Reason #579 Work is Not Getting Done in the Office

Some days, it’s best just to roll with the Sanuk and give up on any aspirations of diligently marking grammar essays. Today appears to be one of those days.

The school secretary is dancing around in the trendy ‘dinosaur foot shoes,’ and a proportion of the foreign teachers are discussing purchasing them to wear to teach, followed by wearing them out to the bar on Friday after school. Oh, the power of silly trends and crowds.

Speaking of silly trends and crowds, planking.
(I believe all of you in North America are scratching your heads. Am I correct? No really I want to know where this has spread, leave me a comment.)

What on earth is it you ask? Allow me to outsource my explanation:
The Australian hub bub. And in Thailand, warning teens. Remembering last year’s protests: Article. Photo.

For those of you that won’t click through those links, planking is: laying prostrate, arms and legs straight against ones body in a creative or odd location, having ones picture taken and uploading it to social media.

Which is all well and good stupid teenage fun until an Australian guy falls off a building and dies, or people lay around the sidewalk to commemorate last year’s red shirt protests, which IMHO is just an invitation to further trouble this year as the July 3 election day looms. Sure, it’s a form of peaceful protest. Personally, I’m not gonna protest anything lying down, but they didn’t ask me.

Also, call me old and no fun for being so critical. I don’t really care about this charge any more. Oh don’t be so serious, na. Well, I’ll pick and choose my serious vs my sanuk thank you very much.

On the note of age, not that this is news: I have realized I’m going to be told I look like a baby every day of my life until I am 60. Frequently multiple times a day. I wonder if I’ll ever have to convince another Immigration bureau the age listed on my passport is valid.

But back to the distractions and sanuk of the office, where the Irishman is teaching the Thai secretary a Jersey accent, we’re all negotiating who gets to use the available internet jacks as there are not enough to go around, and I am incrementally increasing the volume of the Super Junior song I am currently listening to on youtube to polish this draft off before another round of ninth grade Writing class.

Changing of the Guard, or Who’s in Charge here anyway?

So, my travel woes…that story will have to wait until it’s closer to resolved, especially as it’s gotten hairy enough to be beyond what you should blog. I really hope it doesn’t come to small claims court, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility right now.
Whatever, I’m back. So let’s get back to our narrative and I’ll worry about that mess.

The Dutch, British, and two Canadian teachers have left the school, some as previously mentioned.
Our office now consists of: The High Strung American (hey, I’m working on it), The Filipino, The German, The South African, two (soon to be three) Thai teachers, The Boss Lady, an Irishman and an Aussie.
The new guys ask me all sorts of questions. As if I have some sort of authority or clue around here. I think it’s cute they think I might have any answers for them. My best advice for the Aussie, at a loss for teaching a computer program he doesn’t know, was “just don’t bang your head into the wall too much.” I’m thankful I don’t have to teach computers, for lots of reasons, enough that we can skip that drama.
Believe it or not I’ve learned to roll with it a little bit (when it doesn’t involve my credit card), when it comes to teaching or ‘working’ around here; though it is so much easier when all I have to worry about is the chalkboard and not the technology. I can adapt a class that isn’t reliant on technology that is lacking.

Our schedules have been rearranged a lot this semester, as per an intraschool political battle and the fact that one too many foreign English teachers has been hired. As such, to appease the ‘Thai side,’ (non-English immersion) side of the school, a couple of us have classes on the Thai side now. And in order for us all to have a full teaching load, in student contact hours as per our contract, we have white teachers assisting white teachers. Oh sorry, should I say foreigner? It’s same same really. Well...I’m not getting started on that one right now.
This is, apparently, all the more ironic because a few years back there was a big stink and all assistant teachers were kicked out of English Program.
I’d say a good summary here is reverse, reverse!
As such, with dual teachers it’s sometimes difficult to tell who’s in charge of a class. This is slowly getting ironed out, but in the meantime, too many cooks in the kitchen. When things are settled, having an assistant teacher can be a blessing; so far here it’s almost been more of a hindrance everything is so up in the air. The classrooms are small enough the ‘assistant’ has to work just to stay out of the way. And as is common to all human interaction, some teacher pairs work better than others. That’s as far as I’m going with that.

The new computer lab has materialized. My desk is still here! We have teacher’s computers (this is really quite fancy), we even have internet that is mostly functional! Though not enough jacks for every teacher to be online at once. Oh, foresight. The water hasn’t even stopped working yet this semester! The ‘library’ even has some books in it now. As my colleague said “well it’s a room with books in it, let’s not get carried away here,” when I got excited about the books, they are mostly text books in boxes. It does, to its credit, have computers (that are set up and work!). I wonder how long before they go viral.

Some other happenings: food poisoning again, beat it back with a stick this time. Now it’s official, now I am back in Thailand. Getting charged double at the hospital. We’ll call this the white person tax. But really? The hospital? I didn’t even realize it until I discussed it with a colleague who nearly spewed his beverage across the table, (and it was still a bargain compared to even stateside minute clinic prices), but come on. Christian hospital. Of course. I know I make four times the average Thai worker. But we pay double and triple when things like this occur.
I have a Thai Social Card! Therefore, I now have Thai health insurance. Almost. Is that sorted yet? No of course not. Though they will likely, eventually, reimburse me for half of my latest hospital bill, the amount it should have cost. And with the Thai Social Card, this overcharge situation shouldn’t happen in the future.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. Why? Is the most pointless question you’ll ever ask in Thailand. A much more suitable question is Ok, so now what? And be prepared for at least three changes. And the answer is probably not actually the answer. Just go with it, well, most of the time. Pick your battles wisely.

Things I enjoy: the restaurant where I’ve gotten breakfast a couple of times before work, called Jenny restaurant. Not because of my patronage.
Thinking to myself, “How many of my friends rode to work on a motorbike taxi today? In a skirt? Not side saddle? In the RAIN???” Probably not many even among my friends here. Admittedly sometimes I do ride side saddle now. If I were Catholic I’d cross myself before doing this.

Having decent headphones and making youtube, twitter, facebook and blog writing look like work. Well at least until I get 20 tabs open and realize what a waste of time THAT is. How to be as unproductive as possible: log in to twitter and start reading all of the links your friends have shared. Great for looking busy though. Learned some cool stuff. Skype has been blocked again, and the office is much more populated now any way. Haven’t bothered attempting to install messenger. GoogleChat works :-).
More than ever I worry I’m going to be too lazy for a non-Thai workload after all this, though I’m starting my first round of distance graduate work in two weeks and I’m certainly not lacking for outside projects.

I would beat myself over the head trying to lesson plan, but, it would appear the basic lesson plan is ‘plow through as much of the grammar book/writing book/reading book as possible.’ And while that seems like pretty low level teaching, as long as the schedule is still all loosey goosey and I’m just now back to solid food, I’m just rolling with it. Some of the book lessons aren’t too bad. Some of them might as well be in Greek. Meh. I have fall backs. I can’t really call them plans, like I said, or I suppose quote, “I’m making this up as I go.” I still don’t have a talking dragon side kick, OR a robot. Lame.

Flying By the Seat of My Pants

So, despite the fact that we now have a trend of “how things go wrong” going on this blog, which I’m not sure I like, I’d at least like my blunders to serve as a warning to others. So, despite the fact that your travel agent was recommended by the owner of your (formerly) favorite Thai restaurant, check with the Better Business Bureau.

I was going to wait and publish a travel woes account once this is resolved. But, seeing as that is going to take a long, long, long time, here is what I composed while stuck overnight in LAX getting from Bangkok to Indianapolis, an entry on the return trip later.

So I said I wanted to spend some time flying by the seat of my pants. Well yet again, my bad, that came true too. I didn’t mean LITERALLY!
Have you ever shown up at the airport only to be told you don’t exist in the computer? Let me tell you that’s a great feeling. (Though I suppose not as bad as realizing you have someone else’s passport – that was an interesting story.)
So what you’re saying is, I have four different planes to catch, in three different countries, but I’m not in the computer? You don’t even have a record of me paying for the flight here in October, or of my having been on it? Oh really? Well this is peachy.
When you’ve flown standby from Asia to North America, then, THEN you can say you’ve flown by the seat of your pants. With the assistance of plastic money and many patient airline workers, but nonetheless.
They turned the guy after me away in Bangkok. They told me if I was unable to standby on this flight I would have to wait 7 days to fly. A travel agent returning from vacation on the same flight told me “this type of ticket doesn’t exist any more, maybe it’s only in Asia.” Well there you have it, I still don’t exist!
Definitely gate crashing at its finest when I was permitted through Immigration and security and allowed to board.

In the Taipei airport, six months seems to have brought many changes. Public Desktops with free wifi, public iPads with free wifi, a reading library – man I could get used to this. Though my laptop would not load the free wifi network (the guy next to me had no problems. Is this yet another computer demon? I’m beginning to suspect I have not appeased the Thai spirits of my apartment complex). But, public desktop to update facebook since phone is not currently an option. And because I’m addicted to facebook.

In LA, my person and my baggage are in one piece. Well, crossing the Pacific is more than half the battle, right? I’m in North America! The EVA airline agent is very helpful. The agent at American Airlines does his best to no avail, but he sends me to United. They are patient with me though they’ve got nothing, and find a flight on US Airways. They write down the flight numbers and send me to US Airways. A nice security guard helps me get to the desk, which is actually closed but still attended, and I get a ticket for tomorrow morning. Ok, I can get home.
The same security guard walks me to the USO, where she helps attempt to talk me in, but no go. They do however allow me to check internet/make a couple of phone calls, try and secure lodging (a no-go with my stranded passenger airline voucher or otherwise, it’s Friday night in LA) and send me on my way with a bottle of water, a free luggage cart and directions to the only terminal where food service is still running.
At LAX International next to the McDonald’s, where I sit here and type connected to the Samsung charging station, foiled by the Wifi that is but is not, I am spending the night. I suppose this is a traveler’s right of passage. Thank goodness for the USO helping me out, the security guard, the EVA agents and the other various agents here that tried their best until I got a flight plan. Apparently I have some crazy lucky travel karma for making it across the Pacific Ocean in such circumstances. I think I may have used up my travel karma for the month, possibly longer.

In a few hours I will embark across the country – to North Carolina! It’s all that was left. I will have a brief layover, and in the early evening I will be back home again in Indiana. Phew. Not outta the woods yet, travel Odyssey indeed. I’m not even sure how much time in transit this will work out to be.

My travel agent and I shall be having words. I have a basic idea of where to start to rectify this matter, though it’ll have to wait until business hours Monday. An email was already sent while in Taipei. I appreciate any advice, but unless you’ve got a magic wand, I’ve got this. And I shall not be using this travel agency ever again.

Now that I’m ticketed, we can end on a laugh! A few travel vignettes for you:
Maternal Indian: “You look like baby!”
80-year-old British guy: “Oh! You’re American!” *pause* “So how do you think Obama’s doing?”
Friendly Filipina: “You are single? Enjoy it. We don’t have divorce in Philippines.” Canadian backpacker chick: “When I was in Nepal I got so excited when I had a bowel movement. It was like wow; I forgot what it looked like! I think everyone knows Canadians are a little loopy, living in our igloos and dancing around our fires and stuff.”

The things you learn. Oh, but there is more. So much more.

Why I Hate Taxis

I’ve had some misgivings about this post, nay, downright embarrassment about even sharing this in full as best I can. Since this incident occurred, I’ve found myself unable to share the story in full more than once or twice. I’ve thought no, I can’t talk about that; I can’t blog that, I shouldn’t say that…

But it has also occurred to me that if I’m too chicken to share this story, how can I hope to speak for women who have been through much, much worse? I performed in the Vagina Monologues for crying out loud, and I’m performing in Memory, Monologue, Rant and a Prayer in early June. If I’m too embarrassed to talk about the time a taxi driver decided to hold my hand and suggest we get it on and my frantic evaluations of how to get out of the situation safely, what does that say for where women stand today?

Deep breathes. So here goes.

I was running late to meet a friend for coffee/tea what have you and conversation, and I had gotten caught up talking to another friend I ran into which put me extra late. I planned to grab a motorbike taxi, however upon examining the two moto spots near me, they were both deserted. I looked to the sky. Dark. Thunder. Storm coming. I could hoof it to the boat, but I’m unsure the sky will hold, and I’ll have to walk from the boat as well. Taxis were good shelter from the water fighting of Songkran (though I was traveling with a friend in that case), why not, just take a taxi.

Allow me to interject a few things here. First and foremost, that I’m still naïvely using my American logic. Silly me.
In my first two weeks here, I sat in the back of a taxi and was hit on and given the guys’ phone number. This incident was more endearing than irritating as it was the first and involved no inappropriate touching, just a lot of ill-advised I love you’s, a fare discount and a phone number on a slip of paper. As such, the idea of sitting in the back of the taxi or the front of the taxi being a factor in such matters did not occur to me. This happens to me one way or another.
The back seats of taxis do not have seatbelts. Being a silly American girl, I had taken to sitting in the front in order to have a seatbelt. Right. My mistake, as we’ll soon see.

Back to our story. I stood at the side of the road and hailed a taxi, I refuse to patronize the guys parked near my soi that never leave me alone. Their loss. I hail a pink cab, ask about my destination (though it’s illegal to refuse passengers, it happens all the time, I have particularly notorious luck in this matter as well), hop in the front seat and buckle my seatbelt.

We get driving and things seem fine at first. The rain comes, as expected. He asks my age, which nearly every Thai person asks for their age-structured social order, so I’m not phased. Then he starts with really bad broken English to ask if I have a boyfriend. Except he basically asks if there is a man I’m having relations with, complete with a lovely hand gesture and ‘squeaky, squeaky’ sound effects. Then he asks me if I have a baby. He asks this several times. “You, baby?” Uh dude, no. No baby. No. I already said no. Weirdo.

The rain is getting heavier, and as is typical of Bangkok, rain means everyone forgets how to drive and the city becomes a near parking lot. But we’re headed the right way, what else can you do?

We talk about the Thai word for rain, and wind, and I teach him the English words. Or attempt to any way. I say I’m a teacher. And then things start to get a little weird.

I’m a bit fuzzy on the full details now, I meant to write this down sooner. But basically he starts suggesting I be his boyfriend, in Thai, and really terrible broken English that doesn’t even have the same meaning. He starts telling me he loves me, and he wants me to say it back. I do the awkward smile, giggle, pretend you don’t understand through the language barrier defense. Considering I see his temper just below the surface, the benign clueless card seems most pertinent to play.

He wants my phone number. He again makes his lovely hand gesture, this time he says “You, me, squeaky squeaky” as he makes the crude hand rendition. Oh joy. I lost count of how many times he did this during the rest of the ride.

I assess the situation. We’ve got three lanes of traffic. We’re in the middle lane. Monsoon season has come early, this is a real doozy. This guy is being inappropriate, but he’s also operating the motor vehicle I’m in and I can sense his temper. If I get out of the cab, which is an option, I’m stepping into traffic and monsoon. Ok. Deep breathes, keep playing the clueless “I don’t understand what you mean” card. Get to your destination or some place you won’t step out into traffic and possibly get hit.

The rain gets worse, the traffic gets worse, my situation in the cab gets worse.
He starts reaching, grabbing and holding my hand.
Internal dialogue: You are kidding me. This is not really happening. WTF. Well, this will be an interesting story. Now how do I get out? How do I keep from pissing this guy off?

He keeps asking “No problem? No problem?” But just like his insistent and unyielding attempts to get me to say I love you, and be his girlfriend, and ‘squeaky, squeaky,’ he doesn’t take awkward giggle/demure attempt at reclaiming hand or no for an answer.

I’m constantly reassessing the situation but this awful scenario is just on repeat as the storm rages outside. “No problem? Squeaky squeaky? You, me? Something in Thai, frustrated huffing.

He wants my phone number. I tell him actually, my phone was just stolen, this is a friend’s, so I don’t have a new number yet. Phew. He gets a piece of paper and writes his phone number and name on it. Well, he gets me to write it. He gets me to promise over and over that I will call him. He’s still got my hand. I’ve wrestled it away once or twice, if I’m more forceful I think this guys’ gonna blow his top. He’s already on the verge of that. He’s still driving.

Internal dialogue: Ok, this is really inappropriate, this is not cool. The bastard has his report me placard turned backwards too! ARG! I don’t even know how to go about reporting him, nor do I have much faith in the Thai authorities, but bastard! Also it would blow my “my phone was stolen I don’t have a number to give you” to whip out a phone. Ok, so he already saw it and I told him it was my friend’s phone. Still, I should pretend I don’t know how to use it. Who would I call right now any way? I don’t have anyone’s number. I’m not sure why this is logical. This situation sucks. Wait…he’s not even going the right way. Where are we going? Oh crap I have bigger problems – and if I bail out now, which I am very close to doing, in the middle of moving traffic and torrential rain, will I be able to get another taxi to get some place safe? Keep from getting hit by a car? He’s very close to crossed that line. And then.

He takes my hand and puts it on his leg. I’m just gonna jump out of this damn cab. Oh buddy, if we were stationary right now, you are so close to my last straw, you don’t even have another millimeter to spare…He’s just started petting my arm, and locking his fingers around mine. The nail of his pinky index finger is about an inch long. He shows it off, he’s proud of it. I feel like vomiting. He’s motioning me to kiss him on the cheek. He’s drawing hearts on the steering wheel with his fingers. I reassess the rain and traffic for the umpteenth time. No, this still doesn’t justify the odds of getting hit by a car in our current traffic pattern. And if I smack him we’ll swerve…

Ok. He’s driving the right way now, a really long asinine I want to spend time with you way, but we’re going to my destination. The broken record of inappropriate has not let up. Get me out. Get me out. Get me out. He asks if I’m going shopping. Yes, sure, I’m going shopping. It’s none of his goddamn business, but it’s an easy enough ‘yes’ answer. He wants to go shopping with me. Could this get any more surreal? I insist no. He actually listens to that. I tell him I’m late to meet a friend. A girl. This fact, that I’m meeting a female, keeps him at bay. He continues to make me promise to call. He finally drops me off a ways off from my destination; he brought me the wrong way around. He knocks at least 50 baht off the fare. Good, he took me out of the way and was a total creep. I finally get out of the cab and bound off into the rain.

I meet my friend, and proceed to rant about what just happened. She informs me that if I were to hit a guy, the fine is only 500 baht, if he’s got the balls to take it to the police. If I’m faced with such a creep who is not driving me, in the middle of moving traffic lanes and a monsoon with a temper, that might be 500 baht very, very well spent. In the mean time, I’m almost eager for another creeper to harass me, so I can give this skeezy cab driver’s number to him. Payback is sweet.

When I talked to a couple of friends about this, I received the following responses:
“Well why were you wearing a seatbelt?”
“Why did you let him do that?”
“Yeah. It sucks because you shouldn’t have to worry about it. But, we do. You learn the longer you’ve been here.”

I would like to add I’ve had plenty of perfectly acceptable taxi experiences in Bangkok as well. I’ve even had a driver pull out a Thai/English phrase book once or twice and had appropriate language exchanges. It’s too bad when one person ruins it for everybody else. Ok, I get it, you sit in the back if you’re alone and female. You don’t get a seatbelt, just try to position yourself behind one of the front seats in case of a crash. You don’t talk besides discussing the destination, whether or not to take a highway and give the driver the toll money (accepted practice) at most. You have to be quiet, maybe even slightly bitchy. Or, you can fend off molestation attempts in the front. What really gets me, is the simple fact that of global destinations, Thailand is supposed to be one of the better ones for solo female travel.
I have never been so cognizant of my race and gender as I have been these past six months in Bangkok.

Cell Phones

With the recent exodus of my cell phone on Khao Sarn Rd, I decided it might be time to address the Thai attitude towards cellular communication.

As previously mentioned, cell phone usage at my school drives me absolutely nuts. Not the least of which because I have a rather personal disdain for the things to begin with and there is absolutely no rule against them at school.

I’ve come to realize it’s not just school. I read on another expat’s blog that if you see a Thai girl without a cell phone, run because there is something wrong with her. And while I first viewed this assessment as harsh, it’s become apparent that taking out exceptions for extreme poverty (and even then, phones are much more affordable here), that pretty much every Thai person has a cell phone. And I mean everyone – the monks have cell phones. What on Earth a monk needs a cell phone for, I don’t know, but then again I have yet to figure them out, and some of the ones in Bangkok are just in it for the free ride.

Boundaries of appropriate times and frequency with which to call also seem to be open to interpretation, though I realize that is an individual thing; I’ve run into it in a variety of contexts. Can I call you every day? No. Blank stare. Can I call you every day? NO. Blank stare. Lost in Translation, even with translation.

I went to the gym today for the first time since before Songkran and as usual I noticed the high volume of people texting while on the treadmill, with eyes glued to their iPhone while lifting weights with their quadriceps, or merely sitting on various pieces of equipment, eyes glued to their phone. I think their thumbs are getting a better workout than the rest of them.

I’ve learned that, in Thai culture, what is polite is to answer your phone immediately, regardless of what you are doing, even if you are busy enough to say you have to call the person back. A colleague of mine confided that he had gone native enough to do this in a job interview back in England, realizing just a moment too late wait, This Is NOT Thailand. Yes, it cost him the job.

So while in the United States, we confiscate student phones (I am allowed some leeway in this here) and force parents to pick them up, and remind the students that an employer will not allow you to sit and play on your phone; here in Thailand, that is exactly what everyone is doing in moments of down time, students, workers, Immigration officials… Nothing can be ‘mai sanuk,’ after all. I suppose there isn’t any harm in this in moments of down time, generally speaking. I am a little leery of the motorbike taxi drivers on their phones while driving.

Aside from the complete opposite take on cell phone usage, cell phone decoration is quite lucrative, and options are many. However the moment I decide investing in rhinestone-studded accessories and/or a Hello Kitty cell phone is a great idea is the day I’ve been here too long. Though to be fair Hello Kitty has no age limit here.
So cute!

Songkran 2011

I’m hesitant to write this post, because no amount of written or spoken word can really capture Songkran. The videos on youtube, though closer, do not really do it justice either.
For I cannot convey in words how drenched I was, the sensation of the clay/chalk water smearing across my face, or the sheer elation of young and old alike, throwing buckets upon buckets of water on everyone spanning across an entire country in celebration of the Thai New Year. But I’ll try.

So for starters, it was nice that MacGyver took a break from working on Atomic Layer Deposition reactors over in Taiwan to come “play water” for Songkran. For those of you think I’m stretching it with that last sentence, I assure you I’m not.

So it was nice to have my back covered, though it made absolutely no difference in how quickly we both got soaked – notably by the elementary schoolers toting Doraemon water gun backpacks, very Ghostbuster-esque, just down my soi.

The main road between my apartment and school is frequently a traffic jam, notably when a member of the royal family wants to go somewhere and thus traffic is brought to a complete halt or the road is completely cleared for them to use it. That is certainly a new one – commute disruptions due to royal caravans.
But on the first day of Songkran, almost all shops are shuttered and everyone is on the street or sidewalk, music is blaring, old ladies are selling water guns off of tables, everyone is smiling and oh yeah, pouring buckets of water on you. Sometimes ice water. Old men have brought out power hoses, taxis are parked and blaring music, pick up trucks and motorbikes full of people ride by throwing water at each other on the road. The pickups often have entire extended families, or large groups of friends, and huge barrels of ‘ammo.’ People are riding around in tuk-tuks just to shoot water guns at each other. I’ll tell you what, being able to shoot super soakers out the sides of the tuk-tuk makes it much more fun.

MacGyver and I met up with Natalie at Central World for an attempt at breaking a Guinness World Record. I’m not sure which record we broke, because really, Songkran itself has got to be the world record for world’s largest water fight and it only grows every year, but whatever it was we hit the mark. Dance party plus world’s largest squirt gun bonanza? I think this is the best thing ever. EVER.

Aside from the water and dancing, there is the clay. I still have yet to figure out the significance of the clay/chalk stuff, but people carry the stuff around in small buckets and smile while smearing it across my cheeks with hearty “welcome to Thailand!” Cheers. The clay coats the streets, splatters cars and handprints are all over the place like cave paintings. I realize a couple of things about the chalk: one, foreign woman = higher priority target, two: you’re probably going to get it in your eyes and mouth. This wouldn’t be too big of a deal, as long as you don’t get the prickly heat powder spiked variety in your eyes. I’m wearing goggles next year, I don’t care if I look ridiculous. I already looked pretty ridiculous this year. And really, it’s not like adding some goofy accessories will make me any LESS of a high priority target.

Though most shops are shuttered and people have gone to spend the holiday with family, extra food stands and beer coolers have popped up amidst the sometimes ankle deep clay murk of the street. Sometimes people are considerate enough not to squirt you if you are eating.

I feel somewhat sorry for the poor tourists who have arrived in the middle of Songkran wholly unaware of it, trying to make their way down Khao Sarn Rd with their unprotected packs. The road is annoyingly difficult to navigate on a good day, absolutely impossible to do so now, especially without proper waterproof gear. At the same time though, Som Nam Na, grouchy old tourists that didn’t do their homework! It is kind of a big deal, Thai New Year.

Of Nightbuses, Borders, and Learning to Drive a Motorbike…

…not necessarily in that order. For the record: I know for a fact my mother is not reading this. Therefore, dear readers, those of you that communicate with my mother have a moral obligation NOT to mention the particulars of the motorbike driving. Please and thank you.

This past weekend, I took a night bus up to Mae Sot with my friend and former neighbor, Vanda. From the beginning, we weren’t sure we were going to make it. Her Thai family here warned her that all the seats would be sold, as it is Songkran time, and she called to say we might be out of luck. However, I was not deterred, in fact, I was determined that we would find a way, and it turns out so was she.
I haphazardly packed a weekend pack, grabbed the large bag of donations for the Orphanage and hailed a cab to the BTS (Skytrain). From there I took the SkyTrain to the end of the line, then caught a moto taxi to the bus station and met up with Vanda. We tried three different ticket counters, outside and inside. No go. We were approached by a van driver (common way to get around Thailand) waiting to fill his van before taking off; and out of options we accepted. Shortly thereafter, van guy says he’s not going after all, try that counter – and Vanda and I bought the last two tickets to Mae Sot for Friday night, eleven minutes before departure. Score.

On the second class bus we wedged ourselves in with our packs, Vanda’s backpacking to Laos after this so she’s got more than I’ve got, but I’ve also got the donations bag. And then naturally, my travel seat karma kicked in and the guy in front of me leaned his seat onto my knees, into my lap, and proceeded to awkwardly flail his hands in my face while coughing up his emphysema. The people that sit in front of me on buses or airplanes almost always manage to be special like that. At least my seat leaned back to counter this a little. Somehow I managed some sleep.
Around seven hours in, the bus stopped at an Immigration Check point, one of many in the Thai provinces bordering Burma. Everyone hands over their ID for inspection. No problems on our bus.
We arrived in Mae Sot around 5 am and call Kim, then take a tuk-tuk (which looks much different from the variety I’ve seen in Bangkok), to the guest house she is at and are able to get a room at this ridiculous hour of the night. We settle in and collapse.

We meet for breakfast a couple of hours later, taking motos over to an Indian place with more of the volunteers. Indian breakfast of curry and naan is delicious. Afterwards we split up, and Shea, Kim, Vanda and I set off on our next mission: learning to drive motorbikes.
We rent one moto from the guest house, Shea has already rented one. Vanda practices a little in the parking lot, then Kim and I hop on Shea’s bike and Vanda braves the main road out to the bus station so we can practice. We practice for an hour, maybe two, taking turns without any passengers and then carrying one other person and head back to town for lunch.
We are getting close to the hour of meeting at the Orphanage, and one of us has to drive on the main highway to get there. I volunteer. Vanda gets on behind me, Shea leads the way and we are off. Saturday morning: driving around the bus station parking lot. Saturday afternoon: driving on the high way, with a passenger. Do I have a permit? A license? Any previous experience? Allow me to remind you: This is Thailand. Also, this is not driving in Bangkok. Also, don’t tell my mother.

We make it out there, about 7 kilometers, just fine – though Shea makes fun of how slowly I’m driving. This is my first time visiting the Orphanage/Half way house that I’ve been hoping to get to for months now. We park our bikes and walk around. The kids are mostly inside the living house watching Burmese karaoke or an English dubbed made for TV Chinese movie. It’s Saturday, it’s a rest day. Two of the youngest boys are running around completely pants less. I’m told they are not yet toilet trained and will not keep diapers on. I suppose I don’t blame them, especially in this climate. The kids range in age from infant to 14, and though we refer to this place as ‘the orphanage,’ not everyone is an orphan. Many of the kids have one or both parents just across the border in Burma. Some of the kids truly are orphans, to the extreme of simply being found and brought here by word of mouth. All of the kids here are Burmese, and though it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out, it’s a detail best left out when discussing the Orphanage elsewhere; it’s a very touchy subject in Thailand. Some of the kids’ families have been able to come back for them, so the number that live here has fluctuated, but that’s the exception and not the rule. During the school year, the kids have been able to begin attending the Thai school just down the road – though when their Thai skills are lacking they get stuck in first grade regardless of age. The alternatives in Burma only go up through fourth grade, and that’s if the family can support it. It’s currently summer break, so the long stay volunteers and the ‘House Parents’ have organized a summer camp to keep some structure going.

For three hours of Saturday afternoon we tour the grounds, hear the stories of the buildings that have just been built (the kitchen counters and sink are a mere week old), mostly by hand, and the plans for what is next. Vanda and I climb the jungle gym and watch some of the boys scale far up into the trees to knock mangoes down. And naturally, we become human jungle gyms. All the kids learn my name immediately – “Jenny Two! Jenny Three!” Depending on which child you ask. One of the biggest contributors to the Orphanage, if not THE reason the place is still running, is also named Jennifer. Apparently every third foreign woman in Thailand is named some variation of Jennifer, Jen, Jenna, Gen…Bah. At least if I do something stupid I can blame some other Jenny.

Saturday night we left as the kids were sitting down for dinner. It was near sunset and thunder and lightning were clapping in the distance, getting antsy to get on the road. Vanda hops on the moto behind me, but she’s already spooked because I’ve had difficulty starting it. This drive was the rockiest of the weekend, and though we all have helmets, Vanda is done riding with me. Kim hasn’t written me off yet.

We have dinner at what becomes our favorite haunt, and is a favorite of the many foreigners here doing NGO work – Casa Mia. The place has Thai, Burmese, Italian, American breakfast; and at a fraction of what it costs in Bangkok. I’m a fan.

Sunday morning we explore the local market, the kids are at church so we have a lazy start to the morning. In the market it’s pedestrians, bicycles, motorbikes, the typical assemblage of motorbike/ice cream cart or bicycle + motor + push cart. The Thai ability to take things and make them into all sorts of mobile contraptions that they will drive on the road or the sidewalk continues to amaze me. I’ve realized the concepts of road, sidewalk and vendor and what constitutes the rules of those things are all relative and subject to much variation. Aside from the usual jumble we spot bags of live toads for sale, something resembling cockroaches or locusts dusted in rock salt, and fish the size of corpulent toddlers under large blocks of ice.

In the afternoon we check out a place called Borderline – a Burmese Tea House, Fair Trade Shop and Art Gallery. I feel quite at home here. And the paper cranes hanging from the rafters for Japan add a lot of perspective – people fighting for Burmese freedom, or at least to help those displaced, still made cranes for Japan.
The adolescent chicken wandering the grounds and hopping up on tables bothers Kim but I think he provides ambience. After a long time in the gallery and shop I drive the two of us back to the Orphanage on the motorbike, and I do pretty well driving if I do say so myself. Kim concurs and is not too easily spooked.
Since it is another weekend day, it is still just a short time and the volunteers convince me to call in sick on Monday so I can help teach one actual camp day. I feel very little guilt calling in for this purpose, especially because it’s a sit in the trophy room and ‘play’ workday. If anyone from work asks, I had bad seafood.

Monday is a longer day – we get up early, check out of the guest house and throw our stuff in Kim’s room and move breakfast up an hour. I drive Kim and I and Vanda rides with another volunteer. The first lessons are art and English. The older kids are drawing from life, and the younger kids are learning ‘I, my, me,’ and ‘they, their, them.’ After the English lesson, the younger kids have art and we’re up to help.
I have to work very, very hard to tell my art teacher training to shut up, I am not in charge I am just assisting, and neither their artwork nor the teaching is being graded in this case. Though I’m not entirely surprised when ‘according to plan’ train wrecks. It doesn’t really matter, the kids still get to paint, cut, trace – that’s more important than following the rules of the project.

After art it’s lunch time, the kids eat first, and the volunteers are served after the kids eat. Burmese food is not as spicy as Thai food and I’m fine with that. Shea and the House Dad have been working on mixing cement by hand and building a rain water collection housing. The younger kids have nap time and the older kids are learning the lyrics to a Justin Bieber song they always attempt to sing without knowing them. I help another volunteer start to make homemade twister boards with donated black sweatshirt material – much cheaper than buying the real thing. We stop when it’s time for the younger kids to have more lessons – and somehow Kim, Vanda and I end up in charge of the last lesson for the younger ones over the course of five minutes. We tried our best with ‘eating, drinking, cooking’ and then drawing food – but it was too much art time for one day. We tried singing “Apples and Bananas,” that worked for about, two and a half minutes. We tried but if you don’t speak Burmese the last class of the day is somewhat of an impossibility to begin with. Really I think the last hour of the day regardless of age group and language barrier is the worst when trying to do anything in a classroom.

Lesson time ends and we sit down and resume being human jungle gyms, or simply hug givers or someone to sit upon. We finish one of the two twister boards with acrylic paint at my suggestion. One of the creative minded older girls helps. She’s crocheting animal finger puppets to sell; she’s already got almost ten. She’s amazing.

We have to say our final goodbyes, though most of the kids don’t realize this trio of women will not be back tomorrow. It’s the part that tears me up most – how much does it help if we walk back out of their lives? But what can you do. All three of us hope to be back at some point. Shea and I drive to dinner, I’m feeling pretty good about driving on my third day. Though I freak Kim out when we come up on a checkpoint too quickly. I said I’ve got it; I’ve just got a long braking distance. We don’t know what this checkpoint is for, but, as white girls we get waved through. I’m sure the officers get a kick out of two white girls on a moto. We drove through an Immigration check point each time we went to the orphanage, simply waving at the guards. To be clear, we remained in Thailand, but we were a quarter kilometer from the border. We could have walked down to the river and seen if it we wanted to. The kids often go there to swim.

We enjoyed our last dinner at Casa Mia, of course, and I had to excuse myself in time to return the motorbike to the guest house (Kim and Vanda have decided driving motorbikes is not their thing) and catch my bus. I’m really cutting it close, and when I ask the guesthouse to call a motorbike taxi, there is some issue and one of the family members that owns the guest house says “I’ll drive you!” Since I’ve got ten minutes, I graciously thank her and hop on her lime green moto to the bus stop, and we make it, realizing yet again I’m one lucky white girl.