Let us call him Kohatu. He is just one of hundreds of thousands of Karen people who has fled persecutions in Myanmar, and ended up in a refugee camp on the Thai side of the border. Nobody remembers how many years he spent there, and everybody agrees that it does not really matter anymore. The only thing that truly matters is that he was finally allowed into the US, and that he was not allowed to bring his family. Arriving in Albany, New York State, he was set up in an apartment block with a bunch of other refugees from Myanmar. He did not have much money, and he did not know any other way of getting more but borrow from the people he had just met. Seven thousand dollars was all it took to sever the ties of friendship around him. And then he did not even manage to get rid of the old broken-down car that somebody had lent him. Buried alive in debt, he could not think of any other way out. He sent the whole wad of tainted bills to his family in the refugee camp, and then proceeded to take his own life. They found him hanging at the end of a rope, tied to the fan in his room with a knot so tight they had to cut it. He was wearing a traditional Karen shirt that somebody at the refugee center had been kind enough to give him. A final display of color in a dull and drab life.

Neal is a fit guy in his mid-forties with bushy black eyebrows and a good tan. He owns real estate in Malthaville near the Adirondack Mountains in the northenmost parts of New York State. A pick-up truck and a small yacht sit in the drive-way next to his house. A nicely kept lawn extends maybe a hundred yards or more off to the side. The grass is cut through by a cold and clear stream coming from somewhere deep within the Adirondacks. It passes under a tiny wooden bridge - and, further down, a rusty sheet of metal laid out as a walkway - before disappearing below ground for a short while, only to rear its head on the other side of the road. It continues through the part of the woods that belongs to Neal, only then to cross through foreign territory, and shed its waters into Little Round Lake, sacrificing purity for life.

"I'm all by myself out here," Neal says as he shows us around his garden. "Government water only runs as far as my neighbour's, so I have to pump my own out of the ground. I kinda like that it way. Means that I don't have to pay for it, and that if anything goes wrong, I don't have to sit around and wait for them to come fix it. I don't mind paying taxes, but what I do mind is paying for things I don't agree with. Like their stupid wars all over the world. It's their war, not mine, and if it weren't for all the low-income families they recruit their soldiers from, there wouldn't even be anyone willing to fight it for them. They need poor people to do their dirty laundry. That's the way I see it, anyway."

We stop at the end of a simple wooden pier that reaches into the lake. A rowing-boat is tied to one of the posts, oars pulled in and carefully placed across the seats. The water is still and muddy. "This is where I take my refugees out fishing," Neal explains. "The pier actually belongs to my neighbour, but I've never had any trouble with him. I let his kids play on my lawn, you know. Truth be told, you also need a permit to throw in the line down here. Sometimes the ranger comes 'round, asking for ID and shit, but none of the refugees talk English, so he doesn't really pay them any mind. As long as you don't take out any more than fifty fish a day, you should be alright. Anyway, they're tiny, and there are hundreds of thousands of them. No reason to worry about quotas and regulations, I tell you."

Neal leads the way back up to the house. He walks with a brisk and rhythmic stride as if the earth itself was pushing him forward. In his profile at the couchsurfing network we contacted him through he writes: I have climbed the highest mountain in each state in the USA, also collecting world highpoints. I want to visit 100 countries - now at 58 - have I been to yours? In fact, he has not. With a national highpoint limit of less than 600 feet, Denmark is hardly a top priority with him. "When I travel Europe and the States, I mostly go where the good mountains are," he tells us as he pulls open his garage. "But apart from that, I really prefer third world countries. That's were they need me the most, I guess."

A blast of sunlight shoots halfway into the garage before being swallowed up by a cold and clammy darkness. It looks like a yard sale gone wrong in there. Bags of clothes and camping gear are piled up everywhere. An old bulky TV sits atop a wooden table, shot through by the sharp line that divides light from darkness. "I really don't feel like having it here at all," Neal says. "TV's only good for getting stupid and lazy. I was eleven before we even got one at home. I guess when my father died, my mother needed something to help pacify us kids. But still we were only allowed to watch it for an hour a day. My refugees, on the other hand, they turn it on in the morning when they get up, and then they turn it back off again in the evening when they go to bed. But if that's what they want, I really can't do anything about it. That's integration for you. All TV and no real people."

Neal dives into a big black plastic bag with a jeans leg sticking out. His arms goes down all the way to the shoulder before he finally finds what he is looking for. He pulls out a pink and white shirt decorated with little pieces of yellow cord like fringes on a rug. "It's a traditional shirt worn by the Karen people of Myanmar," he mumbles through the coarse fabric as he pulls it down over his head. "Most of the clothes people donate is way too big for the Burmese. They're small folks, you know. Only like this tall, or something. Besides, I prefer them to wear their own traditional clothing. I want them to hold on to their culture, to be proud of it. That's why I wear the shirts myself. To set an example, to show them that it's okay. They're no longer on the run from some oppressive regime. They're free like you and me. This is America! Why should they give a damn what other people might think of their clothes?"

When Kohatu got off the plane in Albany International Airport, he carried all of his belongings in a single bag. Since volunteers from the US Committee for Refugees and Immigrants (USCRI) are no longer allowed inside the actual airport because of new security measures, nobody was there to greet him. He had come directly from a straw hut in Thailand to a high security airport in the US. The abrupt change of scenery made his nerves stand on end. A woman in the group he was traveling with broke down crying, screaming wildly in a language nobody but the refugees could understand. They were all restrained by airport personnel, and taken away for further questioning. Hours later they were finally released into the arrival hall, and picked up by a volunteer whom they had never known or even seen before. By then, Kohatu had already suffered the first of many shocks that would ultimately jerk the life from his body at the end of a rope.

Neal was just ten days back from Thailand when the Boxing Day Tsunami struck in 2004, killing an estimated 230.000 people, and leaving many more homeless. At first, he had felt like going back there right away. He wanted to help out, but he did not really know how. He was not connected to any overseas relief aid groups, and he was afraid that he might just end up being in the way. Besides, what difference could one man make to a disaster of such horrendous proportions? Whatever the exact reason - to this day he still is not sure - he decided against it. Next time around, however, he will not think twice. He will just pack up his gear and leave. After all, he is an educated nurse.

"I was meant to pick up this crib for a family that just arrived here with a baby girl," Neal tells us as he speeds down Highway 87 towards Albany. "But now the guy at the office won't give out their address to me. He just wants me to turn in the crib to him, so somebody else can deliver it to them. But that's not the way I play ball. If I'm going to help out somebody, I want them to know that the help actually comes from me. I want to look them in the eye and have them understand that helping out is a personal choice - not some anonymous organization handing out freebies. It just doesn't work like that. If they're ever to get properly integrated, sooner or later they'll have to understand that equal exchange is really what this country's all about."

We continue down the road in silence, wondering what is in the exchange for Neal. He seems very open about the fact that behind every unselfish act there is a selfish motive. A shadow falls on the face of idealism, adding more depth to its features. Just like the Wal-Mart incident. Neal pulls into the endless fields of parking space in front of the prime supermarket chain in the US. As he hurries towards the entrance with long and determined strides like a one-man army descending upon the store, he tells us that you really should not shop at Wal-Mart's. Their sheer size allows them to dump their prices and put all local competition out of business. As we desperately tries to keep up with his pace, he adds that since he is a shareholder in the company, well, his critique can only go so far. He picks up a new tube for one of the refugees' bikes, and complains that they constantly have flats. If they cannot stay clear of broken glass, they really should not ride them. Perhaps, if it did not mean that he had to go to Wal-Mart's, he would be okay with it. But at the end of the day, no matter how sunny your spot, the shadows will eventually fall on you, too.

Neal drives us through a low income and mostly black residential area in Albany. Groups of three or four linger at the street corners, or sit on the chipped stone steps that lead from the sidewalk to the long rows of tall, narrow townhouses. The paint might be peeling, and cracks might be showing in the walls, but right this moment, with the sun out and kids playing in the street, the atmosphere is nice and warm, and the place only seems sligthly run-down. Outside the house where Neal parks the car, two guys and a girl are having a friendly discussion about what makes a good fighting dog. "Just 'coz it's a big puppy, don't mean it's got a good bite," one of the guys concludes as we pass them on the steps.

The apartment is down to raw basics. A pile of shoes is stacked on the floor right inside the door. A guy and a girl in their early twenties sit on a couch reading magazines. It is the only piece of furniture in the living room. The sharp yet sweet smell of curry wafts across the room from the kitchen where somebody is rummaging about for plates and cutlery. Neal introduces us to the couple on the couch, and calls out for Suni. A three-year old boy comes running out from the bedroom, pauses for a moment while taking the strangers in, then throws himself into Neal's arms. The scene is touching. It is like a long gone father coming home to his family. Suni hugs and kisses the big white guy in the Karen shirt, takes him by the hand, and leads him back down the stairs. The boy's mother appears in the doorway, and greets us heartily. Our common language is mostly names, signs, and big smiles. She exchanges a few words with Neal in her native tongue before waving goodbye and closing the door behind us.

"They don't really like it here," Neal says as we drive off with Suni safely buckled up in the back seat. The boy is playing with our camera, laughing and taking random photos of everyone and everything. "There are too many blacks, they say. They don't feel safe at night. Just the other day somebody broke into the apartment next door, and now they want all their locks changed. It's a constant battle, but at least Suni doesn't take notice. He's just happy to get out of the house and go wherever. I won't say that all I do I do for him, but he's definitely one of the main reasons."

Going around the exhibition hall of the New York State Museum with Neal and Suni, we can tell that their's is indeed a two-way relationship. The little boy runs straight for a diorama with a lion crouching on an outcropping of rock. He stops in wonder and fright a few feet away from the display. Neal sneaks up on him from behind, hands raised above his head, growling low like a predator going in for the kill. Suni squeals with delight as Neal grabs him, and lifts him high into the air, sitting him on his shoulders. Neal seems taller now, in every sense of the word. He is proud of his little boy, carrying him around like a trophy. When a couple of old ladies stop to tickle Suni, it is Neal who shines the most.

"I try not to get too attached to my refugees," Neal tells us, driving home after dropping Suni back off at the apartment. "I know from experience that one day they just mightn't be here anymore. Albany doesn't really fit with most people's idea of America. They'd much rather go to California, or some other place out west. I try to tell them that the refugee center doesn't cover for them out there, but dreams die hard, you know. If they find out they have some far-off relation that might be able to get them some crappy job in L.A. - well, off they go. There really isn't a whole lot I can do about it, and I guess I shouldn't either. If you've been on the run your whole life, you don't know any different. Only you can slow yourself down."

The car suddenly feels empty without Suni in it. We browse through his photos on our camera. The framing is terrible, and there is no sense of distance between lense and object. It is all close-ups of big hands and hairy arms and half faces. We wonder if that is how he experiences the world around him. A lot of grown-ups reaching out for him, smiling at him, explaining to him, telling him what to do and what not to do - all the while out of frame and out of focus. If anything, this is Suni's big chance in the Land of Opportunity.

Neal met Kohatu after signing up to be a volunteer in the mentor programme of the USCRI in Albany. Kohatu was his first "client". It was his job to make sure that Kohatu got properly settled in the apartment that was provided for him. Neal would make sure that every little pot and pan Kohatu needed was in the apartment, he would show him around the neighborhood and point out different shops and bus lines, he would teach him basic words and phrases and tell him how to call for help if something happened - in short, he would act as his personal guide and assistant in every mundane way possible. Neal does not blame himself for Kohatu's suicide, but sometimes he wonders if he should have seen it coming. When Kohatu tried to sell off the car he had just gotten, should Neal have reacted? Should he have sounded a warning when Kohatu, already deep down in debt, tried to borrow another 2000 dollars from him? The questions pile up in front of him, but every time the stack becomes too high, he simply puts it away, and clears the table. Every day there is another Kohatu dangling at the end of a rope, and every day there is another Neal trying to cut him down. Pain is a two-edged sword, and there just is not any easy way to handle it.

All day long there has been a big confusion as to how many people will actually turn up in the evening. First it is the father and his three sons, then it is the father but not the sons, and when Neal finally arrives back home, he has the three sons with him in the car but not the father. "It's like this all the time," Neal says with a tired look on his face. "I try not to mind, though. I just do my thing, and then they can tag along if they feel like it. What I do mind is having to repack the gear all the time. But - that's helping out for you."

Neal suddenly lights up as the three young men enter the kitchen. At first we are a little concerned that they might have heard him complaining, but then it dawns on us that neither of them speak any English. Still, it feels awkward talking behind other people's backs. We have made it a rule among ourselves never to speak Danish when hanging out with our hosts over here - not even when discussing harmless private matters. But when the Burmese start talking to each other in their own native language, we realize that keeping an open conversation will not be an option tonight. We have to talk each in our own camp, and then meet across the table with sign language and phrase books.

Neal tries to push some of last night's shrimp fettucini to the Burmese, but it turns out that they have brought their own dinner. It consists of coca-cola and cheap prepacked noodles from the supermarket. Neal scoffs at their unwholesome choice of food, but does not say anything directly to their faces. They cook the noodles together with the seasoning bags as if to draw every last bit of taste from the plastic wrapping itself. When it is done, they sit down at the table, fold their hands around their bowls, and say something that probably amounts to grace. Neal pokes a bit of fun at their little ritual, wiping his forehead and indicating a narrow escape. They all look up at him, and laugh nervously.

"I'm not a very religious man myself," Neal confides over the table while the Burmese are slurping their noodles. "And I especially don't like the way the Baptist missionaries always seem to turn up at the doorsteps of the refugees right after they arrive. I don't know what archives they've got access to, but somehow they always know exactly what doorbells to ring. They give them stupid little gifts they don't really need, and then they invite them all down to their nice little church - no strings attached, of course. Yeah, right! Religion is a private matter, and religion should stay a private matter. That's the way I see it, anyway."

We spend the rest of the evening huddled together in front of Neal's computer. Pictures are a great way of communicating, and Neal is only too happy to share the snapshots from his mountaineering exploits. He points and clicks us all the way to the top of an Alaskan mountain, and shows us how you set up camp by building ice walls and digging holes in the snow. He has a huge repertoire of slapstick-like sounds which he applies generously to the pictures. Every now and then one of the Burmese guys will steal away to smoke a cigarette, exchanging a few whispered comments with his friends. Only when Neal shows them pictures of other refugees he has taken with him into the mountains do they get up from their seats, and start talking excitedly among themselves. Sometimes they will even recognize a face, and say his or her name out loud. Tomorrow they are the ones that will be out there in the wilderness, subject only to the rule of nature.

Bed call comes as a relief to all. Alarm clocks are set to go off at five-thirty in the morning, and we will all leave the house together, although going off in separate directions. Neal and the three youngsters to the Adirondack Mountains, us to the next stop on our travels through the US. Sleep comes heavy and dreamless.

We are woken up by the sound of rain beating against the windows. In the distance a grey dawn is slowly chasing away the pitch black of night. A constant thud of feet on the stairs reverberate throughout the house. The Burmese are running all over, packing gear and preparing sandwiches. Outside, Neal is giving orders in a low, tired voice. Today is his big day. The day when he gets to show the refugees the part of his own world closest to his heart. They might not understand it, they might not even like it, but they will know that it is a gift from him, and him only. As we pull out of the driveway, Neal is rigging his boat to his car. They will be crossing land and sea before they even get to where the climb begins. And when night falls once more, they will be all alone and free somewhere up there in the vast expanses of nature where the only accepted form of integration is survival.