I hope tomorrow is like today

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:

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.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

And all through the school, not a student was studying... because the teachers were at a meeting.

So the Santas (made from toilet paper rolls) had a meeting, too, and they said we should decorate for Christmas.  So we made stockings and hung them by the Santas with care.  

It's my first Christmas away from home.  Ever.  I'm 32.  This is a big deal.  I can't bring myself to listen to Christmas music.  I'm thinking about de-activating my Facebook account until after the New Year.   And for a couple of weeks, I didn't really even let myself think about what is going on back home for fear of it making me sad.  

Regardless of that, I decided to go forth with a cultural exchange.  I'm going to be teaching a lesson (at the request of the school) about Christmas to about 1,000 students, including about the birth of Jesus Christ (also a direct request from the school), which I'm actually very excited about sharing.  I'll be doing this in Thai, not English, which makes it that much more fun!

I might have also told the kids that I called Santa and he was going to make a special trip to Thailand this year.  He'll be delivering stocking stuffers sometime next week.  

Merry Christmas!  Happy Holidays! Season's Greetings!

Two tears - I mean years - in the making

Each year, the Ambassador hosts the outgoing group of Peace Corps Volunteers and treats them to a real American Thanksgiving meal.  Two volunteers are elected to represent the group, and share a short speech about their service.  For some reason, my peers elected me to speak. 

After practicing a number of times, and crying for about three days straight, I told our Country Director that I didn't think I could make it through the speech without completely losing it.  I'm extremely emotional about everything that has happened the past two years, and even more so about leaving a place and an experience I've come to love so dearly. 

When he basically told me to suck it up, I started crying again.  I think this shocked him, and I think he felt bad because he was really just trying to make a joke.  So, he told me that if I cried during my speech, he would come and stand beside me.  I didn't believe him.

Bawling about how much I love it here - and being
comforted by our Country Director

Needless to say, I started crying the second I walked up to the front of the room.  I was embarrassed by how unprofessional I was acting, especially in front of the Ambassador, State Department officials, my entire PCV group, and several Returned PCVs, but I couldn't control how overwhelmed and gratified I felt about what has transpired over the past two years. 

But like he promised, the Country Director, a former Thailand PCV himself, came and stood beside me, and it helped.  He showed the same kindness that my village shows to me everyday: that although I am pretty much a walking spectacle and I can't do anything without causing a scene, I'm loved and supported regardless of this flaw.

I made it through my speech.  But the flood gates had opened and I couldn't stop crying for another 30 minutes.  So I sat at a table and cried through the next speech, and the closing remarks, and then I cried in the bathroom, back at the table, and through a couple of photo ops.  Everything about the last two years hit me all at once and because I couldn't express it in words, it poured out of my eyes until there really was nothing left.

My service has meant a lot to me.  More than I ever thought it would.  And I owe 100% of that to the people I serve and serve with.  My Thai mom has a habit of telling me how "choke dii" (lucky) I am to be serving here in this community when I tell her about another volunteer's problems, or talk about PCV experiences in other countries.  Sometimes this is annoying.  But most of the time I can look her straight in the eye and say "Hen duay" which literally translates to "I see also" but means "I agree with you." 

With the Ambassador, Ginny (a fellow PCV speaker), and Kevin, our CD
and me still red-faced from my emotions.

I'm still a little embarrassed about my public display of emotions - especially since it's frowned upon in Thai culture - a lesson I've learned many times over while living here. 

But ultimately, I think it's okay to be emotionally overwhelmed by an experience as special, as moving, and as life-changing as serving as a United States Peace Corps Volunteer can be.  I am beyond lucky, and it's literally enough to bring me to tears. 

So without further ado, my take home messages from my two years living abroad as a Peace Corps Volunteer, but I have a feeling most of you have heard them all before: 

1) Love knows no cultural boundaries or language barriers. 

2) Happiness is a choice; if you want to be, you can learn to be happy anywhere.

3) Life is all about the little things: a piece of good chocolate, a bike ride, an old Thai lady just smiling and saying hello. 

and 4) Learn to laugh at yourself.  It makes life a heck of a lot easier and a heck of a lot more fun.



And if you're interested, my speech:

About a month ago, I cleaned out my office desk.   It was the first time in almost a year that I sat at my desk for longer than 10 minutes.  I’ve been busy integrating, you see.  Along with lesson plans, Thai language flash cards, and paperclips, I found the site information packet Peace Corps gave to each of us on the day when we found out where we would be living for the next two years. 

Now, I don’t know what everyone else did with their packet on that warm February day, but I read mine over and over and over for weeks, pouring over every detail of information.  I used it during the first few weeks at site to try to remember people’s names, “find projects,” and generally (and desperately) orient myself.    If you would have asked me about it two months ago, I probably would have told you that I read it so much, I memorized it. 

But looking over it just a few weeks ago, I can now confidently tell you that I didn’t memorize it.  That for as many times as I read it, and how simply it was laid out in front of me, I had no clue what that document contained.   But today I do.   Almost two years later, the names listed on the front: my Nayoke, Balat, Community Development officer, are no longer just names.  They are faces I can easily pick out of a crowd, smiles, memories, friends… They are my family.   

I realized how far I – we – have all come since we arrived in January 2012.  I also realized that it took Peace Corps about 4 and a half hours to find out everything that it took me almost two years to uncover.  But isn’t that the way it is sometimes?  It’s hard to see the forest for the trees.  I could have let that upset me, but after I thought about it, I figured that this is exactly what Peace Corps is all about: learning to see the trees despite the forest, or rather seeing with your heart instead of just your eyes.   

Like everyone’s, my packet was a wealth of knowledge – the big picture.   And even though it was all right in front of me from the beginning, I couldn’t see it until I started living it.  

If you haven’t yet, I encourage you to go back and look at your packets, and see now how intertwined, integrated, and meaningful those words are now.   I encourage all of us to look back at those words, read them again and think about what you see now - Now that you are looking at them with your heart- with more than just your eyes.   And how now, a year and half later, we’ve all come to know, hopefully love, and see this country, this culture, and our villages in such a way that can never be fully expressed on paper. 

Chicken and Oat. My "plus two"

"And what happened, then? Well, in Whoville they say - that the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day. And then - the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches, plus two!"   - Dr. Seuss

I have never considered my heart to be a small heart.  I have always felt it's a fair size if nothing else. Maybe a little more worried and wounded than average.  But never small.  However, there are times when I find myself having "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" moments where I can feel my heart growing three sizes in one day.  In one moment. 

If you knew me in America, you knew that I never wanted children, and quite honestly, didn't particularly care for them all that much.  But today, I want to introduce two little people who have changed my mind, and made my heart grow three sizes. 

My two best friends.  


Oat



Gai

 

I met Gai (whose name means chicken hence the title of this blog) and Oat (whose name means exactly what you think) one sunny afternoon as school let out.  Children were pouring around the corner of the building on their bikes heading home, to the snack shop across the street, or lingering in the school yard.  As I was putting on my helmet and prepping my own bicycle to ride home, I heard someone yell "Teacher Salah!" and I looked up to see one of the biggest smiles I've ever seen, accompanied by the biggest and cutest ears I've ever seen here as well. 

"Will you ride home with us?" Gai asked me.  I had a Grinch moment and I felt my heart grow. 

After learning their names and playing many, many games of UNO and Duck Duck Goose the following Saturday, I finally told them I was tired and it was time to go home.  I pulled a package of instant oatmeal from my backpack that I had been carrying around, gave it to Oat and said,  "This is your name in English."

We laughed about how funny it was that their names were both foods, and Gai asked if he could have some oats, too.  So I gave him some, which he promptly opened and ate.  Dry.  At the same moment, his grandmother came looking for him and saw him eating the oats.  She thanked me for giving him food as they didn't always have enough at the house.  I second guessed my Thai comprehension all the way home.

Now, I could talk about the extreme poverty that exists in my village, or about the widespread problems with alcohol abuse, absent parents who are working in Bangkok, children being raised by grandparents too old to properly care for them, neglect, hunger, and a hundred other problems that Thai - as well as American children - face every day, yet aren't always noticed.  But I won't because I'm not here to fix that.   And I realize that now.

All of these things happen all over the world, and a lot of them happen to Gai and Oat.  In fact, the comments that Gai's grandmother made are a big part of why I decided to get to know both of these children better, and maybe stick my nose a little bit where everyone told me it didn't belong.  And while I'm so glad I did, that isn't what any of this is about anymore.

After spending a significant amount of time with Gai and Oat, I can assure you that none of these problems define either of these two boys.  As I've gotten to know them over the past several months, I've found that both of them are:

• Smart  - If I take the time to work with them individually, they comprehend everything in that day's lesson.  And their smiles of realization when they "get it" are the best.

• Funny - I once watched Gai hide Oat's shoes for no good reason.  And I once saw Oat use a ruler to try to "saw" off Gai's big ears. 

• Strong and loyal - Just the other day I had biked about a mile and a half outside of my village when I heard someone shrieking my name.  It was Gai, Oat, and Oat's little brother.  They saw me bike past and had spent the last 15 minutes trying to catch up with me because they just wanted to make sure I was safe.

• Sweet and kind - It's heartwarming when a 9-year-old with basically nothing shares his only piece of gum with you simply because he wants to. 

• Adventurous, and sometimes a little bit sneaky - riding their bikes to my house across the "big road" alone even when they were told they weren't allowed without an adult. 

They have taught me so much about my community: where everyone lives and their names, where to get the best som tam (papaya salad), who gives out free dragon fruit, what to buy at the night market, where the best jungle biking is and how to use those paths when trying to avoid certain people's houses.   And best of all, they've dragged me out of my shell and gotten me out of the house and into the community at 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning.   

I can credit both Gai and Oat with having given my service purpose, unbelievable joy, anger, laughter, frustration, confidence, second-guessing, and unconditional friendship.  They are two of the greatest loves I've ever known. 

As I reflect back upon my blog and my PC service, it seems I have a recurring theme:  My heart and how much it has grown, opened, and softened because of the relationships I've been brave enough to pursue here.  Thank you Gai and Oat.  Thank you so much for changing my heart, my entire life, and giving me so much more than I could ever give you. 

So, now, I hope Dr. Seuss won't mind if I make a few changes to one of my very favorite quotes, because while it may seem silly, I feel a little bit like the Grinch must have felt the day when Cindy Lou Who decided to be his friend.

"And what happened, then? Well, in Thailand they say - that Sarah's fair heart grew three sizes that day. And then - the true meaning of Peace Corps came through, and Sarah found the strength of ten Sarahs, plus two!"

 

 

 

Third Goal

I found this today as I was going through the latest batch of pen pal letters from my hometown in Ohio.  The third sentence, ironically, made me think of Peace Corps' third goal.   I hope this little boy always continues to think so highly of this country and its people. 

   Goal Three: To strengthen Americans' understanding about the world and its peoples. 

Heart

Bleeding heart

Gam lang jai - will-power, spirit

Over the past few days, the words of Sargent Shriver, Peace Corps's founding director, have been popping up on Facebook, emails, and in conversations.  I'm not sure why, possibly as we swiftly passed the milestone of a year in country, my group is starting to look around, taking note, wondering what the heck we're doing, and what, if anything, we've accomplished.  For me specifically this has been depressing. It's difficult to look back at the past year and not see a lot of tangible accomplishments.  Often, I feel like a complete failure.

Eat your heart out

Jai Rown - "hot heart," hot headed

Thus, I spent the majority of the weekend, and the beginning of the week for that matter, gorging myself on sam paan (homemade mango fruit roll-ups) and being particularly and ridiculously negative. Both of these activities eventually made me feel ill as well as ashamed of myself.  And I still had two kilos of the dried mango left.

So, I did what any good PCV would do, I forced myself to read Sargent's words over and over again until I remembered why I joined PC and figured out how I was going to be happy doing it.  Or at least that's what I'd like you to believe.

What I actually did was download and try a bunch of pilates and yoga videos.  This led to a cup of coffee, Skyping with family, and daydreams of locking my door and not coming out of my house until I had finished the mangoes.   

The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. 

Chuen jai - cheered up

But while Skyping with my sister I received a call from my counterpart.  "Where are you?  Please come to the office!  We miss you!" I started to feel better.  So, mangoes in tow, I biked to the office. 

In Thai culture, it's very common to bring fruit or snacks to share with friends.  Actually, it's kind of expected.  Everyone shares.  Everyone participates.  And everyone eats.  Well aware of this custom, I happily presented the two bags of mango fruit roll-ups to everyone.  "I love these so much, but I want to share with everyone!  They are so delicious," I said.  And so we ate.  Together. 

As the snacking and conversation went on, it was casually mentioned that some of the villagers make the mango fruit roll-ups and that they are much more delicious than the ones I brought in today.  "Good!" I said.  "Then someone can show me how to make them." 

And just like that I had an appointment for this evening at 5 p.m.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Nam jai - "heart water" making sacrifices for friends, showing much hospitality toward strangers

I had not been to my host family's house in a long, long time.  Months actually.  I was nervous about going.  But I was also excited.  They make sam paan and were very excited to show me how to do it.  When I rode my bike up to the house I knew it was going to be a good evening.  The dogs recognized me and didn't bite me, my 7-year-old host sister didn't hide, and my host mom came running down the stairs screaming my name and asking if I could sleep at their house tonight.  I immediately felt guilty. Why hadn't I come by sooner?  What on earth am I so afraid of? 

We spent the better part of the evening eating, talking, and of course, making mango fruit roll-ups, which is surprisingly easy.  10 mangoes peeled and smashed, boil with a pinch of salt and stir for 5 minutes, spoon onto plastic wrap like you would a pancake and put out in the sun to dry for two days. But what was wonderful was the atmosphere, so warm and welcoming. 

To my heart's content 

Sa bai jai - happy, contented

As dusk descended upon my Thai village, I began the short but hot 3 kilometer journey back to my apartment.  The air was filled with smells of fresh curry being fixed for this evening's dinner, the threat of rain, and a million Thai hellos.  I was suddenly struck with how wonderful and beautiful all of this is and how welcome I feel in this village.  Rain looming and angry packs of dogs nipping at my heels, I forced myself to slow down, take it all in, and to feel the happiness that was rapidly washing over me. 

A man after my own heart

Hua jai - the human heart, mind, feelings, essence

"He goes to a foreign country to work within that country's system; he helps fill their needs as they see them; he speaks their language; he lives in the way they live and under their laws; he does not try to change their religion; he does not seek to make a profit from conducting business in their country; he does not interfere in their religious, political, or military affairs. And because of this he has been welcomed where others have been turned away." - Sgt. Shriver

My Co-workers Part II: Patong, my Thai mom

Every Peace Corps Volunteer has that one host country national who takes them under their wing.  That one, genuinely interested local who takes it upon themself to be a part of everything the volunteer does, monitors food intake, bathroom breaks, work activities, safety, housing, grooming, exercise, social life, etc.  (I'm serious about all of these things being monitored, by the way.)

Mine is Patong.  Patong is the receptionist at the mayor's office in my village.  Sometimes, I think she single-handedly runs the place.  She is my Meh Bpratet Thai (Thai mom), my caretaker, my champion, my counterpart, and my favorite, favorite, favorite person in Thailand. 

Family portrait.  Patong is wearing the blue flowered shirt...
and as you can see, she's got her eye on me.

Patong was assigned to take care of me when I first arrived in my village, to watch over me, to mother me.  In any other situation, this might have been a recipe for disaster.  I've always been very independent (ask my American mom about it) and I've always taken care of myself.  And I came to Thailand with the assumption that none of that would change.  But it has.  

During one of my headstrong fits while arguing with Patong, I thought I was so clever when I said in Thai "I'm a 31-year-old American woman, I capable of doing things myself." Patong was quick to remind me "This isn't America. This is Thailand. Things are different here and you must listen to me if you want to stay safe." I went from feeling 31 to three.

What's funniest about this experience - moving to another country not knowing a soul, living alone in a village of people who are, on the outside, nothing like me at all, learning how to speak, to feed myself, bathe myself, to even conduct myself all in another culture - is that it's a tiny bit like being reborn knowing what I already know yet still having to go through the all the stages of life again.  And unfortunately and surprisingly, making a lot of the same mistakes I made the first time. 

Until that day Patong put me in my place, it never occurred to me that having someone essentially raise me would be a good thing, a very happy thing, an opportunity to forge a bond with someone who it was very unlikely that I would have ever met had it not been for Peace Corps.

Nowadays, Patong often follows me on her motorcycle as I ride my bike to the market, or to the school.  She drives by my classroom to make sure I am there and safe.  She tells me I am not allowed to ride my bike on the main road because it's too dangerous and that druggies might hurt me.  She tells me that I can leave my bike at the police station for two days, but not three days, when I go out of town because it will get stolen.  She has informed me that the reason I have a bum knee is because I eat too much chicken.  She comes to my house and tells me I need to clean it.  She tells me when she thinks a project idea will or won't work.  She tells me when I need to exercise, when I look fat, skinny, or just right.  She tells me (and everyone else) that I need to be home by sunset.   She understands my Thai, which I can only imagine is much like the mother who can understand her toddler's babbling, when no one else in the room has any idea what I'm trying to say.

And best of all, she makes things happen.  Every project I've worked on here is courtesy of Patong.  When I wanted to teach the village kids about healthy lifestyles, she made it happen.  When I wanted to start teaching in the village schools, she made it happen. 

My first year here was extremely difficult and I am certain I was quite unpleasant to be around most of the time.  I'm so glad Patong didn't give up on me.  And I'm so, so, so glad she didn't let me give up on myself.

Right now, I'm planning a sex education camp for the youth in our village, which I'm really excited about because it's combating both a problem in our community and a problem in Thailand.  And guess who is making it happen... 

Patong, me, and Lily at the office.

My Co-workers Part I: Mr. Bean

In a few weeks, I will pass the year mark of living in my village.  Usually the year mark is when you really start to get to know people, your community, and things start to fall into place.  For me, it means I've really started to live here and have really begun to integrate into my community, not just stay here, sleep here, eat here, but to actually be a part of the community, and best of all, to be enjoying it.  All of this living has been brought to you by the people in my village.  They're my sponsors, and now, my friends.  So it wasn't until recently that I realized I haven't said a lot about these people who make up my life here, who are, really, the most important part of this adventure.  I hope these little bios do them the justice they deserve and give you an insight as to why I have come to love my village.

I'd like to start with one of my favorites:

Mr. Bean, aka Tan Combover, aka Bpa, aka Forrest Gump, aka Tan Balat.

Tan Balat and me at a teamwork retreat in Petchabun Province. 
The yellow scarf he has tied around his arm was used for a
teamwork activity earlier in the day.

Mr. Bean, as the office likes to call him, was the first person I talked to from my village.  During the 7th week of training volunteers visit their village-to-be for a weekend to check things out, meet the movers and shakers in the community, and to look for the good, the bad, and the ugly.  But a few days before we left, Peace Corps made us call our 'counterpart' (ie: the person who was going to help us integrate) to arrange transportation.  It's the first interaction you will have with your village, and as you can imagine, it is very stressful.  My paperwork had the number of the balat, my assigned counterpart.

In Thailand, a balat is the equivalent of a chief of staff or an executive director at the mayor's office. The balat stamps stuff- like official papers, makes speeches, and theoretically runs the office. The formal title is Tan Balat. Tan is a pronoun used to show respect to government officials.  But my office is a bit more laid back.  We prefer to use Bpa (uncle) or Mr. Bean. 

Lucky for me, Mr. Bean is every bit as lively as his nickname suggests (and a heck of a lot nicer).  For my first nine or so months at site, my desk was next to Tan Balat's.  On a daily basis he would garner my attention by repeating my name 2 or 3 times.  "Salah Salah Salah!" This attention grabber would always preface a special fact he was about to announce: "Thailand is very loud," "Thai people like to eat everything," and, one day, that he was no longer Mr. Bean, but Forrest Gump. " Salah, Salah, Salah.  Mr. Bean.  No. No. I am Forrest Gump."

Forrest also likes to tell me when I'm wrong, or how I can be better.  He calmly says "Salah, Salah.  No. No." Shakes his hand and his head and walks away.  For example, when he found out I was using Pantene shampoo he informed me that Pantene was "mai dii" (no good) and that I should start using another brand.  He was right.  Pantene was leaving build-up.

During my site visit.  Some of the office staff took me out for
pizza to help make me feel at home.  This is the night I
learned that Thai people like to cover their pizza in ketchup...
one of the first Mr. Bean fun facts.

Tan Balat comes from Southern Thailand.  He has a degree in Political Science, just like me, which is why he was excited I was going to be his volunteer.  He was a monk for 5 months during his 20s, and he's very proud of both his country and its history.   He loves to share any and all information about Thailand with me. And he doesn't like to drive.  So, when I need to be taken anywhere, the responsibility falls on the office driver, but Tan Balat will often accompany us giving him plenty of time to tell me random Thai fun facts.

My favorite, and now most infamous, Mr. Bean fun fact story happened during one of these very drives.  I was helping a fellow volunteer with an English Camp in a province close to mine.  Instead of taking me to the bus, my office decided it would be more convinient to drive me.  Five of us piled into a Toyota sedan and began the two hour journey, which actually turned into 4 hours because we got lost.  Twice.  It ended up taking longer than the bus, but was far more educational.  So I'm glad it happened.

Wedged between two Thai ladies in the back, I didn't have a lot of room to move, let alone pay attention to anything other than what was happening in the car.  But this didn't stop the Balat from yelling my name as we drove down the highway in the provice of Phichit. 

"SALAH, SALAH, SALAH!" he yelled.

"Yes?" I calmly said from about a foot behind him.

He turned around, looked at me, and said in English: "The history of Phichit is crocodile." Then he turned back around and faced the road.  Silence.

"What?" I thought to myself.  "What is he talking about?"

I pondered this information for the rest of the trip, unable to figure out what exactly it meant.  And when I got to my destination, I told the other volunteers about what I had learned.  We Googled it and, sure enough, he was right.  The Phichit province has a history of having many crocodiles.  It's part of their culture and they have crocodile statues everywhere.  In America, it would be the equivalent of me taking a foreign exchange student to Florida and saying, in their native language, "The history of Florida is orange."  Strangely worded, but accurate.

I'm convinced that my balat is the best balat in Thailand.  He's really nice, introduces me to everyone, he speaks a little English, knows everything about everything, and has the best combover in the world.  Sure, we have our disagreements (like the day we got into an argument about how to spell 'miss' in English, not that I would know because English isn't my native language or anything) but I really couldn't have asked for a better Balat.  He's single-handedly made my time here in Thailand more fun, funny, enjoyable, and more memorable.  And for that, I thank him. 

For New Year's the office gave him a basket of hair product
complete with pictures of his combover.  Here is is with Tim,
the community development officer in my village.

No Resolutions

I've been back in Thailand for exactly two weeks since my trip back to the States.  I've slept a lot, started and finished three novels, lost the 10lbs I'd put back on during my two weeks at home, and managed to (somewhat) adjust back to life in Thailand.  And although this road has been anything but bump-free, thankfully, coming to Thailand for the second time around has been much easier. 

But the new year brought new questions, challenges, and a visit from PC officials.  All of which center around the theme:  "I'm lonely, depressed, discouraged, and to top it all off I don't feel like I've done a damn thing, so what the hell am I still doing here a year later?" 

Now, I am blessed to have wonderful friendships with other volunteers here, people I likely would have never met but for this experience- I am so thankful for that.  And the days I get to spend with them are anything but lonely. 

Additionally, I have discovered that I really enjoy teaching - something I NEVER would have admitted a year ago, nor would have even been willing to try.  Desperation certainly opens one's mind. 

And last but not least, while I still suck at Thai, I know enough to order meals, buy bus tickets, ask for directions, make small talk, and talk about what I can do to be a better volunteer.  I found out this last tidbit the other day.  What came of it really surprised me.

After talking to some other volunteers experiencing the same frustrations this week, I somehow mustered the courage to talk to my Thai co-workers about why exactly they asked for a volunteer when I haven't yet helped them - with anything - and what, when I leave, will they remember about me? 

I was wholeheartedly expecting them to say "You hate fish and cry when you are frustrated."  (I've cried once and have yet to live it down.)  But without skipping a beat, the Deputy Mayor of my village listed three things that simultaneously made me feel like a success AND the world's biggest jerk.

1) "You have taught our children about healthy lifestyles.  And you have taught them in a way that is very different from the Thai style of teaching and our teachers are learning from you, too." 

2)  "You have taught us that foreigners are very different from Thais.  And that our cultures are very different and we have very different lifestyles." 

3)  "Because of you, the children in our village are no longer afraid of white people.  They are no longer afraid to talk to foreigners." 

Okay, so at this point you probably think I'm a success, a jerk, and now, a braggart.  But here's the deal: the good feelings I have experienced here are so few and far between that sometimes the only way I can cope is by clinging to what seems like a tiny, insignificant moment to those who haven't experienced anything like this before.  And if that's how I get through the next year without drowning in my own self-pity, so be it. 

But this happened to be an exceptionally lucky week for me, because I got TWO of these moments.  The second one snuck its way in this evening as I biked home with some of the kids.  We weren't talking about anything serious when one of the girls turned to me and said "Thank you.  Thank you for coming to our school and helping us.  Our school really loves you." 

I held it together long enough to say goodbye as she turned down the lane to her house, biked straight home, pulled down my garage door and burst into tears.  Of happiness, relief, frustration, guilt, and the hundred other emotions I feel every day here. 

I am blessed to have had this experience because despite how frustrating, depressing, lonely, and stressful it has been for me it has - at times - been equally as interesting, happy, fulfilling and exciting. 

Home is a four-letter word

I'm coming home (to the US) in a week for my brother's wedding and for Christmas.  Quite honestly, I'm so excited that I can't even let myself think about it lest I get anxious, sweaty, and overcome with the general feeling that I might just jump out of my own skin.  It's not pretty. 

However, I'm also considerably nervous.  I'm starting to like it here. Like really like it. I'm happy.  I have a routine, I have friends (even if most of them are between the ages of 5 and 10 years old) and I find myself smiling a lot.  And it's genuine. 

When I'm content, I've noticed that the world spins madly 'round.  The days are flying by and while most of them are without any events of consequence, there have been some over the past month or two that are particularly noteworthy. 

Here is the first one: Pen pal project (โครงการเพื่อนทางจดหมาย):

The kids were interested what their pen pals had to say.
They got out their English dictionaries, asked questions,
and were genuinely excited about telling American kids
about their lives - IN ENGLISH!

 

 

The class after we finished our letters.  I love these kids!

This project was born from a Facebook status I posted.  I was looking for a classroom willing to partner with me in an English letter exchange.  I was lucky enough to have a high school friend contact me about her son's classroom in my hometown.  It's been a godsend.

So far, we've only done one exchange, but it has encouraged my kids to improve their English, which is really amazing.  The project has also opened the door for me to teach at this school a few times a week.  I teach English, arts & crafts, and healthy lifestyles, and on days off we get to practice what I preach.  The students have started exercising with me at the school on holidays and weekends. We practice bicycle safety, get at least an hour of exercise, play Uno, talk about why drinking water is healthier than Coke, and use English words for directions and colors. 

It probably doesn't seem like a huge project to you, but it's a big deal to me, and I think it is to the kids, too.  I know it's outrageous to expect much, but I'm hoping that the encouragement of a healthy lifestyle will sustain itself through these kids and their families.  *Fingers crossed*  Every little bit helps, right?

But more than anything, it makes me feel useful here, which is a feeling I have struggled to achieve since my arrival, and a feeling that I think alludes a lot of PCVs.  I'm assuming these feelings of usefulness have more to do with my change of heart and mood than anything else.   

It's going to be hard to leave these kids next week... and then next year for good.  But because of them, it's going to be much easier to get on that plane after Christmas and come back... 

Making "recycled" bracelets with paper beads made from
old magazines and filler beads I purchased in Bangkok.

Helping them with their bracelets while they clown around.

Letters and Conversations of the simplest kind

I recently partnered with several elementary classrooms in my hometown for a pen pal project with the kids here in my village.  On Wednesday, I received my first packet of letters from a 3rd grade classroom.  I was so excited that I ripped open the package and read all the letters standing in the lobby of my office.

The letters were fabulously done, including ages, favorite activities, colors, school subjects, and even a little humorous in their simplicity including sentences like "I like dogs. Do you have a dog?" "I like doing stuff.  Do you like doing stuff?" and even "I like my dad." 

I really can't wait to share them with my Thai students because I think it is going to be a beautiful way to engage them in and encourage their conversational English - which they desperately need to improve as ASEAN 2015 approaches- and a way to exchange cultures at the most basic and innocent level: childhood. 

But after I calmed down and had read each letter at least twice, and marveled at their candor, I realized something.  I realized I'm communicating with my Thais in the same, basic 8-year-old vocabulary and simple sentence structure.  That my questions have not gone much further than the questions presented in these letters: What is your favorite food?  Do you have any siblings?  What games do you like to play? 

It made me wonder if this is why I'm still feeling isolated, alone, and very much an outsider.   

So, since 'The Arrival of the Letters' (ie: the past two days) I've been trying to talk more at the office.  I have decided that if I talk about everything that happens, or really, whatever is on my mind, it will help me feel more comfortable with the language, will improve my sentence structure, and will basically help me peel away another layer to these people and this culture.  Which I so desperately need and want to do. 

The following are some conversations I had today.  

 

-------



Me: Tan Balat, were you ever a monk?  (Tan Balat is the title for Chief of Staff at the office)

Tan Balat: Yes, 20 years ago. 

Me: For how long?  One month?

Tan Balat: No, no, no, no, no. For 5 months. 

Me: Did you like it?  What was it like?

Tan Balat: <Proceeds to sing, very loudly, a monk chant>

Me:  <In English> I'll take that as a yes.

-------

Me: <Points to a picture of the snow dumped on Maryland after Hurricane Sandy> America!  This happened because of the hurricane.  Does Thailand have hurricanes?

Tan Balat:  <also points to picture> House of Salah!

Me: No. That's in another state, but I think my house received a little snow from the hurricane. 

Tan Balat: Is it cold?

Me:  Yes.  And you can eat it. 

Yao (a coworker): You can eat snow?

Me:  Yes, but don't eat the yellow snow.

Yao:  Yellow snow? 

Me:  Yes, if the snow is yellow that means someone went to the bathroom there.  It's an American joke.

Fun (another coworker): You say ugly things! <laughs>

Tan Balat:  But you can eat spiders.  They are very delicious. 

Yao: Remember when we were in the car yesterday and there was a grasshopper?  Tan Balat eats those, too. 

 -------

 

Me: Hi Focus!  How are you?  What are you doing? 

Focus (Fun's 8 yr old daughter): Do you have mermaids in America?

 

Me: Yes.  We have a few. 

 

Focus:  How much do they cost? 

 

Me: Um, I don't know. 

 

Focus: Are they expensive?

 

Me:  Um, wanna watch a movie?  

-------

 

Me: Whose dog is at the office every day?  Is it the Mayor's dog?

 

Yao: Yes, it is the Mayor's horse. 

 

Me:  Oh, I thought it was the Balat's dog.

 

Yao:  No, the horses are the Mayor's. 

 

<We pull up to the office and the dog is sitting out front>

 

Yao: But the dog is the Balat's dog. 

 

Me: Oh, maa means horse and maa means dog.

 

Yoa:  MAAAAA!!  Horse.  Maaaah.  Dog. 

 

Me.  MAAAAA!!  Maaaah. 

 

 



Happy Halloween

Rockin' some fake 'staches with my
 co-workers, Boy and Wallie.

Halloween.  My favorite holiday in the States.  And now my favorite holiday in Thailand.  Today was a good day. 

In anticipation of the holiday, I asked if I could hold an American-style Halloween event at the schools for the kids.  No.  But instead, my Balat told me, we were going to celebrate Halloween at a local wat (temple).  I wasn't sure what to think of this at first.  Events at the wats aren't always my favorite since they usually involve kneeling on the ground for long periods of time in bendy positions this American body doesn't like, being publicly humiliated in some way, being bored out of my mind, or sometimes, all of the above. 

After some unproductive googling, I couldn't find any real information on Thai Halloween celebrations, and didn't know what to expect.  But I was pleasantly surprised today.  Tambon Korrum did it up right: with parades of devils and angels, balloons, food, karaoke, muay thai (thai boxing), Keng Rua (strong boat) races and, most importantly, Wai Phra - or in other words - making an offering to Buddha.

My co-worker Ant and me placing gold flakes on the statues.



A parade with offering dishes
accepting cash and food.

My counterpart, Tim making her offering,
and trying to see who is under the mask.  haha!

Focus with her offering for the monks. 
She's pretty much my favorite person in Thailand. 
Seriously.  I love this kid.

The monks collecting offerings.

Angels

Devils

Offering-accepting axe murderers

And boat races

Happy Halloween everyone!  Eat something yummy today and cherish it.  Because you never know when you'll move 10,000 miles away from everything you know and love and will no longer be able to eat your favorite foods. 

Love, Sarah.

When a word paints a thousand pictures

Recently, another volunteer shared with me the following advice she received on speaking Thai: "Speaking Thai can feel a lot like singing.  So if you're not singing, you're probably not speaking Thai."

It doesn't always sound like music to my ears, that's for sure. But what she was alluding to are the tones associated with each word in the Thai language.  Tones that are extremely important when speaking.  Tones that rise, fall, are high, low, or flat.  Tones, when executed incorrectly, can and will completely change the meaning of a word.  Completely. 

So, if you thought that would be tough, enter the sounds between sounds.  What I mean by this are words like dtambon. Dtambon is the word for village.  The DT sound falls somewhere, you guessed it, between a D and a T.  I haven't quite found out where just yet, but I'm working on it.  Same for G and K.  As well as B and P.  The word for fish is bplaa.  If you pronounce it with a hard B sound, no one will understand you.  If you pronounce it with a hard P sound, guess what?  No. One. Will. Understand. You.  You get my point. 

And that's what today's blog is about:  Misunderstandings and mispronunciations.  (Things are about to get slightly vulgar.  You've officially been warned.)

Lesson One:  Kuai vs. Gluai 

 

Gluai: pronounced with a sound between G and K and a rising tone.  Gluai means "Banana." 

 

Kuai: pronounced using a harder K sound and a flat tone.  Kuai is the vulgar word for "Penis."

 

Yep, you read that right.  Now, my village has a school called Banana Canal School or - in Thai - Rong Rien Klong Gluai.  It pains me to think just how many times I've pointed at one of my students and asked "You're from Penis Canal School, right?"  Not to mention that I'm terrified to tell anyone that I like to eat bananas.   

 

 

Lesson 2: Naam dtok vs. Naam dtot

 

Naam dtok:  Pronounced with a soft K at the end and a low tone.  Naam dtok means "Waterfall."

Naam dtot:  Pronounced with a soft T at the end and a low tone. Naam dtot translates to "Water Fart."

Villager:  "Salah!  Would you like to go see the waterfall this weekend?"

Sarah: "Oh yes!  I love water farts!"

No one has yet to take me to the waterfall. 

 

Lesson 3: Key vs. Key

Key: Pronounced with a hard K and a low tone.  Key means "to Ride."

Key: Pronounced with a hard K and a rising tone.  Key means "to Shit." 

How many times have I shit my bike all over the village?  How many times have I shit all over my bike?  I don't know.  But I bet my co-workers could tell you.  Between this and the water farts, it's no wonder everyone always thinks I have diarrhea. 

 

 

 

Books. Check 'em Out.

Yesterday I was feeling sorry for myself.  I'm lonely beyond any lonliness I've ever felt before.  I'm tired.  I'm hot.  I'm feeling useless.  My brain is fried from attempting to live in another language and culture.  I feel like my life is on hold and everyone else is moving forward.  And there is a good chance I'm coming down with some weird illness.  Again.

So if you talked to me yesterday, I apologize.  Because no one should be subject to such bitter depression, anger, and pleas of "WHY ME???." 

I let myself mope ALL DAY to anyone that would listen, then left work early to buy a salad at the market about 3k away (surprise, the Salad Lady wasn't there, only upsetting me even more).  On the way home, I decided to stop at a school and give away some books that Peace Corps mailed to all volunteers from an organization called Books for Thailand. 

To make a long story short, this visit resulted in a photo of me "giving" the books to the pricipal and scheduling a reading session the following morning for the kids.  I promised to read aloud in English if they, in turn, would read aloud to me in Thai.  Suddenly, my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day made me remember why I decided to leave my home to help others: to improve literacy rates, encourage reading, and impact the quality of education in developing nations.

And today, that's what I did.  I started to achieve the goal I set out to do, and hopefully, planted the seeds of reading in 63 Thai children's minds.  I read to the kids, the kids read to me, then to each other, and then we played some games.  All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good morning. 

One of my more eager students reading to the class. This guy
in the front loved the book so much he kept standing up to see
the pages. The other students were yelling at him to sit down.

The boys actually chose this book themselves.  It had English,
and Thai so they begged me to read it to them in English.
Proving once and for all that pink and princesses are a
result of nurture not nature.   :)
 

One of the students reading to the class.  It's a huge deal to get
students to participate like this.  So proud of her! 


 

If I had a million dollars

Today started and ended with dead or almost dead rats.  We've been having a bit of a rat problem at work, and I'm guessing poison was put out because the office smelled to high heaven when I walked in this morning and there were dead rats here and there.  So naturally, as one of my co-workers was flipping dead rat bodies in the dustpan like they were pancakes, I was more than relieved to be invited to accompany a co-worker to her new job and office.

In Thailand, from what I can gather from my and other PCV's experiences, it's common practice to accompany a government worker to their new job in their new village, even if it happens to be on the other side of the country.  Luckily, my co-worker, Nina, was only moving to the neighboring province. 

We all piled into pickup trucks and drove about an hour and a half to Nina's new village.  Her new office is much smaller and only had about 10 people to our 20.  We were served coffee and snacks while the mayor of her village gave his remarks.  Then everyone introduced themselves.  We all went to lunch - old office and new - and sat at different tables.  Then my co-worker paid for everyone's lunch, which was expensive.  I thought we would go back to the office after lunch, but instead, all of the women went back to my co-workers new apartment, sat on the bed and gossiped for a few hours. 

This might seem like an uneventful day to the naked eye, but in reality, I feel like I was allowed into a secret club.  When we left her apartment I felt very sad.  Nina was visibly upset, which is a very rare sight in Thailand, and my other co-workers were sad, too.  It made me wonder why she switched jobs.  I thought it had something to do with her recent marriage, but when I asked where her husband was living, they said he was still in our village. 

I've long since given up on completely understanding what's going on around me.  Even when and if I become fluent in the language, I have no doubt there will continue to be many cultural situations that will leave me scratching my head in wonder.  Like, for instance, why Thai people can sing karaoke for 24 hours straight and not get tired of it.  I will never understand it so I've stopped questioning it and started bringing ear plugs with me wherever I go.

But today was different.  Today, I truly felt part of the group dynamic. Today I felt like I got to be a part of something that few foreigners get to experience.  I'm thankful for that.  Even if it made me a little sad, it's good to know I'm starting to attach... a feeling which I know will come and go. 

When we arrived back at the office, it was business as normal. My balat was reading the newspaper and greeted me with a giant grin and a "Salah, Salah, Salah!  GOOD AFTER NOON" in English. There was a dying rat under his desk, which I pointed out, and as I anticipated, it caused a ruckus. 

But all of it started me thinking about what will happen when I leave.  I know it will be sad.  And I wonder if they will take me to the airport, or at least to Bangkok.  Or if they will just put me on a bus and wave as I drive away.  If I had a million dollars, I would fly everyone from my office here to America so they could accompany me to my new job, whatever it will be.  We'd have a gathering, drink Starbucks, and the leaders of each group would say their peace.  I'd buy everyone lunch of cheeseburgers and pizza and then put them on a plane back to Thailand.