5 a.m.: I am, oddly, blissfully awakened to extremely loud music and monks chanting. A neighbor passed away this week. I know this because the night before I saw a tent being set up and people dressed in all black whipping around the neighborhood on their motorcycles. Since yesterday was Tuesday, everyone should have been wearing pink. Black can only suggest a funeral. The music, coming from his home which is a block away, is so loud it shakes my house. Yet I am comforted by the rattle, and how pleased I am with the knowledge that I can now pick up on so many of the small cultural nuances in order to successfully decipher what is happening around me.
6 a.m.: I microwave a small cup of water and mix in too much Starbucks via and hazelnut Coffeemate - two cherished treats I received in a care package. I call my parents in America to update them about a job interview I had the night before. We end up talking for 45 minutes and I decide to skip my workout.
7 a.m.: After my second, tiny cup of coffee I head upstairs for my cold shower. It's finally warm enough to bathe normally. No more boiling water for bucket baths. I get dressed and pull out some clothes from my wardrobe that I've decided not to keep and put them in a pile on a chair. Everything is dwindling away but I still feel overwhelmed by what is left and what I might have to leave behind.
8 a.m.: I wait to be picked up for school. While Skype chatting with other PCVs about my interview and our upcoming "graduation" ceremony, I jump up every time I hear a car since I never know when - or if - my ride will come. Around 8:30 I see a teacher's turquoise truck pass by my house and wonder if he forgot me again. Five minutes later he's knocking on my door apologizing for being late and for forgetting me.
9 a.m. I'm waiting for the kids to have their heads shaved before I can start my lesson. Some of the boys have grown their hair too long and the gym teacher has set up a make-shift barber chair outside the classroom. They come back to me with shorter haircuts but with noticeable chunks of hair missing from the backs of their heads. Another teacher sees me staring and says "one stop shop." I laugh because it's funny, then the kids start laughing because I'm laughing and I feel genuinely happy. I've been teaching every Monday and Wednesday at this middle school since the school year started last May. What started out as sex education and anti-drug and alcohol classes turned into my one-woman effort to create a generation of critical thinkers. It's the most frustrating thing I've ever done. I think it's the most frustrating thing the kids have ever done, too.
10 a.m.: It's unbearably hot but we're playing a game that requires team strategy and planning ahead. And running. Lots of running. I change the rules in the middle of the game because I'm bored. And, also, because the activity sheet says I can. And it's good. I finally see the wheels turning and their eyes lighting up. Their faces go from sweaty to determined and sweaty. It's amazing and I feel good about my lesson plan.
11 a.m.: Chaos. I've lost them. It's over. I give up and start playing two-square with a volley ball and a kid I pick out of the crowd. And we're back! I'm teaching "regulars" and "double-taps" while the teachers are yelling at the kids to quit playing and go eat lunch. I count this as a win and sit down at the table to wait for my ride home. One of the teachers asks me why I'm not eating. "I told the office I would eat with them today." He asks me if it is because the food at the school is "not delicious." I quickly say no even though last week they wanted me to try spicy rat meat. And I did. It wasn't that bad.
12 p.m.: I'm dropped off at my house and I check my email and Skype before heading into the office for a lunch. I decide to bring my entire case of beads with me since I want to make bracelets with the kids after school. It doesn't fit in my bag so I hold it, now biking one-armed to the office. It's a slow ride and it reminds me to be thankful for my four working limbs. I arrive at the office crying. Along the way, I passed my favorite rice field and became quite emotional over the fact that I'm only going to pass it 28 more times before I go back to America. I wipe my eyes hoping people will just think I'm red-faced from the heat. The office is empty so I head to the outdoor kitchen at the back of the building. There's a guy I don't recognized and it takes me a few seconds to realize he's trying to sell the unfamiliar microwave that's sitting on our kitchen table. Everyone is eating the food he's preparing. There's a short debate over whether it's an "oven" or "microwave." I settle the dispute by claiming the technical term is "microwave oven." The mayor tells me he's going to print a small copy of a picture of the two of us dressed in traditional Thai clothing for me to take back to America. I'm asked if I would like some chicken. Then I see this:
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It is not chicken. I am shocked and can't control my facial expressions. Everyone notices. Tiny frogs are being warmed up in the microwave. I refer to them as "gop dek" which roughly translates to "frog children." Everyone loves this. The price of the microwave is discussed and I am now far more horrified by the cost ($300) than the frogs. I know what's coming next: "How much does a microwave oven cost in America?" everyone asks. I can't look the salesman in the eye when I say "About $50 for a regular one."
1 p.m.: The box of beads is too much to resist. Everyone must know what is in it. I open it to reveal a rainbow of beads purchased in America two Christmases ago. But there are several compartments stuffed with the paper beads I make from magazines and colorful, discarded paper; remnants from my first year of service when I had dreams of art projects using recyclable materials. With only 28 days left to go, there's suddenly an interest in my long forgotten project. Within minutes a large group has formed and there are discussions of how much we could charge for a necklace, a bracelet, earrings. Perhaps we can even create an OTOP project from this? I can't believe what I'm hearing. This is every volunteer's dream. One quick tutorial later and even the largest, manliest men in the office are winding pieces of paper around toothpicks and then delicately coating them in clear nail polish. I'm told that if I could just stay one more year, we could do a really big project with the beads.
2 p.m.: I should be heading to the school. Instead, I'm sitting in the back seat of a pick up between a giant stuffed red devil and bags of what I believe to be fish sausages. I'm hitching a ride into town to pay my Internet bill. It's hot and I don't want to bike the 2k, not to mention the office will probably be closed by the time I leave the school. After I pay my bill, we head to the bank. A police officer I know stops to ask me when I'm going to Bangkok next. Sometimes I leave my bike locked up at the police station because it's across the street from the train station. I always make sure to stop and talk with the police so they continue to let me park my bike at their office. In the middle of our conversation, my boss comes running out of the bank screaming my name. "SALAH SALAH SALAH!!! MAA NII!!" "Come here!" he says. The police officer keeps talking. I'm now confused about what to do and to which hierarchy to adhere: my boss or the police? My boss, who interrupted me, or the police officer who is always so nice and accommodating to me? My co-worker tells my boss to shut up and that I'm talking to the police officer. I'm embarrassed and lose my ability to think and speak in Thai. My boss ignores my co-worker and continues to yell to everyone on the street that I'm leaving in 28 days. He introduces me to people I've already met by saying "This is Salah. She's leaving in 28 days." Then we go inside the bank. It's a repeat of the previous scenario at the same volume and intensity, but this time inside a quiet bank. My Thai mom is also in the bank. I can tell she's irritated.
3 p.m.: We arrive back at the office before my boss. My co-worker tells everyone what just happened. Everyone laughs hysterically. When my boss comes in I start yelling at him in the same way he yelled at me on the street: "BALAT BALAT BALAT!!!" He looks at me like I'm deranged and says "WHAT?!" I tell him I'm really going to miss him when I leave. I check on the beadmakers. My friend Diao, who drives the firetruck, has made 5 beads. I praise him for his work and clap my hands. He beams. I leave, with beads in tow, for the elementary school. Even if I'm only showing up for the last 30 minutes, at least I'm showing up.
4 p.m.: The school bell rings and I'm immediately surrounded by children. I'm now busy cutting string for bracelets and tying knots on the ends. For the next two hours we sit at the pink, cement table (shaped like a tree trunk) talking and making bracelets. Currently, I'm dispelling rumors that all Americans are very rich. I'm angry because one of the kids told the other kids to ask me for money because I'm rich. I tell the kids I'm angry and my feelings are hurt. We talk about why this upset me. I ask them what they think about Americans. They tell me that if they are like me, then they are nice. We talk about me leaving in a few weeks. It's sad but I want them to know I'm leaving and why. I think it's important for them to know that I'm not leaving them because I don't love them or care about them anymore. I wonder if they care. I wonder if I'm saying it more for my benefit than theirs. I'm struggling with the immense guilt I feel for leaving them. One of them asks me when I'm coming back. I say "I don't know. I want to come back but I don't know when I will." I suddenly realize he thought I was coming back after school break. "You're not coming back? But I thought you were a person of here," he says to me.
6 p.m.: I ride with some of the kids to their houses. It's getting dark and they told me they were scared to bike home alone. My evening bike ride through the village has become my favorite ritual. I love everything about it. The smells, the people, the animals, the banana trees, the houses, the sunset, the river. It's my favorite 20 minutes of the day. I pass the workout equipment and yell "Geng geng!" to the elderly folks on the metal stationary bikes, praising them for exercising, and they smile at me and yell something I can't quite understand. I pass a group of kids who hold up their bracelets to remind me that we made them just a few minutes ago. I pass a dog asleep in the street who doesn't bother to get up and chase me and I am relieved. I arrive at home as the funeral music grows louder and louder. I leave the door open for as long as possible because I want to hear the sounds, and, also, because I know that when I close it the mosquitoes will fill my house and I'll have to put on bug spray. I run up to my bedroom to shower before it gets dark and I begin to think about doing it all over again tomorrow.
