male sheep in from the main flock and female sheep away and his father walking among the baaing animals. The twang of rubber snaps methodically as he makes his way down the line.

The smell is rank with sheep wool, sheep piss, sheep shit, sheep anything; it smells like sheep. This is what concentrated sheep smells like. It’s a smell that always reminded Henry of his unofficial apprenticeship with the shearing men. He’d been eight or nine years old back then, running between freshly shorn animals and up to the bent-over old men dangling from harnesses in the ceiling. His job was sticking a cigarette into their mouths when they called for one and promptly lighting it. The smooth smell of cigarette smoke was a blessing back then.

What he wouldn’t kill for a cigarette right now was anybody’s guess. It’s that time of year where they castrate the recently-matured rams to prevent inbreeding, so their whole flock was brought in for the process. It was simple enough: pull the balls into the scrotum, tie a strong rubber band at the top, and after a few weeks without circulation the whole lot withers and falls off on its own. Pop has been doing this for decades, even going so far as to sell tours of the grounds to those whose lives have been oddly sheep-less. Times have been getting tough on wool farmers, so any extra income is handy.

One such tour group is standing off to the side when Henry discovers a sheep at the gate whose testicles haven’t descended yet. This was a problem for their process, but one that his father was specifically prepared for.

“Oi, Pop! We’ve got anothah’ nunner over ‘ere!” Henry nudges the animal over to his dad.

Sure enough, his father feels the same abnormality. In his right hand appears a hooked knife and with his free hand he presses sharply into the animals abdomen, jostling the hidden treasures close to the surface. In a single cut, Pop makes an inch-long slit, exposing the testicles. And given that both his hands are now occupied, he bends over, his face under the bleating animal.

He erupts from below, kicking the ram over towards his already rubber-banded brethren. Dangling from either side of his clenched teeth are the sheep’s balls.

Somebody on the tour screams. Pop continues to grin, posing for pictures.

* * *

Henry is twenty-two and in his boss’ office. He’s an electrician now, a good trade for any young man in Perth, especially one with his people-savvy and local connections.

“…But I’m not sure if we should do it,” Henry concludes.

He’s just met this girl named Meaghan, a Production Assistant for a documentary company. They’ve only been on two dates so far, but both dates had that spark, that electricity that let him know that something was different this time. On their last marathon-length date they’d discussed taking a holiday together, something crazy, something like two months in Thailand.

But it was crazy! They’d just met! Henry’s boss has other ideas.

“Oi know this Meaghan, and she’s a bang-up woman, she is.” This is unsurprising. Everybody knows everybody in Perth. “You go on that trip with her.”

Henry starts to protest.

“And if you don’t,” his manager continues, louder now to talk over his subordinate, “you’ll find yourself out of a job the day before your trip is supposed to start!”

* * *

“So technically, we’re only on our third date.” He smiles, knowing how crazy that sounds.

He’s finished his stories though, and finally notices the terrier the young man in front of him has been folding in his lap.

“That’s for me?” He asks.

“Of course! It’s your money after all,” Matt tells him, handing it over.

“How’d you learn to do that?” Henry inspects the paper dog, though he’ll find no undescended testicles here.

“I mean, I grew up oddly secluded from society too, in a sort of closed-off Jewish community, though I was in the middle of the city. So I missed out on a lot of pop culture like Michael Jackson and stuff until later on. Instead I had a lot of free time to just sit around and fold.”

“Ah, I getcha. I didn’t know a lot of those things when I got older either,” Henry nods. “Same same, but different, eh?”

“Same same, but different,” Matt agrees.

Their conversation, which seemed to have flown by went on longer than they realized. The group’s formed up at the dining table around them and the sun has just begun to set. Joh and Du-Du emerge from the shadows bearing trays heaped with Thai food. They have two kinds of chicken curry: spicy and slightly less spicy. There are steamed and stir-fried vegetables and, because this is Thailand, more rice than the group could possibly consume.

“Rice,” Matt says after a hearty swallow, addressing Takuro at the other end of the table, “is mushy.”

The Germans explode in laughter again and Matt finally asks what’s so funny.

“‘Mushy’,” Franz says, more successful than his brother at stifling giggles, “is German for a girl’s part. It means ‘pussy’!”

“You were saying ‘Mushy tastes like marshmallow’!” P’ter laughs into his bowl.

Their reaction reminds Matt of their time together in Chiang Mai last night.

* * *

“Hey look at these!” Matt is pointing with his bottle at a row of vaguely cylindrical baubles.

Franz and P’ter backtrack a few yards from further down the night market to check out the stall in question. Most of the stalls they’ve passed sell the same kitschy tourist junk that someone somewhere must be buying to keep the whole lot in business. These faberge-esque ornaments were a novelty. They looked like they could be some kind of incense-holders.

Franz considers the tray of goods for a moment. “I think this is some kind of dildo?”

“A dildo? At a night market? You Germans, man, everything’s a sex toy to you!”

Franz just shrugs.

“Come on,” Matt says, realizing his bottle’s empty, “let’s get another round.”

They duck into the nearby Havana Bar and order a round. They have only a moment for a quick toast (‘Prost!’) before a bracelet lady descends on them.

“You buy bracelet!” she commands. The Western use of a rising tone to denote a question seems lost on the locals where a tone is a completely other meaning for an otherwise identical word.

At first they merely chuckle at the predictable ‘ROCK OUT COCK OUT’, ‘FUCK ME LADYBOY’, and the dozens of other similar nonsense phrases on the woman’s board. But then one catches Matt’s eye and he has a sudden inspiration. He pays the exorbitant 80 baht ($2.46) and pockets the bracelet quickly thereafter, the Germans approving his plan.

* * *

Matt shushes the Germans and pulls the bracelet out of his pocket. “Joh, I’m sure I can speak for all of us when I say thank you for leading us on such a fun trek today. Your humor, flexibility,” Matt eyes the no-longer-hungover Chileans, “and now your cooking have been what made this so much fun.”

Nico and Alex are smiling and nodding. So is everyone else.

“And with that being said, I wanted to give you this.” Matt holds out a purple bracelet bearing yellow block letters.

Joh stares at Matt’s hand for a second. “For me?”

Matt proffers further. “Yes, for you.” Maybe he should have used simpler phrasing in giving his thanks?

“What say?” he fingers the lettering. Joh’s English is admirable, though his knowledge of the written language is understandably lagging behind.

“Oh.” Matt traces the letters with him. “It says, ‘OH MY BUDDHA.”

“No!” Joh’s eyes are wide.

“Yes!”

“Nooooo!”

“Yes, yes!”

“Oo-oohooohooo!” Joh grins ear to ear and finally accepts the bracelet. He waves it at Du-Du. “Oh my buddha! Oh my buddha!”

Over the course of dinner (and the bottle of whiskey Joh somehow procured up on the hillside) the rugged man explains his heritage. He’s a bit drunk, so it’s hard to understand. The best anyone can make out is that his tribe lives on a single hill over five miles away, deep in the jungle. He’s the only one of them that he’s aware of that has left and made it to the big city.

Many of the people there, he explains, have never even seen Westerners, though they know that they exist. They don’t do tours like the village a half mile across the summit does (Joh had explained that he’d take them to the hill tribe tomorrow morning, but since the village went to sleep with the sun and the group of twenty-somethings would be keeping them up with their evening chatter, they were camped a bit out of town). He’s trying to learn as much English as he can to better interact with Westerners, to understand them better.

“Ten year, I learn English.” Joh waves towards his smiling sidekick. “I was like Du-Du. He not know what you say.”

Matt frowns.

“Oh he know some. And he learn, but he not know like me!” Joh’s already flushed face somehow had saved some room to now fill with pride. “I learn English!” He fingers the lettering of the bracelet as he reads aloud. “Oh… my… buddha!”

The next morning Matt awakes to the call for breakfast in the hut he’s shared with the Japanese pair. He finds Tatsuya playing with a grey-striped kitten as the identically-colored mother stalks the rafters. Matt’s stopped wondering if these semi-domestic animals belong to anyone. Thailand seems to take a communal approach to pets and it works for them. He steps into the already-warm morning.

In the dawnlight he has an unparalleled view of the surrounding hillsides. The forests cascade into the blue mist of distance and bleeding orange of the sun. Somewhere in that swarm of leaves there are thirteen sets of fading or already erased footprints. Somewhere down there is a waterfall waiting for more exhausted travelers. Matt’s not usually one for scenic vistas, however, and his stomach reminds him of where his true allegiances lie.

In ones and twos, the crew yawns into the benches for mealtime. Joh quickly passes around eggs and toast and then hunches over a piece of spare cardboard. He’s already copied the all-caps letters of ‘OH MY BUDDHA’ from his bracelet twice.

His handwriting is strange; the letters are generally shaped correctly, but written in a… font that belies Joh’s organically earned knowledge. For instance, the ‘A’ is rounded like two parentheses that happen to touch at the top with a line that extends through and past both sides. And the ‘B’ has the larger of the two arcs on the top instead of the bottom and seems like it ought to topple into the next letters. And so on.

Joh turns to Meaghan. “How write ‘same same, but different’?” He gives her the pen.

She sets to writing as Henry gives the cardboard a glance. He returns to his meal, lifting a leftover slice of toast from his girlfriend’s plate. He knows his priorities.

As neat as Meaghan’s handwriting is (she’s even doing that girly-thing with her lower-case As, that hook at the top), it’s all in lowercase.

“You gotta do block letters,” Matt advises from her shoulder.

“Do what?” she asks, handing Joh his pen and cardboard back.

Joh puzzles at what she’s written, shaking his head.

“Here, all caps, block letters.” Matt takes the abandoned pen and writes out ‘SAME SAME, BUT DIFFERENT’ below Meaghan’s lower-case version.

This time their guide smiles. He can run his fingers over the words and sound them out.

“Ohhhh…” Meaghan understands.

Soon Joh’s copying the phrase into his uniquely shaped alphabet. Reading what he’s written, he’s laughing and whooping like a maniac at his achievement. “Same same,” Joh reads his handwriting, the bottom of the three not-quite identical lines of the phrase, “but different!”

The evening’s festivities.
From left to right: Franz, Matt (w/ Captain America bracelet), Joh (w/ Oh my buddha bracelet), Henry, and Du-Du