Cribs: Sangkhla

Check out this video posting of my sweet pad... not sure if the sound works well enough, but if not, please insert witty comments as you watch and feel free to attribute them to me.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=3327793314750644821

Follow the yellow brick link...

L!

Blue boots and water infusions

Check it out- Compare this photo on the left of Sangkhla's lake now after the rainy season as opposed to the first pic of this same scene taken in May.

The boots on the right are what I see in the yard across the street from my house.

Busting at the seams

Well my friends, it seems this sleepy little town of Sangkhla has transformed overnight. The quiet streets and mid-afternoon slow-down siesta that come during each daily heatwave are no longer as this town edges closer and closer to it's carrying capacity.

Restaurants are busting with people, the normally empty guesthouses are yelping for more fans and mattresses, the food vendors are buying double and triple their normal daily stock, and after leaving the office to purchase ice cream I was slapped by the surprise of five nuns sitting on mats on the office floor, sipping coke and shmoozing with my lovely students. Indeed they will be staying with us at the office for the next few days. And all this for one man: Uttama.

It's fascinating to see the response to the influx of visitors to Sangkhlaburi. The resourceful and flexible nature of those living here is reiterated to me as they clambor to open the impromptu business to satisfy the masses and endure the influx of news teams and television reporters with unending patience.

We even had a place on the Prime Minister's agenda yesterday.

To fame in a time of grief-

Laura

A little bit Shweaty

Narcoleptics:

Please find the following tidbits for your reading pleasure...

1. Mosquito nets: in this land of 10 inch millipedes with vicious venom, tarantulas in the backyard, and the cat dragging in snakes in the middle of class, I view my mosquito net as the be-all-end-all protector. When I fall asleep, it is as though an angel descends upon me with a shield to ward off evil spirits and venomous bugs. Well, this is what I must convince myself of anyway if I hope to get a wink of sleep each night. Regardless of the almighty powers of the blue, holey net surrounding my sleeping mat, the following creatures have still succeeded in penetrating the walls of the fortress. This month alone has seen a frog, kitten, and scorpion emerge from the limited hiding places of a floor mat and pillow as if to yell "surprise!" excitedly during a birthday party. What sweeties.

2. Facebook. Despite my remote location and lack of access to things such as peanut butter, cheese, human rights and internet, I have still managed to become unhealthily addicted to Facebook-- the social networking sensation! While I spend my limited internet time primarily devoted to keeping in touch with friends and researching for class, I've found a deep and guilty pleasure in breaking up the time with diversions into the website profiling nearly every member of my peer group along with their favorite music, movies, and relationship status. If someone can tell me why such voyeuristic pursuits are so fulfilling I will give you a nickel.

3. Tangents. I recently shared the word "tangent" with my class and have found that it has never been so appropriate. Today I found myself lecturing on a bearded woman as I attempted to describe the word "freak" and figured "freak show" would somehow resonate with these guys. Um... who made me a teacher again? The true point of our lesson was future tenses. I don't understand my brain.

4. "Shweaty." My love of accents will never escape me. Inadvertently, every time beads of sweat well up on my forehead (see also: every day in Sangkhla) I like to say "shweaty," in a Sean Connery-esque tone. Little did I realize until the other day, that my students now also enjoy the Connery accent, and unbeknownst to them, each time they discuss their own bodily secretions (isn't secretions such a fabulous word?!) a little bit of Connery exists in all of them.

Alas. I'm off to shower my shweaty self.

Love on Aphrodites!

:) L

Uttama

At 4:30 AM this morning, Reverend Uttama, the abbott at the Mon monastery here in Sangkhlaburi, died. This incredibly respected man had spent the last two years in Bangkok being treated for various ailments and finally passing away at 97.

Within moments, cell phones began to ring and stirred hearts and minds to an unusual awakening here in Sangkhla and in the Mon community in general. The moment I entered the office my students informed me of this news. Mon websites, lacking the technical abilities available in more developed areas, were flooded with news flashes. Proceeding with class felt unnatural really, and an impromptu lesson based on one of the many news flashes about Uttama dictated our day. The usual cheer and vigor of my office was replaced with a general awkwardness, and a welling-up of tears in the backs of my students eyes, causing two students to break down and let drops cover their faces in the middle of a vocab review.

Prior to resuming class after the 12-1 lunch hour, one office staffer called the students together with a voice of urgency. She spoke rapidly in Mon and the students began clapping and yipping excitedly in their adorable method of expressing joy. "The monk's corpse is coming here!!" one student beamed much in the way one replies when granted a pony, or being called down to the contestant area on The Price is Right, the earlier odd expression wiped from her face (note: we had just learned corpse earlier in the day and the proper use of the word is still a bit abstract).

What followed was excited blabber about viewing a monk's "corpse" and a general giddiness that caused no one to fall asleep despite the 100 degree weather and grammar review which followed.

We then loaded into a car, crowding into the flatbed of a huge silver vehicle and travelling Mon-style (crouching with our flip-flops under us so as not to dirty the rears of our sarongs) and hauling over to the Mon side of town. We unloaded and entered a scene I've grown steadily more accustomed to here in borderville: endless waiting in the heat with absolutely no diversion or productive activity to occupy our time. We heard Uttama's "convoy" would be approaching in an hour so we twiddled thumbs, bullshitted about the innumerable boyfriends we all have waiting to share their undying love with us, and threw rocks at the stray dogs looking for scrap food, only to then be scolded by me, the sole animal rights advocate in all of Sangkhla.

After much crouching and reminding myself not to smell the candles or incense occupying my hand (so as not to steal a wiff before offering these things to Uttama's body-- a true sin), the funeral procession passed on by. It was similar to what are used to in America: a long line of cars, lights on, speeding down the street. The main difference were the endless people lining the street, clad in their white shirts and red sarongs (the true Mon "suit"), kneeling and holding their hands in prayer-position before them.

The strange sense of what it must feel like to lose a role model or parent accompanied us still as we then climbed the sweaty hill on our way up to the Mon monastery, Uttama's creation and place of residence for years. He had come to Thailand in 1956, you see, during the civil war when there was much strife between the ethnic minorities and the Burmese (which has persisted to this day). Through his amazing kindness, wisdom and powers, Uttama gained the trust, friendship and loyalty of numerous folk, among them the Thai King. Through a remarkable agreement the King/ Thai authorities/ the grace of g-d created a legal means for Uttama to establish a place of refuge for the Mon refugees, persecuted and oppressed by Burma's military regime until the present day. What started as a community of hundreds blossomed to thousands and now has created the beautiful, vibrant cultural center that is Sangkhlaburi, a slice of a (mostly) peaceful Burma here in Thailand. Uttama even secured land rights for his people after his death, and access to identity cards for those who fled persecution in Burma through initial illegal means.

The masses of people we trekked with to the temple were greater than any I had seen before. Suddenly this town where I seem to recognize every face became strange and new. It dawned on me that most of these new souls kept generally to their own homes for fear of Thai police and military, most likely due to their illegal status. It was remarkable to see the true population of Sangkhla come out in droves, all slapped with a face of confusion, excitement, deep mourning, and celebration rolled into one.

We dropped our shoes at the pagoda doors and proceeded into a sweaty, crowded monastery interior. Police officers attempted to bring order to the masses through a high-tech hand-holding formation (note: sarcasm), but we slipped through their grasps to come face to body with Uttama, pouring scented water before him and donating the candles and incense which we earlier turned over and over in our palms and had since absorbed sweat, dirt and emotions.

Uttama's body was the second dead person I had ever seen in real life, the first being my own grandmother. Like her, he lay in a strange and peaceful stillness, belly protruding, lips the very same color as the rest of his skin. My moment in front of this man I had heard so much about (really, SO much) was brief, and I wished I could have had a true interaction with him. His kindness and peacebuilding savvy seemed above this world, and many believe it was...

As I walked away from Uttama's body and thus the crowd that accompanied it, I felt a deep debt to this man. Unreligious in many ways, for the first time, I turned, kneeled, and sincerely prayed to this man in the true Buddhist style. It felt right and real to BOW to this person, to put my hands before me in prayer, to touch the ground with my forehead. I closed my eyes and I thought-- rushing thoughts darting through my brain like small bugs in front of a street lamp on a summer night-- how lucky I am right now to be exposed to the people I am, how lucky I am to be fulfilling such an incredible chapter in my life, how lucky my students are to have a place to come to safely outside of the cage that is Burma, how lucky my one student who has a Thai ID card is to have the opportunity a flimsy, 2 by 4 inch piece of paper can yield-- and how this all was possible because of this one body before me.

And tomorrow brings another day, another heat spell, another grammar lesson, another plateful of fried rice for breakfast. It will all almost be the same. Somewhere, though, there will be a sneaking sense of discomfort and confusion, of sadness and loss, of happiness and thankfulness for his existence in the first place.

Thank you Uttama.

Country Check

Last night I experienced something I have never encountered in my time in Sangkhlaburi thus far: a journey into Thailand.

Wait a tic, Laura, I thought you were in Thailand.

Well, yes, friend, of course I am physically in Thailand, but the truth of the matter is that in this place called a border, the lines are a fuzzfest—while they may create a clear line on land, they zigzag across the minds and souls of all those who inhabit them, and in this case, spill the energy and light of Burma onto what is officially “Thai” land.

Needless to say, my time here in a communal living setting with members of the Mon ethnic group—during which I am surrounded by Mon language, dress, dance, smells, sights, foods, stories of Burma—I feel much closer to the rogue state of Myanmar than Thailand. Indeed, when I venture to Bangkok or nearby Kanchanaburi, I feel immersed in a cultural exhange, and a tourist hat gets shoved over the short curling hairs populating my head.

A friend invited me and some other cool foreign pals along on a houseboat party, quite a novelty for me, but a common way to celebrate a joyous occasion here in Sangkhla with this gorgeous lake as a backdrop to everyday life. The houseboat party involves literally renting out a floating wooden structure which serves as both a house (with beds, bathroom, kitchen are, living room – with a sweet karaoke sound system and TV of course) and a boat (it sits atop the water and will not sink despite jumping up and down). This wooden structure is then hauled out to the middle of the lake by a true boat with a motor (no multiple personalities here), then detached from the motorboat and left to drift any which way until the time when the rental agreement is up. At this time the motorboat drivers will spot you and retrieve you, your friends, and your nasty hangovers by hauling the houseboat back to its dock again. Included in such a rental: water, power, and limitless shuttling of anyone back and forth from the boat in the middle of the lake. All in all, pretty great for the price of $27 for 24 hours.

Anyhow, the occasion for last night’s celebration: high school graduation. Before you go judging my maturity level here in Thailand, allow me to inform you that those in the graduating class ranged from 19-26, a bit unlike the crop of teenagers who are released to the freedoms and excesses of college as is the case in the states.

After convincing a friend to motorbike-shuttle me and pal Carson to the houseboat, we boarded the over-varnished houseboat only to encounter something I hadn’t experienced yet in Sangkhla: a gathering of Thai people. As opposed to the typical “Mongeera Ow” Mon greeting, a forced out a horribly accented Thai greeting, feeling a bit awkward and wondering exactly how I would communicate with these people without a few beers in me. Indeed this crew didn’t speak a lick of English, nor I a lick of Thai. I suddenly felt out of place, not only due to the language, but regarding social norms as well. Would my endlessly hilarious jokes about having tons of boyfriends go over so well in this more cosmopolitan crowd—this crowd without red-beetle-nut stained teeth, rough palms from working in the rice paddy field, or sarong clad lower halves—as they did among my Mon pals?

For the first time in a while I felt like I was in a new environment. So much was different—the concept of pop-culture bursting through the large TV screen, the smoking of cigarettes not rolled from hand, the expensive food we ate, the startlingly vast quantities of beer appearing to emerge from the lake waters, the inability of the Thai people to start a fire for their barbeque (note: I have NEVER seen a Mon person struggle to start a fire), and more and more. Sure, it was a wonderful experience—disarmingly fun, delicious, hilarious to shake it on the dance floor with my ex-pat friends and new Thai amigos (who apparently have mastered “the sprinkler”—who knew?) —yet it was also strange to realize that all this exists in this town where I have now passed four months. What a stark cultural divide.

As we ate passion fruit, which I have never seen a Mon person consume (likely due to price), I felt a stupid sense of pity for my own students and their lack of opportunity to have such a crazy evening. I know the world is the world and there are similarities and differences and they are good and bad and that my dear students are rich in many ways that those with access to money are not, but regardless of this there was this feeling of anger within me at the senselessness of this planet and the rifts that exist between neighbors.

Regardless of the nebulous conclusions and lessons floating around in my head, one thing remains clear: sometimes it takes a houseboat soiree, peppered with Beer Chang and karaoke, to make one realize that after all these months she is indeed not in Thailand—she is living in Burma.

Paper trafficking

Golden Goalposts:

Today I received my first smuggled good.

It came in the form of one of my students holding something mysterious in her armpit and making me swear I would “feed her cake” tomorrow in order to see what it was. When I finally agreed, put off by her initial sketchiness, she indeed produced something quite exciting where I half expected her to pull out a squashed millipede.

Here is what I saw: a small note, folded over and over until it resembled a type of middle school correspondence, where the secrecy of such a thing seems guaranteed the greater the number of creases you are able to put in the abused parchment. The note was stapled shut twice, sort of a professional seal in these parts. It was warm and a bit sweaty from such a long debate with my student during which it enjoyed the friendly environment of her armpit. On the cover it read: “Teacher Laura.”

I opened the note with a combination of excitement and anxiety-- excitement for the mere abnormality of the situation and anxiety for fear this may be a letter from some admirer I hadn’t realized I had—this is how many relationships start here in Monland—lots of subversive correspondence through mysterious notes without a word being stated in person, nor a glance of acknowledgement granted. I exhaled a breath of relief as my eyes darted to the last line and revealed the name of one of my beloved students, now in Burma for distant university.

Here is what it said:

“28.9.06

To

Dear Teacher,

How are you getting by there? Are you ok everything? I hope this letter make you happy and excited and good health. I miss you nearly die you know I look your photo every time as I had got. I’m not fail to give promise the one I gave you. I read [English] every-day at least five mins but sometimes more than half hour.
I’m attending tuition actually not finished yet. I have to go very far from the office and teacher’s houses. I also have to stay here may be a month more. In Oct of 30 start to take examination will finish in Nov 6.
I’m tried to contact you but electricity here is very crazy always doesn’t work.
I never live without you.

With blessing, your loving daughter,
S.K.”

Okay so the content of the thing is not really so scandalous. But it was snuck across the border for yours truly, evading the eyes of the paranoid military regime, the myriad of checkpoints to get from Burma’s exit gate to Thailand’s entrance.

I would also like to draw your attention to such phrases as “I miss you nearly die,” and “I never live without you.” Such utterings of serious affection are common in these parts, and in many ways I see this as positive, despite the clear exaggerations. How often do you get to tell your friends indeed how amazing or beautiful they are without coming across at best as drunk and at worst infatuated? Not too frequently.

Please see also some other highlights of this week:

• Spotting a tarantula in the backyard
• Clear signs of gecko indigestion left around my room, am thinking of sneaking it some immodium
• A student practicing using phrases today and creating a sentence reading, “G.C. [another student], a woman with mold on her head, eats four meals a day.” Please note that there was some confusion between using a “d” and an “e”
• Creating brisket, matzoh ball soup, hummus, and potato pancakes with an electric fry pan and rice cooker on Monday
• Increased open farting around the office. At first I wasn’t sure if this was some cultural divide I hadn’t realized before, where a boisterous gaseous release is a sign of goodwill in Mon culture. After further investigation, however, I realized the farting norms are indeed the same as in the U.S. Apparently it takes a good four months for people to start openly, and rather loudly, admitting they pass gas.
• Discovery of homemade coconut ice cream, the equivalent of three pints equal to $2. Delish.

Alas, it is a Thursday night and thus I am off to make a quiz for tomorrow. Video posting to come in the near future, powerful anecdotes waiting to be shared as well when the time is ripe.

To smurfs, vegetarian hotdogs, and soaking chickpeas for 24-hours before use-

Laura