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."