The Pressure of Sponsorship

I’m starting to wonder why most of my cultural experiences stem from my yoga studio. But I guess that’s what happens when you become somewhat of a “project” for them….them trying to get you to shower….them praising your Thai 12-year-old-school-girl haircut…and them willing to sponsor you in the annual “Mae Sot Marathon” (just so long as you wear the Luckana Fitness T-shirt and win 1st place).

Now, not being to accustomed to sponsorship for my “athletic abilities”, I couldn’t turn this opportunity down. And might I clarify, that “marathon” is a term applied rather loosely here, and actually means 10km. So considering, I couldn’t say no.

With that, it was the night before the race, over a few too many glasses of wine, that I received a call from my sponsor.

Sponsor: Sawadee ka Brooke!

Me: Uh…hi? Who is this?

Sponsor: Luckana! From Luckana Fitness! We just want to make sure you’re ready to win the race tomorrow!

Me: (gulp gulp gulping wine)…Uh yeah! Totally ready! Been training in my head all night long!

Sponsor: Good to hear. All we need is your full name and birthday to register you for the race.

Me: Brooke Mackenzie. January 6, 1981.

Sponsor: Great! See you at 5:30 tomorrow morning, near the bridge, for the warm-up aerobics session.

Me: Warm-up aerobics session?

Sponsor: Yeah. You, along with Kathy (the other lucky sponsored foreigner) will lead the runners in aerobics for a few minutes before the race.

Me: Oh…yeah…riiiigght. Ok then. Five thirty it is!

Now, back to my wine, I start to wonder if I should put a cork in it and hit the sack. After all, what good would a night of drinking do for my peppiness during the 5am aerobics session? As I ponder the causal relationship between pinot and pep, the phone rings….my sponsor again.

Sponsor: Uh…Pi Brooke? Are you sure your birth date is 1981?

Me: Yeah…that’s one thing I’m pretty certain about.

Sponsor: Well, that would make you 29 years old.

Me: And the winner for the Captain Obvious Award goes to….okay didn’t really say that.

Me (really): Yup…that would. I don’t turn 30 for another couple of weeks.

Sponsor: So that means you’ll be running in the 18 – 29 age group rather than the 30 – 39.

Me: Yes…yes it does.

Sponsor: Well in that case…don’t worry about winning. You just have fun out there okay?

Me (thinking): Ooooohhhh! I get it. This 29 yr old can’t beat an 18 yr old. All your hopes and dreams of putting Luckana Fitness on the Mae Sot map for marathon champion 2010 swirling down the drain!

Me (really): Uh…okay…”fun” at 5:30 it is! Does this mean I don’t have to lead the aerobics session?

So in the battle between wine and winning, wine wins! And I keep drinking.

The wee hours of the next morning were kind of a blur (if you remember wine won the war last night)….

5:15 – Alarm goes off shockingly loud

5:30 – I am greeted by my cheery sponsor, swept to a “VIP” room off the side of the aerobics stage and presented with a pink and black XXXL (meaning XXXS) Luckana Fitness shirt.

5:45 – On stage, in front of hundreds of “marathoners” gyrating to techno-fied Thai pop music…otherwise known as “aerobics”

6:00 – Standing erect at the start line as the national anthem blares over loud speakers

6:15 – running

6:30 – running

6:45 – still running and starting to regret drinking the night before

7:00 - Definitely in a state of regret and still running

7:04 – Crossing the finish line, greeted by my sponsor and a local camera crew with huge smiles and two-thumbs up.

7:05 – With Kathy, being interviewed by Mae Sot local news station for winning the race. Sponsor and gang still thumbs-upping behind camera man.

7:15 – On podium accepting silver medal, alongside Kathy accepting gold, and receiving our trophies.

7:17 – “And first place go to Kathy from…” –sponsor grabbing microphone and screaming “LUCKANA FINTESS!!!!!”

7:19 – “And second place go to Blok (Thai pronunciation of Brooke) from….” –sponsor milking it for all it’s worth yet again and screaming “LUCKANA FITNESS!!!!”

7:25 – passed out in my bed, medal around my neck, wondering what the hell just happened, and getting a glimpse of what it must feel like to be an Olympic athlete...or at least a Mae Sot Marathoner.

DeuteRATomy 7:1-2

"Well, human beings are remarkably adaptable species."

I casually explain as my parents' concerned expressions turn perplexed while clicking through photos of my "home" in Thailand (it only makes sense to them if I use finger-qoutes with each reference). So, I don't have a western toilet, nor any kitchen or bathroom sink to speak of. So, there are cracks letting light seep in from the outside between every plank of wood that make up my walls and I don't have a ceiling or windows with any screens or glass separating me from the outside world. So, so, so... I've learned to live in this environment. And not to say it was easy at first. Believe me, I would nervously tip toe across my house, outside to my bathroom at night, trying to minmalize the possiblity of crushing a giant snail under my bare feet. Or cringe with anxiety every time I felt around a corner for the light switch, half expecting to rudely awaken mating geckos in a post-coitel embrace with my finger tips. But my nerves eased and so did my step as I walked through my new home and learned to live with these tropical creatures...or rather, they learned to let me co-habitate with them.

When I first moved in, I decided that I would scrub every corner of my stilted log cabin, as to clearly indicate to the rest of the jungle that this was human territory. I assumed that ants wouldn't enjoy the taste of floor cleaner and that the spiders would migrate as soon as they found their little intricate web palaces destroyed. But it had never occurred to me that the jungle would be territorial. So each day, as I forcibly scooted large Tokeys (pictured above) out from behind my dish cabinet with a broom, I was shocked to see them right back where they started the very following afternoon. Then an "old timer" expat explained that those lizards are extremely territorial and if they were there first, well then, you best be getting their permission to squat. So, I learned to live with the Tokeys and various other creatures for that matter, including a chameleon-like frog and her lover in my shower, a giant poison-pissing toad in my hiking boot on my porch, and a prehistoric looking spider the size of my hand, occupying the space between my squat toilet and the cement wall. Yes, WE lived peacefully and happily for over a year together until THEY came.

THEY = pellet pooping, scratching and scampering rodents shredding everything in their path....the rat.

At first it was no big thing. I would hear them above my sleeping head at night and occasionally spotted one traversing the beams in my living room, but they did no harm. And by this point I was in a rather Buddhist mindset of living harmoniously with the living around me. I even came face to face with one frantically scurrying about my kitchen in search for safety and found the little creature quite cute--mouse-like with a rat tail. But upon coming home from being away in the US for about a month, I threw Buddhism out the door and took on a more biblical approach.

When the Lord your God brings you into the land you are entering to possess and drives out before you many nations -- the Hittites, Girgashites, Amorites, Canaanites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites, seven nations larger and stronger than you -- 2 and when the Lord your God has delivered them over to you and you have defeated them, then you must destroy them totally. Make no treaty with them, and show them no mercy.

-Deuteronomy 7:1-2

Now by "seven nations larger and stronger than you" I believe the author here is referring to the kingdom of rats that had overtaken my entire home. The teak beams supporting my house had become a rodent super highway with the little bastards furiously criss-crossing over each other to get to another side of the house where they would proceed to defecate and fornicate in dark corners. The spare bedroom where I was storing a friend's wardrobe and household goods, had been turned into a birthing clinic with homemade rats nests created from toilet paper and (ironically) tear-proof, weather resistant nylon straps from a new backpack I bought the year before.

I carefully surveyed the damage of their invasion and began plotting my revenge while twiddling my thumbs and emitting thought bubbles chanting "I must destroy them totally...I must destroy them totally." So, I hopped on my motorbike and zipped on down to the TESCO Lotus in town, where I purchased two circular disks covered in a sticky black tar-like substance, one bottle of rat poison to be mixed with rice, small white chalk-like balls that apparently emit an odor far too pleasant for rats to enjoy, and a packet of pink pellets that when eaten make rats extremely thirsty and force them out of your house in search of water...where they eventually die of thirst. Yes, I was making no treaty and showing no mercy.

I layed my weaponry out in strategic locations throughout my house and 15 minutes later, as I was skyping with my mother, I got a bite. The high-pitched screaming and thumping of a plastic disc against the wall caused my mother to ask, "What the HELL is going on over there?" I went into the spare room to examine my prisoner. To his credit (yes, I'm assuming it was a male based on the fact that he was stupid enough to get caught), he had managed to grab a bit of shredded pork from the center of the tar disk and turned around quick enough only getting his hind legs stuck in the goo. So, his front half was hanging off the disc and frantically clawing at the wood floor to rip himself off and scamper behind the bed. Obviously this wasn't working because the large plastic disc just follow him and wouldn't fit behind the bed. So, the little rascal decided it was time for Plan B. Now, he was furiously gnawing at the plastic, I assume trying to eat his way out. It was at this point that I knew he was a man.

So, the trap had done its part, now it was my turn. And that's when I turned to my mom, witnessing this whole ordeal on her computer screen. "Now what do I do?" If I tried to pick up the disk, I had a strong feeling that the little lad would arch back 180 degrees and chomp into my hand in an act of pure desperation. So, my mom suggested that I get a long stick and get one end stuck in the black tar, where I can then lift the entire thing and take it out to the trash can down the street. This seemed like a fine idea in theory. So, my mom, perched on my kitchen table, supported me as good moms do, as I walked an old broom with a squealing, convulsing rat at the end of it, through my house, out my front door, down the road, and to the trash bin on the corner. But as I approached the trash bin, I suddenly realized that I couldn't just let this thing to die all alone in the bottom of garbage bin. Or risk one of the street scavengers being attacked as he collects cans. I know...perfect time to have a stroke of humanity. So, with the quick thinking skills of McGyver, I continued past the trash can, straight towards the stagnant bog next to my house, where I proceeded to force the rat and sticky disc under water with the broom, until the tiny little air bubbles ceased to rise to the surface. Destroyed.

Or were they? I still had the Brady Bunch breeding in my friend's clothes, but luckily for me, baby rats are even more stupid than their parents. Five little tikes jumped head first into another gooey black pit, suffocating themselves in the sticky mess and leaving a much quicker and painless clean-up for me! Then, I got two cats. Destroyed. Totally.

Underwhere? With the underaged.

So, it wasn’t until my friend happened to mention underwear the other day, that I realized how culturally insensitive I am.

I have been handing over dirty…and rather sweaty…laundry to this lovely Burmese woman in my neighborhood for oh…the past year. And every time I collect my clothes, they come back smelling of gentle soap, neatly pressed and folded. Even my underwear comes back looking like a crisp linen napkin you might be served at a five star restaurant. Now, although I am forever grateful for this service after having done the hand washing thing for a few months and never getting anything quite clean, it was becoming a bit expensive. So, I decided to try to get a monthly rate out of her.

Now seeing that my limited Burmese of “Hot no?” and “I don’t understand” and “grandma/grandpa” wasn’t going to suffice a business negotiation of this matter, the next time I stopped at the laundry shop, I called my colleague/neighbor/and friend Sawthwee, to negotiate for me. Now to understand the awkwardness that is about to ensue, you need to understand a bit about Sawthwee.

Sawthwee is a small framed, mild-mannered Karen man who is going on 30 but looks like he’s rounding the corner of 19. He is kind and soft-spoken and softly giggles when discussing something that may embarrass him or when he has no idea how to respond, which seems to happen a lot when I talk with people…hmmm. He is one of the few people I work with who lives in my neighborhood and therefore, according to me, was a good person to talk with my laundry lady. Oh, and he’s also fluent in Burmese, being from Burma and all.

So, standing in the blazing sun with the “laundry lady”, as I suppose she has been deemed, I call Sawthwee and ask him to ask her if I can pay by the month and if so, how much would it cost. Two simple questions requiring, according to my calculations, approximately two minutes worth of conversation, or 2 Baht in phone minutes. So, I pass my phone to L Squared and let the negotiations begin. Well after 2 minutes, I begin to get fatigued standing there in the sun and take a seat on the bench beside the shop. After 10 minutes, I start to wonder what on earth they could be discussing…her family? His new motorbike? The political situation? And then I hear her laughing hysterically and I immediately discount my previous theories of their discussion. Now I’m worried. They couldn’t possibly be talking about me. I’ve been nothing but a loyal, respectful customer this past year, hardly something to laugh about no matter what type of dull sense of humor one may have. Finally after about 15 minutes, a waterfall of sweat down my back, and the point of needing to buy a new phone card, L Squared passes the phone back to me and I have the following conversation with Sawthwee:

ME: So? What was all that about?
SAWTHWEE: Yeah…she says that’s fine. You can pay by the month for 500 Baht.
ME: And? What else did you talk about.
SAWTHWEE: Uh…nothing really.
ME: Well, in that case, there’s another thing I wanted to ask you…a sort of cultural question. I was talking with my friend the other day and she said she never gives her underwear to the laundry lady because they see it as extremely unclean and disrespectful. Is that true? Because she’s been washing my underwear for a year now.
SAWTHWEE: Actually, that’s what we were talking about (nervous giggle, as he tends to do when talking about an uncomfortable subject matter).
ME: (Thinking…”oh so you weren’t going to tell me…thanks!”) Well, is it okay?
SAWTHWEE: Actually no, not really. She can’t touch it and neither can the washing machine, so she has a little girl clean it by hand.
ME: What!?!?! Not only have I offended this nice old lady, but I’m endorsing child labor! I had no idea…I’m so sorry.
SAWTHWEE: (Nervous giggle)

So, after that I decided I had to apologize profusely to this woman. And suddenly realized (again) as I was attempting to do so, that my Burmese wouldn’t cover such an apology. So I resorted to the tried and true charades method of bowing deeply with my hand over my heart and pointing to my crotch.

Guess I’m back to hand washing my knickers. I think that’s the least I can do for that little girl.

Sex Eggucation - Lost in translation

Today was the graduation ceremony of my 22 students this past year. And i can't even begin to describe how emotional it is to see them leave. After being together for this past year, living and learning together, and then to see them off to their own individual and uncertain futures, working for Community -based organizations, going back to their refugee camps and villages, and some going inside Burma, has got me...well...teary-eyed. However, through this emotional storm, I can't help but think of this one story that a student of mine, Kyin Nu, told me at my birthday celebration this past January.

Kyin Nu works for a rather renowned medical clinic here in Mae Sot, and part of her job in the past was working as a backpacker medic. The backpacker medics would go deep into the jungles of Burma to train refugees who are currently living there in basic medical care, prevention, and sexual education. One lesson in the sexual education training is to teach the participants how to use a condom. Because "learn by experience" is such a buzz phrase here on the border...and in many educational programs, they had decided to show the participants how to put on a condom by using local realia...the eggplant. Personally, I think it's a much more realistic replica than the Chiquita bananas used in the US these days, but that's a whole other website. Anyways, they trained their participants seemingly successfully as they had villagers of all ages skillfully putting condoms on eggplants of all shapes and sizes. It is even rumored one of the village leaders could do it with her teeth, but again, you will have to visit the aforementioned website for pics of that lady. So, the backpacker medics packed up and trekked back to Mae Sot, high-fiving each other all the way down the mountain on a successful training.

Now, as responsible trainers, the backpacker medics of course planned to re-visit this jungle community to assess if health needs were being met and if in fact, there were fewer cases of STDs and unwanted pregnancies. They were greeted by the villagers with enthusiasm and proclamations of how these rubber tubes had worked miracles for them. Hurriedly they led the backpacker medics to their garden to prove the effectiveness of their previous training. The backpacker medics stopped dead in their tracks, hearts sunk, and eyes affixed on an entire acre of ripe, plump, purple eggplants....all covered with condoms.