Sunsets and Sentosa-- Singapore Take Two

Today's Thoughts...


The last time I made my way to Singapore was on less than optimal terms so I figured I would come back and not only do justice to Asia’s most spic n’ span nation, but give a second shot to the city island I sort of skipped over and through. Excellent choice. WHOA! I landed smack dab in the middle of Partyzone Central with the new Singapore PiA crew and just in time for Ana’s big 22 bash!! Epic night like none other starting with cake and room partying, off to Holland Village, Singapore’s foreigner nightlife district, where we dove headfirst into guac and chips at Cha Cha Cha and then on for beersteins at a neighboring bar. After a previous all night bus to Hue, five seconds of sleep at the Hue Backpacker’s Hostel, and then two fast flights to Singapore, I collapsed royally at about 6am, well partied beyond my limits. During the day on Saturday, we flew through Singapore’s highlight sights stopping off at Little India, Chinatown, Arab Street, Raffles’ Hotel, so named after the founder of modern Singapore and equally famous for its bartender’s invention of the Singapore Sling in I believe the 1930s, and how many more sights I have no idea. Tons of walking, sweating, sight-seeing, and just lapping up the beauty of Singapura.
That night, as a farewell to PiAer John, we popped down to the riverside district clubs where we stopped in at what we all determined to be THE zombie techno mosh pit of Singapore in a club called home. As in dancing none of us could understand, yet without words everyone else seemed to know how to do, bopping to an unheard rhythm (at least not in the music playing in our ears) in an eerie dry ice hazy room with strobe lights and a DJ. Something like Halloween come very VERY early. After observing the… ritual… there, and downing our drinks courtesy of the cover, we headed on down the way to a different club called dbl 0. Exciting and energizing time had by all. Loved it and would definitely go back sans the pricey cover charge (without drinks!). The music on the top top deck was great, like a trip back home in Singapore. Everything from Fifty Cent to Cold Play and 80s chic to the music of the early millennium, musical sampling like none other. Around 4 we headed back home, John and I craving some early morning/ late night Mickey Dee’s so we stopped off at one of the millions of 24 hour Mc Donald’s throughout Asia just in time to watch the automatic menus flip from burgers and nuggets to Egg McMuffins and hashbrowns. We staked out a clean spot amidst other later-nighters chowing down on their Big Macs and fries and downed two sausage McMuffins a piece. Let the record show that the ONLY time I have allowed myself to indulge in Western fast food grease heaven has been in Singapore and at this particular Mc Donald’s. I don’t know about you, but I consider that a feat after nearly 5 months in Asia.

After our grease-filled coma, we trudged our way home, me waking up many hours and moons later to head to Singapore’s popular weekend destination, a “beach” called Sentosa. Now I put it in quotations because “beach” is probably the loosest term for Sentosa. More like a fun park with sand, Sentosa is reachable via one of Singapore’s six million malls (did I mention that every subway MRT ride to a popular destination ends in a mall? As in to reach the surface, you HAVE to walk through a mega underground mall? Ingenious. Absolutely ingenious). Via our handy ticket purchase in one of several windingly long lines, we grabbed seats on the monorail that took us to the illustrious Sentosa. When we got off at the ticketing window, we should have known that Sentosa was not your normal beach. I mean sure, there was sand (trucked in some years ago expressly for the purpose of designing Sentosa) and water (dotted by the freight ships that bobbed on the water) and beach food (if by that you mean the swanky Café del Mar blaring gyrating tunes all day long to compete with the techno beats throbbing from the café next door). A bit overwhelmed and mildly frightened by this “beach” experience, we plopped down on the self-entitled hippiest beach around (don’t ask me the name now) and listening to Puffy play in the background, gobbled down some expensive lunch hungrily and laid out on the sand next to the three foot pool with water slide and the women in bikinis shooting down it. Strangest beaching day ever.

The next morning found me groggily packing and saying my good byes, my weekend in Singapore suddenly a blur of party, fun, party, beach, and farewell. Already exhausted and losing steam, I hopped my $8 Jetstar flight for Penang and was on my way to the fusion culinary capital of Southeast Asia.

V... is for vomit: Doin it Vietnam Style!

Today's Thoughts...
So in my week’s stay in Vietnam, traveling through the 4 H’s—Hanoi, Halong Bay, Hue, and Ho Chi Minh (as a point of departure), I have come to realize that an absurd number of people in this country have a thing for vomiting. Not anorexia/bulimia sort of vomiting, no, but something strange nonetheless. On the way in, after a 10 hour bus ride from Chiang Mai to Bangkok, Allison and I got on a plane headed for Hanoi only to land and after stepping onto our airport shuttle into the city, notice that not one, but two women were vomiting into plastic bags. The ride was bumpy, but not nauseating by any means so this was odd indeed. The next day, strolling through Hanoi, we came across more gagging sounds, this time from a small child whose parents continued to feed her as if nothing had happened…hmmm. Finally, on the flight into Ho Chi Minh, a man began retching amongst laughs from throughout the plane. Since when was vomiting a hilarious event? I have no idea, just thought I’d note it. So, Vietnam you ask? Let’s start with Hanoi.
We landed in Hanoi in the middle of a giant child's costume festival sort of like Halloween. The kids were adorable! Besides these cute kids and with the notable exceptions of Thom, our gregarious serenading hotel host at Lucky and the wonderful ladies at the Mask shop who offered us delicious tomato-looking fruits to try, I’m not sure what crawled up their noses and died, but many of the people of Hanoi were decidedly and unnecessarily spiteful most of our stay there. Point in case, our first night we were literally shooed out of a restaurant, pushed onto the street by a waiter saying it was too full and to come back in an hour. We went to grab fries and while sitting down (at the appropriately table belonging to the fry stand), were pouted at with puckered lips, stamping foot, and Vietnamese curses by a girl working at the shop who up and took our table as well as the table of some kids next to us. After she attempted to throw our things on the ground, I grabbed her wrist and shook our stuff free, yelling at her for being so abominably rude. That surprised her a bit, but not enough to leave us with the table. It would seem that although the general malaise that hangs in the air is displayed liberally for foreigners, it is not reserved for the out-of-towners alone. What they say is true about Hanoi, the traffic is insane, but with a little confidence and steady strut, crossing the street really is no biggie with the zigzagging cars and crisscrossing lines weaving about without traffic lights.

With Jonas and Maria, we created our own walking tour of the city, going to the beautifully serene Temple of Literature, the Ho Chi Minh Museum with all its crazy art, the Flag Tower, a Bonsai Park, the Ngoc Son Temple, the Hoan Kiem Lake, and whatever other random bits we could throw in. We dined on delicious pho (fuh), which is a yummy white noodle soup with lemon thyme-esque broth and meat and to our AMAZEMENT— bread! A holdover from French colonialism, Vietnam is chock full of delicious baguette style bread! After nearly 5 months without real bread (I’m talking not that nearly Wonder bread tough stuff in Thailand), we were in heaven and devoured every piece of bread in sight including the great breakfast at our hotels. Every hotel it seems offers a light fare breakfast of bananas, bread, eggs, jam, butter, and coffee or tea as well as free computers in the lobby and usually Wifi. We were in comfortable bliss despite our tiny quarters in the Hanoi Lucky Hotel and Queen A-Z. If that wasn’t enough, we chowed down on pizza pleasure (Pepperonis restaurant) and burgers (courtesy of the Hanoi Backpacker’s hostel) to round out our eating marathon. That and the crazy Vietnamese white coffee with condensed milk ad enough black coffee to knock you over, served over ice for delicious crispness.

Leaving Hanoi, we booked an overnight one night, two day tour to Halong Bay with the Hanoi Lucky Hotel which I would not at all recommend. Although AP Travel is very legit and the tour was nicely set up, we literally did NOTHING that Lucky promised in the tour itinerary we paid for. NOTHING. No fishing, no swimming, no kayaking in the most beautiful body of water and islands I have ever seen. All of which were promised in our so-called package we paid Lucky for. And as with all things in Vietnam, once you’re scammed, you’re stuck. So we made the best of what we could, I raised hell intermittently throughout and we lapped up the beauty of Halong Bay, a UNESCO World Heritage sight and Cat Ba Island, the biggest island nestled therein. We did get to see a very commercialized and overdone cave with special effects and lighting that we could have done without, but the cave itself was certainly spectacular. Ran into Visi alum Erin Murphy and her cousin Jess, yay! Great surprise! Staying in a great hotel— the Holiday View Hotel right on Cat Ba Island. At night, to make up for the loss of excitement in the day, we bought drinks (I should say at least the tour provided 4 sit-down family-style meals!) and hung out near the water with a whole crew of European kids from everywhere. On this side of the globe you don’t get too many Americans, but we met up with a Brazilian (ok not European), several Swedes, two Danes, two French kids, a Dutch girl, and some Aussies. Over two rounds of Tiger beer— first round courtesy of the Danes and second of the French— we laughed, talked travel, sparred country against country, and listened to really bad and really good Swedish pop. Sort of spontaneously generated our own Eurotrip ;)

Well, after evil stares in Hanoi and a mildly less than thrilling trip to Halong Bay (with all its incredible gorgeousness and splendor right there for the taking!), I wasn’t very much looking forward to the 15 hour overnight bus to Hue City in the middle of the country and the encounters that would ensue there. Call me pessimistic, but things just looked a little gray. After 15 hours crunched in a top bunk, debating whether puking was worth the trip to the vomit-urine reeking moving port-o-potty beneath me, and battling in vain with the constant jerking and swaying of a bus that tossed my pillow out from under me so many times during the journey that eventually one of the women sleeping on the floor below (yes sometime during the long night, people boarded the bus and took refuge in heaps on the floor), mistook it for her knapsack and fell fast asleep on it. Neck aching and bladder bursting, we arrived in Hue. Fortunately if I had to do it again, I would since the hours flew by, I’d just recommend picking a better bus. Did I mention that I raised a fuss with Lucky Hotel and got us a discount, yes a discount on the bus of midnight horrors. Hahaha. Oh how that works out. Anyway, dazed and still dozing we climb off the bus instantly assaulted by hawkers trying to get us to stay at this hotel and that for the cheap, cheap, cheap madam price of $2 or $3 a night for a shared room.

Spotting a beefy White guy next to a slender Vietnamese girl, we ran over and asked where he was from. Hue Backpacker’s Hostel he told us and in a moment’s notice we were off in a taxi to the hostel with a new arrival we met in the taxi— Emilie from Holland. Hendo, the name of the hostel owner is unequivocally AWESOME and the hostel was heaven-sent. Not only did they pay for the taxi for the short ride (just a few blocks) to the hostel, they have a convenient lift to pulley our luggage up to the upperdeck terraces that are the open air hallways of each floor, they have a delicious free beers 5-6pm gig, and wonderful 2 for 1 cocktails 8-9pm for Happy Hour every day, free breakfast of bread, jam, butter, fruit (the standard fare), and cozy clean rooms with gorgeous wooden floors and walkways and everyone who works there was simply saintly (thank you How!). They spent over an hour helping me to track and print a boarding pass for my flight the next day, even taking my flash drive to a nearby shop to print while I hung out with the gang. They stayed on the phone to help me sort out a shuttle via Vietnam Airlines to the airport (although I was flying Jetstar) to save me tons of money on an over-priced cab ride, and just all around were an amazing bunch of people to get to know. If ever in Hue again, which will be soon for sure, I would definitely stay there again.
After loading in, we headed on a cute boat ride after haggling forever in the sun to the Thien Mu Pagoda holding the car of the Buddhist monk who burned himself in protest of the Vietnamese regime in 1963. The pagoda is large, beautiful, and full of wonderfully friendly monks that welcomed us happily. From there, on our adorable boat that dropped off two of the owner’s kids for school on the shores of the Perfume River (as it’s called), we went to yet another UNESCO World Heritage site at the Citadel and Imperial Enclosure of Hue where the Emperor lived once upon a time.

We spent hours inside exploring its dilapidated remains and the ongoing restorations of the site which was vastly beautiful. Leaving, we popped over to the Dong Ba market and wandered down its twisty alleys and thoroughfares, the absolute talk of the town everywhere we went— two six foot blonde girls, a blonde Swedish guy, a brown-haired chap, and me. People came and rubbed my skin and smiled and were in general overjoyed to have us in Hue. SUCH A RELIEF from Hanoi and probably the singlemost experience that would ever bring me back to Vietnam. Hue is remarkably warm, friendly, and fun to explore. We went back in time for shopping and happy hours (had a Passionfruit Leg Opener whatever that means, yummy yummy) and spent the night bopping away at the DMZ Bar (walls covered in graffiti of past visitors including a special one I know) and Brown Eyes, a little hole in the wall club filled with smoke and foreigners. It was intensely wonderful and crazy and we met two new kids to add to our now gang of five— two Brits named Laura and Carl traveling for 18 months throughout Asia and Australia. Fabulous, fabulous, but the highlight of my trip was not beautiful places or packed and smoky clubs.

Strolling past with our group, we passed a stand advertising for Vietnamese silk paintings, a specialty of the region. They were gorgeous and well priced so I made note to come back later. When I did, later that night alone, the woman Titi was hands down so sweet it made me want to cry. After the hustle and bustle of Hanoi and the disappointments of Halong Bay, the love this woman exuded made something tremble inside. After I made my purchases, which she spent forever helping me to do patiently, she asked for some help with English homework hearing I was an English teacher and I agreed. After spending nearly forty five minutes with her, I was floored by her constant determination to learn English over many many years from a kind Australian man who was tutoring her for free. Titi at 58 has a lung disease which didn’t quite make it through the language barrier despite her impeccable English for most things and currently she wanted to learn to get a better job to pay for her elderly parents and her crippled brother who hasn’t walked for ages. Despite her constant protests that she is not intelligent just hardworking, I can say that studious as she is her hard work has paid off enormously. Tutoring with her friend, she speaks better English than many of my college students. After a while she admitted that she saw me when I first walked by and thought that I looked like a angel with confidence who knew what she was doing (despite the fact that I was sweating, exhausted, and had no idea where I was going at the time) and she wanted to meet me. Something told her that she would and then I showed up again later that night and she said that when she saw the cross on my neck, she understood why. She was happy to meet someone teaching especially and just wanted to talk, something that doesn’t happen all that much during the selling hours. Although she asked me for nothing in return, there was something about the genuineness of this sweet lady that hit me somewhere deep.

After thinking much last night and today, I have decided that I don't think my time over here is quite finished. something about her made me realize that there's something I've yet to do, to complete before I go and I think that I want to stick around after this year to figure it out. There’s so much more than I ever knew over here and who would have thought that outside of a nutso city with its nose in the air and a fantastically beautiful aqua paradise, I would find this humble town with its happy people and the woman who might just have re-steered the course of my future with a smile, a painting, and some love?

With Love,

Today's Thoughts...

A letter I just read tucked into one of the final exams I was grading from one of my Conversation 215 students to me. Almost made me cry.

To… Aj. Lauren

I so glad that learn with you. You so lovely. Every students love you so much. I thank you for everthing that you help me. You help me everything. I promise that I intend to study and good student. In the future I will to be good teacher same you. When have a chance I hope I will study with you again. Bye…Bye

[Insert a drawn box with: Sureeewan (hearts, hearts, hearts) Ajan Lauren]

The good teacher for me forever. From… Sureewan.

Maybe it wasn't just a fluke I landed this job after all. ::sigh:: The semester is over. Why do I feel like the year is flying by?


PS. I couldn't resist. This one almost made me cry for different reasons. It was also written on the exam by a different student about giving advice to a friend or family member with anorexia or bulimia:
"I can help her to show the picture of Victoria Beckam and Tata Young. And tell her I know it's very different but even the actress are not good shape. They have some people are fatty girl like you. You don't worry. I know you want some cake."

Now I Know My ABCs

Today's Thoughts...

What do sing-alongs and color relay races have to do with teaching university students in Thailand? Absolutely nothing and everything, I found out two weeks ago. You see, Elena and I were invited (read: coerced, dragged, and all but smuggled) to participate in a weekend English Camp for young kids in the city of Uttaradit, about three hours away. No big, right? Swoop in, teach some songs, play some games, and we’re good. Well, it sort of went like that. SORT of. The three hour ride was fun. Elena, myself, and three young teachers all crammed into one of the teachers cars and belting out the tunes to Toni Braxton and Backstreet Boys, we made our way flying down the highway, stopping once or twice for coffee, bathroom breaks, a light soup dinner, and fruit stalls for plump white juicy fruit called lang-sad that peels like a tangerine inside, but bursts with some sticky sweet deliciousness and sits about the size of a walnut. Munching and meandering down memory lane to 5th grade pop songs, we arrived around 9pmish at our hostess’s adorable wooden bungalow home. After standing on the porch for something like fifteen minutes, her wet and harried mother rushed to greet us and let us in, dripping in her bath towel. Her father sat in the next room in front of the cartoon channel and grunted some acknowledgement of his daughter when she entered. Now that I think about it. I never heard more than three words from him directed towards any of us, the Thai teachers included. Hmmmm…
That night, we stayed up a bit to prepare songs and games for the next day. Flash cards, color wheels, “I love you, You love me,” Barney-style sort of things. Exhausted and slightly hungry, Elena and I climbed into our sleeping bags and snored through the night. We woke up to our faces being tickled and trampled by the family cat who had taken a liking to the hair poking out of our floor mat nests. We got up, the front doors of the house having been thrown open for light, and showered fast to get ready for the day. Terribly hungry, I asked where we could snag some snacks for breakfast and was given a small cup of coffee. So I figured they just were a coffee loving bunch and too hardcore for breakfast. That’s when I first noticed the other two Thai teachers snacking on food they had stashed in their bags. Nibbling on the corner of a piece of pastry, I got into the car and headed to the middle school nearby. The children were fabulously adorable, all with their matching uniforms and matching haircuts—each little girl had a neatly coiffed bob and each boy, a close cut cropped top. We split them into teams—the Lion, The Bear, the Panda, and the Giraffe (their choices with the latter team instantly regretting their name when they learned the English pronunciation; they fondly referred to themselves as the Gee-laffs).

That was the easy part of the day, singing songs the other teachers were convinced we knew and grew up singing though I don’t recall ever learning “Hello my friend, we meet together” or “We Charge,” but okay. That day, those songs were my childhood favorites. We tried and unsuccessfully instructed them in a round of “Rain, rain, go away,” but settled for “Old Mc Donald” since the animal sounds thrilled them. Then, I spent two sessions teaching them to say black instead of brack, blue instead of brue, and gray. To my amazement, it appears that the phenomenon of mispronounced r’s and l’s and other common speech mistakes are not in fact products of an inability for the children to pronounce these sounds, but years of instruction by teachers who simply can’t. My kids had no trouble pronouncing anything correctly, but as soon as I listened to the other teachers instruct them on the same material, I understood instantly. I mean, when we’re listening to the kids being taught “Ten Litt’n Indians” rather than “Ten Little Indians,” a lot of things start to click. The day rolls on with claps of thunder, lightning, and the usual buckets of rain in the afternoon. We dine on an Uttaradit specialty of fish and rice and plough our way through the early afternoon. As a reward, we all decide to get massages, not quite the relaxing, existential experience some massages are, but the Thai knead-the-kinks-out-of-your-soul kind of massage complete with elbows in your groin and fingers poking your vitals. Afterward, I felt like I’d gone through a meat grinder, but true to the rep, I was smoothed out and not a kink remained.

Late as we were from getting our massages first, Elena and I, once again famished, hurried to see what food was left to eat. As it turned out, while we were being kneaded like old cookie dough, everyone else had managed to pick through what was set out for a “snack” as our host called it—the infamous Thai gataaa. Gataa (a grill with soup boiler that you cook yourself) is not quite our favorite as Elena and I have been positive each time we struggled to cook on the grill and boil our soup that we were actually ingesting ecoli, salmonella, and everything in between from half cooked meat we couldn’t manage to sizzle properly. We pretty much picked our way through the remnants, constantly pilfered by friends and family that sort of wandered into the abandoned classroom where the gataa was set up. I felt something like a cavewoman, hunched over my coals and raw meat, trying to protect it from the scavenging birds that swooped in and plucked the juicy morsels from the spit. Nibbles done, we went home with everyone else and waited in vain for dinner to actually happen. Our host had informed us earlier that our gataa episode was merely a prelude to the evening, an appetizer if you will. After a few hours at home and constant repetitions of why don’t you shower and get ready for bed? Don’t you want to shower off and get in bed? Elena and I slowly realized there was no food forthcoming. With the fish from lunch long since burnt away chasing after adorable children all day and the slim pickings from the gataa well on their way to edible history, we went to bed (squeaky clean!), with angry grumbling tummies.
The morning proved much the same and it was then that I realized that while our Thai teacher friends had stashed away munchies to last through the weekend, our host and her mother merely sucked and nibbled on lang-sad all weekend long, constantly remarking on this diet or that quick-fix weight loss technique. We were stuck essentially in the Thai version of The Biggest Loser and I wasn’t too happy about that. We woke up to the doors flung wide open once more, the cat still prowling over our sleeping heads, and five or six cousins, aunts, and uncles all gathered to watch the sleeping farangs (foreigners) and remark ecstatically when we woke and spoke to them in some Thai. I swear it’s like a magic trick and people just want to watch you do it again and again and again. Usually eager to put my Thai skills to the test, so hungry I could devour an elephant, I was in NO mood for charades and niceties., but I bit my tongue, smiled as is the Thai way, and growled my way to a calmer zen. Grumpy and yes, still hungry, we hit the road again after several hours of waiting while our host and her mother primped and fussed their ways to beauty. For lunch, apparently the meal of choice every day, we went to a gorgeous floating restaurant on the water at a nearby reservoir/river and munched our way into food coma.

Munched so much that Elena and I both felt sick the whole ride back to Chiang Mai from stuffing ourselves silly. Lesson number one million forty-five— eating is apparently optional when you’re dealing with divas on diets :)

Growing Up in Thailand

Today's Thoughts...

After riding my moto to the local Tesco supermart (think: Costco, Walmart with some Target style but mall-sized), I popped inside to purchase a desk lamp, lightbulbs, a towel, some hand soap, bread jam, shampoo, sponges, and tissues. Strapping it all down in my bike basket with bungee cords, tossing my high heels from work over one shoulder, and tucking my oversized purse under the other, I felt...like a real person. I don't know when exactly it happened, but I think I sort of grew up a little in Thailand...

Mountain Mama

Today's Thoughts...

Contrary to my colleague’s hours snoozing surreptitiously and…not so surreptitiously at his desk (hahaha, he’s gonna kill me), typically, I manage to find myself with roughly 37-40 hours of work per week between classes, meetings, office hours, tutoring, poetry contests, lecture readings; I don’t even know what all goes on constantly, but somehow about 90% of the time, I end up a part of it. For example, when it came about that a regional poetry contest was being held at a nearby university in Chiang Mai, a packet of poems and two students plopped at my desk and in about three weeks, I was expected to prepare them to recite with fluency, accuracy, and comprehension. Considering that most of my students have the same speech impediments in English (that becomes dat, vulnerable becomes wulnerable, change becomes shange), I had absolutely no idea how I was supposed to get these girls to recite Shakespeare’s sonnets and Wordsworth’s image-laden rhymes with even discernibly accurate pronunciation let alone a modicum of comprehension. On top of that, the head of the department insisted that I had to teach the girls rhythm and rhyme… for arhythmical and non-rhyming poetry. No clue. No clue whatsoever. I just shook my head and said okay. Well three weeks later after countless afternoons practicing “red leather, yellow leather” and “unique New York” and whatever other theater tongue-twisters and activities I threw at them, including a night trip to a café where the girls recited “O Captain, My Captain” as a three-woman skit for lookers-on, they were ready and off they went. I meanwhile, was thrown into a minivan and sent to Lamphung for the 11th annual speech competition to coach and cheer on our three contestants there. At the end of the day, the head of our department asked me to stay on teaching for another year, jumped out of her seat and at a grand 4’11 danced and jigged in the aisles, one of my students won 5,000 baht and 2nd place in the annual speech competition, and crowning joy, my very own coachee won first place in the poetry competition for a heartfelt and animated recitation of “O Captain, My Captain”! Needless to say, it was a day to celebrate.



And then we were sent to the mountain. Yes, a week later, Elena and I were terrifyingly coerced (no other word accurately describes the pouting faces, confusion and sheer power of peer pressure when fellow teachers thought for even a second that we WOULDN’T go) to climb Doi Khuntaan and camp out for a nice with first and second year students. All I wanted to do was sleep and sleep and keep sleeping for a weekend, fatigued as I was. Surprisingly and wonderfully, a large number of the students turned out to be my very own which was eye-opening. Nothing like a four hour hike, sweating, draining every body fluid imaginable beneath the burning Thai sun, to bring you and your students closer together. The most ridiculous thing neither Elena nor I could understand was why nearly ALL of the students chose to do the several hours hike in skinny jeans and make-up, even reapplying as they went! I mean I looked like road kill, and dying from heat exhaustion as they were, well…. they looked good. Some things just continually baffle me and this is one of them.



To block out the heat and exhaustion, I talked the whole way. Yep, that's me talking behind the camera as I take that shot. As is my custom (as anyone who knows me will readily attest to), I drowned out the pain with incessant palaver (sorry, Elena!), quizzing students about their lives, talking nonstop about my own, anything I could think of to keep thoughts of how many more kilometers we had to go out of sight, out of mind, gone, gone, gone. So we made the however many km trek and collapsed in hungry heaps at the top. Then the students spent the greater part of the evening playing all sorts of crazy summer camp games, some of which I dove in on foolishly, singing, crafting, eating, and in general loving life and this mountain. And it was a sight to behold. Beautiful, fresh air like we haven’t felt in Thailand and just as serene and soothing as you want to be.



When the day’s activities ended, we crowded into a cabin with the other ajarns and the real fun began. In the middle of the night I got up to pee and had to nearly choke myself to hold back the laughter and tears from streaming forth. Because Elena and I had been first to bed, we had not beheld the ritual of nighttime with the other teachers, but we didn’t need to. The remnants were right there in the room. I mean muu-muus, Superman PJs, Pooh stuffed animals, buzzsaw snores, swatting at invisible bugs, night masks, head gear-- I could barely contain myself. These were the same women hovering over the coffee pot in their sensible heels, none-too-flashy necklaces, knee-length skirts, blazers. Well, no more. It was another world and at 4am, I was there to witness it in a room full of dozing Thai women. Perfect. Hours and hours waiting in the train station and more hours on the train and we finally arrived back in Chiang Mai. Do I regret it? Not a moment.

Indo Supreme

Today's Thoughts...

The very next week after Pai, with a sudden lull in classes, I packed up and shipped off for post-tsunami zone—Banda Aceh in the far tip of Sumatra, Indonesia. I stopped over for a night in Medan where Dylan met me in the airport and after several illegal runs in and out of the country to procure cash for a visa-on-arrival and an investigation by plain clothes police (complete with backroom, brightly burning interrogation lamp, full investigation like I was in a black and white detective movie, and a very touchy body search by a giggly forty-something year old woman), I finally (legally) stepped foot into Indonesia. The airport was a bit rundown with taxi hawkers gawking and lingering nearby trying desperately to convince us that their sky-high rates were so good, so good. Luckily, our five-star hotel (oh yes) had airport service and swooped in like a hawk to save her babes from the vultures. The plush leather interior SUV drove us into the city with its coolly tinted windows so we could gaze open-mouthed at all we saw. In many ways, Medan reminded me so much of Lima (Peru), I couldn’t stand it. The same loitering men on corners, peeling billboards and posters half-heartedly glued to walls, garbage trucks, their wonderful aromas wafting in the breeze, women with over-sized shopping bags, grit, smoke, a distinct buzz in the air—the works. It was astonishing. The only difference as far as I could tell was the sudden explosion everywhere of women in hijabs, or jilbabs, as they are known in Indonesia. Somehow I had managed to forget that Sumatra is Indonesia’s most conservatively Muslim region.

Our hotel was beyond first-rate and for $30 each for the night, was superior. We stayed on the ninth floor with a walk out deck to the balustraded pool, little white cherub-looking stone fixtures ringing the edges. There was hand to mouth service all throughout the hotel with a bevy of eager faces greeting you to provide in any way they could whatever you might need. There were arrival mocktails, strawberry and bubbly, and a huge bed, glass-encased shower—we were in absolute bliss, Dylan especially after two months of life in Aceh, a different world compared to Medan. Our bliss was short-lived however, as we woke early to partake in the enormous Indonesian and Western breakfast buffet (followed by room service of our leftovers), explored the mall, dashed off to try to see Harry Potter, failed in that attempt, and returned in a bejak (tuk-tuk with a sidecar) with a driver belting Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” at us and telling us about his travels through America. In the blink of an eye, Medan was behind us and we were on a plane to Aceh.


Aceh is breathtakingly gorgeous. Sort of ensconced in a ring of mountains with the ocean along the edge, it is beautiful. The tsunami (of 2004) did not destroy that. Though the infrastructure leaves much to be desired, the city itself is still teeming with people, many of whom returned to their lives (sans homes) in Aceh soon after the tsunami swept through. You can feel it in a sort of pride in the people in their home, whatever the damages done. While I was there, we did the “touristy” things, whatever those might be in a still re-developing Aceh—we stopped by the unfinished Tsunami Museum, visited the mass graves, and circled around a huge steamer, drifted over two miles inland during the flooding. But that wasn’t Aceh, not really at least. Aceh is in the people and that was the most outstanding part about the place. Medan had its seedy underbelly with men openly hostilely staring/glaring at me, convincing me that anything would be better if I had just bought a jilbab myself. In Aceh, people at least waited until you passed before they gaped openly most of the time, despite the fact that women here were even more conservative than in Medan. I mean covered ankles to wrists conservative—I felt extremely out of place even with my shoulder shrugs, sweaters, and leggings.

Dylan’s roomies Andre and Oczie along with two friends, Dede and a girl whose name has escaped me, picked us up from the airport and raced through the night in a semi-broken down jeep-truck?, nearly splattering an unsuspecting cat on the road as we went. The guys I found out were real class acts, hilariously goofy and Aceh-style laid back. As proof of this, when we got to the house, Dylan and Dre showed me the remnants of “Star Wars,” an all-out ink battle with yellows and reds and blues splashed on the walls from the office printer (the office for Dylan’s NGO is based out of their house—“Basecamp”). Did I mention there’s not much shakin’ in Aceh?

At night, rather than frequent bars with booze since Aceh is dry to all citizens and expensive alc to all foreigners (bules), young people flock to coffee shops, Sumatra being known for some of the best coffee in Indonesia. We popped on over to two shops, the first a stop to meet Dylan’s army of Acehnese friends. I could only DREAM of having half as many Thai friends as he has Acehnese, literally. Most all of them work at NGOs or government organizations and LOVE to practice their English, not to mention the relative ease of learning Bahasa Indonesia (a bunch of which I picked up while I was there in like…two days, almost as much Thai as I’ve digested in two months). Whereas here, sometimes it can be like pulling teeth to get Thai compadres to even squeak out the countless words of English they know, ever fearful of somehow maiming a ridiculously complicated and complex language. I mean, really, five tones in Thai—I’m the one who sounds like a fool, not them. His friends were incredible and promptly cooed over me, friended me on Facebook, and invited us to join them for a camping trip the next day. Sadly, we had to decline because of my flight out, but I spent the rest of the weekend secretly mourning it.



So that’s Dylan’s friends. Dylan’s place is another story. Basecamp is a one-floor bungalow, fairly new as it was built right after the tsunami, a real boys’ bachelor pad. No furniture in the living room except a huge wide-screened TV and a coffee table. Dylan’s room was decidedly more posh (hahahaha, I’m dying just saying that) for which I reference, the twin bed (one leg missing so the end was propped up with his suitcase), two posters slowly detaching themselves from the wall, a dresser, a desk (which he has assembled himself by hand!), and a frosty AC unit that sort of chose when it would share its Arctic breeze or not. His bathroom consisted of a Western-style toilet (you dump in a bucket of water to wash the waste go down), a drain to serve as a sink after brushing of teeth, and a large water-filled cistern called a mandi for showering with icy cold waves in the morning. The mandi is an experience all itself. You have to brave the icy buckets of water to wet your body, soap down in a rapid lather, and then douse yourself again with the frigid liquid to rinse off. It’s sort of like a washing marathon—how fast can you douse, how quick can you lather, and how many minutes till you are back on the other side of the door, clean and cold. I considered it a triumph when I could complete the feat in under five minutes. Go team, go!

Aceh went by in a daze and once again it was time to move on but not before sampling some of Aceh’s “finest” (although in a way I much preferred the food stands). My second night, we were serenaded at a fancy over-priced Italian restaurant populated primarily by all the bule in town and were served sheet-thin crispy pizza. The day I left, instead, we partook in the ritual that is Pizza Hut restaurant style with a waitress and full menu and background music. Surreal, I’d say. What a world, what a world.

Bpai Pai (I'm going to Pai)

Today's Thoughts...

AGH! So it has been a MONTH of life that has disappeared on me. Quite unsure of where the heck August went, I find myself in September and in great debt to all my lovely loyal and Lauren-less readers ;P The past four weeks, I’ve felt like I’ve barely inhaled and all of a sudden—poof! Done. It started with a trip to the tiny town of Pai just a few hours away, continued with a special visit to Indonesia, then back to Chiang Mai where I was whisked away for a speech competition in Lampang, off yet again to Singapore to nurse a certain somebody back to health, and then up a mountain to Doi Kuntaan with a giggly group of students and my fellow Payap faculty. Relishing in the prospect of a weekend at HOME, I write to you now, a report from the frontlines and the past SIX cities I’ve been to since I wrote last. And so without belabored to-do….. PAI.

Jordan, a fellow PiA-er teaching itty bitty first graders in Chiang Mai, and I decided about a month ago that we desperately needed an escape from Chiang Mai. As much as we love this place with its constant stream of motorbikes and cars, honking tuk tuk drivers, spicy papaya salads, and late-night noodle stands, we were dying for the chance to sort of… run free. So we did. We ran (via minibus) straight to Pai, a small town and mildly touristy haven some three hours away. Fortunately enough, Pai was all but deserted given the low season, so for better or worse we had the town to ourselves. Now being in a quaint, mountain nestled town (everything is a mountain nestled town in No-Tho, my catchy name for Northern Thailand) we thought it’d be a swell idea to hop on a pair of bikes and ride out to a nearby waterfall when we got there. I mean, neither of us had really set foot on a bike seriously since middle school, but whatever. It’d be cute, idyllic even. Right. Hahaha. I wish. From the very moment we handed over our 50 baht, our trip to Pai was christened with one disaster after the next.

Okay, so we’re riding these bikes, right? Great. Beautiful mountain breeze (and mountain hills), gorgeous sunny day (and dampening heat), long stretches of peaceful countryside (and the accompanying roosters strolling along the street). Perfect. It really could have been a scene out of the Sound of Music. And then Jordan’s bike chain popped off with a loud squeal and crunch. No biggie; we popped it back on. A few strides later, it came off again. Annoying, but at least the bike was still moving. Now we were going uphill. And then it happened. For the second time in my Thailand days, I swear to you, heaven bore its wrath down on us both and all hell fell from the skies. In a matter of seconds, we were pedaling against pounding sheets of rain until we found temporary shelter under a large canopy tree. Passerby on their fast and speeding motorbikes waved and laughed openly at our foolish dripping selves huddling together horrified at the sudden turn in weather. After about twenty minutes, we tentatively ventured out, only to find that the tree itself had been dumping buckets on us and there was no more than a trickle outside in the open air. Of course. We pedaled on, our Lonely Planet assuring us that there was a whole slew of villages just above the next cresting hill…or the next…or maybe the next.

By the time we reached the farms outlying the town, small Thai children running out to gape and point openly at the foolish farang on bicycles, my brakes now having failed entirely and Jordan’s chain all but a forgotten fancy trailing beside her, our clothes were sticking to us glued by the rain and sweat that dripped down our backs and sides. We asked a small woman hoisting a bundle the size of several small children onto her back, which way to the waterfall (in Thai!) and she pointed to the top of yet another looming hill. Figuring that if this tiny woman carrying six times her weight could do it, we went for it, and….nada. So that waterfall? Was a clean 10-12 miles outside of town. So much for our maps. So much for our bikes. So much for an idyllic trip through the countryside. Laughing in tears, we pedaled back to our fortunately gorgeous and sinfully cheap bungalow “Aqua,” having logged roughly 10-12 kilometers in riding (about 6-7 miles uphill). Oh but of course we didn’t make it there without being chased by a pack of dogs, us DYING on these damn bikes, trying to outrace these street dogs in silence, neither shouting or screaming or panting or anything, just pedaling faster and faster in the dark to escape. By the time we collapsed in bed and endured the terrifyingly shocking visit of a cat who decided to crawl in from outside to join us in bed, we couldn’t stop the side-splitting laughter that rang through the night. (sounding oddly poetic…)

Bright idea. The next morning, we promptly returned the bikes and with four hours to spare until our bus back to Chiang Mai, decided to pony up and rent motorbikes. After arguing in Thai-glish for forever, we managed to secure a half day rate for the usual 24 hour rental. Then we were told that our deal would come only with a tank teetering dangerously on empty, with us on our way up yet another mountain to hot springs and elephant camps near town. As we rode, the bikes alternately shutting off whenever they saw fit or the exhaust pipes exploding whenever we stopped, we were once again amazed at the sheer beauty of Pai. Absolutely breathtaking fields and fields of crops, mountains, everything. We passed several similarly idyllic biker riders, huffing and puffing their way up the hill, and we smiled at their folly. Ha. Ha. Ha. But we made it to the top this time, and relaxed for what felt like an eternity in the medicinal hot springs, sloughing off dead skin, exhaustion, and just life. It was blissful. Racing back down (by which I mean coasting on neutral to save gas), we passed the elephant camps, their namesakes sunbathing with their sad eyes watching us ride by. And before we rightly knew what had happened, we were piled onto yet another minibus, not as good as the first, my seat threatening to plummet out the back of the bus every time we stopped suddenly or someone opened the trunk. Best worst trip EVER. So jerking and bouncing, we made our way back to Chiang Mai and then the craziness in my life really began.

Singapore Sickies

Today's Thoughts...

HELLLLLLOOOOOOO out there blog-land! I am back after a loooong disappearance with several trips and updates to unleash upon these dark blog walls! First thing's first, part of why I have been so vilely delinquent is because the past few weeks have been a blur of crazy activity-- some great, some not so great. This most recent weekend, I found myself jet-setting on an earlybird flight to Singapore for a little foray into my hopefully-not-ever-soon-to-be-again nursing career. As it turns out, Dylan (rare disease connoisseur that he is)managed to contract both malaria AND Dengue fever in Indonesia. Don't ask how. Don't ask why. He just did. So off I went for an unexpected little voyage to quite certainly the cleanest city-country-island I have ever seen.

Not exactly the weekend getaway we hoped for, but we made it work. And now, thank more stars than I can count, he's on the road to up and up and out of the hospital for a sure to be awful week of recovery in one of the prettiest cities this side of the Seven Seas. Gotta love it. TBC on trips to Pai and Aceh and the annual speech and poetry contests in Chiang Mai!

Driving Miss Rolin

Today's Thoughts...

To explain the title, here in Thailand and pretty much most of Asia, because the "l" sound cannot start a word but often lands in the middle, it is VERY hard for most people to manage the name "Lauren" without sincere difficulty. Most of my students have managed to master this with constant prodding and reminding. My fellow faculty members, not so much. So why are we driving Miss Rolin? Well this week was all about transportation-- le motorbike. Last weekend, Elena and I rented a bike thinking it'd be a great idea to take turns practicing. Well, that went okay up until the point when we tried to make a turn, were faced with a large frightening looking vehicle, and collapsed with the motorbike on top of us. Like something out of a wonderfully hospitable movie, or maybe just a NASCAR pitstop, several Thai men rushed out of shops and restaurants all around and within a matter of seconds before we really knew what had happened, the bike had been righted and we were plopped back onto it and off again. Only a few moments later did I realize the gaping, mildly gushing burn wound on my leg. The "Farang (or foreigner) Tattoo" they call it here since foreigners get burned on bike exhaust pipes all the time. Strike One for the bike. Grr.

Now in Thailand, right now it's rainy season, but fortunately for us there hasn't exactly been all that much rain going on outside of the occasional spurts and deluges. On Wednesday, I knew I needed to make my way to the bike rental place to check out the stats on a bike I wanted. So I hopped on the bike I had. Rewind. The bike I originally rented looked like something out of a circus sideshow. Harley Davidson-esque, it had three full sized headlamps on the front, spotlight style, a back support on the seat, leather studs and tassels on the handles and of course the nicely spraypainted name "Jessie" down the side. It was a piece to behold. But...Jessie failed me. The very next day, the gas gauge stopped working, the speedometer was shot, one head lamp fell off, dangling like a loosened eyeball from its socket, and Jessie wouldn't start. Bad, Jessie. Bad. So I set off after work to exchange her. On the way, I made a wrong turn. No biggie, I thought, I'll make a U-ey and be on my way. Uh uh. Not so fast. I tried three times to make a U-turn, but found myself lost in the labyrinth of Chiang Mai sois, getting deeper and deeper into surrounding Thai neighborhoods and further and further from my destination. To add insult to injury, it began to pour. I'm not quite sure how to describe the flood that fell from the sky, other than to say that I was so soaked and drenched to the bone that my underwear were sliding from my behind. Does that paint a picture?

To make matters worse, not only was my helmet fogging, my crotch sagging, and my spirits sinking, no one understood as I tried several times to find out where I was or how I had gotten there. Finally, I found a kind pharmacist who spoke perfect English, corrected my poor pronunciation, and informed me that I was so far outside of the old city that no one even knew the place I was talking about that I was trying to get to, one of the biggest tourist spots in Chiang Mai. He opened his shop, which he had closed because of the rain, led me inside, and pulled out a map to help me find my way. After an hour, I was back on my way again and within half an hour had finally reached the bike shop, tear-stained and shaken-up. Overwhelmed by my display of emotion, the owner agreed to hold my bike for the night and I made my way to walk to Jordan's apartment. Only of course, I went the wrong way and walked so far that no taxi would take me back to my own house. After two or three miles of wandering around the city on foot, I finally found the tourist hotspot and a taxi to shuttle my damp and dejected self home. But, at least I did get a bright purple poncho out of the nearly three-hour ordeal. Bike Strike Two.



Yesterday, at the behest of the head of our department after hearing about our biking debacle that landed me with the shiny burn tattoo, half asked, half instructed, three fellow teachers to help us learn to properly operate a motorbike. So after school, they tossed aside their work skirts and blouses and threw on gym shorts and tees (one with a curlicued "Rio de Janeiro" on the front though its owner looked baffled when I asked if she had ever been there. "Been where?" "To Rio" "Lio?" "No, Rio, the city. Have you--" "What is Lio?" "Nevermind.") After an hour and a half of slowly squeaking on the bikes with them running/waddling behind and holding onto the back of the bikes like we were small children (suddenly took me back to days of learning to ride a bicycle), they deemed us worthy of exiting the school parking lot. Never mind that I had already spent hours driving in the pouring rain with a fogged helmet, zipping in and out of traffic and cars. Well intentioned and well informed, we were then treated to an impromptu meatball party in celebration. Why meatballs? I'm not sure, but they were tasty and delectable as we sat around one of the motorbikes which served as a tabletop. The head of the department walked up to greet us as she got into her own pick-up truck and the act sent me into hysterics. This woman is no more than 4'11. She could almost just barely see over the steering wheel, but pride or pride, or something seemed to keep her from stooping (is that even the right word in context?) to sitting on phonebooks. Mighty Mouse, I want to call her. Or maybe Mini Me with a fierce uppercut.

Today is Saturday and since this week was midterms at the universities, I had to proctor a Saturday afternoon exam for my Greek/Bible lit class. But how to get there? Songtaews didn't really like to go out there on the weekends and Elena did not have to proctor, so what's a girl to do? Well, it was Mighty Mouse/Mini Me to the rescue organizing for one of my students to come pick me up. I come outside fitted with a steel helmet to ride on her bike and she laughs, "Teacher, I drive a car of course." As we zip down the superhighway to school, I learn a lot about her and her family and had a good 'ole time. Once I get to campus though and she heads off for the exam, I realize I am again stranded outside my office, trying to find a way to get across the superhighway and under a major tunnel to the off-main campus where the test is. Student #2, one of my Turkish guys, to the rescue! "Hop on my bike, Ajarn," he tells me. So I obey, if reluctantly. So, where exactly do I put my...er...legs? And arms? Can I hold his waist? Is that not okay? My inner thighs are definitely squeezing his rear, is that allowed? Well, I awkwardly manage to hold on just with the strength of my inner thighs (thank goodness for those leg presses) and opt to put my hands behind me to hold the bike like I see my students do when they're not riding side saddle (still haven't figured that one out). We arrive, me a little sweaty not from the heat, but the sheer horror of maybe having violated my student and finally the exam begins. Afterward, a third student comes up and informs me that she will be taking me home. Not, do you need a ride or I heard you might be stranded, but somehow amongst themselves in that wonderfully mysterious language of Thai, they have decided how their teacher would make her way home and I am offered a seat in a rather large Isuzu pick-up 2006. Why she drives a car that is as wide as my little Honda Civic is long, I don't know, but it got us there in one piece. Can't say as much for the rest of the cars on the road though.

Ahh, what a week. Can I start driving this silly bike thing already? My Blue Honda Wave is sitting in the parking lot waiting for me to either get up the courage to take it for a real spin (not just to the grocery store) or let it make it's way back to the dealer. Only time will tell, but if nothing else, the ridiculousness of riding this week was worth it.