Ode to Phad Phak Bung Fai Dang

Oh phad phak bung fai dang...
The shear memory of your flavor and my taste buds sang.

I just couldn't get enough of your garlic and fish sauce soaken leaves.
Never was I to imagine such pleasure, such joy, from a common jungle weed.

But now as I live in the land of peanut sauce and satay,
The memory of your availability and affordability seem so far away.

And while for not every mouth did your sinewy stems behoove,
for you would wedge yourself between molars which no toothpick could remove.

I shall never overlook your common place on every menu,
And order you at any meal, anytime of day, and any venue.

So don't be put off by those who request tom yam or bamee hang,
Feel confident and fry proud cause you are so phad phak bung fai dang!

The art of death, dying, and euthanizing

I guess it was to be expected. A little bit of Buddhism was bound to rub off on me no matter how much I resist adhering to any religious philosophy. But more lethal than religion is the combination of religion, culture and veterinarians.

It all started with Ceiba. Named after the enormous, notoriously strong, tropical tree I learned of while in Latin America. My cat had absolutely no resemblance to his name. He was constantly whining when left alone, while his sister Sofia (pictured above) hunted rats, and cowering under her when threatened by the neighbor's psychotic cat. Well, long story short, Ceiba died on my local Thai vet's table after he (the vet) had floundered hopelessly with every gadget he could find in his little, ill-equipped, clinic (obviously no bitterness here) and attempted to poke, prod, and even pound my kitten with these various tools. And go figure, with his sound approach to diagnosis and treatment, Ceiba seized and died right there on the table. Now, as I was keeled over, crying (admittedly a little melodramatically), the vet proceeded to run behind a partition and hide. I called for him, asking what the hell to do with my deceased cat's body, but no response. He just stood there, behind the thin curtain that separated us (but in no way hid him), until I gave up and left his office with my rigamortis-prone feline. Angry, I thought what an incompetent excuse for an animal doctor and vowed never to return.

Well, I broke that vow and immediately returned upon discovering Sofia (Ceiba's much stronger, independent, sister) extremely ill and panting heavily. As I dismounted my motorbike in front of his office, I noticed him sitting at his desk and thought "thank Whoever Up There he is here!." However, by the time I took off my shoes and entered his clinic, he had abandoned his desk and was no where to be found. Naturally, I called for him, until a small Burmese boy came out and managed (with great difficulty) to get out the message "mai mee mai mee" (not here not here). I eloquently retorted "ti ni ti ni" (here, here) and pointed to his now empty desk where he was just seen sitting like 40 seconds before. The boy insisted with a an unsure repetition of his learned Thai phrase and I thought, how could this sweet looking boy just lie to my face. But lie he did, and as a pretty damn good liar myself, I have to give him credit for sticking to his story. I contemplated sweeping back the curtain and revealing Dr. Oz, but resisted. After all, how many other 11 year old Burmese bodyguards might he keep back there. So, I left and continued my search for a vet who could save my Sofia. Well, five vets later (including a large animal clinic with an billboard advertisement of raw beef cuts out front...dark humor if you ask me), I finally found a lovely pair of female vets to care for my helpless pet.

Now this pair deserves a short introduction. Pi Oom is the vet with actual medical knowledge. Her assistant, however, seems to have no medical knowledge whatsoever. But for what she lacks in training, she makes up for in bed side manner. She is a stout, but rather "round" woman who is all giggles and absolutely adores anything with fur. I know this because upon bringing a dying Sofia into her clinic, Pi Oom proceeded with the anticipated diagnostic questions, while her assistant produced a high pitch squeal as she wildly rubbed her face on Sofia's belly. Sofia had been in great pain for days. FIV -- Feline Immunodeficiency Virus. After a series of sleepless nights, where I repeatedly threw myself on her (not my entire weight mind you...I wasn't trying to kill her myself), and asking to the sky "Whyyyyyy???? Whyyyyy?", I had decided to let her go. After visiting every vet in Mae Sot (yet again) and repeatedly being told there was nothing to be done, I asked Pi Oom, if she would kindly put her to sleep. Well, it never crossed my mind that this being a Buddhist country and all, Pi Oom refused to kill another living thing....and so did Pi Chit...and so did Pi Sukit...and so on and so on. Funny how this seems to apply to painfully dying animals, but there seems to be no issues in chopping down every goddamn tree in my neighborhood, or beating your wife. But it's these little cultural dichotomies that keep one guessing, I guess.

Anyway, after concluding that not a single qualified vet in Mae Sot would kill my cat, I asked the only unqualified person that would. My neighbor. My neighbor is a what one would call a "handy man". He has fixed everything for me from replacing a fake tooth of mine on the wooden bench of my porch to burying my other deceased cat in his back yard. He's the guy you call in a pinch of any sort, and just, well, gets the job done. So, when I approached him about euthanizing my Sofia, he asked no questions and appeared on my doorstep with some combination of strong anesthetics (for her) and a bottle of vodka (for me). After a painful 5 hours, she lulled off into an infinite sleep and my neighbor carried her body home to be buried next to her brother in his back yard. Thank you neighbor...

So, least to say this had been a learning experience in a multitude of ways.

1. Don't get a cat in Thailand. Just don't. The survival rate of cats in this country is basically long enough to form attachments but not long enough for them to have a satisfying life or die with dignity.

2. Be nice to your neighbors. If you should ever need some cheap dental work, or an immediate home euthanizing, who else you gonna turn to?

3. If you should decide not to take my first piece of advice (which I didn't), get every single fricking vaccination on the planet injected into your little furry friend.

So, that is just what I have done. I adopted a friend's cat who needed a home, (I know...I'm a sucker), and immediately upon doing so, took her straight to my two lady friend vets to be shot up with every drug in the book. I kept pointing to my new pet saying in the sort of English one would only speak to a special needs, deaf person "heealllthy.....heealthyyyyyy" to ensure that they were sure what I meant. Well, turns out they thought that was the name of the cat and retorted with a large smile "Oh...Sukapatdi ("healthy" in Thai)!" So that is her name, and after two years, "Sukapatdi" she is and going strong...

...for now.

Can you heal me now?

So, after two and half years in Thailand, I've finally managed to clearly introduce myself to the local people. Yes, one would suspect this mastery after reading Lonely Planet's Thai Language Dictionary or even within my first two Thai lessons, but no, that one is wrong. My Thai friends and neighbor's know me as Blooke. Yes, that beautiful combination of phonemes represent me! Blooke.

Now as a language teacher...or maybe just as a person with hearing capabilities, one immediately realizes that Thai's have difficulty pronouncing l's and r's. Actually, it's not that they have difficulty pronouncing them, they just switch them. So I become Blooke, and my co-worker Blake becomes Brake. Now, call me a little slow, but it wasn't until recently that I decided to conduct a little linguistic experiment (the full paper will be published somewhere by some unknown publishing company at an unknown future date).

Hypothesis: If Thai's can say Blooke and Brake clearly, then they should be able to say Brooke and Blake clearly.

Methodology: In a taxi in Bangkok with my friend's Kristi and Allison, I engage in an introductory conversation with our driver. I've included the transcript below.

DIRVER: What your name?

ME: Blooke.

DRIVER: What?

ME: BLooke.

DRIVER: Nice meet you Brooke!

ME: And these are my friends Klisti and Arrison.

DRIVER: What?

ME: KListi and ARRison.

DRVIER: Sawadee kap Kristi and Allison.

Analysis: It appears pronunciation is not the problem at all, but healing...I mean hearing. You could also check out others' analysis, although I question the scientific validity behind their approach:
http://hlt.nectec.or.th/hlt/administrator/components/com_jresearch/files/publications/ntj.pdf

Implication: So if your name is Lacy Rick Blain, when visiting Thailand, be sure to introduce yourself as Racy Lick Brain.

Good ruck!

The 80 Baht Challenge

I was going to blog about my bowel movements during this little experiment of going culinarily local, but then thought I might lose my only reader. So mom, because I appreciate my fan, I'll just blog about all the great deals I find on cheap food in Mae Sot and my mood swings as a result of being cheese, coffee, and pastry deprived.

*For detailed pictures of various dishes referenced below, see my challenge comrades blog http://writingoutloud.tumblr.com/

DAY 1 - 78 Baht ($2.59)
Breakfast: 18 Baht (59 cents) - Flatbread, bean curry, chick peas, and tea
Lunch: 30 Baht ($1) - Pad See Ew...And ewww is right! This is the last time I spend almost half my daily allowance on a noodle dish the size of my palm. I left starving and angry.
Dinner: 30 Baht ($1) - Bamii noodle soup...worth every Baht.

DAY 2 - 75 Baht ($2.42)
Breakfast: 10 Baht (32 cents) - Hua Fai Mohingha ....might make this a morning ritual. What ever will I do with a whole 70 Baht left for the day!
Lunch: 25 Baht (81 cents) - Kao Mung Gai "tamada"...couldn't splurge for the pi set
Snack: 10 Baht (32 cents) - A bunch of bananas...these should ease the hunger pangs for the rest of the week
Dinner: 25 Baht (32 cents) - Kao Soi
Dessert: 5 Baht (16 cents) - Coconut Macaroon Muffin

DAY 3 - 73 Baht ($2.36)
Breakfast: 13 Baht (42 cents) - flatbread and Burmese tea
Lunch: 15 Baht (49 cents) - pumpkin and eggplant curry, rice, flatbread
Snack: 15 Baht (29 cents) - Burmese tea, potato samosas
Dinner: 20 Baht (65 cents) - Pad Kpoa with sticky rice...if you shovel this in your mouth right before playing an hour long soccer game, you feel so sick that you feel full!
Dessert: 10 Baht (32 cents) - Banana and coconut sticky rice cake...what the hell do you call those things?

DAY 4 - 80 Baht ($2.60)
Breakfast: 17 Baht (55 cents) - Chickpea wrapped ni flat bread...I like to call it a Burmese breakfast burrito.
Lunch: 23 Baht (75 cents) - Fake meat curry wrapped in flat bread with a side of fried ginger rice ball.
Dinner: 40 Baht ($1.30) - Mataba and cucumber over saffron and clove rice...you may wonder why so expensive? But you get serenaded with the call to prayer from the mosque across the street twice in one meal!

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.

Please...just shower!

To many, travel is a tool for self-discovery, finding your purpose in this world, getting to know yourself after a crushing relationship, figuring out what the hell to do with your life after your “five year plan” has come to an end. And it seems I’m no different. However, rather than discovering my true calling or my soul mate, I’m discovering more and more about hygienic habits with each passing country. My first lesson was in Morocco (please refer to “Shower With Your Pans On,” DATE). In Thailand, however, my bathing self-awareness was a bit more poignant and pungent.

I have been attending this yoga class quite regularly for the past couple of months and take a certain amount o pride in the fact that I am the only “farang” (white foreigner) in a class of about 20 Thai women. I think this sense of pride comes from the fact that many expats like to think they’ve crossed cultural barriers, broken down their foreignness into something that appears “local”…especially to the locals themselves, but that’s for another entry. Actually, I really enjoy the class. Not only for it’s physical benefits, but thus far it is the only Thai I know with any amount of certainty. I can now confidently say “in and out” and “other side” and “breathe” in almost perfect Thai! But these minor feats are nothing compared to how this class has helped me along my way down a path of self-discovery.

So one day, I go to class and the only lady who has pretty good English hurriedly approaches me and requests that I meet her in the bathroom. I politely oblige to this simple request, but then got a sudden sense of urgency as I passed the yoga instructor excitedly waving me in to the bathroom. What could all this excitement be about? Did someone need a tampon or an extra pair of hands to assist them in pulling on their skin-tight spandex? Or maybe they just wanted to compliment me on my insane flexibility and shear strength. Okay, it was probably the tampon, but I soon discovered that I was wrong on all accounts. So once I was successfully ushered into the restroom alone with Dao (the English speaker) everything became quite clear…

Dao: So….(nervous laugh)…..sometimes before we do yoga….we like to shower.

Me: (perplexed)

Dao: (Nervous laugh continued and actually kept going for the entirety of this conversation. So, I’ll spare you the repetition and let you insert it at your leisure for the remainder of this dialogue) Well, I mean….it’s just nice to be clean before yoga.

Me: (Light bulb flickers) Oh! Oh my god….do I smell?

Dao: Well, there have been some complaints…

Me: (Now, I’m the one nervously laughing) Oh my god, I am so so sorry….I….of course I’ll shower….but I don’t have a towel.

Dao: Oh….no problem. We have everything ready (as she motions to a chair with a neatly folded bath towel, topped with shampoo, soap, deodorant, and baby powder—the Thais love their powder).

Me: Oh. Well, it looks like you’ve really thought this through.

Dao: Well, we have been discussing it for a couple of weeks now and I just decided, ya know what, I’m gonna do this today.

Me: Uh…thank you…I really appreciate it.

So, I showered and believe you me…I showered like I’ve never showered before. The brilo pads from the hammam had nothin’ on the ferocity with which I was scrubbing my epidermis. After my full body sanitation, I went to the changing room and began putting my yoga clothes back on. Well, Dao had other plans. She presented me with a “gift” from the entire class consisting of a little pink and black sports bra and spandex to match. Now let me remind you, that I would normally not be caught dead in such a fashionable workout ensemble, but I had been enjoying this yoga class so much that I relinquished all wardrobe boundaries and slipped into the color coordinated clothing.

Once I finished powdering every crevice of my body, applying my new stick of deodorant, and dressing up for yoga, it was time to get to class and exercise. Now mind you, class usually begins promptly at 6PM, however all 20 women or so had been ever so kind to wait for me to finish my bathing bonanza to begin. So at 6:15, I entered a room full of patiently waiting Thai ladies seated in lotus position, and I got the sudden feeling of being on one of those makeover stories on the Lifetime channel, making my grand entrance. This feeling was only accentuated when my fellow yogis turned to evaluate the fruit of their labors and greeted me with broad smiles and about 40 thumbs up. Their work was a success! The smelly, foreign, hippie had been transformed into a jasmine smelling, powdered-faced, dress to impress bathing butterfly. All I needed to do was….just shower.

Burma Byte #2

So I'm sitting in Burmese class, in which I am the only student, learning about my fruits and vegetables, so I can go to the market and ask for an orange, rather than hold my hands up as if I'm holding something small and spherical, and then proceed to get frustrated with the vendor because, for some reason, they can't discern that this means "orange" and not apple, or potato, or small desert mole. So, I find this lesson very valuable, but I was never prepared for the insight it would give me into the world view of Jews.

My teacher is writing each vegetable in English, and the phonetic translation of that word in Burmese. He goes down the list...spinach, carrot, tomato, cabbage, cucumber, Jew's ear, lett--Wait! What? Jew's ear? What the hell is that and why would I ever want to add it to my stir fry? My teacher goes on to enlighten me that this is what the Burmese call mushrooms...you know...because they look like a Jew's ear. I'm wondering if this guy has ever met a Jew and if so, feeling sorry for the poor chap who had a fungus like that of a mushroom sprouting from his ear. So, Burmese class ends and I a little more confident with my grocery shopping a little bit more perplexed by what it is the Burmese could possibly have against the Jews.

Culture Shock Therapy

This transition from Morocco to Thailand has been smooth for the most part with an occasional rough tuk tuk ride. But mostly it has been therapeutic. Let’s just say, leaving Morocco has been akin to a bad break-up. And with any bad break-up comes the over sized, over weight, break-up baggage. It wasn’t always easy to see the baggage I was accruing during my two year stint in Ifrane, but after a couple of months in Thailand, it seems I have found the baggage claim and spinning around on the conveyer belt are some slightly damaged goods. I tend to travel light, but for this move from Africa to Asia, I toted one professional briefcase, a social duffle bag, and a personal carry-on. For starters, let’s finger in the combination on that professional briefcase and unpack.

I learned quickly, albeit slightly painfully, that at Al Akhawayn University in Morocco, hierarchy dictates everything. There’s the expected stratification of administration, faculty, and staff and the anticipated, but not so easy to accept prestige of the “old boys club” and the astonished faces as if a woman giving her professional opinion was similar to watching a dog speak. I can’t count the number of times I heard the joking remark “she just needs to get married” while discussing a female student having difficulties in class, and witnessed a bright female colleague of mine get hammered with inane questions as she presented her own research. And while fortunately not all of these hierarchical haps were gender-based, unfortunately I saw foreign colleagues of mine bow their heads, seal their lips, and look away when I was looking for support on a grievance we all shared. And now what does this all amount to in my new working environment? A sometimes overbearing presence when giving my opinion in a meeting (where shockingly everyone’s opinion is not only heard but valued), and an unnecessary dose of questioning and skepticism in an organization that has proven many times to be quite flat and transparent. So, I continue to shuffle through the professional paperwork I lugged with me from Morocco, but am grateful to have received the memo that reminds me of the happier and healthier work environment I now find myself in.

Now, we can unzip that social duffle bag. It wasn’t uncommon to wander through the medina of Fez or Marrakech in search for a traditional woven rug to bring home to mom or the leather slippers Rainbow Bright might have donned had she been Moroccan, and get charged ten or even twenty times the amount a local would pay. This we expected and personally, I often accepted if I was willing to pay that price. This blatant form of trickery (as some tourists would say) or economy (as Moroccans would put it) was so common that I often found myself bartering over a kilo of cherries until I had “successfully” talked the guy down a whopping 80 cents. But that’s just the way things were and well, after two years, I had it deeply ingrained in my head that everyone was out to rip me off. So, of course, by transitive logic, the market men and women of Thailand were out to get me for every last Baht. But I wouldn’t let those smiling faces pull one over on me. Nooo sireee! They had no idea that I had just come from the land of bartering boot camp and knew all the tricks. So, it all started and pretty much ended when I was biking about in search of bananas.

Bananas in Thailand are as common as stray dogs with mange. So as I biked past a dozens of stands, I was looking for the perfectly ripened ones (for me, that means just starting to brown). I pulled over to a small stand manned by a little old Thai lady and asked her in flawless Thai, “These, how much?” She replied, “Ten Baht.” Then, true to my Moroccan training, I gave her a gasp clearly indicating that I know those bananas are 8 Baht and that she’s trying to squeeze a whole 2 Baht (6 cents) outta me, but that I aint no lemon and won’t just pass over the extra cash cause I’m foreign. Then (as also learned in training), I turned on my heal and “showed her” by walking away and going to the next shop. Same thing happened there and eventually I went home with no bananas, only later to be informed by a friend that green bananas are 8 Baht and ripe bananas are 10 Baht. It seems the Thai don’t have quite the same “business sense” as Moroccans. Good for me, but maybe bad for business.

Finally, let’s see what the x-ray detected in my personal carry-on. So, one day I’m leaving the office on my bike when I hear a motor bike slowly approaching form behind. Now, I know some have compared me to Lance Armstrong on the bicycle, but it’s just fact that motorbikes can go faster and pass me. However, this guy was just lingering until he pulled up beside me and dished out my favorite pick up line, “Hello, how are you?” and this is how the conversation ensued…(please not that my personal thoughts are italicized)

Me: Yeah, I know where this is going “Fine.” (rolling my eyes)

Him: “Where you go?”

Me: Uh huh. Just as I suspected. Burmese men are just like Moroccans. Next he’ll be asking where I live. “Home.” (said curtly)

Him: “Where you live?”

Me: Yup…case in point. So, now I’m supposed to offer you a fun night with me in my home. Is that how you see this playing out? “I’m not telling you.” (while giving a mean laugh)

Him: “Oh…sorry. You work for World Education, right?”

Me: Now, this is a new turn??? How does he know this?

Him: I did Wide Horizons Program two year ago.

Me: Oh crap…the program I teach! He’s just like one of my students.

Him: “I just wondering how your classes is going this year.”

Me: Oh my god, I’ve turned into one of those women who thinks that every time a man says hello, it means he just wants to get her in bed. And here he’s just trying to be nice and welcoming and I’ve acted like such a b---- and perpetuated that stereotype of the “cold American woman” and… “What’s your name?” (said as sweetly as I possibly can at this point while sounding sincere)

Him: “George.”

Me: “Nice to meet you George.”

So, morale of the story…I need to abandon the personal defenses I have put up in the battle field of horny Moroccan men looking for visas, and just answer the man politely, “I’m fine…really, I’m going to be just fine.”

There's an elephant in the room and no one wants to talk about it.

I visited a refugee camp today. It was my first. Not sure if this is mathematically possible, but the learning curve since I have come to the border has been so vertical I feel like I’m hanging from the ceiling by my nails. Processing what I hear, what I see, what I read is almost too much right now. And on top of that, do I learn Thai? Burmese? Karen? I can’t even order noodle soup in any of them, but right now that’s sort of the last thing on my mind.

Mae La refugee camp has about 55,000 Burmese refugees primarily from the Karen hill tribe, and is growing everyday. It is one of the fastest growing refugee camps on the border because of its easy access from “inside” (Burma) and the limited control the Thai and rebel armies have over the flow of people in and out of the camp. All the people coming to these camps are from many ethnic tribes in Burma: Shan, Karenni, Mon, Chin, to name a few, but they all seek refuge from the oppressive militaristic government of Burma, weather it be in the form of safety in the camp, illegally migrating into Mae Sot in Thailand, or the possibility of resettlement in a third country (the US, Norway, Ireland, etc). You can read about this situation much more extensively and accurately in books and possibly the news, but what you may not read about is what surprised me most.

Our purpose in visiting the camp today was to look at a new model of education being implemented in the Mae La camp and four other surrounding camps. Before arriving to the camp, I got a brief summary of the dynamic border situation from my boss and its ever-changing role in the lives of the people of Burma and in Thai politics. I heard about the various rebel armies from each ethnic tribe and their role in smuggling drugs across the border and human trafficking, the symbiotic relationship between the Thai and rebel armies, the illegal Burmese migrant workers living in Mae Sot, and the NGOs that have rooted them selves there in response and all their contributions to Thai economy. Corruption and fear run rampantly through all these facets of border reality, and is evident on a daily basis. But we don’t talk about these things. We can’t because these relationships are so delicate and interdependent that the shift of one has a butterfly effect on all the others. But this is not what’s surprising. As I listen to my boss give me the brief, watered-down version of the situation here, I have this picture in my head of the school as a small bamboo hut, possibly with a tin roof if they're lucky, and a large group of children from every age, with a range of prior education, and various tribes and language backgrounds learning from the one teacher in the camp who may speak one of these tribal languages (most likely Karen) and possibly a little Burmese. The picture in my mind was well… rather depressing. But upon arrival, and after a muddy hike up to the school, I met the director of the high school and the hopeless situation pictured in my head dissolved. She was a young Karen woman, fluent in English, Burmese and Karen (true of all the teachers in the camps), and took the time out of her unbelievably busy work to explain to me the new model of education they had created for the five camps. She had been educated in India and was replicating a credit-based system of high school education used there, here in the camps. The first two years of school, students would receive general education in various courses: math, science, social sciences, history, Karen, and English. Once completed, they would specialize in one of five areas (i.e. community management, business, political science), each specialty located at one of the five camps. The educators within the camps and Mae Sot had created an Institute of Higher Education to oversee the program, train teachers, and develop a curriculum that would have merit once the students and their families returned to Burma. She was extremely hopeful of this, and the aforementioned “elephant” of corruption and conflict did not seem to deter her. In fact, one issue the camp faces is Thai locals from nearby villages, entering the camps just to be educated. It was known that the education in the camps was superior to most education received in rural Thailand, and legal Thai residents were trying to get in to the camps to have a piece of this rare learning opportunity.

My preconceptions about camp life were rather droll and dreary. And this is not to say that everything is mangoes and mathematics, but really good things are happening and they’re not coming from the UN, or even entirely from NGOs….they’re coming from within. But if the metaphorical elephant has not been clearly communicated, let me end with the literal interpretation. As some colleagues from the organization and myself were feasting on cashew chicken, cat fish salad, and coconut soup at a small restaurant in the local night market, I stopped mid-slurp to stare at the gigantic elephant passing two meters from our table. But I was obviously the “newbie” in the group because no one else wanted to talk about it.