Three years ago today, I was sleeping in a big yellow bed with a white insect net around me, peaceful as a princess. The bed was in a room, the room in a house, the house on a street, in a city, in a country that would forever change me. I didn’t know this, sleeping in the 90 degree heat, my kneepits sweating and my hair tight and wet around my forehead. I didn’t know that the place would make such an impression. I made friends there, learned a different way of speaking, a different way to hold my silverware, and a different way to drink beer (with ice!). I taught children there, and the children taught me. I fell for the attitude there, and the beauty and the smiles and the generosity of the people who live there. And today, and for every day since the time I was there, these people are in danger. Bat Lee, Poochoy Wichien, Pee-Oy, Barry, Colm, the boys on the basketball court, Pee Wee, Pee Mee, May, Mai, Sand, Ing, Force, Earth, Chacha, Jump, Jane, and all of the rest of them, all of the people who I encountered, all of the people who served me tantalizing cuisine on the side of the dusty roads, everyone who rented kayaks to me, everyone who sang karaoke to me, bowled with me, ching’ching’d with me, my heart is with you. If you’re reading this and you pray, please pray for them. If you cross your fingers and toes, do. If you sing in the shower, do it for them. If you send vibes or whistle into the dark, do it for my Thai family. They would do it for you, in a heartbeat.
In honor of Thailand, I’ll leave you with a journal entry I wrote a few weeks into my yearlong stay… my first trip of about 2 dozen to Bangkok.
***
An afternoon in Bang Kok. As the 13 Baht (roughly 30 cents) train snaked and squealed its way out of Chachoengsao (my city), though the lush, green farmlands, and eventually to the outer mud piles of Thailand's capital, I began to question the work ethic of the municipal laborers. Maybe they all forgot to stop for coffee this morning, or maybe they were on some sort of Spanish schedule where everyone gets a siesta around mid day, but it is quite certain that these people were not working. And why would they want to? Re-arranging piles of mud mixed with plastic bottles, old shoes, dog feces, and other indistinguishable trash sounds much less enjoyable than a nap. One man lay in a hammock suspended from the rails along the top of the bed of his pickup. Others squatted amid scraps of cement (which I assume are what will eventually become pillars for bridges and highway interpasses), sucking on cigarettes and cokes. I wondered how long those piles had been sitting there, and also, how long these men had been squatting for?
As the train neared the city even more, it clamored past scrap metal houses seeping into the mud. Children played barefoot on dilapidated swing sets and waved to the travelers on the train whizzing by. Some searched for treasure hidden beneath the trashy mud piles, and some chased their friends and siblings along the glass-bottled/graveled train tracks. ...I thought back to the soundly architectured wooden swing set of my childhood. Set in a glistening sandbox and placed in the corner of our acre-large yard next to the garden and alongside the massive field of grass, it entertained me until I became too heavy for the monkey bars, until I got one too many slivers, until dinner was called...The differences make me shudder.
We managed to orient ourselves when we finally got off the train, Lonely Planet guide book clutched in our sweaty hands. "If we're standing here, and that fountain is there, then that must lead to a street that leads to the place we want to go." Ahh, the refreshing confusion of setting foot in a new foreign city. There's nothing like it. This foreign city, though, proved to be quite different than the seemingly pristine London, Oslo, and Paris that I had traipsed a few years back. This foreign city is large, loud, and imposing. The streets are clogged with an incessant traffic jam, and my contacts dried up instantly as the polluted air closed in on my eyes. The buildings once were all white, but it rains so much in Thailand, they are all stained with brown drippings and black soot. After about a mile and a half of squeezing ourselves though the sidewalk hugged with kneeling vendors selling glorified junk, we arrived at the city's historical centre, our destination.
We encountered many amazing temples and gardens which starkly contrasted those dilapidated tin huts on the outskirts and rain-stained apartment complexes on the walk over. Buildings sparkling with whites, reds, and golds-and people bustling around, stopping at each one to "wai" (bow with closed hands), and carry on. We realized that we were there on Buddha's birthday, May 31, and we were at the centre of the celebration. Every other person wore an orange cloth wrapped around their body, their freshly shaved heads glinting in the pouring sunlight. Today, in this part of Bang Kok, you are either a monk or you are a devout Buddhist.....or an American holding tightly to your guide book and snapping fervently at your camera.
In honor of Thailand, I’ll leave you with a journal entry I wrote a few weeks into my yearlong stay… my first trip of about 2 dozen to Bangkok.
***
An afternoon in Bang Kok. As the 13 Baht (roughly 30 cents) train snaked and squealed its way out of Chachoengsao (my city), though the lush, green farmlands, and eventually to the outer mud piles of Thailand's capital, I began to question the work ethic of the municipal laborers. Maybe they all forgot to stop for coffee this morning, or maybe they were on some sort of Spanish schedule where everyone gets a siesta around mid day, but it is quite certain that these people were not working. And why would they want to? Re-arranging piles of mud mixed with plastic bottles, old shoes, dog feces, and other indistinguishable trash sounds much less enjoyable than a nap. One man lay in a hammock suspended from the rails along the top of the bed of his pickup. Others squatted amid scraps of cement (which I assume are what will eventually become pillars for bridges and highway interpasses), sucking on cigarettes and cokes. I wondered how long those piles had been sitting there, and also, how long these men had been squatting for?
As the train neared the city even more, it clamored past scrap metal houses seeping into the mud. Children played barefoot on dilapidated swing sets and waved to the travelers on the train whizzing by. Some searched for treasure hidden beneath the trashy mud piles, and some chased their friends and siblings along the glass-bottled/graveled train tracks. ...I thought back to the soundly architectured wooden swing set of my childhood. Set in a glistening sandbox and placed in the corner of our acre-large yard next to the garden and alongside the massive field of grass, it entertained me until I became too heavy for the monkey bars, until I got one too many slivers, until dinner was called...The differences make me shudder.
We managed to orient ourselves when we finally got off the train, Lonely Planet guide book clutched in our sweaty hands. "If we're standing here, and that fountain is there, then that must lead to a street that leads to the place we want to go." Ahh, the refreshing confusion of setting foot in a new foreign city. There's nothing like it. This foreign city, though, proved to be quite different than the seemingly pristine London, Oslo, and Paris that I had traipsed a few years back. This foreign city is large, loud, and imposing. The streets are clogged with an incessant traffic jam, and my contacts dried up instantly as the polluted air closed in on my eyes. The buildings once were all white, but it rains so much in Thailand, they are all stained with brown drippings and black soot. After about a mile and a half of squeezing ourselves though the sidewalk hugged with kneeling vendors selling glorified junk, we arrived at the city's historical centre, our destination.
We encountered many amazing temples and gardens which starkly contrasted those dilapidated tin huts on the outskirts and rain-stained apartment complexes on the walk over. Buildings sparkling with whites, reds, and golds-and people bustling around, stopping at each one to "wai" (bow with closed hands), and carry on. We realized that we were there on Buddha's birthday, May 31, and we were at the centre of the celebration. Every other person wore an orange cloth wrapped around their body, their freshly shaved heads glinting in the pouring sunlight. Today, in this part of Bang Kok, you are either a monk or you are a devout Buddhist.....or an American holding tightly to your guide book and snapping fervently at your camera.
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