Karibu!
 |
| Plantains (online image) |
Asante sana. Thank you for
perusing my thoughts…
Monday, May 27, 2013
From Noodles to Plantains...
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
So when you decide to relocate your capital city...
Today's Thoughts...
...it may seem a little sketch. As was the case when in 2008 the Burmese government officially moved the country's capital from bustling Yangon to a semi-abandoned territory known as Naypyidaw, some 300km from the former capital. Recently the flag was re-designed some twenty odd years after the country itself was renamed Myanmar. Identity crisis for certain, but that's the story. That aside...
Burma. Is. Beautiful. Hands down, no denying it, absolutely, incredibly, definitely b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l. Yangon was something of a hot box, but so is most of Southeast Asia this time of year.
Actually, wandering around the city gave me the distinct feel of being transported back to Rajasthan. Given the cultural mélange of Burma’s myriad ethnic groups and the country’s position at the confluence of tides of immigrants (primarily merchants in earlier periods) from its neighbors China and India, I should not have been surprised. Everything from the inviting Bollywood beats blaring from shop fronts to the re-runs of Dhoom 1-infinity and anything with Shahrukh Khan in it to the delectable stands of naan and other deliciously fried items along the street made me absolutely certain that I had somehow been duped and plopped myself down in India. Bright red splotches of betel nut splattered on the sidewalks and streets gave me stomach-churning assurance of such. Then there were moments that jarred me out of this notion when I passed by a sock shop blasting… Justin Bieber, “Baby,” the unofficial anthem of Burmese youth and under-forty-somethings all over the country. Also en vogue were the fine crooning tunes of…Nicki Minaj? In Burma? Why? I had no clue, but as far as I can tell, the hopping music scene featured scores of covers of foreign music in the native tongue as well as numerous of these stand out anomalies from the Western world.
We wandered the stalls and street stands of Bogyoke market, taking time to sample some of the random cookings on corners. It struck me after a while that I noticed many people toting around what appeared to be metal pails with colored ribbon or scarf bits attached to the handles for identification purposes. Upon inquiring, I learned that these milk satchel look-alikes were in fact lunchboxes using to carry hot curries from home to and from work or school so they wouldn’t cool down too much. Making a mental note to acquire one of said pails, I forged on. We came to Sule Paya, the second most visited temple in the city.
Picking our way over and through scattered bodies of people reclining and sleeping to beat the midday heat, we were approached by a friendly pair— a young monk and his red-gummed friend. They walked with us in and around the temple, pointing out this and that artifact, at least two dozen “best” buddhas, and our own special buddhas according to our days of birth. When asked when our birthdays were, we smiled and responded predictably with the month and date we were brought into this world. A common error, we were corrected and informed that your birthday was just that— the day of your birth, not the date of your spawning into this world. Uncertain, I told them I thought I was born on a Sunday and was then brought to the Sunday Buddha to pour a silver cup of water on his head and receive his blessing in return. 
After we had blessed and been blessed, we all strolled down the block to our first Burmese tea shop. To clarify, tea shops at home conjure the image of a cozy little hut or nook, probably with wood interior or furnishings, comfy chairs, steaming cups of that leafed beverage, and possibly stacks of books and magazines to peruse while you sip your way into peace. A Burmese tea shop typically consists of a smattering of small knee high plastic tables and miniature stools fit enough for exactly one butt cheek or center seam if you have good balance. Smaller than the average squat stool at a food stand, these little stools and their little tables are accompanied by a hot thermos of weak tea which you are welcome to drink your fill of, a roll of toilet tissue stuffed into a cylindrical plastic container for your finger wiping needs, and three little china cups for drinking from the thermos. We ordered two glasses of laphet Burma and received a deep saffron colored drink that matched the robes of our holy companion. Careful to stir in the massive glob of condensed milk settled at the bottom of the glass, we drank and snacked on the bean dumplings provided(eat what you will, pay for what you eat style) and talked about life, love, and the pursuit of higher education. Two additional women friends of the pair came to sit down, smile, stare, and sip weak tea as well.
As our monk friend leaned precariously forward to talk about his projected pipedream plans of English study abroad, I squeezed my rear flaps and teetered unsteadily on my seat, trying in vain not to make contact. As I came to realize, the hundred yard holy bubble afforded monks in Thailand did not fully apply to those in Burma. True, as a female I was still meant to keep my contact distance, but most of the monks we met did not seem to have the same instinctual aversion to the opposite sex or any sex for that matter, common elsewhere. Following our tea time chat, we saddled up and bade farewell, but not before our friendly pair led us outside, near an alley, and behind a parked van (I know what you’re thinking) to ask for cash for Mr. Monk’s future studies overseas.
A bit crestfallen that our erstwhile innocent afternoon had taken a familiar monetary turn, we refused the $20 each we were petitioned for and gave him $5…total. I reached out to hand the money to his friend and was quickly corrected and told to hand it to Mr. Monk himself, strange considering that women can never hand anything to monks directly. Mildly annoyed, but chalking the experience up to an afternoon guided tour and tea, we made our way to Shwedagon Pagoda, the sparkling gem of Yangon and Burma as a whole that appears on practically every travel guide. Gawking and being gawked at for several minutes, we picked our way up the back entrance, decidedly less crowded, and set off to explore the HUGE expanse of the pagoda.
Glistening golden stupas (chedis) erupted all around forming a huge cluster of golden shimmer in the center of the upper deck of the pagoda. Several smaller temples surrounded this main conglomeration, each with several Buddha images smiling coyly down at you. We sat on the cool tile to observe the couples and families making merit at what appeared to be Buddha alcoves illuminated with carnival lights. I have seen my fair share of temples in Asia, but as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the dying rays reached out and seized the light from the golden peaks giving the whole temple an ethereal feel to it as colors collided as far as we could see. A broom brigade of women swept by (yes, literally) as we sat.
Before long we were besieged with photo requests and migrated to the far side of the temple. As we looked on a procession of baby monks (okay they were all at least 5 or 6 and as old as 14 or 15) entered and Jess grabbed her pad an pen to sketch the procession and subsequent meditative prayer silence. In no time, she had drawn a crowd (both literally and… well literally) with families and half a dozen children crowding around her kneeling form to admire her cluster of baby monks.
Their ceremony complete, the monklets were blessed and returned to grinning parents who kissed them and photographed them with their robes and plaques like soccer moms and dads gathering their children after a trophy banquet. Of course Jess was then waylaid by eager parents hoping to squeeze their monklets into the frame with the tall white girl and artist. Several cameras were hastily thrust my way as I snapped and smiled and snapped and smiled until I thought my cheeks would fall off. Then it was my turn. Their fervor sated with photos of Jess, several families turned to me and by the time we had lost count somewhere near twenty-eight shots, Jess and I fled to the safety of the shadows skirting the temple on the pretense of exiting. Several shots with older monks and a peek at the sparkling diamond (which changes colors in the early evening light when viewed from different tiles) atop the main dome, we zigzagged our way down the temple complex, into the street, and back to our guest house. 124 stairs up, up, up and 6 landings later we collapsed on our bed.
That night I lay in bed contemplating the days ahead and the stories behind us in Chiang Mai. Living so close to the border, we never lacked hearing tales of Burmese refugees fleeing from their homeland to the edges of the Thai border and beyond. As I lay in bed, I wondered what I was yet to see that would corroborate the tales of fear and relief of many who had escaped. When I came to Burma I expected a prison. I expected to see terrified faces and harried and wary eyes and destitution. So far I had seen frothy cups of milky tea, grinning red gums stained with excessive betel-nutting, laughing brown faces patting naan from palm to palm, and sandy-cheeked women, their heat flush hidden by the sandalwood white streaks of thanaka on their cheeks. Granted we were in a city and the recent, but former capital city at that and I was sure that had to account for something, but it was not until many months later long after my return to Thailand that I would hold my own breath absorbing the silent shockwaves of fear and anxiety that sent these people on the run. Two months later, half asleep in the back of a van to Mae Sot, I awoke at an immigration checkpoint, one of three in close proximity on the last leg of the journey between Mae Sot and Tak.
Used to these checkpoints, I turned over burying my face in my jacket against the window as the Thai passengers produced their identification cards and papers and the officer cheerily smiled and asked me “Sabaideeeeeee maiiiiiii kooooooooop?!” in exaggerated Thai. I nodded, responded with a sabai sabai just as he motioned for a young couple, no older than myself to exit the vehicle. With that same sideshow grin, he asked if they had any bags and ushered them to the roadside as the door slammed and the van pulled off, their blank faces staring after us. On our return trip from Mae Sot, I learned the reason for those empty expressions that watched us pull away without them. A young man was extracted, albeit not so cheerily, from our returning van, barked at in Thai and commanded to retrieve his things and sit on the roadside. A young man with proper documentation himself attempted to intervene on the captive’s behalf, explaining that his Thai was a little poor but he had papers. Fakes, forgeries, or otherwise, his papers, clutched angrily in the officer’s fist were insufficient.
As our driver began to pull away, the good Samaritan ran and jumped back into the van shaking his head as his polite words were to no avail. The words of a friend we’d made in Mae Sot crept back to me: "They get detained, held sometimes for days in a detention center, and then they are sent back to the Burmese border. Without at least 1,500 baht (~$45) or more they are arrested and sent to forced labor camps. Did you ever see the new capital Naypyidaw in Burma?" (I thought to our night bus from Yangon to Bagan, passing through a deserted ghost town freakishly lit up in an otherwise dark and empty zone, elsewhere bereft of the generators necessary to provide electricity.) "They are made to work building those roads, laying power lines, everything. Not paid anything obviously. And then who knows? Prison? Detention? Basically whatever the government wants to do with them.
The sunken eyes of the young man unceremoniously ejected from our caravan haunt me now as I think back to the various faces and places in Burma, wondering just how many of the smiling faces we’d encountered would make their perilous journey to the other side. The thought of Texas or southern California or Miami besot with fleeing refugees and illegal border-hoppers came to me. Same same, but different? Not so sure.
...it may seem a little sketch. As was the case when in 2008 the Burmese government officially moved the country's capital from bustling Yangon to a semi-abandoned territory known as Naypyidaw, some 300km from the former capital. Recently the flag was re-designed some twenty odd years after the country itself was renamed Myanmar. Identity crisis for certain, but that's the story. That aside...
Burma. Is. Beautiful. Hands down, no denying it, absolutely, incredibly, definitely b.e.a.u.t.i.f.u.l. Yangon was something of a hot box, but so is most of Southeast Asia this time of year.
Actually, wandering around the city gave me the distinct feel of being transported back to Rajasthan. Given the cultural mélange of Burma’s myriad ethnic groups and the country’s position at the confluence of tides of immigrants (primarily merchants in earlier periods) from its neighbors China and India, I should not have been surprised. Everything from the inviting Bollywood beats blaring from shop fronts to the re-runs of Dhoom 1-infinity and anything with Shahrukh Khan in it to the delectable stands of naan and other deliciously fried items along the street made me absolutely certain that I had somehow been duped and plopped myself down in India. Bright red splotches of betel nut splattered on the sidewalks and streets gave me stomach-churning assurance of such. Then there were moments that jarred me out of this notion when I passed by a sock shop blasting… Justin Bieber, “Baby,” the unofficial anthem of Burmese youth and under-forty-somethings all over the country. Also en vogue were the fine crooning tunes of…Nicki Minaj? In Burma? Why? I had no clue, but as far as I can tell, the hopping music scene featured scores of covers of foreign music in the native tongue as well as numerous of these stand out anomalies from the Western world.
We wandered the stalls and street stands of Bogyoke market, taking time to sample some of the random cookings on corners. It struck me after a while that I noticed many people toting around what appeared to be metal pails with colored ribbon or scarf bits attached to the handles for identification purposes. Upon inquiring, I learned that these milk satchel look-alikes were in fact lunchboxes using to carry hot curries from home to and from work or school so they wouldn’t cool down too much. Making a mental note to acquire one of said pails, I forged on. We came to Sule Paya, the second most visited temple in the city. 
Picking our way over and through scattered bodies of people reclining and sleeping to beat the midday heat, we were approached by a friendly pair— a young monk and his red-gummed friend. They walked with us in and around the temple, pointing out this and that artifact, at least two dozen “best” buddhas, and our own special buddhas according to our days of birth. When asked when our birthdays were, we smiled and responded predictably with the month and date we were brought into this world. A common error, we were corrected and informed that your birthday was just that— the day of your birth, not the date of your spawning into this world. Uncertain, I told them I thought I was born on a Sunday and was then brought to the Sunday Buddha to pour a silver cup of water on his head and receive his blessing in return. 
After we had blessed and been blessed, we all strolled down the block to our first Burmese tea shop. To clarify, tea shops at home conjure the image of a cozy little hut or nook, probably with wood interior or furnishings, comfy chairs, steaming cups of that leafed beverage, and possibly stacks of books and magazines to peruse while you sip your way into peace. A Burmese tea shop typically consists of a smattering of small knee high plastic tables and miniature stools fit enough for exactly one butt cheek or center seam if you have good balance. Smaller than the average squat stool at a food stand, these little stools and their little tables are accompanied by a hot thermos of weak tea which you are welcome to drink your fill of, a roll of toilet tissue stuffed into a cylindrical plastic container for your finger wiping needs, and three little china cups for drinking from the thermos. We ordered two glasses of laphet Burma and received a deep saffron colored drink that matched the robes of our holy companion. Careful to stir in the massive glob of condensed milk settled at the bottom of the glass, we drank and snacked on the bean dumplings provided(eat what you will, pay for what you eat style) and talked about life, love, and the pursuit of higher education. Two additional women friends of the pair came to sit down, smile, stare, and sip weak tea as well.
As our monk friend leaned precariously forward to talk about his projected pipedream plans of English study abroad, I squeezed my rear flaps and teetered unsteadily on my seat, trying in vain not to make contact. As I came to realize, the hundred yard holy bubble afforded monks in Thailand did not fully apply to those in Burma. True, as a female I was still meant to keep my contact distance, but most of the monks we met did not seem to have the same instinctual aversion to the opposite sex or any sex for that matter, common elsewhere. Following our tea time chat, we saddled up and bade farewell, but not before our friendly pair led us outside, near an alley, and behind a parked van (I know what you’re thinking) to ask for cash for Mr. Monk’s future studies overseas.
A bit crestfallen that our erstwhile innocent afternoon had taken a familiar monetary turn, we refused the $20 each we were petitioned for and gave him $5…total. I reached out to hand the money to his friend and was quickly corrected and told to hand it to Mr. Monk himself, strange considering that women can never hand anything to monks directly. Mildly annoyed, but chalking the experience up to an afternoon guided tour and tea, we made our way to Shwedagon Pagoda, the sparkling gem of Yangon and Burma as a whole that appears on practically every travel guide. Gawking and being gawked at for several minutes, we picked our way up the back entrance, decidedly less crowded, and set off to explore the HUGE expanse of the pagoda.
Glistening golden stupas (chedis) erupted all around forming a huge cluster of golden shimmer in the center of the upper deck of the pagoda. Several smaller temples surrounded this main conglomeration, each with several Buddha images smiling coyly down at you. We sat on the cool tile to observe the couples and families making merit at what appeared to be Buddha alcoves illuminated with carnival lights. I have seen my fair share of temples in Asia, but as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the dying rays reached out and seized the light from the golden peaks giving the whole temple an ethereal feel to it as colors collided as far as we could see. A broom brigade of women swept by (yes, literally) as we sat.
Before long we were besieged with photo requests and migrated to the far side of the temple. As we looked on a procession of baby monks (okay they were all at least 5 or 6 and as old as 14 or 15) entered and Jess grabbed her pad an pen to sketch the procession and subsequent meditative prayer silence. In no time, she had drawn a crowd (both literally and… well literally) with families and half a dozen children crowding around her kneeling form to admire her cluster of baby monks.
Their ceremony complete, the monklets were blessed and returned to grinning parents who kissed them and photographed them with their robes and plaques like soccer moms and dads gathering their children after a trophy banquet. Of course Jess was then waylaid by eager parents hoping to squeeze their monklets into the frame with the tall white girl and artist. Several cameras were hastily thrust my way as I snapped and smiled and snapped and smiled until I thought my cheeks would fall off. Then it was my turn. Their fervor sated with photos of Jess, several families turned to me and by the time we had lost count somewhere near twenty-eight shots, Jess and I fled to the safety of the shadows skirting the temple on the pretense of exiting. Several shots with older monks and a peek at the sparkling diamond (which changes colors in the early evening light when viewed from different tiles) atop the main dome, we zigzagged our way down the temple complex, into the street, and back to our guest house. 124 stairs up, up, up and 6 landings later we collapsed on our bed.
That night I lay in bed contemplating the days ahead and the stories behind us in Chiang Mai. Living so close to the border, we never lacked hearing tales of Burmese refugees fleeing from their homeland to the edges of the Thai border and beyond. As I lay in bed, I wondered what I was yet to see that would corroborate the tales of fear and relief of many who had escaped. When I came to Burma I expected a prison. I expected to see terrified faces and harried and wary eyes and destitution. So far I had seen frothy cups of milky tea, grinning red gums stained with excessive betel-nutting, laughing brown faces patting naan from palm to palm, and sandy-cheeked women, their heat flush hidden by the sandalwood white streaks of thanaka on their cheeks. Granted we were in a city and the recent, but former capital city at that and I was sure that had to account for something, but it was not until many months later long after my return to Thailand that I would hold my own breath absorbing the silent shockwaves of fear and anxiety that sent these people on the run. Two months later, half asleep in the back of a van to Mae Sot, I awoke at an immigration checkpoint, one of three in close proximity on the last leg of the journey between Mae Sot and Tak.
Used to these checkpoints, I turned over burying my face in my jacket against the window as the Thai passengers produced their identification cards and papers and the officer cheerily smiled and asked me “Sabaideeeeeee maiiiiiii kooooooooop?!” in exaggerated Thai. I nodded, responded with a sabai sabai just as he motioned for a young couple, no older than myself to exit the vehicle. With that same sideshow grin, he asked if they had any bags and ushered them to the roadside as the door slammed and the van pulled off, their blank faces staring after us. On our return trip from Mae Sot, I learned the reason for those empty expressions that watched us pull away without them. A young man was extracted, albeit not so cheerily, from our returning van, barked at in Thai and commanded to retrieve his things and sit on the roadside. A young man with proper documentation himself attempted to intervene on the captive’s behalf, explaining that his Thai was a little poor but he had papers. Fakes, forgeries, or otherwise, his papers, clutched angrily in the officer’s fist were insufficient.
As our driver began to pull away, the good Samaritan ran and jumped back into the van shaking his head as his polite words were to no avail. The words of a friend we’d made in Mae Sot crept back to me: "They get detained, held sometimes for days in a detention center, and then they are sent back to the Burmese border. Without at least 1,500 baht (~$45) or more they are arrested and sent to forced labor camps. Did you ever see the new capital Naypyidaw in Burma?" (I thought to our night bus from Yangon to Bagan, passing through a deserted ghost town freakishly lit up in an otherwise dark and empty zone, elsewhere bereft of the generators necessary to provide electricity.) "They are made to work building those roads, laying power lines, everything. Not paid anything obviously. And then who knows? Prison? Detention? Basically whatever the government wants to do with them.
The sunken eyes of the young man unceremoniously ejected from our caravan haunt me now as I think back to the various faces and places in Burma, wondering just how many of the smiling faces we’d encountered would make their perilous journey to the other side. The thought of Texas or southern California or Miami besot with fleeing refugees and illegal border-hoppers came to me. Same same, but different? Not so sure.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Ticket to the Golden Land
Today's Thoughts...
One month ago today, I was hurtling down the side of a steep mountain overpass, shrieking in unknown tongues and clinging to the frayed ropes of an overhead luggage rack for dear life. The twinkling of the stars above me, which minutes before had cued tranquility and reflection on my content state in life, complete with sweet sighs of satisfaction that it wouldn’t be so bad if I died right then, gloated gleefully above me as I searched them in vain for some answer to my current predicament. I was riding atop a songtaew pick-up truck (<-- see example at left) in the middle of the night in Burma, more recently known as Myanmar, that far-flung outback of Southeast Asia books serve up on a succulent platter of savory seclusion and delectable discovery with a hearty helping of mouth-watering misadventure thrill-seekers salivate over. (Excuse me while I locate my rib-shack bib.) Many of the rumors are true. Burma is much unlike any other place I have ever laid eyes on during my adventures through the southern Orient. It is every bit as “unspoiled and untamed” as romanticizing writers make it out to be. There are almost no flocks of camera-touting tour groups and screaming infant wielding families to speak of. So few tourists and the mere shadow of foreign interloping infrastructure as predominant in Thailand and elsewhere in the region truly give the country the feeling of being untouched. Economic sanctions from the West and stiff visa requirements (does it really matter where I worked six years ago??)ensure that.
As are many conscientious travelers to that country of lore, we were ever hesitant to go in the first place, unwilling to ply the ruling military regime with our funds. (The brutal military dictatorship officially began in 1962 under the rule of General Ne Win and is continued today following “elections” in the fall of 2010. The factitious nation, recognized as Southeast Asia’s most diverse, with its troubled timeline boasts over a hundred ethnic groups to date prompting the regime’s brutal campaign of “soothing” ethnic divisions by eradicating all opposition and cracking the whip on perceived subversive and anti-government activities. In the past and present, the government has relied on secrecy, spying, beatings, jailing, torture, and disappearances—the tools of terror and tyranny in any nation. Freedom fighter, Nobel icon, and daughter of the nation's contemporary forefather, Daw Aung San Suu Kyi was placed under strict house arrest in 1989, freed only months ago in November of 2010.) Yet after months of hesitation, re-considerations, and lengthy conversations we decided we needed to go, provided that we made every effort once our feet touched the ground to put money in the hands of the people—no package tours, limiting in-country flights, no beer, no government-affiliated guest houses, etc. It was a hard choice to make, but having seen so many faces of Asia, we knew it was time to bring our travels and time here full circle. Because it is important that Burma not be forgotten, however far foreign attention and media has strayed. If no one sees it, then no one remembers, and if everyone forgets, how will anything ever change?
We knew we were in for something different when we heeded repeated warnings from others to bring only the crispest, freshest US dollars with us into the country (no wrinkles, crinkles, writing, bends, or tears). Considering the dearth of ATMs (there are none) in country, we were leery of toting around hundreds of USD in cash, but resigned to the practice nonetheless. Hearing that some teachers and just Americans in general had been mysteriously denied visas in the past, we skipped the courier service and went to the embassy in Bangkok in person. We smiled winning grins, nodded heads of sheer innocence, and answered any questions the immigration officers had with a sickening saccharine sweetness that made my teeth ache. (Okay, I’ll lay off the alliteration for a bit :P) We were able to show proof of our imminently departing flight and for a slight extra fee, handed over our 1260 baht and were awarded visas by early afternoon: perfect same-day service. Check.
The flight from Bangkok to Yangon was quick and relatively painless. The immigration point at passport control was another story. I’m not sure how many times they scrutinized my numerous visas, stared at me as they whispered and chuckled sinisterly in Myanmar language, and eventually, after a thorough search that would have surely granted me access to Air Force One, reluctantly allowed me to enter the Golden Land. Day One in Burma. Hello, Yangon.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Too Thai for TV
Today's Thoughts...Roughly six weeks ago, shortly after my return from holidays at home, I wrote the following:
“How I have thus far spent my return to the land of sunshine and smiles:
1) Adopting a hairstyle during the apparent re-start of cold raining season that inflates to twelve times the size of your average Chia pet when wet
2) Giggling at everything and anything and nothing in particular
3) Receiving a lengthy diatribe at peak volume from an incensed French woman who was professedly enraged at my neurotic manner of story-telling
4) Trying to convince myself that the oversized dung-colored meatballs a friend and I spent two hours making were actually delectable chocolate treats
5) Losing face in a heated discussion over whether a student was “of woman born”
6) Deliberating on the appropriateness of “oohs,” “aahs,” and suggestive feline moans for a play my students and I are working on
7) Contemplating rapidly approaching unemployment and a most pained departure from the kingdom I have come to call home.”
As that pained departure creeps ever close with the tearful farewells and “see you soon’s” of the end of semester, term, and year, woefully I look around and wonder what exactly could drive me to such insanity to deliberate devising an egress from the joyride of life in Chiang Mai. As I said to my colleagues, struggling to swallow the tears that clogged my trachea as I gave heartfelt thanks for the past two years: “It is Halloween parties and English Days and every day with each of you that makes me feel like leaving would make me crazier than coming ever did.”
Yes, it is true that when I threw my cap and gown over my shoulder and tossed tank tops and skirts into bags in a frenzy after graduation, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I was excited. I was terrified. But mostly I was utterly ignorant. I had no clue what to expect— not of my job, not of the culture, not of my new home half the world away. Now I look at the person I’ve become and wonder— how could I have ever not come? With each passing day my land becomes Thailand in ever alarming ways. So I can read and write Thai (admittedly at the level of a rather advanced third grader). I can chug a bowl of blood chunk soup and throw down Ma Ma noodles like it’s my job. I wake each morning to His Majesty’s eye, a royal portrait poised above my door frame. But what scares me the most is not my scribbles in a child’s notebook nor gulping floating cubes of mulch-colored goo. It is the sudden disappearance of terminus consonants— ligh, fi, computa, projec. The steady mutation of words like “people” and “lovable” into something resembling seeing cremated remains (peep-urn) and relishing third degree wounds (love-a-burn).
And it’s not only my language that has, in the words of Moliere, been “Thai-thai-ified.” This weekend I caught myself driving in the blazing heat… with a jacket on. Likewise, I shook my head as I trotted the streets with an umbrella held high. Not because I was afraid of catching a chill or pondering the freak chance of showers. Rather because in either instance I was leery of the crispening burn of the midday heat and refused to succumb to detestable UV beams. So instead I boiled and baked beneath the light sheath of a jacket and processed down the sidewalk like a mourner caught mid funeral dirge. In so many ways, without looking, I have absorbed this place into every part of me. Perhaps what clicked most for me was walking into a favorite restaurant and having the waitress (FINALLY) bring me the Thai menu with a smile. Or maybe it was walking into the mall, a bright-colored bow tied on my head, and noticing the approving nods and clucks as I passed by. Whatever the differences, whatever I’ve become, however terrified or tantalizing, undeniably, indubitably I have changed. I have become more “Thai” perhaps, in so much as being Thai is measured in counting the layers of ruffles you can pull off before you look like an overzealous tea cozy or how many charms you can dangle on your phone before you contemplate purchasing a larger mobile device to accommodate them. But my conversion is not solely superficial either. I remember to lower my head slightly and give a curt bow whenever I thank an elder. I end most sentences (in English or Thai) with a chirping sweet “kha!” for niceness sake. Stroking wooden desks and glass cubicle panes as I wandered through a deserted office this week, salt rivers poured freely: I am going to miss this place.
Through it all, my well-intentioned and wonderful parents cheer and pat me on the back, lauding a job well done overseas. Supportive though they are and encouraging though they try to be, some days I cannot ignore the subtle hints that they are eager for me to “get a real job.” I’m sure they are ready for me to grow-up, fearing that lingering here somehow throws me in post-graduate limbo. But that is the beauty and mystery of it all. Because somewhere and somehow when no one, not even I, was looking, growing up is exactly what I came to Thailand to do and have done. Not that there is not a lot more ahead. There certainly is. But there is no need, no rush to “grow up” because as far as I can tell I am growing-- up, out, around, and every which way in between. Growth is relative to where you’ve been and where you are. And in both miles and maturity, truthfully, I have gone far, na.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Mai chai, my lord, not I!
Today's Thoughts...
The past week flew by in a blur. Returning from a jaunt to the islands, I dove headfirst into final preparations for our end of year performance of “Twelfth Night.” The show was a smashing success to say the least thanks to the incredible efforts of a winning cast. Roughly two hundred in attendance, laughing themselves into stitches at the wily antics and shenanigans of my fantastic students, the audience lavished them with laughter and praise as they bounded their way through the performance. After two months of intense rehearsals and prep, the necessary setbacks/delays/and panic-inducing complications of organizing anything on a college campus, three cheers and a hearty brava say I!
It was perhaps the weekend of drama as it were with another series of one-act performances staged on campus the following day. With everything from spouse-seeking monarchs to Cupid’s fatal arrow to the spine-tingling horror of a chilling wrong call, the variety show seemed most complete. However, with many so gems in the crown, one stone stood apart from the rest. To my surprise, a performance of a play written by a well-known Black playwright was performed… entirely in black face. For reference:
Ironically enough, the show centered on the theme of anti-discrimination experienced by a family and their ethnically diverse neighborhood friends. Truth be told, when the curtain went down, my reaction was not anger or sadness nor confusion. Rather, my first thought was-- is that actually what they think I look like?
In a region obsessed with the near-translucent veneer of paleness, it is not at all hard to imagine that the charcoal images I witnessed on the stage were mere reflections of the primary dark-hued figure they see parading before them each day. In a strange way, I felt the utmost kreng jai not for the embarrassment I experienced, but for the creeping fear that I had somehow failed my students. Sure I’d dropped tidbits about MLK and segregation and the historical elements of the turbulent racial past (and present) of America, but did I neglect to impart upon them the significance of racial caricaturization? Did I forget the lesson on minstrelsy and Uncle Tom and memories from Spike Lee’s “Bamboozled”? Or the explanations of the pain, anguish, and resentment conjured by those very images? No I hadn’t. I hadn’t taught about the n-word or Huckleberry Finn or the coonish figures of yore. Because that simply was not relevant to them; it wasn’t their history.
What is relevant to them is the giddy humor with which many not-so-PC and taboo topics of home are lampooned here with ease. Topics they mock with ease each day such as weight, sexuality, attractiveness. I can’t count how many fat cracks or gay jokes I hear on a daily basis, often laughed at and snickered about by the very individuals under the glaring spotlight of peer scrutiny. I’ve no idea of the number of times a student told a friend they were “ooh, so ugly” or that they could “make people cry with that face.” They shrug, laugh, crack a joke themselves and move on with their day, or so it seems. There is something remarkable in that, I must admit, the ability to giggle at our differences and sweep them under the rug. The ability to avoid that proverbial question— Why so serious, na? Because if nothing is all that serious, then I suppose no one gets hurt. If it’s all in good fun, then at the end of the day everyone leaves with a smile on their face.
But in that moment, though willpower curled my lips and dimpled my cheeks, thoughts that swirled like a violent storm were another matter. Sudden self-doubt, worry, concern, and consternation over how to make this a teachable moment, coursed through me. To show them that it was wrong? To berate them for a past that wasn’t theirs? To push them into a reality they knew little of? I decided against all of the above. Because at the end of the day, the lesson was not to be learned about black face; it was about more than that. Their fingers shaking in the quintessential minstrel jazz hands as they closed their performance, they framed a picture perfect image in my mind that I’ll not soon forget. Those tarred figures reflected more than the pigment they represented, in them I saw the larger, darker, gayer, plainer peers they could have just as well been stark reflections of. “Ajarn, it’s like Michael Jackson, but in reverse!” one student exclaimed. And though I chuckled in reply, my thoughts were with those salient members of an otherwise homogenous pool. Yes, the laughter keeps the tears from coming. It likewise belittles an otherwise potentially divisive diverse reality. So while we’re on the stage, in the public eye, magnified and humorized those differences become less real. They just become funny.
I adore my students and love every minute spent with them, yet as I absent-mindedly dog-eared my program, awash with the relief that a chocolate complexion masked the rising heat searing my cheeks, it took great effort to bring my hands together in applause. Call it my hyper-sensitive cultural preoccupations with the ever-changing world of all things politically correct, despite the process of rationalization churning the wheels in my head, the knots in my stomach were inherently hard to stomach. Recollections of those jovially ridiculed individuals drifting through my mind, I couldn’t help but consider: when the curtain goes down on them, what happens to all those smiles? Does the sting that burned in me ever burn in them? Has being labeled as the fat one, the gay one, the ugly one ever left them with the sour taste of disappointment in those they call friends? Or has it ever made them wonder: Is that actually what they think of me?
The past week flew by in a blur. Returning from a jaunt to the islands, I dove headfirst into final preparations for our end of year performance of “Twelfth Night.” The show was a smashing success to say the least thanks to the incredible efforts of a winning cast. Roughly two hundred in attendance, laughing themselves into stitches at the wily antics and shenanigans of my fantastic students, the audience lavished them with laughter and praise as they bounded their way through the performance. After two months of intense rehearsals and prep, the necessary setbacks/delays/and panic-inducing complications of organizing anything on a college campus, three cheers and a hearty brava say I! It was perhaps the weekend of drama as it were with another series of one-act performances staged on campus the following day. With everything from spouse-seeking monarchs to Cupid’s fatal arrow to the spine-tingling horror of a chilling wrong call, the variety show seemed most complete. However, with many so gems in the crown, one stone stood apart from the rest. To my surprise, a performance of a play written by a well-known Black playwright was performed… entirely in black face. For reference:
Ironically enough, the show centered on the theme of anti-discrimination experienced by a family and their ethnically diverse neighborhood friends. Truth be told, when the curtain went down, my reaction was not anger or sadness nor confusion. Rather, my first thought was-- is that actually what they think I look like? 
In a region obsessed with the near-translucent veneer of paleness, it is not at all hard to imagine that the charcoal images I witnessed on the stage were mere reflections of the primary dark-hued figure they see parading before them each day. In a strange way, I felt the utmost kreng jai not for the embarrassment I experienced, but for the creeping fear that I had somehow failed my students. Sure I’d dropped tidbits about MLK and segregation and the historical elements of the turbulent racial past (and present) of America, but did I neglect to impart upon them the significance of racial caricaturization? Did I forget the lesson on minstrelsy and Uncle Tom and memories from Spike Lee’s “Bamboozled”? Or the explanations of the pain, anguish, and resentment conjured by those very images? No I hadn’t. I hadn’t taught about the n-word or Huckleberry Finn or the coonish figures of yore. Because that simply was not relevant to them; it wasn’t their history.
What is relevant to them is the giddy humor with which many not-so-PC and taboo topics of home are lampooned here with ease. Topics they mock with ease each day such as weight, sexuality, attractiveness. I can’t count how many fat cracks or gay jokes I hear on a daily basis, often laughed at and snickered about by the very individuals under the glaring spotlight of peer scrutiny. I’ve no idea of the number of times a student told a friend they were “ooh, so ugly” or that they could “make people cry with that face.” They shrug, laugh, crack a joke themselves and move on with their day, or so it seems. There is something remarkable in that, I must admit, the ability to giggle at our differences and sweep them under the rug. The ability to avoid that proverbial question— Why so serious, na? Because if nothing is all that serious, then I suppose no one gets hurt. If it’s all in good fun, then at the end of the day everyone leaves with a smile on their face.
But in that moment, though willpower curled my lips and dimpled my cheeks, thoughts that swirled like a violent storm were another matter. Sudden self-doubt, worry, concern, and consternation over how to make this a teachable moment, coursed through me. To show them that it was wrong? To berate them for a past that wasn’t theirs? To push them into a reality they knew little of? I decided against all of the above. Because at the end of the day, the lesson was not to be learned about black face; it was about more than that. Their fingers shaking in the quintessential minstrel jazz hands as they closed their performance, they framed a picture perfect image in my mind that I’ll not soon forget. Those tarred figures reflected more than the pigment they represented, in them I saw the larger, darker, gayer, plainer peers they could have just as well been stark reflections of. “Ajarn, it’s like Michael Jackson, but in reverse!” one student exclaimed. And though I chuckled in reply, my thoughts were with those salient members of an otherwise homogenous pool. Yes, the laughter keeps the tears from coming. It likewise belittles an otherwise potentially divisive diverse reality. So while we’re on the stage, in the public eye, magnified and humorized those differences become less real. They just become funny.
I adore my students and love every minute spent with them, yet as I absent-mindedly dog-eared my program, awash with the relief that a chocolate complexion masked the rising heat searing my cheeks, it took great effort to bring my hands together in applause. Call it my hyper-sensitive cultural preoccupations with the ever-changing world of all things politically correct, despite the process of rationalization churning the wheels in my head, the knots in my stomach were inherently hard to stomach. Recollections of those jovially ridiculed individuals drifting through my mind, I couldn’t help but consider: when the curtain goes down on them, what happens to all those smiles? Does the sting that burned in me ever burn in them? Has being labeled as the fat one, the gay one, the ugly one ever left them with the sour taste of disappointment in those they call friends? Or has it ever made them wonder: Is that actually what they think of me?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Give a lil love
Today's Thoughts...
Today is Valentine’s Day. That wonderful day filled with effusive warmth, love, and joy, emanating in a bright band that hugs the globe jubilantly. For all the snap crackle pop of heart shaped fireworks and squishy cuddliness of inflatable heart creatures, one would think Thailand had simply exploded with pinky love just for the occasion. Today in fact, I had my own unexpected Valentine I met while perusing the aisles, or rather, squirming awkwardly near the register, at 7-11. I pulled up this morning at our campus convenience store ready for a scrumptious breakfast treat. As I waited for the attendant to finish preparing my meal— a rubbery pork burger on a bun with a generous squirt of cheese-like sauce— a slow fear crept over me as my palm pressed itself once and then twice and then three times against the empty inside of my bag. Except exactly 11.5 baht I managed to shake out, I was dead broke. My wallet was nowhere to be found. As I dually explained my lack of purchasing power in Thai and in pantomime, I gingerly backed away from the counter, throwing my hands up in a replica of the gesture I get so often whenever I question store clerks-- a cross between sheer confusion and instinctual flight. So I fled, steaming pork bun sandwich still on the counter, and made quite the show of tearing through my bag outside the store just to confirm for all watching that either I was the insane farang they already suspected me to be or that I really had no money. What? Farang? No money? Impossible. To my chagrin, a student I had never seen before ran out after me and offered to pay for my meal. Refusal was not only inappropriate given her insistence, but impossible given my sudden stammering words of surprise. In the end, wai-ing her excessively to our mutual embarrassment, I left the shop, dignity and pork bun in bag. Oh, my funny Valentine.
But my shopping escapades for the day were far from over. In the afternoon in a local shopping center (thanks to the monetary kindness of a fellow teacher friend),after inquiring as to where to purchase a water bottle, I proceeded to what I can only describe as a towering wall of toddler Sippy cups. After staring dumbstruck for about thirty seconds, I began to scan the gargantuan shelf of pastel and neon plastic hydration devices. Most appeared capable of holding approximately a child’s swallow of any liquid, perhaps meant for the trendy appearance of hydration rather than actual refreshment; I couldn’t tell. There were the requisite Hello Kitty bottles, saucer-sized eyes batting thick curlicued lashes my way; the Pooh bear collection complete with various scenes of the friendly carnivore in a multitude of forest and city landscapes; and of course the bright blue Doraemon section, equipped with feline red collar carrying straps. Steadily losing hope, I migrated down the aisle a bit to a more mature section of flaming flamingo pink and shocking electric yellow bottles (calling to mind the brightly colored and flavored Now-and-Later candies of my youth). But even these bottles had alarming curvaceous shapes, contorted in ways I simply found unreasonable and flip top caps an infant could pop open. Imagining my bag sopping wet and the inability to seize hold of the squirming aqua receptacle, not to mention wanting to call as little attention to my beverage gear as possible, I cringed to think of setting it in the break room fridge beside the other ajarns’ sensible cartoon thermoses, drinkable yogurt chugglers, and fruity flavored juice boxes. So I pressed on further to the Siberian end of the bottle collection to a variety of acceptably sized squat, thin, and equally curvaceous bottles with built-in straws. Considering that these bottles bore only the signature neon colored tops rather than the entirety of the bottle, I snagged the soberest I could manage— a respectable clear bottle with periwinkle top— and started out of the aisle. Thinking better of myself, I returned and nabbed the bottle with charcoal grey top and, grinning in joyous approval at my shopping expertise, made my way to the register.
The last time I’d encountered a similar moral shopping dilemma was in selecting appropriate toilet tissue for my apartment. Mildly overwhelmed, I had come up against the likes of jasmine-scented puffs, your tried and true starchy whites, and satiny swathes with added aloe to name a few. At the time, I managed to escape with a modest cottony blend, heeding my mother’s childhood warnings of the potential complications of overly perfumed puffs in the certain inflammation of the loins. Now some might say that if my toughest daily decisions revolve around drinking gourds and latrine paper, my life clearly must be too easy. In fact, numerous have said as much to me. “You must LOVE living here, life is SO much easier than back in the States.” “Isn’t it great to be in such an exotic place where you just don’t have to think all the time?” “How fantastic is it to have everything you need at your fingertips, no hassle, no worries, no cares?” The last time I checked, I wasn’t taking leisure strolls on elephants in my spare time nor lounging in beach chairs downing plates of pad thai. I leave that to the scads of tourists flocking to the region that do that best. In fact, most of my time is spent back hunched over a pile of essays or arched screeching chalk up and down a massive green slab. While it can be a bit of a joy ride to live in a country where Valentine’s Day is a national holiday (doors adorned with heart-shaped wreaths and lawns bedecked with cardboard cutouts of heart pairs with convenient head holes) and picture-taking is a national sport, it in no way invalidates the authenticity and challenges that living even in a cartooned paradise presents. No I don’t have to hike to the nearest well to fetch water for my bath and no, I do not scavenge for berries before lights out at sunset. I haven’t had dysentery or malaria as of yet(knock on wood), nor have I of late been in a state of physical mortal peril. I feel comfortable walking the streets at night and when I want to travel, I hop on my moto and go. But in no way do any of these realities make my daily reality a joke. Too many times have I heard Chiang Mai isn’t rough enough, isn’t “cultured” enough, isn’t Asia enough. What does that even mean?
If rough isn’t nearly killing yourself attempting to drive through monsoons in rainy season; if culture isn’t scaling Doi Suthep and plodding through the mountain towns and villages hidden along its slopes; if Asia isn’t chugging gurgling northern Thai soup, piping hot with chunks of pork blood and fellow colleagues cheering and chanting like it was a kegger, or scarfing down a plate of fermented pork before realizing what a bad idea that was; if none of this is what it means to step out of your cultural bubble and immerse yourself in a world a world away, I truly have no idea what is. Yes, there is a Starbucks and three McDonald’s and perhaps if local food didn't make my glands salivate on a regular basis, I might think to dine there once or twice, but not for the same burgers and fries made to order across the seas, rather for the tunafish pies and thai tea smoothy-floaties so characteristic of those vendors here. Certainly I have Internet access and can download videos on YouTube and songs from iTunes, but my recent playlist has included “Rak Mai Tahng Gan Wayla” from new cinematic favorite “Guan Muen Ho” and music videos of the bands I get hooked on in clubs. My experience may be a bit more urban, Chiang Mai might be a comfortable city, but walking down the street I roam ancient wats erected generations ago by the founders of this fair city; I chat with merchants in the market, trading guava and grins as our daily commerce; I race on my moto to umbrella festivals and flower parades; and when I wake in the morning I breathe the combined funk of exhaust fumes and mountain vapors, mingling in the early dawn before the smog settles.
Just because I don’t come home drained by the very effort of living through the day, doesn’t mean my days in Chiang Mai aren’t every bit as worth living through. In fact, because they infuse me with the will to keep them going, to have stayed in this beautiful city and country for the past two years, I cherish them more than anything. Though equally inspiring and invigorating, I don’t need to walk a dirt road or journal by candlelight for that to be true. As it turns out, truthfully I’d rather hike up my skirts for a squatter in a roadside shack than risk a chafed jasmine-scented derriere any day. It just so happens that in and around Chiang Mai, I can do both.
Today is Valentine’s Day. That wonderful day filled with effusive warmth, love, and joy, emanating in a bright band that hugs the globe jubilantly. For all the snap crackle pop of heart shaped fireworks and squishy cuddliness of inflatable heart creatures, one would think Thailand had simply exploded with pinky love just for the occasion. Today in fact, I had my own unexpected Valentine I met while perusing the aisles, or rather, squirming awkwardly near the register, at 7-11. I pulled up this morning at our campus convenience store ready for a scrumptious breakfast treat. As I waited for the attendant to finish preparing my meal— a rubbery pork burger on a bun with a generous squirt of cheese-like sauce— a slow fear crept over me as my palm pressed itself once and then twice and then three times against the empty inside of my bag. Except exactly 11.5 baht I managed to shake out, I was dead broke. My wallet was nowhere to be found. As I dually explained my lack of purchasing power in Thai and in pantomime, I gingerly backed away from the counter, throwing my hands up in a replica of the gesture I get so often whenever I question store clerks-- a cross between sheer confusion and instinctual flight. So I fled, steaming pork bun sandwich still on the counter, and made quite the show of tearing through my bag outside the store just to confirm for all watching that either I was the insane farang they already suspected me to be or that I really had no money. What? Farang? No money? Impossible. To my chagrin, a student I had never seen before ran out after me and offered to pay for my meal. Refusal was not only inappropriate given her insistence, but impossible given my sudden stammering words of surprise. In the end, wai-ing her excessively to our mutual embarrassment, I left the shop, dignity and pork bun in bag. Oh, my funny Valentine.
But my shopping escapades for the day were far from over. In the afternoon in a local shopping center (thanks to the monetary kindness of a fellow teacher friend),after inquiring as to where to purchase a water bottle, I proceeded to what I can only describe as a towering wall of toddler Sippy cups. After staring dumbstruck for about thirty seconds, I began to scan the gargantuan shelf of pastel and neon plastic hydration devices. Most appeared capable of holding approximately a child’s swallow of any liquid, perhaps meant for the trendy appearance of hydration rather than actual refreshment; I couldn’t tell. There were the requisite Hello Kitty bottles, saucer-sized eyes batting thick curlicued lashes my way; the Pooh bear collection complete with various scenes of the friendly carnivore in a multitude of forest and city landscapes; and of course the bright blue Doraemon section, equipped with feline red collar carrying straps. Steadily losing hope, I migrated down the aisle a bit to a more mature section of flaming flamingo pink and shocking electric yellow bottles (calling to mind the brightly colored and flavored Now-and-Later candies of my youth). But even these bottles had alarming curvaceous shapes, contorted in ways I simply found unreasonable and flip top caps an infant could pop open. Imagining my bag sopping wet and the inability to seize hold of the squirming aqua receptacle, not to mention wanting to call as little attention to my beverage gear as possible, I cringed to think of setting it in the break room fridge beside the other ajarns’ sensible cartoon thermoses, drinkable yogurt chugglers, and fruity flavored juice boxes. So I pressed on further to the Siberian end of the bottle collection to a variety of acceptably sized squat, thin, and equally curvaceous bottles with built-in straws. Considering that these bottles bore only the signature neon colored tops rather than the entirety of the bottle, I snagged the soberest I could manage— a respectable clear bottle with periwinkle top— and started out of the aisle. Thinking better of myself, I returned and nabbed the bottle with charcoal grey top and, grinning in joyous approval at my shopping expertise, made my way to the register.
The last time I’d encountered a similar moral shopping dilemma was in selecting appropriate toilet tissue for my apartment. Mildly overwhelmed, I had come up against the likes of jasmine-scented puffs, your tried and true starchy whites, and satiny swathes with added aloe to name a few. At the time, I managed to escape with a modest cottony blend, heeding my mother’s childhood warnings of the potential complications of overly perfumed puffs in the certain inflammation of the loins. Now some might say that if my toughest daily decisions revolve around drinking gourds and latrine paper, my life clearly must be too easy. In fact, numerous have said as much to me. “You must LOVE living here, life is SO much easier than back in the States.” “Isn’t it great to be in such an exotic place where you just don’t have to think all the time?” “How fantastic is it to have everything you need at your fingertips, no hassle, no worries, no cares?” The last time I checked, I wasn’t taking leisure strolls on elephants in my spare time nor lounging in beach chairs downing plates of pad thai. I leave that to the scads of tourists flocking to the region that do that best. In fact, most of my time is spent back hunched over a pile of essays or arched screeching chalk up and down a massive green slab. While it can be a bit of a joy ride to live in a country where Valentine’s Day is a national holiday (doors adorned with heart-shaped wreaths and lawns bedecked with cardboard cutouts of heart pairs with convenient head holes) and picture-taking is a national sport, it in no way invalidates the authenticity and challenges that living even in a cartooned paradise presents. No I don’t have to hike to the nearest well to fetch water for my bath and no, I do not scavenge for berries before lights out at sunset. I haven’t had dysentery or malaria as of yet(knock on wood), nor have I of late been in a state of physical mortal peril. I feel comfortable walking the streets at night and when I want to travel, I hop on my moto and go. But in no way do any of these realities make my daily reality a joke. Too many times have I heard Chiang Mai isn’t rough enough, isn’t “cultured” enough, isn’t Asia enough. What does that even mean?If rough isn’t nearly killing yourself attempting to drive through monsoons in rainy season; if culture isn’t scaling Doi Suthep and plodding through the mountain towns and villages hidden along its slopes; if Asia isn’t chugging gurgling northern Thai soup, piping hot with chunks of pork blood and fellow colleagues cheering and chanting like it was a kegger, or scarfing down a plate of fermented pork before realizing what a bad idea that was; if none of this is what it means to step out of your cultural bubble and immerse yourself in a world a world away, I truly have no idea what is. Yes, there is a Starbucks and three McDonald’s and perhaps if local food didn't make my glands salivate on a regular basis, I might think to dine there once or twice, but not for the same burgers and fries made to order across the seas, rather for the tunafish pies and thai tea smoothy-floaties so characteristic of those vendors here. Certainly I have Internet access and can download videos on YouTube and songs from iTunes, but my recent playlist has included “Rak Mai Tahng Gan Wayla” from new cinematic favorite “Guan Muen Ho” and music videos of the bands I get hooked on in clubs. My experience may be a bit more urban, Chiang Mai might be a comfortable city, but walking down the street I roam ancient wats erected generations ago by the founders of this fair city; I chat with merchants in the market, trading guava and grins as our daily commerce; I race on my moto to umbrella festivals and flower parades; and when I wake in the morning I breathe the combined funk of exhaust fumes and mountain vapors, mingling in the early dawn before the smog settles.
Just because I don’t come home drained by the very effort of living through the day, doesn’t mean my days in Chiang Mai aren’t every bit as worth living through. In fact, because they infuse me with the will to keep them going, to have stayed in this beautiful city and country for the past two years, I cherish them more than anything. Though equally inspiring and invigorating, I don’t need to walk a dirt road or journal by candlelight for that to be true. As it turns out, truthfully I’d rather hike up my skirts for a squatter in a roadside shack than risk a chafed jasmine-scented derriere any day. It just so happens that in and around Chiang Mai, I can do both.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
These Drops of Mine
Today's Thoughts...
There are days when I leave work and want to throw myself out the nearest open window. Or, at the very least, hurl myself into a shallow pit. Fortunately, those days are few and far between. More often are the days like today, when something within me swells with pride and makes me want to tear up and cry: “Hercules! Hercules!” to egg my students on. (Okay, humor me; channeling Nutty Professor here, anyone?, anyone?)
The assignment was to pick a controversial topic and present your opinions and the facts about the issue to persuade your classmates for your cause. Now when I assigned this, I had some idea of what to expect: at least six presentations on global warming, three about the dangers of smoking/alcohol/insert teenage vice here,two on abortion, and probably at least one on an altogether unrelated topic like sports cars. I was not disappointed. Yet in sifting through the well-intentioned chaff, heaving several exhausted sighs as I did, a few gems sparkled with a luster that outdid all the rest. A winning plea to galvanize stay-at-home moms, an introspective critique on the inflated value of higher education as the sole route to success, a witty piece questioning the age-old attraction to “that guy,” the James Dean as it were (tall, dark, handsome, and wrong for you in every way). Even a clever creation denouncing the censure of adult films; the most sound pro-porn argument I think I’ve ever heard.
But with the theme of controversy there is always the one, that one, that stands out from the rest, that tugs at the dull senses, numbed after endless claps and score sheets. Exhausted, struggling to keep my lids open, and desperately wishing I had drank that Coke sitting at my desk, I waited as a student took the floor. Cloaked in the mane that cascaded around her shoulders, she stood up a little straighter (how she was balancing on her four inch platforms I don't think I'll ever understand) and my giggly room fell hushed. Noticing the visible tremor that rippled through the class, I could only think that the others were prepared for something I was not. Her friends sat attentively. Compact mirrors and tweezers slid back into their cases and mobiles into jeans and purses. I too sat up a bit straighter, waiting to hear what she would have to say.
“Good morning, um, afternoon teacher and my friends. Today, I would like to speak about a topic that is very close to me.” The preamble I had heard at least three dozen times already that day. “Today we have already heard about why we should not discriminate against people with disabilities in employment in our country. Well, I would like to speak about another form of discrimination, not only in employment, although that is what I want to focus on." She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "If you were the owner of a company, would you hire a transgendered person to work for you?” I tried to force myself not to squirm. Sudden vigorous nods and vocal ‘yes!’ “Would you call them ma’m or madam if they asked you to?” Another ‘yes!’ “Would you hire a gay or a lesbian too? Show them the same respect as all other workers?” ‘Yes! Yes!’ at least another half dozen ‘yes!’
“Thank you. But the world is not as kind as this classroom.” Silence. “People do not treat us with respect. Whatever we are and whoever we are, we are a community, we are people and people should be treated with respect. Many transgendered people are not. For example, so many would like to be airline hostess. Of all the airlines in our country, did you know that only a very few even consider to hire people like me. And they require that they must have the sex operation and change their voices first. From this, only three transgendered women can work in the airlines here. Three? That’s nothing. We are millions in Thailand and millions in the world, maybe billions.” I could feel my chest constrict. “But we aren’t treated as if we matter. It’s like we don’t even exist. But we are not invisible. We live next to you, with you, around you. We are you because we are human just like everyone else. My blood is as red as yours and my tears are just as real. That's why I believe we should not be an invisible community any more. Thank you.” She was shaking, I was shaking, the raucous applause was deafening.
I can only think to the cosmos for the strange order of things in this life. It just so happens that in another of my classes, we are dissecting Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice.” In a country where, like the Jews of Shylock's time, the kra-theuys of Thailand and the world are shamed, insulted, demeaned, ignored, and more often viewed as garish Barbies on display than human beings in need of the same affections and respect afforded all others. She had once joked that she asked a dorm assistant if she rented a dorm would she be placed in the men's ward or the women's, and upon hearing the former, remarked, "Well at least he'll be one lucky guy!" Yet even in jest, her words gave me pause because it was and is wrong. Wrong. Just wrong. Standing in front of her classmates, her words rang true to me and brought me back to Shylock’s famed speech of much the same:
Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
us, do we not die?
Aye, we die. We die every day to be overlooked by those who do not consider us worthy. Her classmates heard her, I heard her, but who else? There are times when I want to get them to stand up, shout, scream, cry out for the world to hear them— what they feel, what they think, what they believe that is locked up inside them until they get a moment, however fleeting as an in-class assignment, to stand up and say what burns inside them. Plastic grins can’t hide the scars forever. Sooner or later, people will no longer be willing to just be invisible.
There are days when I leave work and want to throw myself out the nearest open window. Or, at the very least, hurl myself into a shallow pit. Fortunately, those days are few and far between. More often are the days like today, when something within me swells with pride and makes me want to tear up and cry: “Hercules! Hercules!” to egg my students on. (Okay, humor me; channeling Nutty Professor here, anyone?, anyone?)
The assignment was to pick a controversial topic and present your opinions and the facts about the issue to persuade your classmates for your cause. Now when I assigned this, I had some idea of what to expect: at least six presentations on global warming, three about the dangers of smoking/alcohol/insert teenage vice here,two on abortion, and probably at least one on an altogether unrelated topic like sports cars. I was not disappointed. Yet in sifting through the well-intentioned chaff, heaving several exhausted sighs as I did, a few gems sparkled with a luster that outdid all the rest. A winning plea to galvanize stay-at-home moms, an introspective critique on the inflated value of higher education as the sole route to success, a witty piece questioning the age-old attraction to “that guy,” the James Dean as it were (tall, dark, handsome, and wrong for you in every way). Even a clever creation denouncing the censure of adult films; the most sound pro-porn argument I think I’ve ever heard.
But with the theme of controversy there is always the one, that one, that stands out from the rest, that tugs at the dull senses, numbed after endless claps and score sheets. Exhausted, struggling to keep my lids open, and desperately wishing I had drank that Coke sitting at my desk, I waited as a student took the floor. Cloaked in the mane that cascaded around her shoulders, she stood up a little straighter (how she was balancing on her four inch platforms I don't think I'll ever understand) and my giggly room fell hushed. Noticing the visible tremor that rippled through the class, I could only think that the others were prepared for something I was not. Her friends sat attentively. Compact mirrors and tweezers slid back into their cases and mobiles into jeans and purses. I too sat up a bit straighter, waiting to hear what she would have to say.
“Good morning, um, afternoon teacher and my friends. Today, I would like to speak about a topic that is very close to me.” The preamble I had heard at least three dozen times already that day. “Today we have already heard about why we should not discriminate against people with disabilities in employment in our country. Well, I would like to speak about another form of discrimination, not only in employment, although that is what I want to focus on." She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "If you were the owner of a company, would you hire a transgendered person to work for you?” I tried to force myself not to squirm. Sudden vigorous nods and vocal ‘yes!’ “Would you call them ma’m or madam if they asked you to?” Another ‘yes!’ “Would you hire a gay or a lesbian too? Show them the same respect as all other workers?” ‘Yes! Yes!’ at least another half dozen ‘yes!’
“Thank you. But the world is not as kind as this classroom.” Silence. “People do not treat us with respect. Whatever we are and whoever we are, we are a community, we are people and people should be treated with respect. Many transgendered people are not. For example, so many would like to be airline hostess. Of all the airlines in our country, did you know that only a very few even consider to hire people like me. And they require that they must have the sex operation and change their voices first. From this, only three transgendered women can work in the airlines here. Three? That’s nothing. We are millions in Thailand and millions in the world, maybe billions.” I could feel my chest constrict. “But we aren’t treated as if we matter. It’s like we don’t even exist. But we are not invisible. We live next to you, with you, around you. We are you because we are human just like everyone else. My blood is as red as yours and my tears are just as real. That's why I believe we should not be an invisible community any more. Thank you.” She was shaking, I was shaking, the raucous applause was deafening.
I can only think to the cosmos for the strange order of things in this life. It just so happens that in another of my classes, we are dissecting Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice.” In a country where, like the Jews of Shylock's time, the kra-theuys of Thailand and the world are shamed, insulted, demeaned, ignored, and more often viewed as garish Barbies on display than human beings in need of the same affections and respect afforded all others. She had once joked that she asked a dorm assistant if she rented a dorm would she be placed in the men's ward or the women's, and upon hearing the former, remarked, "Well at least he'll be one lucky guy!" Yet even in jest, her words gave me pause because it was and is wrong. Wrong. Just wrong. Standing in front of her classmates, her words rang true to me and brought me back to Shylock’s famed speech of much the same:
Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
us, do we not die?
Aye, we die. We die every day to be overlooked by those who do not consider us worthy. Her classmates heard her, I heard her, but who else? There are times when I want to get them to stand up, shout, scream, cry out for the world to hear them— what they feel, what they think, what they believe that is locked up inside them until they get a moment, however fleeting as an in-class assignment, to stand up and say what burns inside them. Plastic grins can’t hide the scars forever. Sooner or later, people will no longer be willing to just be invisible.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
No, I have not been abducted by cranially endowed creatures from another planet
Today's Thoughts...
Upon no uncertain threats of imminent disownment from my grandmother should I continue to neglect my beloved blog, I am FINALLY making a return some four months since my last post. The past several months have been something of a whirlwind trying to keep up with the frighteningly accelerating pace of life until my departure from Thailand in the Spring. Suffice it to say, that ever as much of the drama and hilarity has continued as before, perhaps even more so, in the past few months and certainly will continue to do so until I leave. In the hopes of regaining some dignity and respect from the blogging world (read: my grandmother), I shall resume more regular posting from here on out!
In efforts to bring life up to speed, I shall re-begin as it were with a brief note on my departure from Thailand for the holidays in December (complete with song!). Therefore, below I do post the text of an email sent to several friends over the holidays about my less than smooth exit from the kingdom:
Dearest friends,
As my father throbs the bass of what sounds like a mash-up between Ludacris and the Jackson Five in our basement at approximately 3 a.m. on a Thursday night, I thought I would snuggle up with a cup of steaming hot cocoa (read: melting Raisinets acquired at some unknown period of delirium during the past two days) in front of the bright roaring fire (illuminated PC screen) with the first dustings of snow on the ground (okay..true) to briefly recount the past 42 hours of my life leading to this moment. Said hours include but are not limited to a two hour conversation with an eager Pakistani man in an all-white tux adorned with a purple orchid, discovering a toilet commode with three exciting button-triggered functions in Tokyo, wandering through five airports in flip flops and the navy blue footwarmers courtesy of a former trip with British Airways, countless stares at said attire, and a Wendy's junior bacon cheeseburger with extra cheese and tomatoes.
As a therapeutic way of purging and reminiscing on these events while waiting on pending notice of luggage detained in JFK customs, I decided to write a song to the tune of “Twelve Days of Christmas” ;P Should you desire a bit of holiday ho ho ha ha and cheer, do read, and I hope enjoy as much as my neverending journey across the seas. Do excuse me while I laugh hysterically and faceplant on my childhood bed.
(Oh the good humor Asia has instilled in me :D)
Love to you all!
TWELVE DAYS FROM THAILAND
On the first day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
A visa from whence I can’t return!
On the second day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Two flights not flying!
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the third day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the fourth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the fifth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the sixth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the seventh day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the eighth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the ninth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the tenth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Ten toes frost-bitten
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the eleventh day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Eleven minutes screaming
Ten toes frost-bitten
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the twelfth day of Christmas, vacation reminded me
Lauren, jai yen yen!!!!
Eleven minutes screaming
Ten toes frost-bitten
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
Oh a visa from whence I can’t RETURN!!!!!
(But did!)
Upon no uncertain threats of imminent disownment from my grandmother should I continue to neglect my beloved blog, I am FINALLY making a return some four months since my last post. The past several months have been something of a whirlwind trying to keep up with the frighteningly accelerating pace of life until my departure from Thailand in the Spring. Suffice it to say, that ever as much of the drama and hilarity has continued as before, perhaps even more so, in the past few months and certainly will continue to do so until I leave. In the hopes of regaining some dignity and respect from the blogging world (read: my grandmother), I shall resume more regular posting from here on out! 
In efforts to bring life up to speed, I shall re-begin as it were with a brief note on my departure from Thailand for the holidays in December (complete with song!). Therefore, below I do post the text of an email sent to several friends over the holidays about my less than smooth exit from the kingdom:
Dearest friends,
As my father throbs the bass of what sounds like a mash-up between Ludacris and the Jackson Five in our basement at approximately 3 a.m. on a Thursday night, I thought I would snuggle up with a cup of steaming hot cocoa (read: melting Raisinets acquired at some unknown period of delirium during the past two days) in front of the bright roaring fire (illuminated PC screen) with the first dustings of snow on the ground (okay..true) to briefly recount the past 42 hours of my life leading to this moment. Said hours include but are not limited to a two hour conversation with an eager Pakistani man in an all-white tux adorned with a purple orchid, discovering a toilet commode with three exciting button-triggered functions in Tokyo, wandering through five airports in flip flops and the navy blue footwarmers courtesy of a former trip with British Airways, countless stares at said attire, and a Wendy's junior bacon cheeseburger with extra cheese and tomatoes.
As a therapeutic way of purging and reminiscing on these events while waiting on pending notice of luggage detained in JFK customs, I decided to write a song to the tune of “Twelve Days of Christmas” ;P Should you desire a bit of holiday ho ho ha ha and cheer, do read, and I hope enjoy as much as my neverending journey across the seas. Do excuse me while I laugh hysterically and faceplant on my childhood bed.
(Oh the good humor Asia has instilled in me :D)
Love to you all!
TWELVE DAYS FROM THAILAND
On the first day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
A visa from whence I can’t return!
On the second day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Two flights not flying!
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the third day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the fourth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the fifth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the sixth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the seventh day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the eighth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the ninth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the tenth day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Ten toes frost-bitten
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the eleventh day of Christmas, vacation sent to me
Eleven minutes screaming
Ten toes frost-bitten
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
On the twelfth day of Christmas, vacation reminded meLauren, jai yen yen!!!!
Eleven minutes screaming
Ten toes frost-bitten
Nine trips to potty
Eight degrees below freezing
Seven bottles a-chugging
Six lines x-raying
Five hours of SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
Four waves of nausea
Three countries crossing
Two flights not flying
And a visa from whence I can’t return!
Oh a visa from whence I can’t RETURN!!!!!
(But did!)
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Eyes on India-- Installment 9!
Today's Thoughts... A bit of the Traveler's Grumbles and Revelations
We spent the remainder of our time in Varanassi wandering the banks of the Ganges to admire and stand in awe of the hyper-involved and moving ceremony of cremation—dressing the body, anointing the body, perfuming the body, wrapping the body, decorating the body with fresh flowers, incinerating the body upon its pyre, and sending the body back to the life vein of Mother Ganga. We also managed to make two luxurious stopovers in a fantastic silk shop— Merothra’s Silk Factory (where we purchased gorgeous prints and swatches to our hearts’ desires), and at the much needed pool of a nearby hotel (a few bucks gained us a day’s entry pass for swimming, lounging, and surfing the net.)
Two days after my arrival, we were boarding yet another train, this time bound for Delhi where we would regroup, visit with a sick friend before her voyage to the UK, and then climb aboard another steam-wheeler heading to Rishikesh, the yogi center of Northern India. But not before, of course, we climbed aboard (HOW?!?) yet ANOTHER mistaken train, this time having been DIRECTED by the taxi driver of the hotel we were staying at, given a platform number, walked to the platform with assistance carrying our bags (20 rupees please) and told to board THIS train. Well, yeah, so no. At around an hour into the ride when the conductor came to collect tickets, it became frighteningly clear we were on the wrong train. Panicking, unlike my friends who were hitting the rails for the first time in-country, I started calculating what we could do or say to get ourselves to Delhi regardless. Fortunately, recognizing our plight and the strain on my paling face (can I pale?), the conductor of our train arranged with the conductor of a second train which we would board at 2am to head to Delhi. Standing on the platform at 1:30am in a random city, we waited for 2+ hours for the next train to arrive, which thankfully it did. Unfortunately, our friendly conductor was gone and his kind counterpart on the next train was nowhere to be found, though we asked and searched for him. Sensing an opportunity, another conductor allowed us to board but only after forcing us to repay for tickets and trying to charge us for pillows and blankets (which ALWAYS come for free). My friends forked over the cash, and with heart palpitations and my temples throbbing, I complied as well (though I utterly refused to pay him for free blankets and pillows). Boarding the train, we watched as he pocketed the cash, gave us no tickets, and strolled off to collect more exhorted sums from his unwittingly foolish passengers. Seething with rage, I attempted to sleep.
The next morning we pulled into a distant train station in Delhi about an hour out of the city (sigh), almost two and a half hours in creeping traffic, after arguing with swindling rickshaw drivers, again paying too much, and slowly, painfully, with damn near heatstroke, made our way back into the capital. But at least we made it, right? Sigh, at least we made it. Fast forward two days after shopping, sleeping, and recuperating in the big city, we arrived yet again at the train station to buy tickets (after two rickshaws, two cyclos, and one man on foot trying to convince us to purchase tickets at this or that “authentic” train booth for foreigners(it was starting to become a game, really, hahaha), and then marched our way authoritatively upstairs only to find that we were not in fact allowed to purchase a ticket without all parties present. A third friend, feeling rather ill, had opted to stay at home, so we sallied forth to purchase her ticket (sans her passport) on our own. Large pleading eyes, saccharine sweet voices, and an insistence not to move from the manager’s desk eventually won out and we left with three tickets for Rishikesh.
I was slowly learning that what had seemed so easy in all the Southeast Asian countries I’d visited thus far: how to click with the myriad folks I crossed paths with. I didn't quite understand with the rickshaw driver in Jaipur, nor the boatman in Varanassi any more than the train conductor from who knows where, but I was gradually gaining perspective on what was to transform my thinking and consequently my awakening to the behemoth cultural bazaar that India had to offer. It took patience, persistence, ample time, refusal to budge, and consistent appealing on a personal level: with a hard-working train station manager and likely mother who softened at hearing of a young girl (our friend and a teacher nonetheless), ill with food poisoning and unable to venture out for the day to purchase her train ticket and her two well-meaning friends (also teachers with big hearts and small wallets) who feared that coming back later there would be no ticket for our friend who would be left abandoned in Delhi all alone. Cue the chewed bottom lip and melting eyes... but in sincerity. I had the feeling that if I wasn't careful, if I wasn't genuine, unlike the plasticked grins I was used to, there was nothing to hide behind here. Not in a place where life is lived so unabashedly, when pride comes second to practicality, and artificial niceities are things you read about in books.
It was the same with the mobile credit seller who sold me 120 rupees credit in Varanassi for my Delhi sim, for which I received only 20 rupees credit that he supplemented with an additional 50 from his own stock. Much like the vendor who relented on a price drop after persistent inquiry that, no his scarves were not of pure silk. It was a whole new way of relating, at times on an emotional level I would never have appealed to in Thailand or many places I'd visited in S.E. Asia thus far. But I was learning, slowly learning, that to crack the hardened shells of many I would meet in India, it was not only worthwhile, but necessary to re-learn past-learnéd interpersonal skills.
When we eventually arrived in the Rishikesh station, complete with capering monkeys that sneered and attempted to steal whatever food items were in hand, we picked our way through the mass of bodies camped out on the ground (as it is far more practical to spread out blankets and pallets to wait in the station lobby for trains that might come early/late/or not at all), and out into the fresh-ish nighttime air. Already, you could feel the difference of ascending out of the stifling heat and lung-clogging smog of the cities. We ran into a pair of smiley backpackers and together set out, in the darkness, on foot, for the bus station that would take us to Rishikesh proper (from the city of Hardiwar as we were).
Perhaps in the daylight and not the pitch black, I would have been more enthusiastic. Maybe if I was certain we were proceeding in the right direction. Maybe still if I didn’t have several pounds of souvenirs and traveling gear piled on my back, I would have been a bit more jovial about the whole night-walk to the bus station, but as it was I was not. But, yet again, we made it! Finally pulling into Rishikesh after a hilarious and even fun bumpy ride up into the foothills of the mountains. Around 11pm, we dismounted our happy-honking bus steed and walked in the pitch darkness across a thin bridge to the ashrams of Rishikesh just as it started to pour. Haha, at this point we were beyond tired, a wee bit lost, soaked, and basking in the ridiculousness of it all. That’s when one of the girls slipped and splatted down— into a hefty pile of cow dung. That was about all we could take, and doubling over in painful laughter, we guffawed and cried in the rain.
Ah, yes, we were in India indeed.
We spent the remainder of our time in Varanassi wandering the banks of the Ganges to admire and stand in awe of the hyper-involved and moving ceremony of cremation—dressing the body, anointing the body, perfuming the body, wrapping the body, decorating the body with fresh flowers, incinerating the body upon its pyre, and sending the body back to the life vein of Mother Ganga. We also managed to make two luxurious stopovers in a fantastic silk shop— Merothra’s Silk Factory (where we purchased gorgeous prints and swatches to our hearts’ desires), and at the much needed pool of a nearby hotel (a few bucks gained us a day’s entry pass for swimming, lounging, and surfing the net.)
Two days after my arrival, we were boarding yet another train, this time bound for Delhi where we would regroup, visit with a sick friend before her voyage to the UK, and then climb aboard another steam-wheeler heading to Rishikesh, the yogi center of Northern India. But not before, of course, we climbed aboard (HOW?!?) yet ANOTHER mistaken train, this time having been DIRECTED by the taxi driver of the hotel we were staying at, given a platform number, walked to the platform with assistance carrying our bags (20 rupees please) and told to board THIS train. Well, yeah, so no. At around an hour into the ride when the conductor came to collect tickets, it became frighteningly clear we were on the wrong train. Panicking, unlike my friends who were hitting the rails for the first time in-country, I started calculating what we could do or say to get ourselves to Delhi regardless. Fortunately, recognizing our plight and the strain on my paling face (can I pale?), the conductor of our train arranged with the conductor of a second train which we would board at 2am to head to Delhi. Standing on the platform at 1:30am in a random city, we waited for 2+ hours for the next train to arrive, which thankfully it did. Unfortunately, our friendly conductor was gone and his kind counterpart on the next train was nowhere to be found, though we asked and searched for him. Sensing an opportunity, another conductor allowed us to board but only after forcing us to repay for tickets and trying to charge us for pillows and blankets (which ALWAYS come for free). My friends forked over the cash, and with heart palpitations and my temples throbbing, I complied as well (though I utterly refused to pay him for free blankets and pillows). Boarding the train, we watched as he pocketed the cash, gave us no tickets, and strolled off to collect more exhorted sums from his unwittingly foolish passengers. Seething with rage, I attempted to sleep.
The next morning we pulled into a distant train station in Delhi about an hour out of the city (sigh), almost two and a half hours in creeping traffic, after arguing with swindling rickshaw drivers, again paying too much, and slowly, painfully, with damn near heatstroke, made our way back into the capital. But at least we made it, right? Sigh, at least we made it. Fast forward two days after shopping, sleeping, and recuperating in the big city, we arrived yet again at the train station to buy tickets (after two rickshaws, two cyclos, and one man on foot trying to convince us to purchase tickets at this or that “authentic” train booth for foreigners(it was starting to become a game, really, hahaha), and then marched our way authoritatively upstairs only to find that we were not in fact allowed to purchase a ticket without all parties present. A third friend, feeling rather ill, had opted to stay at home, so we sallied forth to purchase her ticket (sans her passport) on our own. Large pleading eyes, saccharine sweet voices, and an insistence not to move from the manager’s desk eventually won out and we left with three tickets for Rishikesh.
I was slowly learning that what had seemed so easy in all the Southeast Asian countries I’d visited thus far: how to click with the myriad folks I crossed paths with. I didn't quite understand with the rickshaw driver in Jaipur, nor the boatman in Varanassi any more than the train conductor from who knows where, but I was gradually gaining perspective on what was to transform my thinking and consequently my awakening to the behemoth cultural bazaar that India had to offer. It took patience, persistence, ample time, refusal to budge, and consistent appealing on a personal level: with a hard-working train station manager and likely mother who softened at hearing of a young girl (our friend and a teacher nonetheless), ill with food poisoning and unable to venture out for the day to purchase her train ticket and her two well-meaning friends (also teachers with big hearts and small wallets) who feared that coming back later there would be no ticket for our friend who would be left abandoned in Delhi all alone. Cue the chewed bottom lip and melting eyes... but in sincerity. I had the feeling that if I wasn't careful, if I wasn't genuine, unlike the plasticked grins I was used to, there was nothing to hide behind here. Not in a place where life is lived so unabashedly, when pride comes second to practicality, and artificial niceities are things you read about in books.
It was the same with the mobile credit seller who sold me 120 rupees credit in Varanassi for my Delhi sim, for which I received only 20 rupees credit that he supplemented with an additional 50 from his own stock. Much like the vendor who relented on a price drop after persistent inquiry that, no his scarves were not of pure silk. It was a whole new way of relating, at times on an emotional level I would never have appealed to in Thailand or many places I'd visited in S.E. Asia thus far. But I was learning, slowly learning, that to crack the hardened shells of many I would meet in India, it was not only worthwhile, but necessary to re-learn past-learnéd interpersonal skills.
When we eventually arrived in the Rishikesh station, complete with capering monkeys that sneered and attempted to steal whatever food items were in hand, we picked our way through the mass of bodies camped out on the ground (as it is far more practical to spread out blankets and pallets to wait in the station lobby for trains that might come early/late/or not at all), and out into the fresh-ish nighttime air. Already, you could feel the difference of ascending out of the stifling heat and lung-clogging smog of the cities. We ran into a pair of smiley backpackers and together set out, in the darkness, on foot, for the bus station that would take us to Rishikesh proper (from the city of Hardiwar as we were).
Perhaps in the daylight and not the pitch black, I would have been more enthusiastic. Maybe if I was certain we were proceeding in the right direction. Maybe still if I didn’t have several pounds of souvenirs and traveling gear piled on my back, I would have been a bit more jovial about the whole night-walk to the bus station, but as it was I was not. But, yet again, we made it! Finally pulling into Rishikesh after a hilarious and even fun bumpy ride up into the foothills of the mountains. Around 11pm, we dismounted our happy-honking bus steed and walked in the pitch darkness across a thin bridge to the ashrams of Rishikesh just as it started to pour. Haha, at this point we were beyond tired, a wee bit lost, soaked, and basking in the ridiculousness of it all. That’s when one of the girls slipped and splatted down— into a hefty pile of cow dung. That was about all we could take, and doubling over in painful laughter, we guffawed and cried in the rain.
Ah, yes, we were in India indeed.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Eyes on India-- Installment 8!
Today's Thoughts...
Varanassi, home of the coursing River Ganga, pulsing womb of Mother India. Varanassi, the oldest continually inhabited city in the world. Varanassi.
I flipped through the pages of my guidebook as I nestled atop my trundle top-tier bunk bed in my sleep sack. Occasionally, I would take a second to peer over the edge at the inquisitive faces upturned, mouths agape, watching me. I don’t know if they could tell that I was terrified of them. Particularly of the little girl chewing gum and swinging her ponytails on the bottommost bunk below me. I had marched onto the train with a show of great authority, hustled and hoisted myself onto the third bunk, ensconced myself in my sack, and hidden out to wait for the morning, a thirteen hour ride from Delhi to Varanassi. All the while, eyes and fingers pointed in my direction. I figured if I could just hide long enough, by mid-nightfall most people would have forgotten about me entirely. I was right. As the evening lights came on, card decks appeared and samosas were handed around. I managed to snag a few and a motley assortment of snacks from one of the dozens of hawkers passing by—“Hai samosa! Hai chai! Hai veg! Hai non-veg!” Literally a cornucopia of eats most of the night long.
Sometime around 2 or 3am when the hubbub had finally died down—old family friends had returned to their bunks, aluminum and plastic wraps of delectables were shoved back in purses and shoulder bags, and the last whiffs of steaming cups of chai had wafted idly down the corridors—the roaches scuttled out to feast on the remains and I finally managed to drift off to sleep clutching my ipod and mobile phone tightly to my chest. At about perhaps 4 or 5am, I woke up to realize two things: the train was stopped in some city or town I couldn’t quite make out and there was a man staring into my eyes. Surprisingly, my first reaction was not to scream and in fact barely registered as shock, half sleep as I was and inured as I’d become to the constant (quite literally) in-your-face transactions and curious inspections that burst my personal bubble on a minute-ly basis. Instead, I sort of grunted a strange low sound resembling that of a disgruntled sow and shoved at the face with all my strength. Somehow, I managed to miss the face just as it rapidly receded and I instead pushed off the probing fingers he’d used to hoist himself up. The face (and body I suppose) sort of tumbled into the darkness and hit the ground with a soft thud. Swinging over the side of my bed and the snoozing figures below me, I caught a glimpse of a startled young man who scurried off down the corridor. Recalling the tale of an Australian friend I'd met in Vietnam about dozing on a train to Jodhpur, India and waking to a man attempting to pry her ipod from her closed fingers, I quickly checked my bunk for my own electronic possessions. Fortunately, my, erm— bosom— had cushioned and incidentally shielded them from his grasp. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep much that night.
Eight a.m. found us pulling into the Varanassi station just as the morning furor had fully taken over. In a sleep-desirous haze, I gathered my things and quickly dismounted from the train, terrified that I might get stuck and shipped off to who-knows-where. Jostled and hustled to and fro, I made my way outside where, to my great surprise, a spiffy taxi car was waiting for me with my name on a placard. During the night, I had located the hotel where my friends were set to stay and inquired if they had indeed confirmed their booking, unable as I was to actually get a hold of them. This had been confirmed and so in the a.m. off I went to their hotel. Walking into the lobby, I was stunned. The floors were scrubbed and something marbly, there was a bellhop to gather my bags and a concierge to assist me with finding the room. Although there was much confusion as to why I’d arrived in Varanassi ahead of my friends and why it was they and not I who had made and paid for the booking, eventually I was escorted to a room with a comfy bed and TV. There was the inkling to call my folks and let them know I’d arrived at long last and unscathed, but recognizing that my phone was out of credit (and subsequently unavailable for them to call me as incoming and outgoing calls are charged, oy!), I gave up on that notion, turned on the tele to some horrible movie with Hilary Duff and Nicholas Cage in a fictitious wartorn country with rockstars and big business scandals and fell fast and well asleep.
The next day, FINALLY united with the girls I was to spend the next two cities in, we woke up at 6 a.m. and made our way down to the famed ghats of Varanassi. There is something unbelievably tranquil and at-once beautiful about the streets of an ancient and people-filled city in the morning. It’s as if even the early-risers realize that it is too soon to punctuate the dawn with the hawkings, calls, yells, and smells that will dominate in the hours to come. And much to my surprise, after the non-stop cacophonous assault of honks and shouts and cows braying and plopping dungeroo that had thus far defined my trip, Varanassi at the dawn was, dare I say it— at peace. We were dropped off some distance from the Dasaswamedh Ghat and meandered down to the Ganges from there, sipping on our Maaza mango juice boxes the whole way down. At the river, after haggling for approximately five million hours, we clambered into a boat and began our journey down the glistening waves (ok, so not really waves, but ripples?) of the Ganges. The water itself is septic, meaning little to no life can sustain itself in this area of the river, as polluted as it has become over the years, not from the daily holy bathing done by pilgrims and city-dwellers alike, nor the pyres of cremating corpses left to drift down its gentle stream, but pollution primarily funneled in by factories that pepper the city and the banks of Mother Ganga.
Regardless, there is certainly something magical and pristine about the river in the morning and something that awakens in your own soul watching all the people coming to purify their bodies by dipping in her sacred waters. We docked after about an hour, proceeded to engage in another five million hour debate over the cost of the ride (really, REALLY, now?!) and endeavoring to stay at peace in our inner souls, coughed up a modicum of extra cash (NOT what was requested of us, of course) and ultimately wended our way back to the hotel, smiling and humming with the life of the city that had just shaken its last grumblings of protest at the morning’s rays. By which I mean, the cars and rickshaws descended, metal-grated shop fronts flung open, the women piled baskets on heads and at waists, the sun scorched the skin mercilessly, and the day in Varanassi began.
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