I’ve found myself on the other side of the world. Quite literally. Although I have a great time getting to know all the people, I have found that I am completely illiterate, incompetent and unable to effectively communicate verbally—definitely out of my hemisphere. Also, I say verbally communicate because I have become a kick-ass charades player. Honestly, you want me on your team, because I can do so many complex emotions and multi-step processes without a single peep. I also have made a goal to get people to laugh in the taxi’s. The taxi’s here are small concerted pick-ups with two benches facing each other atop the wheel wells. So I do everything from funny faces to dancing/singing just to get a good ole fashioned chuckle out of the people who are already slowly dying of boredom and smog pollution.
They call this the land of the smiles, so you’d think my Charlie Chaplin would go over great in the taxi’s, but I get mixed results. Maybe it is because I do like to smile a lot, but I don’t feel like people are particularly fond of smiling at me—I’ve been the initiator or most smiles. So if your expecting people here to be extremely happy and giddy, don’t get your hopes up. However, they do have an uncanny ability to hide everything that is really going on and just breeze pas you with their lips in an upward semi-circle—reminiscent of a girly smirk. Most people will let you in but will not let you within arms length. (Quite literally, I need a friggin hug) Don’t get me wrong the people do care a whole heap for you, but don’t try to become best buddies forever or pen pals. Although it is a more closed culture many people are real gems. Take for instance my host grandma. Although she is about 100x more annoying and controlling than my real mother she has been really sweet and considerate to me. Take for instance, this Sunday she planned out my whole day (and tried to plan the rest of my life).
Most Sundays I just hang around the toy factory and write/study thai while the animal production rolls on. Then we all have dinner, I do some ganban(homework) and then head off to bead. Yesterday, my mom thought I needed more activity. So she came up to me and said—your going to the neighbors. I knew instantly what was up, and I said no. I had ganban. She said it again, slower, as if I didn’t understand. Finally I give in and say I will only go if she comes with. So she walked me to the gate of our neighbors and pushed me in, then walks back home—so much for an afternoon with grandma. Anyway, in the gate there was a young woman and her mother who already knew everything about me. The mother introduced me to her daughter twice then we went over the fact that we were both single and both university students. Wow, what an amazing random coincidence. (Surprise face) We go inside for some snacks and a talk. Once inside, we start talking about places around Chiang Mai. She asks—Do you like animals, do you want to go to the zoo? Innocent question, I think not. I keep trying to skirt around getting pinned into committing to a location and the subsequent date. Using my basic vocabulary I fire questions right back like; Do you like animals? What is the zoo like? How far is it? Finally I concede, or get traped by my words or charades and I say I would like to go to the Sunday Market. Instinatlly, she jumps up and runs outside to ask my grandma if I could go to the Sunday market—right then. I chuckle and quit fighting the tide. So there we are, me, my neighbor and her mother—all going to the Sunday Market. On the way, she calls her brother and he comes out to join the festivities and rounds out the family date. I kept laughing all night at how funny the situation was and they kept asking me if something was wrong. I kept having to appoligize but I just couldn’t keep from chuckling at the whole situation.
To her credit though she is actually cool and getting her masters in microbiology from Chiang Mai University, and her brother is an industrial engineer. I am even planning to hang out with her/them all again this weekend—although her mother is quite the character.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Chiang Mai
So I am finally in Thailand living in a small city in the northern section. I live with a host family. Me-li is grandma, Paw-thai is grandpa, Pi-to is the dad, Pi-Pooie is the mom and she is pregnant with their first child! it is exciting.
At six in the morning the sun has not yet risen. The rooster has. Every rooster in the village joins. Every noook, (bird) has a song to sing. From my second story window I can hear the trees and the bushes light up with songs. The earth is alive. Caw, Cawk, Cheap Cheep kawk. At the head of the village, a tuneless ‘tong’ marks the hour. Tong Tong Tong. I like to imagine that at the Buddhist temple going has become warped over the years and years of six-a-clocks. It is likely a rejected piece of metal and a kitchen ladle. Tong Tong Tong. Me-Lee has already risen and set to work making breakfast. Her slow movements reveal how unusually early it is for her. The toy factory doesn’t start until eight or nine and Pe-to doesn’t arise a before it is necessary. Paw-Thai sleeps hard. Waking is not one of his strengths. I don’t believe anything could wake him. Pe-pooie sets to work—not waiting for the sun. She cleans and irons moving efficiently—slowing only a little for being five months pregnant. The world is alive before the sun has risen and everything stands still. A day is about to begun. Slowly the mechanical tick from my plastic quartz reaches six a clock. Time for school.
At six in the morning the sun has not yet risen. The rooster has. Every rooster in the village joins. Every noook, (bird) has a song to sing. From my second story window I can hear the trees and the bushes light up with songs. The earth is alive. Caw, Cawk, Cheap Cheep kawk. At the head of the village, a tuneless ‘tong’ marks the hour. Tong Tong Tong. I like to imagine that at the Buddhist temple going has become warped over the years and years of six-a-clocks. It is likely a rejected piece of metal and a kitchen ladle. Tong Tong Tong. Me-Lee has already risen and set to work making breakfast. Her slow movements reveal how unusually early it is for her. The toy factory doesn’t start until eight or nine and Pe-to doesn’t arise a before it is necessary. Paw-Thai sleeps hard. Waking is not one of his strengths. I don’t believe anything could wake him. Pe-pooie sets to work—not waiting for the sun. She cleans and irons moving efficiently—slowing only a little for being five months pregnant. The world is alive before the sun has risen and everything stands still. A day is about to begun. Slowly the mechanical tick from my plastic quartz reaches six a clock. Time for school.
One week in Chiang Mai
Chiang Mai.
At six in the morning the sun has not yet risen. The rooster has. Every rooster in the village joins. Every noook, (bird) has a song to sing. From my second story window I can hear the trees and the bushes light up with songs. The earth is alive. Caw, Cawk, Cheap Cheep kawk. At the head of the village, a tuneless ‘tong’ marks the hour. Tong Tong Tong. I like to imagine that at the Buddhist temple their going has become warped over the years and years of six-a-clocks. It is likely a rejected piece of metal and a kitchen ladle. Tong Tong Tong. Me-Lee has already risen and set to work making breakfast. Her slow movements reveal how unusually early it is for her. The toy factory doesn’t start until eight or nine and Pe-to doesn’t arise a before it is necessary. Paw-Thai sleeps hard. Waking is not one of his strengths. I don’t believe anything could wake him. Pe-pooie sets to work—not waiting for the sun. She cleans and irons moving efficiently—slowing only a little for being five months pregnant. The world is alive before the sun has risen and everything stands still. A day is about to begun. Slowly the mechanical tick from my plastic quartz reaches six a clock. Time for school.
At six in the morning the sun has not yet risen. The rooster has. Every rooster in the village joins. Every noook, (bird) has a song to sing. From my second story window I can hear the trees and the bushes light up with songs. The earth is alive. Caw, Cawk, Cheap Cheep kawk. At the head of the village, a tuneless ‘tong’ marks the hour. Tong Tong Tong. I like to imagine that at the Buddhist temple their going has become warped over the years and years of six-a-clocks. It is likely a rejected piece of metal and a kitchen ladle. Tong Tong Tong. Me-Lee has already risen and set to work making breakfast. Her slow movements reveal how unusually early it is for her. The toy factory doesn’t start until eight or nine and Pe-to doesn’t arise a before it is necessary. Paw-Thai sleeps hard. Waking is not one of his strengths. I don’t believe anything could wake him. Pe-pooie sets to work—not waiting for the sun. She cleans and irons moving efficiently—slowing only a little for being five months pregnant. The world is alive before the sun has risen and everything stands still. A day is about to begun. Slowly the mechanical tick from my plastic quartz reaches six a clock. Time for school.
Monday, February 11, 2008
LAX
LAX. Giant. It is arranged with six local terminals, and at the end, towering over the others, is the international terminal. The beating heart of LAX. Every blood cell is pumped through the heart of LAX before returning back to the furthest regions of the body.
Lazily they sprawled out on the floor. Torn old hippie bags covered with dirty patches spoke of a happier time. Even their rope like dreads were sprawled across the terminal while they waited to catch a flight out of this mind washed, media controlled, consumer culture. Across from them a perfectly meticulous Asian family waited politely. Father had a white color and well-kept sweater with perfectly aligned spectacles. His four-year-old daughter keeps to herself just like her mother. Five Americans snack. Their many carry on bags piled one on another. When they are done eating, the dad plunges his hand into their mess of luggage and pulls out another baggie of food for his three. At the window they are shocked humongousness of the 747 before engaging in a three on one wrestling match to the death. Mom looks on cautiously. A vacationer looks on already smiling in his white luau shirt and sport sunglasses. The business professional looks out the window. Professionally. Adding dollars and cents, looking for profit margins while generating regression analysis. A young father sleeps flat on the floor. His wife is nervously rocking their baby to sleep.
You could say it is like being in a different country. It is not. It is heaven; people from every tribe and language, from all corners of the earth. It is not America, nor is it foreign. No country or continent could hold such diversity. It is filled with the hope. Hope that you’ll get on a flight. Hope that you can leave this secure life sucking terminal. Hope that maybe America really can fulfill your dreams.
I’m just passing through. Not like everyone else. Destination; Thailand. Well, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I will be there. For the first time, I realize I could make it. I responded plainly to my fathers’ questions this morning. What are my expectations? What are you thinking? There isn’t an escape now. Although… my plane could loose an engine make a quick descent and be forced to spend a week in Hawaii. But it might just crash which would defeat the luau fantasy.
Foreign sounds flow harshly through the obnoxious hidden speakers. I do not know what they are announcing over the intercom. Languages are too numerous in the airport to translate every message. Some messages forget English, no one speaks it good anyway. Names amazingly diverse for any one man to pronounce. An African American runs through the list of English and English-ish names, while his counterpart runs through some Asian names.
LAX brews, It is the American mixing pot on high. If travelers were not recycled daily it might just explode flinging travelers and their baggage everywhere. Confused and pissed, they would end up with someone else’s bags, late, worse off than when they were before they left.
Lazily they sprawled out on the floor. Torn old hippie bags covered with dirty patches spoke of a happier time. Even their rope like dreads were sprawled across the terminal while they waited to catch a flight out of this mind washed, media controlled, consumer culture. Across from them a perfectly meticulous Asian family waited politely. Father had a white color and well-kept sweater with perfectly aligned spectacles. His four-year-old daughter keeps to herself just like her mother. Five Americans snack. Their many carry on bags piled one on another. When they are done eating, the dad plunges his hand into their mess of luggage and pulls out another baggie of food for his three. At the window they are shocked humongousness of the 747 before engaging in a three on one wrestling match to the death. Mom looks on cautiously. A vacationer looks on already smiling in his white luau shirt and sport sunglasses. The business professional looks out the window. Professionally. Adding dollars and cents, looking for profit margins while generating regression analysis. A young father sleeps flat on the floor. His wife is nervously rocking their baby to sleep.
You could say it is like being in a different country. It is not. It is heaven; people from every tribe and language, from all corners of the earth. It is not America, nor is it foreign. No country or continent could hold such diversity. It is filled with the hope. Hope that you’ll get on a flight. Hope that you can leave this secure life sucking terminal. Hope that maybe America really can fulfill your dreams.
I’m just passing through. Not like everyone else. Destination; Thailand. Well, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I will be there. For the first time, I realize I could make it. I responded plainly to my fathers’ questions this morning. What are my expectations? What are you thinking? There isn’t an escape now. Although… my plane could loose an engine make a quick descent and be forced to spend a week in Hawaii. But it might just crash which would defeat the luau fantasy.
Foreign sounds flow harshly through the obnoxious hidden speakers. I do not know what they are announcing over the intercom. Languages are too numerous in the airport to translate every message. Some messages forget English, no one speaks it good anyway. Names amazingly diverse for any one man to pronounce. An African American runs through the list of English and English-ish names, while his counterpart runs through some Asian names.
LAX brews, It is the American mixing pot on high. If travelers were not recycled daily it might just explode flinging travelers and their baggage everywhere. Confused and pissed, they would end up with someone else’s bags, late, worse off than when they were before they left.
Flight
I saw a mother apologizing for having a miniature bottle of baby butt cream. The bottle was obviously half empty, and therefore much below the three-ounce minimum. But security is the law. So she threw it away. The baby seemed unusually pissed. I would be too. Imagine this, the only thing you do all day is shit. All day, that’s the entire schedule. This obviously creates some problems downstairs. I’m not claiming negligence or anything, but if they let it fester in your onesie it can become problematic. The father apologized to the security agent. He should have known better. It clearly states in the TSA and Department of Homeland Security that anyone attempting to smooth a baby’s bottom should be put on a security suspicious person list. Besides, if your babies’ bottom isn’t as smooth as, well … if it isn’t smooth you should probably be reported to the child protection agency. Although this cuts down on the risk of terrorism, it increases the chances of a baby annoying the hell out of everyone on the plane. I believe this should be amended to the TSA advisory handbook. Crying babies and kids who kick the back of your chair are not cute, they are terrorists. They use destructive force to get what want. Gosh baby let’s be a little diplomatic here, we’re all reasonable people. Except you, you baby fundamentalist. But I would be pretty upset without my butt cream too, so I’ll let this one slide, as I slide of my shoes and placed them into the X-ray bin sponsored by shoes.com. Behind me a gorgeous girl is forced to turn over some makeup to the authorities. Now that should be a crime.
I’d like to see a terrorist try and hold up a plane again. Honestly, he would get the shit beat out of him --especially after release of Rambo III; All American Kick-Ass. Every young guy is waiting for his chance to reach ultimate victory and beat up a terrorist. Here is the thing, when we were kids, our G-I Joes were killing Soviets, but now they attacking terrorists. Every movie is about Americans getting picked on by the rest of the world. Countries Americans didn’t know even existed eight years ago have become the center of a new G-I Joe collection. Terrorism doesn’t stand a chance –not because of the war on terror abroad, but the war on terror that takes place right here at home. Everyone is waiting to kick a terrorist in the face. I’m am flying China Air and I know that these Asians are waiting to go Jet Li and Jackie Chan on some terrorist. Besides. After 15 hours sitting down, what these people need is a good ole’ fashioned brawl. I would put my money on any American in combat against a terrorist. But as for me, if I had to pick my battle I’d rather fight a terrorist with some baby butt cream than a baby without.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Tea
I have nothing to write about my trip. I am still at home.
Tea. Although Starbucks created a mania-crazed infatuation with coffee, or rather candy bar coffee, tea is the only noble inspiring drink. My love for tea grew from a desire for change. The conventional hot chocolate and coffee warmed my stomach but failed to challenge me intellectually. Midway through college I realized my class work success did not always translate into personal depth. If I had only to learn the correct answers I would rather spend the 30,000 dollars on myself and check out some library books. Rather, I choose the college experience to gain something more substantial than lectures by published professors and a shiny bachelors degree. This frustrating situation brought me to my Sansei. Tea has taught me more than any numbers of lectures. Tea is proven to increase mental perception and spiritual depth. To unlock this personal awaking you must first choose the right tea. A Raspberry Zinger or a gingerbread chi, while cute, will not cut it. They are herbal infusions, a.k.a. dead flowers and random crap crushed and bathed in some warm water. No, I am talking about a serious tea. If you are not ready for the experience of a black tea, (which I highly doubt you are) you can start with a green tea. A chi is a popular beginners choice, but most chi’s are not chi tea’s but rather a fake candy version of a real tea. Steer clear of the ‘chi latte’ if you’re looking for some power. I started with a simple breakfast tea. Something warm to sip while reading or writing. The mug sat beside my work as a constant reminder that there is actually life beyond my immediate work. A reminder that learning how to work through a variety of opinions and present my own is not just a hoop requiring jumping. Rather, school work the honing of a skill in a safe learning environment. But I cannot wander mindlessly into endless concentration on a project without taking a cup of reality along. I cannot describe every effect of a hot cup of tea simply because each cup offers a new insight. I am positive tea is more than a dead leaf steeped in hot water.
Tea. Although Starbucks created a mania-crazed infatuation with coffee, or rather candy bar coffee, tea is the only noble inspiring drink. My love for tea grew from a desire for change. The conventional hot chocolate and coffee warmed my stomach but failed to challenge me intellectually. Midway through college I realized my class work success did not always translate into personal depth. If I had only to learn the correct answers I would rather spend the 30,000 dollars on myself and check out some library books. Rather, I choose the college experience to gain something more substantial than lectures by published professors and a shiny bachelors degree. This frustrating situation brought me to my Sansei. Tea has taught me more than any numbers of lectures. Tea is proven to increase mental perception and spiritual depth. To unlock this personal awaking you must first choose the right tea. A Raspberry Zinger or a gingerbread chi, while cute, will not cut it. They are herbal infusions, a.k.a. dead flowers and random crap crushed and bathed in some warm water. No, I am talking about a serious tea. If you are not ready for the experience of a black tea, (which I highly doubt you are) you can start with a green tea. A chi is a popular beginners choice, but most chi’s are not chi tea’s but rather a fake candy version of a real tea. Steer clear of the ‘chi latte’ if you’re looking for some power. I started with a simple breakfast tea. Something warm to sip while reading or writing. The mug sat beside my work as a constant reminder that there is actually life beyond my immediate work. A reminder that learning how to work through a variety of opinions and present my own is not just a hoop requiring jumping. Rather, school work the honing of a skill in a safe learning environment. But I cannot wander mindlessly into endless concentration on a project without taking a cup of reality along. I cannot describe every effect of a hot cup of tea simply because each cup offers a new insight. I am positive tea is more than a dead leaf steeped in hot water.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Time before I leave at home...
An uneasy feeling always grows on me while I am packing to go on a trip. This trip to Thailand requires many unique things, such as ‘write in rain’ water proof paper, NRS Kickers, (they’re like those goofy watershoes that were cool for 5 minutes in 3rd grade that everyone wore to the pool) and other random 'expedition' gear. Now it is my experience that on an expedition, the success rate of a trip is ninety percent sheer luck and the rest relies on planning. But the smallest fraction of a percent is in some way related to your gear. However, even in this case it is most likely because you have too much gear to deal with. So in gathering gear, I have opted to not buy many things that are on the list of necessities. Besides, a wise man once told me, bring half the gear, and twice the money.
Speaking of the money, there is nothing more uneasy or trying than to make money before a trip. Mainly because no matter how much money you can make, there is about a 90% chance that you will need more. There is also a 90% chance that you will not be able to get any more before you leave. Thus being the case, my financial accounting is banking on the hope that the living expenses in Thailand will be about 1/100th of what they are in the United States. I have also started looking for valuable items around the house that I can sell. Unfortunately, although I have tried endlessly to persuade my little sister, our yellow Labrador is NOT for sale (But if you make an offer, they might not miss her.)- true story
It is a peculiar thing living back at home. There is clear distinction between visiting home, and living at home. Visiting home after you’ve gone and lived on your own is all the best things home life can offer. Fresh made cookies, warm family hugs, food in the refrigerator (Still a miracle for a college student), reminiscing childhood stories, and maybe if you’re lucky, mom might just do the dirty laundry in your bag. It is also great to see old friends and talk about the ‘glory’ days of high school pranks and fun times. For a while, it might even be fun to do family dishes together again. However, that reminiscent shine fades faster than bubblicious flavor. For a while it is great to work together, but those fond memories become chores again and you remember how ready you were to leave the house senior year. It takes about one week to realize that that lovely woman who tenderly cared for you through your childhood is just your mom. And when those rosy colored glasses come off, she wants you to clean your room and take care of the dog and do the dishes and don’t do it that way, but use this and don’t organize that and this goes here.. and thus it begans. Even the time with your old friends can become stale when you realize that they are completely different. There is the guy who graduated and went on to some college, but hasn’t quite gotten out of high school yet. Which is fun for the New Years party but I just don’t think I can pretend to laugh at another ignorant joke. There is also the friend who has gone the opposite direction as you. If you become a tax attorney, she becomes a child caseworker and wants to run a foster home. You’re a Obama, he’s a McCain. You wonder how you ever managed to live at home at all. And in an instant, you want to leave more than anything else. It is just that instant and I have three weeks left before I leave.
I am so ready to leave… If only I had enough money.
Speaking of the money, there is nothing more uneasy or trying than to make money before a trip. Mainly because no matter how much money you can make, there is about a 90% chance that you will need more. There is also a 90% chance that you will not be able to get any more before you leave. Thus being the case, my financial accounting is banking on the hope that the living expenses in Thailand will be about 1/100th of what they are in the United States. I have also started looking for valuable items around the house that I can sell. Unfortunately, although I have tried endlessly to persuade my little sister, our yellow Labrador is NOT for sale (But if you make an offer, they might not miss her.)- true story
It is a peculiar thing living back at home. There is clear distinction between visiting home, and living at home. Visiting home after you’ve gone and lived on your own is all the best things home life can offer. Fresh made cookies, warm family hugs, food in the refrigerator (Still a miracle for a college student), reminiscing childhood stories, and maybe if you’re lucky, mom might just do the dirty laundry in your bag. It is also great to see old friends and talk about the ‘glory’ days of high school pranks and fun times. For a while, it might even be fun to do family dishes together again. However, that reminiscent shine fades faster than bubblicious flavor. For a while it is great to work together, but those fond memories become chores again and you remember how ready you were to leave the house senior year. It takes about one week to realize that that lovely woman who tenderly cared for you through your childhood is just your mom. And when those rosy colored glasses come off, she wants you to clean your room and take care of the dog and do the dishes and don’t do it that way, but use this and don’t organize that and this goes here.. and thus it begans. Even the time with your old friends can become stale when you realize that they are completely different. There is the guy who graduated and went on to some college, but hasn’t quite gotten out of high school yet. Which is fun for the New Years party but I just don’t think I can pretend to laugh at another ignorant joke. There is also the friend who has gone the opposite direction as you. If you become a tax attorney, she becomes a child caseworker and wants to run a foster home. You’re a Obama, he’s a McCain. You wonder how you ever managed to live at home at all. And in an instant, you want to leave more than anything else. It is just that instant and I have three weeks left before I leave.
I am so ready to leave… If only I had enough money.
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