What I'm Thankful for (besides the obvious, which is you!)...

This Thanksgiving I am thankful for Loi Krathong, a different holiday. Actually thinking about Thanksgiving is a little more than I can handle, especially considering last year's outpouring of love from my family. So I'm taking solace in the next best thing, Thailand's festival of lights, laterns, and beauty contests.

The preparations for the festivities began in earnest several weeks ago, but are now in full swing. If time really is money, than Loi Krathong costs approximately one million US dollars to put on. Handmade flag garlands and nine-foot-tall pink lotuses litter the office lawn. Takhob's kateuis, ladyboys are honing their skin-bleaching and make-up techniques for Wednesday's pageant.

My own preparations included learning the following song I plan to sing ad nauseam next week. Enjoy a better rendition, and check back for Loi Krathong updates next week.

Legacy

There's this really funny story the ladies at my Tessaban, office, tell me during lunch at least once a week. It's hilarious. Ready? Here it is:

One time Shelby cooked lunch for us. She made vegetable stir-fry. She put all the different kinds of vegetables in it. The end. 

First you should know, Shelby is my Peace Corps predecessor. She served in my village, Takhob from 2010-2011. And then you should know how much the Tessaban  raconteurs love this story. They can't spit it all out before breaking into raucous laughter. It's apparently comical and a little scandalous. And though I can't tell you definitively why this is a funny, much less scandalous story,  I will say outside-of-the-box cooking is not a thing here. Adding all the vegetables, unheard of. Ergo hilarious?

What strikes me most about Vegetablegate, is that it's Shelby's Takhob legacy. This is how she is remembered.  Shelby herself told me she worked on water buffalo diary, solid water disposal, and environmental education. But what does our community remember? The time she cooked pak tuk yang, all the vegetables. 

This has got me thinking of my own Peace Corps legacy. I'm approaching the one-year mark and "How will they remember me?" is the burning question. I like to think I'll be remembered for my ground-breaking community development projects. But if no one remembers Shelby's cool projects, the chances they'll remember my composting efforts are remote.

Still, I'm sure when I'm gone they will still mention their second favorite farang from time to time. The only clue I have, as to how I will be remembered by my T-ban, is the "stories" they currently share about me with the same raucous laughter. Here are some candidates for my legacy:

This is our farang, El. She puts a whole spoon of chili peppers in her noodle soup.

El's parents send chocolate for American holidays. Oh man, we love that chocolate. 

El wears her shoes in the house. She is such a silly farang.

The farang made spaghetti one time. It was not spicy.

Our farang is beautiful like a Thai person, she has many Thai shirts. But her hair is not like a Thai person's. 

El has a weird purse she got in Cambodia made out of trash. I bet it only cost one baht.

Look what happened to El when she was at the beach! She is much uglier now that her skin is black.

El loves to have fun. She smiles a lot too.

I hope it's the last one. If I can't be remembered for my work as a volunteer, maybe I can be remembered for being nice.

Election 2012: A Spectator Sport

Sitting in an internet cafe waiting for the exit poll data to start trickling in, I am seriously questioning my expat lifestyle. Leaving the office this afternoon and looking forward to a whole night with no internet was unbearable. I knew I had to get to the nearest pay-to-use computer as soon as possible to feed my burning election desire.

I thought I had kicked my punditry addiction this election cycle. I missed all but one of the debates and I'd only been checking the Gallup poll once a week. But this morning my political cravings were back with a vengeance. I warned my Thais I could not be bothered to sit around and eat mangoes, "It's election day!" or as one Thai put, "erection day."

I'm typing rapidly, hoping to finish this post before the sun goes down, rural Thailand shuts down, and I am forced back into my unwired row house. Tomorrow when I wake up I may be the last to know if America has a new President and if the state of Minnesota did the right thing. I feel uneasy observering an election I have so much stake in from 20,000 miles away.

I may be inhaling election coverage sorrounded by fifty plus twelve-year-old boys playing World of Warcraft but my heart is back on my couch in Minneapolis sitting with my parents eating flaming hot cheetos, drinking root beer floats, and praying that we'll have the same president when we wake up.

Great Balls of Fire

I did not take this picture.

"The fireball experience is much more than just watching a few small lights rise from the river; it's mostly about watching Thais watching a few small lights rise from the river."
               -Lonely Planet

When  a local Nong Khai news crew interviewed me for a story they were doing on the Naga Fireball Festival, I echoed Lonely Planet.

I warned my fireball-watching compadre, Leslie, that we probably wouldn't see any Fireballs since I'm not the luckiest  PCV. But after my suspicions were confirmed, I explained to the reporter that, actually seeing fireballs would have been great, but it was almost as fun to pretend to see a fireball, jump up and point, sit back and enjoy mob mentality and work. Watching Thais watching fake lights rise from the river. I also told the reporter that with without jing jing fireballs,  most of the night was blissful: full moon, floating laterns, candle-lit boats.

What I didn't tell the reporter was that some fo the night was more harrowing than fun. After a floating luminary and attached sparkler almost landed on our picnic blanket I wanted to grab the microphone from the boring semi-dignitary was speaking to the crowd and do an impromptu lesson on stop, drop, and roll, People of Thailand, during tonight's  festivities, many of you will catch on fire. Here's what to do...Although distressing, this part of the event it inspired my new community development project: Festival Fire Safety 101.

We went up to Nong Khai to watch some tiny fireballs inexplicably shoot out of the Mekhong River, what we got was an undeniably Thai experience, danger included. At the end of the interview, the reporter asked if I would recommend the festival to my friends living in Thailand, "You should definitely go to the Festival just not with me, I'm not that lucky."

The Negotiations



This is not my house, but it might as well be.

 My "house" in Sukhothai came with one piece of furniture, so when I finally broke down and bought a small table to put my fan on, my household furniture increased by a staggering 100%. You would think the bar was set unbelievably low for my next rental, but things here have a way of not quite meeting your expectations.

Last week when I got the pitch for my would-be ban chao, rental house, it was touted by my counterpart that there would be lots of kids around for me to play with, "It's nice and small so you can clean it all by yourself! And you will have lots of friends for play dates!" There was a curious lack of promotion for more adult domestic perks. I was getting the pitch for a kid's tree house.

"Does the house have a fridge?" I asked not yet understanding the kind of playhouse I was getting."

"No, no fridge."

"How will I cook?"

"Don't worry, it doesn't have a stove either. You won't be cooking."

"What kind of bed does it have?"

"Oh, you want a bed?"

What is this, Peace Corps Africa? I resented not being seen as "grown-up" enough to deserve a house with adult appliances and a bed. I felt sorry for myself.  I posted something on Facebook just cryptic enough as to solicit lots of comments.

After reading said post, my friend and- I would say- mentor, Kathleen called. She was ready to give me the tough-love kind of pep talk I was ready to resist. But Kathleen has a way of getting through to you,  I realized to actually be a grown-up I had to take responsibility for my own happiness; that meant negotiating a soft place to sleep, a place to stir-fry my vegetables, and a place to store my leftover pineapple. When Kathleen tells you to negotiate, you negotiate.

So I channeled my inner-Kathleen and got myself a bed, a stove, and a fridge. My landlord must have been impressed by my new-found bad-assness, because he threw in a free washing machine.

Last night I went home to my charmless row house carrying a few groceries to put in my new fridge (the fridge actually had not been installed yet, so that was actually kind of a bummer). There were indeed lots of kids running around. I smiled. There was a lot of satisfaction in knowing I got what I needed to be happy in what I'm calling my "First Real House of Adulthood." I negotiated and I won.

Eavesdrop

Like most blonde pre-teens from the suburbs my sister, Claire and I couldn't wait to get cornrows during our 2003 Spring Break trip  Mexico. Claire and I were too shy to practice our mediocre Spanish with the less-than-friendly ladies braiding our hair, so we just listened in silence as they talked shit about us. Arguably their lowest blow was to Claire. My sister's stringy adolescent hair reminded one of the women of a cat's, "tiene pelo como un gatito" "she has hair like a kitten."

Eavesdropping can hurt! At the end of the braiding session, I indicated that I had probably understood most of the ladies' banter, by asking, in decent Spanish, what the total would be. At the time I was sure the ladies were mortified. They probably weren't.

Som Tam, or papaya salad. Let's talk about it.

Eavesdropping can be fun! Listening-in on people speaking another language yields the juiciest gossip; I make a point to listen in on everyone speaking Spanish in public places. It was exciting when I finally knew enough Thai to spy. I was sure I would gather licentious tidbits of people's personal lives. Not the case.

Recently on a long bus ride, I was picking up on a loud conversation from behind me. "...mai chop! mai chop leui!" "...I don't like it! I don't like it at all!" This kind of yelling conversation was what I'd been waiting to eavesdrop on since I got to Thailand. What doesn't he like? What inspired this kind of passion?. Is his lover cheating on him? Is this women next to him the mother of his unborn bastard child?

I didn't have to wait long to get my answer. The yeller's female companion fervently agreed that the papaya salad they had for lunch at the bus stop was not very good.

And this is as good as Thai-language gossip gets. Listening-in on to the locals, you will mostly hear snippets about things you eat with rice, because that is what people talk about. Spicy shrimp soup, green papaya salad,  fried pork, sweet green curry, this is what the people talk about. It's like Eleanor Roosevelt says and, "Great minds discuss ideas; Average minds discuss events; Small minds discuss people; and Thai minds discuss food."

So if you're hoping to pick up some juicy foreign language gossip the next time you're out and about, I suggest you learn Spanish.

Let's Go to the Mall



The Mall in Korat. If you can't read the
sign well,it says, "Kingdom of Pleasures"


Saturday at 8 am my Thai counterpart dropped me off at The Mall. Saturday night she left me there. She said she would pick me about around 4:30pm. So around 9pm I started to worry. I gave her a call. And because she's Thai and didn't answer her phone, I assumed she'd been in a fatal car crash. I called her six more times.   

Things that might be considered desperate/borderline stalkerish to you or me  (e.g., calling six times in a row, liking every one of my Facebook posts since 2008) to Thais, are not at all desperate. So when a Thai does not relentlessly call you to ask if you've eaten yet, the only logical explanation is her death.

At 9:30pm I gave up, and found a hostel, grumbling about how much this little trip to the mall was costing me. Before going to bed I tuned into the local news in case they were doing a story on the tragedy that had befallen my counterpart.

The next morning she calls to say she had had phone troubles but later I heard her say to a friend she forgot me. I thought I would be mad but my counterpart is really good to me. She doesn't make fun of my Farang accent and she doesn't call me fat; she's not very Thai. So as with Thainess, you take the good with the challenging; you appreciate the boundless generosity and try to shake off the sharp criticisms. And when your friend, who doesn't fit the national mold, forgets you at the mall, you appreciate that she didn't call you all day to ask when you're going to rice, and try to shake off being left at the mall. (And as a fellow flake, how can I really stay mad at one of my people?)

Now enjoy a different kind of trip to the mall:



Same Same or Different?

In Southeast Asia everyone says, "same same." It applies in a variety of situations, some of which make sense. And because this particular phrase is in English, they think you say it too.  I'm not sure when "same same" came to be it's here to stay. The Thai boy band, Same Same, and the popular German film about Cambodia,  Same Same but Different, must have helped solidify the phrase's place in ASEAN lexicon.

My friend, Sara Kline and I spent a week last month in Cambodia, visiting the sites and eating snadwiches. So besides the French bread, are Thailand in Cambodia really same same? Let's play a game and find out. For each picture choose T for Thailand or C for Cambodia and we'll see how you do.                     

Feel free to comment with your guesses. I'll let you know if you're right.

      

Unless your are a Facebook devotee and recognize these pictures, you will probably not be able to tell the difference between Rice Paddy K and Rice Paddy L. They look same same. Cambodia and Thailand's similar geography and shared ancient Angkor history have left the countries with almost indistinguishable landscapes. Though the traumas and destruction of Cambodia's more recent history- inflicted by French colonization and the Khmer Rouge- have left the Khmer people to rebuild from the ground up.

Religion, education, art, traditional dance and most other non-agricultural pursuits were banned under Pol Pat. Traveling around Cambodia, I think you can see a country, thirty plus years after the Killing Fields still looking to define it's modern institutions and culture by drawing on its rich Angkorian traditions. Traditional Khmer Heaven Dance is back, ready for tourists and Cambodians alike to enjoy. It's not uncommon to see twenty-somethings with shirts that say "Khmer and Proud of It." Pol Pat called the traditional bowing greeting as bourgeoisie and banned it; three decades later, and it's back.

Because of its  tragic past it's tempting to try and pinhole a poor country like Cambodia; reduce it to one of two development cliches:

 1) Cambodia has suffered suffered. They may never overcome the horrors of their past. The government is plagued by corruption and the people are so poor. Cambodia is a sad place.

 2) Look how the beautiful people of Cambodia have suffered and how their resilient spirit has helped make their country one of the fastest growing economies in the world. The cities are clean and fully of happy hard-working people. Cambodia is a success story.

I think these two paradigms both apply to Cambodia. It is riddled with corruption and it is growing really fast. They embrace traditional Khmer culture but remember the horrors of the Khmer Rouge. And I think this dichotomy is really what distinguishes it from Thailand. Their shared history is easy to spot, but their divergent histories define Cambodia. Same same and different.

Exit Strategy

Friday morning, the 8th, I got on a bus headed for Bangkok. The night before left me feeling uncertain about my future in Thailand. During the seven hour bus ride I planned my exit strategy.

I thought about Thanksgiving and Christmas stateside. I imagined getting a puppy to go with the crappy apartment I would rent in Minneapolis. I fantasized about pizza and obviously, tacos.

The time was right to cute my losses. The people in my community, for many reasons (mostly political), were unable to rally around me and it felt like nothing was nothing keeping me in Thailand. I went to bed knowing I was on my way out.

When I woke up alone in a hostel on Saturday morning something had changed. I would not be packing my bags after all. Something, and I'm still not totally sure what it was, was compelling me to stay in country. Something lead me to believe my Peace Corps narrative isn't over yet.

I have put away my exist strategy. For the first time in my service I'm not just staying because I'm afraid to quit.  I'm here because something in Thailand is pulling at me. When I figure out what that is I will let you know.

When God Tells You to Go Home

The Events:

Sept. 1st-  Eaten alive by leeches in Nakhon Ratchasima. Wow, disgusting. But not time to go home.

Sept. 7th- Sexually Assaulted. Okay, that's it. Go home!

Sept. 8th- The assault problem is not going away. Get on a bus to Bangkok and go the f*** home.

Sept. 10th- Told my new home would be in leech province, Nakhon Ratchasima. Glorious irony. Go home.

Sept. 15th- Stung by a scorpion. Temporary nerve damage. Just go home already!

But I'm still here and I'm pretty sure there is the a snake bite in my future.

Big C, Big Problem

I usually reserve my blog for my own follies in Thailand but a good friend told me this story and it’s pretty funny. If you knew “my friend” you’d think to yourself, “Of course that happened to her.”

 Yesterday “my friend” took a pick-up truck to an unnamed provincial capital to stock up on ramen and canned goods for her fridge-less apartment at the big-box chain, Big C. After filling her cart with carbs, “my friend” stopped to look at rechargeable bug zappers. She stepped away from her shopping cart to price out different models and ponder the moral implications of wanton fly-zapping. After deciding on a model endorsed by a presumably famous Japanese ping-pong player, “my friend,” grabbed the cart and moved on to shampoos and conditioners.

It should be noted at this point in the story that “my friend” had set her small, touristy, elephant-patterned purse- which held her debit card, cell phone, Peace Corps passport, and about four thousand baht- in the shopping cart. But Thailand is a safe place, no problem.

Pantene conditioner was on sale so I was…I mean “my friend” was stocking up when she realized her purse was gone. Panic ensued.

Obviously some punk yao wa chon, youth, nabbed it from the shopping cart while her mind was on zapping. “Dammit, I’m just too nice, too trusting,” she was probably thinking. She felt betrayed by a country that lulls you into a false sense of security. In that moment of desperation- with no money, no passport, and no cell phone- she might have even contemplated getting on the next plane metaphorically headed West and never looking back.

Big C’s security guards tried to help her look for the missing bag but she knew in her heart it was too late, “they’ve taken my bag and there’s nothing here for me now.” A jao na-ti from “my friend’s” office, who also happened to be shopping offered to join the hunt; she suggested they call the missing cell phone.

When someone who was not a punk yao wa chon answered the call, “my friend” tried to explain that the thief could keep the four thousand baht if they would just return her passport. Confused, the person on the other end of the call said, “I think you have the wrong number.” Calling would have been a really good idea if the stress hadn’t wiped her memory of her phone number and any Thai she knew. 

From as far away as produce they came to watch the frantic Farang act out the verb, ‘to steal.” A crowd of no less than thirty Thai gawkers had gathered when someone mentioned that they had seen an abandoned shopping cart with a purse in it over by the- you guessed it- bug zappers.  “Did the purse have elephants on it?” the jao na-ti asked helpfully.

As a wave of relief came over, the Thai word came back to her. “My friend” told me that she just kept repeating, “sabai jai” over and over again. That and “kup kuhn kha” to the people who’d helped her locate the missing articles. The Thailand were an idiot can leave their unzipped, conspicuous elephant purse in an unaccompanied shopping cart at a busy retail center and know that nothing will happen to it was alive and well. “My friend” is lucky to be serving in such a place. Thailand, no problem.

Nastiness

Just by living in Thailand you are losing the war on nastiness. Bugs are winning. Geckos are winning. Dirt is winning. Bacteria is winning. Sweat is winning. Frizziness is winning. And I'm sweeping, brushing, and disinfecting just to keep from losing more ground.

Two weeks ago after a decisive victory in the Battle of the Ants, I conquered some important territory in the kitchen.  But nastiness is way ahead in out latest skirmish. When I cut my finger a week ago slicing a tomato, I had no idea nastiness was planning a full-on attack on my face.

During a delightful weekend in the Gulf of Thailand with my aunt, nastiness in the form of sea water took hold. The cut I ignored swelled up and started oozing. I'll spare you details and pictures, but I will say my left pinky is multicolored and the size of New Jersey.

A doctor prescribed an antibiotic but before it could start to work, nastiness working through my body's compromised immune system stuck two huge cold sores on my lips. And if I didn't feel enough like a monster already the sun burn I also contracted on my forehead at the beach has starting to peel. Needless to say:

In the States, if I had been struck with this perfect storm of nastiness, people would've pretended not to notice the puss-filled lesions on my face. In fact, in college I walked around for weeks with double black-eyes from  falling on my face and people quietly presumed my boyfriend beat me.

Here (and I'll admit it's out of love and concern), every person I encounter approaches me, cocks their head, stares, and asks what's wrong with my lips, forehead, and finger. Not being able to explain in Thai that I am nastiness' latest casualty, I just yell, "I'm a monster!"

Weekend Vignettes

You know you both complain and text too much when your texting buddy, after not hearing from you for 24 hours, thinks you’ve early terminated your Peace Corps service. Thanks for being there, Joel. Sorry my phone was dead.

Today I went to Thailand’s answer to the box store, Big C. They had a sale on electric fly zappers. I thought about it and seemed kind of wanton to zap all the flies. Now at home I’m swarmed by flies and zapping them seems like a nobler pursuit.

The furniture count is at two. I bought a table this weekend! I have a table; I am officially a real adult.

My corner neighbor teaches the neighborhood children English every Saturday and Sunday. When parents drive by to pick-up/drop-off their kids, they probably notice the lazy Farang, napping in plain sight, not teaching English. They probably wonder what good it is having a pet white person if she isn’t even going to teach English.

S.E.A.P.

"Why'd it have to be snakes?"

I scoured my whole pineapple stall today. Not because the old adage, “cleanliness is next to godliness” finally hit home. It was because I had another nightmare about snakes.

I had my first in a long series of snake nightmares, the week my Peace Corps invitation came in the mail. Once I knew it would be Thailand, I knew there would be snakes involved in my service.  Though I've only seen two live snake in Thailand my nightmares are along Raiders of the Lost Ark lines. 

I cleaned my house because there must be no place a snake can hide. It's now a compulsion that I be able to see every inch of floor space in my shed, so there's nothing left on my floor. There isn't a crumb to be found because crumbs attract vermin and vermin attract snakes. I live in the cleanest two rooms in Thailand.

There is a small gap between one of my window pains and its sills. I stuck a broom out the window to fill the space as an extra snake-deterrent.

My pathology has driven my eyes to to complete a full inspection of the bathroom every time I enter. I'm just now realizing how psychotic this is. I read somewhere that some snakes live in sewers and could enter a home through the drain pipe. The drain pipe is that first place my eyes scan before I enter my bathroom.

All this caution prompted me to wonder what I would actually do if I found a snake in bathroom or hanging out under my one piece of furniture. So yesterday, I enacted a Snake Emergency Action Plan or SEAP for short. It’s a work in progress, but here is the plan so far:

1. Scream

2. Run 

Caged Wisdom

Serving a "light treason" sentence in federal prison, George Bluth -the patriarch in my all time favorite TV show, Arrested Development- has a vision of the Star of David and converts to his understanding of Judaism. He then markets his new-found Judaic wisdom in a series of self-help video tapes. These Caged Wisdom tapes urge viewers to learn to be alone, among other things.

Before joining the Peace Corps, “aloneness” was my primary fear. There's nothing more horrifying then being alone with my thoughts. Actually, in my Peace Corps interview, when asked if I had any country preferences, I said I would go anywhere I didn't have to live alone.

And yet, here I am sixteen months later, relishing living alone in my panic room of an apartment. I've developed a variety of coping mechanisms. I watch hours of illegally-downloaded American television; I tame my inner monologue by framing it all blog posts and Facebook statuses.  It’s still overwhelming to have so much"self-reflection" time, but while staring out at an army of gregarious Thai neighbors, solitude is no longer my number one fear.

I’m still learning to cohabitate with my thoughts My thoughts are beginning to seem more like a friend who must be reigned in from time to time and less like an enemy that must be dominated through constant activity and social interaction.  I’m making peace with my brain.

On Wisconsin?

As the only person around for 30 miles who knows accounting principles, when the office gathers around to count money, naturally I am asked to tape envelopes. Then I get left behind when everyone leaves to distribute said envelopes money. Now Scott Walker is still the governor of my second home state.

Scott Walker, you are the icing on my shit cake.

More for Me

"More for you"

Americans are coddled meat-eaters. In a land apparently renowned for its steak eating (everyday someone asks me if I miss sa-take), we're pretty choosy about our meat. Skin, gristle, and blood are all discarded and only tolerated in hot dogs. If it's not chicken breast or a quality filet mignon, most Americans say, "give it to the dogs."

Thais feel very differently; their dogs don't get perfectly good pieces of pork skin. To a Thai, pork just tastes better if there's skin on it and the skin still has few stray hairs sticking out of it. Chicken fat is first scooped into my bowl of rice to make sure I get some, and then later scooped out to make sure it doesn't go to waste.

My spoiled American diet confuses my Thais. And the confusion goes both ways. The hummus I brought to our potluck lunch was not embraced. Cheese is looked down upon. And although salsa is almost exactly like Thai food, it is poo-pooed.

Though now we've reached a kind of understanding. If we're eating curry, I'll pick out most of the vegetables and a few skinless pieces of breast meat and everyone else will eat the marrow, liver, intestines, and- if there's fish- the head. People have given up on saving the prized chunks for me. They don't understand our culture's organ meat aversion but now they don't have to share.

Our stalemate might best be described by the  phrase I taught my office on hummus day, "More for me." The Tessaban ladies felt guilty for not liking hummus, "it doesn't taste good with rice." No shit. It's not supposed to go on rice. But I just smiled and explain why it's okay because now there's, "more for me."

The new expression has really caught on.  And it's meaning has expanded. Like today, Bob Dylan's 71st birthday, I played Desolation Row in the office. My friend Ning gave me a confused smile and said, "More for you."

This is Why You're Fat: Thailand Edition

Thais are deeply afraid of cheese. I can't mention the word without someone saying, "that's why you're fat, Nong El." And that may be why I'm fat but Why are you fat?You can't blame cheese. Cheese may help explain the obesity crisis in Wisconsin (though beer probably does a better job) but it doesn't explain why heart disease, diabetes, and obesity are on the rise in Thailand.

Could it be the four to five bowls full of white, fiber-less rice everyday?

This is why you're fat, Thailand.

Mi Strip Mall Es Su Strip Mall

Of the five or six qualifications for any building to be considered a house, my stall has about four of them. It makes the cut in the bedroom department ;)- meaning it has one- it also has a bathroom. And that's where it stops being a house. My stall, in a long row of stalls just like it, lacks a kitchen, furniture, and a real door. It's probably a better venue for selling pineapple than living in, but I like it.







I have an English-speaking neighbor. I live between two restaurants, competing for my loyalty with free sticky rice and wine coolers. Painfully slow wi-fi is included. My morning commute is down to 6 minutes.There's plenty of space to do yoga, if I ever decide that's something I want to do. My toilet is of the western variety. And one day soon I'll buy a stove so I can make tacos.
Home sweet strip mall.

Punny

Having too much time on my hands is a recurring theme in this blog. But the problem gotten worse not better since I left the world of number-crunching. When people ask me what I do in Thailand, I think they are surprised to learn how much of my time is dedicated to eating mangoes. But recently I've added punning to my schedule.
The time I used to spend writing song titles for my hypothetical band, Pat Buchanan and The Culture Warriors, I now devote to thinking up blog post titles and helping friends rename their blogs. Here are the reject blog names I spent hours on last week:

"Rice n' Shine"
"En-Thai-cing"
"WATchamacallit?"
"Thai-scream, You Scream"
"Good Thai-ming"
"Thai is of he Essence"
"Siamese if You Please"
"No Thai like the Present"
"Wai not?"
"Desperate Thais Call for Desperate Measures"
"So Much to Do, So Little Thai"*
"Thai it, You'll like it"
"Siammit!"
"Thai me a River"


*Note the irony

Hotel Toronto

"Hotel California" isn’t a very cool song anymore, but try telling the rest of the world that. In middle school my friend Alisa, told me her Russian immigrant father’s favorite song was "Hotel California." I think I mentioned this to my mom, she having been to an Eagles concert on a date one time, assured me it was not a very good song. My Dad told me he wasn’t allowed to listen to it at Bible school because it’s about the Devil.

Then I didn’t think much about the Eagles for a long time; until I studied abroad in Peru, where I learned that Germans like "Hotel California" even more than they like David Hasselhoff. In Lima I lived with two Germans, three French kids, and two Koreans who all thought the Eagles were America’s best export. And that our Peruvian friends who came over were inclined to agree.

Before I arrived in Thailand, I had no idea how much of my life would be karaoke. Thais love karaoke and I'm encouraged to participate in the etiquette-free display of self-indulgence as often as possible. Being well acquainted with karaoke rules of conduct stateside - where singing Free Bird or some song nobody knows is practically a criminal offense- I wanted to cater my song selection to my Thai audience. I had a hunch "Hotel California" just might be a hit. Incidentally, it was such a hit, I got a standing ovation and chance to sing, "My Heart Will Go On."

I’m actually listening to "Hotel California" right now, still trying to understand its foreign appeal. My best guess is that the melody line is easy to sing and California is the coolest place non-Americans can think of. In Thailand when I say I’m from the US people say, "oh do you live in California" and I say no I live in the north, “functionally, I live in Canada” And then no one cares. I guess that’s why there’s no internationally iconic karaoke ballad called, “Hotel Toronto.”

#Yumster

"Yumster!"

Most people who know me, also know of my ongoing quest to, “make yumster happen.” The word yumster was born while trying to find the perfect description for a deep-friend candybar, and was immediately shot down by everyone that loves and cares about me.

Everyone says, “(El)mily, yumster is so not happening.” But I think all the controversy surrounding yumster is proof that yumster is so happening. And thanks to my one man propaganda machine, yumster is now happening in at least three Midwestern states. And now…Thailand.

My Thai coworkers are like American slang sponges, eagerly sopping up any colloquialisms I may spill.  Here's a list of their vocabularly so far:

        “OMG!”

        “Let’s bang.”

        “I want a lady on the street, but a freak in the bed.”

        “Dog, you nasty!”

        And now, “Yumster!”

I had the perfect soap box from which to share my joyful yumster message when my friend and coworker, Ning asked me if Americans, when describing food say, “Delicious!” or “Yummy!” more often. I tried to mask my excitement with sincerity but I snickered and said, “Actually, most people say yumster.”

Ning tried it out, “Yumster! Is that what cool people say?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool. You should definitely say it all the time.”

Miss Songkran 2555

 

Drenching old people is still
an important part of Songkran.

It's 101 degrees and the nationwide water fight is underway. It's Thai New Year, or Songkran, and the centuries-old tradition of washing the feet of elders has devolved into three plus days of water guns,whiskey,  dancing, and general tomfoolery.

Songkran, like almost any event in Thailand starts at the Wat. On the first day, it's almost pious as the younger generation lines up to pay respect to their elders and the Buddha. But it's just not a Thai festival until somebody cracks open a case of 70-proof Thai whiskey and passes out a communal bottle. And just like that the piety is gone. But don't judge too harshly, it's actually amazing that anyone can do shots when the temperature is in the triple digits, these people are to be admired.

Sprinkling water on Buddha's
image is considered good luck.

Everyone one of these seniors offered
up their grandon for me to marry.

The next day of Songkran, the religious pretense is gone. It's all about "len naam," literally playing water. Every kid in Thailand (and the occasional Peace Corps volunteer) stands on the side of the road and throw water at passing motorcycles. The temptation to use  water gun is there, but don't let the Super-Soaker suck you in,  a good old bucket is a lot more efficient. Occasionally some drives by and asks not to be dumped on, they are promptly ignored. But it leave me wondering why you wouldn't want to be sopping wet when it's so damn hot.

Watch out kids!

Some prefer to watch the madness from the shade.

In my tambon, community, the holiday winds down slowly- people are still throwing water three days later. But on the last official day of Songkran, all the neighboring communities gather for a parade up and down the main drag. For the procession the tambons dress up their most beautiful young women in traditional Thai garb. Because I'm a novelty, I was also dressed up. I felt a little guilty, the other women had earned their  titles of Miss Songkran, I just showed up one day with white skin and usurped all of the attention. 

Three or so minutes into the parade started it started pouring. The three hours every gay man in my village spent making me Miss Songkran was for not. But the pictures remain as proof that for two hours I was a Thai princess. And after the parade we dance and drank whiskey in the rain.

My coworker and I are dressed from the Lanna Period.
It took three hours for me to look like this.

30 seconds late it started to rain.

Soom-Saam

I'm clumsy, like this elephant that fell in a hole.

In terms of frequency, Soom-Saam, is in my top ten Thai words. It means clumsy and I say it at meals when I spill my water, at work when people comment on my latest bruises, and when I'm veer my bike off the rode while trying to read a Thai sign.

The clumsy friend who taught me this word said it will be the most useful thing my Thai vocabulary, he was right. It actually captures my essence. I've always been clumsy, but lately I've really stepped up my game. I haven't gone a whole meal without spilling in weeks. From all of my bruises you would think I either had an abusive boyfriend or didn't eat enough bananas. Neither is true.

My theory is this: just living my life in Thailand takes so much concentration that I don't have any left for simple things like not falling. By the time I go to work, come home, and feed myself, my concentration reserves all used up and I'm doomed to jam my knee in an excerisize machine.

Pulp Reality

It's party season in Thailand. The rice harvest is over and it's time to celebrate. 

In Thailand you may not have a rich Jewish friend to throw an awesome Bar Mitzvah party, but don't worry your friends' parents will take out a high interest loan to throw their son the best Ngan Buat, monk ordination party, you've ever been to. It will be loud and there will be delicious food, trashy entertainment, and dancing. 

Thai music all sounds polyphonic. It's blasted form low-quality speakers and it's horrible, but I dance anyway. If I momentarily stop, people yell something in Thai that I'm sure that means, "Dance monkey, dance." They can't get enough of their pet farang's moves.

They're blasting enough decibels
to make my other ear go deaf, but
 this guy taking a nap.

But I have a secret for being best dancer in Sukhothai. There's no such thing as a cliche here. No one in Thailand has seen the "Shopping Cart" or the "Swim." Even the "Twist" is a fun new new move. As far as they know, I'm totally original (and very talented). 

This leaves it open for me to perform the whole dance from Pulp Fiction without anyone calling out my hackneyed-ass. And perform it I do- at every wedding, ordination, and ceremony I go to. I'm a sensation, all thanks to Travolta's adding a dance scene to a post-modern crime film. Thanks John and Uma!

Bad at Thai Day

On a Good at Thai Day you can’t stop me. My meh might make something aloi for breakfast. I ask her about it and we have a nice little exchange. I get on my bike and wave to everyone in my community on my way to work. I may have useful conversation about Thai Welfare and the problems facing youth in Sukhothai. I tell a joke to my coworkers and we all crack up. My ego swells, there’s nothing I can’t understand. But…if I don’t understand the old “smile and nod” fools everybody.

On a Bad at Thai Day the “smile and nod” isn’t fooling anybody. A lousy conversation in the morning sets the tone for the days when I can barely speak at all. On these days I worry I may not even be able to order my ice coffee- which is such a frightening prospect I’m stricken by paralysis. 

I assumed the learning curve for language acquisition was mostly linear. I didn’t expect a curve that yielded days when I feel almost fluent and days when I can’t get my own coffee order. It's a whole new kind of tedious.

Last Monday- when I wrote most of this post- was a Bad at Thai Day. Last Tuesday was a Good at Thai Day. The week overall was a mixed bag. With no way to predict what kind of day I'll have, I just  hope the Bad Days become fewer and the Good Days become frequent.

The Thai Smile Paradox

Land of Smiles?

Many people refer to Thailand the Land of Smiles. It's a cute moniker and even the locals have adopted it their mythology. But everywhere I went Thais were smiling more than the Polish, but no more than Americans. A Thai might flash a warm smile and go right back to looking hot and tired.

So, I wanted to know once and for all if the Thai people live up to their dearly-held smiling stereotype. I designed an experiment to get to the bottom of The Thai Smile Paradox.  

Last week my community had hosted an event for its senior citizens. Sitting in a room full of  Thailand's supposedly happiest residents seemed like a chance to test my "Land Where Some People Smile Some of the Time" hypothesis. To catch the seniors in the act, I set my camera to smile mode- the camera takes a picture automatically when it senses someone is smiling- and waited. I moved my camera around for fifteen minutes trying to capture Thailand's most famous expression. It took fifteen minutes for someone to smile! Theory proven. Thais smile about as much anyone else.

Frog Blog

This is the frog that lives in my bathroom, or rather in the pipe where all my bucket-shower water goes. When he's not in the pipe waiting to pop out at me just as I've shampooed my hair, he's hanging out next to the pipe blocking my access to the toilet. I live in  fear of this little guy.

Thai Leslie Knope

“Yellow haired female… likes waffles and news.”

“The bankrupt government of Pawnee has been shut down all summer so it’s been three months of no work, no meetings, no memos, no late nights, nothing. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” -Leslie Knope


The Sub-District Administrative Office, or Tessaban, where I work is bureaucracy incarnate. It's decentralization and inefficiency nicely packaged in a three-story air-conditioned building. Basically, it's TV's Parks and Recreation. 
Like it's Indiana doppelganger, the Pawnee City Hall, my Tessaban concerns itself primarily with community development- canvassing, event-planning,  focus goups, taks forces and yes, park-building. As the blondest person in the office, I am by default, Leslie Knope. But if I'm Thai Leslie, who's Thai Ron Swanson?

Dek Dek

Dek Dek- Children
เด็ก ๆ

Last Thursday I taught Pre-School English. Now, before you shutter, let me tell you that I like Thai kids. The same language barrier that keeps me from cultivating profound relationships with my peers, helps me make friends with Sukhothai's younger residents. We don't have a lot to talk about, but there's a competitive spirit that keeps it interesting. Like yesterday, I had a conversatin with a baby that ended with me saying, "Ha ha, I speak Thai better than you."

I also like Thai kids because they have funny nicknames. English is King in the ASEAN countries and parents try to keep ahead of the curve by giving their newborns a practical Enlgish-language nickname. But mostly they fall short and you meet kids named, Neptune, Pizza, Fat, Benz, Golf, Noodle, or Seven Eleven. My favorite example so far is the twin girls in my pres-school class nick-named, Nick and Name.

They may be too young to actually learn anything, but I'm looking forward to teaching English to six-year-olds for three to four hours a week.

Planet Heston

Every couple of weeks my Krupkrua takes a trip to Thai Walmart, called Tesco- it’s like American Walmart but with a KFC inside. This is a stressful time for me. There’s brightly-colored packaging, signs inThai, and delightfully tacky advertising. But I can’t stop to look because my Thai family will notice my passing interest and ask if they can buy whatever it is for me.

If I see a pink bag with a puppy on it and ask what it is, “Oh, that’s fabric softener. Do you want some? Can we buy it?” If an interestingly-shaped bottle catches my eye for a moment too long, “Oh, you like whiskey? Why didn’t you tell us you like whiskey? What’s your favorite brand? Let’s buy it.”

In the car yesterday I wondered if the same ask (or see)-and-you-shall-receive principals apply to bai-tiao, a Thai mini-vacation. I’d heard there were monkeys in a neighboring province and decided to plant some bai-tiao seeds. I asked my host, Naam, is she had been to Lopburi to see the monkeys. My Paw jumped right in, “You like monkeys? Why didn’t you tell us you like monkeys? Naam doesn’t like monkeys. Do you want to go to Lopburi?’

“Yes, at some point I would like to go to Lopburi.” The “at some point” was completely lost, Paw turned the car around and we were headed to Monkey Land.

Indian Architecture

Lopburi was the least disappointing thing I have ever seen. It’s famous for 12^th century Indian architecture and the monkeys that terrorize tourists. Monkeys run Lopburi.  As I fed them beasts sunflower seeds, I felt like Charleton bravely confronting Planet of the Apes…or maybe like Angelina Jolie because I’m pretty sure the film, Tomb Raider was filmed there.

Might as well say, "Beware of Terrorists"

All day, we took lots of pictures of my and the monkeys. Thai monkeys are far less friendly than their human compatriots, but they were generally patient as we posed for pictures together. At dusk all the monkeys went somewhere to sleep. I asked where but I didn’t understand the answer.  I just said, “Good night monkeys. I miss you.” And we all laughed. I couldn’t stop smiling because I knew I had manipulated my family into having the best day ever.

Tequila! or why this Post is not about What You Think it is About

In 6^th grade after getting as good as I'd ever be at the violin without practicing, I decided to try my unpracticing hand at the French horn. In the first week of 6^th grade band I learned to play Hot Crossed Buns. By Winter Concert I could play Hot Cross Buns and the few measures of the 1958 hit, Tequila! (I wouldn’t understand the exclamation after Tequila for several more years).

Tequila! Was the first song in the set.  I played a few bars and sat back to pretend to play for the rest of the concert. Actually, sitting back might have been my first mistake, as this is not the proper posture for French Horn playing. I would press the keys and inflate my cheeks unconvincingly. While pretending to play I’d be distracted by the unlit scoreboard or a sneezing parent.  Then I’d go back to making chipmunk cheeks for a few bars until I started fantasizing about the trumpeter I had a crush on. My first visit to Sukhothai was a lot like my first French Horn concert.

In Sukhothai, my soon-to-be coworkers drove me around in a government van to meet every dignitary (and I use this word loosely) in town.  At each office, after I flashed a big toothy Thai smile and wai’d like a pro, the Tequila! charade would begin.  My three minute Thai introduction was much like the first few notes of the song, well-rehearsed but hard to listen to. My Thai elevator speech prompted each administrator to turn to my counterpart for a Thai-to-Thai translation. From then on I was bypassed in all my conversations. I sat back and listened as the more competent people played the songs…I mean spoke Thai.

I would try to pay attention. There was a lot to be gleaned from the 40% of my own resume I understood. Luckily I’m more motivated to learn Thai than I was brass instruments. But there were so many things to look at, things much more interesting than anything in the Sandburg Middle School gym.

For one, in the early stages of reading Thai, every word is like a puzzle I must solve. It won’t surprise you to learn that I dig puzzles. For me, all of Thailand is covered in the New York Times Friday Crossword (Friday because I can only get about a third of it). I dare you to conduct an interview in a room wall-papered in crosswords.

Strange Mountains in Sukhothai

Then in the conversation I catch the word “gaan-ga-seet.” Oh okay, I know this one…agriculture. I’m going to be working in agriculture. I focused my attention on whichever unfortunate low-ranking official I was meeting with, smile and repeat, “gaan-ga-seet.”

Suddenly I’m in fine sixth grade form, puffing my cheeks like a pro, feigning comprehension and interest. I fix my attention on the Director of Informal Education but just behind are these weird round mountains that just demand attention.

I think my PC Training Manager worried I might lack concentration because during me Placement Interview she asked me if I get bored easily. I wouldn't say bored. My own thoughts scare me but they never bore me. I told her no. 

My band director probably worried the same thing but playing in the band never bored me either, I had plenty of thoughts to keep me busy while my classmates played instruments. 

I've gotten a little better at covering my tracks. In 6th grade when everybody stood up to yell, "Tequila!" at the end of the song, (is this appropriate for middle school?) I just sat there stupidly realizing much too late I missed my cue. At the Office of Agriculture I zoned in just in time to give another wai and thank the officer very much for his time. And my character has developed some too. After the winter concert I quit band so I would never have to play in a concert again. After Sukhothai I went back to Sing Buri to work my ass off learning Thai so I will rock all future interviews.