Hullo, Dar dear.

My eyelids were doing that sweating thing again. A peculiar trait I thought they had only adopted in the throes of Thailand’s blazing heat in Bangkok. Nope. I stood corrected, very much corrected. It was sort of scorching in Dar. Not that painful heat that makes you want to peel off your skin and jump into a cool bath, but rather a sticky, sweaty, damp sort of heat that comes only from being on the semi-blistering shores of the Indian Ocean where mbu (mosquito) run (or rather fly) amok. And it was beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous.

Crystal blue waters lapped at the sand all around the curve of the land as we drove past, jacaranda and coconut (I think?) trees bowing in greeting as we passed. Everyone glistened as much with the dew of fresh sweat as the beaming smiles, probably of being in such a fantastically stunning place. Tanzania’s seeming capital (which is actually Dodoma), the seaside city Dar es Salaam felt like one big sprawling beach resort. Which meant that our hotel was like a small slice of paradise on the sand with a huge open air market of shops built right into the center of it all. If that wasn’t enough, sipping wine on the beach and chowing down on delicious curries and samaki (fish), even as we combed through Excel sheets and poured over contracts and MOUs at the table, for a moment I forgot it was all for work.

My manager quickly brought me back to reality as we dove into site visits and preliminary meetings with our distributors. D.light has an extensive network in Kenya and elsewhere throughout Africa and around the world even, looking to expand further into Tanzania. This project was meant to be a jumpstart to deeper Tanzanian networks, particularly in rural communities in Manyara district. (For more details on my summer’s work, view this post on the Georgetown University website.) Already, I too was eager to dive in to see more of the country and what this project would bring for our team and the communities we were reaching out to. But there was time for that. Right now it was the time for fish and wine and waves and sunsets and I was loving every minute of it.

Compared with cosmopolitan Nairobi, hustling, bustling and full of life, Dar was laid back, comfortable without being boring, content without being complacent. It was a welcomed lull from grittier streets, faster cars, and bigger buildings, though I found myself missing some of the excitement already. A city girl through and through ;) One thing that struck me immediately was the preponderance of magnificent mosque compounds, gated areas with devotees milling in and out at all hours. They somehow looked even more beautiful than the ones I had seen elsewhere, cut out against the backdrop of the sea. I had heard that Tanzania was filled with large Muslim communities (many of them Indian Tanzanian (which explained the fantastic curries!) as well as Black Tanzanian as was the case in Kenya as well.)

Muslims and Christians have co-existed peacefully alongside the hundred plus ethnic groups that make up the Tanzanian population for quite some time, thanks in part to the foresight of the country’s first president Julius Nyerere who had pushed for a common language (Swahili) and the concept of ujamaa, a socialist ideology of a Tanzania for all Tanzanians. As a sign of this in 1985, a Catholic, Nyerere  passed along the torch of his presidency to Hassan Mwinyi, a Muslim successor. The fruits of his labors and a countrywide mentality of pole pole (slowly) that reminded me of the Thai sabai sabai (literally well, well) leveled most tensions; both countries were pervaded by a generally chipper disposition and remarkable ability to just take it easy even when that might mean not getting much done as I would come to understand all too soon!

Hullo, Dar dear.

Let's Get Physical, Physical

However much I enjoyed the sights, I was starting to wonder when being in Kenya was not going to be about driving in private taxis for endless journeys. The next morning, I was awakened with that same familiar cry from my phone and a text from John who was early. I threw on clothes and filled my mouth with bottled water as I brushed my teeth and raced out the door. Somehow, though our drive was barely more than ten minutes this time, he managed to a) counsel me on love, notifying me that I was too pretty to not be married, b) recant and tell me to wait for the right moment and person because Love is not something you know what it is, a feeling, an emotion that is right, and c) promise me to set me up with maybe his son (who I thought was married with a kid) or possibly one of his taxi drivers (who might be as old as my father)—all things he guaranteed would make sense in due time. This took longer than the allotted 30 second drop off window inside the car park of the shopping center so the guard instructed John to drive back around or leave. We circled once more and he deposited me in front of a coffee house where I was meeting up with Whitney, a friend from college.

Together with one of her new summer roommates, we later marched from her apartment armed with exact change (10 shilling coins) and stood at the bus stand to wait for the jam-packed matatus to pack. On my first day, John had joked (or was he serious? No idea, even in English some things are lost in translation), saying the matatus were named after matata (Lion King anyone?) because they caused so much trouble on the road. I patted myself down again—I was bagless—making sure I had nothing easy to steal. Whitney had reminded us all of the cardinal traveling rule for ladies anywhere- big up top, little down below. As in, taking full advantage of our God-given pockets up north, and risking smaller bills in pants pockets for easy payment on the street or quick handing over in time of a struggle. Maybe some of the bigger bills came out warm when it was time to hand them over, but hey, at least you still had them and no one is going to refuse cash.

We climbed in the first available van that sounded like it was going our direction and rode what turned out to be an embarrassing four blocks to the rugby stadium. We picked our way through the throngs of young guys waiting to enter and gleefully grabbed our ticket stubs as we entered the field. Less than two hours later, we were shouting, clapping, booing with the crowd and brandishing over-sized cans of Tusker beer like it was our job. A young woman with gorgeous locs sat down next to me and we started to chat. I mentioned how few women I noticed with natural curly hair or locs around (most having opted for chemically relaxed, pressed, and braided styles). She explained that there was a growing number but for too long, locs had been associated with deviant behavior, criminal activity, and to some degree Rastafarianism so many Kenyans had strayed from risking their jobs for having them.  It sounded pretty familiar.

After we had our fill of cracking skulls and thumping bodies on the green, as well as heckled mzungu girls trying to find seats in the tides of the crowd, we made our way out just as the caravans of rowdy fans arrived, blowing noisemakers and chanting as the game continued into the final match of the season. After a few hours’ to chillax in Whitney’s apartment, we hopped another matatu to meet Jess, a mutual college friend for dinner and drinks. After dinner, we paid a guard a few hundred shillings to walk us the block and a half to the bar, a familiar custom at night. 

As we sat around the bar with our White Caps (another favorite local brew), Whitney and I marveling at the near-perfect weather that Nairobi seemed to be blessed with—something like 60-70 and always mild—we couldn’t help but shake our heads at what sounded like James Bond intro music replaying on loop for the better part of an hour. Laughing, I ventured to the washroom (or loo, after the British) to find no water to wash with or flush for that matter, a fact Jess waved away as usual given the sheer number of frequent water and power cuts in the city. Much like DC, Nairobi had become a burgeoning metropolis far faster than city planners imagined (or to some degree, cared to address.) Kenya Power was about as synonymous with mustachioed villain as Pepco.

After we downed the last of our White Caps, we hopped yet another taxi to a party with some of Jess’s local friends, mostly expats, working around the city. I used the talk first, answer puzzled questions later tactic to mingle with the group of forty or so, a few people initially taken aback by my impeccable English. (Really? Really now? Ah.) Around midnight, pretty much everyone dialed the same two go-to taxi guys (apparently this was a ‘thing’ I was learning; everyone had their go-to taxi guys), so about an hour and a half later our crew finally piled into a car to head home. Last to arrive back, I spent some time haggling with the driver—no, it’s supposed to only be this much; Jess told me already!—and slowly dragged myself into bed. It was 2:30am, 7:30pm on the East Coast and suddenly I was hungry for dinner. 

Ima Put It Down

Ludacris's sideburns (online image)

In the car again. Traffic was horrendous. Backed up for ages. I was pretty sure my co-worker Stephen was talking to me, but it was an uphill battle just to keep my eyelids peeled a crack and I was steady losing; jetlag was no joke. This did not seem to bother him. When I finally came to (no clue where the conversation had gone or hadn’t), we were a good ways from the city, groups of goats being herded across the street and fruit and vegetable stands popping up left and right. Clouds of dust and exhaust fumes created giant puffs of colored smoke as bus after bus passed by. At first I thought I was going crazy when I spotted Ludacris’s head on a roadside sign. But, nope. There was Chris Brown. I’m pretty sure that was Bow Wow. And I’m positive that was Alicia Keys. It seemed that though it perplexed some of my colleagues and countless others upon learning that no, I was not in fact Kenyan, and yes, there were plenty of Black Americans who looked a lot like me, or them, or us, it was nevertheless perfectly acceptable that major music icons in America were Black. Nevermind that there were maaaaaaybe a handful of Black people around in the States to listen to their music :P I made a mental note to keep learning Swahili and how to say, Black Americans exist who don't make music or become presidents, and contented myself with giggling and trying to get a good shot whenever a sign advertised stenciled sideburns like Luda’s. (I might have also imagined hearing “Luuda!” every time a man left the barber with that cut.)

Kinyozi (online image)

Ugali with chicken (online image)

For lunch, we grabbed plates of ugali (bland cornmeal rolled into balls between the thumb and forefingers) and chicken kebab (not to be confused with meat chunks on a stick, but rather ground meat rolled into a potato-consistency roll) and continued out into the villages about 45 minutes outside of Thika town. We carried myself and Stephen and one of our product representatives in tow. As the car dove off-road and up into farmland, rows and rows of sprouting greenery sprang up out of the earth. Our rep explained that these were pineapple farms owned by Del Monte and had I ever heard of Del Monte? I thought back to slurping the sugary pineapple juice from the bottom of fruit cups as a kid and assured her I had. Our driver, Joseph (what is with all the J names, really??) pointed beneath the plants to plastic pipes that steadily pumped water up and down the rows. That explained why they were so much more lush and verdant than pretty much everything else we saw. Hundreds of thousands of dollars had gone into designing and laying those pipes, he told us. How much do the farmers make? I asked. He just shook his head and smiled.

Demonstration

The small village was modest- a few low-sitting homes, some with plastic roofs, metal roofs, wooden roofs. A lucky few made of brick or mortar and cement. But the turnout was overwhelmingly warm, a nicely patterned clean tablecloth stretched over a wooden table, wooden benches for the community members, and sturdy plastic chairs for the guests, all beneath a green gazebo, vines intertwining above our heads. A jug of water and three glasses were placed out for each of us as the demonstration began. I stood and introduced myself, slowly in English. Our rep repeated in the local tongue (a dialect of Swahili), pausing for effect at the wide eyes when she mentioned I was American and spoke no Swahili. Everyone nodded as she asked if they knew about solar energy. Smiled as she brought forth the products, and clucked their tongues as she pointed out the immense monthly and annual savings over kerosene and the shocking fact that nearly a quarter of their income annually was literally going up in smoke. Just as she erected the little demo dark box to show proof of how the models worked, an all too familiar sound started, crescendoing after a moment. For a second, I grabbed my pocket thinking I had left that abysmal ringer on when I realized it wasn’t coming from me.

Women investigate the solar simulation dark box

Grimacing, embarrassed, Stephen tried to silence the device in his pockets, then in his hands, fruitlessly as he had borrowed the driver’s phone to take pictures of the demonstration and didn't know how to properly work it. Brandy and Chris Brown's voices echoed through the gazebo and beyond. Baby if you put it down, right like the way I want it, maybe we can fall in love. Over and over and over again. I grabbed the phone and started jamming the keys, trying to unlock it and silence the stupid thing. Baby if you put it put it, maybe we can fall in love. Ima put it down, you can  fall in love. Ima put it down down, you can fall in love. Eventually whoever it was gave up ringing and we shoved the thing deep into his backpack. Before long, we wrapped up, promising to return with several models and continued on to the next. 

Way to make an impression ;)

Mai Chai Mzungu

I stared at the phone screen. No reply to my SMS. Sighing, I leaned back against the white-washed corrugated metal door of the youth center. I was standing on a dusty corner, partially down an alley that led to the field site I was visiting for the day. John and the taxi were long gone, the trail of dust no longer visible where the tires had screeched away. I squinted a little at an armed guard pacing in the not distant-enough distance. Nervous, I glanced at my watch. 9:13am. I fidgeted, rang the number again, fingers crossed this time. It just rang. John T., co-worker and day’s guide, was running late. Finally, he picked up. Any minute now he assured me. Ten at most. Where are you standing? Nowhere special, I shrugged to myself. Just on a random dusty corner next to Nairobi’s second largest slum. Great. Perfect. Exactly where I meant to be.

After a few tense moments (pretty sure I was still breathing, not certain, but pretty sure), I got a brilliant idea. Like something out of a bad spy movie, I shrank to the ground in a deep squat, hidden just beyond a staircase. (If I can’t see anyone, then no one can see me…right? Right?) I slipped my notebook from my back pocket and pretended to busy myself as the beads of sweat started to collect on my brow. Several young boys passed by laughing and jabbing one another in the ribs. Startled, I lost my balance and fell over (still not sure how, but I did.) I righted myself, praising British Airways for losing my luggage and leaving me in three day-old now-dusty clothes I wasn’t too positive didn’t reek. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the guard’s shadow moving towards me along the wall. I crouched lower as he spoke to me in rapid Swahili. After a moment, he paused and repeated himself in English. I sighed. Disguise fail.  

As I stood up, he beckoned me to follow, saying he knew where the youth center's office was and this was nowhere for a lady to be standing alone. The phone rang again. Two minutes, John swore. He was nearly there. Two minutes and not a second more. I smiled at the guard and backed away as a group of schoolgirls passed. Sawa, sawa (okay, okay), he laughed, shaking his head and retreating. A cloud of dust erupted as the car pulled up and John T. hopped out. He looked around for a few moments, confused, and stopped not far away, staring at me. You’re not a mzungu? I paused for a second, searching for the word. No, no I’m not a white person. We both laughed. Well, you had me worried, he added as we headed inside.

Kibera slums (online image)

The rest of the day went by in a blur. John showed me around the youth center and took me to a partner organization where we wandered about, meeting and greeting with staff and a few beneficiaries of their joint program. Shortly after midday, we locked our things in his car and ventured into Muthare slum, second only to the far too well-known Kibera slum. Low squat structures, most with corrugated sheet metal roofs and patched walls lined up one after the other in ziz-zagging rows that stretched on for miles. There was a small place labeled kinyozi (barber) in one spot next to an even smaller place with chicken necks on a wooden slab out front. A vendor's blanket was stretched out with shoes stacked neatly in lines and hats and jackets in a mound beside them. Men, women, and children sat on makeshift stoops watching as others passed by carrying bundles, bags, stacks of wood, piles of scrap metal, rubber, you name it. We danced around piles of trash and odds and ends as children in rubber soled shoes and cloth slippers skipped past. No one watched as we passed. No one stirred or looked after us. 

As we walked, I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket about a split second before the ringer sounded. John T. threw me a warning glance and I silenced it through my jacket pocket, careful not to look around. No phones he had said. No jewelry. No watches. Nothing. And no talking at least not with that accent he'd added with a wink. We came to a clearing where a group of people stood, fanned out and silent with a teenage girl slowly gathering her things from the ground and crying soundlessly. Some shook their heads in silent disapproval, but no one spoke. All eyes were trained on the girl except ours as we continued on. Rattled, I tried not to look back as John T. pressed on. We can’t meddle. Even if it looks bad. You don’t want anyone to know you’re an outsider. I waited until we had climbed the large hill that led back to the main road out of Muthare. Do people actually think I’m Kenyan? I asked, incredulously. Of course. You look just like us and you’re definitely no mzungu, except when you talk, he laughed. I stopped for a second and looked around. He was right. It was the first time I could remember being overseas and not being the odd woman out. Everywhere else it was always so obvious I didn’t belong. In a way, this was comforting. As we crossed the street, I made a mental note to start devouring the Swahili books tucked away in my bags somewhere.

Muthare Slums (online image)

Later, as we drove past, I couldn’t help but stare at the squat structures flying by with their sheet metal roofs glinting in the fading evening sun. I’d been a lot of places, but this was not quite like what I’d seen before. John pointed. Those homes? In the slums? They cost about $10 per month. These houses? He lifted a finger to a row of slightly shabby, but sturdier two story brick homes on the opposite side of the street. $100 per month. It’s no wonder people don’t leave the slums.

*Mai chai (Thai meaning not, negation) Mzungu (Swahili meaning white person, white foreigner)

Service You Can Trust

Downtown Nairobi (online image)

At 7:30 my alarm went off, a grating, blaring wail to the tune of something islandy and thoroughly annoying. With a mental note to chuck the phone or change the ringer later, I squinted to get a better look at my wristwatch. It was 12:30 at home and just about the time to be climbing in rather than out of bed. I reached to press snooze or reset the wake up, thought better of hearing the wail again, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. After a five second pep talk in which I promised myself two episodes of Scandal (a recent addiction) and a stowed away Snickers bar later, I coaxed myself out of the bed, through the morning routine and out the door.

Barclays (online image)

First stop, John took me to Barclays bank to extract the funny-colored currency he would accept as payment (no fees at Barclays in any country with Bank of America accounts!). I hopped out and jogged up to the booth. The guard and a young woman stood chatting. They watched me walk in, attempt to insert my card to no avail, and return. No money they said, almost in unison. No money? How does a bank have no money? I got back in the car and John confirmed, Ah yes. No money. We will try another. The second bank had cash alright. It also had two very heavily armed guards and a security booth at the entrance to the car park which gave out a small chit for ticketed payment upon return. The guards smiled as I approached, semi-automatic (or maybe automatic?) rifles resting on their laps, one hand on the handle. Between the bars, gates, and armed guards, it was no wonder the city had acquired the moniker "Nairobbery." :)

Matatu (online image)

Painting matatu like Lil Wayne (online image)

I asked John how often banks were robbed. That's what the guards are for to protect from, he replied matter-of-factly. We continued on to the office, the address told to me as "off such and such road," (no street number or physical address) a few meters down from the police station but before the main junction. Fortunately, John drove it nearly every day and knew exactly where to go. I tried not to wince as the car wove narrowly in and out of the stream of traffic, within inches of passing vehicles and people crossing at random. Matatus (minibuses) squeezed by with colorful painted phrases like “God is Good,” “Kanye West,” and my personal favorite “Service You Can Trust” from the minibus that slammed on brakes and horn as it barely missed knocking a passel of students to kingdom come. I summoned all my memories of flying down the highway in grand taxis in Morocco, weaving in and out of pedestrians in Vietnam, and zipping through densely-packed traffic on motos in Indonesia; nothing to it, right? When we arrived without losing a single side mirror or striking a pedestrian, I was impressed to say the least! :D

These Four Walls

Gated community (online image)

Clang. Snap. Bang. Click. I listened again. Clang. Snap. Bang. Click. Those were some of the first sounds I heard as we exited Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya. They echoed in chorus throughout the dark city as we made our way across snaking lanes of traffic and ill-lit highway overpasses, bumping down dusty alleys and back streets. Clang. Snap. Bang. Click. Clang as the metal gates flew open. Snap as guards clicked heels on pavement, investigating newcomers and casual passersby. Bang as doors slid shut after passing. Click on the padlocks, cog wheels tightening. From what I could tell in those first few hours and even subsequently, Nairobi was a fortress. Every house, business, and shopping center on lock down- bars on windows, gates at doors. Like marshal order, but self-imposed and justifiably so with break-ins and petty theft all too common in the absence of such precautions.

The Everywhere Security Guard (online image)

We bounced our way down a pitch black side street, emerging just before the entrance to the villa. Barbed wire fences coiled atop rigid iron bars, a shiny dark paint finish washed over it all. The guard nodded, smiled at the taxi driver he knew well and slid back the gate with a forcible metallic swoosh. I must have stared slack-jawed long enough before the driver, John, chuckled aloud. The imposing iron fortress belied a near tropical interior with giant jacaranda trees dipping low branches over tiled roofs and fragrant flowers stretching eagerly through the gates that encircled each villa. Villa was exactly the right word for the picturesque white and wood homes, almost gleaming even in the darkness. 

Kenyan Villa (online image)

House sitting? This was where I was house sitting? John passed me a heavy set of keys and walked me through the entrance and exiting process. A driveway gate with deadbolt latch. Front door gate with a long silver key that looked more like it belonged in Gulliver’s Travels than in my upturned palm. A near identical one for the actual front door. A second set for the entrance to the living quarters and another for my room itself. Would I be okay for the night? Did I feel safe? he asked. My eyes still soaking in what they could in the lighted corridor,—cool tiled floors, gorgeous wood stairs, plush sofas, and a six-windowed kitchen—I grinned and nodded yes. Welcome to Nairobi.  

From Noodles to Plantains...

Karibu!

Plantains (online image)

Many of you have known this blog as "Fried Chicken and Noodles" from my two year sojourn through Southeast Asia. As I turn now to a summer in East Africa, I open a new chapter- "Fried Chicken and Plantains." Over the next few months as I move through and between Tanzania and Kenya, I hope to impart first impressions, lasting memories, and personal reflection on my fledgling venture into East African development working for an international social enterprise literally spreading light (through solar energy) around the globe. As always, feel free (and please do!), comment, ask questions, tell me what you like and don’t like, and perhaps most of all- enjoy the pictures! 

Ndizi ya na nyama

I’ll do my best to entertain ;)

Asante sana. Thank you for perusing my thoughts…

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.

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.

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.