11 a.m.-7 p.m. Wednesday-Friday, 8:30 a.m.- 5 p.m. Saturday, and 8:30 a.m.- 2 p.m. Sunday are my work hours at Elite Prep. My forty hours are spent preparing lesson plans for my SAT Writing Class, 3rd/4th grade Book Club and 9/10thgrade Book Club. I teach 3-hour length classes. I give out vocabulary quizzes and reading quizzes. I lead discussions on the books. I do “fun” activities about reading and writing and grammar. I go over SAT test questions and how to write a good essay for the SAT. I grade and edit SAT essays.
But in the midst of my teaching and planning, my efforts also lead to constructing a nursery for marine life, building a preschool, harvesting a fish farm, researching how to genetically modify fish, and mining pearls.
A purpose of Sustainable Development Research Foundation is to find ways to provide for the needs of communities all over Thailand. I love how while I’m teaching at the profit center of Elite Prep where some of the smartest, most well-off kids of Thailand come for tutoring, I am connected to developing other communities in need around Thailand.
The past year I have known in my mind the mission behind SDRF, and thought it nice and wonderful, but it didn’t really move from my mind to impact my heart until my recent visit to one of the many sites in Thailand that SDRF works at, the remote, Got Yow Yai island in the south of Thailand.
An hour and 15 minutes flight from Bangkok to Phuket, a 30-minute speed boat ride to a port at what looked at first like Gilligan’s Island, and an hour truck drive from there, it was the farthest outside of a city I have been in Thailand. While traveling on the winding roads I felt like I was in Waxhaw on some forgotten country road, but instead of the scenery of cotton fields and cow pastures, I saw rubber tree forests and water buffalo fields.
The first stop was the construction site of the nursery for fish, which will keep some of the fish SDRF is harvesting once the fish start to mature. After the tsunami, SDRF entered the community and saw that the fisherman were fishing, but not getting much profit from their work. They were lacking knowledge of how to run fishing as a real business. I love how SDRF asked what the islanders needed help with and came up with the entrepreneurial idea of trying to start a farm to genetically modify fish, which hopefully will make the fishermen more profit.
Epiphanies were popping in my brain at this first site about how I’m part of this concrete block foundation. By attempting to build up the students I teach at Elite, I’m helping the workers here as they build up the lives of those in the community.
I learned on our trip that Elite isn’t the only one assisting the work in this community. A church came from California to help SDRF construct the wooden walking bridge from the mainland to the dock, where fishermen tote cages from the ocean. I was in awe of how hard the team must have worked, calculating when the high and low-tides were so it could work at the best conditions and then laid down the complicated maze of pipes in the ocean that connect to the nursery. Each little plank and pipe was so significant and necessary, just as much as the hands that fit each one together.
After another short drive through more forests of palm trees and cliffs over the emerald ocean, we came to the only pre-school on the island, a home away from home to more than 100 children.
But since it was Ramadan on our visit, and many people in the south of Thailand are Muslim, the students were not there. But there were workers constructing the rest of the pre-school. The friendly, welcoming school was built partly by another church in CA that partnered with SDRF after the island community told SDRF another one of its needs—a preschool. The islanders were not left out of the project, but are doing their part by finishing up the school after SDRF helped start it up.
The next stop was the Marine Research Institute, MRI. I loved riding the motorboat out to the fish farm in the middle of the ocean where a fisherman guided us as we walked on wobbly planks that surrounded wire-mesh cages floating in the water. The fisherman reminded me of a worker at Sea World when he coaxed the variety of fish to the surface by holding out a small bait just above the water.
Watching these plump fish flopping around, I felt awe to be part of such a mission. I had never dreamed in my life I would in any way shape or form be linked to genetically modifying groupers to weigh 72 pounds, or be a member of one of the first companies to experiment on how to harvest lobster, or be part of the patient process of mining pearls, but I am.
On the way home back to Bangkok I was thinking about how blessed I am, but also how if anyone thinks about it, how blessed we all are. We live in a world where we are all connected, so by doing our jobs the best we can, essentially we are helping others far beyond our near-sighted eyes can see.
I just hope everyday working at Asoke Tower at Elite Prep I can put on my far-sighted lenses, so my vision will always stay clear.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Third Culture
I have now entered into a new culture that I will be in the rest of my life. I officially became a member of this third culture on August 16th when on the banks of the Cape Hatteras beach, I squeaked out a "Yes!" to Dominic's question of, "Will you marry me?"
Im not going to be in Thai culture, nor I will just be in American culture anymore. I will be in Thaimerican culture. Or in Amerithai culture. Or what I prefer, Sherri Phengchard.
I got to explore more of my third culture when I was enjoying my breath of fresh air while home for 3 weeks. I know that my third culture will always have spice, in many senses of the word.
Twist. Twist. Twist. Shake. Shake. Shake. These sounds of my family's black pepper grinder were the constant soundtrack to our family dinners while I was in Waxhaw. No matter what we ate, whether it was a roast beef sandwich, omelette, pizza, or pancakes, Dominic needed some sort of extra flavor to go on it. His Thai tongue yearned for it. Yet it seemed no matter how much pepper he ground on his food, it was never enough. So the rest of my life, I will always be looking out for Dominic that there are ample spice supplies wherever we go, or perhaps it will mean buying a pepper mill to throw in my purse, just in case.
When I first got to my house in Waxhaw on August 2, my feet had this strange desire they had never experienced in America before. They wanted me to take off my shoes right at the door before I took a step further. So I obeyed. Then I scampered through my old house, peeking at my old room and seeing what improvements my parents had done to the house the year I was gone.
But what my eyes couldn't get over was the shoes factor. My parents were still wearing their shoes, in the house. They hadn't left them at the door. My house seemed normal, not too different from before, but seeing my parents wear shoes in the house, which they had done my whole life, was something my mind couldn't digest. Taking off my shoes when I get inside a door, is a small Thai spice I get to add to my life forever.
I saw my visit to America as the way a person who has trouble seeing views the world after laser eye surgery. I had seen all of it before a million times, but now, through Dominic's myriad of questions about everything I never thought twice about (mailboxes at the end of the driveway? how are houses built? you can refill your drinks at a drink station as many times as you want? police drivers drive around at night patrolling? how nice of them!), America looks brand new.
I have come to realize that not many people are like me, or Im not like many other people. All over the city streets of Bangkok I see white foreign men with beautiful Thai ladies at their sides, but seeing white women with handsome Thai men at their sides is like seeing a ladybug in my office in the middle of December--an unexpected but refreshing change of scenery. I don't mind being part of the minority though. Im slowly discovering the art of being who God made me to be and not comparing myself to others. It is really quite freeing, once I get the hang of it.
Dominic's Thai culture, his past, his personality, has already taught me so much. I love how we sharpen each other, like iron sharpens iron: softening the harsh edges, and toughening the weak spots. Im eager to be shaped into more of the woman God wants me to be.
I feel so blessed to spend the rest of my life with Dominic.
Actually, I think I'm the most blessed girl in the world. :)
Friday, June 6, 2008
OISHI
I am a foodie. This means I have a particular interest in food, at least that is what the dictionary says a foodie is. When I went to Japan to visit my dear friend Mari, whom I met when she studied abroad at UNC, I spent most of my time laughing, catching up, and savoring food. I think during my entire five days there I ate more than I had in the past month. It is a good thing my vacations are short because I think if I spent any more time in countries I might become the size of a beluga whale.
I hope you enjoy my tastebud tour of Japan.
Udon Noodles:
Mari’s mom is one of the greatest cooks in all of Japan. That is what I think at least. She asked me what Japanese dishes I enjoyed and cooked me my favorites every night for dinner.. and she even made Udon noodles for lunch the first day I got there.
Refreshing. These noodles were almost as rejuvenating to my soul as the 50 degree Tokyo air that I could suck down into my lungs as opposed to the 100 degree polluted stuffy Bangkok air I can barely get down my nose.
The noodles are long like spaghetti noodles, but thicker. They swim in a soup with scrambled egg and dried seaweed chips sprinkled on top. I used my thick plastic chopsticks to pick up the noodles and messily slurp, not only one, but TWO bowls! On the side we had some broccoli tempura, sort of like broccoli dipped in a batter and then fried, with some citrus soy sauce. It was the perfect welcome to Mari’s heartwarming home meal.
Japanese Crepes:
I have many happy crepe memories. My dad makes amazing banana crepes, and my friend Christie’s dad always made us fresh fruit crepes whenever I slept over at her house. On a perfect May day in Paris, my dad and I had crepes at an outdoor café while sipping cafe au laits. In Sydney, at Pancake on the Rocks, I had an unforgettable creation called Chocolate Jewels which was crepes made out of chocolate along with chocolate pancakes. In Thailand we go to Crepes and Co. which has a nutella crepe that makes drool drip down my face almost as much as the chocolate that oozes out of it when I stab my fork in it.
And then there is Japan. One day Mari and I went shopping in Harijuku, where I felt like I was in an anime cartoon as I watched hordes of teenagers walking around dressed up in doll clothes and gothic attire. It was here that Mari wanted me to experience the Japanese crepe.
My mouth watered as I looked at the menu with appealing pictures of each choice. Chocolate, banana, brownie, fruit, cream, ice cream, custard…any of these could be rolled up in a crepe and put in a pink paper wrap. I chose raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries with a base of thick, sweet custard.
Mari giggled at me as I ate my crepe, indulging in each custard and crepe covered berry as we squeezed in the midst of the crazy people of Harijuku. Yet another happy crepe memory to add to my list.
Soba
Mari and I had hiked a peaceful trail through the woods of Kamakura, a small town a little outside Tokyo, exploring the shrines and temples on the hill. The trail had stretched on longer than we thought, so by the time we made it back to the center of town we were famished.
Every single restaurant in this little town sold soba. But every restaurant on the tourist-infested avenue was selling it at exorbitant prices, or so Mari said. It felt like we were in a desert dying of hunger. We could see a mirage of soba in the distance, taunting us, but every time we thought we touched it, it scurried away like an elusive elf. Finally after I was going to suggest we give up and eat some more crepes for lunch, Mari found a reasonable place hidden away at the end of the street.
Im not sure if it was because I was so hungry or because it really was, but soba, a cozy warm noodle soup, is amazing. First I mixed some toppings, like sesame seeds, in the broth. Then I picked the buckwheat noodles out with my chopsticks and loaded them on my ladle along with soba kernels, and special tofu and slurped it all together. After scooping every last drop of the soup and smiling contentedly with Mari I decided soba is the best water in any desert.
Okonomiyaki
After watching a traditional Japanese-style play called Kabuki, in which the stars have been trained from an early age to be performers, it was our turn to put on our own show. Not a Kabuki play of course, since only men perform all the roles in Kabuki, and we weren’t wearing excessive amounts of make-up..but instead we had our own Japanese cooking show.
Each table in the artsy small restaurant we went to for lunch had its very own stove-top to cook okonomiyaki, a Japanese style pancake. These pancakes aren’t a maple syrupy sweet breakfast food, but rather a savory lunch-time delight.
First we fried our pork, which was pretty much a large strip of bacon. Then we covered the bacon with a circle of thick batter loaded with our choice of diced cabbage and other veggies. It sizzled for awhile before we used two large metal spatulas to pick it up on each side and flip over the massive pancake which was the size of a small pizza. Then we slathered a sweet dark sauce over our masterpieces with a little brush.
The best part of the show of course was indulging in the piping hot pancake pizza and chatting with Mari about life...ah, I love the rewards that come with food.
Gyoza
As I said, every night Mari’s mom was so kind to cook us oishi (delicious in Japanese) Japanese dinners. We had chicken katsu, one of my favs, which is breaded chicken that is dipped in hot mustard and the same sweet dark sauce that goes on the Japanese pancake. And we even cooked food on the kitchen table one night in a hot pot full of broth with veggies and pork.
But on my last day Mari and I got to help out Mari’s mom with dinner by making gyozas, a Japanese-style ravioli. First I took a small round sheet of dough that her mom bought at the grocery store and placed it in my hand. Then I wet the edge with water so it would seal when I closed it. After that I added little scoops of a pork veggie mixture to the center of each one. I folded up each side and made creases at the top to make sure the meat stayed in.
Then her mom cooked them in a pan on the stove to brown the dough a little and then added some water and covered them to let them steam. Once they were done, we dipped our squishy half-moon creations in a citrus soy sauce mixture and plopped one after another into our hungry mouths.
Of course mine we easy to pick out because they had big bulges of pork and the creases weren’t centered and squished oddly, but I discovered that gyozas taste amazing whether they are perfectly shaped or deformed.
Krispy Kreme
“Oh! I remember you love Krispy Kreme! What is your favorite doughnut from Krispy Kreme?” I thought it was sort of random of Mari to ask me that when she was visiting me in Bangkok the week before I went to Tokyo. But I decided to not think much of it and told her I LOVED original glazed and chocolate.
A few days before I went to Japan one of my friends from work told me excitedly, "They have Krispy Kreme there! Do you think you could bring me back some?" I asked Mari if they really had it there and she said, "No, I’m not sure where your friend heard that. Sorry.." I was disappointed, and thought maybe Mari was confused but decided to brush it off.
The last day in Japan after our filling dinner of gyozas Mari said that we needed dessert. I was pretty full, but of course I do have a second stomach for dessert, so I was excited to see what it was.
When I saw the beautiful white cardboard box in her hands with the red cursive lettering and green outline I was so delighted I think I screamed.
When I bit into the steaming, sweet, melt-in-my-mouth-taste-of-heaven, my eyes were closed and I couldn't stop making exclamations like, wow, so good, yumm...even in the midst of my bite. Mari and her family were in shock at how ecstatic I was. They were like, I thought you would be excited..but not this excited!
So technically Mari did lie to me..but it was all to surprise me with my long-lost food friend from home I never expected to find in Japan. Her sweet thoughtfulness was what made the doughnut taste 10 times better than any I have ever had.
Next Stops
This weekend Im going to Laos to visit one of my friends, Libby, who I did my CELTA course with back in August. Im so excited to taste her good ol' home cooking and discover what Laos cuisine is like!
Then my next venture is Waxhaw! After teaching an intensive six-week SAT boot camp I will fly home on August 2 and be around until August 23 when I fly back to Bangkok for one more year of teaching.
I can't wait to eat my mom's chiliaquiles and eat my dad's banana pancakes :)
...I couldn't upload more pics yet because my connection is slow..but if you want see more go to:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2229701&l=2beb0&id=2701334
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2229702&l=c026c&id=2701334
I hope you enjoy my tastebud tour of Japan.
Udon Noodles:
Mari’s mom is one of the greatest cooks in all of Japan. That is what I think at least. She asked me what Japanese dishes I enjoyed and cooked me my favorites every night for dinner.. and she even made Udon noodles for lunch the first day I got there.
Refreshing. These noodles were almost as rejuvenating to my soul as the 50 degree Tokyo air that I could suck down into my lungs as opposed to the 100 degree polluted stuffy Bangkok air I can barely get down my nose.
The noodles are long like spaghetti noodles, but thicker. They swim in a soup with scrambled egg and dried seaweed chips sprinkled on top. I used my thick plastic chopsticks to pick up the noodles and messily slurp, not only one, but TWO bowls! On the side we had some broccoli tempura, sort of like broccoli dipped in a batter and then fried, with some citrus soy sauce. It was the perfect welcome to Mari’s heartwarming home meal.
Japanese Crepes:
I have many happy crepe memories. My dad makes amazing banana crepes, and my friend Christie’s dad always made us fresh fruit crepes whenever I slept over at her house. On a perfect May day in Paris, my dad and I had crepes at an outdoor café while sipping cafe au laits. In Sydney, at Pancake on the Rocks, I had an unforgettable creation called Chocolate Jewels which was crepes made out of chocolate along with chocolate pancakes. In Thailand we go to Crepes and Co. which has a nutella crepe that makes drool drip down my face almost as much as the chocolate that oozes out of it when I stab my fork in it.
And then there is Japan. One day Mari and I went shopping in Harijuku, where I felt like I was in an anime cartoon as I watched hordes of teenagers walking around dressed up in doll clothes and gothic attire. It was here that Mari wanted me to experience the Japanese crepe.
My mouth watered as I looked at the menu with appealing pictures of each choice. Chocolate, banana, brownie, fruit, cream, ice cream, custard…any of these could be rolled up in a crepe and put in a pink paper wrap. I chose raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries with a base of thick, sweet custard.
Mari giggled at me as I ate my crepe, indulging in each custard and crepe covered berry as we squeezed in the midst of the crazy people of Harijuku. Yet another happy crepe memory to add to my list.
Soba
Mari and I had hiked a peaceful trail through the woods of Kamakura, a small town a little outside Tokyo, exploring the shrines and temples on the hill. The trail had stretched on longer than we thought, so by the time we made it back to the center of town we were famished.
Every single restaurant in this little town sold soba. But every restaurant on the tourist-infested avenue was selling it at exorbitant prices, or so Mari said. It felt like we were in a desert dying of hunger. We could see a mirage of soba in the distance, taunting us, but every time we thought we touched it, it scurried away like an elusive elf. Finally after I was going to suggest we give up and eat some more crepes for lunch, Mari found a reasonable place hidden away at the end of the street.
Im not sure if it was because I was so hungry or because it really was, but soba, a cozy warm noodle soup, is amazing. First I mixed some toppings, like sesame seeds, in the broth. Then I picked the buckwheat noodles out with my chopsticks and loaded them on my ladle along with soba kernels, and special tofu and slurped it all together. After scooping every last drop of the soup and smiling contentedly with Mari I decided soba is the best water in any desert.
Okonomiyaki
After watching a traditional Japanese-style play called Kabuki, in which the stars have been trained from an early age to be performers, it was our turn to put on our own show. Not a Kabuki play of course, since only men perform all the roles in Kabuki, and we weren’t wearing excessive amounts of make-up..but instead we had our own Japanese cooking show.
Each table in the artsy small restaurant we went to for lunch had its very own stove-top to cook okonomiyaki, a Japanese style pancake. These pancakes aren’t a maple syrupy sweet breakfast food, but rather a savory lunch-time delight.
First we fried our pork, which was pretty much a large strip of bacon. Then we covered the bacon with a circle of thick batter loaded with our choice of diced cabbage and other veggies. It sizzled for awhile before we used two large metal spatulas to pick it up on each side and flip over the massive pancake which was the size of a small pizza. Then we slathered a sweet dark sauce over our masterpieces with a little brush.
The best part of the show of course was indulging in the piping hot pancake pizza and chatting with Mari about life...ah, I love the rewards that come with food.
Gyoza
As I said, every night Mari’s mom was so kind to cook us oishi (delicious in Japanese) Japanese dinners. We had chicken katsu, one of my favs, which is breaded chicken that is dipped in hot mustard and the same sweet dark sauce that goes on the Japanese pancake. And we even cooked food on the kitchen table one night in a hot pot full of broth with veggies and pork.
But on my last day Mari and I got to help out Mari’s mom with dinner by making gyozas, a Japanese-style ravioli. First I took a small round sheet of dough that her mom bought at the grocery store and placed it in my hand. Then I wet the edge with water so it would seal when I closed it. After that I added little scoops of a pork veggie mixture to the center of each one. I folded up each side and made creases at the top to make sure the meat stayed in.
Then her mom cooked them in a pan on the stove to brown the dough a little and then added some water and covered them to let them steam. Once they were done, we dipped our squishy half-moon creations in a citrus soy sauce mixture and plopped one after another into our hungry mouths.
Of course mine we easy to pick out because they had big bulges of pork and the creases weren’t centered and squished oddly, but I discovered that gyozas taste amazing whether they are perfectly shaped or deformed.
Krispy Kreme
“Oh! I remember you love Krispy Kreme! What is your favorite doughnut from Krispy Kreme?” I thought it was sort of random of Mari to ask me that when she was visiting me in Bangkok the week before I went to Tokyo. But I decided to not think much of it and told her I LOVED original glazed and chocolate.
A few days before I went to Japan one of my friends from work told me excitedly, "They have Krispy Kreme there! Do you think you could bring me back some?" I asked Mari if they really had it there and she said, "No, I’m not sure where your friend heard that. Sorry.." I was disappointed, and thought maybe Mari was confused but decided to brush it off.
The last day in Japan after our filling dinner of gyozas Mari said that we needed dessert. I was pretty full, but of course I do have a second stomach for dessert, so I was excited to see what it was.
When I saw the beautiful white cardboard box in her hands with the red cursive lettering and green outline I was so delighted I think I screamed.
When I bit into the steaming, sweet, melt-in-my-mouth-taste-of-heaven, my eyes were closed and I couldn't stop making exclamations like, wow, so good, yumm...even in the midst of my bite. Mari and her family were in shock at how ecstatic I was. They were like, I thought you would be excited..but not this excited!
So technically Mari did lie to me..but it was all to surprise me with my long-lost food friend from home I never expected to find in Japan. Her sweet thoughtfulness was what made the doughnut taste 10 times better than any I have ever had.
Next Stops
This weekend Im going to Laos to visit one of my friends, Libby, who I did my CELTA course with back in August. Im so excited to taste her good ol' home cooking and discover what Laos cuisine is like!
Then my next venture is Waxhaw! After teaching an intensive six-week SAT boot camp I will fly home on August 2 and be around until August 23 when I fly back to Bangkok for one more year of teaching.
I can't wait to eat my mom's chiliaquiles and eat my dad's banana pancakes :)
...I couldn't upload more pics yet because my connection is slow..but if you want see more go to:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2229701&l=2beb0&id=2701334
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2229702&l=c026c&id=2701334
Monday, May 26, 2008
Waxhaw and Sukhothai
Bangkok. New York. London. Paris. Rome. These big city names stand-alone and don’t need any extra titles dangling behind to give more oomph.
I’m driving down two lane Providence Road forever when I finally come upon the brown metal sign with white lettering, “Welcome to Waxhaw, Home of the Waxhaw Indians.”
Once I cross the railroad tracks and make a right at the one stoplight in town onto Main Street I come upon another sign, “Waxhaw, the birthplace of the 7th president of the United States, Andrew Jackson.” Ironically he was also a forceful proponent of Indian removal. But surprisingly that isn’t mentioned on the sign.
Waxhaw wants to make sure visitors know why they should visit and do this by explaining itself on signs. But most Waxhaw citizens are proud to not be from one of those big-name cities. They enjoy keeping their community cozy and kicking out anything that may interfere with the friendly small-town feel.
Maybe that is why there still isn’t a Wal-Mart in Waxhaw, even though I’m sure the dreaded day is on its way. I can picture the approaching endless debates at town meetings, write-ups all over the Waxhaw Gazette, and newscasters broadcasting interviews of irate citizens on Channel 9, “More traffic, more taxes, less small businesses! NO!”
It seems that every week on the out-skirts of Waxhaw new housing developments pop-up with new shopping centers next-door, slowly inching their way to the heart of the town. But until the cow pasture next to the post office is turned into a parking deck, I’m convinced Waxhaw is still a small-town.
Sukhothai used to be the old capital of Thailand. When I was going to visit my boyfriend Dominic’s hometown, that is the line I told my friends from home who had never heard of it, yet again, adding a title to make a small-town worthy of a visit.
The town reminded me so much of my own Waxhaw. Dominic and I popped around on his friend’s red Honda motorbike to an internet café, 7-11, drink stalls, and restaurants to visit where Dominic’s old friends worked. We even stopped by the video game store where he worked as a teenager. Everyone asked him how his grandma was and what was new. And they all discussed “The Big C.”
The Big C is not a bad word that you shorten by saying The Big C, but it’s a shopping center chain, reminiscent of a Wal-Mart Super center. It has everything you need, and is open even until 11 p.m., so you can get things whenever you want. Wow!
But like there will be in Waxhaw, there was debate about the rise of the bright green sign with red letters spouting Big C on the edge of town. The quaint stores even displayed posters in Thai spouting, “No to the Big C!” But unlike Waxhaw, it came.
The first weekend I went to Sukhothai everyone was discussing the Big C being built. The next month when I went, it had opened. During that visit, everything was Big C. I saw pictures at Dominic’s teacher’s house of the never before seen traffic on the road the day it opened. There wasn’t one person we met who didn’t mention it somehow in the conversation. We also went to it three times in two days.
While wandering the aisles I felt I was in an American superstore again, minus the rice cookers everywhere, the meat sitting unpackaged ready to be picked through and peering at packages of coagulated chicken blood which always looks to me like chocolate mousse. And of course near the checkout we ran into Dominic’s old friends he hadn’t seen since college. I was struck with Waxhawness like crazy.
I know that the small businesses in Sukhothai are stressed out, but I can’t say that it wasn’t nice to sit at Swenson’s (an “American” ice-cream parlor) and eat chocolate ice cream and buy Tupperware and bug spray without having to go to a million different random stores.
But Sukhothai doesn’t just have a Big C. I think as long as the ancient ruins still rise on the horizon and visitors come from afar to visit and leave telling everyone how they just went to Sukhothai,Thailand’s old capital, it will still be a small town.
And that makes me happy. Almost as much as Waxhaw home of the Waxhaw Indians AND the 7th president of the United States makes me happy.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
TARGET
target: a person, object, or place selected as the aim of an attack. an objective or result toward which efforts are directed .
It started out so innocently. Nan and Alice, two of my friends from work, and I wanted to go dancing Saturday night at RCA, a popular dance spot. I called them and set up plans to meet them there, and I hailed a bright pink taxi to take me to the strip for 60 baht.
As we neared the brightly lit road, the taxi man kept trying to tell me something in Thai about where he should drop me off. Im working on honing my Thai skills, but they still aren't up to the level of understanding a fast-talking taxi man. So I did my usual smile and nod to whatever he said, pretending like I understood, and was dropped off at a random area of RCA that I hadn't wandered before.
I was not alone though. My sparkly, silver shoes had barely touched the broken pavement when I was taken up into a sea of people. When I write sea, I really do mean a sea. I felt as though I was stuck in a rip tide of the ocean and couldn't swim away no matter how feebly my little arms tried to fight against the powerful waves. I was stuck. Eventually I gave up trying to tread against the tide, and allowed myself to float with the people waves.
Not only was I stuck in a swell that felt as mighty as a stormy sea, but also as I was pulled along I felt as though I was drowning in not just any ocean, but an wintry ice-cold ocean. This is because as I was dragged along, around every two seconds I would get buckets of cold water doused on me, or piercing cold jet streams shot at me. Then in the midst of the water attacks, once the assailants saw my white face, and they would evilly smirk and merrily shriek, "Farang!" and smear white plasterish stuff all over my face. I was helpless, alone, plasterfaced and soaked.
The reason for the water war was not to torture Sherri, but because the second week of April was Songkran, the Thai new year. My typical American celebration of the New Year looks quite different: drinking sparkling grape juice and playing random games to pass the time until midnight when we watch the ball drop in Times Square on TV. The Thai celebration lasts for a few days, and everyone has off of work and are free to have water fights all day and night long. The water symbolizes a way Buddhists bless each other. But the main target of attack are foreigners, hence why everyone rejoiced when they saw my white face in an area where mostly Thais hang out.
So after 45 minutes of drowning in the Thai sea of celebration, frantically calling Nan and Alice on my wet cellphone while the crowd and music are blasting around me, I finally found them. I hugged them, so happy to not be alone, and then it was time for vengeance. We bought some water guns and I saw why Songkran is so fun after squirting and laughing with everyone.
I love how the whole city celebrates and has fun together. My favorite part was riding the sky train at night and seeing hordes of dripping people with disheveled hair and white plaster smeared all over them, holding an array of brightly colored water guns, shivering in the train's A/C, but radiating merriment. It beats grape juice and a silver ball dropping any day..:)
Good to know if you are ever in Thailand during Songkran: Be prepared to get soaked no matter where you are or what you are doing. Going to work, or going to dance, you will get wet, so dress appropriately, and always have a water gun in hand.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Stray Monkeys
Soi dogs always prowl the side roads (sois) of Bangkok, and now I know a few that live near my apartment. There is one who wears a black cage over his mouth, and he reminds me of Hannibal Lecter. At first he freaked me out, but now I just give him a glare if he looks fiesty and keep meandering by. The other one wanders the main busy street at night. He is a beautiful Dalmatian, with some extra colors added to his black and white spots, perhaps by his bored owners who work at one of the food stalls.
Of course dogs aren't the only creatures that wander the streets..there are also skinny cats, plump rats, ginormous cockroaches, and of course elephants. They always freak me out a bit. I will be looking down, focusing so hard on not tripping on the uneven sidewalk, then I will glance up to find a huge elephant standing before me tagging behind his owner..which then of course leads to me clumsily tripping..
And on Monday when I visited Lopburi I found yet another member to add to the menagerie of soi life..monkeys! After a two-hour van ride from Bangkok, my boyfriend Dominic and I stepped out the van to find monkeys begging for food right on the street while others skittered along the electric wires above us. I kept wondering if they were going to poop on us. Heehee..The ones on the sidewalk were like goats, chowing down on anything and everything that happened to be littering the pavement. One even stole Dominic's water bottle and was chomping on the cap, trying to twist it off with his broken yellow teeth. I tried to get near him, but he leapt at me, shooting bullets at me with his fierce eyes, so I decided to leave and give him a little personal space with his water bottle.
The most monkey-infested area we visited was at Prang Sam Yot, which is the ruins of an old Buddhist temple. Lopburi was the old capital of Thailand, even before it was Thailand, over 700 years ago. So there are many old ruins around that have been rebuilt from the olden days.
A cute, pudgy Thai lady was our tour guide to help protect us from the evil, vicious monkeys, and guide us to the cute, tame ones we could pet and feed. For 20 baht I bought two bags of sunflower seeds to feed the small, grey gangly inhabitants of the temple grounds.
The first time I tried to feed one his little fingers grabbed hastily at the seeds in my hand, making me flip out and run away. Heehee...but as we kept touring I calmed down a bit..until the lady let me hold a wooden stick and swing three monkeys on it. It was good fun until a monkey jumped on my back, and gripped onto my purse strap. I screamed and they all fell off the stick, and of course we all started cracking up.
But what freaked me out the most was when I was getting my picture taken next to one, and he decided my sweaty, pulled back hair needed some help. He put his little hands in my hair, and started to pull on my ponytail. I screamed and fled, laughing hard once again.
There was such a wide variety, some had bulging stomachs, others, were skinny and slow, some were fast and springy, but the ones that were the most bizarre were the babies. They looked like E.T. to me, huge ears that enveloped their faces and little bony bodies covered with translucent gray skin. Wow, I think they could be in a new scary animal for some horror flick.
It is fun to see monkeys spice up the street life of Thailand mainly because Buddhists traditionally don't believe in killing animals, hence the soi dogs, and cats..and perhaps cockroaches, and rats too? Whatever the reason, I'm just glad I got to play with some monkeys for a day.
Of course dogs aren't the only creatures that wander the streets..there are also skinny cats, plump rats, ginormous cockroaches, and of course elephants. They always freak me out a bit. I will be looking down, focusing so hard on not tripping on the uneven sidewalk, then I will glance up to find a huge elephant standing before me tagging behind his owner..which then of course leads to me clumsily tripping..
And on Monday when I visited Lopburi I found yet another member to add to the menagerie of soi life..monkeys! After a two-hour van ride from Bangkok, my boyfriend Dominic and I stepped out the van to find monkeys begging for food right on the street while others skittered along the electric wires above us. I kept wondering if they were going to poop on us. Heehee..The ones on the sidewalk were like goats, chowing down on anything and everything that happened to be littering the pavement. One even stole Dominic's water bottle and was chomping on the cap, trying to twist it off with his broken yellow teeth. I tried to get near him, but he leapt at me, shooting bullets at me with his fierce eyes, so I decided to leave and give him a little personal space with his water bottle.
The most monkey-infested area we visited was at Prang Sam Yot, which is the ruins of an old Buddhist temple. Lopburi was the old capital of Thailand, even before it was Thailand, over 700 years ago. So there are many old ruins around that have been rebuilt from the olden days.
A cute, pudgy Thai lady was our tour guide to help protect us from the evil, vicious monkeys, and guide us to the cute, tame ones we could pet and feed. For 20 baht I bought two bags of sunflower seeds to feed the small, grey gangly inhabitants of the temple grounds.
The first time I tried to feed one his little fingers grabbed hastily at the seeds in my hand, making me flip out and run away. Heehee...but as we kept touring I calmed down a bit..until the lady let me hold a wooden stick and swing three monkeys on it. It was good fun until a monkey jumped on my back, and gripped onto my purse strap. I screamed and they all fell off the stick, and of course we all started cracking up.
But what freaked me out the most was when I was getting my picture taken next to one, and he decided my sweaty, pulled back hair needed some help. He put his little hands in my hair, and started to pull on my ponytail. I screamed and fled, laughing hard once again.
There was such a wide variety, some had bulging stomachs, others, were skinny and slow, some were fast and springy, but the ones that were the most bizarre were the babies. They looked like E.T. to me, huge ears that enveloped their faces and little bony bodies covered with translucent gray skin. Wow, I think they could be in a new scary animal for some horror flick.
It is fun to see monkeys spice up the street life of Thailand mainly because Buddhists traditionally don't believe in killing animals, hence the soi dogs, and cats..and perhaps cockroaches, and rats too? Whatever the reason, I'm just glad I got to play with some monkeys for a day.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
inexplicable
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that these people were kicked out of their countries. I can’t believe how messed up all their governments are. I can’t believe all the lies the news media feeds us from what is really going on in their homelands. I can’t believe that many of them can NEVER return to their homes, to the places they grew up and became who they are. I can’t believe that most people in the West don’t know and don’t really ever think about them.
I can’t believe how blessed I am to have grown up in America. I can’t believe that if I had grown up in many other countries I would not have the freedoms I have today as a woman in society. I can’t believe it.
To try to help my brain figure it all out, I have to talk it out. Alice and I will talk and talk as we walk out the faded pale blue metal doors with the UNCHR insignia stamped on them.
We walk down the small soi while few kids from the refugee center kick a homemade ball around us. We talk about how astonished we are at the stories we just heard.
We get in the hot-pink taxi and go to the subway pondering what we can do, wondering how they can live like that.
We hop on the subway and zip below the city feeling remorse for them, and guilt sometimes at how much we take for granted.
We climb the steps to the skytrain and slowly we realize that we can’t mull on it forever and now we need to go to a café and maybe type some emails and prep some of our lessons for the week ahead.
Many times I just have all these feelings and wonder what actions I can do to accompany them and solve all the problems of the world that I am hit in the face with every Tuesday afternoon.
Waiting. Waiting for the U.N to make its decision. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting for my husband to get a passport. Waiting for immigration to remember us. Waiting for the police to discover us or to flee before they can. Waiting.
Many people throw this word in the air to describe how they waited 20 minutes in gnawing hunger for their meal until the incompetent waitress brought it. Or they waited at the bus stop in the blustering cold before it finally skidded to a stop before them. Or they waited for the guy or girl they liked to call for hours until he or she remembered their existence.
“Waiting” is an occurrence that comes and goes and soon becomes something someone whines about to her friends over lunch. Yet, for a refugee, this word is used to describe their entire existence. They have entered a waiting room and have been there so long they have just become a part of the decor.
The refugee waiting room that I peek through the window of every week takes place as the Bangkok Refugee Center. Since October, on most Tuesdays, Alice and I spend an hour and a half playing games, pronouncing words in American English, smiling and trying to love kids from Nepal, Sri Lanka, Laos, Cambodia, Congo, and any other conflict torn country.
Alice and I never feel like we do much. We always feel totally unprepared every week and wonder if we really are doing anything to help these kids learn how to pronounce English properly. Are we just wasting their time by being there?
But then I was reminded, how can you waste a refugees time? That is the one thing they have to spare.
When I ask the refugees I meet if they miss their home country, everyone has said yes. A place where their lives were at stake, where the government destroyed their homes, where they lost their family and friends everyday, they miss that place. They want to return home.
When I ask if they like Thailand, the most common reply is no. They don’t like the food, the weather, how expensive everything is. But this is a place where they are free from persecution, from death, from tyranny. But they don’t like it. They want to return home.
When I ask where they are going next their eyes get a little brighter. Maybe Norway, I have a sister who lives there now. Or maybe Canada because Cantonese is the third most common spoken language. Or California. I have an uncle who works at McDonald’s, and he really enjoys it.
But if you had the chance would you rather go home? Yes.
A man from the Congo told me how at home they have perfect weather, not too hot or cold, which is ideal for exploring the huge forests and open areas he misses. Everyone has free electricity and water. I still don’t understand how that works but it is something to do with the government giving electricity and water away to other countries. There are diamonds everywhere. One morning you could find one, take it to someone and get $10,000. He had so many opportunities. He kept repeating, so many opportunities. He misses his family and friends who are still there. Will you ever go back? I hope so, but I don’t know. Where will you go next? I don’t know. I don’t know. I miss home.
To never be able to go home again to your favorite places. To see your favorite people. I don’t really miss America most of the time. But to envision never ever returning again. To never see anyone from my past life. I can’t imagine it.
I’m sure if the refugees came here on their own they would love this place. It is not the place that they don’t like, but it is their situation. Forced to flee a place they never wanted to leave to go somewhere they care nothing about. What a different perspective from people who travel here from all over the world just to see Bangkok. The refugees could care less about the Grand Palace, about having their first taste of real pad thai, about riding an elephant. They want to be home eating their food around their families table even while war rages outside their window. It is amazing how being forced to be somewhere and being there out of your own volition changes your perspective on the place. Wow.
This week after teaching we had lunch with a man from Iran. He told us how he became a Christian in Thailand, but when he was in Iran he hated Islam. He hated how it enforced so many rules on society. You can’t sit in that chair because a woman sat there, you cant wear white socks because that is Westernized fashion, you cant roll up your sleeve and show your skin. You can’t…He was sick of it and of this God that forced people to follow so many rules.
He said many people are like him in Iran, many people dislike the government and the religion, but they can’t do anything about it because if they do they get killed. He said people in Iran love Americans. If I went there they would treat me better than most Iranians get treated. He said when 9/11 happened many people held candlelight vigils and then the army came in and arrested them. He said he news media from Iran tries to show how all Iranians hate Americans but it is all propaganda. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it.
I have been going to the refugee center for the past months and always want to write something about it, but my words never seem to be enough and I can never get out my ideas of what I really feel and what I really want to say. So I have decided to just write and say something, which is better than saying nothing at all.
So I hope this helps someone understand a little more of what I will never understand.
I can’t believe how blessed I am to have grown up in America. I can’t believe that if I had grown up in many other countries I would not have the freedoms I have today as a woman in society. I can’t believe it.
To try to help my brain figure it all out, I have to talk it out. Alice and I will talk and talk as we walk out the faded pale blue metal doors with the UNCHR insignia stamped on them.
We walk down the small soi while few kids from the refugee center kick a homemade ball around us. We talk about how astonished we are at the stories we just heard.
We get in the hot-pink taxi and go to the subway pondering what we can do, wondering how they can live like that.
We hop on the subway and zip below the city feeling remorse for them, and guilt sometimes at how much we take for granted.
We climb the steps to the skytrain and slowly we realize that we can’t mull on it forever and now we need to go to a café and maybe type some emails and prep some of our lessons for the week ahead.
Many times I just have all these feelings and wonder what actions I can do to accompany them and solve all the problems of the world that I am hit in the face with every Tuesday afternoon.
Waiting. Waiting for the U.N to make its decision. Waiting for the war to end. Waiting for my husband to get a passport. Waiting for immigration to remember us. Waiting for the police to discover us or to flee before they can. Waiting.
Many people throw this word in the air to describe how they waited 20 minutes in gnawing hunger for their meal until the incompetent waitress brought it. Or they waited at the bus stop in the blustering cold before it finally skidded to a stop before them. Or they waited for the guy or girl they liked to call for hours until he or she remembered their existence.
“Waiting” is an occurrence that comes and goes and soon becomes something someone whines about to her friends over lunch. Yet, for a refugee, this word is used to describe their entire existence. They have entered a waiting room and have been there so long they have just become a part of the decor.
The refugee waiting room that I peek through the window of every week takes place as the Bangkok Refugee Center. Since October, on most Tuesdays, Alice and I spend an hour and a half playing games, pronouncing words in American English, smiling and trying to love kids from Nepal, Sri Lanka, Laos, Cambodia, Congo, and any other conflict torn country.
Alice and I never feel like we do much. We always feel totally unprepared every week and wonder if we really are doing anything to help these kids learn how to pronounce English properly. Are we just wasting their time by being there?
But then I was reminded, how can you waste a refugees time? That is the one thing they have to spare.
When I ask the refugees I meet if they miss their home country, everyone has said yes. A place where their lives were at stake, where the government destroyed their homes, where they lost their family and friends everyday, they miss that place. They want to return home.
When I ask if they like Thailand, the most common reply is no. They don’t like the food, the weather, how expensive everything is. But this is a place where they are free from persecution, from death, from tyranny. But they don’t like it. They want to return home.
When I ask where they are going next their eyes get a little brighter. Maybe Norway, I have a sister who lives there now. Or maybe Canada because Cantonese is the third most common spoken language. Or California. I have an uncle who works at McDonald’s, and he really enjoys it.
But if you had the chance would you rather go home? Yes.
A man from the Congo told me how at home they have perfect weather, not too hot or cold, which is ideal for exploring the huge forests and open areas he misses. Everyone has free electricity and water. I still don’t understand how that works but it is something to do with the government giving electricity and water away to other countries. There are diamonds everywhere. One morning you could find one, take it to someone and get $10,000. He had so many opportunities. He kept repeating, so many opportunities. He misses his family and friends who are still there. Will you ever go back? I hope so, but I don’t know. Where will you go next? I don’t know. I don’t know. I miss home.
To never be able to go home again to your favorite places. To see your favorite people. I don’t really miss America most of the time. But to envision never ever returning again. To never see anyone from my past life. I can’t imagine it.
I’m sure if the refugees came here on their own they would love this place. It is not the place that they don’t like, but it is their situation. Forced to flee a place they never wanted to leave to go somewhere they care nothing about. What a different perspective from people who travel here from all over the world just to see Bangkok. The refugees could care less about the Grand Palace, about having their first taste of real pad thai, about riding an elephant. They want to be home eating their food around their families table even while war rages outside their window. It is amazing how being forced to be somewhere and being there out of your own volition changes your perspective on the place. Wow.
This week after teaching we had lunch with a man from Iran. He told us how he became a Christian in Thailand, but when he was in Iran he hated Islam. He hated how it enforced so many rules on society. You can’t sit in that chair because a woman sat there, you cant wear white socks because that is Westernized fashion, you cant roll up your sleeve and show your skin. You can’t…He was sick of it and of this God that forced people to follow so many rules.
He said many people are like him in Iran, many people dislike the government and the religion, but they can’t do anything about it because if they do they get killed. He said people in Iran love Americans. If I went there they would treat me better than most Iranians get treated. He said when 9/11 happened many people held candlelight vigils and then the army came in and arrested them. He said he news media from Iran tries to show how all Iranians hate Americans but it is all propaganda. I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it.
I have been going to the refugee center for the past months and always want to write something about it, but my words never seem to be enough and I can never get out my ideas of what I really feel and what I really want to say. So I have decided to just write and say something, which is better than saying nothing at all.
So I hope this helps someone understand a little more of what I will never understand.
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