Traveling Thoroughly

Embarrassment #1: Show and Tell

2009-05-17T09:00:00.000-07:00

Under normal circumstances, when you are surrounded by your own culture and familiar surroundings, embarrassments not only occur, but are unavoidable. It should come to no surprise, then, that I have had my fair share of run-ins while establishing a new life in a vastly different culture.

This entry begins a series of embarrassments in the said establishing. Enjoy!

Traffic in Bangkok has an understandable infamy. Thirty-minute walks become 45-minute taxi rides become one hour bus rides. Fuel gauges see more action than speedometers. This dilemma has a wide variety of solutions ranging from subterranean (Metro Rapid Transit) to aquatic (bus boats). However, none of them are as thrilling, frightening, or effective as the motorbike taxi (motor-taxi).

There are two specific reasons why foreigners are drawn to the motor-taxi. By efficiently slicing through the nooks of traffic with surgical maneuverability, the motor-taxi appeals to the most temporally parsimonious. Only costing Bht15 ($0.45), the overall frugality dangerously fuels an absolute disregard for safety and any sense of conventional western traffic laws to give it an incomparable allure one could describe as having a death wish.

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Compounding foreboding sense of imminent doom is the seemingly unpredictable nature of traffic. Motorists pass in unnecessarily wide lanes. The impatient passers come to compete with the insufferably meek for a right-of-way out of the two unmoving isles that have formed in one lane. Motorbikes take to moving between halted autos, creating a network of lanes within lanes within lanes. The yellow dotted line not only divides the directions of traffic, but indicates a two-way traffic lane motorbikes share. This lane also suffers jams when the nooks narrow and two bikes cannot pass one another.

Pandemonium is tantamount when motorbikes begin to travel on sidewalks and against traffic to avoid going around the almost ubiquitous center divider. And as if all of this wasn’t nerve-racking enough, consider that there are parents (both mother and father) driving a motorbike through all of this with their offspring.

That deserves reiteration.

Families of four commonly ride on 110cc motorbikes, none of them wearing helmets. Babies are in arms. Toddlers are standing between the legs of the driver. It truly is a miraculously frightful site.

My nervousness kept me from trying out the motor-taxi for quite sometime. My Thai in the first weeks of my life here, even in comfortable circumstances, reminded me of a calf awkwardly learning to stand. Thai’s slippery tones coated the little twig legs of my meanings, causing them to predictably fall to the ground. I simply couldn’t bring myself to sheepishly approach the motley crew of orange vested drivers at the end of my street when I still had difficulty telling the by-then familiar clerk at 7-11 I didn’t want a bag for the bazillionth time. My emasculating intrepidity left me studying the motorbike passengers from the windows of my bus and taxi rides.

I noticed some sat side saddled and others sat normally. This perplexed me. I would watch one pass. Then another. None of it seemed to have any rhyme or reason. It dawned on me that the side saddlers were riding with motor-taxi drivers and the regular sitters rode with personal acquaintances. My sissiness, I thought, paid off. I just spared myself the embarrassment of sitting on a motorbike improperly. My confidence was renewed.

Thereafter soon came the day when I hesitantly approached the lounging and chain smoking drivers. At the back of the line, I asked to go to the store at the end of the street. Two drivers languidly leaning against a wall pointed to the front of the line and demurely smiled. Other drivers chuckled. They slid towards the front as I walked. They could see my calf legs wobbling.

Again, I asked to go to the store. The driver responded only by putting on his helmet and starting his bike. I sat as I had observed to be appropriate. Giggles broke from everyone.

“Phu-ying! Phu-ying!” declared the man with a ghostly mustache leaning on the left. I might not have known much Thai by then, but I knew when I was being called a woman. All the side saddlers had been women. Such a blatant distinction had slipped right pass me in the hectic traffic.

Already feeling my legs slipping, a pointing finger from the wispy mustachioed man still against the wall brought about uproarious laughter. The driver next to him fell to the left and rested his head on the other’s shoulder, slapping his chest with an exaggerated relish. Still sitting side saddled, I followed his finger to my wide open zipper and discovered the source of their laughter and my embarrassment. Normally, it’s no big deal. But normally you’re wearing underwear and not showing the shaft of your penis to a group of strangers.

The Midnight Boat to Koh Tao (Horror Boat)

2009-04-04T23:44:00.000-07:00

Two days have passed since we were in Chiang Mai, comfortably celebrating Christmas with eclectic foods, live guitar, and freshly poured lager. We saturated ourselves completely in a sensory buffet. Now, the hull of a decrepit boat clutches the coastline, a still and soundless corpse staring blankly bank at Nic, Sam and I. Beneath our feet, the red, damp soil gives way to our steps and I am reminded of chilled animal fat as my sandals wetly peel away. Our anxiety escapes in short bursts of nervous laughter. We walk towards the midnight boat to Koh Tao, an island of the eastern coast of Thailand, hiding our apprehension from each other and our selves.
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Inner conflicts mount.

“Haven’t you seen this before? It’s every bad horror movie ever! You know this is how they begin! Look at that thing! It’s not a boat. It’s a casket!”

“Don’t you think I know that? I know that! But what options do we have? Turn back?”

(What would I write in this story’s place?)

My inner monologue has every right to be suspicious. The closer we draw to the boat the more dauntingly it looms over us. Unappealing details develop as we walk up the small mound that is the coast. Barely audible creaks are the closing hinges of a lid closing, stealing the silence. Metal clinks against metal like the chiseling of epitaphs. The boat is so still that the silhouetted forest behind it seems to rock back and forth.

My pack feels as heavy as an anchor and my stomach is one. I am unsettled and quickened by the excitement of this pending adventure. No great thrill has come without risk.

Our feet hit the metal floor of the rusty hull, sending hollow thuds throughout the boat. We stop for a moment and contemplate our next move with unsure smirks and glances at one another; there is no clear path up into the cabin of the boat. A Thai worker, covered in dirt and grime, points down from the narrow side of the hull to three barred steps, also dusted with rust. He isn’t wearing shoes.

“What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?” Nic asks with rhetorical softness. The boat’s floodlights throw macabre shadows on his face and while others recoil into the trees behind us.

“He’s not wearing shoes,” exclaims Sam, building on Nic’s surprise of the developing dilapidation.

“I know!”

I am too overwhelmed. I am trying to gather as many details of our boarding as possible: the barred steps flaking with rust; the thick silence of the night swallowing our voices and breathing; our onlookers; the musk of wet, oily metal. There are a few boatmen standing and squatting from stairs on the other side of the boat. Their glossy eyes feed on our responses to such utter unfamiliarity. To them, we are merely new actors in the rerun that is their lives. Travelers are the only nuances in the nightly audience of the nautical misfits.

The path to the cabin squeezes us between a six-foot fall to the hull’s floor on one side and a wet splash into the littered black water off the other. Jutting two-by-fours lie parallel to the path with boards sticking out from underneath them waiting for a clumsy passerby. Carefully, we leave the hull and enter a hallway where ‘clean’ clothing stiffly hangs in the paneless windows.
Flickering fluorescent lights sickly reveal insect peppered spider webs on the walls and in the corners of the hallway. Even the spiders, it seems, had the good sense to abandon ship.

Ascending a set of stairs at the stern, our sleeping quarters come into view.
Dozens of dingy bare mattresses line the walls on two stacked shelves. A few were already filled with weary travelers. Some are wearing shoes. ‘Ironic,’ I thought. ‘They’re wearing their shoes in their dreams and while there are workers not wearing any in their reality.’

As I set down my backpack and claim my bed on the top near an open window, Nic and Sam tuck themselves into a bottom corner on the opposite side and almost immediately fall asleep. Restlessly invigorated, I wander the boat.

The top of the boat is empty. Flaking rust crunches beneath my feet. Across from the stern I see that the silhouetted forest is an island of trees severing us from the Gulf of Siam. Our journey is almost made palpable by the night’s humidity. Even the breeze seems to struggle in moving the air.

Hours pass without any sign of embarking. A worker says that we’re waiting for the tide. After another hour, I know we’re waiting because they’re hoping for more passengers. Only a quarter of the beds are occupied. Content and tired, I take a beer from my pack and go sit on the stairs where the misfit audience had been.

A blond man sits observing the busy workers. Wearing jeans, sneakers, and silver rimmed glasses, he and his smile are humorously stark. We greet one another and amicably go through the traveler’s routine questions. He’s from Sweden and has been traveling for quite some time. He had spent some time in the DRC as a reporter.

Violent vibrations steal our attention. The boat’s crane roars with grinding gears. It slowly swings toward three workers standing near three barrels towards the open tail of the hull. All of them are shoeless. The Swedish man and I discuss our backgrounds and histories further over beers and cigarettes as the workers hurriedly load the barrels.

After four heavily loaded vehicles are driven on, the boat again grumbles with great complaint. Screeching cables fail to lift the tail. Like a tree branch in a wind storm, a cable snaps and the tail falls to the ground with a shaking thud.

“WHOA!” everyone unanimously exclaims.

Several previously sleeping workers gather around us to watch a man spark welding cables without any safety glasses. Bright lightning flashes in the welder’s dark face and light up the surrounding trees as if a group of tourists were somewhere back on shore.

The midnight boat doesn’t leave until 3:00am.

Satiated with many beers and local entertainment, I roll into bed. My pillow is small and slickly stained with the oils of many faces. The boat slowly lurches. I sleep.

Great nausea wakes me. Everything in the room shifts as the boat ferociously careens in a pummel of enormous waves heard splashing outside the open window at the head of my bed. Boxes of beer clatter down the stack and shatter. The lurches are so extreme that I begin to slide up and down in my bed. I am forced to lie flat so that I don’t fall out of bed.

It was around 4:30am that I puke for the first time. My head sticks out of the window, projectile vomiting into the gulf. I am exercising demons from the church of my stomach. The light of the hallway below flickers, strobe lighting my pungent stream. Throughout the night, this continues. I don’t fall asleep again and only leave my bed twice to endure the horrors of the bathroom.

Green, murky water with unidentifiable bits sloshes against the peeling sky blue paint of the bathroom walls. A rusted barrel of water is the only thing I have to support myself. The light switch hangs from a pipe, exposing copper wires that damply glint. Everything drips. The floor water washes over my feet and I cringe. Using water from the barrel and my hand, I clean myself leave quickly enough to vomit over the rail into the abysmal churn.

Having returned to bed, I drink water so that I have something to vomit for what feels like an eternity. My abdomen is sore.

The night progressively worsens. Below me, the woman with the puntable, yappy dog thunderously vomits. I’m infuriated by her intrusions; I’ve been trying to remain quiet out of consideration for the other assumedly sleeping passengers for hours and she is a wildebeest birthing a pineapple horizontally from her throat. In this moment, I hate her. All of my frustration, all of my pain, all of my weariness now has a body. It’s curled in the fetal position in the darkness. My hatred bellows and slides in the night.

Nic visits me in the early morning. It is still dark. He heard me from across the room, from across the ocean of an engine’s drone beating against the inside of my forehead.

“Are you alright, buddy?” His voice has a comforting tone and his hand rests coldly on my ankle.

“No. Not at all,” I groan. My throat is a broken bottle covered in sand.

“I’ve been vomiting for hours. I’m drinking water just so I can have something to vomit.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, man. Is there anything I can do for you?” He sounds grave.

“No, man. Thanks.”

“It might help if you move to the bottom. The rocking doesn’t feel as bad. I went up to the top and closed my eyes and almost got sick, but down there you’re closer to boat’s center of gravity, so you move less.”

“I can’t move right now. Thanks for checking on me.” Besides not having the capacity for movement, my only friend is my window.

The waves grow and send the boat swaying more drastically. I rely on the tilt of the boat to send me to the window when I need to puke. My shoulders stop me. I aim my head and use the momentum of the tipping boat like a finger down my throat. My water bottle rolls off my bed during one of my more epic episodes. Dry heaves follow. When daylight breaks, I retch for the last and most painful time. It is tar thick and dark green. Bile. The part that felt unsettled on the bank of animal fat in Chumphon. The ooze slides down the side of the boat in the dimly gray dawn. An oasis of land breaks the oceanic desert’s horizon and I feel relief I had had in my mind all night.

After the boat docks, I achingly stand and put my pack on my back. My movements are awkward and feel new with atrophy. The stale stink of beer rises from the sticky glistening floor. Surprisingly, I don’t feel nauseous.

On the bank Nic argues with a taxi driver as I muster my all to stand. The price is negotiated and agreed upon. Nic taps me on the shoulder.

“Come on, man. Let’s get outta here.”

“That was the most horrible experience of my life.” My eyes are only half open and are dry, keeping my lids motionless.

“We’re with you on that,” Nic says with the same sympathetic softness heard last night. Samantha is silent.

“No. You’re not. No one is. I have never felt so alone,” I coldly and curtly retort. My words feel like they are still stabbing at the puking woman and her barking poodle. I immediately regret them and avert myself from his static gaze. I feel ashamed, for my thoughts and my impatience. The truck starts up and takes up the road, away from the beach as it fills slowly with hundreds of tourists.

To see more pictures of the midnight boat, click on the link below.

The Midnight Boat to Koh Tao

Morning Meeting

2009-02-02T06:11:00.000-08:00

Morning for me began earlier than usual. Three coworkers have started to play basketball around 7:30am and I told them that I would meet them on the court in front of my building. They weren't there. I continued on to the office to find two of them sitting at the reception desk fidgeting with some new speakers.

"Hey! Why aren't you playing basketball?" I requested, a twinge of annoyance unintentionally escaping in my voice.

"P'Poo is on holiday. He has the ball," said Yai. Yai looks like a tanned Asian snowman with a thinned Beatles haircut. His eyes are beady and always steady, calm, peering out from behind two oval and petite lenses. He speaks English with a slight lisp, which always has me wondering if he speaks Thai with a lisp too.

Yai's sense of humor is terrific as he is the only one that tells me he hates me, often promising to kill me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't incite such threats.
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"P'Poo has the ball, huh? Is it, I don't know, in his office?" The sarcastic indignation was smeared like butter on my slowly spoken words. Yai smiled slightly.

"Yes."

"What the hell?!" I retorted, mirroring Yai's half smile and building the mock injustice in my voice. "Then why didn't you get it and come play?"

Both Yai and P'Keng giggled. P'Keng doesn't understand much English, but he has come to understand my sense of humor, and I his, enough that language is less of an obstacle. For example, the Thai word for 'to give' is said the same as the English 'hi'. So, for several months now, morning greetings have consisted of one of us saying 'hi', and the other one sticking out his hand and saying 'okay'.

The first day I arrived in the office, he introduced himself to me, unwavering and in a very monotone English. He has eyes like a basset hound, always at peace and calm in his brown, round face. His shiny cheeks are bulbous and he has a Buddha belly. This and his height give him a jolliness reminiscent of a mall Santa Claus. After he told me his name, he lifted his arm up a little high to put it around my shoulders, turned both of us to his wife, a secretary who was sitting behind her desk, and said, "Look, twins." Laughter exploded from all corners of the office.

"I don't know," said Yai, his tone going up and down with the last syllable.

"Well, dude! Next time, call me so I know and don't wake up at freakin' 7:00am to play a game that won't be there!"

Again, they both laughed. There are times when I'm not entirely sure if they are laughing because they understand or because they enjoy watching me feign frustration. Like with most friends, it's likely both.

The whole exchange took place over a minute, but the camaraderie present in our words and facial expressions left an impression that makes it feel like it was my entire morning. Only three months ago I struggled to establish a sense of belonging, a fresh identity amidst a sea of street vendors and stray dogs. But this morning, more than any other, I felt like I belonged in my office. That my comfort was not only established but present didn't dawn on me until the mid afternoon, when I reminded myself that I'd be waking up again the next morning at 7:00am, hoping to find two coworkers playing basketball in the settling Bangkok fog.

Christmas Eve from a Window in Chiang Mai

2009-01-11T07:03:00.000-08:00

Shortly after arriving at the B.M.P. (Backpacker's Meeting Place) in Chiang Mai, Nic, Sam and I rented motorbikes. For the most part, Christmas Eve was spent riding around and trying to find Sam's bike. We parked it after it ran out of gas and and then went in search of a gas station. When put to the test, it turns out, while under stress, I can order gasoline. When stress free, I can't understand when a Thai man is telling me that I will need to get gas soon.

Later that night, as Sam slept, Nic and I watched chickens being slaughtered out our bedroom window. Throughout the day, we had left that window open. Our room persistently smelled like feces. Sam and I felt comfortable in blaming Nic for the unpleasant aroma. It wasn't until the two of us were standing in our underwear, staring at the dozens of chickens coming to their end, did we know the truth.
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A man in the back of the warehouse, standing in front of stacks upon stacks of pink crates filled with chickens, would pick up a chicken with the care of a baggage handler and slit its throat coldly, tossing the dying creature into a bin with the other bleeding birds with the same apathy with which one might throw dirty laundry into the hamper. He was as calculating as a surgeon and equally removed. The bird was picked up in such a way that it couldn't resist: pick it up; tilt it back; grab the head; slit the throat; throw it in the bin; repeat.

Alive.

Dead.

Alive.

Dead.

One life was gone in less than ten seconds. We must have watched him kill 50 chickens. Not one of them fought or even struggled, as if they knew an end better than their existence was upon them. Not a wing was lifted in protest. They were the last autumnal leaves on the trees, waiting for their gust of wind.

Thirty minutes passed. We watched the bin of dead chickens fill twice, each time its contents were emptied into a steam machine for feather removal. I can easily imagine our faces floating in the darkness of our 2nd story window, palely lit from the florescent lights of the slaughterhouse. Our mouths are slightly parted. Our eyes are filled with the intrigue reminiscent of children on Christmas morning. Instead of marveling at mountains of presents and lights galore, we stared in awe at the process that brought food to the mouths of our neighbors.

The workers took a break. Nic and I laughed at the absurdity of it all. We each sighed and walked to our beds contemplatively.

"Hey, Nic. Merry Christams."

"Merry Christmas, buddy,' he chuckled.

Just Pictures, No Words

2008-12-15T20:43:00.000-08:00

These pictures should have been shared on a more broader basis sooner. I'm sorry it has taken me so long. I will be uploading more and writing more stories in the coming weeks.

Enjoy the pics! Please leave comments.
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Odd Culinary Indulgences

2008-11-26T19:55:00.000-08:00

In spirit of Thanksgiving, I thought I would mention some of the bizarre foods I've tried since being here and a few of the foods I avoided. The rating system accompanying my descriptions are arbitrary.More...
1) Grasshopper: Fried with red chili powder and served whole, the first step is to twist off the head and pull out the spinal cord. This part, I'm told, "tastes like shit." Fortunately, shit is still something I haven't tried.

What It Tastes Like: An overcooked french fry flavored with chicken broth. Before trying, I refused profusely. My friend and coworker insisted I try, claiming it tasted like chicken.

"P'Boom, if I wanted to eat something that tastes like chicken, I can eat chicken!"

Why I Ate It: I became immersed in a 7 cup pool of vodka tonics and remembered that my mom told me to try everything once.

Rating: 3

2) Dragon Fruit: Have you ever seen this? Google it. It looks like something out of a Sci-Fi movie. It is oval and the outer part is pink with green leaf like things growing off of it. The meat of the fruit has the feeling of kiwi and is white with black seeds throughout.

How It Tastes: It is very starchy and mildly sweet. I was expecting something puckering, but received a pleasantly mellow experience. It is high in fiber, which is good for my butt. You can never be too kind to your butt.

Why I Ate It: Because it was new fruit and not meat. All the weird things tend to be meat or bugs.

Rating: MMM

3) Pig's Liver, Blood, and Heart: Thai cuisine throws hardly anything away. Eating internal organs is very common. The liver excluded, these items are typically served with noodles in a delicious beef or chicken based broth. In my opinion, that is where the deliciousness stops.

What They Taste Like:

Liver: I've never tried it because eating the organ responsible for removing toxins from the body just seems odd. Would you eat animal rectum? No, I didn't think so.

It has the consistency of creamy sand and tastes like meatloaf that soaked in rancid orange juice.

Rating: 2

Blood: It is prepared and looks very much like tofu. It is a gleaming burgundy cube, gelatinously dancing to the sway of the server's saunter. The taste is mild and almost bland, but my mind ran a muck when I tried it, pulling up images of slaughter and the hit Showtime series Dexter.

Rating: AB-

Heart: Actually, this was surprisingly tasty. Then I bit into an artery and gagged. Tasty yes, but texture plays a huge part in food for me. I can't handle chewy things that don't change in composition after chewing them.

Rating: <3

Why I tried them: The liver was peer pressure. I was at dinner with a large group of coworkers and they found out that I have never had liver. Now I know why many are not fans. The blood was absolute curiosity. I might try it again if I've had a few. The heart was in a meal bought for me and I wanted to show that I will be appreciative and try it.

Fish Stomach: Yes, fish stomach. It was served in a thick, non-cream based soup with mushrooms and unidentifiable greens. If you didn't know, you might assume that it was just a vegetable. It is translucent and doesn't look like what it is.

What It Tastes Like: The soup itself was delicious, but the stomach tasted like netting. That was the first word that came to mind when I tried it. The flavor of the savory soup overpowered the stomach and the tongue, and all I got was texture.

Why I Ate It: I was at a wedding for a coworker and again succumbed to peer pressure. People were really jazzed to try it, and so I followed suit.

Rating: meh

Fried Duck's Bill:
There's a point when repulsion is dominated by curiosity. For me, this was that point. How the hell do you eat a duck's bill? Why? It's all bone! Well, I gave it a whirl and found it to be alright, but not worth the effort of massive masticating.

What It Tastes Like: Because it is composed of several small bones, it's like eating sticks covered with deep fried chicken skin. Crunchy doesn't begin to describe the sensation of the jaw crunching and breaking an animals tiny mouth bones. Not worth the effort, really. Again, if I have been drinking, I can see myself indulging in what is put in front of me.

Why I Ate It: P'Boom, my Thai sister, loves getting me to eat new weird things. She was the one responsible for the grasshopper feast.

Rating: daffy

Little Faces Playing to the Heart

2008-11-04T08:41:00.000-08:00

Our luxuries are bountiful. So innumerable are our fortunes that they are inevitably taken for granted. Before we leave our beds in the morning, we have most likely already overlooked several riches. Above our heads are roofs that don’t leak and under them are soft pillows. But we are not to blame. Without a stark comparison, it is easy to forget our blessings when they are veiled by daily strife and routines.

Recently, I was afforded an opportunity to see my affluence reflected by the faces of children who lacked it. And yet, they smiled and laughed all the same.

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The first time I visited Tanarak Village, an impoverished suburban community of Bangkok, the day was sweltering. The night before, torrential rains fell on the woodstove of the sauna that was the outdoors. My eyes drank eagerly from the windows of the van as we passed abandoned shacks and food carts succumbing to the elements. Roofs were caving in. Parts were missing. Stray dogs slept and crept listlessly in the shade, into shadows hiding all but the floating swarthy faces of the locals.

The van stopped. Coworkers and I loaded with bags of donations made our way through the walkways leading to the meeting area. Along the way, an array of rusted aluminum panels, nails, and scents of frying meats jutted out. Children played along the train tracks. Garbage—like wild foliage—seemed to be growing and thriving off the land. It swam in the water and underneath houses like and with the fish. An orchestra of televisions and laughter from the kids reverberated through the walkway, only to be interrupted by motorcycles whizzing by the line of outsiders.

Prior to my arrival, the office had been working closely with the community (what might be harshly called the ‘slums’ is referred to here as the community) for several months. Meetings occurred where ABAC Poll members and community leaders discussed how to start to improve the quality of life: removing the fish that aren’t fish; renovations that would permit only the frying meat scents to jut out; and providing the children with additional educational outlets and areas to encourage more violins of laughter and less TV conductors.

Initially, the altruism of our purpose unsettled me more than the environment; no background knowledge of the area, the people, or our goals had been made available to me. Even more unnerving was the overwhelming sense of responsibility. But soon after, my doubts and jitters were assuaged when I saw how thirsty these children were for learning. They were my eyes and their windows were my words. In them, I would like to think they saw a way to help their people. In them, I would like to think I saw that possibility.

I have taught there twice now. Each time, we all learn a little more, not only about language, but about life. I cannot speak on behalf of the ABAC Poll staff. Perhaps I would do myself a service to ask them if they are learning anything from this experience or if only I and the children are learning new ways of life. I can say the children are realizing they can teach the teacher Thai, and I am redefining the importance of being a child. Knowledge can open the heart to the youth it has forgotten with time and tragedy.

Cultures Colide

2008-10-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite restaurants is located just a few blocks from the road leading to my building. I forget its name, but I know that it roughly translate to 'piss off!' in English. As in, 'I'm eating, I'm hungry, piss off'. It has no door. An absent wall opens a tanned tiled floor and glossy wooden tables to the streets of Bangkok. The food is delicious, but nothing spectacular. The same dishes can be found at just about any other restaurant, as far as I can conclude. (Thais will tell you differently.) But I find myself inextricably addicted. A coworker had taken me there. I continued eating there because it felt comfortable. But I became inextricably addicted to 'Piss Off!'. The reason goes back to one night.
More...The atmosphere gently shook my hand, introduced itself, and cordially began to recant its subtle details. On the walls hung framed frozen gymnasts now waiting tables, helping the family. Calmly weaving underneath and between the tables, the restaurant cat kept street rats away. One night, we ate together. I ate stir-fried noodles with chicken and vegetables, and it ate a rat, freshly caught and softly bleeding. I found it soothing, considering the alternative. That night, though, a piece of green curried chicken concreted our friendship.

After finishing my meal, I ordered a Thai beer and sat back to enjoy some soccer. Liverpool played Edmonton. The ball passed back and forth. I began to think of where I was, and where I had been. I stood on my balcony in Oakland. I had a first kiss at the bottom of a staircase in Eugene. I said goodbye to so much. As I became the soccer ball, a slender man approached my table. His shirt read '1stTANbul' and his face read 'intrigued'. He carried something familiar. He sat it down in front of me without speaking a word.

It was a taco.

The crunchy corn tortilla, the spicy beef and cheddar cheese shreds, the orange grease gliding onto the plate, all of it, was familiar and longed for. For a second, I puzzled over my location as I looked at the man speechlessly.

"It is the first one. We make it for the restaurant's new menu. You try. Tell me if you like," said the slender, thin-haired man.

"Thank you so much." The taco had set my heart afire with nostalgia. The cheese and sinfully seasoned ground beef sang, reverberated and became an echo. How often does one eat a taco that will have a lifelong effect?

He came back to the table and I informed him that it tasted terrific, that I had been wanting one for the past couple of days. Thai food is fantastic, but so is variety. His grin touched the ceiling.

"Are you from Turkey," I asked while staring at his shirt.

"No, I am from Iran." Seriousness curtained his face, but his gaze never left mine. His abysmal eyes made me feel transparent, as if all my secrets were as available, as plated as that taco had been.

Without wavering, I asked him about the shirt. He had bought it while visiting Turkey three years ago. A few more pleasantries regarding my job, his education at the university, and our total time spent in Thailand later and he returned to his table. He poured himself some vodka.

My mirth could not be contained. As Liverpool moved across the field, the vodka chilled and the taco digested with the green curried chicken. In Thailand, I sat and counted the converging cultures that passed in one restaurant: an Iranian wearing a Turkish shirt gave a Mexican taco to an American watching English soccer and eating an Indian curry dish while sitting in a Thai restaurant, ending with both of us sharing a cheers with Russian vodka.

And so it was that eight different parts of the world met at one table, under one roof, between two strangers. Under such circumstances, anyone's curiosity would be addicted.

A Book is a Beginning

2008-09-29T08:32:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a different style when it comes to travel preparations. Some prepare for a trip months in advance, studying the language and planning the exact route and itinerary that includes alternatives in the case of cancelations. Others make no plans. By throwing themselves into the mouth, they hope the swallowing will provide answers and life lessons into the self. I’d like to think I stand somewhere in the middle. I appreciate a sprint towards fear. I also like to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ when needed.
More...No matter how the preparation goes, certain things are not in books. A book dazzles the reader with celebratory festivals and awe-inspiring sights. Books seduce. After the words coo to the imagination, the pictures suck on the ear lobe, whispering to the reader that the journey will be nothing short of revealingly marvelous. And for the most part, the reader will be right in their delusions. But those words were not spoken from your mouth or from the mouths of native Thai people. Those pictures are not your eyes. Nothing prepares the senses, the eager essence, for the absolute stripping of familiarity.

The book warns not to touch Thai people on the head. This is a grave offense. The top of the head represents the top, most pure part of the spirit, and is not to be touched unless one is invited to do so. Equally, it is deeply rude to show the bottoms of the feet. They represent the dark parts of the spirit. What the book does not tell you is that the Thai people in your life will gladly invite you to partake of anything they have and do, often times offering you the first to try something Thai because you haven’t already. Embedded in every one of their smiles is the pleasantness of pride, a love and respect for home.

I had forgotten such a feeling. Years ago the government, the news, those with power and those who sought it took my pride and all its purpose. Coming here, I found that pride is nothing so trivial as governmental occurrences. Secure pride remains forever in a smile. To be proud is to know love and to know you can create it. True pride is always in love, and in love.

***

Another thing the book offers as a precaution is the torrential rain. I have been here for a month now and I have seen rain in the sky like milk thrown on a windowpane. It falls with the suddenness of a heartbeat. At this point, I can predict rain quite accurately and have twice. The book mentions the streets’ inadequate drainage system causing pervasive, but temporary flooding. It doesn’t mention the flip flops. For days, I wondered why everyone wore such vulnerable footwear in such weather. Then I realized the extent of the flooding. Waves crashed up against side walks and stores. In a matter of minutes, Thailand becomes Italy. One night, I skillfully maneuvered through alleyways and high steps to get to a bar for a beer and some journal writing. I made it fairly dry. The bar had become an island, completely cut off from the street.

I sat and made efforts to remember that moment: a vendor had his food cart of fried meats were under a red and tattered umbrella lit and attached to the sidecar of his motorcycle, another island out in the sea of the street; the trinket-like waterfalls scintillatingly eroded their testament into the concrete; the cockroaches uncertainly scurried to avoid the impending murky water. It all became my muse in the shadows of drunken laughter.

It should be noted that a street flood sounds like fun. I remember playing in the country during floods when I was a child. These are not puddles for splashing. These are the same waters that floated the bag of three-day old chicken bones out into the middle of the street. This water drowned the street rats. This water came up from the sewer. It is your urine, only not sterile.

No amount of reading is enough and, honestly, looking back to when I thought I was ready, I wasn’t. Nothing prepared me for seeing the countless rats as big as kittens running in the night from my footsteps into restaurants. The words from other tongues forgot to tell mine of the heavenly pleasures of Thai spices and cuisine. I had never heard the pleasures of Thai society. No picture, book, admonishment—nothing—can sufficiently train a traveler for the world. But the true reciprocity of a traveler’s delight is realized when the traveler starts to become the picture, the book, the admonishment, attempting to coo your imagination, sucking on your lobe and whispering everything is revealingly marvelous.

Thailand is not Your Job

2008-09-28T09:09:00.001-07:00

During the week, I wake up at 7:30 and just like I did throughout high school and college, I hit the snooze button. The first week, I did so confusedly. My alarm clock is a phone. The first sight upon sitting up is a 12-story drop onto the streets of Bangkok. I shower, shave, and get dressed all the same. The actions are all familiar, however They all feel revitalized. New. The air tastes different, yet welcoming. It's a pleasure to wake up early when your views are new.
More...Before taking the elevator ride to work, I walk to one of the several local coffee stands and order my favorite: cappuccino yen won nit noi (iced cappuccino, little sweet). It costs a dollar and is nothing like home. It is sweetened with condensed milk and made a cappuccino because of the name of the beans used. Just in case you're a respectable barista, I know there is no such thing as an iced cappuccino.

Work starts at 8:30 a.m. and it's many things. It's a cramped room previously used for storage, still marked by lingering filing boxes and stacks of forgotten documents. It's a reminder of the developing autumn of the northwest; one of my co-workers wears a jacket and must have the air conditioner at 20 degrees Celsius. I'd tell him to take off his coat if he's hot, but he understands English as well as I understand Thai. That, and it would be kind of rude. No one else in the room is complaining that it's cold. I wear a coat now.

It's a series of rooms on the 5th floor of the A building on the campus of Assumption University. I have always wondered, 'Why "Assumption?"'. The only explanation I've heard was, "Assumption? Man, catholic schools are weird." Work is a polling service paid for by government and private companies located and supported by the university. Most of all, it is the most unfamiliar part of my day: a 9-10 hour day of reading the news, lesson planning, teaching English, and editing surveys, memos, and website texts translated into English from Thai. It's learning the Thai language and culture and way of life.

Food is abundant and cheap. Everyday I eat lunch and dinner prepared for me by locals. It's cheaper to eat out than to buy groceries. To get authentic Thai food, all I have to do is walk outside the campus. Food vendors and restaurants line almost every street, and are prolific around the campus. They are ran out of shacks, houses, carts, buildings, cars, and pockets. Lunch costs a dollar. The freshly sliced fruit afterward (usually pineapple and watermelon) costs 80 cents. I tried eating somewhere different everyday, but I realized last week I have more than nine months to eat at different places, I don't need to be in any rush. Now I order food and fruit from the same places and bring it back to the office. It's nice to eat in quiet solitude once in awhile. Usually, when I eat with co-workers, the conversations are all in Thai, which I'm trying to learn, but with patience. I find myself focusing on patience more than anything. I'm learning a new way of life takes time.

After work, I go back to my room and relax, reflecting on the day and how it'll repeat the next day. I pine for the trips to the southern coast in October and December. I study, read, and watch TV just like I did when I was in the states. By saving money, I hope to explore and see more.

Weekends mean one thing without fail: badminton. It's popularity is something like going to bars for office workers in the states for the staff of the office. Usually twice a weekend I play badminton with five others and I'm getting damn good. I still lose the most, I think, but I am starting to win more. This last Saturday, we played for three hours and on Sunday for two. By the end, my shirt is drenched with sweat and I can wring it out of my headband. I've lost three pounds, one a week. Hopefully I'm still existing by the end.

I know this isn't what you expected. You expected adventure and details. You expected excitement and intrigue. Trust me, it will come. I just wanted to get a foundation established so I can build detail on top. Now that I've bought the canvas with these words, I'll paint you a picture with my continuations.