Recently, it rained in Nongkhao. For two days, a cloud cover buildup of gray impressed a ceiling across the sky, and the familiar smells of earth and grass struck memories of scent. An air of familiarity. I knew it was going to rain. I could smell it.
In the morning hours between 9 and 10, the water finally came. The cumulonimbus dam had been cracked, and in a rush of pressure the walls were breached as cool teardrops dove from sky to ground.
As most teachers were supervising student final exams, I sat by myself in the almost empty administrative office. With the sound of wind and a downpouring drizzle, I walked away from my chair to stand at the railing on an open air walkway. I felt the breeze and watched a dousing of trees and soil.
It must have rained for an hour with small and distant claps of thunder, until reaching a level of satisfaction, the clouds gave way to the sun, and humidity skillfully wielded saturation and discomfort.
These days, my mood, like infrequent surges of dark weather, seems to every so often bounce on the ups and downs of a minority in an exotic land. Culture shock is punctual.
I have copied some music from my iPod to the computer of my host family. This morning, I awoke to the sound of James Taylor, but while so far from home, a familiar song can invoke pensive thoughts and melancholy.
Yesterday marks two months since my departure, and while I know I am doing very well here, I certainly am beginning feel the pendular inconsistencies of emotion associated with infamiliarity. This is why daily I must use my mind to travel, and allow my heart a partitioned role in decision-making. Self-awareness is a fundamental necessity, and a routine mental diagnosis is commonplace in my day-to-day Nongkhao life.
I am in Thailand.
Solo travel carries with it both angels and demons; just as, I assume, group travel bears its own wandering inconsistencies of joy and sorrow. I love this lifestyle, despite the sometimes unsettling reality of my situation; (I am the only white person in this village, and in two weeks I have not shared more than 15 minutes of conversation with another caucasian).
I will keep pushing on though, through the heat and the rain.
For an update, the school term in Nongkhao has ended. I already miss the students, but my time with a good number of them is not yet complete. Beginning on Monday morning, I will be helping with an English camp for two weeks in which twenty to thirty students are expected to attend.
After this... who knows where I will go, or what I will do. I will wait for inspiration.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Nanyang.
A touch on the shoulder can soften a heart.
I have been getting along very well with all of the teachers at Nongkhao, and naturally, in a matter of eight hour days spent with 250 students, rapid Thai, and broken English, I have grown attached to them. I love our conversation through translation and mispronunciation, and of course I appreciate a good game of Patong with Mr. Sirachuch Pandom -- a man who never ceases to make me laugh; his hobby is joking after all.
I do not always hear a connection through language, but I feel it through a hand on my knee as I sit, or a touch on my side as a teacher slips by with a beaming Nongkhao smile. Here I directly experience how an ear deaf to linguistic understanding creates a potent experience.
With the students, I have been just as much of a friend. In fact, now we even share the same style of shoes.
With the students, I have been just as much of a friend. In fact, now we even share the same style of shoes.
This past week, I decided that in order to better connect with students, I should appear as one of them. All Thai students wear uniforms to school. The girls wear black buckled shoes, high white socks with blue heels, and navy skirts topped with a sky blue button down shirt. The boys wear blue button down shirts as well; but with a pair of khaki shorts, high socks, and black or brownish-orange shoes called Nanyang's. After telling PDum and TDum (the husband and wife teacher team that I am staying with in Nongkhao), of my plan to reach out to the students even more, and after receiving their approval, we began a search for a propper fitting shoe.
Our first stop was the department store, but unfortunately my big American feet could not squeeze into their largest size; a 42. So the search continued. Second stop: a small one-room street shop that carried a pair of orange Nanyang's in size 43. I tried them on with my bare feet and after factoring in the thickness of a pair of socks through estimation, I paid 260 Baht and happily carried my new purchase back to Nongkhao.
Every morning at Nongkhao school, the students assemble facing the Thai flag in a seated, cross-legged fashion, until they are asked to rise for the Thai national song; and every morning, along with most of the teachers, I walk directly through this assembly. Now, as I walked into the courtyard, smiles and pointed fingers spread like a fire through their ranks. They pointed at my shoes and laughed, and of course, I laughed in return.
"Beautiful! Beautiful!", they tell me later, pointing aggressively at my new sneakers.
"Same!", I say while pointing at their's.
Everyday, I walk to their tables and sit listening to the tonal sounds of Thai. Patiently, through a smile, gestures, and a mixed bag of Thai words I now know, we spend time with each other. Without a doubt, patience is the most important and needed character trait for helping these students with English. I imagine it would be the same with any foreign language. For almost eight daily hours of time at Nongkhao school, I understand only a fraction of the students lightning fast language, but in the midst of these hours, I see the strong potential of students who want to talk and just like me sit, waiting for fragmented border crossings in the lie of the land between us.
This has been a lesson in patience with a smile.
Friday, February 15, 2008
"English t-shirt?"
[The second in a two part rapid fire.]
At some time around 9:30 AM on February 15th, my traveling friend and I rolled over in our beds to a pounding on the window. "English t-shirt?"
I looked across the room at Billy.
"T-shirts?", he said. "We don't want any t-shirts."
I went back to sleep.
-----------------------------------------------
Five minutes later. Knocking.
"English t------?" the voice said."
Billy rolled over, "Seth, I think she's saying 'English teacher?'" He opened the door. It was a staff member from the Jolly Frog guesthouse.
"Are you Seth... Wyncott? You sent e-mail to school yesterday. Miss Noppawan, she hear to see you now. She been here since 8:00. How soon you be ready?"
"Uh, 30 minutes...?" I said in a questioning yawn.
"No! She has been waiting."
"Ten minutes. I'll be out in ten minutes."
"Okay, I will tell her."
The door closed, and within seconds the fragments of my memory began to reattach.
The previous day, with a compelled feeling in my gut, I sent an e-mail to a Miss Noppawan. I had responded to her single page notice for English teachers needed at a nearby government school, in the rural village of Nongkhao. My e-mail expressed a very small bit about myself and my degree, but moreso did I stress the fact that while unsure if my background would qualify for a position like this, I would still love to see the school and meet the children in Nongkhao.
With my exhaustion from waking early to catch the sunrise, and staying out late the previous night, I had forgotten to check my e-mail for a response and instead drifted off to sleep without the slightest notion that there would be an opening, but while I slept, a same-day response sat in my inbox. Here is the message:
Thank you very much for your interested Nongkhao school.
Yes we need English teacher very much. So it is Ok for you
Sincerely,
This was unexpected. And I certainly did not think that the Jolly Frog staff would find my name in the logbook and come pounding on my window. Yet giving credit where credit is due, I suppose I admire their persistence.
I pulled on my jeans (in the case that this were a professional interview I would need to look nice), while in the same instance I brushed my teeth and wet my hair at the sink. Without much time to think, I walked out the door to breakfast where Miss Noppawan, and Miss Yuparat (a fellow teacher), patiently and properly sat waiting for me at a table in the front.
Miss Noppawan held a copy of my e-mail in her hand, and picking it up as a reference, she looked pleased to meet me and enthusiastic about what I had written. Without a menu I ordered a fresh cup of coffee and an omelette, and after running back to my room for my wallet I soon was sitting in their car on my way to the school at Nongkhao, to meet the class and teach a lesson.
More fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. I smiled in the car, and with a Peace that passes my understanding, waited.
As we drove the scenery changed from city, to rice paddies, to village life until we pulled into the gravel drive at the Nongkhao school. I followed Miss Yuparat and Miss Nongkhao up the cement stairs into the main building where the office doors all hung open, maybe in a spirit of community, but also to allow a small escape from the heat. I was introduced to the assistant director and other staff members, and after checking a test for grammatical errors, I went to meet the class.
I stood in an empty room with Miss Yuparat, two whiteboards connected from end-to-end, two markers, and 30 empty desks. I took a breath and exhaled with puffed cheeks.
A school bell rang.
Thirty desks now slowly filled with thirty heads of deep velvet black hair, thirty school uniforms of yellow and black, and thirty smiling, laughing faces.
Miss Yuparat gave me a brief introduction and then told me to begin. "Tell the students about yourself."
Thirty notebooks opened.
I took a fading marker and wrote, "My name is Seth."
The class read my print in unison, until voices trailed off on the ending TH sound; this I have quickly learned is very difficult for the Thai.
I changed markers and we continued.
"I am from America."
"I live near Chicago."
"It is very cold where I live. We have snow."
"I am the oldest child in my family. I have 4 brothers and 1 sister."
"Some of my hobbies are reading, writing, playing the piano, and biking." (This was a hard one).
"She sells seashells by the seashore."
After 45 minutes, some laughs at my struggles with a Thai tongue-twister, a joke about wanting to buy my jeans, a question if I play football (soccer of course), and a comment that I look like David Beckham, we finished our first session.
After lunch in an outdoor cafeteria with teachers that spoke little English, and 250 students that smiled, shouted "hello hello!", and laughed at the new minority at their school, I met with Miss Yuparat and Miss Noppawan.
"Yes," I told them. "I will commit to teaching for the final two weeks of the term, at least."
They expressed their enthusiasm and thanks, allowed me to use the internet, offered up place for me to stay, and after a meal with Miss Noppawan and her family, I was back at the Jolly Frog by 7:00 PM.
I walked back to my room with joy and thanks, for again His strength is proven far greater than my weak abilities.
I know it will be a challenge. Already, in the first 45 minutes with the class I learned a great deal about intricacies regarding how to write upon the board, how to pronounce, how to check work, and how to praise. Everything is worthy of note. Still, challenges await. It will be interesting establishing myself in a position of leadership in a class where full communication may often be difficult and ages vary from 7 and up. I was warned there are some "naughty" students, but this is to be expected. There is also the question of Eastern and Western philosophies, of teaching and of life. I certainly anticipate learning just as much as the students that over the next two weeks I will teach.
I am not intimidated.
Now I seek to be changed. I am anxious to begin.
Tonight, I move out of my guesthouse, and Monday, I begin.
At some time around 9:30 AM on February 15th, my traveling friend and I rolled over in our beds to a pounding on the window. "English t-shirt?"
I looked across the room at Billy.
"T-shirts?", he said. "We don't want any t-shirts."
I went back to sleep.
-----------------------------------------------
Five minutes later. Knocking.
"English t------?" the voice said."
Billy rolled over, "Seth, I think she's saying 'English teacher?'" He opened the door. It was a staff member from the Jolly Frog guesthouse.
"Are you Seth... Wyncott? You sent e-mail to school yesterday. Miss Noppawan, she hear to see you now. She been here since 8:00. How soon you be ready?"
"Uh, 30 minutes...?" I said in a questioning yawn.
"No! She has been waiting."
"Ten minutes. I'll be out in ten minutes."
"Okay, I will tell her."
The door closed, and within seconds the fragments of my memory began to reattach.
The previous day, with a compelled feeling in my gut, I sent an e-mail to a Miss Noppawan. I had responded to her single page notice for English teachers needed at a nearby government school, in the rural village of Nongkhao. My e-mail expressed a very small bit about myself and my degree, but moreso did I stress the fact that while unsure if my background would qualify for a position like this, I would still love to see the school and meet the children in Nongkhao.
With my exhaustion from waking early to catch the sunrise, and staying out late the previous night, I had forgotten to check my e-mail for a response and instead drifted off to sleep without the slightest notion that there would be an opening, but while I slept, a same-day response sat in my inbox. Here is the message:
Dear Seth Wyncott
Thank you very much for your interested Nongkhao school.
Yes we need English teacher very much. So it is Ok for you
if tomorrow Miss Yupharat will meet you at Jolly Frog. and
bring you to see Nongkhao school and talking about teaching.
She will meet you at 8:00 am. Is it Ok? Please let me know.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Noppawan
This was unexpected. And I certainly did not think that the Jolly Frog staff would find my name in the logbook and come pounding on my window. Yet giving credit where credit is due, I suppose I admire their persistence.
I pulled on my jeans (in the case that this were a professional interview I would need to look nice), while in the same instance I brushed my teeth and wet my hair at the sink. Without much time to think, I walked out the door to breakfast where Miss Noppawan, and Miss Yuparat (a fellow teacher), patiently and properly sat waiting for me at a table in the front.
Miss Noppawan held a copy of my e-mail in her hand, and picking it up as a reference, she looked pleased to meet me and enthusiastic about what I had written. Without a menu I ordered a fresh cup of coffee and an omelette, and after running back to my room for my wallet I soon was sitting in their car on my way to the school at Nongkhao, to meet the class and teach a lesson.
More fragments of memory began to piece themselves together. I smiled in the car, and with a Peace that passes my understanding, waited.
As we drove the scenery changed from city, to rice paddies, to village life until we pulled into the gravel drive at the Nongkhao school. I followed Miss Yuparat and Miss Nongkhao up the cement stairs into the main building where the office doors all hung open, maybe in a spirit of community, but also to allow a small escape from the heat. I was introduced to the assistant director and other staff members, and after checking a test for grammatical errors, I went to meet the class.
I stood in an empty room with Miss Yuparat, two whiteboards connected from end-to-end, two markers, and 30 empty desks. I took a breath and exhaled with puffed cheeks.
A school bell rang.
Thirty desks now slowly filled with thirty heads of deep velvet black hair, thirty school uniforms of yellow and black, and thirty smiling, laughing faces.
Miss Yuparat gave me a brief introduction and then told me to begin. "Tell the students about yourself."
Thirty notebooks opened.
I took a fading marker and wrote, "My name is Seth."
The class read my print in unison, until voices trailed off on the ending TH sound; this I have quickly learned is very difficult for the Thai.
I changed markers and we continued.
"I am from America."
"I live near Chicago."
"It is very cold where I live. We have snow."
"I am the oldest child in my family. I have 4 brothers and 1 sister."
"Some of my hobbies are reading, writing, playing the piano, and biking." (This was a hard one).
"She sells seashells by the seashore."
After 45 minutes, some laughs at my struggles with a Thai tongue-twister, a joke about wanting to buy my jeans, a question if I play football (soccer of course), and a comment that I look like David Beckham, we finished our first session.
After lunch in an outdoor cafeteria with teachers that spoke little English, and 250 students that smiled, shouted "hello hello!", and laughed at the new minority at their school, I met with Miss Yuparat and Miss Noppawan.
"Yes," I told them. "I will commit to teaching for the final two weeks of the term, at least."
They expressed their enthusiasm and thanks, allowed me to use the internet, offered up place for me to stay, and after a meal with Miss Noppawan and her family, I was back at the Jolly Frog by 7:00 PM.
I walked back to my room with joy and thanks, for again His strength is proven far greater than my weak abilities.
I know it will be a challenge. Already, in the first 45 minutes with the class I learned a great deal about intricacies regarding how to write upon the board, how to pronounce, how to check work, and how to praise. Everything is worthy of note. Still, challenges await. It will be interesting establishing myself in a position of leadership in a class where full communication may often be difficult and ages vary from 7 and up. I was warned there are some "naughty" students, but this is to be expected. There is also the question of Eastern and Western philosophies, of teaching and of life. I certainly anticipate learning just as much as the students that over the next two weeks I will teach.
I am not intimidated.
Now I seek to be changed. I am anxious to begin.
Tonight, I move out of my guesthouse, and Monday, I begin.
Coffee is my favorite.
[There has been much to write about in the past two days, and while rapid fire posting in succession is not how I prefer to publish my thoughts, this time will be an exception. Broken into two posts -- here are my observations.]
Yesterday morning I went to take pictures of the sunrise, but enshrouded with clouds, the sun never showed its face.
I woke at 5:10 AM after pressing the snooze on my pocket-size travel alarm (thanks mom), and lethargically but forcefully moved. Rarely do people crack the seal between eyelids in the dark of 5:00 and feel that sleep has reached its needed end. Even if they have learned the robotic response of awakening, the body will still speak in its whispers. Your knees will implore you, your feet will plead with you, your arms will resist you, and your head will sink into the pillow like a stone in quicksand -- only deeper it will settle in. Though with the notion that if I didn't get up then I would surely struggle the following morning, I sat up in and twisted my feet to the floor in a single motion, grabbed my flashlight (thanks dad), and left the room.
As I walked, there was enough light to see the road, but not enough to see the blank shadows that walled and obscured detail on either side.
You may know that Thailand has many stray dogs -- and if you do not, now you do. While I maintained a slow stroll, there were several times in which I heard their low rumbling growls, snarls, and barks; and several times still that sound met reality at my heels. They snapped with nervous aggression while I repeated for comfort, 'they are probably more afraid of me than I am of them', and 'don't run -- walk'.
Well, the fact I am here to write this proves that I was not eaten by frustrated street dogs, nor did I fight them off heroically to save myself (or a small child). I made it to the famed bridge at Kanchanaburi, (Josiah, I'm sure it will not take you long to find the historical significance of this city in Thailand), and the sun never rose. I don't think I captured anything spectacular, but I am still glad I tried.
I like it here in Kanchanaburi, and I will probably stay a few more days (at least...). My guesthouse is called the Jolly Frog and through splitting the cost of a double room, the total comes to only 100 Baht per night. This peaceful place is located right close to the river with a green lawn watered every morning, along with numerous carefully maintained hedges, flowers, and trees. Breakfast is also really good. They have fresh, real, espresso coffee! Yummy indeed.
[I thought I might include a few random pictures, since according to many of you, I rarely post enough (which I suppose you are right in thinking). So here are some randoms with captions included, including a short video of my wonderful bike with a basket, that transported me up, down, and around Kanchanaburi.]
Me.
My Chariot.
A picture of my chariot.
Billy trying to keep warm on our all night bus
from Krabi to Bangkok. Unfortunately, we were sitting
directly beneath the air conditioner!
The Tarutao Broiler. The sand here was extremely hot,
so obviously, Billy had some trouble. Here he is...
sizzlin'.
Yesterday morning I went to take pictures of the sunrise, but enshrouded with clouds, the sun never showed its face.
I woke at 5:10 AM after pressing the snooze on my pocket-size travel alarm (thanks mom), and lethargically but forcefully moved. Rarely do people crack the seal between eyelids in the dark of 5:00 and feel that sleep has reached its needed end. Even if they have learned the robotic response of awakening, the body will still speak in its whispers. Your knees will implore you, your feet will plead with you, your arms will resist you, and your head will sink into the pillow like a stone in quicksand -- only deeper it will settle in. Though with the notion that if I didn't get up then I would surely struggle the following morning, I sat up in and twisted my feet to the floor in a single motion, grabbed my flashlight (thanks dad), and left the room.
As I walked, there was enough light to see the road, but not enough to see the blank shadows that walled and obscured detail on either side.
You may know that Thailand has many stray dogs -- and if you do not, now you do. While I maintained a slow stroll, there were several times in which I heard their low rumbling growls, snarls, and barks; and several times still that sound met reality at my heels. They snapped with nervous aggression while I repeated for comfort, 'they are probably more afraid of me than I am of them', and 'don't run -- walk'.
Well, the fact I am here to write this proves that I was not eaten by frustrated street dogs, nor did I fight them off heroically to save myself (or a small child). I made it to the famed bridge at Kanchanaburi, (Josiah, I'm sure it will not take you long to find the historical significance of this city in Thailand), and the sun never rose. I don't think I captured anything spectacular, but I am still glad I tried.
I like it here in Kanchanaburi, and I will probably stay a few more days (at least...). My guesthouse is called the Jolly Frog and through splitting the cost of a double room, the total comes to only 100 Baht per night. This peaceful place is located right close to the river with a green lawn watered every morning, along with numerous carefully maintained hedges, flowers, and trees. Breakfast is also really good. They have fresh, real, espresso coffee! Yummy indeed.
[I thought I might include a few random pictures, since according to many of you, I rarely post enough (which I suppose you are right in thinking). So here are some randoms with captions included, including a short video of my wonderful bike with a basket, that transported me up, down, and around Kanchanaburi.]
Me.My Chariot.
A picture of my chariot.
Billy trying to keep warm on our all night busfrom Krabi to Bangkok. Unfortunately, we were sitting
directly beneath the air conditioner!
The Tarutao Broiler. The sand here was extremely hot,
so obviously, Billy had some trouble. Here he is...
sizzlin'.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
I don't operate by days, I operate on whims.
After a two nights in Koh Lanta, one night in Pak Bara, and three nights on Koh Tarutao, I am back in Krabi. The past week has been has been full of many discoveries. Not only of a tangible nature, but also discoveries of feelings and challenges.
After traveling with Laura and Billy for the past week, I have learned that while I enjoy company in the course of my journey, I am still somewhat of a solitary wayfarer. In The Dog Fighter by Mark Bojanowski, there is a quote that goes something like this: "a walking man needs no other companion than his thoughts"; (I am reciting this from memory, but since it is one of my favorite quotes, I hope I have not botched it too much).
Unfortunately, I believe a major issue with my recent group travel discoveries, is that some of the attitudes I have seen, have greatly upset me. Again it has been confirmed that too often, rather than allowing the journey to change them, people bring their poor attitudes along for the journey and seek to surround themselves with their comforts.
In Koh Chang, I met a twenty-one year old Kiwi named Ben who had recently been to India, and at the time was finishing up his journey in Thailand. Although our conversation was only for an evening, intuition tells me that he would have been a great companion for the road and as I feel obliged to say, other than Ben, I have not yet found a kindred spirit in my travels.
Reflective of my thought life, my journals have become filled with scribbles and half-formed essays, solitary observations, notes in the margins, and rough sketches and doodles. My mind is always running full tilt, and the blank pages that still exist within the binding of my open book will have a very short life.
On to a wonderful discovery of a tangible nature, I must now tell you in a whisper about Koh Tarutao.
Maybe it is not as much of a secret as it probably was five years ago (therefore somewhat undeserving of my whisper), but our stay on this island was absolutely wonderful. The sand was pristinely white, and the water of perfect temperature. Small fish of silver and black lace coasted through the water right along the beach, dancing between shallow and shallowest. The food is great and monkeys scamper about during the breakfast hours stealing plates and bottles of ketchup; (maybe this isn't so wonderful... but it is humorous at the very least).
Finally, in the darkest part of night, or the newborn hours of the morning, it seemed as if the stars sent their children to the water. The sea was filled with fireflies that tumbled over and under each other in the wake of lightly crashing waves. You could look to the north and see their faint light, and looking to the south, you could see them again.
In awe, I didn't know what to make of these beings. Each quiet aquatic pulse ran over my feet and legs as I stood in one place, and each tiny firefly of the water that careened off my shins lit up with a yellow glow. It was as if the smallest amount of resistance caused them hurt. Stirring the water with a hand must have caused even more alarm, as a host of the creatures were lighted in a dotted flourish that moved with the current of my arm.
They really appeared to have a magical existence, and in this moment I imagined that if I could hear them speaking, it would be a squeak of the highest pitch, and if they were in all the ocean to shout together in unison it would only sound as if a tiny pressure cooker had let out a puff of steam.
[From left to right: Me (duh), Caroline , Billy, Laura, and Mark.
My friends from Malta, Salt Lake City, and Italy.]
After traveling with Laura and Billy for the past week, I have learned that while I enjoy company in the course of my journey, I am still somewhat of a solitary wayfarer. In The Dog Fighter by Mark Bojanowski, there is a quote that goes something like this: "a walking man needs no other companion than his thoughts"; (I am reciting this from memory, but since it is one of my favorite quotes, I hope I have not botched it too much).
Unfortunately, I believe a major issue with my recent group travel discoveries, is that some of the attitudes I have seen, have greatly upset me. Again it has been confirmed that too often, rather than allowing the journey to change them, people bring their poor attitudes along for the journey and seek to surround themselves with their comforts.
In Koh Chang, I met a twenty-one year old Kiwi named Ben who had recently been to India, and at the time was finishing up his journey in Thailand. Although our conversation was only for an evening, intuition tells me that he would have been a great companion for the road and as I feel obliged to say, other than Ben, I have not yet found a kindred spirit in my travels.
Reflective of my thought life, my journals have become filled with scribbles and half-formed essays, solitary observations, notes in the margins, and rough sketches and doodles. My mind is always running full tilt, and the blank pages that still exist within the binding of my open book will have a very short life.
On to a wonderful discovery of a tangible nature, I must now tell you in a whisper about Koh Tarutao.
Maybe it is not as much of a secret as it probably was five years ago (therefore somewhat undeserving of my whisper), but our stay on this island was absolutely wonderful. The sand was pristinely white, and the water of perfect temperature. Small fish of silver and black lace coasted through the water right along the beach, dancing between shallow and shallowest. The food is great and monkeys scamper about during the breakfast hours stealing plates and bottles of ketchup; (maybe this isn't so wonderful... but it is humorous at the very least).
Finally, in the darkest part of night, or the newborn hours of the morning, it seemed as if the stars sent their children to the water. The sea was filled with fireflies that tumbled over and under each other in the wake of lightly crashing waves. You could look to the north and see their faint light, and looking to the south, you could see them again.
In awe, I didn't know what to make of these beings. Each quiet aquatic pulse ran over my feet and legs as I stood in one place, and each tiny firefly of the water that careened off my shins lit up with a yellow glow. It was as if the smallest amount of resistance caused them hurt. Stirring the water with a hand must have caused even more alarm, as a host of the creatures were lighted in a dotted flourish that moved with the current of my arm.
They really appeared to have a magical existence, and in this moment I imagined that if I could hear them speaking, it would be a squeak of the highest pitch, and if they were in all the ocean to shout together in unison it would only sound as if a tiny pressure cooker had let out a puff of steam.
[From left to right: Me (duh), Caroline , Billy, Laura, and Mark.My friends from Malta, Salt Lake City, and Italy.]
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Stepping off the bus (2).
The past few days have been lazily spent in Koh Lanta and Krabi; Krabi being where I am at the moment. Tomorrow, myself, Billy, and our new Italian friend Laura will travel four hours south to Pak Bara. There we will stay the night and by morning catch a three hour ferry to Koh Tarutao.
[Oh yes, I haven't told you yet... my friend Billy (or Tyler, as "Billy" is a nickname from our wildland fire crew) arrived in Bangkok on the 31st and has been traveling with me since. Most likely he will continue to do so until the end of this month. Laura Lenti is an Italian girl that we met at 5:00 AM in Krabi. While we waited for the town to awaken from its slumber and start the ferry service to Koh Lanta, the three of us seemed to hit it off pretty well. Tonight we will all share a two person room on a giant bed, and tomorrow we move on from here. As of now, three travel as one.]
Supposedly one of the last remaining, unspoiled islands in Thailand, Tarutao, is from the sound of it, in a fight to maintain a high level awareness of issues relating to ecotourism. There may possibly be one other resort on the island, but the small amount of accommodation elsewhere is rationed by the Thailand National Park Service and consists of primitive bungalows and housing where the power is shutoff in the evening. I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to hear of practices such as this; where the land is given careful and meticulous attention.
It is depressing to see the severe lack of environmentally sound principles throughout Thailand. The islands can be especially disturbing. Shoebox bungalows and speedily built resorts of shoddy construction surface from the earth like an infestation. Trees are torn up and the land is turned over, yet this is as much a Western issue as it is a Thai issue.
Tourism is a major commodity in Thailand and we, being Westerners, do a large part to create the demand. Though demand does not have to be unethical, in the sense to which I will later refer, more often than not it is.
Knowing that Thailand is an inexpensive destination, many tourists on holiday do not care what they spend or how they spend it, only that they are pampered with comfortable domestic planes, fast boats, big buses, quick taxis, fresh towels, never-ending drinks, fat bellies... (and on it goes). Here, the philosophy seems to often run along these lines: "I am here to relax, so give me what I want when I want it, get out of my way, and I will turn a blind eye to any hazardous impact of my being here."
This attitude is not something alien to the United States. America definitely deserves a certain amount of attention to the lack of sound principle in the care of its own national parks, but in looking at Thailand for the moment, I do not believe that ecosystem education is as readily available here as it is in the states, and therefore the problem of pollution and polluters carries a certain gravity.
I fear that these islands may not be paradise for long. There is a low level of awareness, but I must admit my determination to the idea that it only takes the initiative of one to begin the process of change. Even a spark can start a forest fire.
This thought brings me back to my conversation with Pat in Opononi, and as promised, I must revive onto this page some of the ideas we discussed -- more specifically, the idea of the ecosystem.
It is more of a philosophy, but in the realms of education (Pat has been working as a school teacher), business, art, or any other arena; whether for work or pleasure; whether subconscious or conscious; the laws of cause and effect and always afoot. The New Zealand education system, as well as corporate and private American business, will at their most healthy state, operate under the principles of an ecosystem.
Of equal importance, and worthy of substantial note, is the relationship between two elements: the ecosystem (the ideal organization), and the organism.
An organism lives. It breathes and feels. It responds to stimulation; both positive and negative, and under healthy circumstances, coexists with a variety of other organisms -- both similar and quite different. This is organic diversity.
Like synergy, where the sum of individual parts can become greater than the whole, organisms, which operate under the greater boundary of the ecosystem, will only reach their full potential, or a synergistic level of output, when the individual role is valued. To put it another way, a certain level of equanimity must be in practice.
Each individual role, from janitor to math teacher, from staff accountant to CEO, must have an understanding that their contribution will ultimately affect the health of the ecosystem in which they exist.
Just as education and business can cooperatively, and separately, use this model, the maintenance of a healthy environment also requires a holistic approach in which everyone from the taxi driver to the package tourist understands their role in a greater picture.
Some may say that in today's world it is impossible to find balance and exercise this philosophy on a daily basis, but the question is, should we not try?
[Oh yes, I haven't told you yet... my friend Billy (or Tyler, as "Billy" is a nickname from our wildland fire crew) arrived in Bangkok on the 31st and has been traveling with me since. Most likely he will continue to do so until the end of this month. Laura Lenti is an Italian girl that we met at 5:00 AM in Krabi. While we waited for the town to awaken from its slumber and start the ferry service to Koh Lanta, the three of us seemed to hit it off pretty well. Tonight we will all share a two person room on a giant bed, and tomorrow we move on from here. As of now, three travel as one.]
Supposedly one of the last remaining, unspoiled islands in Thailand, Tarutao, is from the sound of it, in a fight to maintain a high level awareness of issues relating to ecotourism. There may possibly be one other resort on the island, but the small amount of accommodation elsewhere is rationed by the Thailand National Park Service and consists of primitive bungalows and housing where the power is shutoff in the evening. I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to hear of practices such as this; where the land is given careful and meticulous attention.
It is depressing to see the severe lack of environmentally sound principles throughout Thailand. The islands can be especially disturbing. Shoebox bungalows and speedily built resorts of shoddy construction surface from the earth like an infestation. Trees are torn up and the land is turned over, yet this is as much a Western issue as it is a Thai issue.
Tourism is a major commodity in Thailand and we, being Westerners, do a large part to create the demand. Though demand does not have to be unethical, in the sense to which I will later refer, more often than not it is.
Knowing that Thailand is an inexpensive destination, many tourists on holiday do not care what they spend or how they spend it, only that they are pampered with comfortable domestic planes, fast boats, big buses, quick taxis, fresh towels, never-ending drinks, fat bellies... (and on it goes). Here, the philosophy seems to often run along these lines: "I am here to relax, so give me what I want when I want it, get out of my way, and I will turn a blind eye to any hazardous impact of my being here."
This attitude is not something alien to the United States. America definitely deserves a certain amount of attention to the lack of sound principle in the care of its own national parks, but in looking at Thailand for the moment, I do not believe that ecosystem education is as readily available here as it is in the states, and therefore the problem of pollution and polluters carries a certain gravity.
I fear that these islands may not be paradise for long. There is a low level of awareness, but I must admit my determination to the idea that it only takes the initiative of one to begin the process of change. Even a spark can start a forest fire.
This thought brings me back to my conversation with Pat in Opononi, and as promised, I must revive onto this page some of the ideas we discussed -- more specifically, the idea of the ecosystem.
It is more of a philosophy, but in the realms of education (Pat has been working as a school teacher), business, art, or any other arena; whether for work or pleasure; whether subconscious or conscious; the laws of cause and effect and always afoot. The New Zealand education system, as well as corporate and private American business, will at their most healthy state, operate under the principles of an ecosystem.
Of equal importance, and worthy of substantial note, is the relationship between two elements: the ecosystem (the ideal organization), and the organism.
An organism lives. It breathes and feels. It responds to stimulation; both positive and negative, and under healthy circumstances, coexists with a variety of other organisms -- both similar and quite different. This is organic diversity.
Like synergy, where the sum of individual parts can become greater than the whole, organisms, which operate under the greater boundary of the ecosystem, will only reach their full potential, or a synergistic level of output, when the individual role is valued. To put it another way, a certain level of equanimity must be in practice.
Each individual role, from janitor to math teacher, from staff accountant to CEO, must have an understanding that their contribution will ultimately affect the health of the ecosystem in which they exist.
Just as education and business can cooperatively, and separately, use this model, the maintenance of a healthy environment also requires a holistic approach in which everyone from the taxi driver to the package tourist understands their role in a greater picture.
Some may say that in today's world it is impossible to find balance and exercise this philosophy on a daily basis, but the question is, should we not try?
Friday, February 1, 2008
Broken English with taxi drivers.
My good friend Missy Williams recently sent me a message posing this question: "does this trip make the world seem larger and you more sublime, or smaller and more connected with God and other people?"
In a roundabout way, here is my answer.
About a week ago, just before I dozed in and out of consciousness with a slightly twisted neck on an all night bus to Koh Chang, I decided to catch a taxi to Ekamai bus station. The Thai were all too eager to help, and I received a host of different answers as to which local bus would take me directly to the bus station. Some said, take 511, others said take the 503 to Victory Monument and then hop on the 509. After receiving another variation of inner-city bus route advice, I stood on the sidewalk and I looked at my watch; it was 9:00 PM. Night had set in. I looked at some buses as they flew by with some of their occupants holding handkerchiefs over their mouths to filter the polluted smoke that poured out of exhaust pipes. In this moment I added two, no three strenuous factors together (a multiplicity of bus numbers + endless bus routes + final destinations in Thai writing + and pollution) -- that's four. On top of my exhaustion (five), I decided to get a cab.
After some price negotiation, by 10:00 I tossed my bag into the back seat and following it, I dropped in myself. My driver with long fingernails and long hair pinned back on his head turned to me and held a glossy folded brochure up to my face. "Which one do you want?" he asked me, pointing to naked Thai girls in the dim light. "None" I told him, "lets go to Ekamai." He laughed, "None huh? OK. Now we go to Ekamai."
As we drove to the other side of the city, he asked me the usual questions. Where are you from?, How long have been in Thailand?, How long are you on holiday? Where are you staying?, and Where are you going? I answered most of them, and then, as I thought was the polite thing to do, tried to ask him some questions.
Its interesting to note how much my English changes from person-to-person. If I were to speak with you, who are reading this, I probably would converse with you similarly (though slightly different) to how I am writing now. You would understand every word, and even in the rare chance that I would use an uncommon word, I am sure with logic you would fill in the gaps with your understanding of context. Talking in broken, or sometimes shattered English, is very different. Sometimes in my Western mind, I hear myself sounding like a child, but the reality of the situation is that there is no other way to communicate. You must simplify.
"How long... you work... in... taxi?"
He looks at me puzzled.
"How long you drive?"
(You see what I mean?)
After a few minutes, I learn that he has been driving the taxi for three years, but this isn't his taxi he tells me. For a second I am concerned. "I am driving it for a friend," he says. "My friend had to go home."
Somehow, I am back at ease.
Born and raised in Bangkok, he seems to know the city pretty well as he points out parks and markets that I inquire about as we pass them in the dark. It doesn't sound like he ever has a holiday. I mention some places in Thailand, asking him if he's been there. When he laughes and shakes his head no, I begin to feel.
Stuck in a traffic jam of motorbikes, trucks, cars, and buses, I sit quietly in the back and try to face the reality of what he has just told me. He has never been outside of Thailand and probably never will. His pay is meager -- and that is stretching it.
I have enough money in my pocket to buy him a bus ticket out of Bangkok. I have enough money in my wallet to send him out of Thailand, but even if I offered, I doubt he would ever believe me or ever go. This is his work. This is his life.
Just like the girl who works in the internet cafe six days a week, or the one who runs back and forth between restaurant tables with farangs over-bearingly waiting their bill, many people here in Thailand will probably never leave, because the facts are, many will never have the opportunity.
I am sure that much is the same in other parts of the world that sooner, rather than later, I will reach through my journey. Yet even if I were able to visit all these places, I would never even scratch the surface of understanding the truth.
To answer the question, I don't feel more sublime, but the world does seem much larger. There are privileged few who get to travel and run from country to country just like they are running from one backyard to the next, but I am in the minority.
In a roundabout way, here is my answer.
About a week ago, just before I dozed in and out of consciousness with a slightly twisted neck on an all night bus to Koh Chang, I decided to catch a taxi to Ekamai bus station. The Thai were all too eager to help, and I received a host of different answers as to which local bus would take me directly to the bus station. Some said, take 511, others said take the 503 to Victory Monument and then hop on the 509. After receiving another variation of inner-city bus route advice, I stood on the sidewalk and I looked at my watch; it was 9:00 PM. Night had set in. I looked at some buses as they flew by with some of their occupants holding handkerchiefs over their mouths to filter the polluted smoke that poured out of exhaust pipes. In this moment I added two, no three strenuous factors together (a multiplicity of bus numbers + endless bus routes + final destinations in Thai writing + and pollution) -- that's four. On top of my exhaustion (five), I decided to get a cab.
After some price negotiation, by 10:00 I tossed my bag into the back seat and following it, I dropped in myself. My driver with long fingernails and long hair pinned back on his head turned to me and held a glossy folded brochure up to my face. "Which one do you want?" he asked me, pointing to naked Thai girls in the dim light. "None" I told him, "lets go to Ekamai." He laughed, "None huh? OK. Now we go to Ekamai."
As we drove to the other side of the city, he asked me the usual questions. Where are you from?, How long have been in Thailand?, How long are you on holiday? Where are you staying?, and Where are you going? I answered most of them, and then, as I thought was the polite thing to do, tried to ask him some questions.
Its interesting to note how much my English changes from person-to-person. If I were to speak with you, who are reading this, I probably would converse with you similarly (though slightly different) to how I am writing now. You would understand every word, and even in the rare chance that I would use an uncommon word, I am sure with logic you would fill in the gaps with your understanding of context. Talking in broken, or sometimes shattered English, is very different. Sometimes in my Western mind, I hear myself sounding like a child, but the reality of the situation is that there is no other way to communicate. You must simplify.
"How long... you work... in... taxi?"
He looks at me puzzled.
"How long you drive?"
(You see what I mean?)
After a few minutes, I learn that he has been driving the taxi for three years, but this isn't his taxi he tells me. For a second I am concerned. "I am driving it for a friend," he says. "My friend had to go home."
Somehow, I am back at ease.
Born and raised in Bangkok, he seems to know the city pretty well as he points out parks and markets that I inquire about as we pass them in the dark. It doesn't sound like he ever has a holiday. I mention some places in Thailand, asking him if he's been there. When he laughes and shakes his head no, I begin to feel.
Stuck in a traffic jam of motorbikes, trucks, cars, and buses, I sit quietly in the back and try to face the reality of what he has just told me. He has never been outside of Thailand and probably never will. His pay is meager -- and that is stretching it.
I have enough money in my pocket to buy him a bus ticket out of Bangkok. I have enough money in my wallet to send him out of Thailand, but even if I offered, I doubt he would ever believe me or ever go. This is his work. This is his life.
Just like the girl who works in the internet cafe six days a week, or the one who runs back and forth between restaurant tables with farangs over-bearingly waiting their bill, many people here in Thailand will probably never leave, because the facts are, many will never have the opportunity.
I am sure that much is the same in other parts of the world that sooner, rather than later, I will reach through my journey. Yet even if I were able to visit all these places, I would never even scratch the surface of understanding the truth.
To answer the question, I don't feel more sublime, but the world does seem much larger. There are privileged few who get to travel and run from country to country just like they are running from one backyard to the next, but I am in the minority.
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