Today was an unusually temperate afternoon in the village. A relatively chilly breeze tossed the branches of my bajelly tree around and my neighbor’s wind chime complimented the sounds of motorbikes speeding by. The change of climate was a welcome surprise. However, my activities for the afternoon were fairly standard and routine. I wrapped up the last chapters of a good book just in time. Like clockwork, the sound of my name coming from a sweet small voice rang through the front room of my house.
Little Jaz.
After an hour or so of playing on the public exercise equipment at the park next to my house, Jaz and I had had collected the company of our usual crew. The kids were thirsty and knew just where to find the good stuff. They asked if I had any coke in my house, already knowing the answer. Before I could finish telling them to help themselves, they were already sprinting towards my front door. After making sure everyone had a cup of the glorified acid (each one about one-fourth full), I spout off with my standard lecture. “Remember, kids, Coke makes your teeth black. You kids have to brush your teeth real good tonight.” They love it when I say this. They all laugh like I’ve just told the best joke they ever heard.
The following hour or so is spent building forts out of my extra bedding, watching cartoons on my laptop, and picking berries from the bajelly tree to throw at each other. The time flies by and before we know it, the sun is deep in the west. By this point, I’m happy to kick the precious little people out of my house and send them home. No need to miss them. They’ll be right back again tomorrow.
Today, I realized my life isn’t all that different from the life I lived those seven or eight years before coming to Thailand. Forts, cartoons, flying berries… I don’t think I’d know how to stop being a nanny if I tried.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
My ass is BROKE.
It all happened so fast. I’d like to think my observation skills are usually in tune with the present moment, but in this situation, everything went straight over my head and I lost 1,000 baht as a result. (That’s roughly the value of 5 tickets to an air conditioned cinema in the city, 3 sundresses from the night market, 1 month’s worth of lunch money in the village… or $33.00 USD.)
My plan was simple. Take my enormous pile of dirty clothes to the laundry service in town, then turn around and come right back to the village – where it’s safe. There’s no need for money here. The village yai’s (elders) will feed me and check to make sure I have enough drinking water. If they find my jugs empty, they simply tell their grandson to get off his lazy ass and go buy me some. I’m well cared for and my wallet is good for nothing. But in town, danger lurks around every corner. Every little shop seems to have just the thing I need, and I walk around with the mentality that, ‘I might as well buy this while I’m here.’ My wallet seems to grow thinner by the minute. It’s like magic. The money disappears so quickly. So you can understand my determination to get in and out as fast as possible.
I sit on the large pile of laundry heaping from the plastic basket while waiting roadside for a sam-law (similar to a tuk-tuk) to drive by and – hopefully – pick me up. I have just enough shade to keep me from melting while plotting the rest of my day. What an exciting and productive day it will be! I’ll return (promptly) from running my quick errand to visit the temple. Then I’ll bike to a northern village before finishing out the day with a little paperwork in the office.
At this point, an army of ants catches my attention and they become far more interesting. I proceed to stare at the ground for a solid five minutes without a thought in my head. Suddenly, the most common expression from the Thai-Esaan language startles me from my daze.
“Bai sai?” (Where are you going?)
A familiar face smiles at me from his sam-law.
“Oh! Hello. I go to laundry service, near bank. Can you take me?” I say in the local dialect.
“Kap,” he says with a nod, and we’re off.
When I’m on my bike, I focus on the traffic, dogs, and road ahead. For this reason, each and every sam-law ride is to be taken advantage of. I seize these opportunities to enjoy the scenery. My head turns from one side to the other, from the front and to the back as I soak up the sites. People-watching, searching for new shops of particular interest, smiling at the tiny children that help their parents steer motorbikes – all this with the wind blowing through my hair… Sam-law rides are one of the many “little things” in life.
As we pass by one of the two furniture shops on the main road, I notice a new addition to the inventory. I feel my “inner goddess” (EL James reference) do cartwheels as I recognize the folding chair-bed. You see, just two weeks ago, a friend in the village allowed me to nap on her folding chair-bed, which provided me with a surprisingly comfortable sleep. I asked her where she bought it, explaining I wanted to buy one too, and she informed me that she got it in Bangkok. Of course this information was disappointing. Even if I found one to buy in Bangkok, how would I get it back home? It would be such a hassle to travel by bus with the chair in tow, but I knew I just had to have one. Sleeping on the floor was getting old – fast. And this mechanism seemed extremely affordable, especially considering the quality of sleep one could get out of it. As you can imagine, the chair-bed sighting in Det Udom thrilled me. Therefore, I would drop off my laundry and quickly walk by the shop to check on its price.
Minutes later, I find myself standing in front of the chair-bed. I marvel at the taught material stretched between the aluminum poles. I press the palm of my hand in the center to test the elasticity. As it immediately returns to its original state, I imagine myself laying there, the material perfectly molding the contours of my spine. I think about how wonderful it will feel to sleep with some elevation from the floor, away from all of the creepy-crawlies desperate to feed from my flesh or nest in my ears.
“Chom-POO!”
I turn to find the shop owner’s wife smiling at me, baby on hip. They were extremely helpful when I moved into the newest rent house. Were it not for their reasonable prices, I never would have been able to fill my house with all of those little necessities (i.e. wardrobe, cutting table for kitchen, and water basin for bathroom). I do a little happy dance in my head as I imagine the cheap rate she will be prepared to give me, as I am now a frequent customer. We enjoy a bit of small talk and I dazzle her baby with my charm before I ask the big question: “Tao-rai, na ka?” (How much?)
“Oh, I’m not sure,” she says, “Normal price is 950 baht. Just a minute. Husband is in shower. Sit down. Wait. I will tell him you are here.”
After five quick minutes of waiting, the young man appears from the back of his shop with beads of water still dripping from his jet black hair. He grins at me with his shiny braces, a fashionable accessory in Thailand.
“Chom-POO! How-ah-YOU?” he asks with his humble English skills.
I wai him politely, respond in the local dialect, and ask him the same – but before I can ask him about the folding chair-bed, he is already boxing up the chair and placing it in the bed of his truck. His jolly demeanor and his eagerness to help have my head spinning. I remember how he loaded up his truck last time and helped me get everything home after that first purchase. Is he taking me to my house? Based on his gesture, summoning me to the passenger seat, I conclude that he is.
‘Awesome,’ I think to myself while closing the truck door behind me, ‘Now I don’t have to pay for another sam-law ride.’
I wave at his wife and their adorable infant child as we pull away, and it dawns on me: ‘Did I just purchase this thing without confirming the price?’
I consider asking him, but should I decide NOT to purchase the chair, I might not be able to handle the awkwardness as we turn back and return to his shop. And I would hate to have him make a U-turn in this traffic… It can’t really be 950 baht, can it? I haven't even done a mental budget yet to see if I have any cash to spare. Serves me right for being so damn impulsive... I do a silent breakdown and conclude that I have roughly 1500 baht left to see me through the next nine to ten days. Surely his wife was wrong. 950 seems too high. I suspect it will be 750, and if not, I’ll haggle. Problem solved. Now I can enjoy conversation with my ol’ buddy the furniture man.
In the five minutes it takes to get from his shop to my house, we discover that we’re the same age. He learns that I have never seen a waterfall in Thailand. I learn that his child has a tummy ache. Then he gives me his cell phone number so that he can pick me up next time I want to shop for furniture. “No need for sam-law,” he says.
After arriving at my place, he removes the chair from its box while I unlock the door. I begin fishing for my wallet, anxiety kicking in. He places the chair just inside my door, careful not to enter my house with his shoes on. He can see I have my wallet in-hand. He nods politely at the observation, smiles, and says, “Nung paan baht, kap.”
“Nung paan, law?” (Really? 1,000 baht?)
“Kap.”
I’m too nervous to haggle with my new friend. Our conversation was so pleasant. I’d hate to spoil the friendly dynamic with demands for a cheaper agreement. I try to think about the silver lining as I fish out my last thousand-baht bill. I won’t gain any extra weight from going into the city and eating pizza – because I won’t be able to afford it. I won’t be self medicating with alcohol anytime this month – because I can’t afford it. And I certainly won’t be leaving site to meet up with other volunteers anytime soon – because my ass is BROKE.
We exchange smiles as I hand him the bill.
Needless to say, I am spending the rest of the day cooped up inside my house, feeling immediate regret and mild depression regarding this recent purchase. I think about the productive plans I made just an hour prior and reason with myself that the new chair-bed needs to be taken advantage of as much as possible. Therefore, a new plan takes shape. I resolve to sit on my ass for the remainder of the day - lounging in my new chair.
My fellow volunteers have coined an expression to acknowledge moments like these, and I see no other possible comment to be appropriate. So I leave you with those two implicit, yet simple words…
“Oh, Thailand…”
My plan was simple. Take my enormous pile of dirty clothes to the laundry service in town, then turn around and come right back to the village – where it’s safe. There’s no need for money here. The village yai’s (elders) will feed me and check to make sure I have enough drinking water. If they find my jugs empty, they simply tell their grandson to get off his lazy ass and go buy me some. I’m well cared for and my wallet is good for nothing. But in town, danger lurks around every corner. Every little shop seems to have just the thing I need, and I walk around with the mentality that, ‘I might as well buy this while I’m here.’ My wallet seems to grow thinner by the minute. It’s like magic. The money disappears so quickly. So you can understand my determination to get in and out as fast as possible.
I sit on the large pile of laundry heaping from the plastic basket while waiting roadside for a sam-law (similar to a tuk-tuk) to drive by and – hopefully – pick me up. I have just enough shade to keep me from melting while plotting the rest of my day. What an exciting and productive day it will be! I’ll return (promptly) from running my quick errand to visit the temple. Then I’ll bike to a northern village before finishing out the day with a little paperwork in the office.
At this point, an army of ants catches my attention and they become far more interesting. I proceed to stare at the ground for a solid five minutes without a thought in my head. Suddenly, the most common expression from the Thai-Esaan language startles me from my daze.
“Bai sai?” (Where are you going?)
A familiar face smiles at me from his sam-law.
“Oh! Hello. I go to laundry service, near bank. Can you take me?” I say in the local dialect.
“Kap,” he says with a nod, and we’re off.
When I’m on my bike, I focus on the traffic, dogs, and road ahead. For this reason, each and every sam-law ride is to be taken advantage of. I seize these opportunities to enjoy the scenery. My head turns from one side to the other, from the front and to the back as I soak up the sites. People-watching, searching for new shops of particular interest, smiling at the tiny children that help their parents steer motorbikes – all this with the wind blowing through my hair… Sam-law rides are one of the many “little things” in life.
As we pass by one of the two furniture shops on the main road, I notice a new addition to the inventory. I feel my “inner goddess” (EL James reference) do cartwheels as I recognize the folding chair-bed. You see, just two weeks ago, a friend in the village allowed me to nap on her folding chair-bed, which provided me with a surprisingly comfortable sleep. I asked her where she bought it, explaining I wanted to buy one too, and she informed me that she got it in Bangkok. Of course this information was disappointing. Even if I found one to buy in Bangkok, how would I get it back home? It would be such a hassle to travel by bus with the chair in tow, but I knew I just had to have one. Sleeping on the floor was getting old – fast. And this mechanism seemed extremely affordable, especially considering the quality of sleep one could get out of it. As you can imagine, the chair-bed sighting in Det Udom thrilled me. Therefore, I would drop off my laundry and quickly walk by the shop to check on its price.
Minutes later, I find myself standing in front of the chair-bed. I marvel at the taught material stretched between the aluminum poles. I press the palm of my hand in the center to test the elasticity. As it immediately returns to its original state, I imagine myself laying there, the material perfectly molding the contours of my spine. I think about how wonderful it will feel to sleep with some elevation from the floor, away from all of the creepy-crawlies desperate to feed from my flesh or nest in my ears.
“Chom-POO!”
I turn to find the shop owner’s wife smiling at me, baby on hip. They were extremely helpful when I moved into the newest rent house. Were it not for their reasonable prices, I never would have been able to fill my house with all of those little necessities (i.e. wardrobe, cutting table for kitchen, and water basin for bathroom). I do a little happy dance in my head as I imagine the cheap rate she will be prepared to give me, as I am now a frequent customer. We enjoy a bit of small talk and I dazzle her baby with my charm before I ask the big question: “Tao-rai, na ka?” (How much?)
“Oh, I’m not sure,” she says, “Normal price is 950 baht. Just a minute. Husband is in shower. Sit down. Wait. I will tell him you are here.”
After five quick minutes of waiting, the young man appears from the back of his shop with beads of water still dripping from his jet black hair. He grins at me with his shiny braces, a fashionable accessory in Thailand.
“Chom-POO! How-ah-YOU?” he asks with his humble English skills.
I wai him politely, respond in the local dialect, and ask him the same – but before I can ask him about the folding chair-bed, he is already boxing up the chair and placing it in the bed of his truck. His jolly demeanor and his eagerness to help have my head spinning. I remember how he loaded up his truck last time and helped me get everything home after that first purchase. Is he taking me to my house? Based on his gesture, summoning me to the passenger seat, I conclude that he is.
‘Awesome,’ I think to myself while closing the truck door behind me, ‘Now I don’t have to pay for another sam-law ride.’
I wave at his wife and their adorable infant child as we pull away, and it dawns on me: ‘Did I just purchase this thing without confirming the price?’
I consider asking him, but should I decide NOT to purchase the chair, I might not be able to handle the awkwardness as we turn back and return to his shop. And I would hate to have him make a U-turn in this traffic… It can’t really be 950 baht, can it? I haven't even done a mental budget yet to see if I have any cash to spare. Serves me right for being so damn impulsive... I do a silent breakdown and conclude that I have roughly 1500 baht left to see me through the next nine to ten days. Surely his wife was wrong. 950 seems too high. I suspect it will be 750, and if not, I’ll haggle. Problem solved. Now I can enjoy conversation with my ol’ buddy the furniture man.
In the five minutes it takes to get from his shop to my house, we discover that we’re the same age. He learns that I have never seen a waterfall in Thailand. I learn that his child has a tummy ache. Then he gives me his cell phone number so that he can pick me up next time I want to shop for furniture. “No need for sam-law,” he says.
After arriving at my place, he removes the chair from its box while I unlock the door. I begin fishing for my wallet, anxiety kicking in. He places the chair just inside my door, careful not to enter my house with his shoes on. He can see I have my wallet in-hand. He nods politely at the observation, smiles, and says, “Nung paan baht, kap.”
“Nung paan, law?” (Really? 1,000 baht?)
“Kap.”
I’m too nervous to haggle with my new friend. Our conversation was so pleasant. I’d hate to spoil the friendly dynamic with demands for a cheaper agreement. I try to think about the silver lining as I fish out my last thousand-baht bill. I won’t gain any extra weight from going into the city and eating pizza – because I won’t be able to afford it. I won’t be self medicating with alcohol anytime this month – because I can’t afford it. And I certainly won’t be leaving site to meet up with other volunteers anytime soon – because my ass is BROKE.
We exchange smiles as I hand him the bill.
Needless to say, I am spending the rest of the day cooped up inside my house, feeling immediate regret and mild depression regarding this recent purchase. I think about the productive plans I made just an hour prior and reason with myself that the new chair-bed needs to be taken advantage of as much as possible. Therefore, a new plan takes shape. I resolve to sit on my ass for the remainder of the day - lounging in my new chair.
My fellow volunteers have coined an expression to acknowledge moments like these, and I see no other possible comment to be appropriate. So I leave you with those two implicit, yet simple words…
Friday, August 17, 2012
Rose Apple
When I was younger, I wanted a nickname. Not a shortened derivative of my real name, not a reference to my red hair… I wanted a cool nickname. Something ironic, something humorous, like Spike. Or perhaps a name of endearment, like Skittle – a wishful reference to my colorful personality.
Well, 27 years into the game, I finally I have one.
Originally, it was given to me while I lived in the central region of Thailand, during training. My host father asked if I had a Thai nickname yet, as if it was inevitable. I told him no and he offered to give me one. He said he would sleep on it and name me the following morning. As promised, my breakfast was accompanied by a thoughtful naming lesson. When I got to the table, I found a small piece of paper at my place inside of my bowl. It had five Thai characters scrawled with near-perfect penmanship. My host father read the word aloud.
“Chom-PUU,” he said clearly. I repeated.
“No, not ‘chom-pu’ – Chom-PUU.”
After a couple more tries, I managed to get the tones just right. If I pronounced the last syllable with a flat tone, I was saying the word for pink. That was not the nickname he intended to give me. He made it clear that my nickname was not ‘pink’ - because I am white. (Thais love reminding white foreigners routinely that they have white skin.) But when one pronounces the name with a rising tone on the last syllable, the word becomes Rose Apple.
A rose apple, similar to the apple, can be green or red. It is shaped like a pear and has a hollow center. The texture is somewhere between an apple and a watermelon, and has a mildly sweet taste. The rose apple was the first thing I put in my mouth after my arrival in Thailand. They were given to us after we landed in Bangkok. For this reason, the nickname seemed appropriate enough to me. I knew it was not a reference to my red hair. Thais do not refer to hair as being red. They use the Thai word for gold when describing my hair, which is a nice change.
Two and a half months later, I arrived at my site location in the Northeastern region, wherein a Thai colleague decided to give me a nickname. He said he had thought long and hard before finally deciding on . . .
Chom-PUU.
I laughed and explained the coincidence. He didn’t seem surprised that someone else should find the nickname appropriate, as if it was an obvious choice.
There are a handful of people in my community that know my real name, but they rarely use it. When introducing myself, it feels strange to use Megan. I usually provide my Thai nickname. When people call out to me, I immediately recognize it and turn in response. I am Megan no longer. This name – a name of which I have grown quite fond of – has become part of my identity as a Peace Corps volunteer.
I’ve noticed an increase in the amount of times I hear my name being called out during a standard day at site. When I step off the bus, tuk tuk drivers greet me by shouting, “Chom-PUU, where have you been?” As I walk from home to work, folks will drive by on their motorbikes and call my name as if to say “Good morning!” On my days off, I try exploring new areas of the community, but often run into familiar faces as they call out with warm greetings - always accompanied by the nickname, of course.
I couldn’t have asked for a more welcoming community. These people have been incredible. So when the government official that was appointed to be my counterpart jeopardized my placement, I became quite defensive. He couldn’t seem to behave professionally. Peace Corps has had to confront him three times now, and over the last two weeks, Peace Corps staff has considered relocating me to another province. The thought of leaving my new friends behind made my stomach turn with knots. How would I explain? How could I say goodbye when I promised everyone I would be here for two years. After everyone had been so sweet and warm with me, helpful, and enthusiastic about my presence, would they think I didn’t appreciate them?
With the third confrontation, Peace Corps changed up their approach. They decided to speak with my counterpart’s boss, the City Manager, as opposed to speaking directly with him. I don’t want to speak too soon, but it seems the third time might be the proverbial charm. My City Manager (his name is Sudket) must’ve handled the situation effectively. That creep is now avoiding me like the plague. He doesn’t even look in my general direction, let alone blow me kisses in front of his boys. Additionally, Sudket appointed a new counterpart for me to work with – his right-hand woman, Pii Yaow. Within the first few hours of our partnership, we had already exchanged project ideas and made plans to attend a project-planning workshop together.
I feel like I can breathe again. During those two weeks of uncertainty as Peace Corps staff weighed the options, I fell into a mild depression. It would have been devastating to leave my new home. I’ve worked hard to build these relationships with community members. I spent a considerable amount of money turning this government housing rental into a comfortable abode. I tried imagining what it might be like elsewhere. Chances are, my quality of life wouldn’t be as fortunate. I think I’m one of the lucky volunteers, as far as placement goes. My house is directly across the street from my office and within a five minute bike ride from the hustle and bustle of a small city. My community offers public transportation, which enables me to be completely self-reliant. I have a laundry service, two steak houses, a venue with live folk music, an agro-tourism resort, a public swimming pool… The list goes on. Basically, I want for nothing. Should I be relocated, I could very well be placed in the middle of nowhere, much like the majority of my cohort.
I’m determined. I will not allow my previous counterpart to jeopardize my credibility or placement in this community. And evidently, Sudket won’t either. I can’t tell you how lucky I am to have him on my side.
Today, Sudket came to my desk for the first time. Usually, government staff must approach him in his office, not the other way around. In fact, it’s rare to see him in outside of his office. I was both surprised and worried when I saw him approaching. Was he bearing bad news? No, he simply wanted to check in and make sure I was happy. Before returning back to his office, he placed a rose apple on my desk. “Chom-PUU for Chom-PUU,” he said. Albeit a small gesture, it meant a great deal to me. I was tempted to freeze the piece of fruit as a keepsake. However, I couldn’t help myself. I devoured the rose apple within minutes, a smile plastered across my face as I chewed.
So it is without a doubt that Chom-PUU can report back to friends and family back home with nothing but happiness on the horizon. Things are looking up, ya’ll. High fives all around.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Shockers
One year ago, I pictured my future self living in a Mongolian gurt or African hut, studying nomadic routes, digging trenches, writing novels in my abundant amount of spare time, and eating rare rat meat. Like most applicants, that was how I imagined the life of a Peace Corps volunteer. However, I find my present self living in a 1200 sq. ft. concrete house with sparkling tile floors. My nearest super store is 15 minutes away (by bicycle) and remains stocked with imported foods from the likes of Australia, England, and the US. During the week, free time is so hard to come by that I can barely keep up with this blog, let alone a novel. And I prefer to spend my weekends hanging out at the local swimming resort eating delicious phanaeng curry. Rare rat meat is never on the menu.
This isn’t exactly a life of sacrifice and hardship, ya’ll.
I did dig a few trenches, but even that didn’t go as imagined.
With blisters on my hands and sweat dripping from every pore, I thought to myself, ‘Now this is more like it.’ My work for the day was clearly defined, people understood my presence, and my biceps were getting some serious exercise. It was a scene straight out of a Peace Corps recruitment catalogue. The topic of my water cooler conversation, however, was most likely inspired by a catalogue presenting images of mail order brides. Not volunteers.
It all started after a woman grabbed my elbow. I was trying to drink a cup of water. The gesture was friendly and only slightly aggressive, but water spilled down my neck and I couldn’t help the sigh that followed.
“Yaak non gap luuk sao mai?” she asked.
Translation: “Want to sleep with my daughter?”
Wait. No. I’m jumping the gun. I need to give you a little more context. Let’s rewind five minutes.
My village held a week-long community clean-up event for the youth, which was a perfect opportunity for me to get acquainted with everyone and represent myself as their Community Development volunteer. I joined the women who dug trenches on one side of the street while the men kept to the other side. When conversation drifted towards girl-talk topics, I was not surprised. For the thousandth time, I was asked if I have a lover, if I’m interested in dating Thai people, and if I’m lonely. Everyone stopped digging and gathered around, me in the middle. For the thousandth time, I provided my standard answers: “No lover. Thai people are great but I don’t want a lover. I don’t have time, and boys give me headaches.”
Usually, that last part makes everyone laugh, but this time was different. They made a collective “oOoOo!” sound and turned to look at a blushing young woman, maybe eighteen years old.
Another question from the crowd: “You like girls?”
The crowd laughed, whooped, and hollered, but then they collectively silenced and leaned in, awaiting my answer.
“Uhh… Yeah, I like everyone. Wait, I think I do not understand…”
More laughter.
“My daughter likes you. She thinks you’re beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you!” I said, turning to the blushing daughter, “You’re beautiful too.”
More whooping and hollering. The all-too-familiar feeling that I was the butt of someone’s joke hung overhead, so I decided to walk six feet from the aggressive crowd and get a drink of water from the cooler. But the desperate attempt to switch things up was, of course, in vain. Everyone followed.
Bam. Elbow grab. “Do you want to sleep with my daughter?”
As would any level-headed female volunteer, I assumed she didn’t mean anything sexual by the question. Many Thai people sleep in groups. The more, the merrier. And they have a difficult time understanding why anyone would ever choose to live alone. But there was something different going on. It couldn’t have been that simple. Something was going over my head. Everyone was looking at me with wide eyes and impatient smirks. Something about this question was creating a cliff hanger.
A giggle was quickly stifled with a shoulder bunch. They were waiting.
I strategically responded with, “Mai dong bpen huang ka. Chop yu baan kon diao ka. Mai glua.” (You don’t have to worry. I like living alone. Not scary.)
The girls roared with giggles and two or three of them playfully slapped the blushing teen on her arms.
The mother did not seem satisfied with my answer. Several unfamiliar Thai words rolled off her tongue, accompanied by a facial expression full of determination. Towards the end of her comment, I was able to catch the Thai words for ‘beautiful’, ‘want’ and ‘lover’...
My stomach turned. I looked back up at the blushing teen. I realized she was in the center of a gaggle. Friends swarmed her and playfully slugged her shoulders. She was grinning from ear to ear, but she couldn’t look up.
My only thought was, ‘Holy shit.’
I managed to wiggle out of the situation with a passive return to the trenches, but my horror hung overhead for the following two hours. As I dug, I thought about the fascination Thai people have with foreigners. The primary basis of said fascination stems from an assumption that we are all born rich. Therefore, many Thai women literally hunt for foreign husbands. I realize this is not a flattering observation, but it exists nonetheless, and this fact has been clear since Day 1. But I never thought this observation would have any direct impact on me, a female. I never imagined I could be prey to the huntress.
At this point, I’m nearly five months in. Sounds like a fair amount of time, no? One might think I’d have things figured out by now, but that’s just not the case. I have so much to learn, so many surprises around each corner. My eyes will pop out of socket once a day. My jaw will drop 654 more times. And somehow, I find myself looking forward to each and every shocker. I just hope that's the last of the lesbian sexual propositions from concerned mothers... Once was enough.
This isn’t exactly a life of sacrifice and hardship, ya’ll.
I did dig a few trenches, but even that didn’t go as imagined.
With blisters on my hands and sweat dripping from every pore, I thought to myself, ‘Now this is more like it.’ My work for the day was clearly defined, people understood my presence, and my biceps were getting some serious exercise. It was a scene straight out of a Peace Corps recruitment catalogue. The topic of my water cooler conversation, however, was most likely inspired by a catalogue presenting images of mail order brides. Not volunteers.
It all started after a woman grabbed my elbow. I was trying to drink a cup of water. The gesture was friendly and only slightly aggressive, but water spilled down my neck and I couldn’t help the sigh that followed.
“Yaak non gap luuk sao mai?” she asked.
Translation: “Want to sleep with my daughter?”
Wait. No. I’m jumping the gun. I need to give you a little more context. Let’s rewind five minutes.
My village held a week-long community clean-up event for the youth, which was a perfect opportunity for me to get acquainted with everyone and represent myself as their Community Development volunteer. I joined the women who dug trenches on one side of the street while the men kept to the other side. When conversation drifted towards girl-talk topics, I was not surprised. For the thousandth time, I was asked if I have a lover, if I’m interested in dating Thai people, and if I’m lonely. Everyone stopped digging and gathered around, me in the middle. For the thousandth time, I provided my standard answers: “No lover. Thai people are great but I don’t want a lover. I don’t have time, and boys give me headaches.”
Usually, that last part makes everyone laugh, but this time was different. They made a collective “oOoOo!” sound and turned to look at a blushing young woman, maybe eighteen years old.
Another question from the crowd: “You like girls?”
The crowd laughed, whooped, and hollered, but then they collectively silenced and leaned in, awaiting my answer.
“Uhh… Yeah, I like everyone. Wait, I think I do not understand…”
More laughter.
“My daughter likes you. She thinks you’re beautiful.”
“Oh, thank you!” I said, turning to the blushing daughter, “You’re beautiful too.”
More whooping and hollering. The all-too-familiar feeling that I was the butt of someone’s joke hung overhead, so I decided to walk six feet from the aggressive crowd and get a drink of water from the cooler. But the desperate attempt to switch things up was, of course, in vain. Everyone followed.
Bam. Elbow grab. “Do you want to sleep with my daughter?”
As would any level-headed female volunteer, I assumed she didn’t mean anything sexual by the question. Many Thai people sleep in groups. The more, the merrier. And they have a difficult time understanding why anyone would ever choose to live alone. But there was something different going on. It couldn’t have been that simple. Something was going over my head. Everyone was looking at me with wide eyes and impatient smirks. Something about this question was creating a cliff hanger.
A giggle was quickly stifled with a shoulder bunch. They were waiting.
I strategically responded with, “Mai dong bpen huang ka. Chop yu baan kon diao ka. Mai glua.” (You don’t have to worry. I like living alone. Not scary.)
The girls roared with giggles and two or three of them playfully slapped the blushing teen on her arms.
The mother did not seem satisfied with my answer. Several unfamiliar Thai words rolled off her tongue, accompanied by a facial expression full of determination. Towards the end of her comment, I was able to catch the Thai words for ‘beautiful’, ‘want’ and ‘lover’...
My stomach turned. I looked back up at the blushing teen. I realized she was in the center of a gaggle. Friends swarmed her and playfully slugged her shoulders. She was grinning from ear to ear, but she couldn’t look up.
My only thought was, ‘Holy shit.’
I managed to wiggle out of the situation with a passive return to the trenches, but my horror hung overhead for the following two hours. As I dug, I thought about the fascination Thai people have with foreigners. The primary basis of said fascination stems from an assumption that we are all born rich. Therefore, many Thai women literally hunt for foreign husbands. I realize this is not a flattering observation, but it exists nonetheless, and this fact has been clear since Day 1. But I never thought this observation would have any direct impact on me, a female. I never imagined I could be prey to the huntress.
At this point, I’m nearly five months in. Sounds like a fair amount of time, no? One might think I’d have things figured out by now, but that’s just not the case. I have so much to learn, so many surprises around each corner. My eyes will pop out of socket once a day. My jaw will drop 654 more times. And somehow, I find myself looking forward to each and every shocker. I just hope that's the last of the lesbian sexual propositions from concerned mothers... Once was enough.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Emotional Breakdowns of the Type-A Kind
When I met the other 51 Peace Corps trainees that joined me on the trip from Detroit to Bangkok, I kept thinking, we’re all so different, and yet the same. I kept thinking about the tedious application process. You HAVE to have a type-A personality to get through it, at least to some extent. Anti-planners would never make it to the final cut. There are too many lists to be made, too many t’s cross and i’s to dot… I suspect an application process of this kind is intended to weed out those live-in-the-moment hippies that often apply.
Throughout the ten weeks of training, I listened to several of my peers ask questions that would not be relevant for months to come. I watched as they scribbled everything down, taking notes to study for potential projects or situations one might face in the future. Some of us even had spread sheets mapping out expectations for the next two years of our lives. Perhaps this was just what the Peace Corps was looking for… But it’s more likely that we were all desperately attempting to maintain some shred of control in a world of which we had none.
Due to said control issues, most Peace Corps volunteers have at least a couple solid emotional break-downs during service, especially in the beginning. Many experience their break-downs in the midst of training, a grueling process for even the toughest of the tough. Others feel the heat during those first few weeks at site, after all the volunteers separate from one another to begin their work.
Being the kind of girl that can embrace a good cry, I waited for my time to come. However, training-time saw no tears on my behalf. Not for lack of trying, of course. And even after my counterpart (an assigned co-worker from the government office) turned out to be a creep, I kept my wits about me. During nights, I would find myself behind closed doors, indulging the sanctity of privacy, thinking contrived terrible thoughts, just hoping to get my inevitable break-down over with. Despite those efforts, my eyes remained dry.
Weeks after my arrival at site, when one might expect to feel settled, I gave up on therapeutic tears. It was time to get serious about my service, time to make my mark on the world, put on the charm, and shake some hands. An opportunity to do just that came about in the form of a welcoming ceremony - in my honor. Hundreds of people gathered to meet the foreigner who would be working in their villages. Those in attendance included the mayor, several highly-respected monks, elders, government officials, and countless slimy men eager to meet the alleged ‘su-wai’ (beautiful) American girl. So I turned on the happy face and spoke in Thai for several hours. I ate everything they offered me, listened intently to conversations I didn’t understand, and offered respectful bows to anything with two thumbs.
An obnoxious neighbor from my village encouraged me to get on the stage and dance for everyone. (Don’t worry, Grandma Jo. They didn’t want to see skin. They just wanted to see me attempt traditional Thai moves, moves of which I do not have.) I told the insistent neighbor ‘mai ao!’ (I don’t want to) several times. Unfortunately, Thai people have a hard time taking no for an answer. So she summoned my creepy counterpart to help her force me on the stage. And he did. As I stood up there, I looked out into the crowd. All eyes were on me, impatiently waiting to see the American put on a show. I could feel my blood boiling. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them, “I’m not your puppet! Take me seriously, dammit!” But I didn’t know how to say it in Thai, so I burst into tears instead. I ran off the stage and dodged the open arms awaiting me at the bottom of the stairs. I fled the scene and found a safe haven in the parking lot, or so I thought. They found me. They swarmed me. I told them, in perfect Thai, “I need alone time!” But ‘alone time’ is a foreign concept in Thailand. So they smothered me instead of giving me the space I needed. Three to four different sets of hands dabbed my face with dirty napkins and at least six adamant voices shouted at me in the local dialect, attempting to be heard despite the loud music.
So let’s re-cap… I ran off the stage in tears at my welcoming ceremony, with hundreds of people watching.
The moral of the story? No matter how much of a perfect little planner you may think yourself to be, plans WILL fall through. You can’t schedule your break-downs. They happen at the most inopportune moments. Of all the valuable information to flow between my ears throughout the last three months, nothing compares to the moment when a volunteer learns that control over one’s own life, one’s schedule, one’s emotions… It’s all gone. You can kiss it goodbye. My life is at the mercy of Thailand now, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Throughout the ten weeks of training, I listened to several of my peers ask questions that would not be relevant for months to come. I watched as they scribbled everything down, taking notes to study for potential projects or situations one might face in the future. Some of us even had spread sheets mapping out expectations for the next two years of our lives. Perhaps this was just what the Peace Corps was looking for… But it’s more likely that we were all desperately attempting to maintain some shred of control in a world of which we had none.
Due to said control issues, most Peace Corps volunteers have at least a couple solid emotional break-downs during service, especially in the beginning. Many experience their break-downs in the midst of training, a grueling process for even the toughest of the tough. Others feel the heat during those first few weeks at site, after all the volunteers separate from one another to begin their work.
Being the kind of girl that can embrace a good cry, I waited for my time to come. However, training-time saw no tears on my behalf. Not for lack of trying, of course. And even after my counterpart (an assigned co-worker from the government office) turned out to be a creep, I kept my wits about me. During nights, I would find myself behind closed doors, indulging the sanctity of privacy, thinking contrived terrible thoughts, just hoping to get my inevitable break-down over with. Despite those efforts, my eyes remained dry.
Weeks after my arrival at site, when one might expect to feel settled, I gave up on therapeutic tears. It was time to get serious about my service, time to make my mark on the world, put on the charm, and shake some hands. An opportunity to do just that came about in the form of a welcoming ceremony - in my honor. Hundreds of people gathered to meet the foreigner who would be working in their villages. Those in attendance included the mayor, several highly-respected monks, elders, government officials, and countless slimy men eager to meet the alleged ‘su-wai’ (beautiful) American girl. So I turned on the happy face and spoke in Thai for several hours. I ate everything they offered me, listened intently to conversations I didn’t understand, and offered respectful bows to anything with two thumbs.
An obnoxious neighbor from my village encouraged me to get on the stage and dance for everyone. (Don’t worry, Grandma Jo. They didn’t want to see skin. They just wanted to see me attempt traditional Thai moves, moves of which I do not have.) I told the insistent neighbor ‘mai ao!’ (I don’t want to) several times. Unfortunately, Thai people have a hard time taking no for an answer. So she summoned my creepy counterpart to help her force me on the stage. And he did. As I stood up there, I looked out into the crowd. All eyes were on me, impatiently waiting to see the American put on a show. I could feel my blood boiling. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them, “I’m not your puppet! Take me seriously, dammit!” But I didn’t know how to say it in Thai, so I burst into tears instead. I ran off the stage and dodged the open arms awaiting me at the bottom of the stairs. I fled the scene and found a safe haven in the parking lot, or so I thought. They found me. They swarmed me. I told them, in perfect Thai, “I need alone time!” But ‘alone time’ is a foreign concept in Thailand. So they smothered me instead of giving me the space I needed. Three to four different sets of hands dabbed my face with dirty napkins and at least six adamant voices shouted at me in the local dialect, attempting to be heard despite the loud music.
So let’s re-cap… I ran off the stage in tears at my welcoming ceremony, with hundreds of people watching.
The moral of the story? No matter how much of a perfect little planner you may think yourself to be, plans WILL fall through. You can’t schedule your break-downs. They happen at the most inopportune moments. Of all the valuable information to flow between my ears throughout the last three months, nothing compares to the moment when a volunteer learns that control over one’s own life, one’s schedule, one’s emotions… It’s all gone. You can kiss it goodbye. My life is at the mercy of Thailand now, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
My Own Worst Enemy
In Thailand, the imagination is a Westerner’s worst enemy. While the fact is that my bedroom only inhabits a few little geckos and a small army of ants, my imagination tells me otherwise. For example, late at night, the wind will send a ripple through my thin blanket and I’ll imagine a hungry snake inching towards my head. Or my peripheral vision catches the flash of a tree limb’s shadow and I immediately conclude that a hairy spider is preparing for attack. Every sound is too close for comfort. Every shadow is evil and venomous. I am always something’s prey. Do I ever do anything about it? Do I ever close my windows or shake out the sheets before getting into bed? No. That would require effort. Instead of being proactive, I just lie there, paralyzed with fear. I might as well get used to it, eh?
When a friend of mine found a large furry spider in her room, my friend’s host mother handled the situation – quite literally – by simply smashing the spider with one bare hand. When another buddy’s face became home to millions of microscopic parasites, she was simply told to use a cream and tough it out. Dog bites, centipede bites, ant bites in areas where the sun don’t shine, swallowing handfuls of mosquitoes as your ride home at night… This is my life now.
When I went to visit my work site last month, I was casually informed that King Cobras are spotted slithering around the local villages on a regular basis. I can’t think of anything more terrifying than a King Cobra. If I make it through the next two years, if I get back home in one piece, I will greet those friendly Daddy Long-Legs and those harmless garden snakes back home with open arms.
In other news, today was a big day. We’ve reached the end of training and Peace Corps staff has given us our final evaluations. The question of ‘Are you gonna send me back home or not?’ has finally been answered. Fortunately, they’ve decided to keep me around for a while. I got a high score on my language proficiency test and I’m ready for action.
Now we have one week left to party with our new friends, to cut loose and relax, to make those final memories with our host families… We’ve all gotten so close. It’s going to be a difficult goodbye. I’ve already started downloading various romantic comedies to remedy my separation anxiety, but there’s just not enough quirky Meg Ryan monologues to compensate. I’ll be homesick for Texas, homesick for my training site, and sick-sick from all the intestinal parasites. At least if you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know why.
On a brighter note, I will conclude this post with a video. Sadly, I can't figure out how to embed the video, and I can't seem to get the link to be link-able. So you'll have to copy and paste. Sorry, folks. ---> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1siCw2r6EaU
When a friend of mine found a large furry spider in her room, my friend’s host mother handled the situation – quite literally – by simply smashing the spider with one bare hand. When another buddy’s face became home to millions of microscopic parasites, she was simply told to use a cream and tough it out. Dog bites, centipede bites, ant bites in areas where the sun don’t shine, swallowing handfuls of mosquitoes as your ride home at night… This is my life now.
When I went to visit my work site last month, I was casually informed that King Cobras are spotted slithering around the local villages on a regular basis. I can’t think of anything more terrifying than a King Cobra. If I make it through the next two years, if I get back home in one piece, I will greet those friendly Daddy Long-Legs and those harmless garden snakes back home with open arms.
In other news, today was a big day. We’ve reached the end of training and Peace Corps staff has given us our final evaluations. The question of ‘Are you gonna send me back home or not?’ has finally been answered. Fortunately, they’ve decided to keep me around for a while. I got a high score on my language proficiency test and I’m ready for action.
Now we have one week left to party with our new friends, to cut loose and relax, to make those final memories with our host families… We’ve all gotten so close. It’s going to be a difficult goodbye. I’ve already started downloading various romantic comedies to remedy my separation anxiety, but there’s just not enough quirky Meg Ryan monologues to compensate. I’ll be homesick for Texas, homesick for my training site, and sick-sick from all the intestinal parasites. At least if you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know why.
On a brighter note, I will conclude this post with a video. Sadly, I can't figure out how to embed the video, and I can't seem to get the link to be link-able. So you'll have to copy and paste. Sorry, folks. ---> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1siCw2r6EaU
Monday, February 20, 2012
The Emerald Triangle
Sites were announced yesterday and I couldn't be happier with my post assignment...
Drum roll, please.
The area where the borders of Thailand, Laos and Cambodia meet is promoted as the Emerald Triangle, in contrast to the Golden Triangle in the north of Thailand. The Emerald refers to the large intact monsoon forests there. This is where I'll be living for the next two years. The region is Thailand's Northeaster Province of Isaan and my district is called Ubon Ratchathani.
Aside from living near two borders and the Mekong River, I will also be living within a stone's throw of an international airport, a 7-11 convenience store, and a big shopping center.
The following tourist attractions are within a 50-mile radius. See below:
Drum roll, please.
The area where the borders of Thailand, Laos and Cambodia meet is promoted as the Emerald Triangle, in contrast to the Golden Triangle in the north of Thailand. The Emerald refers to the large intact monsoon forests there. This is where I'll be living for the next two years. The region is Thailand's Northeaster Province of Isaan and my district is called Ubon Ratchathani.
Aside from living near two borders and the Mekong River, I will also be living within a stone's throw of an international airport, a 7-11 convenience store, and a big shopping center.
The following tourist attractions are within a 50-mile radius. See below:
I won't visit my future home until this weekend, but Peace Corps staff has supplied me with the following photos from my village to hold me over.
Another supervisor:
The Senior Center in my village:
Below is the Subdistrict Administrative Organization. I will work here, for the most part.
They harvest mushrooms in my village:
I leave on Friday to check it all out in person. More photos to come, I'm sure.
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